Last winter, I had an online section of Contemporary Film, which I defined as "some sweet and/or important movies from the 21st Century." Only six students signed up, and throughout the semester, they watched the movies I assigned -- cultural artifacts designed to be shown in theaters -- on their phones through links in Brightspace, our online learning management system at NCMC. As much as it negatively impacted what I wanted the experience to be, one has to be pragmatic and facilitate convenience. But I know I am doing the artifacts a disservice by doing so, like I'm shitting on the face of cinema.
Over the past few weeks, noted directors such as Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola have attacked the Marvel Cinematic Universe -- words like "that's not cinema" and "despicable" have fallen from their mouths like turds falling into drinks -- by equating those films to theme park entertainments rather than potentially transcendent cinema. In their eyes, and in the eyes of many academics, there's a difference between motion pictures ("movies") and cinema in that one entertains and one enlightens, a variation on the seemingly endless debate between the merits of Dionysian v. Apollonian art, if one feels the need to draw such a distinction in a postmodern world that's getting literally hotter and wetter by the moment.
Movies v. "cinema" has been on my mind over the past few weeks as well, but not quite in the ways that the aforementioned film masters have approached it. After much personal deliberation, I decided to focus this winter's face-to-face Film & Literature section on the written and cinematic works of Stephen King, rather than keeping it as a general examination of the topics as I had done in the past. This could be seen as intellectually problematic for two reasons: King's books aren't seen as "literature" by most gatekeepers of the modernist pantheon of "great and important works" (such as it is), and aside from a little-seen '80s film directed by King called Maximum Overdrive, the seemingly endless flood of movies and television based on King's work are not directly created by King as a visual auteur. But ultimately, I defaulted to "who gives a fuck?" and decided to proceed apace.
The other thing that made me pause to consider the future of cinema was my own moviegoing experiences from last weekend, where I saw three significantly different films in AMC theaters in the greater Detroit area: Gemini Man in 3D HFR, Western Stars in Dolby Cinema, and The Lighthouse in a 1.19:1 aspect ratio (which is an atypical way to present the images, as this will help to explain). While the three movies couldn't have been more different, the one certainty is that I would not have had the same experience had I watched any of those movies at home on my television or laptop. And the other certainty is that, aside from people like me, the value of those experiences is impacting fewer and fewer people in the 21st Century.
Working backwards, The Lighthouse uses a deliberately truncated aspect ratio to help heighten the claustrophobia inherent in the film's locations, as well as create visual compositions (in glorious black and white) that have the feel of period photographs. In other words, it's a visual choice for many different artistic reasons that will be wholly fucked if it's watched on a medium that doesn't offer the specific aspect ratio. For example, it's hard for me to watch old episodes of The Simpsons on FXX that fuck with the original aspect ratio, as visual cues for jokes or story are truncated at best or eliminated entirely. There's a 4K UHD version of The Shining out there, and as much as I'd like to watch it, it fucks with Kubrick's desired aspect ratio, and watching something that the filmmaker didn't intend for the viewer to watch turns a film into less of an artistic statement and more a product to be sold again and again.
Western Stars is a filmed version of Bruce Springsteen's new album translated to performance, complete with orchestral accompaniment in a barn on one of Springsteen's properties. It's an album I liked a lot, with nods to the widescreen cinematic pop of '60s artists like Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell, and the movie -- which was co-directed by Springsteen -- is a self-reflection companion piece to his autobiography and his Broadway show. Since Springsteen felt the material had merit, but wasn't going to tour the album, he mixed live performances with filmed interstitial pieces featuring Springsteen pontificating in slow motion desert scenes (which I was all in for, although it is undoubtedly caveat emptor). Seeing it in Dolby Cinema offered up visual detail and motherfucking SOUND that simply can't be replicated live or at home, which made Western Stars a unique and distinctly cinematic experience for myself and the BRUUUUUUUUCE!!! die-hard fans sitting all around me.
Now from a story and acting perspective, Gemini Man was distinctly pedestrian, as if AI was asked to whip up a 90's action movie most likely starring Bruce Willis as a current and younger version of himself. (By the way, if that concept sounds interesting, please watch 2012's Looper, a distinctly underrated action thriller by the gifted filmmaker Rian Johnson that is miles better than Gemini Man.) The big draw, then, was director Ang Lee's use of HFR (high frame rate) to buttress a 3D presentation, with the idea that more visual information will conjure a level of verisimilitude heretofore not experienced by any moviegoer to date. However, a problem with being so cutting-edge is that Lee's ideal parameters for cinematic presentation -- 120 frames per second in 3D -- can only be achieved in 14 theaters on Earth, which means that any other showing outside those oases of innovation is a technological compromise. The version I saw was in 60fps in 3D, which made for some truly immersive visuals in need of a narrative that could support them. In other words, when Will Smith and Mary Elizabeth Winstead hopped in a boat and sped away on the ocean, the clarity of the water rippling in the sparkling sunlight was genuinely stunning. And the moment that the camera moves back to the actors -- good actors, mind you -- delivering their banal dialogue, the visual spell is broken. Gemini Man was replete yet vacuous, a technical feast in search of substantive food, like being offered molecular gastronomy when all you want is a deep dish of mac 'n' cheese with pineapple ham.
Yet having said all that, it was wonderful to go, snacks in hand, into a darkened room with my fellow humans and share a specific type of experience that's rare and compelling and a monument to the collective imaginations of creative minds at work and play. And I'm sad that we're going to lose something when events such as these become more and more rare. After all, who wants to be WEIRD all the time?
Over the past few weeks, noted directors such as Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola have attacked the Marvel Cinematic Universe -- words like "that's not cinema" and "despicable" have fallen from their mouths like turds falling into drinks -- by equating those films to theme park entertainments rather than potentially transcendent cinema. In their eyes, and in the eyes of many academics, there's a difference between motion pictures ("movies") and cinema in that one entertains and one enlightens, a variation on the seemingly endless debate between the merits of Dionysian v. Apollonian art, if one feels the need to draw such a distinction in a postmodern world that's getting literally hotter and wetter by the moment.
Movies v. "cinema" has been on my mind over the past few weeks as well, but not quite in the ways that the aforementioned film masters have approached it. After much personal deliberation, I decided to focus this winter's face-to-face Film & Literature section on the written and cinematic works of Stephen King, rather than keeping it as a general examination of the topics as I had done in the past. This could be seen as intellectually problematic for two reasons: King's books aren't seen as "literature" by most gatekeepers of the modernist pantheon of "great and important works" (such as it is), and aside from a little-seen '80s film directed by King called Maximum Overdrive, the seemingly endless flood of movies and television based on King's work are not directly created by King as a visual auteur. But ultimately, I defaulted to "who gives a fuck?" and decided to proceed apace.
The other thing that made me pause to consider the future of cinema was my own moviegoing experiences from last weekend, where I saw three significantly different films in AMC theaters in the greater Detroit area: Gemini Man in 3D HFR, Western Stars in Dolby Cinema, and The Lighthouse in a 1.19:1 aspect ratio (which is an atypical way to present the images, as this will help to explain). While the three movies couldn't have been more different, the one certainty is that I would not have had the same experience had I watched any of those movies at home on my television or laptop. And the other certainty is that, aside from people like me, the value of those experiences is impacting fewer and fewer people in the 21st Century.
Working backwards, The Lighthouse uses a deliberately truncated aspect ratio to help heighten the claustrophobia inherent in the film's locations, as well as create visual compositions (in glorious black and white) that have the feel of period photographs. In other words, it's a visual choice for many different artistic reasons that will be wholly fucked if it's watched on a medium that doesn't offer the specific aspect ratio. For example, it's hard for me to watch old episodes of The Simpsons on FXX that fuck with the original aspect ratio, as visual cues for jokes or story are truncated at best or eliminated entirely. There's a 4K UHD version of The Shining out there, and as much as I'd like to watch it, it fucks with Kubrick's desired aspect ratio, and watching something that the filmmaker didn't intend for the viewer to watch turns a film into less of an artistic statement and more a product to be sold again and again.
Western Stars is a filmed version of Bruce Springsteen's new album translated to performance, complete with orchestral accompaniment in a barn on one of Springsteen's properties. It's an album I liked a lot, with nods to the widescreen cinematic pop of '60s artists like Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell, and the movie -- which was co-directed by Springsteen -- is a self-reflection companion piece to his autobiography and his Broadway show. Since Springsteen felt the material had merit, but wasn't going to tour the album, he mixed live performances with filmed interstitial pieces featuring Springsteen pontificating in slow motion desert scenes (which I was all in for, although it is undoubtedly caveat emptor). Seeing it in Dolby Cinema offered up visual detail and motherfucking SOUND that simply can't be replicated live or at home, which made Western Stars a unique and distinctly cinematic experience for myself and the BRUUUUUUUUCE!!! die-hard fans sitting all around me.
Now from a story and acting perspective, Gemini Man was distinctly pedestrian, as if AI was asked to whip up a 90's action movie most likely starring Bruce Willis as a current and younger version of himself. (By the way, if that concept sounds interesting, please watch 2012's Looper, a distinctly underrated action thriller by the gifted filmmaker Rian Johnson that is miles better than Gemini Man.) The big draw, then, was director Ang Lee's use of HFR (high frame rate) to buttress a 3D presentation, with the idea that more visual information will conjure a level of verisimilitude heretofore not experienced by any moviegoer to date. However, a problem with being so cutting-edge is that Lee's ideal parameters for cinematic presentation -- 120 frames per second in 3D -- can only be achieved in 14 theaters on Earth, which means that any other showing outside those oases of innovation is a technological compromise. The version I saw was in 60fps in 3D, which made for some truly immersive visuals in need of a narrative that could support them. In other words, when Will Smith and Mary Elizabeth Winstead hopped in a boat and sped away on the ocean, the clarity of the water rippling in the sparkling sunlight was genuinely stunning. And the moment that the camera moves back to the actors -- good actors, mind you -- delivering their banal dialogue, the visual spell is broken. Gemini Man was replete yet vacuous, a technical feast in search of substantive food, like being offered molecular gastronomy when all you want is a deep dish of mac 'n' cheese with pineapple ham.
Yet having said all that, it was wonderful to go, snacks in hand, into a darkened room with my fellow humans and share a specific type of experience that's rare and compelling and a monument to the collective imaginations of creative minds at work and play. And I'm sad that we're going to lose something when events such as these become more and more rare. After all, who wants to be WEIRD all the time?
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