Thoughts On: 2020


Baaghi 3 - Through It All... It Breathes

Thoughts On: Baaghi 3 (2020)

Terrorists kidnap the older brother of a young vigilante with a superhuman will.

Baaghi 3 was recently in cinemas. It is the third in a series of thematically linked films. Each of the Baaghi films, as the title suggests, are about rebellion. Baaghi 3 sees Tiger Shroff reconstruct a romantic hero that, instead of rescuing a beloved damsel in face of gangsters, vows to always protect his older brother as a vigilante. The reversal of convention here is at once ingenious and fated - in a warped and twisted way. The first Baaghi is inspired by, and then eventually rips off, The Raid. It re-works the skeletal plot, basic drama and epic orchestration of action and violence of The Raid into a multi-staged melodrama via romance. In such the key dramatic shift between The Raid and the original Baaghi is bound to the relationship motivating our main character. Baaghi replaces brotherhood with romance. Baaghi 3, however, doubles-back and appropriates that one element of The Raid that it excluded: brotherhood. Alas, where the original Baaghi's drama and character construction are undermined by its cheap remaking of The Raid in a final 20-minute sequence that pretty much ruins the general experience of the film, Baaghi 3 is a hefty mess of its own making. In such, it takes the brotherhood that sits under the spectacle of The Raid and centralises it, melodramatising the essence of brotherly connection as to generate some of the most intensely brilliant aphorisms of pure sentimentality.

The final result of Baaghi 3 was slightly surprising to me. The film, semiotically and symbolically, is a roller-coaster ride. So much of the run-time is dedicated to quasi-politically conscious commentary that finds itself rambling about terrorism and governmental responses to it. There are so many folds of mess to this that I dare not get into it. But, through all of this questionable and rather insane framing, there comes pneumatic meaning. The heart and end of Baaghi is in its absurdly sincere evocation of brotherly romance. For this, Baaghi 3 is not just enjoyable - it is a film you can't help but feel. This, of course, bears its technical issues. The choreography of action sequences never lends proper weight to the physical speculative reality within the frame. That is to say, everything seems beyond improbable and, often, fake. These issues aside, there remains a metric tonne worth of spectacle to gorge yourself on. And I think the choreographic downfalls of this are worth putting aside. Baaghi 3 does not care to modulate its melodrama with realism like a Marvel movie. In such, we are not required to first accept that Captain America and Hulk exist within certain fantastical confines. Cinema and narrative are enough. We live in another world without excuses. I visited this realm with a wide smile on my face and a beating chest. I highly recommend Baaghi 3 as a spectacle and melodrama.


A Spectrum Of Cinematic Meaning

Thoughts On: Meaning in Cinema

An exploration of the instant, meaning, truth and cinema.

Meaning, reduce to a mere linguistic phenomenon, is very simple. Hence the cliche. A cliche is not merely a statement that re-hashes a trite simplification of the world and way of things. A cliche can be at once a platitude and truism; something obviously true and something thoughtlessly evident. Therefore, the cliche was, at one point, substantial; time and use has worn it out. At the heart of all profundity is a cliche for it is the manipulation of platitude and truism that formulates the art of all expression. That is to say that the re-articulation of that which has become inane within the cliche is the central work of artists. Such produces profundity. But, more than profound is meaning, as this is what all expression ultimately intends to attain. Profundity re-situates the mind about the heart of a cliche; meaning - potentially at least - moves the body beyond that which can be captured linguistically and consciously.

'Meaning' is indeed a nebulous term - likely one less specific than 'profundity' or even 'cliche'. I am attempting to use it to express something more than simple. Truth, in turn meaning, is much like an instant. An instant is not made of much, but everything can be captured within it. An instant is... that. We can think of it as a slice of temporality that is conceivably indivisible. It is nothing more than a fraction of a tick of a clock. All is unified by a spatial temporality; everything that is - therefore everything that has been and can be - is part of an instant. But, despite the fact that forever exists in all moments, the instant has no direct relationship with reality. The instant is an aspect in the order of reality. The instant then coexists with materiality as neither requires the another to exist. Space and time exist in relation to one another, but instants arise at a collapsed intersection of the two. Instants see time stopped, therefore they cannot capture space. 'That' is always an instant. It is immaterial, it cannot be memorised spatially or physically. The instant is a sense of timelessness; a sense of phenomena. The instant cannot be seen or known, one feels it to exist abstractly. Genuine truth, facts beyond the semantic, can only be propagated via the senses: a bodily attachment to a transcendent or immanent aspect of reality, something characteristic of an instant. Numbers do not prove little. Heat can be measured, voices can be recorded, but, truth is secured beyond trust only when one's hand feels something to be hot or when ones ears hear words spoken. Bodily perception, here, binds one to an instant. This instant sees sense transformed into belief. Truths do not require this belief as the materiality that can generate their evidence is a constant - therefore an aspect of reality. For instance, what happened doesn't have to be seen to have happened: it happened, reality knows this. It is merely the belief in the happening that can be manipulated. Nonetheless, whilst belief does not dictate what is true, truth is completed by belief, or more specifically, sense and perception. It is when truth becomes completed in this sense that meaning arises. Meaning is the activation of truth in the body and mind.

What is important about this definition is that it posits that there are orders of meaning distinguished by an intensity or character of affect. That is to say that the depth and shape of meaning is dictated by the way in which truth is felt. Here we return to the cliche: truth lacking impact, also known as, meaningless truth. Truths, on one level, may be practical and impractical. They can aid a situation or complicate it. On another level, truths can be dormant and vital. In such they can either passively present themselves to the senses or actively awaken them. These four characteristics conjure different kinds of meaning; impractical, vital meaning; practical, vital meaning; practical, dormant meaning; impractical, dormant meaning. Such forms a spectrum of meaning on a scale of affect:

Unaffective meaning utilises impractical truths that are dormant; the truth is irrelevant to a certain situation and does not inspire any affect or change. Empirical meaning may inspire minor change and affect as its truth is relevant and practical - but with that said, it does not activate the senses, rather, sensibility. Moral meaning activates the senses as the body is required to do more than unleash logic; the truth in moral meaning may be impractical, but it appears essential and so can transform a situation. Instantaneous meaning is, to borrow an allegory from Taoist philosophy, like an ugly, twisted tree. The tree is impractical, it cannot be cut down for wood. Therefore it grows old and develops deep roots. It eventually cannot be cut down without unnecessary and tremendous effort. Its only real use becomes aesthetic - maybe one can also lay under it in shade from the sun. The tree, in such a state, can never be used up. A truth like this is beyond profound; it is close to Tao. When such an impractical truth is sensed as vital, it moves us, too, closer to Tao. Such meaning moves one into an instant, elevating the spirit to a plane of the transcendent or immanent (I care not to debate an either or).

Let us find some examples of these different kinds of meaning. 'Time heals all wounds' is a cliche; it is more a phrase than a genuine expression of thought or emotion. It is true that pain dissipates with time, but how irrelevant and meaningless would this appear to someone trapped in a specific tragedy. The truth, presented as such, does not transform the situation via an activation of the senses as it is rather irrelevant.

The meaning found in cleaning ones kitchen is a rather empirical one. It is true that an orderly, sanitised kitchen is a practical one; one that can be used to good effect. The sight and experience of a clean kitchen, however, is not necessarily a profound one. You may be at ease in a clean kitchen, and may use it to express and do much of substance, but it is rare to be reduced to tears having put the dishes away. That said, we can all appreciate a clean kitchen.

Hollywood loves moral meaning. The Dark Knight perfectly captures it. What is moral may not be practical and simple. The Joker sees chaos, disorder and violence to be a simple state of truth. This is why he puts two bombs on two boats and places the triggers in the hands of the people on them; he believes people to be simple and predictable. Logic would then have one boat blow the other up as it is true that we all want to live and preserve our own selves. But, evoking the higher sanctity of life, morality is produced when the two boats trust the other to make, not the practical choice, but the impractical one that transforms their situation. This complexity moves the mind and body as a seemingly irrelevant truth becomes crucial; all lives are held as equal as opposed to an other's life being conceived as lower or separate from that of the self. Alas, whilst the body and mind are moved (within the diegesis or audience), such is a characteristic of the impracticality of the presented truth. There is a predictability and melodrama about this scene and aspect of The Dark Knight's meaning as it is built upon a platitude. Such a moment merely re-articulates a common idea of 'the right thing to do'. Christopher Nolan's cinema does well to consistently and predictably embody this rather dormant kind of meaning - hence I do not care too much for it. That said, Nolan's cinema is a moral one that appeals to the body and, more so, the mind.

Instantaneous meaning escapes proper articulation. One cannot use its truth, they cannot conceive of its truth, but they can come to coexist with it in a realm of pure sensation. Instantaneous meaning sees morality become essential through pure transformation. It'd take an extensive technical discussion to characterise it - which can be staged at another time - so I will simply defer to an example in Parasite. This is a moral film, one that exhibits a social awareness, but does not satisfy itself with merely this. Parasite moves into its moral subject as to find an inarticulable essence of the foolish and the unjust. Instantaneous meaning like this is incredibly powerful.

With a spectrum of meaning, or types of meaning, outlined briefly, further work must be done to situate this within a specifically cinematic context. Meaning, as suggested, is not like truth. Meaning is contingent and therefore synchronistic. In such, meaning must be understood as not just an evocation of the truth, but a chance intersection of separate worlds. In addition to this meaning is presented, via the cinematic space, as a contextualised statement, and so types of meaning must be understood accordingly. This further work can be done in due time, but for now, we have established four types of cinematic meaning: the clichéd, empirical, moral and instantaneous.


Music vs Cinema - Mimetic Loops & Aesthetics

Thoughts On: Music & Cinema

A consideratioun of the difference between two artistic mediums.

My key area of interest concerns cinema and its use of narrative. However, to understand cinema, one must attempt to understand art. Art contains a myriad of processes, many of which unify the numerous mediums produced by the phenomenon. Equally important as the unifying aspects of artistic mediums are those elements that allow discrimination. To my mind, I then do not see how art could ever be understood to a satisfactory depth. Whilst there must be a universal structure and character of the artistic, there is embedded within the artistic the possibility of new mediums, and therefore there may emerge innovative and new aspects of art. The problem becomes fractal when one comes to realise that mediums themselves contain a similar process. Mediums change, grow, evolve; with innovation within a medium, there comes new characteristics, new definitions of what it is, what it can be and do. The chance that a certain medium may one day be understood is far larger than that of art, generally, being understood. We may consider mediums a smaller set of infinities within a larger order of infinity that is art generally. One may postulate that there are certain limitations that mediums face, and so may see their potential for evolution to be exhaustible. This is due to the fact that a certain medium may be changed so much that it becomes another. However, whilst these limitations of mediums confine them, I would not suggest that any artistic medium has exhausted itself yet. I could be wrong, of course. I have not investigated the concept.

What I mean to draw from this consideration of art as a phenomenon and concept is a means of better understanding cinema via its incapabilities. Whilst it is maybe questionable to define cinema by what it is not rather than what it is, I think it can prove valid to follow this line of investigation shortly. I would like to attempt this with a brief consideration of a medium I possibly engage more so than cinema - though very rarely from a theoretical perspective. That medium is music. Recently, I have found myself returning to two characteristics of the medium that distinguish it from, in particular, cinema: its aesthetic capabilities and its mimetic processes.

In my estimation, cinema can be understood via mimesis. The medium - most evidently the aspect of it that utilises narrative - centralises drama. Drama is, most fundamentally, action. Drama provides cinema many of its temporal characteristics and dictates its ability to manifest what can tentatively and ambiguously be called meaning. In such, drama is the manifestation of mimesis, or imitation. I believe that this imitation has two crucial related levels or faces. There is known mimesis, which is concerned with the representation of that which is known and can be known physically and tangibly. Then there is unknown mimesis: an imitation of that which cannot be known. Where known mimesis is embodied by the physical world, unknown mimesis can be traced back to that which exists beyond, within or under the physical. I conceive of this via the concept of Tao. In such, I see there to be a pattern of a certain logic and reason that propagates through space and time, conceivable only as a way of things. It is this way, Tao, that cannot be known, but nonetheless manifests that which can be known. Known and unknown mimesis share an interplay that allows the known world to be conceived of as an index of the unknowable way of things - what you may be so inclined to think of as the truth (though such an idea may not be particularly relevant here).

Cinematic mimesis emerges as drama that is then manipulated by the mode, logic and style of a film. Cinematic mode is concerned with methods of representing drama; cinematic logic assigns reason to drama; cinematic style manages convention. I do not understand these three processes. I am quite uncomfortable with how little I know of them. However, they seem to be the means through which drama is manipulated so that it may reach out to a spectator and affect them. This affect is unique to both cinema generally and individual cinematic works, which is to say, cinema affects the individual quite unlike music. We may realise the significance of this when we consider certain aspects of musical mimesis. My thoughts here are limited to small conceptual satellites with no apparent connection, but musical mimesis is characterised significantly by the fact that it generates a pronounced mimetic loop between artwork and listener.

Music's mimesis is heavily ambiguous. It produces a certain drama, but it is very difficult to make intelligible. Music is best understood technically. Where one would find little interest in the measurement of light frequencies and time signatures in cinema, these concepts (and many related and alike) are the primary way through which music may be understood. That which music imitates is far less tangible than that which cinema imitates. Voice and sound are indeed attached to the body and nature, but their representation of it is not visually coherent nor logically apparent. Language within music provide it its most accessible, knowable mimetic qualities. But, language is highly conceptual. It is quite unlike imagery. Images communicate or evoke aesthetically before they do cognitively - we see them spatially, and then understand what is occurring within them temporally. Language, you may suggest, reverses this. One must understand the meaning of a word before they can properly process the perceptible, aesthetic reception of it. That is to say the sound of words means less than the meaning of (the concepts within) words in many contexts. How true this is in music, I cannot be certain. What matters more, the sound of lyrics, or their meaning?

I am inclined to suggest that, in many musical modes, semantic process are subordinated by sonic aesthetics. After all, how important is it to understand the lyrics of a song? I listen to music in languages I do not understand, and what is more, I listen to a lot of heavy metal - which can be very difficult to comprehend semantically. Such suggests that musical is heavily defined aesthetics. However, we will return to this point. One of the primary effects of this aesthetic dominance in music is that music's affect is defined by sense more than reason. Here we return to the difference between image and sound. Images so often affect us, especially in a narrative cinema context, by the fact that we come to understand what they mean. One is then so often moved by cinema because they see the reason, logic or meaning presented by its succession and culmination of images; one understands and so they are affected. In a musical context, one need not understand: they feel aesthetically. What they feel does not matter, and it often cannot be moved into consciousness. The presence of feeling is primary in music. Therefore, the mimetic loop of music is completed by mimesis: dance and song. The key signification that music affects an individual is then that they begin to move their body and make noises that are related to and further evoke the feeling awakened by the sounds they hear. One does not react to cinema in a particularly comparable manner. Good cinema so often produces silence and stillness; the body is forgotten in its quietude. Music awakens the body, cinema, you may suggest, awakens the cognitive sensibilities and emotions, but traps them within the mind.

I do not suggest here that music is incapable of interacting with the listener cognitively, nor that cinema cannot physically affect and move us. Music has a complex relationship with images, personas and performance. And, as said, music utilises language. Cinema has its haptics. What is more, though cinema functions so that images culminate and interact so that they are to be ultimately understood, images must be aesthetically sensed before they can be understood. Alas, what I am attempting to suggest is that what is primary in music is secondary in cinema, and vice versa. Again, sounds are felt, images are understood, in their respective mediums. Such produces unique mimetic loops or types of affect. Cinema is mindfully meditative, where music is physically meditative. One returns to the unknown mimetic source of a song through movement and a physical involvement in a song; they return to an unknown mimetic source of a film through an emotional and cognitive immersion in understanding.

Related to this is the aforementioned place of aesthetics. Recently, aesthetics have become of major interest to me. For a long time, I have contemplated drama as it is bound to symbolic and semantic meaning. However, I have recently come to see the importance of the relationship between experience and meaning. Aesthetics complete mimetic evocation - in the cinema - in that they control the potency of lyrosophy: not just knowledge, but the feeling of it. Aesthetics provide information to the senses that cannot be fully transformed into concepts for cognition: they provide a certain experience. This is key to understanding the difference between the mimetic loops of cinema and music. Music, as so far suggested, provides experience as primary by presenting unknown mimesis. It is then concerned less with conceptualisation, and more so with abstraction. Cinema presents known mimesis before unknown mimesis, and whilst abstraction and an interaction with unknown mimetic qualities is key, cinema engages conceptualisation before abstraction. Such is the result of the fact that aesthetics follow drama in cinema. Without this, lyrosophy would not exist as it does. I then do not know how to think of lyrosophy in a musical context. Music is predominantly aesthetic - I am incapable of describing it in greater detail than this.

It is now that I bring this brief exploration to a close. Music is a profoundly interesting artistic medium. One can learn untold things about it, and through it, I think cinema can be better contextualised within itself. The same goes for other artworks. My mind drifts now to what one could learn about cinema from the art form of cooking and bakery...


To All The Boys I've Loved Before - Presumptuous Known Mimesis

Thoughts On:  To All The Boys I've Loved Before (2018)

A return to an antagonising cinematic experience.

This is more ridiculous to me than it could be to anyone else, but, 'teenager makes a lot of stupid mistakes' movies either deeply frustrate me or shake my innards with anxiety. To All The Boys I've Loved Before left me wrought with anxiety - almost profoundly so. So, not a fun cinematic experience, but maybe an affecting one. The reason underlying my almost unbearable discomfort whilst watching this film stems from the fact that I pretty much avoided to make the stupid mistakes that these movies say we all make. It is cognitive dissonance, myself being torn between indifference, a sense that I'm far too weird, yet also a feeling of doom in my own life, that catalyse this overbearing conundrum. Self-indulgently or sadistically, I have to say I appreciate this movie most for putting me through such stress. Objectively I have to say that this is written and directed mediocrely, but performed nicely. That said, there's not much I could be objective about with this. In the end, more a personal therapy session than a film for me, I think I can say I kind of like this.

I wrote this about two years ago. I recently tried to watch the sequel to To All The Boys I've Loved Before. I didn't get through it. But, I approached the film wanting to further investigate the effect that the first film had on me, and I think I found some answers. What I endured two years ago was a suffering of self. I put before myself someone who I was not. I stared into an inky mirror, and through it saw a shadow. Cinema is an imitation of life. It is easy to think of art generally of such. And the concept becomes a trite cliche all to easily. It needs re-evaluation and reconsideration. With deeper thought, the mimetic faculties of cinema reveal themselves to be far more nuanced than the phrase 'cinema is an imitation of life' is often read as encapsulating. Life is a pattern through space and time. It stretches backwards toward a singularity we may only know as Tao. Life is a deep pool of waves and molecular interactions; a vast ocean of resonance and relations that formulate a nexus of a certain logic. To imitate this fabric of space, time, reality and logic, is to create cinema. We reach back towards the singularity of form and the soul with hands only so far from our faces. That is to say that we see and may know what we reach with, but could never come to comprehend that which our tools may touch or even grasp. The disconnect is jarring and poignant. Cinema is made of known and unknown mimesis. Known mimesis is concerned with the logic of conscious humanity. Unknown mimesis evokes the way and intelligence of the pattern of reality. The two have their relationship. I do not understand it. But, it is evident. What has become clear to me of recent, however, is the source of the disconnect between filmic material and spectator produced by certain films - films like To All The Boys I've Loved Before, and its sequel. These are films that present known mimetic material that is not actually knowable; that the individual spectator has no relation to. All known mimesis is prey to this phenomena: not everybody knows. However, known mimesis of a certain character and quality binds the spectator to its unknown face, thus producing lyrosophy. One must not known as to understand. But, one can come to fail to know something if it is never shaped to be understood. The situation is sticky. Certain melodrama of a trivial and trite quality corrupts unknown mimetic processes with an overabundance of presumption and contrivance. One screams as such manifest: this is not real, despite what you are showing me...

The problem is simple. The true pattern of how things are cannot be perceived through presumptuous known mimesis. One should never presume to know in the cinema; one should seek to understand. What that means, I do not know. Alas, it is evident.


Shorts #110

Today's shorts: Horse Girl (2019), To All the Boys: P.S. I Still Love You (2020), Ad Astra (2019), Emma (2020), The Peanut Butter Falcon (2019), Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky (1991), Invader ZIM: Enter the Florpus (2019), Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989)

Maybe one of the best filmic experiences I have ever had, Horse Girl blew me away. I do not know how to make sense of it, and don't want to try to at present. I don't dare question the fact that I will re-watch this. I will have to write and explore more after that.

I cringed too hard and must have passed out. Didn't make it to the end. How torturous these modern teen romances are.

I couldn't make much sense of Ad Astra. This is a film that does well in presenting the line between complete psychological distress and control. However, what it does having established turmoil within its main character is slightly deflating and unaffecting. Ad Astra sees hope mask delusion and pain; it presents the very fringes of human experience as a realm of loneliness and, for lack of a better term, inhumanity. Perhaps you could be urged to ask having seen this--what point is there at gazing to the stars if you don't know where you stand, if you've forgotten where you have come from? Whilst one could deduce such notions from a memory of Ad Astra, it is a dull experience and somewhat dry film. This may be by design, but I found myself lost more than immersed whilst watching this.

Maybe one of the most pedantic and trivial stories ever put to film, Emma is very entertaining. The very brilliance of this film is encapsulated by the fact that the highest point of drama comes when, during a picnic, a harsh insult slips from our main character's lips. The lamentation, tears and moans that rain fourth from this are absurdly tickling. All of that said, Emma, as all adaptations do, exists under a question of the original source material. Is it Jane Austin's novel that provides this its quality, or is there anything unique that can be attributed to this cinematic adaptation alone? I cannot say much to this question as I have not read the book. So, all I can do is praise this tentatively. It is a little slow and exceedingly trifling, but Emma is pleasantly entertaining.

A genuine and warm film, The Peanut Butter Falcon is simply brilliant. With an understated script and an intrigued cinematic gaze, this allows each of its actors and actresses to shine. Both Shia LaBeouf and Dakota Johnson are at their best - yet they do not make loud statements with their roles. The Peanut Butter Falcon captures, in part, the tone and feel of the near-lazy, relaxed, genreless and minorly dramatised indie films of the 2000s, more concerned with the feel of an adventure, the being of living and the sensations of character. Such is utilised to tell a story of establishing ones own way in a world of many roads, some bigger than others, but all leading in different directions. More than worth the watch.

I have seen this twice in the span of a week, and Riki-Oh is a wacky gem of a film. I wanted to watch a crazy movie, and found myself surprised at just how insanely graphic and ludicrous this is. I cannot remember shouting with such surprise so many times in a film. From the first skinning and random impalement of faces to the body blasting hooks, Riki-Oh is off the wall. There are moments in this that I simply struggle to conceive of as being written by someone: our man's arm's tendon is sliced after he is blinding by glass; he washes the blindness away with sewage water and then ties his tendon in a knot like a shoe lace to fix it; he then proceeds to slice his foes gut open with his mere fist. I had to share the insanity on display on this film, and the second watch was just as golden as the first.

I don't watch cartoons on TV. I don't know why adult cartoons are such a thing... but I also get it. I did not know that Invader ZIM was a series before I started this movie - I realised that a hour or so after it finished. I was just pulled into the most trippy and nonsensical chaos I could comprehend. Nothing made sense, but I accepted this and moved on with things. I laughed once or twice. Time flew by. Very little of consequence happened. I don't know why this exists, nor how it came into existence.

Kiki's Delivery Service is one of Studio Ghibli's best works despite a slightly lacklustre depth of characterisation. Kiki herself is an enthralling character that invites you deep into this narrative. Her friends and other minor characters, however, lack what those in, for example, Spirited Away do: they fail to complete a world and expand theme. That said, it is hard to look past how brilliant this film is - and all for such simple reasons. This is a film that optimistically asks how one can take responsibility for themselves and others as to grow up. There is no ethical pretence about this. It is earnest and forward in its assertion of the individuation soul, and for this cannot be regarded as anything lesser that truly fantastic.


The Last Black Man in San Francisco - See & Feel

Quick Thoughts: The Last Black Man in San Francisco (2019)

Two friends attempt to reclaim an old home.

I went into The Last Black Man in San Francisco hopefully, but without a clue as to what the film was about. At first, I thought this would be similar to 2018's Sorry To Bother You. And whilst both share similar traits - a focus on racial politics from a black-American perspective dramatised uncannily and with traces of absurdist sci-fi - the films are highly distinct from one another. Where Sorry To Bother You interrogates thought and motive, testing its character from an exterior position, The Last Black Man in San Francisco wholly moves into its character's psychology. Such is what lends this its queerness, but is maybe the most difficult aspect of this film. As we see this carefully cultivated world as our two main character do, we come to understand that they struggle with attachment and self-identification. However, their neuroses and strangeness are never fully integrated into the logic of the film, which is to say that we never come to understand the full relationship between character psychology and world. To expand slightly, this is about a man who believes his grandfather built a grand townhouse in the upper-class heart of San Francisco, and that his family has a birth-right to it. This is then a film about attachment, but quickly it becomes apparent that this attachment is not healthy, nor particularly sane. Alas, the strangeness of our main character's attachment is never properly addressed. There is then no moment in which his reality truly shatters. So though his perspective shifts over the course of the film, I did not find the dramatisation and representation of the world shift in agreement with this. Such cultivated a slightly incongruous tone that alienates rather than pulls you into the narrative's complexities and mysteries. What is more, the lack of clarity does not allow the full humanity of our main character to be expressed. Therefore, his cathartic transformations fail to exude anything of proper potency.

With all that said, I found The Last Black Man in San Francisco to be an intriguing film. I see in it much that could be re-evaluated and closer observed in a re-watch. But, following this first watch, I have to admit problems in the relationship between character, world, tone and perspective that left me somewhat unengaged by the film.


Art's Direction of the Will

Thoughts On: Art & Will

A consideration of art as something that possesses the body and mind.

Is art merely a distraction? What if we were to argue that it not only is, but that such is one of its major functional attributes...

I open with the idea of a distraction as this is the easiest way into this concept. We have all needed to leave home to go to work, school, to meet a friend, go shopping, etc - and been stuck in front of a screen, unable to pull ourselves away from a good movie. Similarly, we have all put on a movie - or more commonly, music - in the background whilst we work or study. How about the commute to work, the house chores, exercise: art so often curtails the pain of enduring these activities, and in some cases makes them enjoyable. We go to concerts, clubs, theatres, cinemas and more to be lost in art. It is no coincidence that food, alcohol and other drugs are so closely intertwined with these events of mass distraction. Art, like various substances, redirects and overcomes the will. Art, like various substances, possess conscious intent.

I do not know what will is. In my best estimation, it is an illusion of consciousness and that faction of the human mind that believes things can be known. Furthermore, the will is a recognition of consciousness's influence over unconscious processes. At once, the will is the ability to think and then throw a stone from a bridge and the illusion that one could understand completely the impact that stone will have when it hits the water.

As art functions, it takes primary influence over the unconscious mechanisms of the body: it moves our limbs, stirs thought and conjures emotion. What is more, it may have us believe we understand - what depends on the object of attention of the work of art. This is what it means for art to take possession of you and redirect the will. We wish to relinquish control of bodily function and to be provided a certain reality, cognition, meaning or understanding by that which is not our self.

This may all sound rather insidious. And what's more, I could just as easily be speaking of aforementioned substances here in place of art: food, alcohol and other drugs. But, the deeper this is pondered, the more it seems to be part of the human spirit and way of things. Human experience consists of the transformation of the self via the submission of the body and senses. One gives themselves to life as to live. The process is at once entropic and transformative. We die and become new people as we move through life; we test the body's reaction to stimuli and attempt to, firstly, internalise and retain this as knowledge, and secondly, allow it to change the mind and body. Art is but one way of doing this. This is why cinemas are designed to dissolve the personal, conscious sense of self and body. We sit in dark, warm, comfortable rooms; our body is suspended in ambiguous numbness, we see only that which is projected onto a screen and are not allowed to speak, only react as the movie allows us to. In the cinema, we become who we are told, we feel as we are told to. This is why we go; we do not know who we should be - we never can - so, why not sample the flavours of self.

What is so fascinating about art is that it is not a wholly deterministic entity. Movies do not make us who we are truly; we are not singularly products of our experience. There are more worlds that we understand. Worlds have will, and in such, they have a sensitivity to self and other. Worlds overlap all the time; the worlds of strangers, of the archetypes; worlds of history, physical possibility and the elements. The history of the relationship between worlds leads back to Tao. This is what we abstractly and indirectly experience and enact with will. We are a unique transformation distinguished from all that has been, and simultaneously are no different from any possibility. Such is why our being transcends experience. We at once embody a history of inestimable transformations that are solidified as ourselves when we are born, and then continue to transform as we live. Art contributes in the ongoing process of the universal solidification and transformation of matter and energy. When we feel possessed by art, distracted, our will redirected, Tao touches us from afar. This is how it does its work.

What does all of this mean? It means nothing more than what is. The meaning of existence rests in a cradle of sensation and thought. It is limited to infinite transformation. There is nothing to be found below this. We may only follow the path - it is only part of us that walks anyway. What does not walk makes up the road.


Toy Story 4 - Expanding/Deepening Franchises

Thoughts On: Toy Story 4 (2019)

Woody, no longer a favourite toy, tries to do what is best by Bonnie, yet gets lost along the way.

It took me a long time to sit down and watch Toy Story 4. In the last 4 years, 4 of Pixar's 5 feature-length releases have been sequels. Since 2016, the studio has produced Coco, and then Cars 3, Finding Dory, Incredibles 2 and Toy Story 4. It is hard to come to a conclusion, but the question is very apparent: is this good or bad?

I am yet to see Finding Dory in full, but, I would actually say that Coco is maybe the least impressive Pixar film of the last 4 years. That is to fundamentally say that the sequels are not poor in quality. Such may be a bold statement, but, even Cars 3 was a solid film. Pixar do not know how to make bad films. My grievances with Coco come from its tone; this feels, to me - especially following some unwanted re-watching - to be a slightly disingenuous film concerned more with the creation of a world and the cultivation of a child archetype to become possessed by than anything. What is more, the triteness of its musicality and the spectacle of aesthetics are somewhat dull. That said, the story of Coco holds its own - and, of course, this is an original feature - so maybe it exists on the same level as Cars 3. The debate is not very important.

We may establish the fact that Pixar sequels are not bad. Nonetheless, there is a pressing question: are they necessary? Maybe the most damming aspect of the Cars franchise concerns how pointless it appears. The depth of characterisation in all of the Cars films and shorts is easy to criticise. And though we appear to be in an age of the series and the embrace of the infinite narrative, this pointlessness compounds with the advertisement of every new sequel. There is, too, the exasperating sewage pipe splurging from the ass-end of Disney a constant, putrid stream of live action re-makes. With the explosion of Disney live-action remakes - none of which are good, nor justifiable at present (time may change things) - the increase of Pixar sequels feels more worrying than it maybe should be. Such, at least, is what Toy Story 4 indicates.

Toy Story 3 stands out in the Toy Story franchise as a film that cannot exist without its predecessors. Its ultimate goal is an exploration and evocation of mortality: the death and transformation of childhood. This drama is centred entirely on emotion and sentimentality, therefore, an attachment to and knowledge of the two previous features. This aspect of the third film in the franchise can be read positively or negatively. On the one hand, we see Pixar returning to the same well to evoke sentiment in their audience by simply pointing at their previous successes. But, on the other hand, we see the development of character and narrative to a deeper level of drama. Here is the fundamental debate at hand when we consider this new trend of sequels in Pixar. Are these sequels developing greater, deeper narratives, or are they merely expanding a franchise. With Toy Story 3, I leaned toward the latter. Toy Story 4 presents greater complication.

Like 3, Toy Story 4 relies on its predecessor as to be comprehensible. However, it returns to a central thematic hub of the franchise - which concerns individuation. Toy Story 1 was about jealousy; 2, community; 3, mortality; 4, freedom. Toy Story 1, 2 and 4 all require transformations of character. Toy Story 3, however, is more so about acceptance - it felt like the natural end to the franchise. Toy Story 4 successfully reopens the gates by following its main character further along a journey toward individuation; of not only accepting his life, but living it. This activity and engagement of transformation invigorates Toy Story 4 with more than sentiment, and so I see this film as more of a success than 3. In such, it deepens the franchise instead of merely expanding it.

The picture is then complicated. Toy Story 4 seems to be a substantial addition to the franchise, but, this is not a universal phenomenon for Pixar. This brings me back to the apprehension I confessed as we started. What are we to expect from Pixar next? Are they going to continue to deepen their franchises through substantial narratives? Or, will we see more quality products that maybe only need to be seen once?


Birds of Prey - Worlds of Character?

Thoughts On: Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn, 2020)

Quinn leaves Joker, and so it is open season.

I recently re-watched Wonder Woman, and it is through what is easily considered DC's best film to date that you can see glimmers of where the studio can go. Wonder Woman worked because it captured a character well and invited us into her perception. As a result, her world view becomes a world building tool. Birds of Prey seemed promising to me because it doubled down on this structural approach. This is a film that detaches Harley Quinn from the Joker so that her composition as a character can be explored. This exploration is left in the hands of Harley herself as an unreliable narrator of sorts. It is through this set-up and narrative approach that we are pulled into the world of Harley Quinn. Phillip's Joker - which is not necessarily a DC film - did this with stupendous success. We were pulled into a character's psyche and made to see the world as they did. Oscillating between an objective position and a subjective perspective, spectators immersed in Joker see profound meaning emanate from an attempt to understand character and the impact of their will on their world. Does Birds of Prey achieve anything comparable?

The answer to this is a yes and no. Birds of Prey falls into a character's psychology, but it trivialises its drama to a significant degree, using Quinn's mental instability and moral incredulity as a source of melodrama. Joker is a realist typhlodrama, Birds of Prey is an expressionist morodrama. The two share certain narrative techniques and both films' logic are defined by character psychology, but there are many conventional and modal differences that impact the quality of meaning that either film can potentially evoke. Joker is primed for affect; it means to rattle and shock. Birds of Prey lacks the seriousness to explicitly and directly do this. This is a film of queer pleasures; like a Scorsese gangster flick, this aims to reveal the ecstasies of immorality and move into an anti-hero's world. The results of this are appeasing but maybe a little lukewarm. The world we fall into in Birds of Prey is an amusing one, but, as you maybe expect, there is not much to learn there. We see and experience a side of Quinn that we hope to, but gain little of real substance from this. As a result, Birds of Prey is likely not as good as Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman had more heart and depth; Birds of Prey simply doesn't feel particularly substantial. It is funny and immersive, however. In total, then, this is worthwhile and has me interested in the new Wonder Woman.


Shorts #109

Shorts: Edge of Tomorrow (2014), 13 Hours (2016), Cache (2005), A Night at the Opera (1935), Underwater (2020), Our Hospitality (1923), Wonder Woman (2017), Queen & Slim (2019)

Edge of Tomorrow is still as unexpectedly impressive as it was when I first saw it in cinemas. What makes this work so well is its unique concept and its production of a sentimental character capable of securing genuine comic moments. So whilst this leaves you wanting to know more about how organic matter can control spacetime and separate consciousness from said elements, Edge of Tomorrow does arrest you in affective, interesting drama. Cruise is great in this less serious, less noble, incarnation of a familiar character type he is often cast as. Blunt, too, is great. The script is structured incredibly well; and the spectacle is immersive. Edge of Tomorrow is easily slept on, but unquestionably good.

I cannot remember finishing 13 Hours - I fell asleep at some point the night I watched it. But, I still feel an unambiguous lack of bother to figure this out and return to the film. I can get down with a Michael Bay melodrama, but, this - a semi-realist configuration of the Bay drama and aesthetic - I haven't much patience for. Without exuberant excess and ridiculously boisterous, half-articulate symbolism, Bay's drama and aesthetic is left with its conventional crutches and an awkward political discourse I do not care to try and navigate through. 13 Hours is filled with weak characters, cliche and highly questionable representation. It is too conscious and too serious to be acceptable as a Bay production. I just didn't know what to do with this as I watched it.

Haneke's Cache, or Hidden, is as simple as it is dense. It has very few moving parts, but uses these in such a kaleidoscopic manner that they fractalise one another, constructing an ambiguous hall of mirrors. So much of Cache is concerned with the internalisation and processing of one's impact on the world and moral responsibility. The film subtly teases out of its audience an array of assumptions without ever confirming them, thus imposing back onto the spectator a question of their own associations. Take, for example, the film's subtle evocation of class and racial guilt. Do we see this as a post-colonial exploration of race-relations - prejudice, xenophobia, etc - in Paris as a result? Or, does this merely present such elements - peoples of certain races - that we cannot help but internalise and allow to awaken our conscience? Whose conscience and what conscience: Cache's conundrum.

A scintillating spectacle of smarts and silliness that stands out of the Marx brothers' filmography as maybe their most spectacular and expansive feature. How are you to speak of such an anarchic comedy? It is hilarious and rousing, but how and why? A Night at the Opera breaks its own logic as it constructs it. Like a cartoon character laying train track whilst they sit atop of run-away locomotive, this meanders through drama of intermittent intelligibility. But, as soon as plot points begin to resonate, they are solidified by illogic and silliness: everyone is trying to get a contract signed, but each time the topic is approached a gag of complete illogic destroys its intelligible place in the structure of narrative. Such is what makes A Night at the Opera so good. It is a pure comedy in that it constructs and deconstructs convention at a rate that is impossible to make sense of, but can somehow be followed.

Underwater is a mediocre and very familiar sci-fi adventure. It does nothing new with the monster in the house, lost in space, narrative form. Its monsters are ugly and uninteresting, its characters are mere caricatures subservient to a plot and spectacle that does not register as particularly affective. You cannot call this at all incompetent in any respect - it just isn't particularly original. Maybe the epitome of the mundane, Underwater isn't worth much to anyone familiar with this genre of film.

Our Hospitality presents a smart take on a romantic plot line regurgitated innumerable times in the genre. It heartedly resolves hatred with love, masking all true conflict with comedy that lambastes and sublimates the reality attached to its mimesis. There is nothing particularly special in this beyond Keaton's star persona. Such frames Our Hospitality as one of the actor-director's lesser films as this does not feel as inventive and ingenious as the likes of Sherlock Holmes jrn, One Week and The General. Chaplin may have been the better storyteller, Keaton the better technical filmmaker, but here Keaton doesn't revel in what he thrives in: the technical gag and smart stunt. Such comes in small bursts, but leaves one yearning for greater set-pieces and a more elaborate plot. That said, Our Hospitality has survived almost 100 years of film history, and is still worth watching.

Wonder Woman is just as I remembered it to be. The first 30 minutes are terrible, but as soon as Wonder Woman's character is cultivated through her relationship and movement into war, this film wakes up. DC are starting to understand what they are good at. Marvel can do the world building and can generate a vast narrative rife with symbols and sentimentality. DC have personalities. They have archetypes that can define worlds and energise an aesthetic experience of their perception of things. What DC cannot do is work within the confines of a coherent dramatic mode. Their usage of degrees of realism and seriousness is poison - it ruins their films. Unreal and subsumed in subjectivity, the DC film begins to work. All they need to do is continue to figure out their characters - that's it.

Queen & Slim is a very evocative piece of cinema. It consciously produces a sprawling and powerful invective discourse on the black American experience. This discourse is not simple and it does not resolve itself. There are many ambiguous and open ends left in this narrative. Maybe the most affecting emerges from a scene in which montage juxtaposes a sexual encounter and fatal protest. The two events are correlated and imbued with highly sensationalised sentiment, but their causal relationship and its ramifications are entirely subsumed in darkness. What does it mean that passionate protest causes violent destruction? This is the crux of Queen & Sim's discourse. It is challenging to engage and difficult to process, but this is a film that undoubtedly puts a lot into your hands.


1917 - Aesthetic & Drama

Thoughts On: 1917 (2019)

Two soldiers must reach a battalion about to run into an ambush.

I have seen 1917 twice in the cinema now, and it has only become more abundantly clear that this is a truly special work of such incredible technical brilliance. What I did not anticipate from 1917 was its poetic expression and magisterial ability to articulate concisely and directly thematic and aesthetic points of interest. If we look to 'one-shot' films such as Rope, Birdman and Russian Ark, we find examples of visual and technical spectacle concerned with form's ability to capture material diegesis. That is to say that the spectacle of these respective films stems from the impressive presentation of what is within the frame. For example, Birdman is filled with shots, moments and performances that are designed so that the audience questions - how did they capture that? Russian Ark and Rope, too, centralise choreography - both that of the camera and performers: blocking. Russian Ark does so to access an ethereal tone, Rope to generate tension. All of these attributes emerge from a set, however: and so we feel like we are watching something quasi-theatrical. It then is no surprise that Birdman concerns itself with the theatre. After all, that appears to be one of the ontological crises on the periphery of this kind of film: the age-old tension between theatre and cinema. That said, whilst 1917 advertises itself as having similar concerns, it does not. 1917 subverts this developing convention of the oner and the one-shot film, focusing not only on what is material and real within the frame, but cinematic spacetime's relationship with the abstractions of the medium: those magical elements of music and theme specifically.

If Mendes showcases a mastery of anything in 1917, it is a mastery of directional cinematic language. With cutting extracted from this film's lexicon, its ability to manage the spectator's eye is found in the movement between varying focal lengths and shot types: wide to close, long to short. It is the movement from wide to close framing or a long to short depth of field that not only transforms the way the spectator may see subtly, slowly progressing drama, but provides and emphasises the logic or knowledge of certain sequences. Take for example a simple moment in which our main character must cross a broken bridge. Here there is a transition from a near-POV look at the bridge to a tracking shot behind the solider to a close-up of his feet, to a mechanical crane wide that tracks and pushes in on his hurried movement across to the other bank when he comes under fire. This analysis is dependent entirely on my memory of this scene and so my description may not be entirely accurate, but what is presented in this moment is dense and layered. Through these transitions, not only is tension and panic built and expressed, but attention is called to texture, to the slippery mud on the soldier's boots; he is isolated, moved by pure, automatic desperation and overcome by an unrelenting and fearless confrontation of possible death. How this over-tonal thematic discourse shifts through the film is dependent on scenes like this. The mere push-in on boots (which is a recurring shot that tracks the hell that this solider has trudged through) pulls us back to a recognition of his suffering and will. Our migration between near and far perspectives of such pathos and triumph then not only serves as a temporal transformer, but adds density to a brutal and immersive lyrosophic experience.

Let us try to unpack this further. We will start with how the cinematic language becomes a temporal transformer. The difficulty of a long-shot film concerns the fact that all the 'boring bits' of life that film often cuts out, must be masked and managed. Our characters in this film then must travel approximately 6 miles (if I remember correctly). This is the source of all drama - an adventure of sorts. However, this journey should, in reality, have many quiet (boring, stale, meaningless) moments of inaction. Whilst editing would usually cut these moments away, the script and blocking in 1917 must work together to invigorate all moments with either aesthetic or dramatic substance. This is where we see cinematic language become a transformer of time. It speeds and slows it down, orchestrating a visual narrative that sustains the spectator's interest by constantly providing nuanced perspectives of drama. As a result, though there are numerous images of 'walking', all of these images are differentiated and layered with new logic. Some shots of walking generate tension, fear and anticipation, others evoke reflection, others call attention to details, such as how soaked a solider's boots are. It is because the frame is managed in such a way that it constantly makes new articulations of familiar drama. This technicality is extremely impressive and, as said, one of the key innovations that 1917 makes as a one-shot film. But, adding to this, the entire technique is further compounded in complexity by the fact that it is only one half of tremendous sound-montage. That is to say that, a much as differing shot types alter the meaning and density of drama, so does the music. The score of 1917 is incredibly rousing and subtle; it works also to slow down and speed up time, to layer on top of drama aesthetic wonder. And so whilst it seems that technical visuals are what make 1917 special, close attention will make obvious the fact that it is the interplay between sight and sound that are so impressive in this feature.

With that discussed briefly, let us consider 1917's lyrosophy. Lyrosophy is an old French film theory term that alludes to moments in which meaning is experienced or evidence is felt. It is watching 1917 that I began to realise how significant this term may be. Whilst the cinematic language of this film is rather structured and technical, the most expressive moments of the film are not grounded in drama, per se, rather aesthetic. However, immediately after having this thought, I questioned the very definition of the aesthetic and dramatic. I have worked for quite some time on trying to understand the term 'drama'. I have come to see it as action and conflict that is mimetically associated with an expression of universal immanent logic through the collective unconscious and then conscious cognition surrounding and pervading a cinematic space. 'Aesthetic' on the other hand, is a term I haven't given significant thought. In the works of Kant, Bergson, Schiller, Hegel and
Dufrenne, the aesthetic binds art to an existential ontological aporia: a question of an immanent or transcendent 'beyond' from which meaning or experience is derived or travels back to. My knowledge of these philosophers, you'll have to forgive me, is not too deep; but it is apparent that the aesthetic is in some capacity an evocation of nature, spirit, the transcendental and humanity to them. And so following this back to Epstein, I began to see through 1917 what aesthetic could really add to the structure of the cinematic space. Where drama is subsumed in the logos or logic of a narrative, aesthetic is bound to a pneumatic spatio-temporal aspect of narrative centred on experience. In short, drama and aesthetic formulate lyrosophy with drama providing knowledge and aesthetic feeling. It is then when drama and aesthetic dance together that knowledge can be experienced or evidence felt. Aesthetic is, in this regard, at once haptic and epistemological; it reaches out to the spectator and pulls them down a road of inquiry. Drama plays a very similar role, and, in truth, aesthetic and drama are very hard to separate. Aesthetic concerns the experience of material objects; it facilitates an experience of their significance via sight, sound and more. Drama is concerned with actions. Alas, actions, and those who act, can be objectified and can contribute to or exist within an aesthetic. How then is the aesthetic and dramatic object differentiated?

It is not clear to me that the two phenomena are separate or can be distinguished definitively. Drama, action, however, focuses on discourse: the accumulation of actions formulate a line of articulation that is quasi-linguistic. Aesthetic, too, communicates, but not through discourse. Aesthetic does not have the ability to transform action into language. It presents materiality as a statement in and of itself. Aesthetic and drama evoke notions and characteristics of Tao, but their mechanism of communication is possibly what separates them: aesthetic primarily evokes, drama discourses. That is not to say that aesthetic cannot formulate discourse; aesthetic has its logic and thus presents ideas. Consider the way in which light and colour say something. Alas, let us recognise that colour and light cannot articulate like action and speech do. Drama travels higher up the annals of the mind, up from the unconscious to consciousness. Aesthetic dwells lower down. Together, however, drama and aesthetic generate lyrosophy. They situate the spectator in a space and time of meaning. Aesthetic enhances the experience of spacetime, drama gives space and time motion and logic that rationalises and layers the experience provided by aesthetic. Let us consider here an example in 1917.

Coming back to consciousness after tumbling down a flight of stairs, our main character enters a town lit intermittently by flares. The strobes of light cast deep shadows and harsh glare over a crumbling, broken town; it becomes a surreal place rife with enemies but also depths to hide in. It is aesthetic that allows us to experience such a place as such. It is difficult to articulate fully what this aesthetic experience is composed of and evokes, but such is the nature of the aesthetic. So much of this experience, it must be emphasised, emerges from the sound track; it situates us within an alien wonder and sublime ambiguity that is at once fearsome and dangerous and unbelievably tangible; a reprieve and a new part of a journey. It is as our character begins to act that drama imbues an experience of this town with a knowledge of its place. It is as our solider then runs from enemies and gun fire, and eventually comes upon a young French woman in hiding with a baby, that we begin to formulate a consciousness of this town as an in-between place. It is somewhere that the journey may be stopped, a place of light and darkness where the solider could either be shot and killed for lack of sight, or where he may hide out within the realm of two anima figures. This place is a significant one in his venture as it returns us to a question of duty. On the one hand, our solider has his aim, and it is imbued with layers of existential substance: he not only means to save thousands of lives, but fulfil the will of another fallen soldier. But, what is forgotten in this journey is what resides beyond war for our solider. This town and its harbouring of the anima (young woman and baby girl) returns us to a vision of the soldier's spirit; his aching desperation and reluctance to return to his own family having completed his duties in a war he does not understand.

So much could emerge from a close analysis of 1917: it is a genuinely brilliant film that beautifully explores the notion of self-sacrifice. But, what I mean to bring to light here is how dependent this film's success is on a coherent expression of aesthetic and drama. It is then with a superior and precise management of cinematic language that 1917 cultivates powerful lyrosophy by intricately presenting the depths of experience facilitated by aesthetic and the knowledge provided by drama.


Learning How To Art

Thoughts On: Logos & Pnuema

A consideration of the creation and expression of art.

There is a common notion in martial arts that one must prepare their body for the event of a fight. Training and practice then go out the window the moment a fight starts. Instinct takes over and the body performs what it has been taught to do so. It is possible to see in this not only the basis of martial arts, but all arts. What transforms discipline, skill and actions into art is the embodiment and expression of the depth, substance and meaning of that discipline, skill and action. Seen in this light, art is the presentation of a philosophy of being.

This idea is rather self-evident in martial arts, but slightly more ambiguous in a medium such as cinema. Martial arts requires two (or more) individuals interacting via combat. Their communication is physical and enclosed within their relationship. Cinema requires a piece of work and an audience as to make its artistic expression. This relationship is an open and abstract one. However, there is much to learn from its relationship with 'training'. As with fighting in martial arts, the moment of expression - the screening - of cinema relies heavily upon instinct, flow and automatism. Thinking has its place in this moment of expression, but, it is a secondary process; thought follows sensation, only to be closely followed by sensation again. This cycle subordinates thought to instinct, consciousness to the unconscious. Such a situation is unlike other activities in which we think and then do. Of course, artistic creation or expression requires premeditation. A film must be planned and thought through. However, creation and expression are two separate process in art. The creation and cultivation of artistic material involves the rationalising of sensation. The expression or performance of this sees sensation's rationality presented. In music, the cultivation of skill - the ability to play an instrument and understand musical theory - involves conscious practice and training. As music is played, however, consciousness is replaced by unconsciousness, and the performance exudes the ascertained logic and essence of the objects and concepts studied. When a great guitarist then plays, it is not scales and picking techniques that are presented, but the essence of a certain sound, its meaning and ability to move others. The study of the technique is a journey to the depths of its existential and universal place and meaning in the world.

In cinema, a similar process sees the logos and pneuma of a film created. This process is multifaceted and far too complicated for me to pretend to understand. Nonetheless, part of this process involves the disciplinary study of writers, choreographers, performers, directors, cinematographers and more. Writers' objects of study concern ideas, characters, plots, dialogue, rhythm, structure and more. Part of a film's expression is then involved in evoking the essence of the logic within a certain idea, a certain vision of individuality, of a succession of space, time and causality, of sound, flow and more. In addition to the contributions of a writer are those of the cinematographer, whose object of study is light, colour, composition, texture, exposure, tone and more. So, in a film there is presented too the immanent substance of certain hues, light temperatures, tones and more. These myriad of elements and more all have vast, deep and dark implications. They reach down through the collective unconscious and they emerge from Tao. Resonant, powerful art has a chance of revealing this fact. The spectator has a chance to perceive it. But, to perceive art, the spectator, too, needs their training. A fight needs at least two individuals. Cinema needs work and an audience. The spectator completes the cinematic space, and in turn play their part in the expression of art. Because the spectator, too, expresses, they must go through a cultivation or creation process. Film spectating is a discipline. The notion of cinema-as-entertainment may make this assertion seem trivial, but, all spectators needs to have a skill or discipline to engage cinematic material. After all, how could we be moved by a movie if we did not understand its plot, characters, themes and more? Our mind has to do some amount of work to make sense of a film, and, as anyone who has re-watched and studied a film will know, this takes attention: the process is a continuous one. This is part of the reason as to why films change to us over time. We learn more about them and see more in them as a result of our own study and attention.

We see here, then, how a cinematic experience is something like a fight. Whilst the aim of artistic expression in a cinema is not dominance or victory, it requires two disinclined subjects communicating and interacting with, or exchanging, skills. What is expressed here depends on the subjects involved in this interaction and skill and discipline. In cinema, the traces of practice, skill and disciplined are encapsulated in a film's - or rather, a cinematic experience's - logos. This is the trace of a conscious study of a certain object. Most fundamentally, it is the trace of one's interface with Tao. Pnuema is what is unconsciously expressed in the performance of skill and discipline. Pneuma encapsulates the essence of the object - or, at least, the ascertained essence of a studied object. This is to say that, though an object may be studied, only a certain level of its depth or a fraction of its breadth may have been comprehended and translated through performance. The relationship between the cultivation and expression of skill is a nuanced one. When we watch a fight on TV, we are seeing captured performances. The television broadcast and the fight are two different modes of expression complimenting one another. Is this true of cinema?

A performer on film expresses their art in a take of a shot or scene. But, does their artistic expression end here? I find it hard to know how to answer this question. Certainly the performance is over and the actor or actress has completed their job. Having shot all of their scenes, they can only be a spectator of their art. However, their expression is not substantiated, completed, until a film is screened. So, cinematic expression starts on the set, but cannot end when a performer has finished performing. Cinema starts with an idea and ends with a screening. If we consider every artist involved in the creation of cinema a 'filmmaker,' then we can comfortably say that their process of artistic creation starts and ends as a film is put into production; their expression, on the other hand, does not start until the screening of the final product does. To answer the question of whether a performer's artistic expression ends when their take does then relies on how we think of that performer: are they an actor or actress and is their art acting - or, are they a filmmaker, and is their art cinema? I lean toward the notion that everyone involved in the creation of a film (including the spectator) is a 'filmmaker'. However, their is a long debate about auteurship and authorship in cinema that is very complicated. But, it need not impinge upon my final point.

Every artistic agent contributing toward the expression of a film engages the same process in the moment of expression. They feel and then think and then feel again cyclically. This oscillation between consciousness and unconsciousness is what manifest drama; it is a movement between expressing pnuema and logos; it is breathing and rationalising. This movement also manifests genre as emerging from unconsciousness and consciousness is the presentation of the real and unreal. The unconscious-conscious relationship is one of the fundamental yin-yang phenomena that emerge from an interaction with Tao. Logos and pneuma are the final cosmetic state of the yin-yang phenomena. In fact, it is the unification of yin and yang that produce affect and then inter-objectivity. Alas, the discussion is becoming highly technical and dense. This is a topic I'd like to return to, but, for now we can begin to see that one must learn to 'art'. Expression is dependent on cultivation and training. This training defines the moment of expression by an oscillation between an unconscious channelling of the immanence of an object studied and a conscious consideration of said object. Such formulates the ambiguous concepts of logos and pneuma that require far more attention.


The Gentleman - Character & Place

Thoughts On: The Gentleman (2019)

The boss of a sticky bush empire welcomes chaos the moment he tries to sell his business.

I have seen The Gentleman twice now. I said after I saw it last that I'd rather re-watch this than The Irishman - nine times out of ten. As brash a statement as that may be, I certainly find this manifestation of the gangster film far more appealing and appeasing than the latter. The Gentleman is a carefully pieced together puzzle of a narrative that pulls you into a world populated by larger-than-life characters and outlandish drama. It does an incredible amount in its sub-two hour run time. I re-entered The Gentleman thinking of its innumerable plot points and reversals, and as it started, I got slightly nervous; I thought, this could be long. But, only a few minutes into the film, I eased into things, and it felt far shorter than it did on the first viewing. This film screams by, smooth in tone and punctuated with brilliant moments of humour and violence - all of which are grounded in the exploration of world-as-character and characters-as-world. It is this interchangeability of personality and space-time makes this film so special, and it is one of the most magical capabilities of the gangster genre film. This is a genre built upon something of a morbid fascination and an overt embrace of the collective shadow. That is to say that gangster films are about anti-heroes and villains. They allow us to peep into dark worlds, engorge ourselves on the thought of vices and brutality and have fun whilst doing so. Scorsese, via Goodfellas and Wolf of Wall Street, is a master of this genre of film. But, The Gentleman, alongside other key Richie gangster films, comfortably sits in the same genre and on the same level as these behemoth classics. Scorsese did not return to this magic with The Irishman, not with the success that Richie did having returned from a hellish foray into Disney live-action remaking. And such was hinged upon this interchange of character and place. The Gentleman is a film whose setting has a character by virtue of its ability to produce so many varied subjects. It is a film that caricatures various Londoners and Brits, and uses their personalities to define and welcome us into a certain vision of Britain and London. Here is the interplay between subject and place. We are lost in character the moment we enter this film. Every element of the screen informs us of it. And such is the joy of this film; we are locked in a purely subjective space. Engaging aesthetics and narrative then become like having a great conversation in which the exchange of identity and personage is addictive and perception-warping. I do not know how to describe this phenomenon well, but the immersion into a purely subjective space is powerfully engrossing. I believe this is what happens in gossip shows, reality TV and personal vlogs. Cinema has a similar mechanism at its ready as these mediums do, but I believe it is something like The Gentleman that captures this with power and class. A tremendous film.


Shorts #108

Shorts: Alita: Battle Angel (2019), Panga (2020), Bad Boys For Life (2020), The Intouchables (2012), Uncut Gems (2019), My Neighbour Totoro (1988)

What is Christoph Waltz doing in this movie?

This is a well-rounded mess. Nothing works - maybe there are some moments of griping spectacle, but they are fleeting at best. The mix of CGI and live action is... ugh. The CG modelling and physics are uncanny. The character construction is childish. The narrative is naive and contrived. Characters are never tested, plot points simply proceed and dominate the development of story. The dialogue - poor; rife with flat exposition and embarrassingly unemotive. I'm somewhat baffled by Alita's success, and don't care for the sequel. I'm sure Edward Norton will only embarrass himself more so than Christoph Waltz has here.

Seemingly following in the footsteps of the recently (somewhat recently) successful Dangal, Panga brings forth a female sports, action narrative as to question norms in gender roles and empower female athletes seeking a greater degree freedom.

Not based on a true story, Panga lacks stakes in a certain regard and does feel somewhat constructed - especially considering the lacklustre third act and finale. Ultimately, the excitement of a kabaddi game is not well represented or captured. Nonetheless, this is a very good film. It is humorous and has a rich tone, and at the heart of all is Kangana Ranaut who bears an incredibly warm and genuine aura as the central protagonist. If this found the success that Dangal did in the sports side of this drama, Panga would undoubtedly be a brilliant film. But, because it only manages character and thematic commentary well, this doesn't quite execute all you hope it to.

What can be said about Bad Boys III?

It is not particularly good. It doesn't even stand out as particularly notable either. It is moderately fun, but on the whole mediocre and a little forgettable. There is an attempt to push deeper into our established characters and expand the cast, and whilst the latter is somewhat successfully managed with humour, the former attempt to explore Marcus and Mike is lukewarm. Somewhat understandably, this lacks the intensity and action seen in the previous films, but I was left rather unexcited and only mildly engaged by Bad Boys For Life. So, in the end, there's not much good to say about this; I won't say Bad Boys III never should have been made, but, I'm not sure if we need more - unless maybe Bay and Bruckheimer teamed up for a bigger, more ridiculous spin off... who knows No likes

It has been a long time since I watched The Intouchables - it must be about 6 or 7 years. I had always remembered it to be fun and heartwarming, but had developed over the years a bad taste for the film. Maybe it was just its popularity and the simplicity with which I remembered it, but I began to think it was only so-so. With a re-watch, I discovered again its warmth and sentimental simplicity. I wouldn't assume that this narrative holds up under much scrutiny, but it is clearly attempting to tell a story of two people setting one another on a route toward independence and dignity. Much could be read into this politically, but, left as such, I think The Intouchables is a brilliant piece of cinema and a very well constructed comedy.

Pure magic.

Nothing else need be said.

I have seen and written about My Neighbour Totoro so many times. The film is a space of pure comfort and intrigue; it beautifully articulates the essence of a childhood and its place between understanding and imagination. My Neighbour Totoro is then an ecstatic, fantastical adventure both because of, and in spite of, the fact that it is also a minor melodrama of melancholia. This is a film that asserts that there is no distinction between imagination and understanding; to hope and be lost in self is inextricably related to one's vision of reality. It is imagination that elevates understanding and articulates the yearning to grow and overcome. My Neighbour Totoro exudes this optimism with cinematic magic, and for this, is one of the most charming films in existence.