Spielberg on "Saving the world entire"

Schindler’s List
Director: Steven Spielberg

Cast: Liam Neeson, Ben Kingsley, Ralph Fiennes, Caroline Goodall

The unconditional surrender of Germany has just been announced. At midnight tonight, the war is over. Tomorrow you'll begin the process of looking for survivors of your families. In most cases... you won't find them. After six long years of murder, victims are being mourned throughout the world. We've survived. Many of you have come up to me and thanked me. Thank yourselves. Thank your fearless Stern, and others among you who worried about you and faced death at every moment. I am a member of the Nazi Party. I'm a munitions manufacturer. I'm a profiteer of slave labour. I am... a criminal. At midnight, you'll be free and I'll be hunted. I shall remain with you until five minutes after midnight, after which time - and I hope you'll forgive me - I have to flee.

The silver screen is a powerful medium for the transmission of emotions. I say this in full knowledge of the triteness of the statement, and its utter lack of original appeal as a result. Because it’s as true as hackneyed clichés get. Watching a movie can do things to you, it can change your mood, it can inspire you, it can have you going away feeling that humanity might have a hope in the world after all… or it might just leave you shaken and insecure. Now, what does one do when one comes across a movie that does all of the above, and more? A movie that transcends every barrier, a movie that goes beyond the established means, medians and modes of filmmaking, a movie that is not merely unforgettable, but revolutionary (in more ways thane one) and indelible? One eulogises, is what one does. And such a movie one found, when one sat down to watch Steven Allen Spielberg’s greatest work to date, that apotheosis of cinematography, that homage to the profundity of monochrome… that Schindler’s List.

When one speaks of “epic” in terms of movies, there are names that spring quite chirpily (sometimes cumbersomely as well) to mind: Gone With the Wind, Ben Hur, and Lawrence of Arabia, to name but a few. The latest addition to this tinsel town pantheon was Schindler’s List, in 1993. A flawless classic of direction, production and acting at their scintillating best, it speaks of incredible proportions, temporal, humane and cinematic. Arguably (disputable) the best-made movie ever produced by Hollywood, or any other wood, it is the stylishly, engrossingly portrayed account of Nazi profiteer, womaniser and unwitting philanthropist Oskar Schindler, who did his remarkable part in ensuring that over a 1,000 Jews made it through the holocaustic horrors of the Second World War not simply alive, but well-fed and healthy (questionable inference). Now, one obviously sat down to watch this movie somewhat choc-a-bloc with expectation… after all, what with 7 Oscars and BAFTAs, 3 Golden Globes, 55 other awards and 21 more nominations, one can’t be the first to feel so strongly about the movie. And, having watched it, all 200-odd minutes of it, one realised that all the heaped honours and venerations hadn’t prepared one for something on this scale. One was dumbfounded, and shaken and stirred like a mutant Bond beverage.

It’s well known (once again) that the best movies are those that involve the viewer. And I haven’t seen a movie yet that can so much as compete with Schindler’s List in this sphere… it is an emotional drama that simultaneously plays on multiple themes: of power and its misuse, of compassion, inhumanity and forgiveness, of dissolution and regret, and ultimately, of the value of life. An important facet of this movie, and indisputably a core factor in the deliverance of its humane messages, is Spielberg’s resolute use of graphic cinematography… remorseless killings, incinerations and exhumations are shown unflinchingly (though the violence cannot be classified as gore, it is of a more implicit nature), and nudity is not a vehicle for titillation to Spielberg, it is a tool for the projection of Jew desolation and helplessness and German atrocity.

Interestingly, the aforementioned humane messages describe a steady progression as the movie progresses, from a sort of lurking-in-the-background motif to a conspicuous centrepiece of the film. We see Schindler progressing from mere cupidity, saturnalias and bedroom philandering to a solicitous and cunning proponent of Jew amelioration, yet retaining his enigmatic charisma throughout. He is heavily influenced by his Jew accountant, Itzhak Stern; Spielberg spends considerable time subtly depicting the development of a wonderful relationship between these two men, an inspiring toast to friendship undeterred by delineations. At the same time, this is paralleled by Schindler’s relationship with the incredibly debauch and stupendously pitiless Amon Goeth, a Nazi who couldn’t be more suited to Hitler’s ideologies. To Goeth, the wanton, groundless killing of Jews became something so routine that it slowly ingratiated itself with his morning ablutions… an integral part of his day, a day-starter to compare with coffee in terms of stimulation. Goeth is as sick as humans can get, almost like the biological equivalent of a chainsaw.

The question thus arises: isn’t Schindler’s association with Goeth incongruous with his (Schindler’s) personality? Indeed, prima facie. But this relationship is seen as motive-driven right from the start, and the motives begin to diversify, to the point where Schindler is, in fact, seen consciously taking advantage of Goeth’s dipsomania to drop pithy words on the importance of power and the values of forgiveness (yep, the Themes). However, this is almost going into spoiler territory, so it would be better to concentrate on the remaining themes.

Schindler’s List was directed in 1993. Way into colour film era. So possibly the single most noticeable aspect of the film is its black-and-white-ness, in keeping with Spielberg’s desire to shoot the movie like a documentary. Somewhat incongruously, this only makes the viewing experience exponentially more engrossing than the alternative suggests; the insightful and shrewd use of monochrome lends a sense of timelessness, aural starkness and neorealism to the film, thus sharpening the anti-Semitic mood and concurrently embellishing it.

A number of features of Schindler’s List distinguish it from the plethora of texts and motion pictures exemplifying the horrors of the holocaust. The use of monochrome in itself takes the movie to an apical level of artistry. On another note, the projection of Oskar Schindler as no god-sent messiah, but a cunning, enigmatic individualist with ruggedly capitalist aspirations who almost reluctantly finds himself empathising with and condemning Jewish conditions through prolonged contact with them, is a toast to the transient humanity in us all, and at the same time, is a brilliant and successful attempt to involve the viewers in Schindler’s maturation. In a way, Schindlers List is Bildungsroman drama… the only disqualification being that Schindler is already a full-fledged adult when the movie begins.

Schindler’s List is a tribute to the power of histrionics. The ensemble acting is flawless, with Liam Neeson (Schindler), Ben Kingsley (Itzhak Stern) and Ralph Fiennes (Amon Goeth) delivering superbly crafted performances to compliment Spielberg’s peerless direction and Janusz Kaminski’s stylistic cinematography. It is a transcendental tribute to the gamut of forces governing humanity, and an inspirational story of the difference one man made in the fortunes of thousands, of the difference, to commit oneself once more to banality, a singular beacon of light can make in warding off seemingly insurmountable darkness, presented in an unforgettably realistic manner. Extensive, magnificent and sparklingly multi-thematic, it is, quite, simply, the most powerful movie I have seen.

Kubrick's flawed genius

2001: A Space Odyssey
Director: Stanley Kubrick

The crew of Discovery One consists of five men and one of the latest generation of the HAL-9000 computers. Three of the five men were put aboard asleep, or to be more precise a state of hibernation. They were Dr. Charles Hunter, Dr. Jack Kimball and Dr. Victor Kaminsky. We spoke with mission commander Dr. David Bowman and his deputy, Dr. Frank Poole. Well, good afternoon gentlemen, how is everything going?

Perhaps this question is meant for us, the viewers. A good question. A very good question, indeed, that. 2001: A Space Odyssey must be one of the most bizarre movies ever made. It is an oxymoron of a film, leaving the viewer with such conflicting views about it that it is hard to sum up the movie. Good? Bad? The one thing one can say quite unequivocally about this strange experience is that it certainly isn’t mediocre. No film made on this scale can be conscientiously bedevilled by tagging it “mediocre”. It belongs to an extreme, the unmistakeable characteristic of a “cult” product.

This particular movie, in fact, seems to vacillate between extremes throughout its storyline. It is at once dull and engaging, harrowing and amusing, tedious and fascinating. One can feel the flawed genius at work behind it; this is evident in the painstaking attention to detail, the scientific accuracy and realism, the prophetic vision, coupled with scenes so interminably drawn-out and dialogue so unbearably banal that the screening becomes an ordeal of sorts. Yet 2001: A Space Odyssey is too vast in its conception to subject it to such trite phraseology. What, essentially, is the movie about? It is, at the basest level, a glance into the possible future of mankind, as viewed in 1968. From this aspect, the movie scores so many points that it is almost immediately secured the status of greatness. Kubrick and his crew of technical wizards have sculpted a world so flawless, so brilliantly and meticulously rendered through their famously groundbreaking and pioneering use of special effects that it is hard to believe this movie is a 1968 production. There are scenes of strong surrealism accentuated by eerie background music, and large parts of the movie are characterised by a complete lack of any dialogue whatsoever, replaced by an interesting score that takes the place of narrative; is this where the movie fails? An inability to establish contact with Earth on a human level? Or can this be viewed as another example or facet of Kubrick’s genius for the unconventional? Perhaps it’s a combination of both, eh? After all, genius works on a different plane than the rest of us bourgeoisie.

Contrary to the impression one has of the film on its completion, it does have a plot of sorts. The plot revolves very loosely around a cuboidal black monolith that is presumably an indication of the existence of extraterrestrial life. Apropos of this, the movie seems yet again to swing back and forth; between scenes that give us hope of some discernable point behind all the visuals, and scenes that continue for so long without consequence that one is disabused of the notion of an existent “plot” once again. The movie begins with a 17-odd minute shoot of ape-men struggling to survive in the African desert during what is captioned as “The Dawn of Man”. The black monolith makes its first appearance here, its arrival coinciding with an ear-splitting and eerie score that haunts the monolith throughout the movie. Following this encounter, in a somewhat disconnected and abstract scene, an ape-man is shown creating what is probably the first “tool”: an improvised club, chanced upon while scavenging through a pile of bones. The ape-men use this “weapon” to scare away other ape-men encroaching on their territory. This scene is notable for the interesting manner in which the film editor has linked it to the scene that follows; using an editing technique known as the “match cut”, he converts a tumbling bone into a man-made satellite.

Thus the movie swivels to 2001, by which time man has made gigantic technological advancements. Kubrick’s creativity acquires hegemony, and the viewer is enraptured by his vision of space travel as something commonplace, complete with transit space stations that double as hotels with tourist facilities. Gravity is defied and brought to heel, entire meals are sucked out of straws, and telephones seem to have become obsolete, replaced by audiovisual screens. The origins of biometric identification and in-flight entertainment, in fact, can in all probability be traced back to 2001: A Space Odyssey.

And finally, after many minutes of simian and satellite choreography, the beginnings of a plot manifest themselves. A group of Russians at a space station diplomatically express their suspicions regarding the activities at the Moon base at Clavius crater to Dr Heywood R Floyd, who is travelling there himself to investigate, as is later revealed, a potentially shocking and sensational discovery made at the crater by American scientists. Floyd maintains silence, citing security reasons, and once he arrives at the location, we learn of the discovery: it is none other than the black monolith itself, shrieking away to glory into the scientists’ radio receivers.

Cut. Fast forward: “Jupiter Mission: Eighteen Months Later”. We have seen spaces stations and extraterrestrial colonisation and moonbuses, now we acquaint ourselves with suspended animation and artificial intelligence. Spurred by the discovery of the black monolith, the search for life in outer space is on. On board the Discovery One are astronauts Dave and Frank, along with 3 scientists in cryogenic hibernation, headed for Jupiter in a craft whose every function banks on the reliability of the supposedly flawless HAL 9000 supercomputer. The sense of mystery that has pervaded the movie ever since the first monolith viewing is heightened when HAL, a sentient machine of sorts, expresses its own uncertainties regarding the mission. However, these uncertainties fade into the background as an entirely different drama begins to play itself out on the spaceship: HAL makes an error. Not only does this endanger the 5 lives onboard the DO, it jeopardises the mission. Dave and Frank surreptitiously discuss the pros and cons of disconnecting HAL, HAL finds out by reading their lips, and the movie becomes a mini-battle between man and machine. Be not misled, however. It is still moving at an excruciatingly slow pace.

During the “battle”, Dave happens upon the real objective of the mission, in a pre-recorded message hidden in HAL’s Logic Memory Centre. Needless to say, the black monolith is at the bottom of everything; the scientists aboard the DO had been entrusted with the task of investigating the signal sent by it (the monolith) to Jupiter. Interesting, but hardly a bolt from the blue.

Now comes Book Three of 2001: “Jupiter and beyond the Infinite”. The movie so far has been weird enough in its sluggish pace and starkly objective dialogue, but this last, eye-burning sequence takes the prize. The sluggishness is discarded, as is the dialogue (which was scanty enough to begin with), but the weirdness reaches a chaotic crescendo. The DO has reached Jupiter, Dave has disembarked on a pod to investigate something or the other, and suddenly, in a disorienting maze of colours, sound and spatial art, we find him travelling light years of space, traversing an alien landscape photographed painfully in negative, and ending up in a modernistic white room furnished in Louis XVI, where Dave sees himself in various stages of aging, breaks his glasses, finds himself dying on a bad, suddenly notices the ubiquitous black monolith at the foot of the deathbed, reaches out for it and becomes a blue baby encased in a bubble. The last scene of the movie is that of the baby viewing the Earth inside its bubble.

No, I haven’t missed any crucial images that may decipher that sequence of events above. Outré? Bizarre? Outlandish? Surreal? Yes, all of those and more. If there is a profound message hidden in that jumble of eccentricities, I didn’t get it. The ending left me dissatisfied, for I realised I had just viewed a technically mind-blowing movie that could boast apart from its special effects and vision… pretty much nothing. There were only the mildest suggestions of a plot in the form of extracts that never truly came together as a whole. It isn’t clear if this was Kubrick’s intention, but all the mysteries were left as loose ends, dangling untended. We are left dangling ourselves, wondering: What the hell was that about?

So, ultimately, what’s the jury’s painstakingly-reached verdict? This: as an experience, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a transcendental conception, daring, breath-taking, pure cinematic wizardry; as a movie, the entertainment value seems to have been sacrificed to the solidification of the vision itself, and ultimately makes little, if any, sense.

Cop, criminal... who cares?

The Departed
Director: Martin Scorsese
Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon Jack Nicholson, Mark Wahlberg, Martin Sheen, Ray Winstone, Anthony Anderson, Vera Farmiga, Alec Baldwin

I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me. Years ago we had the church. That was only a way of saying - we had each other. The Knights of Columbus were real head-breakers; true guineas. They took over their piece of the city. Twenty years after an Irishman couldn't get a fucking job, we had the presidency. May he rest in peace. That's what the niggers don't realize. If I got one thing against the black chappies, it's this - no one gives it to you, you have to take it.

Against every precept of my better judgement as a critic, I feel it necessary to juxtapose (only for the purpose of comparison) this movie with another, and far more venerated classic of broadly the same genre, The Godfather, in order to bring out exactly what makes The Departed possibly one of the best and most powerful movies I have watched.

Let’s be frank and aboveboard here. I don’t particularly like The Godfather. It didn’t engross me, and after a while I even wearied of the sepia aura of the film. But I admire it, because it’s common knowledge that the movie is technically flawless. Legions of forensically-inclined critics have held it against the light to no cynical avail whatsoever. Speaking from a purely cinematographic viewpoint, it is an achievement that stands head and shoulders above peers, merely because throughout the (lengthy) span of the reel, the viewer will not, for a single moment, lose the mood that Coppola intended to inflict on his audience. If there is any prime example of maintaining the “aesthetic distance”, The Godfather is it… every single facet of the movie caters to its primary objective, which is, basically, to portray the effects of criminal society on a family (which, admittedly, is central to the operation of the society). Of course, the performances of Brando, Caan, Duvall and Pacino did help.

I believe that, in The Departed, Martin Scorsese, that acclaimed artist of vulgarities (in the most respectful way possible), has matched Coppola’s 1972 masterpiece.

Essentially, The Departed is the story of two men whose lives become, unbeknownst to them, intrinsically intertwined as a result of their hazardous occupations. They derive their identity from opposite sides of the law, and both are assigned as moles to infiltrate the other’s side; both are aware of their counterpart’s existence, but neither can uncover the other without first revealing himself. One can see the potential for complexity. Throw in Scorsese…

…and you’ve got a psychological deconstruction of such dramatic intensity that it sears, numbs, revolts and rivets at the same time. This is Scorsese at his blistering best, and what makes me compare it to The Godfather is the way in which he manages to not simply create a mood, but to imprint it. As a viewer, one is wrenched into the very core of the movie right from the outset, and kept there. To understand how exactly Scorsese managed this, an allusion to one of the central themes of the plot is important.

The movie revolves William Costigan Jr (Leo DiCaprio), a police academy graduate desperately trying to shake off the shackles of crime his family has imposed on him. On joining the Massachusetts State Police, he is requested by his superiors, cool-headed Queenan (Sheen) and foul-mouthed Dignam (Wahlberg) to penetrate the mafia racket run by Irish lord Frank Costello (Nicholson). Such a move requires him to shed his current identity (that of a policeman), placing what amounts to his legal citizenship in the hands of Queenan and Dignam, and live the life he worked so hard to renounce until he can draw up enough evidence to put Costello behind bars. He acquiesces.

Here begins the tragedy Costigan’s life quickly dissolves into. He is in constant fear of being uncovered, his real identity rests on the fate of 2 men he hardly knows, and he is forced to abide by and witness murder, brutality, debauchery, and utter moral decadence in a community that opposes all that is humane. He is living a lie that is slowly eating him out from the inside. Scorsese doesn’t allow you to forget this, not for a moment. Set against a conducive Boston backdrop, he projects the bleakness, forlornness and misery of Costigan’s life with a ferocity that is only complimented by his unflinching depiction of obscenities.

The Departed is a portrayal of labyrinthine moral profundity, built upon and building upon the viewer layers of tension that steadily screw him or her further into the plot. Apart from Billy and his depressing double-life, a number of other violently clashing dramas play out in the forms of Frank Costello, Colin Sullivan (Damon) and Madolyn Madden (Farmiga).

Costello and Sullivan share something of a father-son relationship. The mafia lord roped in Sullivan at a young age as his protégé and prospective police rat, and Sullivan grew up in appreciation of Costello’s streetwise principles and grisly, hard-edged survival nuggets (“One of us had to die. With me, it tends to be the other guy.”); a morally blindfolded, loyal product of an inescapable environmental mould. He graduates from police training, joins the MSP, and become Costello’s main informant. It turns out that Costigan is assigned his job as the police’s main informant at pretty much the same time. The involution deepens. Will the police realise they have a rat in the midst? If they do, will they assign the rat himself the task of ferreting himself out? And what about the Costello-Costigan relationship? How long will Costigan manage under his criminal identity? And so on and so forth.

Also, this is possibly the first Scorsese gangster film to go hi-tech. The plot is further convoluted, perhaps, by the prevalence of cell phones, a motif better understood on viewing.

Our last important character is Madolyn, a criminal psychoanalyst who is torn between her loyalty to Sullivan, with whom she carries on a romantic association, and her client Costigan, with whom she… does likewise, for his own good. Ah, the complexities. And this is just touching the surface, believe me.

So, in the end, what makes The Departed unquestionably worthy of every accolade, including the 4 Oscars, BAFTA nominations, 1 Golden Globe, and vast array of critics society nominations and awards it has received and its position at #39 on the IMDB Top 250 movies list? What makes the screening of The Departed an experience like no other? Sure, Scorsese’s intensity, the ensemble performance (special mention to Wahlberg, Nicholson, as always, and DiCaprio), the explosive, in-your-face screenplay, the superb editing, all that jazz. But, ultimately, what strikes you most about this movie is the question it poses to you.

Cop or criminal. When you’re facing a loaded gun, what’s the difference?