Michael Mann: My Story of How I Fell in Love With a Filmmaker on my Second Try

Collateral

Note: This is a post that’s crossed over from The Matinee. Ryan, my friend, messaged me and asked me to write a column for him about a film or something specific about how I revisited something for it gain value for me. After mulling it over and thinking about it all I came up with this little gem. So while Ryan’s off watching baseball and enjoying his vacation take a seat with me here (and over at The Matinee) and soak in my voice instead of his as I talk a little about my feelings on the dirty world of Michael Mann.

Michael Mann and I, after many years of troubled discussions, are friends. I don’t mean real friends. I’ve never met the man – if you’re reading this Michael, we can meet up for drinks and talk it out — but I’m talking about cinema friends. You know the kind of relationship where he makes movies and I go to my local theatre and enjoy. However, it wasn’t always this way.

Way back in the 2000s, when we were still awaiting sequels to The Matrix and was asking ourselves why we ever wore Hammer pants, I started delving into the world of cinema. Like most of the people – you reading this included I guess — I started with what I knew. That being movies of Tom Cruise, which led me to a little known film for me; Collateral. This eventually led to Miami Vice and further down the line to Heat.
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Thank You Hayao Miyazaki, and Why I Miss Your Work Already

Hayao Miyazaki

I’m certain this isn’t news, but I’m a massive Hayao Miyazaki fan. I’ve seen all his films and after last year I can happily say I’ve seen at least one of them on the big screen.

The first film of his I actually saw I believe was Spirited Away. I was in high school at the time and was into anime but didn’t have the full power of the internet, since we still used dial up 64k modems, in order to fuel this interest. The Oscars had just given the film best foreign film award and a friend of mine had mentioned he had it on DVD. I borrowed it and feel in love immediately. As soon as I had enough cash I started going on a DVD hunt of his films. To date I’m not really certain which of his films I love the most. Each of them I love more when I’m in different moods and I’m awaiting a blu ray release of The Wind Rises so I can finally revisit it since last September.

So when the news was announced last year that The Wind Rises would be Miyazaki’s last film I wasn’t particularly devastated; but I was saddened. While I continue to champion the idea of finite life spans for all things in art and decry the constant need for immortality of characters and other aspects of storytelling in the film universe a part of me felt nostalgic and depressed all at the same time knowing that this brand of filmmaking won’t be seen again. Some would point and laugh at this statement and say that I’m being hyperbolic. That Miyazaki’s work, which is highly influenced by the Spielberg films of the 70s anyways, will go on to influence others and will live on as an aspect of someone else’s work; which is very true, but it won’t be Miyazaki. I won’t get to have that great moment of hoping to hear of Miyazaki returning to the Lupin III franchise for another time. Or hearing of another great fantastical world he’s dreamt up for me to want to live in again. Continue reading

The Horrors: Questioning A Corelation Between Genres and Film Audiences

cape_fear_2

I’m curious. Can I love a theatrical experience for the crowd as much as I can hate it? We talk about the theatre as some discuss church. We love it. We admire it. We want it to be perfect. At the same time however the ways in which we enjoy it are flexible, and that flexibility comes from so many factors which are personal as well as external.

A couple of nights ago I went to my local — if movie theatres were religious denominations it would be the Lutheran headquarters of the world — theatre, Carib 5, to see Oculus, a film I was saddened I missed at TIFF from their Midnight Madness programme which I adore. Part of the alure of the Midnight Madness programme, in case you haven’t heard me tout it on any of the billion podcasts I’ve released in the last two years since I first ventured to Toronto, is that weird loveable crowd that gets behind the weirdest and goriest of horror films. They know that they’re dumb and enjoyable while still, at times, being down right frightening. When you’ve done a full day’s work or festing and you find yourself in a crowded theatre of people who will scream “RRRRRR!!!!” at a anti-piracy warning before the film comes on it’s glorious. Continue reading

The Inverse Relationship Between Your Enjoyment of Movies and Their Ability to Agree With You…

Network - 1

This past week I made my brother, Douglas, watch Network for the very first time. A film which, if you’ve never seen, is about a famed news anchor and journalist who has a mental breakdown on air and becomes a televangelist who is allowed to spew his truth about this universe just because he magically got ratings. While watching this movie I had a bit of an awakening of sorts, though not to the same degree of Howard Beale.

I watched closely as my brother’s disdain for the film grew and later on he said nothing other than, “it’s just a bunch of monologues.” If it’s one thing he’s not wrong. Continue reading

2001: Or How I Learnt to Stop Worrying About Understanding It All

2001 A Space Odyssey

Almost five years ago, probably less, when I first saw 2001: A Space Odyssey I was baffled. I couldn’t comprehend not only what was going on in the film but how it managed to become this monolith in film history that people hold up as anything more than a mad man’s version of a joke on society. Like many a friend of mine have hypothesized about the likes of the Criterion Collection, and many corners of the internet as it relates to film discussion, these people must be fucking with us. Among the online film community possibly there is this undying need for one to understand art, and understanding is where a lot of the crazy happens. In order to understand something you must be able to interact with it in some logical sense, and 2001 is a film that I’ve yet to be able to interact with in such a manner.

That being said, this rewatch inspired something else – other than just this post. Now enabled with knowledge of what was coming, structure and plot-wise, I found myself more receptive to the film but still remaining lost within its world. I always used the term “washed over me” as a pejorative but this time I’m not quite sure whether that holds true. It’s actually what Kubrick’s “masterpiece” did to me and at the same time it manages to remain at the forefront of my mind begging for answers to all the questions that I’m certain many of you having seen the film have asked. It makes me wonder about this constant search for meaning in cinema. I believe I’ve almost become like Abed in Community, believing that there’s a meaning buried in this art and it must be discoverable.  More to that I question whether there’s actually value in this art if my previous hypothesis is incorrect. What if there is no meaning?

Let’s start with the opposing thought. What if the value isn’t in the meaning but in the actual process of becoming lost in a film’s world. The movie that most stands out as a positive example to this thought is Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia. I’ve loved Magnolia from the first time I popped in a rented DVD. It mesmerized me in ways that films before hadn’t. However, I couldn’t define it in any easy terms. I would unabashedly call it the film I don’t get, but love none the less. A little over a month ago I had a conversation with fellow blogger, Courtney Small (of Cinema Axis), about the film and found the conversation diving neck deep not only into this said process but more so into Courtney’s own definition that he derived from the film. This interpretation amazed me. Not just because he had succeeded in where I had failed, but also because I still consider Magnolia as an undefinable experience of cinema. It’s the film that loses me from place to place but I love being dragged along for the ride. The fact that I love the experience gives it instantaneous value that I refuse to ignore. So does the lack of “understanding” matter at that point?

Magnolia

This sense of feeling lost isn’t something that’s undesired when it comes to cinematic experiences. When we talk about films like Star Wars and Lord of the Rings we talk about this same idea of becoming lost. However, these are all films that sell us on a worlds that are unreal. So unreal that we desire to lose ourselves within them. Not to call these as films that require understanding as much as they’re core value comes from true cinematic escapism.

I feel the escapism I experience in a Lord of the Rings film is not the same as I do with Magnolia; and it’s definitely not the same feeling that 2001: A Space Odyssey gave me. With 2001 my detached feeling came from not quite getting the right narrative anchor that many other films find so easily. This anchor that I’m not feeling while watching the movie is what usually leaves me uncertain of what world or character I’m really following throughout the story. The film at times will feel as though it’s uncertain of even the point that we’re leading towards. As if I’m the judge warning a lawyer that his line of questioning needs to become relevant and it never does. These are all bad things for a movie to have. However, somehow with films such as Magnolia and 2001: A Space Odyssey they are problems that become the lesser evil somewhat. Eventually there is a feel that overpowers all other logical explanations as to the value of a particular piece of art.

While we can argue for certain films not falling as easily into this ‘art’ bracket, let us ignore that section of the discussion for this moment (as every hypothesis requires restrictions). Do we need meaning? Is it just that we’re admitting that we don’t get it or can we actually begin to question the filmmaker’s product? Can we blame Kubrick for not being clear?

Moments like this is what I feel the 2013 film Museum Hours was made for. We stand watching a woman’s lecture about the works on show in the museum. She gives her unique interpretations of some very well documented paintings and we simultaneously attempt to engage her thoughts while contradicting it with theories previously accepted by society along with our own. We start to look at the art and have to decide whether the visceral reactions that the images placed on screen are more important than any hope for intellectual ideas that the film are expected to bring up.

With cinema, especially with canon like 2001, I keep feeling this curated sense where I’m supposed to get something from it all. I stare at the screen with an intensity that one would have if we were to looking at an autostereogram in the 90s. I sit there staring and watching everyone else seeing the boat only to fuel my own frustrations. Though now I’m feeling more okay with not seeing the boat. Today I’m reevaluating that my experiences and deciding on a whole new scale of film watching. Meaning is no longer the only scale by which to decide the worth of a piece of art. Films like 2001 are films that I am destined to revisit every decade with anticipation of feeling I as well as it will be different everytime and that is value in itself.