American Psycho

American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000) 

[Bateman] was crazy the same way [I was]. He did not come out of me sitting down and wanting to write a grand sweeping indictment of yuppie culture. It initiated because of my own isolation and alienation at a point in my life. I was living like Patrick Bateman. I was slipping into a consumerist kind of void that was supposed to give me confidence and make me feel good about myself but just made me feel worse and worse and worse about myself. That is where the tension of American Psycho came from. It wasn't that I was going to make up this serial killer on Wall Street. High concept. Fantastic. It came from a much more personal place, and that's something that I've only been admitting in the last year or so. I was so on the defensive because of the reaction to that book that I wasn't able to talk about it on that level.

Bret Easton Ellis' controversial 1991 novel "American Psycho" received damning reviews and protests, even boycotts. It's depictions of violence against women— and violence against anybody—was condemned left, right and center, while its look at toxic masculinity, and toxic consumerism was pretty much dismissed as trying to apply a sociological band-aid for what was essentially slasher-porn. The violence in the book buried any consideration of what the book might be saying about a personality so self-involved that it surpassed pathology. 

But, why should this be surprising? Anthony Burgess' "A Clockwork Orange" and Stanley Kubrick's film of it are more talked about for its violent aspects and cruelty rather than the very real—and extreme—considerations about free will and attempts to dampen it, even if for the greater good. The message gets lost in the illustration of the worst case scenario.

The thing is Patrick Bateman, Ellis' "Psycho" protagonist (played by Christian Bale in the film version by Mary Harron), is a misanthrope, much like that other "Psycho," Norman Bates—it's just he's better dressed, more stylish, has a better job, and is on an upward track to being what is considered successful in America. Sure, the surface-flash may be attractive...to some...but the festering pit of soullessness and heartlessness that serve as competitive spirit in his career as an investment banker is only somewhat more lethal than the motivations of Jordan Belfort, Leonardo DeCaprio's character in Wolf of Wall Street—sociopath or psychopath, they're just two paths to getting what you want, without regard to others, and the destruction, seen or unseen, left in the wake of success.

At about the same time as Ellis' novel, there was another, Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club," that also examined the American path to success where the protagonist's hollow consumerism started to so weigh on him that he started beating himself up over it and, when that movie was made in 1999, nobody missed the point...even when it led him to an act of terrorism that resembled the 9/11 attacks two years later. Everybody cherry-picks when they have a point to prove. "Fight Club" was also seen by some as a model for males to return to a form of rugged primacy to avoid consumerist emasculation. And yet he doesn't live in a cave, but a luxury condo, and not independent in any form. One can see this in AP's use of extreme grooming and high-fashion one-upmanship. The guy gets upset when someone has a better designed calling card than he does. He merely wants to win by any means necessary.

Now, I'm not going to get political here (as I was when I first started writing this thing LAST Hallowe'en season), but one can see where this is going. Let's just say I've always rejected the sentiment that "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing"—attributed to Vince Lombardi (who would hedge on it), but actually coined by Red Sanders (I guess "winning" depends on your press agent). You can win AND lose, it's just depends on what goals you're looking at. Ellis was making a philosophical point and has said of the film version that it "doesn't really work as a movie." Perhaps it's all just a vision in his head, rather than committing actual acts. But, the impulse is there. We've seen it. It happens. Some righteous synapse gets snapped, or diverted, turning an American Dream into an American Nightmare.

 

The question is: of what use is a "cautionary tale" when it's already here?

Wings of Hope

Wings of Hope (Werner Herzog, 2000) The most extraordinary things happen by accident. I watched this rather amazing documentary due to a Facebook post that was culled from one of those "Weird History" click-bait things that pop up and disappear like mushrooms in our digital forest. The accompanying picture of that article showing a somewhat immaculately dressed young woman wading through what appeared to be a swamp may have come from an exploitive 1974 Italian movie based on the incident (Miracles Still Happen, 1974—I watched it and you can skip it), but other than that, the story is absolutely true.

Absolutely, weirdly, almost unbelievably true.

Skipping details, it is about a 17 year old girl, Juliane Koepcke, who was on a Christmas Eve 1971 flight that was repeatedly struck by lightning over the Andes, the plane broke apart, and she was sent hurtling out of the plane, strapped to her seat, fell 3000 feet into the Amazon rain-forest, survived the impact, and for 10 days made her way to an encampment where she was found the next day by fishermen, who started the process of getting her back to "civilization." She was the only survivor.

Parse out that paragraph and any of those things brings up a myriad of questions that all begin with "How...?" When you delve into the history and the details, you might assume (as I did) that she was the perfect person to be able to survive such an ordeal and her chance survival from the catastrophic plane mishap was simple luck and a fortuitous series of happenstances. 

So, how does director Werner Herzog fit into all this? Why would he make a film about it? The reasons—as usual—are personal. Herzog was supposed to be on that doomed plane. Scouting locations for Aguirre, the Wrath of God, a last-minute change in the plane's itinerary cancelled Herzog's reservation. His narrow escape haunted him for decades, and was understandably fascinated by Koepcke's survival. He sought her out with the idea of going back to the crash-site (not necessarily a cruel thing as she had been back a few times) and telling her story in the areas in which they occurred. Koepcke, who had been avoiding publicity and media contact for years—Herzog doesn't reveal her married name in the film—thought this would be therapeutic and agreed, accompanied by her husband. Koepcke is very transparent about her experiences, expressing jitters to be sitting in the same designated row and seat on the flight out, but once in the jungle, she's in her element—"the casual way she dealt with mosquitoes and other vermin was the first thing that struck us about Juliane" says Herzog in his narration—and her commentary reveals her jungle-upbringing and studious approach to discoveries, calm and curious and sympathetic to make the story as relatable as possible, but with no sense that anything done at the time was remarkable, merely necessary. She is the perfect field-guide. 

In fact, she and Herzog are so matter-of-fact in their approach that one becomes accustomed to the extraordinary. Floating down the Amazon? It's the best approach to civilization and not disturbing wildlife. But the crocodiles and piranhas? Not a danger, especially when floating calmly down the river. And unlike that Italian movie (which Koepcke amusingly mocks in the film) or any other presentation I've seen, it is refreshingly free of histrionics and pumped-up-doco drama (as if it were necessary) for a story that even "Dateline" would reject as being too fantastic. A lot of that is helped by Herzog's customary dead-pan narration which tamps down the drama while still being mordant (a commenter on YouTube opines that "Herzog could make a film about a Swiss chocolate factory...and make it seem macabre").

It's a fascinating story, as studiously told as could be in the documentary, making an unfathomable story seem comprehensible and that, in a chaotic world, miracles still happen (uff, that movie)...but only if one is prepared and capable of taking advantage of it, however it occurs.    

Wings of Hope is available for viewing on YouTube (as is Miracles Still Happen)

...at least for a little while (don't be surprised if the link dies).

In The Mood For Love

In the Mood for Love (aka Faa Yeung Nin Wa, 花樣年華, Wong Kar-Wai, 2000)

"It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered...to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns and walks away."

They are ships that pass in the night...or the hall-way. Mrs. Chow (Maggie Cheung) and Mr. Chan (Tony Leung) rent rooms next door in the same Hong Kong building (circa 1962) and move in the same day, meeting when they exchange items mis-placed by the movers. She works as an assistant for a shipping company. He works as a journalist. Sometimes, the hours are long, but not so frequently that they can't spend time with their spouses.

But, they can't. Both spouses work more erratic schedules and are frequently away "on business." We never see them, only hear their voices in other rooms or over the phone. Mr. Chan's wife is only identified by her flip hair style and Mr. Chow (in the only time we see him from the back) has the same brylcreemed hair as Mr. Chan. But, they have a lot more in common than just off-schedules and domiciles. And for being neighbors, Mrs. Chow and Mr. Chan share a lot, as well.

They spend a lot of time apart from their spouses, and given the cramped quarters of the hallways, they sometimes dance out of each others' ways. They frequently eat alone, and walk the streets at night to get food—Mrs. Chow with her noodle thermos and Mr. Chan eating at the alley-way cookery. Their land-people take note of the odd hours and their alonen-ess. They get invited to dinner, but they are appeciatively waved off. Mrs. Chow works for Mr. Ho, and must work with her boss' needs for scheduling and gifting his wife and his mistress. Sometimes, the gift is the same thing, even matching color.

Gifts are exchanged in the adjoining apartments, as well. New rice cookers, ties and hand-bags. But, familiarity breeds suspicion. After passing each other on a fairly regular basis, Mr. Chan makes the excuse of acquiring an imported hand-bag for his wife to ask Mrs. Chow out to dinner and the two compare notes—Mr. Chan is wearing the same imported tie that Mrs. Chow says her husband was gifted by (according to her husband) "his boss." And the two realize that their mutual spouses are probably having an affair. Small world, Hong Kong.

They walk back to their place, both in a bit of shock. He speculates who made the first move, and he's sure it was her husband, and he in turn wonders if they should pay them back in kind. Mrs. Chow briefly smiles, then turns dark refusing to stoop to their level. He then says it doesn't matter who made the first move—it's already happened. She turns on him: "Do you really know your wife?" And stalks off.

But, they meet again...discreetly, of course. It's Hong Kong in the 1960's and marriage is between a man and a woman, but anything else? It attracts talk. It attracts suspicion. And they've made a vow; they won't be like them. But, they have a bond, and they hurt, and so they discuss, share experiences and feelings and meals, trying to understand each other's situations. It's therapy, and they're doing nothing wrong. But still, no one must know.

They rehearse her confronting her husband about the affair, practice it, for when the time comes. She asks him what he'll do, and he thinks he'll do what he did before he had to be part of a couple—go see movies, he may even write that martial arts serial that he wants to do. She likes them, too—she's borrowed his collection; why doesn't she help him write? The idea seems absurd to her, but soon they are both writing, separately, comparing notes. But, then they have to write together and when they try at his place, she's trapped when the neighbors come home early and decide to play an all-night mahjong game.

That doesn't work. They can't work and the serial is getting attention (the kind they might want), so he rents a room away from their mutual place. But, the stigma if they're caught scares her and she resists going there. It is difficult to trust, at this point, and what if it becomes something more? But, one trepidatious visit and her fears are calmed. It's business and it's joyful and they both enjoy the writing.

They love it, in fact. And as he says, at one point, "these feelings creep up on you." They don't talk about love. They don't talk about their need. But, they feel it, and, at one point, he announces that his paper is short-staffed in Singapore—she's not going to leave her husband, anyway—why not take it?

Why not? Because it'll break their already broken hearts is why. But, they're already enured to that feeling, numb to it, even, and they can't carry on this way and it has to be curtailed. Doesn't make it any less painful, no matter how numb they are.

In the Mood for Love is tough stuff, while at the same time being one of the most beautiful movies ever made. Taking 15 months to shoot from the bare-bones outline of a script, it outlasted the availability of cinematographer Christopher Doyle, whose work here is mesmerizing (the film was completed by Lee Pin-Bing), along with the production/costume design and editing of William Chang, and the vivid eye of Wong, all done in eye-popping Technicolor in Hitchcock-psychology reds and greens. Because the story is told through image, some audiences might get lost—especially if they're depending on sub-titles to show the way—and the movie evokes a fragile, sensory-heightened time with its rich palette and it's frequent languid slowed motion effects that lull and stretch out the moments of joy or loneliness that evoke the numbed state of surviving alone-ness.

There is a visceral precision to it—like Cheung's elaborate 60's hair-do's and the taught perfection of wardrobe right down to the seams in her nylons—despite the wandering eye of Wong's camera or the disparate soundtrack of songs—that invoke deeply buried emotions that are repressed both in a society and in individuals, the need which goes unfulfilled by choice or duty, suffered in silence, but exquisite in its pain.

In the Name of Love keeps the emotions buried and only gives it full-flower in the vividness that burbles to the surface and enchants the eye. It is a platonic love story told in erotic hues, both beautiful and painful. 

It's one of "those" must-see films.

Shadow of the Vampire

Shadow of the Vampire (E. Elias Merhige, 2000) "Such is the cost of genius...Thank God! An end to this artifice!"

God has nothing to do with it.

Besides, there's only room for one god on a movie set.

F.W. Murnau may be the greatest director "of all time." He will have his way and his vision no matter what the cost. Wanting to make a film of Bram Stoker's "Dracula," not even the small matter of the author's estate refusing the rights will stop him.  It is only the first purifying cross he must bear in his effort to make the perfect vampire movie. His actors are either rebelling or morons, his crew is competent but not privy to his plans. It's all in his head, as he is the auteur, and he will see his film to the bitter end, even if he is the last man standing. No cost is too great, no sacrifice too small in his sociopathic, artistic blood-lust to see his film see the light of day and projector.

He could be the star of his own vampire movie. Shadow of the Vampire is, on the epidermis level, a fictionalized version of the filming of Murnau's Nosferatu, but it is also the story of how movie-making can be a power struggle, completely opposite to the collaborative effort it usually is. The Murnau of the film (portrayed by John Malkovich) solves all the problems, does all the ground-work, directs the actors in a running stream of manipulation during filming (it's a silent film, of course). He wants authenticity no matter what, filming on location in castles and ships, disdaining studio sets (despite Nosferatu's artistic expressionism), and going the extra mile—hiring Max Schreck* (Willem Dafoe, who was nominated for an Oscar for his performance) to play his vampire.

Here's where the film-makers leave reality behind and make their own story about creativity, and the supernatural hold power can sometimes hold over people: to realize his ideal of authenticity, Murnau, in the film, hires a real vampire. Or maybe not. Schreck, it is explained to the crew, has studied, with Stanislavsky, the immersive "method" of acting. So, when he plays a vampire...he REALLY plays a vampire, always in costume, always in mood, even when the camera isn't rolling—just another demanding actor whose eccentricities must be humored. And the humor is dark in Shadow of the Vampire, in the small areas ("I want make-up," Schreck sulks at one point.  "You're not getting it!" Murnau abrasively replies.) and in the larger scheme of things—the power struggles between the ego-manical director and the homicidal vampire are giggle-inducing (in a good way)...and apt. That Malkovich and Dafoe tend to resemble each other (and if Dafoe wasn't heavily made up and affecting Schreckage it would be even more apparent) and director Merhige keeps them sparring, negotiating, arguing throughout the film. That the two don't destroy each other during the making of the film is only due to their mutual need.

Or maybe it's merely professional courtesy.

* Schreck, and this performance, are somewhat legendary. Nicolas Cage, who executive produced the film, did his own version of Schreck's performance in Vampire's Kiss. And Tim Burton named the manipulative toy magnate played by Christopher Walken in Batman Returns after the actor.