Minneapolis burns. A man in Nashville called Johnny Cash’s granddaughter a liberal pussy for wearing a mask during a pandemic. Infected Republican legislators knowingly exposed Democratic legislators to COVID-19. The president takes to Twitter to complain about Twitter, when he’s not tweeting racism and incitements to violence. Tens of millions are out of work. People are paying their rents on credit cards, and are likely to be unable to do that much longer. Police murder Black Americans with impunity while right wing reactionaries are treated with kid gloves as they enter state houses with long rifles strapped to their thick backs. Even otherwise decent people scoff at wearing masks or social distancing, saying that they’re unlikely to die from the virus.
Our hearts are broken.
This doesn’t mean we are sad, although many of us – a great many of us, more than you might think based on the incessant negativity online and in the news – are. What it means is that the part of us that can feel and give love is broken. It doesn’t work. It’s clogged up, and we are trapped inside an illusion of separation, inside a self-centered place where we think we are protecting ourselves, but where we are actually killing ourselves.
Continue reading “We Must Fix Our Hearts or Die”
Today HBO Max launched. I broke in the service for myself by watching what might be the greatest movie of all time, The Wizard of Oz, which I have seen more times than I can count, including multiple viewings in the theater. To me the theatrical experience of this film is miles beyond the home video experience, but at any scale this is one of the best movies ever made, a truly vibrant and nourishing example of how cinema can transport us completely.
One moment that always works for me, that always brings with it a wave of emotion and awe, is the famous transition from sepia toned Kansas to Technicolor Oz. It’s the moment when the film shifts, when cinema itself shifted, and the secrets behind it are incredible. I think this is the greatest special effect in movie history.
Continue reading “The Greatest Special Effect In Movie History”
There are no churches on Walt Disney’s Main Street, USA.
When Walt decided to recreate his vision of small town America for his theme parks, the one thing he left out – the one thing he didn’t want amid the restaurants and shops, Town Hall and the windows advertising dentists and doctors – was a church. That wasn’t an accident. Growing up under a strict fundamentalist father, Walt veered towards a kind of secular humanism. But more than that, he had the stroke of genius to understand that the religious future of America was ecumenical and interfaith. He didn’t want to ground his nostalgic look back at turn of the century America in things that he sensed would soon be out of style.
Continue reading “Disney’s HUNCHBACK: Dark, Sensual, Religious and Weird”
It took me almost 20 minutes to understand what Capone is. Tom Hardy, in thick makeup and with a thicker grunting voice (slurred by an omnipresent stogie), shuffles and wanders through this movie, occasionally staring off into the distance as if falling into a reverie. He’s playing Al Capone in the final year of his life, enfeebled physically and mentally by syphilis, and every time he does that stare into space thing your biopic trained muscles prepare for a flashback. This, you think, is where we will see Hardy as a young, powerful Capone, revealing the doddering old wreck stuff as a framing device.
Nope. There are no significant flashbacks in Capone. There is a lengthy dream/hallucination sequence where an addled, diapered Capone wanders through scenes from his own life, but that plays more like a version of The Shining than a standard biopic. These aren’t memories, they’re ghosts, and he’s not remembering, he’s being haunted. Josh Trank’s Capone is anything but a standard biopic, and it’s a movie that is almost aggressive in its unwillingness to give you anything comforting or expected.
Continue reading “Review: Scatalogical, Bizarre, Brilliant CAPONE”
Hopelessness and despair have been constant companions for me the past few weeks. I’m having a hard time seeing a future past the immediate next few months, and sometimes I catch myself spiraling away into the urge to just give up, maybe in the most drastic way possible.
But when I get like this I think about the movie First Reformed, the Paul Schrader film starring Ethan Hawke as a priest-turned-ecoterrorist, and I remember the beautiful message of that movie – a message that I think many people don’t see. But I do. And it strengthens me. It’s a line from the film, based on the writings of Christian mystic Thomas Merton: “Despair is a form of pride.”
I wrote about this aspect of First Reformed years ago on my Patreon, and while it was a Patron exclusive back in 2018, I think in 2020 it’s okay to share it with everybody. I hope you find something useful in here, if only the urge to watch First Reformed.
Without further ado, my original piece on First Reformed and hopelessness and despair:
Continue reading “FIRST REFORMED And The Sin Of Hopelessness”
Every week I make a recommendation to my $5 and above subscribers at Patreon. Sometimes it’s a movie, a book, a concept. I write in depth about it. This week I’m recommending a Buddhist monk who covers pop songs, and I’ve decided to share it with everybody. If you like this, please consider becoming a Patron at www.patreon.com/cinemasangha.
Continue reading “Recommendation: Teenage Lobotomy (As Covered By A Buddhist Monk)”
Hook’s Peter Banning is a bad dad, but he’s got nothing on Close Encounters of the Third Kind’s Roy Neary. And while Roy starts off bad enough – ignoring his family at the dinner table, his home a disaster indicating a life out of control – by the end of the movie, as he happily steps on to the mothership, he’s become one of cinema’s ultimate deadbeat dads. His kids will likely never get a goodbye, and if he ever does return to Earth relativity tells us he’ll be the same age and his kids will be old.
And yet he’s the hero. His moment is triumphant, the apotheosis of his life. The little ETs are his new children-but-also-parents, and the movie treats his domestic life as something he must escape, a prison of Altmanesque clamor that has been holding him back from his true destiny. He is the one human CALLED to the stars, and aliens have traveled light years to make his acquaintance. His kids? Pains in the asses we last see taking off in a station wagon, headed who cares where.
Close Encounters ends with Dad going to Neverland (scored to a non-Peter Pan Disney tune, When You Wish Upon A Star, but the song is close enough – Peter Pan doesn’t have a big, wistful dreamer number like that). But Hook is all about Dad coming back from Neverland, returning to be with his kids for the first time ever. Peter Banning rejects the wonder for the (upper class) every day, the kind of life Roy Neary turns from with gusto.
To me Hook is answering Close Encounters, and it’s part of a journey that Spielberg was on with his own father. While it’s vital to separate the art from the artist when it comes to how we watch – good works come from bad people! – getting intimate with the artist can open up new areas of analysis of the work, allowing us to see the entire filmmaker’s canon as a personal journey set against their own autobiography.
Continue reading “Finding Neverland: HOOK As Response To CLOSE ENCOUNTERS”
Years ago I interviewed Steven Spielberg and I told him that even well after the release of AI: Artificial Intelligence people on the message board of the site I wrote for, CHUD, were arguing about the ending.
“Oh I know,” he told me. “I love reading all the arguments. And I love that they’re still arguing.”
Nineteen years after the release of AI it seems to me the arguments should be over but when I tweeted about watching the film this week I was immediately – within seconds! – hit with responses that said the movie should have ended with David trapped under water, spending all of eternity gazing upon the Blue Fairy.
Continue reading “The Perfect, Shattering, Bittersweet Ending Of AI: ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE”
I don’t wake up mad. That’s something. That’s a blessing.
But I start to get mad soon after I awake. I check the news, and I begin getting angry. It’s manageable, though. I mean, as manageable as anything is these days – my head hurts a lot and my neck has been killing me. That neck pain, that’s the thing that lets me know how mad I was the night before.
As the day goes on I find that anger laps at me like waves on a beach. Sometimes the anger will reach up, right up to my head and my face will get flush and I’ll mutter something like, “This motherfucker” or “Jesus fucking Christ.” But usually that anger breaks, again like a wave, and I’ll laugh at myself.
Continue reading “I Get So Fucking Angry Every Day”
(Above: Pope Francis prays in an empty St Peter’s Square during lockdown)
The coronavirus pandemic is hitting us in the middle of one of the most important stretches of the calendar for religion. Today is Palm Sunday for Christians, coming up is Passover for Jews and then back to the Christians for Easter. Ramadan is on the horizon for Muslims (a month long observance possibly aided by life in quarantine). It is, of course, the Christians who are causing a ruckus in this country – an evangelical priest was arrested for continuing to hold megachurch services in the face of lockdown orders, Donald Trump has become fixated with getting people into church on Easter, and on Twitter I’ve seen more than one right wing extremist bemoan the fact that churches will be empty on Palm Sunday (ie one of the holidays when lax ass Christians who act holier than thou online actually make it to worship).
There have been other stories, deeply disturbing ones, from across the globe. Russian congregants saying they cannot get sick in church. A woman interviewed saying the blood of Christ makes her immune to the virus. Video of televangelists SPITTING on the coronavirus and demanding its submission to the will of the Lord. In 14 US states religious services are exempted from lockdown restrictions. This, we are told, both by the faithful and those who mock them, is what faith looks like. But to me it looks nothing like faith. It looks like a middle finger directly aimed at God.
Continue reading “Faith In Quarantine”