Her Celluloid Self

Have a look at my review of Chinonye Chukwu’s Clemency, which showed at the London Film Festival this month!

With her sophomore feature Clemency, writer-director Chinonye Chukwu made history as the first black woman to win the Grand Jury prize at Sundance—and in its turn at the London Film Festival, the film proves to overseas viewers to be more than worthy of its acclaim. A stunning exploration of the American death penalty, Clemency is easily one of the most beautifully-told stories and most socially important films of the last decade.

Alfre Woodard leads the cast as Bernadine Williams, a career-driven prison warden who has overseen 12 executions over the course of her tenure. A harrowing opening sequence portraying the execution of convict Victor Jimenez illustrates for viewers the emotional toll that witnessing a man’s death can have on a person. The tension of the scene is palpable, and we see the effects of this in Bernadine’s personal life. She struggles to sleep at night and drinks heavily to cope. Her marriage to her husband Jonathan (Wendell Pierce) struggles as Bernadine reckons with the horrors to which she bears witness; her husband cannot understand the way her job affects her. While teacher Jonathan educates the next generation and gives them hope of a bright future, Bernadine is complicit in stealing the future away from countless men. She is not a sadist, but she is forced by the nature of her profession to carry out sadistic practices—and in the interest of appearing professional as a black woman in a position of power, she must do so unsentimentally. But her robotic demeanor is not necessarily a reflection of her true feelings toward the practice of execution, and viewers follow Bernadine as she struggles to mask her own humanity with professionalism.

Though the film explores Bernadine’s character most thoroughly, viewers are also given detailed glimpses of the emotional states of everyone involved in these executions, from the prison officers, to the prison chaplain, to the men on death row themselves. Aldis Hodge gives an incredibly moving performance as Anthony Woods, a prisoner awaiting execution who may be innocent of the murder of which he was convicted fourteen years ago. We see him slip between moments of desolation and glimmers of hope as he navigates the existential dread of being sentenced to death for a crime he maintains he did not commit and as he awaits any news on the painstakingly bureaucratic decision on his appeal, which determines whether he lives or dies. Hodge’s performance is complicated, heartbreaking, and totally affective. When Anthony feels hope, we feel hope; when he despairs, so do we.

Similarly, Richard Schiff gives a nuanced performance as Anthony’s lawyer Marty, a man whose career has been dedicated to appealing the death penalty and to fighting for clemency on behalf of his clients. Marty, having worked on such cases for 30 years, is downtrodden, resigned, and ready to retire. A man who was once passionate about the cause, Marty is tasked with finding hope and keeping spirits high for Anthony despite the almost futile odds of winning. In a visit to his client, he looks thoughtfully on as demonstrators outside the prison shout their support for Anthony, not as a man who is inspired by their words, but as a man who fears their protestations may be in vain. In a glum conversation with Bernadette, Marty poignantly explains the overwhelming stakes of being a death row inmate’s lawyer:  “When I win, my client gets to not die.”

Take a look at my review of Sasie Sealy’s feature debut Lucky Grandma, part of the 2019 London Film Festival!

With her debut feature Lucky Grandma, a film about an elderly Chinese-American woman with a rebellious streak, writer-director Sasie Sealy contributes equal parts humour and suspense to this year’s London Film Festival. Tsai Chin plays the titular role of Grandma Wong, a gruff, chain-smoking loner whose expressionless indifference and grumpy demeanour has led me to dub her the Clint Eastwood of Grandmas. Grandma Wong lives alone in the small, outdated Chinatown apartment she and her late husband once shared. Though her daily schedule is monotonous—practising tai chi, lighting incense for her in-home Buddhist altar, evading her adult son’s requests that she move in with him and his family—Grandma Wong receives a reinvigorating jolt of excitement while visiting a fortune teller, a sequence which visually references the opening tarot scene of Agnès Varda’s Cleo from 5 to 7. The fortune teller presents to Grandma Wong a series of cards written in Chinese script and tells the old woman that she will have an incredible amount of luck on October 28th (admittedly a very different fate than the one predicted for Cleo).

With fortune on her side, Grandma Wong empties her bank account on the 28th and hops on a Chinatown bus headed straight to the casino. At first, it seems like the stars really have aligned for her; she beats incredible odds and wins at craps and roulette so many times that her tokens double, then triple, and then quadruple. Her lucky streak comes to an end eventually, though, and she returns to the Chinatown bus downtrodden, having lost all her savings in one bet.

Grandma Wong’s good luck seems to take a different form, however, when money literally falls into her lap on the bus ride home. The man in the seat next to her suddenly dies of a heart attack while everyone else on the bus is asleep. When the bus hits a bump and a duffel bag filled with money falls from the luggage carriers overhead, Grandma Wong realises that her deceased seatmate is in fact a gang member transporting money for the Red Dragon gang. Already panicked about her casino losses, Grandma Wong absconds with the money, inadvertently placing herself at the centre of a violent gang conflict over the cash.

The strength of this film is not necessarily the narrative, which at times feels muddled and confusing amidst its portrayal of New York gang politics and reaches a hasty conclusion in its third act. Rather, Lucky Grandma’s greatest asset is its characters, all fully realized through the little details which make up each person’s unique and entertaining personality. Grandma Wong’s lanky grandson David, for example, may play a relatively small role in the film. However, in the approximately 10 total minutes of screen time he has, viewers learn that he is a one half of a dance duo, making goofy, low-quality hip-hop music videos in his grandmother’s apartment with his chubby, twerk-happy friend Nomi. This small, endearing personality detail raises the emotional stakes later in the film when the Red Dragons demand Grandma Wong pay a ransom to spare David’s life. The same goes for the character Big Pong (Hsiao-Yuan Ha), the man Grandma Wong hires as a bodyguard after dopey Red Dragon gangsters Pock-Mark (Woody Fu) and Little Handsome (Michael Tow) show up at her apartment. Big Pong first appears to be quiet and intimidating, but viewers will find a tender sweetness in his character when he talks about being a vegetarian, describes the girl he loves who still lives in China, and scolds Grandma Wong’s grumpy neighbour for disrespecting an elder.

The main figures in any film are only as strong as the actors who play them, and the cast of Lucky Grandma brings these characters to life with quirk and charm. As the socially isolated Grandma Wong, Tsai Chin is often the only actor onscreen. The character requires an actor who can subtly convey large emotions with her facial expressions and body language, and Tsai Chin is more than fit for the challenge. She brings laughs just by widening her eyes, furrowing her brow, or turning her head—no dialogue required. As gangster hitman Little Handsome, actor Michael Tow somehow manages to be simultaneously terrifying and hilarious, sending chills down one’s spine with his threatening stare one moment and highlighting his character’s sheer absurdity with a goofy smile in the next. The talent in this cast alone could dispel any excuses Hollywood may make for whitewashing Asian or Asian-American roles (I’m looking at you, Scarlett Johansson).

I have to admit that I’m nothing more than a casual superhero movie fan. I’ve seen some, but not all, of the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s seemingly unending filmography – and most of the time I don’t know what’s going on because I skipped Thor 18 or Iron Man 26 or whatever number they’re on. I don’t hate superhero movies, but do find myself feeling frustrated when I see a franchise churn out several films a year, some of which are disappointing at best (ahem, Ant Man), knowing that no matter what quality is achieved, loyal fans will continue to show up and spend their money on this cultural phenomenon.

I am especially jaded when it comes to female superheroes in these films. Hollywood’s brand of feminism is disheartening; they just can’t seem to get it right. Too often, the so-called “strong, female lead” is a mere token; her existence in a film is largely based on her sexual difference. She is the only woman in a group of men, whom she surprises with her incredible ability to kick ass and maintain visual desirability while doing it. She is intimidating, cold, and mysterious in a sexy way. She is not represented as a particularly complex or conflicted person until a male love interest comes along to “soften” her. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I am talking about Wonder Woman).

I am tired of watching films with corny, girl power-y lines that will inevitably end up emblazoned on a t-shirt sold by some twee Etsy shop that throws in a “Notorious RBG” pin in with every order over £10. I am tired of films that wrap up the battle women have been fighting for hundreds of years neatly, with a big pink bow—a sign that all is well, sexism and gendered violence are over, and we can go back to being pretty now. I am tired of seeing female protagonists with one body type, one skin tone, one sexual preference, and one purpose—either to mother or to seduce the men around her. I am tired of watching women who cope well, who don’t cry, who don’t show any fear or hesitation. I am tired of looking at women who are only there to be looked at.

It’s safe to say I’m a hard sell when it comes to blockbusters starring women—not because I don’t want women to star in big-budget films, but because I feel like they never quite capture what it is to be a woman, really. And with all that said, I must make another really big admission:  I absolutely loved Captain Marvel.

In Marvel’s first title film for a female superhero, Brie Larson stars as Vers, a Kree Starforce member of the planet Hala. Vers has the remarkable ability to produce photon blasts with her hands—a unique power she has not yet mastered and which she cannot even remember receiving. Her memory before becoming a member of the Starforce is completely blank, except for the bits and pieces of her past life that flash by in recurring dreams.

In a Starforce mission gone wrong, Vers is kidnapped by a group of enemy Skrulls, the alien shapeshifters attempting to infiltrate other planets by disguising themselves as their inhabitants. She manages to get away in an escape pod, which crash lands in sunny Los Angeles, California. It is here that Vers remembers more about her past—and discovers that she was a U.S. Air Force pilot thought to have been dead for six years after crashing her aircraft during a top-secret equipment test in 1989.

While on Earth, Vers makes the acquaintance of Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), a favourite for any returning Marvel fan. This is Fury in the early days of his career at SHIELD—before the eye patch, attitude, and seemingly unchecked power. (We find out, in fact, how Fury loses his eye—and it’s not as badass as you’d think). Together, Larson and Jackson have great onscreen chemistry; it’s an absolute delight to watch this odd couple escape the Skrulls and travel to find Maria Rambeau (Lashana Lynch), one of Vers’ friends from her human life. There are no faux-empowering moments between them—no “not bad for a girl” moments or “that’s my kind of woman” remarks. Fury and Vers are on a mission, and Fury doesn’t question Vers’ ability once. Unlike in many other films with a female protagonist, Vers is not someone Fury feels protective over in a paternalistic sense. Her value is not something that he expects her to prove before she can fight alongside him; in fact, in moments when they are not working together as equals, Fury looks to Vers as a leader.

Being the first woman to play a title character in a Marvel film is a high-stakes job, seeing as being the first female anything typically carries the pressure of making the entire gender look good—but it’s a job to which Brie Larson is suited, dare I say, marvellously. Larson is one of those actresses who brings a down-to-earth, relatable tone to whatever character she plays. She’s the girl who sat in front of you in biology, or the girl who played goalie on your field hockey team. She’s the girl who wasn’t loud and didn’t seek popularity, yet she seemed to be friends with everyone just the same. She is, at the same time, exceptional and ordinary. As Captain Marvel, a sort of accidental superhero, she expertly manages the bizarre duality of being both a totally average woman and an intergalactic warrior. It is this aspect of Larson’s performance which is most empowering; she tells us that any ordinary woman with a strong will can be a hero in her own right.

Another strength of Captain Marvel is that directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck have recreated one of the most exciting elements of the massively successful Black Panther:  they have put a black woman in a central and catalytic role in the narrative. The friendship between Maria Rambeau and Vers—whose name, we find out, was originally Carol Danvers—is a wonderful show of solidarity between two women who were once up against sexism in the U.S. Air Force and encouraged each other, instead of competing against each other, to fly in the only missions women were allowed to pilot at the time.

Before Carol’s “death,” these women took care of each other and had each other’s backs, both professionally and personally, to the point where Rambeau’s daughter Monica (Akira Akbar) refers to Danvers as “Auntie Carol”. For that reason, it only makes sense that Vers should now trust Rambeau to help her save the world, as all Marvel heroes must inevitably do—and help she does.

Rambeau is absolutely essential to the plot of the film. She helps Vers remember her life as Carol and unlock her true potential as Captain Marvel. She even outdoes Nick Fury himself in terms of helpfulness to the cause, by expertly piloting a spaceship she’s never flown before and fearlessly fighting the enemy. Next to Rambeau, the typically intimidating character Fury is practically only there for comic relief and to tie into the rest of the MCU. As a mother, a pilot, and a black woman, Rambeau is a complex and interesting hero herself, not a character boxed into the “sassy black friend” stereotype.

A film set in the mid-Nineties, Captain Marvel makes several cheeky jabs at the dismally slow-moving technology and now-defunct businesses of yesteryear (rest in peace, Blockbuster); this setting, of course, calls for a soundtrack that feels like a love letter to the female musicians of the mid-decade. (It’s worth noting, too, that Captain Marvel is the first Marvel film to be scored by a woman). From TLC to Salt ‘N’ Pepa, Elastica to Des’ree, Captain Marvel didn’t miss any of the hits or one-hit wonders that completely encapsulate the fun, laid-back vibe of its era. The film is heavily influenced by nineties grunge rock, too, in soundtrack and production design alike. Dressed in loose jeans and a flannel shirt, Captain Marvel at one point cruises down a highway on a motorcycle while Garbage’s femme grunge classic “Only Happy When it Rains” plays. Courtney and Kurt are included, of course, and No Doubt’s upbeat anthem “Just a Girl” sets the pace for one of the most crucial fight scenes in the film. The rebellious, riot grrrl-influenced soundtrack evokes a point in time when resisting the norm still felt productive and rebellion made a difference. The soundtrack isn’t just wistful reminiscence on days gone by, either; it serves a thematic purpose. These feminist grunge rockers rejected the testosterone-fueled rock scene of the early Nineties and challenged the status quo in a way that had a real affect on American culture. Captain Marvel provides a welcome escape back to a time when women’s resistance in the U.S. didn’t feel completely ineffective in the way that it sometimes does now.

“Ultimately, Stan & Ollie is a masterful biopic not only because of its incredibly realistic portrayal of an iconic Hollywood duo, but also because it exemplifies the transgenerational appeal of the comedy of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.”

“Ultimately, Ralph Breaks the Internet is a blatant initiative to sell, sell, sell to those among us who aren’t able to make informed decisions about their consumption: children.”

By KC Wingert

In A Simple Favor, Anna Kendrick stars as Stephanie, a peppy, perfectionistic “helicopter mom” who runs a vlog with tips and tutorials for other moms. While picking her son up from school, she meets the funny, foul-mouthed, and glamorous Emily (Blake Lively), who for some reason takes a liking to Stephanie despite their apparently opposite personalities. The two get together for martinis, swapping secrets and stories of sexual escapades, and quickly become very close, with Emily emboldening Stephanie to explore an identity outside of motherhood. When Emily suddenly disappears, Stephanie steps up to help find her, but her investigation unearths some dark secrets that make her realize she didn’t know Emily at all. 

As Emily, Lively creates a femme fatale for the new generation, evoking the traditionally manipulative sexuality of this film noir archetype while breaking gendered expectations and embracing homoeroticism in her performance. Kendrick, on the other hand, uses her classic awkward humor to play a relatable, modern mom seduced by a more glamorous lifestyle. Her natural wit delivers countless laughs, transforming this otherwise cynical and suspenseful crime drama into a fun and exciting dark comedy. 

A Simple Favor is a standout in the list of successful female-led films from director Paul Feig, known best for goofy comedies like Bridesmaids and Spy. With this mystery full of twists and turns, Feig manages to successfully recreate the drama, suspense, and eroticism of film noir for a 21st century audience; the film doesn’t parody the noir genre but rather embraces the tropes and reinvents them for an ultimately fun story with JUST the right amount of kitsch. Feig has a lot to be proud of in his foray into an entirely new genre—a pleasant surprise from one of the biggest names in comedy.

By KC Wingert

After being unceremoniously dumped via text, a jilted Audrey (Mila Kunis) swears to burn every one of her ex Drew’s belongings. But when Drew (Justin Theroux) shows up at Audrey’s place to save his stuff from going up in flames, he unwittingly brings with him a team of angry spies bent on killing him. Secretly a CIA operative all along, Drew puts the fate of the world in Audrey’s hands by asking her to deliver a highly sensitive item to another spy in Austria. Audrey grabs her goofy, over-the-top best friend Morgan (Kate McKinnon) and sets off to Europe to save the world.

It’s an easily digestible premise with the capacity to be a hit—who doesn’t love a good action-comedy?—but The Spy Who Dumped Me doesn’t deliver. With her first foray into the world of would-be summer blockbusters, director Susanna Fogel seems to have been blind to the film’s glaring faults and lets a project with potential drown in an overly ambitious vision. Clocking in at almost 2 hours in duration (YES, REALLY), the film’s plot is lost in its poor pacing, drawn-out dialogue, and bad comic acting. (Just a thought—but maybe, when casting a comedy, one should consider hiring comedians). Its action sequences include an obscene amount of violence that reads more like corporeal horror than comedy. This is not to mention the many schmaltzy, forced “girl power” moments between Kunis and McKinnon’s characters that are so completely devoid of chemistry that they, like so many of the lame running jokes throughout the film, should have been cut out entirely. Everyone who has ever directed so much as a student film knows:  it’s hard to kill your darlings. But Fogel, who also wrote the film with David Iserson, was unable to trim the fat and let the most appealing parts of the film shine.

Luckily for Fogel, Kate McKinnon is such a force of nature that she was able to deliver more than a few genuine belly-laugh moments. Stealing almost every scene, McKinnon takes a complete dud and turns it into something that is alright. The powerhouse comedian’s performance makes it almost possible to ignore the film’s unmistakable downfalls and see the film for all its comedic potential. Unfortunately for the team behind The Spy Who Dumped Me, however, “potential” does not a good movie make.

By KC Wingert

When it comes to the many examples of Black cinema dominating the box office as of late, consider BlacKkKlansman for the top of your list of required viewing. The newest Spike Lee joint is a hilarious, suspenseful, and downright powerful film about the insidious racism plaguing small-town America. Based on actual events, this comedy reminds viewers that the staunchly political stories we’ve seen recently from Black filmmakers aren’t told purely for entertainment—they’re depictions of reality in a racially divided and politically volatile America.

Set in the late 1970s, BlacKkKlansman is the story of Ron Stallworth (John David Washington), a Black police officer from a small town in Colorado who goes undercover to infiltrate the KKK. By enlisting the help of his fellow officer Flip Zimmerman (Adam Driver), who pretends to be Ron for any in-person meetings with members of the Klan, Stallworth talks his way to the top of the infamous organization and becomes a confidante of the “Grand Wizard” himself, David Duke (Topher Grace). At the same time, Stallworth gets romantically involved with Colorado Black Student Union leader Patrice Dumas (Laura Harrier) and finds himself straddling conflicting identities: Ron Stallworth the Black Man, Ron Stallworth the Cop, and Ron Stallworth the White Klansman.

With several cheeky allusions “predicting” our present political situation, Lee draws direct connections between pernicious racism dating back to the Civil War and hate speech spouted by far-right political figures today. Lee blatantly posits Donald Trump’s rise to power as being a result of the Klan’s rhetoric for decades prior. And while it’s easy to laugh at his depictions of Klan members like the conspiracy-crazy Felix (Jasper Pääkkönen) and the downright idiotic Ivanhoe (Paul Walter Hauser), Lee poignantly demonstrates how quickly hateful words can become violent actions. BlacKkKlansman is a comedy until it isn’t, forcing viewers to confront the harsh reality that white supremacy plays a larger role in defining the identity of our country than many would like to admit.

By KC Wingert Originally published on American Icons on 2/18/16 (Temple University)

When one thinks of a Western film, a particular set of images may immediately come to mind:  gallant cowboys, bank robberies, horse chases, high-stakes gunfights, and so on. These elements are present in the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but this movie is different from an ordinary Western in that it has a distinctly late-‘60s twist to it. Traditionally, Western movies have contributed to the American Frontier myth of the late 19th and early 20th centuries in which the hero, a cowboy, embodies the conservative values of viewers in the United States of America. The qualities a traditional Western hero should have are, according to folklorist Beverly Stoeltje, courage, a connection to nature, and intelligence that lacks for none, as well as “dedication to the Protestant capitalist work ethic and to gentlemanly qualities” (Stoeltje, 249). This version of a cowboy stems from the influence of Theodore Roosevelt, who rebranded the cowboy to embody his reactionary political views during the period of change that came after the Civil War. Thanks to Roosevelt’s reinvention of this Frontier figure, the cowboy went from being, in the eyes of Americans, a “disreputable and rowdy worker” (248) to being an American symbol of heroism, adventure, and conquering previously uninhabited lands. This “new cowboy” was resourceful in the face of the unknown, and his story made western expansion in the U.S. an exciting prospect. Thus, the Frontier myth and the cowboy as a hero reinforced the ideas of Manifest Destiny and Social Darwinism already imbued in the collective white American psyche during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Today, most Americans are still familiar with Roosevelt’s image of the heroic cowboy, especially due to the wide popularity of Western films.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, however, turns the genre on its head and transforms a once purely heroic and gallant cowboy figure back into a more realistic, modern character. The film itself embodies the “peace and love” type of values held by much of America in the late 1960’s, rather than the values of America during the Frontier myth’s prime. Although the imagery in the film sticks to the traditional Western mold, several themes break from the more traditional and conservative American values commonly depicted in Westerns. For example, Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman) and the Sundance Kid (Robert Redford) are not even true heroes but rather train robbers going against the system who are forced to flee to Bolivia after being tracked all the way through the American West. They are not fearless (as we learn when the Sundance Kid bashfully admits that he cannot swim) and their wit cannot always get them out of a scrape (as we learn when the men pursuing the pair keep catching up with them). The two heroes are humorous characters, uncommon in a Western film, simply stumbling their way through robbing banks, running from the authorities, and adjusting to life in a new country. Even the film’s score eschews the traditional Western audial aesthetic like John Williams’ famous score in The Magnificent Seven for a mellower, more 1960s-reflective vibe.

One pertinent example of the film’s 1960s values is that the film does not write out sexuality as a part of its main love story, as other Westerns might have done previously. Rather, director George Roy Hill chose to introduce the romantic relationship between the Sundance Kid and the beautiful Etta (Katharine Ross) to viewers with a scene in which the Sundance Kid sneaks up on Etta in her home and directs her, at gunpoint, to remove her clothes and take down her hair. Viewers do not realize that the two even had a prior relationship until the end of this scene, when Etta tells the Sundance Kid she wishes he wouldn’t come in so late. This type of eroticism is not shown in the more traditional Western films of the early 20th century; in fact, such a scene would have likely been considered near pornographic during that time. At another point in the film, Etta and Butch discuss their romantic feelings for each other as well, acknowledging the complexities of sex and love in a more comprehensive way than do the one-dimensional, apparently sexless romances depicted in traditional Westerns.

One of the most interesting signs that this Western is not aligned with the values of those made in the genre’s prime but rather to those of the 1960s is the scene toward the end of the film in which Butch and the Kid, who have given up robbing banks in favor of a “straight” lifestyle, are tasked with the paid job of delivering money to their employer to feed the company’s payroll. While they are journeying back from the bank to their employer, they are accosted by a group of Bolivian bandits. The mood is hostile, and Butch and the Kid attempt to diffuse the situation without resorting to violence; however, due to a language barrier, they realize they may have to shoot the bandits, whether they want to or not. Butch, in a moment of hesitation, reveals to the Kid, “I never shot anybody before.” Unfortunately, one of the bandits draws his gun quickly after Butch’s admission, and the pair kills the whole opposing group. They look solemnly at the carnage before them, and the Kid says, “Well, we’ve gone straight. What do we try now?” The characters’ guilt after killing a group of people is an element one would not have seen in a traditional Western, in which the death of any “Other” type is hardly addressed and holds no significance to the heroes. However, the murders of the Bolivian men become a heavy burden on the consciences of Butch and the Kid, reflective of the ideals of peace popular in the 1960s and ‘70s.

Overall, this film has garnered critical acclaim for its new take on the Western genre. The film was even included on the American Film Institute’s list of the greatest American films of all time, ranking at number 73 (“AFI’s 100 Years… 100 Movies 10th Anniversary Edition”). Its unique take on the Frontier myth adds depth and humanity to the heroic cowboy character initially created by Roosevelt to represent conservative, white American values in the late 1800s. By taking an older genre fueled by the values of white Americans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and reinventing it to fit the changed values of the late 1960s, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in a sense redefines what it is to be American in a new era of peace and love.

Works Cited

“AFI’s 100 Years…100 Movies 10th Anniversary Edition.” American Film Institute. American Film Institute, 2007. Web. 16 Feb. 2016.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Dir. George Roy Hill. Perf. Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Katharine Ross. Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation, 1969. Film.

By KC Wingert Originally published on American Icons on 4/7/16 (Temple University)

As a Philadelphian, one of my best kept secrets to date was that I had never seen the movie Rocky. This movie has become an icon not only to Philadelphia but also to the world, spurring hundreds of thousands of people to flock to the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps and run to the top or pose beside the hulking Rocky Balboa statue at the base of the steps. I always felt ashamed that I never watched the iconic film before, but I figured I didn’t have to; growing up here, I was told the Rocky story dozens of times without ever actually having to see the movie itself. I knew about Apollo Creed, Adrian, Mickey, and Paulie, and I had performed the film’s punchy, upbeat score in my elementary school orchestra. I was familiar with all the iconic lines (“Yo, Adrian!”), the major plot points, and the iconic still image of Rocky at the top of the PMA steps. But one thing I never understood is why the low-budget movie starring an unknown actor became such an important part of Philadelphia’s culture. After all, it’s certainly not the only film that takes place in Philadelphia (need I mention the film literally named Philadelphia?). So why did Rocky become the film set in Philly? Recently, I was forced to watch Rocky finally, after 22 years of somehow avoiding it, and I came to a better understanding of Philadelphia’s connection to the film. This film represents the city and its people in a way that is realistic, not dolled up to conform to typical, fabulous Hollywood representations of big cities. Philadelphia is known for its grit and hardworking attitude, and that is exactly how the city and its people are represented in Rocky.

Philadelphia has a reputation among other cities as being a bit…rough. This is the city whose sports fans have a penchant for throwing things at people they don’t like, including, but not limited to, the poor Santa Claus who was booed and pelted with snowballs at an Eagles game back in 1968—a story that despite having happened over 40 years ago has somehow remained a defining part of this city’s lore. It’s the city that (unsurprisingly) beheaded the adorable hitchhiking robot whose journey was supposed to represent human kindness and togetherness. Five years ago, Philly was named the 2nd Dirtiest City in the country, beating out Los Angeles, Memphis, and New York. (New York!! Have the people who made that decision ever even been to New York? It’s disgusting!! And they expect us to believe that we’re actually worse than that?!). We don’t have a great reputation—and yet, we’re completely unfazed by the way the world sees us. We’re pretty content just doing our own thing. That’s the Philadelphia represented in Rocky.

The Rocky character himself represents Philadelphia perfectly. In this film, Rocky Balboa is a lovably ordinary character. He is a working class guy who lives in a tiny, unattractive apartment. He is apparently uneducated and boxes for a meager living—though he also works as a loan shark’s muscle to make ends meet. He has two turtles and a fish, all of whom he greets as friends when he comes home in the evening. He has a painfully awkward crush on an even more painfully awkward woman, Adrian. When we first meet him, Rocky doesn’t seem like the type of person to seek out greatness; rather, he seems largely content with the life he has. For Rocky, winning isn’t everything. He is completely ordinary—that is, until he is handed a great opportunity. That’s when we see Rocky begin to change from the modest working-class citizen to the great Philadelphia icon he is today.

The environments in which Rocky exists also represent his journey to greatness. In this film, director John Avildsen clearly made deliberate choices regarding the shooting locations in Rocky and what they represented in the character’s journey. Nearly every outdoor scene at the beginning of the film takes place in an industrial setting—ships float in the background, trains clatter by, water towers loom over the residents of the city. Trash is scattered on the ground. The color palette is bleak and hazy, and frankly, it could not be more representative of the more working-class or poor areas in the actual city of Philadelphia, as well as the meager beginnings of the Rocky character. As Rocky trains, we literally see him move from these more modest areas of Philadelphia—the dirty streets of South Philly and the bustling, working-class Italian Market—toward the more grandiose locations in the city, like the ornately designed City Hall and the beautiful Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The range of activities in which Rocky partakes—from feeding his turtles in his tiny apartment to climbing the daunting steps of the PMA—represents exactly the type of hardworking, ordinary people living in Philadelphia. He is content with his ordinary life, but he is capable of greatness, just like Philadelphia is. Rocky is a film that represents the both the everyday activities and the greatest triumphs of which a city like Philly is capable, and that is why it has become the essential cultural icon to represent us.

References

Chartoff, R., & Winkler, I. (Producers), & Avildsen, J. (Director). (1976). Rocky [Motion picture]. United States:  United Artists.

Leab, D. “Reaffirming Traditional Values – The Blue Collar Ethnic in Bicentennial America:  Rocky.” In Mintz, S. & Roberts, R. (Eds.), Hollywood’s America:  Twentieth-Century America Through Film (p. 264-71). Hoboken:  Wiley-Blackwell.

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By KC Wingert

Embarrassing crushes, burgeoning sexuality, bullying, and mall hangs: Eighth Grade covers all the universal experiences that come with being a middle-schooler. But writer and director Bo Burnham’s first feature-length film offers viewers an in-depth exploration of the complicated nature of being a middle-schooler specifically in today’s hyperconnected society.

“Being in eighth grade is weird, and being alive right now is weird,” comedian Burnham explained to the audience at a screening held in the auditorium of Joseph le Conte Middle School in Hollywood last night. The audience, an eclectic mix of creators, industry tastemakers, and actual eighth graders, murmured in agreement. In an age where social media rules and every kid has an iPhone, it has become harder for older generations to relate to the issues kids today face. Eighth Grade calls on older viewers to look on younger generations with compassion as they grapple with both the painful awkwardness of growing up and the additional toxicity that social media can add to their lives. At the same time, the film offers a hopeful message to its younger viewers along the lines of, “You’re going to be okay.”

Eighth Grade is the story of Kayla’s (Elsie Fisher) last week of middle school. Deemed “Most Quiet” in her school’s superlative vote, Kayla actually has a lot to say, and she documents most of it on her YouTube channel. She offers advice to her viewers through daily segments on topics like “How to Be Confident” and “How to Put Yourself Out There.” She tries really hard to apply her advice to her own life, too, by posting sticky notes with encouraging messages near her mirror and making lists of goals (“Be more confident”) and how to meet them (“Don’t slouch”). In her videos, she spends a lot of talking about how she used to lack confidence, but now she’s doing great. However, this is not entirely truthful: although she definitely puts herself out there a lot by trying to befriend the cool girls and talk to cute boys, doing these things doesn’t always wield the results Kayla wants. Downtrodden, she blames herself and continues on her perpetual journey toward self-improvement.

This is where the pernicious influence of social media plays in: Kayla spends a lot of her free time scrolling through her Instagram feed and posting pictures of her heavily made-up face to Snapchat with captions like, “I woke up like this.” The omnipresence of social media in her and her classmates’ lives pressures Kayla to perform happiness. All of this is a ruse to impress the cool kids at her school, like the deliciously bitchy Kennedy (Catherine Oliviere), a rich girl who hates Kayla for seemingly no reason, and the tooootal heartthrob Aiden (Luke Prael), Kayla’s bad-boy crush who only perks up when she lies to him about taking naughty pictures.

Kayla looks at the images of her classmates on social media and compares them to her real-life, awkward self, prompting her to strive for self-improvement at all costs. If she were to look around her, though, Kayla would see that all of her peers are just as weird and awkward as she thinks she is. Unflattering close-ups of kids popping rubber bands onto their braces, flipping their eyelids inside-out, and pushing chewed-up bubble gum through their lips are peppered throughout the film.

By focusing so much on impressing the people who don’t like her, Kayla isolates herself from the people who truly love her and want to spend time with her. Finally, after a series of missteps including a harrowing conversation with a high school boy who pressures her to do something she doesn’t want to do, Kayla decides to open up to her father and let him in on her struggle. “It’s so easy to love you,” Kayla’s father, played by Josh Hamilton, assures his daughter in the most inspirational Dad Monologue to grace the big screen since Call Me By Your Name.

Eighth Grade joins other recent dramas with young protagonists like The Florida Project (dir. Sean Baker) and Spanish film Summer 1993 (dir. Carla Simón) in successfully portraying pain through the eyes of a child. Under Burnham’s masterful direction, 15-year-old Elsie Fisher’s powerful portrayal of the character, with her stumbling speech and nervous quietness, perfectly captures the essence of an anxiety-ridden teenage girl. Directing children is an admirable feat, and Burnham has done so with aplomb by choosing to highlight the fun quirks of the children he cast in his breakout film. The hilariously eccentric character Gabe, for example, could not have been brought to fruition had Burnham not taken care to embrace and highlight actor Jake Ryan’s real-life idiosyncratic personality on film.

Overall, Bo Burnham’s feature directing debut is an outstanding success featuring all the hilarity and heartbreak of being an average, everyday, middle-school girl. With stellar performances, gut-wrenching emotion, and an ultimate message of optimism, Eighth Grade is a film that people of all ages can enjoy.

By KC Wingert

One of the trademark characters in any film noir is the femme fatale:  a woman who uses her sexuality as a means of manipulating a man and ultimately coming out on top. Regarding the plot of his classic 1950 film Sunset Boulevard, noir director Billy Wilder described “a new film about an old silent screen star who had a few problems,” referencing the eccentric Norma Desmond character, whose delusions about her former stardom ultimately drive her to insanity. Surely, Norma’s character steals the show in a way; her ego and wild ideas about Hollywood drive the conflict of the film. However, Wilder’s description leaves out the film’s narrator, the now-deceased Joe Gillis. In this film, we see Joe regress from a strong-willed writer into a spineless pawn as his femme fatale counterpart strips him of his autonomy and masculinity. A scene about hallway through the film, in which Joe and Norma are being driven to Norma’s friend’s home to play bridge, best represents this theme of emasculation by femme fatale.

The scene starts with an establishing shot featuring Max, Norma’s butler, driving Joe and Norma. Joe’s voiceover explains that they are on their way to see Norma’s friends to play the card game that Norma has taught Joe; he also explains that she has taught him several things about high society living, such as which wines pair with which entrees best. The shot then moves to a medium close up of Joe and Norma in the backseat. Both are dressed lavishly, with Joe in a tux and slicked back hair and Norma in long gloves, a massive fur coat, and conspicuous amounts of jewelry hanging from her neck. Norma goes to pull out a cigarette but finds that her case is empty—Max has forgotten to refill it. She rolls her eyes and expresses her frustration, calling Max an idiot, so Joe responds by taking command. He tells Max to pull up at the drugstore ahead, where he says he will buy Norma cigarettes. Norma’s mood lifts, and she is delighted by his offer. However, she reaches into her clutch and grabs money for Joe and offers it to him without even looking at him or saying a word about how she would pay. Joe looks at her as if to say, “Really?” but begrudgingly takes the cash anyway before heading into the store. 

For such a quick scene, this one is very telling of Joe and Norma’s relationship dynamic. Joe and Norma appear to be equals in this shot; they are both well dressed, and they share the screen. However, when one knows the context of the film—that Joe is in Norma’s car wearing an expensive tuxedo that Norma paid for, traveling to Norma’s friend’s house to play a game that Norma taught him—one sees that Joe has very little control over the situation. In fact, by depending on Norma for clothes, food, and housing, Joe relinquishes his autonomy to her and allows her to control him. In this scene he is trying to make a nice gesture. By offering to grab her cigarettes, Joe is attempting to reestablish a feeling of equality in their relationship; while Norma pays for some things, Joe can still be gentlemanly by offering to get Norma her cigarettes. However, Norma quickly strips that feeling away from him by wordlessly handing him the money. This goes against the norms of the time during which the film was made; in the 1950s, men were usually the breadwinners and women lived off their partner’s incomes. This role reversal, which today could be seen as fairly normal, would have been emasculating and humiliating to a man in the 1950s.

We know that Joe is uncomfortable with Norma paying for everything from the look he gives her in this scene, but because Norma does not even look up to see his facial expression, she probably does not even realize how emasculating that is. In earlier scenes, however, Joe is much more ardent about expressing his feelings. For example, when Norma first decides to revamp Joe’s wardrobe, the pair shops at a small, ritzy-looking boutique. Joe stands in a suit—the first time we see him in anything but his own meager wardrobe—as Norma calls the shots. She approves of the suit he wears and insists on buying a new camelhair overcoat for him. Joe, barely surviving on his own income, is not exactly in a position to refuse this offer, until the salesman shows him a more expensive coat. Joe protests, saying he would be happy with the less expensive option, but the salesman leans closer to him. If Norma is footing the bill, the salesman asks, then why wouldn’t Joe take the more expensive coat? Joe’s expression is frustrated; the salesman has a point, but Joe does not like the idea of letting Norma shower him in gifts. Though the scene ends with that interaction, we can assume that Joe reluctantly caves into Norma and the salesman’s wishes because he is later seen in incredibly lavish clothing. This scene is just the beginning of the emasculation of Joe Gillis; though he accepts Norma’s gifts, he protests before begrudgingly giving in. By the time we reach the scene in the car, the extent to which Joe’s objections go has dwindled down from vocal remonstration to a subtle, unnoticed facial expression. Joe is no longer his own man; rather, he is a victim to Norma’s every whim.

Of course, there is no victim without a predator. In the case of Sunset Boulevard, Norma Desmond is represented as a predator from the moment we see her. In the first scene in which she appears, the former star is dressed in leopard print as she hovers over the body of her dead chimp, a non-predatory animal. She meets Joe and loses interest in her chimp, closing in on her new companion—or her new prey—never mentioning her pet’s death again in the film. As the movie goes on, we see her wearing leopard print more and more; even the seats of her car are upholstered in the gaudy pattern. Perhaps this goes to show that Norma herself is not the only predator to whom Joe Gillis falls victim:  the lifestyle Norma boasts is just as alluring. Joe accepts a job editing her script simply because he needs the money, and he stays at her home simply because he cannot return to his apartment on his meager income. Joe is drawn in by the idea of not having to work for a living, making him as much a victim of consumer culture as he is a victim of Norma’s predatory plotting. Similarly, this film serves as a critique of car culture; if Joe had just given his car to the collectors, the story of Sunset Boulevard would never have happened. However, cars are a necessity of living in Los Angeles, and Joe does everything he can to keep his automobile when the debtors come looking for him. When we see Joe and Norma together in her car, they are sitting in leopard-printed seats, symbolic of the trappings of the luxurious lifestyle Norma’s wealth offers as well as of Southern Californian car culture. Norma’s excessive wealth essentially gives her the power she holds over Joe, and we see this power being exercised in the scene in her car.