Distant Relatives: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Shutter Island

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.  This week since both films deal with a twist ending, be warned there are definitely SPOILERS AHEAD

Madness

Audiences don’t much like engaging with a film, its characters, its plot and anticipating its outcome for two hours only to be told that the entire thing was untrue, a dream, the story of a crazy man, an elaborate roleplay. The two films we’re looking at today, though made ninety years apart do that exact thing. Clearly this is a cinematic convention that has stood the test of time.

In the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, a young man named Francis relates the story of a visiting carnival which brings the evil Dr. Caligari and his somnambulist slave to town. After a series of strange murders and the kidnapping of the young man’s betrothed Jane, Francis leads a posse and discovers that, surprise surprise, Dr. Caligari is the mad director of an asylum, and that his catatonic servant are behind it all. Shutter Island follows two U.S. Marshalls, Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his new partner Chuck, sent to a hospital for the criminally insane to investigate a disappearance. As their investigation goes deeper and deeper Teddy begins to suspect a deeper plot involving the hospital’s head psychiatrist, the disappeared Rachel Solondo and Andrew Laeddis, the man who killed his wife.

Unreliable narrators

Now for the twist. If you didn’t see it coming, both of our protagonists are in fact patients in their respective mental facilities. Francis has made up his entire story. Jane and the somnambulist are fellow patients. Dr. Calirgari is in fact the good director of the asylum. Teddy meanwhile isn’t Teddy at all. He is Andrew Laeddis. He killed his own wife. The entire investigation is a ruse attempting to jar him back into reality. It doesn’t quite work.

You’d be forgiven for seeing both twist endings coming for miles. Both films feature stories that become increasingly fantastic and highly expressionist production design that seems to be peace with the reality of the film at first, but eventually we wonder. Yet I’m not sure that the purpose of these films is a cheap trick twist. We logically recognize that films are fake, actors and props on a set. Yet we accept it as a reality that plays beyond the limits of the film. We consider pasts and futures for characters, motivations, inner thoughts. There’s something uncomfortable about movies that tell us explicitly that they’re fake.

The mind’s eye

The significant difference between these two movies may be the process by which they do this. Shutter Island makes little effort to cover up the fact that the “surprise” is coming. This in turn turned off a lot of viewers who anticipated the reveal, and took the falsehood of what they were witnessing as a sign that their emotional involvement was for naught. It’s an understandable reaction. Who wants to put their time and emotional effort into something untrue? The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari strings the audience along with more determination. The reveal that the entire plot is the invention of Francis is more likely to be a surprise and more likely to be received with delight (though this isn’t always the case).

Yet, as the film that spends more time winking at the audience with it’s own artificiality, Shutter Island contains more reality than Dr. Caligari. The events (or at least most of the events) in Shutter Island actually happen. It’s simply the perception of Marshall Teddy that is false, leaving us less clear as to what plot points his mind has manufactured and which are objective reality than Francis’s tale which is entirely concocted and untrue. Both of the protagonists in these stories create realities where they are heroes instead of madmen, and thus both lean toward a question asked frequently in such fantasy films (and DiCaprio’s other movie of 2010): Is a pleasant fantasy better than a troubling reality? Is it really wrong if we don’t know the difference?

So too can it be said of the movies. We allow ourselves to experience reality vicariously through characters we know are false but don’t want to believe are false. Teddy and Francis would rather be great than recognize that they are in fact powerless, ordinary, and flawed. When their films admit that they are in fact all those things, are we vicariously forced to admit that we are too?

Distant Relatives: Hamlet and The Dark Knight

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.

The Laughing Fishmonger

Of course I’m not the first person to notice a similarity between Batman and Hamlet. While the Caped Crusader of Gotham officially owes more of his inception to Zorro, the themes of his story, the conflicts that keep us coming back owe much to Hamlet, if not directly than indirectly as a model of the same story of a man driven by the “virtue” of vengeance.

Outside the stories, as cultural institutions, these two tales have much in common. Both have inspired endless versions across multiple media. Both are told over and over and over again (demand for more is considerable). Both provide endless fodder for investigations into the human psyche. These two films are stories of heroes and villains that force us to wonder really: what is a hero?

Cape, cowl, tights, temper

We can start with the superficial similarities: two silver spooned children, dead parents, promises to seek retribution, manic dispositions put upon, villains everywhere, corrupt cops (if you’re so inclined to consider Rosencrantz and Guildenstern). There are similarities to be found everywhere if you wanted to stretch hard enough. You could find an equivalence between Hamlet’s third act travelling players ploy and the Gotham police department’s fake funeral plan. Two “shows” of reality meant to make the bad guy drop his guard.

But why the 1948 Laurence Olivier version and the 2008 Christopher Nolan interpretation? Olivier’s pared-down story lacks over-conceptualization or ornateness making it a good starting point, it’s almost the “control group” of Hamlets. More important to the comparison though is The Dark Knight, which kicks into high gear a concept hinted at by Batman Begins. That is to suggest that the super-villainy bubbling up is a direct result of Batman’s existence. Sure, other cinematic adaptations have played a bit with the “you made me” paradox but quickly dismissed it (suggesting The Joker killed young Bruce Wayne’s parents isn’t criminal because it rewrites Batman canon but it does whitewash the complexity of the character and underscore his hero status.) But Nolan is almost primarily interested in the ripple effect of Batman’s quest for justice and how like Hamlet’s vengeance it sends everything spiraling out of control.

"You've changed things... forever. There's no goin' back"

An equal and opposite reaction

What is the worst result, the highest tragedy of this downward spiral? The death of the innocent, most specifically the love interest of course. Ah, the love interest, Rachel Dawes and Ophelia, pushed away by our hero, caught up in the whirlwind of chaos he has created. The story needs a sacrifice and they’re it. And in both cases, their deaths propel us into another theme that Hamlet and The Dark Knight want to explore. The corrupting influence of grief sends both Harvey Dent and Laertes into the hands of evil just as easily as their tragedies propelled Bruce Wayne and Hamlet toward good... or should we say “good?” since all involved are feeding on their emotional instability to fuel their hunt for those who they consider responsible. The line between good and evil depends entirely on your perception of the big picture (and whether you see something more forgivable about an unjust death in the pursuit of justice than one in the pursuit of power.)

This is probably why the Hamlet and the Batman tales have such staying power. Because these questions have plagued humankind through centuries of the war, terrorism, crime, punishment, and the pursuit of justice. Yet neither of these films intend to give us moralized answers. There are no Gandhi lessons about an eye for an eye leaving the world blind here. Sure, we can see the results for ourselves, but our heroes are still meant to be heroes. What’s the last thing said about Hamlet? He’s called a “noble prince.” The last thing said of Batman? He’s called “the hero Gotham deserves.”

Hamlet would have illegally wire tapped all of Denmark's phones if he'd had the technology

There are, of course, differences between the two as well. Batman has more explosions. Batman has cooler villains more intent on anarchy (although Claudius’ apathy toward the Fortinbras threat isn’t exactly the model for great leadership). What Hamlet has, that Batman does not is doubt, at least according to Olivier who pegs his protagonist's problem as constant waffling declaring upfront that “This is the tragedy of a man who could not make up his mind.” Batman has no such qualms. Perhaps that’s the power that makes him a superhero, his superhuman determination that what he’s doing is unquestionably right. In that sense maybe Hamlet holds the moral high ground. Then again later interpretations of the character, unbound by the Hayes Code were more singular in their bloody thoughts and Hamlet himself is still directly responsible for several deaths while Batman has a code against killing, and so the pendulum swings back the other way.

Perhaps the one thing we can take from the comparison is that the audiences of 2008 just like the audiences of 1948 or 1600 for that matter really are looking for a complex hero, an honest story, and a good fight at the finale.

Distant Relatives: Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom and Dogtooth

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.

After weeks of Oscar movies I thought we'd get a little esoteric. But don't worry, you don't have to have seen either of these films, you just have to enjoy sex and violence like the rest of us.

There's lots of sex in your violence

Who doesn’t love violence and sex? We go to the movies and cheer at every explosion and gunned down bad guy. Our heart races at the excitement of the fight. And vanquished villains are best celebrated by beautiful men and women, the actors we idolize, stripping down for a love scene, strategically filmed. We watch fantasy up on the big screens where blood is often minimal, skin is plentiful, and the world makes sense. And what happens when when the fantasy ends? When we’re presented reality the fun ends pretty quickly.

Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom is notorious as possibly the most disturbing cinematic experience ever put on celluloid. The film follows a group of Facists who kidnap about twenty youths and take them to a beautiful villa for several months of sadism, abuse, mental and sexual torture, and eventually death (that’s not really a spoiler, you’ll not be expecting a happy ending). The film has resulted in censorship, bans and arrests throughout America, Euorpe and Austriala yet has been championed as a work of art by the likes of Martin Scorsese, Michael Haneke and Catherine Breillat.

Dogtooth doesn’t quite have this reputation yet but it’s working on it. While being banned isn’t likely, its Academy screenings have already developed a delightful place in Oscar history with viewers booing, walking out and in at least once case, threatening resignation. The film is a view into the world of a Greek family, where the parents have isolated their children (to the point where they make up new meanings for common words) into a surreal existence. As the children, now adults, become increasingly sexual and increasingly aggravated at the fear of their own reality, events spiral out of control.

Horror films

So we have two films about the older generation secluding and abusing the younger that expect us not to look away. And to what purpose we ask. Is Pasolini presenting us with Facists who do the most horrible things imaginable to convince us that Facism is bad? Is there a purpose at all to the family in Dogtooth whose existence we can’t begin to believe ever possible? Furthermore, how can two films repel us by presenting sex and violence as reality and yet be so unreal?

Consider the modern horror movie where the difference is split. The violence is presented in gruesome realistic detail as part of the adrenaline rush of the genre. These films dare us to keep watching even though they promise to show us unpleasantness simply for the scare of it. But the sex is still strictly fantasy; developmentally arrested men and blonde bimbos tussle beneath the sheets unaware that their only purpose in the film is to be exposed and then executed. But it’s okay since they’re not real people with real feeling and lives. They’re just window dressing.  Films like this are routinely criticized for their dehumanizing and objectifying of human beings.

Real People

Perhaps by non more than Salo and Dogtooth, films that strip sex of all seduction, romance, or anything sexy and present people as nothing more than commodities to buy, sell, trade or kidnap as utilitarian means to the end of appeasing the all-powerful sex drive. As a comparison of Facism with Capitalism so extreme it deals in the sale of human objectification or as a comment on isolation from corruption to the extent it turns basic human sexuality into natural perversity and eventually self-destruction, Salo and Dogtooth suddenly seem like they’re saying something very real in their unreality.

Then again perhaps that’s not what either are about. These two films particularly have had critics and scholars puzzling over various interpretations. But if they are, what are we to take from them? If we’ve ever lusted after an objectified body (and who hasn’t?) are we as guilty as them as the maniacs in Salo? Do we they suppress ourselves into unhealthy resistance like the family in Dogtooth? When it comes to sex and violence we are always victims of and participants in the society that births us. So we retreat back into the Hollywood fantasy where the glistening perfect bodies tangle among each other like bullets forming a crossfire where our heroes never get hit. Sex and violence are fun again, we can enjoy unreality presented as reality and eschew the reality of Salo and Dogtooth presented as unreality

Distant Relatives: My Fair Lady and The King's Speech

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.

Why can't the English learn to speak?

Yes, yes, learning to enunciate properly and overcoming a stutter aren't exactly the same thing. In fact, these two films don't have to both be about issues of speech and speech therapy. One of them could be about learning to play darts or cribbage. It's just to our benefit that they do tread such similar ground that it throws light on the more important similarities between them. As for the less important, but still interesting, similarities: both take place in England, both feature alliteratively named speech therapists, both are Best Picture Oscar winners. So what is the important similarity? Both are about class. Both feature an individual of one class, tasked with helping an individual of another class, and by doing so the great divide between the classes shrinks just a bit.

In the unusual case that anyone doesn't know the details of these films’ plots, despite one having achieved cultural significance and the other bloggospherific over-analysis here they are: In My Fair Lady, the lady or lady-to-be is Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn), a poor cockney flower girl who is taken in by snobbish Professor Henry Higgins (Rex Harrison)  as party of a wager with the promise of being taught to speak and made in to a proper Englishwoman. In The King's Speech, Prince Albert or Bertie later to be King George (Colin Firth), needing to overcome a debilitating stammer and become a proper monarch, enlists the help of unconventional speech therapist Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). While I stand by my assertion that the skill requiring improvement could be anything, one reason why speech makes for such a compelling story (as opposed to cribbage) is that it is unavoidably tied into our self image and identity. We are, to the outside world, a combination of sight and sound. While the control we have over our physical beauty is to an extent limited, the control we have over our speech and the impression that it makes is endless. If the impression is poor, we personally bear the blame. Both My Fair Lady and The King's Speech are essentially stories about makeovers (the former being more obvious thanks to the pretty dresses), or at least stories about makeovers as macguffins.

You've got a friend in me

Really they’re stories about love and friendship, and they revolve around characters who we find exceedingly easy to empathize with. Eliza with her brazen boisterousness not at all befitting her humble situation and her unwillingness to be bullied by Higgins gives her a populist punch. Bertie, poor Bertie who lacks confidence and trembles in fear and embarrassment gets our sympathy quite easily too. As Albert Brooks pines in Broadcast News “Wouldn’t this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive?” But to audiences, they do make a character attractive. We can see in them the parts of us we fail to share with each other. So Eliza and Bertie win us over and quickly, as does Lionel Logue, the man who seems to have his life in order but occasionally has to deal with his own failings and mediocrities too. Henry Higgins takes some time to cozy up to. I’d say in this internet age, his frustration at all less cultured than he is pretty recognizable, though I’m not sure that the original intent was for it to invoke our sympathies.

So it is that insecure, desperate Bertie and Eliza, with their closest familial relations swept up by somewhat less genuine and more manipulative love and friendship must find their confidence by venturing out of their class. Here it is that the films start to become flipped mirrors. Eliza is that of the lower class venturing up. Bertie is of the upper (very upper) class venturing downward. In this latter case our path is easy. If Lionel can help Bertie it will be a triumph of the sincerity of the humble man helping a king cut through the shelter of royal aristocratic fog and become a great leader. Yes, it is feel good and it is timely in that it reflects a reality we so long for. For Eliza it has to be a little more difficult. Pompous Professor Higgins helping little Liza do good is no desirable message to take home. Not unless she changes him too by injecting a bit of plain charm into his stuffy world.

 

And they all lived...

There are other backward reflections among the films as well. In My Fair Lady it is an act of friendship (a friendly bet) that sets in motion the seeds of love. In The King’s Speech it is an act of love (the determination of a dedicated spouse) that sets in motion the seeds of great friendship. Both films play off the idea that the classes are closer than we believe, that our decency can transcend them, the lower may need the upper for the opportunity to excel but the upper needs the lower more to be renewed of their humanity. It may be a fantasy, but the one thing The King’s Speech has that My Fair Lady does not is that label “based on a true story” If anything has changed in the forty-five years between the films it may be our need to see that label to believe it.

One last thing that hasn’t changed in forty-five years, and a post-script I’m only too delighted to delve into is cursing. Yes cursing, the great common equalizer, which plays an important role in both films. The first time we hear Bertie curse it’s a delight. It brings him down to our level. It’s funny. It’s charming. And when Eliza Doolittle curses at the races, we (not to mention some of the aristocracy) fall for her too, because we sense she’s real and she will always be what she is. Those melodic tones are a declaration of the working class winning out, pushing the stilted aristocracy forward, or aside if need be. “Move your bloomin’ arse!”

Distant Relatives: Jaws and True Grit

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through theme and ask what their similarities/differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema. Please note that hereafter be SPOILERS AHEAD.

Three characters in search of a killer

If there’s one notable difference between the original 1969 True Grit and the Coens’ version, it’s the sense of nihilism and meaninglessness in the world the Coens create. Of course the Coens have long been the kings of nihilistic worlds, and it says something that True Grit provides one of their most meaning filled realities. Still when all is done, in the Coen version, we’re left wondering what it was all worth. The John Wayne version, which suffers in no small part from being surrounded by a sea of bleak late 60’s cinematic masterpieces, feels more like a tale of good guys an bad guys. And while the Coen version has good guys and bad guys it feels more like a tale of how reality itself, the natural world is out to get us all.
 
But we’re not here to compare two versions of the same story, we’re here to compare distant relatives. Which brings us to a film where the natural world is quite literally out to get us, in the form of Steven Spielberg’s antagonizing great white shark (nicknamed Bruce) as it terrorizes the citizens of Amity island. Jaws and True Grit present us with all kinds of similarities in terms of structure, character and the eternal theme of mankind’s struggle against the natural world.

Both are revenge films, though there’s something that doesn’t seem quite right about that. They’re not in the same company as Mad Max or Kill Bill because the singular intense insanity of the vengeance-seeker is not the most integral element of the story here. In fact, there isn’t a sole vengeance seeker. In both cases there are three individuals who serve different purposes and convey a wide scope of what could posses a person to go out hunting for “justice.”

Rub a dub dub
 
We can start with the characters who get to be the audience's surrogate. Jaws’ Chief Brody (Roy Schieder) and True Grit's Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld) have to present some sort of righteous motive for us to get behind. Mattie’s detached desire to avenge her father and Brody’s obssessive quest to kill a shark don’t exactly invite us to cozy up. But it’s the amorality of others around them that throw new  empathetic light on their pursuits. Those who have the power to bring about justice and prevent future bloodshed have no interest in doing so. So we have to get behind Mattie and Brody. Theirs may not be the best way, but it’s the only way.
 
When we discussed Midnight Cowboy and The Fighter, we talked about the relationships between cinematic duos and how the straight man/comic relief model has had lasting influence. We find in these two films that our teams of three follow a similar mold. The hero is our center, the most rational of the characters, the one whose desires we are most likely to understand. He or she is flanked on one side by a man with more “noble” motives like science or avenging the death of a Texas Ranger. This man is snarky, sarcastic, rather full of himself and his noble goals, though underneath harbors a somewhat more base motivation, money or pure adrenaline. We may call him our uber-hero since in his own mind he’s far more worthy of his cause than anyone else. On the other flank of our hero is our anti-hero, a man with an obsession, usually courtesy a past trauma. Anti-authority, often drunk and wild, he is not hindered by the morality of the other two men. By standard anti-hero rules, he has none. He cares not for the means only the ends. Perhaps it’s going too far to suggest an id, ego, superego connection. But there it is. Quint, Brody, Hooper. Rooster, Mattie, LaBoeuf. Anti-hero, hero, uber-hero.

Into the woods

Both films follow a similar structure too. The first kill, the inciting kill, happens as a prologue, before the main title even appears. Then an act’s worth of gathering evidence, momentum, and a posse and it’s off into the water or wilderness. Here, the randomness of nature is the enemy. And while it might seem odd to compare the instincts of a predatory animal to the free will of a man, consider Tom Chaney when we see him. He is practically an animal; gruff, dim-witted, hairy, smelly and quite frankly, a disappointment. If Bruce the Shark, by lack of a frontal cortex is no Tom Chaney, then Tom Chaney by lack of chutzpah and screen presence is certainly no Bruce the Shark.
 
In both cases, we’re left with the uncertainty of a happy ending. In terms of the prevention of future attacks, the sparing of future victims, indeed both missions are a success. But what of it? Jaws is a happy ending with a question mark, one where our rejoicing is tarnished by remembering what was lost, who was killed. True Grit is a happy ending with ellipses, one that gives us justice served and then follows it with the pointless onward march of time, lives suddenly devoid of a vengeful goal falling into parody or banality.

So, is there a reason why in thirty five years, happiness’s cold side dish has changed from sacrifice to uncertainty? We can consider the films’ directors. For Steven Spielberg, child of World War II, the long sad road to the other side of the rainbow is a constant recurrence in his films. Jaws, made in the waning days of Vietnam asks of the quest for justice “what is the sacrifice?” The Coens, prophets of pointlessness and futility, coming of age in the cold war, coming to prominence during the war on terror, make a film about the quest for justice and ask “what is the point?”