Melancholia (2011) dir. Lars von Trier
Double Indemnity (1944) dir. Billy Wilder
I watched von Trier's much anticipated Melancholia with a robust Friday night crowd of geriatric cineastes at Rochester's prized Little Theater, a great place see movies in this grey corner of New York. Along with being one of the few theaters in town to still project celluloid and offer an alternative program from the traditional multiplex, I like the venue because it draws comforting parallels to a couple of cinemas on the home front: Sarasota's Burns Court and Miami's O Cinema (two institutions that deserve your support and patronage). Sentimentalities aside, the best part of my viewing experience came at the very end of the film, when a male voice from the back of the theater exclaimed "THANK GOD" as the credits began to roll. I awkwardly chuckled to myself; I mean, what a strange, somewhat abrasive thing to shout at the credits of a movie. That being said, I like how ambiguous his comment is: what exactly are you thankful for, sir? (and, of course, this was the day after Thanksgiving).
A cinema-lover's knee-jerk reaction might be to turn his or her nose up at such an outburst. Clearly, this guy just doesn't get it or was plain bored by Melancholia's visual poetics and profound themes. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was predisposed to smiting the film after von Trier's idiotic Nazi comments at Cannes this year. Maybe, just maybe, he was simply thrilled with the way the story ended. Imagine other beloved film endings evoking such a reaction from their audiences: E.T. gets back on his spaceship, "THANK GOD"; the Death Star blows up, "THANK GOD"; Ilsa gets on the last plane out of Casablanca, "THANK GOD." Our critic's response points to a strong, complex, and at times seemingly visceral connection between the projected image and an audience, a throwback to the shock and terror mythology of the earliest cinematic audiences. However one chooses to interpret this episode, we ultimately confront the social and cultural significance of the cinematheque that his comment draws out: we gain an experience lost on the home video market and muted by the digital streams of the internet.
And I don't think I'm just being overly romantic here, either. If anything, it seems more a reaffirmation of the empirical realities of leaving your house, buying a ticket, and sitting in a big dark room with other people, sharing time and space. At the most fundamental phenomenological and discursive levels, it's different; different in a way that actively shapes how one sees a film, how one sees all Film. My good friend Lindsey pointed me to an article in The New Yorker that touches on this subject. Go here for more of that discussion.
Musings on the theater aside, as I rode my bicycle home from Melancholia I almost wrecked on a police car, a combination effort of the cop's shitty middle-of-the-street parking job and some asshole in a BMW trying to needle through a traffic jam. As I swerved to avoid the on-coming headlights, black and white images of cars traveling down dark alleyways flashed in my mind. These images populate and thrive in film noir, a grouping of films I haven't really thought about in quite some time. I suppose that's only partially true considering that I recently watched Sunset Boulevard on a whim and, not seeing it since high school, was happy to reconnect with it. This brush with bodily harm/nerdy reminiscence coupled with Rochester's less-than-friendly attitude toward cyclists made Double Indemnity a welcome nightcap after Melancholia. A great (near) collision if there ever was one.
A cinema-lover's knee-jerk reaction might be to turn his or her nose up at such an outburst. Clearly, this guy just doesn't get it or was plain bored by Melancholia's visual poetics and profound themes. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was predisposed to smiting the film after von Trier's idiotic Nazi comments at Cannes this year. Maybe, just maybe, he was simply thrilled with the way the story ended. Imagine other beloved film endings evoking such a reaction from their audiences: E.T. gets back on his spaceship, "THANK GOD"; the Death Star blows up, "THANK GOD"; Ilsa gets on the last plane out of Casablanca, "THANK GOD." Our critic's response points to a strong, complex, and at times seemingly visceral connection between the projected image and an audience, a throwback to the shock and terror mythology of the earliest cinematic audiences. However one chooses to interpret this episode, we ultimately confront the social and cultural significance of the cinematheque that his comment draws out: we gain an experience lost on the home video market and muted by the digital streams of the internet.
And I don't think I'm just being overly romantic here, either. If anything, it seems more a reaffirmation of the empirical realities of leaving your house, buying a ticket, and sitting in a big dark room with other people, sharing time and space. At the most fundamental phenomenological and discursive levels, it's different; different in a way that actively shapes how one sees a film, how one sees all Film. My good friend Lindsey pointed me to an article in The New Yorker that touches on this subject. Go here for more of that discussion.
Musings on the theater aside, as I rode my bicycle home from Melancholia I almost wrecked on a police car, a combination effort of the cop's shitty middle-of-the-street parking job and some asshole in a BMW trying to needle through a traffic jam. As I swerved to avoid the on-coming headlights, black and white images of cars traveling down dark alleyways flashed in my mind. These images populate and thrive in film noir, a grouping of films I haven't really thought about in quite some time. I suppose that's only partially true considering that I recently watched Sunset Boulevard on a whim and, not seeing it since high school, was happy to reconnect with it. This brush with bodily harm/nerdy reminiscence coupled with Rochester's less-than-friendly attitude toward cyclists made Double Indemnity a welcome nightcap after Melancholia. A great (near) collision if there ever was one.
