(images found here)

If you think about it, a rack focus actually imitates our natural perception of perspective in the world around us by blurring the thing we’re not focused on and sharpening the other. (If you’re looking through a window, you’re focusing on the hill outside rather than the curtains.

But wait…there’s more!

A rack focus is not a simple shift of focus from one thing to another. In that case, why not a cut or a pan? Rack focus is a way to keep an eye on two things at once. Sometimes the true object of focus is not what the camera is focused on, but the other part of the shot. It allows the audience to shift between several images or ideas while still considering all of them at once. While most film shots tell you where to look, rack focus merely suggests.

And that’s why I’m in love.

www.serenae.com

Beautiful film, and I’m not going to be done with it for years, I suspect. If ever.

I know we already talked this one to death, but I’m feeling the need to explore it further. We explored the nature of the statement, but not really the statement itself. We asked what was meant by “creativity”. What qualifies as creativity? What is the connotation of the word “problem” in this context? Why is it phrased as “taking in” rather than “approaching”? Is it even possible to approach these question in a way that produces answers?

I think the only way I’m going to get anywhere with this–and the only way any of us can, really–is to use whatever interpretation that is meaningful for me personally. When I create art, in whatever form it takes, am I doing it because I’m trying to address a condition that is present in my world and important to me? I think Dr. C misinterpreted (only slightly) my intent with that question. I’m not really judging myself and my art by whether or not I’m “taking in” a “problem”. Rather, I’m simply asking myself whether or not that’s what I do, as a condition of my creativity. I’m not overly concerned with conforming to this statement or feeling guilty by not doing so. Just wondering if, somehow, that statement represents a basic intent that I was never fully aware of.

I’m not sure if I can tell you whether the statement is true for me or not. I know my basic motivations for being creative, but do they somehow conform to this underlying principle? First and foremost, I create art because it makes me happy. Because it makes me think. Because I enjoy it. But what do I try to do with it? I think that every artist has the same basic motivations, though secondary motivations may vary. When you create art, you’re doing it to:

1. Express emotion
2. Affect others
3. Reveal yourself

If you feel something strongly, you create. You draw, photograph, write, compose, sing, paint, think.

When you create, you want to inspire observers and show them something new, whether about the world, themselves, or others. If I create something and it makes someone look at the world in a different way–not even a significant, life-changing, “aha!”-moment way–I am satisfied. I want to show everyone something beautiful and inspire thoughts, or even just one tiny thought, that they never would have had otherwise. Even if they forget all about it the next second, it was there. And I think that’s important. Is that a form of “taking in the world as a problem”? I think so. Our OED definition of “problem” used the phrase “throw out”. I’m taking in the world as a problem, interpreting it, channeling it, and then throwing it back out for others to take in. Each resulting thought is a new interpretation of my interpretation, which is, in turn, an interpretation of the one that I’ve taken in, which probably also originated as an interpretation. Does it ever end? Can you trace back thoughts? Ideas? Problems? Inspiration?

Perhaps everything should just be under a Creative Commons license, because nothing is truly the work of one person. Everything I do, think, create, or feel is the accumulation of the thoughts, creations, and feelings of millions of people before me.

Most of all, in my art I show people who I am. And maybe it just so happens that who I am–and who we all are– is a composite of everyone else who ever thought, created, or felt in the entire history of the world. We don’t need to consider what it means to take in the world as a problem. It’s already what we are.

The Vanishing
(Of Original Plot, Meaning, and Art, but Unfortunately Not of Kiefer Sutherland.)

It is the frequent and generally unavoidable fate of most great foreign films to be, at one point or another, remade for American audiences. Hollywood snatches up popular foreign films, eager to capitalize on their success overseas by catering to the very different tastes of what is perceived as the ‘average American viewer’. George Sluizer’s two versions of The Vanishing illustrate this situation perfectly.

—

In 1988, Sluizer made Spoorloos (The Vanishing in the U.S.). Five years later, he turned out a Hollywood version of the film. The first question to consider when comparing these two films is how to classify their relationship to one another. According to the criteria set forth in “Rewriting Remakes”, an ‘updating’ is a film in which “the structure of the original is only minimally modified”, while a ‘remake’ is a “new production, with a different cast and location, and a modified story line.” (20) Clearly, the 1993 version of The Vanishing is a remake. However, it is subsequently mentioned that “the ‘true’ and censurable remake, therefore, is a film that copies the way that the original’s images are presented on the screen. A ‘false’ remake is not a remake at all but an adaptation.” While the American version of the film has obvious differences in plot, structure, pace, characters, and dialogue, it still manages to recycle many of the original shots and shot sequences. Although much is added to this newer film, the parts of the original plot that are left intact contain reasonably faithful images. The differences in the scenes that both films share are so minute that I would still classify the 1993 version as a remake rather than an adaptation. But this brings up yet another issue. Is this imitation of shot composition also reprehensible? According to André Bazin, “the way American producers copy the images rather than work merely from the basic storyline” is “particularly irritating.” (8) However, it is stated in “Reviewing Remakes” that citation and plagiarism are barely distinguishable in most cases. Additionally, the fact that the original director was in control of the new version pretty much eliminates the possibility of plagiarism. This does, however, bring in the idea of the ‘autoremake’, or the “reworking by a director of his or her own material.” (21) When examining films and their remakes, it is generally hoped that the experience of each is different, but enhanced in some way. “While the new work asserts its own identity in distinction to a first version, both old and new garner new meaning by their very intertextuality.” (22) Unfortunately, any new meaning discovered through the relationship between these two very different films only serves to highlight the risks inherent in Hollywood remakes.

—

There are many immediately observable differences between the two versions of this film. Plot is the most obvious one, of course. The original film has a chilling—but perfect—end, one that is in keeping with the style of the entire movie. In a terrifying, claustrophobic scene, Rex, the protagonist, realizes that he has been buried alive. This is followed by a few brief shots suggesting that the outside world has continued despite his death. The murderer, meanwhile, continues to enjoy his life, untouched by remorse or legal repercussions. Whether a result of the American need for satisfactory resolution or, perhaps, the producer’s reluctance to kill off Kiefer Sutherland, the ending in the 1993 version is radically different. Jeff (our American version of Rex) is indeed buried alive. However, this is where the similarity stops. Sluizer attempts to replicate this scene, but the thing that makes the original so haunting is its permanence, something that the new version distinctly lacks. Jeff’s remarkably dedicated girlfriend tracks down the murderer and confronts him, eventually managing to defeat “Barney” and dig her boyfriend up before he suffocates. Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times complains that “the ending of the original ‘Vanishing’ is of a piece with the rest of the film. It is organically necessary to it. No other ending will do. That is why this Hollywood remake is so obscene.” I couldn’t agree with him more. Although basic plot structure is also toyed with in the remake, it is only in the final scenes that we see a glaring difference. However, the fact that many original scenes, or even shot sequences, were preserved does not necessarily mean that they are faithful.

—
Bazin’s comment about Hollywood preserving images while distorting nearly everything else is especially relevant in this case. Important dialogue is altered in a way that completely removes meaning and original intention. For example, the opening scene in Spoorloos consists of Rex and Saskia chatting playfully while driving down a European highway. This is replaced in the American version by Jeff (Sutherland) and Diane (Sandra Bullock) driving past a charred Mt. St. Helens and arguing about their vacation together. Jeff suggests that they choose a different national disaster area, and that’s about the extent of their conversation, in terms of content, meaning, and depth. The vitally important tunnel scene, in which we discover that Saskia has dreamt of drifting in a ‘golden egg’ in space, is completely different in the new version. Perhaps it was decided that American audiences either couldn’t understand or would be too impatient with the golden egg theme, despite the fact that it is a pervasive force throughout the original film. Regardless of the reason, Diane has no such dream, and her abandonment in the dark tunnel becomes simply an incident illustrating her fear and attachment to Jeff. Diane’s later insistence that Jeff promises never to abandon her again is familiar, but not quite identical to the original. In Spoorloos, Rex and Saskia have already made up after the tunnel incident and are lying together in the grass. She has him repeat after her: “I, me, Rex Hofman…swear that the wonderful…exquisite and sweet…” Here he alters his repetition: “…almost always sweet”, but she insists on her original phrasing: “the always sweet Saskia Wagter…will never be abandoned by me.” This scene is both touching and meaningful, representative of the dedication that later drives him to pursue the truth of her fate so single-mindedly. However, Jeff and Diane’s version is slightly, but significantly different. “I, Jeff Harriman…swear that the wonderful…the exquisite and sweet…” His alteration: “…the exquisite and potentially sweet” and her response: “the always sweet Diane Shaver…will never be left by me again…till death do us part.” His final comment, accompanied by a grin and sheepish chuckle, simply adds to the levity of the situation in this version: “That makes it sound so official.” In Spoorloos, this exchange serves as a poignant, serious, and meaningful break in the temporarily light mood of that particular scene. In its remake, the exchange is used as nothing more than an apology of sorts, and end to their fight. This is intentional trivialization of dialogue that was originally very important and emotionally loaded. Why? Because it is enforcing the familiar pattern of conflict and resolution. The film is promising its audience that it will resolve everything satisfactorily, from the basic plot to the relationships between characters. Not only this, but everything will conform to easily recognizable patterns, limiting the amount of serious thought and introspection that it demands from its viewers.

—
This idea of resorting to predictability to soothe audiences is explained further on page 17: “The audience at an art film does not get a mimetic image of itself. Instead, audience members are made uncomfortable by the film’s refusal to fall into familiar and reassuring patterns, ones that in genre deceptively strike to reconcile collective and personal moral contradictions. The commercial cinema is one of masks, the art of cinema one of truth.” It would probably be fair to say that Spoorloos is art, while The Vanishing is merely another example of a Hollywood attempt to maximize economic gain. But, as Michael Harney points out in his essay, “the typical big summer movie is a theme park, a trade show…a multifunctional marketing vehicle. It sells itself, it sells toys, it sells food, it sells books and music. You can say it’s zero as art, but you haven’t said much of anything, since art was far from the minds of the people making it.” (73) So perhaps I shouldn’t be quite as critical of the 1993 version. After all, it has entirely different goals.

—
This difference in motivation is especially apparent when considering genre. Although Spoorloos falls under the category of ‘psychological thriller’, I would be hesitant to assign this same classification to The Vanishing. (Even the original does not fit our dramatic, Hollywoodized model of the psychological thriller. As Ebert points out, in Spoorloos, Sluizer has “constructed a psychological jigsaw puzzle, a plot that makes you realize how simplistic many suspense films really are. The movie advances in a tantalizing fashion, supplying information obliquely, suggesting as much as it tells, and everything leads up to a climax that is as horrifying as it is probably inevitable.”) As for the remake, melodrama, action, and even ‘slasher film’ come more readily to mind. It is entirely incapable of being a ‘psychological thriller’ due to the absence of any real psychological aspects. Yes, there is a vague structure that hints at the suspense and thoughtfulness of the original, but it fails to follow through with anything but basic plot points and clichéd situations or exchanges. In the American version, they felt the need to develop the romance between Rita Baker (the new girlfriend) and poor, obsessed Jeff. Her origin as a waitress is revealed and the progress of their relationship is both shown and implied. This is obviously done because the change in ending necessitates it. We need this new woman to run up and save Jeff from certain death. In the original, it doesn’t matter where his new girl came from or how they interact, except to show that she doesn’t really exist for him in the same way that Saskia did. This is a very bleak message, and one that was, unsurprisingly, deemed unappealing to most American viewers. This is perfectly in keeping with one of Harney’s main points. “Art, even bad art, is that work which strives to reveal human beings, to hold up ‘a fearsome mirror to our selves and social orders.’ Entertainment is, by contrast, both a ‘mode of address to the most superficial levels of the personality’ and a denial of the very existence of social and psychological depth. Entertainment ‘disperses between the sub- and the superhuman.’ It purveys ‘dreams of redemption [that are] cynically aware of their own unreality’.” (67)

—
Both the music and pace of The Vanishing highlight this emphasis on entertainment rather than art. The non-diegetic sound in Spoorloos, while very distinctively 1980’s, is relatively unintrusive and serves as a supplement to the dialogue and images. However, the musical score in the 1993 version is dramatic, moody, and predictable. The irony here is that while the music itself is predictable, it enforces and encourages further predictability of plot, emphasizing certain scenes. The music serves as the audience’s emotional cue, leaving nothing up to thought and completely eliminating ambiguity. Similarly, the speed of the plot in general and individual shots also conveys a very “American” sense of filmmaking. The long, thought-provoking shots of the original are replaced with a multitude of rapid cuts. This carries the action along quickly, bombarding the audience with meaningless visual stimuli while leaving them with virtually no time for serious reflection. But this is not the only technical aspect of the newer version that results in a dramatic reduction of significance.

—
While the shot structure in many scenes, especially the one in which the antagonist is ‘rehearsing’ for his crime with the chloroform and car, is identical between the two films, there is still something noticeably different. Aspects of these shots are, again, either ignored or trivialized in the new version. The best way I can think of to describe the difference between these shots is that they are simplified in the American version. Tiny details are either eliminated altogether or, if deemed sufficiently important in the creation of suspense, made glaringly obvious. As an American filmgoer, I feel fairly insulted by this decision to convert an entire film in this way. Is Hollywood saying that we, as a society, are unintelligent? Or perhaps just incurably lazy? Either way, it’s not especially complimentary. This unfortunate phenomenon is explained particularly well in “Reviewing Remakes.”

“In her recent discussion of American remakes, Vincendeau distinguishes between American and French cinematic traditions, asserting that the former privileges ‘clear-cut motivation, both of causality (no loose ends) and character (good or evil),’ whereas the principle of the latter is “ambiguity”. The American remake of a French/European film serves to reveal this difference primarily through film endings, with the former providing a comforting resolution altogether absent in their European counterparts. The incompatibility of the two cinemas emerges equally in the dissimilar relations the remake establishes with its characters; American cinema deals in black-and-white oppositions with the neat elimination of all the grays. In this sense, the remake functions as the ideal point of cultural comparison between the two cinemas with one intended ostensibly for the supposedly naïve, childlike American, the other for the ironic, adult European.” (8)

What Vincendeau says is especially true in this case. The Vanishing is simplified to a degree that approaches the ridiculous. Complexities of the antagonist, Raymond, are reduced in an attempt to make him as clear-cut as the rest of the movie. In the original, he is understandable—occasionally even likeable. Two of the most important scenes that accomplish this are flashbacks. In the first, he leans over a balcony, looking down at the street below. He wonders what prevents him from jumping, and “in order to go against what is predestined” he jumps and breaks an arm. This idea is a tantalizing one even for the sanest of us. What guarantees that we won’t make the same kind of choice as him in a situation like that? The idea of ‘escaping destiny’ has always been an attractive one in society. We can understand this desire of his, in spite of where it ultimately leads. The second scene consists of Raymond leaping into a river to save a little girl. His own daughter is bursting with pride for him, but he arrives at the conclusion that he cannot be a true hero unless he is incapable of true evil. To test this hypothesis, he therefore must do the worst thing he can think of, which is, of course, burying a person alive. (We learn that he is claustrophobic from a scene in which a policeman pulls him over for not wearing a seatbelt. This detail is left out in the 1993 version.) But the Hollywood version villainizes him by delegating him to the role of obligatory ‘evil guy’. Barney Cousins is a grinning, remorseless villain, whose only goal seems to be the psychological—and eventually physical—destruction of his nemesis, Jeff. The original film is about understanding, whereas the new one is about relentless malevolence.

—
But what about the issue of Sluizer? After all, he also directed the original film, which was brilliant. Roger Ebert certainly wants to know: “What’s the story here? Do Sluizer and his American producers believe the American movie audience is so witless it will not accept uncompromising fidelity to a story idea? Are Europeans deserving of smart, cynical filmmaking, but Americans have to be approached on a more elementary level? I don’t know. I simply know that George Sluizer has directed two films named ‘The Vanishing,’ and one is a masterpiece and the other is laughable, stupid and crude.” So what exactly went wrong? It’s obviously not a reflection of his talent as a director; the first version is proof of that. It follows, then, that the disappointing quality of the remake is due primarily to the American film industry. In his essay, “Twice Told Tales”, Thomas Leitch elaborates on this. “George Sluizer’s 1993 American remake of his own dark thriller The Vanishing (1988) corrects the error that made the earlier film so bleak and unsettling by providing a happy ending for American audiences and Kiefer Sutherland, a star in whose welfare they could be expected to have a residual investment.” (57) I’m not sure I agree with Leitch that Sluizer is ‘correcting an error’. This implies that an error exists, and, for most of the world, it did not. The ending of the original is only an ‘error’ as perceived by simple-minded American viewers. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if they’d just kept Kiefer Sutherland buried. And not because the original ending is so spectacular, which, incidentally, is also true, but because Kiefer had grown unbearably tiresome and by the end of the film I was more than ready for his permanent disposal. I’m not sure whether Kiefer Sutherland is most ridiculous when humming to himself as he waits for his girlfriend on the hood of the car, or emerging, Christ-like, from his near-death experience to eliminate a melodramatic villain. If I were one of the wittier film critics, I would probably say something like “The title of this film inspired misguided hope, and as a result I spent the entire movie waiting for Kiefer Sutherland to vanish. But, as with every other aspect of the film, I was left disappointed.”

—
“Great films are not made. They are remade!” (3) Although occasionally true throughout cinematic history, as stated in the essay this quotation is drawn from, it’s definitely not true in this case. It was unnecessary to remake this film. Sometimes if a film is great enough, the remake can only hope to attract new and different audiences. This often translates to less discerning and sophisticated audiences, especially in the case of Hollywood remakes of foreign films. As long as there is widespread viewership for these cinematic monstrosities, the process will continue. But there is hope, at least for those of us who do care. After all, as Bazin argues, “…if there exists an audience for old and foreign films, there is no need to remake.” (19) And even if the misguided ‘powers that be’ do remake, we always have the option of maintaining our undying loyalty to the superior original, which is exactly what I intend to do.

This is an assignment for my small group communication course, so I’ll be examining this film (which happens to be one of my all-time favorites) for its group problem-solving elements. Fun!

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Lesson One: The flaws of having appointed leaders

The most immediately apparent lesson involving functional (or, in this case, dysfunctional) small group decision making is the question of leadership and evolving roles of group members. Though there were many factors that contributed to the conflict of the jury members, one of the main complications was the fact that there was no distinct leader. This might have been all right if each member had respect for the others and their opinions, but in this case the leadership role was necessary for group progress. It is clear very early on in the film that the appointed leader, the foreman (Jury Member 1), is a little insecure with the role given him and lacks the assertiveness to maintain order in a group of this size and diversity. Even a simple exchange in the opening stages seems to make him uncomfortable with his status:

Jury member: “Should we sit in order?”

Foreman: “Gee, I dunno…I guess so.”

Even though the question isn’t a particularly important one, the way he handles it and later tries to enforce it reveals how little confidence he has in his ability to maintain this position and comfort with it. He’s fairly timid and consistently has difficulty getting the attention and cooperation of the other jury members. It seems as if he’d be much better–and happier– with an organizational role rather than a leadership one. He begins by offering different options for how to proceed with the discussion, but the reaction shots of the other members show that he’s not really viewed as a particularly authoritative figure. The type of initial vote that he decides upon is also not the best way of making everyone’s opinion heard. While preliminary voting is useful when determining very generally where the group stands, it’s important to remember that it is meant to be a starting point for discussion, not a decision in itself. When the other jury members are unhappy about the lone dissenting vote, he fails (yet again) to maintain proper control when everyone jumps on Henry Fonda’s character and it takes the group a significant amount of time to take the next step into discussion.

Later he tries to enforce the decision of going around in a circle and letting everyone have a chance to speak, but he seems uncomfortable even asserting his own power: “Wait a minute. We, uh, decided to do this a certain way and I think we oughta stick to that way.”

The way this is going for him, it is practically inevitable that someone will challenge his authority, and a conflict arises over this. Annoyed, he says, ““You think it’s easy? You take over” and sits, facing away from the group and visibly upset. When another member asks him for his approval of a step being taken in the discussion, his only response is: “I don’t care what you do.”

This continues, and in this way his role gradually shifts further away from a leadership one and more towards that of a moderator and coordinator, while Jury Member 8 (Henry Fonda) moves closer to being the leader. The bottom line is that the best way to establish a group leader is to simply let one emerge naturally. This is also true for each of the other group roles, and several very clearly developed roles become apparent as the film continues.

—

Lesson Two: Approaching the discussion with an open mind

The idea of being an unbiased group member is a pretty straightforward one, but something that many groups tend to forget, at least initially. The characters in the movie are fairly extreme examples of this, but it’s important to remember that even in a group that seems homogeneous, each person is always going to have a slightly different perspective. It’s completely fine to let this affect the way you approach the discussion and feel about the subject matter, but it’s quite another matter when personal prejudices interfere with the group’s progress and put a strain on relations between group members. Two jury members (3 and 10) illustrate this particularly well. Between them, they represent two different kinds of biases that can be found in a group like this. Through his speech about the unsatisfactory moral character of all residents of slums, Jury Member 10 reveals exactly how prejudiced he is. Not only does this impede discussion by creating intense conflict, but it creates feelings of antagonism between him and other members of the group, which is not at all conducive to the kind of teamwork they’re attempting to accomplish. Jury Member 3 has a personal agenda. He is upset about his own son, as he explains at the beginning, and this emotional anxiety he’s feeling leads to a desire to take out his hurt feelings on someone who is wholly unconnected with his real problem–the defendant. For him, it’s a personal vendetta, and the other group members have a hard time understanding and tolerating the behavior that results from this.

He is the last, and most difficult to convince because his reasons for wanting to convict are based on emotion rather than logic. Although these characters are extreme, they serve as good representations of common mistakes groups can fall into. Everyone has biases, but when an objective decision is called for, remaining as unbiased as possible is vitally important. Members of a group like this should examine both their own motives and also take into consideration where each other group member is coming from. Mutual understanding and respect is something that most groups take for granted until it is thrown into question.

–

Lesson Three: Appealing to different learning styles

Henry Fonda’s character (Jury Member 8) is remarkably persuasive. Is this just because he’s a good leader? Is it because he’s unquestionably right? Or is it, perhaps, his tactical approach to the task of convincing his fellow group members? Unless all members of a group come from identical backgrounds and hold the exact same opinions and beliefs on everything, people are going to disagree. One of the most important steps of group problem solving is discussion, of which persuasion is an integral part. What exactly is it that Henry Fonda is doing from the point he casts the lone dissenting vote to the end of the film, when everyone is (at last) in agreement? He convinces all 11 of his group members, some of whom were vehemently opposed to his opinion, to change their votes. And the cool part is, he does it by employing a technique most of us (especially teachers) are very familiar with. He appeals to different learning styles. His three main arguments are each geared towards a different type of learner.

The first argument is the one involving the knife. By actually producing a knife identical to the one belonging to the defendant, he makes a very visual appeal to his group members. They can see the two knives side-by-side, and are forced to accept the possibility, however slight, that the boy’s father could have been killed with another knife.

The second, the question of the train, appeals to more auditory learners, which is appropriate considering the auditory nature of that specific piece of evidence. He outlines clearly and logically the timing of the train and amount of sound it would produce. This is done in such a way that the other jury members can follow his arguments to their logical conclusion, one that they eventually accept as true.

The third piece of persuasion is the one involving the timing of the witness getting out of bed and running to the door. He appeals to kinesthetic learners by actually getting up and demonstrating the chain of events, even letting another group member time him. This exercise maintains interest through its interactive nature and is also a highly effective technique.

Throughout his main arguments, he continually appeals to jury members for input, drawing on their personal experience and opinions. This also strengthens his arguments because they’re composed of elements contributed by other group members. Good persuasive ability is essential during discussions, and he manages to overcome extreme differences in the group through these tactics.

I think I’ve watched this film 4 or 5 times, but this is the first time I’ve noticed many things, probably because I’m approaching it from the perspective of a small group analyst rather than that of a film student. It’s interesting to be paying attention to possible group roles and organizational difficulties rather than camera angles and filmmaking techniques. But perhaps the complications of group interaction and their accurate portrayal is just as important to consider as all the other elements of film. This just reinforces the idea that film is incredibly versatile and multidimensional. I can’t wait to see what I’ll discover next.

So my carefully thought-out (ha) opinion of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End…

I’ve heard quite a lot of complaints about this film, but I think maybe the issue here is that their expectations were too high. I went in expecting it to be fun, not good, and my expectations were fulfilled. Honestly, do any of us really watch the PotC movies thinking that they’re going to be spectacularly amazing, life-changing cinematic works? Probably not. I expected adventure, good special effects, some funny lines, and the usual quirkiness found in the first two. It had all of these things. So no complaints :)

Also, Keira Knightley’s hat is truly ridiculous. And how can you miss that? ;)

TRAILER

Fallen Angels (a Chinese film directed by Kar Wai Wong) is spectacular. Stylistically, it is completely breathtaking. Thematically, it’s incredibly powerful. I don’t have any criticisms, which is rare. I have never seen anything quite like it.

So please, please see it. I don’t think it’s too difficult to find. Dr. Campbell, this means you. And Stephanie. And Ben. And everyone, really. I said that I’ve been thinking about this movie for the past three days, but I still haven’t even begun to explore everything I’d like to. I don’t even know if I have the right to try to approach it until I’ve seen it again.

Just…there are no words. (Still.) Perhaps I’ll think of some, but don’t hold your breath. I think I’m in love.

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And these last three…well, they’re just here because I couldn’t resist. The final death scene in each Jaws movie, excluding Jaws 3. (Warning: spoilers) (Like you’re actually going to watch any of the Jaws sequels.) (I think I’m the only one that ridiculous.)

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I’ll leave you with the following links, just in case you’re not all sharked out yet ;)

• highest grossing shark movies
  
• a thorough list of shark films, complete with descriptions
• a discussion of the decline of the shark movie
• and, of course, one of my favorite childhood picture books

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