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Usually, my mega posts are to catch me up so I can resume normal posting. I know this place is really jumping when every post I make has to be a mega post 
You mean...no binging?
Just checking
Don't bother. I don't watch Star Wars and don't plan to. When it comes to Star Wars, this is where I stand:
See my response to Ricky
Just to clarify, when I said I was laughing at your response to reading such a landmark piece of scholarship from such an important film scholar, I didn't mean I was laughing at you because you didn't think it was the greatest thing you'd ever read. My laughter was more of the way you'd laugh if you were watching a UFC with someone who'd never watched a fight before and if, when they saw Roy Nelson walk out, they asked, "How is this fat, out of shape redneck a professional fighter?" That question wouldn't make them stupid, but because you know something they don't, you're afforded a different perspective.
Additionally, I've criticized Bordwell in a previous publication, so I'm not claiming he's infallible, either. He just wrote a very perceptive essay on art movies that I thought was relevant to the conversation.
How do you mean?
In order to exclude something, it has to be possible to include it. Bordwell is a smart guy, but he doesn't have a time machine.
Your hypothetical refutation wouldn't be a genuine refutation. No two films that are part of a genre/tradition have the same exact attributes, neither in number nor in kind. That's not how genres work. If it were, then I could compare Commando and Out for Justice and say, since Out for Justice isn't about the military while Commando is, the former isn't an action movie while the latter is. Or vice-versa.
Genre is more complex, more flexible, more interesting than that.
1) That things evolve doesn't invalidate the idea that genre involves continuity and placement within a tradition.
2) That the term "art film" is now a "loose" term implies that the term means/meant something. And that something is what informs contemporary films. Which was my point from the beginning.
3) I'd argue that it'd be very difficult to categorize Pulp Fiction as an art film in any straightforward way. It's, in Tarantino fashion, characteristically hybridized, so even calling it a crime film is an ordeal. I think it'd make more sense to call it a crime film with some art film tendencies. Even so, the fact that there are things that can be identified as art film tendencies implies the existence of an art film tradition, and in order to constitute a tradition, there has to be some kind of unity, or, one could say, some kind of formula.
Assuming that, by "intent" with reference to horror, you mean something like "to scare people," how is that any stricter than "intellectually engaging the viewer" with reference to art movies?
If you put The Omen next to I Know What You Did Last Summer, beyond being able to classify them both as horror movies, the degree to which they are "thematically different" is at least comparable if not equal to the degree to which stuff like Ivan's Childhood and 8 1/2 are "thematically different." You're just cherry picking which genre you actually take the time to think through and which genre you casually dismiss. And that's a time-honored elitist tactic that I wish would hurry up and become extinct.
I'm on Season 11 and I haven't noticed anything significantly different. It feels like I've been riding the same satirical track since at least Season 4.
I think it'd be more accurate to say Family Guy is Pepsi and South Park is wine.
I can't back it yet, either, but I'm conducting studies.
I feel like, in a conversation, "I like it because I like it" is the point of acquiescence. It's not the first card you play; it's what's left once you've gone through the whole deck. There are two ideas expressed in the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein that are close to where my head is at here, one that is sort of cryptic and another that is a bit clearer:
"Explanations come to an end somewhere."
"If I have exhausted the justifications [then] I have reached bedrock and my spade is turned. Then I am inclined to say: 'This is simply what I do.'"
The first, more cryptic idea begs some questions, namely why explanations come to an end and where they come to an end. The second, slightly clearer idea sort of sets the terms for how rational conversations about art should proceed. That is to say, rational conversations about the evaluation of artworks should be a matter of working through justifications. To start with "I like it because I like it" would be to simply refuse to have a conversation about art. But then, even if we engage in conversation, if we both know that the "essence" of our conversation is "I like it because I like it," then why do we bother in the first place? Wittgenstein would describe this as "running against the walls of our cage," and it's the tendency that inspired his famous line about how "what we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence."
Except I'm not convinced that we cannot speak about evaluation, nor am I convinced that entering the realm of art is akin to being caged. I'm also not satisifed with just focusing on persuasion, the act of convincing someone to accept your opinion on the strength of passion/vehemence as opposed to logic/proof. I feel like there must be something more than subjective persuasion, that there's actually the potential for objective proof. Only I have no idea how that'd work
In addition to Wittgenstein, I've also been reading J.L. Austin lately (any nerds reading: ordinary language philosophy > poststructuralism), and he talks about what he calls "the fallacy of asking about nothing-in-particular":
"Having asked in this way, and answered, 'What is the meaning of (the word) "rat" ?', 'What is the meaning of (the word) "cat"?', 'What is the meaning of (the word) "mat"?', and so on, we then try, being philosophers, to ask the further general question, 'What is the meaning of a word?' But there is something spurious about this question. We do not intend to mean by it a certain question which would be perfectly all right, namely, 'What is the meaning of (the word) "word"?': that would be no more general than is asking the meaning of the word 'rat', and would be answered in a precisely similar way.
No: we want to ask rather, 'What is the meaning of a-word-in-general?' or 'of any word* not meaning 'any* word you like to choose, but rather no particular word at all, just 'any word*. Now ifwe pause even for a moment to reflect, this is a perfectly absurd question to be trying to ask. I can only answer a question ofthe form 'What is the meaning ofV?' if "x" is some particular word you are asking about. This supposed general question is really just a spurious question of a type which commonly arises in philosophy. We may call it tie fallacy of asking about 'Nothing-in-particular' which is a practice decried by the plain man, but by the philosopher called 'generalizing' and regarded with some complacency.
Many other examples of the fallacy can be found: take, for example, the case of 'reality' - we try to pass from such questions as 'How would you distinguish a real rat from an imaginary rat?' to 'What is a real thing?', a question which merely gives rise to nonsense."
In dealing with these issues, I've been trying to eliminate nonsense as best I can. One way to do that is to stay specific ("Forgive me for wanting a little specificity"). When you say, in reference to slow motion being "objectively good for creating tension and desperation," that "that truth will fall apart from example to example," I agree. And, what's more, that's as it should be. An issue that I think some people have with the word "objective" is that it conjures up ideas of omniscience, omnipotence, and transcendence, almost as if, for it to be "objectively" true here, it must be "objectively" true everywhere. But that's bullshit. I'm evaluating Inception. And I say the slow motion is objectively effective because it highlights, narratively, the slowing down of time from level to deeper level, as well as, phenomenologically, Leo and Co.'s (and, by extension, our) tension and desperation.
Now what happens if someone disagrees with that? If, for example, someone says, "Actually, I didn't find it effective," my first question would be, "Why?" Perhaps they say, "Because I wasn't invested in the characters." This conversation seems to be progressing nicely, except now we're not talking about the van anymore. Now we're talking about characterization. At this point, I'd launch into my shit about Nolan's utilitarian characterizations and his narrative economy. But now is that objective? And, regardless of whether it is or it isn't, is it not somewhat perverse to tell someone that what they felt was wrong?
My thoughts exactly. People like Kant (and, to a lesser degree but still unmistakably, Wittgenstein) have tried to put limits on human cognition and expression. I'm not sure what we experience on a day-to-day basis (difficulties conceptualizing or communicating things) are indicators of inherent limitations to our mode of cognition. Maybe some people just haven't cultivated their introspective and/or communicative abilities.
HUNTER comes in with a Randian invocation of principles.
I do feel that, when a person responds to an artwork, they're responding with everything they've got, that everything about who they are and what they believe contributes to that response. However, because most people can't be bothered to be introspective and don't explicitly adhere to principles that reflect their values, their characters are as confusing and contradictory as their tastes. And, worse yet, this laziness on their part is what justifies the claim that taste is subjective, arbitrary, ineffable, etc. A failure on their part is then ontologically reified as constitutive
Words can't describe how much I like this post. I especially like how you're working so straightforwardly from the premise that art is an intentional activity ("we naturally have to be able to speak about the art in the terms under which it was built"). You wouldn't believe how many academics deny that
I love Trey Parker and Matt Stone. They're geniuses. Unfortunately, they're also (or maybe just Trey is, but since Matt signed off on it, he has to share the responsibility) TREMENDOUSLY arrogant. I know, I know, all my Rand shit should preclude me from leveling charges of arrogance. But seriously, it just comes screaming off the screen. Look at the Phil Collins episode. "You'll Be in My Heart" beats (and rightfully so) "Blame Canada" for the Oscar for Best Original Song. What do you know? Phil Collins shows up in a South Park episode. And it's not harmless fun like Mecha-Streisand or even the Scientology episode with Tom Cruise and John Travolta in the closet. It's a lot more mean-spirited (especially that news segment where they throw some personal dirt out for literally no reason except to do it). They even have Phil holding (and at one point making out with) his Oscar in every scene.
The Family Guy episode felt the same way. It's like they hated the fact that they weren't the only game in town and they resented having to share the comedy scene with something so "beneath" their almighty greatness. Never mind that all of the criticisms they leveled at Family Guy were so painfully desperate and hollow. They kept repeating the charge that none of their jokes ever have anything to do with an actual, coherent narrative, yet they've ironically done some of the same jokes as Family Guy, and they did them after, and they weren't as funny.
The best example:
Family Guy - Season 1, Episode 2 - 1999 (Very early, way before the South Park episode, so nobody can say they only started doing things differently after and in response)
South Park - Season 10, Episode 3 - 2006 (Ironically, this is the Family Guy episode)
And there are a billion other examples of Family Guy jokes/references springing organically from the plot. Some of my favorites: Stewie referencing In the Air Tonight in the Poltergeist spoof episode because he's been sucked into the TV and the static sounds like In the Air Tonight; Cleveland and Quagmire squashing their beef in the episode where Quagmire has sex with Clevelenad's wife by recreating the ending of Rocky III; Peter quoting from the intro to The Incredible Hulk in his eulogy for Mr. Weed; and, in the most recent season, a Seagal reference stemming from the fact that Peter is being bullied by his sister and is trying to find a way to stand up to her.
In conclusion: South Park is painfully, even pathetically jealous, and their immaturity in their show (not to mention in interviews, where it's even worse) just makes Seth MacFarlane and Family Guy look that much better.
This is accurate. However, it's accurate of what Rand is saying. I do admit to finding what she's saying convincing. What worries me is the latent fascism in this position; i.e., it worries me how easy it is to move from "Movies like Chinatown reinforce nihilism" to "Movies like Chinatown shouldn't be made," not to mention how easy it would then be to move to "Movies like Chinatown mustn't be made."
Still, I think it's eminently logical to say that, with a proliferation of artworks that deal in pessimism, nihilism, the defeat of hope, the lack of moral righteousness, etc., these same ideas may also proliferate in wider realms of culture beyond art. So long as this remains descriptive and not prescriptive, it seems right to me.
This is valid, although do you think this is the way most people view these films? If it is, then art would seem to be on firmer moral ground than Rand feared. If it isn't, though, then Rand's fears about the moral bankruptcy of art would seem to be warranted.
Once again, I can't help but feel like this is a minority response. I'm particularly struck by the claim that Bond (and, by extension, similar action heroes?) have anything whatsoever to do with the "status quo." Isn't the exemplarity of the action hero kind of the point? Not to mention the fact that to say you have "no human connection" with Bond (and, by extension, similar action heroes?) means, I take it, that Bond (and, by extension, similar action movies?) carries no inspiration for you at all?
If this is the case - if Bruce Lee taking on the Japanese, Rambo refighting the Vietnam war, Batman taking on terrorists, etc., carry no inspiration for you - then, as I mentioned about people who don't think upbeat movies are inherently more enjoyable than downbeat movies, you should probably seek psychological treatment.
Good to have you back. I'm still working off of my one initial viewing of this one, but I'll be genuinely surprised if my enjoyment drops off. Even taking into consideration how pleased I was upon my first viewing, I'm actually expecting this movie to grow on me over time.
Glad you liked it. I saw it pretty late in my Hepburn obsession and wished I'd gotten around to it sooner. Ford very rarely dealt with female protagonists, but I thought he did a great job telling that story. And seriously, that sequence where Hepburn finally breaks down and tells Carradine she'll marry the doofus, and as soon as he's about to leave, they both hear March's bagpipes, that's Ford's old school silent filmmaking coming back. No dialogue, just the sound of the bagpipes as he cuts to Hepburn and March seeing each other, her in her castle and him approaching on horseback, and Carradine just closes the door, knowing there's only one man for her. And that close-up of Hepburn, HOLY FUCK, that whole sequence is a masterclass in directing, but that's the emotional gut punch. It's an incredible shot of an incredible face. One of my favorite sequences in any movie ever.
Beggars can't be choosers. You liked a Hepburn movie. I'm good
QFT.
I loved it. The actual Darnley character was rendered a bit...over-the-top, let's say. But the actual split worked very well IMO, especially since it complimented the political thematic so well. As she was a politician by heart, so she was a woman by heart. It may have made "better sense" to marry Darnley, but she had to follow her heart. And the black-and-white split between her two choices helps to make crystal clear that following her heart is her only choice.
Because he's awesome.
That criticism is in no way, shape, or form valid.
The Informer, which Ford made the year before (and for which he won Best Director) had a similar look. He collaborated with the cinematographer Joseph H. August, who also shot Mary of Scotland. And August, like Ford, got his start in the silent era, so they both had an old school visual sense that translated really well, and to these two films in particular.
When she's at the window looking out as March returns.
I'd actually never connected The Last Hurrah and The Fountainhead, and I probably never would've. And even now, after you mentioned it, I wouldn't connect them. The Fountainhead is about a morally upright individual fighting for what's right and refusing to compromise. The Last Hurrah is about a morally gray individual fighting with questionable tactics in a world that has passed him by and accepting, with dignity if not grace, that his time is up. Howard Roark wouldn't know the meaning of the word "regret" because his values are strong and his mind is strong enough to hold onto them. Frank Skeffington knows only too well the meaning of the word "regret" because he's spent most of his life playing both ends against the middle without so much as a compass in his search for the right way to live (as a politician, a husband, a father, and a man).
Very different movies in very different worlds about very different people.
Sorry for being so blunt, but if you think Frank Skeffington is a "saintly" character, then you weren't paying attention.
That description only applies to Carradine's character. Oh, and it does work!
But he's clearly not a saint. Even that scene underlines the ambivalence. He straight up lies to the widow's face. He's clearly putting on a show for everybody. He's playing a role. I'm not saying there's nothing genuine, but it's certainly not all saintly behavior. And that's the point.
Because he's a dinosaur. His species is extinct. One of the main themes of the film is the inexorable passage of time. He takes his nephew to his old neighborhood, where, back in the day, everything and everyone was so different. He wants to hold on to that all the while knowing that the world he's living in is not that old world in his memory. Nothing stays the same. He can't be mayor forever. Times change, people change, and when you can't change anymore, you die. And when your time comes, you hope you lived a life that you don't have to regret. And a big part of Tracy's journey is reconciling his choices with his view of himself, and quite apart from everybody else's views, be it the views of his inner circle or of his opponents.
And not just their positions with respect to the plot (who is responsible for what) but their positions with respect to each other. You're right that Nolan spends a lot of time building that world, and that comes with a lot of exposition. Yet, despite having to cram in so much information, he still takes the time to develop relationships. On rewatches these days, I love more and more the Leo/Hardy relationship. It's almost like Hardy is an older brother figure. Leo seeks his counsel, yet, as brothers, they tend to be combative ("I see your spelling hasn't improved" / "Piss off."). They also clearly find one another amusing. Hardy's reaction when Leo suggests meeting back at the bar once he loses the Cobol tail is priceless.
Then, of course, there's the Hardy/JGL relationship. All venom. But then there's that wonderful little moment in the hotel when JGL is putting Hardy to sleep to get to the last level ("Security's gonna run you down hard" / "And I will lead them on a merry chase").
You've also got Leo and Watanabe, of course, but then Watanabe also develops a funny little relationship with Hardy (one of my more recent favorite moments is when Watanabe, as he's dying, recalls Hardy's earlier line about how there's no room for tourists).
And tons more. So many people act like Inception is two and a half hours of exposition, but it's so much more, so much, dare I say, deeper.
You mean...no binging?
Just checking
Don't bother. I don't watch Star Wars and don't plan to. When it comes to Star Wars, this is where I stand:
See my response to Ricky
Just to clarify, when I said I was laughing at your response to reading such a landmark piece of scholarship from such an important film scholar, I didn't mean I was laughing at you because you didn't think it was the greatest thing you'd ever read. My laughter was more of the way you'd laugh if you were watching a UFC with someone who'd never watched a fight before and if, when they saw Roy Nelson walk out, they asked, "How is this fat, out of shape redneck a professional fighter?" That question wouldn't make them stupid, but because you know something they don't, you're afforded a different perspective.
Additionally, I've criticized Bordwell in a previous publication, so I'm not claiming he's infallible, either. He just wrote a very perceptive essay on art movies that I thought was relevant to the conversation.
How do you mean?
In order to exclude something, it has to be possible to include it. Bordwell is a smart guy, but he doesn't have a time machine.
Your hypothetical refutation wouldn't be a genuine refutation. No two films that are part of a genre/tradition have the same exact attributes, neither in number nor in kind. That's not how genres work. If it were, then I could compare Commando and Out for Justice and say, since Out for Justice isn't about the military while Commando is, the former isn't an action movie while the latter is. Or vice-versa.
Genre is more complex, more flexible, more interesting than that.
1) That things evolve doesn't invalidate the idea that genre involves continuity and placement within a tradition.
2) That the term "art film" is now a "loose" term implies that the term means/meant something. And that something is what informs contemporary films. Which was my point from the beginning.
3) I'd argue that it'd be very difficult to categorize Pulp Fiction as an art film in any straightforward way. It's, in Tarantino fashion, characteristically hybridized, so even calling it a crime film is an ordeal. I think it'd make more sense to call it a crime film with some art film tendencies. Even so, the fact that there are things that can be identified as art film tendencies implies the existence of an art film tradition, and in order to constitute a tradition, there has to be some kind of unity, or, one could say, some kind of formula.
Assuming that, by "intent" with reference to horror, you mean something like "to scare people," how is that any stricter than "intellectually engaging the viewer" with reference to art movies?
If you put The Omen next to I Know What You Did Last Summer, beyond being able to classify them both as horror movies, the degree to which they are "thematically different" is at least comparable if not equal to the degree to which stuff like Ivan's Childhood and 8 1/2 are "thematically different." You're just cherry picking which genre you actually take the time to think through and which genre you casually dismiss. And that's a time-honored elitist tactic that I wish would hurry up and become extinct.
I'm on Season 11 and I haven't noticed anything significantly different. It feels like I've been riding the same satirical track since at least Season 4.
I think it'd be more accurate to say Family Guy is Pepsi and South Park is wine.
I can't back it yet, either, but I'm conducting studies.
I feel like, in a conversation, "I like it because I like it" is the point of acquiescence. It's not the first card you play; it's what's left once you've gone through the whole deck. There are two ideas expressed in the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein that are close to where my head is at here, one that is sort of cryptic and another that is a bit clearer:
"Explanations come to an end somewhere."
"If I have exhausted the justifications [then] I have reached bedrock and my spade is turned. Then I am inclined to say: 'This is simply what I do.'"
The first, more cryptic idea begs some questions, namely why explanations come to an end and where they come to an end. The second, slightly clearer idea sort of sets the terms for how rational conversations about art should proceed. That is to say, rational conversations about the evaluation of artworks should be a matter of working through justifications. To start with "I like it because I like it" would be to simply refuse to have a conversation about art. But then, even if we engage in conversation, if we both know that the "essence" of our conversation is "I like it because I like it," then why do we bother in the first place? Wittgenstein would describe this as "running against the walls of our cage," and it's the tendency that inspired his famous line about how "what we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence."
Except I'm not convinced that we cannot speak about evaluation, nor am I convinced that entering the realm of art is akin to being caged. I'm also not satisifed with just focusing on persuasion, the act of convincing someone to accept your opinion on the strength of passion/vehemence as opposed to logic/proof. I feel like there must be something more than subjective persuasion, that there's actually the potential for objective proof. Only I have no idea how that'd work
In addition to Wittgenstein, I've also been reading J.L. Austin lately (any nerds reading: ordinary language philosophy > poststructuralism), and he talks about what he calls "the fallacy of asking about nothing-in-particular":
"Having asked in this way, and answered, 'What is the meaning of (the word) "rat" ?', 'What is the meaning of (the word) "cat"?', 'What is the meaning of (the word) "mat"?', and so on, we then try, being philosophers, to ask the further general question, 'What is the meaning of a word?' But there is something spurious about this question. We do not intend to mean by it a certain question which would be perfectly all right, namely, 'What is the meaning of (the word) "word"?': that would be no more general than is asking the meaning of the word 'rat', and would be answered in a precisely similar way.
No: we want to ask rather, 'What is the meaning of a-word-in-general?' or 'of any word* not meaning 'any* word you like to choose, but rather no particular word at all, just 'any word*. Now ifwe pause even for a moment to reflect, this is a perfectly absurd question to be trying to ask. I can only answer a question ofthe form 'What is the meaning ofV?' if "x" is some particular word you are asking about. This supposed general question is really just a spurious question of a type which commonly arises in philosophy. We may call it tie fallacy of asking about 'Nothing-in-particular' which is a practice decried by the plain man, but by the philosopher called 'generalizing' and regarded with some complacency.
Many other examples of the fallacy can be found: take, for example, the case of 'reality' - we try to pass from such questions as 'How would you distinguish a real rat from an imaginary rat?' to 'What is a real thing?', a question which merely gives rise to nonsense."
In dealing with these issues, I've been trying to eliminate nonsense as best I can. One way to do that is to stay specific ("Forgive me for wanting a little specificity"
). When you say, in reference to slow motion being "objectively good for creating tension and desperation," that "that truth will fall apart from example to example," I agree. And, what's more, that's as it should be. An issue that I think some people have with the word "objective" is that it conjures up ideas of omniscience, omnipotence, and transcendence, almost as if, for it to be "objectively" true here, it must be "objectively" true everywhere. But that's bullshit. I'm evaluating Inception. And I say the slow motion is objectively effective because it highlights, narratively, the slowing down of time from level to deeper level, as well as, phenomenologically, Leo and Co.'s (and, by extension, our) tension and desperation.Now what happens if someone disagrees with that? If, for example, someone says, "Actually, I didn't find it effective," my first question would be, "Why?" Perhaps they say, "Because I wasn't invested in the characters." This conversation seems to be progressing nicely, except now we're not talking about the van anymore. Now we're talking about characterization. At this point, I'd launch into my shit about Nolan's utilitarian characterizations and his narrative economy. But now is that objective? And, regardless of whether it is or it isn't, is it not somewhat perverse to tell someone that what they felt was wrong?
My thoughts exactly. People like Kant (and, to a lesser degree but still unmistakably, Wittgenstein) have tried to put limits on human cognition and expression. I'm not sure what we experience on a day-to-day basis (difficulties conceptualizing or communicating things) are indicators of inherent limitations to our mode of cognition. Maybe some people just haven't cultivated their introspective and/or communicative abilities.
HUNTER comes in with a Randian invocation of principles.
I do feel that, when a person responds to an artwork, they're responding with everything they've got, that everything about who they are and what they believe contributes to that response. However, because most people can't be bothered to be introspective and don't explicitly adhere to principles that reflect their values, their characters are as confusing and contradictory as their tastes. And, worse yet, this laziness on their part is what justifies the claim that taste is subjective, arbitrary, ineffable, etc. A failure on their part is then ontologically reified as constitutive
Words can't describe how much I like this post. I especially like how you're working so straightforwardly from the premise that art is an intentional activity ("we naturally have to be able to speak about the art in the terms under which it was built"). You wouldn't believe how many academics deny that
I love Trey Parker and Matt Stone. They're geniuses. Unfortunately, they're also (or maybe just Trey is, but since Matt signed off on it, he has to share the responsibility) TREMENDOUSLY arrogant. I know, I know, all my Rand shit should preclude me from leveling charges of arrogance. But seriously, it just comes screaming off the screen. Look at the Phil Collins episode. "You'll Be in My Heart" beats (and rightfully so) "Blame Canada" for the Oscar for Best Original Song. What do you know? Phil Collins shows up in a South Park episode. And it's not harmless fun like Mecha-Streisand or even the Scientology episode with Tom Cruise and John Travolta in the closet. It's a lot more mean-spirited (especially that news segment where they throw some personal dirt out for literally no reason except to do it). They even have Phil holding (and at one point making out with) his Oscar in every scene.
The Family Guy episode felt the same way. It's like they hated the fact that they weren't the only game in town and they resented having to share the comedy scene with something so "beneath" their almighty greatness. Never mind that all of the criticisms they leveled at Family Guy were so painfully desperate and hollow. They kept repeating the charge that none of their jokes ever have anything to do with an actual, coherent narrative, yet they've ironically done some of the same jokes as Family Guy, and they did them after, and they weren't as funny.
The best example:
Family Guy - Season 1, Episode 2 - 1999 (Very early, way before the South Park episode, so nobody can say they only started doing things differently after and in response)
South Park - Season 10, Episode 3 - 2006 (Ironically, this is the Family Guy episode)
And there are a billion other examples of Family Guy jokes/references springing organically from the plot. Some of my favorites: Stewie referencing In the Air Tonight in the Poltergeist spoof episode because he's been sucked into the TV and the static sounds like In the Air Tonight; Cleveland and Quagmire squashing their beef in the episode where Quagmire has sex with Clevelenad's wife by recreating the ending of Rocky III; Peter quoting from the intro to The Incredible Hulk in his eulogy for Mr. Weed; and, in the most recent season, a Seagal reference stemming from the fact that Peter is being bullied by his sister and is trying to find a way to stand up to her.
In conclusion: South Park is painfully, even pathetically jealous, and their immaturity in their show (not to mention in interviews, where it's even worse) just makes Seth MacFarlane and Family Guy look that much better.
This is accurate. However, it's accurate of what Rand is saying. I do admit to finding what she's saying convincing. What worries me is the latent fascism in this position; i.e., it worries me how easy it is to move from "Movies like Chinatown reinforce nihilism" to "Movies like Chinatown shouldn't be made," not to mention how easy it would then be to move to "Movies like Chinatown mustn't be made."
Still, I think it's eminently logical to say that, with a proliferation of artworks that deal in pessimism, nihilism, the defeat of hope, the lack of moral righteousness, etc., these same ideas may also proliferate in wider realms of culture beyond art. So long as this remains descriptive and not prescriptive, it seems right to me.
This is valid, although do you think this is the way most people view these films? If it is, then art would seem to be on firmer moral ground than Rand feared. If it isn't, though, then Rand's fears about the moral bankruptcy of art would seem to be warranted.
Once again, I can't help but feel like this is a minority response. I'm particularly struck by the claim that Bond (and, by extension, similar action heroes?) have anything whatsoever to do with the "status quo." Isn't the exemplarity of the action hero kind of the point? Not to mention the fact that to say you have "no human connection" with Bond (and, by extension, similar action heroes?) means, I take it, that Bond (and, by extension, similar action movies?) carries no inspiration for you at all?
If this is the case - if Bruce Lee taking on the Japanese, Rambo refighting the Vietnam war, Batman taking on terrorists, etc., carry no inspiration for you - then, as I mentioned about people who don't think upbeat movies are inherently more enjoyable than downbeat movies, you should probably seek psychological treatment.
Good to have you back. I'm still working off of my one initial viewing of this one, but I'll be genuinely surprised if my enjoyment drops off. Even taking into consideration how pleased I was upon my first viewing, I'm actually expecting this movie to grow on me over time.
Glad you liked it. I saw it pretty late in my Hepburn obsession and wished I'd gotten around to it sooner. Ford very rarely dealt with female protagonists, but I thought he did a great job telling that story. And seriously, that sequence where Hepburn finally breaks down and tells Carradine she'll marry the doofus, and as soon as he's about to leave, they both hear March's bagpipes, that's Ford's old school silent filmmaking coming back. No dialogue, just the sound of the bagpipes as he cuts to Hepburn and March seeing each other, her in her castle and him approaching on horseback, and Carradine just closes the door, knowing there's only one man for her. And that close-up of Hepburn, HOLY FUCK, that whole sequence is a masterclass in directing, but that's the emotional gut punch. It's an incredible shot of an incredible face. One of my favorite sequences in any movie ever.
I suspect that I didn't like it for the same reason you did.
Beggars can't be choosers. You liked a Hepburn movie. I'm good
QFT.
I loved it. The actual Darnley character was rendered a bit...over-the-top, let's say. But the actual split worked very well IMO, especially since it complimented the political thematic so well. As she was a politician by heart, so she was a woman by heart. It may have made "better sense" to marry Darnley, but she had to follow her heart. And the black-and-white split between her two choices helps to make crystal clear that following her heart is her only choice.
Because he's awesome.
That criticism is in no way, shape, or form valid.
The Informer, which Ford made the year before (and for which he won Best Director) had a similar look. He collaborated with the cinematographer Joseph H. August, who also shot Mary of Scotland. And August, like Ford, got his start in the silent era, so they both had an old school visual sense that translated really well, and to these two films in particular.
When she's at the window looking out as March returns.
I'd actually never connected The Last Hurrah and The Fountainhead, and I probably never would've. And even now, after you mentioned it, I wouldn't connect them. The Fountainhead is about a morally upright individual fighting for what's right and refusing to compromise. The Last Hurrah is about a morally gray individual fighting with questionable tactics in a world that has passed him by and accepting, with dignity if not grace, that his time is up. Howard Roark wouldn't know the meaning of the word "regret" because his values are strong and his mind is strong enough to hold onto them. Frank Skeffington knows only too well the meaning of the word "regret" because he's spent most of his life playing both ends against the middle without so much as a compass in his search for the right way to live (as a politician, a husband, a father, and a man).
Very different movies in very different worlds about very different people.
Sorry for being so blunt, but if you think Frank Skeffington is a "saintly" character, then you weren't paying attention.
That description only applies to Carradine's character. Oh, and it does work!
But he's clearly not a saint. Even that scene underlines the ambivalence. He straight up lies to the widow's face. He's clearly putting on a show for everybody. He's playing a role. I'm not saying there's nothing genuine, but it's certainly not all saintly behavior. And that's the point.
Because he's a dinosaur. His species is extinct. One of the main themes of the film is the inexorable passage of time. He takes his nephew to his old neighborhood, where, back in the day, everything and everyone was so different. He wants to hold on to that all the while knowing that the world he's living in is not that old world in his memory. Nothing stays the same. He can't be mayor forever. Times change, people change, and when you can't change anymore, you die. And when your time comes, you hope you lived a life that you don't have to regret. And a big part of Tracy's journey is reconciling his choices with his view of himself, and quite apart from everybody else's views, be it the views of his inner circle or of his opponents.
And not just their positions with respect to the plot (who is responsible for what) but their positions with respect to each other. You're right that Nolan spends a lot of time building that world, and that comes with a lot of exposition. Yet, despite having to cram in so much information, he still takes the time to develop relationships. On rewatches these days, I love more and more the Leo/Hardy relationship. It's almost like Hardy is an older brother figure. Leo seeks his counsel, yet, as brothers, they tend to be combative ("I see your spelling hasn't improved" / "Piss off."). They also clearly find one another amusing. Hardy's reaction when Leo suggests meeting back at the bar once he loses the Cobol tail is priceless.
Then, of course, there's the Hardy/JGL relationship. All venom. But then there's that wonderful little moment in the hotel when JGL is putting Hardy to sleep to get to the last level ("Security's gonna run you down hard" / "And I will lead them on a merry chase").
You've also got Leo and Watanabe, of course, but then Watanabe also develops a funny little relationship with Hardy (one of my more recent favorite moments is when Watanabe, as he's dying, recalls Hardy's earlier line about how there's no room for tourists).
And tons more. So many people act like Inception is two and a half hours of exposition, but it's so much more, so much, dare I say, deeper.
