Gummo, Harmony Korine
Set in poverty-stricken Xenia, Ohio, Harmony Korine’s Gummo (1997) insists on relentlessly shocking its audience with images of small-town America’s alienated youth. Bored and violence-prone, these kids spend their days maliciously hunting cats, swearing, sniffing glue, paying for sex, smoking and drinking. Punished by no one, these little hell-raisers have nothing better to do than to tear up their town that suffers from extreme social decay. Everyone in this film exhibits deviance.
The film follows two boys, Solomon and Tummler, whose self-indulgent tendencies seem to always point them to violence. In one scene, the two boys, adorning clown masks, blond wigs and BB guns, break into a house. There they find an old catatonic woman sleeping in her bed and breathing through a respirator. Solomon says she stinks, while Tummler lays down next to her, stroking her hair. “Is she dead?”, Solomon asks. “She's alive on that machine” answers Tummler as he gazes at her wrinkled features. The respirator’s hum echoes throughout the room. In an experiment, the boys then shoot her in the foot to see if she is alive. The old woman, remaining still, fails the test. Now administering her punishment, Tummler walks across the room, and turns off her respirator. Without hesitation, he has now killed more than just a cat.
Why does he do it? In Tummler’s conscience, he turns off the machine to save her from a pointless existence. If she cannot feel a BB, than why be alive? This brings up an ethical issue about the root of children’s actions. The youth in this film are violent and vicious because it’s all they know. Their parents are all either drunk, dead, or molesting them. Solomon’s mother points a gun at his head to make him smile. The kids are simply repeating the reckless behavior they grew up with, but does this make their actions forgivable? For Solomon, the closest he gets to showing a redeeming quality happens when the boys break into the house and he steals a pair of clean socks, leaving his muddy ones behind. Yes, he stole, but you have to feel pity for the boy that lives in such filth. Is it really his fault? Unfortunately, Korine does not attempt to tackle any of these questions, but instead moves on to the next brutal scene without commentary. Family history explains some actions, but the underdeveloped argument holds no answers.
A non-narrative film filled with short vignettes of a boy with bunny ears skateboarding around town, Gummo gives us scenes of cruel misbehavior without ever considering the consequences of these character’s actions. Nothing anyone does ever leads to anything, making the film feel still. Korine focuses more on shock-value than any kind of meaningful storyline and the film’s grotesque scenes acknowledge more mockery than social commentary. Lacking this structure and purpose, the film falls short. Korine obviously likes to disturb his audience, but his film shows us Xenia’s problems without saying anything significant about them. Gummo is purely shock, and nothing else.
The film follows two boys, Solomon and Tummler, whose self-indulgent tendencies seem to always point them to violence. In one scene, the two boys, adorning clown masks, blond wigs and BB guns, break into a house. There they find an old catatonic woman sleeping in her bed and breathing through a respirator. Solomon says she stinks, while Tummler lays down next to her, stroking her hair. “Is she dead?”, Solomon asks. “She's alive on that machine” answers Tummler as he gazes at her wrinkled features. The respirator’s hum echoes throughout the room. In an experiment, the boys then shoot her in the foot to see if she is alive. The old woman, remaining still, fails the test. Now administering her punishment, Tummler walks across the room, and turns off her respirator. Without hesitation, he has now killed more than just a cat.
Why does he do it? In Tummler’s conscience, he turns off the machine to save her from a pointless existence. If she cannot feel a BB, than why be alive? This brings up an ethical issue about the root of children’s actions. The youth in this film are violent and vicious because it’s all they know. Their parents are all either drunk, dead, or molesting them. Solomon’s mother points a gun at his head to make him smile. The kids are simply repeating the reckless behavior they grew up with, but does this make their actions forgivable? For Solomon, the closest he gets to showing a redeeming quality happens when the boys break into the house and he steals a pair of clean socks, leaving his muddy ones behind. Yes, he stole, but you have to feel pity for the boy that lives in such filth. Is it really his fault? Unfortunately, Korine does not attempt to tackle any of these questions, but instead moves on to the next brutal scene without commentary. Family history explains some actions, but the underdeveloped argument holds no answers.
A non-narrative film filled with short vignettes of a boy with bunny ears skateboarding around town, Gummo gives us scenes of cruel misbehavior without ever considering the consequences of these character’s actions. Nothing anyone does ever leads to anything, making the film feel still. Korine focuses more on shock-value than any kind of meaningful storyline and the film’s grotesque scenes acknowledge more mockery than social commentary. Lacking this structure and purpose, the film falls short. Korine obviously likes to disturb his audience, but his film shows us Xenia’s problems without saying anything significant about them. Gummo is purely shock, and nothing else.
Caché, Louis-Georges Schwartz
Caché (Hidden) opens with a static wide shot of a residential street in Paris on a normal day in this eventless section of the city. As the opening credits fade, the shot holds for what feels like an eternity until voices analyzing the footage come in and suddenly, the shot is paused, and then rewound. We are watching a tape. This is a common occurrence in Michael Haneke’s Caché, the uneasy account of a middle class Parisian couple, Georges and Anne Laurent, who are disturbed by anonymous videotapes that are left at their door. The tapes contain surveillance footage of their home that lasts for hours, giving them a terrifying feeling of violation. It becomes Georges mission to find this anonymous videographer.
To tell this mysterious tale, Haneke uses an intentionally ambiguous narrative structure, adding suspense and secrecy, supported by style choices that test the audience's patience. The film is concise, focused and clear. Mirroring the surveillance footage on the videotapes, Haneke employs long takes, sometimes lasting for an entire scene, that are often wide and focus on the back of characters’ heads. Unbroken by extraneous shots, this style lasts throughout the film, but is used most frequently in the first half, where the fear of being watched is the central theme of the plot. A lack of soundtrack commands the audience’s focus to the dialogue.
As the film digs deeper into Georges past, and his childhood mistreatment of an Algerian boy, Majid, is revealed, we begin to wonder who the real victims are in this story. Jumping to conclusions, Georges confronts Majid, now a man, and blames him for the terror on his family. Denying involvement, Majid passively reminds Georges of what he did to him as a boy. The guilt of personal responsibility is now the focus of the film, even more than Georges’ search for the stalker. As the narrative focus changes, so does the cinematography. The previous style choices fade and the camera gets personal with the characters though close ups. Cuts are frequent and the previously soft lighting becomes harder and darker. Haneke’s clean and formal imagery remains strong.
To the avid film fan, Caché is yet another stroke of Haneke’s genius, defined by quality cinematography and narrative suspense. The long-range stationary shots work with the films motif and keep the audience searching the screen for hidden clues. But to a general box office audience, Caché’s ambiguous ending is unsettling and its plotline slow. Though visually a masterpiece, certain holes in the storyline are frustrating, which is most likely Haneke’s intent. We never do find out who the stalker is and the film feel unfinished. For my part, ambiguity is not what I look for in a film’s ending and I appreciate closure to a mystery, but that is just a personal preference. Overall, Caché is an anxiety driven suspense that still has me feeling paranoid. The question is, do you ever really know who is watching you?
To tell this mysterious tale, Haneke uses an intentionally ambiguous narrative structure, adding suspense and secrecy, supported by style choices that test the audience's patience. The film is concise, focused and clear. Mirroring the surveillance footage on the videotapes, Haneke employs long takes, sometimes lasting for an entire scene, that are often wide and focus on the back of characters’ heads. Unbroken by extraneous shots, this style lasts throughout the film, but is used most frequently in the first half, where the fear of being watched is the central theme of the plot. A lack of soundtrack commands the audience’s focus to the dialogue.
As the film digs deeper into Georges past, and his childhood mistreatment of an Algerian boy, Majid, is revealed, we begin to wonder who the real victims are in this story. Jumping to conclusions, Georges confronts Majid, now a man, and blames him for the terror on his family. Denying involvement, Majid passively reminds Georges of what he did to him as a boy. The guilt of personal responsibility is now the focus of the film, even more than Georges’ search for the stalker. As the narrative focus changes, so does the cinematography. The previous style choices fade and the camera gets personal with the characters though close ups. Cuts are frequent and the previously soft lighting becomes harder and darker. Haneke’s clean and formal imagery remains strong.
To the avid film fan, Caché is yet another stroke of Haneke’s genius, defined by quality cinematography and narrative suspense. The long-range stationary shots work with the films motif and keep the audience searching the screen for hidden clues. But to a general box office audience, Caché’s ambiguous ending is unsettling and its plotline slow. Though visually a masterpiece, certain holes in the storyline are frustrating, which is most likely Haneke’s intent. We never do find out who the stalker is and the film feel unfinished. For my part, ambiguity is not what I look for in a film’s ending and I appreciate closure to a mystery, but that is just a personal preference. Overall, Caché is an anxiety driven suspense that still has me feeling paranoid. The question is, do you ever really know who is watching you?
