Jess
- struggles with identity, scar a symbol of accepting herself? feels clearly uncomfortable in girls changing rooms when theyre getting changed
- talk to poster, only time she is truly relaxed and herself?
- parents stereotypical strict - but mother is the matriarcal dominant authority figure, father just wants her to be happy 'I was married at your age you dont even want to learn how to cook Dahl!' always wants dress to learn to cook and be more femimine, talks of same on family
most comfortable when playing football
she attempting to belong to a female soccer team and gain acceptance in order to succeed in the male dominated sport.
Jess 'indian girls arent supposed to play football.' Jules - 'yeah but it aint just and indian thing is it, i mean how many people come out and support us?'
Talks of how she cannot marry someone who is not indian
Parents horrified when they think she has been drinking and smoking in a pub - reflecting again how they reject contempory british culture
Feels she has to prove herself in the football team 'I dont want you to think Im not as strong as the others' - keeps running laps even when she is injured
Dresses up in a dress and goes clubbing - embracing english culture
sense of rejection occurs due to a possible sexual orientation this is seen through both her friend Tony being gay, and her being incorrectly accused of being a lesbien 'no Jess, I REALLY like Beckham' - he cannot say it aloud freely, feels uncomfortable with it to the point he suggests they marry
-cultural/racial rejection on either side, you hear them say "he's not black is he" about a presumed boyfriend and Jule's mum treats her differently because she is Indian. 'its your indian friend' 'i cooked a lovely curry the other day'
Also at the game she is called a "paki",
-Lack of belonging due to gender goes deeper, with even the guy friends treating her separately and there being expectations that mean she feels she cannot belong due to her personality.
Belonging
-Culture is all embracing, they are very much a closed community.
-Attempting to belong to arranged marriages is discussed.
-Belong to a family, idea of family honour
-Belonging to a friendship group, certain obligations, expectations etc.
Uses both british and indiam music throughout the film - mix of cultures
Jules struggles in accepting female side? mum wont accept her as she is, wants her to buy lacy underwear and be more itnerested in boys
Rebecca Smith AS Film Studies
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Zombie Readings
Night of the Living Dead
Dawn of the Dead
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2012/mar/12/eddie-murphy-thousand-words
It's not obvious what language Will Ferrell's new film, Casa de Mi Padre, is speaking. Everyone's favourite cross-eyed man-child had last-minute cramming sessions in order to be able to drawl the Spanish-language dialogue for the comedy – a sendup of cheesy rural-Mexico telenovelas. But just as Ferrell admits he still can't really hold a conversation in Spanish, Casa looks like it could have communication issues, too. Is it a deft in-joke for the US's movie-mad Hispanic audience? Or does Ferrell's presence just crank up the irony factor for the urban-hipster crowd to indulge yet another cultural fetish?
Movie executives would, if they had to choose, plump for the former. As well as the largest ethnic minority, Hispanic-Americans are perhaps the US's keenest, most youthful and fast-growing film demographic. Forty-three million Hispanics bought 351m tickets in 2010 (out of a total 1.34bn) – up from 37m buying 300m the year before. People of that ethnicity in the key 18-34 group are 44% more likely to see a film on its opening weekend than non-Hispanics. No wonder that's beginning to get some serious attention: Casa de Mi Padre is being distributed by Pantelion Films, a partnership between Lionsgate and Mexican media giant Televisa that is hoping to make around 10 films a year, in both English and Spanish, for Latino audiences.
In the last few years, Hollywood has struggled to push its Hispanic-flavoured projects on from the volcanic-tempered Mexican bandits of old, or gangbanging cholos in socks up to their kneecaps. When the highlights of the last decade are 2004's Adam Sandler vehicle Spanglish, the cumbersome Nacho Libre, and the nuanced study of the Mexican national character that is the oeuvre of Robert Rodriguez, it's safe to say that there's work to do.
There's been no shortage of dynamic cinema to fill the arthouse bracket from Latin American countries themselves, but mainstream Hollywood work is still stuttering the lingo. The Fast and the Furious series has bragged about its "Latin sensibility", but that's not exactly going to bag it Unesco special status. At least there are some prominent Latin stars now, interestingly mostly female: Jennifer Lopez, Salma Hayek, Michelle Rodriguez, Eva Mendes, Jessica Alba and the voluptuous Luis Guzmán.
Part of the problem is that the Latino market is difficult to pin down. The US's South and Central American immigrants come from over 20 countries, with different subcultures, tastes and dialects. The second, third and fourth generations don't necessarily have the same attitude to the mother countries (which is why Casa de Mi Padre risks splitting its audience) – or even agree on where the mother country is. One generalisation that might stand is that they don't like being patronised: even stereotypes of a more contemporary kind don't go over well. Fox's 2003 comedy Chasing Papi, about a three-timing lothario businessman, is one often-cited pothole in Hollywood's early Latino efforts. This seems to be in contrast with the African-American market where extremely broad comedy, like the Wayans brothers' offerings, Eddie Murphy's adventures in prosthetics and Tyler Perry's Madea films, is often the order of the day.
Tone will be all-important if Casa de Mi Padre isn't going to condescend to Latino viewers (though the presence of Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna in the cast is reassuring). Pantelion could do with a big hit: its first film, From Prada to Nada – an attempt to do a Hispanic Clueless by transposing Jane Austen to east LA – limped to $3m at the US box-office. Screen Daily called it out as "a rare mainstream film made or and by Latinos, which is perhaps why it's all the more disappointing that it's so threadbare".
But, with its tale of two sisters forced to relocate to sketchy Boyle Heights, it fingers what could be the blueprint for these movies: mirroring the aspirations and increasing affluence of US Hispanics, picking at the terrain between the raw Latin American culture and the gateway of assimilation. It stands there a bit tentatively, uncertain of exactly how close to get to facile stereotypes. Casa de Mi Padre, meanwhile, can only proceed under a veil of irony. Early reviews, like the Hollywood Reporter's verdict that it lacks "falldown outrageousness", suggest that the results are a bit bland. Not an issue you would have thought the Latino film would have to face.
You could question the need to target Hispanics with their own movies at all, though. Perhaps these ethnically driven slates are heavy-handed, and the best way for Latino-orientated films to appear is when the right script arises. Given that those audiences are booming regardless, there's no problem here. In fact, when I think of Jack Black's lucha-libre monk and Ferrell's ranchero, it looks like everyone else wants to be Mexican, too, these days
Movie executives would, if they had to choose, plump for the former. As well as the largest ethnic minority, Hispanic-Americans are perhaps the US's keenest, most youthful and fast-growing film demographic. Forty-three million Hispanics bought 351m tickets in 2010 (out of a total 1.34bn) – up from 37m buying 300m the year before. People of that ethnicity in the key 18-34 group are 44% more likely to see a film on its opening weekend than non-Hispanics. No wonder that's beginning to get some serious attention: Casa de Mi Padre is being distributed by Pantelion Films, a partnership between Lionsgate and Mexican media giant Televisa that is hoping to make around 10 films a year, in both English and Spanish, for Latino audiences.
In the last few years, Hollywood has struggled to push its Hispanic-flavoured projects on from the volcanic-tempered Mexican bandits of old, or gangbanging cholos in socks up to their kneecaps. When the highlights of the last decade are 2004's Adam Sandler vehicle Spanglish, the cumbersome Nacho Libre, and the nuanced study of the Mexican national character that is the oeuvre of Robert Rodriguez, it's safe to say that there's work to do.
There's been no shortage of dynamic cinema to fill the arthouse bracket from Latin American countries themselves, but mainstream Hollywood work is still stuttering the lingo. The Fast and the Furious series has bragged about its "Latin sensibility", but that's not exactly going to bag it Unesco special status. At least there are some prominent Latin stars now, interestingly mostly female: Jennifer Lopez, Salma Hayek, Michelle Rodriguez, Eva Mendes, Jessica Alba and the voluptuous Luis Guzmán.
Part of the problem is that the Latino market is difficult to pin down. The US's South and Central American immigrants come from over 20 countries, with different subcultures, tastes and dialects. The second, third and fourth generations don't necessarily have the same attitude to the mother countries (which is why Casa de Mi Padre risks splitting its audience) – or even agree on where the mother country is. One generalisation that might stand is that they don't like being patronised: even stereotypes of a more contemporary kind don't go over well. Fox's 2003 comedy Chasing Papi, about a three-timing lothario businessman, is one often-cited pothole in Hollywood's early Latino efforts. This seems to be in contrast with the African-American market where extremely broad comedy, like the Wayans brothers' offerings, Eddie Murphy's adventures in prosthetics and Tyler Perry's Madea films, is often the order of the day.
Tone will be all-important if Casa de Mi Padre isn't going to condescend to Latino viewers (though the presence of Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna in the cast is reassuring). Pantelion could do with a big hit: its first film, From Prada to Nada – an attempt to do a Hispanic Clueless by transposing Jane Austen to east LA – limped to $3m at the US box-office. Screen Daily called it out as "a rare mainstream film made or and by Latinos, which is perhaps why it's all the more disappointing that it's so threadbare".
But, with its tale of two sisters forced to relocate to sketchy Boyle Heights, it fingers what could be the blueprint for these movies: mirroring the aspirations and increasing affluence of US Hispanics, picking at the terrain between the raw Latin American culture and the gateway of assimilation. It stands there a bit tentatively, uncertain of exactly how close to get to facile stereotypes. Casa de Mi Padre, meanwhile, can only proceed under a veil of irony. Early reviews, like the Hollywood Reporter's verdict that it lacks "falldown outrageousness", suggest that the results are a bit bland. Not an issue you would have thought the Latino film would have to face.
You could question the need to target Hispanics with their own movies at all, though. Perhaps these ethnically driven slates are heavy-handed, and the best way for Latino-orientated films to appear is when the right script arises. Given that those audiences are booming regardless, there's no problem here. In fact, when I think of Jack Black's lucha-libre monk and Ferrell's ranchero, it looks like everyone else wants to be Mexican, too, these days
Is it possible to prove which is the worst film of all time? Maybe not, but the Rotten Tomatoes reviews aggregator is as good a measuring device as any, and the new Eddie Murphy comedy, A Thousand Words, has achieved a remarkable 0% rating as of Monday morning.
A Thousand Words
Production year: 2012
Directors: Brian Robbins
Cast: Eddie Murphy, Kerry Washington
More on this film
While an unexpectedly positive review may arrive from some hitherto overlooked corner of the film-reviewing universe, A Thousand Words has drawn a solid 39 negative reviews out of 39 on the site.
Naysayers range from the established media, such as Claudia Puig of USA Today – "The concept is unoriginal, the scenarios aren't funny, and its message is banal" – to the blogosphere (Brian Tallerico of HollywoodChicago.com: "Only the most masochistic connoisseurs of the truly awful need check it out"). Everyone, it seems, is united by A Thousand Words' awfulness.
Owen Gleiberman of Entertainment Weekly wrote: "Everyone in the film seems to be living in Stupid High-Concept Movieville", while Barbara VanDenburgh of the Arizona Republic judged that "with A Thousand Words, Murphy plunges headlong back into the swamp of insipid comedies he'd just crawled his way out of."
Even the normally understanding Variety is unsparing in its criticism: "Murphy's largely wordless, physically adroit performance can't redeem this tortured exercise in high-concept spiritualist hokum," wrote Justin Chang.
In A Thousand Words, Murphy plays a literary agent who is cursed by a new age guru: he will die when the guru's bodhi tree sheds all of its 1000 leaves – and every word he speaks means it will lose another leaf. The film was originally planned to be released in 2009, but was delayed by corporate restructuring of its parent studio, DreamWorks. It then targeted a January 2012 release to capitalise on Murphy's appearance as Oscar host, but after he stepped aside, it was moved again.
A Thousand Words is by no means the only film to receive a zero rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Other no-marks include the Adam Sandler-scripted sex comedy Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star, the ham-fisted Pinocchio film by Roberto Benigni, and the disastrous adaptation of the Nicci French novel Killing Me Softly with Joseph Fiennes. A Thousand Words is unique, however, in having a significant amount of critics (30+) agree on the poor quality of a vehicle for a high-profile Hollywood star.
A Thousand Words
Production year: 2012
Directors: Brian Robbins
Cast: Eddie Murphy, Kerry Washington
While an unexpectedly positive review may arrive from some hitherto overlooked corner of the film-reviewing universe, A Thousand Words has drawn a solid 39 negative reviews out of 39 on the site.
Naysayers range from the established media, such as Claudia Puig of USA Today – "The concept is unoriginal, the scenarios aren't funny, and its message is banal" – to the blogosphere (Brian Tallerico of HollywoodChicago.com: "Only the most masochistic connoisseurs of the truly awful need check it out"). Everyone, it seems, is united by A Thousand Words' awfulness.
Owen Gleiberman of Entertainment Weekly wrote: "Everyone in the film seems to be living in Stupid High-Concept Movieville", while Barbara VanDenburgh of the Arizona Republic judged that "with A Thousand Words, Murphy plunges headlong back into the swamp of insipid comedies he'd just crawled his way out of."
Even the normally understanding Variety is unsparing in its criticism: "Murphy's largely wordless, physically adroit performance can't redeem this tortured exercise in high-concept spiritualist hokum," wrote Justin Chang.
In A Thousand Words, Murphy plays a literary agent who is cursed by a new age guru: he will die when the guru's bodhi tree sheds all of its 1000 leaves – and every word he speaks means it will lose another leaf. The film was originally planned to be released in 2009, but was delayed by corporate restructuring of its parent studio, DreamWorks. It then targeted a January 2012 release to capitalise on Murphy's appearance as Oscar host, but after he stepped aside, it was moved again.
A Thousand Words is by no means the only film to receive a zero rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Other no-marks include the Adam Sandler-scripted sex comedy Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star, the ham-fisted Pinocchio film by Roberto Benigni, and the disastrous adaptation of the Nicci French novel Killing Me Softly with Joseph Fiennes. A Thousand Words is unique, however, in having a significant amount of critics (30+) agree on the poor quality of a vehicle for a high-profile Hollywood star.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Night of the Living Dead Reading
Night of the Living Dead
Reappraising an Undead Classic
Romero's canonical work remains timely decades later
Stephen Harper
Introduction
There has been an veritable outbreak of zombie films in the last few years, from Hollywood blockbusters Resident Evil(Anderson, 2002) and Resident Evil 2: Apocalypse (Witt, 2004), to British films such as 28 Days Later (Boyle, 2002) and the zombie spoof Shaun of the Dead (Wright, 2004). The release in 2004 of Zack Snyder's remake of George A. Romero's Dawn of the Dead (1978) attests to the continuing influence and appeal of classic "zombie cinema." While the cinematic concern with the undead predates Romero's films, all of the recent films mentioned above have some connection to Romero (Romero was originally scheduled to write the screenplay for Resident Evil, for example, while the recent British films allude frequently to Romero's work). The following essay is an attempt to account for the continuing attraction of Romero's first zombie film, Night of the Living Dead (1968), nearly forty years after its release.
Shot in black-and-white over seven months on a shoestring budget, Night of the Living Dead defined the modern horror movie and influenced a number of international horror directors, especially those working within the horror genre. The film's plot of is simple: Barbra and her brother Johnny are attacked when visiting a graveyard to honour the grave of their father. Johnny is attacked and killed by a zombie. Fleeing her attacker, Barbra meets Ben, who is also on the run from the recently reawakened dead. They begin to set up a nearby farmhouse as a fortress and soon discover they are not alone in the house. Two couples have been hiding out in the basement of the house: a young couple, Tom and Judy, and Harry and Helen Cooper, an older married couple with a young daughter who has already been bitten by one of the zombies. When Ben and Harry start arguing over where the safest place in the house is, tensions are created that lead to the downfall of the group. The film ends when Ben is shot by marshals who apparently mistake him for a zombie.
First of all, the disturbing power of Night of the Living Dead has deep historical and cultural roots that can be uncovered through comparisons with much earlier, European texts. Like Franz Kafka's (1992) classic story of 1914, "Metamorphosis" (which concerns a travelling salesman who is mysteriously transformed into a gigantic insect), Night of the Living Dead dramatizes the bewildering and uncanny transformation of human beings into non-human forms. Indeed, like all metamorphosis narratives, the film carries uncomfortable messages about identity — about what it means to be a human being and about the terror of alienation. The film's power to unsettle its audience also derives from its focus on the taboo subject of cannibalism (which it depicts far more graphically than previous zombie films). In the eighteenth century, the English ironist Jonathan Swift (1996) wrote A Modest Proposal, a darkly satirical attack on the privations suffered by the Irish people at the hands of the English in which the author ironically proposed that infants be killed and eaten in order to solve the problem of poverty in Ireland. Night of the Living Deadalso uses cannibalism as a metaphor for exploitative power relations. Thus, while it deals with a quite different set of social problems, Romero's film can also be seen a sinister satire that exploits an outrageous premise in the interests of social and political critique. My specific concern here, however, is with how the film reflects and negotiates the political and social anxieties of the late 1960s.
I shall discuss Night of the Living Dead in relation to the formal categories of genre, structure, and theme, with particular reference to the film's engagement with the politics of race, gender, and violence. While these time-honoured categories are hardly exhaustive of the film's meaning, I hope that exploring them will take us some way towards understanding the film's central concerns and its wider cinematic importance and influence. Some of my wider claims about Romero's ideological vision are unoriginal — the exposition of Romero as a social critic, for example, has been magnificently achieved by Robin Wood (2003), amongst others. Moreover, close readings of the film already exist, most notably the analysis of the film's "textual and structural" aspects first published in the early 1970s by R. H. W. Dillard (1987) Nonetheless, my discussion (I might almost say disinterment and dissection) of the film offers some original contributions to the film's generic, stylistic, and structural analysis and explores some of the reasons for its continuing popularity at a time of renewed cultural and cinematic fascination with zombies.
Reality Bites: Truth, Genre, and Zombies
The "realism" of Night of the Living Dead seems to confound other critical distinctions. In his famous book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Concept (1975), Tzvetan Todorov distinguished between two types of verisimilitude:cultural verisimilitude and generic verisimilitude. The first type refers to texts that aim to be "true to life," like police drama; the second refers to texts in which the narrative details are true to the conventions of the genre. Horror texts tend, of course, to fall into the latter category. Night of the Living Dead obviously has a generic verisimilitude — while it observes the conventions of the horror genre, it does not, in a literal sense, correspond to any known reality. Yet the film calls into question Todorov's distinction, since it seems entirely feasible that a world in which zombiesdid exist would be like the one presented, giving the film — fantastic as it is — a sense of being "true to life." The plausibility of the zombie outbreak is reinforced by several textual qualities. For example, television news in 1968 appeared in black and white, which would have given Night of the Living Dead a documentary-like feel to the film's original audiences, at least. This sense of verité is also emphasised in the series of gory still photographs that accompany the film's closing credits and which recall the photojournalism of the Vietnam war. In other words, the film's gritty, "realistic" mode of address confers upon the film a "cultural verisimilitude': the audience is asked to believe that the horrific events depicted could be happening now.
This point can be further illustrated with reference to another of Todorov's ideas about genre. Todorov distinguished between three modes of horror: the "uncanny," the "marvellous" and the "fantastic." In the uncanny text, the apparently supernatural is finally explained rationally. In the fantastic text, we hesitate between natural and supernatural explanations of events (as in Henry James famous story The Turn of the Screw). In the marvellous text, the bizarre events of the story can only be explained by reference to another level of reality. From the first appearance of a zombie in the opening graveyard scene, Night of the Living Dead seems to conform to the "marvellous" category. Nonetheless, it is worth emphasizing that Romero makes us believe that this is happening now — so the film cannot be seen simply as a "marvellous" text like Alice in Wonderland. On the contrary, it asks us to believe that there are rational explanations for the zombie's existence: we are told, however implausibly, that the zombie phenomenon has been caused by radiation from outer space. Insofar as the film posits a rational explanation for the zombie menace, the film is "uncanny." Thus, rather than presenting a fantastical "alternative" reality, Night of the Living Dead insists on the shocking immediacy of this one.
A Beginning, a Middle, and a Bloody End:
Narrative Structure and the "Unities"
Narrative Structure and the "Unities"
It is also instructive to consider the structure of the film in relation to the conventions of classic Hollywood narratives. As Todorov implies, narratives tend to begin with a state of equilibrium that is disrupted, and then return to a state of "equilibrium" at the end. In many 1980s horror films, for instance, the initially harmonious family unit is disrupted and eventually reunited at the end of the film. As the case of 1980s horror cinema suggests, this simple narrative structure has often been used to reinforce conservative ideologies by transforming disharmony into order (for a basic introduction to some of the issues involved here, see Strinati, 2000: 34-39). However, this narrative structure does not necessarily lead to ideological conservatism; as Robin Wood points out, classical narrative moves towards the restoration of an order, but that nature of this order is open to question and revision:
If classical narrative moves toward the restoration of an order, must this be the patriarchal status quo? Is this tendency not due to the constraints imposed by our culture rather than to constraints inherent within the narrative itself? Does the possibility not exist of narrative moving toward the establishment of a different order, or, quite simply, toward irreparable and irreversible breakdown (which would leave the reader/viewer the options of despair or the task of imagining alternatives)? (Wood, 2003: 220)
Wood's comments are highly relevant to the conclusion of Night of the Living Dead. On a purely formal level, the "equilibrium" model describes the structure of the film; Romero, however, gives this narrative structure a twist, undermining the apparent "return to order" at the end of the film. On a superficial level, narrative equilibrium is restored in the final scene by the state troopers who, in keeping with their usual diegetic function in thriller and horror film, reinstate order and authority. Yet the audience knows that this apparent "order" has been achieved at the cost of Ben's life and has involved a heinous violation of social justice. In this sense, Night of the Living Dead anticipates the pessimistic horror cinema of the 1970s, in which legitimate authority is seen to be impotent in the face of evil (Crane, 2002: 169). Yet, while despair is one possible response to such endings, the shocking bathos of Night of the Living Dead challenges the audience to imagine more positive alternative endings.
Apocalypse Then: Romero's Catastrophic Vision in Context
Whereas Slavoj Zizek's theories about catastrophe grow out of his analysis of American responses to the terror attacks of 11 September 2001, Night of the Living Dead must be understood in relation to the impact of Vietnam on American consciousness in the 1960s. Experiences of Vietnam constitute a common subtext of American cinema from the 1960s onwards. Near the beginning of Night of the Living Dead, in a shot of Johnny and Barbra's car entering the graveyard, we see a fluttering American flag in the foreground. The symbolism of the flag becomes clear as the film progresses: America is a dying country as a result of the zombie menace, and the flag represents the meaninglessness and deadliness of patriotism. In the post-war period, Leftist critics often pointed out the almost religious hold of patriotism in the Western world and the dangerous fervour with which patriotic ideology was upheld. Writing in the 1950s, the psychoanalyst and humanist cultural critic Erich Fromm, for example, pointed out that attacking the flag of one's country would be an unspeakable act of sacrilege; even extreme racist and militarist views, he continued, would not be regarded with such great hostility as anti-patriotic ones (Fromm, 1963: 59). The savagery of the anti-Communist McCarthy hearings of the mid-1950s certainly vindicated Fromm's observation. However, by the late 1960s such patriotic hegemony had been significantly contested and undermined. Romero's film emerged at a time of strong public disapproval of the American military involvement in Vietnam, during which criticisms of patriotism — while deeply offensive to the American establishment — were becoming commonplace.
Closely related to concerns about the consequences of militarism (and about Vietnam in particular) are fears about the potential for Western society to be devastated by nuclear holocaust. The wretched condition of Romero's zombies resounds with popular fantasies about the aftermath of a nuclear attack on America — a widespread anxiety underpinning American post-war cinema (other films attesting to this fear include Franklin J. Schaffner's Planet of the Apes, which was also released in 1968). The film may also represent another type of apocalypse: that of religious doomsday. Many fundamentalist Christians in America and elsewhere believe that the dead shall be raised to life on "the last day':
Lo! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable
. . . (King James Version, 1 Corinthians 15:51-52)
. . . (King James Version, 1 Corinthians 15:51-52)
Romero's zombies, according to this interpretation, might be seen as the resurrected on Judgement Day: indeed, like their biblical counterparts, they are mute.
Communication, Alienation, and Isolation
Night of the Living Dead constitutes a dramatic appeal for communication and cooperation in the face of paranoia and violence. Romero's interest in communication resembles that of the British dramatist Harold Pinter. Like Pinter, Romero explores interpersonal communication through dialogue, focusing on the ways in which our preconceptions of others make us suspicious and even hostile towards them, and the lies we tell to ourselves and to others. As with Pinter, the dialogue demands scrupulous attention. Careful listeners will have noticed that when Barbra first speaks to Ben, she is not entirely honest about her relationship with Johnny: she tells him that she was "with Johnny," implying that Johnny is her partner. This suggests Barbra's uncertainty regarding the intentions of her interlocutor, perhaps because he is a man, perhaps because he is black? Barbra also misleadingly talks about her brother is if he were still alive, even although the audience knows that he is dead. Barbra's denial of her brother's death can be understood as an unconscious psychological survival strategy. The character of Harry Cooper, however, tells lies deliberately in order to cover his cowardice. Early in the film he tells Barbra and Ben that when he was in the basement, he hadn't heard the others enter the house; later, however, he lets slip that he had, in fact, heard the commotion above.
Romero himself has emphasised that his zombie films, in particular, dramatize failures of human co-operation. Cooper's initial intention is to board up his family in the basement and thus isolate them. In historical terms, this impulse is understandable. During the cold war, the instinct to hide in the basement was the response of many people to the threat of a nuclear attack (the Cooper family are the "nuclear" family in every sense). But Cooper's actions also symbolize the human tendency towards solipsism and isolationism. There are echoes of this selfish impulse in contemporary American separatist militia and other isolationist groups, who often believe that they can escape what they perceive as the madness of the world around them by sequestering themselves in the forests or mountains. Even in the "mainstream" of Western societies, we find similar attitudes that are bound up with an individualistic, bourgeois mode of existence — isolated from the local community and living alongside others without ever communicating with them. Romero's message is therefore implicitly a call for co-operation: if we allow the world fall apart around us, Romero implies, the destruction will sooner or later destroy our own lives.
Again, this message needs to be located in a historical context. In post-war America, and in the West in general, many middle class people were starting to live more prosperous, but more isolated lives; however, the apparent ease and security of such lives carried dangers of alienation: a safe home quickly becomes prison-like. In the 1960s and 1970s progressive criticism of the bourgeois conception of the family reached its height. As the anthropologist Margaret Mead wrote at the end of her life:
Nobody has ever before asked the nuclear family to live all by itself in a box the way we do. With no relatives, no support, we've put it in an impossible situation. (Margaret Mead, New Realities, June 1978)
In the film, the collapse of the bourgeois domestic family is symbolised when Karen Cooper becomes a zombie and kills her parents. Thus the ending of Night of the Living Dead contrasts quite markedly with the more conservative endings of many horror films, where the restoration of family values is seen as the answer to social problems.
"Beat 'em or burn 'em": Race and Power
But why should a film about zombies be considered as a film about race? One reason lies in Romero's selection of zombies as the film's monsters of choice. Why zombies, as opposed to vampires or dragons or giant beetles? It is important to remember the zombie's origin in the voodoo tradition in Haiti (indeed, the phenomenon is taken so seriously in Haiti that the country's Penal Code considers making someone into a zombie as a form of murder). According to the belief, Haitian zombies lack freewill and perhaps souls. They become zombified by a "bokor" (sorcerer) through spell or potion, and are afterwards used as slaves. It is this connection with slavery that allows us to equate zombies with people of colour. This is not an entirely new conception. Two years before Romero's film, for example, the link between zombies and slaves had been used in John Gilling's British zombie film for the Hammer Studios, The Plague of the Zombies (1966). Set in a Cornwall, an evil squire uses black magic to turn his villagers into zombies and exploit their labour in his dangerously unsafe tin mine. Thus the zombie is a metaphor for, in Gilling's film, the exploited working class, and in Romero's film for the oppressed racial minorities of America.
The film's immediate social context further suggests its racial significance. Night of the Living Dead is set at a time of racial upheaval and protest in America. Black people had been given faith in the possibility of the betterment of their conditions. With the death of Martin Luther King, however, many people lost this faith and abandoned the idea of peaceful resistance. White and black militant groups like the Black Panthers and the Nation of Islam, and the Ku Klux Klan and Aryan Nation sprang up (mentioning these groups together does not, incidentally, imply a moral equivalence between them). To many people, it seemed as though there might be a race war in America. Conservative, reactionary discussions of this possibility often focused — as they sometimes do today — on the possibility that "we" might soon be outnumbered by "them." The line in Night of the Living Dead "we don't know how many of them there are" highlights this racist concern with numbers and the fear of being outnumbered or "swamped." This fear was not restricted to America; 1968 was also the year of British Conservative MP Enoch Powell's notorious "Rivers of Blood" speech, which predicted bloody racial conflict in the United Kingdom Powell was duly sacked for his comments by the party leader Edward Heath.
Of course, Night of the Living Dead is not the only film of its time to deal with issues of race. In Guess Who's Coming To Dinner? (1967) Sidney Poitier played a black man engaged to a white woman; the film details the reactions of each partner's family to the interracial marriage. In that film, however, racial issues were dealt with in a quite explicit way — they were the focus of the film. In Night of the Living Dead, on the other hand, racial tensions are not explicitly mentioned, making them, paradoxically, all the more evident. By casting a black man as a hero, Romero, the independent filmmaker, implicitly rejected the values of Hollywood, which at that time typically eschewed black heroes. In recent years, we have become accustomed to visible minorities playing the "virtuous" characters in films (in fact, some critics now believe that this has in itself become another form of racist misrepresentation: after all, if visible minorities are always the "good guys," doesn't this imply a lack of confidence in portraying them as fully-rounded human beings?). In 1968, however, the novelty of a black hero was striking.
Chief, if I were surrounded by say six or eight of these things, would I stand a chance?
Well, if you had a gun, shoot 'em in the head. If you didn't, get a torch and burn 'em, they go up pretty easy. Beat 'em or burn 'em.
The redneck hostility of this language here is reflected in later films about racial hatred in America, such as Alan Parker's 1988 film Mississippi Burning. Finally, the way in which the zombies are hung from trees in the final scenes of the film inevitably invokes the racist lynchings of America's past.
Men, Women, and Tablecloths: Gender Stereotypes
The film also contains a deeply committed exploration of gender roles. Throughout the film, only the men seem to be effective in combating the zombies. While Ben and the other men are active, Barbra is catatonic. Once inside the house and safely in the care of the film's black hero, Ben, Barbra is quickly reduced to helpless catatonia. She sits on the living room sofa for almost the entire duration of the film, until she is finally moved to action at the sight of Helen Cooper being attacked by zombies. In fact, Barbra is both infantilised (while Ben boards up the house, she toys with a musical box, suggesting that she is "regressing," in the Freudian sense) and identified with household items, such as the linen tablecloth and the embroidered arm of the sofa which she obsessively strokes. In other words, while the men act, the women — Barbra in particular — draw comfort from domestic goods. There is also an imbalance in the types of role adopted by each sex. Helen and Judy undertake the "women's work" of caring for the injured Karen Cooper, while the men set about the more pressing business of boarding up the house against the undead. Although Helen Cooper is relatively active (and resistant to the orders of her bullying husband Harry) and although Barbra eventually attempts to rescue Helen in a belated gesture of sisterhood, the women in the film generally constitute a kind of backdrop, their feelings and actions largely dependent on the more capable males.
The passivity of the women in Night is problematic for some feminist critics. Gregory A. Waller, for example, notes that Barbra's character "would seem to support certain sexist assumptions about female passivity, irrationality, and emotional vulnerability" (1986: 283). This stereotype of the catatonic blonde was common in the cinema of the 1960s. It can be seen, for example, in Roman Polanski's Repulsion(1964), which is widely described as a study of feminine repression and insanity. InRepulsion, Carol (Catherine Deneuve) is accosted by various more-or-less lecherous or downright vicious men, eventually suffering from frightening hallucinations and becoming a murderer. However horrifying her acts may be, it is difficult to hold her responsible for her actions (she is clearly extremely mentally disturbed); on the contrary, the film forces us to consider the impact on women of patriarchal oppression. There is a risk here of using patriarchal oppression to explain away all problematic representations of women; yet when that context is clear in the filmic text, it can excuse representations of women that might in other contexts seem sexist. Indeed, just as Carol's violence is at least partially understandable as a response to her oppression (and not simply her repression), we can excuse the extreme passivity of the women in Night of the Living Dead on the grounds that they are not only intimidated by the men (or, at least, by some of the men), but also conditioned to act as passive domestic drudges.
Moreover, if we consider Barbra's attitude towards Ben, there is a sense in which Romero's presentation of women is progressive. In many films about race, women are presented as completely non-racist; indeed, their non-complicity with racist sentiments accords all too neatly with stereotypes of feminine perfection. However, Barbra's clear mistrust of Ben — she positions the knife on the fridge ambiguously, so that the audience is unsure whether she wishes to use it against the zombies or against Ben — suggests that, for all her docile domesticity, she has been affected by the racism of the world outside (Lightning, 2000). Barbra, after all, is not perfect.
Violence: from the "Gratuitous" to the Metaphorical
Night of the Living Dead is a violent film, although by contemporary Hollywood standards, the number of violent acts is actually rather low. This violence is problematic — not because violence is always or inherently problematic, but because its representation has become problematic in Western society for a number of cultural reasons. Some elements of British audiences, for example, have adopted a critical attitude towards film violence by the campaigns of Mary Whitehouse's Viewer's and Listener's Association and other right wing pressure groups. Their arguments often assume (rather questionably) that fiction should depict only those things which we wish to see in real life and (equally questionably) that the fictional representation of violent acts leads to violent behaviour. These arguments have a long history, however. In the Renaissance, for example, violence violated the rules of "decorum" (i.e. violence was "unseemly"). Violent incidents in plays, for example, were merely reported rather than enacted on stage. Until fairly recently, violence was not often depicted in art. Even early horror films, such as Nosferatu (1919), did not depict violent acts to the same extent as Night of the Living Dead. In relation to film, in particular, regulation and censorship of movies through the Hays Production Code made film violence rare until the 1960s.
However, such rules about the representation of violence were made to be broken: even in the Renaissance, dramatists like Shakespeare sometimes violated the "rules" of decorum by depicting violence in their plays (in King Lear, for example, Cornwall blinds Gloucester onstage). In relation to film, the decline of the Hollywood studio system in the late 1950s led to the abandonment of the Production Code, allowing films to be released with a minimum of censorship. But is there any justification for dramatic depictions of violence? If we are concerned with the representation of power relations in society, then the answer is surely yes. In his book Understanding Popular Culture, John Fiske writes:
It is not violence per se that characterises popular culture, but only that violence whose structure makes it into a metaphor for the distribution of power in society. (Fiske, 1989: 137)
It was but one of a number of multiple murders that came at a time when mass violence appeared to be erupting throughout America and was coming to be accepted as commonplace. It was this arbitrary and violent quality in murder that became the subject of two box-office successes of the period, Bonnie and Clyde(1967) and In Cold Blood (1968) (Fleming and Manvell, 1985: 103)
Indeed, from the late 1960s, police series became more fast-paced and violent, while so-called "spaghetti Westerns" challenged the conventional bloodlessness of conventional Westerns by showing the gory reality of violence. Spaghetti Westerns also challenged the enduring Western myth that the strong and the virtuous will prevail; instead they showed that even the good get hurt — a message reinforced inNight of the Living Dead. Yet these representations of violence cannot simply be seen as "arbitrary" or "gratuitous." As Alan Clarke writes about the violent police dramas of the 1970s: "much of the violence was completely gratuitous unless it was seen as the necessary background to the war against crime which the police were fighting. This more explicit portrayal had gained a symbolic value" (Clarke, 1986: 220).
In light of the above comments by Fiske and Clarke, the violence in Romero's film can be viewed as metaphorical — it stands for the interracial violence of 1960s America and for the horrors of the Vietnam war that were so shockingly revealed on American television screens in the late 1960s. In a certain sense, then, the violence of the film may be seen as "realistic'; that is, it reflects and comments upon the violence of the period in which the film was made. Violence is a theme Romero has worked with in all of his zombie films in order to highlight current social injustices. Indeed there is in the film a sense of documentary-like verisimilitude, especially in the grainy photographic images of the zombie cull at the end of the film, which recall contemporary photographs of the carnage in Vietnam.
What is interesting is the way in which our attitudes towards violence change throughout the film. After a while we become inured to the shock of seeing the zombies being killed. As the film progresses, the zombies become an undifferentiated mass — as enemies so easily become. As the violence increases, we begin to lose our sense that the zombies are in any way human and tend to become (to use a cliché) "desensitised" to the violence we see (recalling Joseph Stalin's chilling observation that "A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic'). However, Romero never allows us to feel fully comfortable with this — and the ending of the film offers the stark admonition that in our zeal to eradicate our enemies, we risk destroying ourselves.
Conclusion: Night of the Living Dead — An Undead Classic?
To some extent, the continuing power of Romero's film can be seen in terms of its subsequent cinematic influence. Night of the Living Dead draws on Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), especially in its film craft: the use of shadow and camera angles. But it in turn has influenced many other films, most notably the opening sequence of Salva's Jeeper's Creepers (2001), which draws on both Night of the Living Dead (particularly in the scene in which a brother and a sister argue in a car on a winding, deserted road) and the film adaptation of Stephen King's Children of the Corn (1978) (in which a couple listen to fundamentalist radio stations as they drive through the rural environment). The boarding up of the farmhouse has precursors in Western films, such as John Huston's The Unforgiven (1960), from which the settlers fight off the marauding Indians (intriguingly, The Unforgiven's hero is also called Ben) and is often been repeated, as in M. Night Shayamalan's Signs (2002). The image of zombies climbing in through windows to devour human flesh, meanwhile, has become a pop culture icon, referenced in such disparate places as John Carpenter's seminal film Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), or the more recent British films such as 28 Days Later (2002). To invoke some even more populist contexts, the names of popular music bands, the video for Michael Jackson's "Thriller," the best-selling Playstation game series "Resident Evil" and the television comedy series Father Ted have all drawn on Romero's iconography. After forty years, the diffuse and all-pervasive influence of Night of the Living Dead is makes it difficult precisely to assess its overall cultural impact.
Indeed, as so often in intertextual borrowing of this kind, the original atmosphere and satirical spirit of the film has proved less enduring than the dominant image of the lumbering zombie made famous by Romero. It might be argued that the while many films contain iconographical references to Night of the Living Dead, the oppositional and ironic power of Romero's original vision is seldom achieved. One brief example may help to illustrate this point. The ending of Night of the Living Dead is reprised in Eli Roth's film Cabin Fever (2002), a film about a group of teenagers assailed by a hideous virus, one of whom — Jeff, played by Joey Kern — escapes by isolating himself from his friends, earning the contempt of his fellows (and of the audience). When this surviving member emerges from the shack shouting "I made it!," he is shot by the police, who mistake him as a virus-carrier. The brutal irony of this final scene clearly invites comparison with the ending of Night of the Living Dead; yet the audience's contempt for Jeff's isolationism ensures that we feel a certain satisfaction, rather than outrage, at the young man's death. Moreover, unlike Romero's ending, this ending restores and legitimises the authority of the police.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
3D films lose lustre as home-grown hits win cinema box-office battle
Just as in the 1950s, the 3D fad is fading, with the number of films falling from 47 in 2011 to 33 this year
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2012/mar/06/3d-films-lose-appeal
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Chronicle makes a new UK box office record
Youngest director to helm a chart-topping movie pushes Jack and Jill down the hill with Man on a Ledge coming tumbling after
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