—Léolo

It’s not the first man. It’s the second and third and fourth and fifth; and they all become that first man. And by the fiftieth, and at close range, they all become the same face. When you kill, you kill the same guy over and over and over again.

—Samuel Fuller, quoted in The Typewriter, Rifle, and Movie Camera

Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, the movie, lacks the depth of Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, the book. I don’t think this is terribly surprising to anyone, given the general state of book adaptations. (Also, have you noticed that the title is very fun to say? Go ahead. Out loud, please.) Tris, the evil wench of the movie, is a more textured evil wench in the book, who manages to give some morally unsound but plot driving advice to both Nick and Norah. Caroline is almost a non-player in the book, and the other members of Nick’s unnameable band (except Dev, who has a heavier speaking role) are barely present. Tal, Norah’s controlling serial ex-boyfriend, is equally important in the book as the movie, in terms of character motivation, but he’s a more visible character in the movie.

The treasure hunt aspect of the movie is most of what makes it endearing, as well as Michael Cera living out my hipster fantasy life goals, mostly in the form of bemused repartee, but the romance between Nick and Norah eclipses everything else in the book. Pursuing “Where’s Fluffy?” is such as strong aspect of the movie because it gives us intimate knowledge of the texture of the New York City music scene; at least, the texture the director wants us to feel. The NYC of the book felt closer, more intimate; possibly because I’ve never been to NYC, and I was picturing the characters in the cities where I have been. Still, it’s a good adaptation. Neither too close to the source material, nor ignoring it. Good job.

Both works have that pop-buddhist, new-agey feel. It’s fairly trendy to live “in the now,” and practically worship spontaneity and all that brings. I like that, but feel the need to balance it. Even so, Nick & Norah’s “the mosh pit doesn’t lie” mantra resonated at some level with me. And I’m a fan of anything that pulls me toward less irony and less self consciousness.

The book, more than the movie, makes me want. The movie inspired me to make mixes (of poetry, not music, manifested in the ever forthcoming mix zine Bricabrac), but the book has inspired me to write. Immediately after reading Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist I had an irresistible compulsion to write personal, intimate, immediate poetry; spray-paint and smuggled sharpie poetry in public places; vigilante, joyous poetry written for, to, and about specific people; full of honesty and the right words.  No safe poems here.

And I finished the book a half hour ago, so I’m off to do that.

I read the script years ago. That was a sort of hobby of mine for a while, when I had a lot of discretionary time. I read a lot of great movies, and have since forgotten how they go. I remembered The Apartment in snatches, but had forgotten most of it, and I’m glad. Thanks to Wilder, the gorgeous Shirley MacLaine, and Lemmon’s excellent performance, this film far transcends the script.

Jack Lemmon’s character, Bud, is a goofy actuary who works in desk city (this is before there were cubicles) on the floor. This sounds terrible and boring, but it’s funny; it’s Jack Lemmon, come on. There are some people who don’t have to do anything anymore; they can just stand there and their presence can make us laugh. (It’s probably our expectations making us laugh… We’re trained to think they’re funny by their previous performances, so they are.) Billy Crystal and Bill Murray are two others who can be funny in almost any circumstance. And it’s a good thing: Lemmon’s humor and Shirley MacLaine’s response provide good counterpoint to what’s actually going on.

The Apartment is a dark, comedic, and well-executed film.  Billy Wilder is a master of sometimes subtle symbolism, and a good director.  His storytelling is particularly effective; it doesn’t lag, and it’s not oppressive; it’s bittersweet. It has many happy moments as well, but interpreted through the larger picture of the film, even those sour a bit—though the ending is another story entirely. But I won’t ruin that. Unless I just did.

As I watch and read more widely acknowledged classics, I’m discovering a lot of stuff other folks take for granted. Example: Shakespeare is a good writer. So is Ernest Hemingway. And Shirley MacLaine is beautiful.

We delighted in showing this short film to our long suffering lady friends, all of whom dealt with our immaturity reasonably well. Lily and Jim, one of Hertzfeldt’s later animations, speaks more subtly, in an extended study in awkwardness. Watching Jim fumble his way through a blind date is like picking a scab. Poke the eviscerated dignity.

I’d feel bad recommending these to anyone who would take them seriously. These short films aren’t an accurate portrayal of life—at least, they don’t tell the whole story. But they are enjoyable for the slice of life they parody. And who doesn’t want to watch boys catch on fire? I know all you ladies do.

The short is simple in both story and style. I love his use of line–the weight and texture, how the figure becomes blocky when he most exerts himself, the fluid movment and stylistic facsimile of life. I enjoy minimalism, the exploration of how little one can say or show to communicate well and deeply, the ability of the mind to create closure (and again I reference Scott McCloud).

Jankovics communicates with elegance and subtlety. I admit, the sound of his efforts–all that grunting and groaning–is a bit annoying to my sterilized sensibilities. The Fonz doesn’t groan. But even so I enjoyed the subtle re-emergence of the beginning grunts in the end credits, because it takes the relatively hopeful end, during which Sisyphus scampers back down his heap of rocks, having actually made it to the top, and changes the story back to the full punishment of hell we know it is: he’s going to do exactly that again and again, an exercise in futility, ad infinitum.

(Camus wrote an essay entitled “The Myth of Sisyphus,” in which he describes his philosophy of the absurd. I want to read that. Maybe soon. It’s in the stack, so we’ll see.)

More than musically expounding on the glory of ultra-villainous horses, they tried something bold while top-heavy studios are lamenting their own obsolescence. Whedon explains his reasoning on the Dr. Horrible site:

The idea was to make it on the fly, on the cheap – but to make it. To turn out a really thrilling, professionalish piece of entertainment specifically for the internet. To show how much could be done with very little. To show the world there is another way. To give the public (and in particular you guys) something for all your support and patience. And to make a lot of silly jokes. Actually, that sentence probably should have come first.

Punk rock!  Reminds me of the stirring exhortation Ralph Bakshi gave at Comicon (not that I was there…) in response to a question about how to weather scary changes in animation (my paraphrase).  Skip to :40 if you don’t want “going up the elevator” footage. (video thanks to ASIFA). After hearing that, I wanted to go out and write a movie, and hey–I have Flash, maybe animate it myself too. So if anybody wants to make a movie, let me know. I have other stories to write in the meantime.

I am inspired. Seeing people make things like this, for relatively cheap, makes me want to go out and do likewise. In the ever-inspiring words of Captain Hammer, the arch-nemesis of Dr. Horrible (who has a doctorate in horribleness), “It’s not enough to bash it heads, you have to bash in minds.”

The visuals are stunning. The scenery especially—it feels like a dream. It’s black and white (obviously, for that time), and huge swaths of highly contrasted tone dominate; sometimes they obscure, sometimes accent. I found myself wanting to hit pause to savor certain shots—the way the light hits the stone on the houses, the curving walls inside the rabbi’s house, the shots on the road and looking over the hills, a cat walking along a rooftop: nearly every shot gave me something to think about, or at least drove the story on.

The plot (don’t worry, no spoilers here) is based on an old Jewish legend. In the 16th century, the emperor has issued a decree banishing all Jews from the city of Prague, and Rabbi Loew, a well-loved pillar of his community, is planning to resurrect the Golem—a man-shaped creature of clay—to protect his people. He appeals to the powers of darkness, namely Ashtaroth, to reveal the name which will give life to his clay giant. The melding of astrology, magic and traditional religion is particularly intriguing—they pray to and thank God at various points in the film, generally right after performing some ritual or casting a horoscope. Rabbi Loew treats magic like we treat technology.

A beautiful but vain lady in Rabbi Loew’s household (whom I assumed was his daughter, but may have been his wife) falls in love with the gap-toothed messenger named Knight Florian, who brought the decree, and they contrive a secret rendezvous. Love, in 1920, is apparently composed of hugging, breathing heavily, and looking askance at one other. Sometimes they even hold hands. Seems to work for them, though.

Rabbi Loew’s semi-idiot assistant’s main job is falling over and lighting things on fire (he has his own living room smithy/kitchen). He’s terrified of the Golem. He grows by the end, though, and ends up acting the man—not that I’m going to ruin the ending for you.

I’ve never watched a silent film before; I liked it. The black-and-white and the absence of spoken dialogue make watching the film into a bit of a puzzle. It was still plenty accessible, but I found myself doing a bit of guesswork regarding plot. I was almost telling myself the story as we went along, which I think is great. It brings the film into prose territory—my brain—and everything is better in my brain.

Something else about the high contrast black-and-white: I think it works similar to Scott McCloud‘s idea of amplification through simplification (something he speaks on very well in both Understanding Comics and Making Comics).

I connected with the Rabbi more easily through the lighting decisions, and felt the Golem’s alienation and frustration at his lack of independence. I identified more profoundly with him when they obscured his face, either by white-out or shadow, leaving in either case only his colorless eyes. The level of contrast probably wasn’t a stylistic choice, though the lighting certainly was—in 1916 I think that’s just how the film came—but I like it nonetheless.

Certainly a film worth watching. It’s even available for free.