It could be said the the ordinary level of stress associated with writing a blog post (moderate but temporary) is heightened considerably when writing on a film made by the man who grades it. However, this task is made considerably easier when the author actually enjoyed the film in question. Fortunately, I find myself in this position as I unpack my experience with the experimental triptych film American Falls (2010) by Phil Solomon.
American Falls, for those readers who aren't Professor Solomon, is a journey over Niagara falls and through American history. The film is somewhat of a highlight reel of history, featuring a variety of documentary media of key events and players. It is not, however, the all out celebration of American independence and culture one might imagine.
The three reels incorporated in the triptych film were all chemically treated, giving them an almost sepia tone quality. This chemical process also produces a great variety of texture on the film stock that, when coupled with standard processing errors (or perhaps marks also created by the chemicals?), gives the viewer (or at least me) an impression of both the film stock and the image within it burning. This burning texture is especially visible when the two side reels show scenes of water pouring over the falls. To me, this burning was the key that unlocked the deeper meaning of the film; the overtaking of cold rushing water by flames is taken literally a great and powerful force burning. When coupled with the title American Falls, we can understand that image represents the perversion of the great experiment that has been the United States of America. Once this metaphorical base is established, the meaning within the rest of the film can become more clear (and it also helps if you view it with Solomon's live commentary).
The critique embedded within this film is also illuminated by its soundtrack. In the opening of American Falls, the viewer hears the loud sounds of rushing water, accompanied by warped strings that fade in and out. This manipulation of music carries on throughout the film. During the section on the Great Depression, the soundtrack features a slowed down and tooled version of "God Bless America" that makes it sound ghostly. At one point only the center reel shows images, and shows a line of men waiting for bread or a job that could be straight out of an early Warner Bros. musical. When the side reels come in, they show a sign declaring "No Men Wanted." The conflict between the words of the song and the images on screen signify the gravity of the hardships of the great depression. Later, the soundtrack yields to the sound of wind as the film transitions into the Dust Bowl. The sound and image here, of houses spinning around in dust, have the same effect as on the previous sequence.
Later in the film these same types of conflicts between sound and image, as well as the individual qualities of the sound and image, represent critiques of American politics, economics, and social norms. This is why I believe another title for this film could be (if I may) "America Falls." Although it isn't necessarily a prophecy of doom or a diagnosis of our problems, American Falls points out a difficult truth: That Our country is imperfect. That Its history is marred by original sin and characterized by difficult and questionable compromises. And finally, maybe most importantly, that if we do not change our direction, America falls.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Terrence Malick: "The Voice-over Kid"
The first Terrence Malick film I ever watched was Days of Heaven (1978) in my film intro class at CU Boulder. I remember being entranced by the cinematography, the soundtrack by Ennio Morricone and the prowess of the actors. I was also struck by the voice-over narration. While many scoff at the heavy East coast accent of the child narrator, I thought it was enormously entertaining. A student in my class asked about the narration, to which the professor gave a lengthy explanation that resulted in my understanding that voice-over narration is essentially Malick. However, after viewing Malick's The Thin Red Line (1998) and Tree of Life (2011) in a class that focuses on the sound track as an essential part of film, I now understand that voice-over narration is only a small piece of the captivating sound design in Malick's work. In order to explain this, I will focus only on the sound of Thin Red Line, not for lack of respect for Tree of Life, but for respect for the richness of Malick's war drama.
The Thin Red Line centers around a unit of American soldiers on active duty in the pacific during the battle of Guadalcanal in WWII. Throughout the film, there are various narrations, although the most powerful is one with a slight southern drawl who seems to understand perfectly the gravity of their situation. These narrations are punctuated by a string heavy orchestral soundtrack composed by Hans Zimmer and a great variety of effects mixing on ambient sound and sound effects.
A scene in which this sound mix can be fully appreciated, and just happens to be my favorite, is the sequence in which the American soldiers approach the line and capture a Japanese command post. After a voice-over monologue, presumably by Adrian Brody's character, a soft ticking sound starts to come in the background. The ticking is then joined by a quiet, high pitched, staccato woodwind notes playing on octaves. A short voice-over then begins, and is then accompanied by low strings. The sounds of preparation for battle are heard along with their images; guns are loaded, bayonets are affixed to the tips of rifles.
Then, as the men advance into the fog (metaphor?) we hear the sounds of footsteps and branches along with the occasional bird. Suddenly a bullet whizzes by, before being followed by another. These bullets are made more intense by the absence of the sound of gunshots. Shortly after, though, the solider we've been following shoots into the fog (definitely a metaphor) and we hear his rifle at full volume. The sound continues to be score dominated for a few more seconds before the Japanese soldiers mount a full assault.
After an initial barrage of human voices and gunshots, the voices fade and the mechanical sounds of battle (bullets, bayonets, and grenades) are emphasized. Throughout this time, the score continues its inspiring yet sorrowful string melody. As the battle progresses these strings get louder, and we hear the sounds of battle grow more and more faint as the Americans continue to assert their control. Then the ticking rises again to promises before the southern narrator asks, "Where's it coming from? This great evil..." Meanwhile, the strings continue to drive the soldiers forward, with silence in the background.
Shortly after, the ambient noise comes back, and we again have diegetic sound and monologue, as one of the American soldiers talks to a dying Japanese soldier. At this point, the strings change and take a higher tone before being assaulted by a dissonant horn line. The strings power through, however, still at their high pitch. The back ground sound then fades away again before we hear a Japanese soldier, sobbing and clutching his dead comrade as an American looks on.
The power of this sequence is almost a revelation in cinema. The expert shooting and soundtrack give the viewer both an intense and complex sensory experience. More importantly, however, they cause the viewer to sympathize with the American cause while also sympathizing with the Japanese soldiers. This is a challenging emotional place for the viewer to be situated, yet it is an important one to engage with.
The Thin Red Line centers around a unit of American soldiers on active duty in the pacific during the battle of Guadalcanal in WWII. Throughout the film, there are various narrations, although the most powerful is one with a slight southern drawl who seems to understand perfectly the gravity of their situation. These narrations are punctuated by a string heavy orchestral soundtrack composed by Hans Zimmer and a great variety of effects mixing on ambient sound and sound effects.
A scene in which this sound mix can be fully appreciated, and just happens to be my favorite, is the sequence in which the American soldiers approach the line and capture a Japanese command post. After a voice-over monologue, presumably by Adrian Brody's character, a soft ticking sound starts to come in the background. The ticking is then joined by a quiet, high pitched, staccato woodwind notes playing on octaves. A short voice-over then begins, and is then accompanied by low strings. The sounds of preparation for battle are heard along with their images; guns are loaded, bayonets are affixed to the tips of rifles.
Then, as the men advance into the fog (metaphor?) we hear the sounds of footsteps and branches along with the occasional bird. Suddenly a bullet whizzes by, before being followed by another. These bullets are made more intense by the absence of the sound of gunshots. Shortly after, though, the solider we've been following shoots into the fog (definitely a metaphor) and we hear his rifle at full volume. The sound continues to be score dominated for a few more seconds before the Japanese soldiers mount a full assault.
After an initial barrage of human voices and gunshots, the voices fade and the mechanical sounds of battle (bullets, bayonets, and grenades) are emphasized. Throughout this time, the score continues its inspiring yet sorrowful string melody. As the battle progresses these strings get louder, and we hear the sounds of battle grow more and more faint as the Americans continue to assert their control. Then the ticking rises again to promises before the southern narrator asks, "Where's it coming from? This great evil..." Meanwhile, the strings continue to drive the soldiers forward, with silence in the background.
Shortly after, the ambient noise comes back, and we again have diegetic sound and monologue, as one of the American soldiers talks to a dying Japanese soldier. At this point, the strings change and take a higher tone before being assaulted by a dissonant horn line. The strings power through, however, still at their high pitch. The back ground sound then fades away again before we hear a Japanese soldier, sobbing and clutching his dead comrade as an American looks on.
The power of this sequence is almost a revelation in cinema. The expert shooting and soundtrack give the viewer both an intense and complex sensory experience. More importantly, however, they cause the viewer to sympathize with the American cause while also sympathizing with the Japanese soldiers. This is a challenging emotional place for the viewer to be situated, yet it is an important one to engage with.
Friday, November 13, 2015
OMG, JFK, WTF!? (Is this title too much?)
Before I really get into the subject of this blog post, I just have to say that the film JFK (1991), directed by Oliver Stone, is mind opening experience that quickly escalates until your mind is actually blown. Having been to the 6th Floor Museum, a museum in the Dallas book depository where Lee Harvey Oswald is supposed to have shot President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, I was already aware that the official account of the assassination is questionable at best. Based on a number of of conflicting pieces of evidence, most clearly the angle of the bullet that hits Kennedy in the head on the Zapruder film, it is plainly visible to most that the official story is flawed. This film, while repeating these facts that I already knew, also added to them, and provided a detailed account of an investigation into the motives for covering it up, and the true story behind why JFK was killed. It was the details of New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrisons investigation into this conspiracy that brought my mind all the way to the point of combustion.
In JFK, Oliver Stone tells this story by weaving the narrative in between footage of the present in the film, reenactments of conspiracy events, and real footage of the assassination and events surrounding it. Perhaps this visual style is explained by Garrison (Kevin Costner) during a working dinner discussing the assassination case with his legal team. "Y'all gotta start thinking on a different level, like the CIA does. Now we're through the looking glass here people. White is black and black is white." Although this film is long (the directors cut is 206 minutes, the original is only 188), this style of presentation necessitates a whirlwind different shots and camera movements. In the same dinner scene, the viewer is presented with fluid cuts between the different members of the team at dinner and reenactments of background events for the case. At the end of the sequence, however, the viewer is presented with a real photo of Oswald on the cover of Life magazine.
These sequences can be confusing to the viewer, and perhaps would be unintelligible were it not for the film's unique sound design. Referring only to the dialogue in scenes like the dinner meeting and many other, supervising sound editor Wylie Stateman explains that "The dialogue work in that film, from a sound point of view, was just incredible. There were so many layers and it was tucked in so tight, it was like working with a shoehorn. You had to transition out of one thought after the thought had been completed, just in time to allow the next thought to make its transition in. It was an exercise in microsurgery" (Sound on Film, 252-253).
In the same interview, Statemen also discusses the way sound helps to clarify the cuts on screen. "There's discontinuous imagery that makes your mind question its validity. Sound tends to smooth or soothe that phenomenon and can be a very effective tool in taking some of those breaks in action and making them far more transparent to the mind" (253). This is true of the dinner sequence, where, as Garrison says his lines about their level of thinking, we see the supposed doctoring of the photo that was so instrumental in convicting Oswald (at least in the public opinion). The continuous monologue in this sequence, culminating in the conclusion that Oswald may in fact have been a patsy, helps to clarify the action taking place in the imagined reenactment on screen.
The sound design in these blended scenes are only one piece of how the sound is an integral part of JFK. Statement also talks about how he grappled with the length of the film, and issues such as the volume of gunshots in his interview. "We wanted to really lull you into a sense of watch and listen, and we didn't want to box the audience in the ears just because we have a hundred decibels of potential sound pressure we can throw at them. So when there are gunshots, there's no point in making somebody's ears ring...we wanted the guns to sound different from different perspectives...There wasn't any real consensus on what happened that day, and there still isn't" (252).
Through its sound design and the sheer intrigue of the subject of its plot, JFK manages to force the viewer to see things from new perspectives and consider new and horrible possibilities about the assassination of President Kennedy. This film is truly massive in its length and the weight of the subjec it takes on. And hey, Kevin Costner isn't too bad either.
In JFK, Oliver Stone tells this story by weaving the narrative in between footage of the present in the film, reenactments of conspiracy events, and real footage of the assassination and events surrounding it. Perhaps this visual style is explained by Garrison (Kevin Costner) during a working dinner discussing the assassination case with his legal team. "Y'all gotta start thinking on a different level, like the CIA does. Now we're through the looking glass here people. White is black and black is white." Although this film is long (the directors cut is 206 minutes, the original is only 188), this style of presentation necessitates a whirlwind different shots and camera movements. In the same dinner scene, the viewer is presented with fluid cuts between the different members of the team at dinner and reenactments of background events for the case. At the end of the sequence, however, the viewer is presented with a real photo of Oswald on the cover of Life magazine.
These sequences can be confusing to the viewer, and perhaps would be unintelligible were it not for the film's unique sound design. Referring only to the dialogue in scenes like the dinner meeting and many other, supervising sound editor Wylie Stateman explains that "The dialogue work in that film, from a sound point of view, was just incredible. There were so many layers and it was tucked in so tight, it was like working with a shoehorn. You had to transition out of one thought after the thought had been completed, just in time to allow the next thought to make its transition in. It was an exercise in microsurgery" (Sound on Film, 252-253).
In the same interview, Statemen also discusses the way sound helps to clarify the cuts on screen. "There's discontinuous imagery that makes your mind question its validity. Sound tends to smooth or soothe that phenomenon and can be a very effective tool in taking some of those breaks in action and making them far more transparent to the mind" (253). This is true of the dinner sequence, where, as Garrison says his lines about their level of thinking, we see the supposed doctoring of the photo that was so instrumental in convicting Oswald (at least in the public opinion). The continuous monologue in this sequence, culminating in the conclusion that Oswald may in fact have been a patsy, helps to clarify the action taking place in the imagined reenactment on screen.
The sound design in these blended scenes are only one piece of how the sound is an integral part of JFK. Statement also talks about how he grappled with the length of the film, and issues such as the volume of gunshots in his interview. "We wanted to really lull you into a sense of watch and listen, and we didn't want to box the audience in the ears just because we have a hundred decibels of potential sound pressure we can throw at them. So when there are gunshots, there's no point in making somebody's ears ring...we wanted the guns to sound different from different perspectives...There wasn't any real consensus on what happened that day, and there still isn't" (252).
Through its sound design and the sheer intrigue of the subject of its plot, JFK manages to force the viewer to see things from new perspectives and consider new and horrible possibilities about the assassination of President Kennedy. This film is truly massive in its length and the weight of the subjec it takes on. And hey, Kevin Costner isn't too bad either.
Friday, November 6, 2015
The Thin Blue Line
In 2015, in post-Ferguson America, it is easy to understand why somebody might have some trouble trusting the police. Many police involved shootings of unarmed suspects have tainted the reputation of the police in many communities. This is not to say that all police officers are racist and corrupt, but there certainly are enough to cause noticeable harm, as has been demonstrated throughout our nation's history. Although unrelated to race, the controversy at the heart of the film The Thin Blue Line (1988), directed by Errol Morris, does not improve the image of police officers for many viewers. I do not wish to dwell on this aspect of the film, however, though it pervades throughout much of the narration. I would, however, very much like to address the unique style of presentation and the importance of sound in the film.
The Thin Blue Line is the story of Randall Dale Adams, a man wrongfully convicted of the murder of a Dallas police officer in November of 1976. Adams and his brother had recently moved to Dallas from Ohio. Adams got a job shortly after arriving and shortly before he met 16 year old David Ray Harris, a troubled youth from the town of Vidor, Texas. It was this night that Harris would murder Dallas police officer Robert Wood, only to later frame Adams for the crime.
The film presents the complex and convoluted story of Adams' conviction through a series of actual interviews with the Adams, Harris, and the witnesses in the trial, and a series of reenactments of their sworn accounts. Sound plays an important role throughout these accounts and in the eventual clearing of Adams after the films release.
The first role that sound plays within these accounts is the obvious. The witnesses stories are heard while showing their interview. As the interviews progress into the reenactment, however, and the sound design is expanded. The narration remains clearly audible throughout, sometimes covering the action on screen sometimes cutting out until another visual cut to the interview. We then hear a detailed soundtrack of the events on screen, including cars, boots on asphalt, and gunshots. As the suspense builds (sometimes absent of the reenactments, sometimes paired) a haunting symphonic soundtrack, marked by a dark descending bass scale, adds to the intensity. This musical soundtrack is especially ominous and fitting for a story in which the truth is concealed, despite the many obvious holes in the prosecution's case.
At the end of the film, sound becomes the primary method of communicating the story, as Morris' camera broke down the day of the final interview with Harris. The scene is quiet except for the slightly fuzzy voices of Morris and Harris, adding to the somewhat creepy factor of the line of questioning. Further adding to this effect is Harris himself, and the cryptic ways in which he answers Morris' questions. When asked if Adams is innocent, Harris explains "I'm sure he is...Because I'm the one that knows." When asked if he was surprised when the police blamed Adams Harris states plainly "They didn't blame him. I did. Scared sixteen year old kid. He sure would like to get out of it if he can." In his most direct admission of guilt, Harris says "I've always thought about...if you could say why there's a reason that Randall Adams is in jail, it might be because of the fact that he didn't have no place for somebody to stay that helped him that night...landed him where he's at. That might be the reason."
This audio sequence proves to be crucial not only to the film, but to Randall Adams himself as it, along with the problems in the investigation that it brought to light, lead to his eventual release from prison. To me, this is a demonstration of both the power of film to affect the real world, and the power of sound in general. While the soundtrack initially plays an aesthetic role, adding to the enjoyment factor in viewing the film, it eventually becomes essential to the plot and the filmmaker's mission in producing the film. There's a thin blue line between chaos and order (or something like that) and this film holds that line to a higher standard.
The Thin Blue Line is the story of Randall Dale Adams, a man wrongfully convicted of the murder of a Dallas police officer in November of 1976. Adams and his brother had recently moved to Dallas from Ohio. Adams got a job shortly after arriving and shortly before he met 16 year old David Ray Harris, a troubled youth from the town of Vidor, Texas. It was this night that Harris would murder Dallas police officer Robert Wood, only to later frame Adams for the crime.
The film presents the complex and convoluted story of Adams' conviction through a series of actual interviews with the Adams, Harris, and the witnesses in the trial, and a series of reenactments of their sworn accounts. Sound plays an important role throughout these accounts and in the eventual clearing of Adams after the films release.
The first role that sound plays within these accounts is the obvious. The witnesses stories are heard while showing their interview. As the interviews progress into the reenactment, however, and the sound design is expanded. The narration remains clearly audible throughout, sometimes covering the action on screen sometimes cutting out until another visual cut to the interview. We then hear a detailed soundtrack of the events on screen, including cars, boots on asphalt, and gunshots. As the suspense builds (sometimes absent of the reenactments, sometimes paired) a haunting symphonic soundtrack, marked by a dark descending bass scale, adds to the intensity. This musical soundtrack is especially ominous and fitting for a story in which the truth is concealed, despite the many obvious holes in the prosecution's case.
At the end of the film, sound becomes the primary method of communicating the story, as Morris' camera broke down the day of the final interview with Harris. The scene is quiet except for the slightly fuzzy voices of Morris and Harris, adding to the somewhat creepy factor of the line of questioning. Further adding to this effect is Harris himself, and the cryptic ways in which he answers Morris' questions. When asked if Adams is innocent, Harris explains "I'm sure he is...Because I'm the one that knows." When asked if he was surprised when the police blamed Adams Harris states plainly "They didn't blame him. I did. Scared sixteen year old kid. He sure would like to get out of it if he can." In his most direct admission of guilt, Harris says "I've always thought about...if you could say why there's a reason that Randall Adams is in jail, it might be because of the fact that he didn't have no place for somebody to stay that helped him that night...landed him where he's at. That might be the reason."
This audio sequence proves to be crucial not only to the film, but to Randall Adams himself as it, along with the problems in the investigation that it brought to light, lead to his eventual release from prison. To me, this is a demonstration of both the power of film to affect the real world, and the power of sound in general. While the soundtrack initially plays an aesthetic role, adding to the enjoyment factor in viewing the film, it eventually becomes essential to the plot and the filmmaker's mission in producing the film. There's a thin blue line between chaos and order (or something like that) and this film holds that line to a higher standard.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
The Conversation
Before I go into a full post about this film, I have to imagine the way I would pitch it to a stranger who had just asked me "Should I see The Conversation?"
Combined with the ominous music, partially drawn from the sound in the opening scene, these sounds help provide a clear picture of Caul's disturbance by clarifying the detail of his destruction.
Sound serves a clarifying purpose throughout The Conversation. In many instances, this sound is the product of an innovative method of recording and presentation. I think, however, my favorite part of the sound how self-reflexive it is. There's nothing like a good movie that knows it's a movie, and here we have a great soundtrack that knows it's a soundtrack.
Do you like meta critical film soundtracks that are full of foley sound? Because if so this film is totally up your alley.
Now that wouldn't necessarily describe my usual first choice of film to see, but in this case, The Conversation (1974), directed by Francis Ford Coppola, ended up being one of my favorite films of the semester. The film centers around surveillance expert Harry Caul and a specific case he has been investigating. Caul carries out this investigation by recording his subjects (a couple) as they walk around Union Square in San Fransisco. He does this by utilizing multiple targeted long range microphones from overlooking windows and by having a man tail the couple in question. Later, Caul is seen mixing adjusting the volume and frequency on each recording to get a complete audio recording of the conversation. It is worth noting that this opening scene is revisited throughout the film to the point where it serves as exposition, rising action, and plays heavily towards the climax of the film as well.
This scene is just one example of both the film's innovative use of sound and the meta critical nature of the film. Supervising editior and sound editor Walter Murch explained the electronic component sound heard in the opening scene of The Conversation in an interview, saying, "This film was made in 1973, but we said: 'There's going to be digital sound. Let's pretend somehow that Harry Caul has his hand on some prototype digital processing equipment, and when he's recording these people's voices, he's recording some kind of digital interference matrixing'" (Sound-On-Film, 88-89). The fact that the sound design anticipates (and pretty successfully) the types of noises made by digital sound interference is innovative in itself, however, it is doubly so when considering the pervasiveness of this device throughout the plot. The presence of these devices and numerous scenes in which Caul mixes sound advance to the meta criticism, showing processes that are inherently similar to processes utilized in creating The Conversation.
Another example of the innovation in this film is also related to the opening scene. In the same interview in the book Sound on Film, Murch described the way in which the audio for this sequence was recorded. When asked if they began with a clean studio recording of the dialogue, Murch responds frankly. "No, we didn't." He continues, saying "We had a conversation recorded at Union Square with three cameras and radio mikes" (90). Murch talks about how this method of recording seemed like it would be simple, but that they encountered a large number of radio waves that interfered with their mikes. After recording the scene several times, they were able to put together a mix of those recordings and additional sound, recorded in a more controlled environment. The methods that Murch and Coppola used and the problems they encountered while recording were relatively new at the time the film was made (Nashville is famous for using radio mikes, but they did that in '75!). Additionally, this method is intensely meta critical, as the sound heard in the film was actually recorded in a convoluted way almost identical to the way this recording process is depicted in the film.
The remarkable use of sound is also present in the final scene, in which Caul himself has been bugged. Caul is shown breaking apart his apartment (perhaps a metaphor for the breakdown he is undergoing as a victim of his own craft) in search of the secret recording device. The sound for this sequence is perhaps the most detailed use of Foley I have ever seen. Every single minute action on screen in this sequence is audible, and it is all added via Foley art.
This scene is just one example of both the film's innovative use of sound and the meta critical nature of the film. Supervising editior and sound editor Walter Murch explained the electronic component sound heard in the opening scene of The Conversation in an interview, saying, "This film was made in 1973, but we said: 'There's going to be digital sound. Let's pretend somehow that Harry Caul has his hand on some prototype digital processing equipment, and when he's recording these people's voices, he's recording some kind of digital interference matrixing'" (Sound-On-Film, 88-89). The fact that the sound design anticipates (and pretty successfully) the types of noises made by digital sound interference is innovative in itself, however, it is doubly so when considering the pervasiveness of this device throughout the plot. The presence of these devices and numerous scenes in which Caul mixes sound advance to the meta criticism, showing processes that are inherently similar to processes utilized in creating The Conversation.
Another example of the innovation in this film is also related to the opening scene. In the same interview in the book Sound on Film, Murch described the way in which the audio for this sequence was recorded. When asked if they began with a clean studio recording of the dialogue, Murch responds frankly. "No, we didn't." He continues, saying "We had a conversation recorded at Union Square with three cameras and radio mikes" (90). Murch talks about how this method of recording seemed like it would be simple, but that they encountered a large number of radio waves that interfered with their mikes. After recording the scene several times, they were able to put together a mix of those recordings and additional sound, recorded in a more controlled environment. The methods that Murch and Coppola used and the problems they encountered while recording were relatively new at the time the film was made (Nashville is famous for using radio mikes, but they did that in '75!). Additionally, this method is intensely meta critical, as the sound heard in the film was actually recorded in a convoluted way almost identical to the way this recording process is depicted in the film.
The remarkable use of sound is also present in the final scene, in which Caul himself has been bugged. Caul is shown breaking apart his apartment (perhaps a metaphor for the breakdown he is undergoing as a victim of his own craft) in search of the secret recording device. The sound for this sequence is perhaps the most detailed use of Foley I have ever seen. Every single minute action on screen in this sequence is audible, and it is all added via Foley art.
Combined with the ominous music, partially drawn from the sound in the opening scene, these sounds help provide a clear picture of Caul's disturbance by clarifying the detail of his destruction.
Sound serves a clarifying purpose throughout The Conversation. In many instances, this sound is the product of an innovative method of recording and presentation. I think, however, my favorite part of the sound how self-reflexive it is. There's nothing like a good movie that knows it's a movie, and here we have a great soundtrack that knows it's a soundtrack.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Goodfellas
Goodfellas (1990), directed by Martin Scorsese, is a representative of a masterpiece of the fusion of sound and vision. This is achieved through various features of the soundtrack, from the blending of gunshots with traffic to the lyrical pairing of songs with cinematic action. The unconventional sound design begins with the opening credits as titles zoom onto and off of the screen along with the sounds of speeding cars.
It soon becomes clear that these car sounds are coming from the opening sequence in which Ray Liotta, Joe Pesci, and Robert DeNiro are driving to bury a dead body that turns out to still be alive. When this is discovered, Pesci's character stabs the body and DeNiro shoots him. The sounds of the gunshots fade away into the sound of distant traffic. This dissolve between sounds is just the tip of the iceberg as the Liotta's voiceover begins.
"As far back as I can remember I'd always wanted to be a gangster." This line is punctuated as it cuts off to the beginning of "Rags to Riches" by Tony Bennet. This song is a classic 40's style swing song that is, to me, quintessential and emblematic of gangsters and gangster films. Liotta's monologue continues in the style of a radio announcer, not is his pacing or voicing, but in the way that it goes right up until the lyrics of the song begin. He comes back in later as the song gets quieter again, but there is always a respect between the volume of the dialogue and the music and the soundtrack.
Later in the film this pattern continues and the songs continue their poignancy. The "Case Study on Goodfellas" from the book Short Cuts identifies a key scene in which this type of laying takes place. "Jerry Vale's 'Pretend You Don't See Her' plays at the beginning of Henry's [Liotta's character] affair with Janice. Henry's voiceover announces that Friday nights are for the wives and Saturday nights are for girlfriends, as the song plays diegetically, with Vale performing in the club" (52). This study also notes that the music switches to being non-diegetic sound as it continues into cuts to Henry and Janice in the apartment he rents for her and also his wife Karen and their daughters.
The soundtrack in the film also communicates the general mood of any given scene. When Jimmy (Robert DeNiro) commits his murder spree, wacking the robbers who worked the Lufthansa job with him, the music is cheerful. "Layla", by Derek and the Dominos has a purely instrumental part during the second half of the film. The voiceover confirms this connection saying that Jimmy was happy. The viewer finds out that this good mood and music are due to the Tommy (Joe Pesci) getting made. Jimmy and Henry cannot be made into full members of the mob because they are not completely Italian. The music cuts out as tommy is being brought into where he will be made. The music is completely gone when he, and we, realize that he is instead going to be killed.
The music in this sequence is somewhat devastating, building up hope and good cheer before cutting out and leaving the death of a main character. This is indicative of the greater purpose of the soundtrack in this film. The music and sound in Goodfellas does not simply give backing for the action on the film. It masterfully provides context, support, and structure to the action taking place on screen.
It soon becomes clear that these car sounds are coming from the opening sequence in which Ray Liotta, Joe Pesci, and Robert DeNiro are driving to bury a dead body that turns out to still be alive. When this is discovered, Pesci's character stabs the body and DeNiro shoots him. The sounds of the gunshots fade away into the sound of distant traffic. This dissolve between sounds is just the tip of the iceberg as the Liotta's voiceover begins.
"As far back as I can remember I'd always wanted to be a gangster." This line is punctuated as it cuts off to the beginning of "Rags to Riches" by Tony Bennet. This song is a classic 40's style swing song that is, to me, quintessential and emblematic of gangsters and gangster films. Liotta's monologue continues in the style of a radio announcer, not is his pacing or voicing, but in the way that it goes right up until the lyrics of the song begin. He comes back in later as the song gets quieter again, but there is always a respect between the volume of the dialogue and the music and the soundtrack.
Later in the film this pattern continues and the songs continue their poignancy. The "Case Study on Goodfellas" from the book Short Cuts identifies a key scene in which this type of laying takes place. "Jerry Vale's 'Pretend You Don't See Her' plays at the beginning of Henry's [Liotta's character] affair with Janice. Henry's voiceover announces that Friday nights are for the wives and Saturday nights are for girlfriends, as the song plays diegetically, with Vale performing in the club" (52). This study also notes that the music switches to being non-diegetic sound as it continues into cuts to Henry and Janice in the apartment he rents for her and also his wife Karen and their daughters.
The soundtrack in the film also communicates the general mood of any given scene. When Jimmy (Robert DeNiro) commits his murder spree, wacking the robbers who worked the Lufthansa job with him, the music is cheerful. "Layla", by Derek and the Dominos has a purely instrumental part during the second half of the film. The voiceover confirms this connection saying that Jimmy was happy. The viewer finds out that this good mood and music are due to the Tommy (Joe Pesci) getting made. Jimmy and Henry cannot be made into full members of the mob because they are not completely Italian. The music cuts out as tommy is being brought into where he will be made. The music is completely gone when he, and we, realize that he is instead going to be killed.
The music in this sequence is somewhat devastating, building up hope and good cheer before cutting out and leaving the death of a main character. This is indicative of the greater purpose of the soundtrack in this film. The music and sound in Goodfellas does not simply give backing for the action on the film. It masterfully provides context, support, and structure to the action taking place on screen.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Once Upon a Time in the West
Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) by Sergio Leone is a powerful western with a powerful soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. It center Jill McBain, former prostitute turned frontier wife, Cheyenne, a wild west outlaw, and Harmonica, a man who plays music when he should talk and talks when he should play music. Jill has just moved to Sweetwater to find that her husband and his children have been recently gunned down. The people of the nearby town of flagstone initially believe the crime to have been committed by Cheyenne, but it is soon revealed that he was framed by Frank and the railroad tycoon, Morton. Harmonica enters the plot as a man tracking Frank, and teams up with Cheyenne and Jill to bring him to justice.
This conflict, however, is not what this film is about. It has been suggested (specifically to me by Filmmaker and professor Phil Solomon) that this film is about "the end of the west" as a product of feminizing or civilizing. I do not entirely disagree with this idea, and can certainly see some aspects of the film that demonstrate this. A new train to the pacific ocean is a central part of this film, with the land that is Sweetwater set to become a rich town right alongside it. Prior to this town and during the film, the land is overrun with outlaws and bandits. Once the town is built, there will be some semblance of authority in this land, i.e. it will become civilized. This process is also coupled with feminizing due to the correlation with Jill's arrival and her presence during the building of the town. She is there to give water to the men building; we understand from Cheyenne that it would not be distributed without a woman present.
These examples are compelling and I believe are definitely themes of the film. However, I think that Once Upon a Time in the Old West is about the evils of corporate capitalism and the defense of small business enterprise. John Fawell writes about this in his book The Art of Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. One major indicator of this theme, according to Fawell, is the characterization of and the relationship between Morton and Frank. He specifically cites the parallel between money and guns in the scene in which the viewer first meets Morton while he and Frank discuss the McBain job in Morton's Private car. As Frank sits behind Morton's elegant desk he muses. "it's almost like holding a gun...only much more powerful"(Fawell 104). Later in the scene Morton holds up a wad of cash (you know, big 19th century hundred dollar bills) to Frank's gun saying "There are many kinds of weapons, and the only one that can stop that is this"(104).
The connection between money and guns and violence is further strengthened in another scene in Morton's train car later in the film. Morton is being guarded by Frank's guns while Frank is in town hoping to put an end to the McBain business once and for all. Frank has these men their to protect the man that he views as a both a mentor and, less kindly, an avenue for his own success. Morton has begun to grow tired of Frank as he sees him as too rough and reckless to ever take over for him or be seen as a legitimate businessman. Accordingly, Morton buys Frank's guns by paying them to leave him and instead kill Frank. "But money, in the form of bribes, had easily dispatched the guns" (105).
Fawell also has discussed the idea of the film as a defense of small business, although not as explicitly. He discusses the difference between Morton's capitalist enterprise and McBain's, saying "Morton's dream is of his own glory...McBain's dream grows out of love for others" (110). Although this is still capitalist enterprise, McBain is not a railroad tycoon expanding for the sake of money and itself. He is a widower and a father and a newlywed trying to build some security and a legacy for his growing family.
While I can acknowledge it is not a perfect analogy, I believe there is sufficient evidence within the film to paint it as a commentary on the dark sides of capitalism. I have to think that it is not just a product of the Bernie Sanders campaign or my own personal lens. Perhaps Fawell puts it best when he says "Here the disillusioned Socialist seems to transpose the dream of twentieth century socialism on to the terrain of the old West. The final image o the film depicts a world in which the destructive machinery of capitalism has given way to a respect for workers and their comforts" (110).
This conflict, however, is not what this film is about. It has been suggested (specifically to me by Filmmaker and professor Phil Solomon) that this film is about "the end of the west" as a product of feminizing or civilizing. I do not entirely disagree with this idea, and can certainly see some aspects of the film that demonstrate this. A new train to the pacific ocean is a central part of this film, with the land that is Sweetwater set to become a rich town right alongside it. Prior to this town and during the film, the land is overrun with outlaws and bandits. Once the town is built, there will be some semblance of authority in this land, i.e. it will become civilized. This process is also coupled with feminizing due to the correlation with Jill's arrival and her presence during the building of the town. She is there to give water to the men building; we understand from Cheyenne that it would not be distributed without a woman present.
These examples are compelling and I believe are definitely themes of the film. However, I think that Once Upon a Time in the Old West is about the evils of corporate capitalism and the defense of small business enterprise. John Fawell writes about this in his book The Art of Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. One major indicator of this theme, according to Fawell, is the characterization of and the relationship between Morton and Frank. He specifically cites the parallel between money and guns in the scene in which the viewer first meets Morton while he and Frank discuss the McBain job in Morton's Private car. As Frank sits behind Morton's elegant desk he muses. "it's almost like holding a gun...only much more powerful"(Fawell 104). Later in the scene Morton holds up a wad of cash (you know, big 19th century hundred dollar bills) to Frank's gun saying "There are many kinds of weapons, and the only one that can stop that is this"(104).
The connection between money and guns and violence is further strengthened in another scene in Morton's train car later in the film. Morton is being guarded by Frank's guns while Frank is in town hoping to put an end to the McBain business once and for all. Frank has these men their to protect the man that he views as a both a mentor and, less kindly, an avenue for his own success. Morton has begun to grow tired of Frank as he sees him as too rough and reckless to ever take over for him or be seen as a legitimate businessman. Accordingly, Morton buys Frank's guns by paying them to leave him and instead kill Frank. "But money, in the form of bribes, had easily dispatched the guns" (105).
Fawell also has discussed the idea of the film as a defense of small business, although not as explicitly. He discusses the difference between Morton's capitalist enterprise and McBain's, saying "Morton's dream is of his own glory...McBain's dream grows out of love for others" (110). Although this is still capitalist enterprise, McBain is not a railroad tycoon expanding for the sake of money and itself. He is a widower and a father and a newlywed trying to build some security and a legacy for his growing family.
While I can acknowledge it is not a perfect analogy, I believe there is sufficient evidence within the film to paint it as a commentary on the dark sides of capitalism. I have to think that it is not just a product of the Bernie Sanders campaign or my own personal lens. Perhaps Fawell puts it best when he says "Here the disillusioned Socialist seems to transpose the dream of twentieth century socialism on to the terrain of the old West. The final image o the film depicts a world in which the destructive machinery of capitalism has given way to a respect for workers and their comforts" (110).
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