Let the Right One In (2008), dir. Tomas Alfredson

Now that we've all had sufficient time to adjust to the existence of Eclipse (2010), the latest installment in the horrifying, teeny-bopping Twilight franchise, I think it's high time I discuss a film that gives a bit of credibility to the vampire sub-genre.

Alright. Confession time: I am a closeted vampire lover.

Okay. Lie. I'm not even in the closet about the whole thing. I have a deep and passionate love for Joss Whedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997) and Angel (1999) and I'm a shameless fan of True Blood (2008) vamp Eric Northman (played by the outrageously attractive Alexander Skarsgaard). Vampire Bill Compton? Not so much. But the love is there regardless.

Vampire films have been around since the dawn of narrative filmmaking and Stephanie Meyer has obviously not seen a single one. Vampires harken back to the silent era when high contrast black and white film gave a particular flair to the dark eyes, white faces, black lips of the leading ladies. In fact, the silent era's femme fatale character was known as a "vamp" and served as a prequel to the iconic vampire image of the years to come. Actor Max Schreck's monstrous Count Orlok served as a marvelous pioneer for this nascent genre in F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922). Soon after Count Orlok came Count Dracula in Dracula (1931), starring perhaps the most famous vampire to date--Bela Lugosi. A seemingly infinite number of Dracula sequels ensued and Lugosi played the undead icon to perfection each time. As Lugosi petered out his final years in the company of methadone and the Worst Director of All Time, the ever-eccentric Ed Wood, Christopher Lee arrived to take on Dracula's imposing yet beloved mantle. And he did so with resulting panache. His long-term portrayal of Stoker's (in)famous protagonist began with Dracula (1958) and led to the production of seven more Dracula films, which became a part of the so-called Hammer Films series; Lee appeared as our fanged friend in all but two of the seven sequels.

These more traditional approaches to the retelling of Romanian and Eastern European folklore and/or Bram Stoker's novel gave way to more imaginative and sociologically influenced re-interpretations. The vampire moved away from his disfigured horror-of-the-night persona and grew into the role of marginalized outsider. Since the original figure of Dracula undeniably represented temptation, seduction, and sexuality, it is unsurprising that the gay and lesbian community adopted the template of the vampire film in order to express their own "unconventional" views on romance and relationships. Though lesbian undertones had certainly existed in previous vampire films, it was Roger Vadim's Blood and Roses (1960) that first explored the taboo subject openly. Then, in 1972, José Ramon Larraz directed the unapologetically homoerotic Vampyres. Race became another critical lens through which the vampire was analyzed. Blacula (1976) is a notable blaxploitation film that translates the white, European character of Dracula into an African man bitten by a vampire and then shipped off to L.A. in his coffin.

So what have we learned from this vampire legacy? It's hard to be dead, misunderstood, and longing for love! And it's hard to be a gay man! Or a lesbian woman! Or a racial minority!

Well, you know what else is hard? Being a bullied kid.

It seemed like too great a leap to make but novelist John Ajvide Lindqvist accomplished the seemingly impossible task of creating a child vampire in a children's world.

(Now, before you stop me, I know, I know--Anne Rice created a child vampire as well in her celebrated novel The Interview with the Vampire (also a fun film starring Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Kirsten Dunst). Rice's young vamp Claudia, however, really only maintains the body of a child. Mentally, she is most assuredly an adult during the majority of the narrative.)

Back to the point. Lindqvist? Yes. Right.

The year 2008 experienced a refreshing taste of brilliance with Tomas Alfredson's adaptation of Lindqvist's novel in Let the Right One In. Although most vampire films in the past have focused on repressed sexuality and societal prejudices, Let the Right One In chooses instead to tell a tender coming-of-age story in which a 12 year-old boy is taught the difficult lessons of courage and confidence by a child vampire.

Oskar is a bit of a misfit. Friendless and lacking in self-esteem, he wanders through life praying to go unnoticed--even if it means missing recess. An easy target for bullies, Oskar is frequently tormented and his divorced parents seem either unaware of their son's almost daily abuse or unsure how to handle it considering their already very important, adult lives. One day, a pale girl named Eli and an older man become Oskar's neighbors. The girl seems strange, immune to cold, and unfriendly but soon Eli and Oskar become fast friends, connected by their identities as outcasts and an unrealized interest in revenge. Once Eli becomes aware that Oskar has suffered at the hands of bullies, she encourages him to stand up for himself, a suggestion that leads to action and unforeseeable consequences for so many in the quiet Stockholm suburb.

I could write so much more about the deceptively simple plot of Let the Right One In but I think I'll be deliberately withholding instead. Maybe then you'll seek out this gem before the English-language remake sullies the feel of Alfredson's premier masterpiece. When I began this post I thought I would end up writing a rant about America's inability to appreciate foreign films and their unmitigated support for remakes in spite of the great injustice it does to the original film. Subtitles are just not that hard, guys. Really. I promise. Nevertheless, that fuse seems to have gone out and now I find myself wandering down the path of greater resistance. I find myself wanting to bring up Twilight.

Watch me as I toss my pride right out the window.

First of all, let me state for the record that though I have seen Twilight, New Moon, and Eclipse and have read the entire quartet willingly (though I completed the fourth book under considerable duress), I hate the franchise. R.Patts and K.Stew? I'm just not that into you guys. Taylor Lautner tries and the kid has charm so I'll cut him a break but STILL. It appears that the three of them lack the acting skill required to perform in an annual third grade play. Nevertheless, Twilight gives an interesting commentary on the evolution of the vampire story. Once again, it seems that we've found a tale meant to convey a coming-of-age scenario in which the vampire acts not as a reflection of the human character but as a foil. The old Dracula films were meant to symbolize the "monstrous," "untamed," and "frightening" force of repressed female sexuality and the sudden nighttime appearance of the good ol' Count in the bedroom excused all ensuing sexy times. Dracula allowed the (vulnerable) human to see him- or herself as s/he truly was--namely, a sexual creature. In the later re-interpretations, gay and lesbian spectators and black spectators were asked to identify with the vampire and audiences as a whole subsequently experienced mainstream society's way of seeing these minorities as unnatural or dangerous.

But what do Eli and Edward Cullen ask audiences to experience? Instead of showing audiences what they truly are underneath all of society's expectations, these two contemporary vampires work to show us what we aren't. Characters like Oskar and (the shockingly dull) Bella Swan seem all the more human next to their vamp co-stars and we as audience members relate to them naturally. We appreciate their low self-confidence, the incurable klutziness, the gullible natures. But why would we want to relate to these traits? Perhaps it is because kindness, mercy, and the desire for a real connection to another come with the less glamorous aspects of humanity. It's just a theory but so far it tracks.

It is my opinion that the vampire film is currently undergoing a refreshing change that highlights aspects of cinematic identification traditionally ignored. It's possible that the two tender stories portrayed in Let the Right One In and The Twilight Saga are flukes in the greater, overarching trend. However, it's equally as possible that they are representative of a subtle but profound change in the ways that vampires can reflect the best of humans rather the worst. Regardless, I can't wait to see what blood-sucking changes happen next!

Brick (2005), dir. Rian Johnson

There's really no reason to have a film blog if it doesn't mention film noir.

Seriously.

Of all the ideas developed and propagated by America the film genre known as film noir is absolutely the best. Although some film critics argue that film noir is not in fact its own genre but rather a "style" or a "mood", I find that its specific qualities and texture earn it a disambiguated place next to the likes of the immutable genres of screwball comedy, gangster film, western, musical, and melodrama. When film noir appeared in the 1940s, in a most notable and auspicious debut in The Maltese Falcon (1941) starring the king of noir, Mr. Humphrey Bogart, it established for itself a visual identity that features low-key lighting, shady settings, cigarette smoke, and the now unavoidably cliché Venetian blinds. Though the main character of a film noir story is frequently a private detective, he has also appeared under the title of police officer, harmless crook, or a once-innocent bystander. No matter his profession, the protagonist in noir is always rendered relatively helpless by the occurrence of a crime and the seedy, pervasive corruption of society. The conflict between the formerly isolated hero and the rest of the morally ambiguous world creates an irresolvable tension founded on alienation, cynicism, and the inability to trust anyone.

Let's just say that though noir may thrill, fill, and top-bill for audiences, it also never fails to kill them too. There's no optimism to be found in this no-good-man's land of narrative film.

That film noir must express some form of isolation has remained a reliable characteristic of the genre throughout its development. Many critics think that the emotional baggage of noir is inextricably tied to the trauma Americans underwent during WWII. In fact, film noir was not noticed as a particular genre until the Golden Age of Hollywood in the 1970s, a time during which directors and artists of all kinds felt the anti-patriotism that ran rampant during the Vietnam War. The 1940s produced films like The Maltese Falcon (1941), Double Indemnity (1944), and The Big Sleep (1946); the 1970s produced The Long Goodbye (1973) and Chinatown (1974).

Assuming this theory of genre relevance as a psychological reaction to political/international forces holds true (Geez, that was a mouth full.), it should come as no shock that Rian Johnson's sharp neo-noir Brick appeared in 2005 amidst the conflicts in the Middle East and North Korea. The plot limits itself to the melodramatic woes of high school though the influence of classic noir elevates traditional teen pressures to matters of life or death. Social misfit Brendan (the always beloved Joseph Gordon-Levitt) finds himself pulled into the dangerous underground world of drug trafficking, a world that transgresses the lines of cliques and eventually leads to the death of his ex-girlfriend Emily (Emilie de Ravin). In order to discover Emily's murderer and reveal the truth, Brendan must make dangerous alliances and gain the trust of pubescent wheelers, dealers, and thugs. With a cutting, sardonic screenplay, complete with noir's traditional witty repartée, and themes of sexuality, betrayal, and getting in over your head, Brick earns a solid A. With extra credit for being so damn clever.

Brick's Brendan seems to be the direct inheritor of all characteristics associated with the private eye of all private eyes--Phillip Marlowe. But the dear ol' Marlowe of yore, well, let's just say you'd never see him shed a tear for a love lost.

Hold on. I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a sec. My college requires that every incoming freshman take a writing-intensive seminar to prepare them for all college-level writing assignments to come. The seminars range widely in subject matter so there's something appealing for the biology major and the English major. Two years ago, Bryn Mawr added a freshman seminar entitled "Anxious Masculinity"--the only gender and sexuality course at Bryn Mawr to discuss the social and societal pressures endured by men in American society. The course examines, among other texts, Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club and Annie Proulx's Brokeback Mountain.

I can't even articulate how jealous I am that I was unable to take this course.

As interested as I am in having discussions about feminism (uh, see previous post for details...), I think it's just as relevant and occasionally more relevant to discuss the difficulties surrounding masculinity in this country. Since men hold the dominant position in the gender binary, it's critical to understand which traits "belong" to men so that women can analyze which oppositional traits they are "meant" to possess. Moreover, it's dismissive to believe that women are the only gender to get the short end of the stick in terms of uncomfortable gender roles. Frankly, it seems to me that both genders received short sticks and both could use a refreshing re-articulation of gender norms.

So back to my point about Brendan versus the Marlowe of yore: In sticking to the traditional elements of film noir dialogue, writer/director Johnson ensures that his audience hear quip after clever quip from our misfit protagonist. And yet--oh and yet!--there is an undeniable softness to the young teenage sleuth. Though he has an intense determination to uncover the truth and condemn the sketchy underworld that stole away his Emily, it seems that it is his desire to redeem himself in her eyes--to make up for past mistakes and the things unsaid--that really propels him forward throughout the narrative. One particular scene of compromised normative masculinity stands out to me: Toward the end of the film, once Brendan believes he has finally solved the mystery, he seeks a teary solace in the arms of Laura (Nora Zehetner) his "trusty" sidekick in a handful of scenes. Never before have I experienced a noir man so willing to embrace grief in such a real and vulnerable way. It's a shocking and fresh re-imagining of such a stock character in cinema and is perhaps my favorite element out of the entirety of Brick.

***SPOILERS BELOW***

Nevertheless, one of the most frustrating elements of film noir remained. The lead male, the dear and well-intentioned Brendan, was privileged enough to earn a bit of three-dimensionality. The females in the cast, however, were not so lucky. First let's revisit the ladies of film noir gone by: Lauren Bacall (a perfect woman as far as I'm concerned), Marlene Dietrich, Mary Astor, Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Barbara Stanwyck, etc. All of them are beautiful, deceitful, opportunistic traitors. They captivate and seduce the morally superior hero and lure him away from righteousness (Bacall and her singing; Dietrich and her you-can't-miss-them-even-miles-away legs) until they secure enough power to bring about his downfall. These are the femme fatales of film noir and their legacy lives on. The women of Brick--the aforementioned Laura (Zehetner), catty drama queen Kara (Meagan Good) and even sweet Emily (de Ravin)--are each degraded in turn.

There's nothing exceptionally lovable about Kara right from the get go. She's obviously manipulative, domineering, and chock full of ulterior motives. Film noir critics would have a field day over her ethnic status and film noir's questionable history with rooting female villainy in racial Otherness; noir has never seen anything non-white as a favorable addition to a plot. Regardless, it easy to see that she's up to no good so maybe we'll let it slide. But what about helpful young Laura? Well, if you've seen 1940s film noir, you probably saw this one coming a mile away: she won Most Likely to be the Femme Fatale way back at the start of the movie and she sees the role through in fine style. Need a another hint about her questionable associations? Well, her Japanese geisha costume at her Halloween in January party is likely to raise more than one critical eyebrow. But Emily! Innocent, murdered Emily! Surely she's in the clear! I mean, at least she's safely white, right? No can do. Looks like we've got to take her down a couple pegs as well. Not only is Emily a junkie with no credibility, it's more than heavily insinuated that she's been around the sexual block more than once. Indeed, she's made out to be quite the one-woman red-light district. And pregnant with a bastard child of mysterious parentage to boot! Sigh.

Now don't get me wrong: I truly enjoyed the film and I absolutely love that Joseph Gordon-Levitt got to show the world Mr. Marlowe's softer side. But, tell me, are the women of film noir ever going to catch a break? And when are the suspicious ethnic/racial undertones going to disappear from canon? Hopefully, the appearance of a new masculinity in film noir heralds a time in which femininity and non-white ethnicities can also develop and exist without implicit ties to deception and low morals. Here's to hoping!

An Education (2009), dir. Lone Scherfig

Last night, after spending the evening with a totally frustrating relative whose relationship to me I dare not mention online, I went for a drive to clear my head and locate the source of eternal solace--the video store. Of course, the local Blockbuster never fails to advertise some head-shakers. For instance, how is it that rom-com extraordinaire Valentine's Day (2010) manages to snag an entire wall for display while this year's (absolutely deserving) winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture--Kathryn Bigelow's mind-blowing The Hurt Locker (2008)--barely fills a single shelf?

But I digress.

Unlike most of my meandering visits to the video store, last night I walked those DVD-lined corridors with purpose. My mission: I must find An Education (2009). The film follows Jenny (played by the wonderfully enchanting Carey Mulligan), a smart, sophisticated girl whose imagination and intelligence surpass her status as a young woman in 1960s Britain. Jenny dreams of a world in which the greatest of novels always linger at her fingertips, classical concerts never end, and fine art hangs in every room. These fantasies are constantly dismissed by her practical parents (Alfred Molina and Cara Seymour) and her rigid headmistress (Emma Thompson. Need I say more about the film? It has Emma Thompson! Go watch it!). All of the adults in Jenny's life seem to live without passion, drive, or brilliance...

Until she meets David (the finally top-billed Peter Sarsgaard), a dashing, charismatic older man who offers to bring her into his world of jazz clubs, whirlwind trips to Paris, and anti-bourgeois philosophy. Now Jenny must navigate through two worlds: the world she's told to want and the world she's always wanted in spite of its dangers. Both choices come at a steep price but Jenny must finally learn the best way to get an education.

Okay. The summary ends there.

Now, I honestly loved the film! I don't want to say too much--you really should see this one for yourself--but the whole endeavor earned a solid B+ in my book. The acting was undoubtedly top-notch. Sarsgaard brings his A game, romancing me until I found myself hoping Jenny ditched her stodgy future at Oxford just for him, and Molina finds the perfect balance between the humorously out-of-touch parent and the truly caring dad. Thompson is perfect (obviously) in each of her brief though poignant scenes and Olivia Williams delivers a treat of a performance as Jenny's concerned English teacher Miss Stubbs. Nevertheless, it was Carey Mulligan who stole the show and I think it's an unavoidable fact that Miss Mulligan promises to rise to the head of her generation of young British actresses. The script offers a fresh portrayal of unconventional romance and the loss of sexual innocence. Though it occasionally drifts into the realm of moralizing tones, the story's message about the value (or lack thereof) of women's education was refreshingly contemporary.

Although An Education takes place in the 1960s, Jenny's opinions regarding the post-graduation value of female education are still overwhelming relevant in contemporary society. Fifty years later, I find that people of both genders question the extent to which women should be educated, for what purposes that education be used, and the ways in which women should vocally articulate the intelligence they possess. These issues have been at the forefront of my thoughts in recent years and I find that I still have no proper way to discuss the problems at hand. I attend Bryn Mawr College, a small, all-women's liberal arts college outside Philadelphia, PA. A Seven Sister school, Bryn Mawr College was founded in 1885 as an equivalent to the then all-male Ivy League universities. Bryn Mawr's emphasis on rigorous education and the ceaseless pursuit of knowledge in an environment free of sexism has not wavered once in all these years.

I have a deep--bordering on profound--love for my college. My appreciation for single-sex education grows exponentially with each passing year and, indeed, I now find myself believing that every woman with access to an all-women's education should experience it, if at all possible. Unfortunately, while at Bryn Mawr, I forget the outside world, the "real" world, and its opinion about outspoken, competitive women. When did "feminism" become such a dirty word? Why do the men at nearby colleges attend Bryn Mawr parties just to treat us like sex-starved pieces of meat? Why does it become more acceptable for Bryn Mawr women to be opinionated once we've been pigeon-holed as a "bunch of hairy lesbians"? And moreover, why do so many people think that my appreciation of my all-women's college is "just a phase"?

Watching An Education, I found myself identifying intensely with Jenny and her quest to find a world where her intelligence and independence could be accepted by those around her. Her parents couldn't understand her desire to attend Oxford unless she maintained the ulterior motive of securing a husband and even David and his "progressive" friends couldn't truly accept her presence without her romantic connection to an older, more experienced man. Half a century later, I return home from college to find myself plagued by questions like, "Are you dating yet?", "Are you at least going to attend a graduate school where there are men?", and "How are you ever going to get married and have children when you attend a school with only girls?"

It's exhausting. And it feels ridiculous! If the purpose of higher education is simply to ensure that females discover husbands and that they eventually take up the torch of the domestic sphere, why do female students even bother? Why are we not just put up for auction (an auction house being the meaningful location of Jenny and David's second date)? Why is it so difficult to understand that many female students--like Jenny--want an education to have an education? Sometimes it feels like female education is just one highly expensive sham. Adults today pay grossly exorbitant tuition fees to send their daughters to the best schools and thus appear to respect the intelligence and drive of young women. But underneath all this, they maintain the singular importance of marriage and, by extension, the idea that men must lead in a relationship in terms of both education accrued and careers possessed.

At the end of the day, I find that I have no answers just more questions. Indeed, I feel I only have the Bryn Mawr motto: "Veritatem Dilexi."

"I delight in the truth."

And I do.