burntends88

A husband, father and teacher. Film is my passion, and I believe learning is a lifelong journey. You can find me on Twitter @BurntEnds88

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An idealistic father lives with his six children in the wilderness and teaches them essential lifesaving skills. But when his wife commits suicide, he must make a choice that could have his children taken from him.

Fig. 1 – from left to right: Zaja; Nai; Bodevan; Rellian; Kielyr; Vespyr

Whether we agree or not, directors choose to reflect their ideologies through the characters they serve. Especially when that said director had a hand in the writing of the screenplay too.

Matt Ross is no exception, and if you haven’t seen Captain Fantastic then please find time and give it a chance. This is a grower. The more times I see this film, the more I like it. In fact,

For me, watching film is like being on a roller-coaster of emotions. One moment you’re laughing, the next you’re on the brink of tears. You’re happy. You’re thrilled. You’re shocked. You’re confused.

But what triggers these emotions?

Directors use film-making techniques to try and manipulate your response, but not all spectators react in the same way. The debate is whether filmmakers have control either by the film’s style and tone, or by the way the narrative is constructed and how the characters are portrayed.

It also helps if you like the actors involved, or the genre for that matter. There are so many variables to consider and that includes the role of the spectator and his / her own personal experiences.

We bring all of ourselves to a film and want in the end to feel satisfied.

Fig. 2

In Captain fantastic, it is clear that Ross wants to establish a binary opposite of ideals.

Two families are sat opposite each other to demonstrate their contrasts in an master shot to allow the spectator to get a sense of geography about the scene before we’re given close ups.

The intention here is to ascertain which of the parenting styles are more favourable to the spectator. Ross is deliberate in constructing the scene so you align yourself with Ben. Notice how we are positioned behind Ben (Viggo Mortensen) and more in line with his children on the left?

When the topic of Leslie's (Ben's wife) suicide is brought up, the Cash family display a remarkable sense of maturity, whereas the others flounder with emotional outbursts in trying to shield the graphic facts from the two boys on the right.

The costume of Ben's children compared to their counterparts are a reflection of their affinity with nature – a theme, which runs through the entirety of the film's narrative – in contrast to that of the bland, familiarity of urban living.

Fig. 3 – our introduction to Ben Cash is one of raw masculinity. The mud, knife and bloodied hands compliment the gruff beard and unkempt hair

Before we ever meet Ben and his children, we are first treated to an establishing tracking shot, gliding over the lush wilderness of the Pacific Northwest with blue skies above.

The film's opening scene takes a good minute before we transition with an edit for the first time.

Stare at a screen for 60 seconds to picture just how long you're afforded time to reflect on the tranquility of that moment.

Consider then the meaning behind the opening image of the films you watch and what theme is being established.

The first transition takes us beneath the canopies to a babbling brook with the serene sounds of nature soothing our minds.

Fig. 4

As the spectator settles in and feels at ease by the tranquility of their surroundings, a violent act of masculinity punctuates the moment and introduces our second theme, whereby Ben's eldest son, Bodevan (George Mackay), kills a deer with a hunting knife in a transition to manhood – Ben proclaims on his son completing the deed, “Today the boy is dead, and in his place is a man.”

Bodevan's siblings, having emerged from under camouflage, watch in awe, knowing they too will one day follow in his footsteps as they come of age.

Fig. 5

What follows is the showing of their equilibrium – a series of life lessons on surviving in the wild, reading, the playing of musical instruments.

All of the children display an amazing sense of intelligence and maturity beyond their years. Herein lies a third theme – family.

Emotionally, we are inspired by Ben's way with his children and admire him for it. We question our own existence in the 'real world' as a result.

Fig. 6

Within the opening act, we learn of Leslie's passing as a result of suicide while being treated in hospital suffering from bipolar disorder.

Ben's position under the waterfall masks his grief – the spectator is subjected to the deafening diegetic sounds of crushing water, rooting our viewpoint firmly in line with Ben's internal thoughts of confusion and an overwhelming sense of responsibility, which now rests on his shoulders.

Consider also the establishing shot to insinuate Ben's vulnerability as he is dwarfed by his surroundings. To accentuate this further, he is positioned to the lower edge of the frame to connote him as an outcast. Our emotional response is one of sadness.

Fig. 7

Ben's resolve is put to the test and there are several instances where Ross asks us to question Ben’s parenting from here on in.

Rellian (Nicholas Hamilton) for all intents purpose is pitted against his own father to allow the spectator to question Ben’s ideals. When Ben informs the children of their mother’s passing, it is Rellian who reacts with anger.

They are all afforded close up shots of their sobbing faces under low-key lighting as if to reinforce the downbeat tone further while Ben watches, seemingly unmoved. We feel sympathy for the children.

Rellian reacts with anger and takes a knife, holding it up to Ben who is unflinching. The shot lingers as we wait for Rellian to follow though. Rellian’s siblings watch also, unsure of the outcome.

Rellian turns away and stabs at a wooden post repeatedly in a series of close ups. He is distraught. His father denied him the opportunity to see his mother one last time.

Quick cuts are used to give the scene a violent tone and to highlight the shear sense of anger permeating through Rellian.

Fig. 8

The immediate sequence is one that paints Ben as a harsh taskmaster – he has his children continue their learning by climbing a steep cliff face the morning after. He doesn't allow them any more time to grieve. The clouds are menacing and the rain comes down hard on them.

Rellian slips and almost falls, and instead of Ben rushing to help him, he tells his son to save himself. He offers words of encouragement only and while Rellian makes it to safety, we are left thinking if Ben is endangering his children.

The dullness of the setting and desaturated colour palette here is in stark contrast to the opening, suggesting to the spectator that we hold this moment as a negative towards Ben.

We have experienced in the first act a multiple array of emotions ranging from awe inspired and admiration to sympathy and dismay, as the family are about to embark on a journey of self discovery as they travel to attend Leslie's funeral.

Fig. 9

On their travels, the rear-view mirror frames Ben alone – he is isolated from his children who sit in the back. When we transition with a cut to the children, we see them in a wide, as a group.

By doing so, we are again reminded of the divisive nature of Ben's methods. While they are a family unit, there is clear rift between them also.

The spectator is intermittently treated to point of view shots from Ben of what seem like dreams of his wife smiling down at him and softly whispering to him about having done the right thing by their children.

This is no accident – the eye-line is not just Ben’s. It is ours. We are forced to experience his internal process through the camera – Leslie (Trin Miller) making direct address. It becomes intimate and we are therefore forced to align ourselves not just with Ben on an emotional level, but also of his ideals.

Fig. 10

Leslie's funeral is awash with binary opposites and it's here where we first meet Jack (Frank Langella) who plays her grieving father.

You can see by their costumes, the Cash family are anything but traditional. They defy it. They are out of touch with the modern world, as expressed by they way they live in the wild.

The juxtaposition is jarring and Jack has them banished when Ben makes a scene.

Fig. 11

Jack is well-to-do – he exudes the capitalist ideology that Ben dismisses. But Jack is no villain – he's never painted in that way. He is simply exerting his way of life in the same way Ben exerts his, as an advocate of Noam Chomsky and his anarcho-syndicalist ideals.

Jack's way of life is an alluring beacon to Rellian who continues to conflict with his father and voices his decision to stay with his grandfather.

When sending Vespyr (Annalise Basso) in to 'rescue' Rellian, she falls from the rooftop and fractures her neck – millimetres away from breaking it.

It is here where Ben searches within himself and makes the ultimate sacrifice, believing he actually is a danger to his children.

Fig. 12

Rellian has his back turned towards Ben in an act of defiance. His body language, with his arms folded, is cold and distant. He blames his father for his mother's passing and he cannot let that go.

When Ben looks to Rellian before leaving, for once, Ben is viewed from a high angle and Rellian from a low angle. This demonstrates their shifting in power and tugs at the heartstrings of the spectator as a result as Ben walks away, alone.

Fig. 13

There are three components to this all important scene – the shot type, performance and editing.

The close up depicts a distraught Ben, while the editing is purposeful in holding onto the shot for as long as possible. You are hard pressed not to experience the same emotional response as Ben, asking us to consider,

When we do transition we are treated to the rear-view mirror shot once more (fig. 9) and when Ben looks back, there is a wide of an empty bus.

However, it’s not just the techniques utilised in this moment that triggers the response in the spectator. We have invested much of the film in Ben up to this point – the conventional structure of the narrative meant that we have grown with Ben and experienced his highs and lows as he experienced them also.

Ben is clearly pained by the decision he has taken for the good of his children. And we share that pain with him.

In the final third of the film Ben shaves his beard as a symbol of his growth as a person. He is shedding his old self to reveal anew. The low-key lighting plays its role once more in establishing his ‘all is lost’ moment, dampening the mood, making the spectator feel sorry for Ben.

Our spirits are lifted the moment the children, including Rellian emerge from the bus – mirroring the opening sequence where they emerged from the surrounding wilderness. Only this time, their emergence is one of relief and joy as we see them united.

Fig. 14

Bodevan bids farewell at the airport to embark on his own personal adventure and real-life learning instead of attending an Ivy League college.

Notice in particular from the equilibrium (fig. 3), Bodevan has switched places with his father within the frame. This is a true transition of growth for both characters.

Because we shared all the previous ups and downs with the Cash family, we can now breathe a sense of relief for them. We are happier for them now than we were at the start.

Fig. 15

The closing moments depicts a noticeable difference from the equilibrium, the family look remarkably content – gone away are the raw, primal instincts of survival and replaced with a familiar setting.

The shot lingers for an age – we are at peace. Once again, we align with Ben as someone to admire, and in turn respect his political ideologies – and in doing so, rejecting those of capitalism.

The high-key lighting and homely trinkets compliment the mood as they all sit together as equals at a round table. Rellian is noticeably sat at his dad’s side – they have overcome their differences.

The conclusion is book-ended as a result and a new equilibrium is born, where characters have grown and established roots.

Even Steve the bus has had his tyres removed as if to suggest they are no longer travelling from place to place, but instead, have found comfort and understanding between two wilds – the revolutionist philosophy of industrial unionism and corporate America.

Our emotional response is one of satisfaction.

Perhaps then, the message here is to find compromise when the time period suggests there is none.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1kH4OMIOMc

- All screenshots are from the IMDB 'photo gallery'

- Main banner image in header is from unsplash by Timothy Eberly

Click on the links to read more Film Archives posts:

Fight Club (Fincehr, 1999)

L.A. Confidential (Hanson, 1997)

Shaun of the Dead (Wright, 2004)

Moon (Jones, 2009)

Double Indemnity (Wilder, 1944)

When looking at ways in which the spectator's emotional response is triggered, it's important not to overlook the editing process, as holding onto a shot, or cutting with rapid transitions can change the mood and create different meanings.

In addition, editing is also about the stitching of 'selected' footage together in a particular sequence, and how much time you spend with one character over another.

The process of mediation whereby the director invariably leaves footage out demonstrates how we are without doubt shown what the director wants to show us, which in turn gives us insight into their beliefs.

Ross offers us a glimpse into an ideal world free from corporate America. 2015 was a time where the US had to make a choice between Trump and Clinton. Republican or Democrat. In Captain Fantastic, Ross takes us on a different political tour, but not one you might have been familiar with.

As always, I want to say a huge thank you for reading these Film Archives and supporting my efforts on the Coil platform.

If you haven't already then feel free to follow me on Twitter and on Coil too so you don't miss out on more Film Archive posts!

A nameless insomniac embarks on a dangerous journey of self-discovery with an anarchist to upend a system of conformity.

Let the revolution begin.

Based on the novel of the same name by Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, under the direction of Fincher, looks to explore the consequences of the shifting balance in gender during a time of cultural and social upheaval. Sumptuous cinematography is designed to establish ideologies, pushing unto the spectator the film’s messages and values.

The Narrator’s (Edward Norton) attendance at the testicular cancer group sets the stall out in the equilibrium phase of the restricted narrative.

By restricted, the plot is revealed to us as and when the hero becomes aware of new information. This is to place us firmly in the hero’s mind-set, which helps us to see the world as the hero views it.

Fig. 1

The medium close up shot is claustrophobic and slowly tracks back to reveal more of the space – we find ourselves inside a gymnasium with a circle of seated, like-minded men in despondent mood. Emptiness descending into darkness around them symbolic of their inner turmoil.

What is significant is the choice of location, low-key lighting and performances. An American flag hangs in the background shrouded in darkness. Men’s outpouring of grief, as they console one another. And then there’s Robert Paulsen, A.K.A Bitch Tits Bob (Meat Loaf).

Fig. 2

This is the Narrator’s first interaction with Bob, and it’s initially a reluctant one. The Narrator’s voice-over tells us of Bob’s plight – divorced, estranged from his children and bankrupt. He has literally and symbolically been castrated. Add Bob’s high-pitched voice and his large breasts as a result of hormone treatment for his illness and you are left with the embodiment of the emasculated man of the late 1990s.

It’s interesting to note also that Bob used to be a bodybuilder – muscular and in top physique – only to now see him as an overweight and saggy man-mountain.

Fig. 3

The gymnasium adds weight to symbolise a place of masculinity, though masked by low-key lighting, presents a downbeat tone. The shadowed American flag immediately brings to mind patriotism, but perhaps to suggest that America has lost its way, as it struggles to adjust to the shifting balance of power between the sexes.

Fig. 4

To accentuate this further, take the sequence prior to this, the nesting scene where our hero, the Narrator sits on the toilet thumbing through a magazine. He tilts it as though he’s reading an adult issue (a very masculine thing to do), only to reveal it is in fact an IKEA catalogue.

The very mention of it being titled ‘nesting’ immediately brings to mind maternal connotations. Yet, it’s a man doing online shopping to decorate his apartment with feminine tones and trinkets. Soft pastels and details about what type of ornaments to own are very much considered effeminate traits.

The mise-en-scene plays a vital role in communicating these messages, highlighting the importance of film language as a tool to inform and educate spectators.

Fig. 5

This is Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter). She impedes his progress. She represents women of society whereas the Narrator represents men of society. She is therefore seen to impede on men’s progress.

Marla is a binary opposite in terms of ideology and cuts a figure of masculinity more so than he does – the dark exterior and closed off persona adds to her lack of emotional attachment to anything or anyone. Perhaps hardened by the inequalities in a society that proceeded before her.

Fig. 6

Marla’s blatant disregard for the feelings of the Narrator, and the Narrator’s emotional gesticulations are a reversal of the gender stereotype. She is unashamedly unapologetic, displaying a sense of disregard for anyone else. Quite a selfish outlook – a mirror in the face of men? Or, perhaps a mirror in the face of radical feminism? Are we meant to like her at this stage? I’m not so sure we are.

Fig. 7

Marla is self-loathing. She is a loner, and quite possibly in need of rescuing.

The film explores how the Narrator regresses into primal mode, but also looks at how women, through Marla, struggles to come to terms with the weight of change and responsibility that comes with it.

Fig. 8

Progressing further into the narrative it is clear that Marla’s arc is shifting back to ‘normality’ – the pastel pink 'princess' dress and her feelings for the Narrator seem genuine – a distinct departure from the equilibrium.

However, there still maintains a rift between the two, as though the balance of their identities are still in flux – reflecting a time of uncertainty about the representation of gender.

Fig. 9

The Narrator’s choice of power animal can only add weight to the argument of his masculinity being put into question. The bird itself cannot fly. And more interestingly enough, it’s a bird whereby the male of the species tends to the young rather than the female.

Fig. 10

His inner cave is cold and frozen – empty even – demonstrating the Narrator’s inner turmoil and suffering, as he searches for warmth and belonging.

He finds it in Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt).

Fig. 11

He’s flamboyant and assured.

He’s confident and in top physical shape.

He’s intelligent and a leader.

He’s unattached and successful.

He is the embodiment of masculinity and everything the Narrator wants to be.

The Narrator’s grey suit compliments his outlook on life up to this moment, whereas Tyler offers the spectator something fresh and unique. The costume’s colour is vivid and strong – it has life and zest.

Tyler is pleasing to the eye and suggests a position of positivity, unlike the Narrator who has offered nothing about his life for the spectator to get behind.

Tyler’s outfits throughout the film are very much stylised on the 1970s. The time period was fraught with conflict between the people and its governments,

Tyler embodies these values, expressing freedom from oppression in the face of authority. The 1970s brought about it cynicism and paranoia just as it did in times of conflict before it.

To those who have seen the film, reflect back at the way the Narrator's paranoia kicks in, and yet no one believes him.

Fig. 12

The Narrator feeds off Tyler and is soon at odds with his position at the office as a result. The working environment is bland and desaturated – the costumes of the employees blend into the setting while the mundane office action helps to paint an unhealthy lifestyle for our hero.

We are being asked to reject this debilitating pattern of repetition – to rebel against authority and embody the counterculture movement once more.

But what are we rebelling against on an ideological level? The rise of feminism in the 1990s seems to be a good starting position for these men.

Men such as the Narrator have become withdrawn from society, unsure of how they are going to fit into this changing world.

They are angry and they want a release.

Fight Club would be that release.

Fig. 13

The low angle and low-key lighting positions the spectator to reflect on Tyler. His physique is sculptured and he sports cuts and bruises from a brutal bare-knuckled fight. Is this supposed to be what a real man looks like?

The raucous chanting and rhythmic camera movement passing across their gleeful faces is punctuated with exaggerated sound effects of bone being crushed against concrete in a graphic depiction of violence that’s as much ritualistic as it’s salacious.

These men are in their element and their numbers swell in no time, such is their appetite to 'feel more like themselves' and rebel against the surge of change that’s sweeping the nation at the time.

Fig. 14

Fincher’s telling reference to The Death of Marat by Jacques-Louis David (1793) looks to flesh out Tyler’s characterisation as a revolutionist to support the meaning of rebellion insinuated by the connotations of his 1970s persona.

Fig. 15

The two of them converse about who they would want to fight. At first, William Shatner is billed. Significance? William Shatner is best known for his role as Captain James T. Kirk in Star Trek. His character is as tough as they come – he exuded masculinity. What better way to prove your own masculinity than to beat the Captain of the Enterprise?

But no, as if to give more credence to the film’s message about men’s battle against the rising tide of feminism, the Narrator’s growth in personifying Tyler’s ideals is almost complete when he later suggests fighting Ghandi.

Good answer.

Ghandi was a nonviolent demonstrator who fought for women’s rights. A direct nod to appeal to the senses of an angry male demographic in search of their fading identity as patriarchs.

Fig. 16

As the film moves into its destructive phase during 'Project Mayhem', its message becomes muddled – no more are we meant to idealise the values that embody Tyler Durden, instead, Fincher asks us to question them.

Fincher's attempt at self-reflexivity is evidenced further with reference to A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick, 1971) – a seventies film, to reiterate the age of rebellion, and to tip his hat once more to explain Tyler's characterisation – the image (fig. 16) paints one of intimidation and seeks to distance ourselves from such terrorist acts during the film's final third.

The low-angle shot and claustrophobic, tight framing supports the choice of face-wear to connote a negative tone. The Narrator (and the spectator) questions the purpose of the revolutionist movement he started with Tyler.

As chaos ensues, the Narrator softens his views on identity, and in some way, submits to the inevitable changes that are afoot.

Fig. 17

The final shot positions both of our characters side by side holding hands. However, their silhouettes offer a message of uncertainty for what’s in store for them both in the future. Who’s leading who? Is the film suggesting the two of them stand as equals?

Marla has square shoulders while the Narrator sports an ‘A’ frame, juxtaposing our perceptions of masculinity. The Narrator seems forlorn in his body language and the trench coat makes it look as though he wears a dress.

Are we to assume then that the Narrator (representing men) has resigned to the change that’s upon them?

If I did have a tumour, I’d name it Marla.

The line coming from the Narrator, supposes itself as a social commentary on the crisis of masculinity.

While Tyler Durden metamorphosed into the worst of it, Fincher, through the Narrator is perhaps suggesting that voices such as Marla’s are attacking the ideals of what used to constitute male dominance.

The name, Marla, is after all an anagram for ‘alarm’.

Marla / this interpretation of a woman, sounds the death knell for patriarchy.

Click the link for Seth's terrific review of Fight Club.

- Fig. 3, 4, 8 – 10 are screen-grabs from the DVD (Fox Searchlight)
- All other screenshots are from the IMDB 'photo gallery'
- Main banner image in header is from unsplash by Timothy Eberly

Wonder Woman (Jenkins, 2017)

Captain Fantastic (Ross, 2015)

L.A. Confidential (Hanson, 1997)

Shaun of the Dead (Wright, 2004)

Moon (Jones, 2009)

Double Indemnity (Wilder, 1944)

Thank you Coil subscribers for supporting content creators. If you would like to subscribe and join the platform, earning money from your posts by creating and sharing your own content then please sign up to Coil here for $5 a month.

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The weather gods finally smiled down on the UK – so what did I do? I wheeled out the barbecue of course.

Because we're geographically challenged, we don't get the chance to cook over coals as much as I would like. Burgers? Sausages? Nope.

I thought I'd push the boat out a little further and show you souvlakia – Greek style! I am of Greek heritage and barbecuing is ingrained into us.

INGREDIENTS

For the souvlakia

Pork Fillet

Coriander Seeds (whole)

Red Wine

Pitta Bread

For seasoning

Sea salt

Coarse Black Pepper

For the salad accompaniment

Onions (red and / or white)

Bell Peppers

Cucumber

Tomato

Parsley

METHOD

For the souvlaki

Cut your pork fillet into hearty chunks and place into a zip-lock bag.

Take a small glass of wine and tip it into the bag along with a handful of whole coriander seeds. Pour another glass for you to enjoy while you prep.

Massage the bag so the marinade gets to know the pork really well and put in to the fridge for at least 2 hours (you can do this the night before and leave overnight).

For the salad

Slice up your cucumber and cut up your tomatoes any way you like them (I personally don't like tomatoes so I left them out). Chop up your parsley and mix all three together.

Dice your bell peppers and onion into large pieces (see image).

Skewer the pieces, alternating the peppers with the onions.

Get your barbecue set up and light the coals. While the coals burn, you have time to skewer the pork.

Only when the coals are white should you start the cooking process. If you put the food on too early then it's more likely to char on the outside and not cook through.

Use the sea salt and the coarse black pepper to season once the skewers are on the barbecue.

Place pittas on the barbecue grill for enough time for them to puff out and warm through (you can do this using an oven).

You are now ready to assemble your ingredients.

Tuck in!

Don't forget to drink the rest of the bottle!

TIP: Don't go cheap on the red wine for the marinade. If the wine isn't something you would want to drink then why would you want to use it in your food to eat?

All images in this post are my own.

Still hungry? Click the link for other delicious recipes from the Food Club:

Steak and Onion Ciabatta

Salami Heatwave

Thank you Coil subscribers for supporting content creators. If you would like to subscribe and earn money for your posts then please sign up to Coil here for just $5 a month.

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I hope you had fun with these – all images are my own (except for the GIFs of course, which can be found here).

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A murder investigation intertwines the lives of three detectives on realising their individual cases are all linked.

If ever a film deserving of the Oscar for Best Film, but not winning it, this is it! Travesty doesn’t even scarcely cover the injustice of that particular year of nominations for the category. I hope to therefore shed some light onto possibly a lesser known film within the mainstream cinema-going circuit.

Fig. 1

Based on the novel by James Ellroy, L.A. Confidential is a film that explores masculinity, power and police corruption in a way that exposes the façade of the American Dream in the 1950s.

No longer were films bound by the criteria set by the Hays Code. L.A. Confidential strips away the absurdity of the standards it set, to unmask harsh truths and unpick at the threads of deceit.

Fig. 2

In L.A. Confidential, Hanson explores the representation of gender in particular, focusing on the swing of power between the sexes.

Messages about masculinity of the late 1990s against the early 1950s are put under the microscope and can be supported through the transformation of Bud White (Russell Crowe), a Los Angeles police officer, and the anti-hero of this neo-noir.

Fig. 3

When we meet him, he’s staking out a suburban home – the wide shot is a picture perfect postcard of everything an honest family dreamed of, presenting an idyllic image.

But there’s something not quite right – diegetic sounds of a vicious argument between a man and a woman are confirmed when on closer inspection and through the window we see the man violently shake the woman.

Bud calls it in and confronts the man – a one-sided fist fight ensues with Bud demonstrating the epitome of the stereotype, rescuing the damsel in distress. It’s this any viewer should perhaps look out for – in the case of this film, the first act explores stereotypes of the time period the narrative is set in.

By the end of the film, there is a transformation to question our perception of these stereotypes to address the sensibilities of current society from the year of the film’s production.

Fig. 4

We learn as the narrative progresses that Bud is often used as a hammer for the Chief of Detectives (James Cromwell) – to do the things others won't do without asking questions.

The low angle shot exemplifies Bud's position as the tough as nails enforcer for the Los Angeles Police Department. He cuts an imposing figure of authority and the low-key lighting further emphasises the shady approach to interrogation, shining a spotlight on police corruption.

Fig. 5

Jumping to the film’s closing sequence, we see Bud White as a broken and emasculated man. Not far off from the image of how some men felt in 1997, as women’s rise to prominence had clearly had an impact on their psyche. Men in the late 1990s and into the noughties were experiencing a crisis of masculinity (in some way, they still are).

The effects of feminism clearly taking a toll how men see themselves – their identity for such a long period of time has been to ‘be a man’, or ‘act like a man’, or ‘man up’. These are truly damaging words, and should have no place in conversation for new generations coming through into this world.

In the image, the high angle on Bud White shows his vulnerability, which is emphasised further by having him seated in the back, nursing a gunshot wound to his cheek.

He’s unable to speak – of all the places he could have been shot, why this area? His voice has been taken from him, much like men’s voices are very seldom heard in times of their anguish.

The higher rate of suicide for men is startling and yet not often spoken about. Is a man’s voice not equal to a woman’s in time of equality? Here, Bud's transformation is almost complete.

Fig. 6

When looking at Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger), her introduction is similar to that of Phyllis Dietrichson in Double Indemnity.

Lynn is an alluring siren to Bud. He stares at her as she walks in, snared by her beauty – the blonde hair, red lipstick, expensive taste in clothes – she exudes sex appeal. She is our femme fatale. The stereotype for noir films at the start of the narrative.

But this femme fatale is not the same as the ones we are familiar with from the films made in the 1940s and 1950s. For Lynn, we are offered more time to explore her backstory.

After she and Bud fall for each other, they are seen lying in bed together. She tells him of the future she dreams of while he tells her of his past. Both characters provide the spectator with opportunity to sympathise with them.

Fig. 7

Lynn’s bedroom is awash with warm tones, setting the stall out as someone we can like and trust. Feminine touches adorn every corner – this is clearly a woman with a good heart.

We discover a pillow with the word Bisbee stitched into it, as Bud asks her about the name – it’s a place. She's a small-town girl from Arizona. A long way from the glamour and glitz of sin city she was drawn to.

This is a deliberate plot-point to immediately let us into her world so we can pity her, instead of negatively judging her based on what her lifestyle was prior to this scene – a prostitute for a high-end agency.

Thus, revealing the reality of the American Dream – an illusion or nightmare built on a false promise of fame and fortune.

It is an integral scene halfway though the narrative, and key to setting up Lynn’s arc at the end. It’s essentially the pivot point to realign her path to redemption.

Fig. 8

Her final sequence in the film is glorious. Because Lynn showed willing to change unlike Phyllis before her, she – a femme fatale remember – survives a noir film!

We see it in her costume – the pastel yellow summer dress and shortened hair, and the make-up is gentle and soft in comparison to the stark and vivid application from her earlier scenes.

The warm tones once more exemplify her escape from a cold world. Her transformation is almost complete.

Fig. 9

We are now with Bud in the back seat of the car where we left him. She joins him with Ed Exley (Guy Pearce) who says his goodbyes to them both.

Fig. 10

The scene continues with Lynn getting behind the wheel and driving off into the sunset in search of her hometown so she can open up that dress shop.

She is literally in the driving seat of their relationship. She is going into business for herself – to lead. She is rescuing Bud. She is doing all of the things expected of a man.

And she is doing it because today women are rightly asserting their position as equals in a patriarchal world.

Lynn’s arc is finalised with positivity, while Bud’s is one of uncertainty. A once brute force, personifying masculinity, he now paints a pitiful figure that is emasculated and domesticated.

Fig. 11

Perhaps though, what is interesting is how Ed is promoted, demonstrating men’s success. But why him and not Bud? Bud is of the old-style stereotype of what a man is. There is no place in an equal society today for this type of man.

Ed on the other hand is more sensitive and thoughtful. He gets to succeed, as he’s adjusted to changes in gender roles. Ed is more of the type of men we want in today’s world and so he is permitted to continue striving for success.

Thus, demonstrating how stereotypes of gender are often explored at the equilibrium stage of a narrative, but by the end, a transformation depicts how gender is thought of today by the time of its resolution.

Fig. 12

To put the narrative into context, it’s important to explore Ed Exley also. In the equilibrium, we are introduced to him as a fresh-faced officer insistent on following orders and completing tasks by the book.

Nothing extraordinary about that – during the Hays Code era, no authoritative figurehead was to be ridiculed. As in the opening credit sequence states, the police would be made out as though they could ‘walk on water’.

However, this isn’t the 1950s anymore. This is post-Hays Code and anything goes. Police corruption was rife back then, but you wouldn’t know it because of film regulation. L.A. Confidential takes the Hays code and rips it apart – exploring corruption within the L.A. police force from top to bottom.

Fig. 13

The setting of Los Angeles is such a key component of noir film – go ahead and check out other noir titles and see where they are predominantly set.

It’s a place known for drawing in the wide-eyed young to its bosom only to poison their hearts and realign their moral compass.

A compass that was once set on the straight and narrow, its needle now points askew, leading our good officer to yearn for power and glory whatever the cost.

Fig. 14

At first he resists it – all good protagonists refuse the call to adventure on first asking – but then he seizes on an opportunity to elevate his position to that of a detective. His first real case? The 'Nite Owl Massacre'.

Such is his desire to solve the case, he succumbs to bending the rules. Ed is used as a pawn and is lured by Lynn on the demands of her superior at Fleur-di-Lis.

This is all designed to enrage our brutish anti-hero who is set loose on Ed, to take him out of the equation for getting too close in his mission to expose the lies and deceit of prominent members of the political hierarchy.

Who is pulling the strings from above? By this point the spectator is let in on it. A genius plot point that raises our blood levels and has on the edge of our seats.

Fig. 15

Ed evolves further, surviving the onslaught of Bud to team up with his nemesis to find the real killers of the Nite Owl Massacre. A bloody gun battle ensues against the manipulators, resulting in Bud taking a shot to the face and Ed having to make a decision that will complete his transformative cycle.

Along the way, Ed loses the spectacles and toughens up. An almost reversal of Bud White.

Fig. 16

Ed is subsequently honoured and promoted for solving the case, accepting that the world is not black and white, but in fact a murky grey, and if you want to survive it then you’re going to have to get your hands dirty along the way.

Made ‘today’, but set in the past, filmmakers must find ways in which to relate to contemporary audiences. They do this by representing the attitudes and beliefs of the time a film is produced within its story and through the characterisation of the main players.

L.A. Confidential is one of the more complicated as narratives go. There are many characters to keep up with and many of these characters have intersecting storylines to navigate you though a labyrinth of murder, intrigue and cynicism – it is truly outstanding and warrants multiple viewings to truly appreciate its sumptuous beauty.

And there’s perhaps the most unexpected and shocking death I’ve ever seen in film. I never saw it coming and it still resonates with me today!

All of which elevates L.A. Confidential into my all-time top 10 films!

- Fig. 3, 7, 9 and 10 are DVD screen-grabs (Warner Bros. 1997)

- All other screenshots are from the IMDB 'photo gallery'

- Main banner image in header is from unsplash by Timothy Eberly

Click on the links to read more Film Archives posts:

Double Indemnity

Moon

Shaun of the Dead

As a nod to the Hays Code, L.A. Confidential observes one of its hardened rules – no crime or wrong doing is to go unpunished.

The first act of the narrative has Susan Lefferts (Amber Smith), a prostitute for Fleur-di-Lis cut up to look like a movie star for the pleasure of men only to end up as one of the victims of the Nite Owl Massacre.

Susan Lefferts' killing along with others at the diner, including Bud’s partner, kick off an investigation that eventually leads us to the home of Susan's mother, Mrs. Lefferts (Gwenda Deacon).

Fig. 17

Mrs. Lefferts depicts an undesirable image with frumpy outfits and behaves irrationally. The interior decoration is outdated even for the 1950s, reminiscing of a time filled with lies. Brown and beige tones represent dull and boring.

When Bud White investigates Susan’s murder, he uncovers the rotting corpse of a man underneath the house – a seeming representation of the American dream being built on the foundations of death and deception.

The idea of a happy and doting housewife is a lie. Instead, the film shows the suffering of a demographic given two stereotypical representations in the media – a housewife or a sex object.

Susan Lefferts opts for the sex object persona and suffers the consequences of seeking out the high life by paying for it with her life.

Working as an prostitute and dating an older man out of wedlock, Lefferts kept this secret from her mother and lived away from home – she was unwilling to change her ways and subsequently is killed off within the narrative.

With no father in the picture, one could assume the message here is that a dysfunctional and broken family unit will result in unhappiness.

As always, I want to say a huge thank you for reading these Film Archives and supporting my efforts on the Coil platform.

If you haven't already then feel free to follow me on Twitter and on Coil too so you don't miss out on more Film Archive posts!

Not gonna lie – I'm a steak kind of guy. Medium-rare preferably, but that does depend on the cut of meat.

For example, I'd stick to medium for rump steak. But, for ribeye and sirloin, it's got to be pink right through! The reason for this is because of the texture of the meat – rump steak cooked rare will be tough on the bite. The cooking process breaks down the meat as it cooks for longer.

The cut of beef for this sandwich was supposed to be a RIBEYE. However, there was no delivery at the deli when I shopped so I plumped for second best, SIRLOIN.

The steaks used in this recipe are cut at 1 inch thickness. Cooking times may need to vary dependent on thickness of your cut.

INGREDIENTS

Ciabatta

Sirloin (New York Strip equivalent)

English mustard (Dijon if you prefer less heat)

Sliced Onions

Cheddar

Sea Salt

Black Pepper

Olive Oil

Butter (optional – see method)

METHOD

Preheat oven and slice your onions.

Slice your ciabatta and spread your mustard on one side.

Add a touch of olive oil to a hot pan and fry off your onions until they have softened and are on the cusp of caramelizing. Place your onions into a bowl ready for assembly.

Season your steak with a touch of sea salt and course black pepper, and place on a hot pan – it's important that your pan is hot. Cook for roughly 1 minute on both sides and place pan with steak into the preheated oven. If you do not have an oven proof pan then you will need to transfer the steak into an oven proof dish.

Leave it for 3 to 4 minutes and then take the steak out of the oven, putting it back onto the hob. Add a knob of butter and baste the steak by spooning the melted butter over it repeatedly. This is the third cooking process, which is optional. If you don't do this then vary the cooking time in the oven accordingly for an additional minute.

Take your steak out of the pan and place on a board to rest. It's vital you allow time for the meat to rest even if it's for just a few minutes.

Once rested, slice your steak. As you can see the steak is still blushing. You might well be tempted to take one of those slices now, but wait, resist the urge.

My wife wanted in on the action so I cooked two steaks!

Layer your steak strips onto the ciabatta. If you really wanted to, you could tuck in as it is without the onions or cheese. But, complete the journey – I promise it'll be worth it!

Layer the rest of your ingredients – sliced onions first and then the grated cheddar. Place your assembled Steak Ciabatta's onto tray with grease-proof paper (or baking parchment) – this is simply to prevent any melted cheese sticking to the tray (saves on the washing).

Put your sandwiches into the oven for 2 or 3 minutes – enough time for the cheese to melt.

It's seriously good.

Go for it – you won't regret it!

TIP: By allowing time for the steak to rest after the cooking process, the meat begins to relax and tenderise better.

All images in this post are my own.

Still hungry? Click the link for another delicious sandwich: Salami Heatwave

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No idea if I breached the rules of Wordless Wednesday with the GIFs, but I hope you had fun with these – all images are my own (except for the GIFs of course, which can be found here).

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Demotivated and dumped, Shaun must learn to take responsibility to win back his girlfriend. There’s just one problem, he didn’t plan on having to do it during a zombie apocalypse.

In the opening scene at the Winchester Tavern pub, a close up of Shaun (Simon Pegg) gazing distantly out into the abyss ‘listening’ to Liz (Kate Ashfield) explain how she wants to move forward in her relationship with Shaun serves to establish their current stagnant position in life. She wants Shaun to change, which pivots to Ed (Nick Frost) on the fruit machine framing him in the centre of the medium shot with Liz and Shaun to either side of him.

This image is a motif that’s punctuated throughout the film to highlight the various obstacles that stand in the way of Shaun from moving forwards in his life. Shaun’s body language and bedraggled facial expression compliments the loose tie and slack shirt to depict an image of someone in the midst of a crisis – he is for all intents purposes, far too comfortable and needs a jolt to wake him up from a zombie-like slumber.

It’s this that’s so fascinating about Wright’s take on the zombie genre. All good films should be able to establish the relevant tone and themes within the first few minutes. Shaun’s oblivious act to Liz’s call to adventure, which is intercut by his best friend Ed’s foul-mouthed inserts on the fruit machine not only establishes the humorous aspect of the narrative, but also gives us an allegory of what’s to come – horror expressed as a social commentary on UK life during the time of the film’s release.

Now for some context...

Tony Blair’s political mantra for the Labour party was to evoke change in Britain, returning the county to its people. This was very much at the heart of the noughties prior to the film hitting our screens. It’s no accident then that Wright has drawn a character at the dawn of such political upheaval. Could it therefore be argued that Wright is expressing his political beliefs through the eyes of Shaun, after all, he also co-wrote the film with Shaun Pegg (a collaborative team that takes them back to their days in television)?

When considering the age group of our filmmaking duo here, they were part of a young generation growing up during the time Thatcher reigned Britain – bringing rise to free enterprise and heaping treacle over the privatisation of state-owned companies leaving in her wake a high rate of unemployment. In addition, she presided over a sharp rise in divorce rates (interestingly enough, Shaun’s mother, Barbara is remarried much to the dismay of Shaun, who doesn’t get along with his step-dad, Philip)

It's conceivable then to assert that each character plays a role in expressing Wright and Pegg’s own political ideologies. Ed is anarchic, refusing to obey authority, which is an alluring light to Shaun. Their flatmate, Pete (Peter Serafinowicz) on the other hand is a servant to a capitalist machine – it’s no wonder then that Pete is turned into a zombie early on in the narrative.

The opening credit sequence depicts various groups of people routinely going about their everyday lives against desaturated lighting and cold colour tones to evoke a feeling of boredom and disillusionment. Their blank facial expressions and zombie-like mannerisms help to accentuate the negative feelings towards living life without change.

A perfect transition to the diegetic sounds of a moaning groan played over the image of a pair of feet, stumbling and shuffling across a decrepit and stained mat depicts a seeming zombie – only for the camera to tilt up and reveal Shaun walking into the lounge, hungover.

The flat (apartment for my American friends) is cluttered with empty takeaway boxes and cans of larger, while the furniture and décor, clearly masculine, scream out to us that these are characters not yet able to transition away from their days as students. Again, a reminder that Shaun is resistant to change. Here, Ed adorns the couch heavily engaged in a riveting game on his console and refuses to do as he’s told by Pete, which is to clean up. Shaun is pulled from pillar to post, knowing he wants to be with Liz, but struggles to let go of his friendship with Ed who is holding him back.

This is Shaun’s equilibrium – a state of normality whereby he is stuck in a rut with no direction and devoid of motivation. The best narratives involve the hero undergoing significant change within their arc to reveal a new equilibrium where the character has evolved better for having overcome a number of trials and tribulations.

Fast forward to the closing sequence, which brings us to familiar surroundings – Shaun’s flat – from the same wide shot. Only this time the décor has been finessed with delicate feminine touches. The high-key lighting compliments the soft pastel tones on the walls and plump pillows adorn the throws over the couches. Liz has moved in and Ed has moved out. There’s not a smattering of disorder to be seen. This is clearly a stark contrast – a binary opposite if you will to where Shaun started his journey of redemption.

But what of Ed? He now resides in the shed –

There’s so much I would like to talk about that makes me even mentioning the word ‘shed’ for this to be more relevant, but that would involve me in releasing some kind of trilogy of posts in future Film Archive write ups – is that what you would really prefer? Please let me know on Twitter.

As a zombie, playing on his console. And on occasions gets to enjoy a two-player game with Shaun.

Hang on, Ed’s a zombie? Where did that come from? OK, let me backtrack a few scenes to when our hero Shaun escapes with Liz. We’re in the Winchester Tavern – again. Shaun, his mother, Liz, Ed and two of Liz’s friends Dave and Dianne are holed up in the pub in an Assault on Precinct 13 style finale (I should really reference Rio Bravo, as that was the film to inspire Precinct 13, as well as many others). A horde of zombies are trying to break in – including Pete who inflicts Ed’s bite. Shaun, Liz and Ed are the only ones left and scurry down into the cellar – Ed nursing his wound knowing he is moments away from turning.

There is seemingly no way out – the low-key lighting brings home the severity of the situation until they stumble on the cellar trapdoor above them with the buzzer to raise them up. A touching moment between Shaun and his best friend Ed is punctuated with humour to bookend an early scene. It’s this humour, found in British horror that truly identifies Wright and Pegg as astute observers of the genre, tipping its hat to the classic Hammer horror films of the 1950s and 1960s before they gave way to the gritty folk horror of the 1970s.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaFNgHuYdPA

To appreciate where British horror is rooted, watch the video by Mark Gattis (writer for Sherlock, Dr Who and Dracula mini-series) – terrific viewing if this is your bag.

Back to the trapdoor – a golden light shines from above and washes over Shaun and Liz as they are elevated up – heaven-like as though to suggest these are the only two characters worthy of surviving based on their actions and beliefs compared the wrongdoings of their friends. Ed is slumped in darkness, as he was unwilling to make changes to his lifestyle and so he succumbs to the horde.

It is interesting to note here that Ed, from the latter third of the film is not framed in between Shaun and Liz anymore, but to one side of them. This establishes how Shaun has transitioned from a man of apathy to one of action, taking the responsibility that Liz craved from him.

The message here is absolute. .

As a romantic comedy with a bite, Shaun of the Dead finds its hero navigating his way around the anchors that tie him down to establish a mooring position with Liz. A relatively easy task but for a zombie apocalypse, which plays as a metaphor for a largely disengaged and disenfranchised society gripped by the seizure of late capitalism.

I hope you find a place for this film in your library of must-haves in the same way I do. And I didn’t even get to discuss George A. Romero, which Wright was very much inspired by when he co-wrote Shaun of the Dead with Pegg.

All screenshot images found on IMDB

Main banner image in header is from unsplash by Timothy Eberly

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