Categories
Movies Explained

Asteroid City Explained

Wes Anderson has released another postmodern masterpiece, and it demands some serious explanation. It only came out this weekend, so I don’t have repeat viewings or a pause button at my disposal, but I still think an extended analysis is in order.

In summary, Asteroid City is a complex reflection on Anderson’s own contradictory artistic impulses—and how they combine to produce honest, emotional filmmaking. I’ll support that statement by going through the various layers of the film, starting with the events that take place in the fictional town of Asteroid City.

1. Asteroid City

The “Asteroid City” storyline criticizes technological progress and champions human emotions and irrationality. Consider that Asteroid City sits, both proximally and chronologically, adjacent to the testing of atom bombs. It’s a literal witness, therefore, to technology’s bleak dead end: the devastating culmination of “progress.” Likewise, it hosts a Junior Stargazers’ convention, and the stargazers’ inventions (which are owned by the government) seem likely to promote greed and destruction. One contestant has invented a war-ready particle destroyer. Another has made a breakthrough in “interstellar advertising.” Meanwhile, a savvy motel owner (Steve Carell) sells sham real estate loans through a soda machine.

In other words, advancement abounds—but to what end? Perhaps the answer lies in the town’s most memorable feature: a ramp leading to nowhere.

But the ethos of Asteroid City begins to change when an alien descends during a stargazing and steals the town’s famous meteorite. This moment is typical Anderson: an inexplicable event that ties characters together through shared wonder. (Recall the jaguar shark in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and the lightning strike in Moonrise Kingdom.)

After the alien’s appearance, the town’s cult of technology begins to weaken. An expert astronomer (Tilda Swinton) can’t make sense of the alien or its space path. Genius contestants Woodrow (Jake Ryan) and Dinah (Grace Edwards) forget about their nerdy inventions and fall in love. A cynical, abused actress (Scarlett Johansson) opens up about life and heartbreak to a photographer (Jason Schwartzman). A group of kids, preoccupied with the alien, can’t focus on science lessons, so a cowboy (Rupert Friend) steps in to meet their need to know: who—not what—is this mysterious being?

Overall, it appears that the alien, by virtue of its mysteriousness, spurs the characters to forgo rational thinking and act instead on their emotions. When the alien appears a second time near the end of the film, this budding rejection of pure logic explodes into a frenzy: the crater, once a site of dutiful, rote learning, now houses exuberance and absurdity. Typifying the change that has taken place, Woodrow’s invention, previously purposed for “interstellar advertising,” now serves to commemorate his adolescent crush on Dinah.

This tale’s optimism doesn’t run too deep, though. In the film’s epilogue, another atom bomb goes off in the distance. It seems that despite the unshackling of the characters’ deep feelings and silly quirks, technology moves along in the background, climbing up the ramp to nowhere.

2. The Making of Asteroid City

So that’s the thematic drama of the “Asteroid City” timeline. But in an even more challenging layer of the film, a gruff TV host (Bryan Cranston) introduces these events as a fictional play and narrates a “making of” documentary about the play.

What is this all about?

Firstly, I would encourage viewers not to take these documentary scenes too seriously. At one point in the “Asteroid City” timeline, the host accidentally wanders on to the set. This makes clear that the entire production—both the Asteroid City events and the “making of” documentary”—is meant to be seen as one unified fictional work. In other words, the documentary isn’t a commentary on the play, although it claims to be. Rather, the documentary is part of the play, and the artist who created both components is never seen.

That artist, of course, is Anderson. The documentary footage, after all, features Anderson’s signature tight framing and deadpan deliveries. In no way does it feel “real” as an actual TV program; stylistically, it’s just as artificial as the colorful Asteroid City events. This is all one show.

Therefore, the true question is: why did Anderson include this black-and-white portion? What does the documentary thematically contribute to the Asteroid City events that we’ve just analyzed?

We can arrive at the answer by examining the character of Augie. In the beginning of the “play,” he tells his children that their mother has died three weeks earlier. Clearly, he has struggled to process the event: not only does he deliver the news inappropriately late, but he does so with an awkward, robotic delivery, and he later admits to his father-in-law (Tom Hanks) that he isn’t okay.

Based on our earlier analysis, we should expect that, following the alien’s appearance, Augie should increasingly embrace his painful emotions and allow himself to grieve his wife’s death. But strangely, this never quite happens. Augie remains fairly stoic and inward, in contrast to the obvious arcs of other, more minor characters, like Woodrow. Something seems off.

This is where the documentary portion of the movie becomes valuable. Via the black-and-white scenes, we see that the fictional “Asteroid City” play was written by Conrad Earp (Edward Norton), an eccentric playwright. Earp, according to the documentary, was a solitary, passionate artist, as well as a closeted gay man who had an affair with the actor playing Augie. Given this portrayal of Earp, it makes sense that his play would emphasize human-centric themes. The dismissal of technological progress and the prizing of releasing concealed emotion are consistent with Earp’s appearances in the documentary.

But the director of the play, Schubert Green (Adrien Brody), demonstrates different qualities. A manic womanizer, he’s about to be divorced by his wife (Hong Chau) “for an All-Star second baseman;” however, he receives her disdain with outward indifference. He also pens contradictory, rambling letters to the actress playing Midge, underscoring an inability to organize his feelings and communicate them maturely.

These scenes set up Earp and Green as opposites. And in accordance with their clashing personalities, we later learn that Green has cut a pivotal scene from Earp’s script in which Augie dreams of his wife (Margot Robbie) and shares an emotional goodbye with her. This scene appears to have been the missing piece that would have completed Augie’s character arc.

We can infer that Green cut the scene because he himself reacts this way to negative events. For example, he has failed to properly process the imminent end of his marriage. The final product of the play therefore reflects the visions of both the exuberant playwright and the stoic, pained director.

A combination of festive vitality and troubled inwardness—what could be a more suitable representation of Anderson’s artistic style? Thus, the documentary layer of the film is a meta-metaphor for the competing impulses that define Anderson’s cinematic work.

After all, the story of Augie attempting to grieve for his wife with ambiguous results is a fairly typical Anderson character arc. In The Royal Tenenbaums, do the characters find closure for their various regrets? In Moonrise Kingdom, do Stan and Suzy grow up, or do they retain their youthful fervor? We get clues, but Anderson never tells us for sure. His characters are too inward for the answers to appear onscreen.

Why does he make films this way? Why does he channel Earpian passion, then temper it with Greenian stoicism?

The “making of” portion of Asteroid City addresses this question. The actor playing Augie wants to know why his character’s actions seem so inconsistent. But both Earp and Green tell him to simply play his part and forget about the inconsistencies.

The takeaway is that an artist’s job is to be authentic, even when his varied instincts don’t make obvious logical sense. Just as Augie photographs the mysterious alien and distributes his work for the world to see, allowing others to draw their own conclusions, Anderson merely records and commemorates mysterious human behaviors. He has no pretense of being able to explain them.

In a late scene, actors burst forth with the mantra: “You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.” This recalls Earp’s vision of the play as a story about a “slumber” that brings people together emotionally. It also recalls the cut scene in which Augie says goodbye to his wife while asleep during a dream. Both moments indicate that falling asleep is associated with emotion and irrationality, while waking up is associated with logic and intellect. The mantra repeated by the actors, then, means that logically interesting art is only possible when human emotion is embraced. In other words, “You can’t make intellectual art if you don’t embrace the irrational.”

So the actor playing Augie, in protesting the illogic of his character’s actions, has only stated a redundancy. People are illogical. Their actions don’t make sense. They, like Anderson’s characters, display both outward zest and inward torment. Explaining them intellectually is for scholars and critics (and bloggers). The artist isn’t interested in such things.

But he is interested in sharing honest recordings of humanity. Sending photographs to the newspaper. Releasing movies at the box office. Producing authentic work and letting the pieces fall where they may. After all, Augie’s prideful catchphrase recalls Anderson’s own fecundity:

“My pictures always come out.”

 

—Jim Andersen

(Note: Contributions to this analysis were made by Sharan Shah, film actor, see: A Simulation of Trendelenburg Gait (2016).)

For previous Wes Anderson reviews, see my piece on The French Dispatch.

Categories
Movie Reviews

Movie Review: Beau Is Afraid Is Too Difficult Yet Too Simple

Few American directors have made a movie as important as Hereditary (2018), so Ari Aster deserves our attention with each new output. But his newest release, Beau Is Afraid, falls well short of his best. In fact, given his also-disappointing intervening film, Midsommar (2019), I’m beginning to wonder whether he can ever reassume the heights of his debut.

Execution has never been a problem for Aster. Scene after scene in Beau Is Afraid is well shot and well acted, and many bits are quite funny. The problem is concept. Like Midsommar, the new film falls flat because it dabbles in surrealism without offering the benefits of surrealism. It presents metaphorical, narratively challenging content—but its underlying ideas lack complexity and therefore don’t warrant the challenging style. In other words, Aster, for the second straight time, has provided the worst of both worlds: a film that’s at once too narratively abstract and too thematically simplistic.

The first section of the film, the strongest by far, hints at a contemporary Eraserhead (1977), a paranoid urban nightmare for the 2020s. But even here, there’s a lack of visual verve that suggests that Aster isn’t totally committed to nightmarishness—that, unlike David Lynch, he’s a tourist in the dreamscape. And indeed, after the first act, the absurdist elements gradually fade away. The source of Aster’s inconsistency soon becomes evident: he doesn’t care about the nightmare; he cares about where it came from. He has de-prioritized filmmaking, prioritized psychologizing. An unacceptable flaw that pervades the entire film.

Recall that Aster at his best has captured scenes like Toni Collette’s dinner table eruption in Hereditary. In that film, the family strife felt primitive and scary: it felt real. The latter half of Beau Is Afraid, on the other hand, feels like a bad play, with characters airing grievances in icy, contemptuous monologues. This is weak stuff. The movie’s finale, in which Beau (Joaquin Phoenix) literally goes on trial for being a bad Jewish son, is the inevitable letdown the film has been racing toward. Aster, having started at Lynch, has ended at Woody Allen. Not a favorable trajectory.

I worry that Aster may have attained artistic and financial freedom too quickly, thanks to the success of Hereditary. Stanley Kubrick had to labor through Spartacus (1960) and Lolita (1962) to learn how to package his ideas into studio-financed films. Lynch had to suffer through Dune (1984). These were formative experiences not only because they offered lessons in industry tact, but also because they forced their respective directors to overcome resistance, to learn to squeeze more artistry into less space. Weightlifters have to train with heavy weights.

Aster, treated like a prodigy from the moment of his debut, may be atrophying.

 

–Jim Andersen

@jimander91

For more on Ari Aster, see my full analysis of Hereditary.

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Commentary and Essays

The Twenty Greatest Movies of All Time

Friends of mine often ask for movie recommendations. I typically respond with recent films that received uncontroversial acclaim but undeservedly slipped under the cultural radar. Some examples might include The Father (2020), Nightmare Alley (2021), and even Marcel the Shell With Shoes On (2022).

Recommendations like these carry low risk, since they have low likelihood of jarring viewers, offending them, or confusing them (inordinately). Plus, they’re really good films.

But many are interested in recommendations of a higher order. Viewers already versed in older and more arty films may be searching for something more profound than the diatribes of a talking shell. They may be wondering: what, ultimately, are the best of the best?

That’s an incredibly loaded question, but also an important one. To answer it in a way that might be useful, I’ve used a combination of objective and subjective criteria. Essentially, I’ve chosen movies that often appear on respected lists of “best” films—but I’ve chosen my personal favorites among those. In other words, I’ve deferred to the larger critical community to curate my options, and I’ve selected from the consensus list they’ve provided. This, hopefully, has kept the list “personal” while also avoiding excessive idiosyncrasy.

I’ve also used two rules to further narrow the list:

  1. Silent films are excluded. This removes from contention many of the films that experts tend to deem the greatest of all time. But I didn’t feel it was fair (or possible) to adequately compare silent films with sound ones. This is in part because I don’t yet feel that I personally appreciate the aesthetics of silent films enough to authentically place them on a list like this.
  2. Only one film per director is allowed. This, again, guards against idiosyncrasy. For example, I’m an admirer of Stanley Kubrick, but this rule stops me from packing the list with his films.

The second rule also encourages a more diverse, representative list. And that’s important to me, because I want this list to function as a canon. In other words, if you’ve seen these twenty films, you’ve seen a fair representation of the best that cinema has to offer. Without further ado, here they are, in chronological order:

  • M (1931) – Fritz Lang, Germany
  • The Rules of the Game (1939) – Jean Renoir, France
  • Citizen Kane (1941) – Orson Welles, USA
  • Breathless (1950) – Jean-Luc Godard, France
  • Rashomon (1950) – Akira Kurosawa, Japan
  • Tokyo Story (1953) – Yasujiro Ozu, Japan
  • Vertigo (1958) – Alfred Hitchcock, USA
  • The Adventure (1960) – Michaelangelo Antonioni, Italy
  • La Dolce Vita (1960) – Frederico Fellini, Italy
  • Persona (1966) – Ingmar Bergman, Sweden
  • Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) – Robert Bresson, France
  • Playtime (1967) – Jacques Tati, France
  • 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) – Stanley Kubrick, USA
  • Mirror (1975) – Andrei Tarkovsky, USSR
  • Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975) – Chantal Akerman, Belgium
  • Taxi Driver (1976) – Martin Scorsese, USA
  • Blade Runner (1982) – Ridley Scott, USA
  • Spirited Away (2001) – Hayao Miyazaki, Japan
  • Mulholland Dr. (2001) – David Lynch, USA
  • The Tree of Life (2011) – Terrance Malick, USA

Notes

–I freely admit that I haven’t seen every film that many experts would rank among the best, so I’ll have to continuously update and expand this list as I become familiar with more films.

–Rule #2 created some very difficult choices. For the Kurosawa entry, I chose Rashomon over the great Seven Samurai (1954). The Hitchcock entry could have been Rear Window (1954) or Psycho (1960), but following my lengthy analysis of Vertigo, I chose it instead. Finally, I didn’t like leaving Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) off the list, but I couldn’t pass on Mirror.

–The list is skewed toward the 1950s and 60s. So be it. The films during that period were generally more aspirational, art-conscious, and socially conscious than those of the decades that followed. I only chose one film from the 80s or 90s. However, it should be said that some of the masterpieces from those decades were boxed out because their directors made even greater works in other decades (The Shining (1980) and Blue Velvet (1986) being two examples). In addition, it’s quite possible that some of the greatest works from that period have yet to be re-highlighted by critics after a quiet initial response.

–My most controversial choice is The Tree of Life. It’s fashionable these days to roll one’s eyes at Malick’s masterpiece, in part because his subsequent outputs were inconsistent and ungrounded. But don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. I’m confident that the tide will eventually turn back toward The Tree of Life.

 

-Jim Andersen

For more commentary, see my ranking of this year’s Best Picture nominees.

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Movies Explained

Hereditary Explained

If you’re here, you already know that Hereditary is a very scary movie. Its disturbing imagery and scalding portrayal of family strife leave an impact long after the closing credits. Nightmares, anyone?

But there are also mysteries that invite us to look more deeply. For example: why do everyone’s heads keep coming off? What was the grandmother up to? What did the miniature models mean? Why is the movie called Hereditary?

In this piece, I’ll go on to answer all of these questions, plus many more. To summarize my conclusion before I begin, Hereditary uses horror movie tropes to dramatize the experience of developing hereditary mental illness, in particular schizophrenia.

Evidence and full analysis below.

At the beginning of Hereditary, Ellen Taper Leigh has died. Over the course of the movie, we learn that Ellen was no ordinary woman. She belonged to a pagan cult obsessed with the return of a powerful demon named King Paimon. In service of this cult, she fed her baby granddaughter, Charlie, special foods, preparing her body to one day be possessed by Paimon.

So far, what I’ve described is fairly standard horror content. It’s reminiscent of, among others, Rosemary’s Baby (1968). But there’s a deeper thematic significance at play. To discover it, we should start with a speech that Ellen’s daughter, Annie (Toni Collette), makes to a support group after Ellen’s death:

[My mom] didn’t have an easy life. She had DID [dissociative identity disorder], which became extreme at the end. … And my father died when I was a baby from starvation because he had psychotic depression, and he starved himself. … And there’s my brother. My older brother had schizophrenia, and when he was sixteen he hanged himself in my mother’s bedroom, and of course the suicide note blamed her for putting people inside him.

This is a severe family history of psychosis. I’m a psychiatrist myself, and I can attest that a family background like this raises immediate concern that a young person will go on to develop significant mental illness. Particularly worrisome is that not only did Annie’s father and brother both suffer from psychosis, but in both cases the symptoms were so severe that they committed suicide. Ellen didn’t suffer from psychosis, as DID is typically a sequelae of severe trauma (which she obviously did experience, through her family tragedies). So Ellen’s son apparently inherited schizophrenia from his father.

Viewed from this clinical perspective, there’s metaphorical truth in Ellen’s son’s suicide note. The note, remember, “blamed” Ellen for “putting people inside him.” And indeed, by procreating with her husband, who had severe psychotic illness, Ellen extracted and transmitted to her son the genes that conferred high risk for schizophrenia, thereby indirectly causing his hallucinations and torment.

This metaphorical connection between actual mental illness and supernatural pagan activity is the key that unlocks the symbolic meaning of the movie. The entire story reimagines Ellen’s transmission of pro-psychotic genes as a sinister plot on her part to subject her descendants to demonic possession.

The movie is called Hereditary, and now we can begin to see why. Symbolically, it’s about the passing down of “bad” genes and the devastation that can result.

Consider the theme of predetermined fate, frequently emphasized during the film. This emphasis suddenly makes sense when we recognize that, by virtue of their genetics, Annie’s children, Peter (Alex Wolff) and Charlie (Milly Shapiro), may indeed be destined to suffer severe mental illness. Annie, thankfully, doesn’t have schizophrenia. But her lineage is such that it would hardly be surprising if her offspring developed it. Again, these genetic facts manifest in the genre-familiar storyline of the children’s grandmother scheming to sacrifice them to King Paimon.

Recall that after Ellen’s burial, her body quickly goes missing and later turns up in the family attic. The meaning of this is that Ellen isn’t truly “gone,” since her long-ago act of procreation with a mentally ill man continues to dictate her family’s experiences. The genes that she helped pass on continue to “haunt” her family.

Here’s a picture of the seal for Ellen’s cult. The seal recurs at various points in the movie, often suggesting that the characters have terrible destinies. (For example, it appears on the telephone pole that later decapitates Charlie.) To me, it looks somewhat like a DNA double helix:

Fitting. Because, in the case of schizophrenia, DNA does often predetermine one’s fate. This seal eventually appears above Ellen’s dead body in the attic, underscoring what we’ve already said: that her influence on the family continues via the genetic transmission in which she participated long ago.

The theme of destiny also figures heavily in a classroom scene in which a teacher asks whether doomed literary heroes are “more tragic or less tragic.” A student responds:

I think it’s more tragic. Because if it’s all just inevitable, then that means that the characters had no hope. They never had hope, because they’re all just hopeless—they’re all just like pawns in this horrible, hopeless machine.

Her view obviously applies to Peter and Charlie, if in fact they’re genetically disposed to develop schizophrenia. Those who harbor the genes for schizophrenia indeed have “no hope.” Forces beyond their control—biological forces—have decided their fates.

Aster appears to be speaking through this student. We can infer that he, too, believes hereditary mental illness to be an extremely “tragic” subject. Hence his making a scary movie about it.

The discussion of fate can also help us understand one of the movie’s signature motifs: Annie’s models, also known as miniatures. Via fancy camera shots, Aster sometimes playfully suggests that the characters’ very world is a miniature—that they’re subject to control or manipulation by an unseen power.

Now, we can identify that power: the power of genetics. To use the student’s phrasing, DNA indeed makes “pawns” of those with inherited family illnesses. Again, the movie is called Hereditary for good reason.

It’s appropriate, then, that Annie is the one to build the miniatures. After all, her children’s genetics were determined in her womb. Therefore, Annie is the “modeler” of their lives, the architect who has—through uncontrollable cellular processes—laid out their fates.

Some scenes suggest that Annie has some awareness of this hereditary risk to which she has exposed her children. In one dream scene, Annie appears to confront guilt over giving birth to Peter. He accuses her in the dream of being “scared” of him, and she admits having desperately tried to abort him. In another scene, she recounts nearly setting her children and herself on fire while sleepwalking—suggesting a subconscious desire to undo her act of birthing them.

Let’s take a detour to focus specifically on Charlie. We’ve already noted that Charlie faces significant risk for developing psychotic illness based on her mother’s family history. But Charlie soon dies, and the bulk of the drama instead focuses on Peter. In addition, events seem to suggest that Peter’s troubles stem from Charlie’s ghostly return from the dead during a séance. What do these plot points mean in the context of our symbolic framework?

They indicate that Charlie should be seen as a human embodiment of the schizophrenia that runs in the family. Her death and subsequent return in the séance symbolize the trait’s “return” to prominence following its lack of expression in Annie.

For evidence that Charlie symbolizes the trait of schizophrenia, consider the manner of her death: decapitation. The loss of one’s head surely evokes the experience of losing one’s sanity. Schizophrenia interferes with one’s perception of reality, so decapitation is a logical (if grotesque) metaphor.

Plus, an unsettling scene involving a dead bird shows that Charlie makes a habit of decapitating others, as well. And she appears to do this for her dead grandmother’s sake, carrying the bird’s head to a vision of Ellen in a field. All of this fits with our symbolic framework. If Ellen’s evil cult represents the influence of the bad genes she reproduced, then it makes sense that Charlie, a human representation of schizophrenia, would cut off heads for Ellen. Several early scenes emphasize that Charlie had a special bond with her grandmother not shared by the rest of her family.

Next, consider Charlie’s calling card: making a clucking sound with her tongue. This sound resembles that of a ticking clock. And indeed, schizophrenia is a “ticking clock” for those with genetic predisposition. It typically emerges in young adults, most commonly in one’s twenties. However, in many cases (which tend to become the most severe), it emerges in teenagers. Given that Annie’s schizophrenic brother killed himself when he was sixteen, it seems likely that the Leigh family illness would present in teenage years.

Peter’s current age? Sixteen.

Finally, Charlie makes a habit of sleeping outside in the family treehouse. This angers her father, Steve (Gabriel Byrne), who doesn’t understand why she would prefer this uncomfortable space to the family’s posh, mansion-like house. But we can infer that if Charlie embodies schizophrenia or psychosis, she belongs, symbolically, in an environment outside of the “typical” realm. She belongs in a space like the treehouse, which sits somewhat removed from society, right on the edge of the wilderness.

If Charlie represents schizophrenia, might her death symbolize a positive development? Is the family illness gone for good?

As it turns out, no. That’s because Annie conducts a séance and brings Charlie’s spirit back from the dead. As previously mentioned, this represents the family psychosis returning after a skipped generation. Charlie’s death symbolizes Annie’s absence of schizophrenia. But Charlie’s resurrection symbolizes Annie passing the hereditary vulnerability to her offspring. In other words, Annie serves as the trait’s conduit to the next generation—just as she serves as a conduit for Charlie to return to the physical world.

And predictably, after Charlie returns, bad things begin to happen. Annie has a dream in which ants engulf Peter’s head, another rendition of the “decapitation” motif, which, as we’ve established, evokes mental illness. The same motif also underlies a different scene in which Peter sees Charlie’s head fall off and turn into a ball, then feels an attacker trying to rip his own head off. Lastly, the sound of Charlie’s clucking tongue begins to haunt both Peter and Annie.

In summary, all signs point in one direction regarding Peter’s approaching genetic fate. His clock is ticking.

Now for another detour. You might feel that, given the analysis so far, the movie is quite harsh on women. After all, it imagines the family’s grandmother, who helped pass on her husband’s bad genes, as an evil occultist aiming to have her grandchildren possessed. And it imagines the mother, who passed on those genes as a silent carrier, as a conduit for a malicious spirit haunting the family. Why do only Ellen and Annie receive attention for perpetuating schizophrenia in the family? Didn’t the men contribute, as well?

Yes. And this is the foundation for another mysterious scene. Annie recognizes that Charlie’s return has somehow put Peter in grave danger. She concludes that to save Peter, she must undo the séance and send her daughter back to the dead. Since she provided the link for Charlie to reenter the world, she reasons that she can sever that link and save Peter by destroying both herself and Charlie’s old sketchbook, the “object” that she used in the séance.

But this doesn’t go as planned. When Annie throws the sketchbook in the fire, Steve instead ignites. The meaning of this is that Steve also participated in the transmission of Annie’s genetics to their children. He, too, was a key transmitter of the bad genes—just as Ellen, who didn’t suffer from psychosis, nevertheless played an essential role in transmitting pro-psychosis genes to her descendants. Recall that Steve participated in the séance, thereby enabling Charlie to return—just as, by impregnating Annie, he allowed her family history of schizophrenia to take root in a new generation. He’s just as much a “link” for hereditary schizophrenia as Annie, hence his death upon the sketchbook’s destruction.

Steve’s incineration causes a dramatic change in Annie. Upon seeing her husband burn, her face goes blank, and she apparently becomes possessed for the rest of the movie. Why does this happen?

Recall Ellen’s diagnosis of DID, or dissociative identity disorder. As briefly mentioned before, symptoms of DID generally occur in response to severe trauma. Essentially, affected individuals develop a tendency to unconsciously “dissociate” from their original identity to escape intolerable emotional pain. Ellen’s husband and son both committed suicide, likely providing the trauma that led her to develop DID.

But now Annie, too, has experienced repeated, severe trauma. Watching Steve burn alive—by her own hand—appears to have been the last straw. Recall that she previously discovered her daughter’s headless body; plus, earlier in her life, both her father and brother killed themselves. Her ghostly condition in the final act of the movie therefore represents that she, like her mother, has developed DID.

Consider her most notable act following her sudden change: sawing off her own head with a wire. We’ve already explored how the motif of decapitation invokes the development of mental illness. But Annie’s self-mutilation is slightly different from the accidental decapitation of Charlie and the moment in which Peter feels someone trying to rip his head off. In this case, Annie intentionally removes her own head.

This corresponds nicely with DID. As I described, it’s a defense mechanism to escape the pain of repeated trauma. After the gruesome demise of her husband—her second loved one to recently die a terrible death—Annie’s brain dissociates for her own emotional protection. In other words, she subconsciously inflicts a mental change upon herself for self-preservation. This translates in horror movie imagery as cutting off her own head. A memorable (and disturbing) metaphor for DID.

Chased into the attic by his altered mother, Peter sees a naked man standing in the dark. We haven’t seen this man before. But we can reliably conclude that he’s Peter’s maternal grandfather, who starved himself to death due to psychosis. After all, Peter has apparently inherited his grandfather’s genes and is now on the verge of a psychotic break. (Recently at school, he had a terrifying vision and lost control of his body, suggestive of the emerging schizophrenia we had anticipated given the ominous signs since Charlie’s return.)

Peter then sees three more naked, ghostly figures, likely other family members who suffered from psychotic illness. This prompts him to jump out of the attic.

It’s possible to interpret this as a completed suicide. Peter may have followed in his uncle’s footsteps by killing himself at sixteen years old due to schizophrenia. This interpretation would certainly fit with the theme of genetic destiny we’ve explored.

Regardless, it’s clear that Peter ends the movie with full blown schizophrenia. After his jump, he follows his mother to the treehouse. Recall that Charlie favored this treehouse, which made sense given its “outsider” quality, conspicuously removed from typical society. Peter, having developed schizophrenia, now also gravitates toward the treehouse.

Inside, he finds Ellen’s pagan cult. He has become King Paimon, succumbing to Ellen’s malicious efforts. (These efforts, as we’ve said, correspond to her transmission of her husband’s pro-psychotic genes.) Among the cult are his mother and grandmother, both headless—symbolizing, as we’ve established, their respective DID. And the movie ends with a shot of the treehouse as yet another miniature, again conveying the predetermined nature of the characters’ fates.

I hope I’ve lent some helpful assistance in decoding Hereditary‘s symbolism and meaning. Most likely, you didn’t need my analysis to detect the movie’s thematic undercurrents of familial mental illness and trauma. But hopefully, investigating in more detail has allowed you a more comprehensive understanding of Ari Aster’s insightful and important debut. I’ve already ranked Hereditary as my favorite horror film released in the last ten years. I’m confident that given the substance reflected in this piece, you can see why.

 

—Dr. Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, see my analysis of Being John Malkovich.

Categories
Movies Explained

Being John Malkovich Explained

Being John Malkovich is science fiction, romance, and arthouse drama all wrapped into one. It’s the first major film written by screenwriter Charlie Kaufman, and it explores themes that would come to dominate his oeuvre in the years to come.

But if you’ve arrived here, you’re probably wondering first and foremost about this film’s convoluted plot. What to make of this strange tale about a puppeteer, a portal, a B-list actor, and a lesbian romance?

I’ll go on to show that Being John Malkovich comments on various psychological aspects of making movies. More specifically, the main conflict in the film represents an ideological battle between outdated, conventional cinematic aesthetics and newer, more personal screenwriting techniques.

How on Earth did I get all that from this weird film? Read on to find out.

1. Puppeteer

Kaufman’s protagonist is Craig Schwartz (John Cusack), an unemployed puppeteer. Craig typifies the “starving artist.” He stays true to his artistic visions despite being met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. For instance, on the city sidewalk he puts on a lewd puppet show that offends passersby and leads one father to bloody him up. Disdainful of all commercialism, however, Craig takes pride in his unpopularity: when his wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), sees his battered face, he explains, defiantly: “I’m a puppeteer.”

This artistic idealism, though, doesn’t impress Lotte. In fact, she’s so uninterested in the depths of the human soul that she keeps company almost exclusively with animals. Perhaps because of this, Craig soon seeks out an extramarital affair with new coworker Maxine (Catherine Keener).

Craig has just started a job at a strange filing company that, in a parody of corporate penny-pinching, has literally “low overhead.” Stifled by a loveless marriage and the crushing dullness of office work, he sees Maxine as a potential reprieve. But Maxine repeatedly professes her lack of attraction for Craig, most notably after he reveals his trade as a puppeteer, which she mocks as “playing with dolls.”

At around this point, Craig discovers a “portal” into the mind of actor John Malkovich. This portal enables any person to experience Malkovich’s life for about fifteen minutes at a time. And many clamor to partake in this experience: Craig and Maxine soon set up a lucrative side-business selling tickets to the portal.

The key to understanding the portal’s symbolic meaning—which will be crucial to understanding the meaning of the film overall—is that the portal represents the experience of cinema. Consider that “being John Malkovich,” is what movies allow us to do: feel like, or be, an actor like Malkovich, via visual experience. The portal recreates the compelling cinematic feeling of seeing life through someone else’s eyes.

So it’s not surprising that the portal attracts high demand: movies are big business. And, as with the cinema, the appeal of the portal appears to lie partially in connecting viewers with unexplored aspects of themselves. Lotte, for example, connects so strongly with Malkovich while in the portal that she begins to identify as transgender and falls in love with Maxine.

Further evidence for the symbolic link between the portal and the movie screen comes when Malkovich himself enters the portal. Once inside, he experiences a bizarre world in which every person is a copy of himself and says only, “Malkovich.” Even the restaurant menu consists only of his own name in repetition. Upon being expelled from the portal, Malkovich summarizes his horror: “I have seen a world that no man should see.”

What is the meaning of this unsettling scene? Recall that, as per our analysis so far, the portal doesn’t actually make someone become another person. If this were the case, Malkovich in the portal would merely become himself, and he would experience life normally. Instead, as we’ve established, the portal, like the movie screen, allows one to view life through another’s eyes. Thus, by entering the portal—by symbolically watching his own movie—Malkovich ceases living his life and begins watching his life. In other words, he becomes self-conscious.

Such a condition seems to be highly debilitating. Judging by Malkovich’s experience in the portal, it removes one’s ability to empathize with or even recognize other people. Of course, we can all relate to the idea that self-consciousness hinders interpersonal connections: it refocuses our minds from other people to our own selves. But with the scene of Malkovich entering the portal, Kaufman indicates that an even more severe version of this problem may await screen artists. After all, as a part of their profession, they must constantly watch and consider themselves onscreen. Because of this, they may become so self-conscious that they become totally solipsistic and inward-focused.

It could easily be argued, however, that since 1999, when Being John Malkovich was released, this distinction between actors and non-actors has largely collapsed. Due to changes in media and social media, most of us now face anxieties that, previously, were the exclusive domain of actors. Kaufman’s commentaries about actors, therefore, could now reasonably be applied more broadly.

2. Screenwriter

In summary, we’ve established that the portal symbolizes the cinematic experience. It presents the benefits of film as an art form—exemplified by Lotte’s experience—while also presenting the dangers of film as a potential cause of debilitating self-consciousness—exemplified by Malkovich’s experience.

But even amidst these characters’ intense encounters with the portal, Craig develops a particularly strong relationship with it. He alone learns to use it to control Malkovich’s body rather than simply go along for the ride. Given that we have symbolically connected the portal to cinema, we can in turn interpret Craig’s special ability. Specifically, Craig learning to control Malkovich represents him learning the art of screenwriting.

After all, Craig has learned to control an actor, just as a screenwriter controls an actor through written dialogue and stage directions. The other characters merely enjoy a brief period of projective identification before finding themselves back in the real world: they correspond to filmgoers. But Craig alone exerts authority over the cinematic experience, corresponding with a writer of movie screenplays.

If this meta interpretation seems like a stretch, then you likely haven’t watched many of Charlie Kaufman’s films. Most of his major protagonists are indeed struggling screenwriters or playwrights. He often explores the difficulty of writing authentic screenplays and the madness that may result from such an effort. Thus, Being John Malkovich—his first major work—merely introduces his preference to write screenplays about…writing screenplays.

Back to Craig. His symbolic transition to screenwriting brings several benefits, especially a reversal of fortune with Maxine. While she had earlier chided him for “playing with dolls,” she finds his manipulation of Malkovich impressive and enthralling. Thus, the two begin a relationship.

This change of heart from Maxine exemplifies the perks of being a screenwriter compared to being a puppeteer. Attention is much more likely to accompany one than the other. Plus, screenwriting, unlike puppetry, allows Maxine to fall in love with a character created by Craig, rather than Craig himself. This is rather convenient for Craig, given his disheveled appearance and mopey demeanor. By hiding inside a character, he can project a more appealing version of himself.

But amidst Craig’s newfound romantic and financial success, his shift to symbolic screenwriting also has a negative component. Namely, it appears linked with a decline in his artistic ideals. Recall that as a puppeteer, Craig had upheld strict artistic morals and high-mindedness. But upon learning to control Malkovich, he largely discards those ideals and uses his talents for selfish reasons—especially to attract Maxine.

In addition, by using his abilities for these ends, Craig has put himself in a precarious position. To remain with Maxine, he must be Malkovich. Since Maxine has no attraction to Craig outside of his Malkovich character, he must now maintain that character forever if he wants to sustain her interest.

Predictably, he increasingly struggles to do so. Malkovich under Craig’s control begins to suspiciously resemble…Craig. For example, the new Malkovich begins a career in arthouse puppetry and starts to physically look like Craig. Accordingly, Maxine gradually loses interest and dumps him. (This occurs after about eight months of being together, a decent approximation of the “honeymoon phase,” after which relationships stereotypically become more difficult as facades wear thin.)

We can infer that Craig’s inability to maintain distance between himself and his character reflects Kaufman’s own philosophy regarding character invention. After all, as we’ve described, Kaufman tends to write characters based heavily on himself (including in this movie, which explores the psychology of screenwriting). It seems that he has little faith in one’s ability—or at least in his own ability—to create authentic characters that aren’t, at heart, mere copies of oneself. This thinking will be important as we move to the next section.

3. Captain

So far, our analysis has covered how the characters’ experiences with the portal symbolize either moviegoing or, in Craig’s special case, screenwriting. But one character uses the portal for entirely different ends.

That would be Dr. Lester (Orson Bean), otherwise known as Captain Mertin. In the late 1800’s, Mertin discovered the portal, and he realized that if he inhabited it on the 44th birthday of the individual to whose mind it led, then he would become that person permanently—enabling himself, essentially, to live forever.

How does this fit with our interpretation of the portal as a representation of cinema? Well, Mertin discovered the portal in the late 1800’s, precisely when film was invented. So the framework seems to hold up.

Continuing to adhere to that framework, then, we can infer that Mertin’s jumping from one “vessel body” to another represents how certain filmic ideas and characters can become essentially immortal through repeated artistic imitation.

Don’t worry, I’ll explain.

Captain Mertin, a rich, white industrialist, is exactly the kind of person who would have been the subject of fledgling films upon their early invention. And when a new generation of filmmakers inevitably imitated these early reels, his essence would have been channeled into the newer films. And so forth with the next generation of filmmakers, et cetera. Thus, by being the subject of the first ever films in the late 1800’s, Mertin has found a way to live forever. The spirit of those films lives on through its enduring influence on our artistic tradition. From this perspective, Mertin never “dies.”

This is represented in the movie by Mertin literally trying to transfer himself into the mind of a practicing actor. Film actors like John Malkovich indeed provide a “vessel” for those like Mertin to live on. Actors play roles based on older roles, which are in turn based on even older roles. Therefore, they unwittingly conduct the likes of Captain Mertin infinitely into the future.

This sets up a symbolic confrontation between Mertin and Craig. Both want control of Malkovich, but for opposing artistic aims. Mertin, as described, sees Malkovich as a potential imitator of himself—a “vessel” to carry his essence forward. He wants film, in other words, to recreate old archetypes.

This aesthetic, though, carries significant limitations. Highlighting these limitations is a short video that Craig watches for employee training. It idolizes the wealthy Captain Mertin and frames his construction of the Mertin-Flemmer building as a selfless gift to a little person. Of course, this framing is an outright lie: in reality, Mertin constructed the building to conceal the portal. Thus, the training video epitomizes some of the major flaws of early films: they unthinkingly celebrate rich, white people, often promoting false narratives to do so. Think The Birth of a Nation (1914).

Craig, meanwhile, has a different vision for filmmaking. He wants to create personal, relevant art. As a puppeteer, he puts on a show entitled, “Dance of Despair and Disillusionment,” dramatizing his own self-loathing. In addition, as a (symbolic) screenwriter, as previously described, he allows his character of Malkovich to drift closer and closer to his own previous identity. As mentioned, this reflects Kaufman’s own tendency to write characters very similar to himself.

And basing characters closely on oneself actually serves as an excellent means of excluding the kind of pernicious archetypes that Mertin represents. After all, inserting oneself as a character in a story forces personal screenwriting. It leaves little room for that character to take on traits subconsciously pulled from older cinematic influences.

Thus, if Craig were able to popularize this approach to making films, Mertin would lack a symbolic “vessel” to perpetuate his aesthetic. His “life” would come to an end. Therefore, the battle between the two characters for control of John Malkovich represents a battle for the future of movies. Will they continue to channel outdated conventions, as Captain Mertin wants? Or will they leap into the future, allowing Mertin to finally die?

Craig has the upper hand. Unfortunately, as we’ve described, he has become distracted from his idealistic goals. His art has become primarily a means of wooing Maxine, rather than of authentic creation. And this inconstancy proves to be his undoing. He becomes convinced that leaving Malkovich to rescue Maxine will come across as a heroic, romantic gesture. Of course, this gesture fails miserably. As we’ve said, Maxine’s attraction is only to Craig’s character, as played by Malkovich. She therefore rejects him and leaves with Lotte.

The clear message: pursuing art for selfish gain leads to inevitable failure. Craig, once a strict idealist, has become more interested in the secondary benefits of artistic fame. He has lost his way as a screenwriter.

The villainous Captain Mertin therefore triumphs, inhabiting Malkovich in Craig’s place. And indeed, our movies and shows continue to exhibit regressive aesthetics. Mertin’s likeness lives on.

Plus, Mertin brings with him several friends, all of whom appear, of course, rich and white like himself. Thus, wealthy people in general, not just Mertin, appear to use film to avoid oblivion. After they’re gone, they influence characters that dominate the cinema. (Being John Malkovich surely serves as the precursor to Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2013), which also examines elites’ use of popular culture to extend themselves.)

Having symbolically failed as a screenwriter, Craig no longer controls what he sees in the portal. Instead, having re-entered it too late, he finds himself trapped in the next vessel: Maxine’s daughter, Emily. This ending symbolizes that, no longer influencing the direction of moviemaking, Craig must live out his days at the mercy of movies. He’ll continue to watch them, but they’ll only remind him, as art tends to do, of his lived experiences. In this case, that means his painful failure to win Maxine’s love.

Meanwhile, Captain Mertin and his friends, now inside Malkovich, ready themselves for another jump. Once they control Emily, Craig will be doomed to watch the type of movie—outdated and dishonest—that he symbolically failed to phase out. He’ll receive poetic justice for diverting from his artistic aims.

What a crazy film. There’s so much going on in Being John Malkovich that synthesizing it into one coherent essay is challenging. But I hope that I’ve helped to delineate its hidden meanings and messages.

In sum, it’s a tragicomedy about the thrills and dangers of making movies. If such subject matter appeals to you, then you’re in luck. Because Charlie Kaufman has written plenty of other films—and, in accordance with the artistic manifesto introduced in this one, they tend to be primarily concerned with…the screenwriting life of Charlie Kaufman.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, check out my essay on Everything Everywhere All At Once.

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Uncategorized

2023 Best Picture Nominees Ranked

It’s that time of year! The Oscars are upon us, so here are this year’s ten Best Picture nominees ranked from worst to best. Each ranking is linked to the full review for that individual movie.

10. Avatar: The Way of Water

“Cameron delivers these moments in a crushingly reverent, pious tone, as if he wants us to believe (or he himself believes) that, for instance, a blue creature befriending a CGI whale is self-evidently a monumental, poignant event.”

9. Elvis

“Must we really do this? Must we break down historical figures and reassemble them into 2020’s-approved versions of themselves?”

8. Women Talking

“Imagine if Shakespeare had decided that Iago didn’t deserve to be portrayed onstage—who would want to see Othello? What great story could withstand the removal of its primary antagonist?”

7. All Quiet on the Western Front

“Disembodied limbs everywhere, young men crying like babies, kids killing grown men: this movie has it all. Because apparently, it’s now passé to say that War Is Bad. One must say that War Is Really Bad.”

6. Tár

“Chained to mediocrity by a pondering, lecture-y screenplay that nevertheless avoids any real stances on the issues it strains to raise, Tár fails to animate the character drama at the heart of its story.”

5. The Fabelmans

“Confusion is a limited aesthetic. It traps the audience in the dark, preventing nuanced reflection.”

4. Top Gun: Maverick

“It’s Cruise’s most reflective film. Specifically, the plot functions as a meditation on the approaching end to his own movie stardom.”

3. The Banshees of Inisherin

“Its power lies in its reminder that, as the loquacious Padraic eventually comes to understand, some problems are unsolvable—that words don’t always help or even illuminate.”

2. Triangle of Sadness

“Together, these episodes form an intriguing examination of the slippery nature of power dynamics.”

1. Everything Everywhere All At Once

“A true cinematic miracle, it transfigures our most annoying genre–the superhero movie–into something artistic and rich.”

 

Commentary:

This year’s batch of nominees is pretty bad by recent standards. Avatar and Elvis have been gifted token nominations to increase viewership for the broadcast. Women Talking and Tár serve mostly to highlight Hollywood’s ongoing torment over its myriad scandals of sexual misconduct. Amidst weak films like these, there’s room for some unusual entries to climb the list. For example, Top Gun: Maverick, which would ordinarily rank as a borderline nominee, places fourth.

However, the group is redeemed by the incredible Everything Everywhere All At Once. What’s more, as of this writing, EEAAO is the favorite to win the category. If it does win, it would be the first time in seven years that the Academy agreed with my first choice (Moonlight, 2016). That would be a pretty happy about-face: last year, I ranked the Disneylike CODA ninth out of ten, and it won the prize.

Several of the movies I liked the most this year didn’t factor into the Oscar field. In particular, I recommend Nope and The Menu to anyone. And for a lighthearted, fun watch, check out Marcel The Shell with Shoes On. I’m sure there are more gems, and maybe watching the Oscars will point me toward some of them.

Happy watching, everyone!

 

-Jim Andersen

For last year’s rankings, see 2022 Best Picture Nominees Ranked.

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Movies Explained

Everything Everywhere All At Once Explained

Everything Everywhere All At Once may be the best film of 2022. But it demands a lot of engagement (possibly via multiple viewings), so if you’ve seen it, you might be looking for some clarification. What, exactly, happens over the course of its disorienting plot? How does Evelyn succeed in bonding with Joy? How do supporting characters like Dierdre and Gong Gong affect the story arcs?

In this essay, I’ll summarize and interpret EEAAO. To state my conclusion before I begin: the film is a comic book-style reimagining of a classic immigrant dilemma. Through a complicated metaphor that casts members of a Chinese-American family as science fiction heroes and villains, the movie dramatizes the search for a middle ground between the intolerance of traditional Chinese culture and the emptiness of modern American nihilism. 

With that, let’s get analyzing.

We begin with Evelyn Wang (Michelle Yeoh), who co-manages a humble laundromat with her husband, Waymond (Ke Huy Quan). Evelyn harbors regret and frustration. She wishes she had never immigrated to America with Waymond, having grown tired of his bumbling antics and the tedium of managing the laundromat. In one scene she imagines that, had she stayed in China—as her father, Gong Gong (James Hong), wanted—she could have become a glamorous actress.

Evelyn also faces multiple erupting family crises. Gong Gong, requiring care for his medical needs, has recently moved from China to live with her. This presents her with the opportunity to heal their relationship (which was damaged when she disobeyed him and moved to America), but her daughter, Joy (Stephanie Tsu), poses a potential obstacle to this. Joy, raised in America, doesn’t fit the mold of a traditional Chinese daughter, and Evelyn worries that Joy’s Americanized behavior may anger her father.

Especially incompatible with Gong Gong’s values is that Joy is dating a woman. Evelyn therefore introduces Joy’s girlfriend as only a “good friend.” This slight angers Joy, and she leaves the laundromat tearfully.

Waymond, too, has become frustrated with Evelyn’s longstanding rigidity and lack of affection. He tries to present Evelyn with divorce papers, but his grievances are only confirmed when Evelyn, harried and dismissive as usual, can’t even spare the time to read them.

Finally, a ferocious IRS agent, Dierdre (Jamie Lee Curtis), is auditing the laundromat. And this decorated financial sleuth makes clear that she won’t hesitate to close the business if the family can’t sort out their records in a matter of hours.

In summary, the family is in peril. But now we get to the interesting stuff.

That’s because an alternate version of Waymond suddenly appears and tells Evelyn that a cosmic danger has arisen. When researchers in his own universe—the “Alphaverse”—discovered the possibility of jumping between universes, they trained agents in this skill. But one agent, known as Jobu Tupaki, was pushed too far. She thereby acquired the ability to experience “everything everywhere all at once”: to perceive all of the infinite universes simultaneously. She then rebelled and began using her powers to cause chaos throughout the multiverse. Now, for unknown reasons, she has been hunting down and killing different versions of Evelyn.

Jobu Tupaki is, as it turns out, the Alphaverse version of Joy. Thus, before we continue, it’s crucial to realize that Jobu is merely a comic book-style projection of Joy. Jobu’s powers and attitudes correspond to Joy’s real traits seen early in the movie.

For example, Jobu Tupaki can endlessly jump between universes.  She perceives—and demonstrates—that everything is possible, which angers and worries the Alphaverse version of Gong Gong. This exactly corresponds to the real life family drama that plays out in the laundromat. After all, Joy, unlike Gong Gong and Evelyn, perceives many cultural possibilities, such the possibility of women dating other women. She sees, in other words, a “universe” in which homosexual relationships are possible. Hence Jobu Tupaki’s unsurpassed talent for universe-jumping.

Thus, in the comic book-style “multiverse” storyline, Joy’s modernized viewpoint is translated as a dangerous superpower. And indeed, her rejection of traditional Chinese attitudes is dangerous from the perspective of Gong Gong and Evelyn. As we’ve said, Evelyn hopes to reconnect with her father. Joy poses an existential threat to this goal.

Given the above symbolic framework, it’s tempting to interpret Joy as the movie’s true hero. If Jobu Tupaki’s abilities represent Joy’s tolerance and open-mindedness, shouldn’t we root for her against her more narrow-minded family?

To an extent. But excessive openness also has dangerous downsides. Specifically, perceiving unlimited options may obstruct the development of a distinct, individual identity. After all, one’s sense of self depends on values and choices. If we were to lose the ability to evaluate those choices—concluding, as Jobu Tupaki does, that “nothing matters”—then we might also become detached from our identity. Joy appears to have been affected by this very problem: early in the film she appears appears adrift, bitter, and unmotivated.

Her lack of purpose translates, in her villainous alter ego, to a taunting, devil-may-care swagger. According to Alpha Waymond, Jobu Tupaki acts this way because she has “seen too much” and has therefore “lost any sense of morality, any belief in objective truth.”

And isn’t this the ultimate American danger? With no single set of values underlying our society, aren’t we vulnerable to this kind of detachment? In our aim for open-mindedness, might we accidentally slip into indifference? Having “seen too much,” like Jobu Tupaki, might we fall prey to the idea that “nothing matters”?

Jobu has constructed an interesting symbol to represent this psychological state: an Everything Bagel. The Bagel truly contains “everything” from across all universes. But it still forms the characteristic bagel shape: a “0.” The message behind this symbolism: perceiving “everything” actually amounts to perceiving nothing, since it comes at the expense of forming a distinct set of values. The Everything Bagel thus represents the nihilism that results from an excess of possibilities. Joy has succumbed to this nihilism, hence her alter ego’s diabolical creation of the Bagel.

We might also note that Joy and Jobu’s loss of faith in “morality” and “objective truth” epitomizes a larger shift in today’s America. Alpha Waymond underscores this, noting that the Everything Bagel has begun to affect not just Jobu Tupaki, but everyone else, as well:

We can all feel it. … Something is off. Your clothes never wear as well the next day. Your hair never falls the same way. Even your coffee tastes wrong. Our institutions are crumbling. Nobody trusts their neighbor anymore. And you stay up at night wondering to yourself: ‘How can we get back?’

In summary, the nihilism of the Everything Bagel is spreading. And, looking around in 2022, he seems to have a point. Our institutions are indeed “crumbling,” and it’s true that “nobody trusts their neighbor anymore.”

But why has Joy in particular become so lost? After all, not all Americans adopt a worldview of emptiness. Despite lacking a definitive set of cultural values, we generally still form positive, healthy identities. Why has Joy failed to do so?

The answer lies in Alpha Waymond’s backstory about Jobu Tupaki. He explains that Jobu gained her powers when Alpha Evelyn pushed her “too hard.” Relating this to the original universe, we can infer that Evelyn’s strict, demanding parenting, by causing too much family resentment, has alienated Joy from her family and her Chinese heritage. Thereby separated from her roots, Joy lacks the family foundation that could help her retain a sturdy identity amidst the chaos of American life.

In other words, without an accepting, encouraging family on which to base her sense of self, Joy has become confused and disoriented. Or, as Alpha Waymond characterizes Jobu: “fractured.”

Alpha Gong Gong feels that the fractured Jobu is “beyond saving.” And this isn’t surprising given that in the original universe, Gong Gong disowned Evelyn when she moved to America. It seems that he finds increased openness to non-traditional ideas inherently upsetting. He also finds it hopeless: once a person turns away from the traditional path, he believes, they’ve been irrevocably lost to American-style nihilism. There’s no turning back.

But Evelyn disagrees. She believes that her daughter can be saved. Therefore, she refuses Alpha Gong Gong’s order to kill Jobu Tupaki and instead vows to convert her away from villainy. This symbolizes, of course, a decision to attempt to “rescue” Joy from the emotional crisis affecting her.

To do so, Evelyn intentionally acquires Jobu Tupaki’s ability to perceive all universes simultaneously. Subsequently following Jobu throughout the various universes, she eventually arrives at the Everything Bagel. Using our symbolic framework, we can interpret these events as Evelyn making an honest effort to empathize with her daughter’s modern American experience—and, upon doing so, becoming aware of the nihilism threatening Joy’s sense of self.

Upon entering the Bagel, Evelyn experiences Jobu’s chaotic reality. Jobu summarizes it:

Just a lifetime of fractured moments. Contradictions and confusions. With only a few specks of time where anything actually makes sense.

Evelyn feels Jobu’s aimless experience so intensely, in fact, that she begins causing Jobu-like havoc in the various universes. For example, in the original universe, she vandalizes the laundromat in front of Dierdre. It appears that, feeling the weight of the Everything Bagel, she has come to align with Jobu Tupaki: “nothing matters.”

All along, Jobu had hoped for Evelyn to feel this burden. It’s revealed that Jobu had previously traveled through the multiverse seeking out various Evelyns in the hope of finding one who had the ability to experience—and thereby understand—her own suffering.

But, surprisingly, Jobu Tupaki soon expresses disappointment in Evelyn. As the two sit as rocks on a lifeless Earth, Jobu admits that she had hoped for Evelyn to “see something I didn’t” and find “another way.” In other words, Joy had hoped for her mother to present an alternative to nihilism. Evelyn, however, can’t provide this. It appears that upon truly empathizing with her daughter’s chaotic American experience, she has adopted the same hopeless philosophy.

Jobu goes on to inform Evelyn that she intends to use the Everything Bagel to kill herself. She has been contemplating suicide to end her empty, fractured experience. (Of course, nihilism may logically culminate in suicide, since it denies meaning to life.) She invites Evelyn to join her in death. And Evelyn, having fallen under the influence of the Everything Bagel’s emptiness, appears ready to do so.

But at this moment, Evelyn notices something that rouses her from hopelessness. In the original universe, Waymond has temporarily talked Dierdre out of shuttering the laundromat. Although Jobu dismisses this as a random “statistical inevitability” and “nothing special,” Evelyn finds it startling, given her low estimation of Waymond’s abilities. Suddenly surveying the other universes, she becomes increasingly aware of Waymond’s courageous kindness. For example, in a universe in which Evelyn is indeed a famous actress, Waymond articulates that generosity is a form of “fighting.”

Evelyn gathers newfound purpose from Waymond’s strength. Now emulating her husband, she begins to use her powers to cause happiness across the multiverse. This includes, in the original universe, confronting Gong Gong about his dogmatism. She vows to stop the traumatic cycle of intolerance: “I am no longer willing to do to my daughter what you did to me.” Accordingly, she finally introduces Joy’s girlfriend as such.

Simultaneously, she, Waymond, and Alpha Gong Gong pull Jobu Tupaki away from the Bagel, preventing her suicide. This conveys that accepting Joy’s girlfriend has had a monumental impact on Joy’s emotional state. (Plus, Alpha Gong Gong’s contribution suggests that Evelyn’s speech about family love has moved him to change his approach.)

Evelyn summarizes her new perspective in a conversation with Dierdre in the original universe. She, like Jobu Tupaki, had previously interpreted the existence of infinite realities as depressing and intimidating—as proof that “nothing matters.” But now, incorporating Waymond’s mindset, she sees each universe as only another example that “there is always something to love” no matter the circumstances. In a particularly silly example, she and Dierdre have a lesbian affair in a universe featuring hot dogs as fingers.

With this new outlook, Evelyn tries to reconnect with Joy. But despite her brave repudiation of Gong Gong’s traditionalism, Joy remains hesitant. She acknowledges Evelyn’s positive change but insists that the two remain incompatible—that they only cause one another “hurt.”

Recall that Joy’s depression had stemmed from the confusion of multicultural American life. Lacking any connection to her roots or identity—a result of her discord with her overly strict mother—she had become engulfed in chaos and uncertainty. Thus, Joy indeed requires more than for Evelyn to introduce her girlfriend to Gong Gong. Although doing so may have lessened the personal resentment between the two, Joy still lacks a crucial grounding influence. She still needs a strong presence to remind her who she is.

And in the movie’s finale, Evelyn provides exactly this. Suddenly reclaiming the role of mother—and, in particular, Chinese mother—Evelyn scolds Joy for gaining weight, failing to call, and getting tattoos against her wishes. Joy appears paradoxically grateful for these reprimands, which fits with our analysis. She has been desperate for family direction (that doesn’t devolve into personal insults).

Notably, Waymond expresses discomfort with Evelyn’s criticisms. This underscores that he, despite his other merits, lacks the assertiveness to re-plant Joy within a strong family structure. Only Evelyn can provide the direction that Joy has been missing.

Evelyn concludes by refuting Joy’s nihilism. “You’re right,” she begins, “it doesn’t make sense” to prefer one particular life and family when endless alternatives are possible. In fact, as previously noted, Evelyn herself had struggled with this early in the film, pining for a more glamorous life.

But her adventures have taught her that living only one life is a source of great happiness. Why, after all, did Jobu Tupaki search through the entire multiverse for Evelyn, specifically? Why does a daughter need her mother, and vice versa? Evelyn admits that we don’t know, but whatever the explanation, no amount of universes seem capable of refuting it.

Evelyn accepts Joy’s chaotic experience (“only a few specks of time where anything makes sense”). But, being Joy’s mother, she promises to “cherish” those sporadic moments. Now reunited, the two embrace. And Evelyn ends the film by repeating Jobu Tupaki’s refrain, now no longer a dark manifesto but rather a loving half-joke: “nothing matters.”

In conclusion, Everything Everywhere All At Once tells a familiar American immigrant story. It explores the balancing act of embracing the best qualities of the American ethos while still maintaining family identity. These themes have characterized many, many films.

But the manner of EEAAO‘s telling separates it from the rest. Never has the American story been told like this. And never, in all probability, will it ever be again.

Although… Somewhere out there in the multiverse, surely this film will inspire a new direction for Hollywood. It’ll usher in a wave of films that combine crowd-pleasing fun with intricate, character-driven stories. It’ll revive the kind of popular cinema that doesn’t lose touch with reality, maybe not seen in America since the 70’s.

Is it too much to hope that the one universe lucky enough to see this happen will be…ours?

 

–Jim Andersen

For more analyses, see my piece on The Menu.

Categories
Movie Reviews

Triangle of Sadness Throws Power Dynamics Overboard

Triangle of Sadness, directed by Ruben Ostlund, serves up plentiful food for thought. Told in three sections (a triangle indeed), the film follows a young couple, both models, who first argue about monetary responsibilities, then join a group of wealthy vacationers on a cruise, then finally wind up marooned on an island. Together, these episodes form an intriguing examination of the slippery nature of power dynamics.

Ostlund’s message is best understood by following the trajectory of male model Carl (Harris Dickerson), the movie’s central character. At a casting call early in the film, a photographer tests Carl’s versatility by prompting him to alternate between smiling and frowning. The smiles, as the photographer reminds him, accord with ads for cheaper brands like H&M. The frowns, meanwhile, correspond with designer brands like Balenciaga. The reasoning: the rich look down on the poor, so a model for luxury brands should emote condescension and even annoyance toward regular people viewing the ads.

Perhaps worried by this uncomfortable message, Carl soon confronts his girlfriend Yaya (Charlbi Dean) about having to pay for meals at restaurants. Yaya makes more money than he does, so Carl feels that she should at least split some of the bills. But Yaya rebuts him, initially citing his responsibility as a man to provide for her—but later admitting that she merely plans to become someone else’s trophy wife and has no emotional investment in the relationship. The photographer was right: Yaya, the wealthier and more influential of the two, looks down on Carl. It isn’t about fairness, as Carl advocates for. Rather, it’s about power: since Yaya is more influential, she can use him as a ploy for Instagram clout and dump him when the time is right. She can even openly admit to this without fearing a breakup.

Carl insists that he’ll make Yaya change her mind and fall in love with him. But on a luxury cruise, things don’t change. Carl becomes jealous when a shirtless crewmember greets Yaya, and, pathetically, he whines about it to the staff and gets the man fired. It’s clearer than ever that Yaya holds all the cards in this relationship. In our society, after all, female beauty comes valued more highly than male beauty. Yaya’s social media following—much larger than Carl’s—has allowed the couple to board the cruise in the first place.

Variations and commentaries on the couple’s power dynamic abound on the cruise. The rich guests boss around the crew and staff. Two characters drunkenly argue about capitalism and communism. Amidst all of this, the ship symbolically begins to tilt in stormy seas: the power dynamics may be shifting. And such a shift would cause quite a shock, as evidenced by the memorable bodily reactions experienced by the pompous vacationers.

In the last section of the movie, this shift has occurred. Shipwrecked by a pirate’s grenade, the survivors, including Carl and Yaya, establish an island community. But wealth no longer holds sway in the new hierarchy. Instead, toilet manager Abigail (Dolly de Leon) takes command, as only she knows how to survive in the wild. And one of Abigail’s first orders of business is to request sexual favors from Carl in exchange for special treatment. He readily complies.

On the island, it seems, things have reversed: male beauty now has greater worth. Yaya tries to inflame Carl’s old jealousy to win him back, but her efforts are futile. Without her former influence, the old power dynamic between the two doesn’t apply.

Carl’s position on the island, though, is awfully similar to his old position. He has merely swung from being used by Yaya to being used by Abigail. Both women hold great power in different types of societies for different reasons. And Carl gains special treatment from each by supplying something that each of them needs: Instagram aesthetics for Yaya, sexual favors for Abigail.

So the movie ends with Carl running through the jungle to rescue…whom? Yaya? Abigail? Does it matter?

Ostlund won’t show us the rest of the scene because it doesn’t. Carl is no romantic, as he claims to be in the first section. Rather, he’s like everyone else: someone who exchanges what he has to get what he can. His supposed principles go overboard on stormy seas, leaving only a weak, common person, smiling up at the powerful—who frown in condescension back at him.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more movie reviews, see my review on The Banshees of Inisherin

 

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Movie Reviews

The Banshees of Inisherin Insists on Dark Realities

The Banshees of Inisherin, directed by Martin McDonagh, is an odd movie about a friendship that suddenly fractures. Its oddness serves it well. While not a perfect or even a great film, Banshees has artistic purpose that leaves certain images lingering in the mind long afterward. For that reason alone, the film is worth watching.

The film’s literal narrative follows the consequences of the decision by a musician named Colm (Brendan Gleeson) to suddenly break off his longtime friendship with neighbor Padraic (Colin Farrell). Colm explains that, feeling his advancing age, he no longer wants to spend his days mulling trivial matters with Padraic. He wants to focus on grand matters like music and philosophy, which fall outside Padraig’s understanding.

Like Padraic, we refuse to accept this reasoning. What, after all, is grander than friendship? But Colm has made up his mind, and he’ll do whatever it takes to convince his former friend that a reversal isn’t in the cards. Not much happens in this movie, but suffice to say that Colm’s intransigence combined with Padraic’s desperate incomprehension initiates a downward spiral for both characters. Without each other to reign in their excesses—Colm’s lofty intellectualism and Padraic’s emotional quaintness—each descends into an equal and opposite type of madness.

Some have said that the story is mostly compelling for its allegorical value. It recreates the wariness and heartbreak of the Irish Civil War, and references the conflict multiple times to reinforce the link. But I don’t know much about the Irish Civil War, and chances are that you don’t, either; so I don’t think this is particularly relevant to the experience of watching the movie, unless you’re very interested in Irish history.

I’m pretty much out of things to say about this highly acclaimed film. And I suspect that McDonagh wanted it this way: The Banshees of Inisherin simply doesn’t lend itself to analysis or discussion. Rather, its power lies in its reminder that, as the loquacious Padraic eventually comes to understand, some problems are unsolvable—that words don’t always help or even illuminate. That’s a bitter pill to swallow for Padraic, and it’s perhaps even more bitter for us viewers. But it forces us to take the film seriously, and it forces us to confront dark realities that we’d otherwise prefer to ignore.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more reviews of 2023 Oscar nominees, see my review of Women Talking.

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Movies Explained

The Menu Explained

The Menu, directed by Mark Mylod and starring Ralph Fiennes, follows a group of diners who experience a top chef’s outrageous final meal. In its more direct moments, it serves as a blunt, class-based satire. But in other moments, it seems to invite further analysis, indicating subtleties and deeper meanings to the action. This piece will explain those meanings and tie the film together.

To summarize the analysis to follow, Chef Julian Slowik’s menu is a piece of performance art that commemorates his own artistic corruption at the hands of a materialistic society. Each dish represents an aspect of his decline. And each diner in the film represents an aspect of the societal pressure that has ruined him.

To demonstrate this, I’ll go through the menu course by course. Along the way, I’ll explain how each dish contributes to the overall meaning described above.

First Course: The Island

The first course to be served, “The Island,” pays tribute to nature. It consists only of plants and rocks from the environment. Chef Slowik (Ralph Fiennes) introduces the dish by praising natural harmony and criticizing human attempts to improve upon it.

Viewers may soon forget this speech, since the shock value of “The Island” pales in comparison to that of later courses. But it’s a pivotal moment, since, as we’ll see, the later courses will expand upon Slowik’s negative view of society. Therefore, starting the menu with a tribute to uncorrupted nature lays the foundation for what’s to come. Think of it as representing a “pre-downfall” state akin to the Garden of Eden.

Second Course: Breadless Bread Plate

Slowik’s cataloging of his downfall begins with his second course, “Breadless Bread Plate.” He introduces the dish with a speech hailing bread as the “food of the common man.” But he quickly points out that, due to their wealth, the diners before him aren’t the common man. He therefore denies them bread and serves only the accompaniments.

The function of “Breadless Bread Plate,” then, is to bring attention to the elitism of the diners. And Slowik’s assertion that the guests aren’t regular people is proven correct by their bizarre reactions to the dish.

For example, hotshot bankers Bryce, Soren, and Dave threaten to have the restaurant closed if the server continues to refuse them bread. Wealthy couple Richard and Anne Leibrandt show only mild bafflement. Elitist food critic Lilian Bloom calls Slowik’s idea “fiendish” but becomes preoccupied with a split emulsion in the accompaniment tray. Actor George Diaz largely ignores the dish and discusses his intention to pitch a bogus show in which he’ll travel the world and pretend to enjoy food. Culinary enthusiast Tyler (Nicholous Hoult) is the most admiring: he gushes about Slowik’s inventiveness and “badassery.”

These reactions demonstrate various ways of spoiling the restaurant experience:

  • The bankers: entitlement. They have no interest in food and only want to boss the staff and chef around. When they become even slightly dissatisfied, they wield their financial influence to threaten harm.
  • The Leibrandts: indifference. They’re simply passing the time and have no enthusiasm for or engagement with the meal.
  • Lilian and her editor: snobbery. They’re preoccupied with trivial details and have lost the ability to enjoy food rather than use it to demean others or show off.
  • George: exploitation. He sees food only as a means of attaining fame and fortune.
  • Tyler: infatuation. He’s obsessed with fine dining and with Chef Slowik in particular—so much so that he neglects basic human decency and even his own personal safety.

Again, these corruptions of the chef-customer relationship are characteristic of rich, elite diners. And given that Hawthorn serves such customers daily, their distorted approaches to food have the potential to influence the chefs and staff. In fact, considering Hawthorn’s isolation and exclusive contact with upper class guests, it wouldn’t be surprising if Slowik and his employees began to absorb and reflect some of those damaging attitudes and traits.

Thus, if “The Island” presented uncorrupted innocence, “Breadless Bread Plate” gestures toward a potentially corrupting influence: the materialistic upper class.

Of relevance, there’s a well-studied psychological principle that describes how subjects behave differently under observation. The name of this principle: the Hawthorne effect.

Third Course: Memory

In the third and fourth courses, Slowik changes direction somewhat. Instead of continuing to focus on the potentially corrupting influence of high society, as in “Breadless Bread Plate,” he turns his lens inward. These next two courses examine why an artist like himself might be vulnerable to debasement by the outsized demands of Hawthorn’s patrons.

The third course, “Memory,” begins this introspection. It starts with Slowik telling a harrowing childhood story of stabbing his drunken father in the thigh to protect his mother. Memorializing this traumatic event, the dish features chicken thigh stabbed with scissors.

Slowik’s story serves to illuminate how our pasts may ingrain self-destructive tendencies that manifest throughout our lives. Apparently, Slowik grew up in a confusing, stressful environment. He was often caught between two sides, pressured to act as mediator or even savior. It’s no surprise, then, that he remains inclined to please people, no matter the validity of their demands. His childhood traumas have instilled in him a compulsion to meet others’ wants. This compulsion may have pushed him toward becoming a chef in the first place—and it leaves him susceptible to the abuse of difficult guests.

Fourth Course: The Mess

The theme of feeling compelled to please others also underlines the menu’s fourth course, “The Mess.” This course involves a sous-chef, Jeremy Louden, committing suicide in front of the guests.

As usual, the key to understanding the meaning of the dish lies in the introductory speech. In it, Slowik notes that Jeremy, like himself, has “forsaken everything” for the art of cooking and lives a miserable life of “pressure”:

Even when all goes right, and the food is perfect, and the customers are happy, and the critics are, too—there is no way to avoid the mess. The mess you make of your life, of your body, of your sanity, by giving everything you have to pleasing people you will never know.

Recall that “Memory” highlighted how childhood traumas can help make an artist vulnerable to corrupting influences. Similarly, “The Mess” highlights how the very nature of service work makes one vulnerable by exacting a crushing toll on the body and mind. Giving “everything you have” to strangers inherently degrades and makes a “mess” of the server, Slowik asserts. And this degradation, we can infer, may also weaken one’s defenses against ugly, base attitudes like those of Hawthorn’s rich clientele—that is, if it doesn’t drive one to suicide, as it does Jeremy.

Palate Cleanser

Slowik then takes a break from his menu to explicitly criticize various guests. And his comments reiterate the natures of their warped relationships with food described in the second section of this piece. For instance, he accuses Lilian Bloom of destroying lives with her snobbish reviews, and he takes the Leibrandts to task for failing to even remember their previous meals at Hawthorn.

More importantly, though, Slowik also admits to making a major error in running his restaurant. Specifically, he acknowledges that by letting his food become too expensive for average people, he has doomed himself to trying to satisfy “people who could never be satisfied.” And he remarks that his mother may have first instilled in him this impulse to please the un-pleasable. All of these statements confirm and summarize parts of our analysis thus far.

Finally, Slowik indicates yet another corrupting influence on him and his art. He notes that Doug Verrick, his “angel investor,” insisted on meddling with his menu during the COVID pandemic to optimize profits. Slowik therefore drowns Verrick in front of the diners to reclaim his artistic freedom.

A “palate cleanser,” so to speak. And another example of Slowik’s obsession with how becoming dependent on wealthy patrons has damaged his art.

Fifth Course: Man’s Folly

To recap: the first four courses focused on the mechanics of Slowik’s artistic decline. First, “The Island” established a baseline of untouched innocence. Then, “Breadless Bread Plate” indicated the potential corrupting influence of elitist customers. Finally, “Memory” and “The Mess” explored how an artist of lofty ideals might have become vulnerable to that influence.

But if corruption took place, what was the result? What does a corrupt artist look like? “Man’s Folly” finally illustrates this.

The dish’s introduction comes not from Slowik but from another sous-chef, Katherine Keller. Katherine describes how Slowik recently made sexual advances on her. When she refused, Slowik punished her by avoiding speaking to or even making eye contact with her. She explains that he can get away with these harmful actions: “He’s the star. He’s the man.”

Back in our analysis of “Breadless Bread Plate,” we identified five elitist distortions of the server-consumer relationship: entitlement, indifference, snobbery, exploitation, and infatuation. We also posited that given the restaurant’s repeated, exclusive exposure to wealthy customers, the chefs and staff could very well begin to alter their behavior (remember the Hawthorn effect) and even reflect the same attitudes as their guests.

And indeed, the story of Slowik sexually harassing Katherine contains something of all of the mindsets we identified. Entitled to her body, indifferent to her refusals, snobbish in his mistreatment of her afterward, exploitative in his attempt to use his fame for selfish purposes, and letting infatuation guide his actions, Slowik has truly become what he despises. He has become his elitist clientele.

Plus, Katherine goes on to stab Slowik with scissors in the thigh. This symbolizes that not only has Slowik become like his clientele, but he has become like his abusive father. These two trajectories, of course, are closely linked. After all, as we discussed in our analysis of “Memory” and as Slowik himself confirmed during the “Palate Cleanser,” his relationships with his parents helped ingrain his impulse to satisfy greedy, demanding individuals. In other words, the behavior of his customers has pushed him to develop traits to which he was already vulnerable due to childhood experiences.

Later, after the course, Slowik doesn’t mince words. He professes, “I’m a monster. I’m a whore.” And indeed, he has fallen from grace. Not only has he become the type of person who would cause harm and suffering, but he has become the type of chef who would disrupt the functioning of his kitchen for selfish reasons unrelated to his ostensible purpose: preparing great food.

He has tried, in other words, to escape his purpose. And to memorialize the futility of his effort, he allows his male guests to try—and inevitably fail—to escape the island.

Tyler’s Bullshit

Slowik then takes a detour from his planned menu. This is largely due to his interactions with Erin (Anna Taylor-Joy), a prostitute from Massachusetts who goes by the name Margot Mills.

After “Man’s Folly,” Slowik singles out Tyler, referring to him as an “unresolved situation.” Apparently, Slowik has been harboring particular disdain for Tyler. Most likely, this stems from the earlier revelation that Tyler, although previously aware that all guests would be killed, nevertheless hired Erin to accompany him to Hawthorn. Slowik is fond of Erin, having correctly deduced earlier that she’s a fellow service worker. (They even share a common customer: Mr. Leibrandt.) So he now gets revenge on her behalf.

His ingenious method of retaliation: to force Tyler to cook a meal. Because although Tyler knows many facts about fine dining and flavors, he truly has little understanding of them. He has merely reduced the eating experience to small snippets of knowledge, which he endlessly seeks out and recites. In other words, rather than hunger for food, Tyler perversely hungers for information about food.

This intellectualized approach is a travesty of dining, and its fundamental emptiness manifests in Tyler’s incoherent, bad-tasting meal. Slowik’s subsequent evaluation summarizes his contempt for Tyler and his focus on parts rather than the whole: “You have taken the mystery from our art.” He tells Tyler to hang himself, and he does.

Supplemental Course: A Cheeseburger

Again, this had appeared to be revenge on Erin’s behalf. But Erin, too, soon falls out of favor with Slowik by unsuccessfully trying to radio for help. This outrages the chef, who claims to have been “wrong” about her. He places her back with the greedy customers—or, as he calls them, “the takers.”

However, Erin at this point in the film makes a pivotal speech of her own. She criticizes Slowik for his “deconstructed avant bullshit,” accusing him of taking “the joy out of eating” with his arty metaphors.

These words hurt Slowik, who, as we’ve established, hates to leave anyone displeased. But even more importantly, we can infer based on our analysis thus far that Slowik longs to return to the simple approach to dining that Erin exemplifies. Unlike the elitist guests around her, who represent the clientele that Hawthorn has been serving for years, Erin only wants 1) to be full and 2) to eat tasty food. She doesn’t exhibit any of the corrupted attitudes we’ve described. Therefore, her speech, though harsh, also refreshes Slowik.

After all, he began his cooking career at a humble burger joint. Erin discovers as much when she spots a photo of a young Slowik cooking happily on the grill. Remembering the photo, she requests that he cook her a simple cheeseburger. He acquiesces and allows her to take the meal “to go”—a show of gratitude for enabling him to briefly reconnect with the joy of cooking (and, more generally, of serving).

Dessert: S’more

This happy moment, though, doesn’t reverse Slowik’s intention to complete his planned menu. He still sees both himself and his guests as beyond redemption. Therefore, he proceeds with a speech for his dessert.

First, he criticizes the “s’more” as a combination of mass-produced, bland ingredients. But he acknowledges that, despite this, the s’more still has the power to remind us of “innocence” and “childhood,” thanks to the addition of fire:

The purifying flame. It nourishes us, warms us, re-invents us, forges and destroys us. We must embrace the flame. We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs or heretics, we can be subsumed and made anew.

Guests, staff, chefs, and restaurant alike are therefore set ablaze in a human s’more. The intention: to return them to the kind of innocence symbolized by “The Island.” In other words, just as fire transforms the s’more from a collection of appalling industrial components into a beloved childhood classic, fire will purify the odiousness of Hawthorn and its guests. The menu comes full circle: this dessert literally returns the restaurant to nature, which Slowik praised in his first speech.

Plus, the symbolism of this last dish perfectly summarizes the main theme of the menu. Because although the rich diners demonstrate distinct flaws, each of their attitudes boils down to one fundamental fault: that they always want “some more.”

Greed. Materialism. These forces poison the creative process, and Slowik feels that he and his kitchen have been irretrievably tainted. He has succumbed to his customers’ ugly ways, which we enumerated in “Breadless Bread Plate.” And this owes in part to the vulnerabilities explored in “Memory,” which focused on childhood experiences, and “The Mess,” which focused on the taxing nature of service work. Having too long served an upper class demographic that lacks the ability to truly appreciate food (or, arguably, anything), Slowik has joined them in “Folly,” as epitomized by his sexual harassment of a fellow chef.

An intricate, ingenious performance—or is it? We should pause to reconsider. That’s because Erin, having escaped with her cheeseburger, ends the film by wiping her mouth with Slowik’s meticulously planned menu. Apparently, she still doesn’t think much of his grand ideas and subtle symbolism. And director Mark Mylod, by giving her the last word (or wipe), hints that he may agree.

But as your enterprising movie blogger, I refuse to join them. Without minds like Slowik’s, what would we watch and discuss?

Then again…a juicy cheeseburger right off the grill?

It’s a close call.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, check out my piece on Nope.