Category: Arts and Entertainment

After weeks of ignoring her begging, I went with my roommate to see Thor: Ragnarok. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see the movie (Marvel films are actually my guilty pleasure), but I didn’t want to spend the ridiculous amount of money that is New York theater prices to see a film I thought I could predict in its entirety. I had a pretty strong feeling about how the movie was gonna go: we’d start with a dramatic scene where Thor’s at a low-point, then the film’s villain would inspire him to get his act together, and he’d reunite with some random Avenger to defeat whoever was threatening Asgard this time around. Interspersed would be some jokes about his abnormally attractive body, his villainous brother Loki, and of course Marvel’s typical sexual innuendos. I knew it would be entertaining, but also extremely predictable.

So when I sat down in the theater, I was surprised by the film I saw. Don’t get me wrong, I had indeed predicted the general plotline, but something about Thor: Ragnarok was different. Rather than being interspersed throughout, the jokes were continuous and quite upfront. From the very first scene (where Thor was indeed at a low-point), Chris Hemsworth’s superhero was cracking jokes left and right. His relationship with Loki took on a more humorous tone than ever before, and even the villain (Thor’s sister Hela) cracked a joke every now and again.

Even in the movie’s darkest and most serious moments, the characters were joking around. As I watched, it felt a little off-putting: why would Thor and the Hulk joke about the fate of millions of people? Why couldn’t the writers be serious for just one second? I came out of the theater feeling a bit uneasy; sure, the film was hilarious and most definitely entertaining–but what just happened? In an earlier column, I praised this summer’s Spider-Man: Homecoming for its jokes and for creating a lighter and more entertaining superhero movie than DC’s Wonder Woman. But it seems like Marvel took my feedback and dialed it up, like, five thousand percent.

Earlier this week, Marvel released its trailer for the upcoming Avengers: Infinity War, set to be released in two parts- one in 2018 and one in 2019. The trailer is typical of Marvel’s superhero universe, and only features one joke at the end of the preview–more like what I had been expecting from Thor: Ragnarok. And the trailer wasn’t released without its own drama: news that Avengers frontrunners like Chris Evans (Captain America), Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man), Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Mark Ruffalo (Hulk), and Scarlett Johansson’s (Black Widow) contracts are up after the film releases is sending every superhero-fan into a frenzy. Is this the last Avengers film? Will Marvel try to continue the Avengers franchise without its stars?

In interviews, Marvel CEO Kevin Feige has said that Marvel intends to continue the franchise with or without its stars, but that Infinity War will definitely mark the end of a particular era in the Avengers universe. And with Thor: Ragnarok shifting so dramatically in its approach, I am left wondering: is this lighter tone Marvel’s new take? And how will that work? Will it work?

Now don’t get me wrong: the fate of the superhero genre is not in danger. People will keep paying to see attractive men and women (although far too few women admittedly) save the world while cracking a joke about it. It’s fun, it’s entertaining, and it makes us feel good. But where Marvel has succeeded (and where, I would argue, DC hasn’t) is in making these feel-good movies into films with real quality. Previous Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and Avengers movies are all actually good movies. And that’s because they mix action and humor effortlessly, and invite the audience to feel close to their heroes. But when Marvel decided to focus solely on the humor in Thor: Ragnarok, they lost their appeal (at least to me). And if they continue on in this way, they may find themselves losing at the very genre they brought to the forefront of American cinema ten years ago.

Photo by Matthew Murphy

When Dina (played by Katrina Lenk) beautifully sings “Welcome to Nowhere,” a song introducing the audience to the show’s location, she doesn’t portray it to be one of the most exciting places. In fact, she goes so far as to sing “Such a city, nobody knows it. Not a fun, not an art, nor a culture. This is Bet Hativka.”

And her character is right: this show, like it repeatedly describes, is a simple story about how ‘’Once not long ago group of musicians came to Israel from Egypt. You probably didn’t hear about it. It wasn’t very important.”

The Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra. Photo by Matthew Murphy.

Yet, in this charming 95-minute show, audiences are thrust into a story that is so simple yet so complex, just like the human experience. Indeed, like life, the show begins with a slow start, in which we are introduced to the Alexandria Ceremonial Police Orchestra from Egypt, which, due to a misunderstanding of their final destination, end up spending a night in Bet Hatikva rather than Petah Tikva.

Stuck in a new place with nothing else to do, we see these strangers begin to connect. Part of the experience of meeting new people is finding out more about them: at first, you don’t know much about each other, but as time goes on, you learn more and begin to feel more for one another. The same is true for characters in shows. While The Band’s Visit eventually introduces us to all of its characters, unfortunately, we only get to really know a few. As the show progresses, though, we see extraordinary songs and heart-wrenching moments from most of the characters that, when the characters we as the audience get to know are involved, leave us tearful and filled with emotion.

For the characters we don’t get know as well, moments of truth — revealed in admittedly beautiful songs — can be a little confusing. Why does the man who waits by the telephone wait so obsessively for his girlfriend to call, to the point of being agitated when someone else uses the phone? Just because he misses her? Knowing nothing about this man except that he waits and waits and waits, it felt as if his behavior fell closer in line with someone who is unhealthily obsessed rather than in love. While this too can be part of the human experience, it was frustrating to see this moment aggrandized as it leads into the final grand moment of the show in which the entire cast harmonizes beautifully, singing about longing, love, and human connection. If we had gotten to know this man better, perhaps the final wouldn’t have felt as if it came out of nowhere.

That being said, the final song (“Answer Me”) is still beautiful in its own right, highlighting the show’s strongest component: its music. With lyrics and composition by David Yazbeck, every song pulls at the heart, making you laugh and leaving you contemplating your own desires. Each song is stunning and invites the audience members into the moment, allowing them to connect with the music on a personal level, even if they’re not familiar with the musical style, which is inspired by Arabic culture — something rarely seen on Broadway.

In a time that feels incredibly divisive, this production shows that, despite differences in our languages, our backgrounds, and our heritages, we all still are united in one human experience. We still all have a desire to love and be answered, and The Band’s Visit is such an important musical because it reminds us of just that. Rather than focusing on gaudy, ostentatious sets, colors, and music, it strips down these elements and focuses on the simple, the ordinary. This ordinariness actually produces something  unique and extraordinary, and, accordingly, the show should be seen by all.

Tickets to The Band’s Visit can be purchased from the show’s website.

The new Star Wars: The Last Jedi trailer has been out for months now, and fans—old and new alike—are still raving about it, once more submerging themselves in that paroxysm of fervent fan-boy anticipation, pre-packaged with every preview of the upcoming chapter which instantaneously dominates the masses, spreading like wildfire the moment they hit YouTube. “What this trailer did,” said Jeremy Jahns, popular YouTube movie reviewer, “is what Star Wars trailers do, and that’s put Star Wars at the forefront—like yeah, this is happening.”

One person who’s probably less excited about the upcoming film is Star Wars creator himself, George Lucas, who gave up creative rights to the Star Wars universe after selling the franchise to Disney in 2012 for a whopping 4.05 billion USD. In a 2015 interview with Charlie Rose, when asked how he felt about Episode VII: The Force Awakens (the first installment of the reboot trilogy) Lucas said: “We call it space opera but it’s actually a soap opera. And it’s all about family problems—it’s not about spaceships…They decided they were gonna go do their own thing…They wanted to make a retro movie—I don’t like that. I like…Every movie I make I work very hard to make them different. I make them completely different: with different planets, different spaceships—yenno, to make it new.

I disagree with Lucas’ judgement of Disney’s “nostalgia” approach and maintain that, in order for the reboot to have had the same initial impression of awe-inspiring proportions on the new generation as A New Hope (’77) had on the old, it had to retain as much of its mythic dimensions as possible—which, in order to accomplish, adopting the nostalgia approach was clearly the most surefire way to go. Whatever backlash The Force Awakens (2015) might have received in regards to its “uninteresting” and “boring” semblance to the original fails to recognize what it is that makes Star Wars so compelling a cultural force: that is, its function as myth, which, by its very nature, must remain as little changed as possible if it is to remain relevant.

Here it is important to distinguish between myth and narrative, for the latter is merely the particular (and always varying) mediation of the former (which is always the same). Put another way, a narrative, or an individual story, is simply a representation of a kind of “master story” that pre-exists in the audience’s mind long before they sit down to watch The Force Awakens for the first time—assuming, of course, the audience has lived long enough to have acquired a fairly confident intuition in regards to what constitutes this so-called “master story” that is myth.

“Myth” comes from the Greek word “mythos,” meaning “story.” It is from this definition that our understanding of myth must necessarily arise, for most theories of myth begin from the accepted idea of myth as a kind of “canon of story.” Here it is noteworthy that the medium of the story is not signified, for it would be erroneous to confine myth to a single art form (i.e. myth as the literary canon). Consider, for example, how ancient cave paintings are fraught with narrative imagery, from the dancing scenes of Serra de Capivera, Piauí, Brazil (28,000 to 6,000 BC) to the enigmatic beings and animals of Kadaku, Northern Territory, Australia (26,000 BC); after all, the story “I saw a kangaroo” is still a story, though, to us, not a particularly interesting one (insofar as it is not all that sophisticated).

What is interesting is that such geographically disparate populations, who would have had no physical means of contact with one another, should engage in the same activity (which is not necessary for biological survival) with the same level of behavioral predictability of birds from separate continents—all of whom seem to instinctively grasp the concept of “nest-building” as pivotal for their offspring’s protection. What is it, then, that prompts what appears to be a primordially entrenched instinct of human nature? What is the point of saying, “I saw a kangaroo”?

The answer to this can be arrived at by emphasizing the two subjects of the sentence and studying the resulting truth-values derived thereof. For if the emphasis is placed on “a kangaroo,” then one extracts an empirical value tantamount to the scientist’s collected data. Here, the sentence derives significance from its illumination of some perceived aspect (in this case, the “kangaroo”) of the world, that is, of reality. On the other hand, if one places the emphasis on “I saw,” a second meaning is discovered, this time signifying the presence of “I,” that is, the storyteller. This too can be perceived as empirical but, more notably, as humanistic, for the manifested will to engage in an activity that will record the existence of oneself at a given time is a behavior unique to the human species.

What results from this innocuously curios act of paint-on-wall, then, is the radical evolutionary leap towards self-reflexivity, whereby an innate curiosity is cognitively mastered through creativity. Of course, this process has long been practiced by humans, but early-on it was strictly in the material sense, and motivated by survival at that. With the emergence of art, however, the human’s cognitive faculties began to operate within a more fundamentally psychological dimension, one motivated not by survival, but the acquirement of knowledge, especially as this knowledge relates to the human being. In other words, cave painting illustrates a primordial desire to understand reality–that is, the universe–and humanity’s place in it.

The primary questions which myth asks, then, are: What is the nature of reality, and why am I a part of it?

The narrative patterns that emerge from humanity’s collective efforts to answer these questions is myth. These patterns can be found not only in paintings (depictions of animals, hunting scenes), but also, more complexly, in the literary tradition. Herein lies my previous need to distinguish the “storytelling” canon from the “literary” one, since the literary, by its very nature, allows for a more immediate and elaborate representation of stories. We can count in these patterns, among others, creation stories, Campbell’s “monomyths,” earth/water mothers, etc. Most of us brought up with a classical education which included a relatively similar rubric of books are no longer surprised to find that the narrative elements of the Bible can be found in the Epic of Gilgamesh, can be found in the Popol Vuh, Homer, Shakespeare, Faulkner—you get the idea.

The last author mentioned beautifully described this intrinsic human need for myth during his Banquet Speech at the Nobel Prize ceremony in 1949. Having discussed the paranoia bred by the Cold War, and the consequent nihilism of that milieu, he insisted that Man must remind Himself of “the old virtues and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice…[otherwise] His griefs grieve in no universal bones.”

All the “universal truths” Faulkner mentioned are major narrative forces of George Lucas’ epic saga: Anakin’s pride leading up to his metamorphosis into Darth Vader (The Revenge of the Sith, 2005), only for him to express compassion and pity in his final moments (The Return of the Jedi, 1983); the honor and love between friends that keeps the pack together through all manner of adversities (as in, say, Leia’s rescuing of Luke in The Empire Strikes Back, 1980); and, more recently, the sacrificial deaths from all of Rogue One’s (2016) major characters. Thus, The Last Jedi will be the latest installment of what can safely be called one of modernity’s greatest myths, for its treatment of these perennial themes has given it a universal appeal and, consequently, a formidable staying power worthy of mythic status.

In light of all this, the Reader (especially if they do not consider themselves a fan—on any level) may begin to appreciate the magnitude of cultural significance The Last Jedi is bound to have come this Christmas. Its inception into cinemas this December will call upon (as the best mythic tales often do) a mass gathering of people who will expect to be awed and moved and shocked and, on top of all these things, reminded of these universal truths, thereby permeating, if at least for a moment, a sense of solidarity among the masses which the cynical media eye will have us believe is practically nonexistent in modern times.

Too sentimental? Perhaps. Let’s just hope the film isn’t (i.e. don’t kill Rei yet, by far my favorite Star Wars character ever!).

P.S. You can watch the trailer here, for those of you who (for whatever reason) haven’t seen it yet.

Yayoi Kusama, With All My Love for The Tulips, I Pray Forever, 2012. Photo: Yayoi Kusama/Courtesy of David Zwirner, NY/Ota Fine Arts, Tokyo/Singapore/Shanghai/Victoria Miro, London

 

Running through December 16th, the David Zwirner Gallery is hosting two exhibits of Yayoi Kusama’s installations: Festival of Life, in their Chelsea gallery, and Infinity Nets in their new Upper East side location.

Kusama is best known for her Infinity Rooms, a set of rooms which she creates using mirrors and various lights and objects and which are absolutely astonishing and the perfect place for an Instagram photo. Her works are bright, simple, and brilliant. In all of them, the viewer is enveloped into what feel like new worlds that they do not expect.

With the launch of the new exhibition in New York, writers Cindy Liu and Will Essilfie visited the Chelsea gallery. Here are their thoughts:

CINDY LIU

Visiting the iconic Yayoi Kusama’s newest New York exhibit installation is akin to reading a book with deliciously-quirky characters, a refreshingly-unpredictable plot, and more sensory overload than one knows how to absorb. In her paintings and sculptures, Kusama has an uncanny knack for pairing bold, brash colors in ways that are often disorienting at first, but undeniably charismatic the more one’s eyes travel across the surfaces. Her canvases ask her audience to approach the art percussively: with the openness to absorb the punches of turquoise, the flashes of Shrek green. Her sculpture is both fluid and jagged, confronting the purported delicacy of the flowers that often inspire them.

A panoramic of Kusama’s gallery.

The highlight of the show, of course, are Kusama’s infinity rooms, frustratingly transient (visitors are timed to experience the rooms for thirty seconds to one minute) and exhilaratingly immersive. Entering Let’s Survive Together, the first in the Chelsea galleries, is similar to descending in a submarine deep into the depths of some silver-laced ocean. The orbs that dangle from the ceilings, extend for millennia in the mirrors, and litter the ground seem to muffle the outside world; and indeed, this seems to be Kusama’s primary project: to create a landscape that becomes her audience’s mindscape. With All My Love for the Tulips, the next room in the collection, is more lighthearted and psychedelic, a playful contrast to the meditative, cooler Let’s Survive Together.

 

WILL ESSILFIE

Visiting the Festival of Life exhibit, it was clear how dedicated Kusama is to delivering an intimate experience. For the first of the two Infinity Rooms on display, Let’s Survive Together, only six people are allowed in at a time for exactly one minute (the staff at the exhibit have timers). The room is dazzling with large silver spheres all around you. As you explore the room, it feels like you’re floating around the galaxy in a very surreal experience. Both Cindy and I were in awe as we walked around the room and got to experience the hype of Kusama’s galleries. It was an memorable experience that is almost impossible to describe in photos alone.

Cindy and Will experience Let’s Survive Together together.

After your minute in the room is over, visitors are next sent to see With All My Love for the Tulips, a room covered in polka dots and gigantic flowers towering over you. It’s a breathtaking experience and amazing sight to see.

In With All My Love for the Tulips, Cindy and Will show their love for the tulips by snapping a quick picture together in the exhibit.

Finally, you are able to explore a large collection of Kusama’s paintings in a giant gallery. A lot of them are quite bold and beautiful, and they are amazing to see. As we explored this space, we saw many guests using the paintings as the perfect backdrop for their new profile pictures and others staring at pieces in awe of the vast range of Kusama’s skills in creating art across both 2D and 3D dimensions. This exhibit is amazing and definitely something to check out if you have the time.  

 


Tickets are free to both exhibitions, but lines can get long — especially for viewing the Chelsea galleries’ Infinity Rooms (around 2-4 hours). For more information, visit the gallery’s website here.

In a society as fast-paced and demanding as ours, it’s no wonder that, given the opportunity to rewind, the average person would opt for a film pre-packaged with all those qualities the viewer knows will suffice to fulfill their expectations without demanding much “mental exertion” on their part: archetypal characters, traditional narrative structures, impressive special effects, maybe a few laughs. A good story, a good time. One might have read a good novel instead and been subjected to the same gist of artistic treatment, but the movie has the added bonus of passive viewing—compared to the arduous demand of reading—within a radically condensed span of time (roughly two hours or so). Indeed, there is a reason Aristotle’s Poetics has become standardized reading for many an aspiring filmmaker: today, cinema has become the equivalent of the “condensed visual novel.”

This is a gross underuse of a medium that, as we shall see, can offer us so much more.

To begin with, any art is most compelling (that is, most likely to emotionally impact the receiver of the art) if it prioritizes those potentialities that are unique to the particular form. In other words, if these potentialities are what come to the forefront in the artistic expression, insofar as they are the principal driving mechanisms by which the artist aims to achieve their goal(s).

This is the presupposition that drives the cinematic theories of avant-garde filmmakers Jean Epstein (1897-1953) and Germaine Dulac (1882-1942), both of whom are invaluable resources in the search for an “essence of cinema.”

That both of these theorists are avant-garde is key, because, as Dulac teaches us, the avant-garde filmmaker is characterized by their “in tune-ness” with this so-called “essence of cinema” in their work–a cinematic approach that dawned after all previous major forms (realism, narrative, psychological realism) had been exhausted. Dulac stresses the importance of the avant-garde scene, for the continued evolution of the cinema form is dependent upon its ongoing survival.

This may seem as if Dulac is interested in cinema’s evolution in and of itself—that is, for the hackneyed postmodern “art for art’s sake” case—but one mustn’t be fooled by the formal intellectualization of her language. Beneath all the technicalities, the reader senses an authentic desire to affect the viewer through a kind of crystallized beauty, which, in film, for Dulac can only be accomplished through the formation of a “visual poem made up of life instincts, playing with matter and the imponderable. A symphonic poem, where emotion bursts forth not in facts, not in actions, but in visual sonorities” (655). Such impassioned—almost sentimental—statements prove Dulac is completely on board with Epstein’s search for a cinema that “arouses an aesthetic emotion, a sense of infallible wonderment and pleasure” (257).

For both theorists, said search is characterized by the filmmaker’s quest to pierce through that elusive, truth-veiling something, which both of them term “the imponderable.” But what is the imponderable? The filmmaker is aspiring to unveil the truth about what?

This is a question that is not particular to the cinematic form and whose answer is virtually the same for all modes of artistic expression: truth about the nature of reality itself. This has been the role assigned to the artist since time immemorial, dating back to the tragedy plays of the Classical era. Even today, the cinema-goer is most contented when they can confidently say about a film that it “told it how it is” (with the bonus fantastical embellishments here and there, of course).

Following the premises of Dulac and Epstein, the question then becomes, “How is the filmmaker uniquely positioned to approach this task, and what are the artistic utilities at his or her disposal?” To the first question, both theorists would answer the same way: that the filmmaker is uniquely positioned insofar as they deal with—by the very nature of the medium—visual movement. This answer consequently explains Dulac’s emphasis for rhythm as the vital technique in fulfilling the artist’s expression. After all, the visual movement exists within a “frozen” space-time continuum (a kind of filmmaker’s “canvas”), and it is only by deriving a contrived cadence from this canvas that the filmmaker achieves personal expression; in other words, the filmmaker concerns themselves with the manipulation of time in order to achieve their creative expression.

Although Epstein’s “Photogénie and the Imponderable” (1935) is far less specific than Dulac’s “The Avant-Garde Filmmaker” in answering the second question, his text nevertheless proves to be a rich resource for a better understanding of this “filmmaker’s canvas,” this “frozen space-time continuum,” especially as it pertains to the viewer’s emotional needs—needs which, by the way, the viewer may be unaware of possessing. We may arrive at these affective ramifications using “Photogénie” in a rather indirect manner.

Epstein points out man’s “physiological inability to master the notion of space-time and to escape this atemporal section of the world, which we call the present” (254). He describes this eternal “atemporal section,” this present, as “psychological time,” as it is borne out of our “egocentric [that is, automatic, subconscious] habit” (255) of accepting this flow as an absolute in our lives—which is true. Despite Einstein’s illuminating truths which characterize space-time as a malleable fabric permeating the entirety of the universe, capable of being stretched, producing myriad ebbs and flows, we on Earth experience only one of these flows and have learned to accept it as an inherent aspect of what is in fact (as Einstein shows us) a very limiting perspective of physical reality.

Here I want to take what will feel like a digression, but I assure you, it’s not (please just bear with me for a second): I want to take a moment to consider the teachings of twentieth-century German philosopher Martin Heidegger.

According to Heidegger, people tend to stay out of touch with the sheer mystery of existence, the mystery he termed “das Sein,” meaning “Being.” One of the main culprits, he notes, is the rapidity of the modern world—always keeping us on the move, overwhelming us with work and information so that we’re virtually in a state of perpetual distraction from the mystery of being, unable to step back and see the strange in the familiar, the act of which, Heidegger admits, has its downside: fear, or “angst,” may take ahold of us as we realize the primordial chaos from which we come, and are in fact constantly in. In this way, we come face to face with the meaninglessness of all things.

Epstein alludes to this “angst” in his own—and more colorful—way: “Not without some anxiety, man finds himself before that chaos which he has covered up, denied, forgotten, or thought was tamed. Cinematography apprises him of a monster” (255).

The thing is, once the initial shock has passed, what follows is a kind of out-of-body, existentialist sensation which is nonetheless therapeutic in its own way. Epstein uses the example of watching footage of oneself from long ago: though we acknowledge the ontological link, this link feels disconcertedly severed by the fact that that former self no longer lives in psychological time–that is, in the present. Consequently, this gives us the impression of a phantom-like projection of ourselves that is simultaneously there and not there. But herein lies the secret of cinema’s unique “medicinal” capabilities.

Both Epstein and Dulac wrote about the rhythmic grace emanated by time-manipulated footage. Dulac mentions the “formation of crystals,” “the bursting of a bubble,” and the “evolutions of microbes,” (656) while Epstein points out how a plant “bends its stalk and turns its leaves toward the light,” as elegant as “the horse and rider in slow motion” (254-255). It is clear that, for both of these theorists (and I am completely on board with this), the key to freeing the viewer from the mentally draining chains of “psychological time,” which is keeping us from experiencing the wonder of “das Sein,” is by showing them the fragility of their cage, accomplished through cinema by its “trappings” of space-time, by absorbing it like a bubble and freezing it to produce crystal balls through which the viewer looks into the past and realizes the obvious anew: that our time here is short, and every instant is filled with boundless grace and beauty. By playing God, the filmmaker may thus bestow the viewer their moment of affective transcendence.

*  *  *

The single cinephile in my (admittedly small) social group, I have never been inclined to suggest to my friends such “lofty” films as Tarkovsky’s, Bergman’s, or Antonioni’s—all of who play with time (or call attention to the strangeness of psychological time, especially through the use of long-shots [think Steve McQueen’s heart-wrenching eighty-six-second shot of Solomon’s quasi-lynch scene from 12 Years a Slave; however, in light of this example, I will also note that the “balance” between narrative and avant-garde was not touched on in this essay—all in good time]) and have, for me, produced that aforementioned affective transcendent effect. After all, as Dulac mentions on more than one occasion, the avant-garde “does not appeal to the mere pleasure of the crowd” (653).

But perhaps the fault lies with us, who understand cinema’s greatest power. Perhaps we ought to take a cue from Dulac, who wrote and lectured widely on film aesthetics, to be less apologetic about cinema’s “purer” dimensions. After all, academic institutions deem it worthwhile of students to learn the language of literature, visual arts, and music, in order for us to not only gain appreciation for the Arts, but to derive from them momentous personal value as well.

Why shouldn’t cinema be any different? Is it because, as the Seventh Art, it is still relatively new?

Consider last year’s “top-grossing films” list. These films are not bad, nor are their narratives  utterly irrelevant (something I, and both the theorists we have discussed, would disagree on), but there’s just so much to be gained by learning the cinematic language.

And so, I’ve changed my mind—watch Bergman, like, right now!

*  *  *

Below, a recommended list of more “purely cinematic” works, from which the budding cinephile may “branch” out on their own accord (in order of “difficulty,” 1 being “most challenging”):

  1. Breathless (1960), Jean-Luc Godard.
  2. The Revenant (2015), Alejandro González Iñárritu.
  3. Elephant (2003), Gus Van Sant.
  4. Come and See (1987), Elem Klimov.
  5. The Tree of Life (2011), Terrence Malick.
  6. Melancholia (2011), Lars Von Trier.
  7. Red Desert (1964), Michelangelo Antonioni.
  8. Persona (1966), Ingmar Bergman.
  9. Stalker (1979), Andrei Tarkovsky.
  10. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Stanley Kubrick.

Quotes from: Critical Visions in Film Theory: Classic and Contemporary Readings (First Ed., 2011).