The term "la politique des auteurs" was originally coined by Francois Truffaut in his essay "Une certaine tendance du cinema francais," which first described the auteur theory.
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When Harry Met Sally
“When Harry Met Sally” is essentially the Hollywood spin on a Woody Allen romantic comedy to the likes of “Manhattan” or “Annie Hall.” Rob Reiner’s 1989 film follows a man and a woman, Harry (played by Billy Crystal) and Sally (Meg Ryan), from their college graduation to the time they fall in love and decide to get married. “When Harry Met Sally” shares much with these Allen films: a New York City setting, lovesick characters, and a clear membership in the romantic comedy genre.
Woody Allen does Manhattan so well; in “Manhattan” Isaac’s love affair is neither with Mary nor Tracy; it is his borough with which he is so enamored. But how does Hollywood, the antithesis of New York, as demonstrated by Alvy’s wayward trip to California in “Annie Hall,” do the Big Apple? There is less time devoted to the city, and more time spent developing Harry and Sally’s relationship. The time that Allen spends beautifully capturing the ebbs and flows of New York City is spent in “When Harry Met Sally” with short explanations of how different couples fell in love. If “Manhattan” is about how much a man can love his city, “When Harry Met Sally” is definitely about the love a man and a woman can have for each other.
The screenplay, despite its saccharine “true love” Hollywood ending, is laudable. Nora Ephron’s dialogue is quick and witty; the film takes place in an imaginary world where people don’t need to take time to think up cutting retorts and debonair jokes. Still, Ephron’s gags ring true to life: both Harry and Sally have to watch each other passionately lock lips with another person, capturing the unjust quality that romance, if not life itself, possesses.
“When Harry Met Sally” is different from Woody Allen romantic comedies in that it is half told from the female perspective. Because of this, women in “When Harry Met Sally” are more realistically represented than in Allen’s films. They are not just flawless temptresses, constantly rejecting the balding Jew with glasses. Instead, they have their own problems — a fear of growing old alone, of a life without love. These quagmires are strikingly similar to those of the male protagonists of “Annie Hall” and “Manhattan.” For most of the film, Harry and Sally are portrayed as equals. In the famed scene in which Sally fakes an orgasm for Harry in a busy diner, Sally suggests that men are not as good lovers as they think themselves to be. These feminist themes are continued throughout the film. In the conclusion of “When Harry Met Sally,” it is Harry who needs Sally; the woman is the stronger character.
Where “When Harry Met Sally” is unsuccessful is in its actors. Billy Crystal is similar to Woody Allen: compact, joking and Jewish. However, Crystal lacks Allen’s comic timing. Woody Allen has a quality that makes everything he says uproariously funny; Billy Crystal has a quality that makes everything he says revolting. He sucks the comedy out of Ephron’s writing. Meg Ryan’s portrayal of Sally makes the character far too perfect. She has none of Annie Hall’s ragamuffin brand of charm. In “Annie Hall” we see why Alvy falls in love with quirky Annie, but it is easy to question Harry’s reasoning for loving this annoying type-A girl. Her face is just a little too All-American, her hairspray just a little too heavy. It’s impossible for the audience to believe that someone who looks this much like Farrah Fawcett can be so neurotic in the bedroom.
“When Harry Met Sally” lacks the romantic notion of unrequited love that is the backbone of “Annie Hall” and “Manhattan.” Unlike in the two Allen films, the relationship that the film centers upon works out in “When Harry Met Sally.” This ending is not entirely unrealistic because of the trials and tribulations — the heart-wrenching embarrassment — that Harry and Sally both go through. Though they do fall in love, we spend most of the film watching them squirm instead of watching them be happy. Unfortunately, the brilliance of the dialogue and story are overshadowed by its ill-fitting actors.
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Literature, Visuals and Attraction in “Claire’s Knee”
In the beginning of “Annie Hall,” Woody Allen, playing Alvy Singer, wryly tells the audience the reason for his sexual malaise; “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.” Seven years before, on another continent, a considerably less nerdy protagonist is in the same quagmire. In Eric Rohmer’s 1970 film “Claire’s Knee” (part of his sextet of “Moral Tales”), soon-to-be married Jerome (played by Jean-Claude Brialy) is vacationing in the French countryside. He runs into his old friend, Aurora (Aurora Cornu), a worldly Italian writer also on vacation. While the two platonically dally about with typical ennui, Jerome meets Laura (Béatrice Romand), an intellectual sixteen-year-old who quickly falls in love with him. However, it is Claire (Laurence de Monaghan), Laura’s pubescent step-sister, who Jerome lusts after. Laura would gladly run away with her middle-aged love interest while Claire can’t stand to be around him.
The film certainty pays its dues to literature. Based upon a story written by Rohmer, “Claire’s Knee” is incredibly dialogue-driven. The director is not afraid of long, wandering scenes with discourse that is the cinematic equivalent of half-page long sentences. Aurora, in all her womanly wisdom, watches over the entire film. She considers Jerome’s forays into romance part of her education as a writer, and the way she arranges Jerome’s amorous meetings make her function as a narrator. Together, Jerome and Aurora are like little children, giggling as they wander about holding hands. Fittingly, all of Jerome’s summer-time suitors are actually kids. Similar to the way Rohmer’s peer, Jean-Luc Godard, breaks his film “Pierrot le fou” into chapters, “Claire’s Knee” is broken into days. Each new sequence begins with a flash of a handwritten card explaining the date, using actual words, instead of imagery to show the passing of time. This highlights the film’s similarities to a novel.
Interestingly, “Claire’s Knee” has its share of visual spectacles. The film abounds with lush, natural greens. As Jerome glides through the lake (alongside which “Claire’s Knee is set) in his motorboat, he tarnishes nature’s innocence with his man-made machine much in the same manner he attempts to take Claire’s innocence. The setting of “Claire’s Knee” differs from that of many Film Noir-influenced New Wave films. Instead of a setting in the throes of urban milieu, “Claire’s Knee” takes place in the idealistic wilderness, perhaps reflecting the virginal (literally) viewpoint of his young acquaintances. Jerome’s attraction to Claire barely skims the philosophical depths that the film’s wordy dialogue explores; he is fascinated by the tangible — visually noticeable — parts of her. He does not go for Laura’s cerebral mind, but rather for Claire’s beautiful knees. Rohmer makes a shrewd statement on the nature of mankind: though we like to quip bookishly with our mates from time to time, at the end of the day we would rather have someone nice to look at. Ironically, Rohmer implies that we are visual creatures in his distinctly wordy film.
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Junebug
It’s easy to forget that some of the most foreign, bizarre places are not seas away, but nestled in our own country. Phil Morrison’s 2005 film, “Junebug,” is founded upon culture clash. The film takes place partly in cosmopolitan Chicago, but mostly in warm, grassy North Carolina. Tall, elegant art dealer, Madeline (played by Embeth Jean Davidtz), decides to visit an artist — who paints unintentionally hilarious, explicitly sexual outsider art of Civil War battles — in rural North Carolina. Remarkably, a single shot of one of the paintings is enough for a roar of laughter. Madeline’s handsome husband, George (Alessandro Nivola), happens to have family in the backwoods and a visit is paid. Exemplified when George’s stern, sturdy mother (Celia Weston) says that Madeline may not be “a stranger, but she’s still strange,” — there is some tension between the South African sophisticate and George’s Jesus-fearing family. George’s brother (Benjamin McKenzie) is stepping sullenly and unwillingly into adulthood. His high school sweetheart turned wife, Ashley (played with zeal by Amy Adams), has a much more optimistic view of life. The pregnant young woman welcomes Madeline into the family’s house. The couple stays there as Madeline attempts to win over the artist and meets George’s southern family.
The film opens with an alien display — men imitating hogs in a high-pitched yodel. From the start, this visit to the South is represented to be as strange and distant as a visit to the moon. The cinematography of “Junebug” helps to emphasize the particularity of the area. Long, still shots showcase specific qualities of the place: the piercing blue of the sky or the simplicity of the box-like houses where George’s (and now Madeline’s) family dwell. Moments of silence let the audience soak in the land. From Madeline’s perspective, the south is a weird, nonsensical region, much like the phallic paintings of the artist she is courting. However, her new family is just as perturbed by her as she is by them. Ashley, one of the most charming and hilarious characters ever to grace the screen, is entranced by Madeline’s unfamiliar, yet debonair, habits, while her mother-in-law and son are hardly welcoming. Despite her good intentions, Madeline comes off as a wiser-than-thou city girl who can only antagonize them. 
“Junebug” also focuses on the idea of family, a theme linked to alienation. As the newlyweds spend more and more time at George’s childhood home, Madeline learns more and more about the man she married after only a week. Her horror and shock about her husband’s southern values make a scene in which he sweetly sings a hymn painful and abrasive. George also learns something about Madeline: her willingness to put her work over family. The two sleep in the nursery of Ashley’s soon-to-be child, and whenever Madeline holds a baby, it begins to cry instantly. The film sends an ominous message: perhaps this marriage is not meant to be. Marriage is even stranger than this journey to a strange land.
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Rushmore
Wes Anderson’s “Rushmore” is abuzz with the Fitzgeraldian zealousness of its youthful protagonist. The film centers upon Max Fischer’s coming of age. The boy, played by Jason Schwartzman, is an adolescent hero out of “This Side of Paradise.” As the film opens (and literally, it begins with the parting of velvet stage curtains), Fischer is on the verge of flunking out of his beloved brick-and-ivy covered prep school, Rushmore Academy. While befriending the depressed, perpetually frowning, middle-aged-millionaire Herman Blume (Bill Murray), he falls in love with a recently widowed elementary school teacher called Rosemary Cross (Olivia Williams). Much to Max’s chagrin, Herman also falls for the chain smoking teacher. On top of this, Max is kicked out of Rushmore and is forced to attend a run-of-the-mill public high school. In vain, he ruins Herman’s marriage and attempts to win Rosemary over by building her an aquarium. However, Max needs Herman’s fiscal contribution to build the aquarium, and the two bond over the project.
Max also recalls Basil of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Basil and Josephine Stories.” The film’s protagonist drops out of school, but not because he is devoid of academic curiosity. With an earnest look and a Rushmore blazer, Fischer enthusiastically starts up clubs, ranging from the Kite Flying Society to the Rushmore Beekeepers. However, his extracurricular activities have gotten in the way of his studies, and Max’s grades are terrible at best. He is friendless at school, except for his much younger chapel partner, Dirk (Mason Gamble). Compared to the despondent Herman, and the grieving Rosemary, Max has no doubts in himself. In fact, his self image veers more toward narcissism — “Hey!” he proclaims, “I wrote a hit play!” In all of the stylized opuses he directs, Max is the star; he yearns to be the center of attention. However, Max’s egocentricity does not completely ruin his likability. Despite his failing grades, he is innovative, intelligent and, most charmingly, he is innocent. In the scene where Max first sees the lovely Rosemary, Anderson puts the audience in the protagonist’s shoes and it’s one of the film’s most enduring sequences. As he walks down the coldly lit school hallway and hears her gingerly read from “Treasure Island,” time slows down and, like Max, we fall in love with the pretty school-teacher. His sincere adolescent love for Rosemary is juxtaposed to Herman’s jaded affections. Max is captivated by Ms. Cross, the red-cheeked school teacher, while Herman lusts after Rosemary, the depressed woman who lives in the shadow of her dead husband.
Max’s coming of age is really the backbone of the film, but Herman has an epiphany of his own. Interestingly, this psychological turn-around is aided by the much younger Max, who forces Herman to come out of his midlife crisis slump. Even though Herman is quite clearly middle-aged, both characters have an adolescent appeal. This is showcased in a montage depicting the friends turned competitors, which crosscuts between the two characters wreaking havoc upon each other. Dirk, Max’s young sidekick and chapel partner, is the voice of reason in the film, aiding Max in his transformation from child to adult.
“Rushmore” is set in world similar to our own, but one where everything is slightly more aesthetically pleasing. Anderson makes use of dated, cutesy props and locked-in long shots that together recall the 1950s. In the film’s final shot, in the audience at Max’s theatrical masterpiece (his school play), we see nearly every character that ever graces the screen in the previous hour and half, similar to “town-hall” scenes of films released decades earlier. “Rushmore” spends an inordinate amount of time on its props, costumes and self-conscious dated camera work, but it has a certain sophomoric charm.
Anonymous asked: Your review of Annie Hall is so great that I had to go watch it again. Thanks! Good work.
Your neighbor, MJ
Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked it — and Annie Hall!
Six Moral Tales: The Bakery Girl of Monceau
“The Six Moral Tales” are Eric Rohmer’s main work. Composed of six films all detailing the same moral quagmire of sexual temptation, they take influence from the 1927 F.W Murnau film “Sunrise.” In “The Bakery Girl of Monceau,” for example, a young man promises himself to a girl, only to be unexpectedly tempted by a young bakery worker.
In “The Bakery Girl of Monceau” Rohmer puts his own realistic touch on the technical style of the French New Wave. The film has the same jump cuts and oblique angle shots similar to many movies of that same movement. Like “Breathless,” it captures city life realistically — by literally filming city life. Rohmer, however, ups the ante of this realism by removing a soundtrack from the film. Besides Murnau’s influence on Rohmer, this is perhaps where Rohmer’s film critic past is most evident. It is impossible to view “The Bakery Girl of Monceau” without noting the impression that the Italian and Poetic Realism movements must have had on Rohmer.
The lack of music makes the audience feel as if they were stepping into the mind of the protagonist, a young law student whose name we ironically are never told. A voice-over from the student — which runs the length of the film — also propels this psychological identification. We know that the law student is aware that he is tossing a girl he has long-lusted after to the dust, yet we see why the bakery girl is so alluring. The voice-over itself reflects Rohmer’s criticism roots; structure in which voice-over is incorporated is frequently seen in Film Noir.
Much of the plot of “The Bakery Girl of Monceau” revolves around symbolism. The girl that initially captures the protagonist’s heart has hair of an angelic blond shade, fittingly, the second, more diabolic contender has hair of a much darker tone. She literally stuffs the law student full of cakes and cookies, as if she were the evil witch in Hansel and Gretal, trying to poison him, and then bake his corpse. The use of such large quantities of symbolism lessens the film’s message — the moral — that is to “be faithful.” Letting the viewer connect the dots of this aphorism would strengthen the significance of the stoic message, and reduce the film’s almost Sunday School-esque tone.
Hannah and Her Sisters
“Hannah and Her Sisters” has an incredibly structured plot, but still manages to include intriguing twists. Set around the markers of three thanksgiving dinners, the film seems to be at first a series of separate monologues. Woody Allen’s 1986 film is divided into scenes, each set from the point of view of alternating characters. These sequences provide psychological narrative — they frequently use voice-over to provide a look at the thought process — and are complete with witty titles. The film triumphs in that all of these separate stories eloquently tie in together before its close.
“Hannah and Her Sisters” essentially tells the story of a family. Hannah, Lee, and Holly (played by Mia Farrow, Barbara Hershey, and Dianne Wiest) are three sisters with a wide spectrum of personalities, ranging from motherly and needless to needy and cocaine sniffing. The structure of the film presents the sisters as separate entities, but clearly they form a whole when put together. Hannah’s British husband, Elliot (played by Michael Caine), is fervidly, lustfully in love with Lee, who is dating a Nazi-cum-moody-artist (played by Max Von Sydow).
Elliot’s role in the film is interesting — he is awkward and failing, similar to the stereotypical “Woody Allen Character.” However, he is more physically dapper than the ugly duckling Allen. While Elliot towers over women, the character Allen plays barely surpasses them in height. Elliot is not figuratively emasculated in the way that the archetypal Allen character typically is.
Allen plays exactly who he normally plays. Mickey is Hannah’s ex-husband who works in television and has a tendency for existential angst and hypochondria. He is a loser: constantly caught in the rain, and considers masturbation to be one of his favorite hobbies. Though he has less time on-screen than many of the film’s other characters, he has an imperative role in the plot of “Hannah and Her Sisters.” The movie could be viewed as Mickey’s journey back into Hannah’s (and her sisters’) family, and love. Mickey, after a brush with a fictitious brain tumor, is led into a suicidal fervor which can only be cured by this family in question. “Hannah and Her Sisters” relays a message typical of Allen’s films: love can save the day. For Mickey, this family repairs a hole he attempts to plug with Catholicism and even Hare Krishna-ism. And, as revealed in the film’s last scene, this kindred can perform miracles. This family — if not love — is practically a religion in itself.
Like many of Allen’s other films, “Hannah and Her Sisters” cherishes Manhattan. There are quite a few loving establishing shots and doting sequences of city scenes, as shot by Carlo Di Palma, the noted cinematographer of “Blow Up.” The film is just as evolved as “Manhattan,” but somehow it lacks the same poetic context. It is stuck between a love song to Manhattan and a family drama in the style of the Richard Yates novel it references, “The Easter Parade.” “Hannah and Her Sisters” is a good film, but it’s hard for it to live up to the splendor of some of Allen’s 1970s gems.
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Tiny Furniture
Women in film are all too frequently represented as being either of such an immaculate brand of flawlessness that they must be referred to as a “thing,” or of the same corpulent, revolting genre as Rosie O’Donnell at her most self-caricatured. In her remarkable debut, “Tiny Furniture,” Lena Dunham escapes these conventions. “Tiny Furniture” details the post-college malaise of a recent graduate. Aura, the film theory major in question, returns to her mother’s blindingly white Tribeca apartment from a college in rural Ohio. After its function as a coming-of-age story, “Tiny Furniture” is almost a warning to those attending liberal arts college. College has done little to prepare Aura for her future — she immediately moves back in with her mother, aching to sleep in Mommy’s bed. Her degree is only able to get her as far as a restaurant job that could only liberally be called a “hostess.”
Aura (played by Dunham), is surrounded by chic success stories. One may want to watch “Tiny Furniture” just to soak in the glamor of Aura’s mother (played by Dunham’s actual mother, the artist Laurie Simmons). Aura’s homecoming could be compared to “Return of the Native,” if it had been set among the Manhattan art-world bourgeois in a Tribeca loft. Her mother is incredibly successful, and the root of her success is in her creativity. Aura’s younger sister (also played by Duhham’s real-life sister, Grace Dunham) is a seventeen-year-old prodigy who wins an extremely prestigious poetry award the first time she seemingly picks up her pen. Aura feebly attempts to come of her own as an adult, but her endeavors are overshadowed by the success of her family.
Aura’s sexual escapades recall Woody Allen in a way previously unheard of for a woman in film. Like Allen in his earlier films, Aura is constantly attempting to bed good-looking guys who won’t give her the time of day. Aura’s forward sexuality indicates a gender role reversal. No longer is the desperate, sex-crazed person a man, but now she is a woman. The assumption that the audience makes in Allen’s films — that all men would do anything to sleep with an attractive woman — is reversed. In “Tiny Furniture,” at least, a woman is taking on a traditionally male sexual persona.
However, it should be taken into account that “Tiny Furniture” is told from the perspective of a woman, while the Allen films in question are told from the perspective of a man. Isn’t the grass always greener on the other side? There is no doubt that Aura’s forlorn attempts at sex recall Allen in films such as “Sleeper,” or even “Annie Hall,” but the abrasiveness of the sexual encounters in all these films signifies that maybe we are just a despondent, awkward race in general.
In her first film, Dunham is able to do what Woody Allen couldn’t do until his ninth: create a comedy with serious elements. Dunham’s shorts are similar to Allen’s early films in that they are composed of a rough skeleton of jokes. In “Tiny Furniture,” Dunham is able to explore the challenges of coming of age in a serious way, though not totally devoid of humor. In her somewhat autobiographical film, Dunham is overshadowed by the greatness of her mother and sister, but in real life, it is obvious that the actress-writer-director will achieve considerable success herself.
ponderingbunny asked: Thanks for the follow back. I found your Tumblr randomly last night and it was an instant follow. Your reviews are absolutely fantastic. I'm really looking forward to reading more.
Thank you so much! I loved what you wrote about Goodfellas, it was very intelligent and interesting. Thanks again for reading!
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The Social Network
“The Social Network” is an imaginative film that addresses the possibly fictitious ironies and enigmas of this generation’s most imaginative idea. In the film, David Fincher does not explore the currently debated ethical dilemmas of Facebook itself, but rather the moral quagmires of its creator. After seeing this film, I had no qualms about using Facebook; my view of the site was not changed. “The Social Network” provides no commentary on Facebook, but instead offers a largess on Mark Zuckerberg — painting him to be a troubled and tragic figure.
Jesse Eisenberg plays Zuckerberg so well that it’s hard to discern whether Eisenberg is acting or whether he actually is the genius, somewhat Aspergerian creator of Facebook. The part comes to Eisenberg incredibly naturally, but the fact that the public is so void of any knowledge of the real Zuckerberg only makes the actor’s job easier. The audience has nothing to compare his acting to; despite how he has revolutionized our lives in unfathomable ways, Zuckerberg has left nary a personal impression on the masses. Because of his lack of pop-culture presence, “The Social Network” creates an original persona for Zuckerberg. After seeing this film, it is impossible to associate the creator of Facebook with anything but the cocky, albeit socially awkward wit that Eisenberg plays him with.
“The Social Network” portrays Zuckerberg as a man alone in a dark, dark world. Like many of Fincher’s earlier films, the colors of “The Social Network” are far from kodachromatic. Muted and silenced, everything seems to be lit by an unflattering fluorescent light. This gives the film’s characters a universal sheen of sickliness, perhaps reflecting the morose conditions during the litigations enveloping “The Social Network”.
The film’s structure manages to simplify an incredibly complex story. “The Social Network” chronicles Facebook’s first year — a tumultuous one. Appropriately, the story is told in flashbacks from the two lawyer’s offices from which Zuckerberg is being sued. The labyrinth of events that are shown in the movie are eventually condensed to a single day; so the viewers feel they have watched a resolved story, instead of the inconclusive epic “The Social Network” actually represents.
The ebbs and flows of Zuckerberg’s personality are the theme of film. Shown with most detail is the irony that such an introverted person could create a site so social. While the rest of his peers are out having a good time, Zuckerberg is at home, angrily blogging about the woes of his existence. The invention of Facebook is represented as a way for Zuckerberg to express his loneliness, and disturbingly, get back at people he once saw having a good time around him. It creates an alternate world where he has millions, even billions of friends, separate from the world he lives in where he is screwing people over. In short, Zuckerberg is represented as an ugly duckling — bitter because he can’t seem to catch a break. His brooding nature and love of cantankerous cargo-pants are constantly being juxtaposed to his arch-nemeses, two identical twins who row crew, Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss (both played by Armie Hammer). Most interestingly, the twins come off as Nazis compared to the Jewish Zuckerberg. Blond and tall, they are Zuckerberg’s good-natured overlords — they almost decide to forgo suing him for stealing their idea in favor of trying to remain gentlemanly — one cannot catch a glimpse at the two without being reminded of Hitler Youth.
The film’s sharply funny dialogue is overshadowed by a few trite lines. Zuckerberg’s dynamite discovery, the Facebook relationship status, is painfully set up by the film’s screenwriter, Aaron Sorkin. The situation in which the revolutionary idea occurs to Facebook’s slightly-autistic creator is abrasively obvious, and undercuts the greatness of “The Social Network”. This screenwriting does not seem dumbed down, but rather unpolished. Couldn’t Sorkin have spent an extra hour revising this section? On the song accompanying the film’s ending, the Beatles’ overused “Baby You’re A Rich Man,” my friend noted that she could have told me it would play at some point in the film ten minutes into the movie. Using a universally recognizable Beatles song already borders on cutesy, but one that sums up Zuckerberg’s emotional and financial condition seems shamelessly blatant.
For the most part, “The Social Network” is an astounding film. While showing the origins of a phenomena that has changed and is changing our lives, it also manages to delve into the question of humans’ capacity for good. Zuckerberg is brilliant, and in the film it is shown that he didn’t create Facebook to make money, but rather to produce something that changes the way we interact with others, something previously unheard of. Psychologically, he is socially inept; he creates Facebook just to be able to make a few friends. On the other hand, it would be easy to interpret Zuckerberg’s unsavory actions towards his best — and only — friend (played by Andrew Garfield) as the exploits of a malicious man. The audience leaves the film pondering Zuckerberg’s true intentions, and with the feeling they have just seen a wonderful movie.
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