FAST FORWARD, Part 1: 'Once Upon a Time in America'

Welcome to a new post series: a particularly subjective look at specific scenes in Film and Television that I simply have to skip.

Why can't I watch them? For a number of varying reasons that I intend to explore, hopefully opening out my deconstruction to cover the greater issues they represent. Why they make me uncomfortable?Is it purely a subjective response? is it simply inappropriate or poorly done? I hope you will be at least mildly intrigued as I rhapsodize about the risque, the uncomfortable and the just plain bad.

So, without further ado...

1) ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA (1984): Rape.

In the era of the Hays code – a rigid set of “Christian” principles by which Hollywood films were vetted from the mid-30s to the mid-60s – most “suggestive” content, including any direct references to “pregnancy” or any kiss that lasted longer than 3 seconds, was forbidden from being shown. Having two people, covered by a duvet, lying next to each other in bed was too much. Depictions of rape, it goes without saying, were completely out of the question. However, as a facet of the real world, directors managed to somehow implicitly suggest the event, and a good deal of its trauma, through highly imaginative means. You do not need to be told, for example, what has befallen the female protagonist in Orson Welles’ A Touch of Evil at the hands of the criminal gang, though nothing is shown on screen or even directly referenced in the script. The lighting, the editing, the “invasiveness” of the figures as they hang over the camera and gradually fill the screen with their presence… these give you all the emotional prompts you require. The shadow still hangs heavily, in spite of its veiled nature.

By the fact of their Italian origin - and their introduction into the American marketplace at a time when filmmakers were actively beginning to bend, or even outright defy, the Code - the early works of Sergio Leone avoided much of this censorship. Many were horrified by the direct, brutal dispatch of foes [with no cut-away between the gunshot and the impact] and the broken, bloodied characters, but likely some were even more put-out by his increasingly unvarnished scenes of sexual violence. While the scene itself is not graphically sexual, the sight of the psychotic mercenary Frank pawing an underdressed - and clearly uncomfortable Jill - while he amusedly gloats on how she would do “anything” to keep her dead husband’s legacy alive leaves no room for doubt. His next film, ‘Giu la Testa’ (1971) gave up all pretence, and had a woman visibly raped by Rod Steiger’s amoral, vengeful Juan in the first 15 minutes of the film. No illusions here, this isn’t a pleasant scene… but what makes it slightly more bearable than my chosen example is a) its brevity and b) the lack of emotional investment you have in either character at this point in the film.

Once Upon A Time In America was Leone’s final and - in its original intended form - longest film. The scene is so long… so brutal. She cries and struggles. The camera just sits there, like a handheld abandoned by its owner, blankly recording her responses in an artless, uncropped frame. There’s no music; nothing to soften the blow or distance you from the encounter. You feel like you are there, and you can do nothing. The scene does not end until the act itself is complete. I could not tell you how long it lasts apart from: too long.

This would be an unpleasant, skippable scene in any movie. Its placement here both damages my film-watching experience while, perversely, proving the coherence and craft of the rest of the movie. Let me explain. America is an uncomfortable film from the outset. Suggestions of sexualized violence are there from the opening scene; the unadorned depictions of adolescent sexuality may likely make you feel uneasy. It’s very violent, in general. And yet… much of the film is a subtle, gently paced character study.  You follow Noodles [Robert de Niro], a career criminal from the impoverished Lower East Side, and the evolution of his undying admiration for Deborah [Elizabeth McGovern], who is rendered unattainable by the class divide. You get the impression that he is not entirely comfortable with the criminal lifestyle that seems to have been pre-ordained for him. While some of the things he does are profoundly destructive, we still find ourselves oddly sympathetic for him in a way we simply don’t for his more charismatic accomplice Max: he seems to enjoy all this too much. At the end of the day, his loyalty to his friends and his ceaseless love for Deborah are what underpin all his actions, rather than avarice or egomania. Noodles is not a good man. Nor, does the film suggest, an irredeemable one. It is this, in many respects that makes the scene in question, halfway into an already feature-length picture, so awful. In the run up to the scene, I could see the warning signs – Deborah’s rejection of him, the apologetic but chaste kiss that seems to represent a final alienation for Noodles – and I found myself talking to the screen, begging De Niro’s character not to go where he seemed to be heading. I did not realise how much I already had invested in the two characters. As a result, the brutality is also felt as complete heartbreak. To its credit, where I had walked out of the grim Tyrannosaur during a similarly vicious scene, I kept watching Leone’s film to the end. In context, it engendered real sadness and grief and felt believable in the long character schema drawn through the film. There is a degree of recovery for both characters, but it is slow, hesitant and credible. Everything is not fine, but people have grown and adapted. I felt pretty distressed, to be frank, but I still had to know where these characters went.

It’s Sergio Leone: he lingers on everything. As well as the long rape scene, there is also a scene where somebody stirs his coffee, the only soundtrack being the spoon’s grating transit around the cup, for nearly a minute. Near the beginning of the film, a boy has been told that one of the girls in his block will take his virginity for the price of a choux bun. We sit and watch as he waits impatiently on the stairs, gradually becoming distracted, and starting with a hesitant lick of the icing, eventually abandons all pretence and eats the cake instead: No music; no camera movement; no cutting. The scene’s patience as it reaffirms his innocence – choosing his own nature above an oppressive, prescient “rite of passage” – in many respects justifies the apparent voyeurism of much of the rest of the movie. Everything in this film seems dealt with in the same way, and is thus given equal significance.

It ain’t a snappily-paced picture, I’ll give you that.

Truth be told, I don’t enjoy this film very much. I do, however, admire it greatly. It does exactly what it sets out to: deliver a tragic tale of life, death, heartbreak and regret – the way time changes people – while largely avoiding sentiment or emotional manipulation of the audience. The dialogue is sparing, as with all Leone films, and you are never told how to feel. The film is cold, in many respects; its direction alienated. The characters aren’t. As gorgeous and emotive as Ennio Morricone’s operatic score is, it feels more at odds here than in any other film. Leone’s earlier works are far more “operatic” and “comic book” in tone (I do not mean this as a criticism). This one feels too achingly slow, too unflinchingly impartial to the story and characters; too intimate and unceremonious for this kind of treatment. The score – full of nostalgic nods and interacting themes - suggests a grand stage entertainment with its own neat internal logic. The film offers, on the contrary, a consistent, slow and real-feeling unravelling: only time and distance can provide this (and Leone does). He seems determined, as I mentioned before, for the viewer to make of the characters what they want; Morricone’s score seems to inappropriately offer you an emotional response. And yet, paradoxically, it may be the theatrical cushion of the score that stops this elegantly crafted film from being completely unwatchable to me. Morricone’s score is completely absent from most of the pivotal “acts” of the film - the sexual assault included - and while this certainly enhances their impact, it also makes parts of the film really tough viewing.

Join us next time as we head for more comedic ground (I promise!) ...

But... he really DOES love it when you call.

Sometimes a song lyric can just make you laugh. You may initially be unaware of why though. Is it a clunky metaphor? Does it not scan/rhyme well? Is it "obvious" to the point of triteness? Or is it just "overly earnest"?

That last one's significant, I feel. There are lyrics one could say were quantifiably shit ('It's not a big motorcycle, just a groovy little motorbike / It's more fun than a barrel of monkeys, that two-wheeled bike' : I don't think I need to tell you why this little gem from the Beach Boys' 'Little Honda' is ... shall we say... lacking?), but their failure largely draws from an inappropriateness of setting or sheer laziness. There are songs which are pretty much taken as scripture as having great lyrics - see photo. Then there are those folk that, well, nobody really gives a shit either way, cos they sound right. though whether the lyrics are judged harshly seems more often than not to depend on a subjective reaction to what the artist represents. No-one really gives Steely Dan flack for having lyrics that sometimes make no goddamn sense and are aloof and self-referential to the point of complete opacity. I don't, certainly, 'cos they sound perfecly fitting in their setting. 

'All aboard the Carib cannibal / Off to Barbados just for the ride / Jack with his radar, stalking the dread moray eel / At the wheel with his Eurasian bride'

Now, on the page - and out of their habitat - I have no fucking clue what these lyrics mean. They work, I think, both because they sound pleasingly sibilant rolling from Donald Fagen's sneery vocal scrine, and because of their very vacuousness; the song is called 'Glamour Profession' and thus a lyric sheet of monied, cliquey babble seems entirely apt for the superficiality of its subjects. On the other hand, we have Yes's Jon Anderson, whose lyrics, it seems pretty much taken as read, are "pretentious" and "nonsensical" (hey, check the air-quotes: I must disagree with something!).  However, like the Dan (and arguably to a greater extent), he chose the lyrics for those bright, weird, knotty songs because they sounded perfectly apt on an aesthetic level; fitting the melody and mood and being less concerned with prosaic meaning. If it were a three chord "folk" song, where the integrity is decisively shifted to the lyric sheet, then yeah, we could judge them differently. But damnit: in context they work:

'Guessing problems only to deceive the mention / Passing paths that climb halfway into the void / As we cross from side to side, we hear the total mass retain.'

I feel it is a testament to their aptness that such lyrics - while eschewing directness and even traditional grammar (I pity the fool who deceives my mention) - end up as both evocative and memorable. Their very abstraction and percussiveness renders them universal, though you may not be able to draw any direct conclusions. The same could be said of a more obviously "Poetic" source: you read the lyric sheet to Bob's 'Visions of Johanna' of late? The fuck's he talking about?  'The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face'? But it sounds unique and I remember it: it sounds like it means something, and it probably does to a great many people. Its evocative rather than direct, and there ain't nothing wrong with that**.

So far, in a manner of speaking, we (and our citations*) have dodged the issue. What of those lyricists who (gasp) say it straight up? No allusions, no florid abstraction: just 'I love you baby, lets have the sex'. Being direct is far more loaded, and actually controversial, than the "Poetry with a capital P" approach. I refer back to the title of this wafflet. The lyric I am paraphrasing, as you may well know, is from a song by The Feeling. Its about a guy wanting their love interest to call, then feeling sad when they don't. It's called 'Love it When You Call'. But, and here's the killer, 'you never call at all'. I think we're supposed to think this is awful. But... why, exactly? It rhymes, it's catchy and it concisely makes a universal (oh, sorry, "broad") point about relationship (oh, sorry, "romantic clichés"). Aside from the unfashionable and unambitious bent - what is actually the problem here? Its an upbeat, ebullient and surprisingly risky track: it utilises the forgotten arts of syncopation and key-breaching harmony and incorporates knowing nods to the (at the time) dogmatically hated-on "guilty pleasure" camps of 70s and 80s Pop Rock. And, most critically of all, it's completely visceral and unvarnished in its words. The song has balls through its sheer openness, and it chirped me up at a pretty low time.

Maybe its the lack of ambition or, perhaps more accurately, the emotional directness that triggers the "crap lyric" alarm here. In the olden timey days, when you could leave your doors unlocked (though you'd be more likely to get robbed), you could write Happy songs about how much you love your partner, or Sad songs about how much you love your partner (at least without resorting to the Small Book o' Authentic Appalachian Clichés Which Is Okay Because Authentic Even Though My Being A Middle English Student At Oxbridge Means These Twangy Songs About Living In The Mountains And Simple Fishing Folk Make No Fucking Sense And Sound More Disingenuous Than Tom Waits) and not care if they were "silly" or "cliched"... because they felt true. Don't see anyone giving the Beatles shit for this. or Pet Sounds***. In a "post-modern" age, heart on your sleeve idealism or emoting has become a sadly uncomfortable proposition. 

There appears to be no clear concensus as to what "good lyrics" are. Everyone seems, however, to know what shit ones are when they rear their head. I would argue that there are, instead, lyrics that are "apt" and those that are not. Are you in love? Does it feel good? You may bust your balls trying to make the situation sound as complex and emotionally ambiguous as possible, but why? Are you embarrassed? Are you scared of being clichéd? I know I am. It takes more courage, I would argue, to say it how you feel it and, what's more, be proud of that expression than to do a Dylan. I feel sad that I judge what comes unfiltered from my brain so much. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to write a spiritually-barren song about Kowloon Walled City because there aren't many songs about that and I faultily suppose that "getting one up" in lyrical obtuseness is what'll make me special, rather than expressing myself.

So come on, guys. You ain't so tough. Come fill my little world right up.****






* Part of me's deathly afraid that if I don't use the Harvard referencing system my research methodology tutor will take my children. Or give me that doubting sidelong look. Which is worse.

** Then, of course, there's the MEANING OVER MUSIC approach: 'If I can't shoot rabbits, then I can't shoot fa-ascists'. Meaningful, maybe, but it sounds painfully contrived and downright "unmusical" to these ears. Don't sabotage the music for clever-pants lyrics, guys: it might actually end up making you sound stupid.

*** Perhaps one of the most forthright lyric sheets there is. And all the more meaningful for it.

**** Urgh. Talk about contrived...

Any good books on?

You seen that Honest Trailers video for Breaking Bad?* While, on the whole, a pretty positive endorsement for the show (along with it being a funny, well-observed video), there is a jab about a seemingly pointless family kitchen scene without dialogue. Whether they're digging at the show itself or satirizing viewers who watch it merely to see Walter do the next "awesome" thing is left to the perspective of the viewer, but it nonetheless raises interesting questions about pacing and the subjective discourse about what is "necessary" or "padding" in a piece of film or television.

Film is a visual medium. As such, I would argue there are more movies with intelligent scripts than there are intelligent movies. To deny the medium you're working in its true potential by focusing on the writing and performances is, in my view, is a waste. To illustrate the problem I have with this narrative (and often, as a result, quite literal) tunnel-vision, I'll cite a couple of unquestioningly canonised "classics": Network and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance**. Network is an excellent thesis, a good radio play and, in my opinion, a weak piece of film-making. The cinematography is more or less "get the actors in shot"; the imagery (aside from the closing studio camera montage) is secondary and the dialogue is witty, incisive and more-or-less completely devoid of any natural chemistry. It looks great on the page, it'd sound great as a (slightly hectoring) lecture, but the characters never react to each other: they just wait for a monologue to finish so they can start their own. It is, in a respect, over-written.

Exposition. There's a high probability you're thinking of talking when I say that. But, I would argue that a great film-maker would see what they can portray visually instead of relying on the script. Imagine if, instead of that penetrating (and entirely visual) scene involving the acknowledgement of Michael's place as the new head of the Corleone family - his all-to-comfortable posture; the half-closed door standing between him and the unsettled, anxious Kay; the simple gesture of the kiss that tells you exactly what's happening without needing to say shit - the end of the Godfather went like this:


     [SCENE: ROOM. MICHAEL AND KAY ARE STANDING IN IT]

     KAY: I thought you said you weren't like them! Did you kill all those people? Are you the new                     Don? I CAN'T take this anymore, Michael. I'm frightened of you now! I feel foolish for                       thinking you could have been different! What happens now? Is this the end?

[Michael waits patiently for her to finish, for some reason]

MICHAEL: DON'T ASK ME ABOUT MY BUSINESS. But since you have, I will cover each                               question respectively. With regards to me not being like my family... etc.***

So many complex emotions going on in that scene, and its such an important part of the story, but Coppola's skill ensures that no dialogue is necessary to convey them fully.

Film is not the only audio-visual medium, of course: theatre can suffer equally from Radio Play-itis. While not a font of knowledge on the subject, I have had enough exposure to the acknowledged core Shakespeare plays to say that The Man (for He is unquestionethedethded) was unparalleled in his ability to colourfully and concisely phrase fundamental human questions. It is, to be blindingly obvious, "endlessly quotable", but... but... was he not a greater writer of the written word than a stage-director? There's a lot of talking in Shakespeare's plays (Duuuuh!) ... but think about it: he tends to be remembered as a writer that stirs the imagination, rather than a playwright who conjures it. People talk about the cinematography of Citizen Kane (as well, I feel, they should). Comparable time is not afforded Shakespeare's stage directions, however*. Whether this represents a flaw, a popular oversight or me talking crap is left to your judgement. Despite the plays themselves being a standby of the theatre world, for many non-academic appreciators (myself included): its all about the words.

To return to that "filler" family scene from Breaking Bad: is it really filler? In order to judge this we must ascertain if it has any character or narrative function in the story. I would argue that it has both. Even with no verbal content, a new viewer would likely pick up the tension in the scene and, from merely the "eye-acting" and body language of the characters, whose role is which in the unspoken argument. The placing of it at the kitchen table - the most domestic and mundane of settings - is particularly pertinent when one considers the role of "family" in Walt's life, and the way that dynamic evolves throughout the series. In short: it may be subtle, but it's far from pointless.

Speaking of eyeballs (and clumsily trying to come full circle here), the still at the top of this post is, as you may already be aware, from Sergio Leone's The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. There are, I would argue, few more "visual" directors of the post-silent era. The fact that he could barely speak a word of English (and yet directed dialogue in English), likely spurred his concentration on tableaux and long gazes between characters over extensive verbal duelling. Scenes can go for 15 minutes without a word being spoken. The much-lauded "silent"  introduction to Once Upon The Time in a West - a wonderful example of "pure" film-making in which not only do the main characters say nothing, there's no music either - works because the characters are explained through what they do, how they react to circumstances and how they hold themselves. Yet I include the still from the Good, the Bad... to actually show the "long silent exchange" theory he usually applies with unparalleled skill, well... not really working that well. Now, I love that film. I love his careful pacing... but I would argue that the length of the hushed "Mexican standoff" pictured is largely unnecessary partly because it has just one function: tension. No character development, no narrative thrust, just "when are they gonna shoot?". The music is GLORIOUS, and it seems likely (as was Leone's wont) that he wished for the pre-composed score to run its course entirely before the scene cut. However, for all the majesty of the score, after a couple of minutes the well of tension begins to run dry and you are left with no real kinesis. The exception, I feel, that proves the rule.


 *If you're interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oDqGAUvWKkU

**Basically has the same "stageyness" (or is that "booky"?) issues as Network. Which is weird coming from such a visually confident director as John Ford. Still worth watching, mind.

***copyright Christopher Nolan.

****Oh, except 'EXITS PURSUED BY BEAR', Which is pretty funny. 

'Like this bridge. We build it every night; Charlie blows it right back up again... just so the generals can say the road's open. Think about it: WHO CARES?!'

I'm Ed. I make music. I enjoy the creative arts. I comment on many other things (whether I truly understand them or not). In the absence of time to dedicate to more creative outlets, here is a "blog". It's called 'Windy Piss' because a) it sounds daft and b) futility*. 

If you like white middle-class English people** talking at you about a (hopefully diverse) range of subjects, you've come to the right place. If you don't agree with a lot of what I type, that's fine. If you agree with everything I say: seek a counsellor. I like to think there's a balance ... which is ironic considering how one-sided the concept of a blog is. 

If I can encourage you to check out something new, or otherwise reappraise something, I'm happy. If I can make you think about something differently: fabulous. Even if no-one reads this, I'm quite convinced it's good practice anyway. If you are reading this (ta, you!) I just hope it's worth your while in some measure. If you are generous enough to leave comments, that'd be bloody sweet.

*Conjectural.

**Does this mean anything?