What Makes a Film an Aesthetic Experience?

A truly aesthetic experience of film does not begin with the question of whether a movie is “great.” It begins earlier, in the conditions under which a viewer encounters it. What I mean is not a ranking of films, nor a canon, nor even a theory of cinematic excellence in the abstract. I mean something more modest and, at the same time, more intimate: the circumstances under which a person becomes capable of making an aesthetic judgment about a moving picture at all.

Walk around your hometown, and you will likely find buildings that were once local cinemas — a quickly dying form of architecture and disappearing gateway to aesthetic experience. 

I’m speaking here from within my own experience, bracketed and phenomenological. I know perfectly well that others will name different conditions for their own deepest encounters with film. Still, my claim is that certain conditions do not merely describe my preferences; they help make possible the experience of film as an object of aesthetic judgment. They dispose the viewer toward the sort of attention from which beauty, sublimity, originality, and formal power can actually be felt.

The first condition is simple, almost embarrassingly simple: a film must be watched without interruption. If one wants to have a genuinely aesthetic experience, one cannot be half-watching. One cannot be texting, checking email, folding laundry, and grazing across six tabs of consciousness while the movie flickers in the background. A film demands duration, and duration demands surrender. To watch a movie aesthetically is to submit, for a time, to its order of images, sounds, rhythms, and silences. It is to grant the work one’s undivided attention.

This is not a moral condemnation of distracted viewing. I have watched plenty of movies merely to unwind, to numb out, to let the mind dissolve into pleasant noise. There is nothing wrong with that. Brain rot has its place. But that is not the same thing as aesthetic experience. The point is not that every instance of film consumption must rise to the level of contemplation. The point is that if one wants to be able to say, with seriousness, “that was beautiful,” or “that was formally astonishing,” then one must cultivate the habits that make such judgment possible.

In that sense, aesthetic judgment resembles any other human capacity. If I wanted to become better at mathematics, I would accept that certain disciplines are required of me. The same is true here. To refine one’s ability to judge film aesthetically, one must learn how to watch. One must build conditions favorable to encounter.

This is why the setting of viewing matters, even if it is not absolutely determinative. A cinema is ideal not because it automatically confers importance on the work, but because it enforces concentration. The darkness, the scale, the social silence, the inability to pause or drift away—all of this protects the film from casual fragmentation. But a theater is not the only place such attention can happen. One can create it at home, in a viewing room, even in front of a laptop, if one deliberately consecrates the event: I am going to watch this film now, and for the next two hours I belong to it.

A second condition follows from the first: the less prefabricated context, the better. The strongest first aesthetic judgments often arise when one encounters a film with minimal prior explanation. Ideally, I want to know as little as possible. I do not want to be told in advance what the film “means,” why it is historically significant, how it should be interpreted, or where the emotional peaks are supposed to land. I want the work to arrive before its reputation does.

Of course, this ideal is harder and harder to achieve. Modern spectators rarely meet artworks innocently. We live among previews, discourse, canon formation, fan edits, rankings, memes, critical consensus, and algorithmic recommendation. The image often reaches us before the work does. This is true of film, but it is also true of painting. When I stand before the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, I am not encountering a virgin object. I am confronting a work whose image has already been multiplied, miniaturized, ironized, commercialized, and absorbed into mass culture. Part of what I see is not the painting itself, but the sediment of its fame. In that sense, some artworks become artifacts of their own circulation.

That does not destroy aesthetic experience, but it does complicate it. There is a difference between discovering a work and arriving at a monument. The first is an event of perception; the second is often an event of recognition.

For film, then, one important condition of aesthetic experience is the possibility of surprise. Preferably, one sees the work before the chatter closes around it.

A third condition is originality—not in the cheap sense of novelty for novelty’s sake, but in the deeper sense of voice. A film must feel as though someone is speaking through it. It must not seem merely assembled from the dead remains of other films, other franchises, other market-tested gestures. Derivativeness deadens perception because it replaces discovery with recollection. One no longer encounters form; one merely recognizes content.

This is why sequels so often fail aesthetically, even when they succeed commercially. Their problem is not that they continue a story. Their problem is that they frequently inherit too much of the imaginative burden from the previous work. Adaptations are a more complicated case. An adaptation can be great precisely because it translates, transforms, and risks. It can discover a new voice inside an old structure. But it must still sound like someone meant it. The criterion is not whether the material is borrowed; the criterion is whether the film has achieved necessity of expression.

What matters, in other words, is that the film not feel secondhand.

Another condition, and one I find increasingly important, is the film’s relation to setting. Cinema is uniquely gifted in its capacity to render place. Because it is visual, because it unfolds in time, because it can linger, return, and accumulate, film can make a setting feel inhabited rather than merely depicted. A powerful film gives us not just a backdrop but a world with texture, weather, light, routine, social atmosphere. It lets a place become legible.

This is one reason Martin Scorsese’s Casino is such a useful example. It is not merely a crime film set in Las Vegas; Las Vegas becomes one of the film’s structuring presences, almost a character in its own right. The city’s spectacle, greed, brightness, and decay are not decorative—they are part of the narrative intelligence of the film. Casino was directed by Martin Scorsese and stars Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, and Joe Pesci.

Martin Scorsese's Casino — a film's surprise is often its dedication to setting.

By contrast, a film like Un Chien Andalou works through radically different means. Luis Buñuel’s 1929 short, co-written with Salvador Dalí, famously rejects conventional plot in favor of dream logic, disjunctive imagery, and startling associations. Its power is not narrative immersion but the assaultive coherence of the unconscious.  The point is not that one of these is superior to the other. It is that aesthetic experience can arise in both cases when the viewer consents to the formal logic proper to each work—narrative, in one case; surreal juxtaposition, in the other.

So perhaps the condition here is not “story” but intelligible form. A film must establish the terms on which it wishes to be seen, and the viewer must grant those terms a chance.

Finally, there is the human figure. Film possesses a special intimacy with faces, gestures, pauses, glances, and bodily presence. Even the most expansive cinema often turns, at decisive moments, on something minute: a hesitation before speech, the way a hand rests on a doorframe, a face registering knowledge too quickly to become language. One of the privileges of film is that it allows us to see people under the pressure of time. A good film does not simply tell us who someone is; it lets us witness becoming, concealment, revelation, and breakdown. That is one of the deepest sources of aesthetic experience in cinema: the transformation of the human face into an event of meaning.

If I had to state the argument plainly, then it would be this: a truly aesthetic experience of film requires attention, openness, and the possibility of surprise. It is deepened by uninterrupted viewing, by a setting that protects concentration, by minimal prefabricated context, by originality of voice, by a rich sense of place, and by the film’s ability to render human presence with force and specificity. These conditions do not guarantee that a film will be beautiful. But they make beauty more available to perception.

The issue, then, is not only what makes a film great. The issue is what makes us ready to encounter greatness—or beauty, or strangeness, or formal power—when it appears. Aesthetic judgment is not just a verdict we pronounce after the fact. It is a capacity we prepare in ourselves beforehand.

PDF copy for Printing

TV Review: Doctor Who “Joy to the World” 2024 Christmas Special is More about Loneliness than Just your Everyday Time Lord

Greig here, reporting for Stones of Erasmus! I’ve just caught the Doctor Who Christmas special, “Joy to the World,” now streaming on Disney+. Featuring Ncuti Gatwa as the Doctor, and Nicola Couglan as the Doctor's newest companion, Joy—the episode delivers a heartfelt holiday romp that deftly balances time-warp shenanigans, cozy Yuletide feelings, and profound meditations on loneliness. Below is a spoiler-filled review, pieced together from my own viewing and reflections—as well as tidbits you’ll see mirrored in fan discussions online. Let’s hop into the TARDIS and go!

"Ham and cheese toastie and a pumpkin latte?" Yes. Please!
Image Credit: Disney+

Plot Summary: A Time Hotel and a Bomb-Star

Premise. Fresh off the heartbreak of losing Ruby Sunday in last season’s final episode (“Empire of Death”), the Doctor finds himself wandering solo once again. This time, though, his path leads him to a futuristic “Time Hotel,” where it’s Christmas every moment—simultaneously. Patrons pop in and out of doorways leading to any Christmas from any time or place, which makes for a whimsical, if slightly disorienting, holiday getaway.

Loneliness and Joy. The Doctor’s search for a companion is a well-trodden theme—think back to the Ninth Doctor meeting Rose Tyler at the start of the show’s 2005 revival. Eccleston's Doctor was a sad-sack sort of a guy. Or, even Matt Smith's Doctor, before he meets Amelia Pond. In “Joy to the World,” the Doctor’s latest potential friend is Joy, a hotel guest who reveals a painful past: she was unable to see her mother in her final hours during the COVID-19 pandemic. Over the course of the special, Joy becomes entangled in the machinations of the Villengard Corporation, who have concocted a threat so preposterous only Doctor Who could pull it off—a bomb made from an incubating star, hidden inside a dinosaur.

Holiday Hijinks. The central comedic—and cosmic—conceit sees the Doctor sneaking through the Time Hotel’s ever-shifting corridors, inadvertently stumbling onto the Orient Express, engaging in Rube Goldberg–style escapades, and saving the day with a mixture of scientific know-how and plenty of empathy. Ultimately, the star that could have detonated as a cosmic bomb instead hearkens back to the Star of Bethlehem—tying together the show’s Christian allusions with the Doctor’s timeless message of hope.

Themes & Analysis: Solitude, Star of Bethlehem, and Home

Alone at Christmas. Tying in real-world statistics about those who spend Christmas alone, “Joy to the World” shines a light on the Doctor’s enduring isolation. The script cleverly parallels the Doctor’s solitary existence with Joy’s own journey: both are searching for connection, but they shy away from it out of hurt or regret. Watching them bond—when the Doctor reveals he spent a year waiting for a Time Hotel doorway to reopen—grounds this Christmas special in surprisingly raw emotion.

The Doctor on the Psychology of Hotel Rooms: 

I just spent a year in a hotel room that you chose. Do you know what you can tell about a person from the hotel room that they choose?. . . . So you see, a house, that's a . . . that's a disguise. It's a fortress. You can . . . you can hide yourself away with pictures and flowers and tables. But a hotel room? That's you without make-up. It's what you think you need. It's what you are willing to accept. Not a selfie that you posed for, more like catching yourself in the mirror. What's your mirror telling you . . . .?

Finding Home in a Hotel Room. One of the most poignant lines (which I reprinted above for convenience sake) addresses what it means to choose a particular hotel room as “home.” A house can mask who we are, but a hotel room is a quick choice that often reveals our unfiltered wants and emotional states. Joy’s reasons for picking a dull, almost drab room speak volumes about her sorrow—and the Doctor’s year-long stay there symbolizes how stepping into someone else’s space can illuminate both their pain and your own.

A Yuletide Miracle. The biblical references are more than window dressing. The Star of Bethlehem (and Saint Augustine’s idea that it was created as a miraculous sign) resonates with the show’s whimsical claim: perhaps each one of us has the capacity to “shine” like a star, or be guided by someone else’s light. This is typical Doctor Who: whether it’s a tyrannosaur swallowing a star-bomb or a grief-stricken companion longing for closure, the show always circles back to the miracle and fragility of being human.

Final Thoughts: A Whimsical, Welcoming Christmas Tale

While “Joy to the World” crams in a dizzying array of plot threads—part Victorian train chase, part apocalyptic star-bomb standoff—its real triumph is the Doctor’s renewed sense of empathy. Even if the pacing feels rushed at times, the episode’s emotional center holds firm: we see a lonely alien traveler and an ordinary human, both caught in cosmic chaos yet strangely united by the universal longing to not be alone during the holidays.

Where the story truly succeeds is in reminding us that each person’s inner life is worth exploring. Whether it’s a fleeting cameo on a train or a quiet conversation about grief, every encounter has the potential to transform. And what better day than Christmas—when so many people struggle with isolation—to give audiences an allegory about love, hope, and the star shining in each of us?

“Joy to the World” might not be the Doctor Who holiday special you were looking for (fact-checkers note that it’s helmed more by the Disney-peeps, and is not solely BBC property), but in the realm of imaginative Christmas adventures, it’s a cozy gem. And if you’ve found yourself alone this holiday, let the Doctor’s foray into the Time Hotel remind you: you’re okay, and connection is always a possibility—even in the strangest of places or the simplest of gestures.

Stray Observations

• The Doctor speaks in his usual timey-wimey, scientific manner in most episodes (think, "Reverse the polarity of the neutron flow"), and in this episode, "mavity" is back, with the Doctor quipping something about rotational gravity. If you know, you know.
• Steven Moffat wrote "Joy to the World," and it shows—it's a smart move on Russell T. Davies's part. As showrunner, he isn't shy about including past writers while staying true to the show's vision. 
• I loved the nod to last season’s episode “Boom”—with ticking bombs, collateral damage, and the sentient consciousness heroes—Villengard's victims—(RIP Trev, and the Silurian). 
• I appreciated the nuanced portrayal of Anita Benn, the Sandrighman Hotel proprietor, played by Stephanie de Whalley. Her character's understanding of Ncuti Gatwa's Doctor resonates with the queer audience; in a poignant moment, she empathizes with the Doctor, noting that neither of them has a boyfriend. 
• Additionally, the woman the Doctor encounters reading Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express—Sylvia Trench, portrayed by Niamh Marie Smith—was revealed to be writing a letter to her girlfriend. I wished she had more screen time.

Happy holidays, fellow Whovians, and may your own hotel room—literal or metaphorical—feel a little less lonely this season.

—Greig,

Stones of Erasmus

PDF Copy for Printing

The Ineluctable Bond of Two Boys Broken: Movie Review of Close (2022)

In this post, I write a spoiler-y review of the 2022 Belgian film Close. This review is meant for after viewing the film.

Image Credit: Diaphana Films

Close Garners Accolades on the Film Prize Circuit

Have you recently watched the Belgian film Close (2022), directed by Lukas Dhont and starring two incredible young actors, Eden Dambrine and Gustav De Waele? The movie was highly acclaimed, nominated for an Academy Award, and won the prestigious Grand Prix at the Cannes film festival. The story is a tragic one about two boys. Having read multiple stories of queer, questioning, and gay young people killed or dying of unsuspecting causes, I went into the film with skepticism. For example, I loved the novel Absolute Brightness by James Lecesne — but, again, it is a story of a young, bright, young person who dies because of hatred and homophobia. But I digress — in this story of two young boys who live in a small Flemish town near the flower fields of Brabant, the story is more about adolescent male friendship than anything else. 

I Did Harbor Some Assumptions (I Confess)

        After watching the trailer, I confess I assumed that the blonde-haired boy, Leo (played by Dambrine), was the more fragile of the two. He appears smaller, in contrast, to Remi (played by De Wael), even though in real life, the former is several years older than the latter, and during filming, De Wael had to wear platform shoes to appear taller than Dambrine. And in an interesting backstory, Lukas Dhont discovered Dambrine on a train, conversing with friends, and asked him to audition for the part — which he did. All of this to say, while my original assumption was wrong, the film is very much about the character of Leo, both in his friendship with Remi, which only takes up less than half the film, and the micro-steps that follow the boys' breakup.

The Exposition of a Boys' Friendship 

       The movie portrays two thirteen-year-old boys with an unbreakable bond. They are kindred spirits, and their connection is unexplainable. A beautiful scene sets up the friends' bond where Leo, as they both cannot sleep on a summer evening, tells Remi a story about a gecko and its colors. Remi lights up as Leo tells the story, and the camera is positioned intimately close to the two. Film trumps other forms of narrative works where the body, the face, can tell a story, and I was drawn into the ease of their facial expressions and how comfortable the two adolescents are in each other's presence. Leo, in this scene, is portrayed as a poetic and sensitive soul, and his monologue foreshadows what will come. I thought Remi would reject Leo, but it was the reverse. 

        Their friendship is exposed to the public eye of their peers. Once they start going to a new school, the other kids make note of the boys' friendship and ask if they are a couple. Despite their kindred and beautiful connection, the question "Are you together?" is enough to put a blunt edge between the two kids' bond. In my head, I thought Leo took it to heart and had a more difficult time dealing with that. But actually, in the movie, Leo is more riled up about the accusation and pushes Remi, the other boy, away. The two boys detonate internally, each in their own unique way, and a gulf begins to split between them. It is in this splitting apart that the film attempts to explore.

An Inexplicable Event Happens. 

         There is a field trip, and Remi is not there. The kids go to the ocean and return, and Leo discovers that Remi has committed suicide. Leo runs frantically, heaving, and arrives at Remi's house, but no one is home, and he sees the door to the bathroom has been busted open. And he knows. In a scene earlier in the movie, Remi was in the bathroom and wouldn't come out, and the mother kept banging on the door. It was after Leo and Remi had a fight. It is evident now. As Leo stares into the window of the empty house, Remi is no longer here. And this is where the story becomes not one of a beautiful friendship but a story of a piece missing, of Leo's tortured journey. And Remi's mother — it was the mother who discovered her son. And when Leo discovers that Remi was in the bathroom when he committed suicide, he internalizes it as his fault.

         Leo goes through the motions. He silently attends his friend's funeral. Leo's emotional journey is acute and raw as he tries to find solace in his older brother and silently deals with his feelings at hockey practice and in class. Leo's guilt and sense of responsibility for Remi's death are palpable, and it is painful to watch a child suffer in such a way. He has to listen as other kids talk superficially about Remi. One boy mentions that Remi seemed happy, but Leo breaks the silence and questions whether the boy really knew. "Was he happy? did you know?" Leo asks and storms out of the room. A counselor comes to talk to the middle school class, but the guilt on Leo takes a toll on him. He befriends another boy on his hockey team, but their friendship differs from his friendship with Remi. Leo finds ways to confront or be with Remi's mother, who is also obviously dealing with her grief. And in this part, the story feels fragile and raw — because, as a viewer, I did not know who would break first, Leo or the mother.

The Question of "Why?"

        The film raises several questions, such as why Leo was not kinder to Remi, why Remi did not seek help from his loving parents, and why it all ended horrifically. Leo is so shaken by it viscerally, but he is still so young that he cannot verbalize his feelings. Remi is dead, and that reality is painful enough, but Leo also holds on to this feeling that he is responsible for his friend's death. A child should not have to go through this type of suffering, right? However, the director slowly turns the viewer's attention to Leo and his struggle to deal with his friend's death without providing easy answers to the "why" of it. The film culminates in an inevitable confrontation between Remi's mother and Leo, which provides a sense of closure, but not resolution. The scene is in the woods, the trees serving as a backdrop of both characters' pain — a place set away from the real world of school, family, and home. Without giving away too many details, this is how the film ends.

Closing Remarks

        The movie's personal and emotional performance from the cast is remarkable, and the actors spent a lot of time together processing the story's magnitude. The film's title, "Close," hits home, portraying the story of two boys who cling to each other. I could identify with the boys — as I, too, had close friendships growing up, and I think this is a phenomenon that many young men experience. Leo and Remi express their feelings about society's bias about close male friendships when girls at lunch call out the boys' friendship, but they first retort, "Well, what about girls? You can have a girly friendship," and no one says anything. The worst crime a society can commit is snuffing out love between two people. I felt like Leo and Remi hold an ineluctable bond that is intense, loving, and special. It is not a gay story, specifically, but one of love, friendship, and the dissolution of those bonds. And it is that dissolution that cries out to heaven for justice.

       I finished the movie visibly shaken. I had not felt this emotionally challenged by a movie about love and connections lost since the 2017 film Call Me By Your Name. As a viewer, one can bring their own emotions and experiences to the film, and "Close" explores the complexities of friendship, guilt, and grief, especially among young boys. It sheds light on toxic masculinity, its impact on society, and the intensity of friendships at a young age. Overall, "Close" is a poignant film that leaves a lasting impact and is a deserving nominee for an Academy Award.

Stray Observations

• The film boasts the debut of the two actors Eden Dambrine and Gustav De Waele.
• The working title was "We Two Boys Together Clinging," which is the title of a poem by Walt Whitman, which inspired the work of artist David Hockney.
• The film reflects Belgium's linguistic diversity, with French and Flemish spoken due to the country's small size and the presence of Dutch, Flemish, French, English, and German in daily conversation.
• The small Flemish town where the film is shot is called Wetteren in East Flanders.
• I lived in Belgium for over a year as a student at K.U.L. in Leuven.

Close (2022)

Diaphana Distribution

Directed by Lukas Dhont

Starring Eden Dambrine, Gustav De Waele, Léa Drucker, and Émilie Dequenne

Original Screenplay by Lukas Dhont and Angelo Tijssens.

PDF Copy for Printing

Meme: Ross Matthews and Otho Share an Uncanny Resemblance

Do Ross Matthews of Ru Paul’s Drag Race fame and the character Otho from the 1988 movie Beetlejuice (played by Glenn Shadix) share an uncanny resemblance? I think so. Share if you agree. 

Memes We'd Love to See: © 2023 Stones of Erasmus

If we take a closer look at Ross Matthews and Otho's appearance, it's hard not to see the resemblance. Both have a similar facial structure, a prominent chin, and an expressive gaze that instantly draws you in. Ross Matthews is famous for his role as a judge on Ru Paul's Drag Race, where he has become a fan favorite for his endearing personality and quick wit. Meanwhile, Otho, portrayed by the late Glenn Shadix, is a character in the 1988 Tim Burton-directed film Beetlejuice. Otho is an interior designer who helps the ghostly couple who haunts a house to scare off the new living inhabitants.

While Ross Matthews is a real person and Otho is a fictional character, the idea that they could exist in the same movie universe is more plausible than it seems. Both Tim Burton-directed movies and Ru Paul's Drag Race are known for their campy, colorful, and often outrageous aesthetics. In fact, the idea of a drag queen and a flamboyantly styled interior designer crossing paths in a fantastical cinematic universe would make for an entertaining and hilarious movie.

Whether or not Ross Matthews' and Otho's similarities are intentional or coincidental, it's still fun to imagine the two coexisting in a shared universe. As pop culture enthusiasts, we can't help but look for hidden connections between our favorite shows and movies. And who knows, maybe we'll see Ross Matthews and Otho team up for an unforgettable adventure that will leave us laughing and cheering from start to finish.

PDF Copy for Printing

Fall Teaching Diary: After a Quarter of the Year Teaching (On the Hinge of the Covid-19 Pandemic)

I am a high school English teacher. But, in this post, I don't talk at all about teaching. But if you want to check out my store on Teachers Pay Teachers — it's lit! I took a selfie while waiting for a burger at the Five Guys on Fifty-Something street in Manhattan. Then I went to see a French film at the Museum of Modern Art — L'amour Fou, directed by Jacques Rivette. I knew nothing of the movie, except that it was an artifact of the Nouveau Vague — and its running time was well-over four hours. The movie's images and set-up captivated my imagination. I only once became anxious about sitting in the theater for that long. The movie is about the break-up of a theater director guy and his girlfriend, an actor (performed by by Jean-Pierre Kalfon and Bulle Ogier). The film cuts between life in their Parisian apartment, scenes from rehearsal of the play Andromaque, and a documentary film crew filming the director's rehearsals. Lots of talking. And improvisation. So it feels natural. Something that a long-run movie does for the viewer. And the scene where the couple has a Dionysian tear-up of their apartment was fantastic. And then the moments when the guy was a total masculine unsympathetic man — I didn't care for that much. The focus on the female character was my go-to source of enjoyment. Hooray! I watched that long French movie. And then I went home and became anxious because I was looking to move to a new place. I move on December First, and I have no idea where I will end up or with who. Long story short — I decided (and my current roommate) agreed that our time was up. We divorced. Amicably. Kind of like in the French movie — except my roommate is not my lover. *Laughing out loud* I plan to move to another place in the neighborhood — in Jackson Heights, Queens. I like the environs even though it is a tad boring. So wish me luck and let me know in the comments if you have ever seen a French film that you liked and why.

Film Still from Jacques Rivette's 4-hour long film L'amour Fou

PDF Copy for Printing

Hollywood Movies from the Nineties: Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead (1991)

Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead, a fantastic Hollywood movie from the 1990s,  just might be one of the best movies ever made about faking it until you make it.

Christina Applegate in Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead © 1991

Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead is a movie about transformations. 

Her boss tells her to say, "I'm right on top of that, Rose!" whenever she is doing a task for her. She says cheerily, "Don't feel overwhelmed, just do one thing at a time." The movie captures the era of big shoulders and women in the workplace trying to make their mark. Sue Ellen works her way up the corporate ladder, getting that Q.E.D. Report done by some cool delegation — to the ire of one of her co-workers, played by Jayne Brook, who is catching on to Sue Ellen's ruse. But Rose thinks Sue Ellen is just the best. "You're a paragon!" she beams! But Sue Ellen, the newest hire at General Apparel West, is really just a kid. The big conceit of the movie is that Christina Applegate is not really a fashion mogul.

"I'm Right On Top Of That, Rose!"

If you don't know the plot, it's ostensibly a story about every teenager's dream — to have the house entirely to yourself, no rules, no boundaries. See. Mom (played by Concetta Tomei) has gone to Australia and left the kids, played by Christina Applegate, Keith Coogan, Robert Hy Gorman, Danielle Harris, and Christopher Pettiet, with an evil-eyed, petty authoritarian (played by Eda Reiss Merin) named Mrs. Sturak. Even the name connotes fear. But the thing is — the movie is not about navigating the conflicts brought on by a mean babysitter. Mrs. Sturak dies twenty minutes into the movie. And Christina Applegate's character suddenly finds herself having to take on the head of the household. In a wild stretch of the imagination, she manages to land a job for a fashion company by stitching together a fake résumé —which hilariously causes her to take on the daily grind, getting up before dawn, to get dressed, prepare breakfast, and beat the downtown Los Angeles traffic to get to work on time. The oldest brother is a deadbeat (Coogan's character) — and the three other kids are treacly sweet, just the way most pre-teen kids are in Hollywood movies from the late 1980s and 1990s. But Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead is no John Hughes flick. Directed by Stephen Herek, the same guy who brought us Critters and Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure, the movie takes on a plucky pull-yourself-up-from-the-bootstrap narrative.

Surprisingly Inspiring Movie That Could Otherwise Be Dreck!

The joy of the movie is watching the kids take on adult responsibilities. And the reality is that in the 1990s, many kids were latchkey kids — without parental supervision after school. Like the kids in the movie, learning to take care of yourself, prepping for a meal, setting the alarm on your clock, getting the laundry done, and all of that mundane task that can make life a drudgery were self-taught — this was before "Helicopter Parents." But like I said — the movie is about transformations. The sulky teen girl finds purpose (who isn't rooting for Sue Ellen!). The deadbeat older brother finds purpose in catering! The young kids figure out how to clean the house, take on responsibility, and just be cute in a Hollywood movie. It's been about thirty years since this movie came out — and a lot has changed about everything. The film has aged well, though. The movie is pumped with an optimistic premise — that left to their own devices, kids will take on identities and responsibility and win us over with their aplomb and finesse. Don't underestimate 'em.

What other movies have you seen that show dramatic transformations in teen characters? Let us know in the comments.

PDF Copy for Printing

Quotation: Mr. Keating from Dead Poets' Society on Writing

In the movie Dead Poets Society, Robin Williams plays the role of private school teacher Mr. Keating — a man who believes words can be bullets. Words matter. Maybe more so now than ever.

Even unintelligible text scribbled on a wall can be an idea.

"No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world"

— Mr. Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)

PDF Copy for Printing

Quote on Beauty and Difference from the Classic Series of Dr. Who — "The Genesis of the Daleks" (1975)

"Why must we always destroy beauty? Why kill another creature because it is not in our image?" I keep the classic series of Dr. Who on replay at my house. I want to catch up on episodes I have missed — and I particularly like the Tom Baker episodes. He's the fourth incarnation of the Doctor, and he portrayed the character from 1974 to 1981 (the longest-running tenure of the role in the show's history).

The Genesis of the Daleks:     In the Terrance Dicks written chapter entitled "The Genesis of the Daleks," — the Doctor is sent back in time and space to the Dalek planet Skaro to prevent war between humans and the Dalek race from occurring in the future. The episode is an origin story of the Daleks —  a race of boxy, dangerous aliens. The Daleks have proved to be the doctor's most fearsome, persistent nemesis. With their vibrating cry of "Exterminate!" it is not a hard extrapolation that the Daleks are meant to represent the extreme version of what happens when a species goes all-out bonkers with racial superiority and hatred of difference. The Daleks annihilate difference and vouchsafe sameness in the universe. There is a twist in this episode, however, since the Doctor learns that the Daleks are the creation of a figure named Davros — a humanoid with a Dalek-shaped lower body. The Daleks are the master idea of a diabolical mastermind. Are you getting a Hitler-tingle? Well. You should.

Are Humans More Destructive or Creative as a Species?     
As per the course of a Dr. Who narrative — there is a lot of meaningful talk about what difference (and how humans deal with that which is different) means for the future of humanity. Are we more like the Daleks — whose prime directive is to kill all lifeforms, not like their own? The writers of the show make obvious nods to humanity's own track record for acting like Daleks — think of violence enacted in the name of racial superiority or the banal way in which humans become exterminators under certain conditions — think of the gas chambers that annihilated Jews, homosexuals, people of color, and other so-called dissidents — or the way guards at Guantanamo Bay tortured and debased human beings under their supervision. 

A Trenchant, Relevant Quote    
One scene in particular is a miniature of the grand themes Terrance Dicks is hashing out in the show. In a brief episode of capture, Sarah Jane Smith, one of the Doctor's classic companions, is considered for extermination. But a voice cries out. And asks a question: Why destroy beauty? Why destroy another creature because it does fit into one's own image?

(Sarah is out cold as a muto strokes her face.)SEVRIN: She's beautiful. No deformities, no imperfections.GERRILL: She is a norm. All norms are our enemies. Kill her now for what she's done to our kind.SEVRIN: No, why? Why must we always destroy beauty? Why kill another creature because it is not in our image?GERRILL: Kill her! It is the law. All norms must die. They are our enemies. And if you won't, I will.

Dr. Who "Genesis of the Daleks" Original Airdate on BBC television: March 8, 1975 / image from the BBC 

PDF Copy for Printing 

Movies That Love The Written Word

In this post, I talk about movies that have a loving relationship to books and to reading.

Pulp Fiction's title is certainly a love letter to a certain kind of book — the dime novel.

Movies That Praise the Power of the Written Word     A teacher friend posted on Facebook that she was looking for movies that praise literature and the power of the written word. Movies based on books that extoll literature — what a nice pairing, and a possible name of a course.

People Suggested a Few Titles 
     People suggested Beauty and the Beast, The Neverending Story, The Hours, Henry Fool, and the Book Thief. A good start. But the post got me thinking. 

Movies based on books are many. 

     I cannot stomach another cinematic example of Great Expectations. Oh, maybe just one more. I love a good Miss Havisham. There is a decent sampling of biopics about writers. Kill Your Darlings is a recent example about the student days of Allen Ginsburg and William Burroughs (and murder to boot). 

Dead Poets' Society

     The casebook example for the movies I am looking for is Dead Poets Society. It's not based on a novel, nor is it fantasy or sci-fi — it is a veritable love song to the merits of reading and the power of poetry. However, I do find beef with its ending (no spoilers). Its original screenplay was written by Tom Schulman and was directed by Peter Weir. 

      Are there any others out there? I am too lazy to compile a list.

PDF Copy for Printing

Cinema as Portraiture in Dovzhenko's Zvenigora and the Ukraine Trilogy

Anthology Film Archives in New York City is a fabulous place to watch movies. I try to go to their ongoing "Essential Film" screenings — of movies that have been curated from their vault and deemed important to the history of cinema. Just the other day I went to see Alexander Dovzhenko's Ukraine Trilogy — well, at least two films from that set: Zvenigora and Arsenal.
The movies are haunting, disturbing, and beautiful. They're also hard to follow if Russian is not your native language — so I recommend you snag a copy of the synopsis before watching it. The opening scene of the trilogy, Zvenigora, is a hallucinatory, slow-motion shot of men on horseback moving across the screen. Perhaps today it is not a significant effect that a filmmaker would use slow-motion — it is easy enough to do on an iPhone! But seeing it on the silver screen — and in such a glorious presentation — I fell in love with cinema's basic ability to simulate motion. Movies simulate motion by projecting a series of individual images on the screen at a rapid rate. If you take a look at a movie reel you can see each individual frame. Each frame is essentially a photographic image. Now, of course, movies made today, for the most part, are filmed on digital cameras so looking at a movie reel is not possible — but the idea is similar. Thousands of images strung together in a line. Each one is slightly different from the next. Have you ever played with a flipbook — that is what it is like. Most movies are intended to make you forget that what you are seeing on the screen is a series of spliced together individual photographs. But Alexander Dovzhenko's movies, particularly his Ukraine Trilogy, made me aware of the cinema as a series of individual photos. Dovzhenko was a Soviet filmmaker. He made Zvenigora in 1928 — and on the surface, it tells a story about the relationship between Ukraine and Russia, and between technology and nature, superstition and belief, protest and allegiance, father and son. It's a propaganda film. But Dovzhenko was able to use those limitations to make something really incredible. I am not going to dwell too much on the narrative aspects of the film; rather, I want to focus on one aspect of the movie that struck me. The movie has a series of long shots that feature figures of people. Not exactly close-ups but more like photographs — but in a movie.

Creating the On-Screen Cinematic Portrait
Not all of the movies' shots are slow and extended — actually, the movie combines lots of different cinematic effects, close editing, shots looking up at a person from below, to give the effect of being dominated — images layered on another to create dream sequences and quite a few action shots.

Also, the movie plays with parallel images — a mother beating her son contrasted with scenes from war. And there are quite a few close-ups — in one sequence a man is gassed, reminiscent of the trench warfare that plagued the first World War (which is the movie's thematic launching point). For several takes, we see his garish expression, his horror, and his elongated response to the visceral horror of biological warfare. Dovzhenko’s faces reminded me of Carl Dreyer's faces of Joan in the movie The Passion of Joan of Arc — but not as intense a close-up. What I call portraits shots in the Ukraine Trilogy last about five to six seconds — so they are long enough to notice the figure in the frame. And in these shots the figures do not move much, but rather, they stand as if posing for a portrait. I don't think I have ever seen a movie capture portraiture in a moving image quite as Dovzhenko does in Zvenigora.

Nor has a movie made me stop and reflect on the photographic nature of cinema — especially in its early days. By definition, a portrait is a still image. Portraits were done by painters, often of important people, or commissioned by patrons — such as the portraits one can see in a place like The National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. Or if you were to look through a family's photo album. The characters in Dovshenko's movie are portraits of peasants. They are portraits of soldiers. Of villagers. Of the proletariat. Of a mother and child. Of father and son. I am not sure how Dvoshenko arranged for his casting; but, I would not be surprised if he just took people off the street and filmed them — the movie, despite its flights of fantastic fantasy - has an air of the documentary to it. As if I were perusing the photographs of an anthropologist's field study. The figures in the film are costumed in folk dress; often mustached or bearded, for the men, and dressed in traditional thick woven garments for the women. Some of the facial expressions are exaggerated — for effect. The horror of war. The anger and jeer of a crowd. A startled glance. A loving look. A man without a nose.  It's all there. But the more striking portraits are the ones of just looking on, of reflection. I imagine in the age of the GIF I could take any one of Dvoshenko's portraits, pluck it out of the film and make a five-second animated photograph. Or, I could pluck out some of the portraits (in the few I selected for this post one can hopefully see what I mean).