Lynch’s Mullholland Drive & How I Let Go of Aesthetic Distance…for a While

There is a peculiarity infested in the acting that comprises David Lynch’s 2001 neo-noir Mulholland Drive. The actors’ performances/personae teeter on the edge of near-parody: their inflections are exaggerated, smiles are zealously widened and not one character is who he/she professes or (most importantly) longs to be. Naomi Watts—for I’ve refused to call her “Betty” or “Diane” or even “Sandy” (perhaps, Lynch is giving us a throwback to his other noir, Blue Velvet?)—is either the excessively annoying virgin or the frighteningly murderous lover. She is a femme fatale and the girl next door. Interestingly, Lynch paints Watts as the failed actress and the murderous lover in one perspective; in the other, the director characterizes Watts as the virginal and naïve Hollywood outsider who also happens to act stupendously. The tension here is obvious and profound: as an aspiring actress, what does the girl have to give up; are the passions reduced to those staged auditions, in which Watts acts like the seductress; lastly, which version of Watts is more realistic?

The violent and sexual passions Watts’s character feels for Rita/Camilla (played by Laura Harring) furthers these questions. How do actors relate to one and other; what constraints within the Hollywood industry underscore or underwhelm the intricate relationship between female actors? In short, does the Hollywood industry advance the high school paradigm (specific people belong to specific cliques; never can different cliques meet and intermix)?

Certainly, it is rather simple for me to write off this film as an intensive and fantastically critical perspective of Hollywood. Indeed, the film’s version of Los Angeles is a dreary, post-apocalyptic landscape—it looks more like a stranger, more degraded version of The Doors’ “L.A. Woman” than the Mamas & the Papa’s “California Dreamin’.” But am I not the one that purchased the film; am I not the one who also enjoyed David Fincher’s Fight Club (despite Fight Club’s obvious ideological inconsistencies, I’ll never mind watching and even laughing at a whole bunch of dudes creating a curious alternate reality) and Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (I know the plot of this psychological thriller and still I get scared; I know I will get scared and still I watch this film)?

Mulholland Drive reminds me that films are not just about the screen or the acting, the ontological meaning informing the narrative or the music that surrounds the film’s other sounds. In fact, films are not just about the director and his intentions: David Lynch is a postmodernist genius but his aesthetic manipulations are assessed through my own subjective experience (perhaps, that is irresponsible; however, as an overtly sensory artistic medium, film continuously reminds me that I exist). In effect, films are also about me as the viewer, as a student, as a fan of music, as a daughter/sister/friend and all the rest of my identities. Perhaps, Lynch is letting the rest of the world know (or, at least, I want to believe he is) that film is the most complete artistic endeavor in the postmodernist world. If I can hear and see myself (as Watts’ character within the dream or throughout the film’s reality); if I can imagine myself and encourage myself (Mulholland Drive definitely and realistically captures the tension between goals within one’s mind and the external reality that invade these goals); lastly, if I can remember to shed the objective/cool critical eye and truly enjoy the film, then I have thankfully enjoyed one present moment. However, to play my own devil’s advocate, Lynch is creating these manipulations. What about the relationship between director and viewer?

Ultimately, Mulholland Drive is an exercise in forgetting aesthetic distance, becoming enthralled by the lives of others and emerging, partially unscathed (one cannot forget that Watts’ character does commit suicide), from this strange place.

(My favorite scene).

Secrets and Time in Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love

How do individuals grapple with the unfavorable and indefinite passage of time; how does time relate to the unbending, restrictive roles individuals adhere to? Lastly, how do viewers respond to their unwavering desire to have the happy ending within the tension between time and identity? Wong Kar-wai investigates these ontological concerns in his exceptionally devastating film, In the Mood for Love, unveiling the beauty and worth of a secret that belongs to nothing and no one in particular.

Kar-wai’s central figures, two lonely and married individuals in early-1960s Hong Kong, develop a vastly complicated relationship. The Hong Kong director develops this relationship through the roles of the two individuals. Mrs. Chan is a beautiful and distant secretary, subjected to the role of (working) wife at home; Chow is an honest and imaginative journalist, subjected to the role of (working) husband at home; lastly, both lead insular lives while their respective spouses engage in extramarital affairs (ironically, these two largely unseen spouses are sleeping with each other).

Both Mrs. Chan and Chow comprehend the implications of their roles. Consequently, they also cultivate an intricate relationship of quasi-moments: brief instances of fingers touching; exchanges of emotive excess brought on by hypothetical situations. The most realistic element of their relationship is the performance of the start of a love affair. Unsurprisingly, Kar-wai underscores the social ramifications of this peculiar performance, restricting his protagonists to nightly rendezvouses, claustrophobic mise-en-scene and drastic (mostly female) wardrobe changes to implicitly convey the couple’s inability to grapple with time. The only liberating moment in the couple’s relationship occurs when the two realize that they are both indeed in the mood for love; that is, Mrs. Chan and Chow both long to escape their roles and definitively craft new selves. Unfortunately, this desire is undercut by the psychological constraints of the would-be couple’s social roles. The mood for love becomes a weighty secret in an objective flow of time, propelling Chow to finally utter this secret into a ruined wall.

What does this secret provide for the two protagonists; what does the secret provide for the viewers? Furthermore, what is the actual secret; is it beautiful even if it does not fully belong to the viewer? Kar-wai allows his viewers to inhabit the tragic isolation of the two protagonists. The spectator is explicitly involved in this performance of the affair, gazing at the intimate/formalist shots of the two lovers, enjoying the possibility of an eventual romance. However, the romance is not fulfilled: Mrs. Chan and Chow almost find each other; almost lead a new life in Singapore; almost kiss, almost express their frustrations; almost reach self-actualization. Kar-wai asserts: they are almost in love but are definitely in the mood for love.

Thus, the viewer holds onto this secret—the symbolic affirmation of this almost affair—and is (initially) disappointed by the conclusion. The secret is heard by no one, subverted by a sweepingly beautiful soundtrack and expansive images of a Cambodian (interestingly, this is Cambodia on the eve of the Khmer Rouge) monastery. Kar-wai suggests that the secret is the end of the linear/traditional completion of the film. With this secret, the viewer believes he can impose his own authorial agency over the film. However, the director is not concerned with that: like the characters, Kar-wai’s viewers cannot change the progression of time and must act within the limitations of their roles.

Also, the secret itself loses false symbolic authority. In fact, the secret belongs to  no one, simply existing within the quietly pulsating cycle of time. When he whispers the secret into the hole in the ruined wall, Chow expresses his comprehension of time and quickly moves on to the present and future moments. He cannot alter the temporal reality that surrounds his almost romance. Time has allowed Mrs. Chan and Chow to exist together in moments, developing feeling out of those moments; time has also driven them apart organically, untangling the two as if necessarily cutting a mother from her fully blossomed child. In other words, Chow determines that the actuality of the secret (and, essentially, the existence of Mrs. Chan, his love for her and the intimacy he shared with her) is enough to satisfy him.  The secret is beautiful and worthwhile because it cannot belong to anyone. Perhaps, Kar-wai is exploring the central and philosophical neuroses of most individuals: their incessant desire/attachment to someone, something or an ideology. In this case, the viewer believes he understands the truth of the characters and their trajectories; consequently, the viewer believes he can ascertain the meaning of this secret and deem the ending of the film unsatisfactory (even though Kar-wai never suggested that the two protagonists could happily exist in a sexual/emotional relationship).

The real tragedy of In the Mood for Love is not that the two lovers “don’t end up together”; rather,  it is that we, as the ever-imposing viewers, want them to.

Culture/the Individual as Brands in Fincher’s Fight Club

Throughout Fight Club, director David Fincher seriously considers the clashes between two all-encompassing brands: the popular, mainstream cultural influences that marry the individual and the collective; and, the seething, marginalized perversion of these influences that attempt to dissect and ultimately decimate the former brand. The term brand is an essential component that frames all discussions of Fight Club. As a brand, culture is an extension of the capitalist paradigm: the individual purchases his own identity, rejects any possibility of spiritual transcendence and participates in the consumption of different selves.

Fincher cleverly allegorizes this complicated cultural exchange through his central protagonist’s psychosis. Firstly, the character is allotted no nominal identity; thus, this character exists without a sense of the self, traveling through his mediocrity without societal recognition. Secondly, his lack of traditional identity is underscored by his neuroses: he suffers from insomnia; he voyeuristically preys upon the pain of other equally neurotic individuals; and, lastly, he withholds crucial elements of his narration (namely, the creation of an alternative self) from the audience, complicating his participation in/critique of capitalism.

The everyman’s alternative self is Tyler Durden. Tyler is the epitome of desired masculinity. He is sexually assertive, comprehending his sexual conquests with effortless determination. He is physically confident; furthermore, he is aware of this marked corporeality, dressing in flamboyant attire and purposefully advocating masculine violence. Most importantly, Tyler is the center of the “fight club,” an ostensibly (and proudly) subversive army of men and macho ideologies. Ironically, this army exists as a group and operates under the hierarchies of a deviant military/cult. Tyler, as the leader, is charismatic and intellectually stimulating, propelling these men to engage in countless forms of violence. The men, as followers, carefully adopt the leader’s ideologies, shaping their identities around an external force.

Ultimately, Tyler is a temporary fantasy, one that allows the everyman to consider his neuroses without the capitalist forces of reality and society. His initial function is to subvert the psychologically wearying notion of the cultural brand. However, Tyler’s leadership grows rapidly, positioning his status as superior to his followers. This is an interpretive problem that pervades all of Fight Club. Culture—whether popular or sidelined—exists outside of the individual. Through his creation of Tyler, the everyman is aware of this reality. However, he cannot persist in this division of the self. The “everyman self” is perplexed and frightened by the radicalism that exists within the “Tyler Durden self.” He voluntarily integrates the two selves and regains his consumerist perception of the world. In short, the two selves engage in competition (yet another capitalist trope; even, within the presumably disembodied “life of the mind,” the individual perceives philosophies as products); one half must subject itself to the other half.

Fight Club allows the Western viewer to suspend his own participatory role in capitalism. Fincher shapes the world of Fight Club in post-apocalyptic aestheticism, saturating his images in a hallucinatory glow (particularly, the final scene) and allowing the viewer to indulge in an existence without any brand. However, the “everyman” self recognizes the lines between reality and fiction. He slowly asserts himself superior to “Tyler Durden” and abolishes the radicalism within himself. Perhaps, Fincher is performing the capitalist paradigm: his viewers purchase tickets to collectively engage in an external/cultural experience, casually considering a revolution before returning to the complacency of conformity.

Inadvertently paying homage to Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times, Fincher criticizes capitalism, the critics of capitalism and continues to collect revenues for this clever endeavor. However, Fincher furthers the financial/social consequences of capitalism: the director suggests that this economic system is a central part of the Western self and thus will not (regardless of Marxist theories) lead to an alternative vision.

I’m Only Sleeping: Freud, Horror and the Ego’s Sleep in Kubrick’s The Shining

There are certain phrases that individuals state with ease: “I have to be by my myself”; “I can’t live with myself”; “I love myself.”  

Kubrick’s Jack Torrance…on the verge of insanity or identity fulfillment?

These phrases indicate a clear distinction between the “I” and the “self.” Perhaps, upon uttering these statements, the individual is also initiating a self-imposed psychological examination. Rather than waiting for free association on a couch, the individual desires control and thus produces his own brand of psychoanalysis. The “I”—the over-worked yet emotionless ego—leaves the “self”—the lecherous and violent ego; the oppressive and hyperaware superego—to battle the crises of an identity threatened by external stimuli. Upon developing an understanding of the internal world and the exterior environment, the “I” and the “self” must eventually meet again: ultimately, the complete self is one who is grounded in a state of reality, possessing a cohesive, strong-willed identity amidst the ravages of everything else (perhaps, another linguistic presentation of the Freudian paradigm, this term separates the whole “self” from the external environment, or “thing”).

However, some personalities do not possess the language nor the strength for the reintegration of the “I” and the “self.” In The Shining, director Stanley Kubrick portrays Jack Torrance, an individual in extreme psychological peril: he cannot connect the “I” and the “self.”  Like the typical person, Jack initiates this deviant version of psychoanalysis. However, he cannot grapple with the full revelation of his selves (the id and the superego); he is attempting to write through the madness (All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy), paradoxically widening the separation between his “I” and the conflicting “self.” Kubrick manipulates Jack’s vast identities, unveiling them in a suspended, dreamlike setting/reality (the Overlook hotel). Furthermore, the director rewrites the boundaries of the psychological thriller, crafting an insular world where the natural (snowstorm) and the supernatural (the “ghosts” that haunt the Overlook hotel) meet to expose the horrors of identity crises. Also, Kubrick builds on Alfred Hitchcock’s special genre, “Freudian horror films,” exploring the different methods psychoanalytic theories can be expressed and manipulated on the screen.

The Three Signs the Ego is “Sleeping” in The Shining:

1. The Reversal of the Oedipus Complex:

Upon separating his “I” and “self,” Jack allows psychological upheavals to disturb his familial role. Quite suddenly, his id and superego are overwhelmed by a flurry of emotions and desires—the typical ones, of course: sex, alcohol; as well as more covert ones: domestic bliss and external acknowledgement of his masculine roles. Because of his sleeping ego, Jack cannot reason with his ravished self. Therefore, he regresses to his former state: he is no longer a man but rather a child, investigating this new world of instinctual desires within the oedipal stages of development. This creates murderous desires within Jack the father; he longs to kill his son, Danny, who consumes all the intention of Wendy, the mother/wife. Jack chases his son through a winding maze, confused and driven by this murderous rage. Though he does crave the prescribed roles of fatherhood and boyhood—evident in the scenes where Jack communicates his deep regret for his previous incidents of alcohol-fueled violence—the writer does not possess the complete “self” to communicate this. Consequently, he chases his son with an axe, attempting to kill everything that hinders the desires of his id.

2. The Terrors of Displacement

Because the reality is too diseased for this new, “I”-less Jack, the writer subjects his wife to his growing frustrations. Further employing the Freudian paradigm, Kubrick ostensibly operates within the typical interpretation of displacement: Jack, the stronger individual, displaces all his hindrances on his wife Wendy, the weak and self-deprecatory persona. However, Kubrick complicates this defense mechanism. As the film progresses, Wendy assumes the masculine roles that Jack desperately wants: she keeps the Overlook hotel in order; cares for her mentally ailing son; and, ultimately saves the little fragments of their pseudo-family, fulfilling her own prescribed maternal role as well as upstaging Jack as the father (on a side note: one might even argue that Jack’s true yearning is to persevere traditional family ideals). Accordingly, Jack develops an insidiously profound hatred for his own wife. He longs to violate her for several reasons: firstly, she does not fulfill his own perception of what a wife should be (at times, he thinks her dumb and utterly incapable of understanding his creative mind); secondly, she does not quell his growing sexual needs; thirdly, she threatens that final connection between the “I” and the “self.” Quite literally, Wendy controls Jack’s physical place throughout the latter moments of the film, dragging his body throughout the Overlook manor and directing his steps (especially in scenes where Jack believes he is in control). Jack fails to properly assert power over his own wife. In the scenes of overt (yet not enacted) violence—Kubrick does not specify Jack’s intentions: it is not clear whether he longs to kill or sexually assault his own wife—Wendy, through shrewdness and genuine fear, always slips from his grip. As a psychological subject, Jack continues to debase himself: as he attempts to reintegrate himself into reality, Jack displaces his own frustrations on another psychological subject and renders himself defenseless.

3. No Written Word

Through the two perversions of the Freudian theories, Kubrick unveils his final destabilization of Jack. Jack considers himself a writer, a manipulator of words, imagination and senses. Yet, he can only type one phrase: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” His papers are lined with this singular phrase. Interestingly, this “work” creates a regression for Jack, forcing the writer to revert to his childlike psyche; moreover, the repetition of the phrase suggests that Jack has an unstable relationship with language. He understands the syntactical implications of the ordinary phrase (“I have to be by myself”). Arguably, Jack comprehends language more than any other persona within The Shining; therefore, the identity-strewed character deduces that he can write his “I” to the “self.” Kubrick enhances Jack’s addiction to words in the famed bathroom scene (Little pigs, little pigs…): the writer ironically rather than allegorically references the fairy tale, “Three Little Pigs.” He is not trying to teach any moral; rather, Jack is attempting to terrify his wife, utilizing specific words from the fairy tale (“I’ll huff and I’ll puff…”; “I’ll blow your house in”) to connote his violent intentions. Though he clearly displays a deep understanding of language, Jack still cannot write his magnum opus. Accordingly, Kubrick wonders: did Jack initiate this psychological trauma in order to write; or, did his difficult relationship with words engender the identity crisis?

The Shining examines countless psychological, social and even governmental ideologies and contradictions. Yet, the film completes these complex analyses through Jack’s identity crisis. Kubrick owes a huge debt to Sigmund Freud and Hitchcock’s revolutionary horror film, Psycho (1960). The thematic weight of The Shining is rooted in Jack’s neuroses and their effects on Wendy, the mother/wife, and Danny, the son/Jack’s masculine successor. Ultimately, The Shining is a creative extension of the psychological horror film: one that combines Freud and Hitchcock to leave the audience stating, “I maybe don’t want to ever be by myself.”

The Actor as Prop

Coppola Reconstructs the Cinematic Traditions of Characterization, Mise-en-scene and the Relationship Between Lead Actor and Audience in The Godfather:

Throughout his masterpiece, The Godfather (1972), Francis Ford Coppola manipulates the relationship between his viewers—‘viewers’ is extensively applied here because The Godfather engenders an ever-growing and cross-generational following, garnering both critical and commercial success—and his central star, Marlon Brando, the foundation of character evolution and devolution in Godfather as well as the pinnacle of American stage and screen acting. Coppola aligns the intricate dynamics throughout the criminal and domestic environments with the psychological complexities of the audience members and their ‘star.’ Employing several mise-en-scene techniques, most notably the actor, props and costuming, Coppola unveils the universal desire to empathize with and cognitively become the protagonist of a film. The Godfather provides an examination of countless human experiences, interactions and catastrophes. Most importantly, the film illuminates the exchange between the star actor—both as a fictional character and as a public icon­—and his audience.

Coppola highlights the distinctions between Brando’s Don Corleone and all other characters immediately. The introduction of the criminal and familial man is purposefully paradoxical in its presentation; while deliberating a plan of action (and, because this is The Godfather, all “plans of action” result in death), Don Corleone is holding a cat. Coppola juxtaposes a domestic animal with the Don’s famed black-tie attire; this ironic placement of the prop and the costuming reveals the Don’s central characteristics. The Don is able to exist both as a criminal and paternal figure.

The Don’s presence upholds the aesthetic and amoral foundations of crime: he looks effortless and delivers the dirty deeds smoothly; his minimalist performance underscores the brutality of this detached ruthlessness. Indeed, Coppola operates within the conventional constructions of masculine crime. The Don deals the deaths and handles the fates of the individuals surrounding him, performing the sinister criminal activities in the darkest corner of his home.

Yet, Coppola captures the death of the Don through organic, idyllic and domestic esthetics.  Within the emotional sanctity of a garden, the Don indulges in the fantasies of his grandson, Anthony. Quite suddenly, the Don passes away. Interestingly, his death is seemingly natural, furthering the ironic undertone that pervades Coppola’s representation of the criminal: though he causes bloody deaths, the Don himself dies a bloodless, seamless death, one that is validated by the innocence of his young grandson. Coppola one significant question concerning the previous standard of criminal presentation in cinema: how does the filmmaker reconcile the familial qualities within a criminal mind; the entirety of an individual character—memories, loved ones, psychological neuroses—is not captured in one single-minded view. Accordingly, The Godfather is a million stories in one single frame, displaying family ties, criminal activities, the denial of female subjectivity, sexual relationships, domestic violence, corrupted authority, loyalty, the definition of masculinity and the cinematic/literary representations of the ‘tragic hero.’

Perhaps, Coppola develops these complicated themes through the central character and actor. Brando is an intense, multi-layered icon: though he hangs on the walls of countless freshman college dormitories, he is also critically acclaimed and symbolizes the totality of an actor and American celebrity figure. Brando and the Don are irrevocably and symbolically tied, providing Coppola’s audience an even richer avenue for analysis and deconstruction. Furthermore, the continued cultural significance of Brando places The Godfather within a rarer realm of timelessness: this story is injected into countless dramas, both on the large and small screen, so commonly that the allusions themselves become separate artworks.

In The Godfather, Coppola furthers the abilities of the protagonist: the Don is the prop—through realist and formalist shots—and aids the film’s ceaseless narrative progression.

Marlon Brando as Vito Corleone, embodying both the domestic and the criminal on one advert for ‘The Godfather.’

Chasing Shadows: Cinematography in Casablanca

In 1942’s Casablanca, Michael Curitz utilizes certain artistic manipulations to construct a romance within the contexts of total war. Presented and represented as both a center for cultural ambiguity and potential liberation, the titular city serves as Curitz’s primary rhetorical device: his protagonist, the ostensibly cynical Rick Blaine, encounters his former lover, the mysterious Illsa Lund, in Casablanca; simultaneously and underneath the glare of the Third Reich, countless war-wearied individuals attempt to forge visas and escape to the Americas. Curitz enhances these two divergent narratives by employing certain esthetic and aural strategies. Through the dynamic musical score, Curitz directs his viewers to the romantic narrative (“As Time Goes By”—the jazzy tune that encompasses the fleeting, sweeping elements of Rick and Ilsa’s love affair) and the war story (the intricate opening medley, played alongside the voiceover initiating the plot, incorporates the various cultures within Casablanca). Interestingly, Curitz does not utilize similarly traditional methods to visually present his film. Unlike other contemporary romance film directors, Curitz distorts the visual quality of his shots, creating the sense of an ominous entity, large and unknown. Through his clever use of lighting, the director reveals the psychological depth of his central character.

Michael Curitz and cinematographer Author Edeson place Rick Blain in the shadows. Consequently, the protagonist’s position in the film–both literally and figuratively–warrants investigation.

In this famed shot, Curitz represents an image that provokes complicated analyses. As Rick searches for money in a safe, Captain Louis Renault—whose motivations as a member of the Vichy France in are rather ambiguous—trails behind the male protagonist. The captain’s uniform is immediately noticeable, crisp and white; instantly, the viewer associates Renault with authority. However, Curitz qualifies this initial presentation through Rick’s character. Rather than utilize his actual body, Curitz casts his central character in a shadow. Obviously, this is a representation rather than a presentation of Rick. The director engenders several investigative questions within his viewers’ minds: is Rick a figure of trust or disloyalty; will he succumb to the political, social and ethical corruptions that power through Casablanca; more importantly, is the character not a self-aware man? Curitz provokes this response through simple and effective aesthetic choices.  He utilizes chiaroscuro lighting, framing his character in contrasting shades of light and dark. Furthermore, placing Rick near the ride side of the frame challenges his authority within the viewer’s perception. Curitz represents Rick in this ambivalent style—lighting rather than corporeality—to confound his male protagonist. Rick is not a man of simple thoughts: beneath his performance of cynicism, he is an honest man who still venerates abstractions—justice, individuality, freedom, honor—in a time of war. Contradictorily, Rick is also unaware of his own strengths; throughout most of Casablanca, he is committed to his own brand of performativity.

Curitz owes a huge debt to his cinematographer, Arthur Edeson. With no words and plenty of shadows, Edeson exposes Rick’s profound characteristics and ideologies. Additionally, through their collaborative efforts, Curitz and Edeson explore the difficult and necessary representation of war in any artistic medium. The two fittingly end Casablanca with another complex representation: Rick and Renault walk towards the foggy and murky darkness, suggesting that the war—as well as Rick’s own journeys—is not over.

Once more, Curitz and Edeson represent rather than present the image.

Working for the Clampdown: Charlie Chaplin and His Capitalism in 1936’s Modern Times

In his 1936 comedy Modern Times, Charlie Chaplin explores the reality of the American dream amidst the equivocal and seemingly irrevocable presence of capitalism. Chaplin guides his viewers through two mediums of analysis: within the first medium, Chaplin highlights the obvious individuals who construct or constrain a capitalist society—the tired workers; the suited, invasive employers; the incompetent authority figures. Through the second medium, Chaplin unveils the complicated relationship between the individual American and his ultimate dream. Chaplin’s central character, the famed and iconic Little Tramp, observes this post-WWI capitalist society through the eyes of a failed machinist. Eventually, Chaplin drives his Tramp to the point of industrialized insanity. However—and, perhaps unfortunately, for his overtly leftist viewers—the Tramp returns to society, falls in love with an unnamed gamine, and attempts to create his idealized home.  The irony that pervades Modern Times is what drives its comedy as well as its complex and contemporary social message. Furthermore, this irony divides Chaplin’s viewers, forcing them to criticize capitalism and then evaluate that criticism. Modern Times evokes a feeling that is truly modern: Chaplin employs certain aural techniques to establish this timeless feel, forcing his audiences before and after the Great Depression to grapple with capitalism.

It’s the Best Years of Your Life ‘They’ Want to Steal:

watch?v=pZlJ0vtUu4w

Within the first moments of Modern Times, Chaplin expertly conveys the indignities that are common in the assembly line. The Tramp—who appears ragged, wearing a dirty shirt, overalls, and a perpetually bemused expression—is selected to test-drive a new invention. This invention is a machine designed to feed workers in a timely manner, forcing them to indulge in extravagant dishes that include, among other edible goods, a murky soup. Chaplin ascetically represents the first medium of analysis—the real face of capitalism—through the Tramp’s employers. Dressed in stark suits (except for the scientists, who appear in lab coats, dragging the machine towards the Tramp), these employers strap the Tramp onto the machine; ultimately, the contraption fails and the Tramp is left with an even more bemused expression and dirtier clothing. Of course, Chaplin delivers his literal and figurative dialogue through his clever use of sound. Upon starting the scene, Chaplin establishes the leitmotifs for each of his characters: the employers are presented with brass instruments that convey a sinister motive while the lighter strings denote the constant question on the Tramp’s face. As the action builds, the score grows, creating a racing narrative that combines authority and submission.  This moment is comical yet embarrassing for Chaplin’s working class hero. Though the Tramp has fallen—injured by one threatening piece of frosted cake—the music continues and his workers declare, “It’s no good—it isn’t practical.”  The audience is fed Chaplin’s first analysis: capitalism isn’t good, isn’t practical, isn’t justifiable in these modern times.

But You Grow Up and You Calm Down…

watch?v=MoKJVgxGHw0

After a cocaine-laced stint in jail, the Tramp returns to society, longing to find lucrative means to one idealized end. He meets the gamine and falls in love; he falls in love and imagines a home; he imagines and home and finally constructs his own sense of purpose within the same capitalist society that force fed him. In this idealized home, Chaplin creates a space that is suitable for everything that the Tramp and his gamine desire. Though he is still clumsy, the Tramp also owns a beautiful home, a precious wife, and a fertile life. This world minimizes the industrialized and explores the natural; more importantly, it eliminates the fear of modernity through a fruitful tree and a milking cow. Chaplin expresses these beautiful gains through the lovely, lyrical score that begins upon the Tramp asking, “Can you imagine us in a little home like that?” Chaplin’s irony is still there, however. The same capitalist society that (ostensibly) offers dehumanizing working conditions, shaky class mobility, and hopeless institutions also allows its members to envision, crave, and aspire to progress. Chaplin ponders: does the creativity exist in spite of the capitalism or because of it? These fantastical indulgences are not meant to alleviate the viewer; rather, they are meant to uncover the viewer. Suddenly, the viewer is under investigation as well: like the capitalist society that is contradictory, the viewer too appears to indulge in faulty logic. This moment is comical yet indicative of a serious duality within the critics of capitalism. The audience is lulled, quite covertly, into Chaplin’s second analysis: (perhaps) capitalism allows us to create and dream in these modern times.

Modern Times is an entertaining comedy that continues to cultivate serious, necessary discussion. Chaplin understands that working for the clampdown is not black and white; rather, it is multicolored, just like his score and his characters, forcing his far-reaching public to realize and attempt to reconcile with the fact that capitalism provides room for disdain and pleasure, depravity and security.

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