A Month With… Orson Welles: Macbeth

Based on Shakespeare’s play, Orson Welles’ Macbeth (1948) focuses on juxtapositions. The director shows audiences the contrast between nature and the perverse, the body and the mind, and – perhaps most importantly – the inside versus the outside.

Macbeth opens with a series of fades and fade-transitions accompanied by dramatic non-diegetic music, displacing audiences as the fades and transitions connote a lack of concept of time: immediately Welles has created a world for the witches that is unlike the world of Macbeth. This is connoted through the fog that encompasses these opening scenes, as it makes clear the witches are characters who want to be seen but not identified, as witnessed through the fog covering their identities but contrasting nature’s whiteness with their black dress codes.

Faced with a wide angle shot of the three witches on a rock on the right side of the frame and a withered tree with no leafs on a hill on the left, Welles could be making a connection between the witches – the supernatural/Other – and nature. This opening shot presents a likeness between them, and, along with the ubiquitous fog that silently tortures Macbeth and his mind throughout the film, there seems to be a bleak ideology here. Since the witches seem to be one with the fog, nature and even the world’s elements (the water, fire, bubbles and steam from their cauldron), the film begins feeling as if the witches are controlling all of the events that take place, while the audience are merely watching Macbeth and Lady Macbeth lose control.

In Welles’ adaptation, the fog becomes a conceit that is a constant reminder of Macbeth’s lack of control and the witches’ presence in his mind, differing the 1948 film from both Justin Kurzel’s (Macbeth, 2015) and Akira Kurosawa’s (Throne of Blood, 1957) adaptions with their uses of fog symbolising mystery, confusion and the inner turmoil of Macbeth’s mind.

Welles still allows Macbeth to be heroic, however, as the minute the film cuts from the witches to the title screen reading “Macbeth,” loud and dramatic non-diegetic music steals the presence. The score by Jacques Ibert in the titles takes audiences through Macbeth’s inevitable dark journey, as it takes us from the pride and glory of loud, crashing symbols and trumpets, to quieter, softer and more delicately played music. Macbeth’s introduction on screen to audiences connotes the aforementioned pride, as the wide angle tracking shot ensures it is Macbeth who takes up the most space, but in landscape and in the frame.

Yet, despite the director manipulating the camera shots to ensure Welles is seen as higher than everyone else (for example the levelled shots for other characters but low angle shots for Macbeth’s), through both the literal and figurative darkness of the film Welles uses nature to go against Macbeth.

While I was watching Macbeth, I had to pause the screen about fifty times to make sure my television brightness was correct, as a lot of the scenes are so dark you can barely see anything. I soon realised this was supposed to be like this and so wrote a note in my book about it so I could form a pretentious thought on it later and write about it here…and here is that pretentious thought: almost all of the lighting in Macbeth seems to come from nature/natural sources, for example the candles (fire), the campfire, or just the fact that outside is when there is the most light. Macbeth’s own castle, which is itself built out of foundations of nature such as rock, fails to illuminate the king who lives in it. The grand, gigantic staircase reflects this too, as in the scene where Lady Macbeth becomes most manipulating with Macbeth it is the staircase and the camera’s movements that dictates each characters’ positions of power — it is never there’s to control or keep.

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The relationship Orson Welles creates between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth is notable, as the director often provides new ideas of looking at them through the language of film. First of all, they are the only two characters with whom audiences are allowed inside their heads, with Lady Macbeth’s first soliloquy emphasising how Welles’ use of voice overs for their lone speeches are representations for the fact they believing and calling from within themselves rather than relying on external forces.

There is one scene near the beginning of the film where Lady Macbeth and Macbeth kiss while a hanged person is in frame to the left behind them. Due to the hanging bringing forth imagery of death by suicide against death by murder (although it could be said they are the same), the man’s hanging becomes a representation for their relationship. If it is a suicide, it is not clear who kills who: the rope or the mind. If it is a murder, they are both doomed.

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The juxtapositions of inside and outside become more and more important as the film goes on. Night and day become ambiguous, interfusing with one another, and the inside and outside become reversed – both in terms of the external world as well as in terms of Macbeth’s mind. Near the opening of the film, Macbeth stops in front of a puddle and audiences can see himself reflected in it. With this idea of mirroring and multiple selves being introduced, the later themes Welles creates come to represent Macbeth’s dissociation of his inner self with his external self, with the beginning of this disintegration being witnessed first in the kaleidoscopic, blurry shots that change points of view of Macbeth.

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The denouement of Macbeth reenforces just how dark Orson Welles adaptation is. When with the witches – the darkest characters of all – audiences are presented with the most light. The final shot of the witches staring at the foreboding castle with pieces of nature in their hands, while thorns and leafless tree branches intrude the frame reestablishes their – and nature’s – control over Macbeth’s life in Orson Welles’ interpretation.

a review of Birdman: Or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)

33725_ppl Taking what was supposed to be a one hour break from studying that quickly turned into a 24 hour break, I noticed that ‘Birdman,’ Alejandro G. Iñárritu’s 2014 film, was available to watch on my TV. So…I watched it. If I hadn’t know beforehand that practically the whole film (bar the scene near the end) was supposed to look like it was shot entirely in one take, I probably wouldn’t have noticed — and maybe this is the point Iñárritu was trying to make. I’m not sure exactly what the point was — there are multiple reasons; some I came up with include he’s trying to show how camera shots often go unnoticed by critics and audiences today, or was practising the opposite of this and emphasising the effect shots, lighting-basically every micro-element in film- has on a film.

Even though the ignorant version of me watching this film wouldn’t have noticed the ‘oner,’ I know I would have noticed the lighting, the angles of the shots, and the use of sound within the film as this was, ironically, emphasised by the fact the film is a ‘oner.’ I use ‘oner’ in inverted commas here, as it’s apparent this film isn’t a replica of an Orson Welles oner, yet it’s persuadable that this is for a reason, too — Welles’ long one-takes are just as constructed as Iñárritu’s, but the difference between them is the former is trying to make it look real, like it’s happening in real-time, whilst the latter chooses to embrace the context of what is partly happening in the film (a man coming to terms with the fact his life is fake due to being fictionalised through the medium of film, art, plays) by being unapologetic in its digitally created extended shot, yet still re-intellectualising the cinematic scope– it’s like what Wes Anderson films would be like if he’d ended up like Emma Stone’s character Sam rather than spending his life in tweed drinking tea. (I’m joking). (I love you Wes).

This brings me to my third conclusion on the possible reason of using a clearly constructer oner; the shot is challenging the audience of today — the constant references to Twitter, Facebook, social media, and going viral completely juxtapose with the two hour long take that doesn’t cut. Films are beginning to get quicker and quicker cuts between each scenes, because, to generalise, directors think their audiences are stupid and have a short attention span. What Iñárritu is doing is asking audiences if this is true — he’s asking us to pay attention to the entire film that contextualises the society we live in; the social media age. And, quite frankly, thank god. Twitter and social media have become so important in our society and culture, but contemporary films seem to be ignoring this, but finally we have a film that accurately portrays what it is like to live in a digital age without over-dramatising their effects.

To go back to talking about my revision, I’m currently studying ‘King Lear’ for my exam in June. It’s interesting watching this film after spending your whole life revising ‘King Lear,’ as Michael Keaton’s character can easily be a replica of the play. In fact, one of the play’s central themes — the idea of nothing — is a central theme in Shakespeare’s tragedy, too. When Lear declares in Act One Scene One of ‘King Lear’ that ‘nothing can come of nothing’ to Cordelia, it can easily be mirrored with the way Riggan treats his daughter Sam, as well as the way he sees the world around him while engulfed in Birdman’s thoughts (for example the man who was screaming about the world being ‘nothing’ only to find out that he was acting to impress Keaton’s character — nothing has become nothing here).

‘Birdman’ is not a film to ignore. It contextualises our society, and asks the questions everyone faces but are too afraid to ask, without forgetting that this is just a film, and a great one at that. However, I would argue this is more than just a film — ‘Birdman’ is indeed the meaningful piece of art Riggan so tirelessly wanted to create.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1 Review

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The third instalment of the four-part billion dollar franchise, ‘The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1’ is probably the most forgettable film of the franchise. This is largely due to the inevitable decision to split the final novel into two halves in film form, so as to capitalise off of teenage girls’ emotions rather than, y’know, ~deep artistic reasons~. I don’t really know why so many people were shocked by this decision, since it was pretty obvious it was going to happen after how much money Harry Potter and Twilight raked in but, I digress.

I was pretty cynical going into this film as Collins’ final book didn’t cut it for me — it felt like nothing happened and then suddenly you were down to the last ten pages and (spoiler) literally everyone dies within the space of a mili-second and you’re left asking what the fuck just happened. Therefore, artistically and narrative-wise, I felt the decision to split this film in half was just a murder to the potential that Francis Lawrence could’ve done with the original text in one film, but obviously money was to be had here and the infamous Men In Expensive Suits wanted as much of it as they could get.

My cynicisms on this factor of the film were correct — it was far too long winded, there was no clear cut Act 2 or 3, and the script felt a little too generic ‘Hollywood action blockbuster’ for me.

However, whilst I did find my perpetually single self rolling my eyes at every scene of Katniss running to Gale/Peeta, there were some positives to the film. Like, the fact it was actually good, but being ‘good’ after Catching Fire is obviously going to underwhelm.

The length of the film and how little plot there was to fill the spaces allowed for Lawrence to peer into the lives of the characters more than he would have if it had been just one film. It is here where I’m kind of happy it is a two-parter because, unlike most book-to-film adaptations where you never get a clear sense of who these characters are and how they work, this extended time with side-characters like Gale, Prim and Effie makes you appreciate how many facets they have, and how, in spite of the giant landscapes surrounding the characters, they can never be washed out or silenced since they want something, and I mean ‘want’ in the terms of how Shakespeare used it – wanting something they lack in, in this case equality, rather than wanting something aesthetically, for example how I want Suzy Bishop’s whole wardrobe in a poor attempt at making my life feel like a Wes Anderson film.

In terms of directing, I think Francis did a wonderful job since it felt that rather than trying to make the film more exciting and action-packed than it’s supposed to be, he embraced the fact it is a filler film. The lack of plot allowed for time to pick up on micro-elements that would otherwise have just gone unnoticed to the majority of the audience, including Katniss’ wardrobe, the fact Lawrence is leaving shots with unfamiliar characters rather than constantly following the film’s protagonist (e.g. in the meeting room with Coin and Plutarch — we do not know and cannot wholeheartedly trust these characters, so leaving us with them feels like we are being let in on a secret), and the metaphors — particularly those involved with animals like the deer and Prim’s cat Buttercup. At first I thought it was some PETA (or Peeta haha…I hate myself) thing trying to make everyone vegetarians, but then I realised the DEEP MEANING behind it that, like, Katniss shining the torch that Buttercup chased whilst everyone was laughing was a mirroring of what Snow is doing to the Capital and also how he is using Johanna and Peeta and Annie as these metaphorical lights that Katniss and Finnick will never be able to reach and I’ve run out of pretentious stuff to say!

In short, the film feels as though it’s saying “just wait for Part 2,” and whilst I definitely will see Part 2, I’m not sure if I am going to be waiting for it.

 

Some ramblings on King Lear (Shakespeare) and Oedipus (Sophocles)

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For school it is a part of the almighty God-ruling, grade-deciciding AO scheme to compare Oedipus and King Lear — both as two separate, complex characters in their own right, and as two different plays from very different times.

It is often the latter that provides more marks (mainly due to the fact it allows for more hits into the AOs), so for the sake of my sanity (and revision for my exam on Tuesday) I’m going to go with the former for this comparison.

Since I’m better at analysing images than I am at the Shakespearean language, let’s start with the cover. My cover of King Lear (the Heinemann Advanced edition) sort of shows the three main prevailing themes of the play through three simple pictures.

Said edition.

Said edition.

The main image that catches your (or at least my) eye is the lightning bolt going through Lear’s crown. If you’ve read the play, then you’ll of course see the significance of this (and if you haven’t, go and fucking read it because it is such a wonderful play, but having to read it and analyse it to death for school sucks the life out of the enjoyment so read. it. before. it’s. too. late), the significance being the fact that it represents Lear’s sanity and mind, like the weather, is often unpredictable and uncontrollable, like a force of nature, and also foreshadows the onslaught of pathetic fallacy from Shakespeare. This insanity therefore leads to his inevitable downfall as king, but re-birth as a human being. Next is the image of the hanging man. What struck me about this image was that you do not know if this person has been hanged as a punishment, or if he has decided to hang himself. This can be interpreted in many ways, but for me, in the context of the play, it emphasises the theme of justice vs. injustice Shakespeare presents, as well as the idea that audiences need to be constantly questioning these characters and their motives: is it really Goneril and Regan who bring Lear to his downfall, or is it his own mind? Yes, Cordelia was murdered, but she very well knew the risk she was taking to come back to Lear – so really she went on a journey to inevitable death to help her father. These are characters who have a death wish, wether they are aware of it or not.

Similarly, these themes and ideologies follow through into Oedipus: Oedipus’ lack of desire to listen to anyone else but his own mind suggests his ignorance, stagnant mind-set, and arrogance; his hubris is his, to quote Aristotle, hamartia.

And, yes, while Oedipus is probably more mentally stable than Lear (this isn’t a competition guys!!), they are both just as bad at being a king as the other — Lear’s too unsure, whilst Oedipus is too sure. It seems tragedies are used to explore the idea of what would happen if a character/human being only had one facet, which is interesting as Kings and Queens are definitely seen as figures that almost always have one character-defining trait: resistance.

Kind Lear’s first words are not from Lear himself, but the trustworthy (completely love-able) Kent: ‘I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall’ – this opening line immediately shows the internal conflict in the family, Lear’s mind and the matters of inheritance and property law, whilst Oedipus’ ‘My children, fruit of Cadmus’ ancient tree’ connotes his role as a father figure to his kingdom, along with his confidence and authority. Yet, these characters end up going on a similar journey, resulting in the same ending.

Both of their last lines summarise the journey they have been on: Oedipus cries ‘Ah no! Take not away my daughters!’ and Lear asks ‘Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all?’ Life cannot be lived without death.