The Witness (Solomon, 2015)
The Witness is a powerfully messy film.
The Witness is a powerfully messy film.
If I had the film on DVD, I would be seriously tempted to play it through once with no sound, just savoring the images, and then go back and listen to the commentary.
News of the mass murder of forty-nine people at a gay nightclub in Orlando spread through social and mainstream media last month, prompting a now familiar pattern of shock, anger, denial, and accusations.
The film that Bad Moms most reminded me of was -- help me, Jesus -- Moms' Night Out.
Speculative fiction has always been allegorical. The alternate worlds, be they in the future or some alternate plane of existence, are meant to illuminate and comment on our own when the culture of the current moment does not invite the sort of commentary the author is looking to make.
There are great films that depict the horrors of war and honor those who sacrifice themselves as part of it. Saving Private Ryan and Fury come to mind. There are many as well about civilians who sacrifice money, career, and even lives to promote the progress of a cause or idea greater than themselves. Sacrifice is a noble thing. Of the one who sacrifices his life, the Bible says there is no greater love.
High Noon does not explain itself nor its hero. One suspects that what Tony Soprano really identified with in Will Kane was his reticence. In today's political landscape, Kane's insistence on taking up his gun even after he had officially resigned his position might well be questioned. Neither his wife's arguments for pacifism nor the town's pleas for pragmatism are clearly and effectively rebutted. Kane represents an emotional rather than intellectual (or political) argument. The way things are is stipulated, not explained. A man has to do what a man has to do. What that thing is that he must do can only be understood, not explained.
Because it is a film about sexual identify, it avoids many of the cliches of films about disability. Because it is a film about a woman with a disability, it avoids many of the cliches of films about sexual identity.
Darwin's saving grace is that it embeds the political arguments about right-to-die within a personal story.
I have a confession to make: I’m not generally fond of yarn bombing. But the film Yarn, featuring four fiber artists and narrated by Barbara Kingsolver, is making me rethink that stance.