Great month, didn’t even run into any trash.
FIRST TIER
But Walt's honourable military service to his country, whose flag hangs in front of his house and all around town, is not something he can be proud of. Patriotic pride keeps turning to acid in his mouth because his glorious wartime violence keeps presenting itself to him as a crime against humanity.
The symbolism of Walt's bequest of the Gran Torino to Thao, and the film's last shot of Thao behind its wheel driving away to the (truly regrettable) musical accompaniment of the director singing a sentimental song of his own composition, could hardly be clearer. Clint Eastwood has passed the best values of America to the Asian Other who embodies its best ideals. White America will just have to get over itself, although there remains the fact that its multicultural inheritors will take possession not through their own endeavours, but at the hands of Clint Eastwood, WASP Number One.
The nostalgia for a more stable and comforting time that's inscribed all over the incidentals of Walt Kowalski's life, habits, and environment is a nostalgia for something that never existed--a mythology cobbled together from shards and airbrushed stereotypes. Only in the ageing of his body has Walt's life experienced a real decline. His life always was fractured, conflicted and haunted. All of the supposed bellwethers of his existence--service in Korea, family, work, community--have transformed under examination into something bad. It's not so much that everything has turned to shit, it's that so much of everything was shit all along.
This is what victory has come to in Eastwood's cinema. He still saves the community, but the film has traced his passage from the violent hero to the sacrificial one, from Achilles to Jesus Christ. The last image we see of Walt is an overhead crane shot of him stretched out dead on the ground, and his pose is unmistakeably that of a crucified man.Full article, 'Clint Eastwood as Fallen Saviour' by William Beard, available in Issue 85 of CineAction
Orson Welles used to ask, "Why work so hard, if only to fabricate others' dreams?" He was an optimist and believed that the industry could dream. Accepting his postulate would mean confusing dreams with calculated, profit-hungry mythomania. Let's be much more optimistic: even if the industry perfects itself (in its tendencies toward control), it will never be able to take over the space of uncertainty and polysemia that is essential to images - the possibility of transmitting a private world in a present time that is host to multiple pasts and futures.
In retrospect, it's clear that Vogel was at once programmer and pedagogue; Cinema 16 folded for many reasons, but one was a revolt sparked by Vogel's refusal to program or distribute works he considered inferior, even by filmmakers he had supported in the past. The abrasive approach reflected in the title of I-House's three-day tribute extended not just to Vogel's choice of films — which ran from the poetic slaughterhouse documentary Blood of the Beasts to the notorious Nazi propaganda film The Eternal Jew — but his programming style, which might find the latest in experimental film on a bill with a documentary about ants in equatorial South America. The idea was to produce conflict in the manner of Sergei Eisenstein's montage, forcing audiences to rethink their comfortable categorizations.
So it is, too, with Film as a Subversive Art, which eschews standard taxonomies in favor of provocative thematic clusters: A still from Robert Bresson's Pickpocket shares a spread with Buñuel's Belle de Jour and a Mae West clinch from She Done Him Wrong, all grouped under the heading, "Erotic and Pornographic Cinema." The lavishly illustrated book, which is as much fun to browse as is it to read, consistently throws up such surprising comparisons: Turn the page from the eye-slicing scene in Un Chien Andalou and you'll find King Kong's head starting back at you.(full article here by Sam Adams)