Of Teenage Slaughter as Cultural Phenomenon

*CAUTION: MINOR SPOILERS PRESENT*

           The Hunger Games will be remembered, if for no other reason, as one of the weirdest movies to ever reach the level of cultural phenomenon (if such degrees of success can be quantified.) There is something in the film’s approach to its oftentimes gristly material that seems different from that taken by the traditional blockbuster, which frequently tries to translate the language of fantasy and imagination into something that an ordinary audience can understand. The Hunger Games, instead, remains comfortable in its own skin. The film approaches matters with an at times ironic aesthetic that borders on the surreal and bizarre, as its dystopian future is filled not by the colorlessness misery of Orwell, but with a collage of candy coated colors. While many elements of the narrative are drawn from sources both ancient and modern, the set and costume design of the film appears to be a product all its own. There is, to my mind at least, nothing like it. But this aesthetic does not simply exist to provide a unique set decoration, as the film also contains a parallel aesthetic that seeks to normalize its world, as if the viewers are themselves a part of Panem. The film embraces this aesthetic completely, presenting its dystopian future in such a matter of fact way that the insanity of the film’s proceedings rarely registers, the viewer instead reliant upon isolated moments of clarity to process what exactly they are watching.

At one point, Katniss (Jennifer Lawrence) is hiding up a tree in the Arena (the forested area where the gladiatorial title event takes place) while she eavesdrops on an alliance of nearby Tributes, the group of young men and women who have been selected to compete in the annual Hunger Games, an event where they will fight to the death until only one remains. The teenagers gloat about the other competitors their age that they have murdered, mocking the weakness of the others, and mimicking their unheeded pleas for mercy. For me, moments such as this, where the more competitive of the film’s Tributes extol their bloodthirsty accomplishments, were the most striking moments of clarity. It is not that the very presence of teenage psychopaths such as these in a mainstream film is particularly unusual. The Scream series has a long tradition of them, but the difference is that the Scream series clearly establishes that these characters are psychopaths. Within the world of The Hunger Games however, this psychopathy is almost glossed over, with their comments heralding more of a threat to Katniss then a threat to any greater social order. The competitors are threatening because they’re good, not because they are evil (although they certainly appear to be that at times as well.) The policies surrounding the Hunger Games and their unfolding might be unfair, but no one seems to question the central morality of cheering on teenagers who are hunting and killing each other, just the fact that this hunting and killing is being done to support an autocratic regime, which in my mind is only the second most troubling aspect of the situation. The film never seems to directly question the morality of its universe, leaving that judgment for the audience to make. 

            I have enough faith in the creative forces involved to assume that this sort of ironic distance was intended, and that these moments of clarity are intended to arrive, if not always at the same time for each audience member. The film opens on the set of a talk show hosted by Caesar Flickerman (Stanley Tucci), as he interviews Seneca Crane (Wes Bentley), the designer of the games, the two expounding on Seneca’s skill at design as if they are discussing the logistics of some obstacle course intended for a reality show. Various interview pieces with Tucci return throughout the film, and the Games’ brutality is something that appears celebrated in them without any need for justification. Of course children getting slaughtered is entertaining. Why wouldn’t it be? The sheer cynical embrace of this by the film is surprising, given that most major film releases make an effort to share their audiences’ morality, believing that any trace of cynicism marks box office failure.

            While the film’s tonal aesthetic might be a welcome change, there is nothing welcoming about The Hunger Games’s atrocious cinematography. From beginning to end, the film is dominated by the rapid cutting and shaky camera work that is now in vogue, but which in this film accomplished nothing besides making me feel cross-eyed. This might be acceptable for a film purported to consist of “found footage” or which takes place in a warzone, but it seems misplaced during what are supposed to be establishing shots of the regal and glamorous Capital. The cutting is so rapid and the shots are so unsteady that it is often impossible to get a good view of the pageantry leading up the Games. I found myself feeling unsettled for the first third or so of the film, and not as part of some intended alienation effect, but as if I were wobbling around after getting off of a roller coaster, unable to sit down and fully gather my thoughts.

This pattern becomes most obnoxious during The Reaping ceremony, where Katniss’s sister Primrose is originally chosen to be the female Tribute of District 12 before Katniss herself volunteers to take her sister’s place. The film clearly intends to build suspense with this set piece, the characters silently waiting out their fates as the cheery Effie Trinket (Elizabeth Banks) selects two random participants who will fight for their lives for their nation’s amusement. The camera destroys much of this suspense however, frequently cutting to split second shots which are unstable and out of focus. There is more to suspense then just narrative setup. Suspense has to be created in the rhythms of the camerawork as well, and while cutting might be effective in building up suspense for a complex procedure, for something as simple as pulling a name out of a fishbowl, a more fluid style would have been appreciated. As it is, the completely fractured Reaping produced a feeling in me, but it was not one of suspense.

            Despite the at times radical divergence from convention, the film does not make any serious attempt at a political or cultural statement, which serves to temper any potentially subversive elements that might be present. It’s not hard to view the film’s depictions of elites controlling and manipulating the masses and draw a parallel to the complaints of the Occupy movement, but while this explains the film’s appeal to a sort of national zeitgeist, it is not a reading that is necessarily invited by the film itself. The universe of Panem is one of many alternate futures that the United States could devolve into, but the sociocultural precursors that led to this moment are never revealed. I am sure that both conservatives and liberals could find an explanation as to how the other ideology was the one that produced Panem, but the film leaves that distinction up the audience.

In many ways, the world of The Hunger Games appears to be an outgrowth of our contemporary, media drenched, increasingly unempathetic society, where power and pleasure are the ultimate goals. While it should come as no surprise that the film has an (almost) happy ending, the film’s conclusion does nothing to rectify the society or the human behavior on display. The individual characters might have triumphed, but the society itself remains infused with the toxin of a poisonous fruit, and its ideology remains unrepudiated.  I have not read any of the book series the film is based on, and while am sure this is addressed in them and will be addressed in the film’s sequels, for the moment it is refreshing to see such a cynical turn in an industry whose products are not always known for their cynicism. The film does not end on a cliffhanger, but it neither ends with everything tied up in a bow. The dictatorship still reigns supreme, and much like our current society, there is much work left to be done.

*Edited on 4/5/2012 to add a brief clarifying comment about my knowledge (or lack of knowledge) of the books.

 

 
Picture from: http://blog.zap2it.com/pop2it/2012/01/new-hunger-games-pics-effie-and-katniss-haymitch-and-his-hair-and-more.html

On the State of the Studio System

             

               The American studio system is in a sorry state. Hollywood, which was once considered an emporium of imagination and ideas, has seen these concepts be subsumed by marketing and synergy. The main studios of America have been relegated to pumping out comic book sequel after comic book sequel, occasionally taking a break so that they can put the finishing touches on the third chapter in a trilogy based on a set of children’s toys. Movies exist not to sell themselves anymore, but to sell an endless stream of toys and tie-ins, none of which can hope for the mainstream success of the film they are based on, but which together create a powerful financial incentive. When not scoping out the aisles at Toys ‘R Us, the studios also spend their time churning out the type of exploitation fare that the Poverty Row studios once made, the modern studios apparently under the belief that throwing money at these types of projects will somehow make them better films than their grindhouse forebearers, showing a complete lack of knowledge as to what made these earlier exploitation films work.

            There was a time when the prestige picture was considered the tent pole on which a film studio’s fortunes could be stretched, but the days of those films topping both box office lists and the year-end lists of quality is long gone. The past three Best Picture winners have come from outside the American studio system, a system which had once produced some of the highest quality films in the world. At their heights in the 1940’s and 1950’s, the American studios were exemplars of the possibilities of film, which while not always particularly daring in an aesthetic sense, established a standard of quality which all films hoped to match. Many of them have ultimately stood the test of time holding an emotional resonance which many modern studio films lack. And this is not to mention the American studio system’s effects on films that were made as a response to it. Where would the French New Wave have come from if there was not an established studio system for them to react to and draw from? How would the Poverty Row studios have presented an alternative product, if there was no quality Hollywood product to have an alternative to? That is not to say that the American studios were necessarily a source of divergence for post-war global film movements (The French New Wave was a reaction to French studio productions and they originally lauded many American films), but without American aesthetic influence, or if the studios had presented a product free of aesthetic concerns, it is unclear how inspiration would have emerged.

            Now, I do not mean to propose that there was ever a time in which the studio “bigwigs” were not concerned about the bottom line, but there was once a time when creating a high quality film was considered the way to get there. In today’s market, where the major studios are controlled by global conglomerates, the desires and necessities of the studios are being subsumed by the parent company’s attempts to create synergy and to increase the revenues that they receive from tie-in products and sponsorship opportunities in a variety of fields. Even The Lorax, whose basis is a book and television special which warned against the evils of materialism and consumerism, is being used to sell Mazda automobiles and disposable diapers. In forty years, we have gone from a television special that respected the message of the book in an honest way to a film whose marketing subverts the very message that Dr. Seuss’s classic rests on.

            Perhaps we should be lucky that the American studios were able to push out great films for as long as they did. When Hollywood arrived at a critical and commercial crisis in the late ‘60’s, they turned to their few recent successes for inspiration. Thankfully for cineastes everywhere, these were the high-quality, young, rebellious films that would come to make up the corpus of New Hollywood. When Hollywood encountered another crisis a decade later in the wake of such New Hollywood disasters as Sorcerer and Heaven’s Gate, they didn’t do anything different. They once again turned to the films that were popular at the time, only this time the defining essence of said films was not so much quality (even if most of them were great movies), as it was a certain mode of blockbuster filmmaking.

            This mode would be ushered in for good with the release of Steven Spielberg’s Jaws. Most films at the time were released in a scattered fashion, akin to how a film like The Artist would be released today. A film would open in New York, and then make its way across the small towns and suburbs of America, relying on newspapers and local radio to spread the word of its arrival. Jaws on the other hand launched everywhere, all at once. Wide release had been attempted by the major studios several times prior to this point (even back to the 1940’s with Duel in the Sun), but it was usually regarded as the recourse of trashy exploitation films, not a major studio release like Jaws, a film whose concept was itself slightly “trashy” for its time, at least trashy in comparison to the films that usually made up a studio’s tent pole releases.

            While Jaws would establish the pattern, it would be Star Wars that marked a sea change in the way the film industry did business. Or rather it was the Kenner action figures released in tandem with the film that would mark its change. While tie-ins had always been a part of the film industry, in the years following Star Wars, this sort of synergetic universe building would take on a life of its own, with a film like Cars 2 existing almost as a way to advertise toys, rather than the toys existing as a way to advertise the movie. The monetary successes of the Star Wars merchandise machine would only encourage the film studios to follow suit, leading down an increasingly perilous path, where a film’s potential to produce merchandise now appears to be a studio’s preeminent consideration in producing it. Star Wars would also help usher in an era of sequels, with latter films in the series drawing people to theaters not because of their quality (which was, like the original, still quite prodigious) but because they offered a world that audiences were familiar with. The Godfather Part II helped dissolve the conventional wisdom that sequels must always be of an inferior quality, and Rocky II and Jaws 2 along with The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi proved that these sequels could be a massive source of profit in their own right. Instead of reaching out to discover a new world, audiences could now simply return to the comfort foods of their past.

            The studios would also look towards exploitation films for inspiration during this time Friday the 13^th, despite being shot in the style of typical Poverty Row thriller, was distributed by Paramount, who would earn a substantial profit on an investment of less than five million dollars. Other studios would once again follow suit, taking on the exploitation films that once existed outside of the traditional studio system and turning them into yet another corporate product. As this exploitation fare increased over the subsequent decades, studios began orienting their films more towards the teenagers who they saw as exploitation’s biggest audience. Films were infantilized, with the adult cast of Jaws eventually replaced by the teenage victims of the latest slasher film.¹ Where are the tent pole pictures that appealed to adults such as The Godfather or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? These kinds of films are long gone, and audiences are left to fend for themselves in a lobotomized and infantilized culture.

            What incentive that the studios did have to make prestige pictures began to dissipate even further in the wake of the 1996 Oscar Season where the boutique studios showed up the majors both in terms of critical and commercial success. After a string of failures this year, the majors would follow the lead of Disney, buying up the smaller boutique studios like USA Films (later Focus Features) and pushing their prestige products off onto them, failing to provide them with any of the resources that they needed to thrive. The year that was heralded as the rise of the Indies at the Oscars would end up being their undoing, as these smaller studios would increasingly take on films that they did not have the funds or knowhow to properly market and produce. It might have been possible in earlier times for the smaller studios to adjust their plans and budgets accordingly, but as long as the major conglomerates have their tentacles enmeshed within the film industry, it will be a slow and grueling march towards any sort of change.

            But despite all of this industrial history, isn’t the decline of the studio prestige picture simply giving people what they want? Prestige pictures have noticeably fallen off in popularity over the past decade, and while part of that could be because the boutique studios don’t know how to market them, it’s also clear that we are in a different time then the one where movies like Rain Man, Forrest Gump, and Saving Private Ryan were the number one films of their respective years. If you adjust for increases in the price of movie tickets and in the nation’s population, a film like The Color Purple did noticeably better than The Help, to pick just one comparable example. It is an accomplishment when a prestige picture can break 100 million dollars at the box office, but adjusting for current popularity levels, prestige pictures were once able to clear the 200 and 300 million marks with ease.

            The way that people go to the movies today has also changed what they choose to go see. In today’s ADD addled generation, young people lose track of movies after the opening week, and a movie’s box office in its opening weekend has become a greater and greater part of its overall gross. The Phantom Menace, a film that fits all of the stereotypes for a frontloaded release (incredibly hyped, part of a series, disappointing word of mouth) made only 15 percent of its total in its opening weekend, a number far lower than that of virtually any wide release film today. Amongst the releases of 2011, it is common for a film to make a third of its total on opening weekend, with anything under 25 percent being considered good. Compare that to the blockbusters of the past, which oftentimes made 10 percent or less during their openings. In such a frontloaded climate, it becomes even harder for films to rely on quality to succeed. If a film is to rely on word of mouth like it once did, it can improve on its opening numbers, but in a climate where a 50 percent drop off between the first and second week of a film’s release is commonplace, the studios don’t rely on quality, but instead rely on gimmicks and sequels to get people in theater seats immediately. Quality doesn’t attract an audience right away, and thus its use as a marketing tool has become quite passé.

            Youth culture today is fractured. While young people were once able to unite around the rebellious auteurs of New Hollywood, it is oftentimes difficult to get young people today to join together in anything. The Internet has been championed as a place of infinite community, but a side effect of our increasing interconnectivity is the desire for people to insulate themselves with those things that are familiar and comforting to them. People are extremely hesitant to venture outside of the cultural boundaries they have set up, and while society once forced cultural exposure on those who were more hesitant, it is now possible for people to increasingly live their lives ignorant of the world and culture around them. Marketing a non-franchise film in a society that only cares about what it already knows is more difficult, and one of the ironic culprits in this new packaging of culture is the “rebellious” youth who sees themselves as taking a stand against authority. People claim that they want independence from the establishment, but then don’t even bother to see films from outside the major studios, their need for superheroes overwhelming what they claim are their actual tastes.

            We have a crisis of taste in this country, brought on partly by industrial factors, but also brought on by the actions of the grass roots as well. The film going public should not simply get a pass for their role in dictating the films that get made. It is after all, their tastes that the studios are attempting to capture. There is, after all, no accounting for tastes, and there is little one can do (or perhaps should do) to change them. Each franchise that arises slices the pie smaller and smaller, and eventually films won’t simply fail to appeal to everyone, they will fail to appeal to anyone. The most that one can hope for is for matters to run their course and for the next generation of Americans (and global citizens for that matter) to emerge with something more than franchises on their minds. 

¹ Begg, Ken. "Jaws 2 Review." Jabootu's Bad Movie Dimension http://www.jabootu.com/jaws2.htm -- This was the review that helped me make the connection between the adult leads of Jaws and the teenage leads of its many imitators.

Edited on 12/4/2013 to add a source.

Of Class Relations Amongst the Edwardians

 

             The tradition of the “upstairs, downstairs” production is one of, in theory, equality. Rather than hewing to tradition and focusing only on the lives of the upper crust aristocrats that usually dominate period pieces with their quail hunting and dinner parties, the “upstairs, downstairs” production seeks to give voice to the lives of those who served the upper classes, the ones whose cooking of the dinner made the dinner party possible. However, despite these egalitarian pretensions, most shows of this type seem to pivot around the “upstairs” members, and in some ways featuring the “downstairs” members only to marginalize them is more problematic than if they weren’t featured at all. From Downton Abbey to Gosford Park and The Rules of the Game, “upstairs” almost always remains the main focus of the plot, even if the “downstairs” servants occasionally serve an important narrative role. They are there to say “Hey, we exist too!” but their lives can never hold the attention of the production the way that the upper classes can, and they support the “upstairs” narrative in the same way their characters support the lives of those whom live up the stairs.

            Part of the reason behind this is surely aesthetic. If the sets and costumes are to be designed with an eye to historical accuracy than there is a sense of glamour to the “upstairs” world with which the “downstairs” world can’t hope to complete. Would an audience rather look at someone dressed in a scarlet silk number with a diamond necklace draped over her chest, or would they rather look at someone in a tartan maid’s uniform, her hair askew and a pair of barely held together shoes on her feet? That might be an easy question to answer, but that’s no reason to assume that a program like Downton Abbey should be required to give the easy answer.

            While Downton Abbey is sure to divide its time between those who live in the upstairs of the glamorous title estate and those who work hard to make that upstairs livable (I’d imagine that if you measured the time in each episode spent amongst each group of people the times would be roughly equal), it is the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family that drive the series’ narrative. The show opens with the death of the estate’s heir aboard the Titanic, and the arrival of the new heir, Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens) a distant relative who works as a solicitor, a job which does not inspire much confidence from the Earl of Grantham (Hugh Bonneville) and his family. This development, and the family’s eternal attempts to hedge against it, is the basis on which the show rests, and the servants spend as much time talking about the romantic entanglements of their superiors as they do talking about their own. The “downstairs” has their own problems of course, but with the exception of Mr. Bates’ (Brendan Coyle) ongoing romantic and legal trials involving Anna (Joanne Froggatt) and his wife (Maria Doyle Kennedy) very few have the ongoing narrative thrust of the entail to Downton Abbey. Even when a ghost appears to Anna and Daisy (Sophie McShera), it is not to give a message of any concern to them, but to add a postscript to Matthew’s ill-fated engagement to Lavinia Squire (Zoe Boyle). This same concern for Downton’s other world cannot be mapped onto the “upstairs,” however.

            The lords and ladies of the manor do frequently intervene in the lives of their subordinates, oftentimes for the better, but despite the good results, their interactions oftentimes reek of patronizing condescension. Their attempts to make the “downstairs” world better mostly serve as an excuse for the character to pat themselves on the back for being such a generous person. With the exception of the youngest daughter, Lady Sybil, most of the aristocracy seems to care little about the social forces that have situated the “downstairs” characters where they are, either not understanding why it is that their servants constantly need their help, or understanding the situation but simply choosing to ignore it. No one is ever called out on this willful ignorance except, ironically, Lady Sybil after a condescending comment that “We were not on our best in Ireland,” seemingly equating the situation in Ireland to displaying improper etiquette towards a dinner guest. Her love interest, the Irish valet Branson (Allen Leech), rightly points out how to him “not on our best” translates to family members being murdered as they were “probably” rebels, but this scene is more of an exception than the rule.

            Most of the servants treat their masters with a reverence and gratitude that seems old-fashioned by today’s standards, with head butler Carson (Jim Carter) being the most odious offender. A clearer portrait of someone completely lacking in class consciousness would be difficult to make, and his fealty to the powers that be are so apparent, the Earl of Grantham presents him with a book on the royal families of Europe as a Christmas present. Whenever some point of etiquette is breeched amongst the denizens of “upstairs,” Carson is the one sent into a fit of apoplectic consternation, oftentimes caring much more than the people he is ostensibly concerned about. After finding out that Lady Sybil plans to work in the kitchen to make a surprise cake for her mother, Carson rushes down to watch her, unable to fathom a lady of the house working amongst him and his charges, a rather problematic response considering his own life amongst the working classes. Regrettable as this behavior may be, this sort of mentality was commonplace at the time, and it is true that working at an estate such as Downton Abbey was in many ways a much better opportunity than others in the working class could hope find. However, the show does not shy away from casting a doubtful or ironic eye towards other practices of the time, so it does not strike me as an unreasonable request to expect it here as well. Instead, the aristocracy, at least the way their subordinates see them, is treated with the reverence which Julian Fellowes apparently feels for them himself.

            The show appeared more ready to tackle the politics of the status quo in its first season, with most change in the second season being routed through events such as the upheavals of the Great War and the Spanish Flu. The first season forced the characters to make change themselves, instead of being swept along by history. It was people who changed things, not events. One of Lady Sybil’s initial moments of rebellion is not in the cause of some historical event, but is in her attempts to help the young maid Gwen (Rose Leslie) gain employment as a secretary, a plan which eventually succeeds. In this case, a young maid hoping for a better life and a sense of upward mobility is rewarded, eventually securing a job with a telephone company.

            In the second season, Gwen is replaced with an equally red-headed maid with equally high hopes of upward mobility. Ethel (Amy Nuttall) reads movie magazines and also dreams of a middle-class life beyond what she can currently hope for as a maid. She rejects class boundaries and flirts with a wounded officer staying at Downton. The two eventually sleep together and the show punishes her for daring to cross the class barrier by ejecting her from Downton and leaving her with the unwanted son of the Major she slept with. The show appears to be punishing her for her sarcastic and glib attitude, but it is hard not to also see it as a way of warning against those who want change too fast, albeit it is hard to see what is so unreasonable about any of Ethel’s actions. While the characters on the show cannot be expected to react any differently than that which the mores of the time dictated, one should expect a little better from the show’s own, modern-day perspective.

            Upon reading all of this, some might get the impression that I do not care for Downton Abbey, but that would be a mistake. While there are plenty of compliments I could make about the show, these issues of class are the ones that lend themselves to the most interesting discussion. Indeed, they are inherent in the very premise of the show itself, so it would be a mistake not to discuss them, even if doing so makes the show sound worse than it is. While I might find the marginalization of the “downstairs” regressive at times, that is not to say that there aren’t plenty of moments when it’s not. Two of the Lord’s daughters (Edith [Laura Carmichael] and Sybil) have romantic entanglements with more “common” men, but these plotlines have the misfortune to not always be particularly well written. And for what it’s worth the lives of the “upstairs” do appear to be more interesting, or at least they are the ones who get the better plotlines. Some of what I see as an inequitable class structure is simply a result of the time in which the show takes place, and as there is at least one more season in the works (one without major global events to distract matters), I am looking forward to what personal upheavals the show has in store next. Just as the show is not finished, neither is the progress of its characters, and I wouldn’t give up hope just yet that some of the characters might have the chance to walk up the stairs for good.

Of Beauty Queens and Narco Kings

             

 When I write about film for this blog, I try to find some angle of approach. Whether from a cultural perspective, or with an eye to some element of the filmmaking, it is nice to have an entrance point when discussing a film. Sometimes however, the entrance point is provided by the quality of the film itself. Some films have such an effect that one feels the desire to do nothing more than extol their virtues at length, to heap praise on them for as many words as one possibly can. That is the effect produce by Gerardo Naranjo’s perfectly pitched narco-drama Miss Bala, an opening salvo for the possibilities of film in 2012

            A tale of the ordinary people caught up in the seemingly unending and endlessly escalating drug war that has turned Mexico into some sort of existential psychodrama, Miss Bala opens with an act of independence. Laura Guerrero (Stephanie Sigman), ignores the cautions of her father, and runs off with a friend to earn a spot in the Baja California equivalent to whatever beauty pageant The Donald has trumped up this year. This independence is short lived however, as Laura quickly finds herself caught up in the dealings of local kingpin Lino (Noe Hernandez) where she discovers that passivity is more often than not the only alternative to drowning in the fast moving currents that now swirl around her. While Sigman oftentimes wears the face of someone who sees inscrutability as her best defense, she’s hardly ever a cipher. Rather than blankness, her expression represents the slow draining from her life of, well, life. The vivacity and joy that one would expect from a pageant contestant is instead replaced with a cold despair. Even once the film arrives at the spectacle of the pageant itself, the bright lights and gaudy costumes are overwhelmed by Sigman’s sadness, her inner turmoil so powerful she can’t even answer the questions of the pageant’s hosts. She remains a portrait of the actual state of Mexico, a contrast to the false regality and ebullient nature that the pageant seeks to represent. In an early scene in the film, the pageant director chides Laura not to laugh as she practices her walk down the runway, and it serves as an ironic bit of foreshadowing. The director wants Laura to treat the pageant with the seriousness it deserves, and while Laura might not be laughing any more, by the end of the film it is hard to see the pageant as anything more than a mere side show in a society that is irrevocably compromised.

            Despite its bleak pretense, the film is also about those small moments of rebellion that the powerless rely on to give themselves even the smallest possibility of hope. The film opens with one of these moments, and the ending comes about as a result of another one. While these two moments are far from the only ones where Laura rebels, they are two of the only ones which bring forth results. It would be easy to consider Laura a passive figure, and in many respects she is, but as previously mentioned this passivity is a defense mechanism, in the same way that someone curls up into a ball once they know they are unable to escape whatever emotional or physical attack lies ahead. Laura makes several half-hearted attempts to escape throughout the film, reacting to her release and subsequent recapture with the same fading expression. She seems to expect that her plans will fail, and acts nonplussed at the eternal return of Lino, never questioning her seeming importance to him or role in some larger political game. Rather than see her passivity as cowardice, the film seems to instead imbue it with a sort of bravery. Here is someone that tries again and again to fight her way out of her nightmare, despite lacking that quality that provided sustenance to even the most selfless of history’s heralded heroes: hope.

            The complications of Laura’s troubles are helped along by the film’s whirling pace, its rapid developments counterbalanced by the languid camerawork. As bullets fly and people escape, the camera moves slowly, gradually zooming in and out of an area, or sanguinely panning across a neighborhood. This gives the film an effect comparable to real time, as the audience takes in events as they are, rather than chopped up by editing into more digestible bites. The content is hardly more upsetting than other films of the genre, but the effect is one that wears heavily on you, potentially grueling in its unrelenting movement forward. In one of the film’s early scenes, Laura escapes from a party that has been attacked by a cartel, and the camera slowly pans from her hiding place to the people she is hiding from, before panning back again, only this time Laura is absent, having made her escape over a wall. This sort of take, which shows everything but not all at once, is emblematic of the film’s style, as it attempts to show the complexities of life amongst the cartels, but not in the fractured style that seems all too common today.

            Miss Bala succeeds in one of the best ways that any visual medium can. The style of the film merges so well with its content that the two become almost impossible to separate. Of course one can, but with something this powerful why would you?  I have seen this film labeled as exploitation by some, but to me that seems like something of a misinterpretation. Even if Miss Bala doesn’t necessarily propose an explanation for the violence therein, the intention hardly seems to be to titillate. The film wants us to be sucked into its hopeless, cyclical world, where we meet our fate less with excitement and more with a grim acceptance that we might never escape. The film’s mastery of style is a welcome moment in the wake of a disappointing 2011 and hopefully the film’s success is a sign of things to come.

Photo courtesy of: http://www.filmlinc.com/film-comment/article/nightmare-state