David Lynch, best known for Blue Velvet, Mulholland Dr, Eraserhead, and Twin Peaks, is the subject of the documentary Lynch/Oz (2023) by Alexandre O. Philippe — a deliberately oddball juxtaposition that honors the artist’s deeply felt kinship to the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. Structured more as a film essay, with narration over a dizzying array of film clips, Lynch/Oz is divided into chapters with different “hosts,” including film critic Amy Nicholson and some of Lynch’s peers: Rodney Ascher (Room 237), Karyn Kusama (Jennifer’s Body), Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead (The Endless), David Lowery (Peter Pan & Wendy), and John Waters (Hairspray). This isn’t just a random idea Philippe is chasing; any fan can tell you that 1990's Wild at Heart is full of overt Wizard of Oz references. But even beyond that film, we know Lynch has the Emerald City lodged in his brain.
As Kusama remembers first-hand—Lynch remarked that he thinks about Oz every day. Though it does point out how fond Lynch characters are of red shoes, and the way his sets tend to use theatrical curtains, Lynch/Oz is more intrigued by the ways Victor Fleming’s 1939 classic has infiltrated the themes, character details, mise-en-scène, and moods of both dread and hope that swirl throughout his filmography. When these commentators go far afield of Lynch’s bizarre storylines to give their own interpretations, Lynch/Oz unloads lots of cultural unsophistication. Rodney Ascher’s interpretation of Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return stumbles over politics: “It was right after the election, and a lot of us were uncertain about what was going to happen in the world.” This fundamentally denies how Lynch faces the reality of evil, following the moral of fairy tales and art. Lynch’s protagonists as detectives of “metaphysical mysteries, cosmic mysteries, the American unconscious.” Source: nationalreview.com
A witty description of a Busby Berkeley number comes from the poet and writer John Betjeman, who wrote, “The decors by Berkeley display great ingenuity, but resemble, more often than not, a sort of drunkard’s dream.” In his most creative period, Berkeley’s tableau featured expansive art deco formations and repetitive set decorations with the occasional use of gigantism for fantasy props. In Golddigers of 1933, a white-tuxedoed Dick Powell takes the stage, which is minimally dressed with a bench and theatrical picture window, and sings to a platinum-coiffed Ruby Keeler. All the dancers move gracefully along a winding bridge that resembles a gigantic curved ribbon; an imitation palm tree and moon in the background are the stage’s sole dressing. Audaciously, Berkeley cuts all the studio lights, the illumination provided by neon tubing attached to the contours of each violin. The effect is magical. As the theme saws away, Berkeley’s top shots are even more impressive as a neon-lit violin spins in the center of a circle of other violins. An impressive change in perspective occurs as the girls appear to be dancing sideways from the top of the screen to the bottom on the right half of the frame while their image is reflected on the left.
The dancers were filmed dancing off the winding staircase while their movements were reflected in the pristine black floor. When projected they defied gravity. A low-mounted parade-of-faces shot brings us back to Dick and Ruby. “I Only Have Eyes for You” is the most surreal of all Berkeley productions. Ruby Keeler patiently waits for boyfriend Dick Powell, a ticket seller, to end his shift. He sings to her of the singularity of his obsession: "Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright. ‘Cause I only have eyes for you." Berkeley, in a special-effects fadeout, removes all pedestrians from view (save Ruby), then reinstates them as they recite the song lyrics. The 1933 audience was thrilled to the point of applause when they saw the unusual patterns that could be generated from a vantage point fifty feet in the air.
Brad Roberts (Dick Powell) and Polly Parker (Ruby Keeler) have met previously in front of a movie theatre, then take a long subway ride during which they fall asleep. Another Berkeley sleight of hand has Ruby posed on the backside of a handheld mirror. As the mirror turns toward the camera, the frame of reference shifts back to the “reality” of the subway car, where Ruby and Dick awaken from their nap realizing they’ve come to the final stop in the line. They leave the train and exit the train yard in a perfectly composed shot in which the couple walks diagonally from the top right to the bottom left of the frame. —The Life and Art of Busby Berkeley (2011) by Jeffrey Spivak
No comments :
Post a Comment