The Double Life of Véronique (1991)

Spoilers... You gotta be kidding me. You can't spoil this picture.

Director: Krzysztof Kieślowski

Screenplay: Krzysztof Kieślowski and Krzysztof Piesiewicz

Starring: Irène Jacob

Score: Zbigniew Preisner

Cinematographer: Sławomir Idziak

Editor: Jacques Witta

Images from the 2006 Criterion Collection release*.

Krzysztof Kieslowski once said that he’d be happy if he could get 30% of the film he wanted. Likewise, I’d be happy to articulate 30% of what I feel and think when watching The Double Life of Veronique. For me, this is his most personal, introspective work. Just as Jerzy Stuhr turns the camera on himself in Camera Buff, Kieslowski is turning the camera inward to question his own conscience in The Double Life of Veronique, and in the process, bringing forth innumerable other ideas and emotions. To deconstruct specific scenes in the film almost seems to reduce it, and the picture is never static in my mind, but fluid and changing. I don’t believe I’ll ever reach a point where this movie ceases to be significant, nor do I think I’ll ever plumb all the depths of what it can do.

Since I’ve built it up so much, what is The Double Life of Veronique about? Admittedly, I cringe at this question, because the thing is, whenever someone asks me about a movie, it’s invariably about “the story.” For me, the story as it relates to plot is painfully uninteresting most of the time. What interests me are characters, atmosphere, emotions, feelings and ideas. The Double Life of Veronique is all of these things, blossoming into a phenomenon that the filmmaker speaks through, reaching audiences on a spiritual level rather than merely an intellectual one. It’s often called “metaphysical” and while that’s perfectly apt, people can be left content to leave it at that without digging deeper.

It’s a bit hackneyed, but The Double Life of Veronique is a film of feeling more than cold, clinical camera movements, and looking at our emotional responses to it is maybe the best way we can render meaning. In a sense, the film is like music: Something that is difficult to articulate meaning from, but is somehow uncommonly effective in swaying our emotions. The Krzysztof Kieslowski/Zbigniew Preisner collaboration is one of the best director/composer teams (along with David Cronenberg/Howard Shore or Alfred Hitchcock/Bernard Hermann), in part because Kieslowski involves Preisner from the very beginning of the screenplay. Preisner’s scores, for me, are some of the most unique, evocative pieces I’ve heard in films. Like Kieslowski, I’m not good at critically evaluating music, but I know what works in a film. The score for The Double Life of Veronique, for me, evokes the delicacy of not merely life, but of beauty, music, images, and love, as well. Balancing life is as much of a tight-wire balance as Veronique holding her notes in tune. Lives can just as easily waiver and collapse altogether.

If The Double Life of Veronique evokes a feeling of vulnerability, it also brings a feeling of intimacy that can best be described as cinematic lovemaking. The scenes that exemplify this are the ones where we simply observe Veronique alone. Or is she alone? Aren’t we, the audience, always accompanying her? Isn’t it the medium of film that allows our minds to merge with her into a single disposition? She is often seen seemingly alone, but aware of something else. Perhaps this is her double, or perhaps it is a spirituality present between all human beings, including the audience.

Like The Red Shoes, The Double Life of Veronique can be seen as a rumination on the divisive forces of vocation and love life (and by extension, a simple, quiet life). The two women played by Irene Jacob: Weronika and Veronique, are perhaps two sides, or rather two possible outcomes, of the same person. Weronika forsakes her love life to aspire to the very limits of a singer’s potential. Her weakened heart, perhaps included because of Kieslowski's own heart condition, is representative of the choice between commitments: to a profession or to a love life. Veronique is the heads to Weronika’s tails, forgoing her potential as a great singer, choosing in the end not so much a love life, but rather yearning to regress to a simpler, childhood-like state.

There is a similar progression throughout Kieslowski's oeuvre, in which the filmmaker transitions to increasingly intimate and personal work. Beginning as a documentary filmmaker, his pieces from Poland are closely tied to the nation’s communist history. Kieslowski then began a transition to fiction because he felt he was using the people he documented and had no right to film such personal events. Throughout his fictions, we see a filmmaker more and more concerned with the internal, eventually turning his back completely on the politics that populated his earlier works. This progression reached its apex with The Double Life of Veronique, his most intimate work. This is almost a declaration from Kieslowski, as Weronika moves in the opposite direction of a political rally, completely unconcerned because she has just seen her double. The films of Three Colors: Blue, White, and Red present a kind of reversal to this, moving backwards from solitary freedom to an affirmation of fraternal love.

Has there ever been a film so intricately and intimately connected to its filmmaker? The film begins with Veronique as a child and ends with her returning to her father’s house: to the safety of the paternal hearth. When Kieslowski announced his retirement, perhaps he, like Veronique, wished to return to his childhood, or rather, a life of simplicity away from the chaos of filmmaking. Yet isn’t he also, like Weronika, an artist who pushed himself so far, that in the end he simply burned out way ahead of his time? There is little doubt that these two women represent Kieslowski's own internal struggles, yet he is suffused into virtually all the main characters here, from the papas of Irene Jacob to Alexandre.

It’s interesting that I chose to write about The Double Life of Veronique right after The Red Shoes. The films deal with the dichotomous pull between life and vocation, and both have a performance in the middle that reflects much of what the films are concerned with. “The Red Shoes” ballet is a more grand departure from the reality of the film it’s in, but the puppet show’s purpose in The Double Life of Veronique is, for me at least, twofold. It is first a reflection of the larger reality of film, with Alexandre as the puppeteer that, much like the film director, controls the movements of the characters in his play. It is also reflective of the yearning for the simplicity and safety of childhood.

What makes this such a personal film is that Kieslowski is inside so many characters. His life seems eerily connected to Veronique, but is he not also present as Alexandre? Alexandre’s influence on marionettes is extended to reality when he lures Veronique to him as if she’s merely a puppet being guided by his invisible wires. Kieslowski, too, is an unseen, yet ever present force guiding these character’s actions. Many of his films, with The Double Life of Veronique in particular, evoke the visual motif of glass. Kieslowski will distort the screen or create reflections as if inviting us to look at the world differently.

Glass, which is often a physical barrier (like in Playtime), isn't used that way here, I think. Kieslowski instead uses it as a connective, rather than divisive, force. It's as if he's emphasizing some invisible (or barely visible) connective thread. The love scene after Weronika's death is distorted by a crystal ball or fish eye lens, not only creating a surreal atmosphere, but perhaps reminding the viewer of the camera's presence. Or consider the shot below. Weronika approaches the window, as if regarding the camera itself. She then sees an old woman carrying groceries and offers to help. The commentary says Kieslowski included this because he was guilty, having made fun of the elderly in his youth. Perhaps, then, Kieslowski is asking for a second chance through the film medium, atoning for his mistakes and speaking through Irene Jacob with an offering of help rather than ridicule.

Veronique is hurt by Alexandre, feeling he subverted her emotions in wooing her not out of love, but out of profession. The film, in this sense, plays like a filmmaker’s confession, with Kieslowski torn by the intimacy of his profession. Like Alexandre, Kieslowski is perhaps saying that his role as director involves asking the actors to expose and make themselves vulnerable for the sake of the film. Alexandre’s motives may originate from an almost scientific pursuit in creating his fiction, but there is a moment when he recognizes both the harm his experiment has caused, as well as the human being he’s come to love (yet he'll still use her double life for his work, ultimately pushing her away). Kieslowski is perhaps not so much in love with Irene Jacob, but rather comes to the realization that the director-actor relationship (or any filmmaking relationship) cannot simply be a business pursuit where everyone has a contract and adheres to the stipulations thereof. There must be a kinship and empathy amongst the crew if the film is to thrive. In a sense, they must become a family: a singular unit working for the sake of the film (seen in Day for Night).

If we consider the puppet show in the context of the opening and closing passages of the film, there is, perhaps, a yearning to regress to a child-like state. The first scene shows Veronique and Weronika as children, being asked by their mothers to look at something in a new, different way. Children are capable of seeing the world in such a strange, upside-down perspective, and throughout the film, Veronique seems to be within this mindset. Much of the film is concerned with approaching the world from a new angle, with its kaleidoscope-like shots, upside-down images, gold and green exposures, distortions in the image, and subjective camera angles. The world of this film is, like the molten Earth, changing and malleable. The distortions suggest a universe that is tearing at the seams, not in any apocalyptic way, but in a manner that implies alternate realities we are given glimpses of like peering through a keyhole.

If we take the “double life” of Veronique as a musing on possibilities, then the two stories come to represent a kind of crystal ball. In the first, Weronika makes a choice that determines her demise. Perhaps, then, these events do not occur consecutively, but rather parallel to one another: not reflecting reality so much as the possible outcomes within reality. Veronique then becomes the alternative, shying away from her calling as a singer in exchange for love, but subsequently shying away from love as well and returning to her cinematic papa (the trunk of the family tree, so to speak). In thinking about the film this way, it becomes not so much like The Red Shoes, but almost a backwards coming of age tale, musing on a reversal of maturity.

The meaning of The Double Life of Veronique is fluid and changing. Nailing it down seems to make it all the more slippery, and there are so many approaches to such a strange, yet miraculous, piece of cinema. Kieslowski said this film is about things that cannot be named, or that doing so reduces it to something silly. In a sense, analyzing films is a bit silly, but thoughts should not be discouraged by Kieslowski's open-endedness. What results is a blossoming of interpretation. The work is almost unclassifiable. While so many films depend on plot as a krutch, The Double Life of Veronique could be argued as a more pure form of cinema, like a work of abstract filmmaking. The diverse number of essays on The Double Life of Veronique and the 20 some versions of the film Kieslowski prepared attest to a work that hearkens not to a concrete reality, but rather a fluid possibility.

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* I don't normally do this, but The Criterion Collection has put out an incredible DVD of The Double Life of Véronique which is probably my favorite from them. It is filled with insights that expand, rather than limit (as these things tend to do for me) my own interpretations of the film.

magnolia (1999)

spoilers.

director: paul thomas anderson

screenplay: paul thomas anderson

starring: jeremy blackman, tom cruise, melinda dillon, philip baker hall, philip seymour hoffman, ricky jay, william h. macy, alfred molina, julianne moore, john c. reilly, jason robards, and melora walters.

from the 2000 new line platinum series release.

Given my admiration for Short Cuts and Nashville, Paul Thomas Anderson's magnolia naturally appeals to me. Admittedly, I'm not a big fan of ensemble movies, and maybe half of the ones I like are directed by Robert Altman. I find the worst ones try to force in too many connections, and the result becomes a game trying to find out how their lives intersect, or worse yet, the film makes sweeping generalizations about these people (I'm looking at you, Paul Haggis!). Unlike Short Cuts, which I feel focuses more on social interactions, magnolia feels more intimate, more about seeing these characters' fortitude stripped away to reveal their humanity, their flaws, and their pain. Part of this may be the shooting style. Short Cuts almost never uses a close-up, while magnolia is filled with them.

Everyone's someone's son or daughter

The interplay between parents and children is a very relatable issue for me (and for most I would imagine). magnolia understands that the love between parents and children often fades, disintegrates, or just drifts apart. The lives in magnolia are insular and vary in mode of protection, whether it be Stanley and his books, Frank and his hyper-masculinity, or Claudia and drugs. Regardless, the universal thread is loneliness borne out of social pressures as well as familial ones. Ensemble movies seem ideal for showing people who, out of pain, wrap themselves in a cocoon. Another one would be the other Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums.

Frank's "Seduce and Destroy" program, admittedly, is extremely funny, but also filled with meaning. Roger Ebert brings up the question: Why does Frank hate women if his father was the one who abandoned him? I think this kind of misses the point. Frank's display of hypermasculinity isn't something that we can attribute to what's on screen, per se. I suspect that, after he had to take care of and lose his mother, Frank may have felt a need to compensate for the lack of a father figure. That he lashes out at women does not mean he hates them... it's a product of his masculinity. It's not too hard to imagine social pressures influencing his final behavior. But the movie doesn't give us answers, and the point is not to give conclusions to life (which is what the interviewer foolishly wants).

Another way of looking at it is that Frank is a man who wants control. His "Seduce and Destroy" program has all kinds of booklets, chapters, and mottos, which seems to be an attempt to garner control over something, anything really. In this case it happens to be trying to bed women. This desire for control undoubtedly stems from Frank's helplessness when tending to his dying mother. Yet, his claims for the "Seduce and Destroy" program are merely a coverup, and especially after the interview, you can see that powerlessness and frustration surface. The reporter has managed to strike a chord, and broken his persona. He has just heard his father is dying and who, no matter how much Frank may resent him, is still his father. As much as Frank hates to admit it, he knows he will regret it if he doesn't see his father before he dies. 

Regret, I think, is a huge part of magnolia. The bizarre raining frogs is a revelation, and while there's a biblical reference, I prefer to pare down the explanation to something more universal. I see the frogs as a wake-up call, jilting people out of their stupors to make them realize what's really valuable as well as make them see that they are passing up a great opportunity to do the right thing. It's as if the universe is slapping Jim in the face, telling him: Are you going to pass up a chance to help yourself and a woman who needs your support? Or telling Claudia and her mother: Come on, the same blood flows in your veins; don't let yourselves drift apart. Or telling Frank: Regardless of past resentments, he's your father and he's dying; it's really that simple. Or telling Donnie: You're not a kid anymore, grow up and take responsibility. Or telling Stanley: No, you don't have to have the answer to everything. I think the earthquake in Short Cuts has a similar purpose.

Performances

I think magnolia has some really raw performances, and Philip Seymour Hoffman I found really likable here. His Phil allows himself to connect emotionally with Earl, a dying man who he has only known by profession. I can't say I found his character particularly profound, but it's nice to see compassion in someone's job. Plus, if you don't find him both loving and funny at the same time, I don't know what to tell you. 

I'd say magnolia's the best I've seen Tom Cruise, in the way he allows facade to be torn down. On a side note: I'm not too thrilled with the constant Cruise-bashing that goes on. It's ridiculous that a star like that has to be slated by the media and the public, at the cost of his talent. People love to drag stars through the mud, as if it elevates them. Just leave them alone, admire their work, and only their work. Simple. 

Other than Cruise, who I think really peels back his persona to reveal how conflicted he is, I really admire Julianne Moore, who plays a smaller part than I would have liked.

Moore said she's best playing the more reserved roles, where she underplays emotion. I'd posit that when her emotions flood over her, as they do often in magnolia, it's to her strength and it's quite compelling. She has the same helplessness that Frank had. She knows she can't do anything except ease the pain (which in and of itself is difficult), and she finds herself unable to control her own emotions. I see the same thing with Frank. When he's by his father's bedside, you can see this inner turmoil erupt. He is torn between love and resentment, and the helplessness he had over his mother is returning with his father. Moreover, he knows that all those years can't be recaptured. This is the best he can do.

Regret

This regret plays out in virtually all the characters, and it's seen in Earl's astonishing monologue. What magnolia does at several points is to quickly cut to every major character, frequently to draw a thread through all of them and bring an emotional connection that binds them together. When Earl is lamenting about the overwhelming regret, saying over and over again: "What did I do? What did I do? What did I do..." we see all the characters. All of them are at a crossroads, where if they take the easier road, they will regret it the rest of their lives. 

Grow Up

For me, the most apparent dichotomy in the movie is between Quiz Kid Donnie Smith and Stanley. While there's the implication that they share similar fates, it's never quite hit over the head. If anything, I would think they have divergent paths, since Stanley is the one who breaks free from the zoo of conventions the adults have set up. His position is something that, I'm sure, everybody can identify with on some level. Even if it's not a parent, there are always social pressures forcing us into roles we may not want. When I see Stanley wet his pants, it's incredibly visceral... you can feel his embarrassment, probably because it's something we've all felt at some point. magnolia is so good at making us understand and care what these characters feel, maybe because it taps into very identifiable dilemmas. Exposure is something dealt with over and over in the movie, and real life for that matter.

Stanley confronts his father, telling him he needs to be nicer, but as in life, there are never any definite answers or conclusions. Thankfully, the movie wisely sidesteps giving us a definitive answer to life.

It's important, regardless of consequence, that Stanley spoke out against the adults because it's the action that has signified his maturation, which is something that Donnie Smith seems to lack. Stanley's failure to reach Quiz Kid Donnie Smith's record has, in fact, allowed him to mature. Donnie, by comparison, is childish and believes that a silly thing like braces will help Brad fall in love with him. He's caught in a perpetually pre-adolescent phase in which he believes reciprocation of love is created through silly middle school notions. 

William H. Macy has a tricky role to play, since he kind of has to be a sideshow. It would be very easy to dismiss him, but I feel his character is perhaps the most tragic of them all. Donnie is a product of adults parading their children around like freaks. That shot of him in the pitiful little kitchen with his giant check, light of his life, hanging on the wall, makes his whole life seem empty and wasted. His pleas for attention at the bar, like talking about getting struck by lightning, are pitiful and remind me of the kind of thing people did in middle school when they had a school crush.

I think Donnie isn't a hopeless figure, per se, but it is kind of disheartening that a man his age would still act like a child. I think Stanley and Donnie, by the end, have matured and come to realize that life doesn't have easy answers. Stanley finds that he doesn't have to know or explain everything, nor will he find it easy to change his father. Donnie learns that getting the man he loves isn't as simple as getting braces or inspiring pity, but is sometimes impossible.

What Do Kids/We Know?

Jimmy Gator, the host of "What Do Kids Know?" and shining influence, good or bad, on Donnie and Stanley's lives, has an interesting part that I almost ignored the first time I saw magnolia. Interestingly, when I first saw him, I immediately thought of Network. His performance seems to have a little Peter Finch in it, but maybe more William Holden. Funny enough, the features on the disc show PTA screening Network, so I guess he was successful in channeling that.

The connection between him and Earl is something I completely missed the first go around, but now seems all too clear. It seems Jimmy Gator is an earlier version of Earl. When we hear Earl talking about his regret with never telling his wife Lily that he cheated, we see Jimmy Gator at home, clearly sick and suffering from cancer. His wife lovingly attends to him, and it's not too hard to see Jimmy and Rose as a younger Earl and Lily. In this life, however, Jimmy does admit his adultery, perhaps giving Earl some spiritual closure through the ether. 

Rose is understanding of her husband's adultery, but she's enraged that Jimmy could've molested their daughter, Claudia. Jimmy and Earl's relationships with their children are very similar as well. Both estranged, they both have, in their children's eyes, caused great harm. Whether Jimmy did molest Claudia or not is immaterial. What matters is that she thinks so. This has caused their estrangement, and while their circumstances may be different, the film is able to draw another thread between Jimmy and Claudia, and Earl and Frank. 

One thing about magnolia is that it's impossible to pigeonhole. It's tragic, but the humor tips the scales back into balance. I don't like the term "drama" because I don't really consider drama to be a genre. It feels like it's the leftover bin everything else is thrown into. Categorizing this sort of movie isn't really that important, and if it's unclassifiable, then so be it.

If magnolia is part tragedy and part comedy, then it's also part romance.

The relationship between Jim and Claudia is necessary, and it is the storyline that marks the beginning and ending of the main bushel of narratives. Hence, it's important to see that, in spite of Jim and Claudia's complete differences, they both need each other. They're like two puzzle pieces, opposite in form but perfect in complement. 

When we first see Claudia, she is a mess. She sleeps around, takes an innumerable amount of cocaine, and seems to hide behind her curtains, which always seem to fall down in a blinding epiphany of light. She is, perhaps, the most physically reclusive of the characters, drawn into the apartment that becomes her world. It's both a sanctuary and a prison, and she exists in a stasis.

Jim is equally lonely, with a life consisting of waking up, going to work, then coming back home. He talks to himself, as if trying to affirm his place in the world. He provides Claudia with second chance, and when he asks her out, she accepts, forcibly and almost desperately. 

There are redemptions, and if there is a "message" to the film, it may be that. Certainly, the relationship between Claudia and Jim carries that theme, but I don't think it's as simple as redemption alone. Claudia's drug abuse is a reciprocation of what she believes her father did to her, yet again, the film doesn't give us easy answers (if psychoanalysis was the answer, we'd all read Freud instead of questioning movies). But because she thinks that, it makes the drug abuse an attempt at remedying her painful memories. This is, in my mind, no different (or blameworthy) than Linda's desires to remedy her pain (and if she thinks her father did that then, well, that's enough)... it is human to err, even if we're not sure what we've done wrong. I don't think about it as "redemption" so much as consolation by reciprocation... Jim and Claudia are both lonely for different reasons. But what matters is their loneliness, not where it comes from (again, proving that providing answers for everything is beside the point).

magnolia is not solely about parents and children, even if it's a common thread. Moreover, I think it's about the physical and mental insulations we create in an effort to hide from reality and our pain. It's loneliness that resonates strongly with me, and it's something that magnolia nails.

That magnolia does not confine itself to the parent/child drama is ambitious, but in no way pretentious. It never hits anything over the head so much as gives us little winks. The film itself doesn't give us answers but allows us to form our own conclusions, which is why it's a movie that can be seen over and over. It doesn't feel answers are the point, but rather believes that the act of observation is enough. Answers and the much dreaded moral-at-the-end-of-the-story generally feel forced (if a movie had the answer to life's questions, we wouldn't need any more) which is why Slumdog Millionaire as a drama doesn't work (and again, I bring that movie up). The advantage of an ensemble piece is that each character can reach a different conclusion and represent a different facet of life, which magnolia does in spades.

The Iron Giant (1999)

There are spoilers.

Director: Brad Bird

Screenplay: Tim McCanlies

Story by: Ted Hughes

Starring the voices of: Jennifer Aniston, Harry Connick, Jr., Vin Diesel, James Gammon, John Mahoney, Eli Marienthal, Christopher McDonald, and M. Emmet Walsh.

Images from the 2004 WHV release.

There are few films that are for children (and maybe adults) that I actually like. Fewer still that can be universally appealing while still rising above the level of entertainment with something valuable to say. The Iron Giant, I think, accomplishes this with gusto, and has a strong flare for visual storytelling while having dialogue that enhances its overall aesthetic. Even though it's animated, I feel the film hearkens to an inner truth better than many live action films, and in doing so, achieves a kind of poetic realism. The movie is not only an exhilarating experience, but also serves as a contemplation on youth, imagination, violence, and trust. 

The film is often compared with E.T.: The Extraterrestrial, and while I've enjoyed E.T., I'd rather sit down with The Iron Giant. Perhaps it's the pining sense of nostalgia throughout the film that gives it an aesthetic. For me, E.T. feels a bit dated and like a product of its time whereas The Iron Giant feels like it will be more timeless and universal. The film takes place in the middle of the Cold War, when national paranoia reached its zenith and the threat of nuclear war lurked in everyone's minds. 

The movie is about a young boy named Hogarth Hughes living with his mother, Annie who befriends the eponymous iron giant. Hogarth is like any other boy you find in a family movie, with a sense of adventure and inventive discovery that people seem to lose as they age. It's interesting that the film is set in the 1950s, and because of that, it becomes a nostalgic retrospective. 

Perhaps it's just me, but I feel that nowadays, we are growing up faster than ever. It's as if children can't wait to grow up, start driving, and move out of their hometown. Yet, I feel as if our minds were by far at their peak dynamism when we were children. I remember when a simple couch was more than just something to sit on. It could become a space ship, a sail boat, or whatever I wished. Now (and I feel like an old codger for saying this), I look at a couch, and I see... a couch. Part of me wishes I could recapture that imagination because let's face it, I have the rest of my life to look at couches. 

It's through this nostalgia that The Iron Giant looks back at the 1950s, and hearkens back to diners where everything seemed so much more communal.

What strikes me about The Iron Giant is how economical it is, both in telling a story as well as exploring its ideas. Almost within the first ten minutes, we already know our principal characters and we learn that Hogarth is an only child and that his mother is raising him alone (chiefly through a telephone call where Annie tells Hogarth she will be working late and that he isn't allowed to stay up). That nothing is stated explicitly about the absence of a father (or siblings) proves just how eloquent the film is at telling its story cinematically, not literally or verbally. The competence of the storytelling is deceptively simple, and I've seen many movies that fail in this regard. 

Not to mention it has genuinely funny moments that are neither Family Circus cutesy nor in need of resorting to vulgarisms. Like when Hogarth's "pet" squirrel has crawled up Dean's leg and mayhem quickly ensues throughout the diner. The shot of Dean's expression when meeting Annie while trying not to wig out is priceless, and the delivery by the actors hilarious.

The economics of The Iron Giant allow for scenes that do a lot of work in addition to drawing parallels between other scenes. For instance, Annie tells Hogarth he cannot watch scary movies and must be in bed by 8 o'clock. An instant later, we see him stuffing Twinkie's with whipped cream and watching a campy movie involving a killer brain. This helps to establish Hogarth like any other boy, and he becomes more relatable because let's face it, how many times did you stay up late watching movies when your parents told you not to?

The kicker to this scene is that it forms a dichotomy with Hogarth's own experience with a supernatural life form. We see that just like the man in the movie, Hogarth enters the dark to uncertain danger. The difference, however, is that whereas the killer brain is a fleshed out embodiment of heartless intelligence, the iron giant is an intelligent, metallic being with a heart. 

I suppose an argument could be made that the scenes work to contrast television vs. imagination (ah, the age old battle!) and suggest that television works to dehumanize and desensitize us, whereas imagination allows us to cultivate a more dynamic perspective and a deeper respect for life, as well as reject our prejudices and our expectations.

It seems like we could solve a lot of world problems and absolve a lot of differences if people had the innocence and imagination of a child. The movie clearly expresses this notion, and it is Hogarth that recognizes there is a person within the metal exterior of the giant. An adult would look at the electrocuted giant and "rationally" stay away from potential dangers. 

I've said it before, but for a movie to express certain ideas well, contrast is best. The Iron Giant tells us visually that the ability to believe in the fantastical lies mostly in children, whereas adults have their backs to these notions of the supernatural:

The backlighting here is not simply the usual device to divide "good" and "evil" because I don't feel anyone in the film is evil incarnate. A few corrupt souls, perhaps, but they are satirized more than the simplistic standpoint most children's movies usually take, which is to have "good" guys and "bad" guys. 

Speaking of satire, one thing the film does very well is to subvert the prejudices established during the Cold War (and prejudice in general). The film is set in the ideal atmosphere for its insinuations, and I don't believe there is a single non-white person in the film (except the giant). 

Just as Dr. Strangelove pinpointed the potential for nuclear holocaust at the hands of a bunch of middle-aged men, The Iron Giant examines these prejudices through a satirical eye. The scene in Hogarth's classroom consists of what's essentially a propaganda film, with the asinine idea of "duck-and-cover." There is a hilarious shot where a cartoon atomic bomb blows up the school and the girl who has hid under her desk is safe within a crater of destruction all around. Yeah, those must've been some solid desks.

What makes this scene really work is the conversation amongst the boys, who clearly carry a prejudice of "foreigners," saying the giant was probably a weapon from another country. The word "foreign" in the film carries with it a negative connotation, and I feel their parents and their schools are the ones responsible for teaching this attitude. In that sense, Hogarth becomes emblematic of tolerance and understanding, and maybe it means something that he doesn't have a father in the movie. 

One of the conscious decisions by the director, Brad Bird, was to film in a Cinemascope format. The extra widescreen offers interesting compositions of the giant, who is only shown in parts, or at a great distance. Perhaps my favorite shots are the ones where we see the giant from afar because they put him in the context of his environment. Like the very first screenshot I showed, the giant looks ironically natural as he revels in the beauty of fall colors.

A scene I like a lot is where Hogarth is rambling about his discovery of the giant, because it shows a wisdom beyond his years.

One of the lines I dig is where he says: 

"This is the greatest discovery since... television or something!"

because in one sense, it shows his naivete and this gives him a kind of innocence. However, the movie shows these characters being much more complex than those in many other children's movies, because Hogarth immediately understands that "people aren't ready for [the giant]." In spite of his age, he anticipates the violent gut reaction from adults. In this sense, children have a wisdom that cannot be defined conventionally by the number of years they have. Or rather, it's more of an intuitive wisdom as opposed to a wisdom that comes from experience. 

In looking at the giant, it becomes clear that the movie consistently poses the question of what a person is and comes to the conclusion that a person is defined by their inner self. Perhaps this is a cliche message, but does that dilute its importance? If anything, I think this idea is more relevant today than ever. The evolution of the relationship between Hogarth and the giant is interesting. In the beginning, it's almost like that between a boy and his dog:

"You stay, I go. No following."

And as the movie progresses, their relationship grows in complexity. I like to think that their friendship transcends the boundaries of human-dog or human-human interaction and becomes an amalgam of the very best aspects of each.

One of the more explicit morals of the film is that: "You are who you choose to be." I think the scene where Hogarth shows the giant his comic books is integral in this respect. Comic books, while the adults may scoff, contain many of the morals of more canonical fables, yet their appeal to kids can allow their messages to resonate more strongly. Hogarth likens the giant to Superman and eschews the giant's gravitation toward Atomo: The Metal Menace because he sees past the superficial similarities and sees good in the giant.

It's interesting to see how relatable and likable the giant is, and I think his simplistic features have something to do with it. The emphasis on the eyes and face is important, but also his behavior helps flesh out his humanity, like when he is trying to fit the railroad tracks together just perfect as train is barreling toward them:

One of the neatest (and most meaningful) things the giant can do is fix himself. 

Perhaps the main reason this image is so powerful is what it represents in the context of the giant's function and his desire for peace (taught to him by Hogarth). From a technical standpoint, that function is to be a retaliatory weapon that is triggered when the giant is attacked:

Note how impersonal he becomes. Throughout cartoon history (I think), animators have realized that obscuring the face automatically depersonalizes the subject. What the giant comes to represent on one level is the idea that violence begets violence. Herein lies one interpretation of the giant's ability to regenerate. That is, violence is cyclic. 

Another way of looking at his regenerative abilities is that he is emblematic of the desire for peace and that the giant is allegorical of the cycles of war and peace throughout humanity. There is a saying (and I don't know who said it first, but I learned about it from The Simpsons) that:

"To make peace, we must prepare for war."

In an ideal world, war would not exist. But I do not believe every war (with some reservations) is unjustified, or at least avoidable. In this respect, even those that strive for peace must be willing to accept war as a utilitarian means of achieving peace in the long run. The giant completely embodies this ideal, in part because of what he learns from Hogarth. Like humanity, the giant does resort to violence, even if it's against his better judgment.

What war does most unfortunately is foster the idea of "shoot first, ask questions later."

When one side shoots, the other shoots back and nothing new is learned. The difficulty is to break this cycle, and it is something that needs a conscious effort from both parties. 

As I've said before, The Iron Giant has a satirical brilliance to it, perhaps best expressed through Kent Mansley, a government agent sent to investigate the giant. Christopher McDonald's voice is really perfect for Mansley because it has a heavy sense of sarcasm and sleaze ball character that McDonald is known for playing. It cracks me up every time I see him mocking Hogarth's name:

He becomes the brunt of much of the movie's attacks on the bigoted untrusting government official, and it's apparent that the film labels people like him as the catalyst and harbinger of violence (even it he's not the one doing the shooting). For instance, we see him in the dark room developing photographs of Hogarth and the giant. Later in the film, this atmosphere is echoed through the Nautilus nuclear submarine, which launches the nuclear missile (ordered by Mansley, of course).

Mansley's name alone should be a dead giveaway. The movie does seem to take a few pages out of Dr. Strangelove's book, and the idea that violence inevitably has masculine origins is a well explored, but nevertheless fascinating theme for study. I don't believe the movie is as cynical as Strangelove, but carries with it a small glimmer of hope.

The hope is a trust in humanity, and the idea of trust is one of the paramount messages of the film. The trust between the giant and Hogarth stems from intuition more so than experience, and if you think about it, it does fly in the face of "rationality." The trust he and Hogarth have is perhaps tested to its limit when he unintentionally attacks Hogarth after bring triggered by a toy gun. 

It's at this moment that Dean's adult rationalities reject the giant. It's like finding out your dog has rabies (Old Yeller, anyone?) and you no longer want anything to do with him. The giant is, after all, a metallic creature which would seem to automatically dehumanize him. And yet, he expresses an incredible sense of emotion as well as empathy for other living beings. He feels real sorrow at the death of a deer, perhaps because it was a senseless death. And he feels real sadness and anger over the harm that has come to his friend.

Perhaps the most trust-affirming image is when Hogarth believes in the humanity of the giant at his most violent state. 

It is this act that completes the belief that those who commit the actual violence are still human and can still choose to throw aside their weapons. Even the general seems to be humbled by the end, and I don't think he's a morally reprehensible person. Perhaps he has misguided prejudices, but that is more of an inheritance of the system he lives and works in than of his own construct. It seems that the person most responsible for the violence is the one that, more often than not, is the one most removed from it. This notion was thoroughly explored in Paths of Glory, and in The Iron Giant, Mansley becomes the Iago-like character.

Ultimately, the film affirms the idea of choice. That is, even if we are born with prejudices and were raised on them by the society we grew up in, we have the choice to reject them.

The Iron Giant is an exceptional film, in part because it is told with uncommon intelligence and also because I would show it to anyone. The film, I think, has garnered a strong fan base, and I suspect it will become one of the most enduring animated films in years to come. 

I think the ultimate message of the film is that life is a learning process, and from the ruins of our mistakes, we must rebuild ourselves and try yet again. Perhaps it is inevitable that violence will ensue, but by learning from what went wrong, we can strive for peace, and maybe someday we will reach it.