Frezno's Criterion Challenge: February 2023 Trip Report

(TW: animal abuse, discussions of bigotry)

Welcome back to this thing! There's always a gap between when I write these and when you read them, but for this particular project it's bigger than usual. Whereas you get to see it at the end of the month, I'm here in the first week of February and I've only seen one of the films you're going to read about. It's a doozy, though, and I have some other thematic interesting films planned given the month, trying to match the general tone and ethos that is February. Before all of that, though, the continuation of the journey. When we ended January, we intersected with my journey into the ethereal realms of David Lynch with Eraserhead. We open February by continuing to do that, with...

5. Lost Highway (1997, dir. David Lynch)

Now that's a David Lynch film, is what a version of myself from a few years ago would say. That version of myself took their first real step into the world of David Lynch when their friend bought them a Blu-Ray copy of Lynch's 2001 film, Mulholland Drive. It had some bold ideas and strange things in it that baffled the me back then, but I still enjoyed the watch. I'm looking forward to rewatching it on this journey. Lost Highway, then, feels like an earlier draft of those bold ideas and strange things. It's fitting I see the movies out of order like that, in a way, considering the often-remarked observation that Lost Highway is a narrative Moebius strip, a film with no clear beginning or end that loops back around on itself, but not quite as a flat circle.

The odd disjointed ideas of dream and reality, and the duality of the self, are all present here. In this nonlinear madcap dream world, dripping with sex and violence and guilt, there must be something to grasp onto. That something will be something different for everyone who views the film, and I'm no exception. I only have to make enough sense out of it to make these words coherent, and I can do that. What I got from Lost Highway was another duality, the duality of memory vs. record. Bill Pullman's character doesn't like the idea of being recorded, being canonized, and prefers to remember things how he chooses to remember them. This can go some way to explaining the contradictory strange nature of the world of the film, as well as the veiled threat early on of Pullman and his wife being recorded by a mystery man. The perspective shifts very quickly, to a world that's similar but different. 

It hardly tracks with the perspective we were seeing before, and that's the point. This is how Pullman is choosing to remember it. Despite this being a motion picture, and thus assumed to be a part of that canonized record, the film rejects this. Pullman and Lynch reject this, and let the movie become a hazy mist of memory that's allowed to contradict and fold in on itself, a never-ending and eternal oddity that doesn't exist to have one interpretation. It's a fascinating thing to see, and one that forces you to grapple with it. I enjoyed it, though admittedly not as much as other Lynch films: I still can't get Fire Walk With Me out of my head, and hopefully by the time you read this I will have talked about why. (INTRUSION FROM THE FUTURE: You bet your ass I have. ) I'm excited to revisit Mulholland Drive on my own time, but for the purposes of the challenge this is where we bid farewell to Mr. Lynch. I'll see you again, in Twin Peaks, David. I'll see you all again, just down below, in our next film.

6. Tongues Untied (1989, dir. Marlon Riggs)

With February being Black History Month, and there being a few categories in this challenge focusing on black filmmakers, it only seemed obvious to do a few of them here and now while it's timely. There's an entire category dedicated to the filmography of the late Marlon Riggs, but frustratingly none of it was able to be streamed on the Criterion Channel. My original choice was thus unable to be found, and so I eventually found this film through some searching. Griping aside, this actually worked out well because Tongues Untied is an awe-inspiring piece of cinema. In a mad way, it's the perfect blend of two things which have inspired me in this challenge so far: the way Orson Welles turned the documentary on its head, and the way David Lynch makes vibes-based films.

Comparing Marlon Riggs to either of those men doesn't come close to explaining how thought-provoking this film is. Marlon Riggs was a gay black man, and those facets of his identity are all over the film. There is a great pride, a confident statement on film of who he is and what he loves. That's the thesis of the film, and it's right there in the title: untying your tongue and refusing to stay silent in the face of prejudice and intolerance. That prejudice and intolerance is shown, both in spoken-word poetry about the real-life slurs hurled at Riggs in his childhood and in media at large. Riggs cuts between an Eddie Murphy stand-up routine where Murphy repeatedly uses the F-slur to himself, staring stone-faced but clearly hurt. These are just some of the struggles a gay black man in the late 1980s had to face, and Riggs refuses to stay silent and endure them. One of the most moving bits of editing is cutting between black men marching at a parade, out and proud and holding a banner... and those brave black people marching for the civil rights movement, just 20 years prior. They refused to be silenced, and so too do Riggs's peers.

Of course, we can't overlook the ultimate silencer: death. Riggs was painfully aware of the profound loss in his community as a result of AIDS, and a portion of the film flashes through the obituaries of black men who died from the disease. Riggs himself would lose his life to the disease just five years after this film was made, but it persists onward. Death silenced Marlon Riggs, but film ensured his voice would be eternal. He, and the other men in this picture who refused to stay silent, have their tongues untied forever. I think that's quite lovely, and even though I'm a privileged as fuck white person, I can still admire the bravery and confidence that this film holds to this day. Rest in power, Marlon Riggs. Thank you for the film.

7. Space Is The Place (1974, dir. John Coney)

Well, that was a film of some sort. I think I've gotten too comfortable with David Lynch weirdness, because as weird as it is he has a brand I recognize by now. So, when we have this film with its own brand of gonzo oddity, I'm caught completely off guard by it. Space Is The Place is a strange film, but that strangeness is a strength at times. What we have here is an avant-garde Afrofuturist film with heavy New Age influence, an Age Of Aquarius for the modern black person of 1974. An enlightened black man from outer space named Sun Ra, promising to create a utopia in space for all the disenfranchised black men and women of 1974, connecting their hearts and souls and spreading his message through the power of music. All of this while he simultaneously plays cards with his nemesis, another black man with power and influence with a little bit of pimp and player in him, battling for the utopic fate of their fellow black people. 

That's a lot, and it's very strange in the way it's presented... but a large part of me can appreciate what the film is doing. I mean, come on. Creating utopia and harmony through the power of music? An avid reader of this blog will know that I lost my mind for that kind of shit between 2020 and 2021. Even if I'm white and thus not a part of the utopia Sun Ra is trying to build, I can appreciate the sentiment. At the end of the day, the movie really isn't made for me, and that's perfectly fine. With my privilege I've got a shitload of art that's made for me. I went into this to see a fresh perspective, and I did. Did it work? Not entirely. Another major influence on the movie appears to be blaxploitation, and at times that lens becomes painful to look through. There are certain problematic elements at play that made me uncomfortable, but again... I'm white and 50 years removed from the film. It's fine if I'm at a disconnect with it. 

Either way, I can really admire the energy of the movie. Sun Ra and his band are trying to create an afrofuturist utopia with the power of song, and at the end of the day I can't help but nod along to that and enjoy the music. Otherwise, I really don't know about this one and that's fine. Sun Ra is, like Marlon Riggs, another black creator who is no longer with us. Like Marlon Riggs, his strange little film about black utopia will endure forever thanks to the immortality of film. Not bad, I say. Not bad.

8. White Dog (1982, dir. Samuel Fuller)

And so we close the month by plummeting from the highs of utopia to the grim and grisly reality of prejudice and bigotry in the modern world. I like to use the alliterative phrase "harrowing and haunting" when it comes to bleak movies that leave an effect on my internal landscape, but it's fitting. White Dog is a tragic film, but in its tragedy is an admirable story about fighting against the worst impulses and prejudices of this world with empathy, determined to stamp out such things. The film lulls you into empathizing with its titular white dog, an adorable and expressive pup taken in by a struggling actor. We like the dog, especially after it fends off a home intruder to help its new owner. Then the other show drops. This dog isn't just a white dog, it's a White Dog. The dog has been trained and indoctrinated to viciously attack any black person it sees. Just about everyone else in the film thinks this dog is a monster that should be put down. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, as they say. 

Both the owner and a black animal trainer who's played by Paul Winfield (in the best film to come out in 1982 with Paul Winfield in it) think otherwise. So, the movie is about Paul Winfield trying to teach this dog not to attack black people on sight. It's a film which sparks a lot of philosophical thought in me, about ingrained bigotry and trying to unteach that. As people we have a certain intelligence and we're perfectly capable of breaking out of our own prejudices, with the right environment for self-reflection and looking at the world. The poor dog in this movie has been abused all its life to be given an almost Pavlovian response. The dog can't unlearn this on its own. It's just a dog, but it's also a symbol to Winfield in the film for breaking the chains of bigotry... and it's not an easy thing to do. It would be easier just to put the dog to sleep and be done with it... but it would be kinder and fairer to the dog to show it that better things are possible.

The scene that haunts me is in the typical second act low point, where the dog gets loose and sadly slides back into its Pavlovian pattern. The dog kills, and Paul Winfield is left to discover the body. We never see the grisly result, but we see Paul Winfield looking down and weeping openly and it's enough. You don't need to be lurid. That's the important thing to see, is Paul Winfield's tragic reaction. The end of the film is sufficiently tragic as well. I won't spoil it here, but it's simultaneously inevitable and bleak while showcasing who the real antagonist of the piece; both literally and as an allegory. It's not a comfortable watch by any means, and though it's a grim tale it's a reminder that one must be vigilant to fight against bigotry in all its forms. If a white dog can come back from the brink and unlearn bigotry, there's no reason why a person can't. That was a bit of a downer to end February on, I know. We'll have to start March with a more upbeat film. 

Let's see if I have one of those in my collection of stepping stones.