Reviews

Our leadsman in Ikiru, Kanji Watanabe, is an older, exhaustive looking man caught up in the rat race of everyday, robotic living. Exuberance stripped, joy absent, utterly banal. It is only when he learns he's contracted an incurable stomach cancer that he begins to suffer from an existential crisis, plagued by frustration and the dread of approaching death. His language becomes almost ineffable, his soul harrowed up with an array of unwanted emotions, his memory elusive and soon to "vanish away." Realizing his life is near expired and with no significant contributions etched into the hallmark of the living, something inside him changes; the instinctive will "to live" overwhelms him. As the disenchanted novelist he meets puts it, "We don't realize how beautiful (or precious) life is until we chance upon death." The words resonate in Watanabe's mind. He seems to understand Sartre's credo, "Death must enter life only to define it." Suddenly, he fearfully and frantically yearns to define his life, overcome the petty existence he's wasted and atone for the quality of life and gratification he's lost, thus rendering death ineffectual. It is a message not only for Watanabe, but for all of humanity—to live the cosmic wow right now without reserve or fear of death.

The difficulty Watanabe faces, however, is that the person he's shaped and ultimately become is without adequate faith and determination to face the future. Not only is he ill-prepared to be ordained with vitality, he is without dreams, goals and direction on where to foster his newborn energy to live. It would be likened unto a small child wanting to drive his father's brand new dodge viper yet without the necessary skill, maturity and knowledge needed to operate such a heavy piece of machinery. Watanabe is no different. He only knows that he desires a second chance at life—a life lived to its utmost potential. Clinging to this desire for positive self-transformation, he begins his newly awakened journey by touring the fleshpots of Tokyo, seeking joy through transient means: nightclubs, girls, liquor and other places of revelry. None of these places seem to bring about the type of life he's looking for. He moves on. He tries to make retirement arrangements with his much adorned son who ironically misperceives him. He fails.

He then endeavors to capture the secret to living life from his dainty female colleague who appears to have it all: zest, humor, vitality, etc. The secret, he discovers, is not grandiose but utterly simplistic—she enjoys making wind-up bunny rabbits for "the children of Japan." It's a timely message to understand because it shows that the great and grand secret to living life is found where most would have it not be found. There is no secret. According to the film's subtext, "to live" a life most fruitful is to be found in a collection of seemingly insignificant moments: laughter between two friends, a chocolate ice-cream cone, a gathering at the theater, the smile of a lover, etc. Watanabe, like all of us, is learning to extract the extraordinary from the ordinary. And slowly but surely, he is.

At the close of his journey, he turns his search for life's meaning to a civil service project buried deep under bureaucratic red tape, each member of his department having passed the buck from one office to the next. He personally takes it upon himself to see the project through—to turn a sewage gauntlet into an established play park for children. Though the end product isn't revolutionary, it is Watanabe's last chance for redeeming all of those years of self-absorption, self-loathing and regret. It is his last charitable contribution to life's hallmark academy, be it ever so small; that final part of his positive self-transformation. When he finally dies, the impact it makes parallels the proverb "our work is never appreciated until we are dead." Likewise, people are usually never venerated until they pass on. There is something deeply mystifying about death's impact on the human consciousness that causes it to understand not its own depth until the hour of separation. The film is remarkable in this way in that it creates a hoped for paradigm shift in the viewer, showing the precariousness and evanescence of life. Life, to be fully appreciated, must be threatened with death intermediately throughout and finally absorbed completely in the end. As the poet Tweedy observed, "You have to learn how to die—if you want to be alive." Kurosawa makes an astute commentary on the culture and values of bureaucracies, how we are all to some degree mini-bureaucrats caught up in the cyclical nature of zoning out, taking life for granted, and becoming programmed automatons who seek nothing but self-preservation and creature comforts. Life for Kurosawa is not to be lived by hiding in the seas of faces, hoping to be unobserved, but by making something of one's self, taking healthy risks, living Socrates' "life examined" and recognizing the small and simple things that make life worth defending. The secret to life is the recognition of the simple, the ordinary, the plain and mundane. It is that recognition that creates a sort of exuberance in the traveler's life—one that follows in existentialist shadows and gains genuine and authentic meaning by one's active level of participation in it.

The long anticipated, ultra-violent spaghetti western riddled with WWII iconography is Tarantino's homage to the alleged Jewish fantasy: sadistically bludgeoning the Arian, Nazi race. We follow two savage forces—the Basterds and Shosanna—each who make separate attempts to destroy Hitler and his band of carnal cronies, thereby ending the war.

Made with reminiscent traces of The Great Escape & The Dirty Dozen, not to mention the peppered cruelty of Hostel or any other torturous Eli Roth picture, Inglourious Basterds is a marvelously skewed alternative to how WWII should have ended, rather than how it actually did end. When it was over, I sat in the theater feeling sterile. Fruit could not be produced.

In typical Tarantino form, the film was broken into five headlined chapters, was terribly verbose yet possessed witty dialogue on occasion, masked its bloody and grotesque content in beautiful aesthetics, flowered a pastiche of anachronistic musical melodies, and brought forth extremely rich & compelling character developments—all of which were mesmerizing. Christoph Waltz, in particular, gave a truly haunting performance, the best Nazi portrayal I've ever seen and one in whom I hope wins multiple awards. Brad Pitt was just goofy, nothing special, but Waltz was downright sinister—a manipulatively charismatic Nazi general who toyed with every character's (including the audience's) emotions. Every time he was present on screen, I felt fully secure in the holy moment, or rather the devilish moment.

Similar to the sword picture homage he gave in the Kill Bill series, I.B. reflects Tarantino's obscure reverence towards WWII and the cinema-going experience in general. The film in many instances reveals Tarantino's love of celluloid, as suggested through the multiple Noir, French New Wave, Neo-Realistic and Spaghetti Western nuances. The man has a pervasive education in film history and it greatly heightens the quality of his work—that much I give him. However, as much as the film was provocative and cutting-edge devilry, there was something deeply disturbing about it.

The audience, as I'm sure Tarantino intended, was laughing hysterically at all of the blood-spattered carnage displayed implacably before them: whether it was the scalping of Nazi's, the irrevocable and torturous image of Eli Roth bashing a Nazi's head to pieces, or the slitting of throats or machine-gun riddled faces. It was just sick, twisted. Even Tarantino seemed to get the last laugh via his femme fatale laughing head as she watched the theater hall filled with Nazis burn ironically proxy for the Jews. "Payback is a bitch," he seemed to subtextually scream.

Though I never laughed once, I was just as guilty as they were, for I well knew what I had paid to see. And when you pick up a snake asking it not to bite, you are denying the law of causation; you desire the identities of particular entities to disobey their innate natures and conform instead to your anarchic, destructive wishes. Well, in that sense, the film was a good social experiment. It taught a valuable principle of what it feels like to lose hope and faith in humanity, and as deputy, indulge in the "super-cool," pretty packaged pockets of sadism. I was hoping, though, that one of the characters would be redeemed, rather than have to sit through 2 ½ hours of the "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" philosophy.

Central Station is a touching story about two strangers from different walks of life who journey through the dustbowl of Rio de Janeiro to find that they have more in common with each other than they initially realized. Dora is an elderly, retired school teacher who's never been married and is jaded towards most people. She sort of has a Travis Bickle mentality—believes most people are "trash" and that it's her job to clean things up. She demonstrates this by refusing to mail the letters she writes for the illiterate populace of Brazil, saying that it would only "worsen" things if such people actually received these letters. Josue is an intuitive and sly 10-year old boy without a mother who's in search of his father who left him years ago. He sees right through Dora's depraved behavior and calls her out on it. Together, the two take a journey into the heart of Brazil in search of Josue's father.

The significance of their journey applies to the common bond between them. They both suffer from loss. Dora's loss is manifold: her lost opportunities to marry and have children, the loss of her feeling beautiful, the loss of her enthusiasm for life, etc. Josue's loss is two-fold: the loss of his mother after her accidental death, and the loss of his father, Jesus, who left him years ago. Succinctly put, both of them suffer from a loss of love. On their journey, both are able to play certain roles to help fill these voids in their life with love. Dora acts as a surrogate mother to Josue, takes him under her wing as she tries to help him find his father. Josue indirectly acts as the child Dora never had, allowing her an opportunity to break her selfish shell. Both, however, are reluctant and cynical towards each other at the beginning. Dora keeps trying to abandon the responsibility of caring for Josue (i.e. when she tries to leave him sleeping on the bus), while Josue keeps reprimanding Dora for not acting her age (i.e. when he scolds her for stealing food at the grocery mart). These sequences demonstrate the power of role-modeling. Both are indirectly guiding the other to find what they need most: care and love from each other. The film seems to suggest that Dora's never had a positive male influence in her life, nor does she feel beautiful enough to qualify for one. Consequently, what she needs most is a "real man" who will help her out of the Scrooge-like cave she's created for herself.

Without money and without a travel ticket, Dora's poor example leads Josue to lose hope in any caretaker. The specific moment of change that converts Dora to start really caring for Josue (rather than treating him as heavy baggage) is when he runs away from her through the crowded, religious chanting streets of the Brazilian countryside. This scene is ironic: Josue runs away to find his father, Jesus, the crowd of people pray to God with hopes to be redeemed through Jesus, and Dora needs the love/reassurance of a Jesus-figure in her life but doesn't realize it. The swirling camera movements used as she roams through the sacred room of burning candles and crucifix's suggests what's taking place inside her mind—she's losing control of her life as she has lost control of Josue. It's as if the unsteady camera movements act as the pangs of her racked conscience, causing her to realize her poor role-modeling qualities. When she recovers, she wakes up in the arms of Josue outside—their relationship has grown for the better (Josue realizing he's loved, and Dora realizing she has to love).

The theme of the film says a lot about how we project certain images upon people when we're younger, only later to realize how false those images are when we grow older. For example, Josue believes his father is really a good-spirited man who loves his children. However, all the rumors told about his father say the opposite: that he's a drunkard; a no good beggar who sold his life for hedonistic pleasures when the going got tough. I think this idea also compliments how God is viewed in this film. During the chanting scene in the countryside, groups of suffering people gather together to pray for release from their pain, but it seems to be futile—they are not released from pain. It seems, then, that the film is making some type of commentary on what happens when the father's in our lives—be they mortal or divine—leave people on their own without care.

From the mere title alone, The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On is the true-life documentary of obsessive, army-in-one war veteran, Kenzo Okuzaki, and his march to unclothe the truth of certain events during World War II. Okuzaki is a severely committed, subservient, even violent disciple of truth. Thirty years after the war and having been in and out of prison, he travels great lengths to reveal the facts and hold responsible the men who unlawfully executed several soldiers in the regiment he served in during the war. With the victims parent's at his side, he travels to the homes of ex-military leaders who he believes are responsible for the deaths of innocent soldiers, essentially corners and interrogates them, tries to get them to fess up and take responsibility for their misdeeds, and resorts to violence when they refuse to apologize or speak.

In several scenes, Okuzaki is seen beating up elderly war veterans like himself, trying to squeeze the truth out of their reluctant, scared, and emaciated minds. He basically acts as a sort of pseudo-God. He's on "God's errand" to punish the wicked by either inflicting guilt upon their consciences, or using physical force to stir them up to repentance. In the true sense of the word, his tactics are amazing to watch, yet very disturbing. Though I do not fully agree with his tactics, I couldn't help but admire how dedicated and faithful he was in revealing the "truth" and serving what he believed was justice. He really believed in what he was doing, even if it made him appear like some religious zealot inebriated on fanaticism. However, his devotion to truth causes him to contradict himself. When the parents of one of the victims refuse to embark with Okuzaki on his journey to discover the truth about their son, Okuzaki finds pseudo-parents who act as the victim's son, yet are lying in order to emotionally stir up the military leaders (or 'pretending' if you want to give it a euphemism). It's ironic, then, that Okuzaki is the so-called orator, defender of truth just as long as you play by his rules. After all, he feels privileged to bend the rules, even to the extent of using violence or lying tactics if it means acquiring the truth from others. In essence, he's his own God.

At one point in the film, Okuzaki declares that violence is only good if it leads to a greater end. The end that Okuzaki desired was for war to never perpetuate again into the future. Thus, by using violence to get others to reveal the truth of their sins, he believed that wars would terminate, people would remember the past, and violence would be abolished. It seems a bit contradictory though: does violence stop violence? I'm torn on this issue. On one hand I look at what violence has done throughout history, and no matter how hard we try, violence has not ended violence, but has begot it. Perhaps we need to take a more Gandhian approach and use kindness to inflict hot coals upon wicked minds. On the other hand, I think of my religious convictions: If there is a God who doesn't intend for his children to behave violently, is there such a thing as Godly violence? Justified warfare? According to scriptural texts, there is: Deuteronomy 20, Section 98, 1Nephi 4. Yet to have God's stamp of approval, or better yet, commandment, to take or physically abuse another human life seems a burden I wish to never have thrust upon me. Was Okuzaki right for behaving the way he did? I can answer yes or no. Yes, that God sometimes uses the wicked to scourge the righteous up to repentance, as well as using the wicked to destroy the wicked. No, that I know God doesn't want me to behave that way.

To speak of war presupposes that violence is involved. War is violence (and vice versa). The film tries to be as objective as possible in showing the aftermath of what war does to people. It leads them to hell/prison. Okuzaki is on a mission to send unrighteous people to hell, uncaring of the negative consequences it may have upon himself. He demonstrated this courage when attacking the Emperor with a sling for denying responsibility of the murdered soldiers. The film ends the same way it started: Okuzaki has been released from prison only to find himself back in prison. The interesting point is that he always takes full responsibility for his actions, unlike those around him. He even full-heartedly admits at the beginning that he intends to go back to prison after inflicting "justice" upon the war-criminals. That he takes this responsibility is proof that people sentence themselves to their own private, hellish prisons, whether they admit to it or not.

The Passion of Joan of Arc is a deeply moving story about the last vindictive trial of Joan's life before her martyrdom at the stake. Joan's story is uncannily similar to the story of Christ—both were viewed as extremists; both were thought to be a threat to political power; both were told to deny their beliefs by a group of tyrannical clergymen; and both were ultimately murdered for their convictions. Joan, like Christ, becomes more and more at a loss of words as she is vehemently interrogated, knowing full well that her words are futile and that death awaits her. Her silence, in many instances, parallels the silence of Christ and is perhaps the most powerful testimony she gives against the brooding Englishmen who enslaved her.

Her story is also strangely similar to Joseph Smith—for why else would such a seemingly insignificant character as nineteen-year old girl, Joan, attract the attention of the great ones of the most popular sects of the day, and in them a spirit of the most bitter persecution and reviling? Some would argue that it was due to Joan's military status in the French army, and though indeed that might be partly true, I don't believe it's the full truth. There must have been something more in Joan's testimony that caused such "great ones" to behold her as a threat to the entire English government. I mean, why would a mere denial of her "vision of God" be enough to satiate these blood-thirsty hypocrites? There must have been something else driving their motives. Nevertheless, I find it very peculiar that she was greatly feared amongst such "powerful men." Extreme close-ups are used quite abundantly throughout the entirety of the film to help show the exhaustion of Joan. I believe this technique was used to capture how violated she must have felt: nothing but angry faces ranting and railing up-close against her, as if Dreyer was purposely trying to attack the audience so that they could live vicariously through her torment. One close-up after the next, we see the deterioration of Joan as her life is fed to entropy—the audience feels equally as deteriorated by the end too. I think the use of close-ups was incredibly powerful. They allowed for a type of transcendence to occur. This transcendence takes the form of seeing the life in Joan's face fade more and more; concurrently the audience prays for her spirit to transcend the pangs of her body and be freed from the hell she experiences on earth.

The film, in this sense, has a very transcendental quality. Though the audience may never have to experience a martyrdom like Joan or Christ, they will feel the desire to want to be freed from their own physical bondage, pain and suffering. The film is silent, and as such, creates a sparse-style of transcendence—something that speaks softly to the soul, unlike DeMille's abundant-style in The Ten Commandments. It offers a lot of room for reflection as we sit there beholding these intense images in holy silence.

Having mentioned transcendence, I believe the film has much to say about the relationship between salvation and man. As Joan is being savagely questioned about her "vision of God," the clergy keep reminding her that her sins can be forgiven in and through the Church. Never once do they mention that salvation comes through Christ, let alone God—it's always through the authority of the Church. I think Dreyer is merely trying to remind the viewer what history books have already enlightened the world with: that there is something strange about salvation coming from a "learned" group of men who appear pious and holy devout to the Divine, but who lack inner-conviction and act as wolves dressed in sheep's clothing. "By their fruits ye shall know them," seems to be the underlying theme to this film. These men do not emit the qualities of goodness—they are depicted as fearful and angry; they stop at nothing to force Joan to confess a false testimony. They are like the Pharisees of old who attacked and stoned the prophets all to maintain and secure the appearance of godliness. Their fruits, however, reveal who they really are: tyrants of a brute nature.

One quality I really respected and identified in Joan was her humanity. She wasn't depicted as some sinless warrior, let alone saint who was constantly in God's good standing, but at one moment succumbed to the frailty of her mortal condition and fell before God to preserve her life. In this moment, she renounced her vision in order to acquiesce to the Englishmen's desires. It was contrived though, and she knew it. Feeling the pangs of a guilty conscience, she immediately called back the guards and repented of her sin. I loved seeing this character arc in her because it made her even more real; more relatable; more human. This sequence demonstrated the power of repentance, and how even the noblest of God's children are not immune to the temptations of the body. All must immerse their lives in the principle of repentance (i.e. change from man's will to God's will). Though God's will is often very personal and nebulous, it is not to be determined by the will of "learned, erudite scholars," but from careful adherence to what one considers is the right path.

The Band's Visit was a brilliantly awkward film. I loved it! I don't know a lot about the soured relationships between both Egypt and other Arab countries, but I did recognize a very uncomfortable atmosphere between these cultures. The entire setting and mood is one of isolation. The film starts with a bus dropping off the band in front of a barren and desolate airport: the air seems somewhat cold and dissonant. Not only does the band have to endure the hardship of being lost in a foreign country, but they also have to survive the caustic heckling of an Israeli couple driving along the derelict streets. This paints a very clear picture almost immediately of the relationship between Egyptians and Arabs: one of incongruity and revulsion. I thought it was also particularly interesting how quick Israeli citizens were able to distinguish Egyptian foreigners from their own kind; to me they all looked alike, but I guess they'd think the same of us Americans: see how prejudiced I am? I was really intrigued with the lost-in-translation aspect of the film. The dinner scene especially emphasized the awkwardness of being without a tongue to communicate. Here the Egyptian band was—invited to dinner in an Arab home—and both were concealing their true thoughts and feelings from one another by speaking in their native, esoteric tongue. Interestingly, the tongue they both shared was English. The English language was, in fact, what unified these two cultures together, allowing them to bond beyond their frustrations. This scene was incredibly poignant because it heavily suggested the dissonance of both cultures: both felt uncomfortable in each other's presence because of their histories, and yet here they were now sitting down together to eat a meal: very symbolic of reconciliation; the lamb and lion together; the breaching of each other's prejudices as they eat the same foods over a feast of beliefs, tolerance and respect.

This idea of overlapping cultures ties directly into the film's theme of music. I've always understood music to be the harmonious relationships between melodies and rhythms. I think the filmmaker is essentially asking if whether two hostile cultures can learn to overcome their differences and learn to play music with each other; learn to get in harmony with their varied paradigms. The director seems to suggest that they can, and that they do; all it takes is open communication and a willingness to hear the other side. A powerful scene that stresses this idea is when the Israeli helps inspire the Egyptian clarinet player on how to finish his incomplete song. His words are simple yet profound: saying something to effect that the ending to his song doesn't have to be loud with bells and cymbals, but can be as simple as a silent room filled with a lamp, child and tons of loneliness. I loved that description! To me, this scene demonstrated that it sometimes takes people with different histories and preferences to inspire our minds. That is, we often learn most from those who we most disagree with, even to the perfecting (e.g. completing) of our works of art.

Notice also how diegetic music helps merge these cultures together. The diegetic moments of the band playing for their Israeli acquaintances really seems to speak to their souls: the shots are long, static and penetrating; the edits succor drawn-out close-ups of each Israeli/Egyptian face as we discern what it is they're feeling; the music soars through the sacred atmosphere, almost saying: "See how beautiful I sound, can you sound the same despite your cultural barriers?" It's almost as if these scenes also carry their own metaphysical significance: like as if the band plays their music to ask for cultural forgiveness amongst their neighboring brothers and sisters, or simply just mourning over the fact that their cultures are so discordant. A moment that would confirm the truth of this is when the lead band mate tells his companions: "We're representing Egypt in this foreign land. Let's not forget that." Their music provides the language that both cultures understand and bond with, and it is because of this that both cultures open up to each other as well as they do in this particular film.

I'd like to examine the character arc of the young girl who comes to temporarily substitute at the poverty-stricken school: Teacher Wei. When she first arrives, she seems really disinterested and apathetic towards the whole situation. The only thing on her mind is the financial rewards that she is promised by the mayor if, in fact, she's successful in maintaining all of the children at the school without losing any. When she begins teaching, it's simply to fulfill an obligation: very routine-like.

She allows the children to fight with each other without intervention, has them write a ton of complicated characters on the board that they don't understand, and expects them to copy it verbatim without cry or murmur. It's obvious, at first, that she has no desire to help these struggling children. This suggests something poignant about her back story—that she, too, comes from the grounds of destitution. When given the chance to earn some money, she jumped immediately at the opportunity not knowing the full implications of how difficult it would be to Sheppard the wandering flock.

When the young boy, Zhang Huike, goes with some travelers into the city to make money for his family, Wei is determined to follow after him and reclaim him. This presents an interesting dichotomy in her desires: does she want to reclaim him strictly for financial rewards, or, is there a part of her that really cares for his well-being and wants him back in the fold with the other children? I think it's a little bit of both as the story unfolds (but more so out of love). Wei travels through tremendous moments of change to reclaim him—each moment testing her resilience to stay in the game. She has an objective (e.g. Zhang Huike), but she is thwarted.

She needs money to travel by bus into the city, but has none. She works for money by moving bricks, but is paid none because she and the children accidentally break them in the process. She sneaks onto a bus, but is thrown off. She hand writes a multiplicity of rescue flyers to find Huike, but none are seen by him. All of these moments show her steady dedication not to give up on the lost lamb. She is determined to find him. I believe this is where the theme of the story is revealed: the Sheppard of a flock will leave the 99 in order to rescue the wayward one: no matter the extremes.

This theme becomes clearer as you see Wei conquer one battle after the next, stopping at nothing to find Huike (especially when she goes on live television). There, on television, with tears in her eyes and a plea in her voice, she asks Huike where he has gone—why did he leave? In that moment, I became convinced that her care for him was genuine—not something strictly lucrative. After all, she wasn't crying crocodile tears. It's a real touching moment when Huike finally sees the broadcast, as he, too, starts to become emotional. He begins to realize all of the things Wei had to go through in order for him to realize her love for him. He reciprocates and goes home.

I think director Zhang Yimou was trying to portray the power of love one can have for a wayward child. With obvious Christ-like undertones, though perhaps not intentional, Not One Less is the story about what a person is willing to do when they feel separated from those who they love. It works really well in this particular story because I had ambivalent feelings of whether Wei's intentions were initially sincere, but as the story progressed I realized that she was being charitable, not selfish.

I believe Yimou intentionally shot the film, in some instances, like a hidden camera documentary because he wanted the aesthetics of the film to compliment the meaning of the theme. Since the Sheppard theme is one possible theme to the story, it makes sense to say that the camera-work acts as a hidden device, away from the eyes of Wei. Wei is looking for the lost child, but he remains hidden from her eyes. So, too, there is also an omniscient camera looking at Wei as she looks for Huike—a device that suggests perhaps the God of heaven watching over all of his wandering sheep (some respectfully more than others). One particular moment that heavily suggests the hidden camera is when Wei is asking the citizens in the city if they've seen or know the railroad instructor. The scene is shot montage as it shows her exhaust herself throughout the day. She looks helpless; always being observed from afar. The pity she feels in trying to find Huike is the same pity that the camera seems to have on her—always watching; simply observing.

I think Howl is perhaps the most fascinating character in this film because the first impression I had of him was completely shattered as the story progressed. At first, he seems to be this sort of superhero, crime-fighter—one that is confident, clever, and courageous. This was made seemingly apparent when he saves Sophie from the Witch of the Waste's minions lurking in the alley. After being harassed, Howl dashingly comes to Sophie's rescue, literally sweeps her off her feet, glides through the sky with her in arms, and safely carries her to the top of her home balcony. Immediately I thought, "He's like a charming superman." This impression was later changed quite dramatically when I realized how timorous Howl really is—two scenes in particular stood out.

First, when Howl comes home after fighting the sky wars he appears exhausted, trudges through the hallways and collapses on a nearby chair. Sophie watches him with caring yet surprising eyes: she's never seen him look so un-gaudy before. Howl's entire body then starts to liquefy into this greenish slime as it drips onto the floor—he is wasted, disoriented. This was a particularly interesting shift in my perspective of him because he no longer carried that stereotype of the invincible superhero, but was subject to fatigue and pain. Second—the more dramatic shift—was during the scene when Sophie is talking to Howl sick in bed. Howl is complaining about how if he isn't beautiful there's no point to living. This was as shocking for me to hear as it was for Sophie. In this moment, the image of who we think Howl is—the chivalry knight—turns out to be a vain, insecure and superficial child. Even Howl's living space suggests his vanity: filled with all sorts of golden shrines and jewelry, sculptures and other materialistic idols. All of these idiosyncrasies, though, really made Howl's character alive; believable; real. I mean, superheros are often thought to be omnipotent, fantastical and ones who perform the impossible. Though people are typically drawn to these types of superheroes, no one believes they actually exist in external reality.

I think Miyazaki purposely made Howl first appear supernatural so that he could later break that stereotype and show that even real superheroes are subject to certain frailties. This way the audience can really identify, connect and feel empathy for Howl's character. All of us want to have superhuman strengths but all of us are bound by imperfections; we all want to appear strong and confident, yet we all struggle with things that we're embarrassed to admit to others—Howl is no different. His character reminded me of Steven Seagle's superman character in his graphic novel, "It's a Bird." One line from this novel reminded me of Howl's persona: Alternate universes remind us that super heroes do not come from distant planets, but are harvested on this planet as ones that can see past their own little world, and reach out beyond their limited scope of existence and help others.

For Howl to conquer his weakness and to become a true superhero, the irony is that he has to help those around him break the spells they are seduced by; rather than focusing upon his own supposed ugliness. This is where Miyazaki's theme really hits home: that in order to become great and powerful (like a superhero) you have to help others become great and powerful. It wasn't only Howl that had to accomplish this—they all did. Sophie helps Turnip become a prince; Howl helps Sophie become young again, etc. Howl's problem was that he was so self-consumed that he was blinded by how to properly wield his magical powers: he was immature. He was even warned by the queen that if he did not carefully temper his skills, he'd end up like the Witch of the Waste—corrupted. I think this is a really powerful theme because it clarifies several things. First, the importance of engaging in the relationships that surround us to get what we want; we can't isolate ourselves like hermits and throw pity parties like Howl did. Second, our need to bridle the gifts (i.e. superpowers) that come to us: not to abuse them or think we're better than others because we have them. If we do abuse them, we'll lose them like the Witch of the Waste.

The use of animation also helps illustrate this theme more poignantly. It seems in my mind that to become a superhero you have to enter a different world—enter a different state of mind; one that is fantastical and chimerical. Animation typically has that effect on me. That is, I feel that I've entered a completely different world and state of mind when watching something animated. I think to heighten the sense of reality that these characters live in, Miyazaki used the fantastical world of animation to help the audience to not only feel that they are part of a superheroes world, but also that they feel like superheroes themselves.

I really liked how writer Sergio G. Sanchez took the tale of Peter Pan and loosely adapted it around a ghost story about lost children. The way he paralleled the story of Pan to his own wasn't overt, but subtle—as if it merely augmented a richer meaning behind the story of the lost boys. In the case of The Orphanage, the story is about lost children—both boys and girls.

In one aspect, the story's subtext is about pirates—those who search for buried treasure. Sanchez provides a series of clues (i.e. images/scenes) for the audience themselves to become pirates as they, too, piece together these clues—one by one—in order to obtain the treasure of the overall story: its meaning. In other words, there is no seemingly pointless images/scenes/dialogue in this film. Everything is used as a clue to help the audience embark on a pirate's quest for buried treasure.

For example, the scene where Simon and Laura go on a treasure hunt to find Simon's coins sets up the story parallel between Peter Pan and the story that grew from it—The Orphanage. Simon tells his mother that his imaginary friends (e.g. the lost children) stole his coins and hid them. If he is successful in following the clues and retaining his coins, his friends will grant him a wish. She doesn't believe him but humors him anyway. It's interesting that Laura only begins to believe in her son's imaginary friends when something she holds precious (i.e. her son) is taken from her. It reminded me of how easy it is to lose the gift of believing when you become an adult. Adults typically have the tendency to treat most things with weary, skeptical eyes.

The challenge, then, is for adults to reclaim that sacred treasure of believing. Sadly, however, they usually have to be threatened with death before they start believing. In Laura's case, she must be threatened with the possibility that her son is dead before she starts a serious investigation to find her son—to find the qualities she used to possess as a child. Another example that helps the viewer become a pirate looking for treasure is when the orphans play the game of "1, 2, 3, knock on the wall." It seems like a somewhat arbitrary game to play, but it actually helps provide a clue that foreshadows a later scene when Laura attempts to summon the orphans back from the dead. She needs to talk to the orphans that haunt her house because she feels they can help lead her to her son.

The trick, though, is that in order for her to get what she wants, she has to help the orphans get what they want—and what they want is a mother to care for them. Laura is like Wendy of Peter Pan; a girl who left the Neverland orphanage when she was young, grew up, lost her child-like imagination and stopped believing in fantasies. When she left the orphanage, she left her friends—she died (e.g. separated) from them. It's as if her friends are now haunting her because they're asking her to awaken herself—start believing again—but most importantly, to be a mother to them—like Wendy of the lost boys. The only way they are able to make their plight strong enough for Laura to understand is by placing what she values most in jeopardy. Only then will she be prepared to accept the responsibility of caring for the lost children, because she would then know what it's like to lose a child. The lost children have lost a mother—have lost a person to care for them. It's really quite a profound story when you think about it.

It is the story of a person losing something as valuable as buried treasure; then going on a journey to reclaim that treasure by following clues along the way; gaining a deep sense of empathy in the process; finding that treasure in the end, and finally, taking on the role of Sheppard—caring for those around you who are currently lost and looking for treasure. Though the specifics of what we treasure may differ from person to person, I think it's safe to say that we all have taken this journey, and are yet currently in the process of searching for what we value most. Because of these things, The Orphanage is a story that is universally applicable to all.

Audiences today will probably watch a film like Ossessione and not really consider how unprecedented it was during the time when it came out. The structure of the film really divorces from sap-happy Hollywood conventions—as well as other major theatrical elements. It relies more upon depicting reality in a very grim and sober light. Films of this nature—the neo-realist films—were made to reflect the darkness felt during post-World War II times. Ossessione tackles some fairly provocative issues that were probably unseen on screen prior to the war, including: adultery, conspiracy, murder, pregnancy, etc. Aside from the one crane shot and certain musical swelling moments, the film aesthetic is very raw and gritty: shot on-location, uses natural lighting and most likely non-popular actors. All of these elements helped convey the issues explored in the film, yielding the following theme: Negative karmic repercussions will haunt those who deliberately act immorally.

The two leads—Gino and Giovanna—are polar opposites, yet both carry the mentality: we're bored and we want to be entertained. Gino is a drifter; a lone traveler who embraces life and its constant fluctuations. Giovanna is a bored house-wife cemented in the familiarly of marital permanence: she doesn't want to leave her home and husband, but would rather remain where she is because it's safer. Gino's lifestyle represents the ideal lifestyle Giovanna craves; the only difference is that she's too afraid to live it herself—that's why she falls in love with Gino: he represents everything she wants but doesn't have the courage to get. She wants to live in a world free from the monotony of living with her corpulent husband—Gino is the perfect ticket into that world. The affair that ensues between the two most likely left audiences back in the 40's feeling somewhat uneasy. I mean, films prior to the neo-realist age never showed such scandalous behavior on screen before. To say the least it was probably a bit alarming.

In conjunction with the theme, the neo-realist style helps show the negative repercussions of adulterous behavior. Succinctly put, adulterous behavior (as shown in the film) leads to depressing and ultimately deadened lives. When Gino and Giovanna conspire with each other to "eliminate" Giovanna's husband, karma comes to haunt them like a plague after the deed is done. They return to their home: the atmosphere is dark and biting (as can be expected from the neo-realist style). They are not happy; they're actually more depressed. They thought that by eliminating Giovanna's husband that they'd live happier lives, but they were duped. The film ends with Giovanna's death—it being in karmic similitude of her husband's death. I think this is a very satisfying ending for several reasons. Here's why.

There's a lot of talk as to whether or not evil should be depicted on screen, and if so, to what extent. I think depicting evil is very necessary if and only if the evil depicted is not being glorified, but rather shows what negative consequences evil actions have. As the subtext of Ossessione asks, is adultery and murder evil? I think the film eagerly responds yes! The adulterous behavior between the two reveals how unhappy they are. Ironically though, towards the end of the film when they seem to be healed of their depression and are seen basking in each other's arms inside the car, the author of the film shows that their happiness is, in fact, a façade: the car crashes off the cliff and into the river, killing Giovanna; the police arrest Gino. I think it was the author's intention to say that even though people sometimes try and justify their immoral behavior, in the end karma will come back to haunt them. I agree. I think the two got what was coming to them because they both were incredibly selfish—always wanting instant gratification and not willing to endure through hard times. This was especially made clear after the first sign of difficulty that Gino and Giovanna experience in their relationship: he can't handle the pressure of living in Giovanna's husband shadow, so he leaves Giovanna and sleeps with another girl. Such is typical of the insatiable, hedonistic personality.

All in all, the film seemed very risky for its time. The audience, however, was prepared to see such a film because of the sobriety the war brought. Those pre-war, happy-go-lucky films were no longer being believed. Movie-going audiences were ready to see and contemplate difficult films with complex characters: they wanted to see characters whose lives were entangled in so-called 'sin' because it was a reflection of their own life problems. Ossessione, then, acts as a great catalyst for where the future of film was heading. That is, a lot of the naturalism pieces we see today can be said to have been influenced by the neo-realist film movement.

Babe: Pig in City is a deeply stylized, Alice-in-wonderland interpretation of talking animal films. While its predecessor, Babe, is traditional and safe, the sequel offers more of a post-modern world-view that encapsulates various structural narrative elements, including: expressionism, absurdism, futurism, and existentialism. I now wish to conduct an analysis of the piece and describe how these elements apply. I intend, however, to show how the film predominantly relies upon the expressionistic and absurdist structures. Here's why.

Expressionism: In a way, the film seems to mourn over the loss of spirituality. By 'spirituality,' I mean the essence of comfort and balance—in a word, "home." As the expressionistic structure suggests, the art we create ought to include characters that try and reclaim their homes of comfort by recognizing the world as imbalanced. Only with this recognition can we then seek and desire to reclaim balance, and thus our homes of comfort. As applied to the film, Babe's home of comfort is upset when he accidentally falls down the rabbit hole (i.e. well). Consequently, he indirectly compromises the life of his owner and severely bed-rids him. With the bank's hefty demands and the farmer's wife unable to pay the farm-land debt, she takes Babe away from his spirituality and embarks upon a mission with him into the city. Her overarching objective: to reclaim enough money to sustain and preserve the farm. Babe's overarching objective: to reclaim his spirituality—his home. Both characters need each other to fulfill the other's objective, thus suggesting our need to serve and love others. Upon entering the big city, Babe recognizes a dramatic change in his environment. It's a strange place, and this leads us now to analyze the absurdist qualities the film possesses.

Absurdism: The absurdist structure seeks to purposefully defamiliarize the audience to that which they have become familiarized with. Its purpose is to help people not take life for granted, but to recognize just how truly amazing and wonderful this life is; not to forget show how profoundly strange it is too. As applied to the film, Babe becomes unfamiliar with his environment upon entering the new, strange city. There is a sense of uneasiness he feels as his lonesome eyes scan the city from a birds-eye-view looking out an open window. As he looks, the film literally begs the question within Babe's soul: "What kind of establishment is this?" The filmmakers, too, seem to ask the audience the same question(s) in reference to earth-life. Questions like: What kind of place is this? What is reality? Why are we here and where are we going? Like Babe, we are all foreign pilgrims traveling through an unfamiliar world as we desperately try and familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. Also like Babe, we are all searching for the cure to our spiritual homesickness. We find this cure by developing an expressionistic desire to restore our fallen, imbalanced lives, but only after we have recognized just how absurd our imbalanced lives really are. There are some individuals who never become enlightened to this. They are not consciously aware of life's absurdity, and so view their lives as balanced and in no need of curing. Consequently, their souls hunger on a very deep subconscious level for spiritual reconciliation because they are unable to acquire absurdist-like glasses, and therefore do not rigorously question life as something that ought to be deeply questioned.

Existentialism: Life for an existentialist only gains genuine and authentic meaning by one's active level of participation in the life process. The meaning that we find in life is ours to create; it's as if it floats out in the ether just waiting for us to reach out and grab—but it cannot be dictated and made somehow objective by authorities/institutions. It also is a structure that causes people to ask the "why" questions of life. In the film, Babe is chased down by a pack of ravenous dogs that try and violently hurt him. Upon seeing the destruction they create, Babe humbly asks, "Why?" This question is profoundly existential and it seems to ask the audience why we live in such a bleak and violent world filled with hateful beings. Along the same line, the film seems to presuppose that there's something wrong with the world that Babe/we live in, and it's up to us to fix it. To fix our world, we're going to need high moral principles. The film teaches us to live with high moral principles when Babe is shown saving the life of his enemy drowning in a river.

Babe: Pig in the City is a wonderfully charming yet also thought-provoking tale that can entertain both child and philosopher. At its core is a sweet, ingenuous pig that possesses the type of morale that every human being ought to possess too. In this sense, the film seeks to uplift people, helping them to live as Babe does. Though it may appear that he possesses an inferior and weak personality, the filmmakers suggest that it is only those who humbly exempt themselves from the limelight who are exalted in the end. The story of Babe does just that.

Being a Mormon myself, I've never been a supporter of Mormon cinema because of its past tendency to not only exploit and isolate our culture from others, but also because of its portrayal of Mormon stereotypes and clichés which I utterly reject. Understandably, I was nervous for about the first hour or so while watching States of Grace. It was tough for me to divorce from the preconceived prejudice that I had interwoven, thinking that it would follow the same superficial trail as did the others, but to my surprise it did not. My hat goes off to Richard Dutcher: a man, who, in my eyes, has redeemed himself from his previous two films and who has finally showed his culture that he's not afraid to get his hands dirty. This dirt, however, was not without cleansing, and is perhaps one of the strongest pieces of art I've seen that portrays how the atonement of Jesus is applied into our lives. I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I had a renewal of faith while watching this film; it was like being converted again. But to prepare the ground, I must start from the beginning.

For about the first hour I kept asking myself: "Is what I'm viewing real or counterfeit?" Are these characters/situations behaving according to stereotypes or veracities? I will argue that the film did both. In the stereotypical case, I couldn't help but laugh when the drive-by-shooting scene occurred. Not to be disrespectful or anything, but I'm from the heart of Los Angeles and it seems as though the stereotype of L.A. is simply that—gang-bangers at every street corner just waiting to shuck and jive. But then I thought about it a little more; perhaps Dutcher wasn't trying to be cliché when adding this scene, but was really trying to make an argument for the goodness that can spawn from evil situations. It is because of the drive-by shooting that unites all of the characters into holy relationships, bringing them closer to God and teaching them about the atonement.

What I love that Dutcher seemed to do consistently throughout the film was to take those happy-go-lucky Mormon stereotypes and shatter them completely: like one missionary who reveals his past gang activity and the other his carnal appetite. Dutcher even seems to poke fun at the up-tight Mormons, as depicted when Elder Ferrell air-balls the basketball net in the beginning—a suggestion of missing the mark because of over-rigidness. Dutcher also wasn't afraid to juxtapose the ordinances of righteousness with the ordinances of evil, as when the gang banger converts in the church house as crossed with his brother being stabbed by an opposing gang. Both scenes were shot from the same omniscient angle from the sky—a suggestion perhaps of God's eyes watching over all of his children.

All of these moments built up, one after the other, as if gently offering me tokens of faith-based-reality. The moment that really got me though was when Elder Ferrell attempts suicide. Tears were swelling in my eyes because his character was the one I disliked the most, but he was also the one I came to love the most. As the old saying goes, "The things you dislike in others are often the things you dislike in yourself." This phrase really hit home with Ferrell's character. I despised how rigid he was throughout the whole film, but when he slipped up with his next door neighbor and I witnessed the pain on his face, I suddenly felt this overwhelming sense of compassion for him. What he had done was not so bad that he had to die for his sins, but as the most powerful line in the entire film stated: "Someone else has already done that for you." As I watched him hold the Christ child at the end, the atonement suddenly became clearer than it ever had in my entire life. All of those seemingly trite testimonies of "Jesus died for your sins," and "God loves all his children," and "I am a child of God" suddenly took on new meaning for me; meaning that actually surprised me with joy.

When we cry out of anguish because of our transgressions, knowing that we have let down our parents despite what we know to be right, the soul feels nothing but utter remorse and guilt—we want to hide ourselves under mountains of rocks; we want to escape any form of love coming our way; we feel undeserving of it. He understands though; he understands in a way that makes me feel that when I'm crying in pain, he's crying right next to me. He loves the Ferrell's of the world because he understands they're just as helpless as the child that Ferrell holds in the end. As Ferrell holds and comforts the child, the scene speaks on a very metaphysical plane—one that is a type of how God holds and comforts all of his children when they are in times of need. Just as the child is dependent upon its parents, so must we be dependent upon our heavenly parents and move through states of grace.

The Motorcycle Diaries reflects the journey of Ernesto Guevara ("Che Guevara) and his friend Alberto Granado on a road trip across the South American continent. Their journey begins with the objective of sight-seeing, but later becomes something of a political awakening as they plunge deep within the poverty-stricken areas of Chile and Argentina. The story's focus is on the transformation of these two young Argentineans—from naïve adventure seekers to political activists. Although the story does not give an account of Guevara's political struggles, it illustrates the causes and conditions that later led him to become involved with such.

Walter Salles, the director, invites the viewer along for the journey. From the opening scene where we watch Ernesto and Alberto climb aboard their raggedy motorcycle, to their adventures through towns, seas blizzards and jungles, the film allows the viewer to feel as though they have traveled an epic journey alongside the two. To heighten this journey, the story is told through the point-of-view of Ernesto; in particular, from abstracts taken from his journal which are read via voice-over narration and then related on screen with moving images. This allowed for more personal insights to relay the feelings that both endured on their journey. Cross-fades were also used quite frequently to suggest the amount of time elapsed on their journey, as well as hand-held camera shots to suggest a vicarious view-point. The viewer really gets to know these individuals on a very humane level: theirs interests, secrets, humor, idiosyncrasies, tastes for women, and ultimately, what they are made of in times of crisis.

Guevara and Granado start off as directionless and perhaps even purposeless on their journey, but the more they travel the more people they meet that are in dire need of social reconstruction. The moment where I believe Guevara changes significantly is when he gives his money to a poor family in need at the cost of sacrificing the bikini he planned to buy for his girlfriend back home. In this instance, his desire for romance had become replaced with his desire to help his fellow man. His objectives change from frivolous materialisms to social benefit for mankind. The more he lives the journey of a traveler, the more unselfish he becomes. At one point, he even swims across a vast lake to celebrate his birthday with a village of lepers and other down-trodden folk. This scene really helped convey that his love for these people surpassed his own comfort and convenience. Life, as it had been, will never again be the same for either (as the last monologue of the film also suggests).

While watching this film, I felt the journey of my own life displayed in my mind—as if running parallel to the journey I was watching. It was somewhat cathartic to recall where I've come from and where I'm currently heading. My life wasn't always invested with the pursuit of knowledge, inquiry or academia, but was filled with trivial pursuits such as parties, techno clubs, materialisms and other mind-numbing activities. Just as the values of the characters shifted from that which was good to that which was greater, I felt that I have been traveling a similar path the more I experience life. That which separates these characters from me, which is to say, that which separates the wise from the naïve, is experience. I still feel pretty selfish; my hope is that I'll have some life-changing experience like Che did and learn to foster my selfish side towards more selfless pursuits.

I wish to compliment this piece alongside another British theater play called Stuff Happens. The content of both pieces—No End in Sight & Stuff Happens—displayed pithy and compelling accounts of the events that led to the US's involvement in the Iraq war, yet both were also respectfully motivated by political agendas. I do not mean to imply that these pieces were mere exercises in propaganda (though some might argue otherwise), but rather that they attempted to display the facts as objectively as possible while simultaneously suggesting the imprudence, and perhaps immoral behavior of the Bush Administration. Both pieces are enormously complex and in no way can provide easy solutions to the monster that the US has helped create. Of course, it is difficult for US citizens to even think they have helped create this monster—most would rather scapegoat such responsibility to their government leaders; leaders chosen by the majority of US citizens. The argument that both pieces seem to make is: Are Americans right for shifting this blame to the Bush Administration? As both would heavily suggest, they are.

I felt that Stuff Happens was weaker in its execution as compared to No End in Sight because it relied more upon speculative guesswork than factual information. I do not deny that much of the information was taken from real-life news conferences, television interviews and public addresses; however, the closed-door conferences, especially the private meetings between Bush and Tony Blair created more of a dramatized and perhaps even fictional quality to the piece, thus lessening the play's credibility and overall objectivity. As to what was exchanged during those meetings can only be assumed. But the premise of assuming the truth only precludes certainty from solidifying the truth, and can therefore only lie within the realms of either probability or possibility. The author can rightfully exclude the possibility of those conversations taking place—and indeed, I think he knows he's beyond possibility. He's made a much more persuasive argument that leans upon probability; probability of the US's mistake to enter the war, and is upheld by various witnesses that sensed the immorality of the Administration.

Where the author of Stuff Happens argument is weakened by excessive assumption, the author of No End in Sight strengthens the same argument by more reliance upon facts, thereby lessening the viewer's skepticism. The film does not attempt to necessarily hide or manipulate the facts, but rather ironically suggests those who would hide from and manipulate the facts. The author suggests that the viewer has very good reasons to be skeptical of the US' political leaders because many of them refused to be interviewed for the film. The implication here could mean multiple things: those who hide from the truth; those guilty of creating the Iraqi monster; those who refuse to take responsibility for the war, and so forth. Could some of these implications be true? Yes, and indeed I think some of them are, but I also think the issue is more complicated than that. I think it is unfair to label the entire Bush Administration as wholly corrupt. In other words, the author still had an agenda behind the piece. Perhaps certain members of the Administration had denied interview access because of how their words might have been spun out of context to fit another's opposing agenda. That could be true too.

The author is only showing what he chooses to show, but I must admit he did a pretty good job of persuading an opinion that seems more probable of proving the dirt on our leader's hands. He carefully created a persuasive tapestry of political hypocrisy—showing how remarks made by certain members of the Administration contradicted what was actually taking place out in Iraq. For example, cabinet member Rumsfeld told political news analysts and journalists that there was no insurgency or anarchy in Iraq—the on-sight film footage, however, proved those statements false; President Bush is shown speaking about giving Iraq food, freedom and prosperity—again, the footage contradicts his words. The author uses other contrapuntal and ironic devices to stress the idea of the Administration's corruption: US soldiers listening to country music while killing Iraqi citizens, as well as other juxtapositions of the Administration joking with the newsroom about the situation at hand.

Both pieces are powerful in their aims. Stuff Happens falls slightly behind No End in Sight regarding credibility, while No End in Sight secures a very sturdy position in its attempts to awaken more Americans to political awareness and activity. It's a formidable piece that will not easily be conquered and will be remembered for many future years to come. All Americans can benefit from watching this film closely and pondering upon what is shown. I highly recommend it.

The Golden Door is the story of a Sicilian family's journey from the Old World (Italy) to the New World (America). Salvatore, a middle-aged man who hopes for a more fruitful life, persuades his family to leave their homeland behind in Sicily, take the arduous journey across the raging seas, and inhabit a land whose rivers supposedly flow with milk. In short, they believe that by risking everything for the New World their dreams of prosperity will be fulfilled. The imagery of the New World is optimistic, clever and highly imaginative. Silver coins rain from heaven upon Salvatore as he anticipates how prosperous he'll be in the New World; carrots and onions twice the size of human beings are shown being harvested to suggest wealth and health, and rivers of milk are swam in and flow through the minds of those who anticipate what the New World will yield. All of this imagery is surrealistically interwoven with the characters and helps nicely compliment the gritty realism that the story unfolds to the audience. The contrast between this imagery versus the dark reality of the Sicilian people helps provide hope while they're aboard the ship to the New World.

The voyage to the New World is shot almost in complete darkness, especially when the seas tempests roar and nearly kill the people within. The dark reality I referred to is the Old World and the journey itself to the New World. The Old World is depicted as somewhat destitute and primitive. This is shown as Salvatore scrambles together to sell what few possessions he has left (donkeys, goats and rabbits) in order to obtain the appropriate clothing he needs to enter the New World. I thought it was rather interesting that these people believed they had to conform to a certain dress code in order to be accepted in the New World; it was almost suggesting that people had to fit a particular stereotype or mold in order to be recognized as morally fit. The most powerful image in the film was when the ship is leaving their homeland and setting sail for the New World. This shot shows an overhead view of a crowd of people who slowly seem to separate from one another, depicting the separation between the Old and New Worlds. This shot also suggested that the people were being torn away from all that was once familiar, wanted to divorce from their previous dark living conditions and were desirous to enter a world that held more promise.

As later contrasted to how the New World visually looks, the Old World seems dark and bleak as compared to the bright yet foggy New World. I thought it was particularly interesting that the Statue of Liberty is never shown through the fog at Ellis Island, but is remained hidden. I think this was an intentional directing choice that seemed to negate the purpose of what the Statue of Liberty stands for: "Give me your poor, your tired, your hungry" seemed like a joke in regards to what these people had to go through when arriving at the New World. Once they arrived in the Americas, they had to go through rather humiliating tests (i.e. delousing, mathematics, puzzles, etc.) in order to prove themselves as fit for the New World. These tests completely changed the perspectives of the Sicilian people. In particular, Salvatore's mother had the most difficult time subjecting herself to the rules and laws of the New World, feeling more violated than treated with respect. Where their dreams once provided hope and optimism for what the New World would provide, the reality of what the New World required was disparaging and rude. Salvatore doesn't change much other than his attitude towards what he felt the New World would be like versus what the New World actually was seemed disappointing to him. This attitude was shared by mostly everyone who voyaged with him. Their character arcs deal more with a cherished dream being greatly upset and a dark reality that had to be accepted.

The film seems to make a strong commentary on preparing oneself to enter a heavenly and civilized society. Cleanliness, marriage and intelligence are prerequisites. Adhering to these rules is to prevent disease, immoral behavior and stupidity from dominating. Perhaps this is a commentary on how America has learned from the failings of other nations and so was purposefully established to secure that these plagues did not infest and destruct. Though the rules seemed rigid, they were there to protect and help the people flourish.

Persepolis follows the story of young Marjane Satrapi, the only daughter of an educated Teheran couple who travels through an epic journey of political struggle, Western idealization, religious fanaticism, teenage angst, alienation and depression, and ultimately self-discovery. The verfremdungseffekt principle is apparent in how the story is delivered to the viewer: it is broken into a series of short sketches, each which highlight a particular moment in Marjane's life, and each closing with a theatrical fade-out. The audience is constantly aware of the film's dream-like quality, not just because it is an animated piece, but more so because the characters are involved with impossible situations in order to dramatize a special emotion. For example, when Marjane falls in love with a boy in Vienna, she is seen driving through the streets with him; only they aren't driving—they're flying through the street. This idea emphasizes the rapture of first love syndrome, and though theatrical it may be, it still is effective and gets the point across.

Although the story is set in contemporary times, it has the Brechtian element of historicity; it feels as though there is a timeless quality threaded within its nature simply because there is so much character development and time spent with Marjane's life unfolding. The struggles she faces are the same struggles that humans have faced since the beginning. In this respect, the story seems to challenge the prevailing cultural idea of integrity—integrity to one's cultural beliefs, religious convictions, race and identity. Marjane's reality stabilizer is her grandmother, who, in essence, teaches her that integrity is a refusal to sabotage her identity. Marjane struggles to embrace her grandmother's ideal because she is confronted with more immediate pressures—social acceptance from her peers. In one scene she lies to a boy about her racial identity in order to prevent critical slanders on how her country is a group of fanatical terrorists. She becomes ashamed of her heritage and who she is, but is reminded by her grandmother that it is better to be who you are than to be a liar. The argument the film seems to make is that people ought to be who they are and say what they feel, because those that mind don't matter, and those that matter don't mind.