Friday, December 1, 2017

Final Shots: House of Pleasures

New to my list of great final shots (and great endings in general): the indelible image of Celine Salette in the mind blowing conclusion of House of Pleasures, as Lee Moses' Bad Girl plays on the soundtrack:

Friday, November 24, 2017

The Lost City of Z (2017)



We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
         -T.S. Eliot

The essential moment in James Gray’s The Lost City of Z arrives when an arrow pierces through a bible Percy Fawcett holds as he tries to make peace with a group of savages in the jungles of Amazonia. Using the bible as symbolic protection, it literally saves his life. Gray cuts to a side-angle close-up of Fawcett holding the book in front of his face, the tip of the arrow sticking through its cover, inches from his flesh. The impact of the arrow against the bible functions as an awakening for Fawcett. Gray uses the moment to cut to shots of Fawcett’s first son’s baptism back in England. Fawcett is a long way from home and he’s searching for what might be called the sublime. I’m deeply struck by the fact that at this moment of near death  Gray seems to suggest that he’s had it all along.
 The Lost City of Z concerns the real-life explorer Percy Fawcett (played here by Charlie Hunham) and his ventures into the Amazonian jungles over a 20-year period in search of an ancient civilization he calls Zed. The jungle is a highly dangerous place, rife with snakes, disease, and violent savages, and yet Fawcett continues to go back (in real life he made a total of 8 expeditions; in the film Gray chronicles three of them). What do these expeditions mean for Fawcett?
Initially the incentive is based on Edwardian England’s societal pressures. Fawcett feels the need to elevate his family name after his father cast a shadow on it by his copious drinking and gaming. In an early scene we see Fawcett prepare for a social event with his wife Nina (Sienna Miller, exceptional): “Well my darling, I will be the only man there tonight in my rank whose uniform is unadorned.” When Fawcett is later offered a chance to go to Amazonia to map the border between Bolivia and Brazil (both countries are feuding over border land rich with rubber), an official of the Royal Geographical Society informs Fawcett that, “the journey may mean your life. But, were you to succeed, such an undertaking could earn you soldierly decoration—and even reclaim your family name.” The journey becomes a means to an end, something Fawcett does not necessarily wants to do, but certainly feels the need to do. Within the movie’s social milieu, to live well one needs the respect of his fellow citizens. “I know this is a sacrifice for all of us,” Percy tells his wife during a farewell picnic in a sun-kissed field. “But it will be worth it.” Worth what, exactly? Percy is leaving in order to improve his family’s life and place in society. The farewell picnic, though, has an edenic quality to it, as the Fawcett’s son Jack plays in the distance and Nina informs Percy that she’s expecting another child. Gray and his director of photography, Darius Khondji, give the scene a soft yellow hue, and there’s an implication that Fawcett is leaving behind something that should be an ideal, but is not due his need to enhance his image in society.
While it’s unfortunate that Fawcett must leave his family, the viewer, as well as Nina, understands that there is something important at stake. The initial expedition, in which Fawcett is accompanied by Corporal Henry Costin (an excellent and almost unrecognizable Robert Pattinson), is successful, but also long and perilous. The jungle, harsh and unwelcoming, is shrouded in an eerie haze that suggests more mystery than grandeur. Worn and tired, Fawcett stares into a campfire one night, as if finally able to ruminate about the nature of his journey: “I see my son’s face in my dreams now.” Gray, who’s become a master at using impressionistic inserts, cuts to a wide image of the son Jack standing in a grassy field, his back to the camera. It’s a deeply sad foreshadowing of how Fawcett’s travels will affect his boy. “What kind of a fool am I to leave my family for this place?” He asks. Fawcett has just learned that his family has moved to a new house, so home, again, is not a physical location, but a concept related to family. To understand the eventual tragedy of Gray’s film, it’s important for Fawcett to acknowledge on this first trip that he truly misses home.
Intriguingly, when Fawcett returns back to England after discovering remnants of a civilization in the jungle (strange carvings and broken pottery), the initial reason for his journey becomes somewhat of an afterthought. Either he forgets about it, or the concern for social status is simply overshadowed by his new obsession with his lost city. And when this interest turns to obsession, I feel The Lost City of Z becomes a deeply sad work. Hunham plays Fawcett as a seriously composed and dignified gentleman, his words always perfectly enunciated, his actions organized, his judgment appearing sound. But such a surface only masks the storm that swells up inside him, the uncertainty and confusion and need for independence that propels him into the unknown.

When Fawcett arrives off his return ship, he receives a hero’s welcome, as a massive crowd cheers his homecoming and commends him with such words as: “Major Fawcett, you are England’s bravest explorer!” Amidst the crowd is Nina, with one son who does not remember his father, and another who’s never even seen him. Fawcett’s initial problems in the film concerning his status have been erased. He’s home, he’s now deeply respected, and he’s reunited with his family whom he clearly missed greatly. And yet his actions upon returning from the jungle suggest extensive inner turmoil still sits restlessly within him.
At a large assembly for the Royal Geographical Society, Fawcett explains not just his belief in a lost civilization, but what this might mean for an English culture stymied by harsh structures and customs: “Perhaps it is too difficult for some of you to admit. We, who have been steeped in the bigotry of the Church for so long cannot give much credence to an older civilization, particularly one created by a race the white man has so brutally condemned to slavery and death.” Fawcett has moved from attempting to gain praise from British society to fearlessly exposing its weaknesses. He’s gone from a man desperate to fit in for the well being of his family to a social outlier paving the way for change.
But Fawcett’s not quite the radical progressive he makes himself to be, either. Nina, a scholar of the ancient civilizations her husband is seeking, asks him if she can accompany him on his next adventure. His response suggests he’s actually caught between tradition and progress: “It’s not a place at all for a woman. Men and women have performed their roles since the beginning of time!” Fawcett demands that his wife keep the family as a structured unit without considering that his absences are breaking it apart.
And this brings us to the crucial second excursion, where Fawcett returns to the jungle again with Costin as well as a renowned biologist, James Murray (Angus Macfayden). When the arrow pierces through his bible and Fawcett gets flashes of his home and family, he’s essentially experiencing an epiphany.
So much discussion around the movie has been characterized by what Fawcett is searching for and the nature of such a pursuit, but there’s less centered on what he’s leaving behind while doing so. For a film that relies greatly on the unknown (“So much of life is a mystery, my boy,” Fawcett tells his son), Gray almost deceptively presents the film’s most beautiful idea in the open. Fawcett is seeking something transcendent the entire film, but that thing keeps eluding him.

Gray understands that Fawcett’s mind is in the wrong place, that his wife and children ultimately represent the sublime that Fawcett seeks. It’s such a simple idea, yet in showing a man go to such magnificent and terrifying lengths to reach this conclusion is Gray’s stroke of genius. Gray does not simplify the matter though by reducing it to a lesson Fawcett learns and uses to improve his life. After he returns from his second voyage, he’s enlightened, yet the jungle still seems to be latched on to a part of him. As he reunites with his wife outside their home, the grounds seem overgrown with thick weeds and bushes, while the house itself is covered in vines. It’s as if Fawcett has taken the jungle home with him. Part of the man is still in the wild, as if it’s fastened to his psyche and won’t come undone.

A vital aspect of Gray as a filmmaker is that he relies heavily on subtlety but is never ambiguous. He prizes a kind of narrative clarity all too rare in contemporary filmic storytelling. His characters are deeply complicated, but he never shies away from clearly explicating their complexities. The Lost City of Z allows us to witness Fawcett fully understanding the nature of his soul’s yearning.

In the film’s final third, Gray takes a brief stop in WWI, where Fawcett is aiding England in the fight against France. In the trenches before battle, a fortuneteller visits and prophesizes Fawcett’s return to the jungle:  “Your soul will never be quiet until you find this new place. With it you will illuminate the world.” Gray’s camera slowly pans across the faces of the soldiers listening in a kind of subdued awe. Fawcett shakes his head, as a tear slowly drips down his face. The background of the tent they sit in becomes Amazonia, a stylistic gesture that could have been corny if Gray was not so completely committed to Fawcett’s interior world. “Our world has set itself a fire,” he laments. “I must look elsewhere to quench the blaze.” The very next scene shows Fawcett speaking to his brigade in the trenches before battle. His version of a motivational speech is a summation of his interior journey as a man: “When I was young, I ventured all for king and country, for place and rank. I believed that to be the makings of a man. But my travels have taught me such ambitions are mere phantoms. I know in our hearts, we fight for our loved ones, as we should.” B just when we think Fawcett has come to terms with fact that the jungle will not provide him an answer to his soul’s yearning, he tells Nina while in the hospital recovering from his war wounds that he’s dreaming of Amazonia. “I must go back…” he tells her, weeping. Fawcett seems cursed with a need for this lost city, and at this point it understandably pains him that he still feels the need to return to it.

Gray is also dealing with an historical figure, and while he takes liberties with elements of his biography, his ultimate fate must be acknowledged. The Lost City of Z has a triptych structure built around three of Fawcett’s jungle quests. The last of these includes the eldest son, Jack, who has evolved from a resentful child to a young man with the same vigor and passion for Z that his father initially displayed. The journey does not begin without Fawcett first trying to persuade Costin to join him a final time. Costin declines, reasoning that he has a wife and child to care for. While not denying that the city in the jungle exists, he expresses doubt “that Z can provide all the answers you seek from it.” Costin essentially is the man that Fawcett has wanted and needed to be all along. Initially we wonder if Fawcett goes back because he loves his son, or if he’s using it simply as an opportunity to perpetuate the remnants of his obsession with Z. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

Fawcett and his son never returned, and in the film, we see them captured by a native tribe as they succumb to a spiritual ceremony that we suspect will result in their death. “We know so little of this world,” Fawcett tells his son. “But you and I have made a journey that other men cannot even imagine. And this has given understanding to our hearts.” In this moment of reckoning perhaps Fawcett is making a final attempt to justify his actions. He is not wrong in doing so, but his conclusion is false. He has not found his city. He recollects a moment after his son’s birth when his wife reads a letter she has written him, and finishes with a quote from a Browning poem: “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” I find this a deeply moving notion, and it does seem to provide Fawcett with a sense of closure. Yet he finds this, again, through a memory of home, where he ought to be but cannot be.

There’s undeniably something skewed and tragic about Fawcett’s perspective. He does not know what he wants, and the journey for Z is his way of finding that. His pursuit is sustenance for his soul, and it becomes beguiling and maddening. The viewer sees it lucidly, while Fawcett oscillates between moments of clarity and confusion. The further one gets from home, the stronger our need to return to it. When we manage to get back to it, we lose sight of its importance and leave it again. As long as we can keep returning to it, we shall be okay. For Fawcett, he made one too many trips to Amazonia. 


-->

A Poem is a Naked Person (1974)


Les Blank was an odd duck. He spent his life making documentaries, and his eclectic interests are reflected in his work, from a film about garlic, to an oddity called Werner Herzog Eats his Shoe. His best stuff, though, came when he brought his peculiar blend of raw authenticity and poetry to diverse kinds of music.
-->

Particularly drawn to the South, one of Blank’s early standouts was The Blues Accordin’ to Lightin’ Hopkins, about the legendary blues maestro from Texas. Scanning his body of work you’ll find other music-related docs such as Chulas Fronteras, about Texas-Mexico border music, plus films on Ry Cooder and jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie.

But nothing in Blank’s filmography stands out quite like A Poem is a Naked Person, his intimate chronicling of the brilliant and eccentric singer-songwriter Leon Russell. Every bit as soulful and mysterious as its title, the movie follows Russell from the recording studio to live shows, with behind-the-scenes footage peppered in-between. But if you think this is the type of documentary built around getting ‘exclusive access’ to an artist then you’d be mistaken.

Shot between 1972-1974, the film takes its free form approach seriously. Blank always seems most interested in Russell, but to him part of capturing a musician is to understand the essence of his environment. As such, you’ll find Blank seemingly abandon Russell at points to focus on strangers at a wedding where Russell happens to be performing, or on a completely random elderly couple attending a demolition in Russell’s home state of Oklahoma (large portions of the film take place there, where Russell had set up his recording studio on Grand Lake). Willie Nelson and George Jones also show up for a few songs, and there’s plenty of nature imagery as well. A sunset reflected on a lake and a snake devouring a baby chick show nature as beautiful and cruel. If these cannot be reconciled, then Blank seems to feel the world needs music for compensation.

Russell, who died last year at age 74, had a ubiquitous presence in music. With his trademark long hair (turned a silvery gray by age 30), beard, wild eyes, and energetic piano and vocal style, you’d think he might have built his career solely around his own lively aura. The opposite is true, as Russell spent his life bouncing between genres like blues, gospel, rock, and country and collaborating with dozens of artists, from Sinatra and the Beach Boys to Willie Nelson. Though a standout in a crowd, Russell always put the music front and center. Whatever ego he had always seemed hidden, or at least obscured by the sheer bravura of his musical abilities.

And that’s essentially the impression you get of him in A Poem is a Naked Person. The film does not reveal much about his personality other than that he was a lively performer and pretty laid back the rest of the time. There are brief moments of philosophical musing, but his ideas are mostly muddled, like when he states “the only dumb animal is a dead animal and we’re all dumb cause we’re all gonna die.” But if Russell the person does not make much of an impression, Russell the musician more than compensates. When you see him perform in the film you sense he’s putting his entire being into his songs. “You have to be yourself and trust that it’s not ugly,” he says at one point in reference to his need to play music. The great irony about Russell then is that he embraced the collaborative nature of music making while simultaneously exposing his utter dependence on it for his own well-being. It’s almost like sitting at his piano and belting out lyrics was his own personal survival kit. Because he looks somewhat like a caveman, maybe it’s not a stretch to say that seeing Russell play emits a kind of primal force.

In some ways it’s hard to call A Poem is a Naked Person a great music documentary since its equal parts an expression of Blank’s strangeness and Russell’s iconic sound. I believe Russell wanted a more traditional documentary that centered purely on its subject and was less concerned with mood and style. "I paid for it and I own it but I didn't care for it," Russell said in 2010. The film never actually was released until 2015, after Blank’s death.

Russell looked and sounded like no one else, so if this is the film we’re left with of him then maybe it’s fitting that it doesn’t fit snugly in the tradition of music documentaries. Russell preached the need to be oneself. If you don’t like the film, at least you can’t say Blank didn’t uphold that notion.



-->

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Shutter Island (revisited)


To this day I'm still not entirely sure what to make of Shutter Island. It was such a big deal to me when its release was delayed back in Fall, 2009 to winter 2010. Its delay was essentially to say this is not another Martin Scorsese awards contender, as every film he'd released since the 2000s had been.

Its obvious why the film's producers decided it might fare better in the more relaxed environs of post-Oscar movie malaise, but at the same time it's such a strange movie that there's not really any particular season where it could fit snugly.

After watching the first season of MINDHUNTER (which is pretty great, though part of my enthusiasm for it might just be that the final episode was absurdly good, hence softening the impact of various shortcomings that the previous middle episodes displayed), I thought a bit about Shutter Island and how it represents the absolute antithesis of what David Fincher was in part attempting to say in his new Netflix series. MINDHUNTER, without hesitation, correlates the criminally insane with pure evil and makes no attempt to change our perspective on such a notion. It got me thinking how Shutter Island is the polar opposite. Seen side-by-side, it's hard to imagine Scorsese directing any bit of MINDHUNTER, just as Fincher helming Shutter Island would probably not have worked.

  The title Shutter Island is perfect. The word ‘shutter’ in the sense of a hinged panel on the outside of a window for increased security and protection certainly is fitting in relation to the movie. After all, it describes a mental hospital housing “only the most dangerous patients,” and the fact that a hurricane is approaching when the film begins makes it all the more suitable. However, in his original review of the film, critic Richard Brody writes: The title is “Shutter Island”; the shutter is, after all, a part of the camera, and once you pass through, you don’t get out.”

Shutter Island asks that we “pass through” the camera and into its confines. We’re stuck there, simultaneously mesmerized by the world Scorsese creates and perturbed by what it asks us to do there. The movie is a psychological thriller with a major twist ending that rocks your understanding of what came before. Somewhat akin to Hitchcock’s Vertigo, the film is completely enjoyable on its initial viewing simply as a mystery. But once you understand that mystery, rather than suddenly diminishing, the movie becomes something all together more rich and unsettling.


We learn that its protagonist, U.S. Marshall Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) is actually named Andrew Laeddis, a patient at the mental hospital we assumed he had been investigating. Prior to being committed to the institution, he killed his wife, and because he is unable to admit to this terrible fact, he participates in an elaborate game organized by the hospital in which he pretends to be investigating a missing person case on the island. The revelation serves to shock us, while within the narrative it is meant to trigger within Andrew a full realization and acceptance of his guilt. As a twist, it does what the best ones accomplish: it turns the entire film you thought you had been watching on its head. But instead of becoming an empty vessel, the content prior to that revelation actually becomes richer once the secret behind the narrative is revealed.

Watching Shutter Island in light of the fact that we know the events are an elaborate contrivance necessarily diminishes much of its initial suspense. But in doing so it also becomes something you never thought such a disturbing, pulpy, ornate psycho-thriller could be, or, dare I say, have the right to be: a deeply affecting, terribly sad character piece, an operatic tragedy with some of the most emotional filmmaking of Scorsese’s career. When we pass through into the claustrophobic world of Shutter Island, we’re asked to commit to something far more unsettling than observing a hospital for the criminally insane. We’re asked to engage emotionally with a murderer.

One of the most talked about lines in the film is the final one, in which Andrew sits on the hospital steps with Dr. Sheehan (Mark Ruffalo), and seemingly reverts back to Teddy Daniels and says they need to get off the island. He then asks, “Which would be worse—to live as a monster or die as a good man?” He then stands up and allows other doctors, including head Psychologist Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley) to lead him off to be lobotomized (during the film’s revelation about Andrew’s identity, we’re informed Andrew must accept either his true identity and actions or a lobotomy).

If Andrew has already regressed then Shutter Island would be an indubitable bummer. Gladly, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Andrew’s final words, which were an addition to the script that is otherwise extremely faithful to its source material, suggest he’s controlling his fate. You don’t close your film with such a weighty line of dialogue for no reason.
The central takeaway is that Andrew’s regression is a performance. Dr. Cawley’s experiment worked and Andrew’s guilt is such that he cannot continue living if he accepts he murdered his wife.

Scorsese’s chief psychiatric advisor on the film, Professor James Gilligan, has even confirmed that this is the correct way to interpret the film’s conclusion: Andrew does indeed choose his fate. According to Gilligan in a 2010 piece from The Guardian, those cryptic last words mean: "I feel too guilty to go on living.” The decision finally indicates Andrew is in control of his mind, and while his end is tragic, it ultimately defines him as a man driven by grief and guilt. These deeply human emotions, coupled with Andrew’s final moment of autonomy over his fate, suggest a request that we feel for this man. One should never overlook the importance of a film’s ending, and here that is no exception. If Shutter Island goes to these lengths to paint Andrew in this light, it only seems to serve the notion that Andrew is a kind of hopelessly tragic hero. At the center of Shutter Island is not madness, but rather a deep melancholy.


Is it absurd to use this kind of language? I don’t think so. Consider this: Shutter Island is about a man so crippled by grief and denial that he participates in a massive fable and even takes on a new identity to stave off the realization of his guilt. It’s an absurd but profound proposal. I also have to think it’s the reason the movie doesn’t play well with a lot of viewers. Rather than picking up pace the film actually slows as it continues, and at 140 minutes it can really feel interminable as Teddy navigates the deepest environs of the island and engages in episodes of extended paranoid dialogues with other patients. As A.O Scott wrote in his original and quite negative review of the film in The New York Times, “Mr. Scorsese in effect forces you to study the threads on the rug he is preparing, with lugubrious deliberateness, to pull out from under you. As the final revelations approach, the stakes diminish precipitously, and the sense that the whole movie has been a strained and pointless contrivance starts to take hold.” But despite its genre trappings I see no reason not take this film quite seriously. In fact, it might be because of those trappings that it becomes such a powerful experience. Since it’s a genre exercise, everything seems larger, more heightened: it’s not just the ominous skies, the booming soundtrack, the dramatic weather, the gothic architecture, but also the emotion of the whole thing. If all Scott saw was “a pointless contrivance” then did he really see this movie?

From the opening scene we gather Teddy’s underlying trauma—stemming from his wife drowning their four children in the backyard pond—by his anxiety on a boat surrounded by water. “Pull yourself together Teddy, it’s just water,” he says in a tone fraught with peril as he approaches Shutter Island with his “partner,” Chuck. Shutter Island is filled with moments like these where the dramatic effect shifts when you’re cognizant of Teddy’s past and true self. The movie makes no demands that we sympathize with Teddy, but it does want us to at least understand him. It wants us to take seriously the idea of loss and how it can fully take over and dictate a life.

But again, it’s difficult to find this idea in the film because it is often lurking behind the utter hyperbolic style of it all. Scorsese devotes much of his energy here to simply convey an atmosphere of dread and paranoia, justified by the cold war anxiety, WWII PTSD, and 1950s societal repression that serves as the movie’s social backdrop. It’s very easy to overlook its nuances in favor of its deliciously bombastic sense of mood and style, present from the very first frame of a boat emerging through a thick fog as a booming cello signals this world is not safe.

And yet this style does not mask the film’s underlying investigation of loss. It invigorates it. It suggests that the only way to truly express the whirlwind of feelings surrounding a tragedy of the proportion Teddy has encountered is to express it through genre style. And that’s not to say Scorsese’s world is one giant metaphor for Teddy’s mind, though you’re free to interpret it that way if you choose. Instead, it seems tied to the idea of the stories we tell about ourselves. In life, the line between mediocrity and grandiosity can be an act of telling yourself what you want to hear. But what happens when you use this method in relation to a tragedy you’ve experienced? You must create a giant fiction, something so preposterous that it inevitably accentuates the emotional feeling behind it. When that fiction is exposed, all that’s left is the emotion, and suddenly the story you’ve told yourself seems ridiculous, maybe even embarrassing.

That seems to be the ultimate justification for the elaborate style and fictions that muddle the truth behind the real Teddy Daniels. The truth hurts in Shutter Island, but you can’t live a good life live without it. The sorrow underlining the film is that Andrew is incapable of living with that truth. Either he hides from it and pretends to be Teddy Daniels, or he dies.

The sense of loss that permeates the movie is actually present from our opening tour of sorts of the as the smirking Deputy Warden McPherson (John Carroll Lynch) shows Teddy and Chuck the layout of Shutter Island. We get our handful of ominous imagery, like the thick barbed wire atop the prison walls, various prison guards holding their rifles austerely, and a patient putting a whispering finger to her lips for no apparent reason other than to signal that something’s not quite right. But the camera also focuses in on the entrance sign to a cemetery that reads: “Remember us, for we too have lived, loved, and laughed.” These words are not incidental, and Scorsese, who’s spent his career obsessing about what is and is not in the frame, would not include this if it wasn’t meant to be pondered. The film quietly asks that we don’t simply act horrified by the patients at this institution. After all, as Dr. Cawley says at one point, “insanity’s not a choice. You can’t just choose to get over it.” We do not have to show love or deep compassion for these individuals, but at the very least we should think of them as suffering human beings and not simply as crazed animals. That’s particularly true of Teddy. We’re supposed to see that behind this delusional man is a tragic character with a past who indeed lived, loved, and laughed.

Other choices Scorsese makes are also indicative of loss as the movie’s central through line. In particular there is a dream sequence that ranks among the most stunning and emotionally overwhelming pieces of filmmaking of the director’s career. Until this point Shutter Island’s mood is largely one of ominous danger. Suddenly we find ourselves in Teddy’s dream universe as he walks down a corridor towards his wife, Dolores (Michelle Williams). She berates him for his drinking problem, which he attributes to the fact that he killed so many people during the war. Additional dream/flashbacks will show his involvement in the Dachau Liberation Reprisals and the horrific violence he was confronted with and participated in. But in this particular scene the focus is on the heartbreak that defines Teddy, and, as such, the film itself.

Using lush color to contrast the film’s typically stormy visual palate, the sequence is structured around two key ideas: The first is that Teddy’s dreams about his dead wife help to perpetuate his delusional narrative about the events in his past. First of all, we see ashes floating down around the room like dead flower petals, which is tied to Teddy’s story about how his wife died in an apartment fire. Teddy cannot come to terms with the fact that he killed his wife, and he seems equally traumatized by the fact that his children are dead—particularly his daughter Rachel. Rachel shows up in several of his nightmares, and even says at one point “You should have saved me, you should have saved all of us.” And yet in the dream, Dolores says:
“She’s still here.”
“Who? Rachel?” Teddy asks.
“She never left,” Dolores replies.

On a literal sense this relates to Rachel Solando, the “missing patient” Teddy is supposed to investigate. It implies that somewhere in his psyche he’s aware the disappearance is simply a game. But because his daughter is named Rachel as well, we gather Teddy is incapable of confronting the full extent of his tragic past. Here Scorsese wants us to feel devastated, not disturbed. Composer Max Richter’s sublime and elegant On the Nature of Daylight makes its first of three entrances in the movie, every somber note tinged with feelings of grief and pain. It’s the sonic equivalent of the aforementioned cemetery sign. Out of nowhere the film asks that we might take it dead-seriously. Teddy clings to his wife like he clings to his fake version of the past. She begs him to let her go and then turns to ash and crumbles around him. This is deeply challenging emotional territory, and the case could certainly be made that the pulpy genre style that makes up so much of this movie does not warrant the inclusion of such weighty themes. But to me the opposite is true. When you approach grief from a place you least expect to find it, and suddenly reveal it with such sleight of hand as Scorsese does here, you can’t help but admire it. This could have been another Cape Fear-style genre homage, and that would have been fine. But Scorsese ends up reaching considerably higher. He knows it might make us uncomfortable. He hopes it will move us beyond such a feeling.


Shutter Island takes a wild, twisty approach to reach the conclusion that there’s no way to ever fully recover from a tragedy. You can forge a new identity, try to fall in love again, or go insane. But the truth will always find its way back and will haunt you forever. Andrew is incapable of living with this reality because on top of the grief that dictates his actions is a sense of guilt that sucks his personhood dry. The end credits music of Shutter Island starts with the booming cello used in the film’s beginning. But as that wears off, Scorsese and his long-time musical collaborator pull off the dazzling mash-up of Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight and Dinah Washington’s 1960 song This Bitter Earth. The two melodies mesh perfectly together, and create the somber, melancholy mood Scorsese chooses to impart on the viewer as they leave his movie.

I still have some difficulty fully embracing the way the film works. It’s easy to acknowledge Andrew as an unfortunate soul who was not meant for this earth while also keeping a safe distance from his crippled mind. It’s the kind of thing that can be frightening to get too close to, and that we hope is just the stuff of nightmares. But the truth is that it isn’t. We ought to confront Andrew Laeddis as a man. In a way that sounds like a perfectly obvious, mature perspective. In the world of Shutter Island, it’s the biggest surprise of all.

-->