Others' Fears Are Suspiciously Often Irrational, While Ours Are, Suspiciously Again, Always Justified.

Sweeney Todd: The Importance of Morals and the Wrongfulness of Socialism

Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd (2007) has been famous for its explicitly violent themes, which are doubtlessly quite spectacular and shocking. The basic story seems like a tragic journey of vengeance and death but, as a matter of fact, it isn't a more dramatic Count of Monte Cristo, but it's a unique and interesting piece of art of a different nature.

In the beginning of the story Benjamin Barker a.k.a. Sweeney Todd (Johnny Depp) returns to London, from where he has been banished for crimes he did not commit and the corrupt judge, namely Turpin (Alan Rickman), who caused all of his troubles, abused his wife - who took arsenic to escape her pain - and became the tutor of Sweeney's daughter, Johanna (Jane Wisener). Sweeney seeks vengeance, pairs up with Mrs Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter), a widow, together they kill and bake scores of people, finally murdering the judge. In the closing sequence though it turns out, that Sweeney has killed his wife, along with the so many strangers, out of mistake, so he kills Mrs Lovett but he dies, too, because a young boy, Toby (Ed Sanders), who's very fond of the widow, kills him, as vengeance, also.

There are better plot summaries, I know, but I couldn't leave it out, in case someone isn't yet introduced to the movie.

Sweeney's conduct is a classic vendetta, which he plans to materialize by any means necessary. His self-assigned quest is something, that is hard to categorize as immoral. Well, yes, it's wrong to kill a man and it is far, far more wrong to kill a great number of men, yet we can't disregard the information about Turpin's terrible acts. We can say, that we probably wouldn't kill like Sweeney did but it's still hard to say, that his actions are wrongful, since he has the best imaginable motivation. In summary, what he intends to bring down on Turpin and London is understandable and, no matter how much we argue, just.

As the story goes on we get to see a little more of Turpin, who is represented as a heartless, sick person, to say the least. He is seemingly worthy of his overhanging punishment and he just keeps giving us reasons to hate him, and the banner of righteousness to Sweeney.

While Sweeney's struggling to get a chance to finish his vendetta, he kills many people, whom are baked by Mrs Lovett. This is an extremely provocative notion. As Sweeney is placed on a - disturbing and arguable - moral high ground, there is a seeming moral justification of his killing spree. The purpose this monstrosity serves is nothing else, than - apart from mere practice - cleansing the society of the bourgeois--we'll return to this.

In the end, however, everything takes a chaotic turn and what has seemed to be logical and moral - though disturbing and hard to agree with - loses its core element: the purity of its motivation. Has it not been for Sweeney's blindness he could've returned to his wife and with probably a lot of difficulties he could've redeemed himself from whatever he's been accused with. He could've got back his only child, as well. Sweeney realizes all this and kills Mrs Lovett, who has had key importance in his destruction, but it brings him nothing, apart from a very sudden and ironic death. The reason why it is hard to argue Sweeney's right to murder all those people is, that he seems to have a natural right to balance out his loss. This is what disappears in the finale: he must face the fact, that he isn't omniscient, he's not above nature but inside. All of his killings, his vendetta, basically everything turns out to be unjustified and immoral, and this is what our instincts have been telling us all along the movie. This story tells, how no man can rise above the rest of humanity or any given society, and how important it is to always stride on the path of morality, otherwise we'll run into great catastrophes, which are all self-inflicted. Lovett's bakery is a quite unmistakable and disgusting representation of socialism. Although in our society it's not a question whether socialism is right or wrong, this story, for some reason, still asks it but also gives a fast and clear answer: this mechanism of destruction was the one, which led to the demise of the one, whom Sweeney held the dearest.

In my personal opinion Sweeney Todd's tragic tale encourages us to watch the future with infinite hope instead of bitterness, no matter how terrible the past is.

There’s no happy ending with me.

An Essay on Café Society

Woody Allen’s most recent film, Café Society, has been probably the season’s most anticipated piece in a few circles, as the old writer-director has unceasingly uphold his reputation in the past several years. He had many exceedingly and a few hardly memorable movies in his line of annual releases. This year’s film is simultaneously a worthy continuation and a surprising departure from the latest trend in the Woody Allen factory.

In numerous respects it’s a classical piece with all the usual themes: urban life, particularly the praise of New York; disillusionment; the overall pointlessness of life; being a Jew in America; neurosis and neurotics; unfulfilled love, and jazz. In some ways these were easily identifiable and fresh but at the same time they seemed to be somewhat rushed and stale--it is almost impossible to describe it without contradictions.

In this period piece we get to follow the life of a Jewish New York family and their several exploits. In the focal point there is a young, neurotic Jessie Eisenberg, who looks and acts quite similarly to the young Woody Allen. He falls in love with an unsuccessful, unspoiled Hollywood debutante, even has a chance at a short romance with her but his influential, wealthy and well-loved uncle takes the girl. As the protagonist returns to his hometown, he finds solace in high social life and a nicely growing success as a bar manager. The movie ends without many great twists and turns, with a few bitter moments of the once-lover couple meeting but never chancing at starting again together. 

I think it’s unnecessary to go into details concerning the family, the why’s and how’s, as the real treasure that this film is is hidden somewhere else.

In the context of the last twenty years of Woody Allen movies he has arguably been creating more of essays than solid works. The characteristics of his films have been changing, from the surreal reality to more subtle ways. The incomplete list of his themes above is very well-known among the people who have seen at least three or four of his works and there seems to be a will to find a perfect body for a Woody Allen film. Evidently experimentation with tone, color, period, narrative tools and much more have been defining the writer-director’s approach to his work.

Firstly, the tone is now balanced and masterful. With Match Point, and Irrational Man he has gone down the path paved by Dostoevsky. The dark brutality that he has tried to grasp in humanity has been so refined now that he probably felt it burdensome to emphasize its graveness and made it as frivolous as is fit to someone, who grew up on classical film noires. But also the romantic and neurotic air, so typical, has been refined into a cynical calmness, beyond even the point of “I can only laugh”. We have all seen the disillusionment of Woody Allen but it seems the energetic overtone is now smoothing out, which is a good thing, since the things to replace it are subtlety, mastery and unpretended grandeur.

As regards the color and period of this film I must say this is the closest I have seen to perfection. Obviously these work as great reassurances to the subject matter of the movie but there is also an important subtle depth to them. His most successful attempts at these two have been Irrational Man and Midnight in Paris. The former with its rosy color foreshadowing violence, the latter being half-set in the most resonant period of American history. In some respect Café Society is an adaptation of The Great Gatsby, dwarfing Baz Luhrman’s--in comparison--cheap attempt. In the titular film several moments are highlighted and tainted with a golden shade--something not similar but identical to Fitzgerald’s work. At first it seems to underline the high hopes and dreams of the likable protagonist and it then gradually flowers into the color of death and decay, more and more disappearing from Jessie Eisenberg’s scenes and more and more coloring death around him. In the beginning he is hopeful, he is made golden but what it symbolizes loses meaning and moves into external things, for example originally he feels this golden color and loves a brunette, then in the end feels nothing close to that but his wife has golden hair. The period of the film is also evocative of The Great Gatsby: one will feel both a romantic feeling for that specific time and a detachment because of the overhanging horror.

In To Rome with Love we have seen a contemporary, yet clear narrative with multiple storielines to follow, hardly ever intersecting each other, connected mainly by the place but not limited by anything. Now Café Society is far more conservative but clearly shows the understanding that the creator has obtained through a daring project. It is subtle, it is a lot but it is enough--according to this blogger. Here it is the family members that create multiple dimensions, although they are pointing toward a final intersection inside our protagonist. To me it’s these simultaneously running stories that create the oh-so-familiar feeling of neurosis in Café Society.

A nowadays often looked-down-upon tool has been utilized in the film: voice-over. However there is nothing to be despised about it, since it is no more than semblance that it served the function of exposition--in fact it is subtle but continuous cynicism, magnified only by the past experiences with Woody Allen films. It speaks a language known only to the adepts but to them it speaks it quite comprehensibly.

Even the casting of this film is subtly outstanding. We have several savvy choices of returning actors from past Woody Allen movies, like our old Hemingway as the brute of the family, or pseudo-neurotic Jessie Eisenberg. What I think is the greatest decision with regards to the actors is Steve Carell, who is Italian enough to play a Jew--a joke a little too much on the nose...

Overall this film is one more step in the direction of at least my ideal of a Woody Allen film. It has so numerous merits, it looks so subtle, expensive, real and beautiful that I won’t stop praising it in a reasonable space of time.

How to get lost... in life

Though I'm relatively young, I've begun to feel, that I've missed or failed chances, which cannot be recovered. I've been inadequately attempting to perfect and sell my book, to be discovered as a genius at basically any field. I've been chasing my impossible and utterly ridiculous dreams. In my pursue of a great life, I've lost sight of what originally motivated me. And I haven't only failed at completing certain goals, I've given in to family expectations, "sane" voices from all around me and to my unadmitted fear of living. There's a part of me, which, along with many of my past chances, cannot be recovered. Well not by me at least... The current state of my life is not even remotely related to my former anticipation. I used to believe, that amazing turns in life are ahead. And yes, I'm still young... But I've just wasted so much: time, resources, connections and most of all spirit.

What do I do now? I still haven't lost hope and in all probability I never will. Still, I don't have the slightest idea of how to act. The ground beneath my feet has shrinked to absolute nil. I can see clearly, how my further actions and plans can never lead to fruition. However, as I've said, I'm bound to hope, I still believe, that life can take an unexpected and rather fortunate turn and this endlessly rushing train will take me to a destination, that overtakes all that my limited mind can dream of now.

I have faith, that my fate is not in my hands. It would be inexpressably tormenting to have no hope for anything beyond my own power. I am grateful that I can dwell in the house of God forever.

I feel that it's like in some books, where the characters have little to no word in shaping their destinies. Well of course, I firmly believe, that my actions and thoughts matter enermously, more than I realise but, in this short post, my only concern was resolving my present predicament.

Absence of celebration

When I was in elementary school, my dad always took me to get some ice cream, when it vacation started, because of my good grades. But it stopped with the beginning of middle school. Ever since, my birthdays have been celebrated only with my family, only was celebrated my girlfriend with me in private. I also had this graduation supper, where I got to be but a mere guest. I know it's not bad and I could be very grateful for this and I guess this all's just 'coz my ego can grow very rapidly but still, sometimes I really want to be celebrated. Today, like an hour ago, I finished the revision of my book. It's not in the phase of getting published or anything, though I count it as a huge step. But I'm sitting in my room, alone, typing this entry. When I finished the first manuscript (a very raw one) i got to go on a walk alone in the park.

You know, I'm not trying to get your empathy. I don't really need that. It just hit me, that I can celebrate alone. And so I will. I've had enough of dreaming of this. You know, I'm a believer, so I wouldn't say, that it's my achievement, ergo I'll mostly celebrate my heavenly Father. He always amazes me. Just like with this.

Randomness rules!

Listen without interrupting. ( PROVERBS 18 )

Speak without accusing. ( JAMES 1:19 )

Give without sparing. ( PROVERBS 21:26 )

Pray without ceasing. ( COLOSSIANS 1:9 )

Answer without arguing. ( PROVERBS 17:1 )

Share without pretending. ( EPHESIANS 4:15 )

Enjoy without complaint. ( PHILIPPIANS 2:14 )

Trust without wavering. ( CORINTHIANS 13:7 )

Forgive without punishing. ( COLOSSIANS 3:13 )

Promise without forgetting. ( PROVERBS 13:12 )

Ten Ways To Love

Discipline is Hard but Weakness is not my Game

I’ve been feeling waves of regression washing over me recently but at the same time I’ve been leaning forward. My ambitions, exuberant and overwhelming, have been leading me. And, again, I’m arrested in a state of complete antinomy: I’m satisfied and dissatisfied, hopeful and disillusioned--I feel these over the same things.

Leaping toward the shimmering notion of how I think I ought to be is what I’m trying to do, yet there’s this unbearable inertia in my life. If I say I want to write, I find I should throw away people, or care considerably less. In my constant struggle for creating something noteworthy I encounter discouragement. Well, on the heartfelt occasions. Of course I get the you’re great and the it’ll be fine but what are those supposed to mean? Not even the ones closest to me think of my writing as a tangible thing with tangible effects. For my environment it’s no more than a dream I’m sometimes having. Certainly romantic but not to be pursued to the damage of even the smallest thing.

I often wonder if the world’s as small as some people see it. Do I need a small job in order to this and that? Well, I refuse the necessity of it and always have. The start of a career or a seed-like job is a different case but I’m regularly pressured toward being practical the ordinary way and I see that as derogatory. I do encourage some folks to master base skills and unromantic professions and I am not against the concept of these, only I feel they get the wrong animal with me. I can’t do all that other people can but I have a strong conviction that I can excel, even create new frontiers, where our race seldom goes: the abstract, the grand and often vain projects that frighten so many. I crave those paths but I get the feeling that with it I frighten those, who love me.

Yet, after all, on a few days I too wake up with doubt. I despise doubt and loathe it, along with cowardice and ignorance but, much like the next person, I’m susceptible to all of those. Sometimes I read back what I’ve written and I’m disappointed. Then, of course, I get down to the part of grinding and go over it once again, until I can accept it but the next day it’s exactly the same amount of disappointment over yesterday’s promising new words. The temptation is unceasing, the beating inside me is counter-driving my soul, into disbelief and the will to abandon my work. But then it’s the universal beating of all ages and if anyone ever amounted to greatness, it’s no more than walking without letting herself be broken. We don’t need anyone for that--to break us. We are very efficient at giving terrible advice to ourselves, although it’s true that the world around us lavishes it at us without limit.

Similarly, in my emotions I’m conflicted. There are things that I want and there are people I want. My desires are sharply defined, there’s no need there, but I regret to want them. There’s no smart way around this though. Truthfully I don’t even know the objects of my desires thoroughly, yet if I were made to choose I would throw away all I have to have those. I think it would be painful but it wouldn’t take me more than a moment of having to contain whatever is trying to get out through our throats, when we feel profound loss, then I’d be immersed in the crisp breeze. I am certain I have the capacity to be like that only I know it’s wrong. It’s immoral and unwise, yet the demands of the soul of a man, who’s otherwise consciously fighting to reach his other desires, called ambitions, are hard to put away.

My desires resist and pull me. Whichever is to be attained is painful, and the ones that I denounce, will not leave me. Everything’s hard--said the poet.

“The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes round to the north; round and round goes the wind, and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again. All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; and there is nothing new under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 1,5-9