‎"Transformers 3" Mini Review

Only Michael Bay (and the execrable Ehren Kruger) could take ILM special effects -- perhaps the most technically astonishing I've ever seen -- and latch them onto one of the most unwatchable, interminable, nonsensical event movies ever made. How anyone could sit through this eternal, incoherent mess and not be utterly bored passes all understanding.

"Pareidolia: Seeing Images In Clouds"

March 22, 2009

Pareidolia is a really fascinating (and sometimes illogically chilling) mental phenomenon known less by its actual scientific nomenclature and more by the everyday event of observing a thing and seeing it either as something else altogether, noticing something else in a pattern on the object, or seeing them interchangeably.

As I understand it, the phenomenon points to how the brain "faultily" (and amazingly) processes what we see at times (some would say it always processes what we see incorrectly since the image in question is entirely rebuilt in the mind from data from the eye).

The workings of the brain and its functions and the evolution of the incredible machine over time have been a point of extreme interest for me for a while now, reasons unknown (other than the obvious future I have as a poorly-educated mad scientist whose only goal is to create an anthropomorphic brain to play Street Fighter with; heck, maybe we're all just anthropomorphic brains). The two books that focused on the evolutionary history of the brain and the history of neuroscience itself that I've read are Carl Sagan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "The Dragons of Eden" and Jonah Lehrer's newish "Proust Was A Neuroscientist." Sagan's book is easily one of the best books I've ever read. It is filled to the brim with insights and theories and speculations and experimental data that will actually (not really) increase the size of your brain (which, by the way, isn't truly a direct indicator of intelligence, Sagan says, but there is a correlation on average).

Lehrer's book is still a work in progress (for me to read it, not for him to write it), but it's a really fun read. If you have any interest at all in neuroscience and various great 18th and early 19th century artists from Whitman to George Eliot to the aforementioned Proust and Cezanne, you would do well to pick it up. The Cezanne chapter alone discusses the topic of this particular Note, how the brain processes the data our eyes pick up, and it's pretty, um, eye-opening. Each chapter focuses on a particular artist and demonstrates, in general, how said artist intuited a lot about the brain in his writings that science is only now proving explicitly. Some reviews of the book have taken it to task for basically overstating the case at times, giving too much credit to George Eliot, for instance, for simply writing about how we change through our lives due to our circumstances (or choice) and are not necessarily predetermined and chalking that up to great scientific insight when countless books and authors have done the same thing.

But, I think they miss the point of the book, which is not to say these artists were always the only ones to have done what they did, but that great art in general does intuit a lot about science, and the artists he mentions in particular do stand apart a little from the pack, especially when, as Lehrer says, they were so fascinated by the science of their own day and sometimes explicitly trying to address or correct bad science in their art. In the end, you'll shake your head at a paragraph or two, not totally convinced, but overall, it's an insightful book about both art and science, and you don't see that very often, especially from the often cold realm of unapproachable scientific journals.

Having now terribly derailed from the main point of this note, which was to simply send you some links to totally awesome examples of pareidolia, I will rectify this by getting right to it.

Here's one listed on the site as "Best Pareidolia Ever," and with very good reason. The thumbnail in this Note may hint at it, but hit the link for the full version. It will be very hard to un-see one of the two images you'll likely see.

http://forgetomori.com/2008/skepticism/best-pareidolia-ever/

For an example of the "chilling" variety, where our minds definitely get the better of our common sense (unless, of course, you consider seeing ghosts in doorways common sense, in which case I mean no offense; by and large, optical illusions are more likely, as I understand Occam's Razor) there's this one:

http://forgetomori.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/wemtownhallghostgirl-thumb.jpg

This second one is also in the first link I sent, and the explanation behind it is well worth reading.

Here's another, with another great insight from Sagan on possibly why we recognize faces so readily in objects. It's also about Bigfoot on Mars that I, too, saw as a Martian version of Copenhagen's "Little Mermaid" statue (scroll down to the very bottom):

http://skepdic.com/pareidol.html

Do a Google search for others or browse these links, if interested; it's a nice diversion for a Sunday afternoon. Pareidolia is very powerful, and probably every year this complicated mental "fault" causes controversy and religious fervor and paranormal terror all around the world, sometimes inspiring pilgrimages and tourism en masse to formerly unknown hamlets and cities for years and years. I've always found it interesting that so simple and so commonly-known a phenomenon could be so often taken for something far more cosmic and supernatural and mystical and important. Who knows, though? Maybe it is?

"Happy Go Lucky" Review

by Sean H. Campbell | December 18, 2008

Mike Leigh is a director I knew very well, imagined I liked very well, and until today I had never seen even one of his many respected movies. Instead, I had just read about them for years, watched as they were nominated for or won awards, and just basically forgot that I hadn't gotten around to watching anything he had done.

His newest movie, "Happy-Go-Lucky," didn't do much to entice me with its trailer, which, as I recall, just seemed to focus on a terminally happy and silly thirtysomething in zany situations doing screwball things in classic screwball tradition. What I don't remember the trailer preparing me for was the completely unaffected acting (not nearly as over-the-top as the trailer suggested), the naturalistic and hilarious dialogue, the deep, deep poignancy, and, most surprising of all, the harrowing suspense that left my stomach in knots. Tragedy seems to be waiting to burst onto the scene around every corner, but I'll spare you the ulcer-inducing agony I went through and go ahead and tell you it doesn't. Mostly.

This is a movie whose plot is difficult to describe without either destroying the joy of discovery for the patient viewer or sending Dear Reader into dreamland for the rest of his natural life. However, after this sentence, I will attempt to avoid both of these pitfalls.

Briton Sally Hawkins plays "Poppy" (no, really), an elementary teacher probably often mistaken for an air-headed party girl years younger than she is, who carries a nearly unstoppable optimism almost as a suit of armor. The film opens with a long series of shots showing Poppy gleefully riding her bike through north London, tossing her hair around without a care and generally looking so happy that one begins to have doubts about her stability; that she holds down a teaching job (and is great at it) comes as a bit of a surprise.

She arrives at a bookstore where a clerk/hippie stares at a computer screen, making no effort at acknowledging her presence. She makes several attempts to crack his emotionless disdain for common courtesy and finally leaves realizing she has lost the battle. Outside, she sees her bike has been stolen. Not so much upset but [happily?] perplexed by the situation as if it's just some prank she hardly expected, she simply says, "I didn't even get to say good-bye!" and makes her way home afoot.

The rest of the plot continues on in just this way. Her sunny disposition is challenged over and over and over and over and over. Some of her closest friends and family cherish her, while others (her pregnant, typically middle-class sister has settled and resents Poppy's freedom and free spirit) see her as a dangerous example of the anti-establishment type.

There's the bookstore clerk, a young boy in her class whose rage leads to violent attacks on his school mates, her sister, a back injury, some strangely thrilling Flamenco lessons (no, really), some terrifying driving lessons where you will, if you're human, scream "DON'T GET IN THE CAR!" by the end, and an encounter with a schizophrenic hobo that I will never, ever forget.

You think I'm joking.

It's a measure of just how well Mr. Leigh succeeds in making you love Poppy by how much you inevitably worry about her well-being. Poppy represents something pretty big. What we mistake for stupidly silly optimism and goofy, ridiculous charm ends up being a universally human ideal often ignored.

* * * *

If you're in the Knoxville Downtown West area (or a similarly "artsy" movie district), stuck for a movie to watch and feeling adventurous, check out "Happy-Go-Lucky." It won't be what you expect, you'll probably be bored and come crying to me about it later, but I promise you you'll be surprised about something in it for the better. It might remind you that movie theaters are great for explosions and CGI, but they're also great for literally everything else.

"In the Mood for Brilliance"

by Sean H. Campbell | January 6, 2009

Wong Kar-wai's "In the Mood for Love" is probably the best movie about adultery that I've ever seen, and the adulterers, at least in my opinion, are never seen on-screen. Opinions will differ slightly. Much will depend on whether or not you cheer and sympathize for the characters (I can hardly imagine you wouldn't), and much will depend on your definition of adultery.

On second thought, to say that the movie is "about adultery," is perhaps a little limiting. Mr. Chow and his wife move into a shared flat on the same day as Mrs. Chan and her husband. Perhaps you already notice the character emphasis. Mr. Chow's wife is always away on business. Mrs. Chan's husband is always away on business. The absent spouses are never seen. Mr. Chow is terribly polite and cautious and mindful of what it means for an often-alone husband to be seen with someone else's often-alone wife. Mrs. Chan is equally polite and cautious. It isn't until around the hour mark that either of them dare even to smile at each other. And this is after Mrs. Chan is devastated to learn that her husband is having an affair. Later, Mr. Chow learns the same of his wife. Their lives mirror the other's closely, and Wong emphasizes this idea with some beautiful shots framed with mirrors time and again.

Let me set your mind at ease if you -- like me -- feel absolutely tortured by the suspense of two lovers "getting caught" in movies about illicit affairs. Oh, there's suspense. Plenty of it. They live in close-quarters with another family each, and gossip runs rampant. But that gripping dread is thankfully missing due to an extremely rare platonic relationship. One realizes that if they are "caught" alone in the same room with each other (one room in particular leads to a very tense scene), they would be largely blameless and simply grateful for the other's company, even if it would validate the aforementioned gossip.

Wong's camera is unforgettable. So much is left to the imagination. In one long take, Mr. Chow sits to the right of the frame with his back to the camera. Mrs. Chan sits in profile to the left. They are performing a roleplay to help prepare Mrs. Chan for the inevitable: confronting her husband about his mistress. Mr. Chow (Tony Leung Chiu Wai, who was great in "Infernal Affairs," the source for "The Departed") plays his part well, and Mrs. Chan is taken aback when she hears the words said aloud by her mock-husband confirming what she already knows. The reality of it derails her act, and she searches Mr. Chow's face for answers, much like the viewer would, but Wong doesn't show us the face of the actor-adulterer. We merely see Mrs. Chan, played beautifully and with subtlety by the stunning Maggie Cheung.

The camera peers around door jambs and down halls at the characters, through sheer drapes from outside, and so on, as if we are spying. A recurring violin motif accompanies the many slow-motion sequences in the film. It is during these scenes that we are invited to watch these characters use normalcy and routine to both fall deeply in love with each other but also to keep from the thing that drove them together in the first place.

The film is beautiful. The slow-motion is languorous and riveting (the violin holds you spellbound every time, and the only other real music in the movie is a grouping of Spanish love songs from Nat King Cole, strangely appropriate), a wide variety of jump-cuts, reversals, and left-and-right panning shots are always used in service of what's going on at any given time, and the film's final moments are filled with vaguely resonant imagery that demands reflection. It is simply one of those perfect movies that comes along so rarely, and when it does, countless moments are burned into your memory. Maybe you won't care about the cinematic trickery that makes it all work so well, but you will find yourself unusually moved.

* * *

For the violin motif: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0tMmsUEGOY

For a Nat King Cole: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAYJYxbJv1Y&feature=related

“Super 8”

By Sean H. Campbell | June 14, 2011

Two movies have stood out in my mind as supreme examples of youthful pro-intellectualism and adherence to craft: Yoshifumi Kondo's landmark "Whisper of the Heart" and Brad Bird's "Ratatouille."

In Kondo's film, two children, Shizuku and Seiji, find their respective talents through a chance encounter and mutual support. Shizuku becomes obsessed with fiction, and after her grades slip during the creation of her first short novel, she is hit with the sobering fact that her writing shows great promise but would benefit well from further education and experience. Meanwhile, Seiji is encouraged to take up the painstaking job of luthier, specifically a violin apprenticeship in Italy.

In Bird's surprisingly brave film, a rat named Remy pursues the misunderstood and esoteric culinary arts, much to the dismay of his skeptical (some would say low-brow) family. In typical Pixar fashion, “Ratatouille” is clearly designed to be a massively popular film, but its deep artistic and philosophical ambitions run parallel beneath the surface.

These are heady and even controversial topics (i.e., embracing excellence also requires one to recognize inferior efforts) for films targeting the youth, but talented directors understand that great art for children is also great art for adults. Oftentimes, it is the adults who learn -- or remember -- something important, which very much reverses the preconception of so-called “kids movies.”

And so it is with J.J. Abrams's first original feature (his third actual film). Abrams captures the spirit of youthful ambition as well as its necessary naivete -- the sort of thing that embarrasses the young artist just enough in hindsight to improve each time. In this case, a believable -- if somewhat stereotypical -- group of kids decides to pay tribute to one of their own favorite filmmakers, the great George Romero.

One night, the kids “borrow” a parent’s car, meet at an old train depot, and work out another rather slipshod but still impressive shoot that serendipitously (and terrifyingly) becomes vastly more visually interesting by the introduction of a real train (“Production values!” cries the young director). In short, things go boom, the titular Super 8 camera gathers some interesting footage, and the game is afoot. Add in some classic military meddling, various eerie goings-on around town (runaway dogs, missing car engines), as well as a cryptic warning from an unlikely man, and you have not just a compelling tribute but also an enticing modern entertainment.


Much has been made of Spielberg's involvement with Spielberg claiming Abrams was the guiding force and Abrams claiming the reverse. Indeed, Spielberg's hand is perfectly evident, even if it is there by proxy simply because Abrams so often calls to mind classic shots and themes (including musical nods to John Williams and an otherwise fantastic score thanks to the constantly-rising star Michael Giacchino).

Tracking shots of kids on bikes at dusk, crane shots angled down into suburban valley neighborhoods set against starry nights, lens flares galore (for which Abrams is unfairly parodied), chaotic dinner table scenes filled with unruly children, obsessive parents disconnected from their children, a central mystery left off-screen to grow in the imagination all the more, a natural understanding (or remembrance) of adolescence, and masterful action set pieces: they’re all here. (Pardon the half-quote from “Poltergeist.”)

In this case, however, “Super 8” succeeds in being a beautiful and diligent homage rather than a lifeless facsimile, and Abrams does it with aplomb. Abrams clearly has something of Spielberg’s way of directing children, of pulling totally believable performances from them. Every character is perfectly cast, young and old (Elle Fanning continues to impress, and newcomer Joel Courtney grounds the movie effortlessly). Surprises and clever details accent nearly every scene. The tone is nostalgic without being suffocating. “Super 8” is a great little movie.

Abrams brings what he typically does to his projects: a mysterious, sci-fi hook (see Hitchcock’s MacGuffin) that is kept vague and obscured well enough to get people talking about what’s really going on for months in advance. Consider “Alias” (the “Rambaldi Device”), “LOST” (the island itself), “Mission: Impossible III” (the “Rabbit’s Foot”), “Cloverfield” (you know, the oh-so-mysterious monster), “Star Trek” (the dangerous “red matter”), and it seems quite reasonable there will be a MacGuffin hiding (perhaps in plain view) for his intriguing new television show “Alcatraz,” a mysterious island in its own right jazzed up with Abrams’s particular brand of sci-fi.


Yet at no point does J.J. Abrams seem anything like a one-trick pony of the M. Night Shyamalan ilk. Abrams has a lot more to say and clearly recognizes that good storytelling should come before good (or astonishingly cheap) thrills. The action set pieces, the MacGuffins, and the impressive special effects are all in service of the story, the mostly-successful human drama at the center. In this way, Abrams doesn’t just reignite the intelligent and original summer blockbuster; he reminds us how sorely we missed it.