Movie : Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genre
Link : Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genre
Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genre
Amour (2012)
Directed by Michael Haneke
***SPOILERS***
In David Sorfa's essay "Uneasy Domesticity in the films of Michael Haneke", he prefaces his analysis by writing:
"The films of the Austrian director, Michael Haneke, provide an austere meditation on possible problems with the concept of the domestic environment as a space of safety. Narratives of domestic dispute often position the violence of such abuse as an aberration, but Haneke indicates that the home is fundamentally predicated on aggression and fear rather than kindness and security."
So, if Haneke's last two films are a sign of progression (Funny Games, The White Ribbon), it should come as a surprise to absolutely nobody that Haneke took a potentially hokey and recycled idea (grappling with the loss of a loved one in old age) and turned Amour into Degradation Fest 2012. While Sarah Polley's Away From Her smelled suspiciously of antiquated sentimentality, Amour reeks of rot and decay—an uncompromising and unforgiving look into mortality and our fear of it. Critics have declared Amour Michael Haneke's "maturation" as a director (which explains the Best Picture nomination), and in a sense that's warranted. On a surface level, few directors have dared to paint such a hopeless portrait of love, loss, and death—especially from such an equitable standpoint. Roger Ebert says "old age isn't for sissies," but I don't think that's the issue here. Death and mortality can be explored in an objective manner, but it's Haneke's well-established detachment that separates this exploitative film from the sincerity of Away From Her or David Lynch's The Straight Story.
In essence, this is because Haneke has chosen to shape Amour around a set of techniques (particularly his static shot selection) that ape the entirety of his filmography, but particularly his last two films. With both Funny Games and The White Ribbon focusing on certain death in the absence of hope, Amour continues both those film's dedication to domestic claustrophobia. Solving the problem that plagued Pascal Laugier's The Tall Man, Haneke properly establishes a sense of entrapment that is essential to the genre Haneke has essentially chosen for Amour: horror.
Yes, for as much as elderly misery in the face of mortality has been explored with a sensitive touch, Haneke's shot selection (in compliance with his previous two films) hasn't changed one bit: his relentless stagnancy doesn't necessarily reflect a vicious agenda, but instead a cold and honest one. Haneke seems fully aware of the individual viewer's fear of death. After all, Haneke begins Amour with a shot of Anne (Emmanuelle Riva) lying stiff in her bed, covered in flower petals. Haneke instantly imbues the stench of rotting corpse in our senses before the story can begin rolling, guiding us into such a morbid mindset to coincide with his intentions: Amour will slowly deteriorate into nothingness, sacrificing the loving portrait displayed in Away From Her for depravity and filth.
The air I want to clear before I move further: I don't have a problem with such a macabre approach. Death can be ugly as much as it is inevitable, and horror films have long put on display that emotional despair and thematic solace can be found in such gruesomeness (Rob Zombie's Halloween II and David Lynch's Inland Empire come to mind). Trust me: I'm not the moral police. If Haneke believes in shaping such a grim idea, more power to him. But I think what's missing here is fabric. Or, to put it more bluntly: elbow grease. While Haneke has an agenda in mind, choosing to play off the horror genre tropes and framing tendencies, Amour is ultimately a hollow film. It's an impeccably acted and superbly framed abyss of grief—but the framing, unfortunately, strongly apes the atmosphere of his previous films, which only reinforces the dangerously undressed concept at hand. Haneke relies too heavily on our intrinsic fear of death and the beguiling tasks immediately preceding it in old age. Depicting the day-to-day morbid activities Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) must exercise for his wife and constantly focusing on declination is definitely the goal here.
But when the viewer knows death is certain, and Haneke does nothing but ride the domestic entrapment train, what is he really allowing to happen? Haneke presents an audience—ironically with Anne and Georges in attendance—gathering in an auditorium to witness a concert. It's beyond me if Haneke despises his audience so greatly (which has often been his biggest detractor among critics) but the juxtaposition of this shot in relation to Anne's loss of sanity suggests that we are wholly part of the film—we just aren't in on the joke. Thus, Haneke's places an inordinate amount of importance on our recognition of death, our fear of it, and how his shot selection can pronounce such innate apprehensiveness. So really, it's strange that the "maturation" comment has allowed Amour to become more than it's worth during awards season, because if Haneke does in fact loathe his audience, it's just as clear in Amour as it was in either of his Funny Games.
I understand the sentiment that we inherently feel for these individuals—the mere sight of my mother or father having to endure such cruelty would move me to tears. But I just don't see how Haneke lends any sort of texture to our collective fear of death, especially given the substance of his previous two films. The White Ribbon's obsession with domestic entrapment carries a daunting historical weight, slowly transforming the mistreated children of a small German village and linking them into the impending mindset of the Nazi era.
Take these shots from The White Ribbon and Amour:
These two shots are much more telling humanistically, where the mise-en-scène really taps into the psychological aspects of the films. The children of The White Ribbon are steeped in mind-numbing routine, waiting their turns to kiss their parents' hands before sitting down to dinner. One false move? You'll go to bed hungry. Notice that barely an inch of the frame isn't being utilized to create claustrophobia, physically recalling what Sorfa notes while keeping in line with the psychology of the characters and how it dictates the narrative. The more these children are oppressed, the more inhumane their violent reactions become. Playing with the cluttered kitchen, Haneke frames Georges in the tiniest of margins, trapping him between loving wife washing the dishes and the cupboard. Being the very room he discovered her illness, this shot comes burdened with desolation—a moment Georges feels trapped despite being alone.
It's all a dream, of course, as Anne has already been smothered by a pillow. But with that in mind: which moment, in relation to the substance lying beneath these differing shots, has more of an impact? Georges entrapment is never versatile, as Haneke repeatedly relies on scenes where Georges' fear of death is intrinsically tied to his dying wife. The White Ribbon is much more sprawling, but at the same time takes on a greater risk, to which it lives up to. All working together, these characters are constantly at odds with one another, scheming against one another, and controlling one another. There's a build-up to their interactions that hasn't been spoiled in the opening frame, and the subtext is constantly unfurling and building upon itself. Dynamics are formed, themes are explored, and the psychology of the characters goes beyond a single idea. Feeling or caring for Georges isn't the problem—it's the bulk that's missing.
In fact, our ability to "care" for Georges and Anne plays into the sick games Haneke constantly employs. One of the most notable complaints of Funny Games was Haneke's apparent contempt for his audience. Albeit breaking the fourth wall at certain points, Haneke all but directly addresses his audience throughout the rest of the film. He presents you with a set of sick games, and beckons you to relish in such perverse entertainment. But really, has Haneke ever functioned in a different manner? His subject matter has always toiled with the cringe-worthy, placing his characters in unbecoming situations and torturing them for our entertainment. People took offense with both of Haneke's Funny Games because of their alignment with the audience. Peter directly looks into the camera and practically winks at you, in a moment where Haneke essentially unites the audience with his antagonist. We are part of these "funny games" that really aren't so funny (other than the irony), and thus our participation is essential.
So: what's the difference between our participation in either Amour or Funny Games? Again, it's the backbone of the film and Haneke's intentions with the subject matter. Funny Games is a magnificent display of genre deconstruction. Using the static framing techniques that flooded his films for so long, Haneke finds a satirical use for his horror-imbued shot selection.
David Lynch is the master demythologizer—he recognizes the flaws of society/said genre in the deconstruction, points out those flaws and gives them context, and then corrects/builds on those flaws in the reconstruction. Myths create a story from history—Haneke takes the deceptiveness of violence in film and flips it on its own head. Haneke is not interested in genre deconstruction with Amour—in fact, he breaks the cardinal rule of genre deconstruction, which is really a problem that extends to all aspects of film. He inadvertently paves the way for the first steps of genre deconstruction (which might explain why Funny Games feels so accomplished) by laying his intentions bare in the opening segments of the film, pointing out a clear trajectory and atmosphere. But instead building on that aura and fear of death (in Funny Games' case, reconstructing the genre), Haneke simply relishes in it. Making your film darker and edgier doesn't build on anything whatsoever, regardless if you're exercising genre deconstruction or not. And considering that's where Haneke began his film, Amour is in a constant state of one-note direction.
These two shots capture a similar feeling (despite one taking place outside). The school teacher very much feels pressured and oppressed by the preposterously strict parents of the village, especially considering he manages their children outside of home. Just outside the doorway peering through, Georges mimics this shot many times throughout Amour. It creates an itchy feeling that Haneke thoroughly relishes in—death can be hiding around any corner. There is not a single shot of Georges in the daytime air, and instead can always be found in his home, constantly shrouded by the very walls that encloses his dying wife. The mere presence of the home is rich with ambiguity, allowing the environment to become its own relentless beast that's symbolic by nature. Just as the school teacher feels constrained to his quarters, unable to pursue his love (Eva) without the aura of evil shrouding him (those angry children), every room in Georges home is littered with memories of what once was and what now is.
These two shots are much more telling humanistically, where the mise-en-scène really taps into the psychological aspects of the films. The children of The White Ribbon are steeped in mind-numbing routine, waiting their turns to kiss their parents' hands before sitting down to dinner. One false move? You'll go to bed hungry. Notice that barely an inch of the frame isn't being utilized to create claustrophobia, physically recalling what Sorfa notes while keeping in line with the psychology of the characters and how it dictates the narrative. The more these children are oppressed, the more inhumane their violent reactions become. Playing with the cluttered kitchen, Haneke frames Georges in the tiniest of margins, trapping him between loving wife washing the dishes and the cupboard. Being the very room he discovered her illness, this shot comes burdened with desolation—a moment Georges feels trapped despite being alone.
It's all a dream, of course, as Anne has already been smothered by a pillow. But with that in mind: which moment, in relation to the substance lying beneath these differing shots, has more of an impact? Georges entrapment is never versatile, as Haneke repeatedly relies on scenes where Georges' fear of death is intrinsically tied to his dying wife. The White Ribbon is much more sprawling, but at the same time takes on a greater risk, to which it lives up to. All working together, these characters are constantly at odds with one another, scheming against one another, and controlling one another. There's a build-up to their interactions that hasn't been spoiled in the opening frame, and the subtext is constantly unfurling and building upon itself. Dynamics are formed, themes are explored, and the psychology of the characters goes beyond a single idea. Feeling or caring for Georges isn't the problem—it's the bulk that's missing.
In fact, our ability to "care" for Georges and Anne plays into the sick games Haneke constantly employs. One of the most notable complaints of Funny Games was Haneke's apparent contempt for his audience. Albeit breaking the fourth wall at certain points, Haneke all but directly addresses his audience throughout the rest of the film. He presents you with a set of sick games, and beckons you to relish in such perverse entertainment. But really, has Haneke ever functioned in a different manner? His subject matter has always toiled with the cringe-worthy, placing his characters in unbecoming situations and torturing them for our entertainment. People took offense with both of Haneke's Funny Games because of their alignment with the audience. Peter directly looks into the camera and practically winks at you, in a moment where Haneke essentially unites the audience with his antagonist. We are part of these "funny games" that really aren't so funny (other than the irony), and thus our participation is essential.
So: what's the difference between our participation in either Amour or Funny Games? Again, it's the backbone of the film and Haneke's intentions with the subject matter. Funny Games is a magnificent display of genre deconstruction. Using the static framing techniques that flooded his films for so long, Haneke finds a satirical use for his horror-imbued shot selection.
David Lynch is the master demythologizer—he recognizes the flaws of society/said genre in the deconstruction, points out those flaws and gives them context, and then corrects/builds on those flaws in the reconstruction. Myths create a story from history—Haneke takes the deceptiveness of violence in film and flips it on its own head. Haneke is not interested in genre deconstruction with Amour—in fact, he breaks the cardinal rule of genre deconstruction, which is really a problem that extends to all aspects of film. He inadvertently paves the way for the first steps of genre deconstruction (which might explain why Funny Games feels so accomplished) by laying his intentions bare in the opening segments of the film, pointing out a clear trajectory and atmosphere. But instead building on that aura and fear of death (in Funny Games' case, reconstructing the genre), Haneke simply relishes in it. Making your film darker and edgier doesn't build on anything whatsoever, regardless if you're exercising genre deconstruction or not. And considering that's where Haneke began his film, Amour is in a constant state of one-note direction.
This is a strange note because Haneke very much tries to incorporate the manifestation of fear in Amour in the same manner he did in Funny Games and The While Ribbon, both through composition and imagery. Let's look at these four shots from the two films:
Haneke chooses to balance his wide monochrome shots with tight shots depicting a state of frantic escape, seen in these frames. Georges enters a dream sequence, where he wanders hidden hallways of his apartment, only to become stuck within and grabbed from behind. You could say this sort-of out-of-body moment is similar to Peter breaking the fourth wall (or hell, the laws of physics and time travel) and rewinding a misguided scene with a television remote control. They're both moments that speak to their core missions: Peter's ability to rewind allows him dictate the scene as he pleases, which is very much a depiction of our collective desire to control the narrative and all its bloody offerings; Georges walks through narrow hallways, unaware of what he's searching for/how to deal with the loss of a dying wife, and then is shook awake by reality. The bottom shot displays Peter in Ann's grill, slightly behind her and occupying half of the frame. He is the manifestation of Haneke's target audience (the, er...target audience), and thus his relentless presence aside Ann actually carries a thematic and humanistic weight. It's satire that's able to build on itself by how it's framed.
The bird trapped in the apartment that Georges captures represents the inescapability of his home and the presence of death, while Peter and Paul represent our participation in Funny Games. Take note of the plainly colored walls surrounding both Georges and Ann (in Funny Games). It's no mistake that Haneke shrouds his doomed family in an ocean of white to match their violent counterparts, much like the conceptual decision to exercise the same method in Amour or film in black and white in The White Ribbon. Surrounding characters with a single color naturally entraps them, and Haneke's hard-on for wide shots in domestic settings only pronounces its effect. So in each of these cases, there's a physical human/animal presence dictating the symbolic mise-en-scène at play, along with an enclosing monochrome environment.
Haneke chooses to balance his wide monochrome shots with tight shots depicting a state of frantic escape, seen in these frames. Georges enters a dream sequence, where he wanders hidden hallways of his apartment, only to become stuck within and grabbed from behind. You could say this sort-of out-of-body moment is similar to Peter breaking the fourth wall (or hell, the laws of physics and time travel) and rewinding a misguided scene with a television remote control. They're both moments that speak to their core missions: Peter's ability to rewind allows him dictate the scene as he pleases, which is very much a depiction of our collective desire to control the narrative and all its bloody offerings; Georges walks through narrow hallways, unaware of what he's searching for/how to deal with the loss of a dying wife, and then is shook awake by reality. The bottom shot displays Peter in Ann's grill, slightly behind her and occupying half of the frame. He is the manifestation of Haneke's target audience (the, er...target audience), and thus his relentless presence aside Ann actually carries a thematic and humanistic weight. It's satire that's able to build on itself by how it's framed.
With that in mind, let's look at one last shot:
The bird in The White Ribbon remains caged throughout the film, recalling the famous technique employed by Jean-Pierre Melville for Le Samouraï. In each of Melville's and Haneke's respective films, the birds bear a striking juxtaposition to their main characters. For Melville, it was the destitution of a lonely profession eating away at Jef. For Haneke, the bird represented the beguiled children of the German village, trapped within their ruthless guardians' rule and itching to retaliate. The bird gains a presence throughout The White Ribbon, constantly perched atop its tiny plank, conveniently framed when the father would lecture his boy. It's all live and well to mimic a technique utilized by Melville, but much like the increasingly frantic nature of the bird in Le Samouraï representing Jef's inevitable decline, the violent stabbing of the bird in The White Ribbon is an alarming display of muted violence—especially in the face of countless freak accidents shrouded in mystery. We eventually learn the children are responsible for the violence, thus lending this particular shot a colossally devastating presence.
Unlike The White Ribbon, which chose to build a story around the bird and lend its symbolism some narrative weight that coincides with the characters, Amour essentially has no use for its bird, no use for its dream sequence, or really any bit of its symbolism for that matter...other than lazily drawing a straightforward, unsubstantiated, imagery-laden connection. People may believe Haneke "matured" with Amour, but this striking inattention to detail directly contradicts every frame and intention of both The White Ribbon and Funny Games. Instead of simply basking in death and decay (which was already a pretty banal concept), Haneke decided it wouldn't be a Haneke film without a few tricks up his sleeve, and forcibly inserting fake bits of humanity seemed to be his game plan. Choosing shock and awe over substance, Haneke mimics the shot selection from his other films in order to diffuse his well-practiced horror mindset, but in turn offers none of the cinematic treats the genre offers. Instead, Amour is an exploitative use of the genre, simply relishing in the innate terror that accompanies death and sprinkling it with other bits of useless imagery that do nothing but create cheap, monotonous, and unsubstantial scares and thrills. Amour is absolutely barren, down to the fucking bone. And, strangely, I think that's the way Haneke prefers it.
Unlike The White Ribbon, which chose to build a story around the bird and lend its symbolism some narrative weight that coincides with the characters, Amour essentially has no use for its bird, no use for its dream sequence, or really any bit of its symbolism for that matter...other than lazily drawing a straightforward, unsubstantiated, imagery-laden connection. People may believe Haneke "matured" with Amour, but this striking inattention to detail directly contradicts every frame and intention of both The White Ribbon and Funny Games. Instead of simply basking in death and decay (which was already a pretty banal concept), Haneke decided it wouldn't be a Haneke film without a few tricks up his sleeve, and forcibly inserting fake bits of humanity seemed to be his game plan. Choosing shock and awe over substance, Haneke mimics the shot selection from his other films in order to diffuse his well-practiced horror mindset, but in turn offers none of the cinematic treats the genre offers. Instead, Amour is an exploitative use of the genre, simply relishing in the innate terror that accompanies death and sprinkling it with other bits of useless imagery that do nothing but create cheap, monotonous, and unsubstantial scares and thrills. Amour is absolutely barren, down to the fucking bone. And, strangely, I think that's the way Haneke prefers it.
Watch Free Movies and Tv shows online in HD quality
Watch Free Films and Network programs online Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genre HD Quality
Free Movie download and streaming Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genreWatch free motion pictures and Television programs online in HD on any gadget. Free Movies offers gushing motion pictures in types like Activity, Repulsiveness, Science fiction, Wrongdoing and Parody. Watch now.
0 Response to "Amour, or: Michael Haneke's misused shot selection and abuse of the horror genre"
Posting Komentar