Batman Returns

Year of release: 1992.                     Directed by Tim Burton.                Starring Michael Keaton, Michelle Pfeiffer, Danny DeVito, and Christopher Walken.

The first (brief) review I wrote of Batman Returns began as follows: “Everything about this film can be explained by simply remembering this is not Batman film, it is not a superhero film, it is a Tim Burton film. And it is a Tim Burton film about three psychopaths with parent issues who costume play while endangering the lives of every resident in Gotham City.”

If you’re wondering who the three psychopaths are, they are Danny DeVito’s Penguin, Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman, and Michael Keaton’s Batman. I believe Batman murders four people in this film—two of whom he kills upon his first screen entrance. DeVito’s grunting, grotesque, and strangely sex-starved Penguin with his bizarre revenge plot is the obvious villain, and while Pfeiffer’s sinister Catwoman is a far cry from the sympathetic Selina Kyle of later screen adaptations, her unresolved parent issues and ticking maternal clock make for a perfectly explosive femme fatale to foil both the Penguin and Batman.

While the Penguin is the obvious villain, Christopher Walken’s business mogul Max Shreck rivals him for control of Gotham City in a game of politics where they continually shift between allies and enemies. Have I mentioned that Keaton’s emotionally repressed Batman and Bruce Wayne is barely in this film? It’s vastly superior to Burton’s 1989 Batman for that alone, and the little we see of this stoic caped crusader only serves to reinforce that he’s as unhinged as his two nemeses.

I, and others, have included Batman Returns on the list of great Christmas movies, because it is set completely around Christmas. For a holiday about the Incarnation, reconciliation between heaven and earth, and a time of general peace and good will on earth, a movie about sexually repressed psychopaths with traumatic childhoods taking out their anger and neuroses on an entire city populace as they all navigate a late-stage capitalist hellscape controlled by one equally corrupt, but boringly idiotic, man simply because he has money, may not seem like a normal choice for festive cheer. However, if there ever were an in absentia depiction of a world that needed a savior, this is it.

A later and more beloved film about the Dark Knight calls him the hero we deserve, not the one we need. In Batman Returns, it’s a stretch even to call him a hero. There is a case to be made that Catwoman is the actual hero here given she sacrifices one of her nine literal lives to murder Shreck, and as the character who bears the brunt of capitalism’s oppression, her insanity has the most natural causes behind it. For the record, I would not make that case—this film has no heroes in my book—but while this incarnation of Catwoman is more evil than later ones, it is possible to say she’s more righteous and realistic than any other character.

Pfeiffer delivers the lines of a repressed and rebellious femme fatale with such camp and passion that the psychopathy of all the major characters comes into focus around her. The contrast of her two entrances into her pink, one bedroom apartment so perfectly captures the transformation of a bachelorette longing for partnership with a burned-out bitch determined to screw over those who have made her life hell, which is noted through the changing set design of her bedroom.

Catwoman’s shifting hatred between Shreck and Batman, may seem unreasonable, but as a psychopath, why should she be expected to think reasonably? As she says, “Life’s a bitch, and so am I,” and she sees to it to dish that bitchiness out to anyone who gets in her way. Also, as both Schreck and Batman are two filthy rich capitalists, they are more similar than not. Thankfully, Batman Returns does not have the handwringing over billionaires using their wealth to save a city as Robert Pattinson’s Batman did. Nor does it entertain any questions about Batman being a hero or a villain as Nolan’s trilogy did, despite Keaton’s Batman being one of the most unethical screen versions of the superhero. It takes the comic book conventions at face value and runs with them, along with running with its own bonkers premise—including, but not limited to, the scene where Pfeiffer self-grooms her leather catsuit and deepthroats a parakeet to intimidate the Penguin.

In the age of the MCU and a general cinematic obsession with realism, I cannot begin to describe how refreshing this straightforward, pulpy camp is to watch. From the practically un-choreographed fight sequences to villains randomly pointing guns in the air to everyone pausing to watch the acrobatics of whom they’re fighting, the lack of realism makes this fantasy world a delight. I’m still not sure I’d call this Burton’s best film, although it is unquestionably a contender, but it is without a doubt the most Tim Burton film ever.

There’s something tragically appropriate about a Christmas film calling a corrupt capitalist the Santa Claus of a city, which is how Shreck is introduced. While Santa is a myth with a tangential relationship to the true meaning of Christmas, there is a rite of passage for many children when they learn the truth about Santa and Christmas presents. In Batman Returns, the orphaned Batman, the rejected Penguin, and the estranged Catwoman were all clearly deprived of healthy, formative relationships with their parents, and letting those family tensions erupt over Christmastime at the cost of an entire society is a delightfully campy masterstroke.

Even more fittingly, in a world that needs a savior, or has lost any spirit of Christmas, mistaking capitalist greed for generosity, which the citizens of Gotham do as they lionize Shreck, makes this tragic hellscape all the more quintessentially Burtonesque. The Gotham police’s reliance on Batman is yet another wish for more money to save the day. The commitment to this campy tragedy escalates perfectly until the only way to wake up from the nightmare is to see mommy kissing Santa Claus. And at that point, as innocence is shattered, no amount of presents or money can solve childhood trauma or capitalism’s injustice. So that’s when you get a cat. Merry Christmas.

Personal recommendation: A+

Rebecca

Year of release: 1940       Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Starring Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, Judith Anderson, and George Sanders.

The two movies that made the most vivid impression on me as a child of ten or twelve were Howard Hawks’ screwball comedy Bringing Up Baby and Hitchcock’s melodramatic thriller Rebecca, his only film to win best picture. They are two of the few favorite films from my childhood that I continue to find endlessly rewarding regardless of how many times I rewatch them.

When you rewatch an old favorite that you haven’t seen in a few years, there is always the possibility that tastes have changed and what once connected powerfully with you will fail to do so now. At the same time, favorite movies from early teenage years are bound to leave a more lasting impact. The wonder and awe of childhood is still strong, but the cusp of transitioning into adulthood and a slightly greater awareness gives the films a unique power. For an entire generation those films were Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark. For my generation it was The Lord of the Rings. For me personally it was Bringing Up Baby and Rebecca.

At eleven years old, or however old I was when I first watched Rebecca, the mood and atmosphere blew me away. I had no idea why. It might have even been the first Hitchcock film I saw. (I want to say that was Rear Window, but I’m not sure.) Either way, it was the first Hitchcock film to make an impression on me. (Vertigo made a similar impression, but that was a few years later.)

Watching Rebecca now, after having read Daphne du Maurier’s novel and watched most of Hitchcock’s filmography, the film is not only a masterpiece of Hitchcock’s techniques, but also a masterpiece in adaptation and how to bypass the production code. The biggest change from the novel, necessitated by the production code, is the reveal that sets up the third act. Hitchcock maintains the most important element that the new Mrs. de Winter (Joan Fontaine) learn the truth about Rebecca and the shadow hanging over the film be redirected. At the same time, he softens the circumstances surrounding her death while still maintaining a necessary amount of culpability and guilt.

The shadow cast by Rebecca and the nature of her death is apparent from the first shot of the film—a long tracking shot up the drive to Manderley, the fictional estate of Maxim de Winter (Laurence Olivier)—accompanied by the famous line, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” A dreamlike aura pervades the film, from the whirlwind romance where Maxim meets the nameless protagonist (maintained from the book’s first-person point-of-view), marries her, the couple returns to Manderley, and the new Mrs. de Winter tries to adopt to a lifestyle where everyone compares her to the illustrious Rebecca, including herself. All of this is aided by Franz Waxman’s score, which fluctuates in mood as if shifting between a dream and nightmare.

Only at the reveal which initiates the third act of the film do Maxim and his wife begin to wake up. For the two-thirds of the film leading up to that moment, the protagonist and the audience have taken for granted that she is the “wrong woman” to live at Manderley and attempt to replace Rebecca. She unquestionably is, but the way in which she is drives the mystery and suspense. Fontaine’s performance brilliantly emphasizes the anxiety and self-doubt that makes the protagonist seem to be in an indescribable danger. The falsely accused wrong man is a common Hitchcockian trope, and the application of it by the protagonist to herself is what gives the seemingly blissful Hollywood romance between Olivier and Fontaine an undercurrent of unease.

The first person to stoke that unease is Mrs. van Hopper (Florence Bates), for whom our protagonist works as travel companion. Mrs. van Hopper’s blithe dismissal of Maxim’s love for his new wife as loneliness feeds his wife’s self-doubt, which only becomes worse when she meets Manderley’s intimidating housekeeper Mrs. Danvers (a magnificent Judith Anderson).

Anderson perfectly maintains the cold demeanor of a housekeeper whose love for her deceased mistress exceeded all normal bonds. Rebecca was not only an idol for Mrs. Danvers, and her character is an iconic instance of queer-coding, and one that Anderson masterfully plays up with a deliberately unfeminine performance, serving as a contrast to the perfect lady we hear of Rebecca being. Mrs. Danvers keeps the spirit of Rebecca alive not only though her meticulous and reverent upkeep of Rebecca’s former room, but also through her subtle undermining of the new Mrs. de Winter. She is certainly not the most iconic Hitchcock villain, but her rigid clinging to the past makes her one of the most sinister ones.

The film itself is steeped in the past, making Mrs. Danvers a natural extension of the world into which Joan Fontaine enters. The grandiose estate, the opening dream of the past, and the constant reminders of Rebecca’s death by cuts to the sea with its crashing waves all combine to make Rebecca’s presence inescapable. When Fontaine enters that world, her presence inevitably starts to change it. The suspense as to whether she will succeed or whether it will destroy her is some of the greatest Hitchcock ever crafted.

When we reach the final act of the film—an inquest regarding the nature of Rebecca’s death—the truth is known to the viewer, and there is a fear it will be known to the world as well. If the lives of the wealthy are inherently subject to voyeurism, then Joan Fontaine’s protagonist has truly become one with Maxim in allowing herself to be subject to public scrutiny along with him. There’s only one way for them to escape the presence of Rebecca, and it is forced on them by the film’s end.

None of that would have been apparent when I first saw Rebecca nearly two decades ago. What was apparent was the memorable opening shot, Judith Anderson’s terrifying and dynamic performance, the constant threat to a happily ever after romance, and the always increasing suspense. Hitchcock brilliantly uses all those elements while also providing so many additional layers to this film, and while it may or may not be his best work, it is easily my favorite film of his.

Personal recommendation: A+

Favorite films of 2020

“For many of my friends, 2019 was a rough year. At the rate 2020 is going, this year may not be better.” I wrote that last January. I’m not sure I have anything to add. I certainly had no idea what 2020 had in store. All I will say is that I am more hopeful for 2021, and I hope to get back to reviewing more this year.

I saw far, far fewer films than I normally do. Therefore, I will not do my usual top 35. Since it was 2020, I decided to list 20 films. I make even less claim that these are the greatest films of last year, partially because of the ones I have yet to see (Minari and Nomadland among others), but also after a year of a pandemic and quarantine, I’m more interested in the films that moved me the most than the ones that are most technically excellent.

Honorable Mentions:

20. On the Rocks (Sofia Coppola) – When Laura (Rashida Jones) starts to think her husband Dean (Marlon Wayans) is acting strangely, she makes the mistake of confiding in her philandering father (Bill Murray) who assumes the worst and tries to convince Laura to join him in an increasingly elaborate spying scheme to prove Dean’s infidelity. Murray is fantastic as the ultimate privileged, rich white man, and his antics are hilarious, but the final act turnaround gives a meaningful perspective about the cost of affairs and broken relationships.

19. Little Fish (Chad Hartigan) – A story of a pandemic that causes people to panic and try foolhardy self-cures might seem painfully potent for 2020. However, the role that memory plays in shaping our view of the world and how we react when we lose that turns this into both a romance and a thriller with surprising poignancy as no one can be sure of what they know, and therefore must cherish what they have even more.

18. Bad Education (Cory Finley) – A true story of student investigate journalism exposing and toppling a school’s administrative system of embezzlement and corruption, except it is told from the point of view of the embezzlers (Allison Janey and Hugh Jackman, both excellent). It’s a fascinating choice, and one that provides an engaging dramatic twist as we slowly realize the corruption of the antihero protagonists who bring about their own downfall.

17. The Truth (Hirokazu Kore-eda) – The truth is subjective. It’s not, but memory is, and memory can change what we believe is true. Or in the case of Fabienne (Catherine Deneuve), whose recently published autobiography upsets her daughter Lumir (Juliette Binoche) with its omissions and falsehoods, the truth is whatever is most convenient for her. The relationship between mother and daughter takes on several dynamics as Lumir’s family visits her mother, grandmother and granddaughter bond, and Fabienne’s latest sci-fi film about motherhood casts new light on her own relationships. Kore-eda’s first European film is as gentle as most of his others while never allowing the characters to escape from the actual truth.

16. Shirley (Josephine Decker) – In some ways a remake of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, this biopic about Shirley Jackson also plays like one of her horror stories. With fantastic performances from Elisabeth Moss and Michael Stuhlbarg, the painful process of creation and the toll it takes on the artist and her subjects is thrilling to behold.

Runners-up:

15. Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittman) – The single-take title sequence of this film is probably my favorite scene in any film this year. It’s a moving example of compassion in a horrible situation. The rest of the film is likewise an exercise in compassion as it follows the road trip of two high school girls to procure an abortion. The abortion is a done deal, but the heart of the film is the relationship between the two cousins and their support and love for one another regardless of what decisions they make.

14. Young Ahmed (Jean Pierre & Luc Dardenne) – The dangers of religious fundamentalism and the impressionability of youth are the focus of the latest film from the Dardenne brothers. When Ahmed (Idir Ben Addi) begins learning the Quran from an extremist, the welcoming, charitable faith of his family and teacher starts to repel him. The Dardennes do not soft pedal where the tragedy of that repulsion leads, while always focusing on the loss of childhood innocence as well as true faith being replaced and corrupted by the fundamentalist misinterpretation.

13. Small Axe: Mangrove (Steve McQueen) – In America, we rarely hear about Britain’s civil rights movement, cases of police brutality there, and its own systemic injustice. After making the first movie to dramatize the American slave experience with his best picture winner 12 Years a Slave, Steve McQueen dramatizes the experience of the Black British citizens in the 1960s and ’70s. As the police routinely target the titular restaurant for no reason other than racism, it is impossible not to sympathize with the plight of the owner and the British Black Panthers. The film transitions flawlessly into a courtroom drama, where the challenge to white power by black voices in a society built to silence them can finally be heard.

12. Sound of Metal (Darius Marder) – When punk metal drummer Ruben (Riz Ahmed) begins to lose his hearing, the adjustment he must make to living as a deaf man is one that he resists. His girlfriend and co-performer’s (Olivia Cooke) support give him the courage to start the journey, but accepting his new state of life is much harder. The portrayal of the deaf community is beautiful and affirming, but whether Ruben can come to see that remains as clouded as his hearing.

11. Wolfwalkers (Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart) – Celtic faerie tales clash with English settlers in Tomm Moore’s third animated masterpiece about Irish folklore. As in The Secret of Kells, wall-building authority figures are challenged by the innocence of childhood and the wonder of the supernatural. The marriage of two worlds, wolves and humans, effectively challenges the notion of blindly following orders and acting out of fear as young Robyn (Honor Kneafsey) and her father (Sean Bean) become closer to the wolves they hunt than they could have imagined. The animation is gorgeous, and the mythical world building as timely as ever.

The Top Ten

10. What the Constitution Means to Me (Marielle Heller) – Different perspectives are a recurring theme in many of the movies that meant the most to me this year, and Heidi Schreck’s play recalling her high school debates about the constitution and how she feels about it now provides a perspective that is different than at least half of this country’s. It’s a stirring example of patriotism, showing love for our country and anger at the ways its laws have been abused. In a time when division only seems to be increasing, Heller’s film hopefully shows ways in which we can be united even when we have very different interpretations of the constitution.

9. The Prom (Ryan Murphy) – I think I’m obligated to include one musical in my top ten, and The Prom is the best musical of 2020. Sorry, Hamilton fans. Ryan Murphy’s adaptation of this underdog story is as energetic and heartfelt as it should be. The musical—about a lesbian high schooler whose school board cancels the prom instead of letting her attend and the quartet of down on their luck Broadway actors who decide to make her their cause célèbre—is the epitome of a feel-good story. As my friend Ken Morefield said, it ears every laugh and every tear. Meryl Streep’s narcissistic diva threatens to steal the show, but the music and the story truly make it all about Emma (Jo Ellen Pellman) and how we treat those who are different from us.

8. The Vast of Night (Andrew Patterson) – This is Close Encounters of the Third Kind in the style of David Lynch. In other words, it’s precisely the type of film that I love. The atmosphere of mystery, fear, and wonder is pitched perfectly throughout the film. The film is a story of unknown frequencies taking over a switchboard and radio station the night of a high school basketball game, and framing it as a 1950s TV episode adds an Americana element that heightens both the aura and sense of unease as the protagonists try to figure out what is out there beyond them.

7. Yes, God, Yes (Karen Maine) – I don’t think there was any film from last year which hit closer to home than this for me, mostly in a Catholic weekend retreat full of sanctimonious piety. When Catholic high schooler Alice (Natalia Dyer) finds herself on the receiving end of a perverse rumor, the assumptions that follow expose the hypocrisy and shortcomings of an overly-simplistic, fundamentalist approach to religion. While writer/director Karen Maine definitely has something of a legitimate axe to grind against legalistic religious beliefs, her film is hardly anti-religion as Alice learns other ways to follow God than what she’s been taught. (full review)

6. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets (Bill Ross IV & Turner Ross) – One of the two best documentaries of the year, the Ross brothers capture the final night of a closing bar in Las Vegas. As we watch the regular customers shoot the breeze, sing, flirt, dance, drink, and celebrate for the last time at this particular bar, the humanity of each participant always remains forefront, even as the night wears on and the liquor flows more freely. No 2020 film exists more in the moment than this, and that ability to appreciate the present for what it is without romanticizing the past or worrying about an uncertain future is what makes each moment so powerful and memorable.

5. Da 5 Bloods (Spike Lee) – A sprawling Vietnam epic about the trauma of the past never truly being past. That goes not only for the four surviving Vietnam vets and their memories of fighting in the war, but also for America’s history of racism and the discriminatory treatment of black soldiers in the ’60s. As the four surviving bloods reconvene in Vietnam to find a cask of gold they were transporting in the war, the film becomes a tribute to American classics like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and Apocalypse Now, but it more importantly retells those stories through the experience of its black protagonists. At the heart of the film are the relationships that racism and war have damaged, as evidenced by Chadwick Boseman’s deceased Stormin’ Noman whose memory holds the bloods together from beyond the grave.

4. Dick Johnson Is Dead (Kirsten Johnson) – Kirsten Johnson’s moving tribute to her dying father (Dick Johnson) and cinema itself is easily my favorite documentary of the year. Kirsten admits she is making time capsules to remember her father, but the film also serves as a sharing of careers as she and her father reenact different types of movie deaths and talk about his work as a psychiatrist. The moments of family life are beautifully captured, and it’s nearly impossible not to crave chocolate cake after a birthday scene. Kirsten’s staging a funeral for her still living father may raise some eyebrows, but the communal love and the ways cinema can bring us together and heal us are what tie the proceeding perfectly into the rest of the film.

3. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (George C. Wolfe) – The very best type of stage adaptation, one that maintains the staginess of its source material while making maximum use of cinematic techniques. Wolfe captures the drama and intensity of August Wilson’s play about what it means to be a black musician in a white man’s world, and the phenomenal cast is more than up for delivering the monologues and increasingly tense exchanges. Ma Rainey (Viola Davis) has reached a level of fame that she is not afraid to use to stand up for herself and others, even if it gets her labeled as “difficult to work with.” A day in a recording session of the titular song reveals not only how much harder a black musician has to work for recognition, but the grueling discouragement the less famous have to endure. It is most noticeable with Levee (Chadwick Boseman), the band’s equally talented but far less famous trumpet player, and how his desires lead him to clash with his fellow musicians instead of the system that refuses to give him a chance.

2. First Cow (Kelly Reichardt) – “The rich exist for the sake of the poor,” said St. John Chrysostom, “but the poor exist for the salvation of the rich.” Watching Kelly Reichardt’s First Cow—a tale of survival and friendship about a pioneer and cook (John Magaro) and the Chinese immigrant (Orion Lee) with whom he sets up an unorthodox business—with that sentiment in mind colors this story of entrepreneurship. The rich man is Toby Jones’ Chief Factor, who owns the only cow in the Oregon settlement. When the two protagonists decide to steal some of its milk to sell miniature cakes what begins as a means of survival becomes an opportunity for greed to set in. The bonds of friendship may transcend material possessions, and at its heart, this film is a beautiful story of friendship as necessary to survival; however, the bondage to capital and to whomever has the most of it haunts not only our protagonists but the world for generations.

1. Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Céline Sciamma) – For most critics this was a 2019 film. For me, it was the last film I saw in theaters in 2020 before everything shut down due to COVID. I’m still amazed that I was fortunate enough to see an extraordinary film about art, the creative process, and the ways that art shapes how we view the world. When painter Marianne (Noémie Merlant) is hired to covertly paint a portrait of Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) in order to secure an arranged marriage that the latter wishes to avoid, what begins as a manipulative and contractual relationship is transformed by the art highlighting the humanity and dignity of both painter and subject. With women having been subjected to male gaze since the ancient Greek myth of Orpheus, the need for feminism in art and any male dominated fields comes to the forefront as different perspectives enrich the way we see the world.

Babette’s Feast

Originally published as part of the Arts & Faith top 100.

“Babette can cook.” It’s a seemingly simple sentence offered as an offhand suggestion in a letter to Danish sisters Martine and Filippa (Birgitte Federspiel and Bodil Kjer) as one way an unknown refugee from France could help them should they take her in. And yet, the understatement and simplicity of that line perfectly foreshadows the greatness of the gift that Babette’s titular feast will be.

The first time we see Babette (Stephane Audran), it’s not the image of her seeking shelter in the pouring rain, but preparing a simple meal while the two sisters with whom she lives host their weekly prayer service. When the small religious community begins singing, “Jerusalem, my heart’s true home,” there is a cut to Babette in the kitchen. Yet again, it is a subtle detail foreshadowing where Babette’s feast will lead those who partake of it.

Similar to those miniscule details, which escape the notice of most of the characters, the feast itself is almost not noticed for what it truly is either. Only one character knows and appreciates the value of the gift Babette is giving to the community which saved her from one of the French civil wars. The rest of the community is apprehensive of her foreign feast at best and downright convinced it will be diabolical at worst.

If a feast prepared for twelve people, who don’t fully understand what the feast is, and yet it transforms them as they consume it sounds familiar to a staple of Christian theology, it’s because in Gabriel Axel’s film adaptation of Karen Blixen’s short story, Babette’s feast is a metaphor for the Eucharist. That naturally makes Babette herself a Christ figure.

Many great films about religion and spirituality contain Christ figures—Ordet, Andrei Rublev, The Seventh Seal, and more. Almost all of those films involve a Christ figure who suffers in some way for the salvation of themselves or others. What makes Babette a unique Christ figure is not that she doesn’t suffer (losing one’s husband and son in a civil war certainly is suffering), but her similarity to Christ is in the joy and grace she brings others by offering a gift of her talents, which costs her everything she has, but brings peace to a community and to herself.

It’s the portrayal of that peace and joy that makes this film a masterpiece. Every shot of the feast and its preparation are mouthwatering, the Jutland coast is beautiful, each interaction among the small community is filmed with a familiar intimacy. The ways that Babette’s presence challenges and enriches that familiarity shows the spiritual growth that any great art should induce. In a community that had become complacent in their faith and daily routines, it was suspicious, discomforting art from an outsider that challenged them to grow. Again, the growth is subtle, but the subtlety makes the transformation all the more remarkable.

What’s even more remarkable is the one guest to realize the true value of Babette’s feast. None of the pious Puritans who know her appreciate her cooking beyond it being “a very nice meal.” But the worldly General Löwenhielm (Jarl Kulle) who has lived his life with doubt and uncertainty that he chose the right path is able to recognize the extraordinary quality of the feast. Once again, great art can work its inspiration anywhere and often not where our preconceived notions tell us it should be.

In Blixen’s short story, Babette explains to Martine and Filippa that she had to cook the feast for her own sake, as a great artist. This is less explicit in the film, in keeping with its style, but Babette’s final lines are the same in both versions: “Through all the world there goes one long cry from the heart of the artist: ‘Give me leave to do my utmost.’” That utmost is a partaking in the divine act of creation, to quote John Paul II’s letter to artists, and whether the recipients of that art realize it or not, it incites a change. It incites a change in the entire Jutland community, and as the general proclaims at the end of the meal, “Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss have kissed.”

Personal recommendation: A+

The Red Shoes

Year of release: 1948               Directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.     Starring Anton Walbrook, Moira Shearer, and Marius Goring.

Originally published as part of the Arts & Faith top 100.

The most famous line in The Red Shoes is probably an early exchange between Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) and Victoria Page (Moira Shearer). The director of a prestigious ballet company asks the aspiring ballerina why she wants to dance. Her reply: “Why do you want to live?”

The answer impresses Lermontov enough to earn her a small part in the company, but it also reveals the two most important themes of the film—the importance of vocation and the danger of allowing that vocation to become an idol.

Probably one of the least commented on scenes is when aspiring composer Julian Craster (Marius Goring) plays through his rewrite of the titular ballet for Lermontov. At one point, he replaces a pedestrian hymn with a Lutheran chorale. The chorale is Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland (Now come, Savior of the Heathen). It’s a fascinating choice of music to pair with a setting of a Hans Christen Andersen fairy tale, but one that emphasizes the theme of idolizing art and the necessity of salvation from that.

For Vicky and Julian that hope of salvation comes in the form of their love, to the consternation of Lermontov. However, it may not be enough to save them from the slavish devotion to their art that Lermontov expects and requires of everyone in his company. An early dismissal of his prima ballerina because she got married causes the fired dancer to exclaim, “He has no heart.” Ballet for Lermontov is a jealous and merciless god that will allow for no other loves.

Lermontov embodies the red shoes of the titular fairy tale and ballet. As he relates the story of the ballet to Craster, he says with palpable exhilaration, “At the end of the evening she gets tired and wants to go home, but the red shoes are not tired. In fact, the red shoes are never tired…Time rushes by. Love rushes by. Life rushes by. But the red shoes dance on.” When Craster inquires how the story ends, Lermontov nonchalantly says, “In the end, she dies,” as if that’s the natural outcome once someone can no longer create their art.

Obviously, Vicky is the young girl and how her story ends is a fait accompli, foreshadowed through the settings of two of her major interactions with Lermontov and the place where she first meets Julian. Both men represent two vocations, and both of them make one incompatible with the other. That is the tragedy of the film, and it is from that which all the characters need salvation.

In a scene towards the end, there is an acknowledgment of that need for salvation, but it is too little too late. The conflict between the two vocations can be seen in Vicky and Julian’s bedroom. Not only does the allegedly blissfully married couple sleep in separate beds, but the lighting creates a dark chasm between them, showing that need for reconciliation. The scene turns into both of them pursuing their art, making it even clearer that their two loves are too envious to allow a competing force.

Importantly, the film allows the viewer to be swept up in the grandeur of the art and romance, wishing for both to work out with a happy ending, without acknowledging how toxic the idolization of a vocation is. Brian Easdale’s gorgeous score, Robert Helpmann’s stunning choreography, and Moira Shearer’s flawless execution make the ballet of The Red Shoes come alive as it needs to. It indicts the viewer’s own desires, making them culpable for any time they’ve idolized a love of theirs excessively.

The more I think about it, the more perfect that chorale choice is. It matches the perfection of the dancing, the acting, the scoring, the directing, the costume design, and it does so in a way that reminds the viewer that any art or the need to create art cannot be the only reason to live. Art for art’s sake is not necessarily a bad thing, but as beautiful and enriching as great art is, it becomes even greater when it exists for something beyond itself as well. That’s a realization that all the characters eventually have, and it’s one that the final scene hauntingly and tragically depicts.

 

Personal recommendation: A+