The Counselor (2013)

"Counselor" has sleek surface with less underneath

Warning: The following review contains spoilers.

The players in "The Counselor" run luxurious lives. The vehicles that whip across the camera frame, the attire that flashes like a peacock's plumage, and the heavenly mansions are the locales for much of the film's unfolding. Much like the silver Bentley owned by the titular character, called Counselor (Michael Fassbender), the film itself has a sleek outer shell. Once the hood is lifted, however, the motor doesn't match the casing. "The Counselor" is undoubtedly a beauty to look at and, at times, evocative of shock. Nonetheless, when the raw materials of the machine are scrutinized, the true quality of the film is left for questioning.

In this tale of greed and sex, the screen is dominated by Hollywood's greatest-performing and best-looking, and this is a part of the intrigue. As Counselor rolls around under the sheets with his soon to be fiancé, Laura (Penélope Cruz), the movie opens with a lustfully wondrous note. Also sharing the screen space is Javier Bardem, playing Fassbender's newfound business partner for a massive international cocaine operation, Cameron Diaz, Bardem's cheetah-loving mistress, and Brad Pitt, the liaison to aid Fassbender in properly funneling his cash.

The Counselor, an explosive success as a lawyer, has no prior relevant experience on his résumé when it comes to drug-running. There is a hint of uncertain fear that lingers in the tone of Counselor's voice and Fassbender illustrates his uneasiness with superb subtlety. 

The fragility of his new position is reemphasized frequently. In Cormac McCarthy debut as a screenwriter, cautionary advice emerges as a motif. This comes sometimes in direct form, but often it is divulged through extravagant philosophical conversations between the Counselor and other characters. These grand speeches given by a diamond cutter or a cartel member may appear redundant, but McCarthy packages them well enough that elegance overshadows grandiloquence.

The same assertion could be applied to some of the more foreign material in "The Counselor." Among other things, Cameron Diaz gets personal with a Ferrari, cheetahs are running wild, and heads are rolling. Despite the film feeling dotted with a lack of coherence, I have to say, I didn't really care. The strange material and the heady dialogue was made up for in the well-acted interplay between characters and a well-constructed atmosphere.

"The Counselor" has its clichés certainly (drug operation gone wrong leads to Cartel vengeance), but there is a pleasure in awaiting what is to come, particularly with Diaz's intimidating performance as Malkina. There is no denial that payoffs are telegraphed, often blatantly, throughout the beginning stages in the film, but Malkina's rise in the plot as a destructive force to the drug operation and to Reiner himself is worth happily anticipating. Her success as a character, however, could not be realized without the profound fear that builds in Reiner, exhibited through the show-stealing performance by Bardem.

In a career I haven't seem to find much taste for, Ridley Scott, I believe has created one of his best films of the 21st century. Despite intermittent lack of cohesion, the overindulgence of "The Counselor" is, with its lofty display, is welcomed with thrilling amusement. The devotion of time to each character is more evenly dispersed than conventional classical narrative would allow for, but that's how this story, with its cavalcade of eye-catching characters, should be told.

Film Grade: Soft 7

A Separation: An Aristotelian Drama

The level and type of emotion evoked by a work of art hinges upon the combination of multiple parts working in unison to produce a single force. In storytelling, as Aristotle defines in his essay Poetics, the plot is described as “an arrangement of incidents” that are “constructed dramatically, round a single piece of action, whole and complete in itself… so that like a living organism it may produce its own form of peculiar pleasure” (Aristotle). In the events that unfold in A Separation, a 2011 film directed by Asghar Farhadi, there is a similar certain pleasure exuded by the film that is achieved through precise plotting. Engaging the framework of Aristotle’s notion of tragedy with the narrative arrangement of A Separation, I argue that, following the idea of narrative unity, achievement of emotional effects, and the role of causation, A Separation’s macrostructure functions as an Aristotelian drama.

            

In the Aristotelian method, an essential determinant to a drama’s ability to emotionally affect the audience is dependent upon changes to the status quo and the uncovering of new information. Using the term “reversal,” Aristotle defines such an instance as “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity” (Aristotle). Furthermore, Aristotle, specifies the importance of individual reversals or discoveries by characterizing them with certain degrees of “magnitude,” or how big of a swing occurs from good fortune to bad fortune (Aristotle). Viewing the events of A Separation through this lens, much of the action unfolding in the story space employs reversals to facilitate emotional effect. In the film, Razieh, the caretaker of Nader’s father, is introduced as a convenient assistance for Nader since his wife, Simin, has moved out. When Nader returns home one day to find his father tied to his bedpost, while lying on the ground unconscious, there occurs the first severe reversal. Over the course of the remainder of the film, two other strong reversals occur, with the accusation of Nader causing Razieh’s miscarriage, and with Razieh’s admission of being hit by a car one day prior to her fight with Nader. The presence of these reversals is central to the acute emotions of distress evoked by the film, and their nature runs parallel to the arguments put forth by Aristotle.

            

It must be known that the effects of reversals are heightened when working in tandem with the use of discoveries. Describing the function of reversals and discoveries together, Aristotle states, “A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both” (Aristotle). When occurring simultaneously, the surprise and sentimental response is greater than it would be if a reversal or discovery were communicated in isolation. This “recognition” is made when information unbeknownst to the viewer is revealed. Much of the visceral reactions coming from the plot in A Separation are built by discovery. More interesting though, I argue, is that the most pivotal reversals of the film could all equally be defined as discoveries. With this knowledge, there is also arguably a case to call for an adjustment of terminology to be made, for I would foresee a pattern in many other cases of storytelling in which such reversals in the status quo are achieved through the unveiling of new information.

            

Discovery acts in further ways in the film, however. The daughter being emotionally torn asunder during the Nader’s and Simin’s tumultuous relationship, Termer, is a hub of discovery within the plot. Acting as a source of hidden information, Termeh announcements are critical to the viewer’s perception of Nader’s potential guilt and the future well being of their family. It is via Termeh’s communication with her father that the viewer is informed of two crucial pieces of information: Nader’s knowledge of Razieh’s pregnancy before the incident and Simin’s intentions to move back home. With these acts, I argue Termeh is the most Aristotelian character in A Separation. As a source recognition and reversal in the story, and for other reasons mentioned later, Termeh is a common medium through which Farhadi creates an Aristotelian drama.

            

The events of an Aristotelian drama, perhaps interrelated with the phenomenon of discovery and reversal, follow the assertions of Aristotle that a story does not contain a sequence in which the events hold no causal relevance to one another. Instead, as Seymour Chatman describes in his essay Story and Discourse, the sequence is “radically correlative, enchaining, entailing” (Chatman 45). Not only do the events carry a strong bond to each other, but Aristotle further asserts that, these connections should be related well enough that the basic cohesion of the story depends on their alignment. “The component incidents must be so arranged that if one of them be transposed or removed, the unity of the whole is dislocated and destroyed” (Aristotle). Although challenging to fully prove, I argue that the camerawork, gestures, and dialogue used in the film are highly instrumental to the effect the film has as a unified piece of art. Juxtaposed to other viewed films I argue to be more non-Aristotelian, such as Oslo, August 31^st, the comprehension of A Separations events are much more reliant on the presence of previous developments. For example, if the shot of Razieh running into the street to stop Nader’s father from leaving the house were absent from the film, Razieh’s confession that a car hit her would be received with great confusion. Furthermore, in more abstract form, the use of windows as dividing forces of the characters exhibited in the camerawork seek to metaphorically express the barriers of tension and frustration felt between Nader, Simin, and Termeh. Analyzing the degree interrelatedness across the plot, as well as the meaningful use of such symbolic barriers, Farhadi is both implicitly and explicitly constructing a strong Aristotelian plot.

            

As previously mentioned, causality is crucial to the forward movement of the plot. In dissecting the inner workings of the plots motivations, I find Seymour Chatman to have a noteworthy addition to Aristotle’s theory. Chatman argues for a more encompassing theoretical framework, in which the term “contingency” is employed rather than “causality.” For a stories plot to hinge on contingency, Chatman states the characters and plot depend on something not yet certain (Chatman 47). I find this theoretical lens to be a valid extension of Aristotle’s causation, finding profound pertinence to the narrative of A Separation. Much of the dramatic tension riddled throughout the story space is communicated via the uncertainty of future events. The plausibility that Simin and Nader will remain separated, the legitimacy of Nader’s guilt, and the true cause of the miscarriage, all generate room for internal debate for the viewer. On a more micro scale, the viewer is plagued with uncertainty by the volatility of Hodjat, Razieh’s husband, whose threats to Nader put the safety of the family in jeopardy. I assert that this duty granted to the viewer to act as the judge of the events, with its associated anxiety, is a highly Aristotelian quality. Through the contingency created by the plot’s events and the manifestation of unpredictability, A Separation exemplifies a plot structure representative of Aristotelian narrative theory.

            

Coexistent with the role of contingency present in A Separation are the developments of complication and denouement. As a significant factor of the theory of Aristotelian narrative macrostructure, complication is “all that which extends from the beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning point to good or bad fortune” (Aristotle). I make the case that the focal point of the plot, which marks the end of the complication is the scene in which Razieh first admits to Simin that she had been hit by a car. Up until this point, the tumultuous nature of the plot continuously builds, creating the entanglement defined by Aristotle. Until this moment, Nader’s innocence cannot go unchallenged. It is once Razieh divulges this information that we, as viewers, perceive a notable swing from unfortunate to fortunate circumstances. The magnitude of this swing it the greatest in the film. The denouement, for Aristotle, is less strict in definition, only marking the “beginning of the change to the end” (Aristotle). Nonetheless, there is a distinct mounting of tension that leads up to the discovery of the miscarriage’s true cause. Through the formation of this Aristotelian complication, A Separation lays the ground for a peak in the plot and sets the stage for an emotional necessity for narrative closure.

            

The sense of unity Aristotle calls for in narrative structure is incomplete without the presence of closure. Juxtaposed to the convention of closure in the classical system, the conclusion of A Separation may appear to be less comprehensive in its ability to “wrap things up,” as they say. However, I contend that the denouement of A Separation falls neatly within the theoretical framework of Aristotle, acting as an undeniably cogent example of narrative closure. In his essay Narrative Closure, Noel Carroll outlines Aristotle’s concept of unity, stating that his idea of completeness “is a representation of an action where the representation itself excites the apprehension of closure” (Carroll 3). Clearly, the previous delineated theories regarding complication, discovery and reversal, as well as contingency, contribute together to produce an emotional reaction. By achieving this reaction Farhadi created a key narrative structure in Aristotelian theory. “Once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of its absurdity” (Aristotle). At its most complex, the plot of A Separation reaches a state of ridiculousness in which the repercussions for the incident explode beyond prediction. Yet, the predicament is strong in its believability, a triumph as an Aristotelian drama. Carroll points out, Aristotle views a story of successful narrative closure to be one in which the audience is willingly anticipating the culmination of events. Through its organization, A Separation forges entanglement and evokes uncertainty in a compelling fashion, which causes this described phenomenon; the viewer needs and asks to be enlightened by how the actions will conclude

             

Some theorists may argue that the plot structure of A Separation exhibits more of a non-Aristotelian form. The source of one main argument could be the evidence that the narrative does not follow one story line, but that the film diverges into the space of two separate narratives. The story of Nader and Simin’s separation carries narrative consequences throughout the film as does the narrative between Razieh and Nader concerning the accusations that Nader caused her miscarriage. Certainly, both cases present looming repercussions in the film, but I refute that the two narratives, holding events consequential to one another, form one intertwined story space. The well being of the couples’ marriage in the film is placed in limbo from the upstart. However, the emotional stress placed on Nader and Simin from Razieh’s miscarriage is directly essential to the outcome of the narrative of their relationship, and vice versa. The event causes Simin to challenge Nader’s honesty and for Nader to attempt to place blame on Simin for hiring Razieh. Although possible to claim the narrative as split, the direction the separation of Nader and Simin takes is at the mercy of how Nader’s court case unfolds.

            

Arguably the most central aspect of the Aristotelian drama is the presence and development of the film’s protagonist. This alone could also, in the eyes of some theorists, place A Separations ability to act as an Aristotelian drama at risk. Despite the strong presence and focalization of multiple characters in the film, Termeh is the centerpiece of A Separation. Her character’s actions carry direct influence on many of the film’s developments and the actions of others are essential in the well being of her character. Although not explicitly expressed as classical Hollywood films, Termeh has a heroic dilemma: save her parents from a pending divorce and happily reunite their family. Her efforts are to thwart her parents’ separation are, at times, more clear, such as when she pleads for her father to let her mother come home. Nonetheless, in the end, her attempts are fruitless. Under the six types of Aristotelian heroes described by Chatman, one keenly describes the role of Termeh as “the noble hero” who “fails through miscalculation, which arouses our fear and pity.” Amid all the chaos created by the plot, there is a common emotion the viewer is aware of: the hope for Nader and Simin to reunite, ending Termeh of her suffering.  As Termeh stands before the judge in the film’s closing seconds, her pain is a testament to her heroic actions. With the establishment of Termeh as the film’s protagonist, A Separation acts as a complete example for the Aristotelian drama.

           

           

 Works Cited

Aristotle. Poetics. N.p.: The Project Gutenberg, 2008. N. pag. Print.

Carroll, Noel. "Narrative Closure." Philosophical Studies 135.1 (2007): 1-15. Print.

Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction. Ithaca:             Cornell University Press, 1978. 1-138. Print.

Film Grade: Flat 9

Labor Day (2013) paints elegant portrait of kinship, passion, and trust

Scattered throughout the narrative of Labor Day are a slew of allusions to cinemas past. One in particular, a poster of Stephen Spielberg’s E.T. taped to a doorframe, holds heavy relevancy to the predicament of the film at hand. Alike to the protection Elliot provides the friendly extraterrestrial, the characters of Labor Day a forced to keep a similar secret. The intensely timid Adele (Kate Winslet) and her attentive young son, Henry (Gattlin Griffith), have their mundane afternoon take a severe turn. Frank (Josh Brolin), an escaped convict seeking shelter, forces the pair to allow him to make stay in their countryside house.

The situation is Adele’s worst nightmare. A woman who is described by her ex-husband to be “in love with love,” she has been utterly depressed ever since the divorce stripped her of the very emotion. Frank’s intrusion into their fragile life is a destructive event that carries the potential to shred any last thread of a happy life. In storytelling, a good tale arises from events with conclusions of unlimited possibility. When Frank takes the first steps through Adele’s front door, the direction of the movie is completely unknown makes for a riveting enigma.

The path writer-director Jason Reitman chooses to take is anticipated, but accepted with pleasure. The tension of Frank’s stay quickly dissipates, with Adele and Henry quickly growing fondly of a man who committed murderer. But, as time passes the audience begins to sympathize simultaneously for Frank, as intermittent flashbacks tell the story of his crime. Via his talents for cooking, cleaning, and baseball, Frank soon makes the transition to a welcomed guest.

            

The camerawork is essential in communicating themes of lust and passion swimming in the story space. In one vital scene, Frank walks Adele and Henry through the process of making a peach pie. Shots of hands roughly mixing sugar into the peaches or kneading the piecrust offer more than just aesthetic purpose. The creation of a delicious peach pie from scratch is a metaphor, mirroring the passion Frank exhibits in his mentorship for Henry and companionship for Adele.

            
The pain filling Adele’s face is slowly washed away with the Frank’s presence. Among this versatile cast, Winslet is especially impressive; portraying a very gradual shift from depression to salvation. What separates Labor Day  as a film worth viewing is this: the central themes of the film are not communicated directly, but must be perceived through connection. Not once do we see Winslet and Brolin in more than a subtle embrace. Their adoration must be perceived otherwise, as we observe them in between glances and dancing in the living room. Again, the allusion to E.T. holds pertinence. Just as the foreign specimen formed the bondage for Elliot’s family, no matter how ephemeral the stay, Frank’s intrusion into Adele’s home is a transformative one, and gratifying to watch unfold.

Grade: Hard 6

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014): a refreshing addition to Anderson’s oeuvre

Dioramic, symmetric, and aesthetically meticulous are some of the primary pinnacles of Wes Anderson’s artistic style. Over the course of his now eight-film directing career, Anderson has used this idiosyncratic vision to establish himself as arguably the most discernable filmmaker of his generation. But the true task that lies with a director who remains strictly loyal to a certain form of filmmaking is burdensome: the ability to provide refreshingly original ways of storytelling. With The Grand Budapest Hotel, Anderson has yet again succeeded in adding nuances to his delightfully eccentric world.

            
Told from the perspective of the elder version of Zero Moustafa, manager of the Grand Budapest hotel, the story encompasses his times as a dutiful lobby boy under the oversight of the prestigious concierge, Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes). Zero (Tony Revolori), aptly named for the loss of his family and his lack of education and experience, becomes a vital resource for Gustave when Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), a wealthy countess, bequeaths a precious painting to Gustave’s possession. Envious of Gustave’s fortune, the children of Madame D., played by Adrien Brody and Willem Dafoe, are determined to use any deadly tactics to recover the artwork.

            
Similar to Anderson’s previous work, the direction TGBH follows is heavily motivated by plot. The intricate camerawork, quirky language, and charming dark humor contribute to the extravagancy of an Anderson production. Nonetheless, when Anderson is at his best, it is when these factors meld harmoniously with empathetic characters. A captivating performance by Fiennes, Gustave places as one of the most memorable of Anderson’s characters, relatable to Max Fischer of Rushmore or Royal Tenenbaum of The Royal Tenenbaums. With Gustav’s mentorship of Zero as a central point of the narrative, TGBH becomes a pleasing combination of visual fireworks and humane undertones.

            
During 1932 in the fictional state of Zubrowka is the setting of the film; the backdrop of the most escapist Anderson film to date. The flamenco guitar scoring, uniform color scheme, and careful set design fully accomplish an immersive quality for the viewer. Whereas Moonrise Kingdom hinted at a foreign land, TGBH’s arena is definitively unrecognizable. This is a newfound extreme for Anderson, an endeavor he should insist on pursuing. If one of the great auteurs of American cinema can continue to refine the boundaries of his already distinct technique, then I anxiously look forward to more of the same.

Grade: Flat 8

Beyond the Continuity System: Subverting Narrative Clarity in The Wild Child (1970)

Beyond the Continuity System: Subverting Narrative Clarity in The Wild Child (1970)

The classical form of narrative storytelling has firmly ingrained itself in the world of film since the birth of the medium. Methods regarding camera movement, character development, editing, and plot structure are essential to a conventional production of a film within the continuity system. In Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, prolific film theorists and journalists, delineate the phenomenon of natural narrative discontinuity. Elsaesser and Hagener’s main concern dealt with how suture theory creates a natural bond of narrative understanding for the viewer: “…how is it that the discontinuities and ruptures introduced through editing do not seem to break this “primary” bond with the spectator?” (Elsaesser, Hagener 88). Using the tenets addressed by suture theory, the discontinuous nature caused by splices in the action of a film can be overcome with the employment of such techniques as matching on action, eyeline matches, bridging diegetic or non-diegetic sound across cuts, or the meaningful juxtaposition of two shots. An especially intuitive facet of the classical narrative resides in the content of the story. Central to continuity storytelling is the development of a central character, a protagonist, who faces and conquers adversity. Any conflict found within the narrative is undoubtedly resolved at the film’s conclusion; the film exhibits narrative closure.

          
With the introduction of French New Wave cinema, the building blocks of classical filmmaking were vigorously challenged. Jean Luc-Godard use of jump cuts and counterintuitive screen direction flew in the face of the ideology traditionalist filmmakers promoted. Another New Wave director, Francois Truffaut, sought to subvert the continuity system.  In his 1970 film The Wild Child, Truffaut tells the story of how a young boy discovered in the forests of Aveyron, France is captured and educated by a deeply curious psychologist. Aware of the principles of continuity regarding the development of a central character, reliable narration, and closure, Truffaut subverts the continuity system through his lack of a protagonist, ambiguous narration, and use of a morally challenged plot.

          
Although The Wild Child exhibits plentiful instances of subversions of the continuity system, the visual presentation of the story is done almost entirely with classical montage technique. The plot is directly linear, displaying the story with many devices that fulfill suture theory, such as match-on-action, point of view shots, and continuous diegetic sounds. Of all the mechanisms at work to ensure the audience coherently understands natural ruptures in the film’s continuity, the guidance of the film’s narrator, Dr. Jean Itard, is the most imperative. Itard’s voice is ridden throughout the film, shown early on to be reading from his written memoirs of the events. Given that the child, Victor, is almost completely dumb, the only interplay of dialogue occurs between Itard and his housekeeper, Madame Guerin. Therefore, the narration provided by Itard is necessary foremost for the purpose of revealing to the audience his intentions with each training lesson and psychological test. For example, prior to testing Victor and rewarding him with a walnut, Itard describes his decision to use rewards of food and milk to motivate Victor when engaging him in lessons (Truffaut). This form of narration, in which Dr. Itard provides certainty to a sequence of the film previously vulnerable to misinterpretation, builds trust between the viewer and the narrator. It is with this constructed trust that Francois Truffaut sets up a subversion of continuity.

By acting as the source of narrative transparency, Itard’s narration quickly becomes a resource the audience tends to lean on for reassurance. His intentions to educate the boy seem honest and, as a viewer, one initially believes Victor to be in a good situation. Deviating from the emotionally static and unbiased narrators characteristic of classical cinema, Truffaut eventually challenges the audience’s perception of Itard as a wholly virtuous narrator. The training imposed by Itard slowly becomes too strenuous for the boy to bear, causing him to frequently lapse into raging fits. Upon one such fit, Madame Guerin scolds Itard, stating, “His tantrums are your fault. You make him study from morning to night. You turn his only pleasure into exercises. His meals, his walks, everything. You want him to catch up in one fell swoop.” Madame Guerin’s protest of Itard’s actions is a minor blow to the viewer’s relationship with Itard, breaking the initially forged perception of Itard as a method of navigating the narrative.

          
The viewer’s ambiguous feelings towards Itard’s character are heightened at the revealing of Itard’s own regret towards the training. In reaction to another failed test, Itard ruefully admits, “I give up. I’m wasting my time with you. Sometimes I’m sorry that I know you” (Truffaut). Whereas towards the beginning of the story, Itard acted as a bastion of hope and knowledge for Victor, he begins illustrate himself as a detriment to Victor. A greater blow to the viewer’s confidence in Itard comes with his admission of Victor’s current state as inferior to his prior life: “Now, ready to renounce the task I had imposed upon myself, seeing the time I’d wasted and how deeply I regretted having known him, I condemned the curiosity of the men who had wrenched him away from his innocent and happy life” (Truffaut). The regression of Itard as a sympathetic and reliable narrator to a character of indecisive action and source of harm to another prominent character is a crucial dynamic to Truffaut’s tentative aura exhibited in The Wild Child. The narrator, the dependable guide of so many classical narratives, is carefully exploited here to rethink the ideological effect of suturing that narration normally provides.

         
Contemporary cinema, contrast to Truffaut, is characteristic of narrative certainty in the sense that the story belongs to one character. The events that occur are motivated to push forth the personal story of the protagonist, with the ultimate goal being to achieve character growth. In Truffaut’s The Wild Child, the identity of a clear protagonist is left vacant. Certainly, the title of the film could be interpreted to lend itself to resolve this dilemma; this is the story of a previously isolated boy of nature and his introduction to civilization. However, when watching the film, this theory is rebuked. Dr. Itard’s voice and actions is the engine to narrative motion, and, furthermore, Itard’s own emerging storyline seeks to overshadow that of Victor. During portions of the film, the progression or regression of Itard’s training, his vacillating optimism, and struggles to garner fundraising from the state become the pillar events of the plot. All of the information the film provides regarding Victor is through the lens of Itard’s character, provided in the context of his narrated memoirs. The ambiguity surrounding the identity of a central character creates a sense of uncertainty for the viewer that would cease to exist in the form of classical narrative. With these clashing narratives, Truffaut successfully subverts the narrative clarity essential to films of traditional nature.

          
As Itard divulges the hopes for his psychoanalytical experiments and the results are displayed on the screen, the viewer can track the level of success reaped along the way. As previously stated, one key indicator of a central protagonist is the existence of character growth or conflict resolution. Using this rubric, if Victor were to have shown noticeable improvements in his training, enthusiastically embracing his training and all aspects of civilized society, a sense of narrative closure would be apparent. Victor’s struggles to understand and obey Itard’s and his deep yearning for his previous home in the forest would be overcome in the event that Victor had found happiness in civilized society. Yet again, Truffaut prefers the contrary. Until the end of the film, Itard’s training is depicted, at times, less like the education of a boy and more like the torturous experimentation of a lab rat. The film exudes uncertainty not just in regards to any benefits the training provides the boy, but it is also dubious whether the training is inherently good itself. Truffaut is sure to avoid closure in the final minutes of the film. Victor flees the household to be reunited with nature, only to realize he has lost some former capabilities. His return to Itard’s home is accompanied with an aura of ambivalence and fear. Upon Victor’s arrival, Itard declares, “Tomorrow we shall resume our lessons” (Truffaut). Truffaut cuts to Victor, executing a closed iris to leave only the boy’s apprehensive countenance exposed. Concluding the film on such an unresolved note is another contribution to Truffaut’s effort to sabotage the ideology of the classical narrative.

          
The skittish state expressed by Victor in those final moments epitomizes the uneasy tone scattered in the rest of the film. Simultaneous with the presentation of Itard’s regrets, a moral and philosophical dilemma arises in the narrative text: is the decision to snatch Victor from his natural habitat, one in which he thrived well, and reform him to become a civilized being of society the right choice? Moreover, is human society truly a better way of life than Victor’s life in the wild? There exists a presupposed doctrine that drives the premise for The Wild Child; the good life is existence among other men, under a state of government. In her analysis of The Wild Child in Film Quarterly, Harriett R. Polt, film academic and journalist, addresses the quandary: “What is the meaning of his freedom? Is it freedom – or another sort of trap?” (Polt 44) Profound philosophical undertones such as these seep through the narrative and continue to fester with the mind of the viewer. Victor’s state in Itard’s household becomes more uncomforting to watch as he squirms under the glare of the psychologist.

Wrestling with such questions is a conscious decision of Francois Truffaut. By juxtaposing a boy native to isolation in its purest form with the domesticated nature of civility, the auteur of this film is directly expressing his wariness towards Victor’s new life. With each of Victor’s violent tantrums, the viewer can discern a sense of severe uncertainty in the Truffaut’s narrative. As Polt notes in her analysis, “Though little of this is alluded to in the film, the very pathos of Victor’s condition, and the depiction of his suffering under the constant, frequently monotonous training he is subjected to, give evidence of Truffaut’s ambivalence over the sense of it all” (Polt 44). The ability of Truffaut to illuminate the notion that civilized society may fall secondary to a wild life in the countryside adds substance to an already existing emotional imbalance in the film. Contrary to the sentimental evocation a viewer experiences during this film, the conventional wisdom embedded in classical filmmaking possesses more definite underpinnings and less inner controversy.

          
Yet, although Victor’s struggle is irrefutably an origin of narrative ambiguity, Itard’s awareness of the contentious nature of the situation is equally as haunting. Seemingly honest in his motives from the upstart, Itard’s genuine interest transforms into blind determination by the conclusion. Polt addresses the fault of Itard to recognize the consequences of Victor’s newfound predicament: “More than just aware of Victor’s inability to learn true speech, Itard recognizes how his adoption into “civilized” life has deprived him of his freedom: Victor never loses his yearning for the outdoors…” (Polt 44). Towards the end of the film, Itard exposes his belief that conditioning Victor to be a civilized human may not necessarily be desirable, given the context. With this knowledge, the relationship between the audience, Itard, and the message of the film, viciously plummets. Itard’s depiction as a psychologist with ambitions that override his moral guidance alter his perception to nearly a villain. Completing the loss of faith in Itard, the viewer is left with little dependable source of continuity in the film.

          
In the context of cinema’s history, classical narrative films are foreign to this loss of a facilitating technique of narrative interpretation. Similar to the jarring jump cuts of Kar Wai Wong’s Chungking Express, or the shocking breakage of the fourth wall in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, The Wild Child subverts classical narrative creation. Through the development of an unreliable narrator, absence of a central character storyline, and a moral dilemma ingrained within the film’s basic plot, narrative ambiguity and moral uncertainty seek to challenge traditional filmmaking. In Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener remark how, although a film may not meet standards of the classical narrative, every film is still viewed through a comparative lens: “…even where a film does not conform to this system, it implicitly refers to this system by breaking or transgressing its norms…” (Elsaesser, Hagener 90). Despite it’s ubiquitous use of visual techniques of classical montage, Francois Truffaut’s The Wild Child is a separation from the classical system in substance. Its challenging of the system and decision to bypass its narrative structures sends a message to filmmakers of the classical form and opens dialogue for alternative ways of storytelling.

Works Cited

Elsaesser, Thomas, and Malte Hagener. Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses. New York:           Routledge, 2010. 1-232. Print.

Polt, Harriett R. "The Wild Child." Film Quarterly 24.3 (1971): 42-45. Print.

Truffaut, Francois, dir. The Wild Child. United Artists, 1970. DVD.

Film Grade: Flat 7