Criterion Spotlight: Otto Preminger's ANATOMY OF A MURDER

Based on the best-selling novel of the same name written by Michigan Supreme Court Justice John D. Voelker, Otto Preminger's (The Man with the Golden Arm, Advise & Consent) 1959 courtroom drama, Anatomy of a Murder, is incredibly noteworthy for a variety of reasons. Besides being considered one of the finest pure trial film ever made, it also features one of Saul Bass's most celebrated title sequences and an entrancing jazz score by Duke Ellington. The film was also revolutionary in both its unflinching look at both sex and rape and for the way Otto Preminger went about making it, acting as both director and producer on the picture, directly challenging both the MPAA's Production Code of Censorship and the dreaded Hollywood Blacklist in the process. 

Mirroring one of Voelker's own cases, Anatomy of a Murder centers around a small-town lawyer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The lawyer, Paul Biegler (played by James "Call Me Jimmy" Stewart), is a former district attorney who has lost his recent re-election bid and now spends most of his time fly fishing, playing piano and reading old law books with his alcoholic friend and colleague Parnell McCarthy (Arthur O'Connell) or joking with his acerbic secretary Maida Rutledge (Eve Arden). One night Biegler is contacted by Mrs. Laura Manion (Lee Remick) who tells Biegler that her husband, US Army Lieutenant Frederick "Manny" Manion (Ben Gazzara), has been arrested on first-degree murder charges for killing local barkeep Barney Quill. Manion does not deny killing Quill, but claims that it was his reaction to finding out his wife had been raped by Quill. After repeat conversations with both of the Manions, Biegler (and McCarthy, whom he has asked for helped) decides to except Lieutenant Manion's case and the rest of the film follows him as he develops and presents his defense. 

As I've already mentioned, today Anatomy of a Murder is considered to be one of the finest and most accurate trial films to date. So much so that it is often thought to be more appreciated by law professors and students than by film critics. (Which is saying a lot, if its 100% Fresh Rating on Rotten Tomatoes is any indication.) Seeing why this should be the case isn't to difficult. From the get-go, Anatomy had everything going for it. John Voelker was a Michigan Supreme Court Justice as well as a defense attorney who both wrote the novel the film was based upon and served as the basis for Jimmy Stewart's character in the film. Voelker also served as a consultant and supervisor on the film. In addition, like most of Preminger's films, Anatomy was shot on-location in Michigan with the courthouse scenes actually being filmed in a Marquette County courthouse. Many of the members of the original trial were also asked to come and sit on set and the judge in the film, Judge Weaver, was played by an actual attorney-turned-celebrity, Joseph N. Welch, who garnered nationwide fame for his participation as head counsel for the United States Army while it was under investigation by Joseph McCarthy's Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations for Communist activities. Undoubtedly, all of these factors provided necessary verisimilitude for Anatomy. However, it's Joseph Welch's involvement that gets at something about actual courtroom drama that many other films and television show seem to brush under the rug.

Perhaps what Anatomy of a Murder should be most commended for is its starkly accurate portrayal of the sheer theatricality of a criminal trial. The assistant district attorney (Brooks West) waits until everyone has been seated in the courtroom to formally introduce Claude Dancer (an up-and-coming George C. Scott), the Assistant State Attorney General who will assist him during the trial. Throughout the trial, Dancer oscillates back and forth between quietly smugging away in his seat and intensely grilling his witness, at one point almost sticking his nose into the witness stand to leer at Lee Remick's admittedly gorgeous Mrs. Manion. The judge basks silence, staring at the ceiling, first to the left and then to the right, milking all of the tension (and the spotlight) out of the moment before finally declaring "Objection overruled." It's often said that art imitates life and vice versa and Anatomy of a Murder brilliantly brings to light the fact that real-life judges, defendants, witnesses and especially lawyers put on as much of an act as the performers paid to play them. 

Throughout the film, Paul Biegler is constantly twisting his clients' images and stories to better suit his needs and give him the greatest odds of winning the trial. Much of the film outside of the courtroom is spent showing the thing every lawyer does and hates the most - research. Biegler first meets with his clients and manipulates them into exactly what he needs to win the case. He sees (and flirts) with Mrs. Manion and demands that she dress more like a librarian than her usual voluptuous self for the remainder of the trial. She may not be this sweet, conservative lady, but that's the image he'll have her portray in during the trial. Likewise, Mr. Manion is clearly a hot-headed, jealous type and probably knew exactly what he was doing when he murdered Mr. Quill. Biegler clearly understands this fact and informs Mr. Manion that if he committed the murder under temporary insanity, Mr. Manion might have a better chance of getting acquitted. He then steps out of the holding room to allow Mr. Manion to think this over and adjust his story accordingly. 

Nearly everything Biegler does in order to win his case involves him putting on a show for his audience. He brings in Mrs. Manion's talented terrier into the courtroom - not to bring in its important involvement in the brutal assault of Mrs. Manion, but to entertainment the courtroom by doing a little dance and hoping into the dastardly Mr. Dancer's lap. Similarly, when Mrs. Manion's looks are brought into question, Biegler has her dramatically reveal the gorgeous blonde locks hidden under her hat to the delight of all the men in the courtroom. There's even an air of theatricality in Jimmy Stewart's classic warble. Anytime Biegler raises his voice to shout an objection, you're never sure if his indignation is borne out of his legitmate disgust with the prosecution's actions towards his clients or if it's a product of his anxiety that the procecution might uncover something damning about his clients that will cause him to lose the case. Anything that Biegler does (really anything that anyone in the courtroom does) is tinged with ambiguity. 

From the very beginning, seen in the way Otto Preminger chooses to shoot Anatomy of a Murder, it's clear what an important role ambiguity plays in the film. Preminger's unbiased (some might say cold or clinical) techniques allow the audience to come to their own conclusion about these characters. Yes, it's easy to come down on the side of Paul Biegler, but that's because he's the character with whom the audience spends most of their time. However, nothing Preminger does gives us clear-cut information on who, if anyone, is truly good or bad in this film. The prosecution, especially Mr. Dancer, appear cruel even heartless towards the Manions. But, as I have said earlier, all of this has an air of theatricality. One could as easily argue that Dancer is putting on a gruff face in order to elicit the response he wants from his witnesses. The same can be said for Paul Biegler (whose reasons for taking the case are never clearly presented) and the Manions. It is completely possible that Mrs. Manion was raped and that in a bout of temporary insanity Mr. Manion murdered her alleged attacker. But we as the audience are never shown this. We, just like the people of the jury, have to decide based on the presentations of the prosecution and defense what really happened. 

Anatomy of a Murder is a wonderful film because not only is it able to accurately present the processes of law, in doing so the pervasive ambiguities of the film morph the audience into a jury in its own right. We as an audience are forced to both directly confront these horrific accusations and the people involved and come to a conclusion about right and wrong based on that information. And, like the members of fictional as well as real-life juries, we are forced to live with the consequences and moral implications of our decisions. A great movie is one that challenges an audience and forces them to think about how what the film is communicating applies to their everyday life. Anatomy of a Murder is able to accomplish this while remaining a spectacularly entertaining and impeccably accurate courtroom drama. Anatomy of a Murder may not be as shocking as it was in 1959, few things are. But it remains a challenging showcase of brilliant talent that more than earns its spot in the Criterion Collection and the label of "Classic." 

Uncovering Television: Thoughts on TOP OF THE LAKE - Episode 4

I was worried that jumping back into Top of the Lake after a much longer period of time than I had intended would have its adverse effects. I was worried that I might forget important developments, or at the very least important clues and hints about future important developments. I was afraid I might forget some characters and not be suspicious or questioning at all as to why they didn't appear in this episode and what that might mean. Luckily for me, not only is "Episode 4" of Top of the Lake probably the best episode in the series thus far, it also strikes the perfect balance between continuing the serial story (checking in with all the necessary players and restating where we are at this point while moving the story forward) and remaining extremely focused on one of the series' most shocking revelations to this point. 

As the episode progresses, that revelation - that Robin herself was brutally assaulted and raped by four drunken men 15 years ago on her way home from a school dance - is slowly unpacked as everyone shines a bit more light on the disgustingly horrific encounter and the events that followed. Al Parker reveals that he and some others, including Matt Mitcham, gathered the perpetrators together to punish them (but, notably, not arresting or prosecuting any of them). Robin reveals that she gave birth to the child but gave it up for adoption and that the child has been sending letters trying to learn more about her biological parents. Robin's mother declares that she wants to see her grandchild before dying even if Robin doesn't. And Johnno comes close to revealing something that Robin believes is so terrible that she cuts him off before he can utter it. 

It's an episode that's all about communication and the dichotomy between knowledge and ignorance. Al Parker doesn't really want to know what happened to Tui or to Wolfgang Zanic or to Bob Platt or to the other young girl we find out about at the end of episode. He's happy to go on believing (or pretending to believe) what he's told and leave it at that. Jamie, a young man (and bone collector and latest red herring) in the blue hoodie who Robin sees at the beginning of the episode and whose whereabouts Johnno is apparently tracking, has stopped talking altogether - taking some weird vow of silence and only communicating through the words "yes" and "no" written on the palms of his hands. Most importantly, Robin doesn't want to know or hear anymore about what happened to her. When Al tries to tell her the truth, she comes back with "Fuck the truth," and she repeatedly interrupts Johnno, saying she can't handle what he's about to tell her. "Don't tell me," she says getting up, needing to escape the knowledge he's threatening her with. 

Reflecting this idea of desired ignorance, the beautiful, often poetic cinematography of "Episode 4" is frequently dark and hazy in its own right - particularly during the flashback to the night of Robin's attack and rape - a fuzzy, brown photo fading into a repulsive memory. As Johnno inexplicably abandons her in the darkened gym, surrounded on either side by black balloons and the now ominous mounted deerhead, Robin stares out into the darkness. She then slowly stumbles outside into a fog-laden night and headlights suddenly appear from nowhere, a treacherous siren's call that drowns out Johnno's attempts to get her attention. Robin doesn't initially see how many men are in the car or how drunk they are. And although the men allow Johnno to ride along, they force him into the blackened dog cages in the truck's bed. It's a nightmarish dreamscape, gorgeous but saturated with a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. 

This sense of helplessness in such a cruel, patriarchal society can be seen also in an earlier scene where Al invites Robin to dinner. It's clear from the lengths he's gone to prepare the food and from what he's wearing that he has some level of romantic interest in Robin. (Though Robin doesn't get the memo or feel the same way, showing up in a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans.) After the drunken meal, Robin is barely able to stand up as she tries to make her way to her car and Al takes her keys. The next morning, in what is an incredibly subtle and disquieting scene, Robin wakes up to some alarming details. She is in Al's bed, with his shirt on and wearing only her panties underneath it, and he's already gone to work. As the episode progresses, it does a terrific job at building tension and suspicion towards Al, who isn't one of the Mitcham boys or one of the disgusting pigs at the local pub but instead a respected member of the police force and Robin's superior and co-worker. Unwilling to back down, Robin questions him expertly, mixing in her accusations with details from Tui's case. And even when he answers convincingly, she still replies, "Then why don't I feel like saying thank you?" Even with Al, Robin is unable to be completely sure of his intentions. 

As I said earlier, this episode strikes a good balance between focusing on Robin's gang-rape revelation while continuing to build on the serial story and themes. Obviously a big theme in Top of the Lake is that of women fighting against a chauvinist, male-dominated society. We see this strongly with the continued story of Matt Mitcham. Like with his mother's grave, Anita again trespasses on what Mitcham sees as "holy ground" by lying in Tui's bed. And again Matt lashes out at her, kicking her out of his house and roughing her up by driving through the gate to the "Paradise" commune that Anita is straddling and struggling to open. He then proceeds to accost all the women of the commune, harassing them about their menstruation polluting his land and individually declaring each of them "unfuckable." However, all these actions do is further show, both physically and symbolically, Matt Mitcham's impotence. Apart from the actual sexual impotence he tells Anita about in the episode previous, Matt's bravado appears to be all talk. Without his imposing sons or his truck, Matt seems physically helpless. The only person we've seen him harm with his own hands is himself at his mother's grave. And although he does harm Anita by driving through that gate and flinging her to the ground, it is the women of "Paradise" who stand firm as Matt scampers away, his insults doing little to phase them.

We see this also in Robin's encounter with Sarge, one of the men who raped her. As he sidles up to her, believing he might have found some company for the evening, Robin disgustedly chuckles at the fact that he doesn't remember her. It's an darkly intense moment and then Sarge drops the coal-black line, "Did we fuck or something?" and everything changes. Robin's smirk disappears and she locks eyes with him, a blistering rage burning within her. Suddenly, she smashes a bottle over the bar and stabs Sarge in the chest. A he falls to the ground chuckling (Does he actually recognize her? Is he messing with her as part of some sick game?), Johnno pulls Robin off Sarge and out of the bar as she repeatedly screams, "Do you remember me now, asshole?!" 

Thus far, the women of Laketop, New Zealand have been defined by their tolerance and perseverance. While the men are defined by, and often abuse their power (Matt's seeming control over the town, his sons' imposing presence, Al's choice not to follow up on any of the cases previously mentioned), the women hold strong. In "Paradise," each woman has endured great pain, but remain pillars of resistance against any force attempting to infiltrate and destroy what they've created. Robin's mother is courageously battling cancer with dignity while trying to be there for her daughter the best she can. But Robin is losing it. Under all the pressure of Tui's disappearance, her mother dying, and the memories of her rape jarringly resurfacing, she's is cracking. When Al tells her to pull Sarge over and for an auto violation and arrest him, she coldly replies, "Okay, and after that can I kill him?" Then she stabs Sarge. Then she gets kicked off the case. And then her long-term engagement gets broken off. (As a side note, this episode gives Elisabeth Moss a ton to do and she absolutely knocks it out of the park, delivering a powerhouse performance. I was particularly in awe of the moment she shares with her mother when she says of Sarge, "I don't give a shit if Sarge is walking around with a grubby bandage on. I hope he is awake and in fucking pain. Always!" And her mother replies, "Me, too. Always." Fantastic stuff.)

All of this leaves us in an interesting spot. Now Robin is officially off the case, but she's continuing to investigate - now with the help of Ian Fallows, a pathologist who calls Robin and expresses his mutual suspicion regarding the three above mentioned cases that Al Parker has chosen not to pursue. Those cases being Bob Platt, Wolfgang Zanic and the other young girl, April Stephens, who was run over on Lakeview Road and was found to have abrasions and traces of cocaine in her vagina. Like Robin, who crosses symbolic gender lines with the penetrative stabbing of Sarge in the bar, Ian Fallows isn't your typical male on Top of the Lake. He doesn't immediately discredit or undervalue Robin's opinion just because she's a woman. (In fact, he is the one that reaches out to her specifically and asks for her help.) And he doesn't write-off cases like Tui's or April Stephens' as just things that happen to young girls with nothing to be done. "I had a daughter who overdosed," he says. "So for me, it's emotional." So it is for Robin. And I, for one, am looking forward to seeing what the pair will be able to uncover without the hindrances of Laketop's oppressive police department. 

To Boldly Go: Review of Alfonso Cuaron's GRAVITY

I didn't get to see Alfonso Cuaron's Gravity, his first film since 2006's Children of Men, opening weekend and I was obviously pretty upset about this. Cuaron is one of my favorite directors and Children of Men is, in my opinion, easily one of the top 10 films of the last decade. I was even more upset after seeing, or rather hearing, the reactions of the few people in the cinema with me earlier this week. As the film began, it was just me and two or three older couples scattered about the theater. Typically I prefer this to the rowdiness of the Friday night crowd, but the fact that these people continued to chit-chat through the opening credits - white sentences on a stark black background explaining how life in space is impossible - had me worried. Then it happened. The noise continued to crescendo louder and louder, bringing up PTSD flashbacks of the THX sound that would play before every movie of my childhood, until WHAM! Smashcut to complete silence and a breathtakingly magnificent shot of Earth and its majestic blue waters. It was a truly remarkable use of visuals and sound design. But what was more remarkable was the effect it had on me as well as those three chatty couples. Everyone was immediately silenced, utterly taken aback by what they were viewing. It was an incredible moment, something I had never experienced before and wish I could have shared with a packed house. It was also a perfect microcosm of what Gravity is as a whole. 

Because HOLY HUBBOLE! (Yes, that's the best space-related pun I could come up with.) I have watched a lot of movies during my brief time on this planet, and I can safely say that I have never seen anything like Gravity. As others have pointed out, the only thing that comes close is perhaps Stanley Kubrick's 1968 masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and even then you're stretching it. There has never truly been a film like Gravity and what it has done will open the doors for a brand new wave of cinema. It's one of those rare films where everyone basically accepts going into any discussion that it's an amazing movie, gets that out there and then talks about the little nitpicks they have about. And instead of simple drooling on my shoes in amazement (more than usual, I mean), that's what I'm going to do too. 

What immediately springs to mind when thinking or writing about Gravity is that it is a technical marvel. After seeing Gravity was one of, if not the first time I have been completely baffled by how half the half the shots I saw were created. At one point the camera goes into Sandra Bullock's helmet and back out again showing her face without ever cutting. CGI Sandra Bullock face on CGI Sandra Bullock body? It couldn't have been the Vomit Comet like they used in Apollo 13. The shots are too sophisticated for that. How do you get those shots? How is she moving like that? Either they really shot Sandra Bullock and George Clooney into space and almost killed them to make this movie or there are some unprecedented things going on here. And to my surprise it was the latter. Through the use of robots and techniques created for this film as well as 80-90% of the film being CGI animation, Cuaron and company were able to present what is probably the most realistic portrayal of space in narrative cinema history. 

Gravity is probably the closest any of us will ever get to being in space, and after seeing Gravity it will probably be the closest you'll ever want to get to being in space. Using his patented long takes (the opening scene of the film alone is a single shot that lasts between 12 and 15 minutes), Cuaron is able to ratchet up the tension to nearly unbearable levels. Not only do these long takes force you to experience what is happening in nearly real time, they don't let you off the hook. There's no cut to save you, nothing else to focus on except the horror occurring right in front of you. As Sandra Bullock is fighting to preserve her remaining oxygen to stay conscious, you are trying to remember to breathe yourself. While she struggles to free an escape pod, you watch in eerie silence as the satellite behind her explodes sending thousands of shrapnel pieces hurtling towards her. Pervading throughout Gravity is a feeling of unnerving, almost crippling terror - the incredible (both in its realism and in the fact that it feels so realistic) feeling that you're actually experiencing a series of catastrophic disasters in outer space.  

This is accomplished in no small part by Cuaron's direction and his longtime partner, Emmanuel Lubezki's cinematography, but it is also due to the already mentioned flawless sound design. Gravity takes the Alien tagline, "In space, no one can hear you scream," to a whole other level. The loud explosions that populated the various trailers for the film have vanished. Instead, the only sounds that can be heard are those from inside the helmets of the astronauts. Choosing to forego the Hollywood trope of booming blockbuster explosions in favor of accuracy (as un-showy as it might be) is remarkably daring - this can be easily seen in the fact that the marketers did choose to add sound effects to the explosions for fear of losing or alienating possible audiences. And it does! The cognitive dissonance caused by seeing a giant satellite explosion but only being able to hear Sandra Bullock's labored breathing as she tries to detach an escape pod is unnervingly frightening. But that unnerving fright is shared with Sandra Bullock's character so that not only are you feeling an emotion, you're fully empathizing with the character on screen. The fact that that character just happens to be an astronaut going through an unbelievably calamitous series of events just makes the film's accomplishments all the more amazing. 

But Gravity is not without its faults. The fact that I've gotten 1000 words into this review and haven't really mentioned anything at all about the plot should tell you something. Essentially, Sandra Bullock plays Dr. Ryan Stone, a bio-medical engineer turned Mission Specialist, on her first space shuttle mission with veteran astronaut Matt Kowalski (George Clooney) to service the Hubble Space Telescope. During the final spacewalk, debris from a Russian missile strike on a defunct satellite has created a chain reaction of destruction that leaves the telescope shattered and Kowalski and Ryan drifting in free space trying to find a way to get back to Earth. If you boil it all down, it's a fairly simple and un-unique premise and the script doesn't do much to make these characters feel deep or lived in. The film also plays quite a bit with the themes of depression and finding the power to overcome and move on with your life which, upon reflection, appear very heavy-handed. (A particular scene with Sandra Bullock being told she needs "to learn to let go" and another where a character blatantly states that she can either move on or let depression end her life come to mind.) But, like I said, going into any discussion about Gravity you accept it's an amazing movie and these are just my nits to pick. 

Because when you get down to brass tacks, all the things that Gravity does right completely outweigh what problems it does have. Yes, the characters for the most part are pretty shallow. And yes, George Clooney basically just plays George Clooney. But Sandra Bullock puts on the performance of a lifetime and adds the gravitas needed to drive the picture nearly single-handedly. Gravity is an epic movie, but despite its stage it often feels incredibly intimate; and without Bullock's performance, this could have resulted in a complete disaster rather than the tour de force it actually is. Frankly, the sheer technical brilliance alone is enough to elevate Gravity to one of the best films of the year. Add Cuaron's mastery of visual storytelling (where there are heavy-handed theme explanations, there are also beautifully subtle expressions of those themes) and the awe-inspiring scenes that result, and the evocative sound design that includes Steven Price's emotional score that feels less manipulative and more so simply reflects the emotions the audience is already feeling and what you have is one of the most thrilling, visually and emotionally rewarding films of the year. 

See it in 3D, see it in the biggest theater you can, and see it with as many people as you can manage. But most of all, just see it. 

9 out of 10

It Came From Netflix: ROOM 237

 

Whether or not you know much about Stanley Kubrick and his films, though you've undoubtedly heard of them even if you haven't watched them, it's likely that you know of his reputation for being a filmmaking perfectionist. While he is known throughout the film buff community as having been very loose with his acting - often having no idea about what he wanted from a performance and frequently forcing the actors play out scenes again and again until he got something that felt right - his attention to detail, be it sets, camera moves, music cues, etc., is unmatched in the world of filmmaking. Down to the particular magazine a character is casually thumbing through or the film that's playing in the background while two characters are having a conversation, no aspect of Kubrick's mise-en-scene is coincidental. Unsurprisingly, this has led many of his fans to (some might say obsessively) pour over his films, squeezing every frame to the last evidential drop for their varied and intricate theories. Perhaps no entry in the late director's catalog is has been more extensively analyzed than his 1980 adaptation of Stephen King's horror classic, The Shining. And with his debut documentary, Room 237, Rodney Ascher depicts just how far Kubrick's fans have fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole. 

What makes Room 237 so interesting is that it acts as both a brilliant piece of film criticism and as deeply involving critique on film criticism. The film is presented as a sort of video essay with the film's various commentators voicing their experiences discovering The Shining, their love/fanaticism for it and their in-depth thoughts and analysis on it all set over clips from The Shining and a plethora of other films, Kubrickian or otherwise. One man believes The Shining is about the persecution of the Native Americans by the European white men. Another man sees the film in connection with the German Third Reich in World War II. There are others still who see the film in connection with Kubrick's supposed involvement with the faking of the Apollo 11 moon landing and with mythology - particularly with the legend of the labyrinth and the Minotaur. Not only is the myriad of theories presented fascinating, the amount of details and evidence provided for each make them all seem strangely (and simultaneously) possible. Through the entire running time of Room 237, I found myself constantly waffling back and forth between "Oh, come on. You've got to be joking!" and "Wow, you're actually making a lot of sense, disembodied voice." And that's what makes it such a fun movie.

By overlaying two copies of the film running backwards and forwards, many interesting juxtapositions occur. Here, you can see how the blood of the murdered twins creates an unnerving, bleeding clown mask on Jack Torrence's face. 

Because as these men and women from all walks of life are speaking, analyzing this singular work of art, we as viewers are analyzing them. Room 237 is as much about the way people interpret The Shining as it is about the way we interpret any movie. Everyone brings their various preconceptions into every film they watch and it's impossible for these ideas not to color the subsequent readings they have. One of the gentlemen interviewed had past experiences with a particular word - calumet - which caused him to concentrate on the Native American imagery in the film. Same thing with the guy who focused primarily on the Apollo  11 imagery. One man latched onto a particular line of someone else's criticism - that The Shining was a film that was supposed to be watched backwards as well as forwards - and took that to mean literally running the film backward. Although these things may seem trivial at first, especially to viewers who do not share the same backgrounds and preconceptions as the commentators, all of them illuminate a multitude of enthralling elements of Kubrick's film that might have otherwise gone completely unnoticed by the greater majority. Does it seem a little silly that a man formed an entire theory based initially on what brand of canned baking powder was on a particular shelf? Or that the basis of a woman's mythological theory might come from a strange poster that only appears in one scene? Does it seem ridiculous that someone might project a film running backwards on top of that same film running normally based solely on a line he read on the internet? Of course it does! But without these little sparks, we might have never discovered just how layered (sometimes literally!) a film Stanley Kubrick's The Shining could be. 

And because The Shining is a Stanley Kubrick film, any and all of these theories seem possible. Being the mad perfectionist that he was, it's possible he could have intended one, two or all of these interpretations. Nevertheless, I found myself often questioning whether or not we all give Kubrick too much credit. Maybe he chose that particular can or poster just because he liked it. But the concept of just liking something is an interesting one. Yes, there is a lot of Native American decor in the film so it would make sense why he chose that specific can of baking powder. But thinking about the possibilities of Kubrick working subconsciously is interesting. He could have just liked it, but he just likes it for multitude of subconscious reasons. Because when everything is all said and done, who's to say what Kubrick intended? And even if we do know what he intended, what we see in a film and what a film touches within us still has meaning and worth. And that's why Room 237 is such a wonderful documentary. Not only is it about delving deeply into one particular film, it's about the power that film analysis, both causal and academic, has in people's lives. Maybe The Shining isn't about Native American suppression, Nazis or Kubrick's involvement in faking the moon landing. But that's not what matters. What matters is the relationship between a film and those that view it. What matters is how a film touches you, changes you. 

And if that relationship produces some crazy, out-there theories, we're all the better for it.