It’s all in the subtleties—A teacher’s manual that is trying to make a difference: A review of the new book Teaching Generation M by a member of Gen M

The editors (Vibiana Bowman Cvetkovic and Robert J. Lackie) and writers (they are too numerous to cite) of Teaching Generation M: A Handbook for Librarians and Educators had the insight to not make this book a compilation of vastly discerning viewpoints. Yes, some of the viewpoints are somewhat different, but this book does not seem to be an academic boxing match in any way and that’s because there’s no time for academic fist fighting when one has to facilitate a better library and classroom environment. The editors of this book had the good sense to know that this digital debate is not about personal preferences in regards to how to teach (the Kindle or no Kindle question is blasé). Rather, the debate revolves around the passionate belief on the librarian’s and educator’s part concerning how to best serve their students’ needs. These educators have good reason to argue. In a sense, Teaching Generation M deals first and foremost with closing the gap, and one can’t do that by getting in a tizzy over the situation.


This book very cogently states the problems inherent in the digital divide without pointing any fingers at anyone, and that’s because it’s a twofold problem. The older generation’s assumption that Gen M consists of “computer wizards” does pose as a falsity, and yet it’s not the complete part of the problem—it more is the starting off point. Once that assumption has been set in the people who constitute Gen M’s minds, they don’t actively try to learn more in the way of better critical media skills, because they are so confident of their skills, which ultimately results in their writing poor papers. Therefore, both parties are wrong in how they conduct their business, hence the digital divide. This is a brilliant point made by most of the writers of this book—there are a few stragglers, but that’s OK.


However, there’s an interesting paradox to that argument that I think the writers of this book know is present, and it’s their saving grace: It’s highly ironic that Gen M doesn’t nearly know as much as older individuals think—and I include myself in that group, as a member of Gen M(edia), or the Millennial Generation, myself. This may sound like a double-sided criticism addressed to both parties. But the reason why I think the writers of Teaching Generation M realize the contradiction is because, throughout the book, they subtly posit that idea in the readers’ heads without belaboring the point. Therefore, the book remains non-judgmental.


I really found this book to be so lucid that is was refreshing. Who would have thought that a handbook or manual for librarians and teachers (and anyone else who deals with Gen M) could be so entertaining to read from the layman’s perspective? On a simple, primal level, what makes the book so exciting to me is simply having the pleasure to read what is on librarians’ and/or teachers’ minds. These educators merely appear recitative, but when they cut loose, they do they have things to say! The book doesn’t really have so much to do with extolling or decrying the growing adherence to technology, especially with regard to doing research. Rather, Teaching Generation M has to do with how to properly facilitate learning in a technological digital age. That’s why it’s a fantastic book for everyone concerned.


Writers such as Patricia H. Dawson, Diane K. Cambell, and Mitch Fontenot, and Robert Lackie, have the good sense to know that technology is here, and one has to simply properly deal with this new situation. It is amusing how some academics act almost as if Wikipedia and Google have just arrived on the scene, so everyone should cower in their seats over this dangerous new way of doing research. They talk about these research tools almost as if they were weapons of mass destruction, and writer Mitch Fontenot sees the hilarity in the situation, without being mean-spirited in any way. You cannot properly facilitate learning when you are angry at the same people that you as an educator are also criticizing. Well, certain academics seem to be acting that way—my opinion. I believe that as a teacher, librarian, trainer, or supervisor, you have to figure out how the relationship between student and teacher has changed, first and foremost, before even setting foot in that library or classroom setting. That form of teaching would subsequently help encourage students to enhance their critical skills, especially in terms of surveying digital information.


Really, even though the young person’s critical thinking and research skills are constantly changing, when one comes right down to it, those skills are still the same primary learning skills, just as no matter how much teenagers change, they still remain teenagers. The philosophical notion behind this book is that no matter how much the classroom’s format changes, it basically still remains a classroom. Therefore, all educators should not worry over the superficial changes that are occurring in terms of how a student conducts research. That’s a very even-balanced argument on the writers’ part. The argument becomes even stronger once the reader realizes that these points are not made from some essayist completely separated from the situation, but rather, it is coming from educators and librarians who see the situation firsthand.


Again, I like the fact that the book is in the guise of just a teacher’s manual or handbook, mainly because I believe this type of format allows the writers of Teaching Generation M to administer a calming even-handed non-argumentative approach to the points that they make throughout the book, and they do it without being condescending. Therefore, any reader can believe in what he or she is reading about, and there are a plethora of points being made that will assist anyone who teaches or works with Gen M students.


However, I think there is a double-layered meaning to this published work. If the book was only a teacher’s manual, than it might have a prosaic tone, which means that the common reader would be turned off. However, I think that Teaching Generation M: A Handbook for Librarians and Educators is exciting because it is subtly addressed to all readers, including members of Generation Media, like myself, which is just another form of bridging the gap. Well done all!



- David A. Brown, Rider University English major, with a concentration in Cinema Studies; and Editorial Intern for Cineaste Magazine: America’s Leading Magazine on the Art and Politics of the Cinema, and a proud member of Generation M(edia).

Contempt

Contempt-“A Cloud of Unawareness” David Brown
4/21/09
Seminar in Cin.

In the film Contempt, it seems that the love triangle between Camille (Brigitte Bardot) Paul (Michel Piccoli) and Jeremy (Jack Palance) is a subtle metaphor for the decaying film industry. In this film Godard equates failed filmmaking with a failed relationship. He also notes how the two inevitably intercede to destroy one another. It’s almost as if Godard is stating to the audience that films are so contemptible because no one examines in close detail the production aspects that mare a production; just as no one learns from past filmmaker’s mistakes. Godard’s critical stance against passive audiences who merely are indifferent is that they should be indignant towards flawed filmmaking. His feeling is that audiences, and filmmakers, have to study why a production went wrong in much the same way that relationships go wrong. If people are so hungry for the latest tabloid gossip, in terms of what infidelities are going on in the film world, surely they can be as interested on how these celebrities affect the productions that they are in; many times by the infidelities that they are having. (The casting of Brigitte Bardot is perfect, because at that time she was the tabloid goddess.)
Godard’s study of why a production falters stems from the confines of Jeremy’s (the producer’s) way of making a movie, which involves usury and lying. The great amounts of usury and lying on Jeremy’s part actually makes everyone who has to be intrinsically involved with his production have a mistaken view of reality, which ultimately makes that individual lose their integrity. This process begins with Paul’s being bind to the production by signing a contract to do the film; any protestation on Paul’s part will be flawed and illogical because he’s binded by the contract. When Lang, the personal artist, mentions the importance of culture, Jeremy states: “When I deal with culture I get out my checkbook.” Jeremy’s checkbook is his way of eradicating personal vision. Once Jeremy writes out that check, it becomes much easier for Paul to follow Jeremy’s orders.
Jeremy’s rationale for hiring Paul is so he can obtain his wife from him. Really, that is Paul’s job on this movie; no wonder he loses his integrity. He begins to lose his artistic creativity and begins to get distracted. Camille talks about this in a digression about the man who got distracted by an ass; this is in reference to Paul’s being distracted by his suspicions that Camille is sleeping with another man. This is all Jeremy’s fault, which is just another representation of Jeremy’s power in destroying artistic creativity/relationships.
It seems that Godard is arguing that the main creators on the film sets involved with big productions always intrinsically lose their personal vision because they try to mimic, in order to impress, the big hotshot producer producing the international enterprise. It’s almost as if Paul is not consciously aware that he slowly is resembling Jeremy more and more. He’s becoming the vulgar creative male personality, and this is represented by his wearing of that hat throughout the film, and by how he treats women. The audience is aware that this man used to have integrity. Yet, the audience never sees the true Paul in this film. In some strange way, Godard (and Camille) are criticizing Paul more than anyone else in this film because he is the French artist with integrity that sells out. At least Jeremy is consistent in his vulgarity.
There really is no basis on the producer’s part for making a solid production of the story of Odysseus; it might as well be titled what Camille calls it: the movie about the guy that swims. Camille should not be criticized for her indifference to art. After all, Paul’s definition of art is looking at old artwork and finding the nudity stimulating. He trashes antiquity by hitting the ancient nude female object in the flat in the private parts. This is a metaphor for the old dying way for making movies being destroyed by artist’s distraction with mundane sexual affairs. It’s almost as if the artist becoming a crass individual (Paul becoming Jeremy) destroys a filmmaker like Lang’s control over his personal vision.
Camille wants to escape from this barbarity by becoming indifferent to the processes of art. In one scene in a movie theatre, Jeremy finds it intriguing that Camille has no opinion on what should be done about the production. The camera then pans over to Camille’s face as she indifferently watches the screen with the rest of the audience. She wants nothing to do with this production; hence, she has an indifference towards movies and moviemaking.
Camille is a tragic character because she can’t love Paul anymore. She’s well aware that Paul is losing his independence and whoring for the industry. She’s also well aware that he’s the ultimate hypocrite because he wants Camille to remain the way she was, i.e., in love with him. However, he’s not the same man anymore. Camille has an indifference to filmmaking not because she’s vain or lacks integrity, but because the process is so destructive towards relationships. Camille could very well be a metaphor for the indifferent film audience that Godard has empathy with yet criticizes. He has empathy for Camille/the indifferent film audience because they are powerless, yet he also criticizes them because they don’t properly get out of their situation. In a scene in the flat, Camille deplores to Paul that she won’t go meet him and Jeremy (at this point in the film the two sexist prigs); yet she moves around in circles and keeps repeating the line, almost as if she were trapped. She eventually does go meet them.
This sense of constrictedness (and of the main characters being trapped in the confines of Jeremy’s will) is felt in the tiny flats in the film. I find it ironic and humorous that these “fancy” flats that everyone sells their souls to live in are so constricting and unpleasant. This is a representation of Jeremy’s deceitful nature. It appears to these characters that once they sell their soul to Jeremy they will have free will over their lives; that selling their soul is all in the name of making a movie. A perfect representation of this: When Paul is typing away at the script, Camille walks under a ladder, which is a symbol of bad luck.
The way in which the camera constantly moves horizontally from left to right or right to left resembles, in many ways, a tennis match between the figures in the frame. It’s ironic that the people involved in a big production like this can never connect; how are they supposed to have their film connect with their audience in anyway? Their situation is so deplorable that all they can do is fight at one another. Camille’s going with Jeremy at the end of the film is her way of escaping from this constricting area, where everyone’s losing their integrity and individuality.
In the next to final scene in the movie, Godard continues to employ his visual indication of the contradictory nature of Camille. Jeremy’s vulgar red car color matches his sweater perfectly. This man will never change in anyway. Yet, Camille’s sweater in the scene is blue. The color contrasts against Jeremy’s vulgarity; yet Camille is losing her will against this man. Once the truck hits the car and kills the two, their bodies are facing against one another. If these two had not had the language barrier to obstruct conversation, they would have been the ones arguing in the film. Yet, on a multinational production such as this, it’s the people who speak the same language that have contempt for one another. This is the ultimate tragedy in Godard’s eyes. His feeling is that similar cultures (represented by Camille and Paul) should band together (or in Camille and Paul’s case, stay in their relationship), and make films together (like the New Wave group) and not lose their vision just to receive a higher budget for their production. (In the case of Camille and Paul, they should have never been won over by Jeremy.)
Camille’s only escape from Jeremy’s will (almost as if he were an evil creature out of Greek myth) is through death. The shot before the accident, showing Jeremy’s driving very rapidly from the left side of the frame to the right side of the frame, is very similar to the shot where Paul violently pulls Camille, once they have left Jeremy’s villa. Paul’s violent movement, in order to get him and Camille out of the presence of Jeremy and his production, is an example of Paul’s violent protestation against Jeremy’s way of making movies. Yet, Paul’s movement is ultimately rapt, and intense to the point of dissipation. The same sorts of movements happen when Paul becomes violent towards Camille, in the flat. Camille’s rapt decision to leave Paul also ends through violence. These protestations of Jeremy’s way of doing business are faulty, because once Paul signs that contract to write the script for the film (just as Camille decides to get in that car with Jeremy), both of them are ensnared in the confines of Jeremy’s will; escaping that will ultimately proves fatal for both of them. The rapid escape that both characters try to attempt in this movie is the delusion from the truth that Lang (the old pro who’s used to this way of making movies) does not believe in. Lang’s sentiment is felt in one of his last lines at the end of the film: “One has to begin what one starts.”It’s interesting that Contempt was the only high budget multinational film that Godard ever made, and yet this is the film that represents his stance against high budget multinational filmmaking. Perhaps Godard’s reflexive way in which to tell a story is the best way in which to write a critique against the film industry, because it allowed him to experience the situation firsthand. The fact that Godard kept his integrity throughout the filming of Contempt was his way of signaling to other filmmaker’s that there is indeed hope in the film industry; one has to be merely wary of the situation and not give in easily.

The Simplest Means

David Brown
3/24/09
Seminar in Cinema Studies
Surrealism is one of the most interesting qualities inherently used to great effect in certain films. It’s that slightly off feeling in a Lynch film or a Bunel film that gives an audience member a sense that they have been witnessing a strange view of reality; an almost dream like view that lacks conventional dramatic structure and logic. Perhaps these filmmakers learned a thing or two from one of the greatest surreal directors: Jean Cocteau. Cocteau was a playwright, and therefore knew more about dramatic structure than Bunel or Lynch. However, this didn’t mean that his films were not unconventional. I’d argue that the best way to depart from convention is to first know how to properly tell a conventional story, and then completely imbue that story with unconventional traits. These traits would not seem arbitrary in the slightest, because they would naturally be contingent upon the story being told on screen. For instance, in Jean Cocteau’s Orpheus (1949), even though it doesn’t necessarily make conventional sense that Orphee (Jean Marais) can’t look at his wife Eurydice (Marie Dea) or else she will die, it seems to not be an arbitrary element in anyway extrinsic from the story either. I can’t think of many other filmmakers who posses that quality of surrealism. It’s no wonder that Cocteau is termed a classical avant-gardist.
Possibly, the elements in Orpheus fit so well in place because the movie is based on the classic Greek myth of Orpheus, and how he lost Eurydice. However, Cocteau has elaborated on that myth in adding the final section involving Orphee’s second chance at getting Eurydice back from the dead. The one stipulation is that Orphee is not allowed to look at her ever again; if he does she dies for good. Cocteau takes this dramatic scenario that should be depressing, and makes it comic. This is highly strange thematically for a dramatist to do, because it’s not the normal route for a story like this to take. It’s comic because both parties decide to continue to live with one another. It gets to the point where Heurtebise (Francois Périer), death’s chauffeur of all people, has to constantly remind Orphee to be careful about staring into the mirror, for fear that he will see his wife. (This could be construed as a metaphor for a marriage falling apart, considering that Orphee is falling in love with Death (María Casares).) However, all of this is made comic rather than tragic, and this is an example of Cocteau’s genius. As a filmmaker, he takes his pretentious artistic ideas and magically makes them unpretentious. This feat is a major moment in art. It’s almost as if a Bohemian avant garde artist finally figured out dramatic construction and consequently had no more stumbling blocks in which to trip over.
At some moments, Orpheus resembles a surreal marital comedy. I think the juxtaposition of these elements works because the film has a structure in which to base its wild ramblings on. I’m sure Cocteau wanted to experiment with juxtapositions of surrealism and normality or banality for this film. In order to do that successfully, Cocteau had to have some kind of structure for his dream like film, or else it wouldn’t make any sense to an audience; and what better structure is there other than the Greek myths?
I think the other element that makes Orpheus such an effective surreal film is the fact that it has such a low budget. Usually, one would presume that a low budget would limit a filmmaker from being creative, particularly if their film has many special effects in it. It appears that nothing daunted Cocteau. If anything, he was probably spurred on by having a limited budget. The constrictions probably allowed Cocteau to experiment in highly unconventional ways, and this fit his unconventional avant garde style. For instance, no filmmaker would ever think of showing the entrance to another dimension by simply putting two people in reverse when they walk. However, this effect works, particularly since it’s in slow motion. This effect is what makes the film dream like; it’s not simply an effect because its adds to the movie’s premise. The same could be said for showing Orphee leap into and out of the mirror in order to get to the other dimension, or the way in which he enters through the mirror (Cocteau uses a water effect.) There’s a statement being made in that special effect, and that is that one doesn’t know which side of the mirror is more real. We all could be living in a non-real universe, and the reflection of that reality could be the real reality. (It seems that The Matrix used this idea as well.) Thank heavens Cocteau doesn’t state this pretentious idea outright; it’s merely hidden in the film. It’s this element of grace and ease with which Cocteau presents his ideas, almost as if they were hidden away in special effects, that is truly commendable. He makes the artistic process look as easy as a skip and a frolic, and this is what is lacking from a Lynch or a Bunel.
There’s a line in Orpheus where at the beginning of the film, Orphee says to Heurtebise, “Astonish me!” That’s Cocteau’s way of showing the relationship between the artist and his audience, and how an artist first and foremost is a type of ring master, and not a deep intellectual thinker. (That part for Cocteau came second.) An artist, in Cocteau’s estimation had to truly pleasure an audience, and he correctly learned that one doesn’t do this by simply making deep statements about society. Doing so would show one’s limitations, particularly one’s lack of a budget. Rather, Cocteau felt that filmmaker’s have to primarily dazzle their audience, especially visually. This working method is an example of what separates Cocteau from other low budget filmmaker’s and artists with lack of funds. Cocteau felt that one has to find a way to make their audience enthralled, or else there is no point in showing their vision to an audience. In other words, he felt that an artist should not be daunted in anyway; if an artist is talented he can accomplish anything. This is the magic element of Cocteau’s working process. He makes everything he does look so effortless. His film Orpheus is an example of pulling a rabbit out of the hat. Transposing a Greek myth to French Parisian life in the 40’s is a daunting task enough. However, doing this on a limited budget is even more daunting, and yet Cocteau pulls off the miracle.

Night Of the Living Dead

I love George Romero's Horror films. Here's a director that not only has great talent at scaring an audience, but also is very politically oriented in the Horror visions that he's showing an audience. What Romero depicts in his films is his prescient fears concerning the direction that this country is headed in. What better way to show those fears then in a Horror film? The Horror framework allows Romero to make his political statements acute to an audience.
His films are not didactic in anyway. Rather, Romero’s films serve as great entertainment. His films are successful attempts at properly scaring an audience, and then making that audience think for a change. It's the interim moments of making an audience squirm where Romero utilizes his social commentary on a given situation. He has a given system of shocking an audience into expectancy and then sharing his criticisms of American existence to that audience. Romero has been well aware since he made his first film The Night of the Living Dead, that the Horror framework hooks an audience member towards the director's argument. An audience member is never bored in a Romero film upon seeing acts of American consumerism, or American sexism, ect. Rather, the audience is experiencing the director's thesis viscerally.
Night of the Living Dead is a masterful Horror film because of the simplicity in which events occur in the movie. For instance, the plot of the film falls into place very easily, which ultimately makes the implications of the film very realistic. The movie doesn’t announce itself in anyway like most Horror films. It begins very innocently, and then thematically becomes more terrifying as day turns into night and more and more zombies start appearing. This structure is highly realistic for a Horror film mainly because so little happens. There isn’t much of a plot or explanation as to why the dead are coming back to life. The television broadcasters are as befuddled as the characters trapped in the house. This attitude of confusion creates a realistic sense of a panic stricken culture. Usually in Horror films, even after the main characters learn why something is the way it is, they still are panicking. In Night of The Living Dead, no one has any answers. This is what makes the film have an authentic sense of dread.
Romero’s political statements in this film are actually very general. Yes, of course, the film deals with the concept of racism. However, the overall arching question that Romero posits to the audience is, what leads to racism? Romero’s answer is a nervous culture. Acute nervousness, in Romero’s eyes, leads to ineffectualness and mental lack of clarity. This is no more apparent then in the actions of Harry Cooper (Karl Hardman), who gets many of the main characters killed in the film. He is so wound up by the onslaught of the zombies outside that he becomes the metaphor for the crazed alarmist culture that Romero fears American citizens are becoming. (The informative tv doesn’t help his state in anyway.) In the movie, he constantly berates Ben (Duane Jones), and yet Ben is right in stating that no one should hide in the basement. Cooper’s lack of mental clarity is what is making him make all the wrong selfish decisions. It’s ironic, and somewhat humorous, that Cooper is trying to protect his daughter, and yet she is a zombie. The zombie metaphor is Romero’s way of addressing his concerns over society’s becoming a brainless culture.
Really, Night of the Living Dead is the ultimate example of the effectiveness of nondescriptness; of having a low budget and using unknown actors. These elements simply make the film creepier. As stated before, the film doesn’t announce itself like other Horror films. It doesn’t initially appear phantasmagorical in terms of its look. Rather, the film has a realistic appearance of nondescriptness; especially the opening cemetery scene. The Horror elements, like the sociological elements, creep up on the audience. The setting of Pittsburgh helps. Here’s a sleepy city basically reawakened by zombies. It’s a city rarely shown in movies; an unknown territory that makes the film have a more original look. If only young Horror filmmakers learned Romero’s attributes! They should try their hand at black and white sometime. Young Horror filmmakers should also come up with original ideas that have something to do with their feelings on society. The Horror framework, as evidenced by Night of the Living Dead, is the perfect framework in which to do so. These young filmmaker’s wouldn’t even have to switch genres in order to make more “serious” socially conscious “message” movies.It’s amazing to consider that Romero already established his directorial style in his first film. For instance, when Ben (Duane Jones) relates to Barbara (Judith O’Dea) about how he felt terrified and powerless upon first encountering the zombies, his soliloquy, as it were, is being told to her just after a frightening moment occurred in the film. Ben’s soliloquy is political in nature. The zombies that Ben mentions are representations of white racist men who set out to kill black men. I feel that the implications that these zombies are brainless individuals, is a statement on Romero’s part, in relation to how murdering racists are not intelligent individuals. Is it a coincidence that the human pact that “accidentally” kills Ben at the end of the film, for fear that he’s a zombie, resembles the zombies in the movie? I think not. It’s Romero’s depiction of human hatred guised in human carelessness that makes Night of the Living Dead a truly terrifying movie.

Heat

Fastidious Crime
2/26/09 The main difference between the film Heat and other action or heist films is that Michael Mann’s film is much slower paced.
This is actually not a negative element in anyway. On the contrary, the fastidiousness on the filmmaker’s part adds to the tension in the movie. If the audience didn’t know all the details of the characters in the film’s lives, then they wouldn’t be able to understand the psychology of those characters. In other words, the audience wouldn’t be nervous for the characters well being. This is analogous to real life; we worry for the ones that we know and care about. The ingeniousness of the film comes out of the fact that Mann shows the audience, in great detail, both the lives of the LAPD police department and the group of criminals that they are going after. There’s an amazing lack of moral accusation on the part of Michael Mann, particularly for an action filmmaker, and this is because Mann likes to keep the situations in his films complex to the point of tension.
The film involves two groups: a sector of the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division run by Lieutenant Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino), and a group of criminals run by Neil McCauley. These are not your typical cops and robbers. Both groups are the experts of what they do. This premise, devised by Michael Mann, is exciting because of the prospect of what would happen if the Homicide Division ran into these criminals. This is not Bonnie and Clyde; here both sides are true opponents. This ultimately makes it difficult for the audience to discern which side is going to win the fight. The film is like an elaborate boxing match; the audience decides who they want to root for. Mann does not disappoint; he builds on this basic idea by constantly introducing more and more story elements ultimately to create a basic tapestry of mid 90’s L.A., in terms of its crime and law element.
The film does not merely consist of an antagonistic fight; there’s psychology and complexity added to the equation as well. What’s startling in the film is how similar the two factions really are. What the audience sees in these two, and what ultimately
makes the action scenes in this film much more than mere action scenes, is that both Hanna and McCauley lead a very sad existence away from their “jobs”. They lead sad home lives because they love the thrill of what they do, and therefore, cannot truly get attached to their loved ones. Successfully carrying off a heist (McCauley) and capturing criminals (Hanna) is what they love. This element makes the action scenes thrilling for an audience member to witness, because for the longest time the film merely shows how miserable these characters lives really are. Therefore, the bank heist scene is cathartic for both the characters and the audience. (It’s one of the greatest moments in 90’s cinema.)
That and the scene between DeNiro and Pacino are breathtaking scenes. The heist is complex in terms of its editing and shot composition, whilst the conversation scene is very simple. It consists merely of cutting back and forth between over the shoulder shots of DeNiro and Pacino. The fact that these two acting titans are in a scene together is amazing enough. What makes the moment even better is that the movie these two appear in is rich and complex in its own right. Heat is not just an excuse to put these two in the same film. Heat would have been an interesting film without them. However, the fact that these two complement the movie in such a rich way adds wonders to Mann’s statement on the conflicted intermingling of law and crime. Both of these characters respect for one another (just as DeNiro and Pacino the actors respect one another) is an example of a conflicted relationship, because they have to ultimately hunt one another down (just as one actor has to compete with the other actor in terms of giving the better performance.) These two respect what they do more than anything else.
These two characters are very remote from the people around them, but they have to be in order to be successful at what they
do. As McCauley says to one of the men who works with him, by the name of Chris Shiherlis (Val Kilmer), “You wanna be making moves on the street, have no attachments. Allow nothing to be in your life that you can’t walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you spot the heat around the corner.” Hannah says something very similar when he states to his wife Justine (Diane Venora), in regards to his having to be detached emotionally, “I preserve it because it keeps me sharp, on the edge, where I need to be.” Yet, there is a subtle difference between those two sentences, and that’s apparent in the style in which they are delivered.
Because of his occupation, DeNiro’s character is more careful and restrained in his mannerisms, compared to Pacino’s character. (This creates a very fresh take on dialectical acting between the two titans.) This subtle difference between the two is
analogous to how Pacino’s character is moral, and DeNiro’s is not. It’s that subtle difference that creates the conflict between the two, and basically results in the premise of the movie.
That heat around the corner that DeNiro is talking about is what makes the film suspenseful. While watching the film, the audience knows in the back of their minds that these two will have a showdown. In its staid visual imagery and high concentration on the warrior’s code, Heat is very reminiscent of a Japanese Samurai film. The difference here is that these Samurai are in nicely fitted suits.
The suits are not the only components that make the film look breathtaking. There’s also the great cinematography by Dante Spinotti. He lights the DeNiro side of the story in a very different way from Pacino’s side of the story. McCauley’s nightmare, which he relates to Hannah, is that he’s drowning in his sleep. This is supposed to represent McCauley’s morality catching up to him. It’s his realization that his way of doing things is flawed. Spinotti lights DeNiro’s sections in a very crisp blue, almost as if the actor were drowning. Hannah tells McCauley that he has nightmares about sitting at a banquet table with all of the people that he could not save. This morbidity on Hannah’s part is reflected in the dark lighting that surrounds Pacino throughout the film. Both of these forms of lighting engulf the two actors/characters. It’s an aesthetic form of constriction; a metaphor for the lack of freedom that these two have because of the love for what they are talented at. This statement is really what the film is all about, and it wouldn’t be felt as acutely if it weren’t for the look of the film.
This is what makes Mann’s films so special, and what ultimately separates him from the amateurs. (The same could be said of DeNiro and Pancino’s acting. In fact, all of the acting is fascinating in the film.) It’s this kind of attention to detail that I miss from movies in this day and age.