The Hunger Games and its Violence

I came into The Hunger Games (2012) film last night with only the knowledge that the film (and book) was about teenagers killing each other. I knew nothing of the post-apocalyptic United States, the Olympics-gone-bad tournament pitting district against district, nor the extravagantly evil Capitol maintaining servitude and sovereignty by starving and dividing its people. It seems that "teenagers killing each other" was the story that carved through all the hype in this franchise.

And rightly so. The Hunger Games attempts a lot of heavy subjects: the evil nature of sovereignty, oppression and power, as well as human fascination with blood, tears, and love. I won't go into whether or not the film says anything particularly daring about each of these topics (and I also can't say whether the book does, as I haven't read it), but what I can go into is its depiction of violence, because it's at the forefront of the story.

The film starts in a destitute mining town, which we quickly learn is one of 12 districts under the rule of the "Capitol" in a post-apocalyptic USA. Each district is sucked dry for one resource (in District 12, it's coal) and is deprived of all other resources, leaving it under complete control of the rich and corrupt Capitol. Each year, the districts are each forced to draw a girl and boy of teen age in a "reaping" that will send them to a blood bath known as "The Hunger Games." These games keep the districts subordinate and remind them not to revolt by making the 24 teenagers kill each other during a weeks-long scrum in a mechanically-engineered forest (think The Truman Show in the wild) until only one "winner" is the only one left alive. Why this subordination technique is effective in this filmic world requires quite a suspension of disbelief, I must say, but that is a question for another post. What is effective is how the "hunger games" make for captivating cinema by featuring mainstream's favorites: youth, violence, and alternate realities.

Here's the beginning of the "games," called the "cornucopia bloodbath":

The Hunger Games isn't particularly gruesome in its actual depiction of violence (i.e. we don't see nearly as much blood as we would in, say, The Departed), but something makes it feel more violent than other films. Note how music drowns the soundscape in the above scene - can you imagine what it would be like with sound effects intact? I'd like to argue that the source of this feeling is that it's teenagers, and not adults, killing each other that made me feel uncomfortable (and also somewhat captivated). In so many films about violent adults, I think we've become so immune to blood and gore, and it's not because we've just seen it a lot. It's because the adults on screen feel really adult, without the vulnerabilities or misgivings that make teenagers question everything. Whether good or evil or a combination of both, violent adults on screen are given permission (by audiences, screenwriters, directors) to commit gruesome violence in favor of plot, heroism, etc. Purely because we believe they know what they're doing. So we allow them our own de-sensitization since we have faith in story and character.

Teenagers and children, however, aren't yet complete in their logical and emotional development, so to me it felt especially cruel and jarring to watch them kill each other in The Hunger Games. As when reading The Lord of the Flies, I was pained and appalled by the extent of the violence these kids committed in order to survive, because instinct sacrificed underdeveloped moral convictions. Katniss and Peeta may have been well characterized protagonists and heros, but it wasn't enough for me. Rather, it felt tragic that not-yet adults were killing like complete adults when they hadn't yet had time to grow into themselves, purely because the game (and therefore society) demanded it. And so forcibly inflicting violence made them grow prematurely into adopting ugly convictions they shouldn't yet have acquired. In short, I couldn't stop thinking, they're too young for this.

All of this just makes me worry, because of how much we love stories of both youth and violence on screen. If the movies now feature kids and teenagers in the grips of brutality, does that mean we're becoming more and more immune to violence that we have forgotten where to draw the line?

Beginners

Arthur the dog wins for most captivating character in Mike Mills' Beginners (2010). The adorable Jack Russell terrier shares the screen in almost every scene with Ewan McGregor's Oliver, who has just lost his recently-out gay father to cancer (and hence inherited Arthur).  Arthur provides an apt counterpoint to Oliver, who at 38 is stricken with grief, inconsolably alone, and a beginner at love. The obedient companion, on the other hand, can't be left alone for a second and instead trails after Oliver all the time--his love of humans and family is unbreakable. And while Oliver is dour and melancholy, going so far as to doodle a series of drawings he calls "the history of sadness," Arthur's longing eyes show the simple, selfless grief and love that Oliver wishes he could reach. 

I applaud Beginners. Christopher Plummer is the definition of stately as a dying gay man trying to get the most out of the life he has left. McGregor is convincing when portraying the confusion and pain of realizing that his parents never truly loved each other--and how that makes him sabotage any romantic connection he has. Plus, the non-linear storytelling and pale cinematography achieve a certain nostalgia that so many of us feel towards our childhoods and past relationships.

What moved me about this film was the intimacy in its moments. I'm talking specificity here. Many films try to achieve universal emotions by leaning on dramatic exaggerations--think of Inception, when Cobb's world literally crumbles when he says goodbye to Mal for the last time--but it's nice to see details hint at those emotions instead. For example, at one point Oliver comes into his living room to see his father and his lover napping on the floor, and his father smiles and waves quietly. That is an intimate moment of love, no sweeping music or shattering imagery needed. So when Oliver inches towards those moments with new love interest Anna (and fumbles), his characterization is inherently deeper.

More than anything, though, Beginners reminded me that it's ok to be a beginner in love of all sorts--romantic, familial, friendly. If a 78-year old man can bravely venture into an actively gay life so late, we can all muster the courage to fill our lives with love, however awkward, risky, or intimidating it may be.

Sandheden om mænd (The Truth About Men)

More about Danish film today...

It’s good to know that 35-year-old men have the same sentimental and romantic paranoia as I do. The 17-year-old Mads writes a letter to himself: “find din store kærlighed.” ("Find your great love.") As he thinks back to that idealistic promise as a 35 year-old (played by Thure Lindhardt, whose face is remarkably expressive), he feels complacent and disappointed, as if his life’s achievements haven't  quite measured up.

A storywriter for a middle-of-the-road tv program in Denmark, Mads had a dream that he would be a talented screenwriter of the world’s best movies. Instead, the categorical structure of TV narratives is boring him: a call to adventure under false pretenses, first turning point, high point, second turning point, falling action, and resolution, where the character realizes he has everything he needs from the beginning. And Mads is sick of this, both in his work and his personal life. So, out with the girlfriend of 10 years, out with the suburban house, and in with a bachelor pad and a wall of ideas for great movies.

But after a crash-and-burn relationship with a 19 year-old, a near-death experience, and a bucketful of discarded movie ideas, Mads realizes that, actually, he likes and needs the structure he was so eager to throw out the window. And the film, like a great screenplay, comes full circle.

I could learn something from him and his process. My lists, my goals, my expectations resemble Mads’s adolescent letter to himself. He wrote: “find din store kærlighed.” I may as well have written the same thing, and more, in a letter to myself at the end of high school. I may as well have written: “have a career you love, love passionately, find your soulmate, discover the world and don’t leave anything uncovered.” This letter is still in my head, constantly, forcing me to evaluate my life to its standards.

The ever-present letter, or rather list, causes me to run like mad through my life, and I know that many of my friends do the same. In the 21st century, idleness seems to give us a sour taste in our mouth, while being busy is seen as commendable. It's all about goals, goals, goals! For example, I have a dozen serious interests but lack the time to take them seriously. And it’s starting to exhaust me. But as a 25-year-old woman in 2012, the pressure to achieve may be both self-inflicted and externally validated.  

Maybe, however, it is now time for us to let a little internal achievement happen, by giving ourselves the time and the space to explore our interests deeply, and by doing a few things whole-heartedly instead of a lot of things because "they're on the list." 

On that note, perhaps I should go take a walk in a circle, so I can arrive back where I started, with a clearer sense of self.

Forbrydelsen's Sofie Gråbøl

Yesterday I watched this great interview with Forbrydelsen’s (The Killing) Sofie Gråbøl: 

While the interview focused mostly on how she assumes different roles (and I’ve never been as interested in acting as in narrative), two feminist things stuck out in particular:

1)  Women sometimes have a hard time being present

Two times Gråbøl mentions that too often in party settings, women busy themselves as hostesses: preparing aperitifs, checking on guests, making sure glasses are filled. Men, however, tend to be more still. She believes the difference lies in the fact that women put others above themselves, while men are more able to let people come to them. It’s the divide between moving and being, and perhaps I can learn from this. 

I’m not suggesting a gender-role overhaul, but rather a bit of deeper awareness for my own life, at least. When I’m attending to guests and bouncing from conversation to conversation, I only punctuate the surface of the relationships with people at the party, whereas people who sit and talk can dig deeper. In my continual desire for excitement, maybe it’s actually better to really talk to someone at a party instead of hop-hop-hopping to feel like I’ve fulfilled my hostess duties and gained the instant high of talking to a lot of people.

2) Sarah Lund needed to be conceptualized as a man before she could be acted as a woman

Gråbøl tends to play characters who give everything, emotionally.  They cry, they scream, they run, they laugh to the full extent of their being. With Sarah Lund, it’s the opposite. She gives nothing, and instead viewers come crawling to her, wanting to peer inside her and unearth those emotions.

When it came to Sarah Lund, Gråbøl apparently had a hard time digesting the character at the beginning, even though the role was created mostly for her. She seemed impenetrable – the bridge from character in the written screenplay to the physically acted personnage was too vast. It wasn’t until she started observing some of the physical movements of some of the men on set that she could envision Sarah Lund realistically. The jerky arm movements, the angled walking, the clenched hands – these were all things Gråbøl needed to absorb before Sarah Lund could become a complete character. However, the character, in Gråbøl’s mind, is definitely not a man. The acting process, though, required her to move through a masculine mode in order to arrive at the complexity of playing a female detective whose dedication to her job, familial fuck-ups, and accepted loneliness resemble masculine characters.

This gender-bending deep character is what’s important to me in Forbrydelsen, because Sarah Lund is so problematic, both as a woman and as a detective. She’s incredibly unconventional in both regards, which makes her fascinating to watch. Søren Sveistrup writes the plot points especially to draw attention to the battle between personal and professional life. For example, how many times do we see Lund answer her cell phone when she’s trying to connect with her son, and thus ruins the moment?

Such is the modern woman’s plight in a man’s world (and the police force, with its hyper-masculinity, is one of the worst of these places), and I’m thankful that female characters like Lund are accurately portraying that never-ending paradox: when women try to have it all, we give something up. I think we ultimately have faith in Lund, however, because she’s unconventional; this is what causes her to take the risks needed to catch the criminals, even at the expense of her family or romantic life.

I hope other women can be similarly inspired by Lund to test out the waters of unconventionality.

Note: much of the inspiration for these thoughts comes from Gunhild Agger’s article “Emotion, Gender and Genre: Investigating The Killing.” 

Friends With Kids

After years of toying with the idea, I have decided to write often, about film. For a long time I struggled with the mode, tone, venue, lacking what I thought was a structured purpose for a blog. But then I thought: I love film because of its emotions. So why not just write about film and feelings? Be warned: you will find little academic theory in here, and even less film criticism. This is purely an outlet for me to write about how film makes me feel. 

As there is no “perfect film” to start with, I’ll start with one I saw this summer. Friends With Kids, a rom-dram-sometimes-com starring Jennifer Westfeldt of Kissing Jessica Stein. 

She also wrote and directed, which makes me inevitably think we are peering into her mid-30s worried mind, but so be it. She decides to have a baby with a male friend of hers while they watch their married friends struggle with both romance and kids simultaneously. The latter seems to them a surefire way to ruin a marriage, so they say, do the baby-raising together and leave the romantic excitement for other people. Um, worst idea ever, I thought at first, both for real people who, once baby in hand, realize the need to rely completely on the other to get through the sleepless nights, and also for a romantic comedy. What viewer is going to believe that two friends with no romantic connection are enough to carry a love story?

But slowly, the film got me pondering and emotionizing in a good way. Jon Hamm and Kristin Wiig’s tiresome marriage and Maya Rudolph’s heartfelt mom dance made me peer into my own life. I, and a lot of 20-somethings in my generation, are so conflicted about marriage and kids. Whether or not we want to settle down right away, we believe that family is important but that we shouldn't settle for a mediocre mate. The message of the film (well, not the obvious one, which was that maybe your best friend, if male, could end up being the love of your life) therefore seemed to be a warning against kids in first relationships (unless those relationships are sexless?). Better to hash out your immature commitments with a first spouse so that you either learn from the divorce or stick it out for the long haul, and while both have relatively happy endings, the meaty stuff in the present is going to suck. 

Similarly, like the male friend Jason in the film, I may be somewhat brainwashed by the media messages that emphasize newness and excitement over compatibility and familiarity when it comes to dating. In fact, I definitely am. And while that fades fast, I think it's almost addictive to want to hold on to newness and excitement. Ideally we would all feel excitement turn gracefully from attraction into contentment with someone who feels right. But how do we overcome this culture of instant gratification when films of our generation (and actually, of all generations), take less than two hours to tell the story of people falling in love?