The Broken Circle Breakdown (2012)

Originally Published in The Daily Nebraskan, 2/7/2014

This has been done before. It’s very good, but it has been done before.

“The Broken Circle Breakdown,” a Belgian film up for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, tells the story of Didier (Johan Heldenbergh) and Elise (Veerle Baetens), two star-crossed lovers whose bond is tested by the death of their child.

Didier sings in a bluegrass band. He expresses a love for all things country. He’s an atheist, but he has a starry optimism about him. Elise works in a tattoo shop and is herself tattooed to oblivion. She has a tattoo for every boyfriend she ever had; all she needs to do when it’s over, she says, is get it covered up.
They also have a child they didn’t plan for. Didier steps up and builds a house in which to raise the child. We sense some trepidation, and so does Elise. Seven years go by, and their child, Maybelle, dies of cancer. There is an unforgettable shot during the funeral; while white roses are being thrown onto the small white coffin, it is suddenly splattered with mud by seemingly impatient grave diggers.

The timeline of the movie is fractured, a la “Blue Valentine” or “We Need to Talk About Kevin.” It opens with a scene during the terminal stages of Maybelle’s cancer. We cut back and forth between scenes where Didier and Elise meet, when they’re raising Maybelle and the multiple performances by their bluegrass band.

Sometimes the fractured narrative works. In the early scenes, the contrast between the optimism and joy of having a child and the deep pain of knowing that the child will die soon builds intrigue. Otherwise, it feels like a gimmick. Sometimes it’s just too obvious. Minutes before Didier and Elise are about to separate, we are given a flashback to when Didier and Elise first meet. Elise explains what she does with the tattoos of her exes names. It’s completely obvious what will happen next, so there’s no suspense when the big reveal happens.

 

It’s a very good film all around. Heldenbergh and Baetens have genuine chemistry, both in their tender moments alone and in their performance on the stage. They fulfill their roles convincingly, hurling insults and blame at each other for a tragedy they had no control over. It’s all very effective, moving and sad.

The problem I personally had with the movie is that it never seemed to go anywhere. The worst possible scenario is obvious in the first moments of the film and that’s exactly what happens. The disjunctive timeline of the film seems like a way to sidestep its shortcomings. I can imagine if it had been produced with a linear timeline, it would have been more predictable and much less interesting.

It’s all very sad, but there’s no catharsis. The performances, the score, the songs, the cinematography, just about everything that needs to be right about a movie is done right, but there remains that itching question in the back of my mind: what’s the point? Maybe the director only wanted to explore these two characters because he felt for them. That’s good enough for me.

All this being said, if you feel like seeing two people fall in love, have a child, lose that child and spiral into mutual self-destruction, all set to Dutch bluegrass music, then you definitely ought to see “The Broken Circle Breakdown.”

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)

Duke, Dr. Gonzo, and us in the backseat.

Originally Published in The Daily Nebraskan, 2/11/2014

The cult classic “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” based on Hunter S. Thompson’s novel and directed by Terry Gilliam, is one of my favorite films. This drug-frenzied journey is brash, wild, loud and a little angry, aiming to give traditional American values and plot structure the finger.
Johnny Depp plays Raoul Duke, a fictional version of Thompson, who is sent to Las Vegas for a weekend to cover a low-rent motorcycle race called the Mint 500. He trumps up his assignment into a grand odyssey, calling it “the American Dream in action.” Along for the ride is Dr. Gonzo (Benicio Del Toro), his lawyer and partner in crime. Dr. Gonzo advises Duke to “get a very fast car with no top. And you’ll need cocaine. A tape recorder for special music. Acapulco shirts … and we’re gonna have to arm ourselves to the teeth.” These are two men on a mission.

The film begins breathlessly, as Duke and Gonzo tear through the Mojave desert in a convertible with a large suitcase full of drugs in the trunk. Their trip to Las Vegas is a nightmarish experience. The city takes on a fluid, unsavory nature as the two of them consume more and more mind-altering chemicals, trash hotel rooms, order endless carts of room service just because they can, threaten people, go to a carnival stoned on ether and so on. They try anything they can think of in a city of endless possibilities.

"Can you hear me?!"

"How much for the ape?"

It’s easy to miss the point in a movie such as “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” That’s because the characters are looking for a plot to get involved in and constantly failing. The point is that they can’t find a purpose. They don’t know how to use their freedom. There are quite a few moments when the characters declare a mission of importance, follow through some, then give up or forget about their plan altogether. The first of these moments is when they tear through the desert and pick up a hitchhiker (Tobey McGuire), then stop on the side of the road.

Dr. Gonzo growls and asks the hitchhiker if he wants to know the “truth.” He tells him that he and Duke are heading to Vegas to kill a heroin dealer named Savage Henry, then pulls a revolver out of a paper bag and points it to the sky. Savage Henry is never mentioned again, and there are no bullets in the gun.

Some of these plot threads are superfluous, bubbling up in the background or in throwaway dialogue and scenery. Others build upon themselves and come forward as the film moves along. LSD users would liken this plot structure to tripping acid, seeing things in the corner of your eye and those things disappearing when you try to look at them.

Ultimately, our two antiheroes are adrift on the winds of vice in a microcosmic representation of American greed. As they try to survive a three-day bender full of hallucinations, sinister vibes and technicolor debauchery, the camera makes us take the ride, twisting and dropping and forcing new perspectives, fixing us at certain angles to watch things we don’t want to see, in ways we don’t want to see them. The vital cinematography is underlined by a rollicking classic rock soundtrack, screeching and riffing with the angst of the 1960s and ’70s.

A scene that sums up the attitude of the entire film involves Duke and Gonzo visiting a hotel lounge while tripping on acid. Duke sits at the bar, wobbles around and mutters something about golf shoes, then abruptly snaps around to see that everyone in the lounge has become a giant, monstrous lizard. He sees beneath the glitzy façade of Las Vegas, and into the reptilian hearts of what he perceives to be droves of venal people seeking vice and pleasure in a modern day Gomorrah.

"I was right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo!"

Toward the end, Duke sits alone in yet another trashed hotel room as he types out an essay about “the wave” of the ‘60s counterculture. He laments the misguided drug use that led to its downfall: “Less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark – that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.” The hippie movement became a victim of its own directionless nature, and many of them became hopeless drug addicts.

“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” is at once a funeral dirge and a bestial cry, a celebration of life and freedom and the “American way.” Duke’s sordid journey in Vegas represents a culture-wide drug bender as a result of the disillusionment with the promise of the ’60s. The film explores this iconic moment in American history through Duke’s directed madness, and his jaded acceptance of chaos. Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro both give performances so electric and often terrifying, you might think they dropped some adrenochrome before the cameras rolled.

During one of the first screenings of the movie, novel author Hunter S. Thompson is reported to have jumped out of his seat during the opening scenes, screaming “Bats!” and running out of the theater. That should give you an idea of the logic on which this film operates.

“Buy the ticket. Take the ride.”

Labor Day (2014)

Originally published in The Daily Nebraskan, 2-10-2014

At first glance, “Labor Day” looks like a contrived, preposterous episode stitched together with bits of the worst Nicholas Sparks books — and it kind of is. That is, if you’re looking at it from a realistic perspective.

“Labor Day” is not a realistic movie. No man, criminal or otherwise, is as kind-hearted as Frank (Josh Brolin), and no woman, no matter how stricken with grief she is, would accept a runaway criminal into her home the way Adele (Kate Winslet) does. Not only does the world-weary Adele let Frank stay with her and her son, she lets this man cook for them, do chores and teach her son about cars.

 If this doesn’t sit right with you, remember that this isn’t a realistic movie. It’s a fairy tale. We might notice this in the opening moments of the film, which have a kind of mystical quality. The camera moves down a highway, swooping past trees and dense greenery. Like great fairy tales from the past, we’re going deep into the forest and into the unknown.
 
This story is narrated by Henry (Gattlin Griffith), who lives with his divorced mother, Adele. Something went wrong between her and her ex-husband, Henry’s dad, and he split up with her. Adele’s hands shake constantly, she is afraid of leaving the house, and she can hardly drive. She generally carries with her a dark cloud of absent-mindedness, until one day, while she and Henry are at the grocery store, Frank appears. He firmly asks them if he may seek refuge at their home. Wondrously, Adele complies.

Seeming to fall from the sky with almost no past to speak of, full of good intentions and glowing with both authority and tenderness, Frank magically fills the void left by Adele’s ex-husband. If that also doesn’t sit right with you, don’t worry — Adele’s grief goes much deeper than simply not having a husband.

One scene that looked ridiculous and sappy in the trailer is the peach pie scene. After a suspenseful moment in which Frank is almost caught, the family ends up with a bushel of ripe peaches. Frank suggests they make a pie out of them and walks Henry and Adele through the meticulous process of preparing a homemade peach pie. It’s an unusually long, intimate sequence, and I personally found it charming. Here is a scene in a film where nothing much is happening, and the filmmakers are taking their time to observe the simple bond building in this family activity. It’s refreshingly mundane, basic and human.

There’s also the chair scene, which may make or break “Labor Day” for some viewers. In this scene, Frank explains to Adele that he needs to tie her to a chair for the night, so that if any police come she can claim to be an innocent victim. She agrees. What woman would agree to such a thing? It could be the woman who feels paralyzed by the events in her life already, but that’s beside the point; she’s not a real woman, and none of this is really happening. She’s a character in a story, and the symbolism here is as thick as peach molasses.

 All of these seemingly preposterous plot ingredients combine to create scenes of tremendous suspense and heartfelt emotion. Brolin and Winslet know exactly what they’re doing, playing two people too pure to be real in our world and too broken to exist without each other in their own.
Griffith has not been done justice in this review, as his youthful vulnerability and subtle performance underline much of the action in the film. Plainly stated, he does a great job.

“Labor Day” is surprisingly thoughtful filmmaking, combining elements of the fairy tale and modern romance to create a wonderful atmosphere of magical realism. I predict many viewers will be turned off by its unlikely premise. Others will find it a touching, oddly affecting experience. When all is said and done, it will make for great Valentine’s Day viewing.

In-Depth: Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood (1957)

We learn how the story will end early on in Throne of Blood, as the forest spirit tells Washizu and Miki (Toshiro Mifune and Akira Kubo) their fates. Because this story was written by a human being, it would seem to go against the rules of storytelling to reveal the ending so early. This device echoes back to the original Shakespeare play the film is based on, the Greek tragedies which inspired Shakespeare, and even further into the oral traditions of the obscure past. The point is not that we know the ending—it’s that nature is unstoppbable, and so is our fate. Storytelling is a constructed, mortal device, and Mother Nature doesn’t care about its boundaries.

Throne of Blood takes this paradigm further by telling the ancient story of Man vs. Nature in a uniquely cinematic way. Kurosawa begins the film at a breakneck pace, with soldier after soldier delivering messages of conquest to the high lords. Washizu and Miki set out to join this conquest, and the brisk pace of the film is ceased by them encountering the forest spirit, who spends a considerable length of time singing a prophetic song to the two men. This sets the pattern for the rest of the film; the men will meet nature, which will move things along at its own pace, and the men can do nothing to prevent it.

During the indoor scenes, most of which center around Washizu and Asaji, the actors’ movements are more controlled and rigid. It is always quiet, free of natural white noise. It is during these scenes that Asaji implores Washizu to act on his fate, to use his will to try and alter it. One of them stands and the other sits, but also very often, their two forms are touching on the screen, seeming to combine in one entity.  Lady Asaji Washizu (Isuzu Yamada) barely blinks or moves during these scenes, seeming to be speaking under a trance. In these scenes, she is unknowingly sealing Washizu’s fate by inciting him to act. It is likely she does not know she is working as an agent of the forest spirit. 
 
The shots in Throne of Blood are so carefully constructed; it looks as if Kurosawa wanted them to feel artificial. Many scenes are composed as two- or three-shots, with one-third of the frame sometimes occupied by empty space; an early scene in which Washizu and Miki rest, when they meet the forest spirit, when they are dubbed lords and walk down the aisle together, are a few select moments in Throne of Blood that follow this style of framing. This careful construction of the visual scheme of the film could underline humanity’s need for order, or it could suggest that nature ultimately has a point, a grand design, a pattern to it. Considering that the message of the film is dependent on nature being chaotic and cruel, one may assume the latter. In this paradigm, the perfectionist cinematography becomes yet another artifice to be weathered away by nature, represented in the climactic shot of the forest marching toward Spider’s Web castle. 

Kurosawa makes interesting use of negative space. All of the scenes with Washizu and Asaji feature them walking around a room, empty but for the two of them, as they express their thoughts out loud. Since this is not a literal adaptation of life, Kurosawa focuses our attention on just these two subjects. Their thoughts are the only matter of importance at the moment. When Asaji convinces Washizu to murder the Great Lord, there are brief cross-cuts to the Great Lord’s three guards. The three guards sit in a perfect row of three, with blank, unadorned walls behind them. Washizu is only considering them; the limited perspective of humanity can only see what is in front of them. In these selfish matters of hubris, one cannot see far.

Bryan Parker compares Throne of Blood’s visual style to a suiboko-ga painting: “Characteristically, suiboko-ga leaves large areas of its picture blank, stimulating a large sense of mystery and distanced universality, and such aporia are represented in the film by the blanketing grey fogs and swirls of sulphur fumes and obscuring rain that block out parts of many of the frames” (511).

The omnipresent fog also behaves like a negative space. If Washizu is an archetype for humanity, then the fog represents the limits of his perspective, and our own. There are subtle clues that what we are seeing is what Washizu is seeing; the moment he rides the coffin of the Great Lord to Miki’s castle, he and Miki are filmed in a two-shot as usual, but this time Miki takes up slightly more space on the screen than Washizu. At this point, Washizu has been told by Asaji to murder Miki and take his place. When he sees Miki in person, his eyes tell us he sees Miki as a threat. Through purely visual language, the film has foreshadowed Miki’s demise.  

The image of the forest rolling across the fog, itself symbolic of Washizu’s perception, evokes the indomitable force of nature that creeps in even through layers of artifice the characters and film makers have constructed. In this representation of a legend, the characters try to separate themselves from even the representation of the forest. All of this is presented to us in the form of an artificial film, purely constructed. Even so, in the moments the walking forest fills the screen, the trees sway with shapeless grace in the obscuring fog. The shot is filmed in slow motion denote a higher level of perception, and we can feel the essence of the trees carried on men’s backs. It’s an elegant image with no contrivances that conveys the message of the movie with almost psychic significance, in a way unique to the medium of film. It’s pure cinema. 

The fact that this force of nature is delivered by an army of men carrying trees on their backs underlines the central theme in Throne of Blood. The sequence is a criticism of mankind abusing the resources of nature for petty gain, in this case the conquest of a castle that will inevitably fade into dust. The image presents Mother Nature as “indifferent, both encouraging human ambition, and mocking it. The forest breeds growth, but also confusion and futility (Jorgens 170).” 

Works Cited

Parker, Brian. "Nature And Society In Akira Kurosawa's Throne Of Blood." University Of           Toronto Quarterly 66.3 (1997): 508-525. Academic Search Premier. Web. 23 Jan. 2014.

Jorgens, Jack J. "Kurosawa's Throne Of Blood: Washizu And Miki Meet The Forest Spirit."          Literature Film Quarterly 11.3 (1983): 167. Academic Search Premier. Web. 23 Jan. 2014.

Liv & Ingmar (2012)

Originally Published in The Daily Nebraskan, 02/07/2014

“Liv & Ingmar,” a documentary by Dheeraj Akolkar, details the touching relationship between Liv Ullman and Ingmar Bergman, a legendary actress and master filmmaker, as the film describes them.
It’s a straightforward, elegant and true to life documentary, but just beneath the simple premise of the film is an affirmative message: that the greatest filmmakers do not simply create, but take the pain and wisdom from their own lives and sublimate it into art.

Liv Ullman tells us the story of her romance with Ingmar Bergman, as a male narrator periodically reads us Bergman’s love letters. Even at 74, Ullman radiates natural beauty and kindness, relating the five-decade long love story between her and Bergman, which began long ago on the set of “Persona.”

She tells us of a moment when Bergman had yelled “Cut!” and she had started reading a book, as she always had between takes. Liv looked up and saw Ingmar and Sven Nykvist, the cinematographer, filming her. She lets them film her as she reads, and we are shown a photo of Ingmar staring intently at Liv while this is going on. Liv senses that Ingmar is making love to her with his camera.

After “Persona” wrapped, the two of them separated from their spouses and lived with one another, though they never married. Bergman took Ullman to an island off the coast of Norway, where the two of them lived together, but not happily ever after. Slowly, their relationship turned violent, as Bergman’s domineering persona became too much for Ullman to handle. Bergman always wanted to wanted to be alone and almost never allowed guests in their home. He wouldn’t even allow her to be out after certain times. She says of this part of their relationship, “It began to feel like I was living in someone else’s dream.”

In the course of the difficulties in their relationship, Bergman continued to use Ullman as an actress, often subjecting her to cruelty on the sets of his films. On the set of “The Hour of the Wolf,” Bergman directed Ullman to move closer and closer to a house fire, until she could not get any closer. “I knew that was not him directing,” says Liv Ullman in the film. “I know that voice was Ingmar to Liv.” The two of them later separated after a five-year partnership, and eventually became good friends.

We see clips from many Bergman films throughout “Liv & Ingmar,” but the clips that resonate most are those from Bergman’s TV miniseries, “Scenes From a Marriage,” in which Liv Ullman plays the wife. Seeing these two characters, both loving and hating each other, so close and so distant, reminds us that honesty is at the heart of all great cinema. Through Ullman’s words and Bergman’s filmmaking, we understand the strange love the two of them shared. We may not be able to put it into words, but we can feel it.

“Liv & Ingmar” feels like a Bergman film that Bergman never filmed. It is a sensual, yet cold and intellectual experience. The romance and friendship between Ullman and Bergman is so dramatic, it feels like it’s being told to us from a book of fairy tales.

Visually, the film is downright sumptuous. Imagine a collage of the finest moments in all of Bergman’s works, combined with video, film and photos of Liv and Ingmar together.
The effect of all these documents and images is something like magic. The story Ullman tells is charming, fantastic and unbelievable at times.


Altogether, it’s a wonderful piece that proves, through imagery, that the greatest art imitates life.

I, Frankenstein (2013)

Originally Published in The Daily Nebraskan, 1/30/2014

Before we go any further, I have to ask, what do demons and gargoyles have to do with Frankenstein’s monster?

The answer is nothing. Demons and gargoyles have absolutely nothing to do with Frankenstein’s monster. Yet there they are, attacking the monster as he prepares to bury his creator, Victor Frankenstein. Frankenstein’s monster, whose lumbering menace has been iconic for generations, is agile enough to take on a team of four demons by himself. 

Okay. I can buy that, but what I can’t buy is the idea that 666 legions of demons (see what they did there?) need Victor Frankenstein’s journal to figure out how to reanimate dead bodies so they can possess them. They’re demons. They come from hell, a place definitively beyond death. Why do they even need to possess human bodies? They seem to go after Frankenstein just fine. 

If this all sounds dreadfully stupid, it is. The plot follows Frankenstein’s monster, played by Aaron Eckhart, as he’s enlisted by The Gargoyle Order to fight the 666 legions led by the demon prince Nibirius, played by Bill Nighy, who is trying very hard to stay serious in the midst of all this nonsense. 

Aaron Eckhart's monster compared to previous incarnations.

“I, Frankenstein” has many faults, and they add up. There’s the canned symphonic score that sounds like it was lifted straight from a low budget RPG, the ridiculous premise and the cringeworthy dialogue, but the biggest issue in this film is its main character. Aaron Eckhart is simply not an action hero. He tries very hard to scowl and act like a hardened badass, but in the end he is just terribly miscast. Was Mickey Rourke not available? Eckhart is just too handsome, his face too symmetrical to play Frankenstein’s monster. He doesn’t look like he was put together from spare parts. 

And Frankenstien’s monster, dubbed Adam by the Gargoyle Queen, wears a hoody throughout the entire film. Frankenstein’s monster wears a hoody. Just let that sink in for a minute. 

What this movie also lacks is enough clever action set pieces to justify its meathead script. It takes itself way too seriously. The actors deliver their overwrought, comic book lines as though they were reciting Shakespeare. One area “I, Frankenstein” excels in is unintentionally hilarious dialogue. In one scene, two scientists are trying to re-animate a dead rat, which by the way is the fakest damn rat I’ve ever seen. They turn the current up and see some brain activity. One of the scientists is afraid to turn off the current. “But that will kill it!” he says. His colleague responds, “IT’S ALREADY DEAD!” 

Flaws aside, the action sequences and 3D are at least competent. The climax is fun; imagine thousands of reanimated dead bodies possessed by fiery demon souls at once. As the bodies are being reanimated, a little screen attached to each corpse informs us: RE-ANIMATING, 92%. Wouldn’t it be something if the loading bar got stuck and foiled the demons plans right then and there? 

A side note—why do all the villains and heroes in movies like these always have British accents? At this point we’ve all accepted it, but just think about how that conversation must go: “Okay, so you’re playing a Gargoyle. You’ve been around since the dawn of time. You’ve seen things human beings can’t even imagine or perceive. You’ve seen the rise and fall of entire civilizations. You have served God Himself.” “Wow, that sounds like a great challenge for me as an actor!” “No, we just need you to watch the first season of Downton Abbey and talk like them. That should cover it.”

“I, Frankenstein” is just one huge misstep after another. A fiasco. One can see the potential in a story like this if the filmmakers had had the guts to deviate from its sophomoric source material. Unfortunately, a movie that could have been a lot of fun has ended up deader than its title character. 

A fucking hoody, guys.

Spring Breakers (2013)

Originally published in The Daily Nebraskan, 1/24/2013

Alien has tons of shit.

He’s got nunchuks. He’s got a really nice bed – excuse me – work of art. He’s got shorts in every damn color, Calvin Klein body spray, dark tanning oil, tons of sheeeiiit. And that's just his bedroom.

He has “rooms full of shit.” He believes life is all about big booties and money falling, y’all. He even has followers. He preaches to crowds of them once every year. Alien is even willing to die for what he believes.

“Spring Breakers,” the film in which Alien is a character, is one of the best that came out last year. It’s the latest work from Harmony Korine, whose previous film, “Trash Humpers” was shot on VHS and consisted of little more than him, his wife and his friends humping trash cans, talking to odd locals and breaking stuff.

That film is trash, but it’s beautiful trash (You’d be surprised what you can learn about a society by going through its garbage). It’s about strange, numb people living lives of quiet desperation in the mundane streets of Anywhere, USA.

“Spring Breakers” is like that. It wants us to care about people we don’t feel comfortable around, like the mindless, binge drinking party-girl or the mindless, macho jackass who flaunts his possessions to strangers. Aren’t they human beings, too? The genius of Korine’s work is that he manages to have it both ways: He criticizes and celebrates his subjects at the same time.

The film opens with a semi-music video for Skrillex’s “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites.” It’s an exploitative montage of party people gyrating their bodies, flipping off the camera and grabbing their crotches, all in slow motion. “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites” is the perfect song to open this movie. It contrasts light electronic hums with brash, loud bass droning, a contrast in tone that parallels Korine’s contrast of intent. These opening shots are repeated ad nauseam throughout the film.

The movie’s sun-bathed spring breakers want nothing more than to get loaded and have a good time; they’re hedonists, and Alien is their prophet. They’re enjoying themselves, and maybe they’re even happy. It’s an empty lifestyle that attracts vice and violence. They’re human beings. They’re shallow. All of these things are true, and the movie wants us to alternately condemn and celebrate the exploits of these characters.

Three of the four girls are basically interchangeable. Faith (Selena Gomez) stands out amongst her friends. She’s the “good” girl. Faith wants an escape as much as her friends. She just has a different kind of escape in mind. Her idea of “the best spring break ever” doesn’t involve getting arrested, bailed out by a fishy-looking thug named Alien (James Franco), then taken to a thuggin’ house party full of gangsta ass, well, thugs. Things get too real for her. Faith decides to drop out of the spring break odyssey, but not before Alien can express his love for her. Think about that – Alien, the prophet of spring break hedonism, conveys his devotion for Faith, the Bible study girl who tells her grandmother, “This is the most spiritual place I’ve ever been.”

The remaining girls become Alien’s disciples of sorts, brandishing assault rifles as they dance to his performance of Britney Spears’s “Everytime.” Alien calls Britney Spears “an angel if there ever was one on this earth.” He truly believes that. The scene itself is tender, but ridiculous. Heartfelt, but satirical.

“Spring Breakers” is surprisingly egalitarian. Alien, going against the grain of hip-hop culture, doesn’t subjugate the girls to the role of “hoes.” He treats them as equals, calling them his soul mates. He even enlists their strength in a series of robberies. It could be that he had an epiphany during the scene where Ashley Benson and Vanessa Hudgens turn the tables on Alien by making him fellate the barrel of a gun as though he were giving the two of them oral sex. This is the point where he declares them his soul mates.

One might pose that the film objectifies women. Or is it the women in the film who are objectifying themselves? What if that is what they want? (Bunuel’s “Belle de Jour,” a 1967 French story of daytime prostitution, comes to mind.) Benson and Hudgens seem perfectly aware of what they’re doing. Their characters are definitely strong enough to carry out their will, even if that will is in service of vice and greed.

As Alien says, “Some kids want to grow up to be president, be a doctor … I just wanna be bad.”
There’s more to this film than meets the eye, but the stuff that does meet our eyes is gorgeous. Korine told cinematographer Benoit Debie to make the film look like “a Skittles commercial on acid.” The score by Cliff Martinez and Skrillex is like a simmering cauldron of bass and electronic pomp. It’s meant to be an intoxicating experience. This is why lines of dialogue and images of writhing beach parties repeat themselves, like in a fever dream.

It’s a vicarious experience. There’s glamour and glory in crime and vice. If there wasn’t, movies like “Goodfellas” and “The Wolf of Wall Street” wouldn’t exist.

Better to work out those fevered dreams of being bad on the screen than on the streets.