Yesterday, Brian emerged from his lair once again, with a first peek for sainteliotandco.com!  See it here.

Walking out of the theater after seeing a film with a satisfying ending is like walking out of a restaurant stuffed: the last thing you want to do is go back in for another meal.  As a filmmaker, it seems in my best interest to end my films in such a way that the audience craves to go back in again.

I’ve consistently found that the first time through many of the films I’ve come to love, I walk out scratching my head thinking “really? what’s the big deal?”  That’s the key.

It wasn’t until I walked out of the Coen Brothers’ A Serious Man (2009) that I firmly grasped the power of this sort of ending.

An ending that’s tied up nicely in a bow leaves the viewer with nothing to do.  Everyone’s alive; mankind will survive to fight another day; they got married.  An ending with ambiguity allows the viewer to ask themselves the crucial question: “What did I miss?”  The answer? Everything.

The final thought contextualizes the entire film.  It provides that little bit of knowledge that makes all of the preceding scenes ring true.  In the particular case of A Serious Man, it introduces the relationship between deus ex machina and coincidence.  As Larry Gopnik finally receives his tenure, a tornado threatens the life of his first son.  The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.

This idea is only introduced in this final scene.  There is no tornado striking down young Danny Gopnik, no tearful funeral, no resolution from Larry to go to Temple more often, simply the two situations.  Throughout the film, we have aligned ourselves with Larry in his growing cynicism of Judaism, but this final scene is just enough to instill a heaping dose of doubt.

Part II, Opening Shot

Peter Hutton (I paraphrase): “The first shots of a film tell the viewer that you’re in control, that they can trust you and relax.”

I recently screened the first ten minutes of my thesis film, Part II, for my compatriots in senior seminar.  Terrifying.  Turns out Peter’s more than correct, he’s onto something that can make any film seem bigger than its budget.

I took this notion home with me and watched the beginnings of some of my favorite films (8 1/2, Children of Men, Crank 2: High Voltage).  Like the first lines of novel, the openings of these films properly prepare you for whatever lies ahead, be it nostalgic reveries, a decrepit world falling to random violence, or ADD-inducing coverage with 8-bit video game titles.  But those are the pros.

The first shot of a film needs to fulfill two roles: it has to introduce the viewers to the aesthetic and engage them with enough mystery to continue watching.  As I watched my classmates watch the opening of my film, I realized that my first shot works.  After a grueling week of dissatisfaction and building anxiety towards this presentation, I found myself feeling oddly proud.  I looked at the screen; that’s mine.  It’s not perfect in any sense of the word, but step one, the first shot, works.

It prompts enough questions without suffering from Dan Brown Disorder, while bringing the viewer in the intimate perspective and pace I’m taking on an otherwise hackneyed sci-fi concept.  So now I feel just a little bit better about the film.

It’s so easy to fall into the pits of despair that line the road of any creative endeavor, but step by step, one thing after another starts to work.  I hope.

In the words of Matt: “You tend to forget all the good ideas you had.”  Don’t forget them.