The latest from It Follows writer/director David Robert
Mitchell is… a tough one. Like, this is the kind of film designed to be looked
at over the course of several months just to figure out what in the fresh hell
is even going on. It’s a puzzle film, and like the best of its kind, all of the
pieces are presented to the audience, even if it isn’t entirely obvious that
what is being shown is part of the completed picture. After having to admit to
my previous critical shortcomings a few times already this past month, I’m in
the mood for some serious deep diving, so if the following review comes across
like the desperate scribbles of a madman, not only is that likely accurate,
it’s also fitting for the film itself to be analysed in this way.
Part dark comedy, part bumbling modern neo-noir, part
conspiracy thriller and part Lynchian fever dream, the film is the story of the
perverted-in-many-regards Sam (Andrew Garfield), whose initial intent to find
out what happened to his missing neighbour leads him to uncover a vast
conspiracy lying within Hollywood. The reason I consider crazed scribblings to
be how this film is meant to be written about is because, by the film’s own
design, cracking its code puts the audience in the position of the lead, himself
obsessed with conspiracies and hidden messages in pop culture.
The film as a whole is quite ensconced in Hollywood lore,
from the frequent references to classic cinema and music, to how the notion of
‘celebrity royalty’ gets played around with in the narrative, to
Disasterpeace’s incredibly lush musical score. Everything from the tip-toeing
strings to the smooth basslines, even the occasionally wise-arse horn sections,
sounds like something that should be accompanying a pre-Code drama.
However, more so than mere nostalgia, the reason for this
within the plot has more to do with how morbid this literal cult of personality ultimately is. Throughout the film, we keep getting images of the elite of
today living life on the bones of the dead: A film screening in a cemetery for
famous film creatives, a concert held in a repurposed mausoleum, The Crypt Club
where the tables are made from celebrity headstones. It positions Hollywood as
a modern-day city of the dead, and through some refreshingly precise references
to the burial traditions of old, it depicts the Hollywood system as one that
turns its dead into divine markers.
As is usually the case for just about anything that is born
out of the death of something else, the way that the system is shown keeps the
exploitative specifics well in mind. In particular, how the whole business of
getting famous and attaining that life beyond death results in a lot of wannabe
creative getting thrown into the cultural meat grinder, pulped and sifted into
what the business sees as useful.
To that end, the way that women are portrayed in the film is
rather telling, from the escorts who live out their clients fantasies of
fucking movie stars, to Sam’s incessant voyeurism and leering at every
shorts-wearing woman he sees, right down to the inclusion of Jesus And The
Brides Of Dracula, a band whose lead singer personifies the magnetism behind
pop stardom, both as part of the system and as something witnessed by the
masses. It also plays nicely into the film’s musings on subliminal messages,
particularly in advertising, as Sam’s actions show him as being aware of what
the women around him are subjected to, but without even knowing it, he’s
internalised the same mindset that fuels that treatment.
But simply making a point about industry sexism and how much
Hollywood culture is fetishised despite its inner workings would honestly be
too simple. Considering how dense this film can get in its clues and
bread-crumb trails, that can’t be all that it was going for. And from the looks
of things, its scope is all-encompassing, looking at all manner of pop
culture detritus from movies to pop songs to comic books (making for a nice
reference to Garfield’s under-appreciated turn as Peter Parker) to video games.
I never thought I’d see a film where Minus World from Super Mario Bros. would
be an effective piece of foreshadowing, but in a story all about uncovering
secrets, it turns out surprisingly fitting.
And what does it all equal up to? Well, again with the
notion of living on top of the dead in mind, it basically looks at all the
different generational layers of pop culture and acknowledges how depressingly
cyclical it all is. For every artistic revolution, whether it be new-wave,
grunge or the American indie scene, there is a moment where it becomes the foundation
of the new, the standard that the next revolution will rally against. All under
the watchful eye of a system that instigates every single moment, keeping the
meat grinder in action and profiting from every morsel that gets fed into it.
And because it’s all encoded into the pop culture we hold so dear, it’s so
engrained in our collective mindset that we don’t even know that we’re
perpetuating it, even if we try to back the next artistic movement meant
to change everything.
It’s nihilism so vast, it reaches the cultural level,
basically reducing any seeming of importance that is placed in pop culture and
tearing its spine out for all to see. And part of me is having difficulty
accepting that. I mean, my whole schtick with these reviews is examining pieces
of pop culture to find the deeper meaning behind it; in order for my lot in
life to make any sense, it has to reject the idea that all of this is
meaningless and only serves to feed the shadows behind it all. But much like
with Disney’s expanding monopoly on the entertainment industry, the
hit-close-to-home revelations of 2016-2017 about how inherently flawed these
same iconic figures truly are, and even my own admissions of not giving certain
other films what I feel is their fair due, just because my mind struggles to
accept it doesn’t make it any less true.
So, yeah, this wasn’t really how I was expecting this review
to turn out. Instead of straining to figure out what was being said, I find
myself understanding it well enough but now straining to figure out if I can
agree with it. I mean, as far as commentary on the nature of pop culture, the
dark seduction of fame and glory, and how the male gaze plays into both of
those things, this film is on pretty solid ground and the presentation is bloody
spectacular. It’s a Lynchian-style take on Hollywood, much like Mulholland
Drive, with all the potential need for multiple viewings that entails. And as
much as I find myself weirdly pushing back against what the film has to say in
places, the fact that David Robert Mitchell is capable of even getting me into
that position is only a testament to how freaking good his film craft is.
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