The appeal of a plea, the pain of tears, the exhilaration of success and the anger of wrongdoing all encompass the emotionality of the cinematic medium. Even in documentary film, designed to reflect reality, the audience is permitted or encouraged to identify with the victim, the hero, or, at times, the villain. This affiliation is useful, not only in bringing a message to the audience, but often allows filmmakers to make their argument or claim appear truthful and absolute. This is just the case with two government-sponsored films created during the turmoil of World War II, Prelude to War (Capra 1942) and The Negro Soldier (Heisler 1944), but dramatically different in Let There Be Light (Huston 1946), a film produced post-war that upheld (rather than suppressed) the viewer’s ability to choose. The strategic manipulation of audience identification in government-sponsored films surrounding World War II in the United States was a powerfully effective rhetorical technique that was used to enforce pro-American perspectives. However, while films like Prelude to War and The Negro Soldier created an almost indisputable case for U.S. involvement in the war, othering the enemy and making the audience feel included in the patriotic display, the post-war film, Let There Be Light, left the treatment of returning psychologically-wounded veterans up to the viewer. This idea, that the audience could choose their perspective, not only demonstrates the effectiveness of a more respectful approach to the audience’s autonomy, but also may have contributed to the film’s extensively delayed release.

Establishing audience identification is something that was not only utilized by filmmakers as they created their documentaries, but also functioned as a powerful tool to enforce the United States’ agenda during the years during World War II. The United States government’s ties to the movie industry blossomed during World War II and, in many respects, drastically increased the patriotism and pro-U.S. sentiments expressed in the films produced. The attack on Pearl Harbor destroyed any remaining semblance of isolationism within the mindset of the American people, just as it spurred President Franklin Roosevelt’s creation of the Bureau of Motion Picture Affairs which was “a production unit that, beginning in 1942, was supervised by the Office of War Information” (Lewis 164). This Office worked hand-in-hand with directors and filmmakers to create films that were supportive of the war effort and American ideals. In fact, the Bureau created six suggestions to guide filmmakers in their portrayal of the war: to describe “(1) The Issues of the War… (2) The Nature of the Enemy… (3)The United Nations: our allies… (4) The Production Front: supplying the materials for victory; (5) The Home Front: civilian responsibility; (6) The Fighting Forces” (Jacobs 10). With the prerogatives outlined, filmmakers began to create films that expressed these pro-American ideals and pro-war intentions.

When Frank Capra took up this governmental proposition in his ambitious Why We Fight series, he not only accepted the duties associated with the film’s creation, as mandated by the government, but also used powerful techniques to provide unequivocal support for the war. The fact that a governmental agency assisted in the production of these films, however, immediately poses ethical concerns, highlighting the possibility of a primarily biased, propagandist perspective. The style of these films increases this potential, as the films consist of archived enemy footage, voice-of-god and explanatory narration, and an aggressive editing style. These techniques combined to create a degree of explicitness, of actuality, that went far in convincing the audience of the films’ truth. Lewis Jacobs notes that “they were imbued with a clarity of meaning seldom approached by Hollywood…there were no heroics, no romantic conceptions of war, and these pictures, in their vividness and technical proficiency and in their doctrine of total war…were a powerful embodiment of the War Department’s” message (14). While creating a message that was easily understood, acceptable, and applicable to the American audience, the filmmaker also made it increasingly difficult to side with the opposition. Though such films could be considered to be “more open and honest about [their] ideological workings than films which disclaim any social or political purpose,” they also may be argumentative, forceful, and one-sided (Leach 163). Ironically, while these films attempted to elevate the American ideals of freedom and democracy, they also subverted the audience’s autonomy in order to create a clear and seemingly obvious case for the war.

The Negro Soldier follows a similar trend, but faced more difficulties as it attempted to help African American audiences identify with the social actors in the film and, by extension, come to support the United States’ war effort abroad. When Frank Capra did not agree to complete the project, it was assigned to director Stuart Heisler with the intention of increasing African Americans’ participation in the American armed forces. This was a difficult task as, at this point, the army was still segregated and African Americans still faced vicious discrimination and prejudice on the home front. They were “kept apart from their white peers and antagonized by both the military hierarchy and the Jim Crow environment…it often seemed that the enemy of the African-American soldiers was not based on the far side of the Atlantic or the Pacific – rather, it was at home in the guise of white America” (Hall). This meant that the film would need to not only convince African Americans that they should join the American war effort, the reason behind the Why We Fight series’ creation, but also that they should feel a kinship and appreciation for a system that had continually failed them. This challenge even led to Capra “ask[ing] his Research Branch [in the Army’s Information and Education Division] to draw up a code for the depiction of blacks in their films, urging the avoidance of stereotypes and potentially divisive depictions for blacks and whites” (“The Negro Soldier (1944): Notes”). It was a heavy project with numerous complexities, particularly as it attempted to navigate the racial divide in World War II American society.

After the war, however, the government continued to maintain authority over the production of some films, but with a new reason in mind: to increase awareness for the psychological victims of war. John Huston’s film, Let There Be Light, sought to accomplish this by making a case for returning veterans with mental wounds, primarily using viewer identification to ensure that solders were greeted with acceptance and inclusion rather than suspicion and doubt. This film highlights the effects of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), though this label was not adopted until 1980. Instead, illnesses brought on by combat were thought to be more individualized for their symptoms, as “many WWII veterans with PTSD received such diagnoses as Anxiety Neurosis, Depressive Neurosis, Melancholia, Anti-social Personality, or even Schizophrenia” (Langer). These labels were all under the broad header of “combat fatigue” which was used to designate various soldiers’ resulting mental disabilities from war. Part of the reason for the attribution “fatigue,” was that wartime breakdowns during battle were perceived as quick and remedied with sleep and rest. However, if this disability continued beyond the relatively small scope of the war, an underlying issue was at play. Although this Freudian perspective did begin to “erode” after World War II, it held that, as Simon Wessely frankly points out, “if [soldiers] did break down in war, but never recovered, then the real cause was not the war, but either [their] genetic inheritance or [their] upbringing – the problem was [them]. The war was merely the trigger” (282). This indicates that, when evaluating post-war disability, its cause was thought to be less a result of the situational stressors of the conflict and more the fault of the individual.

This perspective was certainly potent in public thought, particularly the idea that the war was a “trigger,” bringing deeper issues to the surface. One article, aptly titled “Mental Combat Casualties,” written in 1944 emphasizes this viewpoint, arguing that “exhaustion” was the cause of mental disability on the battle field, but that other illnesses were “not so much brought on, as brought to light, by combat” (Water 395-396). Importantly, however, these “illnesses” demonstrated “mental defects,” two of which were “mental deficiency – subnormal intelligence – and the kind of personality defect known to medical men as psychopathic personality…this sort of person cannot stand combat; his bluff is called there” (Water 396). Paradoxically, in an article attempting to, like Huston’s film, bring “light” and acceptance to the issues surrounding mental disability, the soldier became the reason for the disorder, rather than the battle itself. In a way, this blames the victim, rather than the crisis, for the mental disability incurred. This subtly indicates that the “casualties” of mental disability were not held to the same standard as their physically wounded comrades. This article points to the prevailing medical view of mental disorders, but societally the “stigma of mental illness, and seeing a mental health professional…and the use of alcohol to deal with emotional pain was widely accepted” (Langer 54). Overall, this ideology surrounding post-war mental disability indicated that soldiers psychologically disabled following the war were not admitted back into American society as socially acceptable members of society, but instead were isolated, as they were seen as different than physical victims, “defective,” and the cause of their own disease.

This explains the reason for Huston’s documentary which was designed to increase public awareness for these mentally wounded soldiers’ pain but also allow the viewer to form a connection with the men depicted. The War Department authorized Huston’s film, like the other war films by Capra and Heisler, stating that it must: “‘(1) point out what small proportion fall into this category; (2) eliminate the stigma…(3) explain that in many cases the reason that makes a psychoneurotic unsatisfactory for the Army is the very reason for which the same person should be a real success in civilian life’” (qtd. in Ledes). In a way, Huston was charged by the government to not only work on behalf of the mentally wounded soldiers, allowing them to find a sense of acceptance once they returned home, but also for psychology itself. This was certainly different than the wartime films, like Prelude to War, which were intended to convince Americans that the war was necessary, something already uncontroversial and acknowledged by societal thought. However, the original purpose, as Huston described it, was more pointed, “‘that the film be shown to those who would be able to give employment in industry, to reassure them that the men discharged under this section were not insane, but were employable, as trustworthy as anyone’” (qtd. in Simmon). Either way, the film was designed to make the soldiers feel included in society, to give them a sense of belonging despite their mental disability. Unfortunately, it was never given the chance to truly alter American ideology as it was not released until much later.

The differences between these films are not only evident in the reasons for their creation, but also in the portrayal of their subjects and the methods by which they allow the audience to form an attachment to the individuals onscreen. In what Bill Nichols calls a “common sense” approach, Prelude to War presents “black-and-white alternatives of a ‘free world’ versus a ‘slave world’…common sense [makes] the answer simple – to the predominantly white audience thoroughly imbued with a ‘melting pot’ belief in American values” (170). This is used by Capra to portray the Axis Powers, as wholly evil and different than the values that Americans support. At first, however, Capra deals with the task of reaffirming American virtues and ideals, those perspectives of the “free world” which have contributed to and developed Americans’ identities. This soon transitions to the “slave world,” as mentioned by Nichols, which Capra uses to emphasize the destruction wrought by the Axis Powers. He consistently underscores the differences between Americans and these other nations, particularly through political, familial, and ideological juxtapositions to emphasize the Axis’ status as evil. One segment, for instance, highlights the difference between the governments of the nations and the lack of freedom of speech in their Axis societies. With an animation of radio towers, extending above the Axis countries of Italy, Germany, and Japan, the film contrasts the bright waves of freedom radiating from American society and the “Lies” distributed by Axis nations. In addition, the film displays the destruction of a Christian church window, symbolically embodying the religious ideals of the American audience. Behind this window, as if he is the destroyer of these values, stands Hitler with the words “Heil Hitler” underneath; this emphasizes both the opposing ideologies of the Nazi regime as well as their potential danger to Americans’ religious values. All of these elements, however, through argumentation, encourage the audience to easily identify with the American world, the “free world” within this film, rather than the “slave world.”

Though this may go far in undermining the audience’s ability to choose their “side,” Capra also uses an intense system of othering to enforce its rhetoric, ultimately eliminating the audience’s ability affiliate themselves with the Axis nations. Othering is a “process” by which “people turn some category of humans into “The Other,” dehumaniz [ing] those individuals. Psychologically, this perception of outsiders makes it easier to treat them badly, even to enslave or kill them” (Heider 147). In addition to the more devious propositions of ideological or religious differences, Prelude to War employs a psychologically effective usage of pronouns to solidify audiences’ distance from Axis ideals. The film uses the terms “us” and “we” to create a uniform sense of Americanism and patriotism, while denoting the other nations as “them.” The final lines of the film are, perhaps, the best demonstration of this, proclaiming that if “we lose it, and we lose everything… they wouldn’t be ours anymore. That’s what’s at stake! It’s us or them! Two worlds stand against each other. One must die and one must live. 170 years of freedom decrees our answer!” This statement not only increases the force of the argument by creating a sense of urgency, that only one “world” will survive, but it also directly addresses the viewer as part of the collective American identity. It uses such subjective pronouns as “us” and “we” to eliminate the possibility for the viewer to identify with any other ideology. The resulting assertion, that Americans’ history “decrees our answer” is emphatic in its finality, doubly working to include the audience in this American group while referencing the simple and obvious “answer” to the war. “Our” only option as Americans, this film seems to attest, is to join this national identity. In doing so, the film gradually destroys any attempt of the viewer to identify with the other nations, thus gradually subverting their freedom to choose and the audience’s status as independent individuals.

Although The Negro Soldier does use othering to heighten its emotional and ideological impact, the majority of the film focuses on creating an atmosphere of inclusion, emphasizing African Americans’ importance, contributions, and value in American society. This is not surprising given the fact that African Americans would need to first be convinced of their affiliation to the United States, despite their excluded segregated status, before they would be willing to fight. In order to accomplish this, the film is set in a church setting, viewing not only the congregation, but the minister from his heightened pulpit as he looks down on the members of his church. Given this perspective, the film immediately evokes feelings of inclusion, association, and affiliation with the audience, both within and outside of the film. Significantly, the minister is the one providing the audience with information, making his discussion seem trustworthy and respectable. Initially, he reads a description of Hitler’s perspective of African Americans, as a “born half ape,” taking on an “othering” tactic like Prelude to War, but soon proceeds to describe, in detail, the contributions of African Americans to America’s growth as a nation. He talks of their service in the Revolutionary War, the building of the country (with African Americans working directly alongside whites, on equal terms), emphasizes Abraham Lincoln, moving west, joining the Spanish-American War and other such events. Absent, however, are any in-depth discussions about the Civil War or the Reconstruction that followed. The film “blithely fails to mention slavery…gives no reason for the Civil War’s happening and it never mentions the Emancipation Proclamation or the 13th Amendment to the Constitution. It also never mentions Jim Crow or Plessy v. Ferguson” (Hall). These subjects are, rather, downplayed in order to create a deceptive illusion of African Americans’ equitable treatment throughout historical America.

In addition to this, The Negro Soldier is able to create a powerful argument for African American participation in the war because the audience feels like they are a part of the church. The end of the film, perhaps, best demonstrates the results of these cinematically inclusive measures, as the minister, conducting a group prayer, asks that God “grant that we may, with your help, be worthy of this heritage and in our turn, enrich it for our children.” Not only is he using language like “we” and “our” to obviously allow the viewer to identify with his statements, but he also strategically likens African Americans’ joining the war effort as a necessary extension of their historical importance to American society. Furthermore, rather than emphasizing the audience’s choice on the matter, he makes it appear to be the audience’s duty to demonstrate their “worth” as citizens. He silences any arguments to the contrary with a devout and earnest prayer for help in this cause. Because he makes it seem like it is something God would assist with, the ultimate pure and faultless being, this statement makes the audience’s decision to become involved in the war appear undoubtedly right and morally sound. Even though the film may have oversimplified their past treatment as a group, it does allow the film to powerfully and potently create a seemingly unequivocal reason to join the war effort: to demonstrate their historically and ethically significant allegiance to their nation. At their core, however, Prelude to War and The Negro Soldier are very alike in their ability to utilize the identity of the viewer to make a seemingly irrefutable case.

In contrast to this, in John Huston’s film, Let There Be Light, viewers are finding their own identities both subverted and upheld at various moments to allow them to belong to the public, the observer to which Huston brings “light,” and the soldiers, the men undergoing treatment. Interestingly, one method that helps to achieve this unique transition is the use nameless social actors in the film. As Nat Almirall points out, “their anonymity also serves the purpose of making each patient a representative…give them a name, and [they] isolate that illness with that man alone; leave him anonymous and it could be anyone – and, indeed, more than just one.” Although the purpose for this secrecy may have been to protect the social actors, it winds up working dually within the film. The audience is not only able to see the actors, but their very namelessness allows them to more easily take on these victims’ struggles and attach themselves to these soldiers. Furthermore, this is accomplished through subtle, yet evocative, cinematography and editing. Huston’s film has been criticized for its constructive nature, its apparent lack of “reality,” and its staged feeling. Perhaps this was due to the cinematography delivered by “studio stalwarts,” one of which, Stanley Cortez, “was noted for his dramatic camera angles and lighting” with “hard-light studio units” (Bailiwick). Even though the use of these techniques may jeopardize, in some respects, the modern viewer’s interpretation of the film as a documentary, it aids in Huston’s expressive strategy that ultimately contributes to the effectiveness of the film.

For the majority of the film, the audience’s status as a mere observer, an objective, omniscient viewer, is of primary importance, but it is, at points, alternated with more subjective moments which actually allow the audience to identify with the soldiers. This is different than the very blatant position of the viewer in the wartime films as an American with American ideals in Prelude to War, or a member of the onscreen church congregation in The Negro Soldier. In contrast to those films, Huston’s film switches the viewer’s identity between the soldiers within the film and the outside “public.” Perhaps the best example of the more objective camera is in the early scenes of the film, when the soldiers solemnly enter the institution. Huston employs a couple of techniques, a steady shot or a slow tracking shot, to foster this detachment and distance between the audience and the soldiers. When he uses unmoving shots of the various soldiers, he forces them to be within the frame, unrelentingly revealing their emotional or catatonic states onscreen. Early shots of various men demonstrate this, particularly one African American soldier who sits tightly framed against other men in the room, singled out by the camera. He sits, eyes downcast, with a hopeless expression marking his face, one that encompasses disillusionment, sadness, despair, and listlessness. By using several shots like this in a row, Huston not only brutally displays the various soldiers’ emotions onscreen, but does so in a way that provokes sympathy. Normally, this would create an attachment to the victims, and though it may accomplish this to a degree, it does not allow the viewer to empathize with their situation. A critical difference, the very starkness of their portrayal onscreen and the repeated onslaught of their pained faces prevents direct identification with the soldiers. They are viewed, instead, like the subjects of a scientific inquiry, held within the frame like bugs pinned in a museum exhibit. This perspective enforces the viewer’s status as a distant, privileged observer of very personal emotions, but allows them to remain impartial. At this point, importantly, the audience is still the “public,” and this status continues with the tracking shots which display the soldiers meeting in small rooms with their therapists. As the camera moves, the repetitive whiteness of the well-lit rooms contrasts with the darkness of the walls in between; this not only allows the soldiers to appear unending, as if implying the ubiquity of their struggle, but also enforces, again, the viewer’s objectivity. It is the soldiers in the tiny rooms who are receiving treatment, not the public.

In order to facilitate a changing perspective between the objectivity of the “public” and the subjectivity of the soldiers, Huston plays with the audience’s identity through cinematography techniques, fostering brief moments attaching the audience to these soldiers and their struggles. In doing so, Huston emphasizes the dual-sidedness of the issue and the audience’s ability to side with the apathetic (and possibly vindictive) public or the pained soldiers. Early in the film, this is developed during the individual therapy sessions when single soldiers meet with a therapist to discuss their situation. Instead of capturing the soldier’s tale from the perspective of the unmoving scientific camera, Huston uses two cameras to display the scene from both the therapist and the soldier’s views. The uniqueness of this camera arrangement should not be discounted, as Stanley Cortez’s setup has even led several critics to suggest “that this multi-camera coverage was proof that the scenes were manipulated” (Bailiwick). The very nature of the arrangement allows the audience to move beyond the objectiveness of their observational status and, for the first time, become a patient at the facility. Although these moments are brief, they display the therapist from a low-angle, against the shadowy outline of the soldier sitting in the chair. Like the soldier, it is as if the viewer has been placed under the care of the hospital, interrogated and questioned about his contribution in the war and the situation that led to his disorganized psychological state.

The “group therapy” sessions, however, demonstrate a more intricate balance between the viewer as a member of the public and as one of the soldiers, particularly in one of the later discussions about the soldiers’ reentry into civilian life. The scene opens with the voice-over’s description of their current setting: “classes in group psychotherapy continue. The men are thinking of themselves in relation to society. How will they fit into the post-war pattern? How will the world receive them?” Central to this narration, however, is its objectivity; it addresses “them” as a distanced set of soldiers, again, open to the scrutiny of the audience and public. This use of “them” is evocative of the othering techniques employed by earlier, wartime films, but its usage has different meanings for the post-war audience. It does distance the soldiers from the audience, like the othering of the Axis Powers in Prelude to War, but it does so to maintain the audience’s status as objective viewers, the public. When the voiceover stops, immediately the viewer is assaulted with the diegetic words of the therapist addressing “you fellas,” as in the soldiers. However, this works dually, signaling a change from our objective status as observers, and foreshadowing the audience’s acquirement of the soldiers’ status. Quickly, the camera switches from the high-angle perspective, distanced from the audience of men, to the eyelevel medium shot of the therapist, asking if the soldiers “have noticed any change in the various members of [their] family toward” them. This scene is followed by a view of various soldiers answering the question from medium shots. Although it appears to replicate the earlier shots of the soldiers from a scientific, observational status, the fact that the discussion is diegetic, that the soldiers are addressing the specific question of the onscreen therapist, makes the scene more dynamic. They are no longer silent objects scrutinized by an invading camera, but are able to change, move, and vocally make their case. This not only causes them to appear to be more conversational, but allows the audience to feel like they are included rather than distanced from the action. Furthermore, hearing their situations and their individual opinions allows the audience to move beyond sympathy for their frozen frames, to empathize with their struggles. Significantly, the audience is a part of this session as a member of this group.

Throughout the scene, the sense of objectivity and subjectivity becomes clouded, allowing the audience to move beyond the scope of their outside identity and feel as if they also belong to the group onscreen. One soldier’s statement, however, completely changes the situation with his anecdote about his discussion with an ignorant man whose impression of soldiers with mental trauma was that they were like those “in Bellevue,” that “the fellas from the last war were maniacs.” The soldier follows up this story with a concerned question, that he is “wondering if the great percentage of people are going to be like [the man] when [they] get out” of the hospital. This description of his fears is followed by a shot from behind the soldiers and facing the therapist. Blatantly, this allows the audience to fully identify with the soldiers within the film. They sit in front of the viewer, their shadowy figures lining the sides of the frame, as they look to the therapist who is shining and brightly-lit in the middle of the frame. After his initial response to the soldier’s worry, he claims that it is a “common concern…as to what the public is going to think about them. Undoubtedly there will be people on the outside who won’t have any understanding of the condition, who may think of it as being a rather shameful condition. That’s why [they] are having an educational program.” Importantly, however, when he moves to the discussion of the “public,” Huston abruptly switches the camera to its more scientifically observational perspective. The camera begins its tracking shot, backing away from the soldiers, slowly moving to view them from behind the therapist. Metaphorically, this transition symbolizes the dramatic change from the viewer’s identity as a soldier, to his position as the “public,” the omniscient viewer. Although the audience has learned to empathize with the soldiers’ struggles, it is also up to them, as the public, to determine the soldiers’ status in post-war society. Subtly, Huston moves this from a discussion to an implicit request of the viewer; the public has now learned to empathize with the soldiers and must also grapple with the decision of how to treat these psychological victims. Will they provide them with acceptance or suspicion? As functioning members of society or raving lunatics? Huston reminds the viewer that this is their choice, and that their status as the “public” is vitally important. This is a crucial switch that not only reminds the audience of their responsibility, but also upholds their autonomy as viewers.

The difference between these films, Prelude to War, The Negro Soldier, and Let There Be Light, is easily comprehended by the varying nature of their purposes: to promote the war or make its psychological victims appear socially acceptable. However, the reception and of the release of the films is also different, particularly because the first two war-time films were screened for 1940s audiences, while Let There Be Light was withheld from circulation until the 1980s. The official reason for this, given by the government, was that the social actors’ privacy was invaded by Huston’s film. Huston, however, saw it differently, that “‘they wanted to maintain the ‘warrior’ myth, which was that [the] American soldiers went to war and came back all the stronger from experience…they might die, or they might be wounded, but their spirits remained unbroken’” (qtd. in Simmons). This would make sense, particularly as the Cold War was soon-to-arrive and the United States government might have been readying themselves for future conflict, painting the country with a rosy glow to ensure support for any later confrontations. However, there may have been another factor involved: the very style of the documentary. Capra and Heisler’s wartime films used a voice-of-god, matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, authoritative method of convincing their audience to join the war effort. Andre Bazin, remarking on Why We Fight, saw the inherent “danger” of this style and its potential as a “rape of the masses” because “these films, which start with a favorable a priori, that of using logic, reason, and the evidence of facts, in actuality rest on a grave confusion of values, on the manipulation of psychology, credulity, and perception” (Bazin 61). They are able to work in a fashion that, essentially, uses the indexical quality of images and a powerful commentary to maintain and support a viewpoint, which appears indisputable. This dominating perspective is what makes these films so “dangerous,” as Bazin attests, so potent in influencing American society.
Instead of using this style, Huston took on a more humble tone, something not based on archived footage, but a more observational perspective that not only made the experience more real (lending credibility to Huston’s “warrior” myth idea), but also more dependent on the viewer. The audience was not told how to feel, as in Prelude to War or The Negro Soldier, but was given information, and then trusted to come to their own conclusions. Rather than subverting their autonomy or their freedom of choice, Huston emphasized it (as evidenced by his group therapy scene). The resulting effect, however, would not be taken lightly, particularly by the government, because Huston’s strategy for bringing the “truth” to his audience was not painless or innocuous, but stridently real and brutally reflective of the psychological turmoil some veterans faced. Instead of just choosing to alter their mindset about the psychological effects of war, the government must have realized the audience could just as easily, after given the choice by Huston, hate war altogether. This undoubtedly could have had a negative effect on their attempt to keep America supportive of governmental actions, particularly with the looming Cold War. In this sense, the very style of Huston’s documentary, particularly its difference from the more domineering perspective evidenced by earlier wartime films, may have led to its censorship, as it opened the possibility of audiences reacting with anger towards the war rather than a reevaluating their own mistreatment of its psychological victims.

World War II was an influential time in the realm of documentary film, particularly its introduction of a more aggressive collaboration between the government and filmmakers. It not only brought about new techniques to address audiences, through voice-of-god commentary and evidentiary editing, but also utilized othering to demonize the enemy and glorify American society, as in Prelude to War, and inclusion (making the audience feel associated and connected to the onscreen social actors), as in The Negro Soldier, to make a powerful case for American entry into the war. Both of these films contrast deeply with Let There Be Light which, ultimately, upheld, rather than suppressed, the viewer’s independence. If anything, the very different approach these films take as they attempt to impart their message indicates the diversity of the documentary. Although it is often assumed to be a fairly rigid, reality-based reflection of life, the style by which the filmmaker creates his perspective has a profound effect on both the audience’s interpretation of the material and the fate of the film. In turn, this illuminates the inherent creativity of the documentary which combines the aestheticism and ideology of the filmmaker with the indexical quality of the moving image. Documentaries, then, are not only important for the material they display, the information they impart, or the message they convey, but also for their technical innovation and stylistic ingenuity, artistic sensibilities intrinsic to the individual and passionate filmmaker.

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‘A frivolous piece of entertainment,’ ‘the ignominy of the film industry,’ ‘a superficial romp devoid of meaning,’ are all classifications commonly given to lighthearted films. Despite this criticism, films that fall into this category may have significance beyond their flimsy storylines or stereotypical characters. Posing as an allegory for real-life struggles and governmental deception, disaster films of the 1970s are not literal retellings of the nation’s catastrophic events, much to the chagrin of critics, but, through abstract reference, they allow the audience to see their experiences reflected onscreen, prompting them to reevaluate their reaction to real-life dilemmas. From a historical perspective, these films, particularly The Towering Inferno (Guillermin 1974), work to illuminate the complexities of American consciousness in the 1970s, bringing light to the societal crises. Although disaster films are often discarded by critics for their lack of depth, the reemergence of the subgenre in the 1970s, particularly with John Guillermin’s The Towering Inferno, powerfully reflected the political, social, and ideological issues of the times. This film, however, is not only valuable for its allegorical display of these issues, but also for its subtle presentation of solutions to the societal turmoil of the era. Though Hollywood is known for its close attention to current events, the very nature of The Towering Inferno’s problem-solving approach indicates the cinema’s incredible ability to both fulfill the audiences’ needs with uplifting entertainment while, at the same time, offer answers to their more perplexing troubles.

In order to fully comprehend the disaster films of the 1970s, it is first necessary to discuss the societal issues of the times. It was an era of intense governmental scrutiny, social upheaval, and national frustration within the United States. Movements and events that occurred during the 1960s, like the conflict in Vietnam and the civil rights movement, carried over into public thought in the early part of the 1970s. The second half of the 1960s saw the rise of organizations like the Black Panthers, which practiced more militant actions in an effort to bring about racial equality. Members moved beyond the earlier civil rights techniques structured by Martin Luther King Jr. and had a “propensity for confrontation,” ultimately causing “many whites [to link] urban unrest to the civil rights movement’s growing radicalism and militancy” (Mooney 164-165). Though the civil rights movement began with peaceful protests, it transitioned into something much more dangerous. Many white Americans became increasingly skeptical of the efforts made to enact legislation favorable to African Americans’ rights. Social frustration, however, was not the only conflict Americans faced as they also were bombarded with the knowledge of governmental secrecy, instigating feelings of intense distrust and anger towards the established authority figures. The Vietnam War inflicted devastating casualties and was brutally “brought home” to American civilians’ television screens. The conflict appeared to be unending, and though initially supported by a majority of Americans, they soon “grew tired of the mounting casualties, the growing costs, and the inability of the American military to decisively defeat the Viet Cong” (Mooney 174). One prominent general assured Americans that the war was at its conclusion, but the Tet Offensive proved otherwise. Citizens, after such deceptive guarantees from their government, had “a palpable sense…that their government has not been honest with them;” it established a dramatic “‘credibility gap’” between “what the government said and what the public was willing to believe, deepen[ing] after Tet” (Mooney 176). Along with this, Americans were faced with several fatal protests at home after the Cambodian Incursion, and the infamous Pentagon Papers, which outlined more destructive secrets about the government’s actions in Vietnam. In response to this, President Nixon’s “Special Investigative Unit,” or “Plumbers,” was formed, which later planted the listening devices at the Watergate Hotel in 1972, for which Nixon disavowed responsibility. The truth, however, was soon revealed about his involvement. This concealment, dishonesty, and betrayal by the American government was viciously brought to the forefront of American thought in the 1960s and 1970s, creating a sense of unease, anger, and disillusionment.

Perhaps, with all of these events unfolding, it is no surprise that a genre founded on “disaster” came to prominence in the early 1970s. As Louis Giannetti and Scott Eyman note, the films reflected this “pessimistic period;” they were “steeped in cynicism and paranoia. For the first time in American film history, movies with downbeat themes became the rule rather than the exception” (274). The disaster films certainly fit into this “downbeat” category as they usually revolved around a major “disaster” and moment of crisis, like the flip of a cruise ship in The Poseidon Adventure (Neame 1972) or the burning of a massive skyscraper in The Towering Inferno. This disaster “cycle” came to the forefront of movie-going during the 1970s, starting with Airport (Seaton 1970) and followed by very popular films like The Poseidon Adventure in 1972, Earthquake (Robson 1974) and The Towering Inferno in 1974. Irwin Allen became a notable contributor to this group of films, producing The Poseidon Adventure and The Towering Inferno, both of which were chart toppers for rentals in their years, though “The Towering Inferno came second only to Jaws” (Hanson 128). Despite their popularity, the cycle was, as Jon Lewis notes, “over in five years” (285). This may, in fact, indicate the timeliness of these films and their dependence on the hopeless attitude of their audience as they were successfully released and well-received by an audience traumatized by the events of the late 1960s and early 1970s.
It is important to note that these films, though spectacular and innovative, were not trailblazing a completely new genre, but were actually reinventing a type of story told by films earlier in the 20th Century. Perhaps the fact that the previous disaster films were created in the 1930s, in the wake of the Great Depression, a time similar in the pessimism that pervaded American thought, indicates the genre’s powerful ability to reflect the sensibilities of an era. As David Cook ascertains, the reason “why the genre traces its origins to the depths of the Depression” is because it was “‘a time when leadership at every level of society [was] believed to be wanting, disaster caused or aggravated by the errors of those in charge [made] sense to the audience’” (252). It is important, then, that the disaster films in the 1970s were accompanied by a general reemergence and reevaluation of other genres in the early 1970s, like horror and science fiction. Although many of the aspects of the disaster films remained the same, the correlation between the disillusioned times and the cinematic reinvention of past genres created a situation ripe for these movies’ subsequent rise to prominence. In addition to this, technological developments allowed the effects of the disaster films more believable and more spectacular. David Cook aptly asserts that “as with science fiction, the burden of proof in the disaster film fell upon special effects” (253). Disaster films of the 1970s reflected this sensibility as they innovatively used new techniques, like Sensurround, to increase the spectacle and feelings of catastrophe to the audiences. This equipment became popularized by the 1974 film Earthquake which used this system to help the audience “feel” the effects of the earthquake in their theater seats. Thus, cinema was not only ready by the 1970s to vent frustration at the established authority figures who had upset a sense of societal complacency, but was also in the process of redefining genres and creating new special effects, demonstrating the potential for the disaster genre to become popular.

A disaster film has some essential qualities that, ultimately, provide the means by which it is able to attentively and provocatively reference real-life societal disasters. Though these films center on a major catastrophe, they tend to focus on the effects of the disaster on a group of people who, despite not knowing one another, are forced to work together to solve the problems incurred. The use of major stars to create this group, a sort of “Grand Hotel” formula, was one of the new developments in the 1970s disaster film. This creates a sense of cooperation, of partnership, that seemingly reaffirms the value of a collaborative nation. This is why, despite the disaster films’ “overt fatalism,” they “were fundamentally reassuring,” while “previously atomized individuals formed a community, class distinctions disappeared. Marriages were reinforced. Middle class virtue prevailed” (Hoberman 198). In addition to this, the characters that act with malicious intent, or somehow instigate the crisis (often because of their hubris and greed), are often killed or destroyed, while the heroes who rally the group together and demonstrate intelligence, humility, and inventiveness survive. In addition, “some disaster movies offered a populist critique by blaming the catastrophe on rapacious corporations and, in most cases, the disaster was worsened by mendacious…inadequate leaders,” ultimately questioning “the competence of America’s managerial elite” (Hoberman 197). One could easily see how this relates back to Americans’ frustration with their own “managerial elite” in the form of the government and the consistent deception and secrecy displayed by their leaders.

Differences between the 1970’s disaster films and those created in the 1930s also point to the varying historical events that occurred, further demonstrating the genre’s ability to reflect the times. Disaster films of the 1930s often utilized a natural phenomenon to create their crisis, like a fire in In Old Chicago (King 1937), a flood in The Rains Came (Brown 1939), or, as the name implies, a hurricane in The Hurricane (Ford 1937). These events were, significantly, not the result of human pride or greediness, but outside of man’s control. These people were victims, not perpetrators, of the disaster; they merely attempted to outlast the vicious natural onslaught. By contrast, many films of the 1970s include a disaster related to human causes, like The Towering Inferno, and even those that do not, like The Poseidon Adventure, include people that make the situation worse (like the money-hungry organization prompting the captain to abandon his opinion about the storm). This change seems to reflect the changing ideals of American society. The degree of deception within the United States government in the 1970s, in the opinion of the nation, astounded and shocked the country into skepticism and anger. They saw the cause of their misfortunes as resulting from these fraudulent authority figures, an explicitly human source. Another difference in the older films is the development of relationships between the main characters before the disaster, whereas 1970’s films focus on the convergent, yet, initially unknown, storylines of many different people. Disasters in the 1930s test these relationships: the love story between the protagonists in The Hurricane, the marriage dilemma in The Rains Came, and the division between brothers in In Old Chicago. The 1970’s disaster movies analyze the effects of unfamiliar people working together to solve a crisis. This seems to point to the change in society. People found the threat of governmental and societal turmoil so catastrophic that they faced dilemmas beyond the scope of relational difficulties. It demonstrates also, perhaps, the value these films saw in cooperation, particularly in a society taut with social tensions between genders and races. In this sense, the different perspective of the 1970s films emphasizes that relying on current relationships is not enough to outlast the storm; a person must work with others, no matter how unfamiliar, no matter their ethnicity or background, if they wish to survive.

As much as the differences between earlier disaster films and their later, 1970s counterparts illuminate the changing national perspective, the intensity of the allegorical reference is also important when evaluating the effectiveness of a disaster film’s reflection of American society. There are, of course, significant differences between disaster films which Despina Kakoudaki points out in her intellectual article, “Spectacles of History: Race Relations, Melodrama, and the Science Fiction/Disaster Film.” She categorizes disaster films according to the root of the catastrophe, describing the “natural disaster” films in which the crisis is not because of a responsible human party, the disaster films that do, at least “at some point,” point to human causes, those that find the predicament incurred by nonhuman “agents,” and those that pose the disaster as a “clear allegorical reading” to the historical world (122-123). The 1970’s disaster films conform to, for the most part, the first two categories, the “natural disasters,” like The Poseidon Adventure, and films which propose human ego as responsible for the resulting calamity, like The Towering Inferno. Interestingly, however, she has noted that the films that are most similar to historical situations, or represent actual, real-life conflicts onscreen are often doomed to fail at the box office; she explains that “it turns out that when [the audience’s ethics] as viewers are directly involved and questioned, or when the films stage references to actual events of racial misunderstandings, the critique seems too insistent or inappropriate” (Kakoudaki 124). Perhaps the success, then, of the 1970s disaster films was due to their indirect reference to American society in the 1970s, something that is often criticized by those who sought to see a more profound or in-depth reflection of societal perplexities.

Though this may describe the components and effects of disaster films, how the film actually functions in relation to viewers’ attitude or perspective is another topic worthy of discussion. Allegorical films often work as a supplement or as a cathartic representation for an audience already suffering the trauma of their real-world society. A “hallmark of trauma is a repetition compulsion,” which disaster films present fictitiously by “offering a fantasy of forward-moving progress and striving to ‘resonate closure’” (King 431). These disaster films provide an outlet or release for audiences who are undergoing the effects of governmental and societal turmoil. Perhaps more importantly, disaster films are, in a sense “rhetorical efforts to rescript the past, if not to change its outcomes, then to change its meanings – offering, for instance, tales of sacrifice and heroism that make sense of and lend meaning to terror and loss” (King 431). Significantly, this would allow audiences to not only move beyond and alleviate the effects of societal upheaval, but also allow them to develop a healthier, more hopeful perspective, recognizing the potential for solutions. These films may open wounds, through allegory, which might, in fact, provide the necessary step to promote collective American healing. Although one might think that an exact or more nonfictional rendering of political and societal dysfunction might be a better way to eliminate the staggering effects of trauma, it could be, in fact, safer to do so through a fictitious narrative. In addition to Kakoudaki’s argument, Clair King contends in her article on Poseidon, that “by focusing on traumatic experience that is constructed as remote and anomalous,” the disaster film “paradoxically, offers a safer lens for viewing trauma” (434). It not only presents an audience with a similar situation to their own, but does so in a way that is not so similar that it causes too much pain.

Despite their potential healing value, disaster films of the 1970s are criticized by those who think that the genre did not do enough, or provide as much of a reflective rendering of the 1970s culture to accurately diagnose and solve societal problems. Peter Lev claims that, “‘overall, the disaster movie of the early 1970s is a way to displace contemporary problems into simple, physical confrontations,” displaying a “conservative response which ‘solves’ the 1970s malaise by drastically simplifying and reframing it” (qtd. in Hanson 130). Though his argument is founded on what he understands to be the disaster genre’s “simplistic” or unhelpfully “conservative” suggestions for audiences to move past their trauma, it may, in fact, be this more superficial rendering that ultimately allows the viewer to heal. It not only “frames” the disaster as solvable, potentially providing audiences with hope, but it also does so in a way that, though discounting the complexities of the societal conflicts, might actually function more effectively. These films could invoke “a comforting fiction of therapeutic closure without the painful reflexivity and inspection central to both bearing witness and recovery” (King 448). The “closure,” in this sense, might not explicitly cause them to relate the minute details of a disaster film to real societal situations, but it does allow them to move past their pain by providing them with an ending, something unknown and unpredictable in real-life.

Perhaps the best film to analyze for allegorical relevance is The Towering Inferno, a spectacular, effects-laden, entertaining film. Even if it does provide an explosive demonstration of societal ailments, it also moves beyond this simple reflection and subtly alludes to potential remedies for the audience’s real-life problems. The film was popular and successful, ultimately winning three Oscars and garnering $116,000,000 in the United States (“The Towering Inferno”). The film itself consisted of a melding of two novels, The Glass Inferno, by Tom Sortia and Frank Robinson, and The Tower, by Richard Martin Stem, and was the “first-ever collaboration by major studios” (Cook 35). The film centers on the triumphant creation of a glass tower which, due to corporate greediness and the use of cheaper construction techniques, ignites in a fiery blaze that forces various people to work together to solve the crisis. It was not without its critics, however, who likened the diegetic catastrophe within the film to the movie’s real-life relation to the film industry, claiming “the Apocalypse is at hand” in Time (“A Preview of Coming Afflictions). Within the film, Doug Roberts (Paul Newman) claims that the tower should stand “as a ‘monument to all the bullshit’ of our age,” a phrase taken up by critics arguing that that “The Towering Inferno should be placed on a permanent exhibition at the Smithsonian for the same reason” (Schickel). These reviewers may have been too quick to denounce the film as a frivolous, shallow flick, failing to see the broader implications of its characters and its suggestions for societal remedy.
In terms of emotional ramifications, this film not only allegorically references Americans’ relation to real-life disasters like Watergate and Vietnam, but also allows the audience to find hope, an essential element in the healing process. The disaster in the film, the fiery tower which sends many to their deaths by its very immediate and broad destruction, reminds the audience that their situation is not nearly as physically horrific or brutal. This could even be understood to be “part of the pleasure of the spectacle of disaster,” as it derives “from the perceived safety and comfort of the world” (Kakoudaki 111). However, it not only works to bring about “pleasure,” but also a sense of appreciation for the audience’s own security and safety in the comfort of their home lives. Furthermore, within the film, the cooperation between the heroic firefighter, Chief Mike O’Hallorhan (Steve McQueen), and the architect, Doug Roberts, as well as between the people trapped within the tower, points to the innate bond between humanity. Rather than isolating themselves in times of conflict, they band together to successfully eliminate the fire. Those that do not, in fact, are punished for their purposeful separation. Simmons (Richard Chamberlain), for instance, attempts to take over a rescue chair device, alienating his fellow combatants. It is almost as if the movie, in retribution for this sinful behavior, determines that he falls to his death. This “integrated survivor group is a marker of a very specific national story that the films offer, that of a new community forged by extreme circumstances” (Kakoudaki 121). This community, the film seems to attest, is not only “integrated,” but composed of people worth saving, the survivors and the fighters, ultimately cleansing the situation of the evil. This, importantly, implies that American society, through the trials it faced in the tumultuous 1960s and 1970s could emerge whole and, perhaps, stronger than they were before. It points to a positive conclusion for those in America, a successful elimination of miscreants within the governance of society.

This film does not only help the audience to develop a more positive outlook, it actually, allegorically, presents the possibility for future success. One crucial element within the film is the cohesion between the characters onscreen as they work together; social differences, even race, are overcome in the face of the disaster. Jernigan (O.J. Simpson) is an African American security agent who contributes to the efforts of the rescuers as they attempt to save as many people as possible. One critic is quick to diminish the importance of his character, claiming that “his greatest heroic act is to rescue a cat from a burning bedroom before disappearing from the movie altogether after his 15 minutes of flame” (Rabinowitz). It is true that Jernigan does not have as large a role in the movie as the heroic firefighter, Chief O’Hallorhan, but he still constitutes a vital character within the film. He is one of the first men to figure out that there is a fire (while the white men and women live in blissful ignorance), works as an equal member of the rescue team, and plays a major part in bringing resolution to an unsatisfying storyline. This story involves Lisolette (Jennifer Jones), a kindhearted and altruistic character, who resumes a loving relationship with a past flame, Harlee Claiborne (Fred Astaire), but ultimately falls to her death. She leaves behind her cat, sitting complacently within her engulfed bedroom. Jernigan does save the cat, something this reviewer seems to discount, but also, symbolically, saves part of Lisolette. This cat is one of her most devout and loving companions, as displayed by early scenes in the film, but after her death, this animal is the only remnant of Lisolette’s character. When Jernigan returns this cat to Harlee at the end of the film, he not only satisfies a man who desperately calls for the woman he loves amidst the confusion of the disaster, but the audience as well. This cat works to quench Harlee’s desperate pleas, just as it provides some redemptive value to Lisolette’s fateful fall. In this sense, the film’s portrayal of an African American, as a redeemer of hope and comfort, an effective and cooperative hero in the catastrophe, seems to point to the positive result of social cooperation. It implies that society will not only be better off when men work together, despite their race, but that this relationship could bring about hope during the chaos of governmental disarray.

This film also functions as a political allegory, emphasizes the value in learning from past mistakes and the renewal that accompanies a willingness to change. While Jim Duncan (William Holden) is largely at fault for the creation of the Tower, and contributed to its fateful destruction by hiring his son-in-law, Simmons, to conduct the construction choices, he is not killed. This could be, significantly, because he vows to change his past reckless ways, stating that “all [he] can do now is pray to God that [he] can stop this from ever happening again.” The final shot of his character, taken from a high angle, looks down on Duncan, as if God or, perhaps, the audience is judging him and his display of humility. In proposing this, the film emphasizes the importance of confession and offers a pleasing replacement for the American audience. Outside of the film, they, also, seek an admission of guilt from the deceptive authority figures that broke their trust when they consistently lied about Vietnam or covered up the debacle at the Watergate Hotel. Within the film, the audience is given the chance to look down upon these greedy figures, albeit vicariously, and decide their fate. Duncan agrees to work to prevent future catastrophes and change his ways, and he is allowed to live. In doing so, the film not only allows the audience to use him as a substitution for their real-life troubles, but also, in a sense, works as a testament to the American audience’s own compassion. Though Duncan looks at the audience from below, facing their wrath, he is allowed to live. This moment, perhaps, attempts to remind audience members that seeking justice is important, but draconian, overly-harsh retribution is dangerous and should also be tempered with kindness and mercy.

The Towering Inferno also utilizes destruction to present the potential for society to be redeemed. Destruction, for cinematic purposes, “means liberation” because “destruction allows a new beginning, especially where the weight of the past and past political mistakes seem to have eliminated the possibility for change” (Kakoudaki 113). In this sense, the calamity could bring hope for renewal, as it allows corruption to be cleansed from society. This is exactly what occurs when Doug Roberts, a contributor to the tower’s unfortunate demise, claims that he will change his behavior in a final scene between him and the firefighter, O’Halloran. These two men worked together in the rescue effort, despite their initial animosity towards one another, but the disaster (and O’Halloran) succeeds in teaching Doug Roberts the importance of working with safety officials in order to, in the future, build a structure capable of withstanding similar accidents. O’Halloran emotionally proclaims that he will “keep eating smoke and bringing out bodies until somebody asks [the firemen] how to build [the towers].” In this sequence of shots between Doug’s pained expressions and O’Halloran’s world-weary proclamations, the angle of the shots is, again, significant. O’Halloran views Doug from above (the Chief is shot from a low angle), while Doug is looked down upon from a high angle. This not only places O’Halloran in an authority position, but also lowers Doug to a position of subservience. It is as if the disaster has literally removed him from his position of prideful ignorance and presumption.

It is also not a coincidence that this conversation occurs between the architect and the firefighter, the creator of this hubristic tower and its savior. This is important because the builder, the innovator, is an easy allegorical reference to the government of the United States and those that assisted in its creation. Symbolically, the people of the country are embodied by O’Halloran who not only has to deal with the aftereffects of the disaster, as Americans did after Nixon’s scandal and the tiring fight in Vietnam, but could, potentially, be forced to relive the experience if nothing were to change within the governmental structure. Perhaps one of the most vital results of this terrifying tragedy, then, is Doug’s response, his humility and sense of his own ignorance. He replies to O’Halloran with an “okay, I’m asking,” importantly reaching out to a man more knowledgeable and more truthful for help in his future decisions and plans. This, undoubtedly, was a profound encouragement to the people of the United States. The film seems to not only say that Americans have the ability to change their own future and that of their country, moving it away from continuing on a path towards repetitive destruction, but that through this, they will find their own resolution. The democratic spirit within the country, this film proposes, like the courageous firefighter, is capable of relieving and transforming American society from one of mistakes and human pretention to one that is safe for future generations.

In addition to this, the film seems to advise audience members to take solace in what remains. This is, in fact, another difference between earlier disaster films where the main characters, the majority of the time, survived the crisis and were destined to live together, reinvigorated and changed from the disaster. Even in films like The Rains Came, which included the death of a major character, it was not the disaster itself that caused this turn of events, but the result of the character’s new perspective and sense of compassion. In contrast to this, one of the main heroines in The Towering Inferno, Lisolette, is killed within the film. Though blameless and angelic, she falls to her death from the Tower. In this sense, the film seems to recognize that Americans’ resolution to their governmental and societal troubles will not come without a cost. It warns that those who were helpful or pure may die as a result of the disaster, like those in Vietnam or the civil rights activists, but that their stories will not be forgotten. Like the cat that Harlee is given at the end of the film to carry on Lisolette’s memory, the film proposes that people’s innovative ideas will carry on within society. In this sense, the film advises the audience to remake society and remain hopeful for its restoration, but to be prepared and find acceptance in the potential loss and consequences incurred.

Perhaps, however, the most powerful indication of The Towering Inferno’s reflection of 1970s society is its demonstration of the effects of secrecy and, by extension, the value of transparency. Two of the characters within the film work within the Tower, Bigelow (Robert Wagner), one of the executives, and his secretary, Lorrie (Susan Flannery). Unbeknownst to the rest of the office, they have been having an affair, culminating in their absence on the night of the gala when fire erupts. As they have sex, the fire grows, ultimately surrounding them before they realize the peril of their situation. Lorrie asks if Bigelow smells a “cigarette burning,” to which Bigelow responds by opening one of the doors to the office and seeing the flames growing behind the glass doors. As the flames climb, their efforts are futile, despite Bigelow’s assurances. Lorrie even mentions, hopefully, that “at least they’ll never find out about us, will they?” Ironically, even though the others within the tower never will, the audience surely will witness the result of their relationship. In a last desperate attempt, Bigelow decides to try to leave the flames behind by running to get help, claiming that he “used to run 100 in 10 flat.” In slow motion, Bigelow runs through the flames from a long shot, bumping into blazing furniture and hopelessly attempting to move against the orangey and blackened inferno. Behind the framed glass wall, as if the camera is purposefully distancing the audience from the destruction, he fails to reach his destination. Soon Lorrie joins him as she, sandwiched by flames, throws a chair out of a window and dives out of it, falling to her death. Importantly, however, it is not the intimacy between the characters that decides their fate, as other members, like Doug and his love, Susan (Faye Dunaway), remain intact by the end of the film. Bigelow and Lorrie die, importantly, because they have kept their affair secret. No one knows where they are as Bigelow has avoided the party to spend time with Lorrie, and they do not go to the gala together and then celebrate later. Crucially, they are killed because they have decided to keep their relationship hidden from others.

This is a profound correlation to the secrecy, the deceptive concealment of information by the United States government in relation to the war in Vietnam and culminating in the Watergate scandal. The film punishes these characters for their behavior, not because it is unethical or untraditional, but because it has been kept secret. This, perhaps, represents Americans’ response to the Watergate scandal, particularly because Nixon’s behavior was, arguably, not as hurtful as was his failure to admit to wrongdoing. His lies and concealment of the truth, rather, is what impacted American consciousness, instigating distrust and disillusionment towards governmental authority. As Matthew Mooney notes, “it is likely true that Nixon had not ordered or even been aware of the Watergate break-in when it occurred but it is clear he attempted to cover-up the connections between the burglars and his administration” (181). This, in turn, contributed to his ultimate resignation from office, demonstrating the powerful effect of secrecy, not only on his ability to maintain his presidency, but also its powerful effect on societal consciousness. This may also explain why both characters perished as a result of the disaster, rather than just one. In many disaster films, the reason that only one person (within a couple) is killed is to heighten the feelings of loss in the remaining member, demonstrating the brutal effects of the disaster and increasing audience empathy. But in this film, both Lorrie and Bigelow are destroyed, increasing the correlation between this scene and reality. The American audience is not supposed to feel the same connection to these characters’ pain as, say, Harlee when he loses Lisolette. Instead, this scene replaces the feelings of sadness and loss with brutality, viciousness, and fate. This difference replicates the distance Americans felt towards their government and the secrets it withheld; their lack of connection to these characters emulates the apathy towards Nixon’s resignation. Allegorically, this scene seems to dramatically display the effects of secrecy, and cathartically provides punishment to the perpetrators onscreen. Though this appears to be wholly negative, this scene also alludes to the value of transparency as the truth about these characters’ relationship would have proved instrumental in saving their lives.

This dramatic correlation between The Towering Inferno and the events in American society during the 1970s has broader importance beyond the film’s reception or its box office success. The film serves as an allegorical depiction of American thought and ideology during the time it was created, pointing to its importance as a historical document. It not only cathartically retold the American disaster of the late 1960s and early 1970s, but did so in an entertaining manner while providing details about how America could recover in the wake of such despair. In this sense, the film worked to help America heal, perhaps providing necessary aid to a traumatized audience. Beyond this, however, the very fact that this film could serve such historical importance while receiving abominable ratings by critics points to a more unexpected revelation about Hollywood. It demonstrates that even the most superficial or shallow films may hold depth, perhaps not in terms of story, but in their relation to history. This film certainly does not have wonderfully layered characters, full of hidden insecurities and strange motivations, nor does it have a particularly innovative or new plot (as noted, disaster films were not a “new” genre in the 1970s). Rather, the film holds value in the context of the times, illuminating the ideology and perspective of the American people during a very specific and deeply unstable period. Perhaps this, more than anything, alludes to the importance of contemplation over scrutiny, thoughtfulness over skepticism and appreciation over animosity when appraising films. They should not be judged solely within the context of the medium, the innovativeness of the storyline, or the complexity of the characters, but also for their profound relation to history and the societal ideals of the past. Even the most frivolous moments in the cinematic past might serve as relics of history, and, as such, should be treated with respect.

Disaster films are capable of serving a potent need by a society ravaged by the effects of governmental disarray and social upheaval, not only by working to alleviate the trauma associated with real-life catastrophes, but also by utilizing a more harmless lens to analyze the crises: an allegory. Films of this genre in the 1970s accomplished this, to a great extent, despite their harshly critical reception by haughty and disdainful reviewers. The Towering Inferno, a blazing example, not only illuminating the political, social, and ideological perspectives of Americans, but often provided subtle remedies to society’s despair and disillusionment. This not only points to the historical value of these films, but also alludes to the nature of the cinematic medium. Its effectiveness should not be evaluated or determined simply by its likeness to reality, its unceasingly astute dramatization of real-life situations, but the stories, attitudes, ideals, and resolutions it brings. Though The Towering Inferno was not an exact copy of social turmoil or governmental disorganization, it was successfully able to provide a release from societal despair through its gaudy and mythic display. These fantastic and allegorical ideas might, in the end, be more appealing to viewers than their obstinately realistic counterparts, potentially increasing their effectiveness, significance, and meaning for troubled audiences.

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I’ve been meaning to see this for a long time, when I finally did, I was pretty impressed. Not bad for a movie/show made after a video game.

So, who has played the games? Halo 1, 2, 3, ODST, Reach, anyone? Well, not that it might be going by the most recent edition to the halo games, Halo 4, but for the first time in about 10 yrs, we have finally got a movie made under not only a video game corporation, but a new one at that called, 343 Industries, not Bungi (Original Halo creators) surprising after all the years in gaining the public’s interest, but they finally put an end to their halo gaming and handed over Halo 4′s script to 343 Industries. At least Halo is still only playable on the xbox but no longer under Microsoft.  And now, not that it is related to this tv show, but there is to be 3 more Halo games, yay!

If you are like me, and might have heard about this by ear or word of mouth. If at all interested, It is on NETFLIX!

For the first half hour, I was left confused. Story line was a little confusing, but if you pay close attention to the very beginning where things are bleing explained, you find that the commander in chief is telling us a story based on his life when he had first met the master chief. The place where he and his troops were training was suddenly under attack as aliens started killing off human life and crash landing onto planet earth, this is then where Master Chief finds just 4-5 survivors left hiding in their training grounds. “You are the only survivors on this planet.”

The aliens we know of including hunters, and elites. Unfortunately, no grunts, are show in this “show”. I keep quoting show because it seems to be a movie to me, but I guess it was previously shown on tv.

With today’s technology, and great cinematography, the quality of the “show’s” special effects were pretty outstanding. Slow motion quality, graphic design, and costume are pretty good. A lot of slow motion with explosions and laser shootings. Acting is also good considering the budget of the show landing an $8,500,000 box office.

So I would say the show is worth watching. I enjoyed it, was in awe with how they made the aliens look and sound realistic and close to the video game’s effects. If you are a fan of Halo, do not fear, and do not judge, it is actually pretty decent.

Also, Master chief still does not show his face at the end. Something they still keep to the story.

  Three days ago, while strolling through the forest, a woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) discovers a woman’s hat strewn over a branch.  Ambling on, in motion to the non-diegetic drum beat, as bright sunlight cuts through the trees, he approaches a crime scene, and to his horror, it is the body of a murdered samurai.

  Prior to that, on the same day, a priest (Minoru Chiaki) was journeying along the road to Yamashina, and passed a veiled damsel upon a white horse, which was led by a very pleasant samurai, with sword and arrows at his side.  He surmises that “a human life is truly as frail and fleeting as the morning dew.”

  Two days prior, the well-known Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune) was caught, and found in his possession were several arrows, “a leather bow, and a [white] horse.”  According to this notorious bandit, it was the stirring of the wind which caused him to trick the samurai and rape his wife.  But as luck would have it, he had “succeeded in having her without killing her husband,” because she encouraged him.  His original intent was to walk away, but she begged him, out of shame, to take her husband’s life, wherein both men fought valiantly, crossing swords “23 times.”

  An entirely different account of the ordeal is submitted by the samurai’s wife (Machiko Kyo).  The bandit forced her “to yield to him,” after mocking and humiliating her restrained husband.  After he strode away, cackling to himself, she embraced her husband and hurriedly attempted to release him, until his “cold light of loathing” unhinged her.

  Hypnotically swaying to and fro, his eyes followed every move, while she desperately tried to avoid the cold-hearted gaze, that contained “neither anger nor sorrow” from her beloved.  Becoming hysterical, she pleaded with her husband (Masayuki Mori) to beat her or kill her, but to not glare at her “like that,” until finally she demanded that he “stop!”

  A psychic medium was then brought forth on behalf of the dead husband, whereby his voice of pain testified from the grave, that Tajomaru suggested to his wife that they run off together.  Pointing back at her husband, while ”in a trance,” she responded “take me wherever you want [but] please kill him!”

Rashomon is Kyoto’s dilapidated city gate, and a temporary shelter for three men (a priest, a woodcutter, and a commoner), who sit around a warm fire during a torrential downpour.  While dissecting the recent events, truths are revealed and distortions ripped apart, with every piece of kindling, ripped from the city gate and thrown into the fire.

As the rain pours, different versions come flooding out.  The priest and woodcutter remain dumbfounded by the courthouse testimonies they recently witnessed, and re-tell the proceedings to the commoner, who nonchalantly claims “it’s human to lie.”

Rashomon is a tale of light and darkness, truth and lies, but the light and truth are subjective.  With diffused lighting at the gate, and hard light at the courthouse, faces curiously change, in the evasive light and shadow of the woods, under variable testimonies of the crime.

Kurosawa’s camera observes each point of view with variant discretion – the wife’s beauty is luminous when the bandit catches his first few glimpses of her, and likewise the priest has a favorable first impression of the samurai as they pass on the road, however once the bandit has accomplished his dire deed, the wife suddenly takes on a cheap disposition, and the husband a distinctly cruel look.

A truly unforgettable scene occurs during the wife’s flashback.  Beginning with an over-the-shoulder shot, the camera is choreographed to the wife’s highly dramatic (Kabuki style) movements, as she sways back and forth, trying desperately to avoid her husband’s betrayed, fixed glare.  Eventually coming full circle, in a 360 degree move, we too are suddenly subjected to the samurai’s loathsome glare, as the entire scene builds in drama, while the background repetitive musical score – not unlike Ravel’s Bolero - builds in crescendo.

A beautifully conceived and innovative film, “Man on Fire” reveals the beauty of filmmaking with all of the elements needed for an extraordinary exciting and substantive film, that keeps you enthralled in every moment of the film.

Much like Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo,” “Man on Fire” is a film I have never grown tired of watching.. It encompasses all the qualities that make for a very great film.

Written and directed by Tony Scott and staring Denzel Washington, the story takes us to the darkest parts of a mans soul and the beautiful spirit that makes us human being’s, and thus separates us from animals.

Taken from a novel by the same name from author A.J. Quinnell, Denzel Washington plays a depressed John Creasy who is a former C. I.A. agent seemingly disillusioned with life.

After some persuasion from a concerned friend Paul, (Christopher Walken) Creasy reluctantly takes a position as a bodyguard protecting a 9 year old Pita ( Dakota Fanning) in Mexico City.

Seemingly cold and not wanting to open his heart to anyone, he reluctantly opens his heart to Pita after her persistent attention and advice she seeks from him.

As his position keeps him close to her side, his relationship to her becomes more then just a job, but they also become close friends, as they learn and grow from each other and he comes to care about her and love her as if she was his own child and best friend. In doing so Pita slowly helps Creasy to come out of his shell and depression, and helps to breathe life into a man that had previously seemed despondent with life.

When Pita is kidnapped and later believed dead, Creasy goes on a rampage, seeking justice and revenge on those he feel is responsible for her kidnapping and death.

This films visual effects are nothing short of extraordinary with abnormal lighting and editing that uses tremor effects and overlays that keep you engulfed in the action and every part of this emotional and truly touching story. The tremor effects makes you feel the pulse and heart beat of the city, characters and story with every climax and turning point demanding your attention.

The extraordinary cinematography and editing make this film come to life in ways that are beyond imagination and unique to this film, with wide angle shots such as those of Mexico City, the scenery and its people, that seem to capture the soul of the city and its people. The cinematography and editing helps to breathe life into setting of Mexico City, its people and the character’s, and makes the audience feel their very sense of existence.

The tremor effects create a sense of importance and desperation while making the audience feel a sense of urgency at what is taking place on

The jump cuts help to breathe life into this film and truly makes the scenes, as well as the characters of Denzel Washington and Dakota Fanning come alive.

This technique truly brings a sense of realism into this film that otherwise may not be there and truly captures your senses and your heart. With its innovative techniques, and creative storyline it is unlike any film I have seen before and well worth your attention, as it centers on love and devotion, and a mans relationship with God as he discovers himself and place in life, while also discovering his fate.

There is a makeover in this movie.  Alas, the movie makeover is a classic coming-of-age trope that so few can attempt and survive.  This one does.  How?  By ignoring it.

Strictly Ballroom, writer-director Baz Luhrmann’s directorial debut, is set in the madcap world of competitive ballroom dancing and is based on a hit play that he produced in the 1980’s.  As a result, the costumes are loud and wild enough to be seen in the back row of even the largest theater, though it’s questionable whether the makeup was as lavish when most of the audience didn’t have the advantage of the close-up.  The plot is almost unbelievably predictable: Scott Hastings (Paul Mercurio), a competitive ballroom dancer of indeterminate age still living at home and practicing at his parents’ dance studio, is tired of dancing “strictly ballroom,” the classic steps approved by the dance federation.  After going rogue at a competition, his partner leaves him, but gawky, inexperienced dancer Fran (Tara Morice) realizes that dancing and having fun are much more important than following the rules and winning the Pan Pacific Grand Prix.

As soon as Fran asks Scott to dance with her, the entire plot has been revealed.  You already know who gets the makeover.  You already know who wins.  Two of the many things that this movie does right, though, is that you’re right both times, except that you aren’t.  The makeover is simply gradual, resulting from Fran’s growing self-confidence at dancing, familial support, some vaguely referenced “apricot scrub” and “buff puff,” and, yes, more attractive clothes, but it’s handled very well; she’s poor, and her costume reflects that.  There’s one blink-and-you’ll-miss-it scene where she’s made up like the other girls, but it’s presented as ridiculous, and she returns to her normal, bare-faced persona

In short, Fran is different.  She’s not like those other girls – and Scott’s not like those other boys, who are presented as either drunk and distracted or focused on nothing but ballroom.  It’s a simple device, but it works –  Scott and Fran’s relative normalcy and Fran’s inexperience make them effective conduits for the audience.  The ridiculous costumes and makeup of most of the dancers, which involves face jewels, ruffled sleeves, sequins, fake tans and bleach-blonde hair, contrasts sharply with Scott and Fran’s normal costumes, which allows the audience to feel, along with their surrogates, removed from those ridiculous, often ego-maniacal  characters that fill out the minor cast.

It succeeds both as a ridiculous drama and all-out comedy; it’s predictable, but it’s funny and well-shot.  Further, it’s unusual; yes, once the goals have been set up, the conflicts are only requisite.  This is the type of movie where a happy ending is perfectly obvious from the inciting event, but it’s also the type of movie that actually manages to make you care about the characters; even in a world that has experienced Dancing with the Stars, the cutthroat world of ballroom dancing is still all but foreign to most of us, and it’s fascinating to watch characters who really, really care about something so frivolous and fun face and overcome perfunctory obstacles in a bright-colored world.  Alas, Mercurio’s acting isn’t perfect, but his expertise is dancing, not acting, and his performance is serviceable, as are all of the others.  The film’s strongest aspect, though, is those dance scenes; there aren’t many long takes or elaborate set pieces, but the cutting, music, and choreography all come together well, both aesthetically and as support to the plot; it’s worth it, though, just to laugh at those dancers.

 Post-war Italy, and Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani) is in the same predicament that many of his peers are in; he has struggled to find work for over a year, his new job hinges on the use of a bicycle, his bicycle is in hock, and his wife must pawn more of their belongings in order to reclaim it, or he’ll lose his job - one he desperately needs to support his proud family.

Young Bruno Ricci (Enzo Staiola) looks up to his “daddy,” and tries to be helpful in every way, even carefully cleaning the bicycle on the first day of work.  The sun is shining brightly, it’s a new beginning, and Antonio is off to work, hanging film posters of Rita Hayworth as Gilda, until a group of thieves carefully coordinate the theft of his bicycle.

After uselessly filing a complaint with the local authorities, Antonio enlists the help of his friends at the sanitation department, who set out together early the next morning, with Bruno, to search for the stolen bicycle, but the weather changes as quickly as Antonio’s hope, of ever retrieving his bicycle.

Dragging Bruno through town and the open market, Antonio is consumed with his search for the bicycle and less concerned for the safety of his son.  He accuses the wrong man, harasses another elderly man during Mass – ignoring the words of the Benediction to “send us guidance from within.”  He neglects Bruno, who grows increasingly frustrated, as he is harassed by a stranger, falls flat on his face in the rain, and is nearly hit by several cars, all during his father’s oblivion.  Ultimately a slap in the face (literally and figuratively) quickly separates him from love and devotion to his Papa.

Rejecting the counsel of a wise woman that “either you find it now, or you never will,” Antonio becomes desperate and soon has his eye fixed on an unattended bicycle - the father’s vulnerability soon becomes a lesson in compassion to his young son.

Post WWII Italy brought on the neorealist film movement, which often meant hiring non-professional actors, as in Maggiorani’s superb performance.  Other elements included modest funding, on-location shooting, and use of natural lighting.  The availability of lower grade film stock only added to the documentary style, and offered a feeling of immediacy.  These films contained simplistic plots about the everyday, working class, with low-key dialogue, that requires a keen ear for the hidden gems.

With subtle themes of the father-son, man and God relationship, Antonio is tested in character, but never abandoned.  The Bicycle Thief (a.k.a. Bicycle Thieves), won numerous awards including an Honorary Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film.

Hearing a distant voice yell “help, a boy is drowning,” Antonio becomes panic-stricken, and runs toward the river, yelling “Bruno, Bruno, Bruno!”  Momentarily thinking of his son, a close up on Antonio’s face shows his furrowed brow relaxing, and looking around, he gazes upward.  An extreme long shot reveals helpless little Bruno, in the distance, sitting at the top of the steps, waiting patiently for his Papa.

Did you ever see the original living dead film? If not, I suggest seeing that one instead. The “remake” of it was not entirely a disappointment, but it was not the greatest remake either. In other words, if you want to see a horror film that takes place in a cabin placed somewhere in the middle of the woods, then I would suggest you try watching, “Cabin in the Woods.” That movie, to me, was a pretty good movie. This movie was not as funny as the original make, but it was gory and some of the things they say and do are just plain dumb when it comes to how one would act in the real world.

The movie is not the worst, it definitely made me cover my eyes during a couple scenes. With today’s advanced technology for special effects, visual aids and sound effects, I was spooked. Things definitely appeared more realistic and creepy.

The very end of the film made me furrow my eyebrows. Though I do not wish to give it away, I will only point out and ask, of all things, why bury alive, then use a car battery to bring back someone? In my eyes, I thought that direction was stupid, but then again, it was only a movie. I may just buy this movie for the hell of it.

I think the very, very beginning was just fantastic. We are all confused as to who is the crazy one, the girl about to be burnt alive, or her family? You will see what I mean, when the hiccup in change comes into course.

So yes, if you don’t mind gore, scary demon/zombie humans using high speed nail guns, crazy sound effects such as, cutting the face off/arm off, neck cracking, then I am sure you won’t mind this film. There are brief parts where it is worth laughing out loud to. So keep that in mind ;)  Also, the movie is less than 2 hrs. And who isnt a fan of Jane Levy?

  During war time, a city may be declared open by the current government, in order to avoid further bombing and devastation.  Rome Open City takes place in Rome, at a pivotal time during WWII.  With the Nazi Party and Italian Fascists still running the city, evidence of the impending Americans and Allied Forces are clearly visible amongst debris of bombed out buildings.

Pina (Anna Magnani) is pregnant, unwed, and mother to a young boy named Marcello (Vito Annicchiarico), who secretly plants and ignites bombs with other friends to aid the Italian Resistance.  Francesco (Francesco Grandjacquet) is Pina’s fiancé, and a member of the  Resistance, and although he’s not religious, Francesco has agreed to be married in The Church by Pina’s priest Don Pietro (Aldo Fabrizi), who also happens to work underground with the Resistance.

Giorgio (Marcello Pagliero) is Francesco’s Communist friend, and an important leader in the Resistance.  He’s wanted by the Gestapo, and his lover Marina (Maria Michi), is an addict, who’s enticed by the Nazi’s to betray her confidences for profit.

In the midst of rubble, poverty, hunger and hopelessness, the citizens rely on hope, generosity of others, and daily rations.  Being allotted only 4 ounces a day, the local women and children storm a bakery, and come away with their bags full of panino, while an Italian sergeant, hungry himself, looks the other way, yet Pina generously shares a couple of loaves with him.

While walking home with Don Pietro, Pina admits she has led a “bad life,” and tells Don Pietro he could “never understand,” and while we the audience, are privy to Don Pietro’s underground work, Pina is not – Don Pietro replies “we have so much to be forgiven for.”

Two years into the invasion with no end in sight, Pina confides to Francesco that sometimes she “just can’t go on.”  Francesco comforts her, saying ”the road will be long and hard…but we’ll see a better world, and our children especially will see it, that’s why you mustn’t ever be afraid.”  Hopelessly thinking of her young son, and the second child on the way, Pina replies “si, Francesco, [tears welling up in her eyes] but I’m never afraid.”

Rome Open City led to the dawning of a new film movement known as Italian Neorealism (or new realism), with themes that surrounded realistic social issues of the lower working class, structured by post-war trauma, and based heavily on emotions with little to no moral judgments made.  This involved heavy use of on-location shooting, and lower grade film stock, which offered an immediacy to the look and feel of the film, and was due in part to a lack of proper funding or available supplies.

With a vague plot line and simplistic shooting style (or style-less), the subtle messages speak of the endurance of the next generation.  The depth of the film may truly be found in what is said, rather than how much is said, while the focus is placed on the subtle (or natural) acting style – a film lover cannot walk away from this film without falling in love with Anna Magnani’s low-key, heartfelt sincerity.

Rome Open City won several international awards, and was nominated for an Academy Award in Best Writing, and must be viewed twice to fully appreciate.

The first film from the Lumière brothers was a documentary, La Sortie de l’Usine Lumière à Lyon (1895). Less than a minute long, it’s exactly as the title describes it (in English, The Exit from the Lumière Factory in Lyon). More recently, audiences have been treated to such films as Bag It! and Super Size Me, films that record reality, but with a clear opinion: these films have an agenda in a way that those early Lumière films refreshingly lack.

Thomas Balmès documentary Babies has created a similarly real film. About twenty minutes are spent documenting the lives of four babies from different parts of the world: San Fransisco, Namibia, Mongolia, and Japan. There is no overt commentary and only sporadic music; parents speak various languages, but never directly to the camera, and no attempts are made at subtitles or translation, Babies offers viewers cinéma verité at its finest.

Of course, despite the film’s loveliness, there is no thesis except for the obvious one: babies, regardless of where they grow up, do the same things. They do, but very little parallel editing is employed. Each of the babies is cared for by their parents, plays with toys or not, and interacts with animals and their environments. Like a filmic rendition of one of Raina Matar’s photo-essays on children and their bedrooms but for babies, the film features no introduction of the parents, and their faces are rarely shown. Some snippets of dialog are heard in the four languages of the various babies’ parents, but no subtitles are offered; it really is simply about looking at babies and seeing a world as they might.

This is key to the movie’s appeal; the camera is specifically on the babies, at their eye level, rather than the eye level of their adult caregivers.

It certainly sounds like a shallow concept, and none of the Lumière brothers films’ were more than a minute long. Director Thomas Balmès wisely keeps his running time short as well; the film clocks in at 79 minutes, ending with a Skype update from each of the featured children, who, presumably after post-production is completed, are happily functioning children. This isn’t to say that the concept wears thin; it doesn’t, and in a world where one could watch millions of two-minute Youtube videos of other babies, this well-produced and extended peek into four specific lives is a welcome example of a long-form documentary that doesn’t need more than its fascinating subject matter to thrive.