Tag Archives: steve mcqueen

12 Years a Slave

Dear Michael S. Martin, Property Master,

They say possession is nine-tenths of the law. In other words, the person with an object is presumed to be rightful owner unless there is clear evidence to the contrary. This must make your job a bit of a nightmare, with so many props flying around set. Still, it would be a pretty rich for an actor to, for example, tear off the tag and walk away wearing a Civil War-era tricorne, pretending it was theirs, right? You would have them fired and give them a real tongue-lashing, no doubt.  But master, I pray that your anger and outbursts aren’t multiplied by the size of the claim. Otherwise, you’ve learned nothing from working on 12 Years a Slave.

This trivial comparison of a hat with a human being wouldn’t be ridiculous in the American South of the mid 1800s (not to suggest that stealing and selling people is only a thing of the past). But the slavery debate shaped modern America, and the ultimate refute to those barbaric principles has to be the story of Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor). In the extremely able hands of director Steve McQueen, this true story is done justice in ways that are both subtle and severe. Most notably, of course, with the one prop that I’m sure had everyone on set reeling: the whip.

Even before Jesus Christ suffered his 39 lashes (considered one short of killing a man), the whip was the ultimate symbol of dominance and punishment. In your film, its use on characters and exposure to the audience is amplified each time it appears. There are other instruments of torture, such as knives, nails and rope, but it’s hard to surpass the theatrics and visceral pain of a lashing. Hardly entertaining, but also hard to shake. And that seems to be the strategy of the film. There’s an uncomfortable air throughout, with shots held a bit longer than we’d like and no foreshowing of relief. The title alone presumes that Northup will eventually be unchained, but unlike the fictional Django, we can also know that his retribution (if any) will never right how badly he was wronged. 

And how could it?  Effectively cut together with non-linear editing, the film bounces between scenes of Northup struggling in captivity, and his previous life as a well-educated musician and freeman in Saratoga Springs, New York. The very first scenes show a failed attempt to compose a letter out of a shaved stick and tree sap, and, in what seems another life, tightening the string’s on his violin. The extreme close-ups of these props help build tension even before we completely understand the context. This mirrors the understanding of certain characters, such as the slave traders, slave drivers and slave owners played with increasing cruelty by Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Giamatti, Paul Dano, Sarah Paulson and Michael Fassbender. Caught up in the minutia of the law and scripture, they completely fail to see the larger picture.

The rest of us, luckily, aren’t so lucky. We see everything.

Masterfully done,

Christopher

Status: Priority Post (4.5/5)

Shame

Dear Michael Fassbender’s Penis, Actor,

Everyone is talking about you. As the breakout star of Steve McQueen’s ode to impassive sex and emotional vacancy, there’s no denying that you have a commanding screen presence. It was hard to take my eyes off you—yet I think your contributions to the film are being overlooked. Indeed, it’s when you’re out of frame that you do your best work.

You play the very busy penis of Brandon (Michael Fassbender), a handsome single fellow of undefined professional orientation who lives out a teenage male fantasy in his barren New York bachelor-pad: sex with prostitutes, sex with socialites beneath the New Jersey turnpike, sex with himself in front of his laptop. When Brandon’s sister (Carey Mulligan) shows up to spend a few nights on the couch, and, in a drunken fit, beds one of his colleagues, it’s your jealous twitching that drives him to seek solace in ever more dangerous – and wanton – sexual scenarios.  

But the truth is, while you’re clearly working hard throughout, it’s the one scene in which you’re not working that best exemplifies McQueen’s diagnostic treatment of Brandon’s peculiar fetish (which, really, is a broad, all-encompassing fetish for everything dispassionate and mechanical). The moment most difficult to watch isn’t when Brandon has you dipping in and out of two prostitutes, or even when, desperate for release, he takes you into the back room of a gay night club—it’s when, seemingly on the precipice of finding himself in a real human relationship, your disinterest sabotages the affair.  

Though it’s full of sex, Shame is by no means a sexy film. Even the scene you share with Carey Mullligan’s vagina (in which, unseen, you are nonetheless a threatening offscreen presence) has a medical coldness to it. Which is the point, I suppose. To be titillated by Brandon’s exploits would be contradictory; he, himself, isn’t titillated by them. Only, perhaps, by the idea of them.

Clearly you and Mr. Fassbender work well together. The scenes you share (in the shower, in the bathroom stall at his workplace) suggest an intimacy long in the making. I hope to see you collaborating again sometime soon. Maybe the next X-Men movie? Surely Magneto, in those burgundy tights, surrounded by teenage runaways, has a few psychosexual issues that need to be explored.     

Enviously,

Jared Young

Status: Air Mail (3.5/5)