Broken Flowers
So I saw the new Bill Murray movie, Broken Flowers, the other day on DVD. Murray plays this burnt out ex-computer entrepreneur who receives an anonymous, detail sparse letter about a son he may or may not have fathered 20 years previously. At the prodding of his (really) enthusiastic, mystery-obsessed neighbor, Murray reluctantly sets off on a quest to find and talk to each of the women he knew at that time. Murray's been creating a lot of great, ambivalent, melancholy characters lately, and this is another solid one in that vein.
But one of the most fascinating things for me, about the movie, was how director Jim Jarmusch uses architecture and design to quickly set up the characters. It starts in the opening pan, which follows a mail carrier on her rounds.
The neighbor's first. Check it out, kids playing, green grass, toys all over the unkempt yard:
And Murray's house, just next door, with its meticulous landscaping, square lines, lame fake rock, absence of any sign of life:
Architecture is a form of cinematic shorthand. Films use it because audiences immediately understand; they intuitively know what it reveals about the characters. Jarmusch uses environments expressionistically, to reveal the interiority of his characters' souls.
This man's dead inside. And look: his complete spiritual anomie is perfectly conveyed in just one glance by his tasteful, clean-lined designer modernist furnishings.
What gave them the idea to make everything that color? Beige, brown, and that slightly bile-y yellow-- everything looks like it's covered in one of those old, transparent vinyl sheets paranoid people put on their couches.
Compare the neighbor's house, though. Every room's a riot of color. Every wall is covered by paintings, posters, photographs, artwork and drawings from the kids
This guy works two jobs and still has the inclination to play amateur sleuth for his neighbor. He's alive.
Look, I'm not saying redecorating is going to make your life worth living. But it has to be better than just sitting there.
But one of the most fascinating things for me, about the movie, was how director Jim Jarmusch uses architecture and design to quickly set up the characters. It starts in the opening pan, which follows a mail carrier on her rounds.
The neighbor's first. Check it out, kids playing, green grass, toys all over the unkempt yard:
And Murray's house, just next door, with its meticulous landscaping, square lines, lame fake rock, absence of any sign of life:
Architecture is a form of cinematic shorthand. Films use it because audiences immediately understand; they intuitively know what it reveals about the characters. Jarmusch uses environments expressionistically, to reveal the interiority of his characters' souls.
This man's dead inside. And look: his complete spiritual anomie is perfectly conveyed in just one glance by his tasteful, clean-lined designer modernist furnishings.
What gave them the idea to make everything that color? Beige, brown, and that slightly bile-y yellow-- everything looks like it's covered in one of those old, transparent vinyl sheets paranoid people put on their couches.
Compare the neighbor's house, though. Every room's a riot of color. Every wall is covered by paintings, posters, photographs, artwork and drawings from the kids
This guy works two jobs and still has the inclination to play amateur sleuth for his neighbor. He's alive.
Look, I'm not saying redecorating is going to make your life worth living. But it has to be better than just sitting there.
posted by Tim Tolle at 11:37 AM
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