Seen: Killer of Sheep
I am not sure what to do with this blog. I'm thinking I'll fill it, for now, with some notes on movies, books, music, and other things I've enjoyed.
So I just finished watching Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep, even though it's been in relatively wide release for a couple of years. I'm not sure what to say. It's three decades old but it still feels original enough it could inspire a lot of movies that are yet to be made.
There is a sequence involving a Halloween mask that could be the seed of a new genre of deadpan horror movies. There is a single-shot, slow-dance scene where next to nothing happens, but that still sets the mind spinning with all kinds of ideas.
Whenever I see a movie that feels radically original (or what's considered eccentric until it becomes mainstream), I find myself reaching for all kinds of unrelated comparisons. When Killer of Sheep ended, I tried to think of a student film that was better; I couldn't come up with one.
Then I thought of The Grapes of Wrath, simply because the vignettes in Burnett's film felt like the Depression had never ended, just retired to a few forgotten corners like 1970s-era Watts. I thought of the Wire, because of the way it snuck a camera into those corners. I thought of Shadows, because of the tone or Italian neorealism it maybe borrowed, maybe achieved. Somehow, Killer of Sheep seemed - even with the unpolished acting - to be more authentic than any of them.
I suspect the power of the movie lies in the anger that never is never made explicit. The slaughterhouse violence progresses in a revolting way as the move continues. Yet Stan seems to grow more comfortable, and even easy with it. And it's not clear whether that is a sign of his character growing, or deteriorating. The scenes of children playing, which Burnett apparently filmed documentary style, feel like a revolution trying to figure out how to happen.
Instead, it's like Burnett sits inside the camera and draws on its power. Killer of Sheep's strength lies in its ability to reach back to the idioms of great silent movies, where dialog was secondary to the story that could be told through images and gestures.
There's a father-son theme that is established early on, but pretty much climaxes in a scene where Stan's son, his father absent, unloads a box of C&H Sugar onto a bowl of Frosted Flake. It is comical, and very nearly violent. The camera angles and editing record the excess that was first celebrated/excoriated in, say, Foolish Wives. Von Stroheim may have been a huge pain in the ass, but he had enough sense to respect that scene.
Shot in 16mm, Killer of Sheep still had moments where the lighting was amazing. The opening scene of Stan's childhood. That slow-dance scene. The crap game near the end of the film. The shots of scared sheep sensing a danger that was about to reveal itself.
Then there's the soundtrack, ranging from Paul Robeson to Louis Armstrong to Dinah Washington's "This Bitter Earth" (the only song played twice and in full, which links two scenes - and two sides of Stan - in a quiet but devastating way). Silent movies had a consistent soundtrack that enhanced the images telling the story. Burnett stitched together a quilt of evocative songs that did the same. He couldn't release the movie because he couldn't afford the rights to these songs. But it's hard to imagine the movie without them.
So I just finished watching Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep, even though it's been in relatively wide release for a couple of years. I'm not sure what to say. It's three decades old but it still feels original enough it could inspire a lot of movies that are yet to be made.
There is a sequence involving a Halloween mask that could be the seed of a new genre of deadpan horror movies. There is a single-shot, slow-dance scene where next to nothing happens, but that still sets the mind spinning with all kinds of ideas.
Whenever I see a movie that feels radically original (or what's considered eccentric until it becomes mainstream), I find myself reaching for all kinds of unrelated comparisons. When Killer of Sheep ended, I tried to think of a student film that was better; I couldn't come up with one.Then I thought of The Grapes of Wrath, simply because the vignettes in Burnett's film felt like the Depression had never ended, just retired to a few forgotten corners like 1970s-era Watts. I thought of the Wire, because of the way it snuck a camera into those corners. I thought of Shadows, because of the tone or Italian neorealism it maybe borrowed, maybe achieved. Somehow, Killer of Sheep seemed - even with the unpolished acting - to be more authentic than any of them.
I suspect the power of the movie lies in the anger that never is never made explicit. The slaughterhouse violence progresses in a revolting way as the move continues. Yet Stan seems to grow more comfortable, and even easy with it. And it's not clear whether that is a sign of his character growing, or deteriorating. The scenes of children playing, which Burnett apparently filmed documentary style, feel like a revolution trying to figure out how to happen.
Instead, it's like Burnett sits inside the camera and draws on its power. Killer of Sheep's strength lies in its ability to reach back to the idioms of great silent movies, where dialog was secondary to the story that could be told through images and gestures.
There's a father-son theme that is established early on, but pretty much climaxes in a scene where Stan's son, his father absent, unloads a box of C&H Sugar onto a bowl of Frosted Flake. It is comical, and very nearly violent. The camera angles and editing record the excess that was first celebrated/excoriated in, say, Foolish Wives. Von Stroheim may have been a huge pain in the ass, but he had enough sense to respect that scene.
Shot in 16mm, Killer of Sheep still had moments where the lighting was amazing. The opening scene of Stan's childhood. That slow-dance scene. The crap game near the end of the film. The shots of scared sheep sensing a danger that was about to reveal itself.Then there's the soundtrack, ranging from Paul Robeson to Louis Armstrong to Dinah Washington's "This Bitter Earth" (the only song played twice and in full, which links two scenes - and two sides of Stan - in a quiet but devastating way). Silent movies had a consistent soundtrack that enhanced the images telling the story. Burnett stitched together a quilt of evocative songs that did the same. He couldn't release the movie because he couldn't afford the rights to these songs. But it's hard to imagine the movie without them.
