Picnic at Hanging Rock

Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place...

Have you ever had a piece of art, be it a song, a painting, a doll, move you -- touch you -- so much, that to put into words what it is seems impossible, even futile? That to try to even begin to explain what it means to you, and how it has affected you, is to almost belittle it? Sometimes a work, whatever the medium, connects with you so deeply that it feels like it has been there all along, already a part of your DNA, a component of your molecular structure. You just weren't aware this part of yourself existed until you experienced it "face to face". And then when you do experience it, suddenly so much about the world, and yourself, (because let's face it, we all ultimately view ourselves as the world), makes sense. That's what I had the first time I watched Peter Weir's 1975 film, Picnic at Hanging Rock. It's impossible to really explain just what Hanging Rock is and why it's so special, much less what it truly means to me, but I'll try to detail what makes it so unique. Rarely do you come across a film that is so subtle, yet so cataclysmic.

Picnic at Hanging Rock was only Australian director Peter Weir's second major film. I'm using the word "major" loosely; Hanging Rock was funded almost entirely independently. It was released before the "independent film" market was a thing, before it was it's own striving mini-industry. Hanging Rock didn't even get US distribution until early 1979. I'm not pointing out Hanging Rock's independent roots to signify some sort of foolhardy "cool" factor for the film, but to highlight that it was so good it eventually reached Hollywood, at a time when that was virtually unheard of for Australian cinema. It stands alongside Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film Walkabout (another great movie, though it doesn't touch me on as deeply a level as Hanging Rock), as the film that kickstarted Australia's new wave, bringing Aussie cinema to a much larger worldwide audience. To my understanding Hanging Rock is such a pop culture phenomenon in Australia that it has developed it's own cottage industry (Hanging Rock is real place), to the point that many natives have started to rebel against it, a sort of Aussie Citizen Kane. Whatever the modern homeland connotations of Rock, there's no denying it's quicksilver ability to hook those expecting a staid period drama but getting an altogether different beast entirely.

Don't let the period costumes fool you, there's some crazy shit going on here.

Before we get into the real meat of this film I must share a major spoiler. When (if?) you watch it you'll think I've ruined the film for you (if you've not yet seen it and want to, that is). Trust me, it's better to go into Rock knowing the end than to not. The basic thrust of the film involves a few people who go missing. They are never found, there's no resolution to their disappearance. Once you let go of needing an answer to what happened to these people you can freely tune in to Rock's character-driven narrative and focus on the symbolic actions of the people left behind, and the subtle clues scattered throughout that nudge you along the way. This is how the film is meant to be viewed -- as a character study of the people left behind after the disappearance, and the implications of the disappearances. Of course, your brain will do it's damnedest to try to solve the mystery anyway, even when you know the film never resolves it. Oh, there're also the supernatural elements strongly hinted at repeatedly throughout the film. Provocative, no?

Time stops at Hanging Rock...

Picnic at Hanging Rock is set in Victoria, Australia, in the year 1900. It's Valentine's Day, and the young ladies attending the fictional Appleyard College are going on an excursion to Hanging Rock, a real life volcanic formation in the area. They are warned by their domineering headmistress, Mrs. Appleyard, that the area is inhabited by poisonous snakes, among other things. They are accompanied by two of their teachers, the romantic, dreamy Mlle. de Poiters, who is French, and their stiff, English professor Miss McCraw, the very picture of uptight, but knowing, formality. Among the students are vivacious (for the time) Irma, studious Marion, and Miranda, a wise, charismatic, ethereal young woman who seems to attract the attention and affections of all who encounter her.

Mrs. Appleyard. Even if that face were kind the hair would still say "Yeah, don't eff with me, you'll regret it."

Ethereal Miranda

Mlle. de Poiters

As played by Anne-Louise Lambert, Miranda perhaps sells the film more than anyone else here, despite being in only the first half hour. Like Janet Leigh in Psycho, Anne-Louise Lambert is so incredibly talented and beautiful that it comes as a shock when she exits the film so early. Her charisma and charm are so potent that you're instantly hooked; you're right there with the remaining characters throughout the rest of the film, confused and bereft after her disappearance. It is Anne-Louise as Miranda who opens the film with a spoken-word quote by Edgar Allan Poe: "What we see and what we seem is but a dream, a dream within a dream." In addition to being the first clue that we the audience need to let go of literal readings when watching Hanging Rock, it works to align the character of Miranda with our subconscious -- before we've even seen her onscreen. (As said by Weir himself in an interview during the film's initial Australian release, he went to great lengths to separate viewers from rationality as early and as often as he could.) Miranda is the icon of Picnic at Hanging Rock, the first character we're drawn to and the one who most lingers in our minds after the movie is over. Not only does she sell the film visually, she is the thing that seals all fates symbolically, the one who sets everything in motion. She is the twist, and depending on how tuned in you are to the subtleties of the dialogue in Rock, you may just see it coming a mile away.

We also have Miranda's roommate Sara, an orphaned girl who seems to have a schoolgirl crush on Miranda. We soon learn she is the scapegoat of headmistress Appleyard; she is forbidden to go on the school outing to Hanging Rock, and in the second half of the film her troubles with Appleyard will come to the fore. It is anguished Sara, so put upon by Appleyard and struggling with the loss of her best friend, who is the heart of the film. Margaret Nelson plays Sara's heartbreak and confusion perfectly, conveying her awkwardness and desperation so realistically that it can sometimes be hard to watch. Margaret Nelson did a few more things in the late 70's before disappearing from the public eye. A real shame as she was clearly a true talent.

Sara and Miss Trunchbull Mrs. Appleyard

Rounding out the primary cast are Dominic Guard as Michael, a proper English chap, and John Jarratt as Bertie, an Australian servant to Michael's family. (You Tarantino fans may recognize Jarratt as the Aussie who shows up towards the end of Django Unchained, albeit as a much older man than he is here!) Both give strong performances, especially considering how young they were at the time.

Michael...

... and Bertie. (A bit hunky, eh?)

To do a straightforward plot synopsis seems pointless when you're dealing with such an enigmatic film. Anyway, the plot is really quite simple: some girls go missing in the Australian outback in 1900, those left behind must face the repercussions and/or self-destruct. As I already said, those who go missing are never found. (Well, except one, but I'll leave the details for you to discover -- and decipher.) The key to Rock is the tone, the atmosphere, the dialogue. All three elements are inextricably linked: the alternating sedate and heavy tone creates an atmosphere of contrasting beauty and unease, making each little word of dialogue, no matter how inconsequential, seem as if it carries portents of ultimate truth. Or mystery. Weir directs Hanging Rock with the precision of Kubrick, and perhaps it's for this reason the movie can be so infuriating for some. Modern (read: young) audiences may find the movie's subtle, gesticulating story hard to deal with. The pre-Lynchian surrealism and open ending are hardly crowd pleasers.

Rock raises many (MANY) questions, but it's not so forthcoming with answers. The film plays like a riddle, dropping hints and clues, seemingly pointing you in certain directions -- then turning them on their head. No scene exemplifies this as much as the film's centerpiece ascent sequence. We watch as the four ladies climb the rock, their Victorian garb standing out against the harsh slopes and valleys of the mountain. As they climb higher they seem to become mesmerized, as if in a trance, by the rock itself. They look down from their high perch at their fellow schoolmates lounging far below. In a detached voice, Marion observes, "A surprising number of human beings are without purpose, though it is probable that they are performing some function unknown to themselves." A bit later Miranda dreamily observes, "Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place." Hmm... just what's happening here? The girls continue climbing, taking a break to bask in the glory of the sun, breezily dancing on the rock outcroppings and simply gazing at the natural wonders around them. They even take their shoes and socks off, an act considered lewd and unbecoming in Victorian society. They reach a plateau where they all fall to the ground in unison for a brief nap. Ants crawl across their legs while a lizard passes by. They wake up in unison and in single file, small smiles of acceptance on their faces, climb the final perch. It's the last time they're seen. This ascent sequence lasts about ten minutes and is the best moment in the film. It takes on a strong surreal tone, the combination of dialogue, acting, and especially music, giving the whole event an odd tone, one that leaves you puzzled and intrigued.

Transcendentalism? What transcendentalism?

This would be the modern equivalent of, I don't know, Lindsay Lohan or something.

From this moment on one begins to wonder just what they're seeing, and everything that follows -- and everything that came before -- seems loaded with meaning. Why was Miss McCraw looking at a mathematical diagram just as the girls made their final ascent? Is that a clue to their disappearance? Why does Sara whisper Bertie's name early in the film? And why does he see her in a dream towards the end? Miranda told Sara before leaving on the trip that she wouldn't be around much longer. Did she know what was going to happen? Why is Mrs. Appleyard so disappointed in Miss McCraw? Did they have a connection we don't know about? When Michael makes his important discovery why does he hear the girls' voices in his head? What exactly is the relationship between Mrs. Appleyard and Sara? Why does she seem to hate the poor girl so much? And what's with the color red? What is it's importance? The list goes on...

Okay, you survived a time slip or alien abduction or rockslide

or something. Why you suddenly wearing red, huh?

Although the ascent is the most surreal moment in the film there are several others, most of them loaded with symbolic meaning. Michael, haunted by his brief memory of Miranda, has continual visions of her, sometimes as a swan. (It's not as weird as it sounds -- there are no Black Swan-esque transformations here.) Irma, upon returning to the school, is all but attacked by the other students. Meanwhile, poor Sara has been literally strapped to the wall, a punishment for her poor posture. (It looks like a torture device -- Victorian "ladies" were tough.) Miranda, in a scene straight out of a horror movie, wields a large knife she aims right at the camera -- except all she's cutting is the heart-shaped Valentine's Day cake they're about to eat. (Notice how the camera lingers on the heart-cake, now cut in half.) Just before she wanders off and disappears forever, Miranda's small wave goodbye inspires Mlle. de Poiters to exclaim, "Now I know! Miranda is a Botticelli angel." There are countless seeming throwaway scenes that carry deeper meaning upon closer inspection: a flower being pressed in a lock for safekeeping, a chain of young ladies tightening each other's corsets, a statue of St. Valentine being held high by the girls during a celebration, the passing back and forth of a bottle of wine between Bertie and Michael. Those are but a few.

Thematic elements abound in Rock: corrupt power, the perils of Victorian repression, burgeoning sexuality, British colonization, class structures, the harshness of the Australian outback. And that's just the literal stuff. Anything beyond that is up to speculation, and Rock most certainly invites speculation! Did the girls disappear into a time slip? Or perhaps an Aboriginal dream state? Maybe it was as simple as they just fell into a deep cavern, or a boulder fell on them. But if that's the case, how to explain that pesky red "cloud" Edith saw when the girls disappeared?

Theories are many as to what happened. I even have my own -- but I'm not saying what it is. What I will say is Picnic at Hanging Rock is the kind of film that strives on it's lack of closure. It's the questions it raises that keep you hooked, that get under your skin, that make you think. In many ways the questions are the very point. It's a lush film, loaded with stunning cinematography and utilizing relaxing, naturalistic music (thanks to Zamfir's panpipe), and a much more tense, ominous, electronic score (by Bruce Smeaton). Both film and score have been highly influential -- just look at Sofia Coppola's excellent The Virgin Suicides.

Although it openly engages it's audience to ponder what it's all about there are no "wrong" answers to the mysteries of Hanging Rock. (Speaking of, how nice to have a movie that takes it's audience seriously!) And it's why this film is so very personal for me, why I'm reluctant to even say what my own interpretation is. The ways it has touched me are impossible to put into words; everything I've discussed here is ultimately surface. Rock is what you make of it. Subtle yet cataclysmic. What we see and what we seem is but a dream, a dream within a dream...

---------------------------------------

Til next time!

Boil wash results -- Brought to you by Pop Surrealism!

I have a small handful of films I'm just itching to discuss here at The Sequel, and one of those was going to be covered today (a hint on what the film was: it involves a "hanging rock".). Alas, work has gotten in the way and instead I've to go to Plan B for today's blog: posting some result shots of the dolls I gave boil washes to last week. To make it a bit more interesting, I shot the ladies in front of some pieces by Alex Gross, one of my favorite Pop Surrealists.

First up is SRM Lagoona. Her hair came out straight, just as I'd hoped, and looks pretty good! I may need to apply a product of some kind to fix the split ends. But I think she looks pretty fab overall! Check her out...

The other girl who went under the boil was DT Abbey. Really, she got more of a simmer perm than a boil one, because I wasn't sure how her tinsel would handle the heat. Again, I'm happy with these results. Her actual hair is so much better now -- smooth, silky, and manageable. The tinsel still isn't perfect, but much better than it was like before. Here she is in her icey glory...

Music today has been Goldfrapp...

Over through a dark and gentle sea
Open into portal seventeen
I wanna laugh and tape it down

Cat People

When I think of cinema classics Cat People is always one that comes to mind first. Granted, it's no 2001, but damn if it isn't a potent little gem in it's own right. I pay it a visit every few years and always thoroughly enjoy it. The last visit was just a few days ago and it's been floating around in my head since.

The moment this wonderfully dark Art Deco title card comes on the screen you know you're in for a treat.

Part of what fascinates me about Cat People is it's origins. Released in 1942, it's the product of a struggling studio trying to make a quick buck with a trendy "creature feature". Orson Welles' Citizen Kane nearly bankrupted RKO Pictures; the studio needed a hit, and the cheaper they could score one the better. They saw the money the Universal horror flicks were raking in and devised a plan: they would make cheapie horror flicks, cashing in on the horror trend and, hopefully, earning back the money they lost on Citizen Kane. They set up a department headed by Val Lewton, who would produce the films. They would give him titles and it was his job to build a film around them. The first of these films was Cat People. RKO anticipated a scary movie following a monstrous being, a la The Wolf Man or Frankenstein. What they got was an intelligent character piece that also serves as an early example of psychological horror. Much to RKO's delight the film was a smash success, and a handful of cheaply made Lewton horror flicks followed in quick succession. The element of surprise may have played a role in the film's success. People probably weren't expecting a movie called Cat People to be so gorgeously shot, it's sumptuous shadows and light giving it a sophisticated, noir-ish tone. That it was filmed in a matter of weeks on a shoestring budget truly astounds me; it looks like a million bucks, as they used to say. And the subject matter, when you really get into the psychology of it, is very dark.

The creature feature poster art, though certainly beautiful, 

doesn't quite convey the dark, psychological depths this film will plumb.

The story revolves around Irena Dubrovna, a Serbian-born fashion designer working in New York City. She meets all-American "good boy" Oliver Reed and the two promptly fall in love. But Irena has a problem. She believes she suffers from an ancient curse: if she is emotionally aroused she will turn into a panther and kill her lover. This creates problems in their relationship. Irena loves and wants to be with Oliver, but is afraid that if she lets her love fully engulf her she will transform and kill him. What are they to do?

Oliver and Irena have their meet-cute... but things won't stay cute for long...

The strength of the story here lies not in the literal plot but rather in the subtext. And, boy, is this movie loaded with subtext! Back then films were much more restricted in what they could say and show onscreen. Topics that were considered "taboo" had to be dealt with through symbolism and metaphor. Here, Irena's curse is an obvious stand-in for sex. But beyond that, what the movie delves into is fear and power, of letting go, or the opposite, self-repression.

As seen in the above three shots, visual symbolism tells us as much about these people, their motivations, 

and their fates as the spoken dialogue does.

Beautiful French actress Simone Simon played Irena and she does an amazing job. She is sweet, kind, approachable, and yet, as we see later, can also be quite menacing. She's also conflicted; Simon plays Irena's alternating joy and fear perfectly. There are moments when we see Irena is so full of longing, of wanting to let her love for Oliver burst forth, but she just can't. And later in the film, as she finds herself literally and metaphorically cornered, we see her vengeful, angry side come out. It's a complicated, multi-layered role; my hat's off to Simon for handling it so adeptly.

The stunning Simone Simon as Irena, relaxing in her apartment in front of her alter ego, 

the same Art Deco panther we saw earlier in the film's title card. 

Irena drops to her knees in frustration, unable to open the door she leans against to let her lover in.

Cat People occasionally flirts with surrealism. The first and best of these moments comes during Irena's first visit to her psychologist. She's under hypnotism, laying down with her eyes closed, and she speaks in a dreamy, distant voice of her childhood in Serbia. A spotlight is pointed on her. All we see as she speaks is her face surrounded by pitch black, almost as if she is floating. It's a stark visual, beautiful and atmospheric. It also highlights the isolation Irena feels because of her curse.

Under hypnosis, floating into her subconscious, Irena speaks of her deepest fears.

Although not scary by today's standards, Cat People has two extremely tense scare sequences. The first one involves a late night walk through Central Park and a particularly loud bus. The other, an underground swimming pool and some atmospheric (and frightening) shadows. Both scenes are gorgeously shot and perfectly edited. The tension just builds and builds until it finally explodes! Just don't expect Nightmare On Elm Street caliber scares; Cat People is from a different time and what was scary then is much tamer today.

Alice is being stalked by... what? A jealous woman? Or perhaps a vengeful panther?

Shadows and light give Cat People a moody visual tone. Horror never looked so lush.

One thing I really love about films from this era is that they didn't underestimate their audience. A perfect example is the handling of Dr. Judd, Irena's psychologist. Judd is not a good man. He is the person Irena is most depending on to help her. The nature of their relationship is intimate, he's her psychologist after all. But he really has no intentions of helping her at all; instead he plans to exploit her because he finds her attractive. In a modern movie Dr. Judd's motivations would be shouted out at us through obvious dialogue and actions, because modern filmmakers don't trust their audience to be smart enough to pick up on subtleties. In Cat People this storyline is handled smartly; his motivations are initially hinted at, and only later come to the fore, but the whole time we understand that he is not to be trusted. Another example is Alice, Oliver's coworker. She will eventually become a wedge between Irena and Oliver, and perhaps even helps seal Irena's fate. But rather than present her as a one-dimensional, mean-spirited, "other woman", the film presents Alice as very likable --  a smart, independent woman with a mind of her own. It's easy to see why Oliver likes her because we like her, too.

Alice and Oliver begin to suspect that maybe Irena's curse is real...

In the end there are no easy answers or solutions to the problems these characters face. That's part of what makes the film so engrossing. You're wondering through the entire film how any of this could possibly end happily. And, spoiler alert, it doesn't. The heartbreaking ending is surely part of what makes Cat People so potent. But even more so, the internal conflict Irena feels, of wanting so badly to love but being afraid to, is what really makes this movie tic. There are constant undercurrents of treachery surrounding Irena -- Dr. Judd, Alice, and even Oliver, who never takes her belief in the curse seriously until it's too late. And what will happen when all this pressure Irena feels -- from others, from herself, from her vacillating hopefulness and frustration -- comes to a head? There's a lot going on in Cat People, and if you're willing to engage in the psychology of it, and investigate what is implied rather than what is outright said, you'll find a lot to chew on here. You may even find yourself moved by it. This is a great film that I always suggest when people ask me for a good "old movie". Highly recommended!

Cat People bids you farewell on a somber, poetic note. 

The placement of the panther's cage behind it isn't without reason.