Chinatown

As little as possible. I feel an almost guilt for loving this movie considering Polanski’s heinous actions—a reserved seat in hell with his name stenciled. The ending turns what the John Huston character did into a justification that it’s just life, there is nothing we can do about it. While it works with nearly anything—death, poverty, even war—no, this I can’t turn my head on. The fact you acknowledge through your art the terror in your actions. I refuse to let you think that art reflects reality. Art will never reflect reality. What you think is a natural occurrence of life, shown in your art, is not—and the world has proved that. Art will never reflect reality or come close. I feel Jake’s character in the end—so much emotional turmoil to the situation at hand. Everything cinema could ask for at the tip of your fingers—but Polanski is a terrible human being ruined it. And you just gotta leave with the fact of failure, of disturbance, of the world. “Forget about it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.” To address the rest. Art doesn’t reflect reality. Reality shouldn’t affect art. This movie doesn’t belong to Polanski, it belongs to us. And it will be treated as such. If you’ve read Syd Field’s Screenplay, the book always refers back here. “Look at how in Chinatown… In Chinatown… How Chinatown does this.” And rightly so—I see why this was used as the example. Chinatown is regarded as the perfect script, and it’s true. This takes the central outline of plot beats and points as well as the Hero’s Journey storytelling arc, but it moves things upside down a bit for writing and genre twists. The movie gives us all the answers, but it’s in the question that lies the Aha! moment—or what you’re on the edge of your seat and biting your nails for. It’s not the answers you need—it’s the question you try to ask the film. You already know what happened and who did what, but why? Why is the central focus of all detective films—but in Chinatown, it’s why that is the resolution. Jake Gittes, the private eye—or in the context of how it’s shown, “I.” The camera moves from behind him almost like a video game, back turned. This is more effective than POV shots and visually appealing. We sit in the environment he is in and only see what he sees. The leading lines are slanted—we feel uncomfortable. We know something is going to happen when we see his face with the environment framing slanted lines around him, but we don’t know what. And I’m sure that’s just what the character feels. Him being naive, only giving us everything we need to solve it, and we think we solve it—but there’s always more. And even when we know and find out, we need something more—something more as an audience. An odd feeling to have. That is because we have successfully infiltrated his mind. We need what he needs—a triumph and satisfaction—none of which the story gives us. I love how the movie portrays depth as a symbol for politics in life. Things are not what they seem. The camera shows the depth of every shot. There are layers—in light, in people, in inserts. Every shot consists of layers and distortion of depth. Things further away seem closer; things closer seem further away. Adding a sort of subconscious curiosity. But also, I think, symbolizes the depth to politics—and more importantly, what you shouldn’t know. Everything is ugly on the other side. Everything seems to make sense when you get all the pieces (people or things close to the camera), but it’s only when you look further away (people or things away from the camera)—from media and source, to use your own eyes—that it all makes sense. Through Jake’s eyes, we see everything has a deeper level of ugliness. An affair is a worse sexual deviance. Political buzz news is government corruption. The quaint, rich life is full of trauma and fear. All that is out in the open for everyone to see is hiding—and hiding the fact that it’s hiding. This two-faced philosophy on life is portrayed best by the asymmetrical view: Jake’s cut, the glasses in the pond, the taillight broken out, and the character shot in the one eye. Through all the gestures and camera work and writing, we see that nothing is as it seems. It all has depth, even if it appears to show itself entirely to you. Jake knows this—because what does the film begin with? A picture. Media—all sorts of physical media—is used to tell a story, help us solve the mystery. But him using his own eyes, going from gaining evidence to being the witness of evidence, helps him uncover the puzzle pieces through media he couldn’t solve. The writing technique is ingenious in how it adds twists to a genre in which we were expecting them, but didn’t deliver—instead delivering a new outlook. The femme fatale is not manipulative and sly, but scared and the victim. The mystery is not “Who done it?” but “Why do it? How do it?” And even in the ending—if you are familiar with film noir—then you know what it is. But there is a slight twist to it. We knew it was there, but they told us it was there from the title of the movie. Chinatown isn’t a place—it represents failure, bad luck, misconceptions of heroism, corruption. All things Jake talks about and resents and keeps a tight lid on regarding any work he did there. He knew what would come and tried to prevent it—but his obsession with his vanity, reputation, and this idea of him being the hero, the idea of him having to be the smartest one to figure it out all on his own—that is what brought him not to a place, but to a theme. Not in the film, but the theme of his life… —Chinatown