An Ode to THE LIGHTHOUSE

Ah, the beginning of the year, aka “Chris gets angry at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, Season”. Every year I see that the Academy Awards nominations are out and every single year, like clockwork, I get drastically irate. Since my main man Jake Gyllenhaal was snubbed for his truly transformative performance in 2014’s modern classic, Nightcrawler, I’ve been a banner waver for taking the Academy down a notch. I know it’s just an award ceremony for the one percent of the one percent to truly get anything out of, but it’s an award ceremony that most casual lookers-on take as gospel, at least as far as movie recommendations/status go. Here’s the problem with that: the Academy has little to no grasp on what even deserves to be best of the year anymore, either that or being a five-hour commercial for shitty movie studios makes you oodles of cash, but I digress. It’s no surprise that this year has its fair share of snubs and underserving nominations (I’m pointing a VERY condescending side eye at you, Joker) but, no Oscar snub is a greater tragedy than the disservice to the best film of the decade: The Lighthouse. 

I recognize that The Lighthouse was in fact nominated for one Oscar: Cinematography, and that’s a no brainer! Objectively, The Lighthouse is the most visually striking piece of media I’ve seen in my lifetime. Cinematographer Jarin Blaschke used black and white 35mm film, as well as an augmented Panavision Millennium XL2 camera with vintage Baltar lenses meaning he could recreate images and shot styles that, by the modern movie goer, haven’t been seen since as late as 1938. But this also came with its own set of trepidations. The brutal shooting conditions of the harshly wet Yarmouth winter caused the cameras to frequently break, forcing the team to couple together three different eras of camera equipment. This escalates the palpable old world feel to the level of pure immersion. The moment the first foghorn signals, you’re immediately sunken in to the drab, dark, desolate maritime world of The Lighthouse. Every shot reeks of hours of calculation, and just because this movie is in black and white do not for an instant think the look of it is dull. Far from it! The utilization of a full spectrum of blacks, whites, and greys that you can only get from real black and white speaks for the level of mastery we’re talking about here. Even the aspect ratio itself was carefully selected for both its’ historical significance in film, but also to force you as the viewer into the sheer cramped isolation that the two leads are feeling. I’m starting to hear myself drone because, after all, how many times can I say that this is the most visually captivating film I’ve seen this year? Let’s move onto something that baffles me as to why Robert and Max Eggers did not get a nod from the Academy for: The Script.

To say that this is a psychological thriller would be an oversimplification of Homer Simpsonian proportions. These two actively sifted through a whole generation crafting this screenplay. The Eggers took inspiration from a real 1801 incident, deemed “The Smalls Lighthouse Tragedy,” but also took queues from paintings of Sascha Schneider, and the writings of Melville and other actual historical writings from the time period. At the risk of sounding like I enjoy the smell of my own farts, the Brothers Eggers have created the perfect promethean tale of toxic masculinity. I’m not saying the movie is itself saying that it’s a bad thing to be a man, but the film does capture the trite things that two men hyper-focused on being the “man of the island” would do to each other to tear the other down. Let’s look at the levels here for a minute. We have the baseline actual PLOT of the movie which is two men being pitted against each other by nothing more than isolation and nature. All the while, the phallic, titular, lighthouse is always looming its presence down on the two men, seemingly imposing its will of domination onto them.  This isn’t just a tale of isolation…I mean, it is, but allow me to extrapolate here. This is a perfect microcosm of all the terrible things men do to each other to get to that coveted number one spot. The plot twists and turns like the knives in both Old Tom and young Winslow’s backs. Dually delivered of course. While we’re talking of knives, let’s highlight the delicious, savory meat of the script. The framework without which, we wouldn’t have the two true standout performances of the year as well as their actors’ respective careers: The Dialogue.

I have no idea what hoops Robert and Max had to leap through to create dialogue that is soaked in memories that cannot possibly be their own. Each line steps straight out of a time machine set for the early 1900s. Willem Defoe delivers a monologue, actually it’s a disservice to Defoe to taint this as a mere monologue. This is a Sea Curse, the likes of which Ursula herself wishes she was capable of taking credit for: 

“Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!” 

To further the madness that is this ninety-degree downward spiral of a script, Dafoe’s Old Tom even has scripted FARTS! These go hand in hand with the dark, starkly black comedy on display here. We have the aforementioned flatulence, but also Robert Pattinson going toe to toe with a larger than it should be seagull, and Pattinson himself also gets a hilarious telling off on Dafoe that is for the record books! “You think yer so damned high and mighty cause yer a goddamned lighthouse keeper? Well, you ain't a captain of no ship and you never was, you ain't no general, no copper, you ain't the president, and you ain't my father -- and I'm sick of you actin' like you is! I'm sick of your laugh, your snoring, and your goddamned farts. Your damned goddamned farts. Goddamn yer farts! You smell like piss, you smell like jism, like rotten dick, like curdled foreskin, like hot onions fucked a farmyard shit-house. And I'm sick of yer smell. I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it, you goddamned drunk. You goddamned, no-account, drunken, son-of-a-bitch-bastard liar! That's what you are, you're a goddamned drunken horse-shitting -- short -- shit liar. A liar!” But we also have some truly mind warping dream sequences and hilarious editing gags. Are you seeing why a lot of critics are calling this a film that’s impossible to label? The script takes its themes of isolation and male antagonism, and births a raucous culmination of the two. Giving us an impossible-to-nail-down thriller that also at times feels exactly like one of those, “This one time I got so drunk with a coworker…” stories. And what a pair of coworkers!

I know the term “career defining” is one of those hyperbolic terms thrown around willy-nilly, but Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson have taken characters that should be simple slates, and given them true life. Simple looks speak volumes, and their movements doubly so. Dafoe’s Old Tom moves in ways that you only see old men who know nothing but work move. Pattinson’s Winslow practically walks with a chip visibly on his shoulder. There is not an iota of character in these two men that is not either visually keyed to us, or painfully pulled from Winslow’s solemn mouth by Old Tom. You can find articles and videos on the practically biblical feats that these two titans of the craft went through to put these performances on screen. Dafoe himself didn’t even stay in a hotel throughout the shoot! He lived in a small fisherman’s cottage! Director Robert Eggers was quoted saying “Sometimes he’d beat himself in the face so bad. Or when it was raining through the cottage roof, Rob was drinking the rainwater in between takes... Or he’d stick his fingers down his throat to make himself gag, stuff like that.” These men ate mud, actually drunk themselves crazy, actually struck blows on each other, and went through the brutal shooting conditions this whole endeavor required. The entire crew went through hell during the shoot, enduring freezing temperatures, the cold Atlantic waters, intense winds, snow, rain, all while on location at Cape Forchu. All contributing into the brilliantly bleak performances and look of the film. I can’t give enough credit to everyone involved in this masterpiece. This magnificent piece of art took every ounce of hard work and talent that all could muster, and it shows in spades. No other film this decade has transported me into a different era like this, frightened me like this, took me on a ride like this, nor wowed me like this. If you’re reading this and haven’t seen The Lighthouse yet, go buy it and watch it on repeat. Every viewing will give you new insight into it. Seek out the light, for there is enchantment in it.