"Medium Cool" (1968) Dir: Haskell Wexler
When I first saw "Medium Cool" I was far too young to appreciate it for what it actually is. I loved it anyway, perhaps partially because it baffled me. I was born in suburban England in 1986, and thus had no frame of reference for the setting of social unrest that is used as an omnipresent main character, alongside Robert Forster's brilliant John Cassellis - news cameraman, modern professional, and casual womaniser. Critics of this film have said that the plot is too thin and unlikely to support its pretensions, and that the final scenes are merely opportunistic instead of profound. I disagree with this, but not directly - it does have pretensions, and it is a little thin on plot. But the final scenes are literally stunning, and have deservedly assured this film's place in history.
Cassellis is clinical about his job and cynical towards his employers. In his own words, he loves to shoot film. He documents occurrences without judging them. In a way, he is like Gene Hackman's Harry Caul character in the equally brilliant "The Conversation", who doesn't care what people are talking about as long as he gets "a nice fat recording". But Cassellis is not an obsessive. Throughout the course of the film, he grows to accept the cultural and philosophical impact of his profession as a kind of vessel for public information. When he discovers his tapes are being viewed by the authorities, his principles are violated. We are shown the mutually antagonising relationship between 'the people' and 'the news media' as John realises the implications of what he has been contributing to. This sounds less than exciting, but the backdrop itself is Chicago circa 1968 - a city so restless and colourful that this fairly heavy concept is counterbalanced by the images themselves. We watch Cassellis and his soundman cover the National Guards' riot training, the morale-raising songs of a civil rights protest group, campaigners for Robert Kennedy, and more. A particularly memorable sequence involves the black residents of a tenement block explaining to the cameraman how he, as a representative of 'the media', carries the baggage of institutionalised prejudice through their front door. Sure, the tenants are actors (as is Peter Boyle as the Gun Clinic Manager) but they fit seamlessly. In this scene, as in most of the movie, the "cameraman" being spoken to is both the character of Cassellis, Haskell Wexler himself, and by extension everyone who is watching.
How Harold and his mother Eileen relate to all of this is a more abstract and difficult question - they are natives of West Virginia, and the flashback scenes of deep country woodlands and old-fashioned religion seem to suggest that they represent the past, the "age of innocence" in the movie's tag-line. But this isn't the effect they have on the plot. They are out of place in this volatile city, but so is everyone else, John included. And when we are plunged into the heart of the riots for the last scenes of the film, we have no time to speculate on what exactly Wexler was trying to say; because he himself is there - the director is holding the camera, dodging tear gas and avoiding the batons of the riot police, and filming the injured protesters. Its significance is elevated beyond mere entertainment. The fiction in "Medium Cool" exists mainly to highlight the intimidating labyrinth of fact.
There is technical boldness to be admired too: the cinematography is an impressive framing of undiluted reality, and the editing and soundtrack is inspired. The performances of Forster and the young amateur Harold Blankenship are equally captivating, with Verna Bloom not far behind.
When I first saw "Medium Cool" I was far too young to appreciate it for what it actually is. I loved it anyway, perhaps partially because it baffled me. I was born in suburban England in 1986, and thus had no frame of reference for the setting of social unrest that is used as an omnipresent main character, alongside Robert Forster's brilliant John Cassellis - news cameraman, modern professional, and casual womaniser. Critics of this film have said that the plot is too thin and unlikely to support its pretensions, and that the final scenes are merely opportunistic instead of profound. I disagree with this, but not directly - it does have pretensions, and it is a little thin on plot. But the final scenes are literally stunning, and have deservedly assured this film's place in history.
Cassellis is clinical about his job and cynical towards his employers. In his own words, he loves to shoot film. He documents occurrences without judging them. In a way, he is like Gene Hackman's Harry Caul character in the equally brilliant "The Conversation", who doesn't care what people are talking about as long as he gets "a nice fat recording". But Cassellis is not an obsessive. Throughout the course of the film, he grows to accept the cultural and philosophical impact of his profession as a kind of vessel for public information. When he discovers his tapes are being viewed by the authorities, his principles are violated. We are shown the mutually antagonising relationship between 'the people' and 'the news media' as John realises the implications of what he has been contributing to. This sounds less than exciting, but the backdrop itself is Chicago circa 1968 - a city so restless and colourful that this fairly heavy concept is counterbalanced by the images themselves. We watch Cassellis and his soundman cover the National Guards' riot training, the morale-raising songs of a civil rights protest group, campaigners for Robert Kennedy, and more. A particularly memorable sequence involves the black residents of a tenement block explaining to the cameraman how he, as a representative of 'the media', carries the baggage of institutionalised prejudice through their front door. Sure, the tenants are actors (as is Peter Boyle as the Gun Clinic Manager) but they fit seamlessly. In this scene, as in most of the movie, the "cameraman" being spoken to is both the character of Cassellis, Haskell Wexler himself, and by extension everyone who is watching.
How Harold and his mother Eileen relate to all of this is a more abstract and difficult question - they are natives of West Virginia, and the flashback scenes of deep country woodlands and old-fashioned religion seem to suggest that they represent the past, the "age of innocence" in the movie's tag-line. But this isn't the effect they have on the plot. They are out of place in this volatile city, but so is everyone else, John included. And when we are plunged into the heart of the riots for the last scenes of the film, we have no time to speculate on what exactly Wexler was trying to say; because he himself is there - the director is holding the camera, dodging tear gas and avoiding the batons of the riot police, and filming the injured protesters. Its significance is elevated beyond mere entertainment. The fiction in "Medium Cool" exists mainly to highlight the intimidating labyrinth of fact.
There is technical boldness to be admired too: the cinematography is an impressive framing of undiluted reality, and the editing and soundtrack is inspired. The performances of Forster and the young amateur Harold Blankenship are equally captivating, with Verna Bloom not far behind.