It is such a task sometimes, to get first-year Film Studies students excited about movies.
They’ve made it to the second term, with all the film vocabulary (more or less) under their belts. Over a period of six weeks, we’ll tackle ‘Genre’ in three of its forms: the western, the musical, and horror (my much beloved forte). The prospect of discussing my favourite film genre in a few weeks whips me into a verbal frenzy, and I promise my discussion groups that they’re in for a real treat.
But right now, I find myself channeling Gary Cooper from last week’s High Noon (1952) as I stand in the hushed classroom, narrowing my eyes at the cluster of students staring back at me. I try to break the ice by asking if anyone fell asleep in this week’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971), before moving on to the reading.
Silence.
“He says it in the first two or three lines, folks.”
Come on. Make my day.
“Anyone at all?”
Was that a tumble-weed blowing across the room?
My hand hovers over the mouse, ready to click to the next slide of my PowerPoint presentation. I can feel the excitement for the forthcoming images tingling under my skin. This is it.
Draw.
A black and white image of Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty clasping guns appears on screen. Next to it, there is a production still of Warren Beatty in a bright yellow trench, a black machine gun clutched in his hand.
“Men with guns.”
A small murmur issues from the group. I gaze around the room to see if the connection to this week's film has dawned on them. A few faces light up in recognition of Bonnie and Clyde (1967). But not a single student recognizes Dick Tracy (1990). I am crest-fallen, but that’s how it is; these students are only interested in the recent movies that quickly ride in and out of movie theatres, like the outlaw hero passing through town. 
As I stare at Warren Beatty’s image on screen, a nostalgic twinge hits me, and I recall the seven or eight year old version of myself watching the comic-book film adaptation, a trend which has clearly thrived in current popular culture. I try to bridge the discussion to the evolution of genres and the transgeneric. I talk about the remake of True Grit. I build up to my big finale with the ‘space western’, but the more production stills of Star Wars IV and clips of Firefly I show the class, the more I feel them slipping away.
Before long, my one hour of imparting cinematic wisdom has come to a close. I am the defeated Gary Cooper, abandoned by my class-community and left to save the town called ‘genre’ all on my own.
The classroom empties slowly, and as I turn off the media equipment, a student approaches.
“I saw True Grit last weekend,” he informs me. “Then I remembered I had a VHS copy of the original version.”
“And?”
“It’s not half-bad.
That is when I realize, I’m not Gary Cooper, the lone hero. I am Dick Tracy, the detective, minus the bright yellow trench coat and heavy artillery. I constantly search for truths, drawing connections between films so that I can reach students. I just need to keep digging until I find clues that will open their minds.
That is when I realize, I’m not Gary Cooper, the lone hero. I am Dick Tracy, the detective, minus the bright yellow trench coat and heavy artillery. I constantly search for truths, drawing connections between films so that I can reach students. I just need to keep digging until I find clues that will open their minds.
Anyone know where I can get a yellow trench coat?
* * * * *
You said it, sister.
ReplyDeleteI love Dick Tracy so much. And I want you to know, I hold you responsible for the fact that I can't stop singing Breathless Mahoney's songs.
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