The Lighthouse, Art Films, and the Feeling of Servitude (Patreon)

What makes a good art film?

I realize this a silly question, largely as it makes us have to the ugly thing and try to define what constitutes “an art film’ in the first place. But such is the problem of trying write about them, especially if we have to accept that anything is art if we call it art (I know, I know, I know). But if we’re trying to actually be helpful and communicate, then it helps to try and characterize them and create mutual understanding of why we’re using that word and not another. For instance, it’s not merely that art films are “niche interest,” but they use different storytelling methodology altogether. Because they tend to play more in the non-narrative space, where they work off moments of abstraction and often forgive plot and clarity in the name of thematic interests and meaning-making. 

But because of this, our taste in them can be so devastatingly personal. It’s also the reason that so many people don’t like them at all (which is totally fine, though I’ll still tend to be encouraging of them). “Milage my vary,” as the say. But in the name of clarity, I’d like to tell you the three qualities I tend to love in art films, which also happen to be the qualities that I think most general audiences like, too.

1) I like films that have a good sense of what they’re trying to say. While they don’t outright verbalize those themes (that would be didactic), they still tend to make their symbolism damn clear. No only that, but they tend to have a pretty good grasp on the laws of semiotics and how to create a thematic through-line with that symbolism, so that the messaging is both consistent and helps tell a larger story using an extended metaphor. That way you can come out of it and at least least make a good argument as to what the film was saying and why (and it wouldn’t be total rambling poppycock based on collection of random, disconnected ideas).

2) I also tend to like art films that are closer to 90 minutes. That’s because the space and rhythm of constant abstraction tends to wear on the audience much quicker than something with tight, dramatic plotting. So if you’re going to make people play in that space, I tend to think it works better if you don’t make them play for very long. Not only do I feel like general audiences tend to like this, it also helps storytellers grasp a sense of economy and avoid repetition.

3) I also tend to like art films that are visceral, maybe even unsettling. This isn’t to say I like shock art, more that I like films that are good at bypassing my immediate cerebral process and are trying to create a reaction in my body. Films that can conjure up evocative imagery, poke and prod my sensibilities, and maybe even show me something I’ve never seen before. At the same time, I like when art films can also punctuate those moments with humor and irreverence, hitting a spectrum of different physical reactions within me. This is all to say that I think great art films tend to speak to the audience in a way they may not verbally understand, but in a way that still makes emotional sense to them. Because they’re all about capturing the feeling of a given truth or situation.

That is all my way of saying I really liked The Lighthouse. 

Robert Eggers’ sophomore film offers a simple in premise: two men, a wicky named Thomas Wake (Willem Defoe) and a worker named Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson) have to go and man a lighthouse on a remote island, all by themselves, for a shift of four weeks. Then they spend their time getting on each other’s nerves. Then shit gets really weird! I know I’m being flippant with that description of the plot, but that’s honestly all the film really needs. I’ll also admit the film’s pacing runs a little roughshod and it’s probably a little more haphazard in terms of cause and effect than I would like, especially in terms of the character’s emotional arcs. But in the end, The Lighthouse hits the big beats it needs to, while revealing that it actually has something bigger on its mind (and beware, spoilers from here on in).

Structurally-speaking, I will say I actually like the way the film very quickly gets to the end of the four weeks, leaving the rain storm and ensuing, amorphous delay to wreak all the havoc on our leads. I think it speaks to something rather true about the way human beings experience time. If we can prepare for a given duration in our heads, then we can often come at it with the right expectations and temperament. But the second that time is prolonged? The second it becomes and undefined slog? Then we futilely anguish as seconds tick by at the rate of eons. This is precisely the kind of thing I mean when I talked about a good art film capturing “the feeling” of a given situation. We, like Winslow, so intensely feel its pressures. And luckily for us, there are so many other different kinds of sucky feelings that we can relate to in this film. Like… 

“It sucks to have a roommate.” 

It really does, especially if you don’t have your own room. It’s not just about another person’s annoying habits, there are so many elements of life that require moments of privacy beyond the obvious (we’ll get to that later). The truth is that most people need privacy in order to effectively “turn off” part of their brain. Not only to truly breathe, ruminate, and relax. But really it’s about turning off the part of our brains that has to worry about social cues and the needs / actions of another. For when there is another person in front of us, we suddenly think about our behavior in terms of them. What do we say? How should we act? How are they feeling? Am I doing a good enough job? To have someone constantly in your face means constantly being in that space for them.

Even with friends you may like, the little niggling details of cohabitation can wreak havoc on a relationship (especially if it brings up the feeling of constant, forced socializing). It’s also the matter of basic interruption and having someone in your space creating a constant state of disturbance, making noise, moving, farting, and whatever else. And it can feel all the more maddening when the other person really isn’t considerate or thinking about your space and privacy at all. I can’t imagine going through life so myopically, but it seems a lot of people do it brazenly. As if they’ll behave exactly as they would when they are alone. And it speaks to how difficult it all can be when there is an imbalance to the dynamic of two people sharing a space.

Looking at The Lighthouse through this lens is exceedingly easy. Thomas Wake stamps around as the myopic roommate, ruling the roost, drinking heavily, asking prodding questions, and doing as he damn well pleases. Sure, sometimes he’s just trying to “lighten things up” or show off his gregarious charm, but underneath that is the irrevocable power differential in their relationship. The reason Wake truly can fart around is because he’s the boss. Meaning he has control of every aspect of their mutual space. Few things can feel as suffocating as this, but unfortunately, it gets worse… 

“Isolation sucks”

As much as I talk about the invasion of other people into your space, there is a brutal flip-side to that equation and it is the horror of having nothing but space. I know some people like to romanticize the feeling of going off into the wilds and being on your own, echoing the Walden-esque notions of solitude. But I feel the need to remind people that Thoreau: 1) lived close to town and always went to get his mail 2) also drank socially here all the time and 3) lived 20 minutes from his mom’s house where she did his laundry (really). Without going down a historical rabbit hole, I’d argue Thoreau was was the ultimate entitled poseur. But even the most truly devout to that lonesome and wild lifestyle, like Chris McCandless, eventually came to the conclusion that such wonderful experiences still need to be shared in some kind of meaningful, communal way.

Because to lack that connection, to be truly alone and miles from society, can be it’s own form of suffocation, especially when suffered for time on end. You can only have so many conversations in your head before it all starts to coil and curl down destructive paths that just fuel feelings of further isolation. I don’t mean to compare intensity, but Winslow’s experience reminds me of two distinct feelings from my own life. 

The first memory deals with the fact that I’m from New England and used to spend a lot of time on boats. Where there’s a very specific feeling when go out to sea and can’t see the shoreline anymore. Where you suddenly you realize that you are unmoored from the world itself (this was also before most boats had GPS). You suddenly feel the vastness of it all, like you’re just a tiny dot in a world of nothingness. And you see how easily you could be lost and forgotten, brought down to Davey Jones’ locker. But there’s also this opposing feeling you get when you’re out to sea and you go to one of those tiny, isolate islands off the shore (like the one in his film). Suddenly the world feels very small because you are seeing everything that “exists” before you. A rock. A tuft of grass. A sand dune. Suddenly these features become giants in your own little mini-world. But the two feelings mash together with this existential feeling where you feel both tiny and humongous, and it really does mess with your myopic sense of self.

The second familiar feeling of isolation comes with what I am doing right now: sitting alone, typing words into a computer. I know that writing from home for a living is dream for most people (after all, It comes with flexibility and the world’s shortest commute). But it can also be a daunting, numbing, and lonesome task. It means that I’ll often spend all day alone, staring at a computer, getting blurry vision, and eventually getting cabin fever. Most nights you’ll get this ravenous instinct just to go outside and walk around or socialize. But because of the nature of deadlines, it also means that sometimes I will literally go three straight days before I realize I’ve spoken out loud. Yes. This happens. And you voice literally rasps when you try. It doesn’t even matter than I’m a social person, it’s a reality of the schedule. And it feeds further isolation and your spiraling thoughts.

I think about all three of these feelings when I think about Winslow’s experience, toiling away on that isolated rock. He’s literally a stranded person. His lives in his own horrible mini-world; one that is at once isolating as it is all-encompassing. There’s nothing beyond the borders of the sea. Trapped with Wake, he is simultaneously lonely and yet his space is constantly invaded. He’s a walking contradiction somehow who gets to experience all the worst aspects of being alive. But, of course, it only gets worse…

“Being horny sucks”

For most people, the yearning for connection and / or human touch is an innate feeling. But it’s also one that is compounded by the aforementioned state of isolation. When I think about Winslow and his little mermaid statue, I of course feel pity, but it also reminds me of a different time. A time when a generation of kids grew up before they had access to the internet. A time when the obtaining of any “sexual imagery” was exceedingly difficult. In fact, it usually required a bunch of middle schoolers paying a homeless man to go in and buy a nudie magazine (also cigarettes or booze or something). The difficulty made anything with sexual imagery a precious item of rarified air, and the scarcity of them made young kids were so desperate to find something, anything that could make for a tactile reality in their lives. I even remember this 90’s stand-up comedian doing a bit on fantasizing about the Land O’ Lakes woman (I’ve looked online and I can’t find the clip). But the scarcity also made sexuality a terrifying prospect, something so big, and real, and unknowable that they could hardly imagine it in real life.

What we’re really talking about here is the dichotomy of repression. When perfectly natural and healthy impulses get shamed and hidden, they create an intense cycle of hiding and relief. And like all cycles, it is one that becomes worsened with time. In The Lighthouse, as Winslow’s mental state dwindles, he has more and more sexual visions of mermaids, which began to bleed in with other memories and sins of the past; a horrible cycle of release and self-loathing. But I’ll also argue that the depiction of Winslow’s sexual inclinations can’t help but tap into the important modern conversation of incel culture. 

Like most corrupted words, the term “incel” actually originated from a queer writer discussion’s of “involuntary celibacy,” and the problems of homophobic repression in 90’s culture, along with the the catch 22 of how modern life make it easier to obtain sexual imagery, but actually harder to make a connection with someone in real life. But whatever important, empathetic discussion could be had here is dashed because the term has now been co-opted and mutated by a group of young men who feel they are “owed” sexuality and basically hate women because for not obliging them. And it’s all made worse when a nutball like Jordan Petersen comes along to give it a pseudo-intellectual spin and make the same disgusting sentiment feel legitimate, just because he’s using five dollar words. In reality, we need a healthier, non-toxic way of understanding our sexualities. We need to remove shame from impulses. Just as we need to learn the skills to communicate and create safe spaces where we can talk about the things we feel, while not making others feel unsafe or put upon. 

But the system of toxic masculinity doesn’t really know how to do any of that. It just knows how to perpetuate cycles of shame, anger, lunging, and taking. And it’s all brought to life in the movie during the incredible scene where Winslow has finally gone down the path of drinking with Wake. He stands proudly and belts out his carnal desire, “if there was a steak here I would fuck it!” which is a hilarious characterization of his desperation and desire for literal flesh. But soon the two men start wrestling drunkenly, which is the kind of physical contact that is “allowed” in their value system. 

But then there’s a moment where they slow down, lock eyes, grow still, and almost kiss. You can feel it. The repression and yearning for touch has built so deep, but instead of kissing, they instantly begin fighting again. But then there’s another brilliant jump cut to moments later, where they are nearly passing out drunk and saying nice things to each other. It’s so easy to make fun of men for being “like this,” but it’s common result of socialization. The two of them have the complete inability to deal with these inner feelings and so they can’t help but come bursting out in these big, angry, emotional displays. All the end result of such crushing loneliness. But in the end, I think the real brilliance of The Lighthouse is the way it takes all these deep feelings and mixes them with the sentiment that matters most…

“Work sucks.” 

There’s a reason the film takes so much time showing the repeated drudgery of Winslow’s daily duties. He lugs the wheelbarrow, he shingles, he digs, he toils, he even cleans horrors out of the cistern while having to contend with Seabirds (tis bad luck to kill em, ya know). But it all feels particularly cruel when Wake stands in his literal ivory tower, watching down on him with a judging eye. This is not only a symbolic picture of oppression in it’s most glaring form, it is also the backbone of the most concrete aspect of plot. 

Early on, Winslow states his goal plainly. He wants to find good work, save up money, learn the profession and work so that one day he may retire to quiet life. It’s as simple and noble a goal as one can have (even though Wake rightfully senses he’s on the run from something). But all the while, Wake lords control over him. He dangles notions of advancement, while regaling him with tales of his own acumen. Implying how difficult it is to do his oh-so-important work. This is where all the other feelings we’ve discussed in this essay, the cohabitation, the isolation, the loneliness, all become emotional weapons in Wake’s game of control. 

And like most people in charge, Wake is surprisingly sensitive too. When Winslow makes a comment about being sick of the food, he exclaims with wide-eyed hurt, “Yer don’t like me cookin’? Yer fond of me lobster, ain’t ye!?!” Before invoking Triton to curse and strike him down with the anger of a thousand seas. You see everything about his fragility. Wake, like most bosses, fancy themselves as good lads who are your friend and will curse you quickly if you don’t uphold this illusion. In essence, he is the architect of his own biased reality (the same can be said for a lot of CEOs in their own ivory towers). 

But Winslow relents and keeps pressing on, toiling so that one day he too may be able to man the light. But then it all hits a breaking point. Winslow is finally able to read Wake’s work log and it turns out that not only are his tales of being a former sea captain a pack of lies, but Wake has been mounting infractions against him all the way (many of which Wake was actually responsible for). It’s even so bad that Wake is going to recommend they dock Winslow’s wages at the end of the stint. It’s an enraging portrait of workplace ethics, thankless servitude, and the abuse of power. And as the two finally clash in the film’s finale, we also get a clear confirmation of the semiotical intention behind the film…

Because The Lighthouse repositions the Prometheus myth into a portrait of class.

Take the titular object: symbolically-speaking, Lighthouses have long been beacons of hope, protectors from danger, and ports in a storm. But from the onset, this film uses that as a false promise. It is a goal that is locked away from Winslow’s eyes. He has no access to “the light,” only a half-hearted promise that one day he could (one that is actually a blatant lie). But luckily for the audience, early on we actually gets a quick peak to see what’s inside. And it’s nothing but a drunk, un-working Thomas Wake looking up in to its godly light and shouts “to ye!” That’s right, while Winslow toils all day and night while Wake gets to sit there and get hammered (likely off kerosene) and bathe in its lovely power. There’s no real “work” here. Making it a true gift of the gods, the ability to sit and relax and “man the light” as you lock others outside to toil.

It is the essential lie of a brutal class dynamic: the belief that someone can “earn” billions without stepping on necks or using others backbreaking labor to make it possible. When he finally learns this truth, Winslow kills Wake, takes his keys, and finally goes up into the top of lighthouse. Does he get then get to enjoy the perks of a workless life? Nope! He stares directly into the blinding light and is nearly consumed by it. As if the gods are telling us, the fire is not meant for him. Perhaps not for a man of his class. Perhaps not for a man who is made mistakes. And perhaps not for a man who sought it so desperately. 

The screen shakes, violently. Our punishing gods reject him, sending Winslow tumbling down to the ground far below. His eternal punishment? Well, it’s the seabirds, of course. Those gulls carrying the souls of sailors are pecking away at his dying corpse. But really this is a direct, literal reference to Prometheus’s punishment in myth (who was chained naked to the rock, having the eagle eat out his liver on the daily in eternal torment). Here, Winslow too lies naked on the rock, as the gull peck out his eyes and stomach. It’s a ghastly image, made all the more startling by seeing him still seem alive, perhaps knowing that he was meant for damnation.

To be clear, such highfalutin interpretations of myth are not necessary to enjoying The Lighthouse. It can be consumed for the visceral, angry, odd, and silly film that it is. The kind of film where the term “spilling yer’ beans” can be filled with both dark menace and goofy irreverence. But we can also rejoice in the fact that it’s a film dead-aimed in its criticism of social strata, while exploring the notion of role reversals. I must say, of all the things I expected going into the film, I certainly wasn’t expecting it to have close ties to The Servant, the 1963 Joseph Losey film that remains one of my favorites (go watch it!). But in the end, it also feels callous to box it in with such comparisons. 

Just as it feels callous to say it “hits all the right boxes” of what I like an art film. But that’s honestly what it does. It makes me squirm and laugh and process symbols and most of all, meditate on the same ways that feelings of loneliness, dread, and servitude creep into my life. In some ways, it’s hard to think of another film that evokes such a dire 2019 sensibility than this one. That is because evokes the feeling of utter futility and hopelessness that comes with raging against a billionaire class that locks the light away, leaving us to be pecked to death on the inhospitable rocks. It may be esoteric, but I also know that I feel it all so deeply.

And understand, like with all art films, that milage my vary.

<3 HULK