1. I have used blogs before taking RTF 305. However, the RTF blog is the first blog I have used for school or assignments. Therefore, the various blogs that I have used in the past were used simply for personal notes (ie documenting days/schedules/thoughts.)
2. The blog was a positive aspect of the course in that it allowed us to apply our class material toward media that we could personally understand, such as TV, movies, advertisements, etc.
3. There were very few technical difficulties with the blog - the website seemed to make the blogging experience straightforward and self-explanatory. Conceptually, it was sometimes challenging to discuss media concepts that I felt I may not have fully understood, and also to provide good examples for these concepts that were not largely familiar.
4. When I felt that I did not understand certain concepts, and/or felt that I was unsure about an example, I consulted the textbook to find the best explanations/definitions available. This worked in some instances more than others.
5. The less interesting (and thus more difficult) blog prompts were the ones that addressed certain concepts in media (most being covered in the textbook / the lectures). An example of this would be writing a blog on globalization. Essentially this was expanding a textbook definition into a blog post, which was less interesting and more ambiguous. The more interesting (and thus much easier) blog prompts were those that had us find familiar examples in media to observe their characteristics. An example would be the comparison between an old and new sitcom. Those kinds of blogs were interesting because we could document our own views about certain media, and since we had a lot to say about them, they was easy to write.
6. If anything could be improved, it would maybe be the way the prompts are described. Sometimes the directions were a little too broad and ambiguous, leaving me a little confused about what I should and shouldn't write. If they were a little more narrow it might be easier to understand what to write about, and then of course, it would be easier to express all of one's thoughts.
Yes, you can use my blog in a paper or report.
Michael 'Bill' Hill's RTF Blog
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Globalization
Globalization is a process of interconnection across the world; it is a way of bringing together various nations and cultures by adding common elements between them, as to reduce social differences and encourage united progress.
An increase of communal elements can be seen in the process of 'cultural imperialism.' This term refers to the process of one nation using media to control or influence members of another nation. By acting as 'cultural imperialists,' media seeks to unite members of a separate nation under a single mode of communication and world awareness. If one nation spreads the use of its media upon another, the two nations are intertwined in a common network of information. This allows the nations to be in closer contact with one another, and perhaps, in some instances, to have less differences in their understanding of the outside world. Thus, as globalization is meant to achieve, the concept of 'cultural imperialism' is capable of uniting two separate areas under a common banner of influence.
Our recent screening of Slumdog Millionaire provides a good example of globalization, in that this film shows us an Indian airing of 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' Originally a game show in the United Kingdom, this television program was rapidly exported to many other countries, becoming a popular media icon in places all over the world. Although Slumdog Millionaire is set in a country very distant from our own, the game show's sounds, rules, and musical cues are largely familiar to an American audience, and likewise countless audiences across the globe. This demonstrates how the culturally popular elements of 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' have transcended into various cultures and become common elements between different nations. Despite the vast cultural differences between India and the United States, the staples of this game show are clearly shared elements between the two countries.
An increase of communal elements can be seen in the process of 'cultural imperialism.' This term refers to the process of one nation using media to control or influence members of another nation. By acting as 'cultural imperialists,' media seeks to unite members of a separate nation under a single mode of communication and world awareness. If one nation spreads the use of its media upon another, the two nations are intertwined in a common network of information. This allows the nations to be in closer contact with one another, and perhaps, in some instances, to have less differences in their understanding of the outside world. Thus, as globalization is meant to achieve, the concept of 'cultural imperialism' is capable of uniting two separate areas under a common banner of influence.
Our recent screening of Slumdog Millionaire provides a good example of globalization, in that this film shows us an Indian airing of 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' Originally a game show in the United Kingdom, this television program was rapidly exported to many other countries, becoming a popular media icon in places all over the world. Although Slumdog Millionaire is set in a country very distant from our own, the game show's sounds, rules, and musical cues are largely familiar to an American audience, and likewise countless audiences across the globe. This demonstrates how the culturally popular elements of 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' have transcended into various cultures and become common elements between different nations. Despite the vast cultural differences between India and the United States, the staples of this game show are clearly shared elements between the two countries.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Advertising: Coca-Cola
An ad that recently caught my eye was a nostalgic flier for Coca-Cola. Beneath the iconic white letters, 'Coca-Cola,' on a vibrant red background, I saw the words '5 cents at soda fountains.' And to me, it was a persuasive advertisement.
I found this ad to be effective because of the sense of tradition and inclusion it created. Indeed I am already fond of Coca-Cola's flagship product, and am an occasional collector of Coca-Cola merchandise. For someone who is fond of Coca-Cola and its many cultural and visual traditions, this ad definitely established a sense of belonging; it suggested that many fans of Coke are familiar with Coca-Cola's fledgling years, knowing the nostalgic time period during which Cokes could be bought for a nickel, and were something of a novelty at bars and diners. What this sense of belonging serves to accomplish is to encourage Coke-drinkers to keep themselves within the historical family of an iconic product.
The approach of this advertisement would then appear to be a nostalgic one; the creators of the ad did not intend to inform consumers that Cokes could actually be purchased for five cents. Rather, what they intend to do is create a nostalgic relationship between the product and the consumer, ensuring a long-running and personal relationship. Certain products in our society are very much capable of supplementing our personal identities; many are defined by the products they love, the companies they endorse, and the corporations to whom they offer their loyalty. For this type of consumer, the nostalgic Coca-Cola ad attempts to solidify the relationship. It reminds the consumer that the historical relationship is still alive and well in an ever-changing modern society.
This nostalgic and traditional atmosphere was created by the text of the advertisement, but also by the colors and layout as well. Printed simply in two or three colors - red, white, and black - and displaying the classic Coca-Cola logo in a very basic and familiar font, the ad drives the sense of nostalgia even further. Essentially, the entire flier is not meant as a fresh, eye-catching new claim, but something so familiar and so recognizable, that the consumer cannot help but give his or her attention. This certainly seemed to be the ad's effect on me, as it served only to strengthen my loyalty to the product and increase my fondness for a historical family of consumers.
I found this ad to be effective because of the sense of tradition and inclusion it created. Indeed I am already fond of Coca-Cola's flagship product, and am an occasional collector of Coca-Cola merchandise. For someone who is fond of Coca-Cola and its many cultural and visual traditions, this ad definitely established a sense of belonging; it suggested that many fans of Coke are familiar with Coca-Cola's fledgling years, knowing the nostalgic time period during which Cokes could be bought for a nickel, and were something of a novelty at bars and diners. What this sense of belonging serves to accomplish is to encourage Coke-drinkers to keep themselves within the historical family of an iconic product.
The approach of this advertisement would then appear to be a nostalgic one; the creators of the ad did not intend to inform consumers that Cokes could actually be purchased for five cents. Rather, what they intend to do is create a nostalgic relationship between the product and the consumer, ensuring a long-running and personal relationship. Certain products in our society are very much capable of supplementing our personal identities; many are defined by the products they love, the companies they endorse, and the corporations to whom they offer their loyalty. For this type of consumer, the nostalgic Coca-Cola ad attempts to solidify the relationship. It reminds the consumer that the historical relationship is still alive and well in an ever-changing modern society.
This nostalgic and traditional atmosphere was created by the text of the advertisement, but also by the colors and layout as well. Printed simply in two or three colors - red, white, and black - and displaying the classic Coca-Cola logo in a very basic and familiar font, the ad drives the sense of nostalgia even further. Essentially, the entire flier is not meant as a fresh, eye-catching new claim, but something so familiar and so recognizable, that the consumer cannot help but give his or her attention. This certainly seemed to be the ad's effect on me, as it served only to strengthen my loyalty to the product and increase my fondness for a historical family of consumers.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Three-Act Structure
Let us observe Hollywood's three-act structure, and how it applies to Alfred Hitchcock's suspenseful masterpiece, Vertigo.
The first act of Vertigo is the introduction to the film's story; it establishes how our protagonist, played by Jimmy Stewart, explores and discovers the character of a mysterious married woman, played by Kim Novak. To start off the film, Stewart, a retired detective with a paralyzing fear of heights, is informed by his friend that the woman is behaving strangely, and that her behavior must somehow be secretly monitored to unearth a mysterious secret. This sense of mystery propels the story forward - the audience observes the woman's strange behavior, and, like Stewart, cannot discern what secret might explain her actions. The woman's behavior grows more and more blatantly mysterious, and meanwhile, various possible connections begin to arise between her identity and her actions. Eventually, the woman jumps into the bay as if to drown herself, causing Stewart to come to her rescue; this serves as the film's first plot point. It wraps up the segment of the film in which Stewart approaches her mysterious lifestyle, and propels the film forward into a newfound relationship between the two characters. The first act of this movie is somewhat slower and longer than many conventional first acts, ranging from forty to fifty minutes; this slowness builds upon the mystery and the tantalizing nature of Novak's strange lifestyle.
The second act of Vertigo introduces unnerving complications to the two characters' relationship. Throughout this act, Stewart begins to discover Novak's uncanny identity crisis, meanwhile falling in love with the woman. Because the woman is married, and because the love is stifled beneath a sense of confusion and insanity, this peculiar romance serves as a complication to both characters. Neither Stewart or Novak are entirely comfortable in advancing the strange and secretive relationship, allowing a disconcerting tension for the audience. This tension builds up to the film's second plot point - the woman's madness eventually causes her to throw herself off the top of a bell tower, which Stewart, because of his fear of heights, is guiltily unable to prevent. Thus begins the movie's final act, in which Stewart must wage a mental war against his error and his guilt.
The supposed suicide serves as a mental annihilation for Stewart, whose twisted affection and irreversible guilt stifle his ability to socially function. Therefore, throughout the final act of the film, Stewart takes the necessary actions to mentally fulfill and avenge himself, allowing for a mysterious kind of resolution, albeit tragic and twisted. Stewart tracks down a woman who is a stranger, claiming that the stranger bears a striking resemblance to his lost love. Although reluctant at first, the woman agrees to have dinner with him, seemingly satisfying a mental agitation in her admirer. As Stewart changes the woman more and more to increase her uncanny resemblance, the truth is eventually revealed - that this woman is, in fact, the person that he fell in love with, and that the woman who died was the victim of a planned murder. Thus, Stewart is compelled to revisit the scene of the death, recreating his opportunity to save her life. Although this woman, like the other, falls off of the bell tower to her death, Stewart silences the sense of mental incompleteness by allowing her to die; he has come to a state of mental resolution, despite all the complications of anguish and insanity. Therefore, the scene of the woman's death serves as the film's climax. After so many questions and strange emotions of identity and love, the woman rests in peace, as well as Stewart's confusion and guilt.
The first act of Vertigo is the introduction to the film's story; it establishes how our protagonist, played by Jimmy Stewart, explores and discovers the character of a mysterious married woman, played by Kim Novak. To start off the film, Stewart, a retired detective with a paralyzing fear of heights, is informed by his friend that the woman is behaving strangely, and that her behavior must somehow be secretly monitored to unearth a mysterious secret. This sense of mystery propels the story forward - the audience observes the woman's strange behavior, and, like Stewart, cannot discern what secret might explain her actions. The woman's behavior grows more and more blatantly mysterious, and meanwhile, various possible connections begin to arise between her identity and her actions. Eventually, the woman jumps into the bay as if to drown herself, causing Stewart to come to her rescue; this serves as the film's first plot point. It wraps up the segment of the film in which Stewart approaches her mysterious lifestyle, and propels the film forward into a newfound relationship between the two characters. The first act of this movie is somewhat slower and longer than many conventional first acts, ranging from forty to fifty minutes; this slowness builds upon the mystery and the tantalizing nature of Novak's strange lifestyle.
The second act of Vertigo introduces unnerving complications to the two characters' relationship. Throughout this act, Stewart begins to discover Novak's uncanny identity crisis, meanwhile falling in love with the woman. Because the woman is married, and because the love is stifled beneath a sense of confusion and insanity, this peculiar romance serves as a complication to both characters. Neither Stewart or Novak are entirely comfortable in advancing the strange and secretive relationship, allowing a disconcerting tension for the audience. This tension builds up to the film's second plot point - the woman's madness eventually causes her to throw herself off the top of a bell tower, which Stewart, because of his fear of heights, is guiltily unable to prevent. Thus begins the movie's final act, in which Stewart must wage a mental war against his error and his guilt.
The supposed suicide serves as a mental annihilation for Stewart, whose twisted affection and irreversible guilt stifle his ability to socially function. Therefore, throughout the final act of the film, Stewart takes the necessary actions to mentally fulfill and avenge himself, allowing for a mysterious kind of resolution, albeit tragic and twisted. Stewart tracks down a woman who is a stranger, claiming that the stranger bears a striking resemblance to his lost love. Although reluctant at first, the woman agrees to have dinner with him, seemingly satisfying a mental agitation in her admirer. As Stewart changes the woman more and more to increase her uncanny resemblance, the truth is eventually revealed - that this woman is, in fact, the person that he fell in love with, and that the woman who died was the victim of a planned murder. Thus, Stewart is compelled to revisit the scene of the death, recreating his opportunity to save her life. Although this woman, like the other, falls off of the bell tower to her death, Stewart silences the sense of mental incompleteness by allowing her to die; he has come to a state of mental resolution, despite all the complications of anguish and insanity. Therefore, the scene of the woman's death serves as the film's climax. After so many questions and strange emotions of identity and love, the woman rests in peace, as well as Stewart's confusion and guilt.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Foreknowledge & The Sitcom
One element that defines the television sitcom is the sense of viewer foreknowledge - that is, the idea that the viewer understands a sitcom's structural conventions before sitting down to watch any one episode. Though many sitcoms clearly share certain humorous conventions with one another, each one has a unique style in creating episodic narratives and providing humor. Some sitcoms tell a straightforward story with direct and universal humor. Others twist the conventional narrative, and use more subtle or sarcastic forms of humor. The important idea is that the viewer recognizes the show's format before the narrative is continued. What a sitcom then ultimately creates is a world that the viewer can dive into - a world which, like our own, develops patterns and tendencies that the viewer can learn to anticipate.
This is the essential function of viewer foreknowledge in the sitcom genre - to give the on-screen universe a sense of attractiveness and exclusiveness. Once a viewer feels that he or she has come to 'know' the characters on the television show, or has grown familiar with the kinds of jokes that will be presented, the viewer is likely to feel attached to the setting of the sitcom, and will watch the show much more regularly. All in all, requiring foreknowledge makes the television show a greater investment. In order to enjoy the show to the fullest extent, viewers must invest themselves in a more regular pattern of viewing and a deeper understanding. This sense of foreknowledge is, by all means, what changes a sitcom from an ordinary television program into a living, breathing universe, in which countless viewers may become delightedly engaged.
One such sitcom that I often enjoy is the notorious Family Guy. I feel that this show's most unique and significant contribution to the sitcom genre is the famed use of 'cut-away' jokes. This is an excellent example of a concept in which viewer foreknowledge is key. I have often seen family and friends view Family Guy for the first time. For these first-time viewers, the cut-away jokes often come as a surprise. Many of these comic cut-away intervals, especially the ones that do not involve the show's principal characters whatsoever, could be removed entirely from the episode without making any difference to the narrative - meaning, viewers without a foreknowledge of the tool are surprised by the jokes' inclusion. Fans of Family Guy expect good cut-away jokes as much as they expect a comical narrative, if not more so. They are aware of the standard joke, and view the show armed with a foreknowledge of the concept, allowing the joke to be repeated and varied in what is hopefully a satisfying delivery.
This is the essential function of viewer foreknowledge in the sitcom genre - to give the on-screen universe a sense of attractiveness and exclusiveness. Once a viewer feels that he or she has come to 'know' the characters on the television show, or has grown familiar with the kinds of jokes that will be presented, the viewer is likely to feel attached to the setting of the sitcom, and will watch the show much more regularly. All in all, requiring foreknowledge makes the television show a greater investment. In order to enjoy the show to the fullest extent, viewers must invest themselves in a more regular pattern of viewing and a deeper understanding. This sense of foreknowledge is, by all means, what changes a sitcom from an ordinary television program into a living, breathing universe, in which countless viewers may become delightedly engaged.
One such sitcom that I often enjoy is the notorious Family Guy. I feel that this show's most unique and significant contribution to the sitcom genre is the famed use of 'cut-away' jokes. This is an excellent example of a concept in which viewer foreknowledge is key. I have often seen family and friends view Family Guy for the first time. For these first-time viewers, the cut-away jokes often come as a surprise. Many of these comic cut-away intervals, especially the ones that do not involve the show's principal characters whatsoever, could be removed entirely from the episode without making any difference to the narrative - meaning, viewers without a foreknowledge of the tool are surprised by the jokes' inclusion. Fans of Family Guy expect good cut-away jokes as much as they expect a comical narrative, if not more so. They are aware of the standard joke, and view the show armed with a foreknowledge of the concept, allowing the joke to be repeated and varied in what is hopefully a satisfying delivery.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Shot Progession
Filmmakers often use a kind of shot progression that moves from a general setting into one that is more specific. This progression begins with the long shot - a shot that establishes the setting and provides a sense of orientation for the audience - as if to answer the question 'Where are we?' Next, there is the medium shot; this shot, after we have been immersed into the setting, brings our attention to a specific object or character - as if to answer the question 'What are we supposed to be watching?' The progression then commonly concludes with the close-up, which focuses closely on one object or character after it has been brought to our attention - as if to answer the question 'What is important about this object or character?' This progression is a common tool in slowly bringing the audience toward details that are significant; rather than quickly launching the audience into an unfamiliar setting, it allows time for the relevant locations and details to be digested. Let us observe an instance of this familiar progression as it is utilized in one of my favourite films, The Wizard of Oz.
This progression is used to introduce the audience to the character of the Scarecrow. As Dorothy wanders down the Yellow Brick Road, she passes a cornfield, in which the Scarecrow is only one of the many details brought to our attention. Because he is seen from a long distance, the audience is not yet focused on the Scarecrow as the center of attention; rather, the shot simply establishes the setting of the scene to follow:
There are many details in the shot displayed above: Dorothy, Toto, the road, the fence, the cornfield, the trees, the backdrop, and the Scarecrow himself. All these details serve as the background of the scene's activity.
Soon, the camera settles on the Scarecrow in a medium shot, as is seen on the right. Rather than seeing the Scarecrow as a part of the cornfield, our attention is directed directly to his figure hanging on the pole. This medium shot serves to inform us that the Scarecrow will be relevant to this scene: he is now, as is here dictated by the camera, a character to whom we will
devote our attention. Thus, he is introduced to the film's storyline.
Finally, as is shown on the left, the camera draws into a closeup. This is an important step because it is during this shot that we begin to know the Scarecrow as a character. As he first begins describing his situation to Dorothy, the camera is close enough as to monitor the details of his expression, allowing the audience to become acquainted with the Scarecrow's qualities and/or characteristics. Therefore, by the time that the camera has moved from the medium shot to the closeup, we not only know that the Scarecrow is an important character, but also what kind of a character he is. The movement of the camera echoes this evolution, bringing our eyes toward the subject along with our minds.
This common camera movement is a logical way of leading into a scene; it can lead into words, objects, places, or any other important aspect of a film's storyline. In this instance, it brings us slowly toward a character. After the progression has taken place, the audience recognizes the Scarecrow as a part of the storyline, and the film is allowed to expand into other aspects of the narrative.
This progression is used to introduce the audience to the character of the Scarecrow. As Dorothy wanders down the Yellow Brick Road, she passes a cornfield, in which the Scarecrow is only one of the many details brought to our attention. Because he is seen from a long distance, the audience is not yet focused on the Scarecrow as the center of attention; rather, the shot simply establishes the setting of the scene to follow:
There are many details in the shot displayed above: Dorothy, Toto, the road, the fence, the cornfield, the trees, the backdrop, and the Scarecrow himself. All these details serve as the background of the scene's activity.
Soon, the camera settles on the Scarecrow in a medium shot, as is seen on the right. Rather than seeing the Scarecrow as a part of the cornfield, our attention is directed directly to his figure hanging on the pole. This medium shot serves to inform us that the Scarecrow will be relevant to this scene: he is now, as is here dictated by the camera, a character to whom we will
devote our attention. Thus, he is introduced to the film's storyline.
Finally, as is shown on the left, the camera draws into a closeup. This is an important step because it is during this shot that we begin to know the Scarecrow as a character. As he first begins describing his situation to Dorothy, the camera is close enough as to monitor the details of his expression, allowing the audience to become acquainted with the Scarecrow's qualities and/or characteristics. Therefore, by the time that the camera has moved from the medium shot to the closeup, we not only know that the Scarecrow is an important character, but also what kind of a character he is. The movement of the camera echoes this evolution, bringing our eyes toward the subject along with our minds.
This common camera movement is a logical way of leading into a scene; it can lead into words, objects, places, or any other important aspect of a film's storyline. In this instance, it brings us slowly toward a character. After the progression has taken place, the audience recognizes the Scarecrow as a part of the storyline, and the film is allowed to expand into other aspects of the narrative.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Stars & Genre
Many concepts come to mind amongst the star-studded climate of Hollywood's Golden Age. Peaking as the United States launched itself into war, the studio system in this era displayed a focused yet extravagant perspective toward the art of cinema. An important component in the studios' structure was the connection between movie stars and movie genres; these two concepts, while they may seem somewhat interchangeable in the present day, were nearly inseparable to filmmakers and audiences of the Golden Age.
Moviegoers of the time period, similar to today, were familiar with the various genres - musicals, westerns, mysteries, and crime thrillers, to name a few. However, during this time, audiences would have conceived stronger connections between certain actors and certain genres than they do today. Judy Garland was recognized as the centerpiece of the MGM musical, Edward G. Robinson was viewed as a staple of the gangster movie, and Gene Kelly was famous for his unparalleled dancing talent. The connections between these performers and their respective genres was so powerful, that oftentimes their very presence in a film would trump the genre of the work. Judy Garland, for instance, in the setting of a romantic comedy, would need to sing a song for her performance to reach its recognizable expectation.
As a result of this concept, films of the Golden Age were given more formulaic narratives and plot devices. When audiences went to view these films, they were less interested in seeing the actual story unfold, and more interested in seeing the performers carry out expectations in the generic setting. Musicals would undoubtedly include a crowded, large-scale show-stopping number, and gangster features would conclude with the death of the principal gangster. The formula was established and understood; audiences did not view the movies in order to find out what would happen, but to see how effectively the performers executed their roles, and to connect with the understood concepts.
A fine example of this idea is the role of Humphrey Bogart. Bogart was a classic 'tough guy,' a hard-boiled antihero who would find a solution to his problems through whatever difficult means. His dialogue was coarse and direct; his behavior was down-to-earth and unsentimental. Typically, Bogart would hold a position of authority, such as a policeman or detective, and would be tangled up in a legal mishap. We see that Bogart holds this position even in Casablanca: despite being understood as a war film of sorts, Bogart's commanding presence establishes that he is in control of his American saloon, and that he will solve problems on his own. Although, like his other characters, he seems rough and unemotional, 'sticking his neck out' for no one but himself, his actions eventually take charge of the conflict and lead the film to its resolution.
Moviegoers of the time period, similar to today, were familiar with the various genres - musicals, westerns, mysteries, and crime thrillers, to name a few. However, during this time, audiences would have conceived stronger connections between certain actors and certain genres than they do today. Judy Garland was recognized as the centerpiece of the MGM musical, Edward G. Robinson was viewed as a staple of the gangster movie, and Gene Kelly was famous for his unparalleled dancing talent. The connections between these performers and their respective genres was so powerful, that oftentimes their very presence in a film would trump the genre of the work. Judy Garland, for instance, in the setting of a romantic comedy, would need to sing a song for her performance to reach its recognizable expectation.
As a result of this concept, films of the Golden Age were given more formulaic narratives and plot devices. When audiences went to view these films, they were less interested in seeing the actual story unfold, and more interested in seeing the performers carry out expectations in the generic setting. Musicals would undoubtedly include a crowded, large-scale show-stopping number, and gangster features would conclude with the death of the principal gangster. The formula was established and understood; audiences did not view the movies in order to find out what would happen, but to see how effectively the performers executed their roles, and to connect with the understood concepts.
A fine example of this idea is the role of Humphrey Bogart. Bogart was a classic 'tough guy,' a hard-boiled antihero who would find a solution to his problems through whatever difficult means. His dialogue was coarse and direct; his behavior was down-to-earth and unsentimental. Typically, Bogart would hold a position of authority, such as a policeman or detective, and would be tangled up in a legal mishap. We see that Bogart holds this position even in Casablanca: despite being understood as a war film of sorts, Bogart's commanding presence establishes that he is in control of his American saloon, and that he will solve problems on his own. Although, like his other characters, he seems rough and unemotional, 'sticking his neck out' for no one but himself, his actions eventually take charge of the conflict and lead the film to its resolution.
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