Five iconic films that harness the symbolic power… | Little White Lies

Five icon­ic films that har­ness the sym­bol­ic pow­er of high-rises

18 Mar 2016

Words by Luke Channell

A person standing at a window, looking out over a night-time cityscape.
A person standing at a window, looking out over a night-time cityscape.
Ben Wheatley’s High-Rise isn’t the first film to use a tow­er­ing struc­ture to reflect social anxieties.

Film­mak­ers have long been fas­ci­nat­ed with tow­er­ing struc­tures. Ini­tial­ly these build­ings pro­vid­ed plat­forms for slap­stick capers, exem­pli­fy­ing ear­ly cap­i­tal­ist val­ues, upward mobil­i­ty and mas­culin­i­ty. (Harold Lloyd dan­gling from a sky­scraper clock in Safe­ty Last! remains one of the most icon­ic images from cinema’s silent era.) Sky­scrap­ers quick­ly evolved into more expres­sion­is­tic spaces where social anx­i­eties and injus­tices could be exam­ined. Even­tu­al­ly they began to pro­voke all kinds of ques­tions and emo­tions; their iso­lat­ed com­mu­ni­ties and labyrinthine inte­ri­ors facil­i­tat­ing more nuanced explo­rations of var­i­ous social issues.

The tow­er block in Ben Wheatley’s High-Rise serves a sim­i­lar func­tion. Adapt­ed from JG Ballard’s sem­i­nal nov­el of the same name, it depicts an ultra-mod­ern Bru­tal­ist apart­ment build­ing erect­ed on unsta­ble foun­da­tions, an alle­go­ry of the class inequal­i­ty and civ­il dis­obe­di­ence of 70s Britain. To cel­e­brate the film’s release, here are five oth­er sym­bol­ic cin­e­mat­ic structures.

Although Robert Wiene’s The Cab­i­net of Dr Cali­gari doesn’t fea­ture a def­i­nite high-rise, the bizarre build­ings of its deranged world are sim­ply too visu­al­ly inven­tive and influ­en­tial to ignore. The film fol­lows Hol­sten­wall res­i­dent Fran­cis (Friedrich Feher), whose town is vis­it­ed by a mys­te­ri­ous hyp­no­tist along with his mur­der­ous som­nam­bu­list. The town is packed with twist­ed, angu­lar build­ings and jagged, tilt­ed rooftops which seem to defy the laws of physics. This warped archi­tec­ture exter­nalis­es Fran­cis con­fu­sion, anx­i­ety and hor­ror while also sym­bol­is­ing German’s polit­i­cal and eco­nom­i­cal insta­bil­i­ty after World War One.

Set with­in the fic­tion­al city of Metrop­o­lis, the New Tow­er of Babel is one of the most strik­ing sky­scrap­ers in cin­e­mat­ic his­to­ry. Joh Fred­er­sen (Alfred Abel), the city’s mas­ter, occu­pies the top lev­el of this pris­tine struc­ture while under­ground work­ers are enslaved in machine rooms, pro­vid­ing pow­er to the rest of the city. Leg­end has it that Fritz Lang’s inspi­ra­tion for Metrop­o­lis came on a vis­it to New York City, yet the skyscraper’s appear­ance is a per­fect mis­match of mod­ernist Art Deco and archa­ic Goth­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties, encap­su­lat­ing the con­tra­dic­tions hid­den behind the tower’s glossy sur­face. Metrop­o­lis was the first film to estab­lish the sky­scraper as a sym­bol of class seg­re­ga­tion, its oppres­sive sky­line reflect­ing Germany’s rapid indus­tri­al­i­sa­tion under the Weimar Republic.

David Cronenberg’s Shiv­ers depicts the spread of an aphro­disi­ac vene­re­al dis­ease through­out the iso­lat­ed, lux­u­ry Star­lin­er Tow­ers apart­ment build­ing. Depict­ed as char­ac­ter­less and ster­ile, the tow­er block is a typ­i­cal haven of mid­dle-class respectabil­i­ty that effec­tive­ly becomes over­run with ram­pant sex zom­bies. Cro­nen­berg mas­ter­ful­ly expos­es the hypocrisy of urban life while addi­tion­al­ly spoof­ing America’s repres­sion of sex­u­al­i­ty. Shiv­ers also pro­vides an explic­it indict­ment of 1970s con­ser­vatism while fore­shad­ow­ing the AIDS epidemic.

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Rid­ley Scott’s Blade Run­ner presents a dystopi­an world where genet­i­cal­ly-engi­neered repli­cants are man­u­fac­tured by the soul­less Tyrell Cor­po­ra­tion. The most notable edi­fice here is the corporation’s mono­lith­ic head­quar­ters – an immense trun­cat­ed pyra­mid-shaped build­ing bor­dered by slant­i­ng tow­ers and illu­mi­nat­ed by moody arti­fi­cial orange light. Like Metrop­o­lis, this futur­is­tic Los Ange­les is a crowd­ed urban land­scape dom­i­nat­ed by a sin­gu­lar mega struc­ture where the afflu­ent lit­er­al­ly tow­er above the low­er class­es. Viewed today, Blade Run­ner echoes our col­lec­tive fear of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence as the line between man and machine con­tin­ues to blur.

Set in Tokyo, Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Trans­la­tion uses its Park Hyatt hotel loca­tion to art­ful­ly cap­ture the lone­li­ness and com­pan­ion­ship expe­ri­enced by Bob (Bill Mur­ray), an age­ing Amer­i­can film star, and Char­lotte (Scar­lett Johans­son), a young col­lege grad­u­ate. Both feel detached from the world around them, yet what makes the film real­ly inter­est­ing is the way in which both char­ac­ters are framed inside the high-rise. Before the pair meet the hotel con­fines them, their iso­la­tion inten­si­fied through numer­ous wide shots posi­tion­ing them on one side of the frame with­out a coun­ter­bal­ance. Once they ren­dezvous the frame becomes more bal­anced. Here the high-rise takes on an extra emo­tion­al dimen­sion: a shift­ing space that by turns sym­bol­is­es the char­ac­ters’ fluc­tu­at­ing men­tal states and the pow­er of human con­nec­tion, how­ev­er fleet­ing, in an increas­ing­ly anti-social, vir­tu­al world.

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