Recently I had the pleasure of viewing Guillermo del Toro's new film Pacific Rim and I was fortunate enough to be accompanied by two close friends. However, after the movie they expressed their displeasure of the film, citing trite characters, a formulaic and cliched story, and general lack of excitement. In the end they felt that Pacific Rim just wasn't their thing (or just said that to seem like they weren't ganging up on me). Now, if I were a lesser person I might simply say they "aren't watching the film right" or they "just don't get it." But that's intellectually irresponsible to me because I know my friends aren't stupid.
In my view, Pacific Rim really is precisely what you get in the trailer: there's some giant monsters, here's some giant robots, now FIGHT! To me, that's about as visceral as filmmaking gets: simple premise, simple story, simple characters. You go in, you sit back, and you just watch. The kind of movie that is meant to bring you in through the action and not through the characters (which is something not recommended, but not impossible). Really, what I keep coming back to in my head is that Pacific Rim is just meant to be a mindless summer blockbuster, just not the kind we're used to anymore.
These days we have blockbusters movies that have their characters brooding and sulking with complicated themes and ideas that are shoved down our throats (Dark Knight Rises, anyone?) without necessarily fleshing said ideas out. Just this summer, Man of Steel tried desperately to explore the nature of heroism itself and the proper use of great power, only to push it aside for a lot wanton destruction.
But don't get me wrong, the last forty minutes of Man of Steel were actually very exciting for me. While most people might not see it this way, I've always related to the hero standing up and fighting back, even at great cost. Not because I'm a hero, and not because I'm particularly strong. No, it has more to do with my inherent powerlessness. I have neither the power, the authority, or even the right to stand up to my personal villains and knock some sense into them. To me, the only way to express such pent up emotions is through a knock-down, drag-out fight onscreen. Personally, I find that more acceptable then one day physically expressing my emotions on whatever person seems to have made it their mission to ruin my day.
That's what a film like Pacific Rim does, it's vicarious filmmaking. It lays out what it wants to do (giant robots fighting giant monsters) and does what it needs to justify making a film of it. In discussing the film after the fact, one of my friends expressed that the story was too simple and predictable, and had been hoping for something more original, saying that the writers didn't even seem to try. Not to step out of line, but I feel that such statements are often unwarranted.
Speaking from experience, producers and writers of films (even bad films) usually know much more about filmmaking and storytelling than even their own films will let on. Filmmakers don't enter a film trying to create something wholly original (what is these days). Instead, they lock on to what they are most interested in delivering and focus on that. Once they know they can do that, then they deal with the other details. On the flipside, perhaps del Toro wanted to tell a much more original story but was nixed by producers who demanded it be streamlined so that audiences could focus on the robots vs. monsters. Some may feel this leads to machine-like filmmaking, but I posit that it's more often in the finer details that a film becomes personal, not just in the story.
Guillermo del Toro himself has commented on the distinction between his spanish language films and his american films. He has scoffed at the idea that his films made in his native tongue are more personal and speak more about himself as a person and a filmmaker. del Toro explains, "Fuck, you're wrong! Hellboy is as personal to me as Pan's Labyrinth. They're tonaly different, and yes, of course you can like one more than the other... But it really is part of the same movie. You make one movie. Hitchcock did one movie, all his life."
Another fascinating point brought by one of my friends is that they seem to enjoy every crime film they see (generally speaking) and pointed out that many crime films, even ones based on true stories, follow a formula. But he still likes them... what can be made of this? Do we all have inherent biases towards certain films? Are we willing to overlook the problems of one type of film while decrying another for similar faults?
This got me thinking about what I look for in a film. Is it good characters? Good story? Original presentation? In the past I've stated that all I ask is that the film be confident in itself, and from there it can do no wrong. I now realize that's a tad optimistic, but it's still not too far from where I stand currently. There are certain functions required for even the most basic of cinematic displays, and to that end I wish to tear apart my own bias towards action films. And I'll use non-classics, so there is more room for discussion.
To this end, I want to talk about the two screen adaptations of the character The Punisher. Many people hate the first one (in which the character is portrayed by Thomas Jane) while loving the chaotic mayhem of the the second (starring Ray Stevenson). I find myself leaning in the opposite direction. Is it the action, the pace, the performances? No, for me it all came down to clear-cut characters, not "good" ones, mind you.
Now, some might be so glibe as to joke "what characters," to whom I ask to please shut up while I make my point. Generally speaking, you should know where a film is headed within the first 15 minutes. The film needs to establish the place, the people, and at least hint towards the major conflict, if not just get it under way already. The Punisher did this successfully, while also having the benefit of Thomas Jane as the lead. You see who he is, you understand him and why he does what he does (more or less). Then once the inciting incident comes (death of his family) you see how he changes. This drastic change in the main character fuels the cathartic confrontation at the end. It's a sense that this was all building to something.
On the other hand, The Punisher: War Zone establishes nothing. I'm not sure what the intent of the film is beyond violent action scenes. I have no idea who Ray Stevenson is portraying beyond "guy who shoots gun." This lack of connection takes all the impact out of the action scenes.
But this is something that Pacific Rim does correctly: establishes it's simple (if cliched) characters and turns them loose in this unique setting. Granted, there is very little connection to most of the characters beyond Charlie Day and Rinko Kikuchi, but at the very least we understand who they are and what they are going through.
All of which makes me wonder what my friends expected going into Pacific Rim. No, it's not their cup of tea. Yes, the characters could have been better. Yes, the story could have been more complex. But are those the only reasons we go to see movies? Whatever happened to going to movies and just watching in awe at what was displayed onscreen? Is there not a place for some of the simpler things? Formulas are used for a reason: it's so the filmmakers can know the general story so they can get into scenes and get creative within there.
There's an old idea in Genre Theory that states all films made after the release of John Ford's The Searchers are nothing but remakes of The Searchers. Even if you buy into that, it could only be in the broadest of brushstrokes. Why do we get hung up on these broad brushstrokes so often that we forget the finer details. It's all about the presentation.
Case in point: Nicolas Winding Refn's new film Only God Forgives has one of the simplest, broadest stories of the year. It is cast with expressionless, mannequin-like characters. On the page, it seems like just another revenge movie. But you get into the finer details, the craftsmanship, the artistry. That's where it comes alive. That's where you find the movie.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Thursday, November 29, 2012
For All the Wrong Reasons: A Critique of Paul W.S. Anderson
Every now and again I'm asked if there are any directors whom I hate. With hate being such a strong word I would emphasize that I don't truly hate any directors. But then there are those days when it seems all your most irrational and primal emotions surface and everything you usually feel indifferent towards gets flushed out to one extreme or another. On those days, I might say I hate Paul W.S. Anderson (1)(2).
Paul W.S. Anderson is a director so lacking in basic understanding of not only film theory and construction, but also basic human emotions. For those not familiar with him or may have misread those middle initials, I am not talking about Paul THOMAS Anderson. No, W.S. Anderson is NOT the director of such awesome films as Boogie Nights and There Will be Blood, but is instead the director of Mortal Kombat, Event Horizen, and most of the Resident Evil movies.
I must admit, for the longest time W.S. Anderson was just another director who made crappy movies to me. His was a name I should have forgotten. But after watching Resident Evil: Afterlife (why, WHY!?) it suddenly hit me: W.S. Anderson hasn't a single original thought in his brain. All he does is ape the styles of better directors and copy scenes from better movies and repurposes them for his own liking. Seriously, if Anderson where a Pokemon, he'd be Ditto. It's actually insulting how little thought he puts into his films.
It basically boils down to the fact he is constantly trying to recreate better films. For the first half of his career he's trying to remake Aliens (seriously, go and watch Event Horizen and the first Resident Evil). But it was with Afterlife that I really noticed this strategy of his, because he changed which director he's trying to emulate: Anderson is now trying to be Zack Snyder. Not only did he blatantly rip-off Snyder's color-palette (if it weren't for the fact that Snyder's DP Larry Fong is amazing you'd probably never notice the difference) but Anderson has also snatched his style(3). Snyder is well known for his pioneering of the "ramping" technique, which has an action scene slow down for a moment only to speed back up for the impact. But the important thing to note is that Snyder knows when to use it, Anderson just starts using slow-motion because "it might look cool here."
Now understand, I don't have a problem with directors seeing a new technique and using it in their own films. That's how filmmaking evolves. But Anderson uses these new techniques (and some old ones) without any understanding of why they can be effective. Anderson is a director that is all style and no substance, only he wishes he actually had a style. This became more readily apparent when I saw Resident Evil: Retribution (again, WHY!?). The movie opens with a credits sequence in which we are shown the opening action scene in slow-motion AND reverse. My mind immediately thought of the well-regarded trailer for Dead Island (if you haven't seen it, go watch it now, the rest of this will make more sense). The Dead Island trailer consists of a family of three on vacation who are attacked by zombies. It shows the family running from the zombies in the hallways of the hotel, then seeking refuge in a room after the daughter is bitten. As Mom and Dad fight off the zombies, the daughter turns and attacks Dad, who proceeds to frantically send her crashing out the window and falling to her "death." But the big twist is that it's all in reverse. The trailer begins with the zombified daughter lying on the ground before flying back up to the room and attacking Dad. The rest of the trailer is (mostly) in reverse, ending with Dad reaching out to help his daughter up. The reason this in-reverse gimmick works is because of the beginning and end, they both tie into each other emotionally. None of this is evident in the opening of Retribution, it's all for show (4).
I've been trying to think of some kind of example, or paralel entertainers to explain W.S. Anderson's lack of style. The best I can think of is magicians (5). Take the acts of Penn & Teller or Chris Angel. Penn & Teller not only have clear personalities that allow them to create humor that compliments their magic tricks, but they also have a clear idea and theme to their show (6). Chris Angel, on the other hand, is all about his attitude. There is no idea behind his show, it's just the magic tricks. Yet W.S. Anderson is neither of them, he's just the kid who picks up magic as a hobby and never finds anything to do with it.
You may have noticed I have a particular problem with Anderson's Resident Evil adaptations. However, I should specify I have a greater problem with the more recent ones. The first one is actually decent from a technical standpoint. If you'll allow me I'd like to be contructive for a moment, I'm not fond of simply shitting all over someone's work. The thing the first RE movie gets right is to essentially start anew. Instead of trying to follow the games precisely, they tried to capture the essence and mythology of the games (they failed, but one step at time). See, the stories of the RE games don't fit the model of a film story. They're too long and too much of it is told through text logs and diaries. The first RE movie made the story cinematic, that's a VERY good decision. There's some mystery, some tension, characters developing and rising to the occasion. Despite a good number of characters being killed off before you even learn their names, the rest of the movie does try to develop the remaining cast (again, they failed, but A for effort). For the rest of the movie, when someone died there was a little more weight to it. That's an important yet often overlooked aspect of horror films.
Yet the remainder of the RE films, Anderson's in particular, have completely done away with the model set by the first. Characters move in and out at a moments notice. Elements from the games are shoehorned in (names, characters, enemies, etc.) for NO reason whatsoever. With the fifth movie they brought back characters that died in earlier installments just to kill them again! They've gotten lazy in killing off any characters, really. For example, in Retribution we are introduced to an "infiltration team" that initially consists of FOUR characters. We are shown from the beginning there are only FOUR of them. But then, during their first (and pretty much only) action scene, a FIFTH member of the team is shown being killed by a chainsaw (another pointless shout-out to the games). I'm not kidding, a fifth member shows up to be killed in a single shot of a single scene. I'm willing to bet someone on the production said "we've gone a bit long without someone dieing, lets just throw something in real quick, no one will notice." I did, because I know how to count.
Then there's the aspect of the constant cliffhanger endings. I once had a conversation with a classmate (not a film person, just a normal person with normal interests) about the RE cliffhangers. He said that he hated the fact that the new one (at the time, I believe it was the second movie) ended in another cliffhanger, claiming that because he didn't get a proper ending he would be forced to see the next one. I told him he should just forget about it, it just wouldn't be worth it. It's not simply that what Anderson and company follows up with is always underwhelming, it's the fact that they are making EVERYTHING up as they go. This isn't speculation, it's a fact, Anderson has admitted to it. The result is that nothing can significantly connect from installment to installment.
But, apparently we don't care about ANY of that. The newest RE movie made a PROFIT of $156,000,000 (rounding down). Why, why do we go to these movies? They offer us nothing!(7)
Footnotes
1. There are, of course, many bad directors out there and I've seen many of their films. Some people might point out Uwe Boll or Brett Ratner. I specifically disregard them because they are not directors. Brett Ratner literally doesn't understand what a director's job is ("rehearsal is for fags" - Brett Ratner) and Uwe Boll is just a fool veying for your attention. Boll's defense of his "directorial" skill actually consists of: "fight me like a man, critics, I'll show you how good a director I am." That's the same as saying: "of course I'm a great painter, watch how far I can throw this rock!"
2. And I'm sure some of you might be thinking to yourselves, "what about Michael Bay?" Honestly, I have a little bit of respect for Bay. As insulting and intellectually devoid as his films can be, at least he has his own style that makes you say "that's a Michael Bay film." And in truth some of the things he accomplishes can be considered impressive from a technical standpoint... he might not have a good reason for doing such things, but they're impressive nonetheless.
3. There's also a sequence in Retribution that is the exact same sequence from Snyder's remake of Dawn of the Dead, the opening zombie attack. Suburban house, surprise attack, escape to the outside and see the whole world's falling apart. Only thing is that Anderson's version runs about twice as long, becoming incredibly slow for what should be a quick, tense scene. Seems even when Snyder is making a REMAKE he can still be more original than W.S. Anderson.
4. They don't call it "movie magic" for nothing!
5. Don't try to tell me Anderson hasn't seen that trailer, he makes film adaptations of video games. He's come across it once or twice.
6. Their salute to the U.S. Constititution is particularly striking. Turns out they don't fit in the "anti-government" clique quite so clearly.
7. I actually feel a bit bad after writing this. Like I said earlier in the piece, I don't like just shitting all over someone's work, but this is what this became. Just be clear this is a critique on W.S. Anderson's WORK, not the man himself. These are merely critiques I have had of his work stewing in a brain for a while now and just had to get it out so that I don't need to actually speak or think about it anymore. I have never met the man and so cannot speak of his character. I would never direct such bile towards a person without knowing them.
Paul W.S. Anderson is a director so lacking in basic understanding of not only film theory and construction, but also basic human emotions. For those not familiar with him or may have misread those middle initials, I am not talking about Paul THOMAS Anderson. No, W.S. Anderson is NOT the director of such awesome films as Boogie Nights and There Will be Blood, but is instead the director of Mortal Kombat, Event Horizen, and most of the Resident Evil movies.
I must admit, for the longest time W.S. Anderson was just another director who made crappy movies to me. His was a name I should have forgotten. But after watching Resident Evil: Afterlife (why, WHY!?) it suddenly hit me: W.S. Anderson hasn't a single original thought in his brain. All he does is ape the styles of better directors and copy scenes from better movies and repurposes them for his own liking. Seriously, if Anderson where a Pokemon, he'd be Ditto. It's actually insulting how little thought he puts into his films.
It basically boils down to the fact he is constantly trying to recreate better films. For the first half of his career he's trying to remake Aliens (seriously, go and watch Event Horizen and the first Resident Evil). But it was with Afterlife that I really noticed this strategy of his, because he changed which director he's trying to emulate: Anderson is now trying to be Zack Snyder. Not only did he blatantly rip-off Snyder's color-palette (if it weren't for the fact that Snyder's DP Larry Fong is amazing you'd probably never notice the difference) but Anderson has also snatched his style(3). Snyder is well known for his pioneering of the "ramping" technique, which has an action scene slow down for a moment only to speed back up for the impact. But the important thing to note is that Snyder knows when to use it, Anderson just starts using slow-motion because "it might look cool here."
Now understand, I don't have a problem with directors seeing a new technique and using it in their own films. That's how filmmaking evolves. But Anderson uses these new techniques (and some old ones) without any understanding of why they can be effective. Anderson is a director that is all style and no substance, only he wishes he actually had a style. This became more readily apparent when I saw Resident Evil: Retribution (again, WHY!?). The movie opens with a credits sequence in which we are shown the opening action scene in slow-motion AND reverse. My mind immediately thought of the well-regarded trailer for Dead Island (if you haven't seen it, go watch it now, the rest of this will make more sense). The Dead Island trailer consists of a family of three on vacation who are attacked by zombies. It shows the family running from the zombies in the hallways of the hotel, then seeking refuge in a room after the daughter is bitten. As Mom and Dad fight off the zombies, the daughter turns and attacks Dad, who proceeds to frantically send her crashing out the window and falling to her "death." But the big twist is that it's all in reverse. The trailer begins with the zombified daughter lying on the ground before flying back up to the room and attacking Dad. The rest of the trailer is (mostly) in reverse, ending with Dad reaching out to help his daughter up. The reason this in-reverse gimmick works is because of the beginning and end, they both tie into each other emotionally. None of this is evident in the opening of Retribution, it's all for show (4).
I've been trying to think of some kind of example, or paralel entertainers to explain W.S. Anderson's lack of style. The best I can think of is magicians (5). Take the acts of Penn & Teller or Chris Angel. Penn & Teller not only have clear personalities that allow them to create humor that compliments their magic tricks, but they also have a clear idea and theme to their show (6). Chris Angel, on the other hand, is all about his attitude. There is no idea behind his show, it's just the magic tricks. Yet W.S. Anderson is neither of them, he's just the kid who picks up magic as a hobby and never finds anything to do with it.
You may have noticed I have a particular problem with Anderson's Resident Evil adaptations. However, I should specify I have a greater problem with the more recent ones. The first one is actually decent from a technical standpoint. If you'll allow me I'd like to be contructive for a moment, I'm not fond of simply shitting all over someone's work. The thing the first RE movie gets right is to essentially start anew. Instead of trying to follow the games precisely, they tried to capture the essence and mythology of the games (they failed, but one step at time). See, the stories of the RE games don't fit the model of a film story. They're too long and too much of it is told through text logs and diaries. The first RE movie made the story cinematic, that's a VERY good decision. There's some mystery, some tension, characters developing and rising to the occasion. Despite a good number of characters being killed off before you even learn their names, the rest of the movie does try to develop the remaining cast (again, they failed, but A for effort). For the rest of the movie, when someone died there was a little more weight to it. That's an important yet often overlooked aspect of horror films.
Yet the remainder of the RE films, Anderson's in particular, have completely done away with the model set by the first. Characters move in and out at a moments notice. Elements from the games are shoehorned in (names, characters, enemies, etc.) for NO reason whatsoever. With the fifth movie they brought back characters that died in earlier installments just to kill them again! They've gotten lazy in killing off any characters, really. For example, in Retribution we are introduced to an "infiltration team" that initially consists of FOUR characters. We are shown from the beginning there are only FOUR of them. But then, during their first (and pretty much only) action scene, a FIFTH member of the team is shown being killed by a chainsaw (another pointless shout-out to the games). I'm not kidding, a fifth member shows up to be killed in a single shot of a single scene. I'm willing to bet someone on the production said "we've gone a bit long without someone dieing, lets just throw something in real quick, no one will notice." I did, because I know how to count.
Then there's the aspect of the constant cliffhanger endings. I once had a conversation with a classmate (not a film person, just a normal person with normal interests) about the RE cliffhangers. He said that he hated the fact that the new one (at the time, I believe it was the second movie) ended in another cliffhanger, claiming that because he didn't get a proper ending he would be forced to see the next one. I told him he should just forget about it, it just wouldn't be worth it. It's not simply that what Anderson and company follows up with is always underwhelming, it's the fact that they are making EVERYTHING up as they go. This isn't speculation, it's a fact, Anderson has admitted to it. The result is that nothing can significantly connect from installment to installment.
But, apparently we don't care about ANY of that. The newest RE movie made a PROFIT of $156,000,000 (rounding down). Why, why do we go to these movies? They offer us nothing!(7)
Footnotes
1. There are, of course, many bad directors out there and I've seen many of their films. Some people might point out Uwe Boll or Brett Ratner. I specifically disregard them because they are not directors. Brett Ratner literally doesn't understand what a director's job is ("rehearsal is for fags" - Brett Ratner) and Uwe Boll is just a fool veying for your attention. Boll's defense of his "directorial" skill actually consists of: "fight me like a man, critics, I'll show you how good a director I am." That's the same as saying: "of course I'm a great painter, watch how far I can throw this rock!"
2. And I'm sure some of you might be thinking to yourselves, "what about Michael Bay?" Honestly, I have a little bit of respect for Bay. As insulting and intellectually devoid as his films can be, at least he has his own style that makes you say "that's a Michael Bay film." And in truth some of the things he accomplishes can be considered impressive from a technical standpoint... he might not have a good reason for doing such things, but they're impressive nonetheless.
3. There's also a sequence in Retribution that is the exact same sequence from Snyder's remake of Dawn of the Dead, the opening zombie attack. Suburban house, surprise attack, escape to the outside and see the whole world's falling apart. Only thing is that Anderson's version runs about twice as long, becoming incredibly slow for what should be a quick, tense scene. Seems even when Snyder is making a REMAKE he can still be more original than W.S. Anderson.
4. They don't call it "movie magic" for nothing!
5. Don't try to tell me Anderson hasn't seen that trailer, he makes film adaptations of video games. He's come across it once or twice.
6. Their salute to the U.S. Constititution is particularly striking. Turns out they don't fit in the "anti-government" clique quite so clearly.
7. I actually feel a bit bad after writing this. Like I said earlier in the piece, I don't like just shitting all over someone's work, but this is what this became. Just be clear this is a critique on W.S. Anderson's WORK, not the man himself. These are merely critiques I have had of his work stewing in a brain for a while now and just had to get it out so that I don't need to actually speak or think about it anymore. I have never met the man and so cannot speak of his character. I would never direct such bile towards a person without knowing them.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Judges Dredd (or The Importance of Casting)
Remakes are big nowadays. Some believe this is due to Hollywood and filmmakers in general "running out of ideas." As frustrating as it is to face writer's block and think to yourself "EVERYTHING'S ALREADY BEEN THOUGHT OF," this is simply an excuse. There are tons of original ideas out there ready to be made, it's just that investors have little to no faith in original stories. So sometimes the best way to get an original script produced is play around with characters and settings to fit within a familiar brand. So we get remakes.
However, that's not what I really want to talk about. Yeah, films ultimately get made for a variety of different reasons, but just because something is a remake doesn't mean it is doomed to remain in the shadow of the original. Dredd is a perfect example. A remake (or reboot, however you wish to look at it) of the 1995 Judge Dredd starring Sylvester Stallone.
Both films follow Judge Joseph Dredd. But Dredd isn't stuck in a courtroom preceding over trials. No, Dredd operates in a future where crime is so rampant the government has essentially declared a police state in which the law is enforced not by police officers, but by Judges. Judges combine the power judge, jury, and executioner to a single individual. There is no trial before peers, no probable cause, in the eyes of a Judge you are guilty or innocent. It's as simple as that.
Now, you may notice that this concept is basically fascism taken to the extreme. You're correct in that observation, and the writers did that on purpose. See, Judge Dredd originated as a comic book character. Within the comics, the stories are meant to be dark satires of the justice system. Sure, Dredd is the good guy, but the audience is also meant to laugh at how ridiculous he is. The stories don't embrace fascism, they critique it (1). In that spirit, Dredd essentially embodies the very concept of fascism. He is less a character and more an idea. To that end, within the comics, Dredd rarely removes his helmet. And if he does so his face is obscured, allowing Dredd to remain "anonymous." He could be anybody underneath that helmet.
Of the many (many many MANY[2]) problems of the original Judge Dredd, this was one of the biggest. Dredd removes his helmet to reveal that beneath that visor is none other than Sylvester Stallone. Why did this happen in the original? It's very simple: Sylvester Stallone is a STAR. You can't hire a movie star and not show his face. Even if you wanted to, movie stars are very tempremental about their image. Even if no one said a thing all the way up to the first day of shooting, Stallone himself would have, and likely did, demand the helmet come off. Now, you could blame such a demand on vanity, or the desire to easily convey a full range of emotions through full use of your face. Seeing as it was Stallone, I suspect it was the former.
Dredd, on the other hand, takes a HUGE risk in rectifying this mistake. Sure, it's one thing to want to please fans and stick to tradition (and symbolic imagery), but it's another thing entirely to do it. Think about it, if Dredd never removes his helmet, that means the actor playing him has to convey every emotion possible through body language and frowning. It's difficult to act even when you have full access to your abilities, but to do it with such restrictions... mind-boggling. Yet Karl Urban, the new Dredd, leaps into the role with no fear. To the naked eye, Karl Urban's Dredd may appear almost emotionless, or at most displaying only one emotion (grim determination). But look closely and there is so much more going on underneath. Using what little tools of expression he has left, Urban displays a full range of emotions as the constantly grimacing Dredd. Yes, he even seems happy at one point.
This calls to mind the fact that there are two types of performers in this world: there are the vain who want to see their names in lights and faces on bilboards (3), and there are the dedicated who always put the work before their own needs. Urban is definitely of the latter catagory. Take a moment, can you remember another film that never shows it's leading actor's face on screen (4)? Not even superhero movies allow the lead actor to be onscreen with their mask on for too long. Now I'm not calling for an Oscar nomination or anything, but seriously, slow clap for Karl Urban!
But it wasn't just the vanity of Judge Dredd's star that ruined the film... it was also his ego. Stallone reportedly demanded numerous changes be made to the script and final film, likely to make it more mainstream and fit better within his usual repertoire. He didn't want to make a Judge Dredd film, Stallone saw a property that could be twisted and made to fit his action niche. Stallone wanted the film made for himself, not to please fans.
Dredd goes the opposite way almost wholeheartedly. It's clearly a more collaborative effort than the original was. It's not a vehicle, it's not a cash grab. Dredd was made because someone wanted to make a good Judge Dredd film, and they managed to surround themselves with great people willing to help.
Of special note is how the two films treat their female protagonists. Judge Hershey (Diane Lane) alongside Stallone is little more than an accessory, someone needed to help drive the plot forward. Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) on the other hand, is the emotional core to the entire film. See, the makers of Dredd understood that the character of Dredd is less a character and more a constant in an everchanging world. To counterpoint this, all the important contextual moments and emotional beats are shifted to Judge Anderson, whose abilities as a psychic force her to be more emotionally connected to other characters (whereas everyone else has become noticeably desensitized to the chaos). But also, Anderson is no sidekick, nor does she ever become a damsel in distress. She's a strong woman who can take care of herself, and proves it on multiple occasions in some surprising (and occasionally gruesome) ways. Even if Dredd had gotten everything else wrong, the characterization of Judge Anderson would still be noteworthy (5).
The biggest difference between the two films would obviously be tone. While Judge Dredd was never very serious, Dredd pulls for a more darkly satirical edge. Judge Dredd is light-hearted and campy, Dredd is grizzled and offbeat. Judge Dredd is a distraction, Dredd is a film (6)
Footnotes
1. Starship Troopers is film that was originally seen as glorifying militarism and even fascism, but was really just a great big satire of war and propoganda.
2. Rob Schneider being annoying as hell. To be perfectly honest, I think that's the only reason the character is annoying: because he's portrayed by Rob Schneider.
3. This has nothing to do with the ability of such actors. There are many great actors out there who love to see their faces on screen and hear their voices through those speakers. Someone like Jack Nicholson comes to mind.
4. Yes, there have been numerous actors who have played supporting roles without showing their faces. Andy Serkis is a particular name who comes to mind. Serkis portrayed Gollum, King Kong, and Caesar (Rise of the Planet of the Apes) through motion capture technology, never actually appearing onscreen himself. However, I'm asking about lead characters, the characters that the story follows from beginning to end, the protaganists.
5. I personally love seeing strong women in action films. My problem is that filmmakers too often desexualize heroines and essentially create ambisexual characters who could be portrayed as either a man or a woman. Dredd is commendable for making both Judge Anderson's strengths as well as her weaknesses uniquely feminine. Her pyschic abilities make her greatly empathetic, but also leave her open to mental abuse (imagine being able to literally see men thinking about raping you).
6. I didn't talk about this because it didn't really fit in with the whole theme of this topic, but the cinematography in Dredd is gorgeous. Seriously, the slo-mo sequences are some the most beautiful images I've scene in film for a while. The fact that they often occur during brutally violent action scenes makes it all the more bewildering. I never thought watching a villain fall to their death from 200 stories up and come crashing to the ground could be so beautiful. I know that sounds weird, but you'll just have to see it to really understand.
However, that's not what I really want to talk about. Yeah, films ultimately get made for a variety of different reasons, but just because something is a remake doesn't mean it is doomed to remain in the shadow of the original. Dredd is a perfect example. A remake (or reboot, however you wish to look at it) of the 1995 Judge Dredd starring Sylvester Stallone.
Both films follow Judge Joseph Dredd. But Dredd isn't stuck in a courtroom preceding over trials. No, Dredd operates in a future where crime is so rampant the government has essentially declared a police state in which the law is enforced not by police officers, but by Judges. Judges combine the power judge, jury, and executioner to a single individual. There is no trial before peers, no probable cause, in the eyes of a Judge you are guilty or innocent. It's as simple as that.
Now, you may notice that this concept is basically fascism taken to the extreme. You're correct in that observation, and the writers did that on purpose. See, Judge Dredd originated as a comic book character. Within the comics, the stories are meant to be dark satires of the justice system. Sure, Dredd is the good guy, but the audience is also meant to laugh at how ridiculous he is. The stories don't embrace fascism, they critique it (1). In that spirit, Dredd essentially embodies the very concept of fascism. He is less a character and more an idea. To that end, within the comics, Dredd rarely removes his helmet. And if he does so his face is obscured, allowing Dredd to remain "anonymous." He could be anybody underneath that helmet.
Of the many (many many MANY[2]) problems of the original Judge Dredd, this was one of the biggest. Dredd removes his helmet to reveal that beneath that visor is none other than Sylvester Stallone. Why did this happen in the original? It's very simple: Sylvester Stallone is a STAR. You can't hire a movie star and not show his face. Even if you wanted to, movie stars are very tempremental about their image. Even if no one said a thing all the way up to the first day of shooting, Stallone himself would have, and likely did, demand the helmet come off. Now, you could blame such a demand on vanity, or the desire to easily convey a full range of emotions through full use of your face. Seeing as it was Stallone, I suspect it was the former.
Dredd, on the other hand, takes a HUGE risk in rectifying this mistake. Sure, it's one thing to want to please fans and stick to tradition (and symbolic imagery), but it's another thing entirely to do it. Think about it, if Dredd never removes his helmet, that means the actor playing him has to convey every emotion possible through body language and frowning. It's difficult to act even when you have full access to your abilities, but to do it with such restrictions... mind-boggling. Yet Karl Urban, the new Dredd, leaps into the role with no fear. To the naked eye, Karl Urban's Dredd may appear almost emotionless, or at most displaying only one emotion (grim determination). But look closely and there is so much more going on underneath. Using what little tools of expression he has left, Urban displays a full range of emotions as the constantly grimacing Dredd. Yes, he even seems happy at one point.
This calls to mind the fact that there are two types of performers in this world: there are the vain who want to see their names in lights and faces on bilboards (3), and there are the dedicated who always put the work before their own needs. Urban is definitely of the latter catagory. Take a moment, can you remember another film that never shows it's leading actor's face on screen (4)? Not even superhero movies allow the lead actor to be onscreen with their mask on for too long. Now I'm not calling for an Oscar nomination or anything, but seriously, slow clap for Karl Urban!
But it wasn't just the vanity of Judge Dredd's star that ruined the film... it was also his ego. Stallone reportedly demanded numerous changes be made to the script and final film, likely to make it more mainstream and fit better within his usual repertoire. He didn't want to make a Judge Dredd film, Stallone saw a property that could be twisted and made to fit his action niche. Stallone wanted the film made for himself, not to please fans.
Dredd goes the opposite way almost wholeheartedly. It's clearly a more collaborative effort than the original was. It's not a vehicle, it's not a cash grab. Dredd was made because someone wanted to make a good Judge Dredd film, and they managed to surround themselves with great people willing to help.
Of special note is how the two films treat their female protagonists. Judge Hershey (Diane Lane) alongside Stallone is little more than an accessory, someone needed to help drive the plot forward. Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) on the other hand, is the emotional core to the entire film. See, the makers of Dredd understood that the character of Dredd is less a character and more a constant in an everchanging world. To counterpoint this, all the important contextual moments and emotional beats are shifted to Judge Anderson, whose abilities as a psychic force her to be more emotionally connected to other characters (whereas everyone else has become noticeably desensitized to the chaos). But also, Anderson is no sidekick, nor does she ever become a damsel in distress. She's a strong woman who can take care of herself, and proves it on multiple occasions in some surprising (and occasionally gruesome) ways. Even if Dredd had gotten everything else wrong, the characterization of Judge Anderson would still be noteworthy (5).
The biggest difference between the two films would obviously be tone. While Judge Dredd was never very serious, Dredd pulls for a more darkly satirical edge. Judge Dredd is light-hearted and campy, Dredd is grizzled and offbeat. Judge Dredd is a distraction, Dredd is a film (6)
Footnotes
1. Starship Troopers is film that was originally seen as glorifying militarism and even fascism, but was really just a great big satire of war and propoganda.
2. Rob Schneider being annoying as hell. To be perfectly honest, I think that's the only reason the character is annoying: because he's portrayed by Rob Schneider.
3. This has nothing to do with the ability of such actors. There are many great actors out there who love to see their faces on screen and hear their voices through those speakers. Someone like Jack Nicholson comes to mind.
4. Yes, there have been numerous actors who have played supporting roles without showing their faces. Andy Serkis is a particular name who comes to mind. Serkis portrayed Gollum, King Kong, and Caesar (Rise of the Planet of the Apes) through motion capture technology, never actually appearing onscreen himself. However, I'm asking about lead characters, the characters that the story follows from beginning to end, the protaganists.
5. I personally love seeing strong women in action films. My problem is that filmmakers too often desexualize heroines and essentially create ambisexual characters who could be portrayed as either a man or a woman. Dredd is commendable for making both Judge Anderson's strengths as well as her weaknesses uniquely feminine. Her pyschic abilities make her greatly empathetic, but also leave her open to mental abuse (imagine being able to literally see men thinking about raping you).
6. I didn't talk about this because it didn't really fit in with the whole theme of this topic, but the cinematography in Dredd is gorgeous. Seriously, the slo-mo sequences are some the most beautiful images I've scene in film for a while. The fact that they often occur during brutally violent action scenes makes it all the more bewildering. I never thought watching a villain fall to their death from 200 stories up and come crashing to the ground could be so beautiful. I know that sounds weird, but you'll just have to see it to really understand.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Why "The Expendables" Sets a Bad Example for Action Films
The Expendables is a marketing ploy, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. An ensemble cast consisting of several big name Hollywood action stars alongside some old and new faces. Nothing inherently wrong with that, the Ocean's # movies were the same thing. What seperates them is style, and ability to bounce around amongst the different characters.
That's one of the numerous problems that The Expendables has: it is completely incompetent when it comes to jumping between characters. In fact, more than half of the big names in the film are ignored completely and pushed to the sidelines until they need them. The first big chunk of the film consists only of Stallone and Statham, the rest of the team don't reappear until around the 1-hour mark. Yet, even with all this time with these two main roles, we get no sense of who they are. They're cardboard.
Yet it's not that the film doesn't try to create more interesting or complex characters, it's just that it is horribly misguided. Stallone is old, Statham is emotionally distant, Lundgren is a junkie, and Li is short. I'm not kidding about that last one, Li has an entire monologue about why life is harder for him because he's short.
The only character who seems to have any sort of arc at all is Lundgren, but it's so weak. His character is immediately introduced as a loose cannon, he's kicked off the team, predictably betrays them, fights Li and Stallone before being shot, and suddenly shows remorse for his actions and gives them new information to help them. What's really strange about the character is that appears to die in this scene, only to show up right before the credits, back with the team, genial as can be. There is no tension between him and the rest of the team, but there should be. I mean, he almost killed Li, yet isn't given so much as a cautious look. I have no problem with the team reluctantly letting him back in, but there needs to be some substance. I totally understand falling out with friends in horrible ways before eventually making amends and becoming amicable once more. But, speaking from experience, that initial betrayal can stick with you for a long time. You may never fully trust them again. However, this is just my experience from schoolyard scruffles, not whole-sale attempts on my life.
Another major problem is tone. Most of the film feels only somewhat serious, particularly dialogue sequences. Then the action sequences come and, for the most part, are super serious, not nearly as over-the-top as the rest of film would suggest they should be. In fact, the action scenes are a complete mess. I won't be hyperbolic and suggest they're the most poorly staged/filmed action sequences ever (that honor still belongs to The Hunger Games), but they are still incredibly incoherent. Several times I had no idea who was involved in the action on screen: the scene starts with Statham and Li, but suddenly there's someone else. Who? Oh, it's Randy Couture from nowhere. But wait, where the hell is Terry Cr... oh, there he is. Sometimes there are multiple action sequences playing out in tandem with one another. Not a problem in slightest, in theory. What becomes a problem is when you don't know which scene you're looking at. Example: two scenes running alongside one another was Li, Statham, Crews, and Couture fighting a bunch of henchmen, meanwhile Sly is fighting one on one with Steve Austin. The fight between Sly and Austin ends so abruptly I had to rewind the movie to see why it ended. It's not like cutting between tandem scenes is advanced stuff, it's first-semester Editing 101. Nor is it that Stallone doesn't know how to do it right, Rambo did it perfectly well.
But what really bugs me is that the movie isn't about anything. No, stop. I know what you're going to say: "but it doesn't need to be about anything. It's a mindless action movie harkening back to classics from the 80's and 90's, it's just supposed to be simple, mindless fun." Please realize that I completely understand such a statement, I can enjoy a little mindless fun as much as anyone: I've seen all three Jackass movies, including the 2.5 and 3.5 direct-to-DVD bits, and I saw 2 in theaters. But you know what, we're not talking about mindless fun, we're talking about a film with story, characters, and emotions. Just because you're not out to win any awards doesn't mean you can simply ignore those details.
Case in point. Lets look at a classic action film of the type The Expendables claims to be an homage to: Die Hard. Die Hard is fast, over the top, and incredibly violent (at least for its day). But really look at the film. What is it REALLY about? Let me tell you, it isn't about high tech theives seizing control of a building. Nope, it's about John McClane's marriage. It's about overcoming past traumas. We see right off the bat that they want to make it all work (John bringin a gift, Holly still has pictures of the family in her office), but they are definitely drifting apart (John is too settled in New York, Holly goes by her maiden name). Slowly, over the course of the film, they are realizing their own feelings about one another: Holly realizing that John is a determined man who will never give up, John realizing how immature he's been and how he should have supported his wife better. No, this is not the main plot of the film, but it is the basic underlying theme: support and trust. Die Hard does the little things that makes each character that much more relatable to the audience. In fact, the villains originally were supposed to be legitimate terrorists, but were changed to theives in order to have a more relatable goal (we all know what it's like to want money). Everything about Die Hard is done to benefit the audience's experience.
The Expendables does none of this. None of the characters are relatable: at their best they are archetypes, at their worst they are non-existant. There is no backstory to any of the characters (except Rourke, but I'll get to that in a bit). Every character exists solely to benefit the action, and they can't even do that right. There is no theme for any character, nor for the film in general. Perhaps you think Die Hard does this because it is a classic action film. Perhaps you think a "lesser" action film does not require theme. If you do think so, you are wrong.
Just to prove my point, look no further than Stallone's own Rambo. No, not First Blood, the introduction of the character, I mean the THIRD SEQUEL. It too could be called a simple, over-the-top, indulgent action movie same as The Expendables. But Rambo is a better film not simply because the action is better or it's edited better, but it does in fact have a theme: the call to action, the necessity of violent retaliation in the face of unforgiving brute force. Even the smallest, seemingly inconsequential role has an arc in that film. The leader of the missionaries, initially greatly insulted by Rambo's violent tendencies and convicted in his belief of pacifism is eventually forced to bludgeon a man to death to save his friends. Not exactly a sophisticated theme or execution, but it's there nonetheless. Stallone even placed the sequence of Rambo using an inactive bomb dropped in the country years ago to take out a large group of soldiers in as a way of commenting on the idea of the violence of past generations coming back to hurt current generations.
What I'm trying to say is that, contrary to what some people seem to think, Stallone is not some meathead movie star without a thought in his brain. Let's not forget, Sly has an Oscar... for WRITING (Rocky). He knows how to develop characters, he knows how to incorporate theme, he knows how to create character arcs.
So why is it that The Expendables is just so devoid of all these elements? I'd be hard-pressed to say that maybe scenes were cut and characters split into multiple parts to allow for more stars, but that doesn't excuse how shoddily constructed individual scenes of the film tend to be. If you've taken a high school English class you're probably aware of three-act structure. Many writers use this structure for the entire story, but it actually works better for individual scenes. Mostly because it's simplistic and allows for an emotional build to a climax before calming down and moving onto the next scene. As I write this I'm watching the scene in Die Hard where McClane is hiding in the airvents while Karl pursues him. That's a great example of an individual scene using three-act structure. You could also look at the Gruber-Takagi scene (if you've seen the film, you know which one I'm talking about). The Expendables follows no structure whatsoever for it's individual scenes. It just alternates between characters talking, shouting, or fighting.
Only one scene seems to have any emotional structure at all: the Mickey Rourke confession. The problem is that we literally know nothing about his character at this point, we have no context. Don't try to say you can infer elements of his character from his occupation or interactions with women, no. That's weak, an excuse. Why does manage this team, what led him to do so? Why is he promiscuous with women? Suddenly this incredibly emotional, deep confession comes from this character. It's there for a reason, to inspire Stallone's character to return to the action and rescue a woman. But why does this confession inspire him? There's seemingly on connection between this confession and anything about Stallone's character. If there is, it's glossed over so quickly I can't recall it in the slightest (I only finished watching it an hour ago).
That's the reason The Expendables sets a bad example for action films: it glosses over all the details. It thinks it can get away without them. It thinks it can slip past criticism by claiming to be an homage. Well sorry, homage is not a blanket term which excuses a filmmaker for not following the basic tenents of filmmaking. Think of Quentin Tarantino or Edgar Wright (the Kings of Homage as far as I'm concerned), whose entire filmographies are built solely on homages to other films, genres, and pop culture in general, yet always manage to have themes and basic emotional cores (Hot Fuzz is a vastly superior homage to 80's and 90's action films). And yet, audiences seem fine with The Expendables simplistic, hollowed out approach to filmmaking compared to the passionate, driven, and groundbreaking works of someone like Wright, seeing as The Expendables raped Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World at the box office.
It's not that I don't want simple-minded action films that serve as escapist fun, it's that I don't want films that serve merely as a paycheck to the filmmakers.
"Warrior" Analysis (or "Why the Protaganist Isn't Necessarily the Point of the Story)
I haven't written a review in while, partially because I've been working on other things, partially because I haven't seen too many new movies lately, but mostly because I just haven't had anything to add to the conversation. Case in point: the last film I saw in theaters was The Dark Knight Rises. What did I think: good movie, far from perfect, need to see it again to elaborate. A lot of critics have already had their go at TDKR and have said far more interesting things than I could.
But there is one film (not exactly new, mind you) that no one ever seems to talk about but which I think deserves much more discussion: the MMA drama Warrior. The film deserves discussion for numerous reasons, but mostly because it is the first of what could be a new genre of films: the MMA fighter film. Much in the same way Rocky opened the lid on boxing movies, Warrior deserves to be seen as a progeniter. Not to mention the fact that it's one of the most effective relationship dramas in recent memory(1).
The main characters of Tommy Riordan (Tom Hardy) and Brendan Conlon (Joel Edgerton) are brothers participating in a winner-take-all MMA tournament. Yet the two are not simply at odds in the ring, but also in their relationship to one another. Tommy and Brendan come from a broken home wrecked by their alcoholic father Paddy Conlon (Nick Nolte). The family broke apart as the mother planned to take Tommy and Brendan and leave, but Brendan decides to stay due to his developing relationship with his girlfriend Tess (Jennifer Morrison), who eventually becomes his wife. Brendan felt from then on that his mother and brother abandoned him, whereas Tommy felt betrayed.
The entire film revolves around these central family dynamics and grows from there. Yet, while on the surface the film appears to be about redemtion and forgiveness I believe there is something deeper: how a family must protect one another. This particular aspect falls upon both characters of Brendan and Tommy, although is perhaps a bit more subtle with the latter. Brendan is a family man who gave up fighting to become a teacher and raise his two daughters. But when the bank threatens to foreclose on his house and he is suspended from his teaching position, Brendan works tirelessly to provide for (or perhaps protect) his wife and children. Tommy is a bit more complicated. Tommy is revealed to have been a Marine in Afghanistan who went AWOL when his entire unit was killed by friendly fire. One of the men killed in his unit was his best friend, whose widow he subsequently promises to provide for after their loss.
Because Tommy is such a physical beheamoth and a brutal brawler we have a hard time seeing past the tough guy persona. He puts up that veil for the entire film, but you can see little moments bleed through. Tommy's promise to the widow of his best friend, the wish for his father to have been supportive as a child, and the final forgiveness of his father when seeing him at his lowest. We also see he is not an instigator, rarely starting a fight but always finishing it.
Yet look deeper and you see that Tommy doesn't want to be the fighter. He is not the eponymous warrior, nor does he want to be. At the center of his being Tommy wants to be the protecter, the provider. We see that in his promise to his friends widow, as well as through his act of bravery in saving the lives of fellow Marines after stumbling upon their struggling unit (even though he was at the time going AWOL). He clearly has the power and capabilities to be such a protector or provider.
However, going ever deeper, that may not be what he needs. Tommy feels completely betrayed by an abusive father and brother who he believed loved him. Even when he left with his mother, Tommy had to be the one to take care of her after she fell ill.
I should also probably mention this: Tommy is the younger brother. What kind of relationship develops between a boy and his older brother? Often it's a mixture of admiration and resentment. You want to be like your older brother, you see them as the standard to hold yourself to. They might poke and prod at your here and there, but you also hope that no matter what, push comes to shove, they will fight to protect you. And if something comes along and seems to prove otherwise, it's devastating(2).
So it seems that all his life Tommy has been the provider, the strong one. Yet in the final match against Brendan, Tommy is injured and loses the use of his left arm. While he refuses to back down, we see Tommy is in dire straits: weeping for the first time on screen, cowering in his corner, alone. Even the cheers of the crowd and support his of his Marine Corp "brothers" are of little comfort. Tommy fights on with one arm, refusing to back down, he knows nothing else. But in the final moments Brendan has him pinned and apologizes, before Tommy finally admits defeat. The most important part of this scene is not that Brendan apologizes nor is it that Tommy forgives him, but that we finally see Brendan behaving like an older brother: keeping the press away from Tommy, shielding him from the chaos of the crowd, and walking Tommy away from the arena with his arms around him. Protecting Tommy.
Endnotes
1. I decided to mix up the style of analysis for this one, reaching deeper into a single aspect of the film for more effective examination. I might try to keep this format for the future. Or maybe not, I've been watching this movie for a year.
2. I speak of this from experience with my own older brother. When we were much younger he allowed one of his friends (without my prior knowledge) to practice wrestling moves on me. In the ensuing scuffle I hurt my back and limped home, my brother staying behind with his friend. Needless to say, after learning of my brothers compliance in his friends actions, I put far less trust in him. We have since grown up and are on amicable terms.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Review of Sucker Punch
Sucker Punch is, not ironically, something you will not see coming. It is a film that is equal parts action, fantasy, asylum drama, burlesque, and quasi-music video. It’s the kind of film that, despite appearances, does have thought in its head and a theme to be examined.
Sucker Punch is the fifth film by Director Zack Snyder, yet the first of which that is not an adaptation of some kind. Snyder is a born visual storyteller, composing each shot as if it were a painting. There is true artistry in the visuals of all of his films (particularly Watchmen) and he’s not about to hold back now.
Sucker Punch tells the story of a young woman (nicknamed Baby Doll) who is sent to an insane asylum by her stepfather. She learns that in five days she will be lobotomized, and so she escapes into a fantasy world within her own mind. A world in which she instead trapped in a 1920’s style brothel and acts out her escape plan there. Yet even within this dream Baby Doll imagines her various trials and tribulations as fantastical action sequences.
For the most part, all Sucker Punch really has are symbols and metaphors. The story isn’t particularly interesting and there’s little, if any, character development. What’s interesting about the film are its various iconography, which it uses to comment on female empowerment.
Think about what it means to be a strong male character: a man who stands up to his oppressors, a man of action who is always able to fight back, a man who stands up for his ideals. What do you think of when you hear strong female character? Personally, I don’t see many heroines in films that are actually strong female characters. Most of them essentially become roles that would be interchangeable with another male role (think Alice in the Resident Evil movies). The only one I can think of in recent memory is The Bride in Kill Bill, a role of action hero that could only be portrayed as a woman.
All of the heroines of the film are essentially all fighting back against heroic male iconography: battles with large samurai, battlefields of both World Wars, a Lord of the Rings styled castle (complete with orcs), and a runaway train with a bomb onboard. The fantasies all take place in the mind of Baby Doll when she is forced to dance for the entertainment of her male oppressors, yet these dream sequences are filled with Freudian male imagery (swords, guns, trains, etc) which the heroines interchangeably use and destroy.
What we are seeing is the typical female heroine’s internal, emotional battle “translated” as the typical male’s outward, reactionary battle. It’s not the fantasy battles themselves that are empowering, but instead what they stand in for.
Also of note is the aesthetic portrayal of the film’s male and female characters. All of the male characters are portrayed as being sleazy, conniving, or downright ugly with the exclusion of John Hamm who plays the one sympathetic male character (within the real world). In contrast, the women are breathtakingly beautiful, particularly within the dream sequences where they are often wearing sexy lingerie. They appear almost as works of art to be appreciated in and of themselves (objectification) yet consistently fight back and overpower their adversaries.
However, as fun as it is to wax philosophically about a film such as this, there are still questions that need to be answered.
The acting is all good for the most part. While the characters are not particularly developed, the actors portray them with much more depth than the script would suggest. Particular praise must be given to Emily Browning as Baby Doll, who shows us the character clearly and definitely yet doesn’t utter a single word for the first 15 to 20 minutes of the film (I actually thought Snyder might have been attempting to tell the story without the main character ever speaking, which could have been cool). Also of note is Scott Glenn as The Wise Man, who essentially embodies every male action hero/mentor character complete with clichés and one-liners.
The film’s biggest problem is a lack of emotional context. Once we figure out that the actions sequences are all dreams while the “real” world of the brothel is also a dream we lose nearly all our sense of place or consequences. It’s like when a friend tells you a story that one of their friends told them.
In the end, Sucker Punch is a visual fiesta that is gorgeous to behold. In some ways a action film with messages and ideas, yet in other ways plays as indulgence for indulgence’s sake.
Production Value: 8
Entertainment Value: 8
Sucker Punch is the fifth film by Director Zack Snyder, yet the first of which that is not an adaptation of some kind. Snyder is a born visual storyteller, composing each shot as if it were a painting. There is true artistry in the visuals of all of his films (particularly Watchmen) and he’s not about to hold back now.
Sucker Punch tells the story of a young woman (nicknamed Baby Doll) who is sent to an insane asylum by her stepfather. She learns that in five days she will be lobotomized, and so she escapes into a fantasy world within her own mind. A world in which she instead trapped in a 1920’s style brothel and acts out her escape plan there. Yet even within this dream Baby Doll imagines her various trials and tribulations as fantastical action sequences.
For the most part, all Sucker Punch really has are symbols and metaphors. The story isn’t particularly interesting and there’s little, if any, character development. What’s interesting about the film are its various iconography, which it uses to comment on female empowerment.
Think about what it means to be a strong male character: a man who stands up to his oppressors, a man of action who is always able to fight back, a man who stands up for his ideals. What do you think of when you hear strong female character? Personally, I don’t see many heroines in films that are actually strong female characters. Most of them essentially become roles that would be interchangeable with another male role (think Alice in the Resident Evil movies). The only one I can think of in recent memory is The Bride in Kill Bill, a role of action hero that could only be portrayed as a woman.
All of the heroines of the film are essentially all fighting back against heroic male iconography: battles with large samurai, battlefields of both World Wars, a Lord of the Rings styled castle (complete with orcs), and a runaway train with a bomb onboard. The fantasies all take place in the mind of Baby Doll when she is forced to dance for the entertainment of her male oppressors, yet these dream sequences are filled with Freudian male imagery (swords, guns, trains, etc) which the heroines interchangeably use and destroy.
What we are seeing is the typical female heroine’s internal, emotional battle “translated” as the typical male’s outward, reactionary battle. It’s not the fantasy battles themselves that are empowering, but instead what they stand in for.
Also of note is the aesthetic portrayal of the film’s male and female characters. All of the male characters are portrayed as being sleazy, conniving, or downright ugly with the exclusion of John Hamm who plays the one sympathetic male character (within the real world). In contrast, the women are breathtakingly beautiful, particularly within the dream sequences where they are often wearing sexy lingerie. They appear almost as works of art to be appreciated in and of themselves (objectification) yet consistently fight back and overpower their adversaries.
However, as fun as it is to wax philosophically about a film such as this, there are still questions that need to be answered.
The acting is all good for the most part. While the characters are not particularly developed, the actors portray them with much more depth than the script would suggest. Particular praise must be given to Emily Browning as Baby Doll, who shows us the character clearly and definitely yet doesn’t utter a single word for the first 15 to 20 minutes of the film (I actually thought Snyder might have been attempting to tell the story without the main character ever speaking, which could have been cool). Also of note is Scott Glenn as The Wise Man, who essentially embodies every male action hero/mentor character complete with clichés and one-liners.
The film’s biggest problem is a lack of emotional context. Once we figure out that the actions sequences are all dreams while the “real” world of the brothel is also a dream we lose nearly all our sense of place or consequences. It’s like when a friend tells you a story that one of their friends told them.
In the end, Sucker Punch is a visual fiesta that is gorgeous to behold. In some ways a action film with messages and ideas, yet in other ways plays as indulgence for indulgence’s sake.
Production Value: 8
Entertainment Value: 8
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sleepwalk With Me
I've been a fan of comedian Mike Birbiglia for about 5 or 6 years. I've seen all his specials and I own both his CD's, and they're all wonderfully hysterical. But a couple of years ago I heard he was performing a one-man off-broadway show produced by Nathan Lane... well color me intrigued. Unfortunately, he was apparently only performing it in New York and I have never had the resources to just GO to New York. So, I never saw the show and my disappointment slowly drifted away, forgotten.
Then quite recently (as in, yesterday) I discovered that Mr. Birbiglia had written a book about many of the stories that were told within his one-man show. I thought "this is probably the only way I'll experience these stories" so I went out an bought it (using a store coupon, I'm not made of money). I cracked it open this morning and I could not stop reading.
I'll try to give some perspective on this fact. While I do in fact read books, I will usually take several months to get through a single book as I tend to read infrequently and at a glacial speed. It also depends on what book I may be reading: Dune is probably the most mind-numbingly complex books I've ever read, but I enjoyed it so much I was able to knock it out over the course of a summer. And while Mike Birbiglia's "Sleepwalk With Me" is far from being a great literary achievement, it's still a damn good read. This is the first time I've ever read ANY book (over 10 pages in length) in a single sitting, I suppose that should mean something.
And as hilarious as the book so often is, Birbiglia isn't afraid to get very personal. His stories regarding his first serious relationship, meeting and dealing with the death of his hero (and mine) Mitch Hedberg are particularly moving. Of note is one passage wherein he describes his close relationship with his mother that was brought on by their mutual love of church. He goes on to explain his personal problems with the church that were partially brought on by this relationship. I'm not a religious nor anti-religious person and I've always felt that the criticisms from both sides were equally childish and pointless, with anti-religious always citing reasons of logic. Birbiglia's problems with the church are purely emotional, and it's one of the few times I really empathized with either side of the argument.
The book fantastically balances humor and humility with insight and emotion. At any moment your tears of sadness can become tears of uncontrollable laughter.
This is a book to keep an eye out for, go out and give it a read.
Then quite recently (as in, yesterday) I discovered that Mr. Birbiglia had written a book about many of the stories that were told within his one-man show. I thought "this is probably the only way I'll experience these stories" so I went out an bought it (using a store coupon, I'm not made of money). I cracked it open this morning and I could not stop reading.
I'll try to give some perspective on this fact. While I do in fact read books, I will usually take several months to get through a single book as I tend to read infrequently and at a glacial speed. It also depends on what book I may be reading: Dune is probably the most mind-numbingly complex books I've ever read, but I enjoyed it so much I was able to knock it out over the course of a summer. And while Mike Birbiglia's "Sleepwalk With Me" is far from being a great literary achievement, it's still a damn good read. This is the first time I've ever read ANY book (over 10 pages in length) in a single sitting, I suppose that should mean something.
And as hilarious as the book so often is, Birbiglia isn't afraid to get very personal. His stories regarding his first serious relationship, meeting and dealing with the death of his hero (and mine) Mitch Hedberg are particularly moving. Of note is one passage wherein he describes his close relationship with his mother that was brought on by their mutual love of church. He goes on to explain his personal problems with the church that were partially brought on by this relationship. I'm not a religious nor anti-religious person and I've always felt that the criticisms from both sides were equally childish and pointless, with anti-religious always citing reasons of logic. Birbiglia's problems with the church are purely emotional, and it's one of the few times I really empathized with either side of the argument.
The book fantastically balances humor and humility with insight and emotion. At any moment your tears of sadness can become tears of uncontrollable laughter.
This is a book to keep an eye out for, go out and give it a read.
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