Star Trek (J. J. Abrams, dir; 127 mins; 2009)
As every nerd knows, the problem with prequels is that we already know the story they must eventually arrive at far too well. OK, I admit, main stream movies are predictable anyway but most people are able to ignore that. The prequel format makes the known end unavoidable. Fortunately, Star Trek belongs to science (however bad) fiction, so the filmmakers can trot out the notion of time travel to thwart the story we think we know or, at least, to engender some suspense.
My lovely, intelligent wife was watching this film with me (to humor me) and she immediately declared the time travel notion a cheat. She was done. I finished watching the film later. To my great surprise, the young Kirk said exactly the same thing to the old (the credits call him Prime) Spock. Old Spock is explaining matters (Romulans, red matter, black holes, time travel, destroyed worlds, 2 Spocks, etc.) to him when Kirk says, “You know, going back in time, changing history... that's cheating.” I stopped the DVD and went to get my wife. Who knew she was not only in touch with the universe but also channeling science fiction premises and heroes?
Old Spock’s justification (for which my wife didn’t stay around) was that he had learned this from an old friend. We nerds would know—but the filmmakers had an earlier scene catching everyone else up to speed—that Spock is talking about the infamous Kobayashi Maru test, a no-win computer simulation for training prospective starship captains. Kirk, of course, is the only person to ever “pass” the test, and he did so by “cheating,” as the Young Spock says at Kirk’s academic hearing. Kirk reprogrammed the computer program so that he could win. Old Spock is now trying to do the same thing to the film’s reality, a slightly more ambitious project than changing a computer simulation.
I’m willing to accept the premise without yelling “foul.” After all, that premise—a change in some significant part of “reality”—is near the sine qua non of science fiction, fantasy, and religion. Further, it’s a neat way to deal with the problems of the prequel. I do, however, have some aesthetic problems in this case. Most simply, the filmmakers didn’t maximize this idea. They never explored how “reality” was significantly changed by time travel (OK, the Vulcan world is destroyed, but that remains largely unexplored too). They simply used the idea to arrive at the right people in the right places on the bridge of the Enterprise. In fact, the filmmakers used the premise to bring hopelessly opposed characters—a prig and a jerk—together (a deus ex machina) instead of bringing them together through a development of storyline, characters, or values. The characters are so poorly developed that they had to bring Old Spock on screen to solemnly intone the lessons I wish they had developed in the story.
My wife was right. It is a cheat. It’s not the time travel premise; it’s the story they cheated on. Sorry, Old Spock.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Surrogates
Surrogates (Jonathan Mostow, dir; 89 mins; 2009):
Unlike the more popular Avatar, Surrogates offers us “ghosts in the machine.” People are spirits or minds that can inhabit any number (although apparently only one at a time) of surrogates, perfect synthetic bodies. Created first for people with various disadvantages or injuries and for military service, 98% of the world’s people have now “phoned it [ordinary life] in” and interact with others only through their surrogates. In fact, most people have become rather fearful of and embarrassed by their less than perfect “real” bodies. Most of the other 2% live in “reservations” in the midst of cities where surrogates are not allowed. The Prophet is the most vocal leader of this minority and harangues the surrogate world on a regular basis for living a lie.
Complications arise when surrogates are trashed and their users die too. Detective Tom Greer (Willis) eventually discovers that the original creator of the surrogates has developed a means to terminate surrogates and their users and plans an apocalypse. Greer stops the apocalypse or, at least, he saves the human users. The surrogates (machines?) all go down for the count (Take that Matrix and Terminator).
A final news report commenting on the end of the surrogates says either hopefully or hauntingly that “we’re on our own now.” The problem is that no one knows how to use their own bodies very well or how to interact with less than perfect people (they could train at my house during family holidays). The Prophet has been exposed as a pawn of the military-industrial complex (or, at least, of the creator). Tom Greer, however, seems poised to lead the way. In the course of his investigation, his surrogate is destroyed and he goes it “naturally,” and, as a result, becomes enamored anew of “real,” physical life. In fact, in the film finale, he connects anew with his “real” wife, not her surrogate, something that he has tried to do increasingly throughout the film.
I’d like to read the film as consciously choosing Aristotle over Plato or Marx over otherworldly religion (Plato and the spirit are more popular than Aristotle and Marx), but I don’t think that’s quite it. The aura is more It’s a Wonderful Life. The film simply validates the “reality” of most of the audience. The film, then, is not so much Luddite as it is a paean to our less than perfect bodies, both physical and social.
Unlike the more popular Avatar, Surrogates offers us “ghosts in the machine.” People are spirits or minds that can inhabit any number (although apparently only one at a time) of surrogates, perfect synthetic bodies. Created first for people with various disadvantages or injuries and for military service, 98% of the world’s people have now “phoned it [ordinary life] in” and interact with others only through their surrogates. In fact, most people have become rather fearful of and embarrassed by their less than perfect “real” bodies. Most of the other 2% live in “reservations” in the midst of cities where surrogates are not allowed. The Prophet is the most vocal leader of this minority and harangues the surrogate world on a regular basis for living a lie.
Complications arise when surrogates are trashed and their users die too. Detective Tom Greer (Willis) eventually discovers that the original creator of the surrogates has developed a means to terminate surrogates and their users and plans an apocalypse. Greer stops the apocalypse or, at least, he saves the human users. The surrogates (machines?) all go down for the count (Take that Matrix and Terminator).
A final news report commenting on the end of the surrogates says either hopefully or hauntingly that “we’re on our own now.” The problem is that no one knows how to use their own bodies very well or how to interact with less than perfect people (they could train at my house during family holidays). The Prophet has been exposed as a pawn of the military-industrial complex (or, at least, of the creator). Tom Greer, however, seems poised to lead the way. In the course of his investigation, his surrogate is destroyed and he goes it “naturally,” and, as a result, becomes enamored anew of “real,” physical life. In fact, in the film finale, he connects anew with his “real” wife, not her surrogate, something that he has tried to do increasingly throughout the film.
I’d like to read the film as consciously choosing Aristotle over Plato or Marx over otherworldly religion (Plato and the spirit are more popular than Aristotle and Marx), but I don’t think that’s quite it. The aura is more It’s a Wonderful Life. The film simply validates the “reality” of most of the audience. The film, then, is not so much Luddite as it is a paean to our less than perfect bodies, both physical and social.
2012
2012 (Roland Emmerich, dir; 158 mins; 2009)
Despite the apocalyptic theme, the primary connection between 2012 and the biblical text is the story of the flood (the Mayan apocalypse supplies only the date). Jackson Curtis (Cusack), the protagonist, has a son named Noah. The vessels that allow some to escape the apocalypse are called “arks,” and the film offers several shots of animals being ferried onto the arks. Of course, science—not divine revelation—reveals the impending disaster and the pathway to the elite’s salvation. Genetics also determines those to be saved, not righteousness. The elite, of course, get (or pay) for special deals. Perhaps, that motif is closer to the biblical idea that God’s favorites are the saved.
But, the film has little room for God or religion. One sequence is particularly compelling. The President of the U.S. stays behind to tell his people of the coming disaster and to lead them in praying Ps 23 (the Italian leader also prays with his people). Almost immediately, upheavals destroy the Washington Monument, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica (in another sequence, the statue of Christ over Rio de Janero comes tumbling down). The basilica crushes many worshipers. Perhaps, the growing split between the fingers of Adam and God is the film’s clearest statement about traditional religion.
Not surprisingly, then, when conspiracy nut Charlie Frost (Harrelson) talks about the apocalypse, he describes it wonderfully as a scenario that only Hollywood could concoct (my single favorite moment in the film). He, then, goes on to list various religions and texts that mention such. In his list, the only item qualified is the Bible, which only “kind of” speaks of apocalypse. Harrelson’s Frost is a gift that keeps on giving in the film. He knows the end is coming but stays behind to watch “because it’s so beautiful.” Can you imagine a better depiction of the voyeuristic joy of apocalypse? Derrida would be so happy. Not surprisingly, just before Frost dies, he exhilarates, “Remember, you heard it first from Charlie.” It’s a wonderful paraphrase of Derrida’s idea that the joy of apocalypse is being the one to be right in the instant before death. Not coincidentally, the President’s assistant, the chief villain of the film, observes with irritation that one of the great annoyances of the disaster is that the nut jobs with cardboard signs were right all along.
Finally, despite the evil politicians and the manipulations of the elite, the film asserts that basic human decency, not God or traditional religion, will ultimately save us (or, at least, some of us). The protagonist Curtis is an unsuccessful science fiction author whose one book, Farewell Atlantis, has sold a whopping 442 copies. The critics panned the book because he dared to suggest that people would finally act sacrificially and selflessly in the apocalyptic finale (cf. The Day the Earth Stood Still). No one believes that given everyday life. But, in the film’s finale, that is, of course, exactly what happens. Surprisingly, the scientist Adrian Helmsley has the important speech. Quoting Curtis’ book, Helmsley opines that the moment we stop fighting for each other, that’s the moment we lose our humanity. In striking contrast to the Genesis flood story, the gates of the arks are, then, opened to the children of the earth. It’s a pretty tale, and the apocalypse becomes simply a device to reaffirm humane values and to restore Curtis’ broken family (cf. The War of the Worlds).
Despite the apocalyptic theme, the primary connection between 2012 and the biblical text is the story of the flood (the Mayan apocalypse supplies only the date). Jackson Curtis (Cusack), the protagonist, has a son named Noah. The vessels that allow some to escape the apocalypse are called “arks,” and the film offers several shots of animals being ferried onto the arks. Of course, science—not divine revelation—reveals the impending disaster and the pathway to the elite’s salvation. Genetics also determines those to be saved, not righteousness. The elite, of course, get (or pay) for special deals. Perhaps, that motif is closer to the biblical idea that God’s favorites are the saved.
But, the film has little room for God or religion. One sequence is particularly compelling. The President of the U.S. stays behind to tell his people of the coming disaster and to lead them in praying Ps 23 (the Italian leader also prays with his people). Almost immediately, upheavals destroy the Washington Monument, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica (in another sequence, the statue of Christ over Rio de Janero comes tumbling down). The basilica crushes many worshipers. Perhaps, the growing split between the fingers of Adam and God is the film’s clearest statement about traditional religion.
Not surprisingly, then, when conspiracy nut Charlie Frost (Harrelson) talks about the apocalypse, he describes it wonderfully as a scenario that only Hollywood could concoct (my single favorite moment in the film). He, then, goes on to list various religions and texts that mention such. In his list, the only item qualified is the Bible, which only “kind of” speaks of apocalypse. Harrelson’s Frost is a gift that keeps on giving in the film. He knows the end is coming but stays behind to watch “because it’s so beautiful.” Can you imagine a better depiction of the voyeuristic joy of apocalypse? Derrida would be so happy. Not surprisingly, just before Frost dies, he exhilarates, “Remember, you heard it first from Charlie.” It’s a wonderful paraphrase of Derrida’s idea that the joy of apocalypse is being the one to be right in the instant before death. Not coincidentally, the President’s assistant, the chief villain of the film, observes with irritation that one of the great annoyances of the disaster is that the nut jobs with cardboard signs were right all along.
Finally, despite the evil politicians and the manipulations of the elite, the film asserts that basic human decency, not God or traditional religion, will ultimately save us (or, at least, some of us). The protagonist Curtis is an unsuccessful science fiction author whose one book, Farewell Atlantis, has sold a whopping 442 copies. The critics panned the book because he dared to suggest that people would finally act sacrificially and selflessly in the apocalyptic finale (cf. The Day the Earth Stood Still). No one believes that given everyday life. But, in the film’s finale, that is, of course, exactly what happens. Surprisingly, the scientist Adrian Helmsley has the important speech. Quoting Curtis’ book, Helmsley opines that the moment we stop fighting for each other, that’s the moment we lose our humanity. In striking contrast to the Genesis flood story, the gates of the arks are, then, opened to the children of the earth. It’s a pretty tale, and the apocalypse becomes simply a device to reaffirm humane values and to restore Curtis’ broken family (cf. The War of the Worlds).
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Zombieland
Zombieland (Reuben Fleischer, dir; 88 mins; 2009): There’s something redundant about a parody of zombie movies. While all horror movies dwell on the verge of comedy, zombie movies enter the comedic sphere head over heels. Consequently, movies like Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland are gilding the lily at best. Nonetheless, both movies work to a certain degree. Shaun of the Dead does so with its wit (e.g., with its premise: what happens if the apocalypse occurs and no one notices?) and Zombieland with its outstanding performance by Woody Harrelson. Both movies also work because they are faithful to the George Romero tradition (see Kim Paffenroth’s Gospel of the Living Dead: George Romero’s Visions of Hell on Earth) of using zombie films to offer cultural commentary as well as comedy. In fact, the opening shot of the U.S. flag in Zombieland seems an allusion to the opening of Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). Romero’s films were fairly intense, acerbic, and insightful social criticism. Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland are less intense and acerbic and their insights are more personal (or, more oriented to a particular segment of society). Thus, Shaun of the Dead draws interesting parallels between the slacker and zombie lifestyle and between the zombie condition and that of those who work for hourly wages. Zombieland speaks instead to agoraphobic nerds who revel in isolation and fear/hate other people. As the protagonist finally learns in the movie’s finale, “Without other people you might as well be a zombie.” In fact, the movie is, at least, partly about the creation of “family.”
Interestingly, Zombieland hides this lesson in the midst of other mostly mindless rules that the protagonist has learned and offers in voiceover throughout the film as lessons for survival in Zombieland (Who is left to hear these words and learn from them?) on his road trip to California (to Pacific Playland). Intriguingly, while the protagonist-narrator numbers these rules, we hear only part of them (#1-4, 17, 31, etc.). Thankfully, in this self-help zombie film, we do not know everything. Humorously, the other important lesson hidden in the narrator’s multiplicity of axioms comes when the gutless protagonist learns to reject one of his rules and to live instead by Harrelson’s character’s oft-repeated mantra: “Time to nut up or shut up.” It’s actually a rather interesting qualification of film’s often deadly heroism. And, yes, the protagonist is a bit like the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz.
Interestingly, Zombieland hides this lesson in the midst of other mostly mindless rules that the protagonist has learned and offers in voiceover throughout the film as lessons for survival in Zombieland (Who is left to hear these words and learn from them?) on his road trip to California (to Pacific Playland). Intriguingly, while the protagonist-narrator numbers these rules, we hear only part of them (#1-4, 17, 31, etc.). Thankfully, in this self-help zombie film, we do not know everything. Humorously, the other important lesson hidden in the narrator’s multiplicity of axioms comes when the gutless protagonist learns to reject one of his rules and to live instead by Harrelson’s character’s oft-repeated mantra: “Time to nut up or shut up.” It’s actually a rather interesting qualification of film’s often deadly heroism. And, yes, the protagonist is a bit like the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
The Blind Side
The Blind Side (John Lee Hancock, dir, 129 mins, 2009) is a feel-good film that leaves itself open to two obvious criticisms. First, in the vein of films like Grand Canyon and Remember the Titans (should we also include To Kill a Mockingbird?), it reduces systemic (socio-economic) racism to personal, private matters. That we feel good when we watch this film may salve our conscience on such issues and insure our secure isolation. The Tuohy family consists of caring conservatives, kinder, gentler Republicans who have a black son before they ever meet a Democrat. Those interested in such criticisms of this film can read the review by Joanne Laurier at http://www.wsws.org/articles/2010/mar2010/blin-m26.shtml or the essay on Remember the Titans in Erin Runion’s fine book, How Hysterical? If we wanted to take this level of criticism further, perhaps we should dwell on the fact that the Tuohy wealth is based on a series of fast food franchises (often critiqued as cardboard for the masses). Second, and of more aesthetic concern, the film repeatedly avoids (almost all) dramatic tension. It simply does not explore the kinds of problems that we would expect to arise in the mix of race and social class that is the new Tuohy family. Nor does it explore tensions between loyalty to family (the film’s great theme) and other loyalties. Perhaps, we should reread our Aeschylus or watch something like Before and After. Those interested in such criticisms can read the review by Dennis Schwartz at http://homepages.sover.net/~ozus/blindside.htm or that by Nick Da Costa at http://www.eyeforfilm.co.uk/reviews.php?id=8866.
Having salved my critical conscience somewhat, I wish to confess that I thoroughly enjoyed The Blind Side. Join me in singing, “We Are Family.” It is this that the film is about, not football. In fact, given the premise of the film set out in the introductory voiceover by Leigh Anne Tuohy (Sandra Bullock), the football scenes are quite limited. The family, loyalty to the family, protecting your family members’ “blind sides” is everything. None of that is, I suppose, surprising in the film’s conservative ideology. What does surprise, however, is the film’s testimony to the constructed—that is, not natural or biological—nature of family. Family is something chosen, not given. Did someone—the original author or someone among the filmmakers—read De Beauvoir or Foucault?
Beyond that, like all hero(ine) films (Leigh Anne is the real heroine here), The Blind Side exhorts us to heroic virtues like honor and courage. Michael Oher, instructed by Sean Tuohy’s analysis of “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” has the final summation: “Courage is a hard thing to figure. You can have courage based on a dumb idea or mistake, but you're not supposed to question adults, or your coach or your teacher, because they make the rules. Maybe they know best, but maybe they don't. It all depends on who you are, where you come from. Didn't at least one of the six hundred guys think about giving up, and joining with the other side? I mean, valley of death that's pretty salty stuff. That's why courage it's tricky. Should you always do what others tell you to do? Sometimes you might not even know why you're doing something. I mean any fool can have courage. But honor, that's the real reason for you either do something or you don't. It's who you are and maybe who you want to be. If you die trying for something important, then you have both honor and courage, and that's pretty good. I think that's what the writer was saying, that you should hope for courage and try for honor. And maybe even pray that the people telling you what to do have some, too.”
Perhaps, I shouldn’t be, but I am a sucker for such.
Having salved my critical conscience somewhat, I wish to confess that I thoroughly enjoyed The Blind Side. Join me in singing, “We Are Family.” It is this that the film is about, not football. In fact, given the premise of the film set out in the introductory voiceover by Leigh Anne Tuohy (Sandra Bullock), the football scenes are quite limited. The family, loyalty to the family, protecting your family members’ “blind sides” is everything. None of that is, I suppose, surprising in the film’s conservative ideology. What does surprise, however, is the film’s testimony to the constructed—that is, not natural or biological—nature of family. Family is something chosen, not given. Did someone—the original author or someone among the filmmakers—read De Beauvoir or Foucault?
Beyond that, like all hero(ine) films (Leigh Anne is the real heroine here), The Blind Side exhorts us to heroic virtues like honor and courage. Michael Oher, instructed by Sean Tuohy’s analysis of “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” has the final summation: “Courage is a hard thing to figure. You can have courage based on a dumb idea or mistake, but you're not supposed to question adults, or your coach or your teacher, because they make the rules. Maybe they know best, but maybe they don't. It all depends on who you are, where you come from. Didn't at least one of the six hundred guys think about giving up, and joining with the other side? I mean, valley of death that's pretty salty stuff. That's why courage it's tricky. Should you always do what others tell you to do? Sometimes you might not even know why you're doing something. I mean any fool can have courage. But honor, that's the real reason for you either do something or you don't. It's who you are and maybe who you want to be. If you die trying for something important, then you have both honor and courage, and that's pretty good. I think that's what the writer was saying, that you should hope for courage and try for honor. And maybe even pray that the people telling you what to do have some, too.”
Perhaps, I shouldn’t be, but I am a sucker for such.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Inception
Inception (Christopher Nolan, dir; 148 mins; 2010)
Is it real or is it Memorex? Not surprisingly, for a Christopher Nolan film, Inception begins near the end as Cobb awakes on a beach and is hauled before a powerful, aged Asian man. Later, we learn that we are in Cobb’s—or is it the collective—subconscious? Cobb leads a team that raids people’s dreams/subconscious for their secrets.
International corporations and powerful individuals pay well for this service and also for training in self-defense against such raids. Cobb also has a troubled past. He is wanted for his wife’s “murder” and, therefore, separated from his children. Quite simply, he can’t go home until a middle-aged Asian businessman offers to help clear up his legal problems in return for a service—the implanting of an idea in the son of the businessman’s greatest rival. That rival is dying and the heir will inherit everything. The idea is the breakup of the heir’s company.
Accepting the job, Cobb goes three levels into the heir’s dream world, leaving a conscious member of his team behind at each of the first two levels. To return to reality, they have to coordinate a “kick” at each level at the same time. Failing at the crucial moment, his newest team member challenges him to go into the subconscious with her. They do and meet his dead wife. We learn the whole “truth” about Cobb’s past, and Cobb figuratively kills his wife by refusing her delusions and by refusing to stay with her in the subconscious. In short, he forgives himself for his part in his wife’s suicide. Cobb does stay behind as his associate leaves, however, to complete the job and to rescue his Asian employer who has been wounded in the heist and is now lost in the subconscious. This returns us to the opening beach and to the old Asian man (time passes more quickly at each successive dream level).
Successful, Cobb returns to his family cleared of all charges. But, in the film’s last scene, Cobb leaves a top spinning on a table. This top is Cobb’s talisman, the item that he carries with him so that he will be able to distinguish reality and dreams. In a dream world, the top will spin continuously. In the film’s last scene, the top slows and slows; it must stop; but before it does, the film fades to black. We have no talisman; we cannot distinguish reality and dreams. In fact, Cobb may not have one either. In the film’s climactic moments, when the truth comes out, we find out that Cobb’s talisman actually belongs to his dead wife. Or, is she?
The film is interesting on two counts. First, the play with dreams returns to the early days of film when filmmakers and theorists argued whether film should represent reality or whether should film should be the stuff of dreams. Mainstream Hollywood film largely chose the first option although the device of “this is just a dream” has a lengthy history in horror. In recent years, however, mainstream film has rediscovered the dream. This may have something to do with late capitalism or with what some theorists have referred to as the society of the spectacle or as the proliferation of simulations. Second, then, the film is a window into our culture’s uncertainty about truth and reality. We are no longer sure. We live in a simulated world.
Is it real or is it Memorex? Not surprisingly, for a Christopher Nolan film, Inception begins near the end as Cobb awakes on a beach and is hauled before a powerful, aged Asian man. Later, we learn that we are in Cobb’s—or is it the collective—subconscious? Cobb leads a team that raids people’s dreams/subconscious for their secrets.
International corporations and powerful individuals pay well for this service and also for training in self-defense against such raids. Cobb also has a troubled past. He is wanted for his wife’s “murder” and, therefore, separated from his children. Quite simply, he can’t go home until a middle-aged Asian businessman offers to help clear up his legal problems in return for a service—the implanting of an idea in the son of the businessman’s greatest rival. That rival is dying and the heir will inherit everything. The idea is the breakup of the heir’s company.
Accepting the job, Cobb goes three levels into the heir’s dream world, leaving a conscious member of his team behind at each of the first two levels. To return to reality, they have to coordinate a “kick” at each level at the same time. Failing at the crucial moment, his newest team member challenges him to go into the subconscious with her. They do and meet his dead wife. We learn the whole “truth” about Cobb’s past, and Cobb figuratively kills his wife by refusing her delusions and by refusing to stay with her in the subconscious. In short, he forgives himself for his part in his wife’s suicide. Cobb does stay behind as his associate leaves, however, to complete the job and to rescue his Asian employer who has been wounded in the heist and is now lost in the subconscious. This returns us to the opening beach and to the old Asian man (time passes more quickly at each successive dream level).
Successful, Cobb returns to his family cleared of all charges. But, in the film’s last scene, Cobb leaves a top spinning on a table. This top is Cobb’s talisman, the item that he carries with him so that he will be able to distinguish reality and dreams. In a dream world, the top will spin continuously. In the film’s last scene, the top slows and slows; it must stop; but before it does, the film fades to black. We have no talisman; we cannot distinguish reality and dreams. In fact, Cobb may not have one either. In the film’s climactic moments, when the truth comes out, we find out that Cobb’s talisman actually belongs to his dead wife. Or, is she?
The film is interesting on two counts. First, the play with dreams returns to the early days of film when filmmakers and theorists argued whether film should represent reality or whether should film should be the stuff of dreams. Mainstream Hollywood film largely chose the first option although the device of “this is just a dream” has a lengthy history in horror. In recent years, however, mainstream film has rediscovered the dream. This may have something to do with late capitalism or with what some theorists have referred to as the society of the spectacle or as the proliferation of simulations. Second, then, the film is a window into our culture’s uncertainty about truth and reality. We are no longer sure. We live in a simulated world.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Godfather
The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, dir; 175 mins; 1972)
One of the great things about watching The Godfather again after all these years is the film’s memorable lines, many of which have become such a part of popular culture that one may have forgotten their place in this film. In fact, one may even think them the property of some inane romantic comedy. The lines, of course, are The Godfather and the sheer joy of hearing them again is much of the experience of this film (or something like Casablanca).
For me, the other memorable part of The Godfather is the wonderful scene near the end of the film which intercuts the baptism of Michael Corleone’s nephew and Michael’s acceptance of the role as this child’s godfather with the various vengeful reprisals that eliminate the Corleone family’s enemies. Those acts are, of course, also what makes Michael Corleone into the Godfather.
That the film begins to intercut this violence with the moment in the baptism when Michael renounces Satan is a wonderful touch, for Michael has done no such thing. Instead, these intercut scenes display the climax of Michael’s degradation (can there be a climax to degradation?). As the film begins, Michael is a returning war hero, and his father isolates him from the family’s business so that Michael can be a more legitimate, powerful figure—a senator or a governor. Violent attacks on the family because Don Corleone will not participate in the burgeoning drug trade and the ineptness of Michael’s two brothers eventually force Michael into the family business as the new Don. It is a slow, but seemingly inevitable process.
It is also a process that implicates us as viewers. It is difficult not to sympathize with the Corleone family (although the older Don is a more sympathetic character than Michael). It is difficult not to share their desire for vengeance after their family is assaulted. The FBI and the local police are ineffectual. The politicians and judges are for sale. By contrast, the family has a code, and that code is not drastically different from that of many cinematic heroes and, therefore, from the code to which many of us may aspire. The film, then, is not simply about Michael’s degradation. It is about the degradation of all of us (after WW2?). It also, like Aeschylus and more modern revenge tragedies, is also about the horror of vengeance. It raises the question whether vengeance preserves or destroys the family and us all.
Accordingly, the film is also about our fascination with evil. In films from the period of The Godfather’s setting, titillation with evil eventually gave way to an endorsement of contemporary public mores. The evil were judged, even if the good did not triumph. The Godfather is a degradation of a different color. In the film’s final scene, Michael has come of age, he has taken his (God)father’s place. His enemies have been routed. His wife, who represents naiveté, if not innocence or the good, is completely in the dark. She is pathetic, little more than a fool (and not a holy fool at that). We are left with evil.
One of the great things about watching The Godfather again after all these years is the film’s memorable lines, many of which have become such a part of popular culture that one may have forgotten their place in this film. In fact, one may even think them the property of some inane romantic comedy. The lines, of course, are The Godfather and the sheer joy of hearing them again is much of the experience of this film (or something like Casablanca).
For me, the other memorable part of The Godfather is the wonderful scene near the end of the film which intercuts the baptism of Michael Corleone’s nephew and Michael’s acceptance of the role as this child’s godfather with the various vengeful reprisals that eliminate the Corleone family’s enemies. Those acts are, of course, also what makes Michael Corleone into the Godfather.
That the film begins to intercut this violence with the moment in the baptism when Michael renounces Satan is a wonderful touch, for Michael has done no such thing. Instead, these intercut scenes display the climax of Michael’s degradation (can there be a climax to degradation?). As the film begins, Michael is a returning war hero, and his father isolates him from the family’s business so that Michael can be a more legitimate, powerful figure—a senator or a governor. Violent attacks on the family because Don Corleone will not participate in the burgeoning drug trade and the ineptness of Michael’s two brothers eventually force Michael into the family business as the new Don. It is a slow, but seemingly inevitable process.
It is also a process that implicates us as viewers. It is difficult not to sympathize with the Corleone family (although the older Don is a more sympathetic character than Michael). It is difficult not to share their desire for vengeance after their family is assaulted. The FBI and the local police are ineffectual. The politicians and judges are for sale. By contrast, the family has a code, and that code is not drastically different from that of many cinematic heroes and, therefore, from the code to which many of us may aspire. The film, then, is not simply about Michael’s degradation. It is about the degradation of all of us (after WW2?). It also, like Aeschylus and more modern revenge tragedies, is also about the horror of vengeance. It raises the question whether vengeance preserves or destroys the family and us all.
Accordingly, the film is also about our fascination with evil. In films from the period of The Godfather’s setting, titillation with evil eventually gave way to an endorsement of contemporary public mores. The evil were judged, even if the good did not triumph. The Godfather is a degradation of a different color. In the film’s final scene, Michael has come of age, he has taken his (God)father’s place. His enemies have been routed. His wife, who represents naiveté, if not innocence or the good, is completely in the dark. She is pathetic, little more than a fool (and not a holy fool at that). We are left with evil.
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