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.
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