Prequels: An Unnecessary Story For a Feature

***Spoilers Ahead***

From my current viewing experience, it would seem that X-Men: First Class is the strongest film prequel to date (Prometheus is a close runner up). Both these films, however, are not great in terms of their emotional engagement and there’s also a heavy lack of satisfaction which I experienced upon their initial viewings.

I have not watched many film prequels to date, so I’m not exactly 100% equipped to write this blog; however I feel that it is a subject which I’d like to discuss, so I am at least going to give it my best shot.

For years I would watch prequels with a sense of disappointment throughout the feature’s entire run. It felt almost as though there was no sensation of experiencing something new. The material which was playing out on screen did not feel fresh and unpredictable, but instead felt more like an expected and un-engaging story.

I could never quite put my finger on the problem which made prequels feel so bland and unsatisfactory. But then, several years ago, the BBC Radio 5 Live film critic, Mark Kermode, raised the subject and shed some light on this entire situation.

Whilst reviewing X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Kermode brought up the fact that there was no concern for the wellbeing or fate of the film’s protagonist. Seeing as an initial trilogy set in this same X-Men universe already existed, viewers already knew that Wolverine was immortal and that he survives this prequel story to exist in the Bryan Singer and Brett Ratner directed series.  

As a result of this, we knew for a fact that Wolverine would not end up in mortal danger and would not lose to the antagonist’s twisted aims before the film’s end. There was no threat, no concern for the hero which we have learnt to care about and no possibility that we could lose our beloved protagonist.

Bingo! That was the problem with prequels! We already knew what direction the story was heading in. This means that we have no questions or uncertainties about how the timeline of that universe will pan out. Without that sense of doubt or fear for the protagonists, there’s no tension or sense of dread.

This was also the problem with the revolting Star Wars prequels. One of the most infamous moments in the original Star Wars trilogy was the scene where Darth Vader tells Luke Skywalker that he is his father. This was a shocking sequence that twisted the film’s narrative into a completely new direction. It was a chunk of the narrative’s information which was held back from its audience for almost two entire films and was then pulled out at the last minute to shock its viewers.

However, when the prequels came out for Star Wars in the late 20^th and early 21^st century, this level of surprise was nowhere to be found. We knew that Anakin Skywalker was one day destined to become Darth Vader and that his wife – Queen Amidala – was destined to die in childbirth whilst giving birth to Luke & Leia. We knew the fate of the Jedi’s, the rise of the Empire and the outcome of the core characters. There was no surprise, we had already seen the outcome in the previous trilogy; therefore there were no twists and turns that forced its viewers to remain in the realm of the unpredictable.

But the lack of surprise and uncertainty is not the only problem that prequels have in terms of their narrative, but also the unnecessary use of backstory also diminishes the quality of the storytelling (also suggest by Kermode). For example, if a detailed portrayal of the backstory revolving the fall of the Jedi’s and the descent of Anakin Skywalker was so important, then why didn’t George Lucas tell this story in the first place? Why didn’t he write and direct Episode I back in 1977?

Sure, you could say that he wanted to wait until the technology was available to execute this visual-heavy instalment; however we all know that this is not the case. We know that Lucas didn’t film it because if he did, then it would destroy the memorable twist that was set to shock audiences at the end of Episode V.

Backstory is not there to be made into a full feature film, but to work instead as an engagement technique to keep audiences engrossed. Backstory lies in the background of a narrative and is only brought forward when it can be used to have a particular effect on those who have invested their emotions into that story. The transition of Anakin Skywalker to Darth Vader was not written up to be made into a three part special effects epic, but was there to keep the audience still in their seats by the time that The Empire Strikes Back was drawing closer to its conclusion.

The same can be said for X-Men. The origin story of Wolverine works better to help give the character an interesting and enigmatic angle in the initial trilogy. We know that Wolverine had a past and when certain ghosts from that past crop up, it helped to either make the story more appealing or to reveal some new truths about his character.

So that is pretty much my issue with prequels. There is no engagement in the story. We know how everything is going to pan out and there’s really no need to tell a story that we’ve already heard about and seen in the initial series.

(Note: Some people might think that I’m also making reference to the J.J Abrams Star Trek Reboot, however that I beleive it is let off because of how the events of that film alter and rewrite the initial Star Trek timeline. The fact that history has been tweaked means that future events are no longer predictable; allowing the film and its future sequels to be taken in an entirely new and unpredictable direction).

SFX Cinema: Visual Poetry

***Spoilers Ahead***

I remember two years ago, excitedly sitting down with a university friend to show him 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time ever. He had never seen Stanley Kubrick’s science fiction masterpiece before and I was thrilled at being the first person to show him. I don’t know why, but there’s something so magical about introducing someone to a film which you love and cherish. It’s almost as though you can feel their emotions toward that feature; like you are viewing it for the first time yourself.

During the opening moments of the film – where the sun rises behind the moon whilst Alzo Spak Zarathustra blasts into the viewer’s eardrums – I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was hoping that my friend was also feeling this exact same rush. Every time I see this opening shot, my heart races at a thousand miles per second. At that moment, I was convinced that my fellow companion was also experiencing that same jolt of euphoric wonder.

As the feature moved forward, my friend watched quietly. He sat through the dawn of man sequence, the shuttle docking scene and the introduction to David, Frank & Hal 9000. Then – around half way through the film’s runtime – my friend turned to me with a look of sheer annoyance and asked “what the hell is this crap?”

My heart sank like a brick in the ocean. Suddenly I felt a wave of embarrassment flood throughout my body. My passion and love for the film instantly drained from my existence. In the end, he turned the DVD off and decided that it would be better to watch some crappy reality television programme on channel 4 instead.

 The next day, I decided to ask my friend why he disliked the film so much.

“It was a pretentious pile of toss with zero story” was his cold and confident response.

A few months later, I decided to ask a few other friends of mine if they agreed with such an opinion. To my surprise, a lot of them did, saying that 2001: A Space Odyssey was a bloated, overrated, artsy fartsy flick with no story and no theme. Even several of my fellow film students agreed with such claims.

It seems that the magic of this film has faded with time. Numerous people today don’t seem to see the film for the masterpiece that I believe it is. However, I’m convinced that this film connects with its viewers in a totally fascinating way that can be found so frequently in cinema; in the sense that it ignites emotions on a purely visual level.

The opening sequence, the transition from alpha male’s club to 21^st century spaceship, the revelation of the moon’s monolith, Dave’s rapid aging sequence and the ending’s star child sequence moves me in ways which are too beautiful to describe with words.

The film, to me, is a visual piece of poetry. It tells the story of the evolution of mankind. It begins with our ancestors, moves on to our present physical form and ends with us moving up into the next stages of life. The whole film is an emotional journey from the dawn to the evolution of our race.

Just because the film doesn’t have a beginning, middle and an end in the traditional screenplay sense, does not mean that it hasn’t got a story. It does have a narrative; a narrative that is instead told through the art of visual filmmaking in its purest form.

I believe it was the film critic Rodger Ebert who said that this film is a philosophical journey told through the art of visuals (I am paraphrasing here, so I apologise about the inaccuracy of this statement).

2001: A Space Odyssey is not the only film that visually moves its audience. There have been numerous other features in recent years which have had a similar effect on me; even films with more traditional narratives have still had the ability to move my emotions due to their aesthetic achievements. The shot of Jack painting Rose in Titanic, the descent of the monstrous ship over Manhatten in Independence Day, the snakelike spacecraft in Alien, Elliot’s silhouetted bicycle flying in front of a silver moon in E.T, the folding up of the Paris skyline in Inception and the opening shot of 2019 Los Angeles in Blade Runner are all visual sequences which have moved me on a purely aesthetic level.

All of the films mentioned above have managed to achieve at least some sort of emotional reaction inside me as a result of the work that was put into their visual effects.

Now of course not all visual-heavy films are great (just watch a Zack Snyder or Michael Bay film to see how horrendous a special effects feature can get), however there are still many that are.

Sadly many of my friends are sticking firmly to their negative opinion’s toward Space Odyssey; however I must respectfully disagree. I think the film is a beautiful and romantic piece of optical art. The passion and labour which was put into bringing this feature alive ignites my emotions in similar ways to that of a piece of music, literature and/or painting.

2001: A Space Odyssey is a special effects piece which shows that visual poetry does exist within cinema and that it can be just as emotionally empowering and engaging as any other art form.

The Dark Knight Rises: A reality too far?

*** Spoilers Ahead ***

First things first, I loved The Dark Knight Rises. I thought it was a marvellous conclusion to what has been probably my second favourite trilogy so far (Toy Story still being my number one). This post is in absolutely no way an attack on this film, as I do not wish to bad mouth Christopher Nolan’s wonderful take on the Batman universe (gosh, I must sound like a right Nolanite).

However, despite this being a great film, The Dark Knight Rises was by far my least favourite in The Dark Knight trilogy. The reason as to why I did not find this instalment as superior as its predecessors was for one specific reason: its level of realism.

Ok, so let me explain what I mean by this. Firstly, The Dark Knight trilogy is not meant to be a ‘realistic’ trilogy in the traditional sense. For starters, the initial source material of Batman is completely detached from our own reality in many ways. I mean it’s about a stupendously rich bloke who dresses up as a bat, owns an arsenal of [semi] non-existent technology and spends his nights fighting the maddened criminals of a fictional American city. No matter how hard Hollywood tries, Batman could never be realistic in the sense that his story can be placed into our own reality.

What made Batman Begins so interesting in 2005, however, was that the film did something incredibly interesting in terms of realism. It was almost as if Nolan and his team sat down and said “how can we try and make Batman as lifelike as can be?” And that was where the beauty was born; the fact that the film’s script worked as hard as it could to try and get this far fetched universe to resemble our own as closely as it possible could.

Batman Begins was not set in our universe, but instead it felt like it was set in a parallel present day (a semi-reality if you like).  The film felt about one or two steps out of sync with our own reality and that’s what made it so exciting for me.

This type of film ignited my imagination like nothing else before it; to see Nolan spend a large portion of the film mapping out a detailed retelling of a far-fetched franchise, so that it felt almost as if it could actually happen.

Of course, nothing that took place in this universe really could exist in our present time period (if it could then it would have probably happened already), yet it felt almost as if it could in some mad alternative timeline. It was set in a semi-futuristic present day (an oxymoron I know) which felt almost lifelike. It was like an oil painting which was aspiring to give off the appearance of a photograph.

I had the same feeling in The Dark Knight; particularly when it came to the character of Harvey Dent/Two-face. Dent has always come across as quite a camp and unbelievable villain to me (maybe that had more to do with Joel Schumacher’s Batman Forever, as oppossed to the comic books) however The Dark Knight worked its balls off to make the character almost believable. Here was a man who was destined for greatness, but due to the dark mind of the psychotic joker became a madman who lost himself to the twisted vines of evil and revenge.

During my first viewing of The Dark Knight Rises, however, I started to become somewhat aware of the new feel which this film possessed. The over-the-top destruction of Gotham’s underground & stadium (although you could say the same about the hospital sequence in The Dark Knight), Banes abnormal strength, the threat of a nuclear meltdown in Gotham, the high speed flying batpod and Bruce Wayne’s ability to heel his snapped back made the whole film seem a few more steps detached from the reality which its predecessors were set in.

The whole film just felt a lot more over the top than the previous two. Seeing Batman and Catwoman walking the streets of Gotham, kicking bad guy’s arses; the batpod flying away from Gotham’s skyline whilst carrying a nuclear device and Banes highly skilled army patrolling the city with an arsenal of deadly tanks which once belong to Wayne industries all felt a tad too farfetched.

Whilst Batman Begins and The Dark Knight felt about two steps out of sync with our reality, The Dark Knight Rises felt several steps further. This was what made the film less engaging for me. No longer did I think that this was an attempt to make a fantastic character more lifelike, but instead felt more like an epic conclusion set in an explosively heightened reality. Like all the other superhero movies that have existed in recent history, it felt like a comic-book movie.

But of course my words contradict themselves, because that’s exactly what Batman is; a comic book movie set in a comic book universe. This is not an attack on the film. Like I said above, I absolutely loved this movie. I thought Tom Hardy was perfectly cast as the terrifying Bane, Anne Hathaway did a great job as Selina Kyle, Christian Bale was on top form, the script worked a treat (sure, it had flaws, but every film in existence has), Nolan’s directing was first-rate, Wally Pfister’s cinematography was breathtaking, Han Zimmer produced his best score to date (my opinion), Cillian Murphay’s cameo was too enjoyable for words to even express and I absolutely adored the subtle narrative which centred around the character of Blake/Robin (I know a lot of people disliked this, but I thought it was a work of sheer excellence).

So there we have it. I loved The Dark Knight Rises, but it was slightly more out of sync with the reality of Begins and The Dark Knight. None of them are pragmatic in the conventional sense, however this one was less so than the previous two.

Anyway, I’m talking utter nonsense, so it’s probably best to ignore my daft opinions (and dear lord, how many times can I say the word ‘realistic’ and ‘reality’ in a single post? I seriously need to improve my vocabulary).

Unoriginal narrative structures, is this really a core issue?

Despite my undying (and probably unhealthy) admiration for the filmmaker James Cameron, a lot of the time I can agree with the negative opinions that people make about his work. His most recent films – Avatar (2009) and Titanic (1997) – have often been the victim of critical assault from all over the globe. When people talk of these films as being overly bloated, suffering from corny dialogue and possessing too many flat characters, I can’t really argue with them without coming across as a deluded fanboy (though these characteristics don’t diminish the enjoyment of these two films for me).

Yet one criticism about Avatar which has perplexed me somewhat is the constant attack on the films originality. “Avatar is just Dancing with Wolves in space!” is the most common response that people make after being asked why they loathe it so much.

Now I’m not saying that Avatar doesn’t borrow (or steal) elements from the Kevin Costner film Dances with Wolves (1990), in fact, I think it does. Dances with Wolves is a film about a Western soldier who’s exiled to a native land, where he befriends a group of native Americans and grows intolerable toward the military which he once worked for. Avatar is a film about a paraplegic marine who’s exiled to an alien planet, where he befriends a group of indigenous life forms and grows intolerable toward the colonising military that are bulldozing their planet.

Both films sound almost identical when you put them up against one another, but it does not make them the same story. They may both stem from the same narrative concept – the idea of an outsider befriending the natives and rising against the empire from which they once came – but both films are still worlds apart. Avatar simply takes this structure and adds a new twist to it (It’s Dances with Wolves, but set on an alien world with humans piloting alien bodies).

Taking narrative structures from pre-existing stories and adding a new twist to them is nothing new. One example of this takes place in many of the teen films from recent times. A large portion of these teen-movies were, in fact, the retellings of many famous plays and novels. 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) was a retelling of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew; Clueless (1994) is a reinvention of Jane Austen’s Emma; Cruel Intentions (1999) was an adaptation of the Pierre Choderlos de Laclos and Ernest Dowson novel Dangerous Liaisons; and She’s the Man (2006) is a remake of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night*.

Teen films are not the only movies to borrow from pre-existing narratives. The Lion King (1994) retold the tale of Shakespeare’s Hamlet; Independence Day (1995) was an indirect remake of War of the Worlds; A.I. Artificial Intelligence (1999) borrowed much of its narrative from Pinocchio; and even Alien (1979) has always commonly been refferred to as ‘Jaws in Space’.

To go even further into the world of cloning stories for entertainment, think of all the direct remakes that overshadow the originals without too much criticism. The Thing (1982), The Fly (1986), Oceans 11 (2001), The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) and Scarface (1983) are often more talked about and remembered than their original counterparts are.

Some of the films that I’ve mentioned above are critically accepted, whereas some of them are not. Yet I’ve never heard of people attacking them for their lack of originality.

All works of art must have been inspired from things which came before them. This allows art to evolve and grow. Just because something takes the elements and characteristics from something that existed before it does not necessarily make it a bad thing.  Art inspires the imagination and motivates individuals into producing their own works, whether we are talking about music, films, books, paintings, or any other medium that exists out there.

So is borrowing the elements, characteristics and narratives of pre-existing works really what make some films bad? Maybe I’m being ignorant. Maybe if someone decided to borrow elements from something I’d created without asking, I too would see the problems in unoriginality.

Do the audiences of cinema really have an issue with features being unoriginal? Then again, looking at the endless armies of reboots, remakes, adaptations, sequels and prequels coming out in today’s cinema, and looking at the healthy $2.8 billion profit that Avatar made, maybe no one else really gives a hoot.

*teen-movie sources from: http://voices.yahoo.com/teen-movies-based-classic-novels-shakespeare-6313864.html?cat=2

The Ideologies of Woody Allen

Several weeks ago, I decided to treat myself by attempting a Woody Allen marathon (yes, that is my idea of a treat…). The aim was to watch as many of his films as is humanely possible in one week (I had a lot of free time before the uni term ended). Now for those who aren’t familiar with Allen’s overall film archive, he’s made a lot of them. He’s probably directed more films than I’ve watched in my entire lifetime (I don’t know if that says more about Allen’s consistency as a filmmaker or my lack of cine-literacy).

I decided by starting at the very end of his CV and working my way back through his features. I began with a Midnight in Paris (2011) and regressed back to Crimes and Misdemeanours (1989). Despite thoroughly enjoying a large majority of his works, I began to notice that his ideologies were beginning to have an effect on my worldly outlook.

Anyone who’s ever laid eyes upon a feature directed by this filmmaker will know full well that his narratives often revolve around neurotic and nihilistic characters attempting to get through their day-to-day lives whilst struggling to co-exist with their nearest and dearest, who also happen to be neurotic and nihilistic.

These self-obsessed and universe-loathing characters are prevalent throughout pretty much most of his movies; often appearing in the form of the protagonist (fairly often played by Allen himself) commonly expressing their pessimistic ideologies by delivering a monologue that habitually takes up about four or five pages of the films screenplay.

Another recurring Allen theme is that people cheat; and boy, do they cheat a lot.  It doesn’t matter if you’re young, old, smart, stupid, healthy, unwell, rich, deprived, happy, depressed, successful, failing, loved, hated, male or female; every kind of individual is desperate to get their end away with a lover who happens to not be their spouse.

I admit that I was nihilistic and neurotic long before evening hearing about a Woody Allen movie, so that aspect of my persona hasn’t altered in the slightest; yet I’m now convinced – since ending this weekly marathon – that love will never ever have a happy ending and that I’m destined to experience a future of inevitable boredom and infidelity.

But at least I enjoyed the films, so it’s not all doom and gloom.

Woody Allen films viewed so far:

A Midnight in Paris (2011) 4/5 Stars

Match Point (2005) 4/5 Stars

Anything Else (2003) 2/5 Stars

Hollywood Ending (2002) 3/5 Stars

You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010) 3/5 Stars

Cassandra’s Dream (2007) 2/5 Stars

Scoop (2006) 3/5 Stars

The Curse of Jade the Scorpion (2001) 2/5 Stars

Small Time Crooks (2000) 3/5 Stars

Sweet and Lowdown (1999) 4/5 Stars

Deconstructing Harry (1997) 4/5 Stars

Everyone Says I love you (1996) 4/5 Stars

Mighty Aphrodite (1995) 4/5 Stars

Bullets over Broadway (1994) 4/5 Stars

Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993) 3/5 Stars

Husbands and Wives (1992) 3/5 Stars

Shadows and Fog (1991) 2/5 Stars

Alice (1990) 2/5 Stars

Crimes and Misdemeanours (1989) 4/5 Stars

Stardust Memories (1980) 3/5 Stars

Manhattan (1979) 4/5 Stars

Annie Hall (1977) 4/5 Stars

Prometheus: A slight disappointment, but deserves more credit

***Spoilers Ahead*** 

PLOT

During the final years of the 21^st century, the crew of a star ship named Prometheus use a star-map – discovered by archaeologists – in an attempt to make contact with a group of life forms believed to be the engineers of mankind.

REVIEW

It is said that you should never overhype a film before its release. The reason for this is because, naturally, the final feature will never be as wonderful as initially envisioned within the mind’s eye (but then if that really is the case, then what’s the point in paying to see a movie if you can dream up a better one for free?).  

For me, this whole overhyping conundrum has seldom been a problem. The last time I went to the cinema with high expectations – only to leave dissatisfied – was back in the summer of 2006 after seeing the abysmal X-men: The Last Stand. Yet all the blockbusters that I endlessly overhyped from then onwards (one example being The Dark Knight) have been an absolute joy to watch.

Yet after seeing Prometheus, I left the cinema feeling that sensation of disappointed wash over me for the first time in many years. My main problem was that I naively went in expecting a film which matched Alien, but obviously, that was never really going to happen.

If you visit the IMDB website, you’ll notice that many other viewers have also expressed great dissatisfaction toward this film; yet despite my opinions above, I actually think some of these users have been a tad too ruthless in several of their judgements. I say this because I didn’t actually dislike Prometheus; in fact, I thought it was a pretty decent and entertaining feature. I mean sure, it did have a hell of a lot of flaws, and the critics are right in saying that the narrative falls apart somewhat during the final hour, but it’s still far better than many are making it out to be.

My main reason for believing this is because that I think that Prometheus does something which many contemporary sci-fi blockbusters fail to do these days; which is that it makes great use of ambiguity within its narrative. Instead of giving us a straightforward and painstakingly explained plot, this film requires us to fill in many of the narrative’s gaps for ourselves.

Many people are attacking the film for not answering enough questions, particularly becoming annoyed at the fact that the film never explains how the ancient star-maps initially arrived on earth (I mean why did the Engineers show ancient civilisations where their military bases were if they planned to use them against us?); that the life-cycle of the [bio-weapon] creatures is far too unclear/nonsensical; that the hostile motives of the Engineers is never clearly explained; and that there’s no account as to how the Engineers or Xenomorphs make it from LV-223 to LV-426 in time for Alien (although director Ridley Scott has announced two more potential sequels).  I can empathise with people who are dissatisfied with the lack of explanation, however, I quite enjoyed being allowed to fill in these plot gaps for myself, without having being told explicitly where all of the narratives pieces are suppose to go.  

The narrative of Prometheus reminded me to some extent of the film Source Code (2011). When Source Code first begins, the audience has little knowledge on the events of the story. As the narrative progresses, we begin to develop a much greater understanding of the initial premise. Yet as one plot ambiguity is explained, more questions force their way into the story.  

We soon understand that Colter Stevens is involved in a programme known as the Source Code project and that his mission is to locate the bomber of a commuter train whilst occupying the consciousness of another man during his final eight minutes of life; but as soon as we realise this, the plot changes in shape. Now audiences are wondering why Stevens is involved in such a project; what the consequences are if Stevens alters history during this eight minute window; and whether or not Stevens can continue to occupy the identity of this man if he survives beyond these final eight minutes.   Source Code’s narrative is so fluid in its behaviour that it begins its life as a whodunit sci-fi thriller, only to end as a film that questions the ethics of time travel and tangent realities. It grows from a single lined premise into something far grander in scale.

Prometheus – in my opinion –is similar in its nature. It begins as a film about a group of archaeologists journeying to meet their creators, only to end with the story’s hero sailing off into the stars, determined to discover why her inventors wish to wipe her race out. Instead of looking at this climax as a messy and poorly executed story, maybe we could view it as a metaphor for the pursuit of human origin. Countless humans have strived to discover the meaning behind their existence – be it through religion, philosophy, or science – only to discover more questions and mysteries are waiting along the way. Maybe if we view Prometheus as an analogy for this human conundrum – as well as an analogy for the obscurities of our universe – then maybe we can learn to see this film from an entirely new perspective.

Rating: 3/5 Stars