Interstellar

Plot – A team of space travellers venture through a wormhole in search of a new home for humanity. 

These days, it almost feels as though many Hollywood features are nothing more than half-baked ideas, solely existing for the purpose of making money. Not that there's a problem with films trying to generate revenue of course. Remember, all the boys and girls working on these flicks do have mouths to feed back at home. Nonetheless, when film-makers throw quality out the window entirely for the sake of bombastic explosions and little substance, things become problematic.

Not all films are like this, of course. There are many great films that have come off the back of Hollywood in recent years. It's just when it comes to looking at the weekly listings, it's hard not to notice that a heck of a lot of releases seem to be nothing more than superficial cash cows attempting to lure their audiences in with sparkly special effects and dazzling explosions. Films such as the Pirates of the Caribbean series or a majority of Michael Bay films appear to be nothing more than theme park rides converted into the cinematic medium. From start to finish, instead of experiencing a story which makes you think about a particular subject, care for the characters or leave the auditorium with a feeling of awe, we're subjected to famous actors dancing around whilst delivering quirky (but meaningless) dialogue, set pieces with characters skipping along flashy action sequences and explosions that traumatise the ears and irises. There's nothing necessarily terrible about films that are executed as theme park romps in and of themselves, however when it becomes the dominate type of film to come out of Hollywood, it can make one worry about the future of mainstream film. We need diversity to keep our viewing experiences fresh and we need stories that try different things in order to find new ways to tell them in a grander sense of the word.

But fear not, because while the cinema listings of today may be polluted with noisy, jazzy Michael Bay romps, there are also films released each year which remind us that there's still hope for the future of the blockbuster. Such films remind us that there are more ways of telling a story than the simple Hero's Journey structure and that there are still film-makers out there with whopping price tags strapped to their heads who want to create meaningful stories that are more than just 3 hour firework displays.

Christopher Nolan is a writer and director who is currently amongst this club. For the past decade or so, he has achieved rather spectacular heights when it comes to mainstream blockbuster success. Not only is he a director who can walk into a studio with an idea and walk back out with $200 million, he's also a director who seems to make a heck of a lot of money with an original idea; proving that it is possible to succeed financially without having to resort to mindless formulaic spectacle in order to achieve it.

Furthermore, Nolan is a film-maker who doesn't treat his audiences like they're idiots. He knows that a majority of the human race are smart when it comes to consuming stories; regardless of the medium they're told in. We don't just need tacky one-liners, 40 minute car chases, tasteless stereotypes and robots whacking each other in the face for 3 hours. We are capable of understanding and absorbing so much more. Well-written characters, unique stories, complex ideas and thought-provoking concepts are also elements which attract the audiences eye.

Now don't get me wrong, there really is nothing wrong with loud, bombastic, popcorn flicks. There's plenty of great films out there which don't try to be complex, different or overly detailed. Cinema is entertainment at the end of the day, so why can't a good old romp be enjoyed? Films that require you leave your brain at the door are perfectly good forms of escapism, which is essentially why we go to the movies in the first place.

Yet when these types of theme-park movies saturate the Hollywood market, we begin to yearn for more. Hollywood becomes formulaic and predictable. It gives off the impression that the studios have ran out of ideas, that they are only capable of rebooting old hits and that they have little care when it comes to giving their customers something new. Not only does it make us feel cheated when we walk out of a film we swear we've seen a hundred times already, but it makes us begin to fear for the future of Hollywood itself. We need new ideas to show that, like all forms of storytelling, cinema is forever evolving.

The success of Nolan helps us maintain that knowledge. He delivers new and interesting ideas whilst simultaneously blending them into the same flashy special effects model of these standardised theme-park romps. They are not small-scale indie movies that are made on half a penny, they are the same expensive Hollywood products that are made with colossal budgets. Such films go to show that we can indeed have movies that are aimed at a huge demographic which don't require you turn you brain off beforehand.

Interstellar is the new film from Nolan and tells the story of a group of space travellers who journey through a wormhole in order to find a new home for the residents of a dying planet earth. It arrives just two years after the director wrapped up his immensely successful Dark Knight Trilogy and comes at a time when expectations toward his work are outlandishly high.

The fact that Nolan is currently at the height of his career comes as both a curse and a blessing for his films. The fact that he's known around the world for been able to turn a profit of over $900 million for a unique and complex high-premise film (Inception) means that studios are willing to give him a great deal of money to create new and original features whenever it so pleases him. Many directors are only ever able to spend $200 million on a flick provided they are monitored constantly by producers intent on 'playing it safe' and have their work scrutinised by test audiences long before a release date even hits the horizon. As was the case with Stanley Kubrick back in the day, Nolan is free from such shackles. This gives him a level of creative freedom that very few on this planet posses when it comes to working within Hollywood. With that kind of money, he can pretty much build whatever kind of story he sees fit.

On the flip side, however, the fact that Nolan's earlier films have been so sublime in the eyes of many means that the expectation bar has now been set pretty darn high. This was the case with The Dark Knight Rises; a marvellous feature which is frequently attacked for its plot holes and flawed screenplay. Yes, there are some problems with Rises, but it is still an enjoyable film that delivers for at least 90% of the time. But because Nolan is human, he slips up with pacing and the execution from time to time. The errors found in segments of Rises would not be a problem in most films – as they really aren't what makes up the entirety of the film in terms of quality – but because of how renowned Batman Begins and The Dark Knight were, many criticised him for not making something which exceeded their expectations.

This blessing and curse has already had an impact on Interstellar and is generating a similar set of discussions that Rises provoked two years prior. The film was made on $165 million, allowing Nolan to execute a story of whatever size and scale he desired. He was at liberty to tell an original story that had no limits in what it did. At the same time, however, people seem to have been going into this story with one eye on Inception. Less than a month into its release and already many have taken to the forums in order to moan about the story not being complicated enough, being too complicated (seems he can't win on this one), not having interesting enough characters, copping out by using a 'corny' love theme and not being as good as some of Nolan's earlier works.

After seeing it in my local IMAX on Thursday evening, it's somewhat difficult to see where these opinions are coming from.

The complaints regarding complexity  - or lack of it in this particular case - is what strikes me as the most bewildering of quarrels. Some have said the story has ditched the puzzle-box structure of Inception and has instead chosen to adopt a straight forward narrative which guides the viewers from A to B without letting them think for themselves. I can see where they are coming from up until a point. While Inception told a very complex story in a very complex way (which is how Nolan summed it up in a recent Guardian interview) – segmenting its narrative over multiple levels of 'reality' - Interstellar decides to structure itself in a more straight-forward manner. Yet claiming that it guides the viewer idly from start to finish, without leaving audiences to think for themselves, is a teeny bit nonsensical (with the exception of one particular scene, in which a whiteboard is brought into shot for no other reason than to explain how a wormhole works; which is the kind of science you'd excpect austronauts to be brushed up on BEFORE they set off toward one!). The story relies heavily on complex quantum physics; applying a whole array of theories and concepts that can only really be 'understood' (which is apparently the wrong word to apply in this context) by having vast degrees of knowledge in the subject matter at hand. The film may lay things out so that it's easy enough to grasp what's going on – allowing individuals like myself to follow the plot despite not having any knowledge on the theories driving the story – however its execution doesn't hand us all the information on a silver spoon. Numerous sequence are hard to encrypt at first, and although the delivery of exposition gives you a pretty clear idea on the shape and direction the narrative is heading it, a considerable amount of effort is required from the viewer to place the larger picture together. The dialogue may explain what the characters plan to do for the next chunk of the story, yet it isn't until we begin to see those actions played out on-screen that we can fully piece together what they truly mean to do. Separate segments of information – both visual and dialogue based – are scattered throughout different points of the film. Although the exposition is there, it is spaced apart, requiring those watching to actively put them together in their heads. The wormhole sequence is one example. The presence of the wormhole near Saturn is introduced early on in the film. NASA discuss the existence of 12 worlds, black holes and time variations, yet before we can conclude the true nature of the theory at hand (provided you're not buffed up in the Quantum Mechanics department that is) we first have to wait for a number a separate sequences which elaborate and expand upon what these characters were talking about. Nolan isn't spoon feeding information; he's using the visual powers of the cinematic medium to play out complicated scientific theories to drive his story. This is not the case of a film-maker patronising their audience with poor exposition, it is communicating gargantuan ideas to its consumers; which is surely what cinema is ultimately about in many respects.

Then there's those who complain that the film is far too complicated for some viewers to grasp. Again, I agree with this point to a level. Yes, the ideas that managed to make their way into Interstellar's script are often very knotty to get one's head around. Quantum Physics is a subject notorious for its level of complexity. It is a subject that explores boundaries which excel the limits of the human brain. As Richard Feynman states "If you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don't understand quantum mechanics." Nolan, however, applies the same tool that shows such as The West Wing and House adopted. As long as the writers, directors and actors knew (or looked as though they knew) what they were talking about, viewers would at the very least see what they were getting at. You don't have to have an MA in politics or a PHD in Medicine to watch The West Wing or House, yet the DNA of those shows rely heavily on both those very subjects in order to drive their stories forth. Because everyone on bored making it gets what's going on (or at least pretend to), viewers can see and understand what direction each episode is taking. Interstellar is very much the same and as I stated in the paragraph above, the film uses its visuals in order to communicate its ideas. Everyone working on this film is confident in the subject matter at hand. The fact that they have $165 million to show their viewers what (they claim) they know shows us exactly what they're getting at.

As for the claims regarding the characters not being interesting enough, I'm not sure where they are getting that from. Ok, I will admit that character development isn't one of Nolan's strongest point. Sure, he certainly writes characters we care about, but they are not vast enigmas with rich pasts. Yet even though fastidious character development isn't what Nolan's known for, he's characters are far from uninteresting. They are often used as vessels in his scripts that utter thought provoking dialogue in order to get you thinking, commit acts which often border between the lines of good and evil, push the story into bold new territories, or utter brief lines that shine a new light on the story within the eyes' of audiences. All of this applies to Interstellar, a film in which uses its characters as pawns in a grand chess game. They are the ones who take the theories of Quantum Mechanics and drive them into the stars, they are the ones who steer the course of the story in order to get back to their loved ones, and they are the ones who communicate to the audience the love theme which lies at the heart of this very story.

Which brings me on to the quarrel regarding the film's love-theme. Many have expressed distaste at Anne Hathaway's “Love is the one thing we’re capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space” monologue for been far too corny. Furthermore, many have said the (marvellous) climax sequence where Cooper travels through his daughter's timeline in order to save her (along with humanity) from certain death is a red-button cop out. Yet the love conquers all theme is essentially the DNA of classic science fiction storytelling. Philip K Dick often applied this theme to his stories; exploring the idea that human emotion is the one force which can overcome the cold harsh truths of the universe. Many complain that such stories cheat themselves into closure, and while I can empathise with those who may not like their films to be resolved with a theme that they may find overly-sentimental, I don't necessarily think it is as simple as Deux ex Machina. To imply that emotions are a cheat is not entirely fair. If the whole love resolution is pulled out of the bag the moment before it is needed, then yes, it's a cop out. If it is threaded throughout the entire narrative however, then it becomes a key player in the story at hand. When an emotion such as love becomes the driving force in a narrative, then what makes it any less important than the material aspects of that narrative? Implying that emotions are somehow less superior when it comes to telling stories doesn't make sense to me. Love is what drives the whole of Interstellar from start to finish. It is why Cooper and Brand sail off into the stars in the first place. The film emphasises quite frequently (particularly by the time Matt Damon shows up) that these characters are only risking their lives to save humanity in the name of their beloved. Cooper doesn't give Murphy the knowledge she needs through an act of selflessness, he gives it her because he wants to save her. Love creates and drives the entirety of Interstellar; making it the heart and soul of the story Nolan is telling. It is in its DNA, making the decision to apply its closure makes perfect sense.

As for the argument that it's not as good as his earlier works? Agreed. It's not his best film, but by saying it's not the best in a line of great works is far from an insult. It's just as it was with The Dark Knight Rises; even though it's not as good as the first two, it's still not a bad film.  Interstellar may not be as good as, say, Memento or Inception (in my subjective opinion that is), but this doesn't mean it isn't a marvellous film.

Interstellar is a bold piece of cinema which explores grand ideas in a hugely compelling manner. Its story uses the classic theme of love conquers all to drive a story into territories which haven't been explored for a long time. Its a science fiction film in the most classic sense of the genre. Today, mainstream science fiction is more closer to that of the fantasy genre than it is to its original routes. The term science fiction never initially meant 'pretend science', it was 'fiction about science'. Science fiction novels were often written by scientists themselves; using the subject matter literally in order to tell a story. As comedies use humour as their key element, science fiction once used hard science as theirs. There is absolutely nothing wrong with contemporary science fiction of course, but to finally see a film that harkens back to a time when the genre told stories based around actual scientific theories brings an ironic sense of originality to mind.

Also – as a side note – hats off to Hans Zimmer's score. There's been much criticism fired at Zimmer in recent years for his supposed habit of recycling old scores, however we really have something remarkably new going on here. I love the use of blaring organs throughout. It kept reminding me of the final seconds of Richard Strauss's Also sprach Zarathustra score during 2001's opening sequence. Although it was a little too loud in some places (though that may be down to my local IMAX's sound system settings), the entire score blends in perfect harmony with the film's narrative. Before seeing it last Thursday evening, I couldn't imagine what the soundtrack to Interstellar would be like. Upon leaving the showing, however, I could no longer picture Interstellar without Zimmer's soundtrack charging defiantly along side. I fact, it wasn't just a score that played alongside the story, it was apart of the story itself.

Doctor Who New Series 2.0 - 'The Christmas Invasion'

Plot - Rose and the newly-regenerated Doctor crash land in present day London. Meanwhile, deep amongst the stars, a race intent on enslaving mankind sails toward planet earth. Harriet Jones - now Prime Minister of Great Britain - urges the Doctor to save humanity from the deadly Sycorax. The only problem is, the Doctor's in a coma in Jackie's apartment, sleeping off the side effects of his recent regeneration. 

How does a show survive the departure of its leading star? For many television programs, the idea of continuing after such a situation arises would be seen as an act of madness. Sure, it's not unheard of for a program to go on after such a departure occurs, however more often than not, if a leading man or woman left after just one series, the plug would be pulled and everyone would move on to something else entirely.

Fortunately, change is an aspect which works wonders for Doctor Who. The premise thrives off its freedom to twist and turn into something entirely new from time to time and is what has allowed it to remain a member of the pop culture club for almost 51 years (and still counting). Just because Christopher Eccleston decided he'd had enough after the first 13 episodes of his run didn't mean the story had to end there. In fact, it gave New Who a chance to explore a different direction with a new star piloting the scripts. Less than one year in and already the producers have been offered an opportunity to show audiences that Doctor Who can not only work in the 21^st century, but that it can do so with a new Doctor at the helm.

Despite this, however, Eccleston's departure is a rather unfortunate occurrence for a number of reasons. Firstly, it means that the ninth Doctor's era is possibly the most briefest to date. Ok, so Paul McGann only ever appeared in two televised events – the abysmal 1996 movie and the wondrous 2013 mini episode Night of the Doctor – yet the eight Doctor's legacy survived countless years through its vast quantity of spin off novels and audio adventures. The ninth Doctor, on the other hand, wraps up after just 13 episodes and six tie-in novels; giving us very little time to learn enough about this particular incarnation of the time lord and the sorts of stories it could explore within the limitations of this version of the character. Each Doctor has their pros and cons, yet we're never really given the space to explore those within the wider context of Doctor number nine.

Second frustration is the fact that we're never able to find out where Russell T Davies and co were planning on taking the story of the ninth Doctor. By the end of series one, the gradual development of the Rose, Jack, Doctor trio suggests that the initial intention was to flesh out the three of them and include Jack on board the TARDIS for a far longer period. All of this is a mere guessing game of course, as we really don't have enough evidence to declare where things would have headed if Eccleston decided to remain for series two. Having said this, however it is highly unlikely that the show would have gone down the same route in the long term if Eccleston had stayed. David Tennant is a far different kind of actor to that of Eccleston – particularly in terms of how kinetic and expressive his performances can be – meaning that the writers would have been influenced by the types of ticks and tools each performer brought to this role.

Even though it is arguably quite easy to picture Eccleston appearing in the scripts written for series two, it's hard to say the same with regards to series three. None of the writers had any material for Tennant as the Doctor prior to his run, so the best bet was for them to pen series two as if they were penning another year of Eccleston. That way they could learn what worked and failed based on the outcome of that year. By the time series three aired, the Tenth Doctor already had 14 episodes for writers to go on, so they'd write the role to suit Tennant's stronger points.

Yet despite all this talk of a series two with Eccleston, history decided it was never to be. On 25^th December 2005, The Christmas Invasion aired on BBC One and the reign of the tenth Doctor begun.

Such a series may thrive on change, but the production team still had a hell of a task when it came to making this story. Remember, the whole point of the first series was to show off to a new audience what Doctor Who could do, yet Doctor Who can be many things. They may well have introduced a new generation to bizarre looking life forms, time travelling phone boxes and evil pepper pots, but the concept of regeneration was still to be addressed. What if the television viewers of today didn't warm to the idea of their beloved hero altering their personality and appearance on the spot? What if David Tennant turned out to be a clanger of a choice? What if audiences were alienated after the leather-jacketed northerner turned into the suit-wearing romantic? New Who would fall dead on its ass, that's what.

In relation to these concerns, Davies adopted a number of mechanics in this episode to try and ease the comfort; just in case an event in which the audience felt alienated did arise. First off, he chose to bring Jackie Tyler, Mickey Smith and Harriet Jones back for this episode, planting them slap bang in the middle of the story. This was to give viewers a reference point to home in on. You can almost hear Davies shouting it's the same show! All that's different is a name in the opening credits!

Deciding to include characters from the previous series in the limelight helps to ease the blow of having a new leading act. Jackie, Mickey and Harriet serve to maintain an element of familiarity; helping to build a bridge between series one and two.

Rose Tyler can also be seen in this fashion – seeing as she is the only remaining lead role from the first series – yet she can also be seen as a mouthpiece for the boys and girls at home. She spends huge chunks of this episode doubting that the man lying in her mother's flat really is the Doctor. As was the case in the pilot episode – and for most of series one – Rose serves as an audience identification figure to guide the viewers along. As the runtime of The Christmas Invasion rolls on, Rose gradually becomes convinced that this strange bloke really is who he says he is. By the time the end credits arrive, she's accepted the fact that this stripy-suited feller really is the same northern bloke she's spent the past year or so travelling with.

The second mechanic in Davies' arsenal is his use of the Doctor himself, or the lack of him should I say. All the way back in Rose, the ninth Doctor was pretty much the heart of the entire story. Not only was a majority of the focus aimed toward him whenever he appeared on screen, but he also appeared on screen a heck of a lot. For his pilot episode, the Ninth Doctor proved himself by declaring his clout in front of a spotlight.

Yet in The Christmas Invasion, the tenth Doctor is kept out of the story for about 90% of its run. The episode opens up to a TARDIS tumbling out of the sky and a dazed Doctor mumbling to Mickey, Rose and Jackie before passing out. From then on, the Doctor spends a majority of the time asleep in Jackie's apartment. It isn't until the very end of the story - when all hope seems lost - that Doc number ten rises from his slumber and proves his Doctorishness with words, running, heroism and....erm...sword-fighting?

By leaving the tenth Doctor out of large chunks of his pilot results in creating a hook for audiences to bite onto. We know Eccleston is gone, we know that bloke from Casanova is stepping into his shoes, but what's this new guy going to bring to this character? By holding out on that question until the end of the narrative keeps the televisions at home tuned in. Davies entices his audience by holding out on the tenth Doctor until the last minute. The desire to know grows more intense as the stakes raise; meaning that when the Doctor storms out of his TARDIS within the bowls of the Sycorax's vessel during the final act, the entire moment is all the more satisfying as a result of the seemingly-neverending wait. The confidence and energy of Tennant's performance after 50 minutes of anticipation seals the deal, ushering in the shows' second era of the 21^st century.

And speaking of confidence, this brings me onto the third trick which Davies pulls out of his sleeve, which is the audacity of this story. I mentioned in my review of Parting of the Ways that even though series one was bold and imaginative in terms of its scale, there was quite a self concious feel to its execution. Stories dared to be experimental, yet they drew the line whenever they thought things were going too far. Referencing the shows' past was pretty much a no go area and the use of Eccleston gave each episode a sense of gravitas to the concepts playing out in each story. Series two, however, has a wave of confidence surrounding it that gives off an entirely different feel to that of series one; boldly taking on aspects of Doctor Who that it initially shied away from.

The use of Jackie, Mickey and Harriet in The Christmas Invasion also helps to prove this point. Davies has decided that viewers at home will recognise these characters from the previous summer. This story came out after the success of series one; giving Davies both the awareness and confidence to use additional characters from earlier episodes as a means of drawing audiences into the plot. He's brave enough to conclude that a reunion with Jackie, Mickey and Harriet will bode well with the boys and girls at home.

This isn't just the case with people, as stories from the previous year are also referenced subtly throughout; lingering in the back ground and knowing full well that viewers will clock on to their significance. A Big Ben coated in scaffolding caused by the events of The Aliens of London, Rose's attempt to frighten off the Sycorax by listing names of villains she's previously encountered and Tennant uttering the word “fantastic” with a knowing smile are moments that presume its viewers know what the script is referring to.

Audacity can also be seen in the ideas executed throughout The Christmas Invasion. Robot Santa Clauses roaming through a London high street with weapons disguised as musical instruments, killer Christmas trees spinning toward Rose and Jackie, references to the Royal Family standing on the roof amongst their brainwashed subjects, the Tenth Doctor's accidental quote from The Lion King, snowflakes made out of spaceship derbies and even the climactic sword fight on the Sycorax spaceship all add to the madness of this episode. Camp, bonkers fun, playing out over a 60 minute period without ever once having to rely on a particular kind of actor's gravitas or shy away from a wacky idea at the last moment.

Murray Gold's score also adds a new element of boldness to the episode, largely due to the fact that the BBC decided to give him the National Orchestra of Wales to play with. The soundtrack sounds bigger, more colourful and deeper than ever. Gone are the monotone boinky-ploinky sounds of series one's score. Here we have something far larger in scale, making Doctor Who feel more epic and cinematic than ever before.

It's this sort of increased scale which delivers an aura of confidence to The Christmas Invasion, which is why the introduction of Torchwood can also be seen (arguably) as a way of assisting with the script's audacity. Although New Who has shied away from the concept of world building (something which can be seen most obviously in The Long Game), it can be said that Davies has made some effort in expanding the world of present day London by bringing back Jackie and Mickey in numerous episodes. Yet through series one, he only really expanded the size of the Powell Estate. It isn't until here that Davies suddenly begins to start adding larger recurring characters/institutes into the building blocks of this fictional present day London. The inclusion of Torchwood acts not only as series two's core story arc, but also opens up a bridge between Doctor Who and it's soon-to-be spinoff, Torchwood.

By adding the Torchwood institute to series two, Davies has created a new space within present day London for the show to explore in future episodes (and shows). We may not have the likes of Gwen Cooper, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato, Ianto Jones or post-Parting of the Ways Jack yet, but the institute is established here; opening up more realms inside the world of present day [2006] London within the Doctor Who universe.

Overall, The Christmas Invasion's bravery helps Tennant's opening greatly. Davies delivers a script that's essentially ballsy enough to knock its main character out for most of its narrative, throw in zany set-pieces throughout and have Rose fully transition from audience-identifying sceptic to a character who is completely certain the Doctor is still the Doctor, regardless of a recent appearance alteration.

It can be argued, that in many ways, this helped to almost fool audiences in some ways. Davies gives off the impression here that he's not striving to enchant the nation like he was last time round. Instead he's written a script that pretty much screams Doctor Who is back and more exciting than ever. It's not as if he's pleading with us to believe this is the Doctor, but it's as if he's declaring that this is the Doctor. He's not asking, he's telling.

Which is what makes the episode work. To survive the transition from one actor to another, The Christmas Invasion needed to be a roller-coaster of an episode which celebrated New Who as a whole. The fact that it managed to tick these boxes makes it difficult not to admire. It may not be the greatest episode to date, and it certainly isn't the best Christmas special (which is a long way away), but it's certainly a strong contender amongst the list of Doctor Who stories that wear their strengths upon their sleeves.

The Christmas Invasion is far from perfect, however, and Davies often falls back on a number of weaknesses that will haunt his work for the entirety of his time as head writer.

Firstly, there are a number of red-button cop-outs that occur throughout. Moments such as when the Tenth Doctor awakens temporarily from his coma so that he can point his sonic screwdriver at a Christmas tree intent on butchering Rose are moments which feel cheap and poorly thought out. Other similar moments include the Doctor throwing an apple at a button conveniently opening a hatch which kills his sword-fighting foe (although the apple is established early on enough in the story to pass the Chekhov's gun principle, the button most certainly is not), and the Doctor awakening moments before everyone trapped on board the Sycorax ship are about to meet their end. All these cop-out moments suggest Davies wrote these scenes with very little idea on how to pay them off. He raises the stakes to a point where almost every character on screen is about to face certain doom, only to then come up with a quick and simple solution which sorts out every (important) persons' problems.

Secondly, the Sycorax are, quite frankly, villains of the superficial sort. They are nothing more than vicious looking beasties who want to conquer worlds and enslave other lifeforms. They are generic nasties who have no unique ideas to their name which failed to make their appearance memorable in anyway shape or form. There is nothing unique or interesting about them. They are nothing more than shouty, shooty bad guys who need killing by our beloved Doctor as soon as possible. They're not necessarily terrible villains, but they are really only there as an opponent for the tenth Doctor to prove his worth against (which isn't a bad thing as such, it just makes them boring).

My third and final problem with the episode is the Doctor's decision to oust Harriet Jones from government. The problem with the tenth Doctor – as blogger Philip Sandifer has pointed out on several occasions – is that his arrogance often gets the better of him. He has a confidence that presents him in such a way where he appears to feel as though he owns whatever place he happens to be in at that given time. He also seems to believe that his moral views are the ones that everyone else should abide by. He will happily laugh his way through horrific deaths taking place around him in Tooth and Claw – as he thinks the whole theme park history he and Rose have landed in is a right old romp – but as soon as someone does something that he thinks is very naughty, he takes it upon himself to punish the 'wrong doers' for their actions.

Which is pretty much what the tenth Doctor does at the end of The Christmas Invasion. As soon as Harriet has given the green light for Torchwood to blow the Sycorax ship into oblivion, the bouncy, smiley Doctor becomes enraged at her for what she's done. Harriet tries to explain that she did what she did for the safety of planet Earth, yet her words fall upon deaf ears. First he lectures her on what she's just done, then he gives her some speech on never firing at those who's backs are turned and finally, he utters the line don't you think she looks tired into the ear of Harriet's aid; knowingly planting the seed which will eventually result in her ousting from number 10 . Not only is the Doctor deciding that his opinion on this matter is truly the right one, but he also decides that the person in the wrong must be punished for their doings. This is bad enough in itself, but what twists the knife even further is the fact that only moments prior, the Doctor sent his sword-fighting opponent to their death, all in the name of protecting his own life.

So it's all good for the Doctor to say that awful events must never be rewritten, or that the Daleks and Timelords simply must die in order to keep the universe safe, yet the moment someone does anything he doesn't like – even in the name of self-protection – he feels it is his duty to put their wrongs to right and sentence them accordingly.

The arrogance factor of the tenth Doctor seems to have been written intentionally by Davies, as it is a character trait which grows stronger as his era moves forth (particularly by the time we get to Waters of Mars). Furthermore, the ousting of Harriet from number 10 results in a space for Harold Saxon (the Master) to become prime minister; a character who was responsible for the events carried out in Tennant's final episode. The Doctor's arrogant actions here result in triggering a series of events which inevitably lead to this incarnation's demise.

Yet despite it seeming to be an intentional trait, it is never really executed properly. Whenever Tennant shouts someone down for their actions - particularly when he's behaved inappropriately in a previous scene - he comes across as a self-obsessed know-it-all who believes he and his companion are the only ones in the universe who matter. His righteousness is never questioned or critiqued; resulting in a scar which can be seen across the entirety of the tenth Doctor's era.

The Christmas Invasion is problematic, but it certainly works as an introduction for a new leading star. The cloak of confidence that Davies wraps around this script, along with the decision to keep the tenth Doctor out of the narrative for such long stretches makes this an explosive and exciting piece of television which delivers from start to finish.

On June 18^th 2005, Doctor Who lost its leading star. In most situations, this would mark the low point for many shows. Yet on December 25^th, just six months after The Parting of the Ways aired, the show returns with more confidence than ever before. At a point where most shows would throw in the towel, Davies writes a script that screams Doctor Who is here to stay!

Spider-Man 2

***Although this film is just shy of reaching its tenth birthday, I might as well point out that there are some spoilers ahoy. So if you haven't seen it, go and find a copy***

Before the days of Nolan's mega-hit Dark Knight Trilogy, Joss Whedon's superhero all-star extravaganza, and Snyder's outlandishly-earnest re-envisioning of Superman; came Spider-Man 2.

2002's Spider-Man largely existed to adapt Spidey so that he could function successfully on the silver screen. Its core job was to introduce all the key players of the comic franchise to an audience of cine-goers and generate excitement amongst them by throwing in a few flashy action sequences and snazzy character arcs. Its healthy box office results and increased popularity suggests that part une of this revitalised superhero flick succeeded in doing the job it set out to achieve from the start.

This time round, instead of working toward igniting the fuse of intrigue, director Sam Rami's job is to move the story forward in an appealing direction which will extend this adaptation's lifeline. The audience are in their seats, the characters have been introduced and expectations have risen. So how does Spider-Man 2 go about addressing these heightened anticipation? By telling a bloody good story, that's how.

Spider-Man 2 is, to date, the mother hen of all Spidey movies. Every sequel/reboot released within the perimeters of this franchise from here onward will forever be judged on the basis of this movie. It appears to be the consensus opinion that this is exactly what a Spider-Man movie done right looks like. Rami and co manage to hit the nail bang on the head in more or less every aspect; pulling off one of the more competent superhero movies of the 21st century. Sure, there have been superior contributions to this genre (remember, Nolan is less than a year away from releasing Batman Begins), but nonetheless, in the minds eye of many, this one sits comfortably near the top.

But what does part two do so well? First off, it manages to do something which a number of sequels have failed to in the past; which is to tell a solid stand-alone story with a consistent theme that holds up and doesn't slip off target from start to finish.

 

Whereas part one mainly centred its attention on putting all the pieces in place for Peter Parker to transition into Spider-Man, part two chooses instead to steer its attention toward the consequences that becoming the beloved web slinger has on our youthful protagonist. It presents itself as a coming-of-age story; emphasising the difficulties Parker experiences as he moves further into adulthood. On the one hand, our protagonist has now fully immersed himself into the world of the vigilante crime fighter. No longer is he hopping awkwardly from rooftop to rooftop, practising web shots during his spare time, cautiously crawling up alley walls or trying out new moves in a down-town wrestling cage. The origin story is over and Spidey is as fully formed as he's ever going to be in this interpretation of the franchise.

As a symbol, Spider-Man may be complete, but as a character, Peter Parker is most certainly not. He struggles to complete the tasks set out in his job, keep on top of his college work, pay his rent, assist his financially troubled Aunt May and maintain relationships with those he loves in his personal life. Spider-Man may be firing on all cylinders, but he's taking up too much room for Peter to function. The balance between the hero and the person is drastically uneven.

Which is where Mary Jane comes back into the picture. In the preceding movie, MJ is the girl that Peter can't have, but the one that Spidey can. By the end of part one, however, it transpires that MJ does indeed love Peter, but our spandex-wearing superhuman fears putting her in danger and therefore decides to keeps his distance. Peter's choice at the end of that film is picked up straight from the get-go of part two and is used to yank the issue of the Peter/Spidey imbalance right into the foreground. Peter wants to be with MJ, but if he is  to remain as the crime fighting superhero, he simply refuses to place the woman he loves in such a dangerous position ("Spider-Man always has enemies"). In his opinion, she cannot ever know about this side of his life, no matter what happens.

While we can look at this story as metaphor for growing up and learning to balance out the responsibilities which arrive as a human transgresses from childhood to adulthood, you can also look at this tale as a metaphor for coming out.

The core of the story largely surrounds the agonies of hiding your true self from those whom you love. By concealing his identity from MJ, Peter is making it impossible to have a relationship with the woman he loves. Instead of being honest and allowing her to make up her own mind, he refuses to even bother taking such a risky chance; keeping his mouth shut instead and restricting the likelihood of getting with the person he adores from probable to unlikely.

Trying to hide his alternate identity from colleagues, friends and loved ones is proven a difficult task; and the more Peter tries to keep both his everyday life and superhero antics separate, the more his world crumbles before him.

Which is when the story takes a new and altogether interesting twist. It gives Peter the chance to give one of these lives up; literally stripping him of his powers. Suddenly, he's no longer burdened with this secret identity. He can go about his day-to-day life as a 'normal' man. No more secrets, no more duel existence and no more lies.  

But it doesn't last, of course, because at the end of the day, this is a Spider-Man film. There are still bad guys to bring to justice and Doctor Otto Octavius remains at large. Sooner or later, Peter is going to have to stop running from his secret and return to the life he wishes to reject entirely. He may want to give that hidden part of him up in the name of making his life easier, but that's not how the world works. Spider-Man was never a separate entity from Peter, it was just an aspect to his identity which he refused to reveal to others; largely out of fear of the consequences that may stem from speaking such a life-changing truth. By keeping the red mask locked safely away inside the closet, there was no possibility of his loved ones getting hurt; yet at the same time, there was no possibility for him to be happy either.

By the time the story reaches its climax, Mary Jane discovers that Peter Parker is indeed Spider-Man. Instead of confirming his worse fears, such a revelation leads to them both finally getting together. The truth escapes, Mary Jane knows who he really is, and as a result, she decides to stick by him in the name of love and acceptance.

In fact, each time in this film that Spider-Man/Parker's identity is revealed, it is always depicted in a positive light. During the train sequence, after Spidey saves the passengers from hurting off the end of the tracks and to certain death, the civilians he saves get to see him for the first time without his mask on. Upon realising how young this disguised vigilante really is, they choose to side with him. Watch how their attitudes change before and after this scene. Prior to the revelation, while Spidey attempts to slow the train down, the passengers speak to him as if he exists solely to save their asses. As he attempts to slow the train down by wedging his own legs between the vehicle and the tracks, the conductor sarcastically asks him whether he has "any more bright ideas". The people around him act as though his soul purpose is to save them from mortal danger, only there to provide a service of safety. Yet as soon as the mask is off, the passenger’s attitudes change drastically. They help him to his feet, promise not to tell anyone who he really is and even stand between him and the callous Octavius. Before they knew who he was, he was seen as someone whose purpose was to protect; after the truth is out, suddenly he's "just a kid" who needs looking out for as much as anyone does from time to time.

The only time that the truth of Peter Parker been Spider-Man turns out to have negative consequences is when Harry is let in on the secret, yet such a scene also has some positive elements to it. For one thing, it allows the ambiguous and highly static nature of this sub-plot to finally move forth. For the entire time that Harry was unaware of Peter's secret, the whole "I will avenge my father" side-story has remained in a fixed stage; completely unable to move forward. Until the revelation, all that this story could do was show Harry get more miserable and more pissed off at Peter's reluctance to help him. The news of Peter's secret may have ruffled Harry's feathers somewhat, yet at least it allowed that story the freedom to move forward and foreshadow the events which will arrive in the following film.

Overall, Spider-Man 2 largely spends its time doing three things; it focuses on the hardships of trying to keep two identities secular, plays up  to one man's fears of admitting the truth to loved ones, and shows that honesty about who you are always leads to good things. Peter may try to solve his problems by denying and suppressing Spider-Man, but as the story shows, sooner or later such attempts will be made in vain. Yet it doesn't matter whether the suppression fails, because as the climax reveals, truth is the saviour to our core protagonist's problems.

Which is why I can't help but see Spider-Man 2 as a thematic metaphor for coming out. It celebrates the idea of revealing your concealed lives to those you love, explores the difficulties of trying to function in the adult world while clinging on to such a masquerade, and emphasises the fact that suppression is not a method for fixing the problems which such secrecy brings.

Yet it is not the nature of the theme which makes this film so good, but is more down to the consistency of it that promotes this sequel to an above average status. From the opening few minutes alone, director Rami and screenwriters manage to make clear the problems of Peter's private life and what sort of an impact being Spider-Man has on his job (the answer: he gets fired).  From then on - right through to the end of the film - the eye is never once taken off the ball. The creators behind this feature know what sort of story they want to tell, and they manage to do so without ever forgetting. 

This ultimately allows the film to stand on its own two feet; completely separate from the preceding feature and the franchise which it originates from. The thematic strength and audacity to tell its own story is what makes Spider-Man 2 such a strong contender in this now ever-expanding genre of superhero films.

Thematic consistency isn't the only endearing quality of this film of course (its use of providing lead characters with the liberty to develop far beyond what they were in the previous film, its pleasantly balanced action/plot ratio, its ability to actually get the swinging effects of Spidey right for one time only, and its marvellous decision to have the excellent Alfred Molina play the sinister-yet-pitied Doctor Octavius are all but to name a few), yet it is this dedication to telling a particular kind of story without going off the mark which helps to elevate the film from silver to gold status.

What should also be said here, is that this is the last time that a Spider-Man movie actually feels like...well...a Spider-Man movie. What Rami did with parts one and two was he essentially took a group of characters from a comic book universe and tried to convert them into silver-screen adaptations. Regardless of their similarities, the comic book medium is still somewhat different to that of cinema. Both rely heavily on visuals, however there are noticeable differences between how far each one is willing to depart from reality. Comics - much like cartoons and video games - are more likely to depart from reality in favour of fantasy, whereas films often attempt to keep at least one foot in the door of authenticity for the sake of clinging on to the viewer's suspension of disbelief. This is often done by either having metaphorical themes that relate to real life issues (e.g. the coming of age/coming out theme) or by emphasising the relationships and developments of core characters (e.g. MJ and Peter's relationship/Harry and Peter's fallout/Octavius's fall from good to evil). I'm not trying to imply that Spider-Man and Spider-Man 2 were in any way grounded in our world - they certainly weren't - but what I am saying is that Rami curbed the fantastical and often-out-of-this-world nature of the comic book medium by bending the characters to function and unfold in a manner that suited that of the cinematic medium more comfortably.

Over the next few years - starting with Spider-Man 3 and continuing with the Amazing Spider-Man reboots - these films will start break free from the confines of the cinematic medium. No longer will the film-makers focus huge quantities of time and dedication toward character-development and thematic qualities, but will instead start to embrace the origins and tropes of the comic book medium which the series initially stemmed from (the character arcs will still remain of course, though they will just be no where near as fine tuned as they are here). Multiple villains per story, more far-fetched set pieces and the re-creating of hugely iconic moments from the comics will become more prevalent; particularly by the time that we get to Marc Webb's The Amazing Spider-Man reboot (though I think I'm getting a little ahead of myself).

While future Spider-Man features will feel as though they are films dictated by the rules of the comic book medium, Spider-Man 2 is the last time that the franchise will truly feel like a comic book dictated by the rules of the film medium.

Having said all this, the film isn't perfect. There are still some flaws which could have been avoided. For one, there's the lack of use of Aunt May. During one scene, Peter finally admits to May that he was partly responsible for his Uncle Ben's death; largely due to the fact that the only reason he was gunned down in the first place, was because he was waiting for Peter to return from a wrestling area where he was secretly trying to make some money. Although the scene itself is wonderfully executed – plus Rosemary Harris delivers an utterly wonderful performance through and through – this is about as much as they really do with her character in the entire 127 minutes. In every other scene which she happens to be in, she's either uttering a few philosophical or rhetorical phrases about how everyone needs a hero, or mechanochemically referencing her late husband. There are a couple of scenes which briefly explore her recent money struggles, yet these are used largely to emphasis Peter's own problems, as it shines a light on yet another responsibility which he has failed to tackle during his time off from been Spider-Man. The film often basks in its freedom to play around with the characters which occupy this world – something it sometimes struggled to do in the first one, largely down to having to spend most of its time introducing them all to the audience – yet with May, she feels slightly more neglected than the rest. May Parker is just as important a character to Peter as Harry and MJ are in this interpretation of the franchise and deserved much more screen time in the one Spider-Man film that focused more intently on character expansion than any other.

Also, there's an issue with the pacing of the climax sequence, where Octavius's transformation from the villain to the anti-hero was a tad too hasty for my liking. Yes, his decision to save the city from the man he had become was certainly a wise move, however some more screen time really could have been dedicated to exploring how his character came to this decision; which would have made the moment where he changed his ways come across much more complete. Ok, so it happened right at the end, and the writers had a fair amount to wrap up before the credits finally rolled, but a little more emphasis on the workings behind Otto's mind would have made this moment feel much more absolute in the long run.

Then there's the biggest problem, a problem which happens to pop up in every single one of Rami's Spider-Man films; his habit of reverting Mary Jane to the role of the peril-monkey in the final acts. MJ does have moments where she grasps a hold of the narrative and dictates the outcome (her moment at the very end, where she tells Peter that she's capable of making her own decisions regarding whether or not she'll be safe dating Spider-Man, is a perfect example of this) however these damsel in distress moments really do insult her character immensely. Mary Jane is a character who deserves to be more than this. She's capable of much more than just been tied up by menacing monsters for the final 30 minutes. Rami lets her down greatly when he defaults to this worn out cliché and it is even more of a shame when he does it here, largely due to the fact that everything else in this story has been so utterly spot on.

Yet despite these quarrels, Spider-Man 2 is the strongest movie to come out of this franchise. It deals with the troubles of growing up, making choices and embracing who you are. It's utterly terrific. The only terrible fact about it is that such a strong sequel makes the shambolic execution of part three all the more disappointing, however that's a discussion for a future post.

Alien³

After the Gothic steel intestines of the Nostromo's inescapable corridors, to the tough-talking marines of LV426's outwitted heroes, Alien³ finally makes its contribution to the realms of Wayland Yutani.

From a personal perspective, great bouts of time passed between my viewing of Alien³ and its preceding features. I watched the first two as a six-year-old kid, awed and inspired by the hellish imagery of wonder which it imprinted into one's imagination. My parents – however liberal their generosity may have been for allowing me to watch the first two 18-rated features – were far from keen in granting me visual access to part three at such a delicate age. After many weeks of pleading for more Ellen Ripley, I was forced to admit defeat as my parents took the video recording of Alien³ and made it a new member of that week's bin collection.

By the time I finally did get a chance to watch part trois – after a fellow school friend thoughtfully brought a copy round for a Haribo fuelled sleepover – I was the ripe old age of 12. For me, over half a decade had passed since Aliens, and in that time, one had managed to conjure up a whole army of ideas and expectations. Furthermore, my parents' reluctance to let me watch this one made the desire to watch all the more enticing. What could have been so wrong with this film which led my parents to such a frustrating decision? How violent could it possibly be? Was it scarier than a cupboard full of spiders? Would it challenge my infantile mind far too rigorously? Why had my eyes been out-of-bounds from this story for so god damn long? The enigma of Alien³ was far too intense for me to wait until my 18^th Birthday, I had to see it now!

And then, to my great misfortune, I saw it...

Narratively, the whole thing is what could possibly be described as a gallon of spilt manure. To say the plot was all over the shop would be something of an outrageous understatement. The film trampolines from one sub-plot to another, randomly telling a particular type of story at one minute, only to saunter off the next and tell a totally different one all together.

The first chunk of the film largely centres its attention around Ripley as she comes to terms with the catastrophic events which transpired during the pre-credit titles, in her own unique manner (seriously, it's an utterly dismal opening; in the sense that it grabs the “happily-ever-after” ending of Aliens by the balls and takes a great big metaphorical dump all over its jolly face). The story's protagonist – Ellen Ripley – has crash landed on a colonised prison planet named Fiorina 'Fury' 161. During their trip home, the LV426 survivors find themselves in a situation in which their ship has been compromised by two alien eggs which have wound up on board (the poor exposition of the opening scene makes their on-board arrival a rather ambiguous affair, however common sense dictates that the Queen Alien stowaway from the previous film was responsible for laying these troublesome little tinkers prior to her fate in the Suloco's airlock). As the eggs hatch and the facehuggers get busy doing what they do (whilst the crew snooze in cryosleep), an electrical fire is triggered; forcing the ship to jettison its remaining members into the stars and (hopefully) to safety. The escape vessel crashes and Ripley awakens to discover that she's the only survivor. Moreover, she's also wound up on an all male prison planet. Good lord.

Gradually, the plot moves forward and Ripley spends much of the first act mourning over her dead acquaintances.

These early scenes, as a matter of fact, are where the plot of Alien³ works reasonably well. First and foremost, Ripley's reactions regarding the discovery of her dead crew are nicely executed. Instead of expressing denial toward the deaths of Newt and Hicks, Ripley turns instead to paranoia. She refuses to accept that a technical fault is the cause of her present predicament. She will not rest until she's able to rule out (or maybe prove?) the possibility of Xenomorph involvement. That paranoia remains locked inside Ripley's mind until she goes as far as instructing the prison doctor to open up the chest of Newt; her young-companion from Aliens. Finally, after much convincing, she chooses to accept the evidence before her eyes and cremates the bodies of her former friends.

The cremation scene may well have be one more way of Ripley making extra sure that no skulduggery is at bay, however the climax to act one works nicely as a symbolic juxtaposition between a paranoid action and letting go of loved ones. Ripley's insistence that an alien on bored reflects that of a person who's refusing to accept either the death of a loved one or a terminal illness of their own. The final moments of act one, where the bodies are finally sent to the ground (well..furnace) are the moments where Ripley finally lets go, accepting that the 'facts' which she has been told are the ones which rein true to reality (which, of course, they don't).

Whilst the cremation scene begins by providing closure to the paranoia/denial juxtaposition, it then decides to suddenly go and pull the rug from under our feet by providing a secondary juxtaposition, in which it reveals that Ripley's suspicions were in fact correct all along. As the corpses of Newt and Hicks descend into the jaws of the prison's furnace, the camera cuts to one of the inmate's dog, who thrashes around in agony whilst a monstrous beast forces itself from the canine's body.

The decision to build up and then de-escalate Ripley's paranoia – only to go on and inevitably confirm that her nightmares were a reality – during the first act, sets up a theme which reflects nicely upon one of the more memorable quotes from the previous feature. I am referring to the line in Aliens, in which Newt says to Ripley that “my mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there are.” This was a line which I always felt summed up the overall theme of the Alien franchise. Alien and Aliens were films which felt as though they crawled out from the back of one's mind. These were films which followed a woman who found herself trapped inside a nightmare. In this universe, everyone's fears and terrors physically existed along-side them. The opening scene of Alien³ once again establishes this; confirming that Ripley's suspicions are, in actuality, solid facts.

Yet after a reasonably solid first act, everything goes utterly pear-shaped thereon. The main problem with it is that it feels as though each scene in the film had a different screenwriter working on it without actually knowing what each other happened to be writing. One minute we have a sub-plot revolving around Ripley forming a sexual relationship with the prison doctor; then we have one where the planet's doctor turns out to be a prisoner who was sent down for the manslaughter of several former patients; then there's this bit with Dillon and his band of religious chums; then we have a tale about a prisoner being accused of committing the crimes which the devilish Xenomorph was responsible for; then comes along a rather unpleasant bit where some prisoners attempt to rape Ripley whilst Dillon chooses to protect her; and then we've got some stuff about the company coming to take the murderous alien away from those expendable residents which occupy the lands of Fury 161. Oh yeah, and there's some bit where Ripley finds out she's got an alien sleeping in her chest.

I'm not saying that these are necessarily poor sub-plots (the second from last one I mentioned fits in perfectly with another theme which also weaves throughout the first two films; the company as the antagonist), nor am I saying that they couldn't work within Alien³. The crux of the problem is that one of these sub-plots will start up, and without providing any kind of resolution or point to that particular sub-narrative, the whole thing just wonders off and starts conjuring up a brand new secondary-story to entice its audience with. The end result is a collection of short stories – set on Fury 161 – with no satisfactory pay offs to any of them. These sub-plots continue to build up in their numbers as the film moves closer to the end credits; when finally, the third act buckles and decides to go 'fuck it' by turning everything into one big cat and mouse chase.

And this is the biggest disappointment with Alien³. It starts off feeling ambitious, tickling the audiences curiosity with a set of enigmatic characters and unanswered side story. Furthermore, it's first act proves that the writers behind this production (though I am aware of the troubles they had with production, particularly in the screen writing department) understood the nature of the story they were continuing to tell – that nightmares are a reality in Ripley's universe. Sadly, as the minutes pass by, it insidiously disappoints by failing to pay off anything which it sets up. Its a narrative with ADHD; one which starts off with a whole assortment of ideas eager to explore, yet ends up resorting to 30 minutes of people running around corridors.

Yet despite the chaotic narrative, Alien³ does manage to get a fair amount right in terms of its aesthetic appeal. The yellow and brown tinting, intestine-like corridors and the Xenomorph-doppelgänger plumbing to Fury 161's prison complex manages to both respect and expand upon the hair-raising aesthetics surrounding the series. The Fury 161 compound is just what one would imagine a prison to be like within this fictional universe; reinforcing the message that this future is a million miles away from what one might imagine a glossy utopia to be.

The visual qualities surrounding Alien³ had more of an impact on me than the film itself, as a matter of fact. During the years in which I was forbidden to view the film, all I had to go on were quick clips from television channels which were advertising late night screenings of the film (I would have stayed up late to watch them, yet this was before the days of owning a TV in one's room). The mud brown cinematography from those brief spots were all I had to go on. With little information of the overall story, my imagination got to work; weaving all sorts of weird and wonderful fables out of these short nuggets of nightmarish glory.

To add to these TV spots, my local video store provided a copy of the film for rental purposes. The front cover's drooling Xenomorph jaws, hissing silently into a petrified Ripley's ear was yet another unsettling-yet-appealing puzzle for me to place into the jigsaw of my mind. One more image to contribute to my own envisioned edition of this yet unseen film.

Such a positive impression one had regarding the aesthetics - plus six years of imaginatively constructing my own tailor-made-version of Alien³ - certainly had an effect on my overall response to the actual outcome. I was expecting something truly incredible, yet with the wandering plot(s) and lack of direction, I ended up walking away feeling somewhat empty. Furthermore, the decision to kill off Ellen Ripley at the ass end of the climax split my heart in two. During those earlier years, Ripley became an iconic part of my childhood self. She was the unstoppable warrior who could survive the impossible. Whole platoons could be wiped out before her, yet she would forever walk out the other side (more or less) unharmed. Whilst everyone else around her cried and cowered during their final moments alive, our hero would ascend from the bowels of the alien underworld, saving whoever she could; be that feline or child. Monsters may very well be real in Ellen Ripey's world, yet Ellen Ripley was immortal within the confines of this realm.

Although I can understand why they chose to kill off Ripley as a means of bringing closure to this franchise (which it did...until 1997), such a decision was an assassination of the only hero whom I was convinced could never cease to exist (except for the Doctor of course, though he had not yet entered my life by this point).

While Alien and Aliens inspired the architecture which holds up ones imaginative foundations; Alien³ was a film which could fail to impress the very imagination which was shaped by its predecessors.

The Reading Room: Flowers for Algernon

Flowers for Algernon is a science fiction novel by author Daniel Keyes. The story follows a cognitively challenged adult named Charlie Gordon who undergoes surgery too boost his IQ from 68 to 185. During his journey through the valleys of knowledge, Charlie falls in love with his teacher - Alice Kinnian, revisits his estranged family and learns of the truth in regards to how his friends really perceive him.

The short-story-turned-novel by Daniel Keyes is far from what one may call contemporary. The short story was released in 1958, whilst the fleshed out novel was published in 1966. Since then, it has gone on to win the Nebula Award for Best Novel, has been adapted into a feature film named Charlie in 1968, has continued to inspire further remakes from then forth, and has been re-released during the ensuing decades since.

I had seen one of these remakes many years before I stumbled upon the book. Back during my less literature-passionate days. I was 14 and happened to catch the TV movie adaptation - initially released in the year 2000 - during a sunny Saturday afternoon at my grandparents' home. The TV movie has been slated critically by many since its release, however I remember battling to hold back the tears during that warm weekend back in early 2005.

The subsequent weeks largely consisted of me foraging around my local HMV and Virgin Megastore, attempting to find a copy so I could relive that surprisingly emotional story once again. Upon failure, I decided to give Amazon a shot; only to discover that the film had not yet received a UK release (I'd not yet learned that I could also purchase items off of Amazon US. Nor had I discovered that I was able to watch films from across the pond with a neat little region code breaker app on my computer. As a result, I gave up and decided to look again at a later date.

As is often the case with me, a few weeks later, I had forgotten about that sweet little story and moved on with my life. Until last week, that is, when my dearest mother treated me to a re-released S.F Masterworks copy on Christmas morning.

The story is told via the first-person perspective. Charlie Gordon is our dear Dreamweaver in the tale; taking his readers on an intimate journey as his IQ sores from 68, right up to  a staggering 185.

Those initial opening chapters (or progress reports, as they are known as in the novel) were something of a struggle to read. For authenticity's sake, Keyes has rightfully chosen to have Charlie write these opening reports as he would have written them with his original IQ. The spelling is diabolical, the ideas are half-baked, the pacing of each report is all over the shop and the grammer is next to non-existent. Which makes the opening pages of Flowers for Algernon something of a task to work through. It's much like trying to read the assignment of an illiterate child trying to write a report on their weekend away with the family.

Yet what these opening progress reports achieve is an insight into Charlie before any alterations are made to his mind. He's excited, naive about the procedure he's soon to experience, full of admiration of his friends and even somewhat anxious toward some of the tests which he's been pushed through by the researchers running the entire operation. As Charlie tells us about how the Beekman College Center (which he attends for his cognitive struggles) claim he's the best man for the experiment, how his friends often laugh whenever he's around, and how he will soon go under the knife in a way that no human before him has; the reader is led to believe that all is not what it seems. Charlie isn't the brightest light on the Christmas tree, but seems to be happily sailing through a world which he quite clearly fails to understand.

As the pages turn hastily forth, Keyes improves the overall intellectual quality of Charlies' journal entries. After the operation, he is requested to listen to a series of tapes which aim to help him learn. As the progress reports move forward, the quality of Charlies' spelling and understanding of the world around him begins to transform at a rapid rate. Soon enough, he's introduced to the world of gramma. After a few mistakes and annoyances, he's able to construct coherently executed sentences which allow him to express his thoughts and feelings more vividly.

The increase in Charlies' abilities of self-expression expand farther, as he learns to dive back into his past and see how his present feelings have been shaped by personal events that have occured during his preceding years.

Charlies' increasing level of intelligence helps to mold the overall shape of Keyes' novel. It takes on an up-down shaped structure; having Charlie rise higher than he's ever risen before (in an intellectual context) only to have him slowly slip back down toward the two figured IQ which had possessed at the start of the novel. By the time the reader reaches the center of this story, Charlie is nothing short of a genius. So much so, in fact, that he decides to contribute his newly obtained intelligence to help assist with the research that is been put into the very experiment which made it possible in the first place.

As initially mentioned,  however, Charlie slowly begins to loose his balance, and his IQ slowly slips back to what it was before he underwent the surgery. Such a fact becomes known the Charlie before the effects kick in; as informed by the experiments' original test pilot - a mouse named Algernon - who's abnormally high IQ (for a mouse) quickly subsides before his brain forces him into a premature grave.

What's most interesting about Flowers for Algernon, however, is the story's secondary plot shape. Whilst Charlie sores in the intellectual department, personally, his life slowly begins to crumble before his eyes. His new found genius allows him to fit the world together; much one would with a jigsaw puzzle. He notices that a colleague he worked with at his local bakery has been short changing his boss for years; his friends are not laughing with him, but at him; his mother sent him away because she was so ashamed at how different he was from all the other children; and how no matter what you do in this world, people will happily stab you in the back if it will benefit them in any way.

The story's secondary shape helps to flesh out one of the novel's most significant themes. Will obtaining great levels of intellect truly make a person happy? If they can understand and perceive the world with the eyes of a clear headed ingenuity, can they truly remain happy when they can see all the horrors of reality playing out before their very eyes? Intellect may grant you imagination and the ability to accomplish many great things, but is it worth it when you are able to see just how dirty our species can truly be?

Furthermore, Flowers for Algernon looks at how others treat those who are seen to have a higher mind than a majority of society. All his old 'friends' and colleagues begin to ostracize him. They hate him for making them feel inferior with his knowledge. Whilst Charlie once made them feel secure in their own intelligence by being the least intelligent individual in the group; he now serves a reminder of all their flaws and inadequacies. They push him out of his job, openly accuse him of going against the bible by 'eating from the tree of knowledge' and force him into a world of isolation.

Such hostility from the individuals whom were once at the center of Charlies' life turn the spot light on a problem has existed amongst society since the dawn of our species; and is a problem which still exists to this very day. People are afraid of difference; regardless of which end of the spectrum of difference they are placed at. When Charlie had an IQ of 68, his mother disowned him and his classmates ridiculed him. In their eyes, he was nothing more than a joke. He was unable to learn like everyone else and was therefore pushed out and ignored by everyone who surrounded him.

Much of the same happens when Charlie flips from being unintelligent to intelligent. Even those who helped deliver the gift of intelligence to him become hostile of his existence. In their eyes, he questions too much, he becomes angry at the actions of others all too frequently, and most importantly, he frightens them. When he was perceived as simple, people accused him of being wrong; when he 'ate from the tree of knowledge' he was still wrong.

Reading this novel in today's world forces me to liken the attitudes of Charlies peers to that of our current societies attitudes toward peoples' bodies. Media tabloids will dehumanize and belittle those who are dangerously overweight. They will poke fun at them, accuse them of draining tax payers money on their health problems and bully them into 'doing something about it'. Much the same now happens if an individual is seen to be underweight. People who weigh less than society deems to be appropriate are attacked an accused of being a bad influence on today's children (the same accusation is fired at overweight individuals),  are ridiculed for the appearance of their nude bodies (" " " ") and have a list of health problems continuously recited to them (" " " ").

Regardless of the story raising such a point, however, it never appears to critique those who dislike Charlie after his intellect ascends. In fact, it appears to be slowly more in favor of the idea that ignorance is bliss. Charlie is frequently accused of becoming a cold and angry individual after his operation; and despite him attacking such opinions, Keyes appears to let those against his smartness have the last word.

It would be somewhat unfair to attack the novel for doing this, however, as it is important to remember that we can only understand this book through Charlies' eyes. He is writing the log reports, so any shred of coldness or anger are often even watered down by his choice of words (until the final few log reports that is) or pass by without him ever mentioning such modes of behavior. We hear what goes on inside his head, but we never really get a good enough idea about how his emotions are being portrayed visually.

Which brings us on to Charlies' emotional development during Flowers for Algernon.

As mentioned previously, during the progression of the narrative, Charlie finds himself falling madly in love with his ex-teacher at the Beekman College; Alice Kinnian. It would appear that Charlies' intellectual level was not the only aspect of his existence which was suffering from a case of arrested development, but also his attitude toward members of the opposite gender and sex also. Alice is a young attractive woman, and as Charlie begins to see her for the individual that she he, he begins to fall head over heels for her.

Yet the crux of Charlies' problem is that the other Charlie - the Charlie with the IQ of 68 who still watches him from a short distance - is not prepared to accept the truth of what is happening to him emotionally. It is at this point in the story in which our remarkable protagonist begins to discover that his stunted growth in the relationship side of his life was more down to his own mother and not necessarily due to his arrested development. Rose Gordon scolded and shamed Charlie whenever he showed any signs of biological sexual development during his infancy. If he became aroused or hinted of any signs of lust toward members of the opposite gender, Rose would scold and belittle him for his thoughts; conditioning him to believe that he was wrong in having such thoughts.

It is also at this point in which we start to see how the "other Charlie" (or should I say the more authentic side to Charlies' personality) deals with his hostility toward Alice, by pushing himself into an intimate relationship with a woman named Fay Lillman.

Fay is something of a wild card of a character. She has little (or next to no) shame in exposing her body to complete strangers, loves to dance into the early hours of the morning and possesses little interest in intellectual stimulation. She almost feels like a mirror image of the Charlie who has grown and developed throughout the duration of this story. It's almost as if the more authentic Charlie from before the operation is trying to fight these newly discovered sexual lusts by forcing the post-op Charlie to immerse himself emotionally with a woman who does not exist within the same mind-set as he.

The love triangle can be at times slightly ambiguous; making it difficult for the reader to comprehend what Charlie is doing to himself during these moments. Why is per-opperation Charlie so hostile toward Alice, yet so welcoming to Fay? Despite Fay's lack of passion for Charlies' line of work, she's still light years apart from the Charlie we understand at the start of this story. But amongst all the questions as to why pre-Charlie is battling against post-Charlies' happiness, it is possible to perceive the actions that both versions of Charlie are taking as a simultaneous choice. Charlie has not had the chance to blossom and develop sexually like most humans do. At 32 years of age, he has not even been able to learn from experiences which many encounter during their adolescent years.

The love triangle which Charlie assembles throughout the duration of this narrative could quite easily be understood as the bi-product of a man who's trying to react to a series of emotions and events which are staggeringly alien to him. He's like a mouse trying to find its way through a maze.

Which brings us on to Algernon himself. Algernon is mostly used as a symbol throughout the book. His presence is mainly there to forshadow the events which will one day take over Charlies' life. Seeing as Algernon's lifespan if dramatically shorter than a humans, plus seeing as the mouse was subjected to the intelligence experiment far sooner than Charlie; all the situations occurring in this helpless rodent will inevitably happen to our protagonist.

Yet Algernon is more than just a foreshadowing of things to come for dear old Charlie. He's also a tool to help give the narrative of this story a center. Despite the changes which take place in Charlie, and despite where he goes, Algernon remains as the unchanging link throughout it all. Charlies' relationship with this pet mouse is the one relationship which remains the same from start to finish (minus one of the earlier report progress logs at the start; which has pre-op Charlie expressing great frustration due to the mouses' staggering intellect). Regardless of what Charlie discovers about his past, who he falls in love with, and whichever direction his IQ travels in, his caring nature toward Algernon never sways. Even after Algernon is dead and Charlies' intellect ceases to be, his last request is for flowers to be placed on Algernon's grave.

Algernon is the unchanging center of this narrative. As a matter of fact, he is a down-sized replica of the narrative itself, which drifts through the mother-narrative; foreshadowing events and granting Charlie one ability that reassures the readers that both post and pre surgery Charlie are of one of the same person; the ability to love and care for something that has no real knowledge as to what's going on around it.

Not many people on this planet will ever know what it feels like to have an IQ of 185. Yet despite this fact, Flowers for Algernon is a story which can connect with readers from all kinds of backgrounds.

We all start off in life a naive children who breeze on through our lives without a care in the world. We don't fully understand the true horrors and struggles that the universe likes to throw up, and most of us sail through our younger years in a blissful state of ignorance. Yet as we grow older, our intellect increases and the sheet of ignorance is lifted from our eyes sooner or later.

At one point or another, we have all felt the same feelings of anger and disappointment which Charlie feels throughout this book. We've all been there. We've all started to connect the dots and realized that everything we thought we knew was nothing more than a lie which concealed the true depths of this reality.

Flowers for Algernon is a story of a man who was allowed to keep his childhood for life; only to briefly have a taste of what it feels like on the other side of the intellectual spectrum. Which of the two mental is the superior one is debatable, yet one thing is for certain in this story; human behavior is complex, sticky and often taken for granted by many.

The character of Charlie Gordon was allowed to witness both the internal and external complexities of humanity from both sides of the pond. Whether this was a blessing or a curse remains a mystery. And as one of the messages which lies behind the story makes very much clear, no matter how dig you deep, you will never reach total understanding of any given subject, particularly the intricacies of human behavior.