the ramble dump
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The Play's the Thing, Sometimes
Last semester I took a module on playwriting. It probably isn't something I'd have picked had I more of a choice (we had to pick a 'drama' module), but I'm glad that I did it. It was interesting.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
The fact remains that theatre is the most vigorous way of telling a story. How could it be otherwise? It is theatre that combines all the best parts of those other media we also enjoy.A strange conclusion for someone who has pointed out himself the kinds of things that prose and film can do that theatre cannot. The fact that film can hit us with an emotionally charged close-up is surely the best thing about it. The fact that in prose the whole world can be constructed from simmering, bubbling metaphor with an inconceivably subtle interplay between the meanings of every single word is surely the best thing about that. Those are the strengths of these media respectively. Theatre can do neither.
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
Labels: films, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, plays, shakespeare
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Dreams, Films and Stirred Emotions
I've been reading The Power of Movies: How Screen and Mind Interact, by philosopher Colin McGinn. I discovered the book after reading one of his essays on the Matrix films, in which he mentioned he was working on something like it. In the book, McGinn discusses the reasons behind the immense appeal of films, first establishing their physical and metaphysical properties in relation (and as opposed) to different media such as novels, theatrical plays and small-screen TV, and discussing exactly what it is we are looking at, how we interpret it, how we are engaged by it and how this affects us. He goes into detail about the structure of the image presented: the psychological effects of close-ups of the face, of black-and-white, of dancing and movement and so on. It's all very interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
The movie watcher seems abnormally suggestible, open to persuasion and propaganda--which is why movies have often been used to this end. It is comparatively easy to arouse the viewer's emotions and convinctions. Again, if we ask why this is so, the dream theory has an answer: in simulating the dream state, the movie watcher enters a kind of heightened suggestibility. This state is not as extreme as the dream state, but it approximates that state; thus beliefs are easily encouraged, opinions shaped. [...] Perhaps there should be a new category added to the ratings system: B, for "liable to lead to beliefs in unsuspecting viewers." Once you have someone in a dream state, just as a hypnotic state, you have him where you want him, belief-wise.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
Those windows are super-bright patterns of light, typically telling stories of some sort, and receiving the upturned gaze of the devotee. They tell of a world beyond and give off an aura of the supernatural. They afford visual pleasure, treats for the eye. They transform the human body into a creature of light and radiance [...] You gaze enchanted at the glorious mosaic of the glass as the plangent organ music accompanies your vision [...] Psychologically, there is an emotional stirring, a sense of great themes, a moral focusing, and sometimes a state bordering on trance.
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
Labels: dreams, films, i am the ramblemaster, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix
Monday, July 16, 2007
Pirates of the Caribbean
Last night I saw At World's End. I liked it. Now that I've seen all three films, I thought I'd post a big, fat review of the trilogy as a whole.
To start with, the reason I like all the Pirates films is because they're complete escapism. This is seen by some as exactly what's wrong with them: they're empty of anything but silliness and special effects. But other than the above being well executed, there's something else that made the films so enjoyable for me, and that is that underlying all three films is the aspect of pure storytelling.
Curses, krakens and sea goddesses are all fantastical ideas; they're not especially original coming from the pens of the filmmakers, but are all based on myths and legends that have in the past been the kind of thing that the minds of men have conjured up and convinced themselves of while on such boaty voyages, whether founded on superstition, or to add some mystery or romance to their lives, or just because they liked a good story as much as we do. It might all be imaginative nonsense (why can Davy Jones, for example, only set foot on land every ten years? No reason other than to create a plot device for the story and tragic circumstances for the character). But we can still find ourselves immersed. The film embraces all this kind of thing, while at the same time, through characters like Mr Gibbs, lightly poking fun at the tendency for superstition and melodrama and never taking itself too seriously. There might be no real moral or any direct relevance or usefulness, but irrespective of this, the Pirates films demonstrate with vigour the power and the charm of a good story.
That's not to say that the films were all perfect, but I thought they were all pretty damn good. Here's a breakdown of each:
The Curse of the Black Pearl, by virtue of being the first, is probably the most well-rounded and well-balanced of the three films. It's got equal measures of action, adventure, comedy and romance, and it doesn't suffer from the filmmakers deciding to shovel in overthetop amounts of everything we liked best. It manages to be epic and sprawling without being convoluted, and as a whole is probably the best one.
Dead Man's Chest lives up to the first in most respects. The action is satisfying when it comes around. There's a feeling of a lack of direction when the main story pauses for the characters to engage in hilarious hijinks with cannibals or big rolling wheels; the slapstick is almost overbearing at times and some of the humour seems a bit forced, but it's never unbearable and remains mostly entertaining, if a bit overindulgent. As the series of multiple endings shows, a lot of it is just setting up the next film, but it has enough story to be satisfying in its own right.
At World's End was, to me, an excellent final instalment. It provides at least some sort of conclusion for every story so far presented in the trilogy while still having enough that's fresh. This definitely made it complicated at times, but it never felt overly convoluted like some of the Dead Man segments. I just about managed to follow the constant switching of allegiances, which wasn't so much confusing in itself as made harder to follow by the fact that it happens in such rapid succession.
The film gets off to an uncertain start with the whole getting Jack back stuff, and while having multiple Jacks was mildly entertaining (and I liked it when they made a reappearance later on), the problem with trying to be weird and surreal is that it can easily become tedious and unfunny. A bit like being stuck in a room with someone going, 'Lol, I'm so random!' One Jack chickening his way across the deck has to be the worst and most obvious example of this. After that, however, it quickly improves, and the epic battle scenes at the end more than make up for previous shortcomings. I mean like, woah. I thought that how the stage was set with Calypso's maelstrom of uncertainty was cleverly done. Overall, the tone was surprisingly dark at times, with some pretty graphic violence in Singapore, and later Mercer's horrific yet utterly satisfying end with his facial orifices being invaded by tentacles. The films have always had a darker edge to them (or, as Jack says to Tia Dalma, 'an agreeable sense of the macabre'), but At World's End seemed to take it one step further.
For the most part, I think the sequels do add to the franchise, and all in all, I thought At World's End was a satisfying ending to a very satisfying trilogy.
To start with, the reason I like all the Pirates films is because they're complete escapism. This is seen by some as exactly what's wrong with them: they're empty of anything but silliness and special effects. But other than the above being well executed, there's something else that made the films so enjoyable for me, and that is that underlying all three films is the aspect of pure storytelling.
Curses, krakens and sea goddesses are all fantastical ideas; they're not especially original coming from the pens of the filmmakers, but are all based on myths and legends that have in the past been the kind of thing that the minds of men have conjured up and convinced themselves of while on such boaty voyages, whether founded on superstition, or to add some mystery or romance to their lives, or just because they liked a good story as much as we do. It might all be imaginative nonsense (why can Davy Jones, for example, only set foot on land every ten years? No reason other than to create a plot device for the story and tragic circumstances for the character). But we can still find ourselves immersed. The film embraces all this kind of thing, while at the same time, through characters like Mr Gibbs, lightly poking fun at the tendency for superstition and melodrama and never taking itself too seriously. There might be no real moral or any direct relevance or usefulness, but irrespective of this, the Pirates films demonstrate with vigour the power and the charm of a good story.
That's not to say that the films were all perfect, but I thought they were all pretty damn good. Here's a breakdown of each:
The Curse of the Black Pearl, by virtue of being the first, is probably the most well-rounded and well-balanced of the three films. It's got equal measures of action, adventure, comedy and romance, and it doesn't suffer from the filmmakers deciding to shovel in overthetop amounts of everything we liked best. It manages to be epic and sprawling without being convoluted, and as a whole is probably the best one.
Dead Man's Chest lives up to the first in most respects. The action is satisfying when it comes around. There's a feeling of a lack of direction when the main story pauses for the characters to engage in hilarious hijinks with cannibals or big rolling wheels; the slapstick is almost overbearing at times and some of the humour seems a bit forced, but it's never unbearable and remains mostly entertaining, if a bit overindulgent. As the series of multiple endings shows, a lot of it is just setting up the next film, but it has enough story to be satisfying in its own right.
At World's End was, to me, an excellent final instalment. It provides at least some sort of conclusion for every story so far presented in the trilogy while still having enough that's fresh. This definitely made it complicated at times, but it never felt overly convoluted like some of the Dead Man segments. I just about managed to follow the constant switching of allegiances, which wasn't so much confusing in itself as made harder to follow by the fact that it happens in such rapid succession.
The film gets off to an uncertain start with the whole getting Jack back stuff, and while having multiple Jacks was mildly entertaining (and I liked it when they made a reappearance later on), the problem with trying to be weird and surreal is that it can easily become tedious and unfunny. A bit like being stuck in a room with someone going, 'Lol, I'm so random!' One Jack chickening his way across the deck has to be the worst and most obvious example of this. After that, however, it quickly improves, and the epic battle scenes at the end more than make up for previous shortcomings. I mean like, woah. I thought that how the stage was set with Calypso's maelstrom of uncertainty was cleverly done. Overall, the tone was surprisingly dark at times, with some pretty graphic violence in Singapore, and later Mercer's horrific yet utterly satisfying end with his facial orifices being invaded by tentacles. The films have always had a darker edge to them (or, as Jack says to Tia Dalma, 'an agreeable sense of the macabre'), but At World's End seemed to take it one step further.
For the most part, I think the sequels do add to the franchise, and all in all, I thought At World's End was a satisfying ending to a very satisfying trilogy.
Labels: films, i am the ramblemaster, pirates, rabbit-hole theory
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Organza Nousu vs Jabba the Hutt
So last night Amelia mentioned the similarities between Organza Nousu of Starcustard and Jabba the Hutt of Star Wars. Unfortunately, this is something that had bothered me before, and looking at pictures of Jabba again yesterday, I could match some pretty specific characteristics: aside from being a giant spaceslug thing, there's the leathery skin, the huge mouth, the big orange eyes and even the silly little arms. All I can say, as the one responsible for deciding that Gen's stepparents were going to be fat slugs, is that these similarities were not deliberate.
In my defence I could also point out some differences. The Nousus' leathery skin is described as just like extremely thick walrus hide whereas Jabba's is not. Our slugs don't have slit pupils, and I always imagined their eyes as a very clear, very bright orange, almost cartoony and much more expressive than the sleepy gaze of Jabba. In a similar vein, the Nousu slugs lack Jabba's general slovenly appearance: for all their plumpness and size they're much more mobile, and whereas Jabba's folds of fat collect to form a distinctive belly and head, I always pictured the Nousus as quite linear with wobbly but amorphous flab, for the most part slithering around just like regular slugs, their head only made distinctive from the rest of them by their eyes and mouth. The Nousus' arms are almost ineffectual blackened twig-like things, not fleshy, only added as a way of allowing them to hold a slavekid card catalogue. And finally, as far as I know, Jabba doesn't have teeth.
Not all of these features are made so explicit in the text, because 'more linear than Jabba' is just not something we would have included. I also can't account for exactly how Amelia imagines the Nousus (she might have different ideas of how they compare), but now that we've both become conscious of the unintentional similarities, although nobody else has mentioned it, we felt it was probably a good idea to set the record straight just in case. Back when we started writing Starcustard and I put these slugs in, I hadn't seen any Star Wars film but The Phantom Menace. The same is still true. Reading up on it recently, it turns out that Jabba made an appearance in that film too, but honestly I don't think it was memorable enough even to be a subconscious influence.
In fact, I have an amusing story about my ignorance of Jabba the Hutt. And...well, ignorance in general, too. As I told Amelia last night...
It's true. And it's a shame that there's such a similarity, because we don't want it to seem like we copied anyone. I made Gen's stepparents into fat, horrible slugs because it seemed appropriate: Gen's stepparents were supposed to be rich and horrible and giant slugs sort of personified this. No doubt George Lucas arrived at the idea of Jabba along similar lines. We could always go back and change it, of course, but then I don't think Organza would still be Organza. So a slug she remains. And we are entirely innocent.
In my defence I could also point out some differences. The Nousus' leathery skin is described as just like extremely thick walrus hide whereas Jabba's is not. Our slugs don't have slit pupils, and I always imagined their eyes as a very clear, very bright orange, almost cartoony and much more expressive than the sleepy gaze of Jabba. In a similar vein, the Nousu slugs lack Jabba's general slovenly appearance: for all their plumpness and size they're much more mobile, and whereas Jabba's folds of fat collect to form a distinctive belly and head, I always pictured the Nousus as quite linear with wobbly but amorphous flab, for the most part slithering around just like regular slugs, their head only made distinctive from the rest of them by their eyes and mouth. The Nousus' arms are almost ineffectual blackened twig-like things, not fleshy, only added as a way of allowing them to hold a slavekid card catalogue. And finally, as far as I know, Jabba doesn't have teeth.
Not all of these features are made so explicit in the text, because 'more linear than Jabba' is just not something we would have included. I also can't account for exactly how Amelia imagines the Nousus (she might have different ideas of how they compare), but now that we've both become conscious of the unintentional similarities, although nobody else has mentioned it, we felt it was probably a good idea to set the record straight just in case. Back when we started writing Starcustard and I put these slugs in, I hadn't seen any Star Wars film but The Phantom Menace. The same is still true. Reading up on it recently, it turns out that Jabba made an appearance in that film too, but honestly I don't think it was memorable enough even to be a subconscious influence.
In fact, I have an amusing story about my ignorance of Jabba the Hutt. And...well, ignorance in general, too. As I told Amelia last night...
Chris: to be honest, until recently i got him confused with atilla the hun anyway
plaid: ha
plaid: that's awesome.
Chris: i was actually surprised to find he was fictional
plaid: really?
plaid: what a strange kid you are.
Chris: and then weeks later it clicked: wait, he's real! but he has a different name!
plaid: heh
Chris: and then i thought, 'ah, poo. that's very similar to organza.'
Chris: 'but i was not to know!'
Chris: 'i shall not mention it.'
plaid: heh. ah well. no worries.
plaid: jabba the hut never wore fake eyelashes or [spoiler omitted].
Chris: no doubt a thousand million people out there will not believe that story because, like, EVERYONE knows jabba the hutt
Chris: but i didn't!
Chris: heh
plaid: heh.
It's true. And it's a shame that there's such a similarity, because we don't want it to seem like we copied anyone. I made Gen's stepparents into fat, horrible slugs because it seemed appropriate: Gen's stepparents were supposed to be rich and horrible and giant slugs sort of personified this. No doubt George Lucas arrived at the idea of Jabba along similar lines. We could always go back and change it, of course, but then I don't think Organza would still be Organza. So a slug she remains. And we are entirely innocent.
Labels: alien conversations, films, i am the ramblemaster, starcustard
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The Cyberpunk Aesthetic
Cyberpunk: high tech, low life. That seems to work as a good summary, although I don't know whose summary it is. People living in a society deeply affected by rapid technological development, usually on its underside.
As a political outlook--from what I can tell after having a little look around this thing we call cyberspace--it's a bit dubious. By nature of living in an increasingly technological world, upon which we are becoming ever more dependent, we must be wary of authority and hidden information. Fair enough. We're all digitally recorded in various ways about a gazillion times each day; my school, for example, has a CCTV network that means I'm caught on at least twenty different cameras moving from one end to the other. It's enough to make me paranoid. And whenever anyone says 'If you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', I always think of 1984.
But then, those who call themselves cyberpunks push for anarchy over democracy as well as totalitarianism, and anarchy for people who have a penchant for shiny weapons is probably something to be wary of. They seem too willing to throw themselves into a technological future where technology and humanity will inevitably (and literally) merge, which as likely as it may be...well, that's got to conflict with any ideals of independence. While you're refusing to submit to the government, you're just submitting yourself, gratuitously, to something else. They shamelessly admit style over substance, and in fact seem to promote it. There's lots of emphasis on attitude and Fighting The Power. Indeedy, it seems more like a teenaged sort of attitude problem in the guise of a political conscience than anything else.
It's hard to tell if they're being serious. Maybe they aren't. Mostly it just seems like people having some obscure kind of fun. Whatever subcultures or so-called cyberpunk manifestos have formed on the internet, though, as a genre, cyberpunk still holds a lot of interest, independent of those trying to make a coherent political outlook out of the genre's features.
Cyberpunk as a genre has a lot of style. It's a grungey sort of style, written with noir elements and an edge that reflects a sense of aesthetics and cool and the fascination of possibilities of the world it writes about, while at the same time reflecting the whole 'low life' thing, the technological chaos, the danger and violence of the lives of characters living on the edge. Dependence on technology and existence of virtual worlds are major themes that have become ever more relevant in recent years, and many cyberpunk novels have already proven to be somewhat prophetic. So for all its distinct style, cyberpunk is also stirring because it's really not that far from being a reality.
While The Matrix trilogy had a little bit of naff and a whole lot of bloated allegory, I still liked it because it had that cyberpunk aesthetic, especially the first film. It had the virtual world; the characters' dependence on technology and machinery; the noir feel; the grungey, gloomy, decaying urban settings; and a sense that the characters were living on the edge, struggling for an existence and finding themselves in violent situations (not that Hollywood would have it any other way).
After taking a renewed interest in the genre, I recently bought William Gibson's Neuromancer, one of the original cyberpunk novels. Its vision of the future is over twenty years old, but still feels very believable. And aside from that, it's just a lot of fun to read. Before long I'll be getting the others in the trilogy.
There's charm and intrigue to the urban decay and perverse technology of cyberpunk, as paradoxical as that sounds. There's a fascination to these worlds that draws you in, both thrilling and disturbing, and the way in which all the questions about what it is to be human are amplified.
As a political outlook--from what I can tell after having a little look around this thing we call cyberspace--it's a bit dubious. By nature of living in an increasingly technological world, upon which we are becoming ever more dependent, we must be wary of authority and hidden information. Fair enough. We're all digitally recorded in various ways about a gazillion times each day; my school, for example, has a CCTV network that means I'm caught on at least twenty different cameras moving from one end to the other. It's enough to make me paranoid. And whenever anyone says 'If you're doing nothing wrong, you've got nothing to worry about', I always think of 1984.
But then, those who call themselves cyberpunks push for anarchy over democracy as well as totalitarianism, and anarchy for people who have a penchant for shiny weapons is probably something to be wary of. They seem too willing to throw themselves into a technological future where technology and humanity will inevitably (and literally) merge, which as likely as it may be...well, that's got to conflict with any ideals of independence. While you're refusing to submit to the government, you're just submitting yourself, gratuitously, to something else. They shamelessly admit style over substance, and in fact seem to promote it. There's lots of emphasis on attitude and Fighting The Power. Indeedy, it seems more like a teenaged sort of attitude problem in the guise of a political conscience than anything else.
It's hard to tell if they're being serious. Maybe they aren't. Mostly it just seems like people having some obscure kind of fun. Whatever subcultures or so-called cyberpunk manifestos have formed on the internet, though, as a genre, cyberpunk still holds a lot of interest, independent of those trying to make a coherent political outlook out of the genre's features.
Cyberpunk as a genre has a lot of style. It's a grungey sort of style, written with noir elements and an edge that reflects a sense of aesthetics and cool and the fascination of possibilities of the world it writes about, while at the same time reflecting the whole 'low life' thing, the technological chaos, the danger and violence of the lives of characters living on the edge. Dependence on technology and existence of virtual worlds are major themes that have become ever more relevant in recent years, and many cyberpunk novels have already proven to be somewhat prophetic. So for all its distinct style, cyberpunk is also stirring because it's really not that far from being a reality.
While The Matrix trilogy had a little bit of naff and a whole lot of bloated allegory, I still liked it because it had that cyberpunk aesthetic, especially the first film. It had the virtual world; the characters' dependence on technology and machinery; the noir feel; the grungey, gloomy, decaying urban settings; and a sense that the characters were living on the edge, struggling for an existence and finding themselves in violent situations (not that Hollywood would have it any other way).
After taking a renewed interest in the genre, I recently bought William Gibson's Neuromancer, one of the original cyberpunk novels. Its vision of the future is over twenty years old, but still feels very believable. And aside from that, it's just a lot of fun to read. Before long I'll be getting the others in the trilogy.
There's charm and intrigue to the urban decay and perverse technology of cyberpunk, as paradoxical as that sounds. There's a fascination to these worlds that draws you in, both thrilling and disturbing, and the way in which all the questions about what it is to be human are amplified.
Labels: cyberpunk, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, neuromancer, science, the matrix, william gibson
Saturday, March 17, 2007
How Allegorical
When I studied Orwell's Animal Farm in school at the age of about eleven or twelve, it was never a book I was particularly fond of, perhaps just because I found the subject matter so bleak. But it still held its status as a book of value and an important piece of satirical literature.
However, while being an obvious allegory may have been the whole point of it, when I found out that all the events and characters were supposed to represent different aspects of the Soviet Union and its history, with the pigs based on certain individuals and the horses representing the classes and the building of the windmill an analogy of the Soviet's Five-Year Plans and so on and so forth - I remember feeling a bit disappointed that it was so blatant. Sure, it's supposed to be like that; it's supposed to be a frank and direct criticism of the Soviet Union. But nevertheless, I felt there was something ungenuine about it, which took the shine off the book's prestige for me. Not that all this was consciously articulated in my twelve-year-old mind - back then it was just the slight feeling that I was being lectured and that I didn't much like it.
Many people have suggested that Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was an allegory for the World Wars. Tolkien responded to this in a foreword to the second edition:
Another real danger of allegories as well as this is that characters are too often reduced to abstractions. They're there to have some kind of meaning but can end up, as characters, a bit meaningless. A notorious example of this would be one from the world of recent cinema: the Matrix trilogy. The trilogy as a whole illustrates some fine and worthy philosophical issues (albeit not especially original ones), with regards to metaphysics at least. However, one of the criticisms of the sequels in particular was that they were convoluted, bloated on all the philosophy the Wachowski brothers were trying to cram into it.
A good deal of this was religious allegory. The allusions to Neo as Christ had been strong since the first film. The same was true of the allusions to Nietzsche's ubermensch. But the first film at least worked as a story independent of allegory going by the logic of the world presented. In the sequels, however, when they continued down this path, the story began to break down. After Neo lifts up his hand and fries the Sentinel at the end of Reloaded, we're never really given an explanation for it in the third film. Exchanges between characters which should have provided us with some explanation of what was happening were vague because they couldn't be any other way. Neo's powers have supposedly transcended the Matrix. He's supposedly connected to the Source. But really, how does that work when he's in the Real World? You can believe it at a stretch going by the logic of the world as it's been presented to you so far, but it's a long stretch and a sloppy explanation. Eventually it seems to break down to, 'Because it's an allegory of...' And all these characters who were vaguely interesting in the first film have been reduced to passive, dimensionless parts of it.
Of course, if I've missed something in my attempts to understand the trilogy, I'd be happy to hear it. But despite all these allusions and allegories that were piled on top of me, it ends up feeling a bit empty.
[Edit: amendment.]
However, while being an obvious allegory may have been the whole point of it, when I found out that all the events and characters were supposed to represent different aspects of the Soviet Union and its history, with the pigs based on certain individuals and the horses representing the classes and the building of the windmill an analogy of the Soviet's Five-Year Plans and so on and so forth - I remember feeling a bit disappointed that it was so blatant. Sure, it's supposed to be like that; it's supposed to be a frank and direct criticism of the Soviet Union. But nevertheless, I felt there was something ungenuine about it, which took the shine off the book's prestige for me. Not that all this was consciously articulated in my twelve-year-old mind - back then it was just the slight feeling that I was being lectured and that I didn't much like it.
Many people have suggested that Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was an allegory for the World Wars. Tolkien responded to this in a foreword to the second edition:
It is neither allegorical nor topical...I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse 'applicability' with 'allegory'; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.
Another real danger of allegories as well as this is that characters are too often reduced to abstractions. They're there to have some kind of meaning but can end up, as characters, a bit meaningless. A notorious example of this would be one from the world of recent cinema: the Matrix trilogy. The trilogy as a whole illustrates some fine and worthy philosophical issues (albeit not especially original ones), with regards to metaphysics at least. However, one of the criticisms of the sequels in particular was that they were convoluted, bloated on all the philosophy the Wachowski brothers were trying to cram into it.
A good deal of this was religious allegory. The allusions to Neo as Christ had been strong since the first film. The same was true of the allusions to Nietzsche's ubermensch. But the first film at least worked as a story independent of allegory going by the logic of the world presented. In the sequels, however, when they continued down this path, the story began to break down. After Neo lifts up his hand and fries the Sentinel at the end of Reloaded, we're never really given an explanation for it in the third film. Exchanges between characters which should have provided us with some explanation of what was happening were vague because they couldn't be any other way. Neo's powers have supposedly transcended the Matrix. He's supposedly connected to the Source. But really, how does that work when he's in the Real World? You can believe it at a stretch going by the logic of the world as it's been presented to you so far, but it's a long stretch and a sloppy explanation. Eventually it seems to break down to, 'Because it's an allegory of...' And all these characters who were vaguely interesting in the first film have been reduced to passive, dimensionless parts of it.
Of course, if I've missed something in my attempts to understand the trilogy, I'd be happy to hear it. But despite all these allusions and allegories that were piled on top of me, it ends up feeling a bit empty.
[Edit: amendment.]
Labels: allegory, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, morality, orwell, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien
