the ramble dump

[This is part of a convoluted series looking at the Matrix trilogy of films from the perspective of immersive storytelling--where they worked, where they didn't, and how this might have affected their success as films. Fair warning: I am making it my mission to be mind-numbingly specific. This is a complete rewrite of an older, now obliterated Part 2. Part 1 can be found here.]

The Matrix in fact consists of two 'rabbit holes', in the sense of worlds operating by a certain set of rules; one, the Matrix, that exists inside the other, the real world. It is the existence of this 'real world' that allows the Matrix to function in the way it does, namely as a virtual world created in, and accessible from, an actual physical space. The big premise that serves as the reasoning for all the weird and novel stuff we see in the Matrix is precisely this virtuality--the fact that it's not real; but this platform for spectacle would have no justification, no grounding, were this virtuality to be everything that there is, because it would lead to a potential breakdown of everything up to and including the characters themselves and the fact that there is a world presented by the Matrix films at all.

The whole twin-rabbit-hole set-up, however, allows for a lot. To begin with, the virtual realm means that there are no necessary limitations in how different the laws of physics can be, though the Wachowskis choose to have the Matrix such that fairly normal physical rules have been put in place and a certain mentality is required to overcome them. Basically, though, anything that is supposedly defined by the Matrix itself is free to be different.

By this token, it follows that the Matrix and the real world can be very different stylistically, as there's no reason why they have to be the same in this respect either, beyond perhaps requiring things like continuity in the personality of characters that exist in both worlds, so that a wildly disparate style of dialogue, say, would make no sense. In another context, such a difference between the style of two spaces in the same fictional universe might have the result of literalising stylistic aspects, or making them seem like nonsensical changes in the behaviour of that universe, because they would no longer serve as part of its stylistic texture (the interrelation of things that make up precise way that we get a feeling for a world on a stylistic level, and an interrelation that can't function effectively if these things don't remain constant). But the nature of virtuality is that to a great extent it allows for a whole different texture of reality in the Matrix, for as long as this change is applied only to things specific to that virtual world.

Nevertheless, a lot of problems arise in that various stylistic conventions falter for trying to function across the three films in what is arguably a shifting aesthetic context within each of these worlds, a shift that does interfere with stylistic elements.

The Matrix films in general are highly stylised films, and something so stylised is naturally going to bring more attention to itself, above all when it goes wrong. Scenes that take place in the actual Matrix potentially face more difficulties than others by virtue of the fact that, as a stylistic decision in itself, the Matrix world is simply more sharply stylised than the naturalistically presented real world, though both have their problems. The very specific neo-noir approach to the Matrix of the first film has already been mentioned: we are shown what is a very limited range of gritty, urban locales, specifically degenerate areas and bleak corporate spaces, with the ever-present sickly green filter enhancing this feeling of decay very effectively.

But though this is repeated to a large extent in the sequels, it does not carry over completely. Perhaps in part because of the expanded scale of the sequels, though also simply due to the decisions made to use particular locations, we are taken out of this very specific aesthetic and given something that is, in Reloaded especially, somehow cleaner and shinier and comes in flavours more pronounced in their distinction: the modern-industrial look of the freeway and the nuclear power plant, the gothic dungeons, sewers and jarringly grand chateau, the teahouse, the hallway of backdoors, and so on. Some of these locations have their own problems and I'll talk about these later, but the main thing is that, whatever the reasons might be for why such places were used, it creates what can at least be perceived as something of an aesthetic incongruity between the films.

However, something like this expansion of location types is logically surmountable, and something we can get used to, though it may feel very different and to a certain extent replace an experience to which we had become attached, when we realise that we were only ever shown a very small part of a whole world in the first film. Unfortunately, it's not always the case that we can just teach our brains to accept that what we are shown in the first film simply isn't everything, as there are some stylistic factors that prevent this from quite working out because they would appear to contradict the stylistic rules already put in place.

* * *

The first of these entails one of the more predominant stylistic decisions in the films, the use of colour biases: the blue, slightly more natural bias of the real world and the sickly green of the Matrix that has already been mentioned. These colour biases serve as the primary visual way of defining these worlds as different from each other, marking their separation by contributing to the distinctive style and texture of each. These aren't the only two colour biases employed in the first film: we are also shown a number of non-Matrix constructs that are either stark white (the loading program) or yellow-biased (the dojo), but they serve the same purpose of signifying that these are different 'worlds'.

In the sequels, however, the use of such colour gets a little more ambitious and complex, such that the dividing line between these different worlds, created by the distinctive styles of each, is no longer so clear. In fact, it chops things up in a way that prevents such an interpretation of an ontological shift (that is, the interpretation that each 'style' represents a different space of reality) from being possible. Stark white places like Zion Control, Mobil Ave, the Architect's room or the hallway of backdoors are all acceptable for being virtual realms operating outside of the Matrix and therefore free of that decaying environment, and at a push the same reasoning could be given for the yellow-biased chateau or teahouse, both of which might be said to exist as manipulations of the Merovingian and Seraph respectively and as constructs not wholly integrated into the Matrix proper. But the yellow colour is apparently still too busy fulfilling other literal functions to make this work; namely in code-vision, in which Seraph, for example, appears gold, as do Smith-in-Bane and everything else in the real world after Neo goes blind.

Whatever the reasoning behind this is, it is no longer the case that such colour contributes so effectively to the stylistic texture of a specific 'world' because this function is interfered with by its role as something primarily symbolic.

In the first film it could be said that the Matrix was green-biased because it was a decaying place; the real world was more natural because it was real; the loading constructs were white because they were empty (given some continuity with the Matrix through the use of wintery skies); the dojo was golden-yellow because it was just that kind of environment, and constructs that simulated the Matrix were also green-tinted for that reason. There is, obviously, stylistic exaggeration here--we don't have to think that the Matrix is really that green for the characters, and as something stylistic it does not ask us to--but there is nevertheless a natural logic to this exaggeration. Certain aspects of the Matrix environment which are already there are brought out by the use of the colour on a purely visual level, such that the green makes it seem even more decrepit. It also hints at its status as a computer simulation, but, importantly, without this additional meaning overriding its other effects.

In the sequels, however, the decision to use specific colours for certain things is done less sensically when we try to view it in terms of this logic of natural enhancement, and this seems to be because, as mentioned, a primarily symbolic logic is being used instead.

This symbolism mostly takes place within the code-vision, in which different colours appear to represent different kinds of virtual presences inside the Matrix. In the context of code-vision alone, this might be considered perfectly natural. But even if we try to separate the significance of colour bias and colour in code-vision to make sense of what all these different colours mean (which we would seemingly have to do anyway, as they are not entirely consistent; for example, the teahouse appears in green code and non-code Seraph does not remain yellow-biased when he ventures outside of it), there are still times when colour is used blatantly in non-code vision such that it seems clear that some kind of symbolism is intended, overriding the function of stylistic texture. The yellow bias of the Zion rave and sex scenes certainly seem very deliberate in this way, if not inconceivable non-symbolically, and places like the hallway of backdoors and the chateau feature noticeable chunks of green to deliberately remind us that we're still sort of in the Matrix. (The green overlay in the freeway scene also brings attention to itself at times by not fulfilling its intended effect of stylistic exaggeration, but only because they obviously tried to do it over a very blue summer sky, resulting in a not-so-subtle turquoise.)

It also can't be ignored that these biases, being so particular, feel like they're supposed to correlate with the same colours we are shown in code-vision.

The result is a kind of cluttered, confused visual onslaught where, in shifted purpose, such use of colour bias is not the same effective stylistic aid it had been previously. Instead of contributing to the distinctive 'texture' of a world, such use of colour bias as demonstrated in the sequels does precisely the opposite by breaking up and interfering with this distinction. Even if the Wachowskis had meant this process to be deliberate for whatever reason, it does the rabbit holes no good when overly abstract symbolism or literalisation comes to intrude upon something that had had an immersive function.

[to be continued...]

Labels: cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 11:29 PM 0 comments

I went back to the series I started last year with the intention of finishing it, but discovered that my notes were all over the place and that what I'd done so far needed revising and reordering. The old versions have therefore been taken down and you can find the new introduction here, where the old one lived.

Subsequent parts should appear in the near future.

Labels: rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 11:52 PM 0 comments

[Revised 30.06.09.]

MORPHEUS
I imagine, right now, you must be feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole?

NEO
You could say that.

MORPHEUS
I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up.

When we watch a good film, or read a good book, we are engaged so that we are drawn into the world in which the story is set and remain engrossed right up until the end. The best ones can even have a lingering effect, keeping our minds floating in the memory of its mood, aesthetic or atmosphere even after the experience has finished. Our minds never accept these as actual reality, or as the world we are conscious of during most of our waking hours--not usually, anyway--but as a reality, one that is possible according to the rules defined by the author. It becomes one with which the audience are willing to engage even if they know that it is ultimately just a work of fiction--probably because they know that it's fiction, allowing the suspension of disbelief to play a more conscious role.

Unfortunately for the authors and filmmakers, it's not always an easy thing to get your reader or audience to accept the reality you give them. You have to create a consistent world, in which everything makes sense by its logic and characters don't contradict themselves as characters, and the narrative has to follow through in a logical sort of way. If it doesn't, it can throw off the reader or audience and bring attention to itself in all the wrong ways, and thus the author fails to tell a successful story or to achieve any deeper resonance beyond that, all because they have not been able to establish believability. There are certain things that will trigger this unwanted kind of awareness--something will jar, seem inconsistent, seem fake, and will cause the audience to prematurely 'wake up'.

'Rabbit-hole theory' is the term I'm going to use, taking the analogy from the above quotation, which is from the film The Matrix, to describe the rules that govern the process of immersing the reader or spectator in a believable fiction--making them feel as if they are tumbling down a rabbit hole and into another world, metaphorically speaking--in order to fully engage them with that fictional 'world' as the chosen plane of expression. Like Neo, we will often only accept a fictional world on the basis that it is fiction, knowing that it is a kind of manufactured dream. And yet there are some things that we will simply not accept, that our lucid minds will reject, when such a world is being established. Rabbit-hole theory is about exploring how this works, under the view that there are the smallest of things that can damage a story because they go against certain implicit rules. The more I think about it, the more I've been realising that these rabbit holes can establish themselves, and fail, in an incredible number of different ways.

(Note: this applies to fiction and not meta-fiction, because in meta-fiction the plane of expression lies beyond that 'world', instead requiring that attention is brought to the fact of the fiction itself (the fact that something is fiction) rather than depending on immersion in the world. And indeed, meta-fiction therefore often functions precisely to ruin the rabbit-hole effect.)

Incidentally, I think the Matrix trilogy illustrates rabbit-hole theory perfectly. In my view, the first film works very successfully in drawing in the audience and taking them into a world that is a little topsy-turvy but, for all intents and purposes, utterly engrossing. The sequels, Reloaded and Revolutions, are more complex on just about every level and, in many ways, more interesting than the original, but they are also, I'd argue, not nearly as successful in terms of immersion. I still find much to appreciate about the films because I find a lot to like about what they offer of the Matrix mythos, despite their flaws--but I've been debating with myself over and over again about whether these flaws might prevent the sequels in particular from being good films. I've decided that the sequels are definitely difficult, but I've realised that a lot of these difficulties, and many of my own gripes with the sequels, come just as much from simple rabbit-hole reasons as they do from any other reasons that might be given--including those by fans who attempt to explain away negative reaction with the idea that an intellectual effort is required to understand them (though I'll wager there were a hell of a lot of viewers who just weren't willing to make a necessary effort).

Herein follow some suggestions for what exactly these reasons are.

* * *
Firstly, for all I might talk about creating a believable reality, exhaustive realism is rarely very useful, though a certain level is always required. That level, and the specific aspect of the story to which it must apply, will depend very much on context and genre. The Matrix films are a case in point: in true cyberpunk fashion, many things seem to be the way they are for stylistic reasons. The first film has a distinctly neo-noir feel, with grim, decaying urban locales and a rabbit-hole like closeness to many of the scenes. The redpills all dress in leather and shades and speak with a certain fondness for earthy, four-letter words, and lightning always strikes at very specific moments in the dialogue. All of these stylistic touches may have underlying reasons, ones that might even amount to more than the simple need to conform to genre conventions, look cool or add a bit of drama. The timed lightning, for example, might additionally be a nod to the fact that they're not in the real world (though when it happens, or when characters come out with lines like 'our way or the highway', or when Neo and Agent Smith partake in some Old Western finger-twitching during the subway climax, it's difficult not to suspect that what is being referred to in these tongue-in-cheek homages is simply the Wachowskis' own sense of humour). Whatever these reasons are, however, the Wachowskis have managed to create a satisfying, believable world without requiring it to be completely realistic.

In fact, though the trilogy could be approached on a number of different levels--aesthetically, cinematically, technically, philosophically, allegorically, scientifically, and so on--I would argue that the nature of their world means that there are limits to certain approaches, and approaching it in terms of realism--attempting to go into too much scientific detail, for example--is likely to be a futile endeavour. This is not to say that the science isn't interesting, but complete scientific integrity is not necessary. I once read a comment in which someone said that they never thought much of The Matrix because they couldn't get past the humans-as-batteries idea, having done some mental calculations and concluded that, mathematically, it just couldn't work. But considering this is a film in which the antagonists, the Agents, all dress like conspiracy stereotypes and wear shades even in the dark, I'd be tempted to say that this person may have missed the point--that they didn't 'get it'. It is, of course, their prerogative to have their own criteria for what a decent story requires--but I would argue that it makes no sense to judge a fictional world by such terms of realism alone, especially as this may not have been what the creator set out to achieve in the first place. A film can engage me without causing me to worry over extreme details, because the thing that is engaging me is the specific way that something is being expressed, and this expression does not require complete realism. In fact, too great a degree of realism may even undermine that expression: without the cold uniformity of their outward appearance, the Agents would not present themselves as quite the same recognisably menacing threat.

Consistency is important, however. If the directors have established some level of science, however loosely, they have to stick to it. The audience might allow themselves to accept the rules of a fictional world, but if the creators then stretch, break or abuse these rules, the audience will feel cheated and most likely reject it. The creators can't expect people to accept a world that exists by certain conditions and then keep on expecting them to believe in it after these conditions have been abandoned by the creators themselves. That is why, for example, any purely religious or allegorical explanation for Neo's abilities, such as his transcendence of the rules of the Matrix or, later, his connection to the Source, will be unsatisfying. Some loosely scientific, non-spiritual, non-allegorical explanation has to be provided as well. If a fictional world has already been established based on certain rules, refusal to stick to these rules will cause the whole thing to lose coherence and the world to fall apart.

Even if half the rules of the Matrix world only exist to set the stage for those impressive, insane displays of kung fu, through myriad different methods, and sometimes in spite of realism, the Wachowskis are able to set up for themselves a consistent and incredibly immersive cinematic playground. The Matrix, I think, is a shining example of a story that works brilliantly in this way, existing by its own quirky logic in a manner that is believable enough to be engaging in all the ways that it intends.

Part of it, it has to be said, is the feel of being in a Wonderland. There are a lot of ideas in The Matrix that are, more than anything else, novel, and remain neat ideas even after repeated viewings--for example, walking on walls, having Agents take over bodies in the way that they do, and perceiving the world in bullet time. They're appealing because, aside from their dramatic functions or cinematic qualities, they display imaginative extensions of the concept of a virtual world. It's the small things, too, like Neo literally being 'bugged', or glitches manifesting themselves as déja vu--little riffs on a theme that help to reinforce the nature of the Wonderland.

And it all works because the first film manages to integrate it all; however much philosophy, action, suspense or cyberpunk convention it packs in, it all works in a way that is complementary, with no single aspect wrestling for attention. Each stage of the story slides in seamlessly after the last, building from that initial mystery and suspense and layering on the elements--each scene giving us that little bit more of the Matrix world. It culminates in an extensive, arguably self-indulgent action sequence, but it's a welcome, thrilling climax, bringing with it a resolution to the film's story that is satisfying on many levels.

* * *
Rabbit holes, though, are very intimate things. When they work, the impression that they leave behind is very distinct and specific. The first film gave us a very particular Matrix-feeling, garnered from the very specific way that we related to and engaged with it--so when the Wachowskis came to make the sequels, they were faced with the problem inherent to all sequels: that it wouldn't be the same film again.

For some, then, the Wachowskis may have been damned however they chose to go about the sequels, as even a minor shift in any single aspect that made the first film what it was could prompt disappointment and rejection from many fans. But for others, what may at first feel a little different to the audience is something they can get used to, especially after repeated viewings, if the world is expanded in such a way that any additions, changes in focus or perspective, or even mindbending twists make sense according to the inherent logic of the world as it has been presented so far. The problem with the Matrix sequels was that they proved problematic in this respect in a large number of different ways, and many aspects of their execution served only to bring attention to themselves such that they interfered with this process of engagement.

[Part 2.]

Labels: cyberpunk, dreams, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, science, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 4:33 PM 0 comments

Headplugs!

So my biggest issue with the rather vague explanations provided in The Matrix trilogy for all the stopping-the-Sentinels business at the end of the second film was that they didn't seem to stand (or, at least, stood shakily) on the logic of the world(s) presented. It was the whole Matrix/real world link: even supposing the Machines could reconfigure a human 'consciousness' -- so that Smith could take over Bane, or so that Neo could establish a connection with the Source -- how, in the case of the latter, could a human brain transmit (wirelessly or otherwise) to be able to shut the Sentinels down?

I completely forgot about the headplugs.

It's not a certain answer, and still an improbable feat for a human brain (and sort of stretches the functionality of the headplug), but it works a lot better than the idea of straightforward telepathy. I got it from here. Headplugs might also help to explain the reason for the strange yellow blindcode.

All scientifics provided, I still maintain that all the things the Wachowski Brothers were trying to allude to at times got a bit too heavy at the expense of the narrative and characters -- and in some of the events of the third film especially, there's still the feeling that some characters have been reduced to fulfilling some symbolic function. But I'm going to have to retract, at least in part, the comments I levelled at the films in this post. Potentially, at least (because the films, in all their vaguery, still don't explicitly answer it, and it's not like the Brothers have any good reason for being so vague on a technical aspect), the issue can be addressed.

Wachowskis 1, Chris 0.

Labels: cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 10:19 PM 0 comments

As a sort of a continuation of this post, which was about the worth of stories beyond entertainment, and possibly linked to this post, which discusses what might and might not count as 'art', I was thinking about the complexity of some stories, with all the metaphors, inferences and allusions that they can be filled with. My main question, as I was reading all about this kind of thing in the introduction to Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway for the lecture and seminar next week, was: to what end?

Returning to all the talk in that first linked post of stories being able to suggest, the most obvious answer would probably be that all the figurative language and symbolic descriptions and motifs and so on can, obviously, be used beyond their simple function as poetic narrative to illustrate the kinds of things that a book or film or play is considering, using comparisons that may be effective enough to throw a new light or a different perspective on the subject matter.

Of course, there will always be some manipulation occurring here on the part of the author. This is why, for all the importance of receptivity and open-mindedness when it comes to art, the practice of literary criticism and the like can be a useful thing. The author is likely to be playing with the perceptions, preconceptions or ideas of the reader or audience to illicit a certain response -- this is one of the most powerful features of storytelling -- and it's up to the reader to be equally open-minded and rational enough to be able to identify where he or she might be the subject of this manipulation; and then to decide if the way in which the author is provoking this response might, as the author thinks it does, have something to it. As well as identifying manipulation, a critical approach can be used to mine the worth of a story. After consideration, you might feel that a certain comparison yields some truth; that the alternative perspective offered might just be of some value.

I've already mentioned my wariness of allegory. Allegory is the use of an extended metaphor to get a point across. But if I don't object to the potential philosophical value of figurative language in general, how can I object to allegory? What's the difference beyond levels of subtlety? Well, the extension of metaphor in this way, after representing something in a certain way as all metaphors do, then has the clear intention of drawing a conclusion from it for you. As Tolkien said in a passage I've already quoted, allegory is all about the 'purposed domination of the author' -- it sets out to make your mind up for you. The more subtle use of figurative language and symbology, as I've already said, is not without its potential for manipulation, but there's more freedom for the reader, more room for interpretation. The further you try to extend a metaphor, the less suggestive and the more controlling of the interpretation you're being, and it's much more likely that the comparison is then distorted or oversimplified as a result.

There are other ways in which inference can be abused. When I was thinking about Wilde's opinion of art, I mentioned pretentiousness. That could be applied here in the cases of those who will infer and allude and present empty motifs just for the sake of seeming clever. Poetic pretentiousness can often be found in the use of 'purple prose', by those who attempt to use over-elaborate and extremely flowery language to add prestige or suchlike to their work, and this can then be taken a step further by those who use similar methods to portray themselves as profound. When an author seems to think that the esotericism of a text is an indicator of how philosophically deep it is and rattles off some lengthy, convoluted metaphor supposedly, for example, penetrating the fundamental human condition (or something like that), we would have to question how someone could talk for so long out of their own arse.

Here's another form this pretence might take. For this next one, I'm going to use an example that could be argued either way. I seem to use these films as an example for a lot of things, but anyway: many have claimed that the Matrix films are very 'philosophical' in nature. The story is undoubtedly packed with a thousand inferences, references and allusions to all kinds of philosophers and different schools of philosophical thought in varying degrees of subtlety; but maybe all these things were dropped in merely to give the illusion that the films had philosophical depth (which would have been ironic, considering the subject of the films). Were the Wachowski Brothers trying too hard to make the films seem 'intelligent', or do the Matrix films really give us something to think about?

As fun a game as it might be for us to successfully identify all the various references and incorporated symbology in the films, and as clever as it might make the audience and the filmmakers feel, it may be an ultimately pointless activity. An argument often given in defence of the films is something along the lines of, 'You didn't enjoy the films because you haven't attempted to appreciate all the philosophy behind it', to which the retort is usually, 'You need to get out more.' It's hard to say how much genuine philosophy is involved in the Matrix films and how much is just there to give the impression of it (I'd say it seems a bit of both -- I think it illustrates a lot of philosophical ideas pretty well and gives us a lot to think about, but there are times when it feels like a bit of a symbological overload or philosophy for the look of it).

But in these films, and in many other films and books and so on, why require the audience or reader to have to look for these things? Why bury them so that they have to be dug out? This was already sort of answered by the allegory issue: this way, the 'answer' isn't being thrown at the audience. The fact that the readers of a book or the viewers of a film have to do more of the work invites them in and encourages them to think about it more for themselves. It encourages different interpretations and a more critical evaluation, meaning that, if it's there, the useful and relevant stuff can be properly discovered and appreciated. To use a Matrix analogy (which is, aptly, in itself a reference to something else), tumbling down the rabbit hole and having a thorough look around is surely preferable to having the rabbit come up and give you his potentially biased account.

Labels: allegory, cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, language, oscar wilde, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien

# posted by Chris @ 6:33 PM 0 comments

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'.

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

# posted by Chris @ 9:32 PM 0 comments

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.

Labels: cyberpunk, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, neuromancer, science, the matrix, william gibson

# posted by Chris @ 11:07 PM 0 comments

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:

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

# posted by Chris @ 3:19 PM 4 comments