Frankenstein, The Bride, and Adaptations

I did not like the book of Frankenstein but I thoroughly enjoyed Guillermo del Toro's film. As for the Bride, I'll get to that.

The thing I want to examine first is how I could enjoy what is celebrated as the closest adaptation yet of a book I think is bunk.

More or less everything I dislike about the book is encapsulated in its narrator, the sea captain, a man who has no knowledge of navigation at sea, nor arctic exploration, nor the leadership of men. It is almost impressive how little effort Mary Shelley put into imagining him as a believable character, and the disdain she clearly holds for any practical skill whatsoever. Instead Shelley's sea captain has the only two virtues she seems to give a damn about: a poetic sense of romantic, and money.

The same sensibilities continue as Shelley comes to draw the young Victor, who to the despair of his father, and later his professors, has very little time for the humdrum realities of modern science, preferring instead the grander dreams of long debunked medieval alchemists. 

That this must echo Shelley's own opinions become obvious when she reaches the great crux of the novel, Victor giving life to his creation, about which she tells us, astonishingly, absolutely nothing. Does Victor ignite the vital spark with lightning as he does in the films? It seems unlikely, he is, after all, living in rented rooms in Ingolstadt not some lonely castle - the electricity is surely just an invention of filmmakers. No, Victor had his eureka moment while studying chemistry, which invites us to imagine he produced a formula of some kind? But is it solid, gas, or liquid? How much is required? Was it difficult to create? Does everything from the abattoir and graveyard need to be treated or is it sufficient to dose one part and let the affect spread? Should it be taken orally? Or intravenously? Or by suppository? Shelley tells us exactly bupkiss. For all we know Victor is reciting incantations from the Necronomicon.

Supposedly her husband was fascinated with galvanism and the occult, and she was writing at about the time that morphine was isolated, just a couple of decades after the discovery of nitrous oxide as an anesthetic and the invention of the smallpox vaccine, allusions to which might have lent colour to Victor's adventures. For someone who is sometimes supposed to have invented science fiction, there is no evidence in the actual text that science interested Mary Shelley one jot.

But enough ranting, why do I think the adaptation works.

Much of what is cut from the book is simple expediency. It would be surprising if any scriptwriter kept the weird pointless romantic subplot with the cottagers, and no shock at all the Victor's childhood is truncated to a few short flashbacks, or that his friend, Henry Clerval, who only seems to exist in order to be murdered by the creature, is written out altogether, and instead characters are added who are more involved with Victor's work and with whom exposition can be delivered. That Victor's university is relocated to Edinburgh not only draws parallels with the great nineteenth century discoveries in anatomy and their darker, body snatching, side, but also allows the film to legitimately begin in English. Del Toro could perfectly reasonably claim to love Shelley's poetic dreamer of a sea captain, but to have replaced him with a more recognisable (gruff, competent) archetype in order to remove an early stumbling block for the audience.

Other alterations, the use of lightning among them, are perhaps only in order to tell a story visually, but in contrast with Shelley, Del Toro's love of science is manifest: he loves not only the look and feel of it, the chrome instruments, the arcane machines humming with potency, the dissected specimens splayed out like treasure maps (and a lost, fifth, Evelyn table); but also the actual application of it, the trial and error, the infuriating failures, the tunnel vision as the scientist is consumed by the problem, the bleakness of a dead end and the excitement when a new revelation suggests alternative paths.

More interestingly Del Toro changes Victor's childhood dramatically in order to make the story about the legacy of bad fathers. Victor's father ruins Victor. Victor ruins the creature. The creature stops the cycle by killing Victor. This all works because it is something about which Del Toro has something to say.

But perhaps most interesting is the change to Elizabeth. In the book she is Victor's love interest and has no inner life beyond that. She exists only to be murdered by the creature on her wedding night. In the film she is Victor's brother's wife, allowing her to chastise and refuse him, and chose the creature over him. She becomes the champion of the creature, which allows her not only to be the audience's, and Del Toro's, voice in the movie, but to reveal more starkly the crippling loneliness of the creature that is such a feature of the book. 

The crippling loneliness of the creature is where The Bride begins. 'Frank' turns up in Chicago begging a brilliant scientist to make him a companion, and wouldn't you know it Jesse Buckley had recently been possessed by the ghost of Mary Shelley and pushed down the stairs for her trouble. This is a straight continuation from the book, where the creature demands of Victor "a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself," and so far so much fun. They both look fantastic, and Jesse Buckley and Christian Bale are superb, and pretty soon they are on the run and you think it's going to be Boney and Clyde but with real monsters.

But somehow the momentum just dies away. Everything that happens on screen is fun and looks great (I love the dance scene!), but it never seemed to take off, I was not actually excited.

The reason is that it does not have a second act. The characters do not want anything. With Frank this is fine, he's got the companion he wanted, and now he mopes after her, happy as a Labrador with a tennis ball. The film does, after all, set itself up as a feminist movie (she even screams "me too" repeatedly at the end) so who cares what Frank wants, what does The Bride want?

What does The Bride want? We never find out. Some vague desire to punish bad men perhaps, except that's more the ghost of Mary Shelley than her, and she never does much about it either way. Her relationship with Frank is founded on a deception that never seems to come to much. Her past life is laid out by the police detective but has no baring on the plot whatsoever.

This failure to provide a motivation comes into sharp relief at the second attempted rape scene.

The first attempted rape comes when The Bride is newly reanimated on a night out with Frank. Two thugs from a nightclub who have been getting handsy on the dancefloor, thinking Franks entirely ineffectual, try to have their way with her, and Frank looses his temper and kills them both. This is good, Frank has been a bit ineffectual and diffident so far so it's great to see him stomp some people and demonstrate his feelings for The Bride, and more importantly it's the inciting incident that forces the pair together and sends them on the run.

The second attempted rape comes much later when the pair are stopped by a creepy traffic cop. Ahha! The audience thinks, he's gonna get it - he doesn't know she's a real monster. But instead she submits to his groping (the dead Mary Shelley even berates her for being so passive in the worst Signal From Fred I think I've ever seen) until eventually Frank steps in and shoots the cop.

It is exactly the same scene nearly an hour later in the film. The Bride, as a character, has gone precisely nowhere.

Frankenstein the book, I think, does not work because Mary Shelley cannot write a realistic character for toffee. Her prose style is great (there is a description of glacier that I adore) but her heroes are whiny fops, the people around them hollow shells, and only the creature appears to have an actual motivation and journey.

Frankenstein the movie, I think, works because Del Toro has a clear story he wants to tell and adapts freely in service of that story. That he excises so much of the book I disliked is because there was so little there to begin with. He can change Victor's motivations without ruining anything because Victor's motivations in the book are so damn ridiculous. He can give Elizabeth new desires and interests because she had none in the book whatsoever.

The Bride, I think, does not work because nobody bothered to come up with a story at all. It is just a polemic hung on some fun ideas. Many of the individual scenes are great, but they are in service of nothing.

The first half hour of Alien: Romulus

Alien and Aliens are, to my mind, almost perfect movies within their respective genres, and this near perfection is nowhere more evident than in their first half hours.

Half an hour into Alien is right before the face hugger hugs John Hurt's face, that is to say exactly when the establishing of characters and situation ends and the horrible things happening begins. Consider what the viewer knows at this point: we know these people are workers, just out there to do a a job and are only investigating the alien transmission because they were ordered to; given the choice they all would have climbed back into their cryo-tubes and gone home. We know they are professional and capable; the landing on the planet was difficult but handled without drama, the repair of the ship the same. We know they are very, very, isolated. 

We know the captain, Dallas, is laconic and unflappable, we know Lambert is not, we know Kane is enthusiastic, we know Ash is a bit strange, we know Parker and Brett have chips on their shoulder about being 'below deck' staff. We know Ripley in particular is especially capable. If we are at all familiar with 1970s movies we know this is a hell of a cast. We emphatically do not know which of them, if any, will survive.

When the shit hits the fan, as it is about to do, all their reactions make sense, all their deaths matter.

Half an hour into Aliens is just as the dropship is leaving the Sulaco, which is when the introductions of characters is done and the building of tension really begins. Cameron's film will make us wait nearly as long again before we get any actual action but this is the point when most of the cast start wearing helmets and identical uniforms, and if the viewer has not learned to tell them apart by now they have no hope in the future.

The viewer has though; Vasquez, Apone, and Hudson are all colourful characters who have stood out on the strength of their dialogue (and their names have been repeated more than once). Bishop gets one of the more memorable introductions in all of cinema. Hicks has been a quiet but important presence throughout and his clear admiration of Ripley's demonstration of her power-loader driving skills has made us notice him. Gormon is about to have a couple of lines of dialogue which will perfectly sum up exactly what we need to know about him: "How many drops is this for you lieutenant?" / "Thirty eight... simulated.  "How many combat drops?" Cameron is the most incredibly functional scriptwriter. There isn't an ounce of poetry in him but can he ever tell a story efficiently.

What do we know? We know Ripley's motivations in detail. We know we don't trust Carter Burke. We know Bishop seems alright. We know the marines are overconfident, they've been on 'bug hunts' before and consider it beneath them. None of them take Ripley's briefing seriously. We also know they are capable, well drilled, and (Gormon aside) experienced. By the time they are suited up and all their hardware has been displayed it is hard to imagine them coming off second best.

We probably don't know who half of them are, but that half is going to be wiped out soon anyway, the survivors, we are already invested in. When the action does finally come, and Ripley grabs the controls of APC while Gormon struggles to get a hold of himself, it is intensely thrilling because that character work has been done.

Alien: Romulus is not a perfect movie by any stretch. There is a lot to like in it: Cailee Spaeny's and David Jonsson's performances are excellent. The sets are outstanding. The action is well put together. The creature effects fantastic. It adds colour to life in the Weyland Yutani colonies and makes a game attempt to tie together Ridley Scott's quasi-religious Prometheus wackiness with the lore from the earlier films. There are missteps too, the logic of the plot does not bare close scrutiny (who was vacuum packing all the face huggers? and how? and why? and HOW?), the continuous callbacks to the previous films are distracting, and when there was only one alien it was a lot scarier than when it turned out there were many.

None of that would matter so much if it had done better in the first half hour.

I'm not sure exactly where the half-hour point lands but I guess it is as they're first exploring the space station, shortly after Kay has admitted she is pregnant, maybe when they first encounter the half android and a completely naive viewer, were there such a person, would finally know for certain that something very bad had happened there.

What do we know? We know Rain and Andy's relationship in detail, we know Rain has been abandoned on the colony by her parents and the company have screwed her over and that is why she is taking the risks she is to escape. We have met Tyler, Kay, Navarro and Bjorn and we know Tyler is the boss of the gang and Bjorn is a dick and Navarro is religious and Kay is bland and nice. We know Rain was planning to leave Andy behind but this is confusing, it goes against the grain of everything else we know about her and apparently seems to have been added purely to give Bjorn something to be a dick about - it has no real baring on the rest of the film.

In fact I was confused about quite a lot at this point and not much of what I did know had a great deal of baring on the rest of the film. Do the four kids own the Corbelan or are they stealing it? What is Rain's job? What are any of their jobs? (This matters: who can pilot the ship? who can build a flame thrower out of bits in a pinch? Did they just spend their time on the colony sitting around playing video games?) Who are they to each other? Wikipedia tells me Tyler is Rain's ex-boyfriend but I certainly didn't know that when I was sitting in the cinema - it is indicative of the weird sexlessness of modern cinema that despite being all young and beautiful, none of them get so much as a Corporal Hicks admiring look from any of the others. By process of elimination Bjorn must have been the father of Kay's baby but do they actually like each other? You'd be hard pressed to tell. (And are they not cousins!)

The first half hour matters tremendously in these sort of movies. There isn't going to be much time for character development once people are running away from face-huggers and inching past alien cocoons so it needs to get done early. It matters too. Every death in Alien is a wrench which changes the logic of their situation and the dynamic of the surviving crew. In particular Dallas' early loss propels Ripley into taking de-facto command, and she has to step up because some of the others are losing it (Lambert is all for taking the three-person shuttle and leaving someone behind!) The early decimation of the colonial marines nearly breaks them but Corporal Hick's cool head pulls them through. Every subsequent death is earned, even Gorman, who all but disappears for most of the film, gets a great end.

When Bjorn is trying to save Kay it matters if he loves her! It matters if he knows she is carrying his child! When Tyler and Rain are stuck together with scary corporate Andy it matters why they broke up! It matters if they might get together again! It ought to matter that Rain's childhood companion has turned into a scary corporate robot but she was planning on leaving him behind anyway so, meh! It matters if they've stolen the Corbelan or not (are they on the run now? do they have the option of just going back to the colony?). It matters who can pilot the ship and who cannot, why is Rain a 'space virgin' in the first half hour but competently doing space things in the last half hour.

The annoying thing is it would be so easy to fix. What if they had to leave the colony because Kay was pregnant (it doesn't appear to be any sort of place to bring up a baby). What if they had to steal the ship and we got to meet them doing something, showing off their skills rather than just lounging about. What if Rain initially would not leave Andy behind but he persuaded her to, because it was what was best for her. A few minutes thought finds you all sorts of better options which could have given the subsequent action-packed middle of the film a more sure-footed narrative momentum - and I wouldn't have been sitting in the cinema wondering how you vacuum pack a face-hugger because I would have cared too much about people's faces maybe getting hugged.

You can't hope to make an almost perfect movie, but you can try and learn from them.

Avengers: Endgame and the endless character reset

At the beginning of Avengers: Endgame we find Thor having given up on himself, grown fat on beer and hamburgers. He must learn to embrace his godhood again. Tony Stark has retreated into family life, he must rediscover what it means to be a hero again, eventually giving his life for the cause. Hawkeye has descended into a violent quest for revenge, he must relearn to value his friends who still care for him.

At the beginning of Avengers: Infinity War we find Thor humbled after losing a fight to Thanos. He must journey to the far edge of the universe to forge an axe and learn to embrace his godhood again.

At the beginning of Thor: Ragnarok we find Thor overconfident, believing he has prevented Ragnorok and saved Asgard. He is soon humbled by a new, more powerful enemy, has his hammer destroyed, and winds up in a hellish, insane world where he is reduced to a gladiator slave. He must learn to embrace his godhood in order to escape and save his people.

At the beginning of Guardians of the Galaxy: Volume 2 we find Peter Quill cocky and reckless, happy to dismiss his adoptive father and to ignore his friends when he is united with his natural father. He must learn to take himself seriously and value his friends.

At the beginning of Guardians of the Galaxy we find Peter Quill cocky and reckless, a thief and a self centred opportunist. He must learn to take himself seriously and value his friends.

At the beginning of ... well, you get the idea.

I have only picked films I liked for the above list, and only ones I can remember well, and yet I could go on. In particular I did not work my way back far-enough to hit an origin story, where an ordinary person finds they have superpowers and must, inevitably, learn what it means to be a hero. Thor (my personal favourite of the bunch) is a particularly egregious example; in five different movies he seems to need to rediscover what it truly means to be a god. Tony Stark, too forever seems to be learning how to balance a life between being Tony and being Iron Man. Peter Quill twice learned to be more serious and less self-centred, yet last we saw, on the fight on Titan, he costs the Avengers victory over Thanos in a moment of impetuous anger.

These personal journeys are nothing surprising, they are part of the well understood formula for storytelling, but over multiple films the endless character reset becomes jarring. Yet there have been multiple movies following the same superhero before without this niggle. It is new.

In the Richard Donner films, Superman never has a character ark beyond advancing his relationship with Lois Lane. He ends the movies no more committed to truth and justice and the American way than he began them. In the Tim Burton and Joel Schumaker Batman movies, Batman achieves no personal growth beyond his initial origin story. Stretching the definition of superhero, James Bond (his superpower is not falling over after three martinis) never learned anything about himself or confronted his own failings. Jet Li's marvellous Wong Fei Hung never discovered what it really means to be a Kung-Fu master.

Moving beyond the medium of film; the endless tea-time TV superheroes of my youth: Lou Ferrigno's Hulk, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, Manimal, The A-Team, Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, the protagonists of Knight Rider and Airwolf, all ended each episode exactly the same person they began.

Comics are too wide a medium to make sweeping pronouncements on, but the dime-store periodicals where these characters began are famous for simply producing adventure after adventure after adventure. Superman might start an episode weakened by Kryptonite, but he never starts it with character flaws to overcome.

In novels too; Conan, Tarzan, Alan Quatermain, the myriad 'knight of the plains' cowboys modelled on Owen Wister's The Virginian, James Bond again. None of them are known for learning how to be heroes over the course of a book.

So has something has changed in the way we tell ourselves superhero stories?

Yes. Something simple. Something obvious. They're very popular now.

There are not enough superheros with the cultural cachet of Superman or Spiderman to populate a cinematic universe. Those two might get some buy-in from audiences before the curtains have risen, but Iron Man? If you want an audience of millions to watch an Iron Man movie, if you want to make a good film about Iron Man, you're going to have to introduce him to them properly, and make them like him, and make them care. You do this through good writing and acting, by creating a character who goes on a journey and grows as a person. It is what makes these characters attractive and the movies fun.

It is perhaps important to say that I think the Marvel movies are good movies. I'm not a huge fan (I like the funny ones best), but viewed as a single body of work the consistent quality is impressive; they are not always great but they are always fun. They are kind, and witty, and human. They have an admirable commitment to embracing all the camp visuals and wild lore of the comics while simultaneously bringing the characters down to earth, giving them real problems and real preoccupation. They try to embrace broader, more complex themes than just good versus evil while also eschewing the easy nihilism of Christopher Nolan's Batman trilogy. They take place in the real world (even when they take place in space) where actions have consequences.

So the character reset is a property of good writing, not bad. The only problem is that superhero stories -hero stories if you prefer- impose one strict limitation that means it must be repeated every single time; the focus of each story is on the hero, it is about them. It is always the hero who must go on a journey and grow as a character, no matter how many times they have done so before.

It might, theoretically, be possible to have a hero -like Ellen Ripley- find reserves of steely strength in one film and learn to be a mother again in another, but his is hard (see Ripley learning to, err... appreciate the Alien's point of view? in cubed and Resurrection), it requires radically different circumstances for each story that you cannot just impose on pre-existing canon worlds.

So, instead, back we go each time to enjoy the ride again. Reset. Reset. Reset.

Servants of the People, All Out War, and Fall Out

Servants of the People is Andrew Rawnsley's account of the first term of Tony Blair's government. All Out War and Fall Out are Tim Shipman's accounts of the Brexit campaign and it's aftermath up to the end of 2017. Both authors are journalists experienced at wringing narrative from messy real world situations and all three books are excellent reads. Tim Shipman's two books in particular read like thrillers.

Rawnsley constructs his book as a series of anecdotes, mostly morality tales where New Labour's belief that it can spin it's way out of trouble winds up dumping it in more, or (at least twice) Peter Mandleson's failure to come clean to his friends means they cannot help him, or (often) Gordon and Tony's failure to communicate exacerbates a situation beyond all reasonable bounds. His overriding narrative is of Tony Blair's fear of ending up yet another single term Labour prime minister, thus all the individual battles add up into one story culminating in the 2001 election victory.

If there is a problem with this technique it is that, by focusing on the problems of New Labour, there is no explanation as to why they deserve a second term. Rawnsley occasionally has to point out that, however much an amusing basket-case Labour were, the Tories at the time were even worse.

Shipman on the other hand is much more focused on the overall arc of first the campaign and then the lead up to and play out of the 2017 election.

In the first book he has two stories to balance, one for each side. The Leave side is a tale of insurgency: the underdog with a lot of guile and a lot of luck unseating the favourite. The Remain side is a tale of hubris: Cameron and team's failure to ever really believe they might lose meant they were fighting with their eyes not on victory but on what happens after. Consequently they refused to risk either Britain's diplomatic relations or the future harmony of the conservative party by, for example, making a pronouncement on Turkey or making personal attacks on Boris Johnson.

The hubris continues in Fall Out as, similarly, failure to realise that the election might result in less than a landslide ends up in failure to fight it properly. In this book the mechanics of disfunction are dissected across a large cast of characters from cabinet ministers to political aids, and in particular Nick Timothy and Fiona Hill, the chief villains of the piece. With no conclusion available Shipman ends on the final agreement of 'Sufficient Progress' in December 2017, which May somehow achieves despite trouble from within her cabinet and from the DUP. It gives, at least, a sense of things moving on.

What I find really interesting though, is how both narratives have changed in the context of subsequent events.

Things did not move on, and now, almost over a year later, what looked then like an untenable situation has largely remained unchanged. "Parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus". The Tim Shipman books read, in this context, less an account of great events than of ridiculous accidents and dumb incompetence. All the heat and noise and manoeuvring leading to absolutely nothing. The UK still in the EU and Theresa May still Prime Minister. However events resolve themselves from now on it seems very unlikely that this will ever feel (even to sympathetic readers) like the account of a great step in the journey of a nation.

The further back we go the more context corrupts the narrative. Boris Johnson's hopeless leadership campaign now looks like it might be just a blip in his inevitable idiotic rise. A tactical victory for the Remain side during the campaign, bouncing the Leave side into admitting the UK would leave the Single Market, now looks like a strategical blunder for remainers. David Cameron's attempt to renegotiate the UK's membership now looks less like a half-arsed PR exercise and more like a fundamental misunderstanding of what the EU is.

In servants of the People the elephant in the room, Iraq, can be felt on every page; in every bumbling PR disaster, in every spat between ministers, in every bad news story, it all feels so small compared to what was to come. Worse though is the lead up to the invasion of Kosovo, which Rawnsley uses as something of a key character event and heart of the book. The reader is invited to admire Blair's tenacity and zeal when faced with a true moral choice, his certainty, his belief in doing the right thing. But the reader cannot. The reader can only remember the bloodshed to come and shudder.

Arrival

One of the interesting things about Arrival is that it uses your own literacy of the medium to trick you.

There is no particular reason why the opening montage of Louise Banks having, and then losing, her daughter had to be backstory. It could be a How We Got Here opening (indeed it is) but for the fact that no film which wasn't playing a dirty trick would how-we-got-here from such a gentle bitter-sweet character defining montage. We go in with expectations, this is a big budget Hollywood film after all, if it opens with a lengthy encapsulation of a character's life we assume that it does so in order to introduce the character to us.That is what we are expecting in any case: to be introduced to the characters. We assume it would not introduce the character from where she is at the end of the film, we are here to experience her journey, not appreciate her destination.

Louise Banks' subsequent distracted air, apparently sleepwalking through her life, has been called a Kuleshov Effect, an impression formed in the audience's mind by the juxtaposition of the daughter's death. I do not think this is justified. Banks reacts markedly differently to the alien's arrival than anyone else at the university, and not because of any professional interest at the time. Maybe Amy Adams played the scenes straight and I'm projecting a distracted air onto her, but the fact of her actions in the script betray that the film is playing a trick on us.

Also, what's she doing knocking about in that enormous house by the lake if she had not previously filled it with a family?



Ultimately, the film cannot sustain the trick as long as it wants for the same reason: our understanding of how it works.

From the opening montage on I was wondering where daddy was. At first I assumed he'd died while she was pregnant, but it still seemed odd not to see him at all. Again, this is a big budget Hollywood film, it shares a value system with it's audience. If, say, Banks had been artificially inseminated to have a daughter by herself the film would have needed to address that. If there was a man present at the conception the film would have deemed him important enough to mention, even if he played exactly no part in the story.

A book, which can focus solely on the mind of its protagonist, might have gotten away with this. A film deals in pictures from a third party viewpoint, and in any picture of a mother and daughter there is always going to be a space where the father isn't.

I did not work out the twist till, in a late flash-forward, Banks tells her daughter to ask her father about science questions, so it kept me guessing till very nearly the end. But I always knew there was something to guess. I knew it was playing a trick.

Midnight Special

Midnight Special feels like a much older movie than it is. In fact it feels a lot like Close Encounters of the Third Kind. There are some obvious structural similarities: that it is a road trip; that it is focused on a single man driven by desires the viewer does not fully understand; that the government is at once both ignorant of what is happening and a sinister antagonist; that the driving emotional pull is of a young child in peril; that geographic coordinates are a critical plot device; that the mysterious other is, in the end, benign; that the finale features a big special effect sequence and raises as many questions as it answers.

There is something else as well. There is a sense of wonder.

A sense of wonder is something that has been missing from films of late. It makes the occasional appearance: in Gareth Edward's Monsters, the Forest God in Guillermo del Toro's Hellboy II. The reason is no mystery. For a movie to have a sense of wonder it must be about something wonderful, something that does not exist in the ordinary world, ergo something created by special effects - but SFX are no longer wonderful. With affordable CGI everything becomes possible and so nothing is special. A whole city is levitated in Avengers: Age of Ultron and it is exciting, and supplies a strong sense of peril, but it is never wondrous.

When, in Jurassic Park, Sam Neil fell to knees in awe at seeing real live dinosaurs we were on our knees with him, equally amazed. It was just two years after we'd seen what digital effects were capable of in Terminator 2, just a year since they were considered inherently amazing enough to hang a whole film off in Lawnmower Man. It felt like the start of a new era but it was also the end of one. Three years earlier the creators of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (not the greatest Star Trek) were so impressed by a light show they thought it would make a believable stand-in for God. Two years later in Independence Day nobody dropped to their knees in awe at the alien spaceships arriving, they pranged their cars as if it was giant wonderbra billboards descending through the clouds. Effects weren't magic anymore, at least not to filmmakers, and nobody would be truly amazed by them ever again.

So what makes Midnight Special so different?

It's not the effects. The glowing eyes are nothing that could not have been created with late eighties technology, and while done far better with CGI, the overall effect of the city at the end could have been achieved with matt paintings and miniatures.

The difference is primarily the realism, and also the mystery. Both are present from the get go, two characters barely speaking as they strip cardboard from a motel window and load guns into a bag. It's clear that the film is going to value genuine behaviour over explaining what is going on. The realism really hits though when the ranch is raided, the viewer expects it to be Waco but it is far from it. Everybody cooperates with the FBI. The FBI have to wade through interviews with everybody. It is so realistic it is almost boring.

In fact, for the first half of the movie it is only the mystery that keeps you hooked. What is special about the boy? What is the relationship between the father and his friend? Where are they heading? What happens if they are caught? By the time these start being answered you are hooked on the characters, which have been revealed slowly, and are doubly strong because of that.

Notice too how the main antagonists come to some sort of a sticky end, either arrested or perhaps even shot, but we never see it. The film is relentlessly focused on Alton and the people looking after him. It doesn't care about bad guys getting their comeuppance, this is a fantastic story but it is firmly set in the real world and you nobody gets that sort of neat satisfying end.

Consequently, by the finale the viewer is right there with characters wanting to know the answers, and equally as amazed when they are revealed. It is the mystery we came for but the realism that sold it. An invisible city covering the Gulf Coast would be no big deal in Avengers, but in a movie where everybody has looked and acted like a real person for two hours, it's huge.

And because of this the film can't tell us everything, can't wrap it up pat, or the spell would be broken. You're led to the possibility that the Alton is an angel but the reveal of the city, less heavenly towers than sci-fi brutalism, like a radical concept sketch for the South Bank Centre, muddies even that water.

In the end you're left standing there right with Alton's mother, wondering what just happened.

Hell Or High Water

Hell Or High Water is an excellent film about the problems of funding long term care through equity release schemes.

It's an super little movie; the performances are great and the dialogue is natural and often hilarious. Jeff Bridges at first appears to be going a little hard for a tobacco-chewing caricature of a Texas Ranger but he ends up a much more complex character than that. His reaction to his partners death, and then when he gets his subsequent revenge, is astonishingly good.

Similarly Ben Foster's Tanner is exceptionally well drawn. At first sight a familiar thuggish good ol' boy with a rakish charm, a tendency to sudden violence, and poor impulse control - he lends the movie the same sort of nervous energy that Joe Pesci gave Goodfellas; but Tanner is not the cartoonish villain that Tommy DeVito was: he understands his own failings and understands he is martyring himself for his brother. He is motivated and determined throughout; in the end it is Tanner's superior grasp of the situation, and superior commitment to his brother's plan, which sees that plan through.

Chris Pine's Toby I have some issues with, but I will come to that. What I want to talk about is how it achieves a sense of place.


Achieving a sense of place is interesting. I remember reading an interview with Nick Hornby where he proclaimed himself baffled at readers complementing him on evoking North London so well in High Fidelity when he only ever named it, never actually described it. I haven't actually read it but I'm willing to believe Nick never mentions halal butchers, or hasidic jews, or the particular aroma I remember nineties North London acquiring on hot days; but I'll bet all his characters go everywhere by tube, and live in flats converted from pre-war housing, and think nothing of having a takeaway and off-license at the bottom of the street. If you know a place you describe it without trying to. As Borges said:

...if there were any doubt as to the authenticity of the Koran, [the] absence of camels would be sufficient to prove it is an Arabian work

There is no doubt that Hell And High Water is about Texas, not just set there. Indeed the writer says as much in an interview. And despite apparently not a scene being shot there, it evokes an idea of Texas very strongly. There are three reasons why:

Firstly, it's in the photography. I've never set foot in West Texas but everything I expect is there: the flat grassland, featureless as far as the eye can see; the brooding skies; the hot empty streets of small towns; the long empty roads; the hard quality to the light.

Secondly, and more importantly, the location is vital to the plot. The motivating factor for the brothers is the age-old trope of a rancher striking oil, albeit with the modern hitch of a reverse mortgage to overcome. The brother's plan relies on a surfeit of small, near empty towns, each with one small bank branch. The stumbling block at the start of the third act only exists because of the great distances between those towns. In the finale the brothers are initially being chased not be the police but by armed citizens.

If there is a weakness in the story it is that it hangs off the simplistic notion of banks are bad, mmm'kay, but this plays into the idea of Texas too. At no point does the movie question why the Howard's mother had to go to the equity release market to fund her care. Set anywhere else it would be a film about the failings of the state rather than the rapaciousness of banks, but on the old American frontier that question never seems relevant.

Thirdly it is about the characters. The bit parts, from the sassy waitress to the other even sassier waitress, to the old boys in the diner, to everyone in the banks, stand out not just for their many, many great lines of dialogue, but because they are all, to a man and woman, fiercely strong willed and independent minded. Maybe this is a caricature but it is a relevant caricature, one that plays in to the sense of place and the overall theme of the film.

Here is where I have an issue with the character of Toby. This is a movie about masculinity (how could it be a movie about Texas and not be about masculinity), and to an extent that justifies the lack of women, but we are asked to believe that Toby has spent the last year or so tending to his dying mother, a profoundly feminine role. Do macho young Texas men put up with wiping their mother's backsides? I guess -like everybody- they do if they have to, but it's working against type.

More problematically, his plan at the end was entirely about his estranged wife and kids. The closing scene finds him doing up the ranch with seemingly no ambition whatsoever for himself. He is not attempting to get back together with his wife. As far as we know he is not even attempting to be part of his sons lives again. He is so selfless as to be nihilistic. He is such a well drawn and well played character during the movie, that the unlikelihood of his life before it starts and after it ends jars hard.

This was not unsolvable either. A much more likely backstory was that the reverse mortgage funded a Mexican nurse to help look after his mother. Toby and her could have fallen in love (not an unknown story). He could be planning a calm, homely, quiet life with her when everything was over.

This would not mean a happy ending of course, or what would he have sacrificed? Ultimately you would still have to keep the hint of a final, later, suicide-by-cop in order to revenge his brother. He is not a man who could let that go. But it would become a tragedy rather than nihilism.

I guess a happy ending just wouldn't be Texas.

Get Out

Allegories are tricksy beasts. They do their work, not on the page, but in the head of the reader, and they go on working long after the writer has stopped. At the time of it's publication Lord Of The Rings was consistently read as being an allegory for the second world war but these days is far more likely to be read as being about the unthinking destruction of the environment by forces of industrialism. Neither interpretation was what Tolkien intended. He was adamant it was just a story about hobbits and nothing more, but nobody cares what he thought.

There is no doubt that Get Out is intended as an allegory for racism (indeed the director states it is "less allegory and more straight up about what it is"), but the way in which the film guides the audience toward the message without beating them around the head with it is impressive. It is at once subtle and incredibly sharp.

It brilliantly skewers a kind of white liberal middle-class racism, the kind that would never dream of expecting any advantage over blacks, and would die of shame if caught uttering a racial slur, but still voted for Trump. The kind that doesn't feel it has anything to apologise for, that refuses to recognise any difference between the white and black experience. None of the whites in the movie, even the cop who needlessly asks for his ID, are ever rude or unpleasant to Chris, but they objectify him as a black man. Indeed they envy him for his "superior DNA," squeeze his biceps, giggle and ask his girlfriend if it is better. The movie stays relentlessly with Chris, forcing the viewer to experience this polite othering from his perspective, emphasising it when the one other black man at the party turns out to be whiter than the whites.

The subtlest and sharpest moment comes when Chris finally asks: why black people, and gets the answer: I don't know. That's them. Don't put that on me, from the man who is about to benefit the most from the racism he is disavowing. The audience has to guess the answer for itself: because black people won't be searched for too hard by the authorities; because the Armitages view black people as nothing more than bodies, not people in their own right; because, even though they don't admit it themselves, the Armitages could never bring themselves to do this thing to whites.

Clever too is the choices it makes to ensure it is read the way its creators intend. The most obvious of these is backing away from the horror at the climax. Although we get a bit of surgery seen, artfully, reflected in the surgeon's glasses, the gore is minimal. More to the point, no writer who didn't have their mind set on another goal would allow Chris to escape before he was actually under the scalpel, let alone before he was even in the room. Hell! A young Peter Jackson would have had him running about for the last fifteen minutes with the top of his skull flapping loose. Instead, as soon as the full horror of what the Armitages are up to is established, the film advances straight to Chris' fight to escape, avoiding turning off any more squeamish viewers or distracting from the message.

It avoids other possible readings too. In Britain, for instance, race is not as live an issue as it is in America (we do not have the tick-tock of police regularly killing black men, and we have not recently put a white supremacist at the top levels of government) but a conflict between the generations is (the housing crisis is essentially young renters funding the increasing wealth of older property owners, and the Brexit vote is, I'm told, seen widely among schoolchildren as the older generation robbing them of their futures as Europeans). Miss the opening dialogue between Chris and Kate while buying popcorn, go for a wee during a couple of the more critical moments, take the character who denies racism at his word, and the film could nearly be read as being about the old stealing youth from the young.

Nearly, but not quite. If it was about generational conflict then Rose would have had to choose Chris over her family at the end, maybe only when it was too late for her, but at some point. It would have been an easy decision for the filmmakers to take. Rose's betrayal of Chris is hard on the audience after we have been with her for so long (was everything she said just lies? We can't know), and leaving the film with no good white characters might lay it open to idiotic accusations of being racist itself, but they did not take it.

It is always easy to read meanings into a movie that are not there. Indeed it is fun to go through this Get Out listicle and work out which of the "secrets" are deliberate details inserted by the filmmakers and which are the fevered imagination of symbol literate internet sleuths. And it is often hard for a movie to carry a message without either feeling like a lecture or being so willfully obscure it ends up just baffling and infuriating. Horror has always done this better than other genres for the simple reason that what we are frightened of tells us something about ourselves, whether that is something visceral and eternal like childbirth, or something cerebral and cultural like the mass society. What is impressive about Get Out is that it keeps the message front and centre, but is never overwhelmed by it.

Star Wars And Star-Warsiness

Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope is an objectively bad film: the dialogue is risible, the characters one-dimensional, the acting patchy at best, the effects -though they have dated well- have dated. The only undeniably great thing about it is the production design.

And yet I love it.

And not just love it like I love other movies. I was genuinely angry at the prequels. They felt like a boot in the face of my childhood. In contrast I was sanguine when I saw Crystal Skull. I love the first three Indiana Jones movies in the same sense that I love chocolate biscuits. I love Star Wars in the same sense that I love my mum.

Similarly, while I have issues with both Force Awakens and Rogue One, the latter is a muddle, the former astonishingly derivative, I had such a blast in the cinema that I don't care. They felt like Star Wars in the way the prequels never did.

I am, of course, not alone in any of this. Star Wars is roundly loved (if mostly in a chocolate biscuit sense) and the prequels roundly hated. But why - if it is objectively bad? And given that, what is so much worse about the prequels? Is there some mysterious property that makes it enjoyable even when it's not very good? Something that Force Awakens achieved but Phantom Menace did not?

I think there is. I am going to call it Star-Warsiness n the quality of being Star wars.

"Don’t get cocky."

I don't want to be too hard on George Lucas here, but I don't buy the idea he's any kind of master storyteller who lost his mojo when he got rich. It was something we invented when we were students and reappraising our childhood (I'm reappraising that reappraisal now if you can't tell). Star Wars was enduring, and fun, and we loved it, so it also had to be artistically worthwhile. We seized on the wipe-transitions and the bits ripped off Kurosawa as evidence, but these only demonstrate a familiarity with samurai movies and some panache in the editing suite.

Consider the ways in which New Hope is not a well constructed story: Luke and Vader never meet face to face. Peter Cushing, so evil he blew up a planet, does not get a death scene. The empire has an emperor (he's mentioned once) but we never see him. The film makes a huge deal of light-sabers, introducing them early and stressing their importance (and they were presumably a big lump off the effects budget) and then drops them entirely. They do not appear again after Kenobi dies.

You might say that Lucas was planning ahead for the sequels but I don't think that excuses it. The script famously went through hundreds of drafts and if you've ever read one of the early ones you'll know it changed a lot, but for all that work it does not look at all well honed. The impression is not of a master filmmaker laying the foundations for a trilogy, the impression is of an overactive imagination throwing ideas against the wall until enough of them stuck.

In any case: Howard The Duck (the prosecution rests m'lud).

"I find your lack of faith disturbing."

Lets get this bit over with quick. Phantom Menace is crap (and it's the high point of the prequels in my opinion), but it would still be just as wrong if it was better. Why do you hate Jar Jar Binks? Because he's annoying? Useless? Based on an offensive stereotype? All these complaints describe C-3PO equally well. You can argue the charm of Anthony Daniels' performance (on set in a suit) makes up for a lot, while a talking CGI frog compounds the injury, and you'd be right, but you would have conceded the point that we are only discussing degrees of crapness. All of it is crap. Phantom Menace is both crap and wrong.

"She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts."

I said that the production design was the only undeniably great aspect of New Hope but I do not think they just lucked out with some good designers, in fact it falls out from the story.

One of the remarkable things about Star Wars is how resolutely blue-collar it is. From Luke eating unappetising mush on a remote farmstead, to Han forever trying to keep one step ahead of his creditors, to Ben Kenobi eking out an existence in a cave (selling moonshine to Sandpeople no doubt), to the over-crowded Rebel situation room (not like the conference rooms on the Death Star or the vast flight decks of Star Destroyers), to Yoda in his swamp, to Lando only just getting by in Cloud City, to Rey scavenging for junk, to Han and Chewie hauling monsters about the universe in a glorified cattle truck, to Jyn Erso rotting on a grim prison planet. These are all, with the exception of the retired Jedi, characters who work for a living. Even Princess Leia does her bit for the rebellion.

The design feeds right into this: the spaceships look like they drip oil, and they rattle and complain when they are pushed too hard. They are maintained by the people who fly them, often as they are flying them. While Tie-Fighters look mass produced (they even come out of a Tie-Fighter dispenser in Force Awakens), you know that Luke's X-Wing is Luke's X-Wing and he wouldn't let anyone else fly it. It breaks Han's heart to let Lando fly the Millennium Falcon. The Lars' farm is little more than a hole in the ground (but clean and always with food on the table). Mos Eisley looks like a bunch of temporary buildings that never got replaced. The rebel base on Yavin is occupying an abandoned stone temple. The Rebel Base on Hoth is carved from the ice. Rey's dwelling at Niima Outpost is tiny but cosy and obviously loved, packed full of worthless treasures she has collected.

Contrast all this with the prequels. While Princess Leia only wears a plain white dress and some simple jewellery on prize day, Queen Amidala can barely move she is so laden with finery. The Jedi Temple on Couruscant is huge and luxurious with commanding views over the city, and the Jedi just seem to laze about in it all day. Jar Jar Binks, unlike a protocol droid, is a bum living in a forest. The filmmakers achieve the correct look and sound for the spaceships but it does not work because the characters do not have the same relationship with their machines. The beautiful sleek Naboo Spacecraft in Phantom Menace is flown by a professional pilot, paid to fly it. You know that Obi-Wan's and Anakin's fighters in the second and third movies have come from a Jedi spaceship pool where they are maintained by a team of mechanics employed by the Jedi temple's administrative department. If one broke down they'd just requisition a new one.

Even the Pod Racers, which recapture the muscle-car aesthetics of X-Wings and Luke's speeder, have no value. Anakin builds that fastest one ever out of scrap parts in his evenings off from being a slave, and then never bats an eyelid when Qui-Gon sells it without asking. You might point out that being a slave is about as working class an existence as is possible, but Anakin is lifted out of this just a couple days after meeting Qui-Gon and we don't see his mum again till the next movie (talking of which, why didn't he go back and get her? He was best mates with a queen, surely she could have lent him the money).

How important is all this? Maybe not very, but it adds to a sense of ordinary people fighting against an oppressive power. The heroes of the prequels were not persecuted and fighting for their freedom, they were pampered and stupid, blind to what was happening in front of them.

"Never tell me the odds."

A lot of stuff gets shoved under the science fiction label, but you could, if you wanted, rank it on a scale between Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov at the one end, speculative fiction based on current cutting edge science, and space-sheriffs walking into space-bars and drinking space-beers at the other.

Star Wars is very firmly at the latter end of the scale. Luke was going to Toshi station to pick up some power converters. What are power converters? Who cares! Certainly not the audience. How does a hyperdrive work? How does a lightsaber work? What is Uncle Owen farming in the desert? Why can only some droids speak? Why is there only ever one or two of each type of alien on any given planet. None of this matters a jot.

Where the first trilogy is basically just space nazis vs space samurai with little attempt to explain either, the prequels takes ages constructing a creditable republic, with a senate and a constitution and votes and politics. It is trying, badly, to be Foundation.

How do you dissolve the last remnants of the old republic? Who cares! How do you transform a republic into an empire? Well you first propose a motion in the senate granting emergency powers to the chancellor, and then...

"Aren't you a little short to be a stormtrooper."

But this leads me to Ursula Le Guin and her marvelous essay From Elfland To Poughkeepsie. In it she plays a self confessed 'dirty trick' and transforms a piece of fantasy dialogue between a duke and a warrior-magician into modern day Capitol Hill politicking by changing just four words, and then makes the point that the trick would not work on true fantasy, on Tolkien or Dunsany.

OBI-WAN : Yes, Master...how do you think the trade viceroy will deal with the chancellor's demands?
QUI-GON : These Federation types are cowards. The negotiations will be short.

You'd only have to change one!

Many people complain of the long winded trade discussions in Phantom Menace. I don't actually think they take up much screen time (I'm not bloody watching it again) but the way in which they are discussed robs the characters of heroism.

I may as well just quote Le Guin:

And greatness of soul shows when a man speaks... In life we expect lapses. In naturalistic fiction, too, we expect lapses, and laugh at an “overheroic” hero. But in fantasy... we need not compromise.

Heroes don't prejudge people as cowards. Heroes don't worry how long the negotiations are going take like they have plans to play golf at the weekend! Heroes run away from their uncle's farm to save the princess.

When, in Force Awakens, Han says: "Okay, How do we blow it up? There's always a way to do that," he may be committing the most egregious act of plot fast-forwarding since John Wyndham died, but he's definitely speaking like a hero.

Lucas knew all this when he wrote the first movies. He understood that he was creating a fantasy, a fairy-tale, where a farm-boy who is secretly the son of the evil king is given a magic sword and rescues a princess. He comes unstuck in the prequels. His hero is his villain and he can't make it work anymore. In fact he doesn't want to. You can imagine how he could structured them so that Anakin's becoming Vader was a final act of self-sacrifice to save others, a cursed king being transformed into a beast, but he's too interested in galactic politics to bother with any of that.

"A lot of simple tricks and nonsense."

And this is why midichlorians grate so bad. Star Wars is fantasy, not sci-fi, so technobabble has little place (Rogue One just about gets away with Kyber Crystals because they're no more than a plot MacGuffin, they don't really tell us anything about light-sabers or death-stars), and definitely not for the Force. The Force is not just magic, it is a moral magic. Giving it an explanation robs it of its morality.

The Force is like nothing so much as Kung-Fu in classic Kung-Fu movies. Young pupils learn it from wise masters, it takes discipline and strength of will, it is as much a state of mind achieved through meditation as a practiced skill. And like Kung-Fu, using it for evil robs you of something of yourself. The good Shaolin Master always defeats the evil Tiger Style Master not because he happens to be better, but because his spiritual purity gives him a strength his opponent will always lack.

This concept is fragile. Like Tolkien's wizards it is something other than the world. Like Kung-Fu it is something that comes from within the individual. A blaster is as much fantasy to us as the Force is, but not to Han Solo. To Han the blaster is just a tool but the Force is a hokey magic. A Jedi might wield it but he cannot make more of it. He cannot control it, but lets it controls him. Make the Force the effect of some mechanism within the world and it is ruined. Midichlorians reduce the Force to just another blaster.

"You can’t win, Darth."

So Star Wars is high fantasy, not sci-fi, and it's fantasy elements must be accepted, not explained; its heroes are fantasy heroes, and must be heroic; it is a tale of ordinary folk and, like hobbits, it is in their ordinariness that their strength lies; and it is a tale of good triumphing over evil, and good must triumph because it is good, not because it happens to be stronger on the day.

Could you make a checklist of these items, apply them to a script, and become a toy licensing billionaire like George? I doubt it. There is always something more.

Lucas may be a miserable dialogue stylist but in his day he was a genius at the tone of a film, and the characters that achieve that tone, Just read the famous story conference devising Raiders Of The Lost Ark.  Indiana Jones is not an easy character to get right and neither was the tone of that movie, a delicate balance of humour and genuine threat. Watch the 1985 King Solomon's Mines, a blatant attempt to ape Raiders' success, to see how easily it can go wrong. There was a lot of work by a lot of very talented people to make that film what it was.

Neither was Star Wars an easy note to hit (somewhere between Buck Rogers and Where Eagles Dare) yet they get it bang on. The tone, from Luke mournfully watching two suns set over the desert, to the thrillingly kinetic space battles, is perfect. This all comes out of the characters. Luke is sad at that point in the film because he's a boy with big ambitions trapped on his uncle's farm, and he is nearly as excited during the space battles -screaming "I got one! I got one!" when he bags a tie-fighter- as eight year old me was watching them.

Take too the Millennium Falcon. My heart leaped when I saw it again in Force Awakens, but why do I love this strange, unsymmetrical, ungainly spaceship so much. The design is cool but not that cool. It is because of the lifestyle it embodies. Zooming around the universe with your best friend the wookie watching your back. Engaging the hyperdrive and shooting off to another planet if things get too hot. Watching the startled faces aboard the big Corellian class Imperial Star Destroyers in your rear-view mirror as you leave them for dust like a street racer in a Bruce Springsteen song. I love the Millennium Falcon because of how I imagined Han Solo's life was before the first film even began. That's good character work.

"You can type this shit, George, but you can't say it."

I actually think the acting is better in the prequels than in the original trilogy, it just seems worse.

In New Hope Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher make a half-decent fist of it. Mark Hamill is limited. Peter Cushing and Alex Guinness phone it in, although both of them are good enough to still make that look impressive (Cushing in particular could play that sort of role in his sleep). What there is universally though is a lightness and a gameness: there's nothing arch about any of the performances, and nothing heavy either. None of them thought they making anything oscar-worthy so pitched it a Flash Gordon level of knockabout-fun and it works.

In the prequels, though, the (very strong) cast seem to try and recite Lucas' appalling tongue twisters like they are Shakespeare and the results are cringe worthy. Too many of the roles seem to have had Comic Relief For The Kids as a character description. The actors would mug and wink at the camera if they weren't just providing voices for CG beasties. Worse, Lucas takes his on-the-nose-so-hard-it-hurts style and applies to to romance. There isn't an actor alive who could do anything worthwhile with the result.

"Now let's blow this thing and go home."

Force Awakes and Rogue One throw off both the shackles of George Lucas' abysmal dialogue and the foolish portentousness he gained in later years. The dialogue is readable and witty in both and there can be little doubt that Disney set out to make movies that were, above everything else, fun. In doing so they took a big first step in the direction of Star-Warsiness.

Force Awakens, I think, gets the rest of the way by cluster bombing the target. It throws so many known factors into the mix: lonely young hero whisked away from desert planet, cute droid with a secret that must be protected, giant world destroying weapon, universe saved by rag-tag band of heroes, Chewbacca; that it would be dragged into Star-Warsiness even if it didn't know where it was going.

I think it does though. It's new characters are strong and dynamic and moral. Rey is skilled and works for a living. We meet her sticking out a shitty situation through a sense of trust and loyalty. We meet Finn in the act of taking a great risk to do what is right. It's best moment, when Kylo Ren kills his father in order to push himself into fully embracing the dark side, is pure fairy-tale.

Rogue One struggles more. It has the advantage of being set contemporaneous with New Hope, so can lift much of the look and feel without needing to adapt it to show the passing of time. It has the disadvantage of being a necessarily darker film. It is no coincidence that it is only in the last forty-five minutes that it really takes off. That is when the rag-tag gang of heroes are finally all moving in the same direction, with the same goal in mind. The good guys have set off against the bad guys and there is no worrying anymore about which side anybody is on.

Reportedly there were extensive reshoots to lighten the tone. I doubt we'll ever get a 'director's cut,' but I guess they were originally aiming for a gritty adventure and only when they got there did they find it was insufficiently Star-Warsy. If Jyn was too reluctant a hero, as was suggested by the trailer, that would not have been Star-Warsy. New Hope only got away with Han Solo because Luke was so naively enthusiastic. Similarly, if Saw Gererra (who seems to have had a whole backstory cut) , and perhaps Cassian, introduced too much moral complexity into the Rebellion that would not be Star-Warsy. Star Wars must be good triumphing over evil. Good must be good.

They are both, I think, objectively good films: the dialogue is sparky and witty and allows the story to tell itself; the characters are believable; the acting is strong (Daisy Ridley feels a little limited at points but always rises to the occasion when it matters); the effects are -of course- state of the art; and the production design is as good as ever, Rogue One in particular benefits from Gareth Edwards' fantastic eye for beauty in a digital effect. But ultimately none of that matters, because they both achieve Star-Warsiness, and that's all a Star Wars film needs to do.

Bone Tomahawk

More than once in the special features to Bone Tomahawk the producers say they filmed the first draft of the script, and did so with a much reduced budget in order not to give away control. The director and writer S. Craig Zahler (what does the S stand for?) has apparently sold over two hundred scripts to Hollywood (without seeing one made!) so you'd expect he could turn a half decent one out in his sleep by now, but even so, Bone Tomahawk is definitely evidence against Hemingway's maxim that the first draft of everything is shit.

The lack of budget is obvious in hindsight. The action takes place in a limited number of small sets and tight locations with simple camera setups and few extras, giving the whole film a stage-play feeling. The weather, which should almost be a character itself in the arduous journey across empty badlands, is noticeable only by it's absence.

They must have been very clever with the money they had: S. Craig is also a cinematographer and nothing looks cheap. The actors are top notch, and well cast. The sets are simple but look genuine and lived in. The fight scenes (no CGI! They used arrows on wires just like Kurosawa) look perfect. The one big gory effect is especially effective.

You ignore big Ern' at your peril though. Could the film have benefited from a rewrite or two?

S (can I call you S?) has drawn his characters with a broad brush to be sure. A grizzled sheriff. A sweet old man. A viscous dandy. A rough cattleman who may not use no highfalutin' city words but is brave and loyal to a fault. These are archetypes but that is not necessarily a bad thing. In a genre film (a genres film!) it may even be necessary. It is hard to see what else he could have done.

For if S has drawn them with a broad brush he has done so very deftly. Nobody in the movie is ever less than interesting, and it is chock full of fun little character moments, from a sex scene that is not only funny but genuinely tells you something about the lovers' relationship, to the very final shot where the old man discards his makeshift weapon in an act of complete trust in the sheriff.

There are moments though where I think a second draft might have helped: The locations never quite achieves the sense of pioneer-town isolation wanted. Relationships with the other townspeople are hinted at but never expanded upon. The mood as the party approach the Indian hideout, which should be growing darker, remains strangely quirky and light even as they are being attacked by murderous brigands.

Twice items are set up but come to nothing. A much discussed telescope never shows anybody anything of interest; and most jarringly, dynamite, which the audience is first told of at the start of the second act, reminded of at the end of it, never explodes. Perhaps this was a budget issue where they were going to blow something up but decided too late they could not afford to. It feels to me more like a first draft issue though. The writer equipping himself with some ready device and then never actually needing it.

I had assumed, when the producer said he was adamant they would not give away any creative control, he was worried about financiers trying to tone down the horror. And it is truly horrible. Not so apparently; in a different interview S tells an audience at a film festival he wanted to avoid jumpy editing and a heavy metal soundtrack (and him a heavy metal musician too!). Bone Tomahawk is such a delightfully clever, quirky, inventive little film, and so unusual, and still so brutally harrowing when it wants to be, I am certain whatever they lost to keep control, it was worth it.

Cop Car

Here is a list of things that are not in Cop Car.
- Any explanation why the two kids ran away from home.
- Any explanation what nefarious activity Kevin Bacon has been up to.
- The radio dispatch lady on-screen.
- Literally anybody or anything which does not have a vital role in moving the story forward.

It is the tightest, most pared down film I've ever seen. There's nothing unnecessary there.

It's good too. The kids are sweet and likable, and their very quick journey from daring each other to touch the car to driving around and trying to fire off the guns is completely believable. Kevin Bacon's character is so purposeful and tenacious that even when he is a serious threat to the two boys you still kind of root for him.

My plan for this blog is to talk about storytelling by discussing the decisions taken, and other possible options, but with Cop Car I can't think of any. It's such a perfectly formed little film that it might have sprung complete from a magic movie spring.

So that's it, really.

Kajaki

Kajaki is an extraordinary film for two reasons: Firstly because there is twenty minutes in the middle that are the most tense I've ever seen in a movie, both L and I were sitting up on the sofa gasping in horror. Secondly because, as one of the men depicted puts it in an interview: this is not based on real events, it is real events, everything is exactly as it happened.

Certainly it's only a voice-over away from being a really good docu-drama rather than a really good film. I don't recall it having any soundtrack and much of the dialogue felt unusually accurate. I'm thinking of both the jargon filled back and forth before firing a mortar round and the clearly very procedural conversations around treating injuries. These would surely be rejected by a normal script editor as too long-winded in the first case and too repetitious in the second. Here they help give the weight of realism to the movie which is what makes it work so well.

There are two things, and another third thing, I think, that would have been done differently in a based on real events movie:

1. You would have whittled down the characters. It is always a problem in soldier movies to introduce the characters well enough for the viewer to distinguish one from the other by the time the action starts; they all have the same haircut and wear the same clothes. Dog Soldiers does this very well. Aliens exceptionally well. In Kajaki there are simply too many and, faithfully depicting the boredom of life at the damn, not enough for them to do.

It makes up for this with some good naturalistic acting and a very good ear for squaddy dialogue, I had little idea who most of them were but they felt so real I still cared about them.

2. You would pace the action differently. The first mine goes off about 45 minutes in I think, which is as much a script decision here as it would be in any other film, but after that they come pretty regularly (once every ten minutes or so) until they don't anymore. This is not what you'd chose. You'd either hammer them at the audience one after the other with no let up and then make it a film about trying to save the lives of the injured for the last half hour, or you'd let them build, with a long break after the first one so that the audience felt safe again, and the ratchet them up, each pause being smaller than the last, so the action builds toward the climax.

The risk in exploding the mines at regular intervals is that the audience comes to expect it, feels safe, and then fails to take it seriously. Kajaki is focused on the reaction though, how the men handle each new blast and each new set of injuries. Consequently there is roughly the same amount of movie after each mine. It gets away with it, again, because it feels so real, and also because it's so intense. The performances and the effects work are the key. The injuries look all too horribly real and the men all too close to cracking under the pressure. This is a big achievement for what was a pretty low budget movie.

3. Finally, and this is where it would become another film entirely, you'd have to up the ante somehow at the end. They'd have to make some superhuman effort to carry the wounded out on foot, or there would have to be a race against time to fetch more medical supplies, or, most obviously and most destructively, the Taliban would attack. Something silly.

If Kajaki has a weak point it is the final fifteen minutes which is, fundamentally, just some blokes sitting in the dirt waiting to be rescued. Tension only exists because one of them might die, but there is no desperate CPR, no E.R.-style scenery chewing and rending of garments at the bedside. We get a small amount of shouting and a handful of tell my kids I love them, but, true to the characters, that is all pretty low key.

Kajaki was good enough that I didn't care though, I was wholly invested in the characters by that point and, rather than wondering why the film lost pace, I was just desperate that they should get out of there without treading on another mine.

It took risks this movie, and they paid off.

Logan

I have some small issues with Logan: that the genetically modified super-children are a somewhat tired trope, that the evil-Wolverine never really works very well, that the seemingly endless reams of burly men with guns are nothing but anonymous claw-fodder, that the adamantium bullet is a clunky plot device you can see coming a mile away. I think the last three could have been solved together without too much difficulty and a better movie made as a result. The first would be much harder to deal with and would necessitate the film becoming something else, not a superhero movie.

And there-in is the point, that all my issues are with it are with its superheroyness, the necessarily silly fantasy elements that drive the plot, give Wolverine something to fight for, a lot of someones to fight, and a final someone you don't see how he can beat, and a way to beat him that has hung on the mantelpiece from the first act; but the rest of the film is so good, so not silly, so not comic-booky, that they stand out.

And it is very good, from the opening scene where we not only see Wolverine reluctant to fight and then explode in berserker rage with brutal results, but also see one of his claws fail to extend - a beautiful visual metaphor that tells you exactly where you are with the character; to the penultimate shot of a boy clutching a Wolverine toy having just buried his hero, having learned that hero was all too human, but then learned that he was still a hero after all.

Seriously, just because I am still a bit excited, here are some other very good bits in no particular order:

- At the end of the first act the Mexican lady precisely explains how the third act twist is going to work, but even while you are feeling clever for having spotted the bullet you don't spot that.

- In his short time with her, professor Xavier expertly teaches Laura everything she will need in life. Firstly in the conversation about the lioness, which is not even addressed to her, where he simply says: we know you are a killer and we accept you and value you for it. Secondly in watching Shane with her, saying: this is the moral code you will need. Finally in showing her a family, saying: this is what you are fighting for.

- The high camera angle when evil-Wolverine enters Xavier's bedroom, alerting you that something is up.

- The fundamental power fantasy of superheros writ large in the final child fight.

- Wolverine can't remember if he killed Richard E. Grant's father or not.

- It has the balls to kill off two major franchise characters.

- The mutants are not supermen. Caliban describes himself as a glorified bloodhound. Wolverine is checked by just a handful of well trained burly men. Professor X's very powerful brain fails him and becomes a danger to those he cares about. The children at the end are still just children, maybe lethal, but easy to overpower.

- Genuine throat-slashing, skull-skewering, limb-chopping violence.

- Every scene with Hugh Jackman and Patrick Stewart. Literally every one.

X-Men has always ladled on the internal tensions: Rogue's inability to touch another person, Cyclops' inability to look anyone in the eye, Professor X's inability to use his powers without violating his own moral code, Mystique's inability to settle on a form that does not disgust the world, Magneto's inability to reconcile his fight for survival with his friendship with Charles. These are Alan Moore's 'superhero but with a bad leg' 2-dimensional characters to be sure, but this is comic books and they work. 

In this light it is a surprise that Wolverine, who is on the face of it quite a weak character (kills people but then feels a bit bad about it), has proved so strong. I think the secret is his effective immortality and his lack of memory. It makes Wolverine a character disassociated from the world. He lives entirely in the present with no investment in the future. His tensions is his inability to reconcile his morality with his nihilism. He can protect but cannot belong. Only his anger makes him fight.

You also can't downplay the role of Hugh Jackman who has always been the chief source of humour and charm in all the (generally strong) X-Men casts, only Patrick Stewart's chummy sparring with Ian Mckellen has been more fun to watch.

An old and fading Wolverine makes perfect sense then. He's always been old so the only place for the character to go is to finally die. To truly be in the world he has to leave it. When he know's he's going to die he worries about those he'll leave behind.

X-Men has always worked well because the mutants are an all purpose metaphor for oppression, racial when they can't pass - homophobic when they can, and the argument about how to fight it (Martin Luther King vs Malcolm X in a transposition of the role and the initial). 

This one is obviously meant to be viewed through the lens of immigration, the border with Mexico is a prominent background feature, Laura is fleeing toward asylum in Canada, but it's a theme not the plot. There are no excitable fox-news style cutaways vilifying mutants, there is no sense of the general public being afraid of them (quite the opposite in fact). The movie avoids politics and focuses on the characters, which is what makes it feel like something more than a comic-book movie, which is why the comic-book aspects of it (far better than robot samurai or any of Magneto's silly macguffins though they may be) grate a little.

Could Laura had been, say, Logan's daughter from just a fling, not a genetic experiment? Could it be, say, the police pursuing her rather than a shadowy force of cyborg soldiers? Maybe because of something as prosaic as a murder? Or simply because she's only a child and her legal guardians want her back? The situation escalating because of her and Wolverine's tendency to solve problems by slicing throats. Could the final bad guy have been not yet another mutant but, say, a swat team and Wolverine's own weakened state?

The best bits would still be there, Logan and Charles would still swear at each other in a filling-station toilet. Daddy and daughter would still team up to stab people at the end. They would still watch Shane in a casino hotel room. But would it still have been an X-Men movie? I guess not. And maybe if the rest of it became more serious then it would be the silliness of Wolverine and the Professor that grated.

And so it has it's own tension; its inability to be as good as it could without becoming something else entirely. But maybe that's actually what makes it so strong.