Nulla in Mundo Pax Sincera, to be specific. Why is it that this works best with baroque composers? Don't ask me. I just spew here. Following on the heels of the Bard, perhaps. Once again, just trying to exercise the form and not have it come out as complete doggerel. Remember now, class. The rhythm is like a heartbeat: ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum...
Ahem.
A spark alit with thine emergent word
Of int'rest piqued and thoughts aloft to try
Intent and energy were borne and heard
And no moment to stop and question why
The past pursued with seeming earnest zeal
Our present heralded by growing fire
No thought as to whether this may be real
A future left in visions of desire
Claims of anticipation 'til we meet
The days suffused in dreams of further light
A message ling'ring flash a peal so sweet
The truth a cloud a trick of fading light
Now to the yoke of mem'ry flames are lashed
Plunged into darkness soaring hopes are dashed
Exeunt.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
They already know everything because you let them
Edward Snowden is now being heralded by no less than Daniel Ellsberg. Snowden, of course, exposed the rampant NSA spying program and fled to China in order to escape what will surely be energetic attempts at retribution by the US government. The program is being labeled an attempt at "security". The question that no one is asking is: Security from what?
A "war on terror" is deliberately left wide open to be pursued in any direction. Nameless, stateless; it could be anyone and anywhere and, most importantly, it could be us. The first time government of, by, and for the people was mentioned was the last time it existed. Now the only question is why.
Why would the government be so obsessed with controlling its citizenry? Because people left with no other choices tend to revolt. Revolt would be bad for those in power, not least because it disturbs their carefully crafted image of the land of opportunity/greatest nation in the world/(insert pathetic slogan here.) It's been less than a couple weeks since the last time I was attacked for rejecting the benefits afforded me by being part "of this great nation." People believe this stuff, even when the evidence of rampant inequality, perhaps the highest in the history of said nation, is everywhere. If much of the population is doomed to work low-wage jobs for the rest of their existence, with little prospect of change, what hope do they have other than violence? If the highly educated segment of the population is largely demoralized because that education has been devalued if it doesn't produce instant profits, what message might they deliver to people actually willing to read their books, view their art, and listen to their speeches? Is it hope? Is it opportunity? Or is it "don't bother following me here"?
A populace without choices is a populace without hope. No hope means nihilism. Nihilism means violence. Thus, the control. That control is already so effective that much of the population, urged on by wealthy and compliant media sources, screams for more whenever a violent event occurs. After the Boston Marathon bombing, some of the first responses were complaints about the government not knowing enough and/or acting quickly enough. The only way to know that much and act that fast is with the type of program that Snowden revealed. It's a howl of outrage, not that two men took such actions, but that the government wasn't hovering over them to stop those actions. It's easy to do when it's "crazy Muslims" aka NOT ME. I don't have anything to hide! I don't have anything to answer for! They shouldn't be spying on me! Just the bad people! It's NOT ME!
But it is you.
Just like animals in a very pretty and comfortable enclosure at the zoo, it is you. If you're lucky, you have food and a nice place to stay and despite the fact that you walk the same boring path and look at the same boring plants every day, it's easy to not think about how your entire world is 50 square yards. Until perhaps you lose that nice job of being looked at by the tourists. Or you lose that good food. Or that enclosure isn't so comfortable anymore. And then you realize that they have been watching you, guiding you, controlling you... because, at its root, they're afraid of you.
They're afraid because they know that if enough animals in the zoo that are less equal than others decide to band together and resist the controls, revolt against the keepers, and abandon the enclosures, they might be in trouble. Without doubt, their profits margins would be in trouble and that is, in the end, the most important thing to any member of Congress and any president elected in the past 150 years, at least.
So, should people be outraged about the NSA program? Sure, I guess. It's just one more symptom of how the system is maintained. But what they should really be outraged about is not that the system of control was exposed, but that it exists in the first place. The NSA program is one element of a massive problem that is summed up in one simple phrase: rule by the rich. As long as that exists, you might as well relax and perform for the watchers. Nothing you do will matter until that changes. And, incidentally, if 1/10 of the outrage currently being spewed about the spying were directed at the massive economic and environmental problems in this country, things might actually start to change.
The Man's got a surefire system
An economic prison!
Ya gotta get out!
Ya gotta get out!
A "war on terror" is deliberately left wide open to be pursued in any direction. Nameless, stateless; it could be anyone and anywhere and, most importantly, it could be us. The first time government of, by, and for the people was mentioned was the last time it existed. Now the only question is why.
Why would the government be so obsessed with controlling its citizenry? Because people left with no other choices tend to revolt. Revolt would be bad for those in power, not least because it disturbs their carefully crafted image of the land of opportunity/greatest nation in the world/(insert pathetic slogan here.) It's been less than a couple weeks since the last time I was attacked for rejecting the benefits afforded me by being part "of this great nation." People believe this stuff, even when the evidence of rampant inequality, perhaps the highest in the history of said nation, is everywhere. If much of the population is doomed to work low-wage jobs for the rest of their existence, with little prospect of change, what hope do they have other than violence? If the highly educated segment of the population is largely demoralized because that education has been devalued if it doesn't produce instant profits, what message might they deliver to people actually willing to read their books, view their art, and listen to their speeches? Is it hope? Is it opportunity? Or is it "don't bother following me here"?
A populace without choices is a populace without hope. No hope means nihilism. Nihilism means violence. Thus, the control. That control is already so effective that much of the population, urged on by wealthy and compliant media sources, screams for more whenever a violent event occurs. After the Boston Marathon bombing, some of the first responses were complaints about the government not knowing enough and/or acting quickly enough. The only way to know that much and act that fast is with the type of program that Snowden revealed. It's a howl of outrage, not that two men took such actions, but that the government wasn't hovering over them to stop those actions. It's easy to do when it's "crazy Muslims" aka NOT ME. I don't have anything to hide! I don't have anything to answer for! They shouldn't be spying on me! Just the bad people! It's NOT ME!
But it is you.
Just like animals in a very pretty and comfortable enclosure at the zoo, it is you. If you're lucky, you have food and a nice place to stay and despite the fact that you walk the same boring path and look at the same boring plants every day, it's easy to not think about how your entire world is 50 square yards. Until perhaps you lose that nice job of being looked at by the tourists. Or you lose that good food. Or that enclosure isn't so comfortable anymore. And then you realize that they have been watching you, guiding you, controlling you... because, at its root, they're afraid of you.
They're afraid because they know that if enough animals in the zoo that are less equal than others decide to band together and resist the controls, revolt against the keepers, and abandon the enclosures, they might be in trouble. Without doubt, their profits margins would be in trouble and that is, in the end, the most important thing to any member of Congress and any president elected in the past 150 years, at least.
So, should people be outraged about the NSA program? Sure, I guess. It's just one more symptom of how the system is maintained. But what they should really be outraged about is not that the system of control was exposed, but that it exists in the first place. The NSA program is one element of a massive problem that is summed up in one simple phrase: rule by the rich. As long as that exists, you might as well relax and perform for the watchers. Nothing you do will matter until that changes. And, incidentally, if 1/10 of the outrage currently being spewed about the spying were directed at the massive economic and environmental problems in this country, things might actually start to change.
The Man's got a surefire system
An economic prison!
Ya gotta get out!
Ya gotta get out!
Transition
One note before anything: While I understand it for production reasons, it did seem pretty harsh to already remove Richard Madden and Michelle Fairley's names from the credits. OTOH, dead is dead, right?
Similarly to last season, quite a bit of episode 10 was aftermath. Last season it was the Blackwater. This season it was the Red Wedding (Side note: Our trivia team's name last week was "It's a nice day for a Red Wedding." The first time the host mentioned the scores, she said our name and followed it with: "No, it's not. You guys are jerks!")
Of course, some aftermaths are more equal than others. High praise to D&D for including this scene, as it's one of the more grisly reminders of what happened at the Twins and is mentioned in passing in the books, but it is one of the images that will tend to stick with the fans. However, the consequence of writing an episode after as momentous an occasion as the Red Wedding while being the season finale is that theme tends to get left behind. While earlier episodes may have been established around a central perception (of mine, if not the writers'), the finale is usually about wrapping things up until next season and that's where this one resides, as well.
Some moments aren't as crucial. I'm not sure that Lord Frey's little soliloquy and brief exchange with Bolton was worthwhile, for example. It's all well and good to hear once again of Walder Frey's spiteful nature and disdain for the people above him in the hierarchy, but we've been there. There's absolutely no need to remind the fans of what he is. It was a convenient way for Bolton to reveal his elevation to Warden of the North (except that Tywin already did that) and also reveals that the "boy" torturing Theon is, of course, his bastard, Ramsay Snow.
It's with Theon and a couple others that we do have some sense of theme, as the finale marks the transition for a few characters from one stance to another. We've seen all of them growing (or degenerating) in one fashion or another, but this episode marks a turning point for people like Theon and Arya as they finally step toward their new lives.
Theon, for example, assumes his new guise of Reek (and, yes, non-readers, that's what all the "rhymes with meek" stuff was about.) It's unfortunate that it's done this way because, in the books, his reintroduction comes in a very different and much more interesting fashion but, once again, the change in medium makes that a bit too difficult to pull off.
Thankfully, some of the best scenes are easy to pull off. All they need are Charles Dance, Peter Dinklage, Lena Headey, Conleth Hill, and Jack Gleeson. The meeting of the small council was, like the Frey/Bolton scene, a bit more affirmation that Tywin is the man running the show, but did so in a far more entertaining fashion. All you had to do was watch Varys' face as Joffrey accused his grandfather of cowardice during Robert's Rebellion. Priceless. Of course, the key to the scene is Tywin staring holes through the king. Watching Dance play his role with some real emotion in mentioning that the service he did the family was not killing Tyrion at birth was another high moment. And Sophie Turner doing several minutes worth of emoting with just a single woeful glance in the follow-up to that moment was brilliant. I think it's one of her best moments on the show.
OTOH, the scene with Balon and Asha/ Yara was... odd. While Balon certainly would have had a different relationship with his daughter and likely alter his normally implacable attitude to feel like he would have to convince her of a path of action, it came off roughly. Balon isn't much of a character in the books, so further development isn't all bad. You can't be as much of an ass to your designated second and purported heir (even in the patriarchal Westeros and, especially, Iron Islands) as you are to the son you disdain as a fool. Of course, Asha/Yara's path of action is a departure from the books, as well, and is obviously a way to keep Gemma Whelan on screen for the next season, as her character disappears for all of Storm of Swords. It will be interesting to see how they wrap that story around with the return of Euron and if, for that matter, the latter will be arriving next season or the one after.
Also, for as momentous as you think they would be, given their adherence to a huge leg of the story, the scenes with Bran were very anti-climactic. There was very little meat on them and they were essentially just Bran repeating "I have to go north." over and over. While they did take the opportunity to emphasize the depths of Walder Frey's crime (I'm willing to take anyone's bet that the latter survives GRRM's story) and provide the bridge (almost literally) between Sam and Gilly returning and Bran and Co. finally entering the real north, they still seem largely incidental. There basically are no scenes left for Bran in Storm, so next season is going to have to contain a lot of material from Dance (since Bran doesn't appear at all in Feast, which is the first half of Dance...)
Obviously, the timeline is about to get seriously tortured. It isn't enough that the show has to invent ways to keep people on-screen while they bridge the gap between appearances. It's also that GRRM had to split one book into two. In many ways, he's already covered this ground in attempting to keep timelines together. But we're now talking about 3 whole seasons of the show showing Bran doing pretty much nothing but traveling through the north. Certainly there are momentous events coming up (Coldhands, etc.) but it's going to be tough to stretch things that far and they may be in the situation they found themselves in season 1, in that they had to add material to an already massive story to fill out their time.
Thankfully, the finale was also about great performances, even in single moments. I've already mentioned Sophie Turner's look of pain, but I could go on at length about yet another brilliant scene between brother and sister, Tyrion and Cersei. The chemistry between those two roles and those two actors never fails to satisfy. Likewse, the anguish on Rose Leslie's face as Jon lays out the facts of life is genuinely heartbreaking. It was, of course, the worst lovers' quarrel since Lorena Bobbitt, but even fans of Kit Harrington had to appreciate Ygritte's pain.
Liam Cunningham also comes in for some credit, as he's playing the Davos role better than GRRM writes him. It's a very sympathetic role, for both character and audience, in the first place but I appreciate it now after watching much more than I ever did in reading the books. Likewise, I think John Bradley has nailed the role of Sam better than most could have expected, given his light experience. I remember finally feeling some appreciation for Sam upon his return to Castle Black and assumption of the role of educated leader, since he'd been to the wall (heh) and back. Bradley did that masterfully.
Finally, sticking to that light theme of transition, we had the character who does the most of it in this stretch of the books, Arya. It's difficult to talk about Arya's transformation without engaging in too many spoilers, as her story really takes off at this point. I had been relatively indifferent to her storyline for much of the time until the latter half of Swords, but her incredible focus from this point forward, amazingly exemplified by the bone-chilling stare of Maisie Williams over the coin and through the famous words "Valar morghulis", was thrilling to read and should be equally so to watch.
And, just as in the show, this scene needs no words:
And, after all that raving, it has to be said that the final moment, the "Mhysa" scene for which the episode was named, kinda fell flat. It's all well and good to show the Dragon Queen truly loved by her subjects but, like the Walder Frey scene, we've been there already. After all the powerful performances and change and intrigue, to end with the fairly sappy celebration outside Yunkai was a bit of a letdown. It's certainly not what I'm going to carry with me for the next 10 months while waiting for the show's return. Can't win'em all. (Has to be said: As soon as they started voicing the word "mhysa", all I could think about was: "Meesa ridiculous racial stereotype!")
Lines of the night (there were many):
"Everyone is mine to torment." - Except, you know, grandfather...
"Monsters are dangerous and just now kings are dying like flies." - And uncle.
"I'm all for cheating. This is war." - Tyrion, remaining the pragmatist. Must be easy when you know that your enemies will surely execute you if they win, if not for the crimes of your family, but for simply being you.
"Explain to me why it is more noble to kill 10, 000 men in battle than a dozen at dinner." - Here is Tywin's self-justification at its finest. This and some conversation about Robb's various mistakes have me putting together a post about GoT, ethics, and Machiavelli which I'll have up in the next day or two.
"Noooo... Pork sausage. You think I'm some kind of savage."
"My mother taught me not to throw stones at cripples. But my father taught me to aim for their head!" - While I'm mildly underwhelmed by Iwan Rheon's portrayal of Ramsay (not vicious enough), he does have solid comedic timing.
"Big words. No clothes. What would you have done?" - Srsly.
"He used to drink from sundown to sun-up, visit three brothels a night, and gamble away his father's money. Now it's just the drinking." - I really wish we could see more of Varys, but the Spider is who he is.
"It's not easy being drunk all the time. Everyone would do it if it were easy." - Truth.
"There's nothing worse than a late-blooming philosopher." - Also truth. Better to have perspective before you slaughter people in our ethical world (again, next post.)
"Why you doing this?" "Because it's right. And because I'm a slow learner." - Liam Cunningham knocking it out of the park and with the inside joke yet. All that said, it'd be nice to see Gendry disappear at this point, since his storyline logically concluded right here. That's not to say that Joe Dempsie isn't great fun to watch.
"You see, Ser Davos? You've been saved by that fire god you like to mock."- Friends in the strangest places...
Similarly to last season, quite a bit of episode 10 was aftermath. Last season it was the Blackwater. This season it was the Red Wedding (Side note: Our trivia team's name last week was "It's a nice day for a Red Wedding." The first time the host mentioned the scores, she said our name and followed it with: "No, it's not. You guys are jerks!")
Of course, some aftermaths are more equal than others. High praise to D&D for including this scene, as it's one of the more grisly reminders of what happened at the Twins and is mentioned in passing in the books, but it is one of the images that will tend to stick with the fans. However, the consequence of writing an episode after as momentous an occasion as the Red Wedding while being the season finale is that theme tends to get left behind. While earlier episodes may have been established around a central perception (of mine, if not the writers'), the finale is usually about wrapping things up until next season and that's where this one resides, as well.
Some moments aren't as crucial. I'm not sure that Lord Frey's little soliloquy and brief exchange with Bolton was worthwhile, for example. It's all well and good to hear once again of Walder Frey's spiteful nature and disdain for the people above him in the hierarchy, but we've been there. There's absolutely no need to remind the fans of what he is. It was a convenient way for Bolton to reveal his elevation to Warden of the North (except that Tywin already did that) and also reveals that the "boy" torturing Theon is, of course, his bastard, Ramsay Snow.
It's with Theon and a couple others that we do have some sense of theme, as the finale marks the transition for a few characters from one stance to another. We've seen all of them growing (or degenerating) in one fashion or another, but this episode marks a turning point for people like Theon and Arya as they finally step toward their new lives.
Theon, for example, assumes his new guise of Reek (and, yes, non-readers, that's what all the "rhymes with meek" stuff was about.) It's unfortunate that it's done this way because, in the books, his reintroduction comes in a very different and much more interesting fashion but, once again, the change in medium makes that a bit too difficult to pull off.
Thankfully, some of the best scenes are easy to pull off. All they need are Charles Dance, Peter Dinklage, Lena Headey, Conleth Hill, and Jack Gleeson. The meeting of the small council was, like the Frey/Bolton scene, a bit more affirmation that Tywin is the man running the show, but did so in a far more entertaining fashion. All you had to do was watch Varys' face as Joffrey accused his grandfather of cowardice during Robert's Rebellion. Priceless. Of course, the key to the scene is Tywin staring holes through the king. Watching Dance play his role with some real emotion in mentioning that the service he did the family was not killing Tyrion at birth was another high moment. And Sophie Turner doing several minutes worth of emoting with just a single woeful glance in the follow-up to that moment was brilliant. I think it's one of her best moments on the show.
OTOH, the scene with Balon and Asha/ Yara was... odd. While Balon certainly would have had a different relationship with his daughter and likely alter his normally implacable attitude to feel like he would have to convince her of a path of action, it came off roughly. Balon isn't much of a character in the books, so further development isn't all bad. You can't be as much of an ass to your designated second and purported heir (even in the patriarchal Westeros and, especially, Iron Islands) as you are to the son you disdain as a fool. Of course, Asha/Yara's path of action is a departure from the books, as well, and is obviously a way to keep Gemma Whelan on screen for the next season, as her character disappears for all of Storm of Swords. It will be interesting to see how they wrap that story around with the return of Euron and if, for that matter, the latter will be arriving next season or the one after.
Also, for as momentous as you think they would be, given their adherence to a huge leg of the story, the scenes with Bran were very anti-climactic. There was very little meat on them and they were essentially just Bran repeating "I have to go north." over and over. While they did take the opportunity to emphasize the depths of Walder Frey's crime (I'm willing to take anyone's bet that the latter survives GRRM's story) and provide the bridge (almost literally) between Sam and Gilly returning and Bran and Co. finally entering the real north, they still seem largely incidental. There basically are no scenes left for Bran in Storm, so next season is going to have to contain a lot of material from Dance (since Bran doesn't appear at all in Feast, which is the first half of Dance...)
Obviously, the timeline is about to get seriously tortured. It isn't enough that the show has to invent ways to keep people on-screen while they bridge the gap between appearances. It's also that GRRM had to split one book into two. In many ways, he's already covered this ground in attempting to keep timelines together. But we're now talking about 3 whole seasons of the show showing Bran doing pretty much nothing but traveling through the north. Certainly there are momentous events coming up (Coldhands, etc.) but it's going to be tough to stretch things that far and they may be in the situation they found themselves in season 1, in that they had to add material to an already massive story to fill out their time.
Thankfully, the finale was also about great performances, even in single moments. I've already mentioned Sophie Turner's look of pain, but I could go on at length about yet another brilliant scene between brother and sister, Tyrion and Cersei. The chemistry between those two roles and those two actors never fails to satisfy. Likewse, the anguish on Rose Leslie's face as Jon lays out the facts of life is genuinely heartbreaking. It was, of course, the worst lovers' quarrel since Lorena Bobbitt, but even fans of Kit Harrington had to appreciate Ygritte's pain.
Liam Cunningham also comes in for some credit, as he's playing the Davos role better than GRRM writes him. It's a very sympathetic role, for both character and audience, in the first place but I appreciate it now after watching much more than I ever did in reading the books. Likewise, I think John Bradley has nailed the role of Sam better than most could have expected, given his light experience. I remember finally feeling some appreciation for Sam upon his return to Castle Black and assumption of the role of educated leader, since he'd been to the wall (heh) and back. Bradley did that masterfully.
Finally, sticking to that light theme of transition, we had the character who does the most of it in this stretch of the books, Arya. It's difficult to talk about Arya's transformation without engaging in too many spoilers, as her story really takes off at this point. I had been relatively indifferent to her storyline for much of the time until the latter half of Swords, but her incredible focus from this point forward, amazingly exemplified by the bone-chilling stare of Maisie Williams over the coin and through the famous words "Valar morghulis", was thrilling to read and should be equally so to watch.
And, just as in the show, this scene needs no words:
And, after all that raving, it has to be said that the final moment, the "Mhysa" scene for which the episode was named, kinda fell flat. It's all well and good to show the Dragon Queen truly loved by her subjects but, like the Walder Frey scene, we've been there already. After all the powerful performances and change and intrigue, to end with the fairly sappy celebration outside Yunkai was a bit of a letdown. It's certainly not what I'm going to carry with me for the next 10 months while waiting for the show's return. Can't win'em all. (Has to be said: As soon as they started voicing the word "mhysa", all I could think about was: "Meesa ridiculous racial stereotype!")
Lines of the night (there were many):
"Everyone is mine to torment." - Except, you know, grandfather...
"Monsters are dangerous and just now kings are dying like flies." - And uncle.
"I'm all for cheating. This is war." - Tyrion, remaining the pragmatist. Must be easy when you know that your enemies will surely execute you if they win, if not for the crimes of your family, but for simply being you.
"Explain to me why it is more noble to kill 10, 000 men in battle than a dozen at dinner." - Here is Tywin's self-justification at its finest. This and some conversation about Robb's various mistakes have me putting together a post about GoT, ethics, and Machiavelli which I'll have up in the next day or two.
"Noooo... Pork sausage. You think I'm some kind of savage."
"My mother taught me not to throw stones at cripples. But my father taught me to aim for their head!" - While I'm mildly underwhelmed by Iwan Rheon's portrayal of Ramsay (not vicious enough), he does have solid comedic timing.
"Big words. No clothes. What would you have done?" - Srsly.
"He used to drink from sundown to sun-up, visit three brothels a night, and gamble away his father's money. Now it's just the drinking." - I really wish we could see more of Varys, but the Spider is who he is.
"It's not easy being drunk all the time. Everyone would do it if it were easy." - Truth.
"There's nothing worse than a late-blooming philosopher." - Also truth. Better to have perspective before you slaughter people in our ethical world (again, next post.)
"Why you doing this?" "Because it's right. And because I'm a slow learner." - Liam Cunningham knocking it out of the park and with the inside joke yet. All that said, it'd be nice to see Gendry disappear at this point, since his storyline logically concluded right here. That's not to say that Joe Dempsie isn't great fun to watch.
"You see, Ser Davos? You've been saved by that fire god you like to mock."- Friends in the strangest places...
Friday, June 7, 2013
The riddle of Scott
Ridley Scott was once one of my favorite directors and he's still a pretty respected name in the industry, but largely for films I consider to be nowhere near his peak. Like John Carpenter, Scott is one of those directors whom I feel lost his way somewhere along the course of his career. If one defines success as making a ton of money, he still does that and does it better than ever before. If one defines success as making memorable films, one of his most lauded, Gladiator, appeared well past the point where I had abandoned his efforts as far less than his earlier achievements. In fact, Gladiator won him the only Academy Awards that he currently holds (of course, James Cameron swept the Oscars for the execrable Titanic...) What disturbs me about most of Scott's material, post-Thelma and Louise, is his placement of spectacle over story. When explosions and hundreds of extras are a replacement for solid writing and intriguing plot, you have what Scott has largely become and what Hollywood tends to be in love with: Big Summer Blockbusters!!!... that, of course, reside in one's memory for only about a week until the next Big Summer Blockbuster!!!
His early films, on the other hand, hold a place in the audience's memory because of the enormous attention to detail that was taken and the often gripping performances by the cast whom were given miles of story and nuance to work with. The Duellists is a fine example and Scott's first major film. The plot itself seems simplistic: Gabriel Feraud (Harvey Keitel), a dedicated duellist in Napoleon's army takes offense to Armand d'Hubert's (Keith Carradine) attempt to arrest him for his activity and, of course, challenges him to exactly that proscribed activity: a duel. When they're unable to complete the first encounter, Feraud makes it his life's mission to salvage his honor by finishing a duel with d'Hubert. The essential crux of the story is that Feraud and d'Hubert's personal contest is framed against the ongoing political situation in France. In fact, their series of duels is shaped by the success and final disastrous failure of the Napoleonic regime, including being on opposite sides of the Loyalist/Bonapartist divide upon the general's return from Elba. It's a story about personal ambition as one small part of a nationalist ambition; a drilled down focus, as it were, on the life and culture of the times in the officer corps.
Indeed, the film is most often hailed for its remarkable attention to detail in costumes, hairstyles, and fencing styles. It's that detail, that sensation, that atmosphere that tends to define Scott's early works when it was clear that he was determined to give the whole broad picture, even as he was focusing on the small interactions between characters. Focus in the pacing sense is also mirrored by the cinematography, as he demonstrates what would become a Scott trademark, in showing regular action from a distance and a tendency toward broad establishment shots that help set the mood of the scene. For a film based around the idea of personal combat, the action is genuinely secondary to what is motivating the characters; most notably d'Hubert, who wants nothing to do with the entire concept and yet is inevitably drawn into it by a variety of circumstances. On the one hand, I do think it deserved the Best Deput prize at Cannes. OTOH, it does carry that veneer of angst that colored many films of the mid- to late-70s.
His next notable work, however, was an example of a filmmaker and a studio defiantly stepping away from the order of the day and producing a film that stands out as one of the finer example of science fiction filmmaking in the modern era. This was 1979, 2 years after the emergence of Star Wars. The proliferation of laser blasters and outer space explosions had spread to every corner of the film world, including James Bond. But not here. In Alien, Scott not only presented a less hyperkinetic situation, but he did so with characters that were industrial workers in an industrial world. No one was weighed down by prophecy or besotted in privilege. These were normal people doing a normal job who just happened to run across extraordinary circumstances. Furthermore, the story didn't start and stop with the unusual situation. Their interactions were about payment shares, command issues, ship security, the food, and everything one might normally discuss in an ore trawler heading back to Earth. And, again, the attention to detail is part of what makes the story work. They acknowledge the actual science of space travel by the very tagline of the film ("In space, no one can hear you scream.") Much time is taken showing the descent to the moon to answer the distress call and the difficult conditions on that moon. Again, the broad establishment shot of the descent gives the viewer time to appreciate the magnitude of the undertaking and how it's being engaged as much as the broad shot of the interior of the alien craft allows the impact of the moment and the age of the ship itself to become noticeable to the audience. In both cases, Jerry Goldsmith's score is brilliant, as well.
Notice how Scott doesn't end the action while he pulls back. There is no orchestral crash and a camera freeze. He just lets the continuing motion of the crew crawling into the chamber and the echoes and the brief, static-shrouded comments on the radio set the tone. In other words, he lets the scene play. It's wonderfully moody stuff which is exactly what the moment calls for and which would probably be hammed into irrelevance by many other directors, desperate for a "Wow!" moment. Scott, at the time, let the story tell the tale. Just as important, he let the undercurrents of the plot (the fact that Weyland-Yutani was willing to sacrifice them all and Ash (Ian Holm) was their tool to ensure it) appear without added emphasis. The audience was allowed to absorb the lines on Mother's screen and the actors' reactions without encouragement. Likewise, even in the charged moments where characters like Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) are frantic or yelling, he doesn't let that energy overwhelm the pacing. It's a restraint that is emblematic of his direction in those earlier years and which, sadly, was later lost.
What followed was a film that Scott has declared his "most complete and personal" and is one that I think is the finest science fiction film ever made and one of the best, regardless of genre... with a caveat.
Blade Runner, based on Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? broke ground in many ways. Once again, it strayed from the prevailing SF model of the time, with the armadas and the armor and the lasers. Instead, it went back to a Dashiell Hammett-model of noir and used a plot of unusual thematic complexity, not only for SF of the time, but for Hollywood in general. It also, as originally cut, spent a lot of time allowing the audience to simply absorb the visuals presented to them. As film is a visual medium, one would think this would be natural, but it's rarely the case in major cinema that what is presented on screen can go unaccompanied by someone yakking about this or that element of the plot and/or the characters' reactions to what is happening right in front of them. Have an exciting car chase? Don't forget to interrupt it every 15 seconds to show the hero yelling "Oh my God!" when something else blows up. There was none of that here. We're shown vistas of Los Angeles, the towers of the elite, and the alleyways of the downtrodden, including where those who form the foundation of the elite's wealth also live. Statements are made about the future and about now, all by only what appears on the screen (along with, of course, Vangelis' brilliant score.) And here comes the caveat...
Because the version I'm speaking of is the so-called "Director's cut" as originally presented in the early 90s. Scott originally shot the film without Deckard's (Harrison Ford) voiceover, with Deckard's dreams about the unicorn, and without the tacked on Hollywood ending where he and Rachael (Sean Young) drive off into the test audience-pleasing sunset. Instead, the original cut ends with Deckard picking up the origami unicorn in the elevator and remembering Gaff (Edward James Olmos) shouting "It's too bad she won't live! But, then again, who does?!" Just that moment leaves open the essential questions that the film asks (and which Scott lets it ask) about creation, humanity, life, and perspective. Warner Bros., in its inimitable wisdom, distorted the theatrical release because it was afraid that audiences wouldn't understand those questions, but that's precisely the point: people aren't supposed to understand them because understanding implies answering and some questions aren't meant to be answered. They're intended to be posed and left to each individual to answer in their own way. Scott let those questions be posed and the studio butchered that process. Thankfully, the directors' cut release later ameliorated this to a certain degree and there are now seven different cuts of the film, happily released by Warner Bros. to cloud the issue even further. Hooray for Hollywood.
This clip is a great example of Scott's restraint, in which Deckard callously reveals to Rachael that her existence is a lie. She digests that while he transitions from thinking of her as an object to a person that has feelings (something he often lacks and the source of the popular theory that Deckard is so good at "retiring" replicants because he actually is one.) The camera is very patient, watching the changes come over them, and not changing pace even as the facts are revealed.
This trio of films marks the high water period for me in Scott's career. The attention to story, detail, pacing, and atmosphere are brilliant examples of filmmaking. There is an argument to be made that working with good material often produces good films. In the case of The Duellists, the inspiration was a Joseph Conrad short story, The Duel, in the same manner as Blade Runner. But Alien was an original screenplay; certainly a good one, but lacking a foundation in the "higher" medium of literature. Granted, he also benefited from such things as the artistic inspiration of H. R. Giger in Alien and that of Syd Mead in Blade Runner but it was the use of those visuals to tell a complete story in both cases that shows the hand of Scott most prominently. Indeed, later in his career, his films are still celebrated for their impressive visuals and set design. They're just used to enhance the spectacle, rather than the story.
Following that trio, Scott perhaps saw a route by which he could be deemed more successful (none of the three was a major hit; Alien doing the best) and began to conform to more Hollywood-like expectations with films like Legend and Black Rain. The latter film especially begins to show signs of formula in the, by then, tried and true Dirty Harry style. But they were also only moderate successes at the box office (at best) and he really didn't hit his stride, fame-wise, until the release of Thelma and Louise.
This was Scott's last truly daring excursion in topic matter as the film took on the subject of gender politics in a rather (ahem) direct fashion. It was reviled for that by some audiences (because, you know, there ain't no justice for you if you're male (and, even better, white) in this world) but became an instant hit because of not only the controversy, but the powerful performance of the two female leads, Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis. In contrast to the aforementioned moody pacing, Thelma and Louise was a very bright and very aggressive story that Scott told in a rather hasty fashion. While it still falls into some degree of formulaic approach as a Hollywood "buddy" film, the fact that he was willing to be that aggressive on what remains a touchy topic for the hierarchy, as well as end it in a very non-Hollywood but story-justified manner makes it the last really good film that he has completed. One other element of the film is telling in Scott's career: for as fast as the story is, he takes over two hours to tell it. This became an issue in many of his later films.
The decade of the 90s produced nothing of any particular merit for Scott but what became his most famous film emerged in 2000 in the form of Gladiator.
Gladiator is Scott's most-heralded film and is almost universally loved except for those of us who bemoan the lack of actual storytelling in favor of explosions (Why are there explosions in ancient warfare? Hey, watch it and try to suss that out for yourself if you have three hours to spare.) This is the primary example of what became Scott's trademark for the past decade: glitz over substance. He had a wonderful cast (Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix, Connie Nielsen, Oliver Reed, Richard Harris) and a wealth of background to work from. I'm an acknowledged fan of Roman history and there are great stories to be told (and retold) and you can do it without inventing anything to go along with them. This holds true in non-fiction, as well. Want to read about the Gallic Wars? Read the book by the man who conducted them. Scott decided to take a fictionalized scenario, add historical trappings to it, and then proceed, which is all well and good. But the fact is that the story itself is completely linear and asks almost no questions about its own or our modern circumstances and can't even be used to draw parallels to modern culture. It's a cipher, used mostly to show off Crowe's talent and employ hundreds of extras (real and CGI) to create a spectacle. It unintentionally draws an object lesson about itself and the old "bread and circuses" aphorism, in which modern audiences will swallow anything completely thoughtless as long as you have big battle scenes.
But that in itself is almost a betrayal of Scott's earlier and respected tendency for detail because much of the battle scenes don't even make any sense. Unlike The Duellists, the costuming is largely wrong. No one used siege engines in a field battle. No one sane conducts a full cavalry charge through dense forest ("Hey! Your horse just tripped on that root... and you're dead.") Roman infantry tactics are completely ignored in favor of Hollywood-style single combat (among thousands of figures.) At the same time, the original script called for the gladiators to promote various products from the floor of the arena - which is what actually happened, in the same manner as former NFL stars boosting beer or razor blades during games - but Scott rejected the idea because he thought audiences would find it hard to believe. So, catapults and explosions are believable enough, but stuff that actually happened is beyond the pale. Check. This is where story (even HIstory) gets abandoned to make a bigger splash on the screen. This is where a director's previous work, now highly respected and immortalized for its subtexts and meanings, gets abandoned so millions can be made with tigers and trapdoors. In many ways, Gladiator is remarkably similar to The Duellists, in that it's about the driving obsession of one man indexed against the larger politics proceeding around him. The problem is that the later film utterly lacks the dramatic depth of the previous one, no matter how good the lead actor was and is. Furthermore, Scott took almost three hours to tell a story that could have been done in half that time. I was not entertained.
Scott also began to trend in an odd direction for a filmmaker who earlier seemed to favor projects that questioned cultural tendencies in that his work post 9/11 began to be almost a series of cheerleading escapades for US foreign policy, like Black Hawk Down, Body of Lies, and, most notably in a cultural sense, Kingdom of Heaven.
Once again, we see the travails of a lone hero in the midst of political and military activity that largely revolves around his Joseph Campbell moment, which is fine. It's bog-standard, but fine. The problem here is that, unlike Gladiator, where Scott shied away from the history to keep his story sound (the prerogative of any creative storyteller), in Kingdom he simply ignored it. What makes it even worse is that he employed a far lesser talent to try to carry the central role. If you're going to abandon history to tell your story, at least make sure you have an actor capable of telling it. Orlando Bloom is not that actor, even while surrounded by an otherwise excellent cast (Vera Green, Edward Norton, Ghassan Massoud, Jeremy Irons, Liam Neeson.) Furthermore, if you're going to take advantage of that cast's talents, you're better off doing it in your previously heralded moments of patient cinematography, rather than following the standard Hollywood route of quick cuts between mass actions, interspersed with your lead's anxious relaying of just how the battle is proceeding, which we've already seen in the five previous cuts.
Incidentally, I realize that not everyone is as interested in historical veracity as I am and, as noted, I certainly acknowledge the right of people adapting history to take liberties with it to make a story flow better (While Commodus did fight in the arena, he didn't die in it, but was instead strangled in his bath; that really would have let the air out of that scene.) But there are limits to all things. The city of Jerusalem is arrayed on a number of hills. That's part of why the city emerged as a trade and, later, cultural and religious center. It didn't sprout like a lone cactus as the only feature on the frying pan of the Negev as depicted in Kingdom. But, of course, a flat, open plain is the best way to show medieval trebuchets bashing through walls like a modern howitzer would, right? Except that said devices were never that powerful and both modern howitzers and medieval trebuchets hurl objects in a parabolic arc, so neither would function in the way the action is shown in the film. But that's OK because EXPLOSIONS! And, in direct contrast to The Duellists, the fencing techniques in the film weren't actually developed for another four hundred years.
But most damning (heh) of all is the fact that, in the end, there's no there there when it comes to the story. The film would have been far more interesting (and been carried better by its lead) if it had been about Ed Norton's role as Baldwin IV, the leper king. Instead, we got Balian, the common bastard blacksmith (he was actually one of the most powerful nobles in the Crusader kingdoms) becoming a hero for the ages and requiring a level of suspension of disbelief akin to what's required to believe in Genesis. There was no foundation to support that disbelief and, yet, Scott blamed the mediocre reception of the film on the fact that the studio had hacked it down to an hour-and-a-half adventure tale when he wanted to tell a three-and-a-half hour historical epic with the same flawed story. I've seen the director's cut. It does not rescue the film.
American Gangster has a similar problem. Here you have Russell Crowe and Denzel Washington. With those two actors, you should be able to work some real magic, right? Your basic plot is the gritty 70s (Mr. Tarantino to the white scriptwriters' phone!) and one of the most audacious drug rings ever known, in which kilos of heroin were allegedly shipped in the coffins of American soldiers coming back from Vietnam. I'd give a couple fingers to have the chance to write that story. But what comes out of it? Glitz, flash, and almost nothing else. We get a lot of scenes of Washington parading around Manhattan and Crowe doing the stereotypical 70s-broken-marriage-while-Serpico thing... but it's been done. There's no meat there. The film promises much and delivers little other than a sterling performance by Ruby Dee in a very small role. Scott spends as little time considering his characters' reactions to their respective ethical and organizational crises as he does in Black Rain, because it's simply more exciting to follow the action film formula.
Now I'm not even sure he's following any formula. I sacrificed two hours of my life to watch Prometheus because it showed up on HBO the other day. I knew it was awful. I'd been told it was awful. But I did it, anyway, because I'm still hoping for a return-to-Jesus moment even though I long since should have given up hope. It was, of course, awful. He utterly wasted the talents of people like Charlize Theron, Idriss Elba, and Guy Pearce (most people I've spoken to didn't even know he was in the film) and attempted to tell four different stories at once and told none of them decently. Once again, he blamed it on the fact that his original cut was too long for wide release, but one can only make that excuse so many times before people will begin asking why you're allowed to helm the production. I agree that the first compliment given to him for The Duellists 36 years ago remains true today: it was a pretty film. But pretty only gets you so far and eventually, it shows its age. So has Scott, unfortunately. I'm going to go watch Blade Runner for the hundredth time now.
Next: David Fincher.
His early films, on the other hand, hold a place in the audience's memory because of the enormous attention to detail that was taken and the often gripping performances by the cast whom were given miles of story and nuance to work with. The Duellists is a fine example and Scott's first major film. The plot itself seems simplistic: Gabriel Feraud (Harvey Keitel), a dedicated duellist in Napoleon's army takes offense to Armand d'Hubert's (Keith Carradine) attempt to arrest him for his activity and, of course, challenges him to exactly that proscribed activity: a duel. When they're unable to complete the first encounter, Feraud makes it his life's mission to salvage his honor by finishing a duel with d'Hubert. The essential crux of the story is that Feraud and d'Hubert's personal contest is framed against the ongoing political situation in France. In fact, their series of duels is shaped by the success and final disastrous failure of the Napoleonic regime, including being on opposite sides of the Loyalist/Bonapartist divide upon the general's return from Elba. It's a story about personal ambition as one small part of a nationalist ambition; a drilled down focus, as it were, on the life and culture of the times in the officer corps.
Indeed, the film is most often hailed for its remarkable attention to detail in costumes, hairstyles, and fencing styles. It's that detail, that sensation, that atmosphere that tends to define Scott's early works when it was clear that he was determined to give the whole broad picture, even as he was focusing on the small interactions between characters. Focus in the pacing sense is also mirrored by the cinematography, as he demonstrates what would become a Scott trademark, in showing regular action from a distance and a tendency toward broad establishment shots that help set the mood of the scene. For a film based around the idea of personal combat, the action is genuinely secondary to what is motivating the characters; most notably d'Hubert, who wants nothing to do with the entire concept and yet is inevitably drawn into it by a variety of circumstances. On the one hand, I do think it deserved the Best Deput prize at Cannes. OTOH, it does carry that veneer of angst that colored many films of the mid- to late-70s.
His next notable work, however, was an example of a filmmaker and a studio defiantly stepping away from the order of the day and producing a film that stands out as one of the finer example of science fiction filmmaking in the modern era. This was 1979, 2 years after the emergence of Star Wars. The proliferation of laser blasters and outer space explosions had spread to every corner of the film world, including James Bond. But not here. In Alien, Scott not only presented a less hyperkinetic situation, but he did so with characters that were industrial workers in an industrial world. No one was weighed down by prophecy or besotted in privilege. These were normal people doing a normal job who just happened to run across extraordinary circumstances. Furthermore, the story didn't start and stop with the unusual situation. Their interactions were about payment shares, command issues, ship security, the food, and everything one might normally discuss in an ore trawler heading back to Earth. And, again, the attention to detail is part of what makes the story work. They acknowledge the actual science of space travel by the very tagline of the film ("In space, no one can hear you scream.") Much time is taken showing the descent to the moon to answer the distress call and the difficult conditions on that moon. Again, the broad establishment shot of the descent gives the viewer time to appreciate the magnitude of the undertaking and how it's being engaged as much as the broad shot of the interior of the alien craft allows the impact of the moment and the age of the ship itself to become noticeable to the audience. In both cases, Jerry Goldsmith's score is brilliant, as well.
Notice how Scott doesn't end the action while he pulls back. There is no orchestral crash and a camera freeze. He just lets the continuing motion of the crew crawling into the chamber and the echoes and the brief, static-shrouded comments on the radio set the tone. In other words, he lets the scene play. It's wonderfully moody stuff which is exactly what the moment calls for and which would probably be hammed into irrelevance by many other directors, desperate for a "Wow!" moment. Scott, at the time, let the story tell the tale. Just as important, he let the undercurrents of the plot (the fact that Weyland-Yutani was willing to sacrifice them all and Ash (Ian Holm) was their tool to ensure it) appear without added emphasis. The audience was allowed to absorb the lines on Mother's screen and the actors' reactions without encouragement. Likewise, even in the charged moments where characters like Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) are frantic or yelling, he doesn't let that energy overwhelm the pacing. It's a restraint that is emblematic of his direction in those earlier years and which, sadly, was later lost.
What followed was a film that Scott has declared his "most complete and personal" and is one that I think is the finest science fiction film ever made and one of the best, regardless of genre... with a caveat.
Blade Runner, based on Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? broke ground in many ways. Once again, it strayed from the prevailing SF model of the time, with the armadas and the armor and the lasers. Instead, it went back to a Dashiell Hammett-model of noir and used a plot of unusual thematic complexity, not only for SF of the time, but for Hollywood in general. It also, as originally cut, spent a lot of time allowing the audience to simply absorb the visuals presented to them. As film is a visual medium, one would think this would be natural, but it's rarely the case in major cinema that what is presented on screen can go unaccompanied by someone yakking about this or that element of the plot and/or the characters' reactions to what is happening right in front of them. Have an exciting car chase? Don't forget to interrupt it every 15 seconds to show the hero yelling "Oh my God!" when something else blows up. There was none of that here. We're shown vistas of Los Angeles, the towers of the elite, and the alleyways of the downtrodden, including where those who form the foundation of the elite's wealth also live. Statements are made about the future and about now, all by only what appears on the screen (along with, of course, Vangelis' brilliant score.) And here comes the caveat...
Because the version I'm speaking of is the so-called "Director's cut" as originally presented in the early 90s. Scott originally shot the film without Deckard's (Harrison Ford) voiceover, with Deckard's dreams about the unicorn, and without the tacked on Hollywood ending where he and Rachael (Sean Young) drive off into the test audience-pleasing sunset. Instead, the original cut ends with Deckard picking up the origami unicorn in the elevator and remembering Gaff (Edward James Olmos) shouting "It's too bad she won't live! But, then again, who does?!" Just that moment leaves open the essential questions that the film asks (and which Scott lets it ask) about creation, humanity, life, and perspective. Warner Bros., in its inimitable wisdom, distorted the theatrical release because it was afraid that audiences wouldn't understand those questions, but that's precisely the point: people aren't supposed to understand them because understanding implies answering and some questions aren't meant to be answered. They're intended to be posed and left to each individual to answer in their own way. Scott let those questions be posed and the studio butchered that process. Thankfully, the directors' cut release later ameliorated this to a certain degree and there are now seven different cuts of the film, happily released by Warner Bros. to cloud the issue even further. Hooray for Hollywood.
This clip is a great example of Scott's restraint, in which Deckard callously reveals to Rachael that her existence is a lie. She digests that while he transitions from thinking of her as an object to a person that has feelings (something he often lacks and the source of the popular theory that Deckard is so good at "retiring" replicants because he actually is one.) The camera is very patient, watching the changes come over them, and not changing pace even as the facts are revealed.
This trio of films marks the high water period for me in Scott's career. The attention to story, detail, pacing, and atmosphere are brilliant examples of filmmaking. There is an argument to be made that working with good material often produces good films. In the case of The Duellists, the inspiration was a Joseph Conrad short story, The Duel, in the same manner as Blade Runner. But Alien was an original screenplay; certainly a good one, but lacking a foundation in the "higher" medium of literature. Granted, he also benefited from such things as the artistic inspiration of H. R. Giger in Alien and that of Syd Mead in Blade Runner but it was the use of those visuals to tell a complete story in both cases that shows the hand of Scott most prominently. Indeed, later in his career, his films are still celebrated for their impressive visuals and set design. They're just used to enhance the spectacle, rather than the story.
Following that trio, Scott perhaps saw a route by which he could be deemed more successful (none of the three was a major hit; Alien doing the best) and began to conform to more Hollywood-like expectations with films like Legend and Black Rain. The latter film especially begins to show signs of formula in the, by then, tried and true Dirty Harry style. But they were also only moderate successes at the box office (at best) and he really didn't hit his stride, fame-wise, until the release of Thelma and Louise.
This was Scott's last truly daring excursion in topic matter as the film took on the subject of gender politics in a rather (ahem) direct fashion. It was reviled for that by some audiences (because, you know, there ain't no justice for you if you're male (and, even better, white) in this world) but became an instant hit because of not only the controversy, but the powerful performance of the two female leads, Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis. In contrast to the aforementioned moody pacing, Thelma and Louise was a very bright and very aggressive story that Scott told in a rather hasty fashion. While it still falls into some degree of formulaic approach as a Hollywood "buddy" film, the fact that he was willing to be that aggressive on what remains a touchy topic for the hierarchy, as well as end it in a very non-Hollywood but story-justified manner makes it the last really good film that he has completed. One other element of the film is telling in Scott's career: for as fast as the story is, he takes over two hours to tell it. This became an issue in many of his later films.
The decade of the 90s produced nothing of any particular merit for Scott but what became his most famous film emerged in 2000 in the form of Gladiator.
Gladiator is Scott's most-heralded film and is almost universally loved except for those of us who bemoan the lack of actual storytelling in favor of explosions (Why are there explosions in ancient warfare? Hey, watch it and try to suss that out for yourself if you have three hours to spare.) This is the primary example of what became Scott's trademark for the past decade: glitz over substance. He had a wonderful cast (Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix, Connie Nielsen, Oliver Reed, Richard Harris) and a wealth of background to work from. I'm an acknowledged fan of Roman history and there are great stories to be told (and retold) and you can do it without inventing anything to go along with them. This holds true in non-fiction, as well. Want to read about the Gallic Wars? Read the book by the man who conducted them. Scott decided to take a fictionalized scenario, add historical trappings to it, and then proceed, which is all well and good. But the fact is that the story itself is completely linear and asks almost no questions about its own or our modern circumstances and can't even be used to draw parallels to modern culture. It's a cipher, used mostly to show off Crowe's talent and employ hundreds of extras (real and CGI) to create a spectacle. It unintentionally draws an object lesson about itself and the old "bread and circuses" aphorism, in which modern audiences will swallow anything completely thoughtless as long as you have big battle scenes.
But that in itself is almost a betrayal of Scott's earlier and respected tendency for detail because much of the battle scenes don't even make any sense. Unlike The Duellists, the costuming is largely wrong. No one used siege engines in a field battle. No one sane conducts a full cavalry charge through dense forest ("Hey! Your horse just tripped on that root... and you're dead.") Roman infantry tactics are completely ignored in favor of Hollywood-style single combat (among thousands of figures.) At the same time, the original script called for the gladiators to promote various products from the floor of the arena - which is what actually happened, in the same manner as former NFL stars boosting beer or razor blades during games - but Scott rejected the idea because he thought audiences would find it hard to believe. So, catapults and explosions are believable enough, but stuff that actually happened is beyond the pale. Check. This is where story (even HIstory) gets abandoned to make a bigger splash on the screen. This is where a director's previous work, now highly respected and immortalized for its subtexts and meanings, gets abandoned so millions can be made with tigers and trapdoors. In many ways, Gladiator is remarkably similar to The Duellists, in that it's about the driving obsession of one man indexed against the larger politics proceeding around him. The problem is that the later film utterly lacks the dramatic depth of the previous one, no matter how good the lead actor was and is. Furthermore, Scott took almost three hours to tell a story that could have been done in half that time. I was not entertained.
Scott also began to trend in an odd direction for a filmmaker who earlier seemed to favor projects that questioned cultural tendencies in that his work post 9/11 began to be almost a series of cheerleading escapades for US foreign policy, like Black Hawk Down, Body of Lies, and, most notably in a cultural sense, Kingdom of Heaven.
Once again, we see the travails of a lone hero in the midst of political and military activity that largely revolves around his Joseph Campbell moment, which is fine. It's bog-standard, but fine. The problem here is that, unlike Gladiator, where Scott shied away from the history to keep his story sound (the prerogative of any creative storyteller), in Kingdom he simply ignored it. What makes it even worse is that he employed a far lesser talent to try to carry the central role. If you're going to abandon history to tell your story, at least make sure you have an actor capable of telling it. Orlando Bloom is not that actor, even while surrounded by an otherwise excellent cast (Vera Green, Edward Norton, Ghassan Massoud, Jeremy Irons, Liam Neeson.) Furthermore, if you're going to take advantage of that cast's talents, you're better off doing it in your previously heralded moments of patient cinematography, rather than following the standard Hollywood route of quick cuts between mass actions, interspersed with your lead's anxious relaying of just how the battle is proceeding, which we've already seen in the five previous cuts.
Incidentally, I realize that not everyone is as interested in historical veracity as I am and, as noted, I certainly acknowledge the right of people adapting history to take liberties with it to make a story flow better (While Commodus did fight in the arena, he didn't die in it, but was instead strangled in his bath; that really would have let the air out of that scene.) But there are limits to all things. The city of Jerusalem is arrayed on a number of hills. That's part of why the city emerged as a trade and, later, cultural and religious center. It didn't sprout like a lone cactus as the only feature on the frying pan of the Negev as depicted in Kingdom. But, of course, a flat, open plain is the best way to show medieval trebuchets bashing through walls like a modern howitzer would, right? Except that said devices were never that powerful and both modern howitzers and medieval trebuchets hurl objects in a parabolic arc, so neither would function in the way the action is shown in the film. But that's OK because EXPLOSIONS! And, in direct contrast to The Duellists, the fencing techniques in the film weren't actually developed for another four hundred years.
But most damning (heh) of all is the fact that, in the end, there's no there there when it comes to the story. The film would have been far more interesting (and been carried better by its lead) if it had been about Ed Norton's role as Baldwin IV, the leper king. Instead, we got Balian, the common bastard blacksmith (he was actually one of the most powerful nobles in the Crusader kingdoms) becoming a hero for the ages and requiring a level of suspension of disbelief akin to what's required to believe in Genesis. There was no foundation to support that disbelief and, yet, Scott blamed the mediocre reception of the film on the fact that the studio had hacked it down to an hour-and-a-half adventure tale when he wanted to tell a three-and-a-half hour historical epic with the same flawed story. I've seen the director's cut. It does not rescue the film.
American Gangster has a similar problem. Here you have Russell Crowe and Denzel Washington. With those two actors, you should be able to work some real magic, right? Your basic plot is the gritty 70s (Mr. Tarantino to the white scriptwriters' phone!) and one of the most audacious drug rings ever known, in which kilos of heroin were allegedly shipped in the coffins of American soldiers coming back from Vietnam. I'd give a couple fingers to have the chance to write that story. But what comes out of it? Glitz, flash, and almost nothing else. We get a lot of scenes of Washington parading around Manhattan and Crowe doing the stereotypical 70s-broken-marriage-while-Serpico thing... but it's been done. There's no meat there. The film promises much and delivers little other than a sterling performance by Ruby Dee in a very small role. Scott spends as little time considering his characters' reactions to their respective ethical and organizational crises as he does in Black Rain, because it's simply more exciting to follow the action film formula.
Now I'm not even sure he's following any formula. I sacrificed two hours of my life to watch Prometheus because it showed up on HBO the other day. I knew it was awful. I'd been told it was awful. But I did it, anyway, because I'm still hoping for a return-to-Jesus moment even though I long since should have given up hope. It was, of course, awful. He utterly wasted the talents of people like Charlize Theron, Idriss Elba, and Guy Pearce (most people I've spoken to didn't even know he was in the film) and attempted to tell four different stories at once and told none of them decently. Once again, he blamed it on the fact that his original cut was too long for wide release, but one can only make that excuse so many times before people will begin asking why you're allowed to helm the production. I agree that the first compliment given to him for The Duellists 36 years ago remains true today: it was a pretty film. But pretty only gets you so far and eventually, it shows its age. So has Scott, unfortunately. I'm going to go watch Blade Runner for the hundredth time now.
Next: David Fincher.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Slow realizations
If you think about it, anyone who hasn't read the books could have seen this coming. After all, what have all your book-readin' friends been raving about for the past decade? "George R. R. Martin is a favorite character killer! No one is safe!" And through three seasons, who has actually died? Ned, Robert, Drogo, Viserys, Renly. That's about it and it's a stretch to consider the latter three fan favorites. Meanwhile, the last two episodes' material with Robb have basically been a series of (ahem) pregnant pauses. You could feel something building up, given the borderline insane plans to treat with Walder Frey and then stroll off to lay siege to Casterly Rock. It's that slow realization of dramatic change that forms the real basis for this episode, as that reaction happens again and again as people discover that what they most hoped for has been dashed and what they most feared has been realized. This is Westeros (and Essos) and welcome to it.
Scene after scene is built upon or highlighted by the expressions on various characters' faces as their inner thoughts, that crucial element that is so important to the books and yet is absent from the show by nature of the medium, tell them something that they should have known but are still utterly shocked by. One of the best is in the first few moments, when Catelyn stares holes through Robb as now- now! -he comes to her for advice. You can see her searching him for an agenda, for what it might mean for their damaged relationship, for what it might mean in his entreaties to Lord Frey. There are extreme hopes and fears there and there is no one that is immune to them.
Jorah Mormont feels it when Daario first covers Dany's hand to move it across the map. The realization is there, but he quickly tries to dismiss it in the name of duty as he reaffirms his and Ser Barristan's role in this whole escapade. Later, when he and Grey Worm narrowly escape with their lives and Dany asks after only Daario, his world caves in and those attempts at dismissal are long gone.
Arya feels it when she realizes that everything the Hound is telling her is true. She is afraid and it is altering her behavior, protest notwithstanding. But those fears don't come to fruition until she has to watch her brother's wolf get slaughtered and then suddenly discover that the man she hates, the murderer of her friend, is the only one who can protect her from the madhouse that the Twins has become.
Again and again: Gilly discovering that the man who rescued her knows about an entirely different world... The Hound realizing just how grim and dedicated this tiny woman is when she clocks the farmer to keep him alive... Osha's resigned disgust at hearing her little charges spit back the old wives' (Nans'?) tales about the evil Wildlings... Edmure discovering that at least one daughter of Walder Frey is pretty hot... Ygritte's anguished dismay as she watches her lover leave her behind, a traitor to her people... The creepy discomfort on Talisa's face as she watches tradition take Edmure and his new bride up the stairs and violate the intimacy of their first physical moments. This episode was a study of faces, a study of expression, and most of it, at its root, was about fear.
Fear is everything here. Jon fears what the Wildlings will do and how he'll feel responsible for letting them do it. Ygritte fears that her suspicions about Jon are real and how she'll still want to let him fulfill them. Arya fears missing out on finally reuniting with her family, even though she knows that she's forever changed and may never feel the same about them while she's driven by vengeance. Jorah fears Daario's betrayal inside Yunkai as that's what Jorah, an opportunist of the first order, would probably do. But even moreso, he fears having to confront his own realization that Dany is lost to him as a lover and Daario is the walking proof. And nothing was more obvious than the trepidation that Robb and everyone in his party were swimming in from the moment they set foot in the Twins. The first bars of the Rains of Castamere only served to bring that home to Catelyn before the knives started falling.
On the technical side, I think most of it came off pretty well. The fight in Yunkai was a pretty basdass scene, even if the editing and choreography were a little clunky. It's difficult to coordinate that many people in a dance of death that's supposed to look natural, but there were one too many "And... action!" moments to really feel like any of them actually had a knowledge of their weapons and how to use them.
As for the famed Red Wedding, I was kind of up and down through the whole thing. I liked that they included the bread and salt bit, but I thought they could have taken a few seconds to clarify just what it was. Seeing them all eating in the Frey hall probably wasn't enough for show watchers to realize just how big a violation Frey's betrayal was, not just in the political sense, but in the cultural and spiritual senses, as well. I thought it was excellent direction, however, to incorporate that incredibly tender scene between Talisa and Robb, discussing the naming of their future child, only to have everything literally torn apart a few moments later. The stabbing of Talisa's womb was a bit of a shock to me and something I didn't expect. On the other hand, the slaying of Grey Wind was much tamer than I expected and certainly less so than presented in the book. Acknowledging that it was still a pretty heart-wrenching scene watching a defenseless animal get cut down leads to the common sense understanding that, even on nights like this, HBO is only willing to go so far (and it's probably a good thing.)
Also, for as much as I've already seen people raving about Michelle Fairley's performance, I thought she kind of let the air out of the room in her final confrontation with Lord Frey. It's certainly very tough to convey that kind of anguish and desperation and rage, but I just wasn't sold, unfortunately. Of course, the logistics once again let them down, in that Catelyn's moment is supposed to be surrounded by the chaos still taking place in the feast hall, with combat and slaughter and screams and turmoil encircling her as she attempts to bargain with the lives of others. When you have a constrained budget, you can't do the kind of scene that the original depicts and which the event deserves. In the same way that the Hand's tournament was a letdown for lack of an audience, the wedding scene was a bit underwhelming for lack of victims (quantity, if not quality.) But them's the breaks.
Have to say that the credits without music was a very nice touch.
Lines of the night:
Honestly not that many, since most of the delivery tonight was written on the faces of the actors and not needing the script writers to help them perform it.
"Show them how it feels to lose what they love." - Check.
"Your king says he betrayed me for love. I say he betrayed me for firm tits and a nice fit. And I can understand that. At his age, I would have broken fifty vows to get into that without a second thought." - Blunt man, Walder Frey...
"The wine will flow red." - ...but not without his fair measure of subtlety.
"A man cannot make love to property." - Here's a segue right into a dom/sub discussion and... Nevermind.
"You know all that from staring at marks on paper. You're like... a wizard." The greatest moment of Sam's young life.
"I know a real killer. He'd kill you with his little finger."
"That him?"
"No."
"Good." - No one is more pragmatic than the Hound. Forever my favorite character.
"You're very kind. It'll get you killed." - I say again...
"We can drink some blood while we wait. I don't need much." - Osha getting a jab in.
"Someday, I'm gonna put a sword through your eye and out the back of your skull." - But that might leave him faceless.
"The gods love to reward a fool." - The Blackfish, wiser than he knows, because the fool wasn't Edmure.
And, finally, a short note about Bran. This was, interestingly enough, the best Bran scene in quite a while and it was completely overshadowed by the wedding. But finally demonstrating the expansion of his abilities and the heartfelt departure of Osha and Rickon was some excellent material for a storyline that's basically been running in place all season. There is, of course, only one more episode to go so I'll be interested to see how they wrap it up for the year.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The Iron Fist rule
There's a creative problem that comes up most often in serial productions like comics and in movies (which comics are closer to than prose) that are destined for sequels (and, aren't they all if they make serious money?), but which also emerges in prose. It's a tendency that I've always referred to as the "Iron First rule."
Iron Fist is a Marvel Comics character that was created in the 70s during the height of the Bruce Lee-led martial arts explosion. As with most one-note and/or fad creations, the series only lasted for 15 issues because the fad flamed out fairly quickly, as well. (You can see this phenomenon in all kinds of Marvel efforts in the 70s and 80s, including a series based around a trucker, but I digress...) But part of what propelled the series' demise is that the character itself, despite having an interesting backstory that could have led to all kinds of creative discursions, was part of the Marvel Universe™ and had to have some way to compete with the guys who could punch through walls or shoot down aircraft with their eyes or whatever. He had to be, in short, a superhero and not simply a badass martial artist. Whither Batman, you cry? Sure, but he also couldn't just be another badass martial artist who also happened to be filthy rich enough to drive tanks down the street in order to take on the guy made of living flame or whatever.
Consequently, Danny Rand also had a superpower: his fist could become unto a thing of IRON!! That's how you beat the guys who could brush off your jeet kune do. That's how you're Iron Fist. And that's how you beat them and be Iron Fist Every. Single. Time. Every issue involved becoming the thing of iron, perhaps even multiple times. Now, you're thinking that I've just described the average porno (in detail, even.) You're not wrong. But putting aside the implications of getting your readers off with every issue (not passing judgment here; everybody has their thing), you also can't keep doing it the same way every issue (unless you're talking about actual porn. Sometimes. I'm leaving this metaphor.) If every fight is solved by hauling out the iron fist, why not just do it in the first three pages of the issue and deal with the latest super-villain right away? (Just like porn has become 3 minute clips instead of 90 minute films. I'm leaving it. For real.)
Not only do you have to come up with a good reason to not use the ultimate power right away, you have to come up with guys that aren't affected by it unless it's used in new and exotic ways AND you have to convince the audience that all of this is credulous. Granted, baseline credulity and superheroes do not often mix. Your audience is already often predisposed to the fantastical or not really concerned about a shaky premise because they've just decided to plop down and read one issue of your continuing series. But if you do have a regular readership, they're going to get tired of that routine at about the same pace as the writer. No one wants to keep distracting themselves with justifying their story while they're trying to write it. But if your character is more self-contained, you don't have that problem.
Shang-chi also existed in the Marvel Universe™ and was also an outgrowth of the 70s martial arts explosion. However, while Iron Fist lasted 15 issues, Shang-Chi lasted for 125; a success story by almost any measure in the comics world. Shang-Chi was simply a kung fu guy, walking the earth, and his book remained in that sphere. There was no ultimate power because there were very rarely opponents of the standard super-villain style. He did encounter other characters in Marvel's stable, but almost always in their books. His story continued to be largely his story because it was about the character and not about his supreme ability. But that Iron First rule can work against more established and well-rounded characters, as well.
Most people remember this famous scene:
"Dude! He can kill people just by looking at them! And holding his hand in the kung fu grip!" OK, fine. Then why does he have to throw down in risky lightsaber battles with his real enemies? Because if Vader could just snuff out everyone he ran across by frowning, there would be no story. "But wait!", you say. "The reason he can't just reach out and treat Luke's head like a water balloon is because Luke is also strong with the Force!" Sure. That's plausible. But what about the next time they meet up? And the next time? And the next time? Eventually, it all comes crashing in, which is why one of the few things Lucas did properly post-Empire was to let Vader die. Once you've presented an irresistible force, it either lays waste to everything or it ends. That, of course, isn't possible if the character in question, like Iron Fist, is the franchise. But that also results in the inherent problem of many sequels in movies.
The first Iron Man film was a good film. Not just a good superhero film, but a good film overall. Well acted, tightly-paced, tightly-written, and with a decent resolution. Tony Stark has created the world's ultimate weapon in the name of defending it and does so successfully. The End. Enter Iron Man 2. What now? "Well... Let's blow more stuff up!" This is the Iron Fist rule again (perhaps it is now just "the rule of Iron"?) You're still a man in a suit of armor and there have to be an increasing number of more spectacular ways of displaying that if you want to keep (some) audiences entertained. Hollywood's shortcut these days is usually CGI explosions, plus 3D, IMAX, and whatever else they can tack on to keep people from simply waiting to watch it on their 50" flatscreens at home. Iron Mans 2 and 3 are not horrible films. Robert Downey, Jr. is the lifeline in both of them, as he was seemingly born to play this role (and Ben Kingsley was a hoot in 3.) Furthermore, Tony Stark has always been one of Marvel's more interesting characters because of his implicit moral quandary (weapons manufacturer wanting to protect people), personal issues (alcoholism), and heavy load of responsibility for his company and the people whose lives are affected by it. The movies portray most of this very well, so it's not as if the films were entirely bogged down by the rule. But there can be little argument that the first film was the best because it simply told a story and didn't concern itself with having 15 Iron Men flying about in one of the most appropriately-labeled deus ex machina moments I can remember:
How do you do better than Iron Man? "Have more! And blow more stuff up!" I'm all about heightening the excitement and trying to top yourself. But there comes a time when the ordnance and the one-note superpower tends to overwhelm the story. At that point, you're just a gimmick and gimmicks, like fads, neither last long (Cue Twilight fans in 3... 2... 1...) nor are remembered very fondly. This rule does stretch into prose, as well, and sometimes very good prose.
I just finished Joe Abercrombie's First Law trilogy. It was excellent. It was a very restrained take on the fantasy genre combined with a rather brutal depiction of medieval mores, all functioning under the relatively obvious veneer of modern political corruption. His characters are great and they speak and act like real people, which is always my first hope in reading or watching a story. One of the most prominent is Logen Ninefingers. Logen is a Northman who can speak to spirits; something he does precisely twice in the ~2000 pages of story. Logen also has an alter ego that resembles the famed Viking battle frenzy, wherein he becomes what people around him refer to as "the Bloody Nine" and proceeds to slaughter everything within reach: friend, foe, and innocent alike. He does this several times in the series and almost always at a crisis point (very Hulk-like, since we're talking about comics.) By the third book, it becomes mildly predictable and a bit tedious, but what restrains it from being a completely Iron Fist situation is that there are implications to his actions beyond simply defeating the enemy. As noted, he kills everything, including characters of some prominence in the story and then is left with nothing but the guilt of having saved some and slain others that he was trying to save. It doesn't rescue the situation completely, but it at least provides tension for the reader, knowing that wanting Logen to go off won't always have the best results for the story if you've become fond of one of his incidental victims. I mention it here largely to demonstrate that the rule isn't a complete death knell to either character or story and can be contextualized successfully. However, the standard note about length must be included. Abercrombie has written three more books in the same world as the First Law series. Logen is not present in them. When his story was done, it was done.
What has occurred to me over the years is simple: If you want to have good characters, they can't be one-dimensional and you can't cover up that lack of depth with any success if you want to do something credible. Granted, it also depends on your readers' willingness to follow along.
Iron Fist is a Marvel Comics character that was created in the 70s during the height of the Bruce Lee-led martial arts explosion. As with most one-note and/or fad creations, the series only lasted for 15 issues because the fad flamed out fairly quickly, as well. (You can see this phenomenon in all kinds of Marvel efforts in the 70s and 80s, including a series based around a trucker, but I digress...) But part of what propelled the series' demise is that the character itself, despite having an interesting backstory that could have led to all kinds of creative discursions, was part of the Marvel Universe™ and had to have some way to compete with the guys who could punch through walls or shoot down aircraft with their eyes or whatever. He had to be, in short, a superhero and not simply a badass martial artist. Whither Batman, you cry? Sure, but he also couldn't just be another badass martial artist who also happened to be filthy rich enough to drive tanks down the street in order to take on the guy made of living flame or whatever.
Consequently, Danny Rand also had a superpower: his fist could become unto a thing of IRON!! That's how you beat the guys who could brush off your jeet kune do. That's how you're Iron Fist. And that's how you beat them and be Iron Fist Every. Single. Time. Every issue involved becoming the thing of iron, perhaps even multiple times. Now, you're thinking that I've just described the average porno (in detail, even.) You're not wrong. But putting aside the implications of getting your readers off with every issue (not passing judgment here; everybody has their thing), you also can't keep doing it the same way every issue (unless you're talking about actual porn. Sometimes. I'm leaving this metaphor.) If every fight is solved by hauling out the iron fist, why not just do it in the first three pages of the issue and deal with the latest super-villain right away? (Just like porn has become 3 minute clips instead of 90 minute films. I'm leaving it. For real.)
Not only do you have to come up with a good reason to not use the ultimate power right away, you have to come up with guys that aren't affected by it unless it's used in new and exotic ways AND you have to convince the audience that all of this is credulous. Granted, baseline credulity and superheroes do not often mix. Your audience is already often predisposed to the fantastical or not really concerned about a shaky premise because they've just decided to plop down and read one issue of your continuing series. But if you do have a regular readership, they're going to get tired of that routine at about the same pace as the writer. No one wants to keep distracting themselves with justifying their story while they're trying to write it. But if your character is more self-contained, you don't have that problem.
Shang-chi also existed in the Marvel Universe™ and was also an outgrowth of the 70s martial arts explosion. However, while Iron Fist lasted 15 issues, Shang-Chi lasted for 125; a success story by almost any measure in the comics world. Shang-Chi was simply a kung fu guy, walking the earth, and his book remained in that sphere. There was no ultimate power because there were very rarely opponents of the standard super-villain style. He did encounter other characters in Marvel's stable, but almost always in their books. His story continued to be largely his story because it was about the character and not about his supreme ability. But that Iron First rule can work against more established and well-rounded characters, as well.
Most people remember this famous scene:
"Dude! He can kill people just by looking at them! And holding his hand in the kung fu grip!" OK, fine. Then why does he have to throw down in risky lightsaber battles with his real enemies? Because if Vader could just snuff out everyone he ran across by frowning, there would be no story. "But wait!", you say. "The reason he can't just reach out and treat Luke's head like a water balloon is because Luke is also strong with the Force!" Sure. That's plausible. But what about the next time they meet up? And the next time? And the next time? Eventually, it all comes crashing in, which is why one of the few things Lucas did properly post-Empire was to let Vader die. Once you've presented an irresistible force, it either lays waste to everything or it ends. That, of course, isn't possible if the character in question, like Iron Fist, is the franchise. But that also results in the inherent problem of many sequels in movies.
The first Iron Man film was a good film. Not just a good superhero film, but a good film overall. Well acted, tightly-paced, tightly-written, and with a decent resolution. Tony Stark has created the world's ultimate weapon in the name of defending it and does so successfully. The End. Enter Iron Man 2. What now? "Well... Let's blow more stuff up!" This is the Iron Fist rule again (perhaps it is now just "the rule of Iron"?) You're still a man in a suit of armor and there have to be an increasing number of more spectacular ways of displaying that if you want to keep (some) audiences entertained. Hollywood's shortcut these days is usually CGI explosions, plus 3D, IMAX, and whatever else they can tack on to keep people from simply waiting to watch it on their 50" flatscreens at home. Iron Mans 2 and 3 are not horrible films. Robert Downey, Jr. is the lifeline in both of them, as he was seemingly born to play this role (and Ben Kingsley was a hoot in 3.) Furthermore, Tony Stark has always been one of Marvel's more interesting characters because of his implicit moral quandary (weapons manufacturer wanting to protect people), personal issues (alcoholism), and heavy load of responsibility for his company and the people whose lives are affected by it. The movies portray most of this very well, so it's not as if the films were entirely bogged down by the rule. But there can be little argument that the first film was the best because it simply told a story and didn't concern itself with having 15 Iron Men flying about in one of the most appropriately-labeled deus ex machina moments I can remember:
How do you do better than Iron Man? "Have more! And blow more stuff up!" I'm all about heightening the excitement and trying to top yourself. But there comes a time when the ordnance and the one-note superpower tends to overwhelm the story. At that point, you're just a gimmick and gimmicks, like fads, neither last long (Cue Twilight fans in 3... 2... 1...) nor are remembered very fondly. This rule does stretch into prose, as well, and sometimes very good prose.
I just finished Joe Abercrombie's First Law trilogy. It was excellent. It was a very restrained take on the fantasy genre combined with a rather brutal depiction of medieval mores, all functioning under the relatively obvious veneer of modern political corruption. His characters are great and they speak and act like real people, which is always my first hope in reading or watching a story. One of the most prominent is Logen Ninefingers. Logen is a Northman who can speak to spirits; something he does precisely twice in the ~2000 pages of story. Logen also has an alter ego that resembles the famed Viking battle frenzy, wherein he becomes what people around him refer to as "the Bloody Nine" and proceeds to slaughter everything within reach: friend, foe, and innocent alike. He does this several times in the series and almost always at a crisis point (very Hulk-like, since we're talking about comics.) By the third book, it becomes mildly predictable and a bit tedious, but what restrains it from being a completely Iron Fist situation is that there are implications to his actions beyond simply defeating the enemy. As noted, he kills everything, including characters of some prominence in the story and then is left with nothing but the guilt of having saved some and slain others that he was trying to save. It doesn't rescue the situation completely, but it at least provides tension for the reader, knowing that wanting Logen to go off won't always have the best results for the story if you've become fond of one of his incidental victims. I mention it here largely to demonstrate that the rule isn't a complete death knell to either character or story and can be contextualized successfully. However, the standard note about length must be included. Abercrombie has written three more books in the same world as the First Law series. Logen is not present in them. When his story was done, it was done.
What has occurred to me over the years is simple: If you want to have good characters, they can't be one-dimensional and you can't cover up that lack of depth with any success if you want to do something credible. Granted, it also depends on your readers' willingness to follow along.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Emotional conviction
There are a couple broad methods of storytelling. One of them is plot-driven. The story itself is the main focus and the characters are there largely to enact it. Isaac Asimov's writing is a good example of that. Asimov had grand ideas. All he needed was a couple people in a room to elaborate upon them and occasionally he'd throw in robots and a starship or two. The other method is character-driven. The story is essentially about a person or people and how they interact with the world around them. Typical superhero comic books (and their associated films) are the most obvious example of that method. The story surrounding the Incredible Hulk is the story of how he interacts with the world in both his Banner/Jekyll and Hulk/Hyde forms and how that creates problems for himself and those around him.
A Song of Ice and Fire, like many epic works, moves past that separation and has created a story that is both beyond the control of its many characters and almost wholly driven by them. In that sense, while it may be a good example of both a plot-driven and character-driven story, it still trends toward the latter, as much time is spent showing just what kind of impact world events have on the various people involved and the emotional consequences thereof. This episode was a prime example of just that.
From the opening scene, where we see that Arya's occasional loss of control of her emotions may actually have made her situation worse if she were able to kill the Hound, to the episode's centerpiece, the wedding of Tyrion and Sansa and the tangle of emotions that flows throughout the palace, we see that emotional responses not only continue to define these characters but also tend to drive the story itself, outside of seemingly emotionless entities like the Other. There are forces at work that don't depend on either our cast or their response to the good and bad things that happen to them, like the Walkers, but lust, desire, honor, and anger tend to drive most things that are taking place here, whether it's for power, money, or sex, or some combination thereof.
Daenerys' drive for power places her in a situation where she feels compelled to try to make deals with the Second Sons mercenary company. At the same time, Daario Naharis is overcome with lust for Daenerys herself and uses that to take control of the company (although why the Stormcrows became the Second Sons here, I'm not quite sure, especially given the final scene of the episode, where crows figure quite prominently.) Melisandre uses lust to gain the blood of Gendry for Stannis' own lust for power, but Stannis feels honor-bound to the Onion Knight to free him and keep him on as an advisor that might serve as a brake to the Red Woman's love for her god which is doing nothing but serving Stannis. Are these events part of the overall plan that Martin had for the story or are they natural outgrowths of the characters themselves (e.g. the author acting as interpreter and conveyor of the way these wholly formed people would act)?
Again, the centerpiece is the wedding and its aftermath. While Tyrion and Sansa's scenes may have been poignant and/or served as the backdrop to emphasize things like Joffrey's pettiness and Tywin's frustration, I think the best scene of any of those assembled around the proceedings was that of Cersei and Margery walking through the Great Sept arm-in-arm while they threatened each other or reacted to said threats as they kept up the public mask the whole way. This is a great example of a scene that doesn't have a great deal of story attached (not like discovering the effect dragonglass has on an Other, for example) but which has an enormous amount of weight hanging off of it as you observe the players maneuvering around the board of the game. This is to not even mention the blizzard of emotions going through Lena Headey and Natalie Dormer's eyes as they move along.
To draw a direct contrast with another series and another new episode tonight, the latest offering for Mad Men had me thinking that it was just 60 minutes of watching characters (mostly Don) gyrate through their emotions and basically leave any sense of story behind. The drugs, the weird introduction of the thief, the flashbacks to his first time; all of that didn't really tell a story but spent a lot of time wringing emotions out of a character that hasn't been famous for them. The episode was conflicted and not the best that they've done. On the other hand, "Second Sons" drove the story forward even as the screenplay focused on the emotional turmoil and the reactions of these characters to that turmoil. I think GoT was better served in that respect and why it remains the stronger story (and better series) overall at this point.
Lines of the night:
"So quit trying to bash my skull in and we might make it there in time for the wedding!" - The Hound, always the pragmatist.
"It's hard to collect wages from a corpse." "A man who fights for gold can't afford to lose to a girl." -
Daenerys picks up strategy as quickly as she does languages.
"Mothers and fathers made up the gods because they wanted their children to sleep through the night." - Ser Davos with the essentially Hegelian philosophy (i.e. man created god in his own image.) Watching Liam Cunningham deliver lines with Davos' customary restraint, especially in the face of the man to whom he's devoted his life, is great fun.
"You won't be a prisoner after tonight. You'll be my wife." - There's a softball for many married couples, right over the plate...
"Of course, ambitious climbers don't want to stop on that second rung." - A great scene and why Lena Headey makes a better Cersei than many expected. And, of course, probably the best line of the episode: "If you ever call me 'sister' again, I'll have you strangled in your sleep." BAM!
A couple side notes here: Diana Rigg was once again knocking it out of the park, as she attempted to detail the complex relationships between the soon-to-be-married brothers and sisters of Houses Tyrell and Lannister. Playing the doddering old woman while carefully watching Cersei's reaction is just priceless. Also, while there have been many mentions over the past few years about the necessarily smaller crowds and events than the story originally called for (i.e. the tournament of the Hand in season 1 should have had thousands in attendance for the joust) as a consequence of cost and logistics, it's interesting to note that, in the books, Tyrion and Sansa's wedding is lightly attended and by a very unenthusiastic crowd. So, for once the practical matters actually served the interests of the story. We finally get to see the High Septon, too.
"I don't understand. This doesn't seem very religious." - Gendry, trying to understand the strange practices from across the Narrow Sea. Martin's knowledge of history perhaps betrays him here, as sexual mores in the east from Roman times forward were far more flexible and accepted as part of life than they were in the west.
"Come fight death with me." - Melisandre with the double entendre (alliteration joke!) Next time a woman drops her cloak and tells me to fight death, I am so there. Has to be said, though, that it's weird even in a situation like this that full frontal on the men is still not permitted, but the women can drop their kit at any moment. Why, for that matter, is full male nudity OK in the scene with Loras, but not with a woman? Speaking of sexuality being constrained...
Tyrion:
"Drinking and lust. No man can match me in these things. I am the god of tits and wine!"
"I vomited on a girl once in the middle of the act. Not proud of it. But I think honesty is important between a man and his wife, don't you agree?"
"If my father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start!"
"And so my watch begins..."
Still one of the best characters in the story, even when things are supposed to be mildly tragic, and the toast to Loras in the balcony, as trapped in circumstance as Tyrion is, was excellent. Also, Shae's expression at the unspoilt bedsheets was great.
"I'm the simplest man you'll ever meet. I only do what I want to do." - Daario Naharis, the Epicurean; the perfect new character for an episode driven by emotion.
"Sometimes do you talk fancy on purpose to confuse me?" - Gilly exploring a whole new world. This scene, while somewhat overlong, was well done from a dialogue standpoint, as Sam elaborates upon naming conventions and their personal weight. We also finally get to see another weirwood tree.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)