Cinema Analysis by Nick Tierce

Passive Character Arcs

2010-05-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

I have unavoidably realized, through the viewing of several recent blockbusters, that simply having a character arc is not enough. Ending somewhere other than where you started is usually necessary, but on its own is insufficient.

A character must drive the story with their choices as an active participant in the unfolding narrative. Necessity for climactic change should not be thrust onto the character, but the result of their decisive action.

An inactive lead gives the work a feeling of disparateness where the plot exists on one plane, and the character on another. Character and plot should be inexorably bound together in their conception. They should feel absolutely mated and build causally toward a unified conclusion. Each should inform and feed the other.

Obviously, there are plots that will require a measure of passive motivation on the part of their protagonist, but this should always build to the eventual necessary action of the character, lest the plot or base concept become the true undefined protagonist in the eyes of the audience.

This is a dictum to be considered in large strokes, as depictions of wonder and surprise often live on the character's initial inability to react or lack of understanding. This is always most effectively used, however, as a means to an end. Working toward greater action that comes through understanding or awakening.

Structure Smucksure

2009-09-03T10:04:00.000-07:00

People talk about structure a lot. This is a good thing. However, the way they talk about it seems to be very Act-centric. Three Acts. Beginning, Middle, End. Intro, Conflict, Resolution.

That's all well and good, but it seems to be all they talk about. Structure deals with more than the number of acts you have and at what point prior to an act break you have a "plot point." This becomes even more problematic in light of the fact that this Three Act Structure is a prominent but still arguable one. Shakespeare? Greek Drama? Five acts. Most musicals have only two.

The truth? It's all the same. These X-act structures are far from exact. (Forgive me.) They are merely templates to place over a work and aid in analysis. Delineating something into observable acts allows you more convenient points of reference. Once these structures became prominently acknowledged, you can certainly bet that writers began thinking in terms of X-acts in their own writing.

These are, however, masks and frames surrounding the common dramatic situations that can be combined in infinitely creatives ways to allow for a dramatically succinct and balanced experience that varies depending on the relative advantages of the medium its being presented in.

Art is always trying to reach for dramatic content that is more stimulating to our innate humanity than that which is found in nature. This can be found in three and five act structures, but it isn't the acts that are bringing the drama. It's the way the characters interface with the plot to present a discernible theme. Some incredibly terrible screenplays can follow the guidelines of these structures to a tee, and still fail.

There comes a time when act breaks and plot points must be set aside, and the focus of the writer must be turned to the specific interactions of his characters and how their conflict is telling of the creator's intent. This is where the craft comes in.

A Brief 'Ghost Busters' Analysis.

2009-06-19T15:17:00.000-07:00

I'd like to talk about Ghost Busters chronologically, addressing events roughly in the order they are presented in the film. I endeavor to touch mainly upon narrative structure, character arc, and thematic content.

Ghost Busters opens on a conceptually instigating event, presenting a world in which the presence of ghosts, while perhaps not widely accepted, is plausible and established.

The first post-title sequence establishes Peter's nonchalance about the subject matter. He treats it with little respect, using the business to get women. His skeptical jester-like approach to the business of paranormal occurrences is in contrast to Ray, who is an overzealous believer.

While it may initially seem that Peter's character is an attempt to infuse comedy into an otherwise straightforward paranormal adventure film, I'd argue that the balanced relationship between these three is constructed to perfectly exploit comedic archetypes. Every Jokester needs a straight man, and it is the contrast out of which the comedy is based.

This is also utilized to uniquely portray three distinct comedy types. Peter is sarcastic wit, Ray is slapstick (overzealous, exuberant expression), while Egon is obviously deadpan.

This may speak to the enduring nature of the film. As comedy is the most subjective of genres, it is most ingenious to appeal to such a wide variety of viewer mindsets. I believe this to be an unintentional benefit of a decision made for reasons other than audience appeal, but still note worthy.

The unabashed excitement of Ray and the scientific deadpan of Egon may feel unrelatable for the audience, allowing Peter's skepticism to be their way in. He is the everyman, who can be considered a representative of a shared character arc of the Ghostbusters.

At the beginning of the Ghostbusters' journey to self to self sufficiency, dramatically we switch point of view to introduce Dana. As this is directly tied to the main story arc (as seen in the commercial on TV and the forthcoming paranormal occurrence) the tangent avoids becoming a distraction or detraction.

It is traditional if not preferable to displace singular point of view for the sake of establishing the antagonist. This is exactly as done in the first Dana scene with the refrigerator appearance of Zuul. No time is wasted in reconciling the two points of view. After Janine's casual introduction, Dana comes in to converge with the Ghostbusters' storyline.

The origin develops full force in the team's first bust. Their social or relationship must be put to a practical test. This sort of displacement is always rife with comedic potential. (Potential I'd argue is fully and satisfactorily met.)

The montage following the Hotel bust moves us beyond origin and back into the realm of the immediate conflict, but not before introducing an often overlooked side-character.

Winston is a hired hand, a practical man. He can be seen to represent a sliver of the Ghostbuster's relationship with normal folk now that they are an established business. "I've got hundreds of people trying to abuse me!" Winston is the counter point to the general ambivalence and rejection shown by the public.

Winston is also religious. He brings a wider, ontological perspective beyond the specific intricacies of their business, as the trio tend to focus on. He offers this most appropriately in the latter half of the movie, post origin shift to main conflict.

There is another antagonist cut away with Dana and the Terror Dogs, then a point of view change to Louis which is comedic, clearly, but can be justified as establishing sympathy for this side character this is swept into the main conflict. It eases him into prominence.

There are sexual connotations to the "Key Master" / "Gate Keeper" names. It is interesting to note that the mythology depicted in the movie treats human fornication as the only physically transcendental act that can breach the ethereal to allow the antagonist entity into our physical realm. This mythology is sound and widely precedented.

Let's not forget Walter Peck from the Environmental protection agency. His function in the movie is as a single representative of a shared entity, centralized against Venkman. I find this to be a wise move for audience clarity and ease of reception.

Peck vs. Venkman represents the greater issue. They personify the subtle underlying theme: Bureaucracy is rendered helpless in the face of the unknown, and must defer to ingenuity of the individual.

The individual in this case is of course the Ghostbusters. The Bureaucracy, beyond its personification in Peck, is displayed in many forms: the ineptitude of the government AND religion in the face of Gozer's threat. ("I think it's a sign from God, but don't quote me on that.)

When you elevate a character to the fore, as Peter is here, they must also be assigned their own arc to justify this narrative shift of priority. He is, with his personal journey from sarcastic skeptic to sarcastic acceptance, which in turn unifies the Ghostbusters at film's end, linking his character functions in an inextricable way. (Personal/individual and representative/communal.) "See you on the other side Ray." His disposition toward the prospect of Dana's death is especially telling of this attitude change.

You see, Peter's horndoggedness is his way into sincerity. His care for Dana and what happens to her forces him into a change of priority. This aspect of his character plus her place in the story naturally instigate his ascent. His initial unwillingness is overcome. "See you on the other side, Ray."

So Peter functions as both single character with central journey and as a representative of the greater Ghostbusters conflict. This justifies later team-based point of view changes as members disperse. (Egon and possessed Louis, Ray and Winston, Peter and possessed Dana.)

In these sequences it is most evident that comedy is never sacrificed in the face of the paranormal mythology presented. They are constantly intertwined and play off each other, thriving unified. Symbiotic. (ex: Louis's Vince Babble.)

Some may argue that this interpretation is invalid based on the fact that it was not likely the intent of its creators, who were by all accounts focused on making a paranormal adventure comedy. Regardless of intent, a subtle theme and definite character arc are supported by the film in its implications of priority in the conflict depicted. And it is glorious, indeed.

Tonight I'm gonna SCORE.

2008-12-23T19:52:00.001-08:00

Apologies, reader (there's got to be ONE), for the lack of updates. I've just finished work on the feature I've been writing, and it's been a great process. I broke the story fairly early, and the completion was a great time. Now I just have to make the damn thing. (oh, that's all?)

More on that later.

For now, I'd like to think about something that's been on my mind the last couple of days, both in my preparation for this feature project, and in general discourse.

FILM SCORES.

Now, what I am not terribly interested in is the politics of the process. "Ghost Writers" and "Guild Rules" and "Awards Eligibility" are all fine topics, but they run into a dead end conversationally. And after all, my interest lies mostly in the craft, and less in the business.

I love film scores. Nothing gets me more excited than a pure cinema moment enhanced by a composer and musicians that have a perfect understanding of the picture. To me, that is the key: synthesis. I feel that a score is brilliant insofar as it works WITH the picture. There's nothing more distracting than an incongruous film score.

If the audience is UP HERE and the music is down there ... we have a problem. It's equally bad, perhaps more so, with the reverse. If the music is carrying a substandard sequence, the music can't save it. As with all other aspects of film production, a healthy collaboration and shared goals are necessary. All involved parties have to be making the same movie. They have to love the material, connect with it, and WANT to further it with their contribution.

This is true for actors, directors, anybody. If they feel themselves separate or even ABOVE the project, there are going to be blatant issues.

I've always seen the score as a sort of accompaniment. I know this is obvious, but I specifically mean a force that accompanies the audience on their journey. It can re-affirm the feeling you have towards a particular sequence, or the movie as a whole. It can cement an emotion, or be foreboding to an element that needs attention.

That being said, I am no musician. I admittedly know nothing of the mechanics of creating a score, and know that only in the most ideal of circumstances can true collaboration be achieved. But I'm just painting a picture of a goal; the ultimate. There is an infinite barrage of problems that can get in the way of this.

I think one of the major bumps in the road can be the simple preference the collaborating members have in the creative process. Some directors like to edit to music, when composers would naturally prefer a locked-down cut of the movie to score to. Personally, I'm not comfortable with either of those extremes, I think communication is key. That the composer should be in on the process from day one. He or she has to be invested with the material, and not a tacked-on component in post production.

Many great works have sprouted from just this type of process, and I hope that new technologies allow this freedom to continue and grow. This, to me, is the greatest aspect of advances in digital technologies of all kinds. (Audio, Picture, everything.) It is allowing (or at least paving the way for) a more fluid process. A more true or pure creative process. Less interruption between the painter and the brush.

These sorts of advances can add a degree of excellence in areas one might not expect. Take, for example, the motion capture process being experimented with by such filmmakers as Robert Zemekis (Polar Express, Beowulf) and James Cameron (the upcoming Avatar.) The degree of effectiveness or realism of this young process is debatable, but it provides a unique opportunity never before available in cinema.

Movies, by their nature, require a long production process. One of the great pieces of movie magic is simply believing all these events happen in sequence. Particularly difficult sequences can take months to complete. Think of the mindset of the actor! They must be a human bookmark! Segmenting their performance to snippets that must be edited to a coherent whole is a very, very difficult thing.

Now, with this Motion Capture, huge lengths of performance (10, 20, 30 minutes) could feasibly be captured without stopping. They'd be able to experience the un-interrupted joy of performance, for the first time in modern film. Then, LATER, the director takes these digitally captured performances, and chooses the camera angles, perfects the lighting, etc. Everything that actor would have to wait endless hours for ordinarily.

I set out to talk a bit about film score, and now look where we ended up!

Self-induced genre restrictions.

2008-11-10T17:21:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking about something.

A while back, I was introduced to a gentleman who hosted some sort of local screenwriting class in my town. I'm always ambivalent about such things, but I figured I might as well talk to the guy. We were at the gala our city's film festival, and the mother of a friend of mine runs up to me, entirely drunk, and says "NICK, You've GOT to meet this guy!"

So she drags me (literally) hastily over to this funny looking guy, who was apparently hard of hearing, and says "Such and Such, this is NICK, and he is a FANTASTIC writer and FILMMAKER." Then she walks away, leaving me stranded with this guy.

First question out of his lips: "Oh, what genre do you write in?"

I didn't know what to say, and I've been thinking about what would have been the right answer ever since.

Do you think in terms of genre when you write? I, personally, have never found a lot of value in that. Sure, at times I see the echos of a feeling of a genre in something I write, but I've never seen that as an epiphany moment, "THERE! That's what genre this movie will be!"

I've always just tried to be true to the story, characters, or ideas I'm trying to put out there.

When I think about it, it seems that maybe when writers think it terms of what genre their piece will be, they perceive a lot more criteria for the genre than is actually required of it. They limit themselves by more than is necessary to define the genre in the first place.

This could make for a lot of really boring (rehash, some might say) movies. If you ARE going to write in a genre (say, for example, that's you're assignment) why not backtrack, see what REALLY needs to be present for it to still be accepted as a genre, and PUSH that limit. Pear down the necessities.

Just make the damn thing GOOD.
I mean, look at Sean of the Dead. Zombie Movie? Yep.
Comedy? You bet.

But I'll be damned if that movie doesn't earn all of its payoffs just like any other movie, be they tender, comedic, romantic, whatever.

Pirates, pirates, pirates ...

2008-09-19T15:45:00.000-07:00

Here's an older analysis; from sometime around June of last year, I believe. It should fill the void here until I can provide some newer material. (I'm working on some personal writing projects.)

This one is fun, but I think I must have been going through a more cynical phase at the time. It reads like I'm hell-bent, on a mission to defend these films from savages. It covers a VERY broad array of topics, reaching to the very essence of Cinema. Make of it what you will.

A Brief Critical Analysis of the Pirates of the Caribbean Film Trilogy
or
Why I Like a Few Movies Other People Seem to Hate the Sequels To.
By
Nick Tierce

A preface seems to be in order, as the recent state of critical analysis seems to have fallen below recognition. Every film or work of literature has two lives: that which is surfaced and literal, and that which is implied or can be derived. Each of the lives can overlap, and each individual film places a different priority upon them. Whether or not the thematic structure (as the “anti-surface” shall hitherto be referred) is implied, it will manifest itself once gazed upon by an observer: the audience. Therefore, the thematic structure cannot be denied, even if not intended, if supported with inarguable fact referenced from the work itself. This allows an interpretation to be false, and another, in turn, to be legitimate if not ignorant of the film’s content. The film’s content is of my concern, for actual intent to be derived would necessitate information outside the content of the film itself: a derivation this analysis has little use or interest in. Be forewarned.

Cinema has a long history of films that harbor ambitious themes, be them mythological or philosophical, veiled behind a commonplace genre. Star Wars reinvigorated classic mythology for a new generation. The Matrix contemporized countless philosophies and religious concepts while striking its immediate audience as little more than an innovative set of action films. (An achievement, in and of itself, not to be sniffed at.) The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, now complete with the release of At World’s End, might seem to be just another blockbuster action/adventure leviathan. Herein will be presented an interpretation of the ambition these movies carry – the scrutiny they hold up to – including a complex and literarily potent portrayal of freedom, choice, responsibility, and love through the philosophy of existentialism. In other words: why I like them.

The first film in the series, The Curse of the Black Pearl, sets the stage while standing alone as a complete work (a feat that all three films, amazingly, are able to achieve). We are introduced to the primary characters; each introduction indicative of that characters position in the story. The trilogy itself both begins and ends with a detached interval of time, beginning with a scene set eight years before the action of the film. Therefore, our first introduction to two of the primary characters has them played by younger performers; in line with this, the second appearance of these characters necessitates ANOTHER introduction, not of the new character, but new performer. Elizabeth Swann, first shown to us a young girl, is fascinated by the concept of piracy, shown effectively through her childish enthuse: “I think it’d be quite exciting to meet a pirate.” The first other of the primary three characters she comes into contact with is Will Turner, shown floating in the ocean next to the wreckage of an attacked ship. When this initial scene ends, it is implied that it may have just been the dreamy recollection of the now seventeen year old Elizabeth Swann. This dream serves double duty (as does almost everything in these films), not only introducing a back-story for the characters, but also as reference to push the characters and plot forward. For example, when older Will is introduced, we see him clumsily break a candelabrum (character bit!) while delivering a newly forged sword (follow that sword!) for Elizabeth’s father, the Governor of Port Royal, to present to the newly promoted Commodore James Norrington.

Will and Elizabeth’s relationship is set up meticulously in the first film, and carried throughout the subsequent two. Will’s dedication to Elizabeth is the first indication of his overarching function in the entirety of the trilogy. Will makes every major decision in his life based on Elizabeth. Elizabeth is captured by the dreaded pirate Barbossa, captain of the legendary ship The Black Pearl. Will makes every effort to find and save her. His choices throughout are entirely objective, based entirely on those around him, and not of himself. Which brings us to the third in the trifecta of primary characters:

Captain Jack Sparrow is a man obsessed of his own notoriety. “CAPTAIN, Jack Sparrow, if you please,” he responds when referred to sans his title (despite his complete lack of a ship to ... captain). Jack is Will’s polar opposite. He acts entirely subjectively, basing his decisions solely on himself. Jack’s own viewpoint on life is blatantly stated by him, to Will, in the first film: “The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do.” Jack is the epitome of individual freedom, the quintessential pirate for this tale. He seeks the Black Pearl, of which he was captain, until mutinied upon by his first mate Barbossa.

The Curse of the Black Pearl wraps up its immediate concerns; that of a curse on stolen pieces of Aztec gold, placed upon it by the Heathen Gods. (This is the initial reference of a supernatural plotline that reaches its zenith, along with so many others, in the final film.) This curse deprives Barbossa and his crew of human delights, taste, passion, warmth. He is the first of a recurring trend in all three pirate movies: an antagonist who is depicted initially as unfeeling and detached in one way or other, only to be given an inordinate amount of depth and compassion. The other two are introduced in the second film, each having their own of the two pictures for prevalence of this trend.

Davy Jones is an antagonist introduced in the second film of the trilogy, Dead Man’s Chest. He is caretaker of those lost at sea, a cruel man and collector of souls. His appearance and actions initially do present that harsh image, but as his back story is further painted, the poetic nature of his being is revealed. Harsh only because he ripped out his own heart after the loss of his lover, he is the personification of ill-fated love. It is in movie two that the parallels between Davy Jones’ relationship with his own (yet unidentified) lover and Will’s with Elizabeth begin to materialize.

Will’s own situation begins to seem ill-fated as another plot device is introduced: a compass that points to whatever is it the holder wants most. This compass falls into the hands of Elizabeth, with results surprising to her. Several times she sees its needle point to Jack Sparrow, an attraction not unfounded: her fascination with piracy is established time and again in movie one. Elizabeth’s position as the main character of this trilogy is more clear when the issues of movie two are considered. The clearly subjective Jack and objective Will pivot around the confused Elizabeth, trying to find herself in her conflict between an upper class upbringing, and in inborn fascination of piracy. It is also in the second film that Will’s objective objectives (so sue me, the pun sucks) shift from Elizabeth to the freeing of his father, Bootstrap Bill, from the damned crew of Jones.

The first film has so much on its plate (character introductions, establishing the world, etc) that only when given the time of the second and third films could the thematic structure really begin to take shape. The peak of these character interactions is not fully reached in just the first film. Hinted at are the conclusions that can be fully made regarding these characters. The second film also has, sprinkled throughout it, inventive use of foreshadowing. Jack is introduced this time around escaping from a coffin, and during the final duel, he humorously falls into an open grave. Sure enough, come film’s end, Jack is devoured by the deadly beast THE KRACKEN. (Typed in caps for fear of being eaten by an offended KRACKEN.)

The third film, At World’s End, gives that antagonist trend over to Lord Cutler Beckett, introduced in movie two. Of the three, this use of the unfeeling baddie has a much more subtle depth in the form of a hinted history with Jack Sparrow. In fact, any blatant compassion for Beckett would deprive his “double duty.” Beckett, quite simply in the continuity of the movie, represents the East India Trading Company. A hitherto unmentioned conflict between The Company and piracy is hinted at in the first film (“had a brush in with the east India trading company, Sparrow?”), shown in the second (the invasion of Elizabeth’s wedding, and subsequent arrest), and brought to full force in the third (the outright hanging of pirates in the film’s opening). Beckett is the face of the unfeeling corporation; the ultimate enemy of individual freedom, that which Jack Sparrow stands for. Beckett’s disconnect (antagonist trend!) is shown perfectly in his final scene: unflinchingly walking the deck of his ship as it is brutally demolished. Hauntingly beautiful, the scene illustrates his character more than any dialogue could.

The Company also helps illustrate one of the most potent themes: freedom. One may think that simply by its opposing the individual freedom, it helps illustrate, but yet again, the plot has helped aid theme. The Company branded Sparrow a pirate, as if he were condemned to his freedom. Not only does this create interesting character nuance, but it also echoes back to existential philosophy, which indicates that humans have absolute freedoms: even the freedom to limit one’s own freedom. The pirate films take place in a world of absolute freedom, where choices and responsibility rule supreme. Even the film’s supernatural elements are tied into this analogy. Come the third film, it is revealed that long ago, the Pirate Brethren captured the Goddess that ruled the Seas, Calypso, returning rule of the sea to man. Even the supernatural mythos supports a world of absolute human freedoms. In this world (our world?) what is the measure of a good man? The subjective Jack? The objective Will? Perhaps Elizabeth? This is a questioned posed to the audience by the very plot and character of these films. It is primal and epic. How does desire factor into choice?

These films ask the audience questions. They demand the involvement of the viewer. They are a puzzle that needs decoding, and the casual viewer will likely be unable. The complexities of the plot suggest the thematic richness. In order to free his father, Will must sleigh Jones. To sleigh Jones, you must stab his removed heart. If you stab his removed heart, yours must take its place; the ship, the Flying Dutchman, must always have a captain. The Dutchman’s captain can only set foot on land once every ten years, to see the one he truly loves. These plot constructs are a setup for the staggering choice facing Will: he must limit his own freedom to save his father. However, saving his father will detach him from Elizabeth for ten years. (Depending on interpretation, EVERY ten years) Will does stab the heart of Jones, and become the Dutchman’s captain. Tragic? More like the most touching and poetic analogy for love I’ve ever witnessed: two people, choosing to limit each other's individual freedoms for the sake of pursuing freedom as one. What is that, but love?

And even then, there is hope for those who seek it. When Davy Jones approaches his lost love, revealed to be Calypso, he is furious because he said he “did the duty she charged him with” for ten years he ferried lost souls at sea to the land of the dead. Jones is infuriated that after then ten years was up, she wasn’t there! That is the moment at which he broke from his duty, and become the sea life encrusted heartless monster. If indeed the curse was forever, why would he do the job for the first ten years, only to abandon it when she skipped on their date? Curious, but also addressed later in the film. During Jones’ final battle, Jack holds the chest containing his heart and says “I can set you free, mate,” implying that he would stab the heart (a decision Jack had been postulating the entire film). Jones responds: “My freedom was forfeit long ago!” Wait, what? This is new. When considered in conjunction to Jones actions with Calypso, one can interpret that if she DID wait for him, the curse would be broken. THAT would defiantly piss Jones off to the point of quitting his job! This is corroborated by a scene placed AFTER the films end credits: Ten years later, Elizabeth waits with child, and at sunset THE GREEN FLASH appears, and Will sails toward them. The Green Flash was set up previously as the passing of a soul from the land of the dead. For those who seek it, it can be interpreted that the curse was broken, when Elizabeth was true.

Those who seek will be rewarded. If the audience in unwilling to step up to the task, disappointment is imminent. Every word is important, every gesture a story element of its own. Yes this is the paragraph where I answer those who quickly deem these movies not of quality. Of what quality? Sure, it may not be of a quality that can be appreciated in passing. It is of a quality that challenges you. It requires the involvement of audiences who have become lazy; audiences who overlooked, in all likelihood, almost everything previously discussed and noted here, and this is just a preliminary analysis! I wrote this from memory. Volumes could be written by those with the drive. Volumes could be written in its defense, and naysayers offer incomplete phrases. “That sucked.” “What a horrible movie.” Want to ignore the thematic structure? Then just stare at the pretty moving pictures, and pipe down. Movies are made for those who actually watch them, not those who just see them.

The Dark Knight: Perfection Justified

2008-09-15T16:59:00.000-07:00

A lot has been said about The Dark Knight. A lot tends to be said about a film that breaks box office records, and has become one of the biggest money-makers of all time. I am therefore unsurprised that so many of these words are shallow, empty things; even from those that praise the film. I want to talk about this movie whole-heartedly, completely, and most importantly, regardless of how much money it has made.

I will argue that The Dark Knight is a work of art in the highest order of cinematic masterpieces. It owes this status to a great many people. As I have observed, the greatest of all films were the culmination of infinite factors at just the right time to produce something that goes beyond the sum of its parts. These movies defy what is generally considered an ideal production process. Casablanca had more writers than I can count and Blade Runner survived a strike, crew feuds, and budget constraints. But still, all of the contributor’s creative juices ran free despite it, and produced what has become legend.

The Dark Knight owes a good deal to its foundations: over more than seventy years, the characters that inhabit Batman’s universe have been fine tuned from overblown clichés, into meticulously arced perfection. Weeding through this evolution, however, could be considered an insurmountable task. Even more so than its predecessor, Batman Begins, which largely inhabited a time span untouched by many Batman writers, this film finds itself knee deep in the roots of the Batman mythos.

This balancing act is handled with masterful bravado in the hands of Jonathan Nolan. His script is dense. Perfectly dense. It is interesting to note that very little was altered when brought to the screen by his brother, the Director Christopher Nolan. Only the slightest instances of dialogue variation can be found, and this is a natural and fluid part of the filmmaking process; a compliment, really, that the actors are so devoted to the goals of the script that they wish to make calculated alterations to seemingly miniscule words.

This film has an ambitious workload. It deals with the core of several tertiary-yet-iconic characters, all acting as conceptual foes for the Batman to further define himself against. It is this development of the ideals of Batman that serve as the basis for the entire film. The defining point that is accepted and supported by all elements involved. Batman is a complex character with mature aims and a set of motivations that goes far beyond normal “hero” understanding. It is for this reason that everything he comes into contact with be optimally placed to allow the character to triangulate his own position, and further define himself.

Compelling plot and character interconnections do well to describe the films concepts and theme, but they are also accompanied by many instances of visual reinforcement that make it all the more complete and well-rounded. Let’s look at all of these elements, on their own successful and compelling, and how they strengthen the overall bat-narrative.

Let’s get this one out of the way first: The Joker. A behind the scenes tragedy may have given this character an unfair amount of attention around the release of the film, but I am confident that in the many years to come, the excitement will die out, and this role can be appreciated appropriately. The Joker is portrayed here as Batman’s diametric opposite in terms of ideals. The Joker is not mad. He denies it himself when charged by the mobster Gambol, “I’m not. No I’m not,” he says. It’s true; as shown in the movie, the Joker is in complete control of everything he does, regardless of how “mad” the ends, his means are exactly in line with his absolute dedication to disorder.

“I’m an agent of Chaos.” He challenges Batman in this way. After the criminal death of his parents, Bruce Wayne took up the image of Batman to rid Gotham City of criminality by subjecting them to the order of justice in society. Batman is the embodiment of the people’s power to demand Justice. This is noted by another character, district attorney Harvey Dent, who says, in response to a question of who appointed the Batman, “We did. All of us who stood by and let scum take control of our city.” Batman is the people. He wishes to inspire them. Unfortunately, his inspiration proves to have several unexpected ramifications.

At the opening of the film, Batman is finds himself at odds with a group of people dressed in his image. These brutish characters, introduced early, lay the delicate groundwork for the horrors to come. Batman’s presence and dedication to justice through grand and theatrical means has elevated crime. “I meant to inspire good,” he says, “not madness.” Unfortunately, by upping the ante with the level of his theatrics, he created the playing field by which the Joker was able to come to power. If not for a perceived need to eradicate the Batman by the mob, they would have never allowed a “freak” like the Joker to ascend their ranks. This concept of the criminal world’s slow acceptance of the newly arising freak culture is established perfectly with the inclusion of Scarecrow; this time around being portrayed as a lowly drug dealer.

Also in this early drug-deal sequence, Batman is attacked by the dogs of a mob member (The Chechen), creating a plot necessity for a new suit. This plot necessity makes way for the nature of the Joker/Batman conflict to be strengthened visually. Their costumes are completely contrasting in nature. The Joker’s is a vile, messy, eyesore of an outfit; an extension of his dedication to chaos. In turn, Batman’s suit in this film reflects his own dedication to order. His suit is an intertwining complexity of parts, working in perfect order to allow him agility with his movements. These evocative images are hardly the arbitrary byproduct of a dog attack.

There is recurring “dog” imagery throughout the film. Quite literally, the film ends with dogs chasing him away from the scene of Dent’s death. This embodies Batman’s final plea for Gordon to “set the dogs on me.” This image is strengthened with verbal mentions of dogs. In fact, the symbol of dogs as Batman’s aggressors started in Batman Begins; when mob boss Carmine Falcone taunted young Bruce by saying before his father was murdered he “begged. Like a dog.” Combine this with the Joker’s dog like head-wag out the window of a cop car, and his self proclaimed analogy, to a “dog chasing cars” and you’ve got a recurring, effective motif.

The Joker’s dedication to chaos is evident in textual (spoken) examples, certainly, but there are also several other finite examples of actions and attitudes that illustrate the extent and versatility with which he uses this idea. As shown in the sequence where the Joker is attempting to escape imprisonment, he calls to the chaos within the very officer standing watch over him, Officer Stephens. There are hints that this may indeed be the method by which the Joker is able to attain a following: the madness portrayed in his goons is palpable (specifically in the character of Thomas Schiff, whom Batman describes as “The kind of mind the Joker attracts”), and in one sequence we even see a harsh instance of his recruitment: he breaks a pool cue into two shards, making men fight for their lives and spot on his “team.”

This is also a finely tuned setup for the Ferry sequence at the end of the film, which situationally makes clear the Joker’s stated dictum: “Madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is a little push.” The Joker believes that, as previously stated, his mindset comes as naturally to him as it would anybody, generally in reference to the two ferries of people, and more specifically in terms of another defining character in this film. In one sense, he is correct. He was, very methodically, able to construct a situation that bent Harvey Dent into madness.

The ferry situation is fascinating on its own. A tense drama plays out onboard as each boat is given the detonation button for the other. It provides the Joker an opportunity to showcase his belief, and what better way than Gotham Citizens blowing themselves to bits? It is important however, that Batman, as the representative of the people, never for a minute allows himself to believe they will. “There won’t be any fireworks,” he insists to the Joker, who is eagerly awaiting the explosion. Indeed, no explosion comes. This display of good will on the part of Gotham is the priming that allows Batman to make the most difficult decision of the film, involving another fascinating character.

James Gordon comes into wholly new territory in this film. It is amazing that a supporting character that could have so easily remained stagnant was awarded a beautiful and compelling arc that ties directly in with the film’s main dilemma. The story being told necessitates his character made a very, very difficult decision. A heartbreaking decision. Thankfully, we are saved from total, all encompassing bleakness in the way his character is built up this time around:

Everything Gordon does in this film further individuates himself as a person. He is self-sustaining. He doesn’t NEED the Batman, as we are shown, and when the grim situation dictates that he turn his back on the partner he’d grown to know, we feel comfortable allowing him to do so. It doesn’t take any weight off the situation, but it slightly loosens the wrench on our hearts. Look at Gordon’s choice to fake his own death: he wasn’t going to leave his family’s safety in Batman, or anyone’s, hands. He took charge. Look at his rise to power as newly appointed Commissioner after the murder of Loeb. We’re ready when he’s forced to “turn the dogs” on our hero. (Who isn’t, really, a hero.)

Why does Dent fall in the first place? It was the debilitating effects of his extremism. In the face of immense tragedy, it pushed him into dangerous territory. In his absolute image of justice, he could not accept what happened to him, and was forced to don an entirely different, but equally extreme set of rules. He bowed down to fate, because “the only morality in a cruel world is chance: unbiased, unprejudiced … fair.” He gives everyone the same chance the Joker gave Rachel: 50/50.

Watching Two-Face being born is haunting. It was there, laying dormant, ready for the Joker to drag it out into daylight. It happens in the scene where Harvey awakens in the hospital and sees his coin: first, the bright side. Rachel. He sees Rachel, and he smiles. Then he turns the coin over, and it’s power is born with its burn and mangled other side. Rachel is dead. Life. Death. It is here he gives the coin this power. He submits himself to fate, chance etc. The Joker didn’t birth or manipulate Dent into Two-Face … he just coaxed him into action.

Batman is able to witness this mentality towards the climax. He sees how Dent is a slave to chance, and decides to speak on the importance of choice: “What happened to Rachel wasn’t chance. We decided to act. We three.” This is Batman defining himself against Dent. This is him putting his priority on choice, and acknowledging his ability to choose. (Which he will be forced to act upon just moments later.)

In order to make this definition of choice clear, Batman and Dent are paralleled throughout the film. Obviously they both have similar aims. More subtly, their attitudes are even compared. Down to the littlest details, such as both characters being show disarming the un-fired weapon of an attacker. Bruce’s Ballerina date posits that Dent could even BE Batman. Not to be outdone, later in the film (to give the real Batman a chance to intercept the Joker) he admits falsely to the public that he IS Batman. It also helps that both characters be involved with the same woman.

Rachel is in love with both Bruce and Harvey. Understandable, as we have seen the movie seems to portray them very similarly. Both of their characters having a relationship with Rachel helps define them as separate characters in response to a tragic event: her death. Does Bruce descent into madness as Harvey does? Does he abandon his ideals as Batman, just as Harvey abandons his? Her death is just as deeply felt by Bruce as it is by Harvey (“Why was it me, who was the only one who lost everything?” to which Batman replies “It wasn’t.”), and yet Batman’s dedication never wavers, even in the darkest of times, and gravest of decisions.

Let’s talk about that final decision. That decision to cover up the atrocities committed after the fall of Harvey Dent. The entire movie sets up this moment. And let’s be honest, it takes a hell of a lot to make this choice believable: Harvey must be set up as an overzealous defender of absolute justice, his importance to the city must be unquestionable, and the effect of his reputations tarnishing must have detrimental effect to the city.

This is done both subtly and broadly; from people calling him the “White Knight”, or mentioning his past investigations, to a brash, over-the-top visual demonstration of both his importance and extremism: the prosecution of over 500 criminals in a single trial. This establishes the instability of his image. If anyone, cop, lawyer, anyone, got one iota of something dirty in Dent’s past or a shred of doubt to his image, all those thugs are back on the street. It’s literally established by the plot that if Harvey falls, as he does, crime will rise. The city will suffer.

Sure, this decision is made literally before our eyes, but it is also mirrored and strengthened elsewhere in the film. The final intercut moments enforce the recurring theme of a symbolic truth taking precedence over actual fact. This is manifest in Alfred’s burning of Rachel’s letter, as well as the hostage situation at the Pruitt Building. Here, Batman is placed in a parallel situation: he knows the true nature of the deceptive situation, and is forced to appear villainous and out of character. (when fighting the “hostages”, which are, in fact, goons of the Joker.)

Also in these final montage moments, we see his dedication to Gotham is the same dedication he has to the Lucius Fox character. As the in-flux Batman character observes and begins to understand the atrocious mentality of the Joker (thought the kindly help of his butler, Alfred) he understands that the stakes are his image as Batman. The Joker wants this image squandered. He convinces the mob of this, and the ideological “murder” of Batman becomes everyone’s goal. Batman realizes that he will have to venture into the gray area of acceptability.

Thus is born a viciously awesome plot/theme/character device: a vast, bat-sonar imaging device that allows Batman to image Gotham in 3d. This combined with voice recognition allows him to pinpoint an individual’s location. A tool he will ultimately use to locate the Joker. The conflict of this item encompasses one of the movie’s own great conflict: at what cost do we combat terrorism? For batman, he realizes it is at the cost of his own image. Something he becomes willing to give up for Gotham.

He puts this machine in the hands of Fox, who he very well knows would be morally against this device. In the final moments, he rewards the dedication of this character, just as he does the citizens of Gotham, by pre-programming the machine’s self destruction. This machine is the full extent of Batman’s willingness to compromise his rules for sake of combating the Joker. A goal, we find, is primal to the film’s finale.

As if that weren’t enough tension, Harvey’s fall is also tied to the Joker. Letting the city see the fall of Harvey would prove, in the public consciousness, that the ideals of the Joker ultimately win out over those of the Batman. There’s a touchingly simple line, as Batman realizes all of this. Barely seeping from his tired mouth, he forms the words: “But the Joker cannot win.”

He’ll do anything to protect the image of the hero the city needs: Dent. The good Dent. He’s so tied to Gotham, that he’s willing to step down and tarnish his own image in support of a false one. An image he deems worthy of the city. An image he thinks they deserve. More than he deserves his own. And he turns the burnt side of Dent to the shadows, leaving his untouched face gleaming. A visual indication of an internal choice.

This decision calls to the best in all of us: the selfless, the honorable, the caring, the dedicated.

The Joker lost because of these things.

I wish I could go through scene by scene, and list every detail that contributes to the brilliance of this film, as it deserves that kind of attention. In the interest of brevity, I hope this preliminary look at the thematic and conceptual content of this movie proves interesting and possibly enlightening for those intimidated by the sheer mass of content.

Alright, so I’ve done a lot of analysis, but very little review. I’d like to consider this a reviewalysis, so let’s get some commentary. Be forewarned, I enjoy hyperbole.

This movie kicked my ass so hard, I’m still icing my buns. It takes everything ever done well by any film, and does it better. Theme? Plenty of enriching, thought provoking goodness. The theme is not only genius, it’s supported by stellarly quotable dialogue, and visually arresting sequences of evocative bliss. It is so well rounded, it makes the most concise films seem talky, and the most jam-packed seem fluffy and empty. It balances so many balls with ease, it makes me question my manhood.

The cast is so good, I want them all to not win Oscars, but Nobel prizes or perhaps purple hearts. Christian Bale gives such a well balanced and beautifully tender performance as the goddman Batman. He slays me with his subtlety. Screw everyone for not noticing or mentioning it. This is my impression of everyone, “BLAH BLAH, WHINE WHINE, HIS BATMAN VOICE IS STUPID.” His Batman voice is perfect, and sets the stage for tender moments when he briefly lets it up, while still in Batman regalia. Gary Oldman? OH MY GOD. When Dent was threatening his son, and he was begging for death, SO WAS I, because I couldn’t handle any more drama! Aaron Eckhart probably had the hardest job of them all, to play Harvey Demt … I applaud his brilliance. Maggie Gyllenhaal? Jesus, I’ve never seen anyone do so much with so little. She takes the most glorious, brave pauses. Pauses that rival Ledger’s peculiar staccato as the Joker.

The script owns your everything. Everything anyone’s ever owned, now belongs to the script for this movie. If I hear a knock at the door, I just assume it’s the Dark Knight script, ready to collect all my belongings. Again, the whiners: “THEY KILLED TWO FACE OFF! HOW COULD THEY DO THAT!” Why? Because they told one Two-face story that was a trillion-zillion-million times better, and more imperative to the core of his character than any stack of ‘em you could throw at me.

I grew a beard just to not feel inferior while watching this movie.

On direction, tone, and "Potter"...

2008-09-14T18:16:00.000-07:00

Originally from my myspace blog, July 31, 2007:

Potter Blood

I've decided to not talk about the broad differences in opinion held between potter fans regarding the new film "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."

It can go nowhere. A place I've gone with the argument in discorse many, many times. Talking about adaption is something that requires a more than basic knowledge regarding both medias involved, and I would never accuse someone of not having understanding. The discussions often turn into slanted and primal shouts of opinion, with me trying to be civil.

Thankfully, I like this movie so much, there is another bit I'm eager to talk about! It's nothing to do with the broadness of those arguments, but actually with the specificity of the cinema. So if that senetence alone bores you, click the little 'back' button now.

I am now officially balls-out in love with the direction of David Yates. The man directed one of my favorite flicks of recent discovery "Girl in the Cafe." Now with this little potter thing, I'm starting to see a craft.

OOTP (order of the phoenix) has something that I so respect. There is a mood, or call it tone, to the decisive style of the direction. From pacing of the cuts within a scene, 'storytelling' and 'action of the plot' based cuts from scene to scene, and just the overall personality is CLASSIC. That is not to mean dated, vintage, or otherwise old. NO. What I mean is a lasting sort of style. It does not conform to what anyone could call contemporary style, but it does have moments of truley relatable contemporary flare.

The style fits the stuffs of the movie so well, it defines itself. To me THAT is what direction should be. Not a signature of the director's ego. Not to say a director wont be attracted to certain kinds of stories, which could in theory produce a director's "style." But this film is just immaculatley constructed. It plays its beats, it chooses its battles. (meaning, it chooses its plot conflicts well, rather then scattershooting every subject imaginable.)

So many times I said to myself while watching it, "THAT is an iconic image." It isnt just pretty, its indicative. Its beautiful, it fits, it goes beyond the story.
Lupin grabs a grieving Harry after the death of his godfather; the sound drops out and the music carries us through his silent screams. Voldemort stands dreamily in the railway station twitching in a way that mirrors perfectly Harry's own recently discovered idiocyncracy. Dumbledore emerges from the emerald of the floo transport, to duel with the Dark Lord he alone still calls "Tom."

What an amazing summer. To have that feeling of walking out of a cinema .. impressed. In every meaning of that word "impressed."

On books, film, and adaptation ...

2008-09-14T18:13:00.001-07:00

Originally from my myspace blog, March 3, 2008:

We live in a time when novels are more respected than films. I think there may be a time when a young person reading that would laugh. A time when biases I find peculiar are so foreign, they would inspire laughter. In the same way that so many comedians now use racism as a form of over-the-top sarcasm. When thinking of things to be made equal, books and films are probably pretty low on the list.

I don't say these things from a desire to advocate movies over books. I see equality in two mediums that compliment each other with their specific strengths. A good decision for a book is not necessarily a good decision for a movie; likewise, the other way around. I hope, in my heart of hearts, that one day "the book was better" will be a nonsensical statement; because, I apologize, it is a nonsensical statement. As if the goodness of a book can negate the goodness of a film. There will be a time, I hope, when a film based on a book will not be set back with some sort of comparative judging before its even been made. Shouldn't a work be judged against the parameters of its own medium?

Adaptation can be a beautiful art. I think the first step to accepting that concept en masse will be to promote film as exactly what it is: no more or less literature than anything ever printed. They hold the same literary place in our lives, and deserve the same attention. They have the same potential and similar restraints. Every art has restraints. Every picture needs a frame.

I love books. I love movies. There will always be stories that can exist in both worlds. There will always be elements of these stories that are made just as powerful, or more so, in the transition. Likewise, there will be elements unfit to exist when adapted. They won't pay off; they won't make sense, they won't fit. For example, in the transition from text to film, one must find cinematic equivalents to the same end as the textual effect of a story element.

Another weird feeling I find running rabid in my discourses is exemplified in the following: "The movie ruined the book!" I would like to think that one's fandom of a book could not be demolished or wavered by something as simple as an adaptation. Have the books been burned? Your memory erased? They haven't. In fact, attention has likely been brought to them, re-opening the doors of discussion and discovery for a wider audience. It makes me question how much they liked the book in the first place. I find this attitude to be true is cases of authorship as well. Alan Moore's reaction to the film version of his book V for Vendetta was nothing short of deplorable, and I expect the same with next year's Watchmen.

A movie should be judged as a movie; a book as a book; and both with equal respect. My insistence and dedication to these feelings does not come from some illusion of superiority, but from a genuine hope that others can be as touched as I have by these works. One can be enlightened, one can be inspired, and one can be forever changed.

2008-09-14T18:10:00.000-07:00

Welcome!
This is going to be my outlet for all cinematic musings.
The art of cinema is one that I am deeply passionate about.

I think movies are as deserving of in depth critical analysis as any other literature.

At the time of this writing, I am putting the finishing touches on an analysis of The Dark Knight.
Until it is finished, I'll post a few older, still cinema-oriented blogs from my myspace.

All the best!
Nick