Reviews

Watching this movie was a strange experience. It's like the producer has given us the sensationalist premise of environmental catastrophe, provided us with all eye candy of special effects, and then told us to fill in the gaps my writing a story to fit it all in. It's quite an easy task because there is so much potential for a good story and dramatic scenes, and while I was watching the movie I was already anticipating these fantastically dramatic scenes that were bound to come up but never did. It begs the question, with all these possibilities for a good story, why did not the makers of this film write one. Because there is absolutely no story that really touches you, and no dramatic scene that really moves you. It does the legwork of introducing characters and inserting plot elements. But that's where it stays because nothing gets done with them. It's an absolute waste of a fantastic premise and great special effects. Since "special effects does not a movie make", this gets the lowest rating in my book.

This film had everything going for it except one – the decadent attitude of the makers. The characteristic of decadence is that it believes in nothing, yet it feeds off anyone who believes in something. The film is obviously an expansion on the joke "Have you been living in a bomb shelter all these years!", but the slant on it is, "let's make fun on fifties morality". That's cheap. Good for a joke, but not for a full length film. If it needs to be stretched out into a film then fifties morality has to be built up before shooting it down. Therefore a good chunk of the film is taken up building fifties morality in the nuclear shelter of Calvin and his family. Since the makers have no respect for this kind of life, it comes across as unintended satire. We are supposed to laugh at crazy people minding morals and manners in a dugout, and at the same time we are not supposed to laugh, because morals and manners will become heroic qualities for the protagonist later on in the film. So it's, whatever suits the plot at any particular time. In other words, decadence! If they believed that fifties morality is bad, then we would have satire. If they believed it was good then we would have a sweet romantic comedy. But the people involved don't believe in anything really, and they are happy to maintain a snickering, subversive attitude throughout. Using all their skills in exploitation and manipulation, their purpose is no get a passable film together, meant for the shallow masses, who like them also believe in nothing. Except, of course, the quick buck.

Taking all this into account, it's a good effort. Entertaining, and some good performances. Christopher Walken is particularly good. The premise is extremely far-fetched, and a lot of effort is gone into making it believable. Despite the efforts, it's barely believable to begin with, it stops being believable at all after Adam grows up and walks into the real world. This is where comedy is meant to tide things over, and it required a deft and conscientious touch to work. But it all goes wrong. It's heavy handed and insensitive most of the way. The heart of the film is not in the right place. We don't appreciate all the fun made of morality and manners. Not when the film itself is about the preciousness of morality and manners in the nihilistic nineties.

I wonder why the auteur theorists of cinema never put Clint Eastwood under scrutiny. If they did they would have the prime example of an auteur under total control of his material, so much so that he should more appropriately be called dictator. Remember, I am not saying that in a good way. I believe that the best films come out as teamwork, and I even count the audience as part of the team. (After all, it's audience expectation that drives the filmmakers.) But it is also possible for the director to stamp his authority on the production, and the result is usually vanity showcases rather than proper films. I'm afraid this is the fate of the "Clint Eastwood film".

But it's strange too, because the Eastwood vanity comes across as unique. He is not really a director. He is first and foremost a star persona, and this was cemented through "the man with no name" character of the spaghetti westerns, and later augmented through Dirty Harry. He creates a mystique of quiet strength through minimalist expression, squint-eyed stares, dialogue that comes across as scowls etc. With slight modifications here and there, Clint has played this same character throughout his career, be it sheriff, convict, boxing trainer, farmer, and in the case of the film in question, burglar. Not to complain, because he does it well enough, and with enough verisimilitude to keep us interested. But the problem is that he directs the same way as he acts. It's a minimalist kind of direction, with almost no flashy highlights. There may be emphasis here and there, but it's always understated, like the intermittent scowls of the actor. He does it film after film, and there seems to be nobody to tell him that he should "direct" and not just carry his star persona along with him in the director's chair. It really is a dictatorship here. For anyone else, this is a recipe for disaster. But the confidence of Clint is monumental, and this is what carries him through. Most of his films are duds, even though oddly engaging in places. Only once in a while a script comes along that suits his style, so we get gems like Play Misty For Me and Million Dollar Baby. But the film in question is probably his worst of all. It's called Absolute Power, but it's got nothing about politicians exercising full reign. It is better seen as the director exercising his own absolute power over his product, via his star persona, and ruining it in the process.

It's a sensational premise – a burglar witnessing a high profile crime and cover-up. From this point on it needs fireworks to fly from the directorial chair. Instead we're treated to the same ponderous "character studies" of the Eastwoodian bent – dipping but not probing. If it's character that he's concerned with, he should have paid attention to the Luther Whitney character. If we are going to start rooting for a professional burglar, the director needs to put a lot of effort into it. Watching a speech of the President on television and suddenly becoming "good" and empathising for the widowed Walter Sullivan – this will not work. In fact, we're asked to accept a litany of contradictions and anomalies, just because Clint is squinting and scowling his way through it. After a point we stop believing in the plot, and we stop caring for the characters too, because no effort is made in this direction. It is just more of the same, slow, ponderous, workmanlike, Clint getting through his script with quiet strength and dignity, not much unlike "the man with no name" getting through his gun-slinging opposition. Sometimes it works, but not here.

This film is bad in the sense that it is hardly a film at all. It has no structure, no dialogue, no screenplay, a threadbare story, but one that is not told because of non-existent direction, etc. It continues where the original left off, and just notches off plot elements one by one without any urge to tell a story, or develop characters, relationships, etc. The makers probably conceived this as a filler between numbers one and three and didn't bother with it. Of course, that's all right. I don't have any problem with that. But what really does disturb me is the high praise meted out to this "film" from almost every quarter – from viewers and critics alike. On this board it's being rated as the 17th best movie of all time. I've consulted quite a few film guides, and they all tag maximum, or near maximum, stars to this film. Even more bizarrely, they consider it to be the best of the series, and in my mind it's clearly the worst. What is going on? Of course, it's not difficult to see why this film is idolized. The first film was both good and a milestone. Not great, but it was the perfect statement for an age. It was a fairy tale that was confused as science fiction. The "Force" embodied morality, even religion, for the space age. It is set in the distant past and therefore pertains to origins rather than where technology is going. Spaceships and laser guns are just the backdrop, and have nothing to do with the story or the subject matter. When this film appeared in the middle of the crisis-ridden seventies, it really must have been a beacon of "new hope". And to put the ground-breaking special effects into its proper context, they symbolized optimism. There is no doubt that the effects served the story well, but they served even better the mood of the age. And with all this going, Star Wars rightly became a tremendous hit, and the focus of fanatic devotion. It was to be expected that any sequel would have been gobbled up by the fan base, as long as it didn't spoil the original. Empire doesn't spoil the original. It not only continues the war between good and evil, it does so with more spectacle, more aplomb, more special effects.

When people say they like Empire, what I think they really mean is that thy like Star Wars so much that they are thrilled that it has a new and glossy wrapping. Because Empire is nothing but embellishment. They're not judging the film itself. The ideal situation would have been if Star Wars remained as a standalone fairy tale. Fairy tales end, and they leave us with the aura of "happily ever after". They don't go on and on and become sagas, and if they did that would totally destroy the aura. Empire is the first mistaken step towards saga, and that is why it quickly finds itself out of its depth. There is nothing else to be told, and that's why the film is so bad. One boring battle joined to another boring battle, and in between we have cardboard characters mouthing atrocious dialogue that serves no purpose whatsoever. The strain tells. Everybody is straining to do something when there is nothing to do. The third film, The Return of the Jedi, redeems itself by trying to finish a story. The prequels are interesting because they are filling in the background. But Empire is caught in no man's land. It is bad, and it should be exposed as such. All this pretending isn't healthy, I don't think.

The assessment of the Star Wars films seem to be all upside down. To my mind, The Empire Strikes Back from the original trilogy is by far the worst of the six, but it is universally judged to be the best. On the other hand, The Phantom Menace is universally derided, and yet I find it to be the best. It is beautifully scripted; the pace is handled to perfection. The acting all round is superb. The special effects are dazzling, and only gratuitous in the sense that there are too many ugly aliens walking around the periphery. Since this is a problem with all the Star Wars films, TPM should be commended for being restrained, in fact. At least it minimises the ugliness factor by giving the alien characters depth and verisimilitude (utilizing CGI to its limits). Otherwise the effects serve the story very well. Other than the original film, this is the only instalment that never becomes boring and is always engaging.

But why does everybody hate it? It was perplexing at first, but then I had another look at the originals and it suddenly dawned on me. One thing we tend to forget is that the original Star Wars films were very ordinary. The hype and the history tend to cloud judgement in this regard. Stars Wars became a phenomenon because it symbolised something vital and crucial for its age. The concept of the Force embodied the morality/religion of the space age. The ground-breaking special effects imbued optimism in the troubled seventies. A fairy tale was told, and people were caught up in the story. They didn't mind that the acting, writing, direction etc was poor. We pretended that the films were good, and we maintained that pretense for a long time. Then came the Phantom Menace, and this really was a menace. It threatened our hallowed pretences. Here was a top quality film calling itself "Star Wars", and next to it the original trilogy looked extremely shoddy. The fans couldn't take the exposure, and thus the knee jerk reaction against the new instalment. That's my theory.

It is not just a question of improved special effects. Of course there is that. The effects are so advanced in TPM that those in the original film look distinctly prehistoric in comparison. The advance in science is matched by the cinematography, so that we are treated with a vision that is exponentially more grand in every way. But the fans can always persuade us to ignore technical excellence and focus on artistic excellence. That's what the critics of TPM appear to be doing, only that in the process they get stuck on an intransigent bias. The complaint is that the new film is badly acted, poorly directed, overburdened with special effects, boring, inconsistent, peopled with obnoxious and unappealing characters, and so on. It's one big bias, that's all. The fans feel threatened by the new product, and there is a spontaneous rejection. Whatever they are saying about TPM, I will say that the exact opposite is true. It is not only a triumph of filmmaking; it is also the triumphant realisation of a long cherished vision of George Lucas. The man himself has proclaimed that he does not like the original trilogy, not after he has perfected his vision in the later instalments. His legion of fans begs to differ, preferring the inept filmmaking of the young George Lucas, and the wooden interactions of Mark Hamill, Carrie Fischer and Harrison Ford.

Of the host of criticisms leveled by the die-hard fans, only one stands up. Yes, midichlorians is a bad idea, and it virtually trashes the mysticism of the Force. But I can see what persuaded the story writers to it. The Jedi Council must grant discipleship to Annakin Skywalker, and the mystical hunches of Qui-Gon are not acceptable as proof of his suitability. It is a major gaffe, and shows that the Jedi Council itself was wrongly conceived. Lucas should have seen that midichlorians are the antithesis of everything that Star Wars stands for. Maybe there's some truth in the charge that Lucas has sold out, lost the original vision, moved over to the dark side of the Force (i.e. succumbed to commercialism). But there is still enough of that vision left to make TPM a truly memorable film. The pod race is said to go on too long, but I didn't think so. People forget the unending battle sequences in the original trilogy The only other issue I would like to bring up is the ugliness of the aliens. It has become a regular feature for science fiction films to feature ugly aliens, and it points to a chronic dearth of vision among such filmmakers. Stars Wars may have started it all, and it has a lot to answer for in that regard. Why should the beautiful future be marred by ugly aliens? These creatures aren't low-life. In fact in most cases they are superior to humans. The model should have been Spock from Star Trek. His alien-ness is suggested by his pointed ears and that is enough. The rest is left to our imagination and that's how it should be. It comes across through his excessive logicalness, his quizzical reaction to human ways, his posture, his special abilities etc. The aura of alien-ness is very strong with Spock; it's almost non-existent with Jar Jar Binks. Spock was the winning grace of Star Trek. Jar Jar Binks, and indeed all other alien life forms in the Star Wars saga, are merely eyesores and annoyances. An alien is supposed to inspire wonder. What has ugliness got to do with that?

The real theme of Avatar is the megalomania of the director. He thinks he can create a world from scratch, and he thinks of this world as Paradise. The only problem is that beauty comes from within. Bloated with megalomania as he is, his vision of Paradise comes across as Hell instead. I found the viewing of Pandora excruciating. There was a persistent sense of nausea throughout. It was meant to be the essence of beauty. But blue men with long tails undulating behind them are a utter perversity to the eyes. The garish plant life reeked of poison. The animals combined insect, reptile and mammal, bringing out the worst features in each. How anyone can conceive of this concoction as beautiful is beyond me. Compared to this the slimy aliens in Cameron's earlier films are tame.

In truth, I am suspicious of anyone who calls Pandora beautiful. My theory is this: There is something ugly inside that is compels them to say that Pandora is beautiful. They take into consideration the budget of the film, the fact that it's made by the "king of the world", that it stands as a testament to human ingenuity (technology, CGI and so on), that the film becomes the byword for hype, that it promotes the cult of celebrity, etc. In other words, those who find Pandora beautiful are also those who idolize the megalomania of Cameron. It's all a matter of worshipping excess, and if you do, you find Pandora beautiful. Otherwise you say, Hey, why are those slimy tentacles sticking out of all those animals on that planet? Yuck! The rest is a thinly disguised critique of the American invasion of Iraq, or more generally the military industrial complex. But of course it is hypocrisy through and through. Hollywood excess is an integral part of the military industrial complex, and Cameron is at the vanguard of Hollywood excess. He's a hypocrite, and no wonder his vision comes across as so ugly. Of course, not many people will say so. Not if they are worshipping at the altar of pride and excess. So Cameron taps into the general malaise and makes a lot of money. That's all there is to Avatar. It's a testament to greed and megalomania. In this universe of excess there is a "paradise", which the film tries to recreate. If you live in that universe you will find the vision beautiful. If you don't, it is the very definition of repulsive.

A lot of people like The Matrix because they think it's deep. In fact its apparent deepness is its primary selling point, and is what has turned it into a blockbuster and trendsetter. Just ponder over this, because there's a contradiction here. Whenever has Hollywood hit the jackpot by being profound, either in a philosophical or religious way? Something strange is going on here. A lot of the mystery disappears after we identify exactly what belief the Wachowski brothers are purveying here. It's Scientology. They are telling us that the power of the mind is able to free us from the matrix of the senses. The scientologists are anxious to free themselves and become thetans – omnipresent and omni-powerful minds.

Now, the success of The Matrix tells me just one thing, that people have become closet scientologists. They don't grapple with the issue of "appearance and reality" in the way scientologists do, but the core belief is there. They might call themselves an atheist, or an evolutionist ("We only accept what science tells us"), but that's only an excuse for not really sorting out what they really believe in. So, along comes a film called The Matrix and it hits a chord. They can identify with Neo because they are aware of a thing called corporate media manipulating reality for them. They are also brought up on computer games, and so it's not too big a leap to imagine a virtual world completely replacing the real one. I can see how closet scientologists can completely immerse themselves in the plight of Neo and his Christ-like struggle to free humanity from the clutches on the senses and become omni-powerful minds (in the parlance of the film, taking them to promised city of Zion).

In that sense, the film is profound, in that it resonates with popular belief so accurately. There is just enough spattering of science and philosophy to take them in. People want to believe in science, but they don't want to be troubled like Einstein was ("Does God play dice?"). The most convincing part of the film is where Morpheus demonstrates to Neo how virtual reality is created. This, and the recurring motif of "freeing the mind" are the only authentic components of the film. The rest is a conventional Hollywood action flick, and one that is totally at odds with the underlining philosophy. Considering the struggle with agent Smith, and the frequent popping in and out of virtual reality, nothing makes sense. This is where real confusion starts to parade as profundity.

I always thought that it was only intellectuals who mistook confusion for profundity, but apparently normal cinema-goers do too. Maybe intellectuals and Hollywood action flick fans have something in common after all. They both worship the rational mind. And when rationality delivers a mess, the mess itself is seen as something profoundly rational. Maybe that's the crowing achievement of the Wachowski brothers. They have composed the "Being and Time" for the masses. But Heidegger's philosophical book was mostly pretentious garbage, and so is the Matrix.