Danny Boyle’s “Sunshine” and Darren Aronofsky’s “The Fountain” are two strikingly spiritual films – the former more surprisingly than the latter – yet the conclusions of either film couldn’t be more different than the initial similarities they share.
“Sunshine,” released in 2007, revolves a group of scientists above the Icarus II (a rather appropriate allusion the Greek mythology) that is carrying a sizable cargo of nuclear explosives, hoping to reignite a dying sun and ultimately to prevent the end of human existence. “The Fountain,” released in 2006, revolves around a neuroscientist named Tommy who is trying to save his wife Izzi from succumbing to a deadly tumor.
The dynamic of both films rests on the idea of mortality, and on our pursuit of scientific understanding in attempting to delay the inevitability of death. Oddly enough, I found “Sunshine” to be a more spiritually moving film than “The Fountain” despite Aronofsky’s obvious religious allusions throughout the film; likewise, I found the “The Fountain” to be oddly more academic and secular than “Sunshine” despite Boyle’s obvious efforts at creating a feasible, scientifically-sound scenario.
Spiritually Moving?
When I say “spiritually moving,” I mean it in a different sense than “religiously moving” in that spiritualism isn’t bound by any religious institution or credence – it is simply an individual experience, and a personal one for the matter.
“Sunshine,” ostensibly a hard science fiction film, places its scientists against the backdrop of a dying sun that is nonetheless awe inspiring and utterly, beautifully elemental. The sun is such an incredible presence throughout Boyle’s backdrop that the experience of simply seeing it becomes almost like a existential ritual for one of the crew members aboard the Icarus II.
“The Fountain” jumps between history, fantasy, and present day, three timelines that are interconnected by the emotional trajectory of Tommy as he copes with mortality. Two of the timelines, the historical and the fantastical, provide a escapist contrast to the bitter, grittier reality that Tommy physically occupies.
The visual effects in both films cannot be argued against: both tout some of the most fantastic, most awe inspiring landscapes that could possibly exist within cinema. Ironically, “Sunshine” is more successful in evoking a spiritual sensation than “The Fountain” for one simple reason: the specificity of the special effects themselves.
In “Sunshine,” the primary visual effect was the sun, and the nothingness of the space in between. The sun was simply a massive, incredible tour de force that each of the scientists faced, and in its shadow of space each character reacts differently: some regarded it with fear, some with awe, some with rational, some with despair, and some with hope. Everyone copes with their own moral and existential qualms differently, and after awhile I couldn’t help but be moved by the image of the sun as well. The sun, in its massive, elemental depiction, was something to behold, appreciate, and ponder.
In “The Fountain,” Aronofsky drew heavily from established religious symbolism that, ironically, actually detracted from the spiritual experience I can only assume he had in mind (this is separate from the emotional experience, which was a rather poignant one). There was less to be interpreted, less to be pondered about (there’s less to interpret about Adam and Eve, the Tree of Life, or passage from Genesis than a blazing, omnipresent sun); the film, with all its immense symbology and mythological-religious allusions, became more academic than spiritual by accident.
Since most of “The Fountain’s” symbology alluded to a previous mythological or religious interpretation, the film is essentially more eclectic than “Sunshine” and thus, ironically, Aronofsky created a less spiritually encompassing film than Boyle did. In fact, you could even argue “The Fountain” was more secular than “Sunshine” in some respects, at least in the academic sense.
Divergent Conclusions about Science in the Scheme of the Universe
Both “Sunshine” and “The Fountain” pose the same question regarding mortality – to accept it or to overcome it – and both come to different conclusions that are both completely rational and understandable.
The scientists of Icarus II “Sunshine” are given the task of reigniting the sun in order to save mankind after the Icarus I failed to complete its mission. It turns out that the captain of Icarus I was a extremely religious man that, after 16 months in space, concluded that the mission was sacrilegious (“I am Pinbacker, Commander of the Icarus One. We have abandoned our mission. Our star is dying. All our science. All our hopes, our… our dreams, are foolish! In the face of this, we are dust, nothing more. Unto this dust, we return. When he chooses for us to die, it is not our place to challenge God”) and kills his entire crew to prevent the success of the mission; eventually, he manages to board the Icarus II and attempts to stop the surviving scientists aboard the second mission from accomplishing their goal. Despite all of these setbacks, Icarus II manages to send their cargo of nuclear explosions into the sun, and mankind is saved.
In “The Fountain,” Tommy goes through several stages of emotional changes as his wife Izzi succumbs and eventually dies from her brain tumor. As a neuroscientist, he works obsessively in his lab to find a cure for brain tumors, at some points even prioritizing work over spending precious remaining time with Izzi. It’s only after she dies and he has a emotional outburst (“Death is a disease, it’s like any other. And there’s a cure. A cure – and I will find it”) that Tommy finally comes to accept the inevitability of death as the ultimate outcome, and that life moves on in some form or another (Tommy plants a seed for a tree to grow upon Izzi’s grave at the very end).
The conclusions of “Sunshine” and “The Fountain” contrast with one another like night and day, yet they are not at odds with one another. Despite the fact that “Sunshine” asserts that scientific understanding can overcome natural limitations and that “The Fountain” asserts that scientific knowledge will lose out to death, both conclusions about mortality, despite their inherent differences, complement one another. The reason is a simple difference between the emphasis on the collective in “Sunshine” and on the individual in “The Fountain."
In "Sunshine,” Pinbacker acts in accord with his own belief, and while he has every right to his own beliefs, his actions affect more than himself since humanity is at stake. Pinbacker effectively tries to impose his own views on the rest of humanity, a view that essentially aims to cut off any survival instinct and effort from continuing to exist. The crew of Icarus II, regardless of their own philosophies, place their own individual impulses beneath the task that humanity has given them to perform – a task that reflects the desire of the majority, a desire to continue living.
In “The Fountain,” Tommy’s efforts will ultimately impact humanity as a collective, but in the present his actions affect only a select few – himself, his colleagues, and Izzi. Death is inescapable, and that we spend a good deal of our lives attempting to delay its onset; however, Tommy initially refuses to believe this fact, and instead relentlessly tries to overcome the limitations of current scientific knowledge in order to cope with something completely out of his control. Izzi, on the other hand, comes to terms with her own demise, and spends her last moments in peace. Eventually, once he comes to terms with his grief, Tommy accepts his own limitations and the odds of life, and finally understands that there will always be a certain random, statistical aspect of life that he cannot control no matter how much knowledge her attains.
“Sunshine” concludes that the collective desire to survive outweighs the individual qualms, and “The Fountain” concludes that an individual’s mortality is an escapable fact of life. “Sunshine” touts the capacity of scientific pursuit in understanding and overcoming natural limitations, and “The Fountain” reminds us that scientific pursuit has its own limitations as well. Both films are spiritual and secular, though to a degree “Sunshine” succeeds more in creating a spiritual experience while “The Fountain” succeeds more in creating a secular one. Ironic, to say the least.
I recently finished Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, a historical fiction documenting the rise of Thomas Cromwell in the court of King Henry VIII from 1500 to 1535 (quick Tudor history for those who hate dates as much as I do: things was around the time when Henry was trying to divorce Katherine so he could marry Anne Boleyn). Having borrowed the book a few months ago, I was rather determined to get through all 560 pages since the last thing you want is your friend to start thinking you lost the book.
Given that I’m not particularly apt at Tudor history nor am I British, Wolf Hall was a difficult read: not only was I unfamiliar with a majority of the historical references, Mantel’s prose was the extra impediment to me reading as quickly as I usually do. But, I’m a stubborn reader, and after two and a half weeks of committed reading, I managed to read that very last page, the very last sentence, and very soundly close the hardcover book for the last time. Take THAT, historical fiction! I thought.
What had gotten me through Wolf Hall was a mixture of literary mulishness, a masochistically self-imposed reading deadline, and most importantly the addictive satisfaction of turning pages, closing the hardcover shut, and watching the progression of my bookmark inch closer and closer from the beginning to the end of the book. Had I read Wolf Hall as a digital book, I highly doubt I would have managed to even get through twenty five percent of Mantel’s Man Booker Prize winning book at this point even.
Currently, I own a large book collection and an Amazon Kindle. There’s an appeal to both physical and digital versions of reading, though I’m inclined to say that on any given day, I opt for printed pages over a e-reader without any hesitation (even if cost is an issue, there’s always the local library (or your friends if they’re not disgruntled with you)). Sure, e-readers may be more ‘green’ than printed books, but by how much? After all, you’re manufacturing electronics that require electricity to continue being useful. Then again, there’s also the issue having too many books if you’re like me and have a difficult time not itching for a buy every time you step foot in a bookstore.
But I digress. The main issue, of course, is the difference between having a physical copy of what you’re reading versus a digital, less infringing digital equivalent. Is it safe to say that digital readers are 'the’ future, just like how digital music, digital photography and digital filmmaking are overtaking their respective predecessors in the market? Or is it reasonable to believe that the old school of printed press, with its dog-eared pages, its coffee spills, its bug-crushing capacity, will persevere?
A couple of months ago my friend Allan sent me a New York Times article that discussed the evolution of how we read, titled “From Scroll to Screen.” It’s an interesting article that I highly recommend to anyone, but here’s the general gist:
The Scroll: you could only read and search linearly since you navigated by unrolling the scroll progressively
The Codex (aka what we currently associate printed books with): you can skip around passages with incredible ease; reading and searching can be linear and non-linear
The E-Reader: the most compact, capacity to skip between and search for passages limited compared to codex since there is only one screen
E-reader enthusiasts will probably argue that it’s easier to search on a digital book for certain quotes or to define a term, or that if you have a good reader like the iPad or Kindle, the digital reading experience can be a good one. True, but at the end of the day, the codex still has the advantage over the e-reader because it’s not restricted by a single screen.
There’s also the issue of attention span. Like most digital devices, e-readers have the capacity to store thousands of books/articles; however, this tends to encourage a sort of reading ADD since one, we don’t have a physical sense of how far we’ve progressed in the book and two, it’s so much easier to just find another book/article to read if you get frustrated and/or bored with what you’re currently reading. This reading ADD is sort of like how we can peruse through our digital photographs, digital music and movie libraries a lot more quickly than searching through printed photographs, CDs or DVDs. Ask yourself: when was the last time you spent a serious amount of time looking at a photograph for more than a split second, or listened to an entire album without changing to a different one, or even watching only one movie in a sitting and uninterrupted by anything?
I prefer printed books over digital equivalents to avoid reading ADD. Sure, I could switch between different books, but even that encourages less reading ADD than an e-reader since I have to actively search for something via my personal library, the local library, or the bookstore, as opposed to internet browsing. I’ve yet to read a book on my Kindle; I currently have two in my Kindle library, but that’s because one of them is out of print (David Bordwell’s Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema) and I got the other one for free from a friend (Machine of Death: A Collection of Stories about people who know how they will die). Besides these two reasons – it’s not available in print or it’s free so why not? – I don’t have much of an incentive to give up the tactility of turning pages in favor of staring at one screen and pressing a forward/back button.
Alas, I haven’t even given e-readers a chance at this point. After all, why would I purchase a Kindle if I’m going to end up bashing it?
E-readers are more than fantastic for writings that are published online – which, these days, is almost everything from news to blogs to academic resources. I read an average of five to fifteen online articles and essays per day, and oftentimes I get reading fatigue when I stare at my LCD-lit computer screen for long periods of time.
Once I bought my Kindle, I got into the habit of saving pdf versions of articles/essays I found interesting, uploading them to my Kindle, and enjoying them without the distraction of internet surfing/computer multitasking (it also helps that unlike the iPad, the Kindle uses e-ink technology, which puts less strain on my eyes). Once I’m finished reading an article/essay on the Kindle, I can easily delete or archive it for future reference. Gone are the days where I have a pile of printed articles, magazines or newspapers collecting dust on my desk, reminding me of how far I’ve fallen behind on my to-read list; now, I read in blissful ignorance of how many articles/essays I’ve downloaded to my “to read” queue on my Kindle.
Additionally, for those still in school, e-readers offer a fantastic alternative to needing to print out pages of powerpoint slides, notes, required reading articles, and even textbooks. In fact, I think textbooks that are optimized for digital reading are ideal since they’re cheaper than printed equivalents (which is especially ideal for students struggling to stay in budget – I’ve bought textbooks in the past that nearly cost two hundred dollars), it’s lighter to carry around a digital copy, and once you’re done with the class, you don’t have to worry about what to do with your textbook, e.g. selling or storing it (textbook publishers frequently 'update’ the book editions to make more money, and I’ve run into situations where professors refuse to teach from previous editions even if the update is effectively null).
The only feasible downside I see to digital textbooks is that you can’t highlight or write as freely in them as you could with printed versions. Still, the prospect of carrying around a giant lump that costs too much and isn’t likely to be part of your 'favorite books’ collection seems less appealing than losing the capacity to highlight/write/doodle all over the pages of your textbook.
I don’t believe digital reading should replace the learning experience for kids – in fact, I’m very much against it for one simple reason: imagination.
Studies cited in the guidelines say that parents interact less with children when the television is on, and that a young child at play will glance at the TV—if it is on, even in the background—three times a minute.
The study mostly focuses on the language development, and while they focus on television in the quote, I’m rather adamant about the benefits of reading without the distractions of someone else’s creative endeavor numbing kids from imagining things themselves (note: I’m aware that there are some printed children’s books where kids can physically interact with them, such as pressing a button for sound or pulling something to make a picture pop out. However, this falls back to the physical versus digital aspects of reading).
Reading comprehension is one of the most important skills you need as an adult, and if you don’t develop a habit of processing information early, there’s a good chance you’ll fall behind. Traditional reading encourages this kind of development: without the reading ADD that you get from reading things on the internet or even shuffling through your e-book library every impulse you get, printed books basically force us to focus, and to really process (and even visualize) what each sentence, what each word weighs and means.
I don’t know if digital reading will eventually take over printed press, but given its current limits (the codex still feels intuitive and less awkward than switching and searching in a e-book), I have my doubts about it, just like I’ve had my doubts about 3D taking over 2D movies for quite awhile. However, unlike 3D movies, I do think e-readers have their use, and that they won’t disappear from the market anytime soon. But regardless of your preference, at the end of the day, reading is still better than nothing, and that’s a fact.
For the first half of geological time our ancestors were bacteria. Most creatures still are bacteria, and each one of our trillions of cells is a colony of bacteria.
Richard Dawkins
Halloween is around the corner and it’s appropriate that these days, zombies are on the rise given that vampires are now about sex or sparkles, rebooted 80s’ franchises are, well, franchises, and I can only assume that werewolves are passe given how The Wolfman bombed at the box office only a year and a half ago. How appropriate, too, that I recently watched Steven Soderbergh's Contagion, a film with a premise so similar to the core root of the zombie sub-horror genre that the degree of separation between one and the other is as thin as Heineken.
For those unfamiliar with the September release, Contagion is about an pandemic of a new, deadly virus, a virus so deadly it ravages countries and blips the mortality statistics into the millions worldwide within a month of its premiere. As people drop dead and the virus mutates, societies breakdown into anarchy, barely contained by a veil (if not facade) of remaining authority still alive. Doctors and nurses walk out, refusing to treat patients since there is no cure and they don’t want to become infected themselves; researchers at the Center for Disease Control (CDC) rush to find a vaccine and cure, working tirelessly against a pathogen that has no precursor; rioters break into pharmacies, attempting to loot homeopathic treatments a conspiracy-driven blogger promotes; civilians are forced to protect their homes with arms, turning away friends for fear of transmission and living lives of relative isolation; survivors live in more dread than the dying, going about their daily routine with a mysophobic and self-preservation alertness; and and the bureaucracy of governments churns its wheels as it attempts to allocate resources and personnel to different scenes, each nation balancing the interest of its own people with that of the international community in the face of natural force capable of wiping out the human population.
While aggressive quarantine may contain the epidemic, or a cure may lead to coexistence of humans and zombies, the most effective way to contain the rise of the undead is to hit hard and hit often.
Philip Munz, Ioan Hudea, Joe Imad, and Robert J. Smith, "When Zombies Attack!“ (2009)
Pause for a second a consider how similar the events which unfold in Contagion correlate with events with which we’ve come to expect in zombie stories: if anything, zombies are a perfect model for the pandemic of an infectious disease, plus the bonus of bludgeoning practice if you’re into that sort of spectacle. The key difference between zombies and a deadly disease is a minute one: infectious diseases can be transmitted a variety of ways – such as vectors like mosquitoes and rats, fomites like a staircase railing or martini class, or even direct contact like handshaking and kissing – and unless the pathogen itself is particularly hardy and has a long incubation period, it will likely die off once its host (aka the unfortunate patient) dies; zombies, on the other have two modes of action: 1) eat the living, or 2) leave a infectious mark after their prey manages to get away – the agent which causes the disease, interestingly, requires both direct contact (aka chomp) and the host to die before it can be properly transmitted. Besides this medical difference, pandemics and zombies both share the same consequences: social breakdown into levels of anarchy and inhumanity, and both are spread by contact, direct or indirect.
The film suggests that, at any moment, our advanced civilization could be close to a breakdown exacerbated by precisely what is most advanced in it.
Yet what’s really scary in “Contagion” is how fast once-humming airports and offices, homes and cities empty out when push comes to shove comes to panic in the streets.
What makes Contagion compelling is its particularly realistic grasp in depicting the events unfold when a new, deadly virus hits the globe. The film is an ensemble film with six intertwined stories with three distinct POVs: the first, involving Mitch Emhoff (Matt Damon) and his family, provides insight into the events unfolding amongst civilians; the second revolves around government authorities on the scene, and has three distinct plot lines – Dr. Ellis Cheever (Lawrence Fishburne) balancing his duties between the CDC and US homeland security, Dr. Ally Hextall (Jennifer Ehle) who works tirelessly on a vaccine, and Dr. Leonara Orantes (Marion Cotillard), a WHO epidemiologist who visits Hong Kong and tries to determine the origin of the virus; and lastly the third, which revolves around Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law) who blogs conspiracy theory-ridden polemics and vouches for alternative medicine. In total, there are six stories and three POVs which pervade Contagion.
One aspect of the film is befuddling. Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law) is a popular blogger with conspiracy theories about the government’s ties with drug companies. His concerns are ominous but unfocused. Does he think drug companies encourage viruses? The blogger subplot doesn’t interact clearly with the main story lines and functions mostly as an alarming but vague distraction.
If there’s a serious misstep in Contagion, it’s that the subplot involving Alan is poorly focused. His motivation is murky. Initially, he appears to be a conspiracy theory nutcase. Then he’s a market manipulator being recruited by a hedge fund manager. Soderbergh wants him in the film to represent a slice of the population, but doesn’t seem to know how to manage him. There’s a sense that Alan should have been given either more or less screen time. The amount he’s actually accorded doesn’t seem just right.
Listen, I don’t object to the depiction of an Internet journalist as a scumbag; I object to reducing the entire discussion of the current dreadful state of media in this country to a lame joke, and one that suggests we’re better off not challenging authority.
Contagion could have been a much more haunting (and hence stronger) film had Soderbergh and screenwriter Scott Z. Burns placed a bigger emphasis on the decay of social order that results when the disease becomes pandemic – the same emphasis that makes certain zombie dramas like The Walking Dead so much more compelling than the average zombie flesh fest. Unfortunately, the Krumwiede story becomes an unnecessary crux in the film’s progression: while it’s likely that a good portion of the population would turn to unfounded internet declarations in times of desperation, I don’t think an entire story line needed to be dedicated to this aspect of a pandemic causing social deterioration. In fact, the Krumwiede story could have easily been incorporated into Cheever’s troubles in dealing with government bureaucracy and reaching out to the American population. I suspect, however, that Krumwiede’s story was included to give Contagion narrative momentum, and unfortunately I wholeheartedly believe this was the wrong choice. A wiser decision would have been to linger more on the deterioration of the dying, and to give more screen time to Emhoff and Hextall, whose respective story lines encompass the core components of Contagion’s horror: a man who is trying to keep his remaining family alive, and a women who is pressed by the constraints of time and technology to find a cure.
"Contagion’s” implacable tone has its drawbacks. The movie is almost pathological in its avoidance of messy emotion.
If anything, the primary momentum of Contagion could have easily been Mitch Emhoff’s perspective: true terror lies not with the dying, but with the remaining who have yet to know of their own fates. The moments in Contagion where we see people looting, robbing, and clawing over one another for limited supplies are as poignant as they are when we see similar moments in zombie narratives: they encompass the deterioration of social order, when anarchy becomes as pandemic as the disease itself. Sure, you have those who retain their own sense of decency and humanity, but realistically (and unfortunately) such individuals tend to be far and few between in the wake of a potential human apocalypse. Mitch Emhoff is one of those few dignified people amidst the chaos, a character whose sense of common decency is undeterred in the wake of disaster; his story line is what really keeps the viewers on edge, for we can only imagine what would happen to him and his daughter if they were forced to fend for themselves against violence or worse yet, opportunists.
Had Soderbergh and Burns considered the possibility that being scientifically accurate and narratively compelling were not mutually exclusive, I suspect Contagion would have been one of the few films to achieve the feat of depicting a researcher more nuanced than Hollywood cliches – I’m speaking, of course, of Dr. Hextall’s story.
The pressure cooker plot calls for intense performances all around but first among equals are Winslet and Ehle. The former’s abilities are amply known but, whenever Ehle appears in films or onstage, she makes it clear she entirely belongs in the company of Streep (whom she resembles), Winslet, Blanchett, Kidman, Linney, et al.
While Contagion has more (currently) sound science than the average science fiction thriller, Soderbergh still makes the mistake of assuming the research process is too boring for the big screen. It’s not an unfounded assumption, but it’s an assumption based off the idea that the technology and technicalities themselves must be the focus in depicting the research process in a narrative. The technicalities themselves might be boring to the average non-researcher (even for researchers in some cases) but the human drive behind such research is a rather compelling one.
Imagine: Dr. Hextall gets a sample of the pathogen, and begins the arduous process of identifying its microscopic components – is it a bacteria, a virus, a prion?; imagine too that once she identifies its molecular make up and its origins (courtesy of Professor Ian Sussman, played by Elliott Gould), Hextall must now go through the various trial and errors in creating a viable vaccine. Sure, the process itself might be boring to watch, but imagine the emotions attached to each step: the grueling thought process that tests the extent of current knowledge and its application to a unforeseen force; the ensuing lack of sleep that results because each minute she sleeps means another hundred (if not thousand) victims to succumb; the hope and disappointment when a vaccine is tried and fails; the moment of despair when nothing seems to work; the burst of hope when an epiphany results in a successful vaccine – the end result is still the development of a vaccine, but the emphasis on Hextall’s humanity as opposed to her knowledge of microbiology could have been a particularly moving and incredibly novel aspect of Contagion’s momentum.
Don’t get me wrong, Contagion is not a bad movie; in fact, it’s a very good thriller that, save Krumwiede’s story, is tightly paced and bound to create mysophobes in its wake. It’s quite possible to make a dramatically moving zombie story (The Walking Dead is doing a superb job at the moment), and likewise it’s very possible to make a dramatically moving pandemic thriller that builds on Contagion’s strengths and shortcomings. The focus, unfortunately, lies a bit too much on the overarching realities of the situation – bureaucracy, technicalities, research – that, in a documentary, would have been more than appropriate; however, since Contagion is fictional, a tighter grasp on the aspects that make a compelling narrative (such as the human condition and confluence of emotions) would have made for a stronger overall film. I’m not sure if Soderbergh made the connection between pandemics and zombies, but if he didn’t I think he would have made wiser choices in the film’s narrative momentum – minus the bludgeoning.
SIde note: when Hextall tests the vaccine on herself, she references Dr. Barry Marshall when her diseased and distressed father protests her actions. Marshall, an Australian, along with his colleague Robin Warren, is responsible for identifying the bacteria, Helicobacter pylori, as the agent responsible for gastric (stomach) ulcers in 1982. Up until this discovery, it was largely believed that gastric ulcers were associated (or caused) by excessive stress. At the time of Marshall’s discovery, however, the medical community did not accept his findings as sound, so in 1984 he drank a petri dish of H. pylori and subsequently took antibiotics to prove his point. The experiment was cited in 1985 in the Medical Journal of Australia. In 1994, the National Institutes of Health of America acknowledged Marshall’s findings as sound.
Small quibble: I don’t know if the production of Hextall’s vaccine would have been as speedy as depicted in Contagion given how long it took for the medical community to accept Marshall’s findings, notwithstanding the issues of human trials needed to prove the vaccine’s effectiveness. But really, who wants to sit through that process?
If anything, 3D technology should be pursued for gaming. But movies? Every time I hear a 3D enthusiast insist that 3D enhances film, I feel like I’m hearing the equivalent of someone arguing under the right conditions – if you lived in an area where it mostly sun for the year, if you would willingly lay on your back and drove alone in a incredibly hot and claustrophobic compartment that had no windows and your only means of communicating was through a radio – a solar-powered car could work.
Yes, under ideal conditions – perfect projection, good speakers, competent filmmaking that involves a excellent understanding of the effect’s use – 3D could work. But I’m not particularly forgiving when time and time again I see Hollywood knowingly use 3D as a gimmick – and a bad one at that – to lure audiences in. Since 3D’s surge to prominence I only remember seeing three movies in 3D: Alice in Wonderland, Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs, and Avatar. I was more or less coerced into the 3D ticket for Alice because majority rules when you’re seeing movies with friends; Ebert’s comments on the use of 3D enticed me enough to see Ice Age 3; and well Avatar – I’m not a Cameron diehard, but if a man spends nearly two decades bringing to life a visual wonder, I’m going to respect the hard work he put into it. Otherwise, I’ll willingly opt for a good, bright 2D projection any day than pay an extra surcharge that detracts away from my experience.
Recently, acclaimed directors like Steven Spielberg and the legendary Francis Coppola have hopped on the 3D bandwagon with their respective movies, The Adventures of Tintin and Twixt. When I heard this (as well as their enthusiasm for the technology) I sadly shook my head. Had they lost their way? Or really, had they forgotten what the film medium accomplishes that 3D ruins?
Movies are all about creating illusions. We watch a series of photographs or drawings projected in a sequence that creates the illusion that we are seeing live action or animated movement. Cinematography creates the aura, sound enhances the illusion by giving us a sense that we’re hearing actual dialogue and environmental noise, and music supports or supplies the emotion and mood appropriate to a particular point in the narrative. Stellar acting, competent directing, and solid writing help tie all these visual and auditory elements together. A successful film engages the audience through a combination of these various factors to convey a story.
I’ve read many counterarguments to the anti-3D sentiment likening the introduction of 3D to that of sound into film. While similar on the surface, the circumstances surrounding sound and 3D and their effect on film differ vastly to the point that the comparison becomes null.
Directors resisted sound because it forced them to use and learn new equipment. Not only that, silent actors, accustomed to acting without the need for a voice, would have a difficult time adjusting to a new era in filmmaking that required more subtlety and a voice that carried the dialogue (notwithstanding speaking the language of the target audience, for some). The transition to sound was inevitable though, mostly because it helped enhance the illusion of seeing a film: dialogue cards no longer interjected scenes, and the viewing experience became even more seamless because there was no external reminder that what we were watching on screen was only a projection. Sound helped create the illusion of film, as did color film when editors weren’t abusing technicolor or color filters in the early days.
3D is completely different, mostly because its first incarnation goes back to the 1950s. Its resurgence most definitely reflects the state of the current American economy as Hollywood executives try to maintain their business by creating incentives for audiences to get off of their couches and computers and go to an actual theater in an increasingly digital age. The facts are clear: 3D is a gimmick.
Oh, I believe there is artistic integrity that can come about with 3D. But in an increasingly large ocean of 3D gimmicks that contains fewer and fewer films commanding 3D as a absolute you-will-regret-it-if-you-don’t-just-like-the-time-you-didn’t-see-Finding Nemo-in-theaters-because-you’re-a-bloody-idiot-like-that necessity, I find myself increasingly unwilling to indulge in this effect – mostly because it adds nothing from my viewing experience. In fact, it almost definitely detracts away from the experience because unlike sound or color, I am too well aware that 3D is a special effect.
Let me put it this way: when I see bad CGI, the film instantly becomes less illusionary because I am well aware that the CGI is a special effect; when it is done well – either the fictitious or reality sense – the illusion is complete. I can watch the film without anything distracting me from becoming absorbed in the projection of narrative movement and sound.
3D is like bad CGI. You have to wear glasses for it to work, and more often than not the colors become dimmer whenever 3D is employed. And for a person like me who already has astigmatism, 3D is like a extra kick in the balls after it already chucked sand into your eyes.
I’m all too aware that 3D is a special effect, and while I could be completely focused by what’s on screen and absorbed by what I’m hearing, knowing that 3D is being employed becomes an unnecessary awareness that inevitably distracts me from having a truly illusionary film experience. For example, apparently in Coppola’s Twixt, there are even cues when to take your glasses on and off – how much more obvious of an effect can you ask for?
If we likened film to the performance of a magician, a great film experience is like a great illusion, and 3D is like a trick that more often than not, turns out badly. A illusion works because it engages the audience, absorbs them through a process which the character John Cutter describes in Christopher Nolan's The Prestige:
Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called “The Pledge”. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course… it probably isn’t. The second act is called “The Turn”. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you’re looking for the secret… but you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet. Because making something disappear isn’t enough; you have to bring it back. That’s why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call “The Prestige”
A true cinematic experience doesn’t have you solely focused on how the effects were accomplished immediately after you leave the theater. 3D shifts the focus to being wowed by an obvious effect rather than being absorbed by it. It’s too obvious of a trick and fails to produce ‘the prestige’ effect that traditional film projection allows for.
Illusions, Michael. A trick is something a whore does for money. Or cocaine.
If anything, 3D technology should be pushed for gaming. As a medium, games ask for complete immersion into an alternate dimension – a completely different feat than what films accomplish. Games are about an alternative reality with which you can interact with, where as films are about an alternative reality created for the sake of conveying a narrative; games are primarily about individual experiences, and films are about storytelling. In this sense, 3D – an effect that begs to be noticed – is so much more appropriate in games, a medium that begs for you to pay attention to the effects: computer graphics, gaming engines, environment design, everything.
3D is not meant for film because it ruins the illusion of a projected narrative. Perhaps one day 3D technology will improve beyond my comprehension, and might even become a mainstay; if that happens, however, I suspect that it will not become integrated in what we’ve come to define as the film medium, but rather it will transcend into a completely new medium. Though open to the idea of being proven wrong, I have my severe doubts about the future that so many have enthusiastically predicted as the imminent marriage between 3D and film. I’d bet all my chips on 3D and games making a good ol’ baby in a heart beat, hands down.
But 3D and film? I’ll pass, thanks. And solar-powered cars? I think solar-powered road panels are a better idea.
I discovered my love of movie soundtracks when I was fourteen years old. If memory hasn’t failed me it was the summer before I entered high school and, while my family and I were at the nearby science center exhibit for how movie’s are made, I stumbled upon the sound booth and put on the massive headphones to see what the exhibit was about.
What I heard was nothing like I’d heard before.
It was Danny Elfman’s Christmas Eve Montage from The Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack, a five minute piece that I must have pressed repeat and listened to at least five times in a row. Up until that point I’d never seen Tim Burton’s stop-motion masterpiece so I had no idea what the track coincided with; what I experienced was a gush of emotion, a sweeping wave of sounds that took me to another dimension. It was playful, scary, odd, dissonant, strange, sad, and incredibly beautiful.
My older brother eventually burned me a CD copy of the songs, and I listened to the album nonstop for at least a good semester of my freshmen year; I watched the film at some point, though it was a good time after I’d obsessively listened to Elfman’s compositions and formed images of different scenes and characters in my head. Even now my original idea of how the scene with the Town Meeting Songtrack goes still permeates my mind whenever I listen to the track. If anything, Elfman’s marvelous score for The Nightmare Before Christmas amplified my love for what sound and music can accomplish in conjunction with moving images.
I’ve always been inclined to sound. It began with my first lessons in piano, which was ear training. My first piano teacher, Maki, always told me to listen, listen, listen: for a long time I couldn’t even properly read music, but I was able to ear-train the melody correctly. I knew where to place my hands, what note produced what sound, and so on. This ear-training has really carried on into my later life, where I still can’t sight-read or transcribe music worth a damn, but give me a tune and with a bit of time, I’ll be playing the melody and, with a bit more time, eventually the bass chords. I hated performing like a technical machine, and even though it got me in quite a bit of trouble with the last piano studio I studied at I always preferred to perform with the energy and vibrancy of emotion instead of performing in the pursuit of technical perfection; this led to less-than-perfect performances, but it was always a personal evocation of images created with the magic of sound.
I suppose that it was only natural and inevitable that my inclination for sounds and their association with images would lead me to discover my love for film soundtracks. For a long time, I believed that a soundtrack was only noteworthy if it sounded beautiful by itself and in conjunction with film; now, years later and having collected three hundred and five soundtrack albums currently, I believe that foremost, a soundtrack helps create the illusion of what we’ve come to love in movies: how that illusion is created depends on the composer. Cinema is all about creating an illusion, a dictated narrative that does not allow for a great range of experiences (that task falls onto the medium of games, which I’ll discuss in the future). Sound and music help establish that illusion.
Many moviegoers are under in the impression that a soundtrack must supply or indicate a mood at a given moment, signaling us to feel a particular emotion at a particular time; this is not inaccurate, but what this attitude has also resulted in is many Hollywood and television productions requiring music to be played at every nearly every single moment, and many soundtracks have resorted to what I consider musical cliches. For instance, french horns and strong strings often dominate a military march, counter attack or victory (watch/listen to Michael Bay films and you’ll be able to ID this cliche like no other); dissonant strings pervade nearly every horror film I’ve had the courage to sit through; and many indie films resort to compilations of different artists performing a known but not MTV-status song that screams of Bohemian counterculture. Whenever I hear ‘stock music’ in film, or what is a similar sound composed with the very sole purpose of creating the stock sound’s stereotypically associated emotion, I remember the scene from Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Jason Segel’s character, a TV composer, begrudgingly presses away at stock sounds when the music producer cues him in for a particular emotion the scene calls.
Not the scene but I can only imagine how many frustrated composers are out there dealing with music producers who only want stock sound-emotions.
While many soundtracks do resort to this kind of 'stock sound-emotions,’ there are always those whose compositions go far and above that. The question is: how do we distinguish these kinds of soundtracks from the average 'stock sound-emotion’ construction?
Whenever I can, I try to listen to an album before actually seeing the movie. Thankfully, American movies tend to release their albums before the release of the actual movie, so this has given me ample opportunity to listen to many albums without the context of the images they have been paired up with. My criteria for a pre-movie album listening are these:
Is it an original score, a compilation, or a mixture of both? If it’s an original score, does the composer have similar or distinct composition styles compared to their previous work?
Is there a distinctive theme?
Are the tracks interesting? Or, why are certain songs chosen?
How complex are the orchestrations/instrumentals/lyrics/vocals?
Are the tracks able to convey a non-stock sound-emotion image on their own? i.e. does the track convey more than simple emotions like happy, sad, scary…?
Would I willingly listen to this album if it wasn’t created for a movie/TV show?
You’d be surprise how many times I’ve found exceptional albums by listening to them before actually watching the film it was composed for. Some albums are constructed specifically with the intention of the characters singing on screen: those familiar with the Disney Renaissance of the '90s will easily remember Howard Ashman and Alan Menken on The Little Mermaidand Beauty & the Beastsoundtracks, as well as the subsequent albums that followed similar musical suit. Some composers like Yoko Kanno (Cowboy Bebop, Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex), Michael Giacchino (The Incredibles, UP), and Joe Hisaishi (Spirited Away, Ponyo) compose wonderful soundtracks that, all in all, could essentially be listened to without the associated images. Some composers like John Williams (Star Wars, Schindler’s List), Howard Shore (Lord of the Rings), Phillip Glass (The Truman Show, The Hours) and James Horner (A Beautiful Mind, Avatar) do have distinct thematics, but most of the tracks are more impressive when the associated moving images are known. Sometimes soundtracks are created by commissioned musicians, such as Sondre Lerche for the Dan in Real Life album, Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, and Glen Hansard and Market Irglova for the Once soundtrack. Sometimes the soundtrack might be a re-working or rearrangement of classical music like Clint Mansell on Black Swan or Disney’s Sleeping Beautyalbum that was basically Peter Tchaikovsky’s ballet of the same name rearranged with different track names.
I always have a difficult time with compilation albums since they are often constructed with a specific purpose in mind: Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation, Someday) compiles soundtracks based on the idea the characters in the film would actually listen to these same songs; Quentin Tarantino (Kill Bill volumes 1&2, Inglourious Basterds) often creates albums that, like his films, pay homages to his cinematic and pop-cultural influences; but more often than not, I suspect that many compilation albums tend to be more young-adult oriented, in which songs are compiled intended to evoke a pop-cultural mood or be intentionally ironic, such as films like (500) Days of Summer, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and Juno. And sometimes soundtracks are comprised of both original scores and compilations, such as Jon Brion’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Alexandre Desplat’s Fantastic Mr. Fox, and Rolfe Kent’s Up in the Air.
After I’ve seen a movie and listen (or re-listen) to its soundtrack, I critique the album based on these criteria:
Is it an original score, a compilation, or a mixture of both? If it’s an original score, does the composer have similar or distinct composition styles compared to their previous work?
Have I listened to this album before the movie? If yes, does this change my idea of what image and emotion the tracks convey? If not, would I willingly listen to this album if it wasn’t created for a movie/TV show?
Is there a distinctive theme?
Are the tracks interesting? Or, why are certain songs chosen?
How complex are the orchestrations/instrumentals/lyrics/vocals?
Do the tracks overwhelm the scene they are paired up with? Or are the tracks themselves underwhelming?
If I hadn’t listened to the album before seeing the movie, did watching the movie inspire me to listen to the album?
“Enterprising Young Men” by Michael Giacchino from 2009’s “Star Trek,” which is a good example of how music can overwhelm the scene. Not the best video quality since you can’t hear the dialogue well/at all, but now imagine trying to listen to the dialogue with a track that’s already pretty overwhelming.
The criteria is similar to my pre-screening album-listening criteria, but the emphasis is more on the pairing between music and image as opposed to what the track by itself accomplishes. Many of my favorite soundtracks, such as Thomas Newman’s Finding Nemo, Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howards’ The Dark Knight, and Yuji Nomi’s Whisper of the Heart, became much more impressive once I understood the context of scenes the tracks were paired with. Some albums, such as Dario Marianelli’s Pride and Prejudiceand Daft Punk’s Tron: Legacy, already impressive on their own, were only reaffirmed to be masterfully composed once I’d seen their respective movies. Other albums, such as Michael Giacchino’s revamping of the classic Star Trek in J.J. Abram’s 2009 reboot, become even more overwhelming once you understand the scene with which the tracks are associated with (many will disagree with me here, but I felt that Giacchino’s score should have been toned down a bit; there was already so much happening visually on screen, and having my ears bombarded with the bombastic score became a bit much).
For compilation albums, it becomes much easier to assess how effectively the selected tracks are in complimenting (or ironically contrasting) the scenes on screen; it also becomes blazingly obvious which compilation albums have been created with a specific intention, and which albums are just looking to create a pop-culture and/or Bohemian counterculture music reference (unfortunately, with most compilation albums I’ve found the latter to be the more common reason, though I’m open to the possibility of being proven wrong one day).
According to Disney’s staff, foreigners (non-Japanese) feel uncomfortable if there is no music for more than 3 minutes (laughs). You see this in the Western movies, which have music throughout. Especially, it is the natural state for a (non-Japanese) animated film to have music all the time. However in the original Laputa, there is only one-hour worth of music in the 2 hour 4 minute movie. There are parts that do not have any music for 7 to 8 minutes. So, we decided to redo the music as (the existing soundtrack) will not be suitable for (the markets) outside of Japan…
The American way of putting music in a movie is basically very simple. They just match the music with the characters. For example, when the army shows up on screen, you hear the army’s theme. The music explains the screen images–that is the point of Hollywood music. Until this time, I avoided such an approach, as I felt that it would make music dull, although I understand such an approach. But when I redid (the music of Laputa this way), I learned a lot.
Sound and music are quintessential to film, but what many cinephiles and audiophiles forget is that to create an effective illusion, silence is also a necessity. One of the reasons I was ironically underwhelmed by Giacchino’s overpowering Star Trek soundtrack was that for the most part, it rarely allowed any silence on screen; I can’t remember any point where there wasn’t some music blaring in the background. More often than night, silence is golden, and the lack of sound can create a more powerful emotion than any instrument could possibly achieve. Ironically, having sound and music blast on screen every single moment detracts from the illusion because it can be overwhelming and/or distracting. Comparatively, we could even argue that early silent films, which were often screened with live performances, have less of an illusionary effect because music was always playing in every scene.
Here is a perfect example of how effective the minimalistic use of (or lack of) music can be is this marvelous scene in My Neighbor Totoro. Here, Satsuki and Mei have been waiting for their father, a professor, to come home. A lot of time passes, and eventually a giant Totoro comes into scene where it interacts with a astonished but fascinated Satsuki (her little sister Mei has fallen asleep on her back). After the exchange between the Totoro and Satsuki, the Totoro eventually boards a Catbus and disappears, leaving both sisters (Mei is awake at this point) bewildered by what they have just witnessed.
No music plays throughout this entire scene up until the point where the Totoro arrives, and all the better. Music would detract away from the mystique that a giant Totoro presents, a mystique that is further emphasize by how minimalistic music plays once a supernatural creature makes its appearance. The magic is a result of us only being focused on this sudden mythical presence, and the lack of special music up until this oint makes it even more magical since the emphasis is on its very image in an otherwise normal forest. Music is present while the Totoro is in scene, but it is barely present and does not detract away from the Totoro’s mythical image
My criteria for film soundtracks are far from perfect, but I think they are helpful for those wondering where to start when it comes to critiquing music (and the lack of) in film. Contrary to my more youthful notions, music is more than about sounding beautiful, though a nicely composed track is always nice to hear.
…
SOME SELECT TRACKS FROM SOME OF MY FAVORITE COMPOSERS
“Tank!” by Yoko Kanno, from “Cowboy Bebop” – this track sets the mood of this wonderfully stylish anime
“Jazzy Bach” by Ben Charest, from “The Triplets of Belleville – a jazzy revamp of a classic Bach piece (which I actually performed, I believe) that is rather appropriate given the oddball feel of "The Triplets of Belleville”
“Anyone Can Cook” by Michael Giacchino, from “Ratatouille” – the wonderful song that plays during Anton Ego’s famous critique on criticism.
“Define Dancing” by Thomas Newman, from “Wall•E” – this plays during the scene where Wall-E and EVE engage in a beautiful dance in space
“Transformation” by Howard Ashman and Alan Menken, from “Beauty & the Beast” – set at the very end, I’m fond of this track because its arrangement and emotional range not only make it a stand alone track, but also a track that fully support the climax of this animated classic.
“Rickshaw Chase” by Hans Zimmer and John Powell, from “Kung Fu Panda 2” – incredibly energetic, this track sounds from the recent Kung Fu Panda installment makes a good case for why Hans Zimmers’ work deserves an Oscar nod this upcoming year
“Mr. Fox in the Fields” by Alexandre Desplat, from “Fantastic Mr. Fox” – playful and light, this track demonstrates Desplat’s incredible range when you contrast to his other work such as Harry Potterand The Ghost Writer
“Briony” by Dario Marianelli, from “Atonement” – if anything, the ingenius use of the sounds from a typewriter are what distinguish Marianelli’s “Atonement” composition from any other dramatic piece. I still gripe that the Academy chose this score of Giacchino’s “Ratatouille” at the 2008 Oscars, but this score does deserve its recognition.
“The Girl who Fell from the Sky” by Joe Hisaishi, from the USA soundtrack version of “Castle in the Sky” – I learned recently that Hisaishi actually rearranged his pieces for the US release of “Castle in the Sky” in 2002 because Disney felt there was too much silence in between the films. You can read his interview here.
“Sean’s Theme” by John Williams, from “Minority Report” – Williams’ minimalistic take on “Minority Report” was met by some criticism who felt that he’d fallen into the 21st minimalism trap. I feel that the track “Sean’s Theme” does demonstrate a central composition technique that Williams’ employs in most of the albums of his I’ve listened to: a central theme (or a distinct melody) that highlights the overall soundtrack, and the rest serves to support and help create the illusion of cinema. In all of his albums he uses a full symphony, and his main thematics are always especially sweeping. Try Across the Starsand Raider’s Marchif you’re still curious to see what I mean.
“Bookstore” by Jon Brion, from “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” – the minimalistic, slightly electronic orchestration is rather appropriate to Charlie Kaufman’s film about relationships, given that the characters voluntarily opt for what is essentially brain damage because their hearts are broken.
“Vanessa and the Changelings” by Philip Glass, from “The Hours” – a true minimalist, Glass manages to evoke the sadness and melancholy of Virgina Woolf’s life in this just over two minute track. A wonderful score, to say the least.
*Note: Michael Phillips is one of the few film critics I know of who regularly comments about soundtracks while writing his film reviews. I highly recommend a read, like his comments on “Black Swan” and Tchaikovsky’s score
*Lastly: if you haven’t guessed it already, the first image is of John Williams scoring “Raiders of the Lost Ark” :)
