HopkinsCinemAddicts

Evil, Inc. : The Institution in the Works of Joss Whedon (Sophie)

Before Joss Whedon's Avengers (2012) (reviewed here) rocketed him onto the main stage, he already had a core following of dedicated fans watching and analyzing his works. A lot of attention has been paid to the role of gender and language across Whedon's canon, but on the verge of a new series carrying his creator's seal, Marvel's S.H.I.E.L.D., to premier on ABC, there is another repeated element that deserves examining. Since the beginning of Whedon's television career, his main characters have been pushed and pulled by shadowy unseen organizations, and pitted against not just individual villains, but also entire evil institutions.

Angel (1999-2004) begins by introducing viewers to Los Angeles' literal darker side. The show is set up as a combination of a detective noir and horror/fantasy. The head of this grim side of LA, though, isn't organized crime, it's a law firm, Wolfram & Hart, that specializes in defending and protecting the worst of the worst, which in this universe, means vampires, demons, and genocidal maniacs. Though each season of the show has it's own arc and main villain, the law firm remains as the central embodiment of evil throughout the show.

It's an obvious joke, a firm of powerful lawyers that keeps the rich richer and the poor underpowered (“Evil white folks really do have a Mecca! … Oh, I get it, I get it. You all can cater to the demon, cater to the dead man, but what about the black man!” - Charles Gunn, Episode 1.21 Blind Date). Here, they are taken to the extreme, with demonic clients and bloody rituals. But Whedon uses the idea of evil lawyers beyond the humorous gag. They become an examination of evil, (often seen as wild and animalistic or demonic) as it is enacted through something so proscribed and systematic as law. Angel, a hero on a quest for good and personal redemption, is forced to face a world where evil is institutional, and intrinsically engrained. At one point, the former head lawyer of the LA branch tells him as much:

    "Our firm has always been here in one form or another. The Inquisition, the Khmer Rouge—we were here the first time a caveman clubbed his neighbor and watched in fascination as his brains oozed out in the dirt. We're in the hearts and minds of every living human being [...] The world doesn't work in spite of evil, Angel. It works with us. It works because of us."(Holland Manners 2.15 Reprise)

Wolfram & Hart, then, is about how evil is part of civilization from the beginning, because it is part of us from the beginning. Evil lawyers are in power, but isn't evil always?

Whedon's next evil corporation never got a chance to come out of the shadows. Much of what viewers know about Firefly (2002) and Serenity's (the 2005 movie sequel) mega corporation of Blue Sun comes from piecing things together from the 14 episode show, interviews, and official merchandise. What is clear is that Blue Sun is everywhere. The logo is all over the show, on products from food and clothes, to more luxury goods, to transport vehicles. But the company reaches much farther. On some planets, they are an exclusive monopoly. The show reveals (or would, but didn't have a chance to get that far, and instead does so on DVD commentary) that they have even begun human experiments for their medical and military contracting subdivisions, which have led to horrifying results. There are clearly implied ties to the government and it is not clear whether Blue Sun and the Alliance Government are even actually separately functioning entities. Unlike Wolfram & Hart, which operates inside a system as it's necessary or ever present evil, Blue Sun is the system. Our Heroes, in this show, are rebels against this system and in 14 episodes and one movie, we only see reasons to agree with them. But in an interview, Whedon elaborated on more nuance of the main character, Captain Malcolm “Mal” Reynolds's politics:

“Mal’s politics are very reactionary and ‘Big government is bad’ and ‘Don’t interfere with my life. And sometimes he’s wrong — because sometimes the Alliance is America, this beautiful shining light of democracy. But sometimes the Alliance is America in Vietnam: we have a lot of petty politics, we are way out of our league and we have no right to control these people. And yet! Sometimes the Alliance is America in Nazi Germany. And Mal can’t see that, because he was a Vietnamese.”

If Wolfram & Hart is about evil inherent in the system, Blue Sun is about the dangers of an unbalanced system, of one company with too much power, and people with too little voice to change that.

Dollhouse (2009-2010), unlike his two previous shows, takes us inside a corporation, a biomedical firm, Rossum, that produces the most advanced neurological treatments, and also runs an underground elite network of “houses” of programmable humans, known as dolls. From the inside of one of these Dollhouses, the show depicts several characters moral struggles with the technologies that allow for the complete rewriting of the human mind. The dolls are people who have entered into a contract of slavery to do things they cannot imagine and will not remember, in exchange for financial compensation and being cured of whatever problems they may have had (often mental illnesses) or instead of prison sentences. As the end game for Rossum is revealed, and the stakes get higher, allegiances change and justifications fall away. Rossum has a lot of elements of Blue Sun, in that they are too powerful, and too long unchecked, but it also brings in some elements of Wolfram & Hart's message. The series tells us that the technology that Rossum possessed was so powerful that it would almost inevitably end all of civilization. Why? Because people seek power and control, and now they can have it.

In his non-TV shows, Whedon cannot seem to leave the institutional evil behind him. Though the main character of Dr. Horrible is technically supposed to be evil, the “Hero,” is clearly an absolutely terrible person. In the 45 minute web musical, Whedon makes sure to mention that this hero is a “Corporate TOOL.” Cabin in the Woods, (which this blog already touched on here, [spoiler warning]) toys with a corporation that seems quite evil, and well, turns out to have a more complicated purpose.

The reason all this is important to understand in the wake of The Avengers and the anticipation to S.H.I.E.L.D., is that in the source material,  S.H.I.E.L.D. is a very large, very powerful organization. Though technically under either US or UN control, in the recent Avengers, they are shown to be largely autonomous, and occasionally even act against the advice and order of these authorities. In the block buster superhero movie, of course,  S.H.I.E.L.D. is unambiguously the good guys, coming in and saving the day. But Whedon's fear of such institutional power survived even until filming, as a cut scene from the beginning shows. This scene would have framed the whole movie with the question of whether this agency is, in fact, reckless, dangerous, and too powerful.

With a whole series, more personal creative freedom and less big name super heroes, I for one, and anxious to see where Joss Whedon plan's to take this next large institutional power in the future.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose (Sam)

The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2008), directed by Scott Derrickson, is an exorcism movie. It begins after the death of the possessed – the titular Emily Rose. Now, I don't have much experience with exorcism movies, but from what I understand, they tend not to do this. Nor does the plot tend to concern a court case which happens after the exorcism. Actually, I'm pretty sure exorcism movies tend to be horror. The Exorcism of Emily Rose, however, is not (though I do think it tries to be one).

Father Richard Moore, the priest who attempted the exorcism (Tom Wilkinson), is accused of negligent homicide; the film's protagonist is his defense attorney Erin Bruner (Laura Linney). Moore doesn't want to defend himself so much as he wants to "tell Emily's story". In this way, we get the story of the exorcism through a series of flashbacks as the story is told in court and to Bruner. So it certainly has things that are supposed to be scary. At 3 AM on successive nights, various characters (Emily, Bruner, and Moore) are visited by an invisible force – a demon which opens and closes doors, knocks over objects, and in Emily's case, invades your body. And Emily's possession and exorcism scenes are unnatural and creepy: her body contorts and convulses, she eats insects, she screams in Latin and German.

But the film just doesn't succeed at being horror. Part of the problem seems to be that it isn't even earnestly trying to be horrifying. After all, most of the time is spent in the courtroom, where Laura Linney has Law & Order-style arguments with the mustachioed prosecutor. Actually, the film really feels like an episode of Law & Order more than anything else. 

And that gets at the second reason I think it fails at horror: the characters feel like they're lifted from an episode of Law & Order. Now, don't get me wrong: I used to love that show. But I don't think anyone has ever claimed it has particularly dynamic characters. My point is, the characters in Emily Rose are flat. Emily herself barely gets any characterization at all, so all the creepiness we get from her exorcism never rises above generic creepiness. Worse, the two protagonists' characterization is clichéd. Bruner is the ambitious, workaholic lawyer with a conscience (cue scenes of her drinking wine alone in her apartment in a city tower while studying case materials) . Moore is the honorable, righteous priest who knows he's right, and wants to go to trial to get the truth out – and besides, taking a plea bargain would be lying. 

Not that you can't have these types of characters, of course. But they aren't very dynamic. Bruner is supposed to develop somewhat as a character as she slowly gets convinced that Moore is right, but that isn't believable or interesting. And if you identify the climax as the moment when the tension peaks, it comes during each side's closing statements, in true Law & Order style. Which, again, could be fine – except for the contents of the speech, which only make a legal point (which is that the jury needn't believe Moore to acquit him – they need only to allow for the possibility that he could be right, and recognize that the scientific explanations and medical diagnosis of Emily Rose aren't fact).

All of these narrative issues stem from the fact that Derrickson doesn't seem interested in drama so much as he's interested in making a point about something. Don't ask me to summarize what that is, though. Something to do with whether demons are real or not. The problem with moving the drama to the courtroom, though, is that it inherently makes the drama come from the question of whether or not the defendant is guilty, while Derrickson is really trying to ask a different question. The end result is the film is disparate, unfocused. It seems to want to abandon being horror at all, but doesn't. It wants to ask philosophical questions about knowledge and belief, but confuses that as well with the courtroom structure.

The courtroom drama aspect is probably doing more harm than good to the narrative structure, in the end. Maybe what this story needs is less Law & Order and more law and order.

"That's My Family, Kay. It's Not Me." (Natasha)

    I have a solitary qualm with The Godfather Parts I & II, one that has no effect on my intense obsession with the single greatest movie duo of all time.  Including the future.  The qualm is:  How did Vito end up with sons like Santino and Fredo?  The reality that Vito and his only remarkable son reject, and reject desperately, is that Mike, the youngest, is also the only son capable of replacing his father. But how did Vito, the sole surviving Andolini of Corleone, killer of tyrants and savior of Italian immigrants, get two such failed heirs before Michael could redeem the brood?

    I love James Caan’s Sonny as much as the next bridesmaid.  His entrapment and brutal assassination are devastating. For many reasons, Sonny is appealing despite his uncouthness. His anger inspires anger in us; his vengeance becomes our purpose, too. I remember the scene of Sonny's death as the most upsetting I've ever seen. (I always skip over it when I watch Part I.)  But he is doubtless an inapt successor to the omnipotent Corleone patriarch, especially after Robert DeNiro explains the Don’s beginnings in Part II (and really, whose genes brought forth those hirsute shoulders?).

    Vito claims he always expected Sonny would inherit the family business, the political connections, that whole underworld estate; yet at the height of the Don’s reign he is still silencing his kid in public, upbraiding him in private and rejecting his every plan, be it money-making or murderous.  Sonny is more than aggressive, he is warlike, but he lacks the tactical mind and self-control that would guide his vengeful passion. He is a soldier who can't take orders, a hitman doing a businessman's job.  When Sonny is gunned down on his way to enact a hasty and violent plan--which we are deeply invested in--we are reminded that his life, not his death, kept him from the head of the Five Families' table.

    Fredo is another matter entirely.  Vito can't even define what it is that's wrong with him. He has always been a problem, as evidenced by everything he has ever done. His troubling bout of pneumonia as an infant vaguely informs everything from his clumsy failure to shoot his father's assailants to his debasing vice addiction in Las Vegas. John Cazale imbues Vito's forgotten son with as much pathetic, alcoholic, high-pitched, balding insecurity as we can stand without making us really hate Fredo.  Rather, we disdain him. Respect will never be granted him, and it is sad to watch him demand it explicitly.

    At first, he is untrustworthy purely because he is incompetent--he cannot even grip a gun tight enough to fire it.  When the patriarch finally does fall, Fredo has no more patient relatives to "assist." He is sent away to Las Vegas, ostensibly to protect him from assassination attempts that really only threaten the real Corleone power, Mike. Moe Greene admittedly took him off the Corleone family's hands to alleviate the burden Fredo created.  In Nevada, he grows to be untrustworthy because he believes anyone who promises him a cut of their profits and he cannot stand up for himself against those who would challenge the Corleone family. Michael even warns him, "I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again.  Ever."

    Fredo cannot stand being Michael's underling and Michael cannot stand Fredo's inexplicable stupidity, his unbridled behavior or his dangerously fickle loyalty. Their relationship ends up so strained that Fredo starts aiding Michael's would-be assassins in plots against the new Don Corleone, the ultimate betrayal of the family and of familial connections altogether.  And he still wonders why he was "stepped over" for the role of head of the family, exclaiming, "I can handle things! I'm smart!  Not like everybody says!"  (My family quotes that line often, so any tragic quality in it has disappeared for me.)

    So how did the endearing and mysterious young Vito come to raise two boys so unfit for the task of being his sons? His orphan childhood and early immigration left him alone in a strange place. If he raised himself, why could he not raise Santino and Fredo better? Perhaps Michael had the benefit of Vito's previous failure.

    But still, what do you do about those first two?

 

 

~ Natasha Hirschfeld

Bernard Herrmann and Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest (Anthony)

            This post marks my last installment of my Herrmann-on-film series (also including The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) and The Devil and Daniel Webster (1941)). For the occasion I decided to finish with one of Bernard Herrmann’s most famous films, North by Northwest, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. There are many other Hitchcock films that Herrmann wrote the scores for that I could have chosen to write about, but I actually had the chance to watch North by Northwest on 35mm, so I thought it would be a good choice. And let’s be honest here Psycho is great, but it is almost too cliché to choose for this series.

            Anyway, I’ve talked a lot about how important the musical themes that appear in film are, how useful character themes are for maintaining consistency in movie plots, announcing the presence of characters, and also how integral music is to the expression of emotion in film, so I thought I would look more into those pieces in this film, and to wrap up the series talk a little bit more about Bernard Herrmann.

            North by Northwest was Alfred Hitchcock’s fifth film with Herrmann. Preceding this film, in order, were The Trouble with Harry (1955), The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956), The Wrong Man (1956), and Vertigo (1958). Hitchcock knew Herrmann very well by the time that North by Northwest came around, and Hitchcock both knew what he wanted from Herrmann and what to expect. Hitchcock also understood the psychological potential of music and its ability to enhance the feelings of characters, enhance the moods of scenes, and heighten audience anticipation, so it was quite useful to have worked with Herrmann.

            That said, Herrmann was a very tough person to work with. Herrmann liked to show off his knowledge of music history, and as such created many scores that demonstrated his awareness of that topic. However, he always seemed to go out of his way to create music that didn’t fit under the umbrella of ‘popular music’. For instance, he always flaunted his knowledge of Wagner by saturating his scores with Wagnerian waltzes, despite the lack of popular interest in Wagner and despite the films not being set in 19^th century Vienna (a time period which Wagner is more suited for). He was also known to playfully and deliberately distort other aspects of his pieces, merely to defy audience expectations, and sometimes in ‘unnecessary ways’ according to critics. To top it all off, Herrmann was a believer in the philosophy of finding the bad things in everyone and everything to make one’s self feel better in comparison. Eventually, this attitude led to Herrmann telling a journalist, “[Hitchcock] only finishes a picture 60 percent. I have to finish it for him”, and thus led to the end of Herrmann’s relationship with Hitchcock. But no one can deny that while that relationship lasted, Herrmann and Hitchcock were able to accomplish some wonderful work.

            Take a look (or listen) to the opening theme of North by Northwest. Over the green, patterned background that we eventually find out is the outline of an office building, we hear a powerful, bombastic Spanish orchestral Fandango. Odd for a movie based in New York and the mid-west to open with a traditional Spanish dance song. But in actuality it makes some sense. A fandango is a dance, like the flamenco, that originates from the courtship of a male and a female who circle around and compete with each other to seduce the other. The story of North by Northwest is at it’s core about a man who after being mistaken for an international agent is chased around the country as he tries to find out who he is being mistaken for and why, but orbiting the center of this whirlwind plot is a love story about a man and woman figuratively, and at some points in the film literally, circling each other and outwitting each other’s enemies. Coincidence? I think not. I think there’s a very good chance that Herrmann and Hitchcock were very aware of this fact.

            Another detail to note about the title theme is the intensity and instability of it. The fandango, like other similar Spanish dance pieces is in 6/8 time (6 eight-note beats per measure). A common ‘stable’ time signature is 4/4 (4 quarter-notes per measure). Why is it stable? It’s a very common time signature, people are very familiar to people, and it is also very easy to count: 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4; such that the usual stressed beats are 1 and 3. In contrast, 6/8 time signatures can be counted with stresses on 1 and 4: 1, 2, 3. 4, 5, 6.         OR with stresses on 1, 3, and 4: 1, 2. 3, 4. 5, 6. Each of these ways of counting are fairly equally common. However, Herrmann, in order enhance the moods of the film, which is wrought with suspense and instability and unsureness, takes the viewer’s expectation for the counting of the 6/8 measure to stay constant and turns it upside-down by switching back and forth between stressing 1, 3, and 5 and stressing 1 and 4. To add to this instability, Herrmann orchestrates the melody such that it appears in the parts of different instruments with differing note ranges. When the instruments are combined and their parts are played together the effect of the disjunct melody constantly shifting around to different instruments is an enhancement of the instability of the piece.

            On the subject of the love story between Cary Grant’s character Roger Thornhill and Anne Marie Saint’s Eve Kendell, Bernard Herrmann works another very subtle detail into the score of the film. Specifically into the theme of the two lovers that appears in the dining car of the train to Chicago, as Roger leans forward to light Eve’s cigarette. At this moment an oboe starts to play a soft, flirtatious melody over a small group of strings. This simple melody in the high oboe part confers the delicate emotional impact of the dining car scene.  And as the love between Roger and Eve intensifies in Eve’s bedroom on the train, the music supports this evolvement by evolving the melody from just an oboe solo over a small string quartet to an entire violin section over an entire orchestra. The fullness of the orchestra versus the sparseness of the oboe all of the sudden makes the playfulness between Roger and Eve seem much more serious and full than before and does a great job of drawing attention to the relationship between the two characters.

    Additionally, for the most part Herrmann likes to leave a lot of silence in his scores. Music is like the cream and cherry on top of an ice cream sundae and water for a plant. It should be used to make something look pretty but should also be used sparingly, for too much of anything is a bad thing. As such, there are very few scenes in which Herrmann arranges music over spoken dialogue in his films, so the fact that Herrmann chose to insert music in this lover scene is quite significant.

    Inserting total silence when the audience expects music accomplishes an interesting dynamic as well. The famous “crop-duster” scene in the second half of the film utilizes this technique. Roger Thornhill steps off the greyhound bus into a silent, flat, and empty landscape and waits on the side of a dusty road to meet up with the man he thinks is George Kaplan. Little does he know he has been duped into a deathtrap by Vandamm’s men.

    As the airplane descends, one would normally expect an orchestra to strike up in song and play along behind the noises of the battle scene between Roger and the airplane, but nothing happens. Not a single note is heard. The audience is left emotionally suspended, waiting for a musical resolve that will confirm their thoughts and feelings and expectations. That is powerful stuff, and Bernard Herrmann was very good at what he did.

    Unfortunately, Herrmann did not have much more time after this film was made to work with Hitchcock. They worked together on three more films and then Herrmann got himself fired. I wonder what more they could have done with each other.

References:

[1] Bray, Christopher. "The Sound of Music." New Statesman, 135.4800 (2006): 42-43.

[2] Lintgen, Arthur. "North by Northwest." Fanfare: The Magazine for Serious Record Collectors, 31.6 (2008): 161-162.

[3] Green, Edward. "Bernard Herrmann--'pop' Composer?." Popular Music History, 5.1 (2010): 7-20.

[4] Matthew-Walker, Robert. "'North by Northwest.'." Musical Opinion, 133.1476 (2010): 55.

[5] Daniel-Richard, Debra. "The Dance of Suspense: Sound and Silence in North by Northwest." Journal of Film & Video, 62.3 (2010): 53-60.

The Fall, a Masterpiece you Might have Missed (Sophie)

When I call The Fall, by Tarsem Singh, a fairy tale or a fantasy, I mean that it is this aesthetic, and this story telling mode that propels this masterpiece of a film, not that it should in any way be taken as a lightweight tale for children. In fact, with it's R rating, The Fall, deals with themes and shows vivid imagery that can be troubling or graphic even for some adults. It is a fantasy because it is driven by fantasy and imagination on every level. The story is of one narrative, that of of how a stunt actor, Roy, (Lee Pace), in the face of shattered legs, and dreams of stardom and love, turns his imagination towards creating a second narrative, fueled by his new fantasy of suicide. He tells a tale of an epic journey to a young patient of the same hospital, and in her imagination, the story becomes sprawling landscapes and rich costumes that the film shows the viewer in stunning color. Even the creation of the movie is driven by fantasy. The project, called a "vanity project" on the part of Tarsem Singh by Variety, was filled over four years and across seven countries, always on location rather than adding the surreal and ornate landscape in during editing.

The film is carried in part by these visuals. If there was ever a movie that will suffer on a small cell or tablet screen with poor contrast it is this one. In place of the quick cutting and digitally rendered backgrounds of so many modern films, The Fall opts primarily for long takes of locations the reader recognizes from photographs out of national geographic archives and lists of exotic architecture. All of these locations are put to use, in their rich palettes, complex geometrical patterns, and mind blowing spaces, to create a dreamlike air to the inner narrative. While some viewers might be looking for a film with tighter action and setting, once you buy into Tarsem Singh's different mode of visual story telling, he has a truly mesmerizing world to show you.

Despite these surreal landscapes, this is a fantasy movie that still remains entirely within the genre of realism. Keeping the realm of the majestic inside the imagination rich mind of a five year old girl gives both the inner and outer story an added air of credibility and emotional impact. In fact, the entire movie is told from the point of view of Alexandria, a five year old child of a migrant worker family in the hospital for a badly broken arm. She speaks poor English, and rarely gets visitors, but she is well enough to wander around the grounds. The viewer learns Roy's story (barring a brief introduction scene) only as she sneaks peeks of it around corners, or as she is hurried in or out of rooms. The outside plot, set in a color drained, confined space, could not be more different from the epic tale Roy tells her, but as Alexandria slowly unravels both, they both become tales of intrigue.

As the movie progresses, parts of the two worlds start to combine. Imagery from the hospital finds it's way into Roy's epic story of revenge, and fantasy characters gain the identities of people around the hospital. The reverse is true as well. Roy's story finds it's way into Alexandria's life in the hospital, informing her actions and reactions. Roy, having intended this from the beginning, uses the girl's interest and dedication to the story to have her help in his suicide plot. As both stories near their climax, Alexandria refuses to be a passive observer, and both stories become as much her own as they are anyone else's.

While the stunning visuals are what set this film apart, it is Catinca Untaru's portrayal of Alexandria that allows it survive. Herself a 6 year old Romanian actress, her character is about as genuine and natural as I have ever seen a child in a movie. Her scenes throughout the hospital were film in order on purpose, so that as Untaru's English improved, so did Alexandria's, and as the actress's front teeth grew back in, that, too was incorporated into the script. Alexandria, unlike many children characters, feels real, active, and motivated. Her actions, because they were partly improvised by Untaru, belong genuinely to a girl, struggling to learn English, in a world of adults.

The film ends, with an old film reel of stunts from early silent films, though I will let you find out the emotional impact yourself, to avoid giving away the resolution. Its impact, artistically, is to reinforce that this is a movie about how films have been made, and continue to be made, the choices directors, producers and actors make. It is Tarsem Singh acknowledging that he is fully aware this is not the kind of movie his viewer might be used to, but that each movie is about what can be done weighed against what the crew makes efforts to do, and ultimately, how the audience receives it. It is, at its core, a movie about movie making, and a story about storytelling.

Why I Stopped Watching Doctor Who (Sam)

I have a confession to make: I hate Doctor Who as it is being run by Steven Moffat. I have loved it in the past, and because of the nature of the show, I'm sure I will love it again some day. But when Moffat became showrunner, Doctor Who lost not only the heart of what made it an interesting show, it forgot how to simply tell a good story at all.

Let me give some background for the uninformed: Doctor Who is a BBC scifi show with a long history. It's a show about an alien called the Doctor, and a human companion or two, who travel in his ship called the TARDIS, a British police call box which can disappear and reappear at any point in time and space. It first aired in 1963 and ran continuously until 1989. In 2005 it was rebooted. The reason for its longevity is simple: there is a canonical reason to replace the actor who plays the Doctor whenever the current one retires. He dies, then regenerates. He is immortal, ever-changing, ever gaining new energy. And if the show stagnates, it has the potential to regenerate as well.

Ever since its reboot, it has gained an ever-growing, rabid fanbase in the States. I counted myself one of its fans during New Who's first four seasons, while Russel T. Davies was its showrunner. The show was endlessly engaging and dynamic. Time, place, and genre could be different episode to episode. One week it could be a murder mystery, the next, a horror story set on another planet, and the next a historical drama. At the heart of the show's interest was the Doctor, with a little Sherlock Holmes, a little James Bond, and a little of his own idiosyncratic quirks – the most important of those being his love for humans and his abhorrence of violence. One of the main themes of New Who was the idea that the Doctor was a being with the power of a god and who sometimes let that get to his head – and that, in the end, it was always his human companions who kept him in check, who brought him down to earth. Both the Doctor and his companions were always better off with each other. They brought out the best in each other. And when the companions inevitably left him, the Doctor always lost something.

It seems to me that the Doctor's most valuable companion was Russel T. Davies himself, because he certainly lost something after Davies' departure. Unlike previous Doctors, the eleventh Doctor is never challenged. His genius, his ego, and most importantly, his moral superiority, are never questioned – they're taken for granted both by his companions and, by extension, the audience itself. It is telling that, for instance, the eleventh Doctor is far more violent than his predecessors, who were pacifist to a fault. Steven Moffat's run seems to have forgotten the themes of the past show and abandoned them for hero worship. So, pretty much the opposite of what the show was before. 

But I actually think this is a symptom of a larger problem, which is Steven Moffat's and his current writing team's poor understanding of what makes for an interesting story. They rely far too heavily on the Doctor's quirkiness and wittiness. Granted, he is witty, and it's fun to watch him run around the TARDIS and manically explain his solutions to various problems in time and space – so that makes for an effective crutch, at least for a while. But this doesn't make for interesting stories. Nor does throwing together a bunch of random, disconnected, "cool" ideas into one episode. The season 6 finale features a universe where all of time has collapsed into a single moment, so cars fly attached to helium balloons, Winston Churchill is Holy Roman Emperor, and a high-tech lab of sorts called Area 52 is housed inside a pyramid, where everybody wears eye patches. The episode certainly pretends to have a plot, but feels more like an excuse to have all of these things at once because it would be cool. None of it means anything. The emotion is completely unearned and all consequences are completely abstract and impersonal, or rest on clichés. 

After the second season under Moffat's helm, I'd had enough. Doctor Who is currently mid-Season 7, but I haven't seen any of it. 

You'll Get Used to It (Natasha)

    Thinking back to the trailers and stills I saw when the film came out, I expected A Scanner Darkly, Richard Linklater's adaptation of the Philip K. Dick novel, to be the weirdest-looking movie I'd ever seen.  Instead, I grew accustomed to the singular effect of "interpolated rotoscoping" inside of a minute, and proceeded to marvel at how closely certain of the animated shots resembled live action.  Linklater employed the rotoscoping tactic five years before in Waking Life, but that film's decidedly sunnier outlook means the animation looks much sunnier as well.  Scanner's unique appeal is its grittiness, a grittiness that makes the animation look eerily realistic.  Did Linklater rotoscope to create a dystopian mood in his near futuristic setting?  Was it to firmly remove the story from the present, or to make it seem like a projection rather than a depiction?  Was it another attempt to show us what his dreams look like, as he may have intimated in St. Richard of Austin, a documentary on England's Channel 4 (I say "may have" because I merely read brief accounts of the documentary and have not yet found a way to watch it myself)?  Whatever its intention, rotoscoping does not manage to alienate us from the world in the film.  After a minute, rotoscoping alters the film's world only slightly--not enough to be conspicuous, but enough to make us uneasy without knowing why.

    The uniquely flat animation used for the "scramble suits" (government officials' full-body sheaths that project partial images of millions of strangers to keep the wearers anonymous) offers a contrast that further legitimizes the faces of the people inside them.  These scramble suits are meant to obscure and dehumanize within the world of the film, but they do so even more effectively for the audience:  In a privileged view into the suit, we see the world-weary and disgusted face of Bob Arctor (Keanu Reeves), who looks completely real following the conspicuously animated suit.  We do not, however, believe he is completely real.  Linklater's particular animation style exaggerates the shading on each face until it becomes an array of neutrals in irregular shapes, in constant motion, brought to life by a very human set of eyes.  The result is a sense of movement just beneath the skin, a freaky look that puts us on the same perceptually impaired level as the film's "Substance D" drug addicts:  The immediately addictive drug's primary effect is visual hallucination within real settings, and the recognizable but supremely strange world of the film gives us a similarly trippy experience (minus the feeling of bugs crawling all over us).

    If it was indeed Linklater's intent to make Scanner as dreamlike as possible, he succeeded in a way that has nothing to do with the visual quality of the film.  The insurmountable tension, the vague knowledge of unspecified high stakes and the big hint of confusion that gripped me all the way through my "wait, what?" moment at the very end aligned my experience of watching A Scanner Darkly with the feeling I have just before I realize I'm dreaming.  It is a beautiful and terrifying feeling, being so enthralled by a dream; spirited away by whatever absurd directive my subconscious gives my dreaming self, my mind grants unrelenting focus to each new development of the dream while I lie captivated and motionless.  I imagine I looked much the same watching Scanner, save that my eyes were very wide open.

 

 

~ Natasha Hirschfeld