Through time, space and Tsarist Russia: Mastodon's Crack the Skye

“It’s about a crippled young man who experiments with astral travel. He goes up into outer space, goes too close to the sun, gets his golden umbilical cord burned off, flies into a wormhole, is thrust into the spirit realm, has conversations with spirits about the fact that he’s not really dead, and they decide to help him. They put him into a divination that’s being performed by an early-20th-century Russian Orthodox sect called the Klisti, which Rasputin is part of.

Knowing Rasputin is about to be murdered, they put the young boy’s spirit inside of Rasputin. Rasputin goes to usurp the throne of the Czar and is murdered by the Yusupovs, and the boy and Rasputin fly out of Rasputin’s body up through the crack in the sky and head back. Rasputin gets him safely back into his body.

That’s the basic story… but it’s all metaphors for personal shit.”

– Brann Dailor

As the above quote might suggest, there is a certain cinematic quality to Mastodon’s music. As a gift to those who pre-ordered new album Crack the Skye from iTunes, the band made available each track as an instrumental, or as what they describe as a ‘score’. In fact, it seems that Mastodon’s heavily conceptualised brand of rock can no longer be contained by music alone, with the band planning to release a 50 minute film as an accompaniment to their latest opus. With Brann Dailor’s summary of Crack the Skye’s bizarre concept fresh in mind, such an offering would surely be welcomed by all.

Mastodon’s first album proper was 2002’s Remission which, through a staggering display of aggression and raw power, represented the ‘fire’ element in what would be their first of a four-part series. 2004’s Leviathan showcased the true scope of the bands conceptuality by taking the narrative of Melville’s Moby Dick as its theme, thus representing ‘water’ in the band’s grand scheme. Garnering almost unanimous critical acclaim, the album went on to be voted the 3rd best metal album of the last 20 years by leading publication Metal Hammer. It also proved to be the band’s last release for their highly respected, albeit independent and therefore constraining, label Relapse Records before they signed with Warner Bros. 2006’s Blood Mountain (representing the ‘earth’ element), the band’s highly anticipated major label debut truly propelled the band into the upper echelon’s of the hard rock scene with lead single Colony of Birchmen earning them a Grammy nomination. Again, the band enjoyed almost unprecedented critical acclaim and by the time the Blood Mountain world tour had wound down Mastodon sat comfortably on throne as metal’s new champions. Although at this point everyone knew which element would follow to complete the cycle, few could have guessed the impact that the concept of ‘air’ would have on the band’s sound. On Crack the Skye, Mastodon have all but completely transformed themselves into one of the finest musical acts on the planet.

Mastodon’s real triumph as a band has always been their ability to utilise their talent as songwriters to convey a theme or concept. Each album post-Remission tells a story from start to finish, both lyrically and musically. Despite the lyrical cohesion of each collection of songs, the crux of each album’s narrative doesn’t rely solely on what is being said; the music plays an equal, if not bigger, role in telling a story. For instance, the Moby Dick inspired lyrics on Leviathan are mirrored by fluid guitar work and wonderfully absurd nuance (see Megalodon’s seat shanty segue). The album consistent evokes the feeling of being lost at sea, far from safety from its blistering exposition to the final 14 minute marathon of Heart’s Alive. Blood Mountain, too, is a unified work of speculative fiction as Troy Sanders explains; “It’s about climbing up a mountain and the different things that can happen to you when you’re stranded on a mountain, in the woods, and you’re lost. You’re starving, hallucinating, running into strange creatures. You’re being hunted. It’s about that whole struggle.” The album’s psychadelic lyrical content is matched with earthy guitar tones, churning riffs and an emphasis on rythym.

Having adapted possibly the greatest seafaring work of fiction for Leviathan and created an entire world for Blood Mountain, Mastodon will have been well aware during the writing process for Crack the Skye that their tendency to better themselves demanded of them nothing short of the delivery of a masterpiece; anything less would sit uncomfortably with their previous work. Put simply: they deliver, making it seem as effortless as it would be had there been no pressure on them whatsoever. What the band offer this time around is nothing short of a complete reinvention of themselves, and whereas die-hard Remission lovers may be left reeling by the circumvention of breakneck pace, cartilage wearing drum fills and blistering rage, true Mastodon fans will recognise the sheer magnitude and importance of what is likely to become one of metal’s all time great albums.

Crack the Skye introduces the band as a different beast altogether; this is a Mastodon matured, wiser and, frankly, better than before. And as hard as that is to believe, repeat listens (or, if you close your eyes, viewings) of their new offering will convince you that even if you don’t quite get it at first, you are witnessing something special. At face value the album is slower than almost all of the band’s previous material; Brann takes a step back from his trademark style of busy, jazz infused beats punctuated by wandering drum kills, instead ‘locking into a groove’ as he puts it, perhaps a consequence of his playing to a click track for the first time on a Mastodon album. More likely is that his alteration of style is dictated by the style of the songs themselves; he merely plays what is required of him although that is not to say that he doesn’t stand out as the remarkable drummer that Remission, Leviathan and Blood Mountain have shown him to be. In fact, it is fair to say that the album doesn’t really get going until he does; his perfectly measured cascading drum fills introducing album opener Oblivion before giving way to a time signature change that instantly banishes any fear of the band having strayed from their progressive roots. Some haunting vocals (courtesy of Brann himself) and a masterful guitar solo round off the band’s statement of intent, giving way to the album’s obvious choice for lead single; Divinations. Clocking in at 3 and a half minutes and the album’s shortest song by some distance, the up tempo track is somewhat of a curveball when heard in isolation; it is as different from the rest of the material on display as Crack the Skye is from Mastodon’s previous material, but such are the demands of major label politics.

So just how does Crack the Skye conspire to convey it’s extraordinary story musically? Detractors will point out that the album is a lot more polished than its predecessors and use this to fuel the argument that it isn’t really metal at all. They might be right. Crack the Skye doesn’t appear at all concerned with being ‘metal’ and as a result stands out as the band’s most unified and complete offering. Brendan O’Brien’s production allows the songs to realise their ethereal intentions, born of the band’s decision to leave behind their more complicated guitar work in favour of riffs that, at times, approach ambience. Quintessence is a perfect example; a song that soars into space with its airy guitars and spiralling synth licks whilst losing none of its power. Mastodon have never sounded so uplifting, Sanders’ vocals ascending above the rich, layered tapestry of music that his band creates. The Czar, a ten minute, four part piece of pure prog-rock indulgence enters as a slow burner, guided by dreamy synth and guitar before exploding into a groovy urgency. As with all of the band’s previous material, if you stick with it you will be richly rewarded for your patience – a transcendent acoustic break gives way to a wonderfully lush classic rock section led by a melody reminiscent of Ozzy Osbourne. Brendt Hinds’ mesmerising guitar solo leads the song full circle for its denouement and you realise that whilst you have been floating around in space you have lost ten minutes. Not that you’ll mind.

As un-Mastodon as you may consider it to be, the production is flawless and may prove to be one of the factors that will see Crack the Skye go down in history as one of those timeless albums that sound as fresh as the day they were made 20 years after their release date. In 2006, the band contributed to Kerrang!’s Remastered, a 20th anniversary tribute to Metallica’s seminal Master of Puppets, covering the instrumental track Orion to a degree of perfection that the original writers of the song must have been proud of. Paying homage to one of the founders of modern heavy music must have been an honour at the time, as would be the opportunity to join them on a 2009 European tour had Crack the Skye not just been released. But the fact is that Crack the Skye may just be the Master of Puppets of generation now; the album that goes on to serve as a benchmark for rock music for the foreseeable future. Crack the Skye will go on to top album of the year lists around the globe, but something more important is harboured within the 7 tracks and 50 minutes of this record, something that escapes the immediacy of as many listens that can be crammed into even a whole year.

As with Master of Puppets, only time will truly reveal its greatness. I think I know how important this record is, but I know that time will prove me wrong because in the future I would not be surprised if bands are lining up to commemorate the 20th anniversary of Crack the Skye.

Watch Mastodon play Oblivion live here.
Listen to them talk about Crack the Skye here.

Old School American Horror: Hatchet

The first person to die in Hatchet, Adam Green’s 2006 throwback to the truly bloody days of American horror, is Robert Englund; the man responsible for bringing us the iconic figure of Freddy Kruger. The relevance of this first blood is obvious; it is a mission statement from the debutant writer / director who wishes to make it clear that whilst what has gone before is important, it is far from sacred. The golden age of the slasher film may be dead and buried, but Hatchet demonstrates that the sub-genre still has plenty of mileage, even if it seldom strays far from the path that has been previously laid.

Hatchet is a proud film. Whilst Hollywood turns its attention to fields afar, looking for a new lease of life to breath into the horror film, Hatchet confidently mocks the masses whilst taking matters into its own hands right underneath their noses. It declares itself as ‘old school American horror’ on the cover of the DVD case and defiantly adds that ‘It’s not a remake. It’s not a sequel and it’s not based on a Japanese one.’ It is fair to say that from the very word go, Hatchet sets out to put right what has gone so wrong with American horror.

In just two years Hatchet has developed cult status, something that very few American horror films have managed in the last two decades. I would suggest a number of reasons for this. The term ‘cult film’ can only be applied retrospectively; there is no handbook for those who wish to make a cult film and therefore a film either gains cult appeal or it doesn’t. Whilst Hollywood continues to source material from oversees, a lot of which already has cult appeal, the likelihood is that they will not be able to replicate such a status domestically. In any case, they wouldn’t want to. Cult films are often independent and thus have a low production budget, minimal exposure and as a result do poorly at the box office. The Hollywood ethos, which has been apparent since the immediate success of the blockbuster, aims for maximum exposure and maximum profit. The chance of a post-1990s Hollywood film gaining true cult status is not only slim but hardly a priority for the major studios.

Hatchet, on the other hand, fits the bill for a cult film perfectly. Its approximate 1.5 million dollar budget was secured by way of the production team showing true guerrilla filmmaking grit and determination. With nothing but belief and a handheld camcorder, Green and producers Sarah Elbert and Cory Neal flew to Louisiana to make a trailer for the film with no financial backing in place or any guarantee that the film would be made. In the resulting teaser a slow, mesmerising camera shot floats through a swamp, just above water level, whilst an eerie childish voiceover recounts the tale of poor Victor Crowley, the film’s antagonist lying in wait. The team were confident of creating a huge buzz on the internet in order to snare a production deal, and by the time that Bloody Disgusting.com and Ain’t It Cool News had had their say, securing the finances for the feature was never in doubt.

It is worth noting that almost all of the horror classics were similarly low key affairs. Black Christmas, the film that truthfully started the slasher cycle, was made with a budget of only 620,000 dollars. John Carpenter’s Halloween, which is more commonly referred to as the origin of the sub-genre, was produced on an even more modest budget of 325,000 dollars. Friday the 13th, Hatchet’s closest compatriot, was made to capitalise on the limited lifespan of the slasher flick and despite being a commercial success, was completed with only an estimated 550,000 dollars. These films were the genesis of American horror’s most prolific era; they provided a foundation for a number of successful franchises as well as a host of instantly forgettable cash-ins. They didn’t disappear overnight, but their quality certainly did. With the exception of Wes Craven’s Scream franchise and Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects, American horror has never quite managed to scale the dizzy heights that it managed in the 70’s and 80’s.

Like all the classics, Hatchet revolves around a myth. All the kids told stories about Freddy Kruger, whilst the figures of Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers hang over Camp Crystal Lake and the community of Haddonfield like unspeakable and immovable secrets. Crowley, Hatchet’s soon-to-be horror icon, is no different. In fact the character shares such blatant parallels with the likes of Voorhees, Leatherface, Kruger and The Burning’s ‘Cropsy’ that he can hardly be considered original. All are deformed, clear examples of each character’s evil being externalised through visual means – think Bond villains; metal teeth, scars across the eyes etc – and all serve to exact some kind of revenge for their afflictions.

Crowley’s myth shares a particular resemblance to the story of Jason Voorhees. Crowley, born deformed, was taunted by the local kids due to his appearance. His father, who loved him despite his burden, cared for him and tried his best to shield him from the abuse of the other children. One Halloween, a group of trick-and-treaters tried to scare Crowley out of his shed deep in the swamps of Louisiana, but the prank backfired – the shed caught fire with Crowley trapped inside. His father, upon his return, tried frantically to get him out, eventually resorting to using a hatchet to break in and save his son. Unaware that his son’s face was pressed up against the inside of the door the father hacked away, resulting in Crowley’s death. But they say that if you go near the old Crowley house, deep in the thick of the swamp, you can still hear Victor Crowley crying out for his father. When a group of tourists, some of which have hidden agendas, find themselves stranded whilst on a haunted swamp tour, they realise that there is truth to the myth and very little chance of escape.

So just how does Hatchet manage to breath life into the slasher film? The narrative is formulaic, relying on well established themes and stylistically it does nothing new. Perhaps one thing should be made clear; Hatchet is not responsible for reinventing anything. The slasher sub-genre, perhaps more than any other, relies on a set of well versed conventions and Green, keen to give the die hard horror fans what they want, sticks to these stringently. To talk of Green as the saviour of horror would be unwarranted, I actually think that this film could have been made by anyone with an interest in the genre. What Green has done, albeit with conviction and competency, is make a film that was guaranteed to be well received providing that it reached the right audience and given that horror is possibly one of the simplest genres to successfully market, those who put up the money will have been fairly certain of recouping their investment.

Narratively, Hatchet is everything that we have come to expect from the genre. There are no high concept ideals or labyrinthine subplots; the film essentially revolves around a one dimensional plot with the intermittent deaths acting as gruesome set pieces. The question of whether the onscreen events are plausible rarely enters into the equation – what this film needed to deliver, and does, is an impressive body count and not much else. Green’s script work is impressive, switching between light-hearted comedy and no-holds-barred terror often quite whimsically. Green feeds his audience this rich vein of comedy throughout the film, making the expositional scenes seem less tedious and more enjoyable. When the heads start to roll (both figuratively and literally) Hatchet comes across as a well rounded exercise rather than seeming flimsy and disjointed.

Where Green really shines is in delivering the all important sucker punches that the audience love to hate. Crowley’s introduction is a prime example of this; a breakneck shot reverse shot places our unfortunate throng at the bottom of a hill, on top of which lies Crowley’s eerily lit and seemingly derelict shed. An agonisingly slow SteadiCam shot creeps up the slope, switching perspectives from higher to lower ground as the group makes slow progress. After what seems like forever, Crowley bursts through the doorway of his hut, charging down the slope towards the foremost members of the group whilst wielding his hatchet. In an instant Crowley goes from fabrication to fact and it takes him seconds to begin his killing spree. Crowley is light years away from the methodical Michael Myers, as soon as he arrives on the screen the pace of the film lifts, buoyed by the monster’s energy and kineticism. Whereas Myers stalks, Crowley is more comparable to Leatherface; both are a relentless force of evil, lacking direction and restraint.

On an aesthetic level, Hatchet is hard to fault despite never wowing the viewer with slick camerawork. There are no grand establishing shots or any real aspects of cinematographical brilliance; one assumes that the modest budget left little room for experimentation. The fact that the film is set almost entirely at night does well to mask the shortcomings presented by the budget restrictions. The lighting is sparse at times and the intermittent rain appears to be sketchy in widely framed shots but such shortcomings can be forgiven; the overall look of the film is unharmed. If anything, the low-fi aspect of the film is charming. The slasher sub-genre worked through its golden era without any of its flagship films exceeding 2 million dollars in production costs and I have never come across an article criticising the classics because of this.

Of course the most obvious aesthetic element is the film’s special effects, all of which were shot in-camera, in keeping with the old school ethos that the film proudly heralds. Given the advancements in make up and special effects since the heyday of the slasher movie, the effects in Hatchet are equally as impressive as anything that the godfather of gore Tom Savini came up with in the 70’s and 80’s. John Carl Buechler, who has previously worked with both Freddy and Jason, really delivers on this film, which goes the extra mile in terms of blood and guts. The elaborate and memorable deaths in Hatchet easily match those of Halloween, Friday the 13th and the Nightmare on Elm Street films – even surpassing them in terms of inventiveness. Crowley’s most effective weapon, aside from his eponymous hatchet, seems to be his brute strength which he uses to horrifying effect numerous times. His first post-Englund victim is hacked in two from the shoulder down through the torso, his second has her head pulled apart from the jaw upwards, leaving her tongue waggling sickeningly in the air. It’s not so much that these incredibly violent deaths look real but more that their graphic nature renders any notion of realism irrelevant.

Unnerving as it is, the death scenes really are the film’s triumph. After all, what is a slasher film without them? Horror fans will relish the back to basics approach of the film’s special effects team in the face of Hollywood’s CGI fixation and whilst the weak stomached will disagree, there is a grotesque beauty to be admired when considering the amount of craftsmanship that has gone into the execution of each demise. More importantly, the special effects of Hatchet hark back to a time when things couldn’t be achieved with a computer and the crew had to work extensively to achieve the image that they had in their heads. Hatchet captures this artisan mentality perfectly and the film is much better off for it.

One thing that gains Green points is his bypass of the ‘final girl’ convention, which despite being the widely accepted mode of closure in the genre has now undoubtedly grown stale. One of the drawbacks of such generic material is the ease with which the audience can guess exactly what is coming next and when the film is going to end. Traditionally, when the cast is cut down to the last person, and she is female, it’s game over. This is perhaps the only area that Green sees fit to leave uncovered, instead playing out the film with one last obligatory scare that many won’t see coming. If not exactly refreshing, the ending is certainly welcome and it alludes to the fact that true horror fans are hardly concerned with closure. What some would regard as leaving the cinema with a bad taste in their mouths is exactly the opposite for the target audience of this film.

Hatchet may be an exercise in nostalgia, but few could argue that it came at the right time. The cycle of the slasher film came to an end because its formula was being abused, resulting in films that were unworthy of being mentioned in the same category as the classics. Green took it upon himself to pay homage to the films that we all remember from our youths and for that alone he should be praised. The fact that he has delivered a feature which is arguably on a par with the films that it aspires to be is a magnificent achievement for the young director. If Hatchet had been made in the golden age we would be lauding it as one of the greats; it is almost a shame that it missed the boat by 30 years.

Watch a trailer for the film here.

A magnificent double death scene can be found here.

Mulholland Drive, Part 2: a Phenomenological View

Phe· nom· e· nol· o· gy [fi–nom–uh–nol–uh–jee]
– noun
1. the way in which one perceives and interprets events and one’s relationship to them in contrast both to one’s objective responses to stimuli and to any inferred unconsciousmotivation for one’s behaviour.
2. in psychology, phenomenology is used to refer to subjective experiences or their study.
eg. “from a phenomenological perspective, I didn’t feel that way…”

That David Lynch sometimes prefers to direct his actors in metaphors is remarkably appropriate; it would take one to describe my feelings about Mulholland Drive. I am not brave enough to attempt any lengthy in depth analysis of his film, least of all his unfathomably enigmatic third act, but in some way I understand everything that I need to about it. I am comfortable in the absence of a definitive meaning of the film, knowing that Lynch himself would cite the feeling that it gives me as proof enough of its influence.

Mulholland Drive has always seemed to me profound, not in terms of artistic statement or aesthetic beauty, but something more; something that I would find it extremely difficult to articulate. I have long since stopped trying, knowing that I would never be able to craft an accurate description of how the film makes me feel. Simplistically, Lynch’s cinema, and in particular Mulholland Drive, has the power to provoke from me a huge range of emotional responses. I find the film at parts extremely unsettling; a number of scenes frighten me more than any horror film has managed to. The man who lives behind Twinkies and the hallucinatory nightmarish ending have both at some point proved too scary for me to watch and I am not exactly sure why. It seems obvious to me that Lynch isn’t trying to scare me, and perhaps knowing this scares me even more. At the same time I find the film achingly beautiful. The establishing arial shots of Los Angeles seem to belong in a blockbuster, so detached are they from the visual style of the rest of the film. Yet they are timeless, flawlessly photographed and therefore return to me as an element of the film that I love.

Many of the emotions that I experience when I watch the film are provoked by both the music and the sound design of the film. The ‘Club Silencio’ scene, one which is heavily reliant on the relationship between the visual and aural components of cinema, is one that I am particularly intrigued by. A personal response to this scene is that Lynch is toying with his viewers, not in a manipulative way, but rather by adopting the theme that all is not what it seems as a microcosm for the film as a whole. In any case, the scene is a spectacle. Peter Deming’s floating, disembodied camera announces the arrival of a shift in tone; we are not aware of what is going to happen, but we know that it is something significant, something meaningful.

Angelo Badalmenti’s score is another aspect of the film that I consider hugely important in my response to it. Music in film is important, but so often it is not given the chance to have a significant influence on the film and an impact on its audience. Badalamenti worked closely with Lynch, often writing music based on Lynch’s attempts to verbalise a mood or feeling. The result is a score that is every bit as responsible for the film’s tone as Lynch’s direction, the cast’s performances and Deming’s cinematography. Using a subtle blend of synth and strings, Badalamenti enhances the power of the image, often giving it a new dynamic in the process.

My emotional involvement with this film peaks at the same point every time I devote 2 hours and 20 minutes of my life to it. The following sequence, which is represented in Lynch’s mind by the image of a glowing red lamp according to his chapter prompts on the special edition DVD, occurs well after we learn that all is not what it seems; during and after the ‘Club Silencio’ scene. By this point in the film my reoccurring thoughts and theories have been put to bed, in their place lies a sense of relief as I realise that my curiosity and intrigue has survived another viewing. Long may it do so. The day that I watch the film and realise that I am no longer affected by it in the same way will be the day that it loses its power over me.

The transcription that follows is of my favourite scene of the film.

A phone rings. The camera pans down past a lit red lamp, cutting to a wider angle to reveal Diane walking into the room as her answering machine message picks up the call. “Hello, it’s me… leave a message” – the lack of a given name underpinning the ambiguity of character. The caller’s tinny voice through the speaker is not quite as unrecognisable as her character has become, nevertheless we intuit her identity. The conversation that ensues, one sided and wracked with condescension, reveals the setting of the next scene as the camera slowly closes in on Diane’s face. 6980 Mulholland Drive. The synthesised score creeps in as Diane’s despondent expression, framed against a wall absent of discernable colour, fades from the screen.

A shot of Mulholland Drive’s street sign, identical to the one that introduces the film, hangs dreamily at the top of the frame. It wades through soft focus and the glare of oncoming headlights as the camera passes below. A black limousine, the same which ushers Rita to her misfortune almost two hours before, winds its way through the Hollywood hills before drawing to a stop. Betty, who occupies the rear passenger seat in place of Rita, ominously utters the words “we don’t stop here…” whilst the eerily hypnotic score works with our expectations to contrive a sense of threat.

“A surprise” remarks the driver, who does little to allay Diane’s concern. The car door opens and Camilla, appropriately silhouetted, descends the forested incline by the side of the road and approaches the car. “A shortcut” she explains, leading Diane out of the car and back into the undergrowth with a soft word or two. Angelo Badalamenti’s orchestral score swells as the pair move on; no other arrangement could better accompany the couple’s ascent, its beauty making their destination irrelevant. The camera tracks their movement, switching perspective from higher to lower ground. We cut to a shot of their clasped hands from which the camera pans upwards to linger on Diane’s spellbound smile.

Lights ahead of the couple signal their arrival; the alluring musical motif dies away to be replaced by the intentionally inappropriate sound of diegetic jazz, revealing their location as utterly unworthy of its poetic foreword. The shift in tone is almost heartbreaking, inspiring in the audience a profound sense of disappointment which remains evident for the coming scenes. The introduction of Adam Kesher, the director with whom Camilla is having an affair, marginalises Diane, who is forced to watch as she toasts “to love” with her new lover. After an agonising exchange with Kesher’s mother which serves to devalue Diane’s position in the group even further, they make way for the house – tellingly, Camilla and Kesher lead whilst Diane follows behind them.

Over dinner, Diane is revealed as the outsider that the disdain of her hosts suggests she is. As she begins a clumsy anecdote, Lynch allows only an indecipherable blur to set the scene before snapping his camera into focus. Kesher’s mother feigns interest whilst clawing at a bowl of nuts, Kesher himself speaks Spanish with Camilla and an out of shot other; Diane clearly doesn’t understand. After dinner, as Kesher and Camilla announce their engagement, the scene descends into parody. The previous restraint shown in light of Diane’s presence has vanished; a sequence of shot reverse shots reveals both the new couple’s sickening, almost insincere joy and Diane’s agony at the news.

From this point onwards is where some claim to be able to make sense of the film. Diane, unable to cope with the loss of her love, hires a thug to kill Camilla. Then, tortured by her decision to do so she kills herself in a scene so unnerving that my best efforts to describe it would prove thankless.

After that... silencio.

Although out of context and therefore presumably lacking much of the emotional substance that I have tried to convey, the scene can be viewed here.

Science (versus) Fiction: Sunshine

Sunshine is British director Danny Boyle’s 2007 foray into the science fiction genre, a venture that he had been planning for many years. It is his third collaboration with British writer Alex Garland who also provided the concept and screenplays for The Beach (2000) and 28 Days Later (2002). It seems that the duo have established a winning formula; if not commercially, without question artistically, with Sunshine being perhaps the most impressive example of their creative partnership given the film’s complexity and scale.

If the Hollywood megastars have been missing in Boyle’s post The Beach career, he has made up for it ten-fold with ambition. He cleared the streets of London (albeit not at rush hour) in his not-a-zombie-movie 28 Days Later, effortlessly running his digital camera over landmarks and landscapes whilst conjuring a sense of apocalypticism that had been missing from British film for some time. With Sunshine he goes a step further; crafting an equally isolated setting in space, leaving Earth completely untouched save for the ultimate shot of the film in which he again treats us to his apocalyptic vision.

Set 50 years in the future, with the Sun’s power drastically deteriorating, a team of astronauts and scientists are sent on a mission to reignite it with a massive stellar bomb. Their ship, Icarus II (a name in which all manner of irony and cynicism can be found) travels directly towards the dying star, protected by an enormous circular heat shield. Upon reaching the ‘payload delivery point’, the bomb is to be released and propelled unmanned towards the Sun’s surface, whilst the ship thrusts in the opposite direction. We join the crew several years in, just as they prepare to enter the ‘dead zone’ from which they will lose the ability to communicate with Earth. As tensions between the crew begin to mount, they pick up the distress signal of the ill-fated Icarus I, which failed to complete its mission for unknown reasons. Faced with the choice to remain on course or intercept the stranded vessel, the onboard physicist Robert Capa (played by Cillian Murphy) decides to risk the detour for a second chance at completing the mission should their first attempt fail. This decision, which proves divisive amongst the crew, sparks a chain of events that puts their lives and their mission in jeopardy.

The focus of my discussion will be to challenge a line of argument which has somewhat damaged the critical reception of the film post-release; that of its scientific inaccuracy and perceived lack of plausibility. A number of issues have contributed towards this argument – which was made by a review of the film in New Scientist magazine and a column in The Times, both written by journalists with backgrounds in solar physics – and if you are cynical enough to sit through the film with nothing but fierce scepticism with regard to the film’s inaccuracies, these are some of the questions that you might ask: why are the astronauts walking and not floating? Why, to an exact degree of scientific certainty, is the Sun dying? Isn’t the Sun supposed to burn for another 5 billion years? Wouldn’t it take a bomb much much bigger to reignite it anyway? And, of course; isn’t it true that as our Sun dies it will in fact produce more heat, engulfing the Earth as it enters its red giant phase? These were the questions on Anjana Ahuja’s mind as she watched the film, leading her to the proud assertion that “Danny Boyle could have achieved the same level of scientific fidelity in Sunshine by giving a calculator to a schoolboy”. Unfortunately, all Ahuja has demonstrated, despite scoring points with her solar-physicist fraternity, is that she is incapable of understanding the workings of cinema, much less succumbing to its power. I wonder; does she watch all films expecting such a rich, unbroken vein of realism?

Due to this attack on the film’s credibility, the filmmakers themselves have been put on the defensive, having felt it necessary to offer some of the answers to these questions – answers that are extraneous to the film itself. Frankly, this is a shame, not least because it weakens the integrity of the film. Imagine if David Lynch were forced into a dialogue that revealed the innermost secrets of his films because an expert on dream interpretation demanded that he clarify certain things. Granted, with science it is different; science is the study of fact, of which there can be a degree of uncertainty, but little room for interpretation. As such, scientists are quick to pounce on mistakes that relate to these facts. Art, which can loosely be defined as a pursuit which is opposed to science, is an area in which many of these mistakes (or misinterpretations) are made. In Sunshine, and indeed the wider focus of the science fiction film, this dichotomy of art versus science is extremely prominent. The ‘art’ is, of course, that of cinema whilst the ‘science’ is represented by the film’s subject matter, and because of this it has an influence on both the narrative and the aesthetic qualities of the film. As an artist, Boyle is faced with the task of seeing things from a cinematic perspective first and foremost, whereas the film’s detractors have clearly chosen a scientific perspective and thus disregarded the cinematic conventions to which the film must adhere.

A number of examples can be used to illustrate this dichotomy. The first is the temporal setting of the film; the year 2057. This seems to be the source of much of the film’s derision by critics, who frequently point out that 50 years in the future is not a significant enough timeframe for the Sun to have reduced in power. Boyle’s reaction to this specific line of questioning has lead to the following explanation: the Sun is not dying in terms of reaching the end of its life cycle; it is suffering from an infection caused by something called a Q-Ball that has been trapped in the Sun and is sapping its power. This explanation was included in the back-story of the film but didn’t make the final cut, leaving the floodgates open for scientists to pounce on the film’s inaccuracy. In fact, Boyle took artistic licence in placing the film 50 years in the future so as to maintain a level of familiarity which would allow the audience to relate to the characters and their mission. If the film were to take place 5 billion years in the future in order to completely satisfy all scientific parameters it would be impossible for an audience to empathise with any part of the film. Such a level of alienation would not only trivialise the importance of the mission but essentially give infinite scope for both the narrative and aesthetic qualities of any film. Put simply, even an artistic interpretation of events that take place 5 billion years in the future would be an exercise in futility.

Another aspect of the film that scientists have taken exception with is that of the artificial gravity onboard Icarus II, which is apparent but never explained. Stemming from this line of argument is a further criticism which relates to a scene towards the end of the film in which the concept of gravity itself seems to unravel as the bomb grows nearer and nearer to the Sun. To avoid the failure of their mission, the remaining crew are forced to detach the bomb from Icarus II and manually arm it, meaning that they must accompany it to its delivery point. The bomb itself is a massive cube structure on which the surviving members of the crew stand. When they are forced over the edge of the cube, they plummet downwards but gradually begin to slow before coming to a stop and finding themselves able to stand. It is a disorienting visual experience, with Boyle refusing to establish a definitive horizontal or vertical plain.

On explaining this short scene the scientific impossibility is obvious, but on my first (and subsequent) viewings I found that the film offers a subtle and clever explanation. When charged with making the decision as the whether the crew should alter their trajectory to rendezvous with Icarus I, Capa is seen mulling over the physics of their task. The computer generated images before him show the payload delivery procedure whilst the ship’s onboard computer (Icarus, a nod to both Mother and HAL) gives a running narrative. As the bomb nears the surface of the Sun, the projection crashes with Icarus stating that “[the] reliability of projection has dropped below 45%; remaining projection is not open to useful speculation; variables infinite, accuracy unknown.” Capa clarifies; “Between the boosters and the gravity of the Sun the velocity of the payload will get so great that space and time will become smeared together and everything will distort. Everything will be unquantifiable.” My assumption, one which I thought to be quite reasonable, was that this lack of gravitational cohesion was a cleverly stylised way of portraying the distortion of time and space – after all, it occurs at the right point in the film; as the bomb is heading into the Sun. It turns out that I am wrong when I could have quite easily been right. In an explanation prompted by further derision, Boyle explains that within the cube there is the compressed mass of a small moon, which explains the reason why there is artificial gravity as well as why the crew can stand on both horizontal and vertical plains.

This seems absurd to me, and if anything a little harder to believe than my own theory, but one must remember that this explanation is not included in the film. Whereas scientists who have ‘reviewed’ the film have lambasted the lack of scientific precision, I believe that Boyle should be praised for refusing to over-explain every aspect in-film. Would a Sunshine constantly bogged down with jargon and science be half as entertaining, even half as interesting? A science fiction film, to an extent, writes its own licence to challenge certain things and therefore any element of ‘realism’ is apparent entirely at the filmmakers’ discretion. In any case, a ‘realistic’ sci-fi film is one that would eschew the very qualities of the genre that make these films so fantastical and awe-inspiring. If sci-fi films sought to convey a realistic and unchallenging vision there would be little need for a science fiction genre at all – in what way would it distinguish itself from other genres? Science fiction, and Sunshine, is so intensely cinematic that its epic scale and ambition could seldom be captured by any other medium.

It is really a shame that Sunshine’s filmmakers have been forced to fight their corner and in the process unearth a series of explanations that undermine the film that they have made. When a film is faced with the question of cinema vs. science, it is quite obvious that some decisions have to be made to purposefully contradict scientific fact in order to be in keeping with audience expectations and, more importantly, create a sense of excitement. Sunshine could have quite easily been a science lesson, but cinema is only an educational tool when it wishes to be. A didactic approach to telling this story would have ultimately made it void of emotion, passion and excitement. Sunshine’s real strength is it’s manipulation of the cinematic medium itself. Due to the film’s highly stylised aestheticism and artistic vision, a viewing is more an experience in which the visual qualities of the film by far outweigh the scientific element. For this reason alone the line of argument that I have focused upon is almost irrelevant as what Sunshine strives for more than any other thing is a form of visual expression.

It is with regret that I have ignored the aesthetics of this film, which really deserves two reviews; one to argue for the film’s artistic integrity in terms of narrative as I have attempted to do, and another to pay tribute to Danny Boyle’s virtuoso directing, which results in a film so aesthetically outstanding that it makes a serious case for being the 2001: A Space Odyssey of the 21st century. Narratively, Sunshine skilfully manipulates the generic conventions of the science fiction film whilst incorporating an existentialism that clearly owes a debt to Kubrick’s masterpiece. Elements of psychology and religion further enhance the experience, creating an extraordinarily well rounded film in a genre that has in the past offered limited scope.

Sunshine should not be judged on the reviews that it has been given, in which scientific inaccuracy has been given precedent over cinematic vision. Boyle has crafted a remarkable film, one which takes it’s viewers on a journey and shows them places that they have not previously seen; a rare thing indeed. His vision, demonstrated here, far outshines the arguments that have been made to counter my opinion of this great cinematic achievement.

Watch a trailer for the film here.

‘Le temps détruit tout’: Irréversible

There are a few facts about Irréversible that serve to make it intriguing to those who have not seen it. According to Newsweek, it was the most walked out of film of 2002. In fact, the blurb on the back of the French DVD proudly states that of the 2400 people who saw the film premiere at Cannes where it was nominated for the Palme D’Or, 200 walked out. You may know that the film is, as the title suggests, presented in reverse chronological order and perhaps this knowledge spurs you on to learn some basic plot details. It is at this point that you either embrace your intrigue or decide that this film is not for you.

Regardless of the highly divisive subject matter, Irréversible is without doubt as intriguing as it first seems and only gets more so with every subsequent viewing. Despite its extraordinarily simplistic narrative, the film provides so many talking points that a simple synopsis does it no justice whatsoever. What the film succeeds in doing above all else is taking a simple story and telling it in a way which makes it infinitely more intense, interesting and captivating.

Despite its simplicity, a summary of the film’s plot is a tricky thing to recount. Its success lies not in what happens between the beginning (which is the end) and the end (which is the beginning), but in how it is that we experience what happens. To explain the events of the film in chronological order would be to go against the dynamic of the film itself – whereas some may dismiss the film’s reversal of time as a gimmick, it is this narrative device that not only makes the unremarkable remarkable but also defines the film as a whole, and with real purpose. Time itself is an extremely prominent tool in the presentation of the film’s story; its mission statement is declared both at the beginning (which is the end!) and the end (which is the beginning!) The first words we hear spoken and the last words that we read are “Le temps détruit tout,” meaning “time destroys everything”; in Irréversible, this statement is unquestionably true and backed up with enormous conviction.

Nevertheless, some disclosure is necessary. What I will give you is just enough to allow your understanding of my discussion. Irréversible is a revenge film. Marcus (Vincent Cassel) seeks revenge for the rape and brutal beating (which is most likely fatal, although this isn’t made explicit) of his beautiful girlfriend, Alex (played by Monica Belucci, Cassel’s wife). His powerful urge for revenge, which he considers a human right, leads him and his friend to a gay S&M club called ‘Rectum’ where he has been informed that the culprit resides and this is around about where the film begins. If you consider that all revenge films have very similar dramatic arcs, that is to say that they are strongly grounded in cause and effect structures (the reason for revenge followed by the act of revenge itself), the impact of Irreversible should already be very clear. Rather than cause and effect, the film presents effect followed by cause. This is the essence of the film’s genius and I imagine that countless filmmakers are kicking themselves for not thinking of it first.

The implications of the reverse order storytelling technique are far reaching. As viewers we must process the information that we are receiving in a very different way to how conventional narrative would have us. Rather than the redundant process of observing what happens onscreen, as in life, we are forced to think about what we are seeing and piece it together with information that is withheld from us. We are also denied the enjoyment of anticipating what is to come, but despite this we still anticipate – perhaps even more so – because throughout the film we learn that each consecutive scene reveals more about its predecessor. It is a didactic process, but one so unfamiliar that the result can often lead to temporary confusion and disorientation. The film is constructed in such a way to make us question what we would usually take for granted in such a film. We are forced to think about what motivates the characters into performing the actions to which we bear witness.

Irréversible is responsible for the two most agonising scenes that I have ever witnessed. In the history of cinema there has perhaps never been such a realistic and upsetting depiction of extreme violence; the content of this film is at times so severe that the failsafe of subjectivity is circumvented. One of these scenes involves a man’s head being bludgeoned with the butt of a fire extinguisher and I assure you that my words do its visceral and unforgiving depiction no justice. Despite the fact that no enjoyment whatsoever could be derived from such a scene, I cannot help but marvel at its construction. The actual image itself is but one element of the scene’s sickening influence, the context and the sound design both play a major part in inducing a sense of real dread. We are led by a continuous shot deep into the cavernous basement of ‘Rectum’ where the lighting is sparse and the seediness of the events that take place are spared no detail. A low frequency sound (approximately 28Hz) which is almost inaudible to the human ear and is known to cause nausea is used, conveying a sense of dread. The construction of the scene is immensely affecting; it places the viewer in an extremely uncomfortable position and preys upon their vulnerability by unleashing an act of appalling violence upon them.

Irréversible’s other notorious scene, an act of sexual violence is perpetrated in a merciless 9 minute static camera shot. The film’s writer / director, Gaspar Noé, reportedly decided to eradicate camera movement during this scene in order to avoid eroticising the attack. Whilst this approach clearly avoids such a criticism being levelled at the filmmaker, the scene is only harder to watch as a result. The illusion of voyeurism is one of cinema’s most affecting tools and I frequently found myself drawn to look away from the screen so as to gain a moment’s respite. Even so I could find none; the power of Noé’s imagery is so strong that it stays with the viewer long after it has vanished. Stylistically this scene is different to every other in the film as it is the only one to omit camera movement. It could therefore be argued that by ‘standing out’ the scene draws attention to itself and therefore diminishes the morality of the events that happen within it. Ultimately I think that Noé made an astute choice; it is impossible to feel anything but empathy for Alex.

The film is constructed of 13 continuous shots, each lasting anywhere between 10 and 20 minutes. These shots only have the appearance of being unbroken; they were in fact pieced together from multiple shots using invisible editing and other post-production techniques. The reason for this becomes clear when watching the film; the cinematography is possibly unrivalled in both its execution and relevance to the film’s narrative. At the beginning of the film the camera swirls and spirals uncontrollably, offering only a partial glimpse of the events unfolding before it. It is an awfully disorienting effect and one that takes time to get used to, but this is exactly what Noé wants. He wants us to be uncomfortable, on edge, because this is what the story demands of us. It is both a fascinating and exhausting technique and one that is intrinsically tied to the film’s statement. The same is true of the development in Benoit Debie’s cinematography, which, as the film progresses, settles into a more conventional handheld style. The film’s artistic statement, ‘time destroys everything’ is not only echoed through the narrative (which begins with extreme violence and ends in a state of calm) but also through its aesthetics. The spiralling camerawork at the opening of the film mirrors this deterioration, eventually paralleling the state of calm that is reached through the depiction of events that happened before the chain of vengeance was set in motion. If the film were to be viewed in chronological order, the shift in camerawork from being calm to overly hectic would accurately exemplify the shift in the narrative from a point of equilibrium to a crushing ending.

The true genius, which is not a word that I use lightly, of Noé’s narrative inversion is not felt until the very end of the film. Knowing that he has placed the viewer in a position whereby the present informs the past, he delivers one last crushing blow that serves to somehow make everything that has gone before, as horrific as it was, even worse. This is the film’s most effective moment; it forces upon the audience the realisation that the revenge gained in the opening moments is perhaps not even a fitting punishment. With Irréversible, Gaspar Noé succeeded in bringing the very worst out of me by making me question my own principles. For a moment, I entirely advocated the actions of Albert Dupontel at the beginning of the film – Noé made it possible for me to justify them to myself. It is only when the viewer is at this point that the true power of Irréversible is made clear.

Irréversible is a cinematic experience like no other. Although films like Memento have touched upon the narrative device of reversing time, none have really succeeded in tying to it a purpose in the same way achieved by Noé. This film is impossibly involving on a moralistic level as well as a purely aesthetic one. Films that make people think in new and different ways are few and far between, perhaps for a good reason. When such an example of the power of the cinematic medium surfaces it is almost an obligation of cineastes everywhere to pay attention. Irréversible displays, above all else, the possibility of a visionary rethinking the boundaries of cinema; a rare thing indeed.

As a filmmaker, Noé has written, directed and shot one of the most captivating films in history. I fear that he, nor anyone else, will be able to top it.

Watch a trailer for the film here.

The Wrestler

Mickey Rourke plays Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, a former all-American wrestling icon. With his 80’s heyday far behind him, Randy continues to wrestle, swapping the bright lights of Madison Square Garden for the gym halls and civic centres of New Jersey. Not quite down and out, but certainly down, Randy struggles to get by even when combining his cut of the gate at his weekend wrestling shows and the salary from his part time job in a local grocery store. His spare time sees him frequent a local strip club, Cheeks, where he enjoys the company of stripper Cassidy (played by Marisa Tomei) with whom he hopes for more than a stripper / customer relationship. Ill health convinces Randy to try and reconcile with his estranged daughter Stephanie (played with conviction by Evan Rachel Wood) and eventually sees him give up the sport. Will a new life away from wrestling see Randy forge the relationships that he longs for or will the lure of the ring prove too strong?

Darren Aronofsky’s progression as a director has been a logical one. His first feature, Pi, made on a shoestring budget of $68,000, grabbed the attention of the indie scene, winning him the director’s prize at the 1998 Sundance film festival. Commercially too the film was a huge success taking upwards of 3,200,000 dollars domestically and 4,600,000 dollars worldwide at the box office. The film is in fact ranked 20th in the list of the most profitable movies (based on return in investment) of all time. His sophmore effort, Requiem for a Dream, produced on an estimated budget of $4,500,000 is now recognised as a cult classic; one of those films that if you’re serious about american independent cinema, you have to see. Accompanied by an Oscar nomination for Ellen Burstyn, the film announced Aronofsky to the mainstream audience as a true talent. His next outing, The Fountain, was to be his first ‘mainstream’ film, despite essentially being an art film with the star pull of Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. Having endured a tumultuous production period which saw him lose both of his high profile actors, Aronofsky eventually saw the release of his film in 2006 with Hugh Jackman and his partner Rachel Wiesz in the leading roles. The film bombed commercially, failing to recoup it’s budget of $35,000,000 during it’s theatrical run. Critically the film proved to be extraordinarily divisive; some hailing it as a masterpiece, others far from moved by it’s percieved pretentions.

Despite The Fountain’s failings, a clear progression exists in Aronofsky’s work nonetheless. From so-called ‘guerilla filmmaking’ on the most modest of budgets to major studio funding, Aronofsky has delivered extremely personal films, always finding an audience. Critically too, from Sundance to the Oscars, the still young director has made his mark for better or for worse. No one will be more aware of this progression than Aronofsky himself, who, despite having the drive and ability to churn out more that 3 films in his 11 years as a professional filmmaker, has always been sure to choose his projects carefully and involve himself in all aspects of production from scripting through to direction and beyond. Speculation about the director’s future in the industry was rife when reports of The Fountain’s troubled production began to circulate; is Darren Aronofsky mainstream material? was the question on everyone’s lips. 2009 sees Aronofsky’s resoundingly confident answer to this question in the shape of his fourth, and quite possibly best, feature film The Wrestler.

As different as Aronofsky’s first 3 features are from each other, The Wrestler is a breed apart from the director’s previous work. After the myriad complexity of The Fountain, even the most versed of cineastes would have had a hard time predicting Aronofsky’s next step; onwards and upwards as the director’s modus operandi seems to be. How does it get ‘bigger’ than an existential love story told through the technique of mirroring 3 separate storylines, each 500 years apart? Indeed, a prominent feature of Pi, Requiem and The Fountain was the director’s interest in combining multiple strands of narrative so as to tell more than one story at the same time. The Wrestler sees Aronofsky moving away from this trend alltogether, instead adopting a reductive approach to narrative that starkly isolates the film from it’s predecessors. The film is about one man, and perhaps a man who is incapable of leading the kind of life that would see him inspire three separate storylines. Some might argue that he isn’t even worthy of one and there is certainly nothing at all spectacular about Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson. Knowing this better than anyone, Aronofsky crafts a visual style that perfectly emulates the character.

It is fair to say that we essentially follow Randy around for the duration of the film, both figuratively and literally. Our introduction to him is understated; a long handheld tracking shot as he leaves a gym hall after a wrestling match. It is perhaps 5 minutes before his face is fully revealed and in this time we see him signing autographs for loyal fans and returning to his trailer park home to find himself locked out. He sleeps in his van and in this moment his face is revealed, stricken with the pain of nostalgia as he stares at old newspaper clippings of his heyday as a professional wrestler. Aronofsky is clever to resist burdening his protagonist with any unecessary extravagance, the kind that may have resulted from opening his film with a wrestling match itself. Instead we get a collage of colourful media, the same kind that Randy collects and pins to the wall of his van. The juxtaposition between our introduction to The Wrestler and our introduction to the man himself is stark and it needs to be to establish the film’s key theme; the dichotomy between life inside and outside the ring for Randy.

It is this dichotomy that fuels the film and results in both the internal conflict for Randy and the external conflict between him, his love interest Cassidy and his estranged daughter Stephanie. With great affection for the entertainment form, Aronofsky presents the wrestling world, even in it’s delapidated form as depicted here, as a context rich in camerardarie and mutual respect. It is easy to see, nostalgia aside, why Randy is keen to recognise wrestling as his true calling and the ring as his true home. When he wrestles he is a somebody, if only to the 100 strong crowd and those who wrestle with him. Backstage scenes, including one that cuts between the action in the ring 15 minutes prior and the subsequent medical attention that Randy recieves (perhaps the film’s only really moment of directorial flare), are handled with genuine intent to show the entertainment form in its true nature. Jeers of ‘fake!’ should rightly be dispelled after just one viewing and whilst the film will hardly convert it’s viewers to professional wrestling fans, it does serve to craft an emotional and at times visceral tale out of a subject that many, or most, would think incapable of doing so.

The film sees Aronofsky not only adopting a new visual style, but also tackling what can be considered ‘action’ scenes for the first time in the shape of the wrestling matches themselves. Directing for the first time without cinematographer Matthew Libatique (who, having lensed last year’s Iron Man seems to have moved on to bigger and better things), Aronofsky puts Maryse Alberti through his paces in a number of up-close-and-personal match scenes that borrow from Scorsese’s now lauded ‘inside the ring’ shooting style. Like in Raging Bull, the result is an intimacy that places the viewer in the thick of the action. The Wrestler uses professional wrestling much in the same way that Raging Bull uses boxing; as a context rather than a subject. Both are films about individuals that happen to wrestle or box, and whereas Randy is defined first and foremost by his time in the ring, he still very much exists out of it. Nevertheless, without any ring-set scenes the film would fall flat – it is necessary for us to see Randy doing what he loves for us to understand him and if we fail to understand him he becomes nothing more than a ridiculous spandex clad wrestler to us.

Although the tone of The Wrestler is undoubtedly sombre, there exists in the film some moments of humour that serve to momentarily alleviate the gloom. Given the sincerity of the script these moments are priceless in their inclusion; none fall flat. A scene in which Randy attempts to coax a few extra hours out of his boss at the local grocery store in which he works sees him walk in on the short, balding man watching porn in his office. The resulting awkwardness is hilarious, as is the man’s retort to Randy’s availability to work at the weekend; “Isn’t that when you sit on other guy’s faces?’ Of course, these moments are fleeting, with Randy’s fumbling attempts to restore some harmony to his private life taking prominance. These attempts introduce to the audience Marisa Tomei as stripper Cassidy and Evan Rachel Wood as Randy’s daughter Stephanie, neither of whom wish to have the kind of relationship with him that he would ultimately like. While he gets much further with the gorgeous but, shall we say experienced, Cassidy than most other washed-up professional wrestlers would, it is the breakdown in his relationship with his daughter that proves to be the film’s most crushing blow. This subplot is genuinely affecting without ever toppling into sensationalism due to it’s bittersweet indictment of Randy’s character. Rourke offers such a powerfully honest portrait of Randy that we learn to love and sympathise with him, but even so we cannot ignore his flaws. We know that Randy cannot be a father to Stephanie, but it is testament to the film’s rock solid script and Rourke’s performance that many will shed a tear when he ultimately fails.

Ultimately the most pleasing aspect of The Wrestler is its art house influence, which allows Aronofsky to explore the many curiosities of Americana without forcing him into an overtly Hollywood style of filmmaking. Examples of this art cinema influence can be found throughout the film; from the documentary realism that results from the handheld camerawork to the film’s climax which forgoes the resolution of the standard Hollywood product. Aronofsky has stated that even before the script for the film was written he knew exactly how it would end and that getting to that point was the real challenge. The film displays an emotional resolution if nothing more – Randy ends up where he wants to be – but very little is resolved in the traditional narrative sense. Some will be put off, especially those who, weathered by years of watching nothing but Hollywood blockbusters, demand that every strand of plot is tied up in nothing but iron clad closure. But the final shot, striking as it is, tells us everything we need to know about Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson – it is nothing but definitive and it has the potential to stick in the mind long after the film has finished, as does Bruce Springsteen’s heart-warming exit music, the lyrics of which echo the film’s themes flawlessly.

There is precious little wrong with The Wrestler. It is a film so simple in its construction and so forthright in its message that very little criticism can successfully be levelled against it. Aronofsky’s direction is more assured and less flashy than ever before despite the undoubted quality of his earlier work and in Rourke the still young director finds an actor who does for his film what no other actor could. An Oscar nomination for Rourke really is par for the course; a win would be nothing but deserved. The Wrestler is a great American film, one that will in time be cited as a classic and one that will stay in the memory of its viewers for longer than most others.


Watch a trailer for the film here.

Mulholland Drive, Part 1: The Cinema of Abstractions

"The neat thing about film is that it can tell a little bit of a certain side of that thing that words couldn’t tell. But it won’t tell the whole story, because there are so many clues and feelings in the world that it makes a mystery and a mystery means there’s a puzzle to be solved. Once you start thinking like that you’re hooked on finding a meaning, and there are so many avenues in life where we’re given little indications that the mystery can be solved. We get little proofs - not the big proof – but little proofs that keep us going.”

– David Lynch

Taken from the reissued edition of Chris Rodley’s Lynch on Lynch, which was in 2005 expanded to include a chapter on the director’s then latest film, the above words are typically Lynchian in that they say so much whilst saying so little. Rodley’s book, despite Lynch’s well documented assertion that his films should do the talking, is far from the ‘book of riddles’ that it could have turned out to be. Despite clearly shying away from the more probing questions about his work (Rodley briefly recalls a telephone conversation with Lynch in which the director jokes about having had to check into a rape-crisis centre after their last interview session), Lynch’s answers are often insightful, always interesting and surprisingly candid. However, it is the subject of his 2001 film Mulholland Drive that he is most protective of; if it hasn’t been made clear already, Lynch unreservedly refuses to discuss any ‘meaning’ or ‘reason’ pertaining to his most enigmatic film.

Lynch seems to understand and embrace the subjective nature of the cinematic medium more than any other director working in or around Hollywood today. His films seek to foreground the power of the moving image and elevate it above and beyond conventional narrative patterns rather than present a harmonious package of narrative, theme and visual style as the mainstream Hollywood cinema demands. The critical response to Lynch’s specific style of filmmaking has typically made discussions of ‘dream logic’ its focus; the idea that any perceived reality in a David Lynch film may not be a reality at all. This theory, although itself being far from reductive, is predominantly grounded in the analysis of narrative form in Lynch’s films and often leads to the task of attempting to work out how his films make ‘sense’ by piecing together their fractioned narratives. This process, given precedent as it is over other possible avenues of criticism, frequently stifles the exploration of other areas of the directors work, of which there are many.

Another concerning aspect of the ‘dream logic’ theory is the connotation that there is a logic to be found irrespective of whether it makes sense. This is particularly pertinent when considering Mulholland Drive, with which the theory is often strongly linked. Mulholland Drive, despite its frequent reference to dreaming (the ‘Winkies’ sequence and the Cowboy’s ultimate line, “Hey pretty girl, time to wake up” amongst numerous other examples) is perhaps Lynch’s least logical film, if such a generalisation can be made. Whilst the term ‘dream logic’ is often intended to imply an absence of reason rather than an explanatory process through which cohesion can be gained, it is still primarily concerned with the notion of logic itself. Rather than the process of exploring how the seemingly arbitrary events might fit together, the focus shifts to an exploration of why they do not. Put simply, with the introduction of ‘dream logic’, everything can be explained away. My overriding concern is that ‘dream logic’ seems to act as more of an excuse than a theory. For those who watch films and demand a high level of cohesion, ‘dream logic’ is the perfect tool; it allows them the satisfaction of being able to say ‘it’s okay that this doesn’t make sense to me, because it’s all a dream and dreams don’t make sense either’.

It is testament to Lynch’s subjective cinema that an article of Mulholland Drive is rarely without the inclusion of the writer’s own interpretation of the events that take place in the film. My experience of reading these interpretations has resulted in what I believe to be the dominant reading of the film; that the final act is a reality in which the preceding events are dreamt up by the character of Diane Selwyn. That there is a dominant reading of this film alone is a fact that I choose to view with scepticism, such a thing renders much of the film’s subjectivity obsolete. Some interpretations convey a level of confidence in their own accuracy that I find implausible. These interpretations often only deal with the film’s primary narrative strand; the dynamic between Betty / Diane and Rita / Camilla, ignoring the labyrinthine sub-plots that accompany it. Other interpretations are exhaustive in their submission of theories and ideas, attempting to leave no stone unturned in a bid to elucidate the hidden meaning of the film; a meaning which I simply do not believe to be there.

The subjective nature of the film aside, Mulholland Drive is labyrinthine in its construction of sub-plots and what can best be described as ‘pockets’ of narrative. It is clear that the film doesn’t subscribe to the rigid, purposeful structuring of Hollywood mainstream narrative and due to this it is impossible for the film to be truly understood by the same rules. The film is comprised of seemingly arbitrary events that are linked through the films final third which is itself as detached from the first two acts as these events are from each other. Because Mulholland Drive is not a mainstream film that utilises mainstream narrative techniques and conventions it is pointless to attempt to contrive meanings that satisfy mainstream ideals. The film must be approached without the burden of reason in order to be truly appreciated.

Mulholland Drive is, in some respects, a cinematic dichotomy. Perhaps the overriding theme of the film is concerned with Hollywood itself; Betty travels to Hollywood from Canada in order to pursue her dream of being an actress, numerous scenes deal with studio politics and film production, especially the process of casting and the influence of Hollywood can be felt throughout the film. A number of scenes pay what could even be considered homage to the tradition of Hollywood cinema; Joe Messing’s hit man scene draws on the gangster and thriller genres, as does the opening limousine scene. Adam Kesher’s ‘pool guy’ scene evokes the family drama with comedic overtones whilst the casting call scene for The Sylvia North Story and the ‘club silencio’ scene share obvious comparisons with the musical. Most noticeably, Diane and Rita’s amnesia inspired attempt to find Rita’s true identity is the kind of narrative that could have been lifted straight from a golden age film noir. Even the mysterious ‘Cowboy’ can be seen as a nod to the Western, albeit at a push. These scenes do have self contained narratives that if viewed in isolation would appear to be lifted from a mainstream Hollywood film. However, it is their relationship to each other and some of the more obscure elements of the film that render Mulholland Drive so stark in comparison with the Hollywood tradition that the film takes as it’s theme. It could be argued that Lynch is making a statement about Hollywood itself by polarising his film with mainstream conventions whilst taking the context of these very conventions as his theme. This argument is strengthened by Lynch’s follow-up film Inland Empire, which too deals with the Hollywood film industry in typical evasive fashion.

It is possible then to establish meaning in Mulholland Drive without reason. Narrative and theme go hand in hand in the context of mainstream cinema, but with Lynch theme is foregrounded whilst narrative is undoubtedly less important. The theme of Hollywood gives the film a context, a tone and a style which is nothing if not consistent throughout the entirety of the film from the blurry-lensed 50’s jitterbug contest opening to the enigmatic and haunting finale. The lack of narrative cohesion allows Lynch to explore his theme in freeform rather than being bound by convention. Essentially, Mulholland Drive is constructed from a collection of abstractions that are brought together as a whole by a theme and cemented by Peter Deming’s floating cinematography and Angelo Badalamenti’s lush combination of synth and strings; despite its face-value impenetrability, the film is remarkably well rounded.

Films as emotionally overwhelming as Mulholland Drive often seem shallower with further acquaintance.

– Kim Newman (from Sight & Sound)

An interesting if slightly self-assured article about about Mulholland Drive entitled Babes in Babylon, written by Graham Fuller was published in Sight & Sound in December 2001 and can be found here.