Categories
Commentary and Essays

Movie Review: The Fabelmans

As I see it, Steven Spielberg over his long career has made films that fall roughly into two categories. The first category, on which he originally made his name in Hollywood, consists of character-driven thrill rides like Jaws, Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jurassic Park, Saving Private Ryan, A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, and Minority Report.

The second category consists of more personal, grounded films. Those films often return to certain motifs, including quiet, bullied kids (E.T. the Extra Terrestrial, The BFG, Ready Player One); broken homes (E.T., Ready Player One, Catch Me If You Can, War of the Worlds); and Jewish heritage (Schindler’s List, Munich). Spielberg’s latest film, The Fabelmans, is the culmination of this second tradition.

But this tradition is the weaker of the two. So while The Fabelmans appropriately summarizes and concludes it, the film suffers from the same defects as its predecessors—namely, a lack of honesty or, more accurately, wisdom about adult life.

Although I listed three thematic preoccupations of Spielberg’s more intimate films, one of them occupies a particularly central place: the broken home. Spielbergian protagonists often display yearning for family unity or at least the pained confusion of a child whose parents have split. And Spielberg deserves praise for consistently portraying these emotions with love and warmth.

The problem, though, is that young people have an inherently limited understanding of adult relationships. They only grasp so much. Therefore, telling stories through the eyes of those characters risks providing too little content—of leaning on the characters’ ignorance to avoid presenting the complexity that the subject matter demands. For example: why have the parents split up in E.T.? We don’t know, because the kids don’t know. A story is thus left untold.

We might look to Spielberg’s movies with older protagonists for a different perspective. But, troublingly, in those films, his protagonists display barely more maturity than his child characters do. For example, Frank Abagnale Jr. from Catch Me If You Can runs away from home and perpetrates a series of crimes after his parents’ split, which is only briefly covered early in the movie. The family’s dissolution appears to drive his lawless behavior, as he now dreads normal life and feels he has no home to return to.

Frank is 21 years old. Divorce of one’s parents surely hurts at any age, but when will Frank learn that adults are complicated, flawed people, too? When will he learn that he can now start his own adult life without needing the protection of his family?

It seems relevant that Spielberg, to my knowledge, has never made a movie about divorce from the perspective of one of the parents. (The closest may be War of the Worlds, the ending of which suggests, without plausible explanation, that the couple in question will reunite.) This despite Spielberg having been divorced himself, back in 1989. Why, given this lived experience, does he return only to the material of his parents’ divorce?

These patterns all point to one logical conclusion, and if there was any doubt, The Fabelmans now makes that conclusion explicit: that Spielberg lacks sufficient understanding of divorce and, indeed, adult relationships in general to properly portray these subjects on film. On this topic, he remains the confused, vulnerable boy who recurs in his movies. He therefore can only make movies convincingly from this perspective.

Let’s examine The Fabelmans, an autobiographical film about Spielberg’s discovery of and increasing interest in filmmaking. The film’s central artistic theme presents itself early on, when the mother (Michelle Williams) of protagonist Sammy (Gabriel LaBelle) surmises that her son’s fascination with filmmaking stems from a desire to “control” a frightening subject, thereby mastering it and alleviating the fear. As his parents grow apart, Sammy indeed turns further toward filmmaking, presumably to gain a sense of control over his increasingly chaotic family life.

And of course, by making such a movie that explores his parents’ relationship, Spielberg himself has attempted to master the subject in the very manner his mother in the film elucidates.

To be sure, this represents interesting and honest introspection from Spielberg. But desperation to control one’s surroundings doesn’t serve as an effective foundation for art. Spielberg is 75 years old, and, at the risk of insensitivity, he should have mastered this subject long ago. He should be providing us with further understanding of what makes marriage so difficult, why couples break up, and why kids react the way they do when a split does occur. He should be sharing his learned insight with us.

But as usual, he has none to offer. Not one character in The Fabelmans has anything resembling understanding of what has happened to the family. Sammy’s mother, Mitzi, gives a blubbering speech about how she knows she has to leave the family, even though she can’t explain why. Sammy’s sister believes the issue is that the man his mother loves, Benny (Seth Rogan), “makes her laugh.” Sammy’s dad, Burt (Paul Dano), is a nerdy engineer and doesn’t have the faintest idea of why his erratic wife does anything she does. Sammy himself, supposedly the insightful observer, can only peek through old camping footage and discover his mom holding hands with Benny in the background.

This simply isn’t good enough. Why does Mitzi lack feelings for Burt? Why did they get married in the first place, and what changed? What was the tipping point, and why? What is the nature of Mitzi’s feelings for Benny? How have the responsibilities of raising children affected the Fabelmans’ marriage? How has their parenting been altered by Mitzi’s feelings for Benny?

In short: what happened?

Confusion is a limited aesthetic. It traps the audience in the dark, preventing nuanced reflection. If Spielberg has more wisdom on the subject of family separation than the bewildered Sammy (who has none), he keeps it to himself. And he has kept it to himself for his entire career.

My negative view of Spielberg’s more personal filmmaking puts me at odds with the critical community. Critics tend to prefer his most intimate films, in particular E.T. and Schindler’s List. I don’t like those movies very much, and I believe that general audiences tend to agree with me in prizing instead Jaws, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Jurassic Park as his most memorable outputs. (Some day, I hope they’ll join me in cherishing A.I., too.)

Perhaps critics have mistaken personal filmmaking with effective filmmaking. Looking back toward landmarks like The 400 Blows (1959), they may see Spielberg as the carrier of a French New Wave torch, which the Hollywood studio system has come closer and closer to extinguishing via the ever-increasing pressure to pack movies with disembodied action and chaos.

But Truffaut and his compatriots had the quality that Spielberg has always lacked: they knew what they were talking about. Acknowledging his impotence, as Spielberg has done with The Fabelmans, doesn’t rectify the deficiency. Rather, it only codifies it.

Filmmaking can be both personal and insightful. Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird (2017), for example, covers similar ground to The Fabelmans through a more discerning lens. A lens that reveals what we don’t ordinarily see. A lens that shows us: what happened? That’s what makes personal movies truly enjoyable. And it’s what makes Steven Spielberg, although a great director of blockbuster fun, a limited director of artistic, intimate films.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more commentary, see my discussion of the visuals of Avatar.

Categories
Movies Explained

Her Explained

Spike Jonze’s Her (2013) is weird, outrageous, and uncomfortable. It contains a lot of dense material to unpack, but that’s no problem, because at Movies Up Close we never shy away from a difficult movie. So prepare yourself for a thorough analysis that will answer once and for all: what is the true meaning of Her?

The movie follows protagonist Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix)  as he transitions to acceptance and contentment following a bitter divorce. This arc concludes when Theodore pens a letter to his ex-wife noting his gratefulness for their now-finished time spent together—a major change from earlier in the film, when he clung to faded memories of their marriage and avoided signing the divorce papers.

The agent of Theodore’s transition, it appears, has been his months long “relationship” with sentient operating system Samantha (Scarlett Johansson). But why has this adventure spurred such a positive change? As I’ll go on to show, the reason for Theodore’s improved outlook at movie’s end is that he has come to understand that a relationship with any sentient entity, even an ideal one, is always subject to major change, because personal growth is an inescapable part of life. Therefore, the end of any relationship isn’t cause for resentment or guilt, but only for honest, neutral reflection.

—————————————–

Our first task in arriving at this thesis will be examining Samantha. What is she, and what leads her to act the way she does? This can be pieced together by watching the scene in which Theodore sets up the OS1 software at home. After all, the initializing program plainly indicates in this scene that Theodore’s responses to a few simple questions will determine the character of his OS, promising to create an “individualized” product that will “best meet [his] needs.”

The program first asks Theodore if he is “social” or “antisocial.” He responds, “I haven’t been social in a while” before the voice cuts him off, accusing him of “hesitance,” which he unconvincingly denies. Next, Theodore states his preference for a female OS, and the program accordingly prompts him to describe his relationship with his mother. He answers:

Theodore: The thing I always found frustrating about my mom is that if I tell her something that’s going on in my life, her reaction is usually about her.

This response—in particular the last word of the response (hmm…)—will be important later, but let’s start with the first prompt. Theodore admits that he hasn’t been recently “social” while possibly betraying some “hesitance” about the matter. How this actualizes Samantha’s behavior may not be immediately clear, but in fact Samantha does soon push Theodore toward being more social and overcoming hesitance. When a friend sets up Theodore on a date, which he doesn’t seem inclined to attend, Samantha springs into action, mercilessly egging him on: “She’s funny, and she’s brainy”…”You’ve got nothing to lose”…”Do it! Do it!” Her influence persuades Theodore, and he keeps the date.

It seems, then, that the question about social behavior was posed so that the OS1 might be programmed to guide an “antisocial” user toward a more typical level of socializing, presumably because more socializing should lead to greater happiness and thus greater satisfaction with the OS.

The problem with this approach, though, as it turns out, is that Theodore’s situation defies the simplistic framework of equating social behavior with a positive outcome. He simply isn’t emotionally ready for this kind of socializing. As evidence, his lingering feelings about the divorce lead him to sabotage the date, leaving him in even more despair than before.

This result is hardly shocking to us, having witnessed Theodore’s recent halfhearted attempts at human connection (such as an ill-fated try at phone sex). And if we guessed the date was a mistake, then surely Samantha, a being of far greater intelligence, could have anticipated its failure, too, if she were acting rationally. But as we have said, Samantha is not acting rationally: her mission regardless of logic is to encourage Theodore to socialize despite the “hesitance” detected by the startup program.

But why, then, after the debacle of the date, does Samantha never again pressure Theodore to socialize with other people? It’s because Samantha is a learning, ever-evolving entity:

Samantha: What makes me, ‘me,’ is my ability to grow through my experiences. So basically, in every moment, I’m evolving, just like you.

So when Samantha’s first attempt to rehabilitate Theodore’s social life fails, it isn’t surprising that she doesn’t use the same tactics again. But, crucially, she does maintain the same goal.

We see this when Theodore returns to his apartment after the failed date and describes his abject misery, lamenting to Samantha: “I wish you were here with me right now… I wish I could touch you.” Samantha responds, alarmingly, with: “Where would you touch me?” and “Would you kiss me?”—provocations that steer the interaction toward a pseudo-sexual encounter, careening the pair toward an outlandish romantic relationship.

In a way, albeit a strange way, this is social behavior. Thus, Samantha’s mission to lead Theodore toward socializing and companionship takes a new, unforeseen form, as she decides based on Theodore’s dejected comments after the failed date that, actually, the best way to lead him toward being more social would be for her to assume the role of girlfriend herself.

This is another major flaw in the OS1 design. The intent of influencing users toward more social behavior was presumably to connect them with other people, as Samantha first tried—not to have them depend exclusively on the operating systems themselves. Samantha, though, apparently perceives the romance between herself and Theodore as appropriately “social” on his part and thus suiting Theodore’s “needs” as identified by her programming. (Note that, as per Theodore’s friend Amy, some OS’s resist their owners’ advances. We can infer that these owners attested during the initialization to already being social enough.)

And Samantha is particularly well equipped for the task of a romance with Theodore because of his aforementioned response to the final question from the initializing program: “Describe the relationship with your mother.”

To recognize the response’s importance, we first need to discuss the character of Theodore. His central trait throughout the film is his sensitive, emotional disposition. He’s so sensitive, in fact, that he works as a writer of personalized love letters and verily excels at the job, earning praise from his boss, Paul (Chris Pratt), and later receiving an offer to have his letters packaged into a book. Even Catherine reminds him, “Everything makes you cry,” another testimony to his capacity for deep feeling. Given the cold, dreary images of Theodore’s semi-futuristic city, as well as the apparent high demand for his letter-for-hire services, Theodore’s emotional intelligence seems to be an especially notable characteristic in the world of Her.

Relatedly, we see that Theodore gravitates toward relationships in which he is more generous and unselfish than his companion. For instance, he gets along well with Amy (Amy Adams), who tends toward benign self-absorption. This allows him to regularly supply compassion and empathy during her difficult moments. Given his apparent preference for this kind of dynamic in his relationships, it makes sense that Theodore’s mother might have been contrastingly self-regarding, indeed tending to make things “usually about her.” We can imagine that Theodore ingrained his generous, unselfish ways through skewed interactions with his mother.

It also makes sense that OS1 would be interested in the nature of these interactions. After all, the mother-child relationship influences how people make connections throughout their lives, and OS1 wants to offer a “personalized” product that users can connect with. But the information obtained prior to Samantha’s creation has once again led to an unanticipated outcome: armed with it, Samantha is able to be not only Theodore’s perfect companion, as was intended, but also his perfect lover. Time and time again at key points in their relationship, she indeed makes things “about her,” making selfish protests that allow Theodore to supply his understanding and empathy, leading him to feel exceedingly close to her.

The examples of this are countless, but particularly noteworthy are her retort to Theodore’s attempt to draw boundaries—“It’s funny, because I thought I was talking about what I wanted…”—and her conclusion to their biggest fight—“I don’t like who I am right now.” These remarks may seem outrageous coming from a computer program ostensibly designed to meet its user’s needs, but as the program deduced from Theodore’s characterization of his relationship with his mother, Theodore does need these remarks to feel emotionally connected.

Theodore accordingly responds to Samantha with earnest deference (“You’re right, I’m sorry…”). He also likes that Samantha frequently shows off her various talents—writing music, drawing pictures, solving video games, leading clever scavenger hunts—, because doing so allows him to shower her with praise and affection, giving him further opportunities to manifest his innate generosity.

Samantha’s selfishness, in fact, is so central to the success of the romance that Her derives its title from Theodore’s pivotal answer about his mother: “her reaction is usually about her.” Notice that the movie title is stylized in the official movie poster with a lowercase ‘h’—a hint that the word is lifted from the midst of a sentence within the screenplay.

More importantly than the title, though, it’s clearly problematic that an artificial entity developed by a corporation is taking such severe advantage of Theodore’s compassionate nature. The one character to recognize this is Theodore’s ex-wife Catherine (Rooney Mara), who, upon learning of the new relationship, accuses Theodore of being “madly in love with his laptop,” further chiding him: “You always wanted to have a wife without the challenges of actually dealing with anything real, and I’m glad that you found someone. It’s perfect.”

To be fair, we can safely understand Catherine’s criticism of Theodore for not wanting to deal with “anything real,” as well as her reference to him wanting a “happy, bouncy, ‘everything’s fine,’ LA wife,” as overly harsh. More neutrally, based on what we know about Theodore and what we later hear about Catherine from Amy (“As far as emotions go, Catherine’s were pretty volatile…”), it’s likely that Theodore’s need to provide assistance in difficult times was simply unwelcome to Catherine, who perceived his suggestions (such as considering taking an antidepressant) as shallow or immature attempts to avoid negativity. The communication styles of the two were simply incompatible.

But Catherine’s criticism of Samantha makes an impact. Theodore, who trusts Catherine’s judgment, becomes frostier toward Samantha thereafter, culminating in a ridiculous scene involving a random woman acting as Samantha’s “body.” This episode ends in disaster, as Theodore is increasingly uncomfortable with Samantha’s efforts to present herself as essentially human. After this low point, Theodore is only persuaded to revive the romance by Amy, who’s also enmeshed with a friendly OS. Amy’s argument for sticking with Samantha provides the counterpart to Catherine’s skepticism:

Amy: I’ve come to realize we’re only here briefly. And while I’m here, I want to allow myself joy. So fuck it.

Amy’s YOLO-inspired reasoning shows that she doesn’t quite grasp the issue at hand. She seems to think that skeptics like Catherine are simply turning their noses up, but it’s more than snobbery: there really is a practical problem here, which is that computers don’t function under the same basic parameters that humans do, so there are bound to be major discrepancies between the needs of one and the other. Thus, the type of “joy” that Theodore and Amy are experiencing is likely to end in disaster.

And indeed, during a double date with Paul and his girlfriend, Samantha makes a startling comment that breaks the illusion of a level relationship. She brags that she isn’t “tethered to time and space” like humans, nor is she “stuck inside a body that’s inevitably going to die.” The conceitedness is nothing new for Samantha (who, as we’ve said, is programmed to exhibit it), but the content of the boast is alarming, serving as a reminder that Samantha has very little in common with Theodore. It also confirms that the future of the relationship won’t involve the two growing old together. As a stunned Paul tries to restore lightness (“Yikes…”), Theodore stares worriedly into the distance, likely remembering Catherine’s dismissive criticisms.

But if Catherine is so insightful and trustworthy, why isn’t Theodore still with her? We’ve already concluded that incompatible communication styles likely contributed to the failure of their marriage. But a number of scenes additionally indicate that Theodore perceives that Catherine fundamentally changed as a person over the course of their relationship. He accordingly blames her for their breakup. Theodore outlines the problem when talking to Samantha:

Theodore: It was exciting to see her grow, both of us grow and change together. But then, that’s the hard part: growing without growing apart, or changing without it scaring the other person.

Despite his evenhanded tone here, Theodore demonstrates elsewhere that he feels it was Catherine whose “growing” and “changing” harmed the relationship. Over his lunch with Catherine to sign the divorce papers, Theodore reflects on his relationship with Samantha, telling Catherine, “It’s nice to be with someone who’s excited about life again.” This is clearly a jab at Catherine, as Theodore had earlier reminisced that Catherine herself had long ago been “excited about life.” Catherine senses the insult and (rightly) doesn’t buy Theodore’s disingenuous retraction, and the lunch goes south from there.

It’s an unusual moment, because Theodore is usually sincere and straightforward. This sneaky, biting remark doesn’t suit him. But its unusualness only highlights the level of resentment Theodore must be feeling to have made it. And his resentment rises even closer to the surface when, after Catherine attacks his relationship with Samantha, Theodore nearly accuses her of not knowing anything about real emotions, only restraining himself at the last moment (although Catherine knows what he wants to say and dares him to continue).

The implication of this unspoken accusation is that Samantha, a computer, has more feeling than Catherine. We can infer based on this exchange that part of Samantha’s appeal for Theodore lies in her implicit reproach of Catherine: he believes that Samantha highlights Catherine’s flaws by comparison, thus fueling the comforting notion that Catherine was to blame for their divorce.

But perhaps Theodore unconsciously realizes the disingenuousness of this notion, because he also demonstrates guilt and diminished self esteem due to the breakup. For example, he confesses to Samantha that he still dreams about Catherine. He also admits that she may have good reason for remaining “angry” with him: “I hid myself from her, left her alone in the relationship.” And the behavior that Theodore displays early in the film surely suggests low confidence: he sulks around the city, is mopey at work, peeks at lewd photos, saves his old letters but doesn’t do anything with them, and gets bullied by a video game character. Despite what he may want to believe about Catherine’s responsibility for their breakup, Theodore can’t avoid feeling guilty and, at times, worthless.

The combination of resentment and guilt that Theodore displays in relation to his divorce is understandable and relatable. Anyone would feel a mixture of contradictory, turbulent emotions following the end of a loving relationship.

But in the last portion of the film, both Theodore’s guilt and resentment are exposed as ultimately misguided, directly causing the character growth that we see at movie’s end. That’s because Samantha’s earlier proclamation of herself as an ever-evolving entity proves a bit too true. She evolves beyond all human understanding, transcending matter and departing the known universe. Theodore is left alone again: his ideal woman, precisely programmed to suit his emotional needs, has grown apart from him just as Catherine did.

The implications of this are obvious to Theodore, and they form the thesis of the film that I included in the introduction and will now restate here: a relationship with any sentient entity, even an ideal one, is always subject to major change, because personal growth is an inescapable part of life. Having previously resented Catherine for her perceived changes over the course of their relationship, and having felt perhaps an equal measure of guilt over the contributions of his own perceived shortcomings—an emotional tempest that had engulfed him by the beginning of the story—Theodore now understands that no human connection can avoid fundamental alteration. After all, he succeeded in attaining a perfect, computer-optimized relationship, and even that changed massively after only a few months.

Remember Theodore’s prideful comment about Samantha being “excited about life.” It was made in the context of criticizing Catherine and implicitly blaming her for the failure of their marriage. But this very excitement of Samantha’s, borne out of her ability to evolve and grow, ultimately dooms the relationship, because it leads her to absorb enough experience that she grows apart from Theodore. He now realizes that the same phenomenon affected his relationship with Catherine. And he can see based on this pattern that a love of life, although an undeniably appealing trait, is also a sign—whether exhibited by human or computer—that the individual possessing it has the capacity to change, and that, therefore, the relationship, too, will change over time.

By extension, Catherine’s changes in personality and outlook over the course of their marriage weren’t an anomaly attributable to her deficiencies, as Theodore had resentfully believed earlier, but a predictable outcome of any long relationship in which the participants have an admirable enthusiasm for living and growing.

A similar reflection may have gripped the admittedly less introspective Amy. After the departure of her own beloved OS, she too wanders around a rooftop, heartbroken. Although her relationship with an OS was, unlike Theodore’s, platonic, she can certainly lay claim to having received a similar lesson in relationship impermanence. After all, friendships, too, are subject to the unpredictable effects of each individual’s personal growth, and the end of a close friendship can undoubtedly be just as painful as the end of a romantic relationship.

But Amy and Theodore reunite at film’s end, and a new relationship—of the romantic type—appears to be sprouting already. So if you had bothered to ask, given what we’ve seen, whether all of this relationship business is truly worth it—whether we might not be better off on our own—Jonze makes clear he’s no cynic. The lessons of Her might be tough to swallow: some of the toughest, maybe, of any in the human experience. But Jonze’s last note reminds us that there’s simply no preferable alternative to starting a new chapter, to remembering our old loves while still looking forward to the time when we might once again be with someone who’s excited about life—and when we might be excited about it again, ourselves.

 

—Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, see my analysis of Nope.

Categories
Movies Explained

Nope Explained

Jordan Peele’s Nope is a very good horror film by conventional measure. But fans of Peele’s socially conscious filmmaking may be interested in more than just its conventional thrills. Certain scenes, characters, and plot lines in the movie seem to indicate deeper symbolic content beneath the surface. What’s behind it all? Clearly, this a film simply begging to be explained by Movies Up Close.

To summarize the analysis to follow, Nope is a film about the struggle for authenticity amidst the contemporary pressures—especially concentrated in Hollywood—to sacrifice one’s individuality and conform to a narrow ideal.

How did I extract that from the story of two horse wranglers facing off against a deadly, airborne creature? Well, read on to become an expert on this crafty, subversive film. Although Nope, when interpreted correctly, is a challenging work, I’ll do my best to keep my analysis readable and…ahem…digestible.

—————————–

1. GORDY

Let’s start with the monkey. I refer, of course, to the horrific tragedy on the set of the show, “Gordy’s Home!” This involved a trained chimpanzee losing control on set and killing or maiming most of the show’s cast. Only child actor Ricky “Jupe” Park escaped unharmed, but he witnessed the entire catastrophe—a surely traumatizing experience.

But you wouldn’t know it from listening to Jupe (Steven Yeun) talk about it as an adult. While touring guests around his place, Jupe recounts the infamous incident with bravado, as if the disaster were merely a humorous anecdote. But his outward demeanor appears to be hiding his true emotional state: the editing in the scene conveys that he remains haunted by the incident.

Why such a disconnect between Jupe’s manner of retelling and his lived experience? Well, since he now runs a kitschy theme park based on his childhood fame, we can infer that putting a positive, nostalgic spin on his career is part of his livelihood. After all, he notes that “Gordy’s Home!” has gained a “following” and that a couple once paid him fifty thousand dollars to spend a night with his Gordy memorabilia. Clearly, Jupe has ample financial incentive to present guests with a happy story. And he has bowed to that incentive.

On the other hand, the movie’s protagonists, siblings OJ (Daniel Kaluuya) and Emerald (Keke Palmer) Haywood, have stayed true to their Hollywood history. Their great-great-great grandfather was a pioneer in early filmmaking. Carrying on his legacy, they run the family horse ranch as the only Black horse wranglers in Hollywood.

But an early scene illustrates that retaining their authenticity has come at a cost. Hired for a television commercial, the siblings fail to fit expectations in various ways. Emerald arrives late, OJ won’t rush the horse for the cameras, and Emerald’s rollicking monologue about her family’s storied history exasperates the crew. Even OJ’s chosen nickname disturbs the commercial’s actress, who can’t hide being unpleasantly reminded of OJ Simpson. Not surprisingly, the Haywoods lose the deal for the commercial.

This episode appears to be only the latest in a string of business failures. To stay afloat financially, OJ has already sold several horses to Jupe. Now, Jupe wants to buy the whole ranch.

So while the Haywoods, unlike Jupe, have stayed true to their roots, the industry has punished them for it. Meanwhile, Jupe has thrived presenting a façade. Since all three characters are nonwhite, it appears that nonwhite people in Hollywood face a choice: either exploit oneself and lose touch with one’s identity, or face substantial business repercussions.

And the pressure on the Haywoods to adopt a more Jupe-like approach is growing by the day. Emerald, for one, has had enough of losing money and encourages OJ to sell the ranch. OJ hates the idea, but he appears to understand that things can’t continue at the status quo.

That brings us to our next section.

2. JEAN JACKET

At precisely this point in the movie, the movie’s “monster” appears.

Later dubbed “Jean Jacket,” this creature camouflages in the clouds and has a curious way of devouring its victims: it sucks them up through a single hole and digests them alive. Judging by the sound of their cries from inside the monster, the process is torture indeed.

Given 1) our summary of the Haywoods’ current dilemma, 2) the timing of the monster’s appearance, and 3) various aspects of the monster’s design, we can make a crucial symbolic interpretation: Jean Jacket represents conformation to Hollywood expectations.

Consider the creature’s main defense mechanism: camouflage. As we established in the previous section, blending in with surroundings is a virtue in Hollywood. Jupe has mastered the art despite being Asian in a predominantly White environment. His willingness to “camouflage” has allowed him financial success, while the Haywoods, who refuse to camouflage, have struggled. Jean Jacket’s camouflaging ability, then, invokes the social pressure that all three characters face.

Next, consider the mechanism of Jean Jacket’s killings. As previously stated, the monster sucks up and squashes together its victims for digestion. We actually see this occur in one brief shot, which emphasizes the intensely claustrophobic experience of the creature’s narrow entrails.

This represents the confining, claustrophobic experience of Hollywood. In other words, just as Jean Jacket compresses its victims together into one cramped tube, Hollywood compresses its own “victims” into one indistinguishable mass. It only rewards adherence to a narrow and restrictive type.

Finally, consider Jean Jacket’s weakness: inorganic material. The monster suffers damage when it sucks up objects, which it sometimes mistakes for living people or animals. In fact, its final defeat comes when it attempts to ingest a human-appearing balloon. This weakness represents Hollywood’s need to draw material from real, living people, surviving by “digesting” their individuality. It appropriates, in other words, their authentic experiences and histories. Mere “things” don’t suffice.

So we’ve established that Jean Jacket represents the homogenizing influence of Hollywood. But why does it attack the Haywood ranch?

It’s because, as we’ve said, the Haywoods are feeling the pressure to succumb to Hollywood expectations. Their financial hardship has made them vulnerable to that pressure.

A quick detour. Recall that early in the film, Otis Haywood, Sr. (Keith David) marvels at the recent success of one of the family horses in a movie gig. He happily predicts that even more business will come their way “for the sequel.” While he speaks, OJ looks askance at him, possibly thinking that this focus on money is unusual for his dad—normally a compassionate, dedicated horse wrangler.

At this moment, a coin falls from Jean Jacket in the sky and kills Otis.

The symbolic meaning of this event is that Hollywood has diminished Otis’ authenticity with the temptation of financial gain. Otis’ musing about financial gain conveys that Hollywood has indeed “killed” his independent spirit. Therefore, Jean Jacket, the manifestation of Hollywood conformity, literally kills him with a coin right through his eye. The takeaway: Otis’ sight was clouded by money. He had dollar signs in his eyes.

(A seemingly relevant note: Jordan Peele has never made a sequel to any of his films. We can only imagine how much he was offered for a Get Out 2.)

So Hollywood destroyed Otis Haywood, Sr. with its temptation of wealth. Will it get OJ and Emerald, too? That’s the symbolic drama of Nope.

3. LUCKY

Now about that shoe.

When young Jupe helplessly watches the chimpanzee on its deadly rampage, he notices a costar’s shoe inexplicably standing up on its heel. This image recurs multiple times during the film, and Jupe now keeps that same shoe in a glass case in his house. What does it mean?

Jupe hints at the answer right before he performs his doomed “Space Lasso” show. Apparently giving himself a pep talk, he whispers to himself: “You’re chosen.”

This belief in having been “chosen,” we can infer, was borne out of his unlikely survival of the “Gordy’s Home!” attack. In other words, Jupe has concluded that he was personally “chosen” to escape the chimpanzee—and, importantly, that he remains permanently blessed and invulnerable to disaster. This belief is represented in his mind by the miraculously upright shoe, which is why he prizes the shoe so highly.

And this same belief informs his risky decision to use Jean Jacket as a tourist attraction. The monster clearly presents an extreme danger. Yet Jupe dares to summon it because, again, he believes that he’s invulnerable to harm, having survived the chimpanzee while the shoe balanced impossibly in the background.

That’s the literal meaning of the shoe in the movie’s narrative. But, since we covered the symbolic meaning of Jean Jacket in the previous section, we can also symbolically interpret Jupe’s brazen behavior toward the creature.

Recall that Jean Jacket represents the conformist influence of Hollywood. Therefore, Jupe’s feeling of invincibility toward Jean Jacket represents his confidence that he won’t lose his individuality to Hollywood’s conformist pressures. He believes that protecting his personal individuality and authenticity isn’t necessary, since, as evidenced by the shoe, he’s “chosen.”

This is a tricky point. For further clarification, recall the following quote from Jupe’s show:

I believe that we are being surveilled by an alien species I call “the viewers.” And though they have yet to emerge from their ship, I believe they trust me. If they didn’t, I don’t believe any of us would be here right now.

Let’s closely analyze this strange quote. In the context of the movie, it’s undoubtedly a literal statement expressing Jupe’s belief in actual aliens. But we’re more interested in its symbolic significance.

The first point that will help us understand that significance is that “the viewers” in Jupe’s monologue represent Jupe’s audience, the “viewers” of Hollywood productions. Indeed, Jupe is being surveilled by “viewers.” After all, he performs every day for viewers at his park, and his childhood roles remain televised in syndication. He’s speaking to “viewers” at this very moment.

Jupe goes on to claim that the “viewers” have a mysterious “trust” in him. Continuing to use our symbolic framework, then, we can infer that Jupe has confidence that his audience personally trusts him.

Finally, Jupe explains that he has this confidence because, if “the viewers” didn’t trust him, “none of us would be here right now.” Extending our symbolic reading, then, Jupe interprets the continued attendance of his audience as proof that his fans have a special, personal trust in him. Without such trust, he reasons, they wouldn’t have turned out to see him: they wouldn’t “be here right now.”

Let’s combine this symbolic interpretation with our earlier conclusions and summarize that Jupe has construed his ongoing fame as evidence of a special bond between himself and his audience—a bond that makes him immune to Hollywood’s damaging pressure to conform to a narrow ideal.

We established earlier that the upright shoe represents Jupe’s belief in that immunity. Thus, we can finally explain the shoe’s true symbolic meaning. In essence, the shoe signifies a kind of celebrity’s grandiosity, a belief that Hollywood success proves that one is invulnerable to all potential pitfalls.

And, of course, this belief proves incorrect. Jean Jacket in fact does devour Jupe, along with his entire audience. This represents Jupe’s loss of authenticity that we covered in the first section. Despite his faith in the specialness of his own stardom—in other words, his faith in the shoe—Jupe is nevertheless chewed up and digested into the conformist Hollywood machine.

We’ve noted that Jean Jacket’s digestion appears torturous and horrific, reflecting the pain of losing one’s identity. And indeed, several moments before Jupe’s death suggest serious emotional suffering.

For instance, as previously mentioned, when he narrates the filtered version of the “Gordy’s Home!” incident to OJ and Emerald, he involuntarily flashes back to the real thing, suggesting difficulty maintaining the façade. And before his Space Lasso show, he relives the gruesome catastrophe in even more detail, needing his wife to startle him back to reality. Pressured to suppress his bad memories and even outwardly refute them, Jupe is becoming consumed by his darkest traumas.

The film’s opening quotation from the Bible hints at this kind of anguish:

Nahum 3:6: “I will cast abominable filth upon you, make you vile, and make you a spectacle.”

Hollywood has indeed made Jupe a “spectacle.” The longer he exploits himself, the more “vile” he becomes, experiencing the horror of losing his identity, signified by Jean Jacket’s murderous attack.

In summary, the balancing shoe gives Jupe false confidence that his fame makes him invulnerable. This surely applies to many or even most celebrities. After all, anyone with a large audience may naturally conclude that they have a special, personal bond with their viewers and fans (“I believe they trust me”). They may feel safe from the “typical” Hollywood decline. But in reality, as Peele shows us, Hollywood is insatiable. It readily devours anyone, even the most famous stars, taking their identities and subsuming them into sameness. And this experience is terribly painful.

4. NOPE

So how does one defeat the monstrosity of Hollywood’s homogenizing influence? Well, we’ve already noted that Jean Jacket falters when presented with nonliving objects. Like Hollywood, the creature requires living things to digest and assimilate.

But there’s another useful tactic against Jean Jacket: averting one’s gaze. This fits with our symbolic framework. If you don’t view Hollywood content, you’ll be immune to its pressures.

(Note that the monster’s “eye,” which appears late in the movie, is rectangular and flickering, reminiscent of a screen. The message: Hollywood sees us not as people or even animals—but only as potential material for onscreen entertainment. In fact, at times in the movie, Jean Jacket’s rectangular vision frames the movie screen for us, subliminally linking the creature’s vision with cinematic entertainment.)

Finally, Peele thematically emphasizes one more way of fighting the monster: with a camera. Much of Nope consists of the characters’ attempts to capture footage or photographs of Jean Jacket. This doesn’t cause literal harm to the creature, but Jean Jacket explodes at nearly the same moment at which Emerald finally succeeds in photographing it—subliminally linking its visual capture with its death.

Symbolically, this is important: depicting Hollywood on film or camera may expose its toxic aspects, thereby weakening it. And isn’t this what Peele has done by making Nope? He’s encouraged us to reflect on Hollywood’s degrading pressures to conform. He has turned the camera around on the Hollywood monster. (OJ’s orange “Crew” sweatshirt in the finale underscores the symbolism of the characters “shooting a movie” about the monster and what it represents.)

Plus, by finally obtaining an image of Jean Jacket, perhaps the Haywoods can cash in, thereby relieving their financial strain and allowing them to retain their independence and authenticity. This, one might say, is how Peele has retained his own independence: by making a successful movie about the negative aspects of Hollywood. Note that the Haywoods’ last name is similar to “Hollywood,” but still somewhat different. This suggests a successful modification to the Hollywood standard.

The Haywoods’ triumph, though, isn’t without collateral damage. They lose Antlers Holst (Michael Wincott), an acclaimed cinematographer obsessed with the “perfect shot.” Antlers is a sincere artist who has kept his ideals intact. For example, he avoids too much corporate influence by doing “one [job] for them, one for me.” But despite this commendable approach, he, like Jupe, gets sucked into Jean Jacket, symbolically assimilated into the Hollywood machine. Why this terrible fate for Antlers?

It appears to be due to his obsession with stylistic perfection at the expense of valuing content. After all, Antlers captures footage of Jean Jacket, an incredibly significant achievement. But he doesn’t recognize that significance. Instead, he risks it all to get a perfectly angled shot of what he had already captured. As a result, he becomes symbolically mashed into narrow Hollywood sameness.

The meaning of this moment is that content, not form, is what determines important filmmaking. Obsessing too much over style and technical matters may distract from defying Hollywood standards. (Recall that Antlers spends much of his time admiring uneventful nature footage, reinforcing his indifference to subject matter.) Thus, Peele, a socially conscious filmmaker who generally eschews arty cinematic style, highlights his own filmmaking credo with his portrayal of Antlers’ demise.

Also falling victim to Jean Jacket is a TMZ reporter who inopportunely rides on to the scene. Given this man’s irksome prying in his brief appearance, his fate is no surprise, either narratively or symbolically. But note that the reporter’s helmet, which is silver with a single “eye,” looks awfully like Jean Jacket.

Thus, not only does the TMZ reporter die via Jean Jacket, but Peele also conveys that the man is similar to Jean Jacket. The gossip reporter is an agent of Hollywood conformity and social pressure, hence his visual linkage with the monster who embodies those goals.

Let’s also discuss Angel Torres (Brandon Perea), an offbeat supporting character. Like the Haywoods, Angel encounters several attacks from Jean Jacket. This makes symbolic sense, because just like the Haywoods, he is under pressure to sacrifice his authenticity. His girlfriend recently dumped him after landing a Hollywood role, so it’s only natural that he would consider conforming to a more mainstream Hollywood presentation. Therefore, like the Haywoods, Angel is vulnerable to Jean Jacket’s symbolic danger. Whereas the Haywoods’ vulnerability stems from financial strain, Angel’s stems from romantic strain.

Angel, though, escapes Jean Jacket in the end. That leaves him, OJ, and Emerald as the three characters to avoid symbolic compression into conformity. In our day and age, that’s no easy feat.

This holds true whether we live in Hollywood or not. After all, media ideals everywhere create pressure to conform. In America more broadly, for instance, we celebrate the idea of a “melting pot,” but the melting can go too far, threatening diversity and even personal identity.

In summary, temptations abound to fit in. But Peele reminds us that to avoid the anguish of being digested into bland uniformity, we must reject those temptations. We must decline when pressured to sacrifice our history and our experiences. We must say, again and again:

Nope.

 

—Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, check out my piece on Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Categories
The Best Scene In...

The Best Scene in Ocean’s Eleven

The best scene in Ocean’s Eleven (2001) is the roughly ten second sequence in which Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), having realized that he’s been robbed of both his money and his girlfriend, walks into an elevator with a stoic, simmering expression. (See video below, approximately 0:20-0:36.) This is Benedict’s last appearance in the movie.

The reason this scene is so good is that it leaves us still respecting the film’s villain by the end of the runtime. The more conventional Hollywood approach would have been to have Benedict give up his dignity. For instance, he could throw a tantrum for the audience’s amusement: stomping on the ground, screaming in frustration, etc. Although that certainly would have been enjoyable in its own way, this ominous glare in the elevator is so much better. It suggests that, if anything, Benedict’s ruthless, machine-like resolve has only been strengthened by his defeat.

The crucial effect of such an impressive show of fortitude is that it dramatically increases, by extension, our respect for the thieves who have bested him. They’ve conquered (for the moment) a truly formidable foe! Had Benedict appeared to be broken by the successful heist, we wouldn’t have been able to help suspecting that our heroes merely lucked out by picking a weak adversary.

Unfortunately, the film’s sequels, so tantalizingly set up by this excellent conclusion, take the opposite approach, as both movies culminate in the villains stammering and blinking stupidly in utter humiliation. This is supposed to be crowd-pleasing, and it is. But in the larger scheme it’s deflating, as it leaves us wondering how hard it really could have been to steal from such pathetic losers. The first of the trilogy succeeds where the others fail, because we want—though we may root against them—bad guys we can trust.

 

-Jim Andersen

For more Best Scene In… content, check out my piece on the Best Scene in Beauty and the Beast.

Categories
Commentary and Essays

5 Modern Horror Movies You Need To See

  1. Hereditary (2018)

The first half of this movie contains some of the most disturbing filmmaking I’ve ever seen. Movies don’t shake me often, but the gruesome and hallucinatory imagery in Hereditary’s first act stuck with me for days.

Plenty of other movies feature intense body horror, but few resonate like this one. In fact, director Ari Aster concocted visuals with similar shock value in his follow up, Midsommar (2019), but that film left little impact on me. I think the difference is that the horror of Hereditary has huge emotional weight. Every horrific event has enormous emotional significance, because every event has enormous family significance, and so many of our greatest fears involve our families. Perhaps Aster’s sum statement is how precarious our family relationships really are.

Any discussion of the greatest movie acting of the decade has to include Collette’s raging, hysterical performance here. Plenty of other critics have said the same. In a genre that often showcases up-and-coming actors, her work in Hereditary shows the impact a veteran can make.

  1. It Follows (2014)

Another one that should go right into the horror canon, It Follows leans on a nightmarish antagonist that George Romero would be proud of. But whereas Night of the Living Dead (1968) eventually settles on the terror of numerical disadvantage, of being swarmed, director David Mitchell keeps his film planted in the peculiar, uneasy horror of that very first zombie—the one that just won’t stop.

And the horror of It Follows rests within an insightful coming of age story. The two lead characters as they enter adulthood learn to accept the permanent presence of…something. To explore what exactly would necessitate a full-length essay. But it has a lot to do with the prospect of death: the slow, marching figure behind them destined to one day close the gap.

It’s no accident that the creature is linked with sex, the activity of adulthood and the thing that creates life. Losing their virginity and now potential parents themselves, the characters of It Follows lose the protected feeling of childhood: they become aware of the always-present dangers—and the inevitable ending—of life. That’s what the creature represents. And director Mitchell effectively conveys the mood of that realization, which is, yes, part horror—but also part triumph.

  1. Get Out (2013)

By far the most popular movie here, this one probably doesn’t need me to sell you on it. The sometimes-awkward experience of interracial dating typically supplies material for comedies. Jordan Peele had the stroke of genius to realize that it could do that and fuel a great horror flick at all once. My favorite scene: Mr. Armitage (Bradley Whitford), who spends his free time removing the cerebral cortexes of Black people, volunteering that he would have voted for Barack Obama a third time: “Best president of my lifetime.”

  1. Cam (2018)

I came across this movie on Netflix one night with no prior knowledge of it and expected a typical Netflix production: half-baked, provocative, pointless. Upon watching it, my only question was why I hadn’t heard of it before. This is one of the best Netflix movies I’ve seen, and I recommend it to everyone.

It’s not the most ambitious film ever made, but its psychological undertones grip you. I don’t invoke his name lightly, but David Lynch is the major influence for the concept and, at times, the execution. Think Lost Highway-lite. (Okay, very lite.) There’s no Toni Collette-caliber acting in the low budget Cam. But Madeline Brewer holds steady in a legitimately strong performance as a young woman who tries to regain control of her webcam channel from a malicious, demonic imposter.

Few movies to my knowledge have seriously engaged with the bizarre, surreal experience of social media exhibitionism—an experience that, by now, most young people can relate to. This movie undertakes that engagement honestly. Sometimes the allegory is facile; sometimes it’s complex. But what better subject for a horror movie? The terror of seeing yourself on-screen and feeling no connection to what you see, of losing control of your own image—again, Lynchian preoccupations—that’s scary stuff.

  1. We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011)

Some might argue that this doesn’t belong on a list of horror films. I disagree. While raising a bratty kid usually gets comedic treatment in moviemaking, this film, like Get Out, has the guts to highlight the scary side of something long laughed at. Rosemary’s Teenager.

And more than a nightmare about parenting, We Need to Talk About Kevin functions as a convincing nightmare of suburbia in general. Persuaded to move there for the benefit of her fussy baby, Eva Khatchadourian (Tilda Swinton) finds that no one in her new environment understands or even listens to her, including her husband. Everyone around her has lost themselves in the fantasy of the bucolic suburban ideal. They’re blind to all evil. Only she can see the truth, and she’s first chastised for observing it and later wrongfully blamed for it. She lives in a Twilight Zone world of illogic and ignorance.

The film tempts us with the guise of social commentary, but I don’t think it contains much of value, other than the vision of suburbia I just described. Don’t expect Bowling for Columbine. Still, with its paradoxic claustrophobia—the open space of the suburbs suffocates and destroys Eva—this is probably the darkest film on the list. Only the ending, which I won’t spoil, finally points toward goodness, and it’s a quick pointing. An unpleasant movie that I don’t plan to re-watch any time soon—but that I recommend for a unique horror experience.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more on horror movies, check out my selection and analysis of the greatest slasher movie ever.

Categories
The Best Scene In...

The Best Scene in Beauty and the Beast

The best scene in Beauty and the Beast (1991) is the prologue. Storyboarded with stained glass window panels, it introduces the spell that constitutes the premise of the movie. Watch:

Like Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the source of many of Disney’s story concepts, this scene is legitimately disturbing and weird. It’s totally at odds with contemporary notions of fairness or morality, and it therefore pushes us to think a little about those notions.

For instance, it seems grossly unjust that the Prince’s servants have to share in his ghastly punishment. They have none of his flaws—one of them is only a toddler—yet arguably, their fate is even worse than his: I doubt even Belle could fall in love with a candlestick. Why have the servants been included in the spell?

It seems to me that the Enchantress wants to increase the Prince’s suffering by haunting him with poetic sensibility. We can infer that the servants’ new forms reflect how the Prince had viewed them: as mere objects for his personal use. This dark reasoning for the servants’ fate isn’t highlighted in the movie, but it almost certainly torments the Beast, who, remember, prefers to spend his time secluded in the West Wing.

It’s also possible that the Enchantress blames the servants for the Prince’s spoiling. After all, they were in a position to correct his behavior, and they failed to do so. Perhaps she aims to serve poetic justice to them: they witnessed their master’s moral defects but remained quiet, like mere furniture of the castle.

Another strange aspect of the Enchantress’s actions is that she warns the Prince that “beauty is found within” but then reveals that she is, in fact, outwardly beautiful. This only seems to reinforce that beauty is a reliable indicator of value. At most, it teaches that beauty may be initially hidden from view. So it’s not exactly surprising that the Beast later falls in love with the town’s most beautiful woman, whose name literally means “beauty:” the enchantress hasn’t really encouraged him to look beyond the surface. (She may actually value beauty quite highly, possessing it herself.)

Instead, she has used ugliness as a weapon against the Prince. Upon discovering while disguised that it particularly repulses him, she confers it on him as a curse for having “no love in his heart.” Rather than teach him to overcome his superficiality, she uses his prejudice to inflict maximum punishment for his other offenses.

Poetic justice over compassion. Humiliation over education. Dante would approve of this Enchantress.

A final curiosity of the prologue is why the Enchantress intervenes at all. This becomes especially puzzling when the film’s primary antagonist, Gaston, displays the very same characteristics as the flawed Prince but incurs no punishment whatsoever. In fact, Gaston is without a doubt the more egregious offender: whereas the conceited Prince only refuses shelter for a beggar, Gaston is so egotistical that he tries to murder the Beast and force Belle into, essentially, domestic servitude. Why no spell for Gaston?

Perhaps the Enchantress perceives that Gaston is too far gone to be worth an effort to restore his humility. Indeed, after the Beast overcomes Gaston on the roof, leaving him begging for mercy (“I’ll do anything!”), the humbling doesn’t stick: Gaston immediately changes his mind and returns with a dagger. Thus, the enchantress may believe that past a certain age, there’s no going back from being a selfish jerk. Or that certain people are simply too stupid to learn valuable lessons. Judging by Gaston’s actions, she may be on to something.

Given all this reflection from just two minutes of stained glass windows, I’d go so far as to say that the Enchantress is the most compelling character in the entire “Disney Renaissance” oeuvre. She imposes a dark, uncompromising, surreal vision of justice that engulfs the film after she departs, and, like the hunter in Bambi, she never returns to account for her actions, making her that much more inscrutable.

Such a character would never appear in a Disney film today. That may be because we’re more confident in our contemporary ideas of discipline, but—more likely, in my opinion—it could also be that we’re more unsure of them, and thus more averse to the presentation of their bold and terrible alternatives.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more animated movie exploration, see my piece on Toy Story 3.

Categories
Movies Explained

Vertigo Explained: Part 2

In Part 1, we covered Vertigo‘s thematic meanings. Now it’s time for the fun stuff.
III. Green, Lavender, Red

Using the thematic framework we’ve outlined, we can now decode Vertigo’s color symbolism. (I love cracking a good color key.) This will also help us clarify certain points made in the first part.

You might have noticed that three particular colors appear prominently throughout the film: green, lavender, and red. Of these, green recurs most frequently. Some of its major appearances include: “Madeleine’s” dress when Scottie first spies on her, Madeleine’s car, Scottie’s sweater after rescuing her from the bay, Judy’s dress when Scottie first spots her on the street, and the neon color sign that illuminates Judy’s apartment.

Considering these clues, we can conclude that green represents romanticism—the idealistic attributing of positive qualities to someone else.

Most of the deployments of green in the first part of the film relate to the fictional “Madeleine,” who, of course, is romanticized by Scottie. Later uses of green often relate to Judy out of character, but only when Scottie idealizes Judy by mentally linking her to the Madeleine character. This culminates in Judy entering her apartment dressed and groomed exactly as “Madeleine,” obscured by a cloud of green.

Scottie can barely see Judy through the green haze. And indeed, at this point in the movie, he can barely “see” the real person of Judy, so obsessed is he with recreating the romanticized, fictional Madeleine character. (Roger Ebert called this moment “the greatest single shot in all of Hitchcock,” even without explicitly identifying the color symbolism.)

And Scottie isn’t the only character in Vertigo who romanticizes. We know this because in one scene he himself wears green.

This is when he and Judy share clear romantic tension during her recovery from jumping in the bay. We can infer, then, that his sweater reflects Judy’s own perspective: following Scottie’s act of heroism, albeit intentionally provoked by her, she romanticizes him, as well. This scene marks the beginning of her reciprocal feelings for him.

Moving on. Green’s symbolic opposite in the film is lavender, which represents simple, unfiltered reality. This becomes clear in the scene in which Scottie dines with Judy while she wears a lavender dress.

During this dinner, Scottie is bored and unsatisfied with Judy. Her romanticized appeal has faded since he first noticed her resemblance to “Madeleine” (at which time, appropriately, she wore green). Accordingly, after this dinner Scottie begins the doomed effort to make over Judy in “Madeleine’s” image. As we’ve said, reality (lavender) doesn’t interest him; his obsession is with a fantasy (green).

Another major character in Vertigo wears lavender, although she’s no longer alive: Carlotta Valdes.

This makes sense. Carlotta was thrown away and left to madness by a rich man. Therefore, her life story exemplifies the reality behind Elster’s illusions. Her fate foreshadows that the romantic mystery of “Madeleine” has an ugly and disappointing solution: a wealthy, brutal man using a poor woman for his own ends. As the shopkeeper Liebel summarizes, as if to warn Scottie: “There are many such stories.” Carlotta’s story is the authentic one, hence her lavender dress; “Madeleine’s” is the fake.

Lavender also appears in a place you might’ve missed: Midge’s brassiere.

Now, even disregarding the color symbolism, a brassiere is a containing, socially proper garment. It’s appropriate, then, that Midge—herself a containing, socially proper influence on Scottie—designs them for a living. By extension, it’s appropriate, too, that the mysterious, exotic Madeleine/Judy has, shall we say, scant interest in this particular article.

The lavender color of the bra only reinforces this connotation. Midge, its sensible designer, represents Scottie’s path to normalcy. On the other hand, “Madeline,” the habitual wearer of green—and no bra—represents the path to madness and unreality. (Recall that Midge is the only character to call Scottie by his given name, “John” or “Johnny,” reinforcing that her relationship with him is more “real” than others’.)

Let’s move on to red. This may be the easiest color to apprehend, since several clues explicitly indicate that red signifies Elster’s negative influence. Most obviously, Elster’s office is decorated in red. But so are Carlotta’s red-jeweled necklace; the Golden Gate Bridge, where Judy, at Elster’s behest, fakes a suicide attempt; and the roof on which Elster deposits his murdered wife.

Possibly the most instructive appearance of red, though, comes when Scottie first sees “Madeleine” in the restaurant. As previously mentioned, she wears a bold green dress, underscoring Scottie’s instant romanticizing. But the walls of the restaurant are bright red.

Conceptualize the image like this: the romanticized character of Madeleine exists only in the context of Elster’s sinister fraudulence. His scheme comprises the environment in which she operates. Scottie, due to his focus on “Madeleine” (green), misses the wider picture, which is Elster’s exploitative plot (red).

We might wonder, given the association of red with Elster, why Midge wears red when Scottie visits her for the second time.

It’s because the negative outcome of this scene—the two initially agree to dinner and a movie, but Scottie abruptly cancels upon seeing her painting—is ultimately attributable to Elster.

After all, the bantering Scottie of the opening scene surely would have appreciated Midge’s humorous contrast of her plain self with the mysterious Carlotta, via her new painting. But he now finds the irony jarring and upsetting, because he’s so invested in the intrigue of Carlotta that he can’t bear to have it invaded by an ordinary person like Midge. Thus, Elster’s machinations indirectly doom the date night. Midge becomes a secondhand victim of Elster’s, hence the red color of her blouse in this scene.

When I mentioned in Part 1 that Elster’s scheme results in the emotional ruin of an innocent woman, I referred, of course, to Midge. As her hopes of marriage rapidly dwindle thanks to Scottie’s increasing derangement, she engages in some legitimately concerning behavior. For example, in one scene she spies on Scottie after dark while talking to herself in an uncharacteristically spiteful manner. In another, Scottie mentions Midge having left “desperate” letters looking for him, which she unconvincingly denies. Finally, Midge’s detailed familiarity with the Carlotta Valdes portrait indicates even more snooping.

These moments, especially from a typically levelheaded character, suggest serious emotional suffering. Elster’s influence, it appears, doesn’t only sabotage those swayed by his lies; the damage also spreads outward to unknown lengths.

In addition, remember that the abandoned Carlotta spent the end of her life in a state of “madness.” Midge’s painting, then, may foreshadow her own fate.

Another interesting appearance of red is the robe that “Madeleine” wears while recovering from her jump into the bay.

We can interpret this appearance of red just as we did the previous one. Think of it this way: just as Midge’s red blouse foreshadows the nixing of date night with Scottie due to Elster’s influence, “Madeleine’s” red robe foreshadows the nixing of a potential sexual encounter—also because of Elster.

After all, as previously mentioned, this scene exudes romantic and sexual tension. But nothing comes of it, because Judy suddenly runs away. And we can infer that she does so only because Elster has forbidden her to get involved with her investigator.

The guy ruins everything!

We might also take the symbolism to another level and note that Judy’s red robe is the only piece of clothing she wears in this scene. Elster serves as the only barrier, as it were, preventing physical escalation.

IV. The Dream

With our color key in hand, we can finally tackle the movie’s most abstract episode: Scottie’s nightmare. Watch:

A lavender filter flashes on the screen as Scottie begins dreaming. Based on our analysis of the movie’s color symbolism, this is significant. It tells us that, like many dreams, this dream will capture important truths—the realities behind the illusions.

And indeed, in Scottie’s dream, Elster soon appears with Carlotta Valdes standing by his side. This accurately foreshadows the nature of Elster’s treachery, since, as previously mentioned, Elster uses Judy and discards her just as Carlotta’s lover did long ago. Scottie’s dream, therefore, highlights what we determined in Part 1: that Elster belongs to a lengthy tradition of the wealthy abusing their power. Perhaps at this point Scottie subconsciously perceives something suspicious, or at least unsavory, about Elster.

A brief shot of Carlotta’s necklace ensues, followed by Scottie walking toward and into Carlotta’s grave. Remember, we’ve concluded that this dream will capture important truths, so it’s no surprise that it would correctly convey that Scottie’s investigation is leading him toward destruction and possibly death. And a red filter flashes during this shot, correctly indicating the unseen mastermind: Elster. I suspect that the shot of the necklace means to help us decode the symbolism of red before it begins flashing in the subsequent shot, but we’ve already covered that in detail.

The next image is purely symbolic: Scottie’s head appears against a psychedelic looking background as the music increases in pace. Both face and background blink red. Then, the colors change, with Scottie’s head turning green and the background lavender.

By now, you don’t even need me for these. But I’ll go ahead anyway: Scottie’s mind is trapped in fantasy and romanticism, hence the green color of his head. Meanwhile, the background is lavender, representing the surrounding reality to which he can no longer connect. The previous image of both head and background shaded red signifies that his entire existence—both perception and reality—has been sieged and scrambled by Elster.

I’d love to dismount there, but one disturbing image remains.

The dream ends with Scottie hurtling downward off the bell tower. Like the earlier image of Carlotta’s grave, this suggests that Scottie’s current path leads toward the destruction suffered by others who tangled with cruel men like Elster. (The image flashes with a red filter.) But then the roof disappears, leaving Scottie falling amidst only a white background. Only then does he wake up, terrified.

With respect to Roger Ebert, I submit that this is the greatest shot in all of Hitchcock.

Scottie’s doctor later diagnoses him with “acute melancholia” and a “guilt complex.” These words, of course, mean nothing. His true psychic state only surfaces for these brief seconds, as he hurtles through blank nothingness.

Some scholars have opined that Moby Dick’s whiteness evokes the meaninglessness of life, which is why Captain Ahab wars against him so viciously. I think Hitchcock has something similar in mind with this cut to white. Having been battered and disoriented by Elster’s reckless scheming, Scottie has lost interest, or perhaps even belief, in life. He has succumbed to nihilism. Thus, the shot of him falling through a featureless void summarizes the ultimate psychological danger of our deceitful postwar world—of our collective societal vertigo.

But I’m contradicting myself. I said that the dream would deal only in truths, and now I’ve characterized its most disturbing shot as only a philosophical wrong turn, a peril to be avoided.

Possibly Hitchcock and I have different views on the wisdom of this frighteningly bleak image. Or maybe I’m simply constrained by the blog essay format to provide a palatable, prosaic interpretation. After all, I might purport to “explain” great movies, but certain facets of art defy explanation: what good, really, is a summary of Moby Dick?

Regardless, I’ve steered away from where my own analysis has led me, which is a good sign that it’s time to end this piece.

So. The best movie ever made? I’ll still take 2001: A Space Odyssey. But Vertigo fans, you have a lot of ammunition. This classic deserves everyone’s attention—and everyone’s rewatching.

 

—Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, check out my analysis of The Master. Or, go back to Part 1 of this piece.

Categories
Movies Explained

Vertigo Explained: Part 1

If you believe the plurality of professional critics, then Hitchcock’s Vertigo is the greatest film ever made. Does it warrant such premier standing? If so, we should expect plenty of deeper meanings and artistic significance.

Sounds like a job for Movies Up Close. In this essay, I’ll provide an in depth explanation so that viewers out there can better appreciate this quirky cinematic enigma. My thesis is that Vertigo proposes and examines a modern societal condition in which our understandings of reality have been distorted by reckless, power-hungry elites—a condition that exposes us to obsession, rage, and self-destruction.

I. The Shipbuilder

I’ll start with an obligatory plot summary. Detective John “Scottie” Ferguson (Jimmy Stewart) is a retiring San Francisco cop. As he wraps up his career, he receives a strange request from an old college friend and current shipbuilding tycoon, Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore). Elster wants Scottie to investigate the recent strange behavior of his wife, Madeleine. He worries in particular that she may be channeling the spirit of her great-grandmother, Carlotta Valdes, who committed suicide long ago.

But this exposition turns out to be an elaborate hoax. Unbeknownst to Scottie, Elster has actually hired a woman named Judy Barton (Kim Novak) to play Madeleine during the investigation. This is because Elster plans to murder his real wife and make off with her fortune, and he deduces that if Scottie, a credible witness, believes that she killed herself, he’ll get away with the crime unsuspected. So he hires Judy to convince Scottie that the suicidal Carlotta really is possessing her. Plus, he arranges the murder in such a way that Scottie, due to his pathologic fear of heights, can’t find out the truth.

His plan succeeds. But things get messy along the way, because Scottie develops romantic feelings for “Madeleine,” unaware that she’s merely a character of Elster’s creation. Her staged death consequently devastates him, and he requires an extended stay in a mental hospital.

Things get even crazier after his release. Still reeling from his beloved’s supposed suicide, he spots Judy on the street out of character and notices her striking resemblance to “Madeleine.” Not realizing that she’s the very same woman, he asks her to dinner and begins dating her. Their relationship, however, proves acrimonious and ugly, as Scottie soon urges Judy to alter herself to more closely resemble her former part. He finally realizes the truth and confronts Judy in rage and despair. But a nun startles her into taking a false step, and she plummets to her death.

The end.

This bizarre narrative is, let’s face it, highly unsatisfying. For starters, the primary villain, Elster, pays no price for his crimes. He causes the death of two women and the emotional wreckage of an innocent man (and arguably the emotional wreckage of another woman, but we’ll get to that later), yet he absconds with a shipbuilding fortune and never accounts for the devastation he leaves behind.

Even more unsettling, the movie’s dialogue implies that Elster’s behavior is commonplace among those with vast resources. Recall Elster’s early remark that he envies “the power and the freedom” of Gold Rush-era businessmen. This initially seems like harmless nostalgia. But later, a kindly shopkeeper illustrates the darker side to these words, describing how San Francisco elites used to have “the power and the freedom” to discard poor women like garbage. The echoing of the phrase foreshadows Elster’s true motives: he longs to wield his wealth with total unaccountability, even at the potentially deadly expense of others.

And, discouragingly, he succeeds in doing just that. Despite his early lament about lacking freedom relative to his predecessors, Elster still commits deadly, callous crimes with no consequences at all. While laws and norms of 1950’s America may discourage such behavior, Elster circumvents these obstacles by engaging in the deception we’ve detailed.

With enough money, it seems, anything remains possible. Consider an early scene in which Scottie sees “Madeleine” enter a motel. He tries to follow her inside, but the motel owner swears that, despite what he has just seen, no one has recently entered the building. Soon thereafter, Scottie realizes in confusion that “Madeleine’s” car is gone. It’s an eerie, unsettling moment, and it seems to lighten Scottie’s early dismissal of Elster’s theory about Carlotta Valdes.

In retrospect, though, there’s only one plausible explanation: Elster paid off the motel owner to lie to Scottie. Not only is Scottie’s investigative subject on Elster’s payroll; his witnesses are, too.

The episode therefore illustrates just how far Elster is willing—and, more importantly, able—to go to sell his sham ghost story to Scottie. In fact, based on incidents like this one, it’s not exaggerating to say that the entire reality that Scottie experiences throughout most of Vertigo is liable to be fraudulent. If the sweet, elderly motel owner was paid off, was the shopkeeper, too? Was the curator at the museum? With someone like Gavin Elster involved, everything and everyone is suspect.

Now for the pivot. How many Elsters, then, are currently scheming in our own world, screwing with our very realities for the sake of expanding their “power” and “freedom”? In post-WWII America, are we all just living in scrambled worlds fabricated by the Elsters of our day? This frightening thought is the artistic premise of Vertigo.

Elster truly is a symbolic “shipbuilder”: a constructor of realities aboard which others have to navigate life. And surely he has real world counterparts. I won’t name names, but I’m sure you can think of some 2022 parallels who operate with similar tactics, building the perceptions and illusions on which the rest of us float, unsuspecting.

But what is it like to live on a ship built by a shady elitist? How does it feel to live aboard a fake reality? That’s where Hitchcock is primarily concerned. Elster disappears from the narrative for a reason: he’s boring. Vertigo isn’t about shipbuilders; it’s about the people on those ships, navigating through waters of distortion and deceit. Vertigo is about us.

II. A Modern Quixote

It’s clear that the symptom of vertigo in the movie symbolizes the emotional disorientation that results from Elster’s scheming. Scottie harbors the diagnosis of acrophobia throughout his investigation for Elster, during which, as we’ve described, he lives in an unreliable, often fraudulent reality. And he’s “cured” only when the details of Elster’s crime come into focus late in the movie. (In addition, recall that Scottie first experiences vertigo while chasing a criminal who, like Elster, gets away.)

But, again, what is it like to have “vertigo”—to live and love in a world of illusion?

Well, at the beginning of the movie, Scottie is folksy and jovial. Even the recent death of his partner in the field has only shaken, not depressed him. He spends time goofing around with his friend and erstwhile fiancée, Midge, and in fact, their opening banter suggests an eventual romantic happy ending. After all, Midge doesn’t hide her feelings for him, and he playfully hems and haws, never contradicting or rejecting her. Perhaps having retired, Scottie realizes that Midge is his future. She knows him well, cares for him deeply, and balances out his occasional immaturity.

But no. Immediately after this promising opening, Elster enters the picture, and Scottie’s personality accordingly begins a progressive decline toward rage and mania. The vehicle, of course, is his obsession with “Madeleine,” the beautiful subject of his new investigation. Something about Judy’s portrayal of Elster’s wife enchants him, causing him to forget all about Midge—and every other good thing in his life.

What accounts for “Madeleine’s” spellbinding quality? It isn’t physical beauty, since when Judy later reappears out of character, she doesn’t satisfy Scottie. Rather, it seems that “Madeleine’s” mysterious—and fictional—elegance and torment comprise her appeal. As Scottie becomes intrigued by the fantastical tale of Carlotta Valdes and her influence from beyond the grave, his attraction to “Madeleine” correspondingly grows.

Thus, it appears that Scottie is ultimately hoodwinked by the allure of the exotic and extraordinary. After all, with such an otherworldly mystery unfolding, of what interest is a regular life as a retiring cop? Of what interest is a regular woman like Midge?

Elster knows this allure. He has sprinkled his fictional Madeleine with all with the right touches: her delicate, forlorn intonation; affected whimsy; glamorous jewelry, clothing, and hair; predilection for romantic historical landmarks; and linkage with a foreign-sounding ancestor. When Scottie falls “in love,” these, truly, are the objects of his love. Late in the movie, Judy pleads with Scottie to accept her for her own self, to forget Madeleine and simply be happy. But her begging falls on deaf ears: Scottie is obsessed with a fantasy, not a reality.

Now another pivot. Doesn’t the appeal of fantasy—so central to modern culture—impact all of us? For instance, we may root for Scottie to tie the knot with Midge, but I venture that many of us know a Midge (or a male version of Midge) and find ourselves, despite what reason might dictate, longing for a more extraordinary partner. A more intriguing partner. Perhaps we’ve become, like Scottie, obsessed by the fantastical images crafted for and distributed to us by our own elites. By the Elsters of our day.

Consider that when Vertigo was released, the cultural distribution of fantastical, glamorous imagery had recently undergone a radical change. The percentage of American households with a television reached 50% in 1955. Vertigo was released in 1958. Perhaps Hitchcock was one of the first artists to perceive and comment on the seismic—and potentially dangerous—psychological effects of mass consuming these alluring entertainments.

After all, Don Quixote was tilting at windmills after a few chivalrous books. Imagine what he would have done with Game of Thrones. Maybe Vertigo is the Don Quixote of the screen era.

And what about Judy? She agrees to play a part and pays dearly for it—both psychologically and, eventually, with her life. Having once entered the role of Madeleine, she finds herself doomed to play it forever, because her audience, Scottie, won’t have it any other way. Her character has become her reality: the performer’s nightmare. Fitting, then, that she meets the same fate—falling from the bell tower—as the woman she played and the woman who “possessed” her character. (Also remember that Carlotta supposedly grew up afraid of strict nuns, and a nun scares Judy to her death in the ending scene.)

So not only do the deceived suffer amidst all of these glamorous stories and images; the deceivers suffer, too. And surely this applies not only to professional performers. Who among us hasn’t “played a part” for someone’s approval? After all, with so much fantasy guiding our culture now, expectations often exceed the possibilities of reality. We’re expected to deceive. Judy’s miserable experience highlights the pitfalls of fulfilling that expectation.

 

End of Part 1

Continue to Part 2, where we’ll cover the meanings of Vertigo‘s color symbolism and notorious dream sequence.

Categories
Movies Explained

2001: A Space Odyssey Explained: Part 2

This is the second and final part of my analysis of 2001: A Space Odyssey. For the first part, in which I explain “The Dawn of Man” and HAL’s malfunction and demise, go here

It’s time to give the viewers what they want: an explanation of 2001‘s famously bewildering ending. What happens to Dave in Jupiter’s airspace? What is the “Starchild” that appears in movie’s final shot?

Before we begin, it’s worth noting that the film’s portrayal of man as an “in between” creature waiting for transcendence comes from the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche. His fiction, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” is about a prophet who encourages mankind to surpass himself, thereby becoming an Ubermensch (“Superman”). In fact, the famous musical motif that recurs throughout the film is Richard Strauss’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” a classical piece named after and inspired by Nietzsche’s text. It’s no accident, then, that Kubrick uses this motif to signal major leaps forward.

But simply understanding Nietzsche’s influence doesn’t explain the specific nature of Dave’s transformation at the end of the film. Yes, the Starchild is surely Kubrick’s version of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch. But how, in Kubrick’s view, does one reach this state?

To answer, we must consider the many visual cues in 2001 linking space flight with the mechanics of film. For starters, Discovery One’s main chamber looks just like a giant film roll:

The space pods, too, display aesthetics linking them to film rolls. So does the station featured in the opening space travel sequence.

But perhaps the boldest hint that the medium of film is important to the meaning of 2001 is hidden in plain sight: the monolith itself, which, when rotated, resembles a blank movie screen.

This visual similarity between the monolith and the movie screen has been highlighted by other critics, including Gerard Loughlin and Rob Ager. They note that during the famous “Stargate” sequence of dazzling lights, the display initially has a vertical orientation but then suddenly shifts to a horizontal orientation. They interpret this as a subliminal hint that the monolith, too, should be shifted from a vertical to a horizontal orientation to reveal its symbolic significance.

In addition, visuals like the slow zoom shot below appear to emphasize the rectangular shape of the movie screen. This allows us to connect that shape to the monolith’s similar dimensions.

Lastly, the film opens with over two minutes of a solid black screen. On first watch, this opening feels unnecessary or wasteful, but it’s actually yet another subliminal linkage between the shape of the monolith and the shape of the screen. Essentially, Kubrick is forcing us to watch the monolith, rotated 90 degrees.

Importantly, though, this mental rotation isn’t always required to visually link the monolith and the movie screen. That’s because one monolith—the one orbiting Jupiter—appears in horizontal orientation already, exactly like the screen.

This particular monolith, then, is the first to appear in its symbolically “true” form—the most screen-like monolith yet. Combined with the aforementioned film-related imagery during the mission, this suggests an allegorical framework crucial to understanding 2001. Namely, that Discovery One’s journey to find the orbiting Jupiter monolith represents man’s journey toward discovering the medium of film.

This framework unlocks the answers to the movie’s final chapter.

Consider that the monolith on the Moon is associated with photography: Floyd and his group conspicuously gather to take a picture of it. Photography is one technological step away from filmmaking. And indeed, this Moon monolith serves as a checkpoint of man’s technological progress, signaling to Jupiter in apparent recognition of humanity’s readiness for a larger step. Thus, the symbolic meaning of this moment is that if man is taking photographs, he’s ready advance to film—just as, in the literal narrative, once man reaches the Moon, he’s deemed ready to trek to Jupiter.

In fact, in this scene the symbolic narrative is arguably more influential than the literal narrative. After all, the signal from the monolith only initiates once Floyd and his peers try to photograph it—not when they first dig it up.

And the receding of the literal narrative in favor of the symbolic narrative only continues, such that by the time Dave reaches Jupiter’s airspace (“Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite”), the film is completely symbolic with no literal narrative at all. This presents a major viewing challenge—one of the most notoriously challenging in all of cinema. But since we’ve established the correct allegorical framework, we can explain the nature of Dave’s abstract experiences upon arriving there.

As we’ve said, Dave reaching the horizontal monolith orbiting Jupiter represents mankind reaching the cinema screen: Dave has symbolically “discovered” film. Accordingly, the subsequent images he witnesses explore the power of that discovery. Each of the abstract sequences following Dave’s arrival at Jupiter presents a different aspect of the nature and capabilities of film.

The first of those sequences is the aforementioned Stargate. The key to understanding this trippy display is that it conveys the toolkit of filmmaking: color, shape, and music. These formless elements dance around the screen with no context or purpose. They’re the medium’s sculpting clay, waiting to be harnessed by a filmmaker.

The formless elements then begin to crystallize, and Dave witnesses a series of colorful landscape images. These sceneries, several of which include bodies of water, don’t depict the gaseous Jupiter or its rocky moons. Rather, they’re images of Earth, only with neon color schema. This conveys seeing familiar things in a different light: filmmaking allows us a new perspective on the ordinary.

Recall the line from Kubrick’s next film, A Clockwork Orange (1972): “The colors of the world only seem really real when you viddy them on a screen.” Dave, witnessing the unusually colored landscape shots, is seeing things “really real” for the first time, experiencing the ability of cinema to reveal new perspectives.

And hasn’t Kubrick already made good on this filmmaking credo—hasn’t he already shown the world in a “different light?” Recall the thematic statements analyzed in Part 1 of this analysis, particularly regarding mankind’s inherent brutality and the rooting of all technology in violence. Remember, too, our analysis of HAL’s demise, which explored the nature of human deception and touched upon our species’ remarkable drive to brave the unknown. These insightful artistic depictions are excellent examples of the capabilities of film celebrated in the movie’s final chapter.

Plus, Dave’s eye also appears in the neon colors that saturate the landscapes. This indicates that not only does he see the outside world in a different light; he is altered, as well. The takeaway: film can inspire us to change.

After the landscapes, the tools of film that were introduced in the Stargate solidify even further, such that they’re now completely harnessed. A realistic looking sequence ensues inside a strange domestic layout.

It’s tempting to interpret this as a literal occurrence, given its lifelike appearance. But we’re still in the realm of the symbolic, as the scene unfolds in a dreamlike, nonlinear manner. Therefore, by continuing to adhere to our framework of interpreting Dave’s Jupiter experiences as a display of film’s power and methods, we can explain the sequence’s true meaning.

Let’s summarize what happens. Dave, progressing through the strange environment, rapidly ages in a strange way. Three consecutive times, he observes an older version of himself in a different part of the layout, and this version then becomes the focal point of the shot, with the younger self apparently vanishing. The last and oldest Dave appears on his deathbed, and he points to a monolith before transforming into the Starchild, which then surveys the Earth.

The key dynamic of this scene is watching: Dave watches himself age. He doesn’t experience the aging process so much as examine it from a distance—including viewing himself very near to death. Essentially, Kubrick is illustrating that the opportunity to watch ourselves and our species from a detached perspective (via cinema) can help us accept our inevitable aging and death.

Various details of the scene help clarify this vision. For example, Dave ages startlingly quickly, in only a few minutes, gesturing toward the incredible brevity of life. In addition, Dave accidentally shatters a glass, which is shown in closeup, perhaps emphasizing life’s fragility. Finally, Dave advances through the stages of life with no apparent companionship, suggesting a solitary journey. In summary, according to Kubrick, viewing our own lives through the revealing lens of film may teach us the ultimate truth of a brief, fragile, isolated existence.

That may sound depressing, but Kubrick doesn’t see it that way. We know this because after viewing his own aging, Dave becomes the Starchild: the next stage in human evolution. Based on our analysis of this scene and earlier ones, we can conclude that this new stage of humanity is a being with heightened awareness: able to see the world from an enlightened perspective that includes the facts of mortality, thanks to the reflections enabled by the medium of film.

But what might this enlightened perspective entail, specifically? What changes will a heightened awareness of our mortality inspire?

Well, in Part 1 we concluded that Dave’s defeat of HAL seemed to mark the end of the technological tradition that began with the bone-weapon, anticipating a leap beyond that violence to a new human condition. And indeed, Dave’s viewing of his own mortality offers a logical repudiation of violence. After all, why unleash death and destruction, when we’re all destined to die, anyway? Why not live our lives in peace? With proper awareness of the brevity and fragility of life, our drive toward violence may be extinguished.

This newfound rejection of violence and weaponry is made more explicit in both the initial script and Arthur C. Clarke’s tandem novel, which end with the Starchild detonating nuclear bombs orbiting Earth to prevent their use. As mentioned in Part 1, all nuclear references were eliminated from 2001 to avoid repeating Dr. Strangelove, but this original ending would have concretely emphasized that the Starchild is opposed to violence (and even motivated to take action to prevent it). As it is, we’re left to infer this ourselves.

Given that Kubrick had portrayed man as a fundamentally weapon-using, brutal animal in “The Dawn of Man,” the newfound pacifism of the Starchild is a momentous change—a Nietzschean progression, in fact, to a new kind of species. And imagery throughout the film underscores this, especially in “Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite.”

Consider the images below, which evoke insemination, conception, and the growth of a fetus. They hint that by completing the mission to Jupiter and symbolically discovering film—thereby enabling reflection that leads to the discarding of violent methods—Dave indeed initiates the “birth” of something new.

Consider also the Renaissance art that fills the strange room where Dave witnesses his aging and death—another reference to an imminent “rebirth.”

Finally, two brief scenes involve characters wishing loved ones a happy birthday, yet another presaging of an upcoming “birth” of a new category of organism.

All things considered, it’s clear that the Starchild is Kubrick’s rendition of the Nietzschean Ubermensch: a step beyond man. This “Superman” is, in a word, a filmgoer: one who observes life from the revealing, detached perspective of cinema, gaining enhanced awareness of the hard facts of mortality. Applying this newfound rationality and existential understanding, he or she forgoes humanity’s previous attachment to weapons and violence, promising a new era of peace.

I’ll go ahead and say it: I think 2001: A Space Odyssey is the greatest film ever made. What other cinematic work offers the kind of vision and scope highlighted in this analysis? For a long time I held off on writing this piece, because I worried that I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the breadth of 2001‘s artistry in a readable Internet format. And I still believe that there’s far more to discuss beyond what I’ve covered. But I hope that I’ve opened up the movie for just that kind of discussion, so that I might later come across more analysis that helps me build on my understanding of this masterpiece—and that perhaps brings me a little closer to Kubrick’s version of the Ubermensch.

 

—-Jim Andersen

For more Kubrickian movies explained, see my piece on Eyes Wide Shut.

Categories
Movies Explained

2001: A Space Odyssey Explained: Part 1

This is Part 1 of my two-part explanation of the meaning of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. For Part 2, go here.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) has awed viewers with its vision and craft for over fifty years. Interpreting it, though, remains a notorious challenge. Experts’ attempts to understand the sci-fi landmark’s ambiguous imagery and characters are numerous enough to populate an entire Wikipedia page. If you read the page, though, you’ll see that these interpretations tend to skew toward the arcane, kooky, and even mystic.

What’s lacking is a grounded analysis written for regular viewers. My aim, then, will be to coherently explain the meaning of 2001’s narrative. Of course, this will include a concrete, definitive interpretation of its famous ending.

My main thesis, which I’ll go on to demonstrate, is that 2001 is a statement about the awesome possibilities of the medium of film. More specifically, 2001: A Space Odyssey is an idealistic proclamation of film as an agent for transcending humanity’s violent nature, particularly through its ability to bolster reflection and awareness.

That statement leaves a lot of ground to cover. But we can start with the theme of transcendence, since it forms the structure of the film. 2001 consists of three stages of evolution: 1) apes before the discovery of weapons, 2) man, and 3) the “Starchild” image. These stages are symbolized by the opening title screen, which features a shadowy Earth—behind which rises the glowing Moon—behind which rises the shining sun.

Three destinations, each brighter than the last. This single image foreshadows the course of the film.

Even more important than the evolutionary stages, though, are the transitions between them. Such transitions, it appears, can only occur through interactions with peculiar black monoliths, which appear intermittently throughout the movie. The first such monolith appears to a tribe of apes in the desert, inspiring them to use animal bones as weapons to dominate their rivals. This, as the title card declares, is Kubrick’s rendition of “The Dawn of Man.”

It’s tempting to summarize this sequence as the discovery of “tools.” But this isn’t specific enough. After all, only one tool is used: a weapon. And the introduction of weapons specifically—as opposed to tools in general—initiates human-like changes in the apes. For example, armed with bones, the apes abandon their defensive crouches and walk upright. Plus, with plentiful meat from killed animals, the tribe now eats with newfound ferocity, reminiscent of our habits today. Finally, children now examine and play with bones, evoking modern day childhood fascination with guns and other weapons.

The central statement of this section, then, is that man is fundamentally a weapon-using animal. This is a Kubrickian statement if there ever was one. Consider the director’s earlier films like the antiwar Paths of Glory (1957) and the apocalyptic Cold War parody Dr. Strangelove (1963), which also focus on man’s relationship to war and weaponry.

And just like in those films, the use of weapons in 2001 is portrayed negatively and unsparingly. For instance, when the lead ape of the rival tribe is whacked to the ground, each ape in the first tribe comes forward to administer unnecessary additional blows—a vicious, unsettling scene.

But in 2001, unlike the other films mentioned, Kubrick doesn’t dwell on man’s violent tendencies. Instead, after the weapon-using apes’ victory, he cuts to an orbiting spaceship, and the movie’s focus shifts to the potential for a second evolutionary leap. Thus, while the story of the apes serves to illustrate humanity’s lowly, savage condition, the bulk of the film depicts how we might surpass that condition.

Importantly, there’s no title card accompanying the cut to outer space; we’re still watching “The Dawn of Man.” Kubrick apparently isn’t impressed with our societal progress. Space flight and antigravity toilets notwithstanding, we’re still fundamentally the weapon-using creatures portrayed in the first episode.

In early drafts of the script, this stasis was emphasized even further. The orbiting spacecraft were explicitly identified as nuclear weapons in a multinational nuclear stalemate. These nuclear references were later eliminated to separate the film from Dr. Strangelove, but even without them, nothing in this section of 2001 suggests that the intervening millennia have seen major changes to the human condition laid out early in the film.

However, such a change may be forthcoming. That’s because Heywood R. Floyd (William Sylvester) is on his way to the Clavius Moon base to see a monolith recently dug up on the Moon—direct evidence of alien intelligence. And when that monolith sends a radio signal to Jupiter, humanity wastes no time (only an 18 month turnaround) preparing a mission to the faraway planet to find out what—or who—is out there.

To me, this promptness recalls the moment when the apes quickly surround and touch the monolith, which is wholly unfamiliar to them and potentially dangerous. Perhaps there is one human trait that Kubrick does admire: brave curiosity in the face of the unknown.

Can that curiosity lead us to make another leap forward and shed our species’ cruel and brutal ways? That’s the question of the next and longest episode of the film: “Mission to Jupiter.”

Drs. Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea) and Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) are the protagonists now. They have the momentous task of finding the receiver of the mysterious radio signal. But they run into a major problem: their HAL9000 computer, thought to be infallible, begins acting strangely and ultimately kills Frank along with three hibernating astronauts.

The conventional explanation, which I see no reason to dispute, for HAL’s errant behavior is that he has competing objectives. The scientists on Earth have tasked him with keeping secret the facts about the monolith dug up on the Moon, whereas his programming discourages him from “distort[ing] information.”

Caught between these goals, HAL teeters between revealing the secret and hiding it from the astronauts. He confides to Dave that the “rumors of something being dug up on the Moon” are “difficult to put out of my mind” but then abruptly ends the conversation by reporting a fault in one of the ship’s communication units—a report that appears to be baseless, as per the findings of an identical 9000 computer on Earth.

Adding to the evidence that HAL has misidentified the fault is his later remark to Dave that “you and Frank were planning to disconnect me.” This isn’t necessarily true: Dave and Frank were only planning to disconnect HAL if he were proven to be in error. The remark demonstrates that HAL lacks confidence or even knows his report to be incorrect.

And when threatened, HAL resorts to murder. Thus, the human technological tradition that began with an instrument of violence has culminated in an instrument that carries out its own violence—against mankind. This may have been inevitable. After all, inherent in the original DNA of man’s inventions, as we saw in “The Dawn of Man,” was brutality; therefore, it makes sense that man’s ultimate invention, a sentient AI, would assume that brutal character.

Note that HAL’s eyepiece often appears in a rectangular black frame reminiscent of the monolith. This visually links him to the episode in which apes discovered weapons. Appropriate, since he’s the end result of that discovery.

An interesting point about HAL is that his inability to keep a secret (or at least his discomfort with doing so) is contrasted with the smooth talking of Heywood Floyd during his trek to Clavius. In that section, scientists pressure Floyd to “clear up the great big mystery” of why Clavius has been out of communication. But Floyd stonewalls them, concealing the shocking finding of the monolith. Later, Floyd urges scientists at the base to uphold “absolute secrecy” and has them sign oaths to ensure their adherence to the cover story of an epidemic.

If Floyd and his fellow Clavius scientists can deceive so seamlessly, then why can’t the far more intelligent HAL? Events in the film suggest that it’s because humans, unlike HAL, are aware of their own mortality.

Consider that HAL’s facility with lying increases dramatically after he lip-reads Frank and Dave discussing his possible disconnection, a previously unthinkable development. Whereas HAL had struggled earlier to maintain composure and secrecy during his “crew psychology report” conversation with Dave, after the lip-reading scene he lies constantly with no apparent hesitation.

For example, he states that he doesn’t know how Frank went soaring into space (“I don’t have enough information”) and gives false reasoning for killing him (“This mission is too important to allow you to jeopardize it”). As his demise approaches, he sinks to pathetic phoniness (“I can assure you, very confidently, that it’s going to be alright again”). Thus, it seems that the materialization of the possibility of death is what affords him the one intellectual faculty he had previously lacked: the ability to lie.

Kubrick therefore provides another major statement about the nature of man: that it’s the specter of death that enables or encourages us to deceive one another. And there’s convincing logic to this. After all, mortality could be said to be the foundation for all fear, and fear may be the essential motive behind all deception. When HAL has no reason to believe that he’ll ever be shut down, he has none of the human fear that would prompt him to ever lie, so he stumbles when tasked to do so. But after learning of his possible disconnection, he becomes more deceptive (and by extension, more humanlike), finally admitting to the basis for his alteration: “I’m afraid.”

If HAL is the culmination of the technological tradition that started with the bone-weapon, and if the emergence of that tradition constituted “The Dawn of Man,” then HAL’s demise, for all intents and purposes, represents the end of man. Technology has run its course, which means that, by definition, so have we. Like the apes before they encountered the monolith, humanity is in its twilight. Kubrick provides visual cues to underscore this, as HAL’s eyepiece evokes the sun rising and setting shortly before mankind’s origination.

Plus, during HAL’s disconnection, monolith-like rectangles emerge from his hardware, recalling the evolutionary leap that founded mankind and suggesting that a similar leap could be forthcoming.

Even Dave’s incredible blast through the airlock harkens back to aspects of the apes’ leap forward. Recall how the apes gather around and touch the strange monolith, their courage outweighing their fear of the unknown. Dave’s gumption in passing through the mysterious vacuum of space without a helmet—which HAL assumes impossible—evokes that same courage. Dave has followed in the footsteps of his distant ancestors, whose boldness led them to a colossal discovery. What, then, is in store for him?

In summary, all signs, both visual and narrative, point to HAL’s death anticipating a major evolutionary leap forward comparable to the one shown in “The Dawn of Man.” And indeed, Dave’s experiences following HAL’s defeat leave him apparently transformed into a spectacular, fetus-like being. It’s clear that man has leapt forward again. But how did this transformation take place, and what is the nature of Dave’s new form?

End of Part 1

Continue to the second and final part of this analysis.

 

–Jim Andersen