Film, Literature, & the Human Condition

James Cameron, in my opinion, is one of the few directors that can get people to come to his movies solely on the merit of his name. He has made only seven films in nearly three decades, and each of them is highly innovative, pushing the envelope not simply in effects, but in implementing effects for unique dramatic and narrative purposes. Every one of his movies, in some way or another, has made a breakthrough in filmmaking technique and in 2009, Cameron is once again set to rattle the world of cinema with the release of his long awaited sci-fi epic, Avatar. Besides the advancement in photo-realistic motion capture animation technology, which Cameron himself supervised specifically for the film, he is also utilizing the Fusion digital 3-D camera system that has been developing for years. Aspects of traditional filmmaking, such as miniatures, live action shooting on high tech soundstages, and filming in real environments, make this project a seriously ambitious endeavor. And, like I mentioned before, these superlative technical elements are not merely some gimmick as the narrative scope of Avatar is in the pure Cameron fashion of challenging ideas which reach towards a mythic level of storytelling. Film geeks, myself included, are already salivating, but our wait has been prolonged another few months since the release date has been pushed from May to December of 2009. Until then, we are to make due with what James Cameron has already given the world, but trust me, the breadth of his films thus far is enough to keep us occupied a plenty. From his concerns of a nuclear holocaust to the complex relationship between humanity and technology, James Cameron has woven a rich tapestry of both science and art. (continue reading…)

I was reading A Scanner Darkly, the first book Philip K. Dick claimed to have soberly written, and I thought how scary it would be to exist as a person in his universe. Then again, if I was part of his universe, I’d probably be a confused drug addict. Dick is my favorite science fiction writer because the characters are so interesting. Most often, in sci-fi literature, the characters are fully drawn, but seem only to exist as a building tool for the plot. There is hardly a plot in a Philip K. Dick short story or novel. Usually the narrator is completely unreliable, maintaining a sort of vicissitude that constantly puts the credibility of everything we’ve just read into question. I don’t think he was a writer that made outlines or saw the entire story clear in his head before writing it. It was as if he knew the characters, but he himself was curious to see what would happen to them. Every book he wrote before 1970 was under the influence of amphetamines, perhaps to pull the story from a faculty he had no direct access to: his subconscious. Considering that, I started noticing the similarities between Dick’s ideas and the writings of Carl Jung. The both of them seemed to be obsessed with the fragile construction of personal identity. (continue reading…)

In 2009 comes Inglourious Basterds (yes it’s supposed to be spelled with an ‘ou’ and an ‘e’), the newest film from Quentin Tarantino. It has come to be that whenever Tarantino releases a film, it is an event of sorts. Our last foray into his universe was the 2007 release of Death Proof, the second half of the Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino homage to the heyday of self-proclaimed sleaze cinema. Tarantino appears to be obsessed with the nostalgic resonance of exploitation films, from scratched film stock to crackling cheap sound, but his ideas and most certainly his filmmaking sensibilities are uniquely ingenious and transcend the quality of the 70s genre. The elements from them most heavily imbued into Tarantino’s work is the hard edged grittiness and fast paced vitality of that kind of moviemaking. Combined with his own trademarks of quirky storytelling, unique characters, and profanely articulate dialogue, witnessing Tarantino’s tapestry gives the viewer a rhapsodic connection to the material that wholly accentuates his love for movies and creating them to the point that the explosive visuals and soundtrack give us an almost synesthetic sense of being able to smell the celluloid. Now I won’t tell you how, but I managed to come across a copy of his screenplay for Inglourious Basterds and I am ecstatic to say it will be nothing but sheer titillation for fans of Spaghetti Westerns, French New Wave cinema, Bunch-Of-Guys-On-A-Mission movies, Historical War films, and of course, a category all unto himself, Quentin Tarantino. (continue reading…)

I’m not sure if it’s fair to call the great Yukio Mishima crazy. He was definitely an intensely charismatic figure who broadened his horizons to encompass as many facets of cultural literacy as his time allowed. By the end of his life, or at the time he chose to end it, Mishima had written 40 novels, 18 plays, 20 books of short stories, 20 books of essays, one libretto, and a film. That his oeuvre consisted of deep insight into the elements of what makes us human only boggles me to comprehend what had happened to him that lead to his self-imposed doom. Despite his commitment to the Bushido, I cannot understand the force driving him to his death when his fertile mind I imagine still had much to offer. I doubt it was boredom or even a lack of satisfaction. Though his sexuality has been a subject of much speculation, Mishima was still happily married with two young children. In the breathtaking film, Mishima: A Life In Four Chapters, Paul Schrader embarks on a complex examination about the statements Mishima was trying to make and attempts to answer these questions. He doesn’t answer them with answers though. It’s not that simple with Mishima. Schrader’s intricately structured film rather blurs the line between Mishima’s life and Mishima’s art. He slowly shows us that maybe Mishima saw no distinction between the two and that his existence was just another tool for him, like pen and paper, to express his art. Or more so, Mishima saw his life as his magnum opus and the graphic violence of seppuku was the most effective conclusion he arrived at for his greatest artistic accomplishment. (continue reading…)

The film adaption of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story is intoxicating. However, I think it’s a misnomer to call it an adaptation. Aside from the premise and the titular character’s name, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button stands alone. The original story was more of a farce. Eric Roth’s richly conceived screenplay is closer to a lyrical work of melancholy. After watching the movie, I’m still unsure which narrative most logically explores the notion of a man aging backwards. Both stories are flawed, but I have to concede that Fitzgerald adopts a more pragmatic approach, whereas Roth and director David Fincher are more emotional. Another consideration is that Fitzgerald probably didn’t invest as much time into Button as both Roth and Fincher. This is a highly imperfect tale and the original story stood by it just long enough to get on without drawing attention to many of its absurd components. The filmmakers are bolder, completely downplaying the aging backwards part, reducing it to the rawness of what it is as a character trait. They are aided by a wonderful performance from Brad Pitt, who eloquently inhabits the Ages of Man with a kind of innocent abandon. In the story, F. Scott Fitzgerald was basically exploring a standard human being growing younger and realistically depicts the degradation of the character’s mentality and physicality as it would happen to anyone. Benjamin Button in the movie is uniquely magical. He deeply ponders the effects of his dilemma on himself and on others with profound insight and great humility. The short story ran with the gimmick, but the movie transcends it. (continue reading…)