The sad, short life of Ian Curtis has long since passed into rock legend. This new film by photographer Anton Corbijn (he took the famous photos on the cover of The Joshua Tree) meets the legend half-way, re-capitulating most of the legendary elements of the Joy Division singer while simultaneously presenting his story with a stark honesty (or at least, the impression of honesty). The film is therefore caught somewhat uncomfortably between cliches, a rock biopic that's trying not to be. In that tension it, deliberately or accidentally, catches the essential quandary of Curtis himself.
Curtis (played with uncanny accuracy, almost amounting to possession, by Sam Riley) is from a middle class Manchester family and in many ways lives up to their values and expectations. He attends a good, private school, gets a job at the unemployment office and wears a tie every day. It is only the isolation of his little bedroom where he, like so many of us, becomes a rock star. His desk is lined with folders with titles like "lyrics" or "poems". He chain smokes and absorbs albums by David Bowie and Lou Reed, posing in front of his mirror in a gesture familiar to every adolescent. He is thoroughly normal in many ways - his experiments with drugs, for example, amount to nothing more naughty than pilfering from medication from a friend's grandmother. He meets an attractive young girl from his hometown, Deborah (Samantha Morton), who he woos away from his best friend with poetry and brooding charm, and they get married while still teenagers.
His interest in becoming a musician is ultimately catalyzed by attending a Sex Pistols concert with some friends, some of whom have a band called "Warsaw". They are looking for a singer. After the show, Curtis offers his services, and Joy Division is born.
Up to this point in the film, we are on very familiar rock biopic ground. We get the scenes of their hesitant first gigs, the grind of traveling by bus, the first recording sessions, the acquisition of a fast-talking manager (Craig Parkinson, who almost steals the show) and ultimately their success. Curtis's problems begin when he discovers (somewhat late in life, the film is to be believed) that he is epileptic, not a particularly convenient disorder for a rock performer under stage lights. Treatment in the 1970s (again, if the film is to be believed) consisted of a horrendous cocktail of medications with side effects such as "mental confusion" and "fatigue", and the combination of this and Joy Division's nocturnal gigs ultimately costs Curtis his day job. The timing, for him, is rather inconvenient in that he and Deborah have no money and a newborn daughter. (It is refreshing to see a film portray the real costs of pursuing rock and roll dreams.)
As Curtis's fame grows, so does his overwhelming sense of depression and misery. When a sexy Belgian journalist named Annik (Alexandra Maria Lara) comes along, his life becomes more complicated again, with infidelity thrown into the mix. If the film is to be believed, Annik was actually a better match for Curtis than his long-suffering housewife, but he is too moral to make the choice a simple one. The combination of guilt, medication, malaise with music and serious depression lead him, as we all know, to suicide at the age of 23.
Corbijn handles all of this with a great deal of style, choosing to shoot the film in stark black and white. One gets the feeling of privileged intimacy (Corbijn knew Curtis and Joy Division in their prime, and produced some famous photographs of the band), and the key relationships (Curtis, his wife and his mistress) have the ring of complex, evolving truth, rather like in a French New Wave film. The film is not interested in Joy Division's music, although it features a great deal of it. We get no clues (other than telegraphed ones, such as the use of "Love Will Tear Us Apart" when Curtis admits his infidelity) about the music's creation or inspiration. The band themselves (who, as many probably know, would go on to become New Order) are caricatures rather than people, with only Bernard Sumner (who would take over as lead vocalist after Curtis's death) showing any sign of authentic human feeling in the moody, powerful sequence set in Curtis's last days. Samantha Morton is wonderful as Deborah, lending the film a much-needed grounding in the imperatives of real life.
Ultimately, Control's power comes from its attitude towards Curtis himself. Far from being slavishly sympathetic, the film has a welcome emotional distance from its subject, showing how different choices could have led him away from his tragic fate. Curtis comes across as someone who was loved, and was capable of love, but had too much emotional clutter on his plate to commit to marriage, fatherhood, employment, stardom and finally life itself. Whether he could have received the help he so obviously needed is an academic point - it may not have helped him, anyway. Curtis wasn't a victim of anything other than his own demons, and the film only hints, perhaps guessing, as we all must, where they came from and why he couldn't conquer them.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
REVIEW: The Assassination of Jesse James
Winning the prize for "longest and most anachronistic title of the year", The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is a slow, atmospheric and ultimately quite moving character study, gussied up in the clothes of an epic western.
From the start, the tone of the film is strictly 19th century, complete with voice over narration introducing us to the strange 1880s American vernacular, with that peculiar mix of stiff formality and casual vulgarity. Not since Unforgiven have I gotten the sense from a western that the speech patterns were so authentic. Much about the film has that same ring of documentary honesty. The film goes out of its way to show us the trivial details of 19th century life, from the meals (many scenes take place over the kitchen table) to the grocery shopping to the toilet facilities (a sex scene is even staged in an outhouse, which must be some kind of first).
That veracity is important, since it balances off the matinée idyll feel of the story, reflected in its twisted and singular title. When we are introduced to Jesse James (Brad Pitt), it is through the lens of 19th century American mythos. He is already the nation's most important celebrity, the subject of dime novels and newspaper headlines for at least a decade. In a scenario familiar to anyone with an interest in the western (or crime) genre, James is just about ready to hang up his gun and retire to Kansas City with his family. The past is difficult for men like him to escape, and he goes to great lengths to conceal his identity (in this pre-photography age, this notion is easier to swallow), up to an including not telling his own children his real name. Pitt plays this aspect of the character with curiously detached amusement, as if the act of becoming ordinary was his most clever crime. James is a criminal who enjoys being a celebrity, whereas his older brother Frank (played with mucho gravity by playwright Sam Shepard) scowls disapprovingly at any attempt to conceal their vicious, criminal nature. How close all this is to actual fact is a matter of some dispute, and the scenes are staged in such a romanticized way that at a certain point, our disbelief is suspended.
The film's initial sequence is a masterstroke - a film within the film, reminding me of nothing so much as Michael Mann's Collateral, in which we are introduced to the characters with a complete mini-story, with a beginning, middle and end, with very satisfying results. We see the new James gang (Frank and Jesse, along with numerous unreliable hired hands, their classic gang having long been dispersed by death or incarceration) gathering to hijack a train, supposedly their last "big score" before they drift off into retirement. Frank is skeptical of the abilities of this new group (which includes such great character actors as Paul Schneider, whose character has the improbable name of Dick Liddil). Jesse seems to have fewer doubts, although Pitt's performance renders his true feelings inscrutable. (In fact, Pitt's whole performance is so erratic that I can't decide whether he is brilliant or simply incapable of emotional modulation.) I have no such reservations in praising the performance of Casey Affleck, who plays the Robert Ford of the title. Ford is one of the new recruits, and initially he approaches Frank James, delivering a litany of hero worship in Affleck's pinched, high voice through feral teeth. Frank doesn't buy any of it, but Ford finds that Jesse James is a much more receptive audience. The actual robbery is carried out with the familiar pace of any modern crime film, complete with arbitrary viciousness and tragedy.
The bulk of the film follows through on the momentum generated in the first sequence, though, at 160 minutes, it never quite manages to build up a head of steam. The plot essentially consists of Jesse's quest to secure his own retirement, including killing or otherwise silencing the ragtag gang members recruited for initial robbery. Ford becomes part of his orbit, initially taken under the outlaw's wing and subsequently rejected, provoking his enlistment with the law (including the dead-on authentic Michael Parks and Ted Levine) to, along with his less morally tortured brother Charley (the always-good Sam Rockwell), betray his former hero in exchange for money and fame. This moral probing forms the film's emotional spine, and Affleck's performance is a triumph. Pitt's problematic performance is in essence a character part - Affleck has the lead, and he is perfectly cast. We grow to know and sympathize with Ford, whose own tragic ending is a sad echo of his hero's.
Films like this usually get labeled "deliberately paced", as a euphemism for "deadeningly slow". Fair warning - the film has its own agenda, and will not be rushed. Perhaps the epilogue-like ending goes on a bit too long, unless one considers that this film is really about Ford, not James. The one major flaw with the film is that it seems to be about something... but what? Celebrity? Crime? Vengeance? Honour? Betrayal? Perhaps all, and perhaps none.
The film was directed by New Zealander Andrew Dominik (only his second film), from his own script, but the production company behind it was Ridley Scotts Scott Free, and I sense Sir Ridley's fingers all over the production, including the gorgeous cinematography, meticulous attention to design and detail, the characters' moral complexity and the film's epic-like scope. Perhaps the themes would be less cloudy if Scott himself had helmed the picture. We will never know.
In the end, The Assassination of Jesse James floats free of our imagination, an intriguing and absorbing but ultimately frustrating film.
From the start, the tone of the film is strictly 19th century, complete with voice over narration introducing us to the strange 1880s American vernacular, with that peculiar mix of stiff formality and casual vulgarity. Not since Unforgiven have I gotten the sense from a western that the speech patterns were so authentic. Much about the film has that same ring of documentary honesty. The film goes out of its way to show us the trivial details of 19th century life, from the meals (many scenes take place over the kitchen table) to the grocery shopping to the toilet facilities (a sex scene is even staged in an outhouse, which must be some kind of first).
That veracity is important, since it balances off the matinée idyll feel of the story, reflected in its twisted and singular title. When we are introduced to Jesse James (Brad Pitt), it is through the lens of 19th century American mythos. He is already the nation's most important celebrity, the subject of dime novels and newspaper headlines for at least a decade. In a scenario familiar to anyone with an interest in the western (or crime) genre, James is just about ready to hang up his gun and retire to Kansas City with his family. The past is difficult for men like him to escape, and he goes to great lengths to conceal his identity (in this pre-photography age, this notion is easier to swallow), up to an including not telling his own children his real name. Pitt plays this aspect of the character with curiously detached amusement, as if the act of becoming ordinary was his most clever crime. James is a criminal who enjoys being a celebrity, whereas his older brother Frank (played with mucho gravity by playwright Sam Shepard) scowls disapprovingly at any attempt to conceal their vicious, criminal nature. How close all this is to actual fact is a matter of some dispute, and the scenes are staged in such a romanticized way that at a certain point, our disbelief is suspended.
The film's initial sequence is a masterstroke - a film within the film, reminding me of nothing so much as Michael Mann's Collateral, in which we are introduced to the characters with a complete mini-story, with a beginning, middle and end, with very satisfying results. We see the new James gang (Frank and Jesse, along with numerous unreliable hired hands, their classic gang having long been dispersed by death or incarceration) gathering to hijack a train, supposedly their last "big score" before they drift off into retirement. Frank is skeptical of the abilities of this new group (which includes such great character actors as Paul Schneider, whose character has the improbable name of Dick Liddil). Jesse seems to have fewer doubts, although Pitt's performance renders his true feelings inscrutable. (In fact, Pitt's whole performance is so erratic that I can't decide whether he is brilliant or simply incapable of emotional modulation.) I have no such reservations in praising the performance of Casey Affleck, who plays the Robert Ford of the title. Ford is one of the new recruits, and initially he approaches Frank James, delivering a litany of hero worship in Affleck's pinched, high voice through feral teeth. Frank doesn't buy any of it, but Ford finds that Jesse James is a much more receptive audience. The actual robbery is carried out with the familiar pace of any modern crime film, complete with arbitrary viciousness and tragedy.
The bulk of the film follows through on the momentum generated in the first sequence, though, at 160 minutes, it never quite manages to build up a head of steam. The plot essentially consists of Jesse's quest to secure his own retirement, including killing or otherwise silencing the ragtag gang members recruited for initial robbery. Ford becomes part of his orbit, initially taken under the outlaw's wing and subsequently rejected, provoking his enlistment with the law (including the dead-on authentic Michael Parks and Ted Levine) to, along with his less morally tortured brother Charley (the always-good Sam Rockwell), betray his former hero in exchange for money and fame. This moral probing forms the film's emotional spine, and Affleck's performance is a triumph. Pitt's problematic performance is in essence a character part - Affleck has the lead, and he is perfectly cast. We grow to know and sympathize with Ford, whose own tragic ending is a sad echo of his hero's.
Films like this usually get labeled "deliberately paced", as a euphemism for "deadeningly slow". Fair warning - the film has its own agenda, and will not be rushed. Perhaps the epilogue-like ending goes on a bit too long, unless one considers that this film is really about Ford, not James. The one major flaw with the film is that it seems to be about something... but what? Celebrity? Crime? Vengeance? Honour? Betrayal? Perhaps all, and perhaps none.
The film was directed by New Zealander Andrew Dominik (only his second film), from his own script, but the production company behind it was Ridley Scotts Scott Free, and I sense Sir Ridley's fingers all over the production, including the gorgeous cinematography, meticulous attention to design and detail, the characters' moral complexity and the film's epic-like scope. Perhaps the themes would be less cloudy if Scott himself had helmed the picture. We will never know.
In the end, The Assassination of Jesse James floats free of our imagination, an intriguing and absorbing but ultimately frustrating film.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Confessions of a Small-Town Cineaste
Maybe it's the Catholic boy in me, but I think it's time for a confession.
I never meant to end up in a small town. Like every other maritimer who's left home, I came here for a job. I presumed that some sacrifices would be required of me to live in a small town, but for the most part, I couldn't think of one that I wasn't prepared to make. Until now.
Of course, for a cineaste, the term "small town" covers a lot of ground. I used to think of London, Ontario (a city of around 300,000) as a small town, because they weren't showing Punch Drunk Love in any local theatres, and I had to drive 2 hours to Toronto to see Seven Samurai. Little did I know...
Nelson is a cool small town - no question about that. Its arts and culture scene is more vibrant (or at least equal to) that of many larger centers. There are some great, creative, energetic people here who have a real commitment to the arts. Despite all that, there's no good cinema, no repertory cinema, no serious film society and basically no opportunity for seeing good films out of the comfort of your home. Having a good video store with a large back catalog helps, as does having a nice home theatre, but it's not a substitute for the true cinematic experience.
I miss the sense that a film was an event. I miss having a local art theatre profile a director (like the Vancity Festival Cinema does in Vancouver), showing several of their films in a given week, allowing a real appreciation for auteurism. I miss midnight screenings of cult favourites (like Wormwood's used to back in Halifax). I miss real film festivals, with older films mixed with the new, put in context by filmmakers and film scholars, rather than political documentaries and token Canadian films tossed out once a month.
When I first came here, I thought I would miss malls, big box stores and the like - not so. I thought I would miss the anonymity of a city, and I do occasionally. But what I really miss is the opportunity to be a true cineaste, to lose myself in the dark with a great piece of cinema.
I guess my most telling confession is that after five years, I've finally found something I miss about Vancouver.
I never meant to end up in a small town. Like every other maritimer who's left home, I came here for a job. I presumed that some sacrifices would be required of me to live in a small town, but for the most part, I couldn't think of one that I wasn't prepared to make. Until now.
Of course, for a cineaste, the term "small town" covers a lot of ground. I used to think of London, Ontario (a city of around 300,000) as a small town, because they weren't showing Punch Drunk Love in any local theatres, and I had to drive 2 hours to Toronto to see Seven Samurai. Little did I know...
Nelson is a cool small town - no question about that. Its arts and culture scene is more vibrant (or at least equal to) that of many larger centers. There are some great, creative, energetic people here who have a real commitment to the arts. Despite all that, there's no good cinema, no repertory cinema, no serious film society and basically no opportunity for seeing good films out of the comfort of your home. Having a good video store with a large back catalog helps, as does having a nice home theatre, but it's not a substitute for the true cinematic experience.
I miss the sense that a film was an event. I miss having a local art theatre profile a director (like the Vancity Festival Cinema does in Vancouver), showing several of their films in a given week, allowing a real appreciation for auteurism. I miss midnight screenings of cult favourites (like Wormwood's used to back in Halifax). I miss real film festivals, with older films mixed with the new, put in context by filmmakers and film scholars, rather than political documentaries and token Canadian films tossed out once a month.
When I first came here, I thought I would miss malls, big box stores and the like - not so. I thought I would miss the anonymity of a city, and I do occasionally. But what I really miss is the opportunity to be a true cineaste, to lose myself in the dark with a great piece of cinema.
I guess my most telling confession is that after five years, I've finally found something I miss about Vancouver.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Movies from the Space Age
Today marks the 50th anniversary of the birth of the space age, with the launch of Sputnik 1 on this day in 1957. Since NASA is adrift (at least in terms of manned space exploration) and Russia is still recovering from financial collapse by selling Soyuz seats to tourists, it's time to think about how the space age has been depicted on film for the past 50 years, the only place that still retains some vision. So, here are a few notable landmarks in that peculiar genre of cinema that attempts to portray a reasonably realistic vision of the exploration of space.
1. Destination Moon (1950). I know, it's before the space age started for "real", but it's a great example of what we thought space travel would be like before it was ever done. By 1950, the theory was in place (things like weightlessness, etc.) and the mythic astronaut archetypes were already entrenched. It's interesting to see how much they got "right", and how much they didn't.
2. Forbidden Planet (1956). The first attempt to translate the headiness of "hard" science fiction into film is still an entertaining, if overly plotted and "talky" movie. The special effects haven't dated nearly as much as they deserve to, and it's pretty clear that this was the template from which Star Trek was struck. Realistic? Not really. But it was movies like this that the people who went to the moon were watching.
3. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Arthur C. Clarke often said that he and Stanley Kubrick were setting out to make the "proverbial good science fiction movie", since neither had seen a film that matched the intelligence and verisimilitude of the sci fi they had read. 2001 succeeds on a number of levels (it's probably one of the most-analyzed films in history), but it's notable today for at least making the attempt to get the physics of space travel correct. So, astronauts don't walk around unless they're in a centrifuge (or wearing velcro-shoes, which somehow never caught on), and their spacewalks are slow, careful and tedious, just like in real life. One thing it didn't get right was the topography of the moon. The prevailing image was one of tall, craggy peaks, and in reality the moon's landscape is much more smooth. It's the kind of thing that we didn't find out until we went there, and remember, when this film was produced, we hadn't even orbited it yet.
4. Silent Running (1972). Doug Trumbull had worked on the special effects for 2001, so it was natural that his first film as a director became an effects extravaganza. The film is ultimately much more "dated" than 2001, since it grapples with the topical issue of deforestation and unwisely incorporates a contemporary musical score with songs by Joan Baez. The science, however, has been done worse. As in 2001, the spacecraft don't zip through space like Buck Rogers, but instead move in predetermined orbits and take a long time to communicate with earth. The notion of giant, domed gardens in space is something that may yet come to pass in reality, and it certainly created the kind of geodesic template for the kinds of ships seen in Battlestar Galactica and the abortive 80s series Earth Star Voyager.
5. The Andromeda Strain (1971). Trumbull also helmed the cutting-edge effects for this Robert Wise sci-fi film, an adaptation of Michael Crichton's scientifically rigorous novel about a virulent organism brought to earth on a returning space probe. The premise of the film was realistic enough for NASA to require returning lunar astronauts (at least on the first few landings) to undergo two weeks of quarantine upon their return to earth. As a film, it plays like the scientific procedural the novel succeeds in being, which doesn't always make for compelling cinema, but having Crichton on board certainly guaranteed that the science was plausible. Today it's most memorable as a fascinating example of late-60s space-age thinking.
6. Alien (1979). For all its success, Ridley Scott's first sci-fi film is simply a skillfully made, high-budget monster movie, but its space-age styling (courtesy of technology-nut designer Ron Cobb) is more realistic than it needed to be. For example, the Sulacco's cathedral-esque spires illustrate the obvious point that a spacecraft has no need to be sleek in a vacuum (for an obvious influence, look at the Alliance cruisers in Joss Wheedon's Firefly), and landing on a planet is not as easy as simply pointing the ship "down" and hitting the gas. The way the alien is ultimately disposed of, making use of pressure differential and vacuum, is remarkably realistic (artificial gravity notwithstanding) and indicative of, by then, decades of experience in human spaceflight.
7. 2010 (1984). Its politics have not aged as well as its effects (to be fair - no one could have predicted that the cold war would be over in 5 years), but 2010 carries on the tradition of its predecessor in the use of centrifuges for gravity (still the only plausible way of creating it in space), realistic flight times (using hibernation) and slow, careful spacewalks. The scenery of Jupiter and its moons is also taken straight from the images returned by Voyagers 1 and 2, making it the most accurate portrayal of a solar planetary system not yet visited by humans on record.
8. Apollo 13 (1995). Probably the most accurate space flight film ever made, Ron Howard took the unprecedented step of shooting zero-g scenes in zero-g. There are serious proposals on the table today to set up a movie studio in orbit which, if it comes to pass, might make it possible to shoot the rest of the Apollo program with similar accuracy. The film also makes extensive use of CG (then a new technology) and copies the space-to-ground radio transmissions verbatim. What other film has an action scene that hinges on someone's ability to do long division?
9. Mission to Mars (2000). Those of us with some vague memory of high school biology will be taken completely out of the film by the atrocious molecular biology the film's climax hinges upon, but the filmmakers seem to have spent their consultant budget on the physics, as the orbital ballet that happens early in the film is as accurate as anything set to film. Mars entered our consciousness in the early 2000s as the next logical step for space exploration, but we probably won't be going there for a while, due to political shortsightedness, but this film and Red Planet are true products of our culture's burgeoning interest in it.
10. Space Cowboys (2000). Again produced with the cooperation of NASA, Clint Eastwood's science fiction attempt is more or less plausible (although in reality, only one senior citizen is likely to be allowed to fly to space at a time). The uncomfortable relationship between the US and Russian space programs is at the core of the film's narrative conflict, something that fairly accurately reflects the current state of manned space exploration. Space Cowboys also brings things full circle in a way, by re-visiting the roots of the space program, and illustrating how much things have changed.
Of course, you should all see the Right Stuff, but oddly, that movie is more about the culture of American heroism than it really is about technology. There are loads of screamingly bad technical gaffes in it, but that doesn't stop it from being an interesting bit of film.
So, after 50 years, space travel has become both more and less exciting for us. Let's hope in another 50 years we'll have made some real progress in the exploration of our world, instead of, as we are now, hunkering down in a cave and bitching about who gets the most meat.
1. Destination Moon (1950). I know, it's before the space age started for "real", but it's a great example of what we thought space travel would be like before it was ever done. By 1950, the theory was in place (things like weightlessness, etc.) and the mythic astronaut archetypes were already entrenched. It's interesting to see how much they got "right", and how much they didn't.
2. Forbidden Planet (1956). The first attempt to translate the headiness of "hard" science fiction into film is still an entertaining, if overly plotted and "talky" movie. The special effects haven't dated nearly as much as they deserve to, and it's pretty clear that this was the template from which Star Trek was struck. Realistic? Not really. But it was movies like this that the people who went to the moon were watching.
3. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Arthur C. Clarke often said that he and Stanley Kubrick were setting out to make the "proverbial good science fiction movie", since neither had seen a film that matched the intelligence and verisimilitude of the sci fi they had read. 2001 succeeds on a number of levels (it's probably one of the most-analyzed films in history), but it's notable today for at least making the attempt to get the physics of space travel correct. So, astronauts don't walk around unless they're in a centrifuge (or wearing velcro-shoes, which somehow never caught on), and their spacewalks are slow, careful and tedious, just like in real life. One thing it didn't get right was the topography of the moon. The prevailing image was one of tall, craggy peaks, and in reality the moon's landscape is much more smooth. It's the kind of thing that we didn't find out until we went there, and remember, when this film was produced, we hadn't even orbited it yet.
4. Silent Running (1972). Doug Trumbull had worked on the special effects for 2001, so it was natural that his first film as a director became an effects extravaganza. The film is ultimately much more "dated" than 2001, since it grapples with the topical issue of deforestation and unwisely incorporates a contemporary musical score with songs by Joan Baez. The science, however, has been done worse. As in 2001, the spacecraft don't zip through space like Buck Rogers, but instead move in predetermined orbits and take a long time to communicate with earth. The notion of giant, domed gardens in space is something that may yet come to pass in reality, and it certainly created the kind of geodesic template for the kinds of ships seen in Battlestar Galactica and the abortive 80s series Earth Star Voyager.
5. The Andromeda Strain (1971). Trumbull also helmed the cutting-edge effects for this Robert Wise sci-fi film, an adaptation of Michael Crichton's scientifically rigorous novel about a virulent organism brought to earth on a returning space probe. The premise of the film was realistic enough for NASA to require returning lunar astronauts (at least on the first few landings) to undergo two weeks of quarantine upon their return to earth. As a film, it plays like the scientific procedural the novel succeeds in being, which doesn't always make for compelling cinema, but having Crichton on board certainly guaranteed that the science was plausible. Today it's most memorable as a fascinating example of late-60s space-age thinking.
6. Alien (1979). For all its success, Ridley Scott's first sci-fi film is simply a skillfully made, high-budget monster movie, but its space-age styling (courtesy of technology-nut designer Ron Cobb) is more realistic than it needed to be. For example, the Sulacco's cathedral-esque spires illustrate the obvious point that a spacecraft has no need to be sleek in a vacuum (for an obvious influence, look at the Alliance cruisers in Joss Wheedon's Firefly), and landing on a planet is not as easy as simply pointing the ship "down" and hitting the gas. The way the alien is ultimately disposed of, making use of pressure differential and vacuum, is remarkably realistic (artificial gravity notwithstanding) and indicative of, by then, decades of experience in human spaceflight.
7. 2010 (1984). Its politics have not aged as well as its effects (to be fair - no one could have predicted that the cold war would be over in 5 years), but 2010 carries on the tradition of its predecessor in the use of centrifuges for gravity (still the only plausible way of creating it in space), realistic flight times (using hibernation) and slow, careful spacewalks. The scenery of Jupiter and its moons is also taken straight from the images returned by Voyagers 1 and 2, making it the most accurate portrayal of a solar planetary system not yet visited by humans on record.
8. Apollo 13 (1995). Probably the most accurate space flight film ever made, Ron Howard took the unprecedented step of shooting zero-g scenes in zero-g. There are serious proposals on the table today to set up a movie studio in orbit which, if it comes to pass, might make it possible to shoot the rest of the Apollo program with similar accuracy. The film also makes extensive use of CG (then a new technology) and copies the space-to-ground radio transmissions verbatim. What other film has an action scene that hinges on someone's ability to do long division?
9. Mission to Mars (2000). Those of us with some vague memory of high school biology will be taken completely out of the film by the atrocious molecular biology the film's climax hinges upon, but the filmmakers seem to have spent their consultant budget on the physics, as the orbital ballet that happens early in the film is as accurate as anything set to film. Mars entered our consciousness in the early 2000s as the next logical step for space exploration, but we probably won't be going there for a while, due to political shortsightedness, but this film and Red Planet are true products of our culture's burgeoning interest in it.
10. Space Cowboys (2000). Again produced with the cooperation of NASA, Clint Eastwood's science fiction attempt is more or less plausible (although in reality, only one senior citizen is likely to be allowed to fly to space at a time). The uncomfortable relationship between the US and Russian space programs is at the core of the film's narrative conflict, something that fairly accurately reflects the current state of manned space exploration. Space Cowboys also brings things full circle in a way, by re-visiting the roots of the space program, and illustrating how much things have changed.
Of course, you should all see the Right Stuff, but oddly, that movie is more about the culture of American heroism than it really is about technology. There are loads of screamingly bad technical gaffes in it, but that doesn't stop it from being an interesting bit of film.
So, after 50 years, space travel has become both more and less exciting for us. Let's hope in another 50 years we'll have made some real progress in the exploration of our world, instead of, as we are now, hunkering down in a cave and bitching about who gets the most meat.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
REVIEW: In Memory of Myself
This new film from rising Italian director Saverio Costanzo is an affecting and original piece of art that may seem odd to a mainstream film audience. Since Kubrick's 2001, filmmakers have been experimenting with original approaches to narrative, though most films still tend to tell stories in familiar ways. In Memory of Myself achieves a victory for the form in that it does that most difficult of cinematic tasks: portraying an internal spiritual and psychological struggle without resorting to plot contrivances, overt narrative conflict or that most deadly explicit of measures, internal monologue. Most filmmakers who try this kind of thing fail. Costanzo doesn't, and it is the most important achievement of this powerful film.
The film concerns Andrea (Christo Jivkov), an novice in the Jesuit Order, which essentially means he is a person traveling between two worlds. Jesuits are notoriously hard on their new initiates, and with good reason. The decision to join a priesthood as demanding as the Jesuits is not one to be taken lightly. As his Father Superior (André Hennicke) tells Andrea more often than not, "You judge the order, but the order also judges you." His first challenge is to spend two weeks in a silent world of routine and contemplation, after which, again in the words of the Father Superior, "You will know if you have a vocation or not". This long period of discernment forms the bulk of the story.
And what a fascinating story it is. Right from the start, we know this is a different kind of film, with little dialogue, action or conflict. Its pace is hypnotic, a word used all-t00-often by critics as a synonym of "boring", but in this case it is entirely appropriate. We are introduced to the routine of waking, work, study, eating and prayer, all of which are taken equally seriously by the initiates. We begin, through Andrea, to know some of the other novices, notably Fausto (Fausto Russo Alesi), who is undergoing his own personal struggle that culminates in a haunting scene of him banging his head repeatedly against the bathroom wall. His fumbling words in class, in which he has to explain a line of scripture, suggest some great spiritual war within him, but the film isn't interested in the specifics, on in the way Andrea sees their external manifestation. Later, we meet the deeply emotional Zanna (Filippo Timi), who struggles to reconcile the cold, distant Jesuit rituals with the Biblical Jesus, a figure that said little about mopping floors, but much about love. Zanna seems to spend more and more time in the infirmary, where it becomes clear that a member of the order is dying.
As time passes, we see Andrea broken down piece by piece. He is lost between the "real world", which he poignantly watches through the windows at the monastery each night, and the spirit world, which seems to him just out of reach. He is cold, observant (his fellow novices think him judgmental), but we know that in order to fully make the transition, he must face aspects of himself he does not wish to face. He must become human in order to become divine. The last act of the film is a masterfully controlled series of affecting images, telling us everything we need to know about Andrea's struggle with no need for dialogue.
Costanzo's control over the film is in fact the most notable element of it. The deliberate, graceful tracking shots and frequent use of subjective camera draw us into this strange world of spirit and mystery. Classical music is used to enhance this strange, medieval life pattern, contrasted sharply with the images of these practitioners of profoundly ancient rituals making use of laptop computers and CD players. Costanzo also steers the plot away from the cliched territory of homosexual desire, something with which the Catholic church has become, somewhat unfairly, associated. He isn't interested in scoring easy PC points, but instead exploring a deep spiritual mystery.
Few films would dare to be this bold.
The film concerns Andrea (Christo Jivkov), an novice in the Jesuit Order, which essentially means he is a person traveling between two worlds. Jesuits are notoriously hard on their new initiates, and with good reason. The decision to join a priesthood as demanding as the Jesuits is not one to be taken lightly. As his Father Superior (André Hennicke) tells Andrea more often than not, "You judge the order, but the order also judges you." His first challenge is to spend two weeks in a silent world of routine and contemplation, after which, again in the words of the Father Superior, "You will know if you have a vocation or not". This long period of discernment forms the bulk of the story.
And what a fascinating story it is. Right from the start, we know this is a different kind of film, with little dialogue, action or conflict. Its pace is hypnotic, a word used all-t00-often by critics as a synonym of "boring", but in this case it is entirely appropriate. We are introduced to the routine of waking, work, study, eating and prayer, all of which are taken equally seriously by the initiates. We begin, through Andrea, to know some of the other novices, notably Fausto (Fausto Russo Alesi), who is undergoing his own personal struggle that culminates in a haunting scene of him banging his head repeatedly against the bathroom wall. His fumbling words in class, in which he has to explain a line of scripture, suggest some great spiritual war within him, but the film isn't interested in the specifics, on in the way Andrea sees their external manifestation. Later, we meet the deeply emotional Zanna (Filippo Timi), who struggles to reconcile the cold, distant Jesuit rituals with the Biblical Jesus, a figure that said little about mopping floors, but much about love. Zanna seems to spend more and more time in the infirmary, where it becomes clear that a member of the order is dying.
As time passes, we see Andrea broken down piece by piece. He is lost between the "real world", which he poignantly watches through the windows at the monastery each night, and the spirit world, which seems to him just out of reach. He is cold, observant (his fellow novices think him judgmental), but we know that in order to fully make the transition, he must face aspects of himself he does not wish to face. He must become human in order to become divine. The last act of the film is a masterfully controlled series of affecting images, telling us everything we need to know about Andrea's struggle with no need for dialogue.
Costanzo's control over the film is in fact the most notable element of it. The deliberate, graceful tracking shots and frequent use of subjective camera draw us into this strange world of spirit and mystery. Classical music is used to enhance this strange, medieval life pattern, contrasted sharply with the images of these practitioners of profoundly ancient rituals making use of laptop computers and CD players. Costanzo also steers the plot away from the cliched territory of homosexual desire, something with which the Catholic church has become, somewhat unfairly, associated. He isn't interested in scoring easy PC points, but instead exploring a deep spiritual mystery.
Few films would dare to be this bold.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Eastern Promises
I had a chance, this weekend, to visit Vancouver and catch some new films. (This is an inevitable consequence of living in a small rural community - you usually have to wait for DVD to see new releases other than big Hollywood crap.) One of these was David Cronenberg's new film Eastern Promises, which, if my opinion means anything to anyone, is an absolutely unmissable effort by the greatest working Canadian director.
A woman walks into a London drugstore late at night, pregnant, pleading for help in broken English. Below her is a pool of blood. She is taken to a hospital, where she is assigned a midwife named Anna (played by Naomi Watts), who, along with doctors, manages to save her baby, but not her. Anna makes it her mission to discover this woman's story, a process that leads her to a Russian restaurant owned and operated by Mr. Semyon (played masterfully by Armin Mueller-Stahl). Semyon knew Anna's father (she is a second-generation Russian immigrant), and treats her warmly, offering to translate from Russian the diary of the dead woman. But all is not right at his restaurant. Shady characters, including his uncouth, violent son Kirill (French superstar Vincent Cassel) seem to populate the street outside. Most mysterious of all is Kirill's "driver", a cold, spare, sinister Russian named Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen, in the performance of his career).
To reveal more of the plot is to rob you of the genuine pleasures of allowing its various twists and turns to unfold, but it's not hard to see that the Russian mafia plays a role in the film, and Anna is drawn into a dangerous world, with dangerous people. And that Nikolai... there's something about him...
Cronenberg's films are all about identity and transformation, and Eastern Promises is no exception. No one in this film is who they seem at first blush, except perhaps Anna's mother and uncle, who sensibly warn her to stop this relentless search for the dead girl's identity. Some of their hesitation comes from what her Russian uncle reads in the diary. It's not pleasant.
The other Cronenberg signature is his penchant for violence and gore, although in this film and its companion piece, A History of Violence, the gore is used to good, not excessive effect. You make think that hyperbole after seeing the film, but pause for a moment to consider Cronenberg's motivation. Violence is disturbing. It should be upsetting. I would rather see the real consequences of something like a knife fight (featured in a scene guaranteed to become a classic, set in a Turkish bath) then see some action hero jump from jet fighter to moving car, taking plate glass to the face without so much as a bruise. Cronenberg shows it, all of it, to his credit. Violence shouldn't be exciting. It's not pleasant.
For all that unpleasantness, the film achieves a transcendental quality by ultimately pushing all of its plot-related intricacies and gory violence aside and finally settling on a profoundly human exploration of the nature of identity and morality. Far more haunting an effective than A History of Violence (a great movie in itself), Eastern Promises goes deep, and the final scene (and words) linger in the imagination. It may well be Cronenberg's masterpiece.
A woman walks into a London drugstore late at night, pregnant, pleading for help in broken English. Below her is a pool of blood. She is taken to a hospital, where she is assigned a midwife named Anna (played by Naomi Watts), who, along with doctors, manages to save her baby, but not her. Anna makes it her mission to discover this woman's story, a process that leads her to a Russian restaurant owned and operated by Mr. Semyon (played masterfully by Armin Mueller-Stahl). Semyon knew Anna's father (she is a second-generation Russian immigrant), and treats her warmly, offering to translate from Russian the diary of the dead woman. But all is not right at his restaurant. Shady characters, including his uncouth, violent son Kirill (French superstar Vincent Cassel) seem to populate the street outside. Most mysterious of all is Kirill's "driver", a cold, spare, sinister Russian named Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen, in the performance of his career).
To reveal more of the plot is to rob you of the genuine pleasures of allowing its various twists and turns to unfold, but it's not hard to see that the Russian mafia plays a role in the film, and Anna is drawn into a dangerous world, with dangerous people. And that Nikolai... there's something about him...
Cronenberg's films are all about identity and transformation, and Eastern Promises is no exception. No one in this film is who they seem at first blush, except perhaps Anna's mother and uncle, who sensibly warn her to stop this relentless search for the dead girl's identity. Some of their hesitation comes from what her Russian uncle reads in the diary. It's not pleasant.
The other Cronenberg signature is his penchant for violence and gore, although in this film and its companion piece, A History of Violence, the gore is used to good, not excessive effect. You make think that hyperbole after seeing the film, but pause for a moment to consider Cronenberg's motivation. Violence is disturbing. It should be upsetting. I would rather see the real consequences of something like a knife fight (featured in a scene guaranteed to become a classic, set in a Turkish bath) then see some action hero jump from jet fighter to moving car, taking plate glass to the face without so much as a bruise. Cronenberg shows it, all of it, to his credit. Violence shouldn't be exciting. It's not pleasant.
For all that unpleasantness, the film achieves a transcendental quality by ultimately pushing all of its plot-related intricacies and gory violence aside and finally settling on a profoundly human exploration of the nature of identity and morality. Far more haunting an effective than A History of Violence (a great movie in itself), Eastern Promises goes deep, and the final scene (and words) linger in the imagination. It may well be Cronenberg's masterpiece.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Venus, Black Snakes and Dirty OId Men
Two films I had the chance to see recently, back-to-back, were Venus (dir. Roger Michell) and Black Snake Moan (dir. Craig Brewer), two low-budget indie films from last year. I honestly hadn't intended to consider the two films together - they were simply two that were on my "to see" list and I happened to pick both of them up on the same night. What I didn't realize is that they shared so much, but differed in important ways.
Both films have the same general narrative gimmick - an older man (in the case of Venus, a cadaverous Peter O'Toole, in Black Snake Moan, Samuel L. Jackson) crosses paths at a crucial point in his life with a young, attractive, libidinous woman. Temptation ensues, eventually both characters learn "life lessons" in the tedious Bob McKee tradition and emerge healed. Of the two, I'd have to give Black Snake Moan the edge, simply because its setting (the deep south) and its metaphorical carpet (southern gothic blues) is less well-trodden ground than in the case of Venus's aging, Shakespeare-quoting, whiskey-drinking British. Both films, though, have an essential sweetness, an old-fashioned sense of romance and humanity that is enormously appealing.
What superficially drives the drama in both cases is the immortal question, "Will they or won't they?" Venus simply tosses the issue away early on, with O'Toole having prostate surgery that renders the question academic. Black Snake Moan toys with it a bit more seriously, but ultimately both films are playing past the titillation, and are more interested in treating the characters as lost souls in need of each other's rescue.
There's a darkness to both films, but ironically it's Venus that tells the darker story in the "lighter" surroundings of autumnal London, and Black Snake Moan that takes the more heartwarming route in the deep, myth-laden vernacular of the South. Venus is about O'Toole's character coming to know himself through the girl, having one last hurrah, but is finally about death. Black Snake Moan touches on death but veers away from it towards life. Where death hangs over Venus, it simply passes through Black Snake Moan. John Cothran's character in Black Snake, Rev. RL., articulates this explicitly in a moving, gentle speech about how religion has it all wrong in focusing on heaven, when really it should focus on what's happening day to day. In Venus, the characters learn how to die with dignity (a process which, ironically, involves a great deal of indignity), whereas in Black Snake, the characters learn how to live with it.
An interesting PS to my thoughts on these films comes from the US Conference of Catholic Bishops which, you may be surprised to hear, offers some perceptive and intelligent film analysis on their website, but in the case of these films, their objections are telling. Their take on Venus is that it is "morally offensive", whereas Black Snake Moan they simply rate as "limited", that is, appealing to a limited audience who may be turned off by the moral offenses in it. Their objection seems to essentially come down to, unsurprisingly, sex. The O'Toole character is offensive because he wants sex, but can't physically have it, where as Jackson's character is not as offensive, because he is capable of it, but chooses not to. The Bishops, whose opinion I generally respect, seem to have missed the point of both films, in that they are, neither of them, really about sex. Of course, the notion of "dying with dignity" doesn't seem to hold much water with Catholic dogma, either, so perhaps this is a part of their issue with Venus. Interesting, though, that desire is at the heart of it. I think it would make an interesting moral discussion, but in the meantime, feel free to enjoy both films.
Both films have the same general narrative gimmick - an older man (in the case of Venus, a cadaverous Peter O'Toole, in Black Snake Moan, Samuel L. Jackson) crosses paths at a crucial point in his life with a young, attractive, libidinous woman. Temptation ensues, eventually both characters learn "life lessons" in the tedious Bob McKee tradition and emerge healed. Of the two, I'd have to give Black Snake Moan the edge, simply because its setting (the deep south) and its metaphorical carpet (southern gothic blues) is less well-trodden ground than in the case of Venus's aging, Shakespeare-quoting, whiskey-drinking British. Both films, though, have an essential sweetness, an old-fashioned sense of romance and humanity that is enormously appealing.
What superficially drives the drama in both cases is the immortal question, "Will they or won't they?" Venus simply tosses the issue away early on, with O'Toole having prostate surgery that renders the question academic. Black Snake Moan toys with it a bit more seriously, but ultimately both films are playing past the titillation, and are more interested in treating the characters as lost souls in need of each other's rescue.
There's a darkness to both films, but ironically it's Venus that tells the darker story in the "lighter" surroundings of autumnal London, and Black Snake Moan that takes the more heartwarming route in the deep, myth-laden vernacular of the South. Venus is about O'Toole's character coming to know himself through the girl, having one last hurrah, but is finally about death. Black Snake Moan touches on death but veers away from it towards life. Where death hangs over Venus, it simply passes through Black Snake Moan. John Cothran's character in Black Snake, Rev. RL., articulates this explicitly in a moving, gentle speech about how religion has it all wrong in focusing on heaven, when really it should focus on what's happening day to day. In Venus, the characters learn how to die with dignity (a process which, ironically, involves a great deal of indignity), whereas in Black Snake, the characters learn how to live with it.
An interesting PS to my thoughts on these films comes from the US Conference of Catholic Bishops which, you may be surprised to hear, offers some perceptive and intelligent film analysis on their website, but in the case of these films, their objections are telling. Their take on Venus is that it is "morally offensive", whereas Black Snake Moan they simply rate as "limited", that is, appealing to a limited audience who may be turned off by the moral offenses in it. Their objection seems to essentially come down to, unsurprisingly, sex. The O'Toole character is offensive because he wants sex, but can't physically have it, where as Jackson's character is not as offensive, because he is capable of it, but chooses not to. The Bishops, whose opinion I generally respect, seem to have missed the point of both films, in that they are, neither of them, really about sex. Of course, the notion of "dying with dignity" doesn't seem to hold much water with Catholic dogma, either, so perhaps this is a part of their issue with Venus. Interesting, though, that desire is at the heart of it. I think it would make an interesting moral discussion, but in the meantime, feel free to enjoy both films.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Problem with Downloading
Since we've established that the HD format war is probably going to wind up killing both disc formats for home video (see previous entry), the common belief is that eventually all disc formats will be replaced by downloading from some kind of legitimate video distributor, sort of like how Apple's iTunes Store works for music. It's certainly a tempting thought to make the leap from audio to video, particularly since many people seem to have climbed onto the legitimate downloading bandwagon. But there are major logical flaws to the argument "downloading will succeed DVD rental", and they all revolve around this notion of what the internet "should" be, and what the video market "should" be, and what it really is. Once you let go of those romantic notions, reality becomes astonishingly simple.
In a nutshell, downloading's not going to work until two conditions are met:
But let's be honest - the Apple store (and iTunes) is very much a generational phenomenon. Young people (and I guess I'm still one of those...) find it a sensible and convenient way to purchase music legally. But I seriously doubt that older folks, including the world's largest single demographic (baby boomers) have bought into it with as much eagerness. For them, buying music means going to a store, picking out a CD/LP/Tape, talking to the clerk, maybe listening to a track and having their purchase rung up on a register. Yes, they're on the way out, but they're still the bulk of consumers.
Go into a video store on a Friday night and take a look at who's there. Is everyone 25 or under? Or are there parents with kids, couples picking out a movie to watch together on the couch and people just getting off work for the weekend? We understand what a video store is. We've lived with it for 15 years. Even my people my grandparents' age understand the business model. I simply can't see why the majority (and yes, majority does rule in the case of marketing) of consumers would abandon a model they know well for a model they hardly know at all just because some tech guru told them it was "better". Downloading eliminates the "store experience", the notion of browsing through shelves, chatting with friends you meet at the store, having something recommended to you by a human being. It seems highly unlikely that this model will change anytime soon.
Besides, downloading is never going to catch on in a big way until bandwidth is increased by an order of magnitude. Perhaps you've heard the old story of how the reservoir in most American cities is drained to dangerously low levels once each year during halftime at the Super Bowl, where tens of millions of people all flush their toilets at the same time. Now imagine a typical Friday night in New York or LA, where perhaps a million people would try to download the same movie at roughly the same time. If this were tried today, the internet would either crash altogether, or the download speeds would be such that a typical 7 GB DVD would be just about ready to play by the time you go back to work on the following Monday morning. (And this is not even considering the next-generation HD formats for which this hoopla is supposed to be the answer.)
Yes, I can hear the objections already: "But lots of people download using Bittorrent or Limewire!" (Peer-to-peer networks that are often unreliable and depend on sharing of files between users to artificially increase apparent bandwidth - I think we know what major record labels and movie studios think of those.) "How is this different from pay-per-view on satellite?" (Two ways: a very small install base and privately owned bandwidth delivery for which users pay a large premium.) "Apple's iTunes store seems to work fine!" (Audio requires about 1/10th the bandwidth of video - and besides, not everyone wants the same song at the same time.)
What this adds up to is a need for greatly increased bandwidth if the disc format and all it entails (video stores, etc.) is ever to be replaced. Who's going to pay for that bandwidth? The government? (Last time I checked, the right to download movies wasn't in the constitution.) Private industry? (Fine, if you want to pay $1000/movie, or some similarly outrageous price that would have to be charged to recoup the staggering upfront cost of re-wiring the world.)
The fact is that, until downloading as fast and cheap as jumping in the car and heading to the video store, it's not going to catch on. Period. As much as some would like it, as much as it seems like the elegant, 2007 solution, it's just not realistic. You can't always get what you want.
The take home message is a familiar one: DVD is here to stay.
In a nutshell, downloading's not going to work until two conditions are met:
- Adequate bandwidth
- Familiar delivery models
But let's be honest - the Apple store (and iTunes) is very much a generational phenomenon. Young people (and I guess I'm still one of those...) find it a sensible and convenient way to purchase music legally. But I seriously doubt that older folks, including the world's largest single demographic (baby boomers) have bought into it with as much eagerness. For them, buying music means going to a store, picking out a CD/LP/Tape, talking to the clerk, maybe listening to a track and having their purchase rung up on a register. Yes, they're on the way out, but they're still the bulk of consumers.
Go into a video store on a Friday night and take a look at who's there. Is everyone 25 or under? Or are there parents with kids, couples picking out a movie to watch together on the couch and people just getting off work for the weekend? We understand what a video store is. We've lived with it for 15 years. Even my people my grandparents' age understand the business model. I simply can't see why the majority (and yes, majority does rule in the case of marketing) of consumers would abandon a model they know well for a model they hardly know at all just because some tech guru told them it was "better". Downloading eliminates the "store experience", the notion of browsing through shelves, chatting with friends you meet at the store, having something recommended to you by a human being. It seems highly unlikely that this model will change anytime soon.
Besides, downloading is never going to catch on in a big way until bandwidth is increased by an order of magnitude. Perhaps you've heard the old story of how the reservoir in most American cities is drained to dangerously low levels once each year during halftime at the Super Bowl, where tens of millions of people all flush their toilets at the same time. Now imagine a typical Friday night in New York or LA, where perhaps a million people would try to download the same movie at roughly the same time. If this were tried today, the internet would either crash altogether, or the download speeds would be such that a typical 7 GB DVD would be just about ready to play by the time you go back to work on the following Monday morning. (And this is not even considering the next-generation HD formats for which this hoopla is supposed to be the answer.)
Yes, I can hear the objections already: "But lots of people download using Bittorrent or Limewire!" (Peer-to-peer networks that are often unreliable and depend on sharing of files between users to artificially increase apparent bandwidth - I think we know what major record labels and movie studios think of those.) "How is this different from pay-per-view on satellite?" (Two ways: a very small install base and privately owned bandwidth delivery for which users pay a large premium.) "Apple's iTunes store seems to work fine!" (Audio requires about 1/10th the bandwidth of video - and besides, not everyone wants the same song at the same time.)
What this adds up to is a need for greatly increased bandwidth if the disc format and all it entails (video stores, etc.) is ever to be replaced. Who's going to pay for that bandwidth? The government? (Last time I checked, the right to download movies wasn't in the constitution.) Private industry? (Fine, if you want to pay $1000/movie, or some similarly outrageous price that would have to be charged to recoup the staggering upfront cost of re-wiring the world.)
The fact is that, until downloading as fast and cheap as jumping in the car and heading to the video store, it's not going to catch on. Period. As much as some would like it, as much as it seems like the elegant, 2007 solution, it's just not realistic. You can't always get what you want.
The take home message is a familiar one: DVD is here to stay.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Buzz About HD Home Video
If your memories can possibly reach back through the mists of time to an era before DVD, you may be able to recall some dim notion of a home video format called "video tape". Sure, it wasn't digital (back then we didn't really even know what that meant), but it was cheap and common and we were all happy with it for around 15 years. Those who weren't happy with it invested in the horrendously expensive and marginally better "laserdisc", which was doomed essentially from the start by being a big, unwieldy, non-recordable, non-rentable video medium. Some of us still retain these dinosaurs in our collections, myself included, for various sentimental reasons. (Remember, it was the laserdisc that introduced us to the concept of "making of" documentaries on the disc, "audio commentary" tracks and, towards the end, soundtracks presented in digital surround sound.)
At a certain point (between 1997 and 2000), the industry did a big flip and embraced DVD as the standard bearer for home video technology. After flirting with a few other formats (VCD, SVCD, DivX), it was decided that DVD, with its MPEG-2 compression and built-in digital soundtracks, as well as CD-size, was the way to go. All major studios jumped on board, both discs and players came down in price and everyone suddenly thought video tape and laserdisc were fuzzy, blurry relics.
On what did we base this decision? Yes, DVD looked and sounded better, but was the public at large really that unhappy with the choices they had? I doubt it. It had a lot more to do with some simple market factors, such as penetration of the rental market (laserdisc never quite managed to do this), small, familiar size and price. I can imagine that the typical consumer (full disclosure: I don't think I was ever one of those) just thought that if they could get something better, as easily, for the same price, then why not make the jump?
These days, I have yet to encounter anyone other than a high-tech blogger who is truly displeased with the video quality of DVD. Even 73% high-end home-theatre owners, according to a recent poll, are satisfied with DVD as a video delivery medium. So, what's the fuss about HDTV? Clearly most people don't consider the DVD broken. What's the rush to fix it?
Even if there was dissatisfaction with the current format, the industry tearing itself apart over which "high definition" format to adopt, Blu-ray disc or HD-DVD, is only driving consumers further back into their DVD collections. I suspect, based on nothing but some info and some common sense, that neither format will come out on top unless the same factors that drove the eager adoption of DVD occur:
At a certain point (between 1997 and 2000), the industry did a big flip and embraced DVD as the standard bearer for home video technology. After flirting with a few other formats (VCD, SVCD, DivX), it was decided that DVD, with its MPEG-2 compression and built-in digital soundtracks, as well as CD-size, was the way to go. All major studios jumped on board, both discs and players came down in price and everyone suddenly thought video tape and laserdisc were fuzzy, blurry relics.
On what did we base this decision? Yes, DVD looked and sounded better, but was the public at large really that unhappy with the choices they had? I doubt it. It had a lot more to do with some simple market factors, such as penetration of the rental market (laserdisc never quite managed to do this), small, familiar size and price. I can imagine that the typical consumer (full disclosure: I don't think I was ever one of those) just thought that if they could get something better, as easily, for the same price, then why not make the jump?
These days, I have yet to encounter anyone other than a high-tech blogger who is truly displeased with the video quality of DVD. Even 73% high-end home-theatre owners, according to a recent poll, are satisfied with DVD as a video delivery medium. So, what's the fuss about HDTV? Clearly most people don't consider the DVD broken. What's the rush to fix it?
Even if there was dissatisfaction with the current format, the industry tearing itself apart over which "high definition" format to adopt, Blu-ray disc or HD-DVD, is only driving consumers further back into their DVD collections. I suspect, based on nothing but some info and some common sense, that neither format will come out on top unless the same factors that drove the eager adoption of DVD occur:
- The new formats become adopted by the rental market.
- The players become inexpensive.
- HDTV's, which are necessary to see any benefit of either new format, become more numerous than "old fashioned" TV's.
- The industry agrees on a format and promotes it as the logical successor to a format you already know and love. That is, they put an end to this silly "format war".
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Does Size Matter?
Of course it doesn't... except when we're talking about a TV screen. How ridiculous is it, anyway, that we constantly crave a bigger screen. And here's a hint: it's never big enough.
A few years ago, I was sharing a house with an old friend and we decided that between the two of us we could build a pretty great ad-hoc home theatre in the darkened, unfinished basement if we invested in an inexpensive DLP projector and a white bedsheet. He already had a high-end receiver and speakers, and we figured that either of our DVD players would be up to the task. A couple of months, some cash and a serious amount of dusting later, we had our theatre. The screen was massive (we measured it out at about 150 inches diagonal, 16x9) and the picture quality was pretty good, considering.
Here was the problem: after about three months, our eyes adjusted and we simply got used to it. I'm not saying it ever seemed small, but our use of the theatre did extend into overkill territory, particularly when we started watching the Simpsons down there first thing in the morning with our coffee.
I moved on some time after that, and he met a girl with kids and got married, moving into a bigger house. He kept the theatre setup (his new wife's two-year-old dubbed it the "Big Room"), but it was seeing less and less use. It was bothersome to swtich everything on, cut the lights, get situated on the couch, etc. Much more comfortable to just toss a movie on the 27 inch 4x3 TV in the bedroom. It wasn't long after that that the projector's colour wheel died, and he decided not to get it replaced.
I, in the meantime, invested in a 16x9 TV that was smallish (30 inches) but quite heavy and bulky enough, thank you very much. I sometimes catch myself looking at the screen now and thinking how small it is, especially when watching a film in 2:35:1 aspect ratio, but I try to keep those impulses to a minimum. After all, the TV was expensive enough that I'm not going to be replacing it anytime soon, and do I really want to ruin my movie-watching eyes by adjusting to a huge screen when simply a medium-size one will do? It's not the size, after all, that matters. At least, that's what I have to keep telling myself.
A few years ago, I was sharing a house with an old friend and we decided that between the two of us we could build a pretty great ad-hoc home theatre in the darkened, unfinished basement if we invested in an inexpensive DLP projector and a white bedsheet. He already had a high-end receiver and speakers, and we figured that either of our DVD players would be up to the task. A couple of months, some cash and a serious amount of dusting later, we had our theatre. The screen was massive (we measured it out at about 150 inches diagonal, 16x9) and the picture quality was pretty good, considering.
Here was the problem: after about three months, our eyes adjusted and we simply got used to it. I'm not saying it ever seemed small, but our use of the theatre did extend into overkill territory, particularly when we started watching the Simpsons down there first thing in the morning with our coffee.
I moved on some time after that, and he met a girl with kids and got married, moving into a bigger house. He kept the theatre setup (his new wife's two-year-old dubbed it the "Big Room"), but it was seeing less and less use. It was bothersome to swtich everything on, cut the lights, get situated on the couch, etc. Much more comfortable to just toss a movie on the 27 inch 4x3 TV in the bedroom. It wasn't long after that that the projector's colour wheel died, and he decided not to get it replaced.
I, in the meantime, invested in a 16x9 TV that was smallish (30 inches) but quite heavy and bulky enough, thank you very much. I sometimes catch myself looking at the screen now and thinking how small it is, especially when watching a film in 2:35:1 aspect ratio, but I try to keep those impulses to a minimum. After all, the TV was expensive enough that I'm not going to be replacing it anytime soon, and do I really want to ruin my movie-watching eyes by adjusting to a huge screen when simply a medium-size one will do? It's not the size, after all, that matters. At least, that's what I have to keep telling myself.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
HD? Half Done?
A lot has been written in the last year (2006) about the rise of high definition. I've been hearing and reading about high def for over 10 years now, and now that industry "insiders" (whoever they are) are saying that 2007 is the year HD-DVD takes over, it's time to address the facts of this new format, and dispel some of the myths.
1) Most of the TV install base on Earth (the planet that includes more than net-crazy gearheads) does not have the capacity for HD. Even my TV, which is 16x9 and less than three years old, lacks an HDMI input, even though it can display 1080i if fed to it through component video.
2) The number of people using DVD (which the industry insiders now scoff at as being "old technology") is still growing. Many known to me personally have not even made the switch from VHS. And somehow they seem to be advanced beyond the "banging rocks together" stage.
3) The Blu-ray and HD-DVD players, which probably represent the second easiest way for a home user to "get into" HD are not compatible with any TV lacking an HDMI input. Meaning that any TV bought for less than $1000 and more than a year ago is not going to get the job done. That represents a pretty large barrier for the first-time adopter, even when the number of films available on either format gets large.
4) The easiest way of getting into HD, Digital Cable or Satellite TV, is still adopted only by a few consumers, and is more of curiosity than anything else. This has some capacity for growth, but its success has been rooted in its backwards compatibility. HD signals can be received through component video, allowing users like me and others with higher-end TV's to get the benefits of HD video, and the service is piggy-backed on the reliable, old-fashioned TV service that everyone has come to expect.
5) (And most obvious) Most people are perfectly happy with DVD. It provides excellent resolution, sound quality and special features for all but the most finicky consumer.
Conclusion: DVD isn't going anywhere for a long time. There's no need whatsoever to jump on the bandwagon of HD unless you're a discerning technophile with a large amount of disposable income. For everyone else, TV will continue to mean what it did 20 years ago (a box with programs on it) and DVD will continue to be the rental/purchase medium of choice.
That's not to say that films and TV programs will not continue to be shot in HD, as they should. Most news broadcasts are shot in Beta-SR, but I have yet to see a player in someone's home that can play one of those tapes. We'll still be able to enjoy the benefits of the resolution of an HD picture without buying into an expensive new technology.
And finally, there are far more important things in the digital video/home video/DVD world to be concerned about, such as the number of DVD's that are still sold with the label "full screen", meaning cropped and chopped for 4:3. That's a much more vicious mutilation of a film or program than not broadcasting it or watching it in HD, and something about which we as discerning home video enthusiasts should be concerned.
1) Most of the TV install base on Earth (the planet that includes more than net-crazy gearheads) does not have the capacity for HD. Even my TV, which is 16x9 and less than three years old, lacks an HDMI input, even though it can display 1080i if fed to it through component video.
2) The number of people using DVD (which the industry insiders now scoff at as being "old technology") is still growing. Many known to me personally have not even made the switch from VHS. And somehow they seem to be advanced beyond the "banging rocks together" stage.
3) The Blu-ray and HD-DVD players, which probably represent the second easiest way for a home user to "get into" HD are not compatible with any TV lacking an HDMI input. Meaning that any TV bought for less than $1000 and more than a year ago is not going to get the job done. That represents a pretty large barrier for the first-time adopter, even when the number of films available on either format gets large.
4) The easiest way of getting into HD, Digital Cable or Satellite TV, is still adopted only by a few consumers, and is more of curiosity than anything else. This has some capacity for growth, but its success has been rooted in its backwards compatibility. HD signals can be received through component video, allowing users like me and others with higher-end TV's to get the benefits of HD video, and the service is piggy-backed on the reliable, old-fashioned TV service that everyone has come to expect.
5) (And most obvious) Most people are perfectly happy with DVD. It provides excellent resolution, sound quality and special features for all but the most finicky consumer.
Conclusion: DVD isn't going anywhere for a long time. There's no need whatsoever to jump on the bandwagon of HD unless you're a discerning technophile with a large amount of disposable income. For everyone else, TV will continue to mean what it did 20 years ago (a box with programs on it) and DVD will continue to be the rental/purchase medium of choice.
That's not to say that films and TV programs will not continue to be shot in HD, as they should. Most news broadcasts are shot in Beta-SR, but I have yet to see a player in someone's home that can play one of those tapes. We'll still be able to enjoy the benefits of the resolution of an HD picture without buying into an expensive new technology.
And finally, there are far more important things in the digital video/home video/DVD world to be concerned about, such as the number of DVD's that are still sold with the label "full screen", meaning cropped and chopped for 4:3. That's a much more vicious mutilation of a film or program than not broadcasting it or watching it in HD, and something about which we as discerning home video enthusiasts should be concerned.
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