Obligatory V Rambling
Mar. 23rd, 2006 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caraigGot a lot done today -- went to the doctor and other than being a touch overweight, waiting to hear back about the bloodwork, and getting a sonogram, everything seems to be in relatively good order.
I also just returned from seeing V for Vendetta. Before launching into my obligatory polemic, let me say that it's a good film, much of the cinematography is very well done, there's some very 'think' parts in it, and Hugo Weaving comes closer than most actors I've ever seen as far as being able to act without benefit of showing expression. Seriously, I'm curious as to your reaction to Weaving's performance if you are any sort of student of body language. He actually seemed able to communicate well by using his whole body.
And now on with the blathering!
V for Vendetta is an important film, not for what it tells us, but for what it both doesn't telll us and what it wants to tell us. We've seen countless movies about dystopian futures, about how fascism is bad, mmmkay?, and we as a literary culture have been beaten over the head about how freedom is important and how we have to guard it against those who would use their power to crush our liberties. To their credit, the Wachowski brothers don't belabor the point; the Sutter government is bad, no need to beat a dead horse.
So if the story doesn't focus on defiance against fascism and personal-cum-political corruption, what does it focus on? That's one thing that tickled at me and I'm not entirely sure I've found it yet. That is, though, one thing I like about this movie: there's the obvious story, but then there's something deeper, something you want to wrap your head around and think about, really think, but it appears out of reach for a while. I think I found it, a bit inadvertently, and like most things it was quite obvious. Allow me to go slightly off-tangent for a bit.
David Brin wrote a rather scathing critique of Star Wars some time ago. His statement was that it held up non-democratic ideals for rule and power, and sent the wrong messages about redemption for past sins. He contrasted it to Star Trek, which would be an Everyman of values and ideals. I won't resurrect that argument here, except to say that I generally disagree with Brin on a whole lot of things. (Including but not limited to his ability as an author and his politeness as a person.) Even so, he did bring up one very good point with his critique of Star Wars but completely missed the target to bring it to a more wide-reaching conclusion. He had in his hands an excellent seed for a thesis; let me take it up now and expand upon it.
Most stories -- most good stories, anyway -- tend to fall into the paradigm of the Monomyth. The theme might have infinite permutations, and the quality of the retelling and changing of these permutations are what make these stories excellent. But there is always the recurring themes of the Call to the Journey, the Descent into the Underworld, the Escape to the Kingdom of Light, and the Restoration of the Land. Star Wars didn't have a monopoly on this, despite what George Lucas might think. This even -- and you may twitch and cringe now -- apply to most action films, particularly American action-adventure films. Almost all of action-adventure cinema for most of the past century -- including and definitely not limited to Star Wars but also including Star Trek -- has had as a central theme the hero who was in some ways special and different. Heroes are not just ordinary people, they are priviledged, made special in some way that a normal people cannot match. The list is nigh endless and I can come up with a whole list of movies and shows that serve as examples. The point is, the heroes in these movies have an edge, an advantage, something that makes them a cut above the rest. Even V is guily of this, because V is not just another man, which at first glance appears to be a fallacy of Evey's statement at the end of the movie.
This is of neccessity neither bad nor good, but it is rather the challenge to the writer of what they make of it. After all, even in the Monomyth the Hero is said to have a divine birthright of some sort, a parentage that was not wholely mortal. But the formula has been badly abused, to the point where there is no meaning to the action-adventure anymore, and rightly so. An action movie is just that, action action and more action, and there is no true adventure to it anymore. The reason for this is that the audience no longer identifies with the hero; the hero has become as mythic as his journey, so far above mortal man that none can even hope to identify with him.
Interestingly, some of the best films out there take this theme and turn it on it's ear. In the first Indiana Jones film, Indy is a supremely capable adventurer, but he really is, throughout it, just a man (perhaps blessed with inordinate luck.) Likewise, in National Treasure, Nicholas Cage's character is also just a man, nothing much special except for his encyclopedic knowledge of American history and indomitable will. (Admittedly, both have a few dei ex machinae which break this concept of the Everyman Hero, but they at least don't have it as egregiously as other movies do.) (Also, this is something that, admittedly, Star Trek did do better than Star Wars. Except, of course, for the insanely high levels of improbably flexible technology.... To each his own god from the machine, I suppose.) You can identify with Indiana Jones, you can identify with Ben Gates. It's hard to identify with Luke Skywalker because, well, not only is it unlikely that your dad conducted the extermination of a whole quasi-cenobitic order of galactic peacekeepers, but you also don't have a high enough midichlorian count. Or something. We could sort of identify with him in the first movie because his terrible dark past and his rotten destiny hadn't become main features yet; he was just a sandfarmer, just a kid, someone who could just as easily have been anyone.
This is the thought that struck me as I was coming home from the movie, what was prodding me about V for Vendetta. V was more than a man. The Wachowskis couldn't resist throwing in an obligatory 'Knife Time' scene. (Dammit.) In some ways he was already more than human. Evey's declaration at the end that "He is all of us," (like you can't see an immortal bit of dialogue like that coming from a country mile away?) seems to ring hollow, even with the almost demonstrative (and actually really keen) bit of cinematography after she says that. But the beauty of this scene to me is not that it's heavy-handed, but that what it's trying to say is rather plain and direct and so it's easy to see it as trying to beat the audience over the head with the concept, but it isn't. It's like being hit in the face with a whipped cream pie and realizing, hey, wait, there's chocolate filling in this pie. Mmm. The Monomyth has always been about the Everyman, even with the Hero being of divine or transhuman parentage. The Hero is the Everyman, and vice versa; we are Hero and Everyman and the two are one and the same. In this sense, and what the movie is very quietly repeating over and over, is that we are more than just who we are. There are seeds of something more within us, our birthright, that transcends these jars of clay. It's called, rising to the occasion. It's called, having reserves of strength you never knew you had. It's called, taking a stand.
Caution: Spoilers Follow.
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In a way, I'm a little disappointed by the last scene in the movie, but that was before I started on the rambling diatrabe above. The scene which showed the sparking of the riot communicated this idea -- that the Everyman is the Hero -- much more dramatically and appropriately. The scene in front of Parliament had hundreds if not thousands of people standing there and watching, sedentary and passive. Nothing has changed with them watching the surrounding puppet play except the venue. The scene after the shooting of the girl, on the other hand, had the people being much more active, much more involved in taking control of their lives. One thing I noticed about the closing scene, though, is that it needs to be seen more as a symbol than anything else. Why? Because everyone in the movie is there. Even characters who were killed are taking off masks in front of Parliament. Look closely, and you'll see it. This, to me, saves what would otherwise be a cliche scene.
And a subtle but significant note can be made in the form of the comedian that Evey flees to. Coincidence is a common theme in the movie, in that there's no such thing. He says it is a coincidence that he is making the same breakfast that V did for Evey, though as just about every other character says, there's no such thing as a coincidence. He also doesn't deny that he is V; merely admits that it wasn't very funny for him to say that. Like V he has a flair for dramatic speech, and like V he has a 'shadow gallery' of things which could get him arrested or killed. This isn't to say that he is V. Rather it underscores what Evey stated at the end of the movie, that "he is all of us." (Parenthetically, it's a rather interesting point to make, as well: Each of us, all of us, have things in our own shadow galleries, skeletons in our closets, things we don't really want other people to know too much about, interests and intrigues and curiosities and thoughts, that in any emotionally insecure statist, fascist regime, would be grounds for harrassment, suspicion, arrest, punishment, or even death. We are all none of us safe from a judiciary which applies extremes of law. It's often been said that if every law was fully enforced, we would all be criminals. Just an interesting note. The graphic novel presented a much more intriguing analogy, in that V's shadow gallery was actually arranged like a "map" of his brain.)
Anyway, I must needs be off and will be back later, I've decided to splurge and watch another movie just for the eye candy, and while I doubt Ultraviolet will be nearly as thought-provoking, I figured that with a long weekend for me I could do worse. (Like, the remake of The Shaggy Dog. *twitch*cringe* I remember seeing that as a kid.) Pax!
I also just returned from seeing V for Vendetta. Before launching into my obligatory polemic, let me say that it's a good film, much of the cinematography is very well done, there's some very 'think' parts in it, and Hugo Weaving comes closer than most actors I've ever seen as far as being able to act without benefit of showing expression. Seriously, I'm curious as to your reaction to Weaving's performance if you are any sort of student of body language. He actually seemed able to communicate well by using his whole body.
And now on with the blathering!
V for Vendetta is an important film, not for what it tells us, but for what it both doesn't telll us and what it wants to tell us. We've seen countless movies about dystopian futures, about how fascism is bad, mmmkay?, and we as a literary culture have been beaten over the head about how freedom is important and how we have to guard it against those who would use their power to crush our liberties. To their credit, the Wachowski brothers don't belabor the point; the Sutter government is bad, no need to beat a dead horse.
So if the story doesn't focus on defiance against fascism and personal-cum-political corruption, what does it focus on? That's one thing that tickled at me and I'm not entirely sure I've found it yet. That is, though, one thing I like about this movie: there's the obvious story, but then there's something deeper, something you want to wrap your head around and think about, really think, but it appears out of reach for a while. I think I found it, a bit inadvertently, and like most things it was quite obvious. Allow me to go slightly off-tangent for a bit.
David Brin wrote a rather scathing critique of Star Wars some time ago. His statement was that it held up non-democratic ideals for rule and power, and sent the wrong messages about redemption for past sins. He contrasted it to Star Trek, which would be an Everyman of values and ideals. I won't resurrect that argument here, except to say that I generally disagree with Brin on a whole lot of things. (Including but not limited to his ability as an author and his politeness as a person.) Even so, he did bring up one very good point with his critique of Star Wars but completely missed the target to bring it to a more wide-reaching conclusion. He had in his hands an excellent seed for a thesis; let me take it up now and expand upon it.
Most stories -- most good stories, anyway -- tend to fall into the paradigm of the Monomyth. The theme might have infinite permutations, and the quality of the retelling and changing of these permutations are what make these stories excellent. But there is always the recurring themes of the Call to the Journey, the Descent into the Underworld, the Escape to the Kingdom of Light, and the Restoration of the Land. Star Wars didn't have a monopoly on this, despite what George Lucas might think. This even -- and you may twitch and cringe now -- apply to most action films, particularly American action-adventure films. Almost all of action-adventure cinema for most of the past century -- including and definitely not limited to Star Wars but also including Star Trek -- has had as a central theme the hero who was in some ways special and different. Heroes are not just ordinary people, they are priviledged, made special in some way that a normal people cannot match. The list is nigh endless and I can come up with a whole list of movies and shows that serve as examples. The point is, the heroes in these movies have an edge, an advantage, something that makes them a cut above the rest. Even V is guily of this, because V is not just another man, which at first glance appears to be a fallacy of Evey's statement at the end of the movie.
This is of neccessity neither bad nor good, but it is rather the challenge to the writer of what they make of it. After all, even in the Monomyth the Hero is said to have a divine birthright of some sort, a parentage that was not wholely mortal. But the formula has been badly abused, to the point where there is no meaning to the action-adventure anymore, and rightly so. An action movie is just that, action action and more action, and there is no true adventure to it anymore. The reason for this is that the audience no longer identifies with the hero; the hero has become as mythic as his journey, so far above mortal man that none can even hope to identify with him.
Interestingly, some of the best films out there take this theme and turn it on it's ear. In the first Indiana Jones film, Indy is a supremely capable adventurer, but he really is, throughout it, just a man (perhaps blessed with inordinate luck.) Likewise, in National Treasure, Nicholas Cage's character is also just a man, nothing much special except for his encyclopedic knowledge of American history and indomitable will. (Admittedly, both have a few dei ex machinae which break this concept of the Everyman Hero, but they at least don't have it as egregiously as other movies do.) (Also, this is something that, admittedly, Star Trek did do better than Star Wars. Except, of course, for the insanely high levels of improbably flexible technology.... To each his own god from the machine, I suppose.) You can identify with Indiana Jones, you can identify with Ben Gates. It's hard to identify with Luke Skywalker because, well, not only is it unlikely that your dad conducted the extermination of a whole quasi-cenobitic order of galactic peacekeepers, but you also don't have a high enough midichlorian count. Or something. We could sort of identify with him in the first movie because his terrible dark past and his rotten destiny hadn't become main features yet; he was just a sandfarmer, just a kid, someone who could just as easily have been anyone.
This is the thought that struck me as I was coming home from the movie, what was prodding me about V for Vendetta. V was more than a man. The Wachowskis couldn't resist throwing in an obligatory 'Knife Time' scene. (Dammit.) In some ways he was already more than human. Evey's declaration at the end that "He is all of us," (like you can't see an immortal bit of dialogue like that coming from a country mile away?) seems to ring hollow, even with the almost demonstrative (and actually really keen) bit of cinematography after she says that. But the beauty of this scene to me is not that it's heavy-handed, but that what it's trying to say is rather plain and direct and so it's easy to see it as trying to beat the audience over the head with the concept, but it isn't. It's like being hit in the face with a whipped cream pie and realizing, hey, wait, there's chocolate filling in this pie. Mmm. The Monomyth has always been about the Everyman, even with the Hero being of divine or transhuman parentage. The Hero is the Everyman, and vice versa; we are Hero and Everyman and the two are one and the same. In this sense, and what the movie is very quietly repeating over and over, is that we are more than just who we are. There are seeds of something more within us, our birthright, that transcends these jars of clay. It's called, rising to the occasion. It's called, having reserves of strength you never knew you had. It's called, taking a stand.
*
*
*
*
*
*
In a way, I'm a little disappointed by the last scene in the movie, but that was before I started on the rambling diatrabe above. The scene which showed the sparking of the riot communicated this idea -- that the Everyman is the Hero -- much more dramatically and appropriately. The scene in front of Parliament had hundreds if not thousands of people standing there and watching, sedentary and passive. Nothing has changed with them watching the surrounding puppet play except the venue. The scene after the shooting of the girl, on the other hand, had the people being much more active, much more involved in taking control of their lives. One thing I noticed about the closing scene, though, is that it needs to be seen more as a symbol than anything else. Why? Because everyone in the movie is there. Even characters who were killed are taking off masks in front of Parliament. Look closely, and you'll see it. This, to me, saves what would otherwise be a cliche scene.
And a subtle but significant note can be made in the form of the comedian that Evey flees to. Coincidence is a common theme in the movie, in that there's no such thing. He says it is a coincidence that he is making the same breakfast that V did for Evey, though as just about every other character says, there's no such thing as a coincidence. He also doesn't deny that he is V; merely admits that it wasn't very funny for him to say that. Like V he has a flair for dramatic speech, and like V he has a 'shadow gallery' of things which could get him arrested or killed. This isn't to say that he is V. Rather it underscores what Evey stated at the end of the movie, that "he is all of us." (Parenthetically, it's a rather interesting point to make, as well: Each of us, all of us, have things in our own shadow galleries, skeletons in our closets, things we don't really want other people to know too much about, interests and intrigues and curiosities and thoughts, that in any emotionally insecure statist, fascist regime, would be grounds for harrassment, suspicion, arrest, punishment, or even death. We are all none of us safe from a judiciary which applies extremes of law. It's often been said that if every law was fully enforced, we would all be criminals. Just an interesting note. The graphic novel presented a much more intriguing analogy, in that V's shadow gallery was actually arranged like a "map" of his brain.)
Anyway, I must needs be off and will be back later, I've decided to splurge and watch another movie just for the eye candy, and while I doubt Ultraviolet will be nearly as thought-provoking, I figured that with a long weekend for me I could do worse. (Like, the remake of The Shaggy Dog. *twitch*cringe* I remember seeing that as a kid.) Pax!
