Gargantuan Foibles (A Review of "Pacific Rim")

 

The summer blockbuster is a Hollywood institution that has proven to be highly profitable. It taps into certain formulas that are perceived to appeal deeply to audiences that will return again and again to see the same film. This audience, by and large, consists of a younger demographic, and these films tend to combine a mixture of action with the charisma of proven Hollywood stars. The relationships are portrayed broadly, and seem to revolve around the following elements: young couples from different circumstances or with different temperaments, friends who bond in a given social setting (the “buddy” pics), and the perennial portrayal of “in” and “out” groups in conflict. There is also a heavy dose of special effects in movies that tend to be premised on fantasy premises as well as science fiction scenarios that revolve, over and over, around the fear of invasion and conquest. (How realistic can these scenarios be, as the astronomer Seth Shostak has noted, if we take into account that an alien civilization able to cross interstellar space would of necessity possess a vastly-superior technology that would render moot the possibility of resistance?). In these blockbusters there is also, of course, an element of escapism, rivalry between peers who compete for the affection of the woman, almost always a woman in these male-centered epics, and scenarios of military conflict that correspond to geopolitical concerns, or to phenomena such as terrorism. These films are not particularly subtle, and instead tend to be loud, punctuated as they are by repeated explosion or chase sequences that build to a thrilling climax that, unfortunately, always tends to revolve around countdowns and a spectacular explosion. There is little in the way of intellectual stimulation and, indeed, this would interfere with the adrenaline rush these blockbusters are meant to provide. These films, borrowing as I wish to do and appealing to the full metaphorical sense of the title, are “No country for Old Men”, and no material for those who have a modicum of education.

I was thinking about these components as I was watching Guillermo Del Toro’s latest film, the blockbuster titled Pacific Rim. After the first few minutes, I knew that this film was not meant for me, but decided to stay to watch it until the end, against my better judgment. Del Toro is known for having directed several films that we may categorize as belonging to the genre of fantasy and horror, starting with his memorable Cronus. He has also incorporated lyrical themes that have to do with the nature of repression, and the political subtext in films such as Pan’s Labyrinth and El espinazo del diablo (The Devil’s Backbone) is very much in evidence. He has also tapped into popular culture, having brought to the screen Mike Mignolo’s comic book character, “Hellboy”, yet another fable about an outsider who renounces his fate and circumstances to chart an alternate course, what we would tend to view as turning his back on his “natural” affiliation, only to uphold the dominant (bourgeois) ethos of the social group that we can all identify with, which is, that of western consumer culture. These, as well as the stylish Blade films, may be termed action films, but they aren’t one-dimensional. They are characterized at times by humor and wit, and at other times by an investigation of the moral compass that guides individuals as they struggle to question the imperatives of the societies that bind and encircle them. They have tended to be masterful in their handling of tone, conveying at times nostalgia, at times menace, and at times wonder as well as incorporating a lyrical note. For the most part I’ve enjoyed Del Toro’s films, despite the fact that they are highly commercial.

In his latest film, we have an homage to the monster movies that were a mainstay of Japanese movie studios such as Toho films in the 50s through 70s. These films featured an array of gigantic creatures, monsters ranging from Godzilla to Gamera, Rodan to King Ghidorah, that were a mainstay of my youth. These were giant monsters that were as tall as skyscrapers, and while the earliest Godzilla movie featured an extended sequence in which the monster tore through Tokyo on a path to destruction that encapsulated what appeared to be a punitive mission against humanity, a punishment as if were for the sins of humanity in the wake of the atomic age. It was a deeply mesmerizing film, and it inaugurated a whole genre that morphed into a wholly different entity, films that highlighted not only the upsetting of a natural balance (we have a “Smog” monster that appears in a later film) but also movies that can’t be categorized as anything other than thinly-disguised westerns, with humanity standing by passively on the sides as they watched these monsters engage in combat. There was interaction with humans as well, typically with children, as the Japanese directors mined the deep fascination that children have always had with their elders, who can at times assume frightening aspects akin to those of monsters. Children also have an enduring fascination with these figures as well, as noted in the enduring appeal of books such as Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, or the Pixar Monsters, Inc. movies (or the wolves of old in ancient fairy tales).

The monsters in the Japanese films of this period all had their own personalities, and it was easy to identify and in some way project our hopes and fears on them. Godzilla, in particular, was domesticated as the films progressed, and he came to seem like the embodiment, in oversized dinosaur garb, of a curmudgeonly father, perpetually ill-tempered and foul-breathed but also willing to enter the fray and defend humanity, defend his son and defend the society of monsters. Gamera, the flying turtle, was like an older brother, somehow more cerebral in my conception, always willing to hear the entreaties of children and able to withdraw into his shell and fly away, shooting flames while rotating. He always did seem particularly protective of young children and, when it comes down to it, as I suggested before, we could say that the monster movies were westerns transposed into the modern age and urban setting, with gunslingers (or more accurately, fire-breathers) who came from far away (the depths of the sea, outer space, “Monster Island”) in order to uphold community values in the face of disruption by outsiders. The spectacle of seeing these monsters, in sets that were designed to accentuate this sense of scale, were always immensely appealing to me, even if I always wondered why it was that beings made of organic materials felt nothing when stepping on a tank and crushing it, while I always howled in pain if I made the mistake of stepping on a hot wheel with my bare foot.

In Guillermo Del Toro’s latest film, the premise is that, once again, outsiders come to threaten the community with destruction. In this case, these are gigantic lizard-like monsters who come to be known as “kaijus”, and they emerge from a trench under the sea, one that constitutes a portal between dimensions. These monsters start out as blundering entities, attacking cities located throughout the Pacific rim, but after being repelled, they come to slowly evolve, so that they are assigned different categories. Humanity is under threat, then, and in this latest instance of the Western genre, we have need of a group of defenders, the Seven Samurai, so to speak, who, as in Akira Kurosawa’s classic film, will band together and overcome their differences in order to defeat this menace. These are the mechas, the Jaegers (hunters) who are operated by teams of two people who have a type of neural interface that allows them to operate these mammoth beings. Why these operators have to be located within the gargantuan metallic object and can’t operate it the way modern armies operate drones escapes me.

What we have, unfortunately, is a case of blockbusteritis. I came in knowing that the premise was fairly formulaic, having been done many times before, and that furthermore this film was meant in some way to hark back on the Japanese films we had seen before, thirty or forty years ago. But somehow it didn’t translate very well, something that has been evident as well in other recent remakes of classic monster films that have been updated (read, spoiled by special effect and one-dimensional plots). Perhaps it has to do with tone, and with the idea that there was always an emotional heart to the old films that is not present in these bloated summer blockbusters of recent times. Perhaps it is more difficult to care about yet one more scenario involving the destruction of humanity, when we have become so jaded about the state of our modern world, and when, as mentioned in this movie as a type of ecological warning about the dangers of global warming, we have brought this once again upon ourselves. At least in the monster movies that I remember from the past, there was much less ideological ambiguity when we considered the children who viewed these monsters from afar, and we could view them as innocent fables, as westerns, so to speak. In this case, this emotional heart is lacking, and no abundance of repetitive action sequences that feature mechas (or, more appropriately, the term should be cyborgs, for these are humans interfaced with gargantuan mechanical weapons platforms that take human form) can compensate, not even when you throw the pro forma personnel conflicts that involve the sacrifice of brothers, sons and mentors.

Very quickly the actions sequences grew stale. The premise was one that was difficult to credit, but when you are playing it as realism, and not as fable, it came to seem all the more like a cynical ploy to achieve commercial success and to generate market demand for the associated products, for the toys (one of the scientists in the movie has what seems to be a fetish revolving around kaiju of different categories, to which he has assigned names and categorized, as if he were in charge of future marketing), videogames and assorted by-products that were sure to accompany this film. The giant cyborg defenders are once again crewed by outsiders who are iconoclasts and non-comformists, who don’t otherwise fit into modern society, but who are redeemed by their talents. They can’t obey orders, because they have their own code of honesty, their own moral imperatives. We have, once again, a group of pilots, and the personnel who are in charge of supporting them, and we have the short-sighted bureaucrats, the effete leaders, the politicians who lack vision and are unable to give the necessary level of support or guidance. The pilots, in effect, are fighting against each other (there are rivalries), fighting against themselves (with unresolved family conflicts that torment their psyches), fighting with their managers, and finally, fighting against the external threat posed by the kaiju. Could the odds be more stacked against them?

There was a very notable cartoonish quality to these combat sequences that grew repetitive very quickly. This is due, in large part, to the emphasis on action sequences that is one of the guiding elements of all summer blockbusters, combined as it was with computer-generated spectacle. After five minutes I grew frustrated with the wrestling and martial arts moves of these behemoth characters, as if immense creatures could swerve and pivot on a dime, weighing as they did thousands of tons, and felt that there was no grounding for a psychological understanding of the outsider. Yes, it turns out, they (the kaijus) are soldiers as well, sent to “clean” out the human species so that they can colonize the planet, but these monsters seem strangely anonymous, despite their ferocious appearance. They spew acid, they have curling tails that whip at their rivals (the jaegers/cyborgs), and they are capable of playing dead, but frustratingly, they have no personality. Perhaps one may argue that they are an alien species and that they can’t be anthropomorphized, but if their mission is one that is fully comprehensible in human terms (that of conquest and colonization), then we have already defined them in familiar terms. What we have, instead, is a series of monsters who arrive and are sequentially defeated, with the last one, the category 5 monster encountered at the trench, being supposedly the most terrifying one.

What is comes down to is this: is this a political fable or a simple wrestling match? Is this an allegory about the threat of invasion and takeover, a la “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”, or a homily about family values and the need to reconcile, or a projection of fears that western industrialized societies have with regards to immigration from their southern neighbors, transposed, now, to another dimension (the trench as the tunnel that serves as the passageway for subversives)? It is hard to make it out as such, when what we see is another formulaic exercise that revels in bloated special effects and simplistic interpersonal dynamics. It is hard to believe or see any passion in this film, and it all seems forced, like the farewell between father and son who are unable to continue as a team, or the limp romance between the protagonist (Raleigh Becket) and his Japanese female co-pilot (Mako Mori), the one who will supposedly reclaim him after the tragedy in which he suffered the loss of his brother.

I suppose you have to be a certain age to enjoy summer blockbusters. At times, these films can tap into hidden reservoirs of wonder, and when combined with engaging human relationships, they can leave a lasting imprint. Such was the case for so many of my generation, when we first saw “Star Wars” back in the late 70s. It is not the case with this latest film by Guillermo Del Toro that seems to turn its back on the playful, and at times gleeful, but also admonitory note that he frequently incorporated in his films. In the end, the movie, like the monsters that inhabit it, proved to be a highly bloated special effects creation that was all ferocious and glitzy exterior, but quite empty inside.

Give me the rubber suits but, also, the innocence of the old Japanese monster movies any time.

 

OGRomero © 2013
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2013)

The Magical Island (Review of Laputa: Castle in the Sky)

 

 

Hayao Miyazaki is an acknowledged master of anime, a genre of filmmaking that combines animation with themes from Japanese culture. I understand and appreciate that animation as a genre is popular throughout the world, and that other countries have cultivated it as well, with notable recent examples being the French film The Triplets of Belleville. Furthermore, different national traditions in animation are enhanced by association with related media platforms, of which we may signal out the publication of illustrated books (comics) known as bandes dessinées for Francophone audiences and, of course, the vigorous manga tradition in Japan. In these cultural expressions there are elements of melodrama and fantasy, as well as themes and images derived from the cultural and symbolic language of science fiction, crime serializations (notable in creations such as Fantomas) and comic historical epics (think Asterix in Belgium or Lone Wolf and Cub in Japan). They are all melded with a vigorous youth culture that thrives on fan clubs, the collection of associated consumer products such as clothing, action figures and others, conventions, role-playing (of which we can single out, for example, cosplay) and other mediums of participation. However, anime as developed in Japan seems to have developed its own distinct national characteristics, a style and outlook as well as a catalogue of narrative formulas that distinguish it from the animation that is practiced in other countries.

In the case of Miyazaki, his films seem to revolve around stories that we may describe as modern-day folk tales with a pastoral note. There is a timeless quality to so many of them, even if they may be situated in epochs that may range from the pre-industrial age (Princess Mononoke) to industrial (Howl’s Moving Castle) to the modern post-industrial era where consumerism is erasing national mythologies and, by extension, unique spiritual values (Spirited Away, winner of the Best Animated Feature Academy Award in 2002). It is striking to me how often these stories involve characters, almost always young girls, who face difficult circumstances and who learn moral lessons that involve learning to trust one’s instincts (reinforcing unique spiritual values associated with a particular culture), find a firmer connection with society while at the same time maintaining a sense of wonder and innocence, as a reaction to the convergence of predatory forces so often unleashed in these films.

In Laputa: Castle in the Sky, released in 1986, we have one of the first films to have been written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki, and produced by Studio Ghibli. It amply illustrates several of the themes listed above, all combined with the strong storytelling that has been a feature of all of his films. It is on one level a caper film with two young protagonist (the orphans Sheeta and Pazu, the first being a mysterious girl who drops out of the sky in the opening sequence and the latter being a young and industrious boy who lives in a mining town) who are chased by pirates as well as government agents. We also have elements of fantasy that reveal a deep-seated psychological underpinning, for example, the need that we can project for all young people to find a home of their own, and to make sense of their past, both personal as well as social, elements that are involved in any rite of passage. And, we have a tale of wonder with implied political commentary, evident in the quest for a magical place, the castle in the sky, that proves a backdrop for a Faustian quest for knowledge.

 

We have seen these themes before, of course, for they have appeared over and over in epic fantasies, in fairy tales, and in political thrillers. It is the way in which these themes are seamlessly melded together that characterizes the quiet assurance of Miyazaki as a writer and animator. He manages to combine these elements to produce a film that is at once a story of innocent first love as well as a fable that warns against the dangers of Science (with a capital “S”) pursued without ethical restraint (harking back to the theme of Faust, and the allegory of power that corrupts). One obtains, from time to time, the impression that these films of Miyazaki are pastorals, by which I am referring to the idealization of a pre-industrial past, and the notion that communities and ideals back in an earlier period were much more rooted in local and sustainable traditions. There is almost always an associated element of wonder that accompanies these reflections, situated as they are not only in idealized historical epochs, but also in idealized psychosocial stages in an individual’s development, for they are evocations of the innocence of childhood. There is an element of reverie in these films, and as in all such experiences, there are moments of encounter where the sense of wonder is evoked in touching ways, depending on the scale of the encounters. We have, for example, the monumental, which is evident in view afforded by majestic cloudscapes and the quiet and peaceful gardens of Laputa, or in the almost cathedral-like forest canopy in a film such as Princess Mononoke, or more recently, in the sheer profusion of sea life that is revealed in a symphony of movement and color in the opening sequence of Ponyo. But there is also a smaller scale, that of personal contact, that is evident in small gestures, in moments of intimacy, in the way children can reach out to hold each other’s hands, or smile at the antics of a friend, as happens with the character of Turnip-head who follows around the protagonist in the movie Howl’s Moving Castle.

I am struck as well by the vertical landscapes in a film such as Laputa: Castle in the Sky. In this case it seems to play a prominent part, alluding as it does to social and well as emotional distance, and emblematized by repeated cliffhanger sequences that characterize this film. Sheeta isn’t the only protagonist who inhabits the sky, we have air-borne pirates as well, led by the middle-aged woman with pink ponytails named Dola, but also, evident in the monstrous government battleships that sweep across in great aerial vistas. And, we have a mining village that seems to be perched on a cliff like a modern-day Machu Pichu, with houses situated precariously on the very edge of precipitous cliffs, and railroad tracks that, for all the use of iron and metal in other constructions, are built, astoundingly, of wood, arcing over deep chasms. And, of course, deep down inside the mines, we have an interior landscape notable for great airy spaces, the equivalent of the sky but hallowed out in stone and reverential echoes, where the old grandfather who knows much of the lore of these communities is located, hiking alone. The stone cavern is illuminated by the shimmer of glowing reflections, provided as they are by traces of an element that is mysterious and full of power, as all such elements should be if they are to preserve an element of magic.  In the modern day equivalent, we can help but think of them as quite possible uranium or some such radioactive element, which is also lethal if concentrated or if exposure is not limited, which only serves to underscore that these disguised elements are part of a narrative that, once again, warns against scientific hubris, an enduring theme of science fiction.

 

 After having mentioned science fiction, it would seem natural as well to talk about the nature of technology in evidence in this film. It is a curious mixture that I would venture to call a form of “retro futurism”, for it harks back to what I would like to imagine is a 19^th century conception of technological development. We have no circuit boards, no solid state physics, and no consumer electronics of the kind that have produced modern-day wonders such as IPhones. We have instead dirigibles made of iron that somehow are maintained in the air with immense rotors, and elaborate as well as massive pipe works that provide the power necessary to excavate the earth, and of course, steam trains that run on charcoal and that seem strangely quaint as they chug along wooden tracks that disintegrate during chase sequences. How will the destruction of these tracks and bridges impact a mining community that depends on this mode of transportation to deliver the products they extract from the mines, when it is evident that reconstructing them will be subject to immense delays? There is, notably, little social realism in these films, and no true representation of the poor and their suffering, where pain is more emotional rather than economic, but we are talking, once again, about pastorals, and the idealization of distant realms.

The flying vehicles that are flown by the family of pirates resemble nothing so much as iron gnats or ladybugs, and the daredevil moves of the pilots as they fly through the sky produce an adrenaline rush that is evoked continually in this film. Vertical thrill are much in evidence in this film, one in which protagonists are always on the verge of falling off cliffs, sky ships, bridges, railroad tracks or a floating island, but one in which these predicaments are conveyed with an element of whimsy rather than nail-biting terror. In one sequence towards the end of the film, the young boy Pazu is forced to cling desperately to the roots of the giant tree that are revealed as the lower levels of the island begin to crumble away, in another cliffhanger sequence that can’t help but recall the famous scene in the film The Empire Strikes Back when Luke Skywalker is similarly perched beneath the fortress of Lando Calrissian. It is, then, what I could venture to say a Victorian vision of the future in which domestic arrangements and prosperity is threatened by the operation of grander social institutions that have become unmoored from local communities, operating with a level of detachment without moral restraint that as a fable exerts a powerful hold on the imagination particularly now, in the 21^st century.

 

And we have robots, giant and silent creatures that lumber like industrial age golems, the personal servants of the inheritors of Laputa and guardians of the realm. These robots can themselves be turned against their charges and are capable of wielding immense destructive energy, for not only are they almost indestructible, they also shoot energy beams from their eyes. They point, once again, to the message that is underscored again and again in this film, that of the perils of unrestrained (read, unethical) technological development, and to the allegorical foundation of this theme which is found in Mary Shelley’s classic novel, Frankenstein.

 

It must be remarked that a Miyazaki film would not be complete if it were not for the inclusion of themes not only of reconciliation (with society, with the land, with oneself) but also of redemption. This is part of the moral underpinning of his films, and I am struck over and over by how often it is that the innocent protagonists in his films reach out to their putative enemies and, in a sense, redeem them, providing as they do an experience that is characteristic of melodrama. After all, as the critic Peter Brooks noted so long ago, melodrama so often involves revealing what we could call the “moral occult”, the true moral qualities of the protagonists that were hidden, and in redeeming figures who had previously seemed beyond redemption (a powerful element in romantic literature as well). Which is not to say that we don’t have villains who, in their malevolence, seem frustratingly uni-dimensional and remind me of the simplistic conception of neocons and social conservatives in this country who like to speak in simplistic terms of dichotomy between “good guys” and “bad guys”, a la George W. But we also have hidden allies, which in many of Miyazaki’s films takes the form of wizened, vigorous and comic old women, characters such as Dola the “Captain” of the pirates, or in the case of a film such as Howl’s Moving Castle, the chastened “Witch of the Waste”. That is part of the joy of these films, seeing how this moral spectacle unfolds by the coherence of a new family, incorporating individuals who previously had seemed so threatening to the protagonists. This serves to underscore, once again, a moral lesson, that allies are found everywhere, even in the outsiders of society.

The film was highly enjoyable, and while it is one of Miyazaki’s earlier films, it already shares many of the themes that appear again and again in his oeuvre. The idea of the magic island, invested with magical powers and in need of a sovereign who can wield its power, whether rightly or wrongly, is one that has epic qualities and that resonates deeply in the Western imagination. It is found in Homer, in the narrative of travellers, soldiers and heroes who wish to reclaim their inheritance or to prove themselves, and it is evident in a work such as Shakespeare’s The Tempest, or most recently in the popular imagination, the deeply muddled television series “Lost”. In the end, it has an allegorical quality that warns against the powerful impulse that is harbored in all of humanity, but also conveys the seduction of magical landscapes, and the search for a sense of cohesion in a fragmented world.

 

OGRomero © 2013
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2013)