Month: April 2020

Spoilers for the highest grossing movie of 2018 and the highest grossing movie of 2019 herein.

Roughly two years ago when Avengers: Infinity War hit theaters, the most repeated criticism of its big genocidal ending came to life; that because we knew the characters that died would come back, the ending was irrelevant, fraudulent, manipulative, and so on.

Roughly one year after that, I argued otherwise.  I made a few arguments, but the one most relevant to the one you’re (theoretically) reading right now is that these criticisms ignore the story being told.

“Infinity War is Thanos’ movie, Thanos’ snap; Endgame belongs to the Avengers. Thanos wins in Infinity War, placing the Avengers in a need for redemption in Endgame.

If you’re going to have two halves, they need to be individual, and they need duality. That Infinity War is telling its own story, which correlates with a second half is, frankly, what we should want from a two-parter.”

What I didn’t know at the time was how far this “individual yet dual” concept would go, and it goes so far as to affect the pacing. This can be found in two words:

Action, reaction.

Hitting The Ground Running

Infinity War starts and seldom stops.

The film opens by throwing us right into the action. We don’t see Thanos start attacking the Asgardian refugee vessel; it’s more or less over and done with. This intensity persists through the rest of the scene, with Thanos killing two characters close to Thor (Idris Elba’s Heimdall and Tom Hiddleston’s Loki).

This is consistent throughout the film; characters are constantly thrown into the action. Our heroes think they have the time to discuss/reflect on decisions, time they most certainly don’t have. Tony contemplates texting Steve, New York is invaded. Wanda and Vision debate whether Vision should go to New York, Vision is stabbed in the chest mid sentence.

The film does have downtime, but even this has a sense of urgency to it. Another (somewhat) common trope is this downtime occurring on a spaceship heading to an important location. An example of this is when Groot, Rocket and Thor are on their way to Nidavellir, and the latter two have a heart to heart about how little Thor has to lose. It also occurs earlier in the movie, when, on their way to find the reality stone, Gamora gives Peter the “I might need you to kill me” talk.

Additionally, their plan to save Vision and stop Thanos is a desperate, last minute scramble, one they don’t have the time to come up with a backup plan for. Blockbusters might throw a kink or two in saving the day; maybe the battery in the world saving machine died and Thor has to restart it with his lightning, or something.

Not here. Once Thanos’ minions attack Shuri’s lab, it’s all over for Vision. There’s no other decision to make, and no time to come up with another.

There’s little to no time to properly contemplate or react, because all it’s going to take is one moment for Thanos to change everything. They simply have to act.

Thanos’ Certainty 

This is all because Thanos knows what he’s doing, to say the least. He’s certain of his decision, his plan, and now that he has a means of getting each stone, he hits the ground running. Thanos is strong, both mentally and physically, and he’s, above all, certain.

These attributes, as well as the film’s pacing being used to reflect them, are most effectively reflected in his sacrifice of Gamora on Vormir (the same can be said of its sister scene in Endgame, which I will get into). Once Thanos is told that he must sacrifice what he loves, the film cuts to an immediate reaction shot of Gamora. She thinks she knows Thanos, thinks she knows that he’s incapable of love, and is thus relishing in the moment of his supposed failure.

Thanos, too, is trying to stretch out a moment. He’s trying to avoid what he “has to do” for as long as he can.

Be it relishing or avoiding, they are both responding to a moment.

Vormir’s Mirror

When Natasha and Clint are informed of the same thing, on the other hand, there’s a time jump.

No instantaneous cut, no immediate understanding of what needs to be done; they have to come to the realization. Unlike the certainty of Thanos’ decision and realization, they….disagree over who should be the one to make the sacrifice.

Endgame’s Reaction

In further contrast, unlike Infinity War‘s opening scene, where we’re thrown into a conflict, Endgame opens with a a family picnic. Granted, it’s one being rudely interrupted by intergalactic genocide. But the following scene shows Tony and Nebula, post intergalactic genocide, playing paper football.

These scenes establish the slower, more reflective pace that will permeate the film. What’s particularly interesting about them is there’s still an urgency in the narrative in these opening scenes. For one, they’re stranded in space and need to get back home, thus continuing Infinity War‘s trope, and they eventually try to undo Thanos’ snap.

When they eventually get back to Earth, they reconvene and make the (relatively) instantaneous decision to go after Thanos, get the stones, and reverse the snap. It’s the simplest and most logical reaction. Unfortunately, Thanos also had the simplest and most logical reaction and snapped again to reduce the stones to atoms, leaving them with nothing.

And so five years pass, allowing us to see how everyone’s reacted to Thanos’ snap. Everyone has different reactions, and will thus react differently to the eventual opportunity to finally change things. Tony and Thor in particular need proper motivation to partake in saving the universe. Thor doesn’t want to confront the trauma and failure he’s been running from for five years, whereas Tony doesn’t want to lose the family life he now has.

The point here is that the characters have to make the decision to save the world on their own terms. They’re not thrown in the action the way they are in Infinity War, there are no conversations being cut off by impalements with alien spears, they have to initiate the action themselves.

And when they do initiate the action themselves, they take their time. Unlike the last minute nature of trying to save Vision, in which they have to book it to Wakanda after coming up with it, we get sequences of our heroes studying. One of my favorite images in the movie is of Tony, Natasha and Professor Hulk all lying down as they come to an important realization about when and where to find three of the stones.

They’re lying down because they’re taking their time. They have all the time in the universe. 

The Only Way

This contrast is essential to the entirety of both stories, individually and totally. It’s because of the prior, relentless conflict of Infinity War that the necessity of reflection and coming to terms with their faults becomes realized.

It’s also intentionally reflected in Endgame‘s use of time travel. There’s the fact that they can access any time in history, but this is compounded by the point they return to; the point in time in which they start their time travel mission and end is exactly the same. This is about them taking control of, taking back the momentary, instantaneous nature of Infinity War.

It’s also reflected in the death of Tony Stark. Last year when I wrote about Infinity War I argued:

“I’ve heard it argued that Tony’s death has been telegraphed too hard for him to actually die in Endgame. Thanos almost killing him in Infinity War, him waiting to die in midst of space in the trailer, etc.

If Tony dies, what I think this telegraphing means is that death is not something that is going to just happen to Tony.

He’s not going to be killed, he’s not going to just die because he ran out of food and water.

It’s going to be a choice he has to make.”

And so it was. Death wasn’t thrust upon Tony, it was never going to be an action that he was thrown into. In Endgame, he had to choose to join the fight, and he had to choose to die.

As such, they could never beat Thanos in this instantaneous fight, without reflection on who they are and why they’re doing this. They could never do it as they were and just acting.

They had to react. And so they did.

 

Spoilers for The Shining novel and film and the Doctor Sleep novel and film herein.

While at the time I’d only seen Kubrick’s film and not read The Shining, I had no issues reading Doctor Sleep in 2018. The differences between King’s novel and Kubrick’s film and their lasting impact on King’s sequel were simple and easy to grasp.

Oh, so Dick Halloran didn’t die? Oh, so the Overlook burnt down and Jack Torrance redeemed himself?

No problems there. I settled into this new world with no issue.

When it came to translating Doctor Sleep into a cinematic sequel to Kubrick’s film, I expected the story to remain mostly the same, and I thought any changes would primarily be simple, translational things.

But what writer/director Mike Flanagan does with his adaptation goes far beyond this. He doesn’t simply stick to the text of King’s Doctor Sleep andadd the visuals of Kubrick’s film/make little alterations when necessary. He reflects on the primary difference between Stephen King’s The Shining and Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation:

The former is a redemption story for Jack Torrance, and the latter is not.

This distinction leads to the film ending with Dan doing what his father didn’t in Kubrick’s film by burning down the Overlook. The thematic significance of this will be explored further (and first), but I also want to argue that this new ending, this new trajectory, has a thematic ripple effect on the rest of the story. Mainly, I hope to convince you that the cinematic deaths of two characters who didn’t die in the book, Dan’s friend Billy (Cliff Curtis) and Abra’s father David (Zackary Momoh), can be thematically traced to the unredeemed evil of Stanley Kubrick’s Jack Torrance.

The Core Story

The core story of both King’s novel and Flanagan’s film remain largely the same. Dan Torrance (Ewan McGregor) is all grown up, nice and traumatized from his childhood stay at the Overlook. He’s since developed a drinking problem like his old man (iconically portrayed Jack Nicholson in the first film, Henry Thomas in the sequel), one he embraces as a means of suppressing his shining. He makes some friends, gets sober, and once his life is back on track, he learns of a young girl named Abra (Kyliegh Curran).

Abra has the shining, more powerfully than anyone Dan has ever known. Unfortunately, this makes her a prime target for a group of quasi-immortal beings with the shining known as the True Knot. This group finds little ones with the shining and tortures them as a means of extracting their essence, a steam, this steam giving them longer life. Dan teams up with Abra to take out the True, Abra gets kidnapped, then saved, and they then confront the lead baddy Rose the Hat (Rebecca Ferguson) at the old Overlook stomping ground (this is so Dan can confront his past), Rose is killed, end of story.

The meat of the plot is the same. But the differences are key, and what will first be looked at is Jack Torrance’s presence in both iterations of Doctor Sleep.

“I’m Sorry I Wasn’t Better”

We don’t fully see him in either story towards the end. In the novel, his spirit is still present where the Overlook once stood, but it no longer stands there because of him. Now it’s an RV campground.

But there remains a residue. One that attracts beings that shine, making it irresistible to the RV traversing True Knot. When Dan decides to take the fight to them, Abra joins him through a spectral presence (she doesn’t physically attend due to her own safety). After disposing of the majority of the Knot, Dan and Abra go to take on the solo Rose the Hat.

Jack’s spirit intervenes to help his son and granddaughter*, and together they kill Rose. This, again, continues Jack’s redemption arc.

*For those who haven’t read the book, a key twist is that Jack had an affair during his drinking days, and from that affair came a child; Abra’s mother. The thematic significance of this will be explored later.

As Dan leaves, he and Jack have a touching moment. They’re too far from each other to say anything, but they have nothing to say. Dan knows his Dad redeemed himself, that he was a good man in the end.

And so they wave.

“Why Weren’t You Better?”

Jack’s presence in the climax of Flanagan’s film, on the other hand, is defined by the lack of it.

He didn’t redeem himself in Kubrick’s film, nor was the Overlook burnt down. He now takes on the Lloyd persona, pretending he doesn’t know who Dan is or Wendy (also iconically portrayed in the first film by Shelley Duvall, now played by Alex Essoe) was. Dan spends this conversation trying to speak to his father, to talk about his life, the death of his mother. Jack the bartender doesn’t listen, trying to convince his son to drink in lieu of confronting these problems.

Dan gets to the point where he practically begs his father to listen. “Don’t you want to hear about it? She was your wife!”  

Meanwhile, Jack continues to play dumb, insisting on alcohol in place of his son’s emotional trauma. Eventually, Dan outright denies the drink, and is then left alone. The silent wave between the two of them cannot happen here, because there’s no unspoken understanding that Jack tried to be better.

Because he didn’t try to be better.

Because Jack didn’t burn down the Overlook, and because he doesn’t help his son against Rose, Dan has to rely on the hungry residents of the Overlook to take her down. And they do! Unfortunately, unleashing a hungry bear on your foe doesn’t mean that the bear won’t turn on you. And so these residents possess Dan, the way they possessed his father in the Shining novel. Like the Shining novel and film, the crazed, possessed Dan goes after Abra the way his father pursued him. Again like the Shining novel, this leads to him fighting against the possession and sparing Abra. Again like the Shining novel, this leads to him running to the boiler room. He fights back against the possession once more, not letting them save the hotel.

And so he lets it burn, fulfilling what his father didn’t in Kubrick’s film. As it burns, he doesn’t have his Jack with him, but instead Wendy, effectively contrasting the climax of the book.

New Trajectory, New Path 

Because there’s a new ending, there are new themes to be discovered in Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep. To briefly summarize the new distinctions, King’s Doctor Sleep ends with Dan alive, and thus with a life to go back to. Since Flanagan’s film ends with Dan dying, there….is no life for him to go back to, and it’s more about the life he’s leaving behind; Abra’s.

That the book ends with a life for Dan to go back to leads to an emphasis on community, friends, and, most significantly, family, like the half-sister and niece he didn’t know he had. That the film ends with him dying leads to an emphasis on isolation, and there’s much less connective tissue to be found among the characters in the film than there are in the book.

To begin with, any relations connecting Abra and Dan are gone. As mentioned before, the book had a familial connection between Dan and Abra; it’s revealed that Jack had an affair during his drinking days, leading to the birth of Abra’s mother Lucy, thus making Dan the actual uncle of Abra.

This is all gone. As is Dr. John (Bruce Greenwood), someone Dan knows from AA, being Abra’s pediatrician.

This lessened sense of community impacts the film in other ways. Earlier I mentioned that Dan’s made some friends in his new life, but there are fewer friends in the film than in the book. For example; the character of Casey Kingsley, who was Dan’s employer and sponsor in the book, has been removed entirely, his two functions being split up and delegated to Dr. John and Billy Freeman (Cliff Curtis). And even with this delegation, the former only has two scenes.

Of course, these reductions and changes are not all in and of themselves a sign of any thematic ambition that Flanagan may have. It’s a film adaptation. They’re going to have to cut stuff out. But Flanagan also changes a key low point in the film, and it is through this low point that the emphasis on isolation is revealed.

Flanagan’s Ambush 

In both the book and the film, Dan coordinates a trap for the True Knot. Abra will “project” her shining to a different location to lure the True Knot away from her, a location where Dan will be waiting to ambush them.

In the book, it’s Dan, Dr. John, and Abra’s father David who partake in the ambush. Dan and David aren’t exactly friends yet (nor do they yet know they’re brothers-in-law), but Dr. John serves as a sort of mediator between the two, and the two men eventually come to trust each other. Billy Freeman stays back at Abra’s house to watch over her.

In the film, there’s no Dr John, and Billy swaps places with David to join Dan at the ambush. There’s no new relationship that needs mediation; he’s with a friend he’s known for eight years.

Both the book and film end this segment with a tragic twist; while the respective ambushers kill all of the True Knot members they…ambushed, one secretly went to Abra’s home. He drugs and kidnaps her.

This kidnapping is accompanied both in the film and book by a complimentary low point, but these low points differ according to the themes at hand. Meaning the book’s low point correlates with its interest in community, whereas the film’s low point correlates with its interest in isolation.

In the book, Billy Freeman is also drugged by the kidnapper and brought along for the ride. David Stone chews Dan out, blaming him for what’s happened. The low point here is of a relationship that needs mediating. In addition to Abra’s life, what’s being threatened is the life that’s waiting for Dan when all this is over. This low point is resolved by Dan learning and revealing (through means, though dramatically effective, too convoluted to summarize here) of the familial relationship between him and Abra’s mother Lucy. It’s community and family itself that brings them together.

In the film, the kidnapper kills David.

Billy Freeman gets too close to a True Knot member who can “suggest” people do things. After she “suggests” it, Billy takes his gun and kills himself.

Whereas the book had an assortment of people working together to find Abra, with the complimentary low point being the distrust between Dan and Abra’s father, the film leaves Dan all alone.

The significance of this complimentary low point is that it utterly isolates Dan, and also serves as a sort of threat. Billy was Dan’s only friend, the only life he really had, and now he’s gone. There’s no life for him to go back to. Billy being Dan’s AA sponsor also has the compounded effect of forcing Dan to confront the bottle, alone, for the first time in years. Meanwhile, the death of David Stone serves as a threat that Abra may have no life to go back to.

The thematic significance of these deaths reinforce Dan’s decision at the end of the film; to give his life and burn down the Overlook, the way his father did in the novel, and to give Abra a second chance. The second chance his father gave him in the Shining novel, and failed to give him in the film.  

Coming Back Around

In conclusion:

The lack of redemption for Stanley Kubrick’s Jack Torrance lead to the Overlook not burning down the way it did in the Shining novel. This distinction lead to a different ending for Dan in the film Doctor Sleep, where he had to fulfill what his father didn’t do and give Abra a second chance. These things lead to a new theme of isolation, thus leading to the new low points found in the deaths of Dan’s friend Billy and Abra’s father David. 

As a fan of King’s Doctor Sleep, I was initially a little upset by these changes, only looking at them on the surface. I was shocked by the death of Billy, a character who I loved in the book (and thought was wonderfully played by Cliff Curtis), and my instinctive response to Dan dying was “awww, I get it but I don’t want him to die.”

But the more I reflected on it, the more I realized that what Flanagan had accomplished with this new narrative was extraordinary. As previously said, this wasn’t some intellectual exercise, a simple adaptation of a book with a new coat of Kubrick’s paint. It’s instead a profoundly powerful harmony of, and reflection on, Kubrick’s film and King’s novels, understanding what makes each of them tick and creating a new story that was better than I could have hoped.

Mike Flanagan had a herculean task in this adaptation unlike any I’ve seen before. And in handling it, he created a masterful film that, too, was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The film already has a positive reception, but, as with Kubrick’s film, I think (and hope) that time will be even kinder to it.

 

A concept that has always fascinated me in storytelling and art is de-familiarization.

“A theory and technique, originating in the early 20th century, in which an artistic or literary work presents familiar objects or situations in an unfamiliar way, prolonging the perceptive process and allowing for a fresh perspective.”

I shared the definition from dictionary.com because I didn’t specifically know the term de-familiarization until recently (I have Adam Jameson to thank for enlightening me). How I always explored my interest was in comparing and contrasting different uses of similar ideas. Using one thing as a foundation, as a seed, to create another thing.

More specifically, using our knowledge of a thing to create a new thing.

It’s an idea that I’ve come across primarily in sequels, and I wrote about it back in 2018. If you don’t feel like reading the whole thing (it primarily focuses on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which will be a draw for some and repellant for others), here’s the opening paragraph to establish the basics of what I’m referring to:

“Blockbuster sequels will tend to use set pieces, images or dialogue from their predecessor as a means of both re-establishing prior themes and a promise that the sequel will have a larger scope. What’s interesting is that while studios have always been sequel hopeful for their blockbusters, these formal ideas were previously retroactive, with the filmmakers looking back on the predecessor as they’re making the sequel and finding a way to incorporate these familiar images and moments.”

But this idea has also had a fascinating presence in video games; a new, minor twist to a foundational gameplay mechanic can create all sorts of new opportunities.

There are plenty of examples to cite throughout the history of the medium. But I came across a brilliant example playing the demo for the Resident Evil 3: Nemesis remake. I may not be a video game connoisseur, and it may be a demo, but the experience of coming across the title character in said demo is one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had playing a video game.

And it’s all because of de-familiarization.

My Residence With Evil

My introduction to the Resident Evil franchise was the 4th entry. First on the PS2 (shout out to Jeremy Allen for secretly lending it to me), then again on the Wii (shout out to the Plymouth Meeting FYE employee for not asking me for ID). I also played 5, skipped 6, then played 4 countless times throughout the intervening years, and then played 7 a few years back.

It wasn’t until the Resident Evil 2 remake that I decided to actually explore more of the franchise beyond whichever just came out. I’m still not a fanatic, but I played the REmake, recently started 0, and am going through Resident Evil: Revelations, with plans to devour whatever else I can get my hands on.

Frankly, you could write a book about how much the series has changed through the years. It has evolved and rebooted in countless ways, all while maintaining a sense of identity. I initially struggled to see any proper connective tissue between 4 and 7 (beyond Umbrella, herbs, and of course, obscene mutated monsters and horrific violence) when those were my primary reference points. But after going through more of the franchise, the distinctions and similarities and that general Resident Evil feel stood out all the stronger.

But rather than writing a book, I’m going to specifically refer to the specific experience I had going from the remake of Resident Evil 2 to the demo for Resident Evil 3: Nemesis remake. This experience was due to RE2‘s Mr. X being the foundation that evolved into the title character for RE3.

As I haven’t played the originals, this gap (at least on a conceptual level) is probably familiar to anyone that has.

Mr. X

There’s little comfort to be found in Mr. X’s insistence on walking.

Yes, you can outrun him. Yes, you can hide from him. But once you hear him coming, once you hear those almost rhythmic footsteps (which are so traumatizing I sometimes mistake my character’s footsteps for his), you have to run. You have no choice. That your pace is faster than his just reminds me of a quote from another one of my favorite muscular henchmen; “there can be no true despair without hope.”

If you don’t outrun him, or if your hiding spot doesn’t stay hidden, he punches you. Like his brisk pace, there’s no comfort to be found in there just being one punch, and it’s an instantaneous reminder why you have to run. Because you don’t want to give him the time to punch you again.

And I’ve only talked about dealing with him solo. I haven’t even touched on what it’s like to run from this big, almost-Looney-Tunes-esque-but-somehow-horrifyingly-real slob of muscle when you have any other enemies around. Running into a zombie and it biting at your neck would otherwise be a frustrating experience; with Mr. X on your tail, it’s an almost unfathomable horror. Being slowed down and injured when close to an ever-pursuing hulk is, after all, not ideal.

Nemesis

I downloaded the demo for the Resident Evil 3 remake. Having not played the original, all I had to go on for Nemesis were comparisons to RE2’s Mr. X. Developers spoke about Nemesis tracking the player the same way Mr. X did, about players not knowing when or where he’d show up, being able to grab the player with a tentacle, etc.

To summarize all this, producer Peter Fabiano said they are “determined to surpass (Mr. X) with Nemesis.” 

When I saw this, I didn’t think much of this beyond “cool!” As a fan of RE2, I was already excited for its follow-up. As a fan of Mr. X, I was excited for his follow-up. Little to think beyond that.

After downloading the demo, the pre-Nemesis material went about as expected. I was given a goal. While trying to achieve that goal I shot, stabbed, and ran from zombies. I also gathered ammo and created ammo to shoot the zombies, and I also gathered first aid and herbs for whenever one of those undead dipshits bit me in the neck.

That last simplistic summary of the gameplay shouldn’t be seen as a criticism of the game. It’s just the foundation both the RE2 remake and the rest of the franchise helped establish. It’s not a bad thing in any capacity, it simply…is.

Nemesis arrives, and he takes those ever so familiar first few steps towards me. So I looked at him with the same, basic sense of foundational understanding that I looked at the rest of the demo with. I did A when confronted zombies in RE2, I do A when confronted with zombies in RE3. I did B when confronted with Mr. X in RE2, so I do B when confronted with Nemesis in RE3.

So I turned around, started to run-

And then I hear him running.

And then he hits me not once, but twice.

I don’t exactly remember what happened during those disorienting seconds between the shock of the double-hit and when I started running towards the steps, but, eventually, towards the steps I ran. I didn’t hear him running, and for a brief moment, I felt free, I felt safe.

That moment ended when he landed right in front of me.

It would seem that he can leap. He can’t quite leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he can leap far enough for me to nearly piss myself.

I can wax poetic about the fear of a foe that can only walk all I want. When I first came across Nemesis, I would have given anything to hear Mr. X’s briskly paced footsteps in Nemesis’ place.

The Player’s Place

It, of course, wouldn’t be fair to leave the player in a spot where they’re totally helpless. You could use weapons to slow down Mr. X, but it wasn’t an essential part of of avoiding him.

With Nemesis, it’s….recommended. But this isn’t enough. The player needs a means of surviving his new pace and attacks, which comes in the form of “new” environmental aids and a “new” control (new is in quotes because I’m presuming they were a part of the original Resident Evil 3).

In terms of the environment, you’ll come across barrels of gasoline that will, in classic video game fashion, blow up when shot. There’s also a generator that will release an electrical field when you shoot it. These things make it easier to stop the running beast in his tracks.

But an occasional environmental assistance isn’t enough, as the game needs to provide a new consistent means of defending yourself. And so the game gives you an ability you didn’t have in RE2; the ability to “quick-step”. Once the big guy gets near you, you can “quick-step” and, if your timing is right, avoid his hit.

Coming Back Around

These new abilities essentially put you at the same “can just barely survive” position you were in with Mr. X.

But the similarities between the foe and your ability to survive the foe don’t make the game (or, at least, the demo) unimaginative or repetitive. I may have only just played a demo for the game, but I maintain that confronting Nemesis in that demo was one of the most memorable gaming experiences of my life, and it’s precisely through the similarities that the experience is able to evolve, and the familiar is able to develop a new life.