This will be the first of a series of ruminations on the distinctions between the two titular forms of media. I am interested in the subject of their differences and similarities, since they are often spoken of as rivals. I do not think they are, since they aim to achieve divergent purposes. However, their residence within the visual sphere guarantees that, at some levels, they will, and do, clash.
My first quandary is the following:
Should Video Games have "complex" main characters?
The typical knee-jerk reaction would be, "of course!" But let's ponder the issue a bit.
First of all, when I question whether or not video games should develop their protagonists, I am not suggesting that there be a similar disregard for the personalities of the supporting players. I think a video game should always strive to craft interesting characters, who behave in a human-like manner. What I do not think, is that a game should provide such emotional and psychological elaboration for the character who is being controlled by the player.
As far as I am concerned, the main character, the person who you move with the aid of a controller, should be left as vague as possible.
But why? Why should the most important entity within a video game be nothing but a "blank slate"?
The fact of the matter is that, in a video game, we can't ever really get to know the protagonist. Ergo, any attempt by the writers to make us understand him/her a tad better, should be excised completely. That is, any attempt to develop the protagonist is doomed from the start.
In a film, we get to know our hero by how he/she acts under duress.
Imagine this scene: a shoddily-dressed twenty-something boy is walking across a city plaza; suddenly, a gunfight between rival gangs erupts; a small child is left alone, screaming in the middle of it all. What does our hero do? His inner bravery suddenly emerges, and he runs over to save the small child from being pierced by a slew of bullets. In the process, our hero is shot, and he is driven to the hospital. He survives, and everybody regards him with immeasurable respect; the in-movie characters as well as the movie-watching audience.
We now know what the twenty-something boy is capable of; he reacted with maturity and boldness in the middle of a tense situation.
But how would the same scene play out in a video game?
We would, obviously, have control over the hero. Now, imagine this is an open-ended game, where our decisions alter the plot.
The gunfight erupts. You go and shield the small child from danger. Your alter ego is shot. You go the hospital and are regarded a savior and saint by the urban populace.
Through this entire process, have you really gotten to know the protagonist? Through this important moment - the sort of dangerous situation that brings out the true nature of human beings - have you actually gotten an inkling of the twenty-something boy's personality?
No, you have not. Because the character's reaction to the on-screen trauma was YOUR reaction. In effect, if anything, you have only gotten to know more about YOURSELF. What you experienced was not "empathy." You were in the character's situation, but not inside his mind. You cannot know how the character would have reacted, and you therefore cannot judge him based on what he has done, because he hasn't done anything. You did it all.
Thus, the problem with scripts that develop video game protagonists is that, when the going gets tough, you stop learning about that protagonist. Yes, I enjoy the Metal Gear Solid games, and yes, I love Solid Snake's persona. Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel that, when the big confrontations occur, when the big moments come around, the instances in which we can finally learn the most about how Snake is as a man, I am the one doing the movements, and I am therefore not watching Snake, but watching myself.
This is why I appreciate a game like Dragon Quest VIII.
I have not finished it, true. But I have spent 74 hours playing it, and I do not know a thing about the guy I'm controlling. This is, to me, a more honest gaming experience. The protagonist is simply a vessel which I'm supposed to enter, and in DQVIII there is very little back-story to hide that simple fact.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Jean-Luc Godard's Alphaville: Musings
I've never given much thought to Lemmy Caution, the whimsical private eye at the center of Godard's science-fiction satire. I just thought him cool. A wickedly funny, entirely tongue-in-cheek, character. What his relationship with the film's larger themes was, exactly, I didn't know and, frankly, didn't care. As far as I was concerned, the entertainment value to be derived from Eddy Constantine's gumshoe was utterly detached from the socio-political messages implied by the rest of the narrative. I did not believe there to be a link between the two "sides" of the film - its Noir aspects and its prevalent mood of dystopia.
But I was wrong...
The world, or city-state, of Alphaville is ruled by an omnipresent computer, titled Alpha 60. It is the antagonist of human emotion. Poetry, love, sentiment; these are unknown variables to it, as well as to the automatons under its dominion. This computer, this machine, is the epitome of everything cold and controlled. When it is destroyed, the denizens that once depended on its orders, cling to the walls, unable to think, and act, for themselves. The computer knows nothing of free-will. It knows nothing of spontaneity.
Caution, then, is the perfect adversary for such a dispassionate mass of wires. He, as a B-movie detective, is a Romantic figure. He is a complete movie-character; both a character within a movie, and a character inspired by other movies. He could not exist was it not for the detectives of the American post-war cinema. As thus, he is indelibly connected with film and, so, with art. His very origin can be traced back to celluloid. Godard doesn't stop there though; Caution is further fused with all things artistic. He loves poetry, yearns for love, and snaps pictures of random events. Caution is literally a camera-operator. This triples the stakes; he is a character in a movie, of the movies, and a creator of new photographic frames. He is the surrogate film director within the text of the film itself.
So, the confrontation is between the remote technology of "Alpha 60" and the creativity of Lemmy Caution. Each is opposed to the other. The movie, then, is making a double claim about the negative effects of the authoritarian computer. It not only saps the personality, the very identity, out of humans. It not only makes them subservient, unable to think for themselves, and ignorant of their own personality. The computer is also the enemy of imagination and art, emotion and ingenuity, passion and joy, sensation and love.
This is not to say that the film negates the usefulness of technology; notice that Lemmy - and by extension, Godard - uses a camera, which is itself a piece of technology. The difference is that Lemmy controls his camera, makes it focus on what he desires, while Alpha 60 controls the humans living under its jurisdiction. The problem, then, is not technology, but rather, the lack of control over it. In order for the computer to serve our own empowerment, it needs to capitulate under human dominance. If the balance of power turns the other way around, as it does in Alphaville, then we are doomed. We, as inventors and builders, must maintain a state of supremacy over our own creations.
But I was wrong...
The world, or city-state, of Alphaville is ruled by an omnipresent computer, titled Alpha 60. It is the antagonist of human emotion. Poetry, love, sentiment; these are unknown variables to it, as well as to the automatons under its dominion. This computer, this machine, is the epitome of everything cold and controlled. When it is destroyed, the denizens that once depended on its orders, cling to the walls, unable to think, and act, for themselves. The computer knows nothing of free-will. It knows nothing of spontaneity.
Caution, then, is the perfect adversary for such a dispassionate mass of wires. He, as a B-movie detective, is a Romantic figure. He is a complete movie-character; both a character within a movie, and a character inspired by other movies. He could not exist was it not for the detectives of the American post-war cinema. As thus, he is indelibly connected with film and, so, with art. His very origin can be traced back to celluloid. Godard doesn't stop there though; Caution is further fused with all things artistic. He loves poetry, yearns for love, and snaps pictures of random events. Caution is literally a camera-operator. This triples the stakes; he is a character in a movie, of the movies, and a creator of new photographic frames. He is the surrogate film director within the text of the film itself.
So, the confrontation is between the remote technology of "Alpha 60" and the creativity of Lemmy Caution. Each is opposed to the other. The movie, then, is making a double claim about the negative effects of the authoritarian computer. It not only saps the personality, the very identity, out of humans. It not only makes them subservient, unable to think for themselves, and ignorant of their own personality. The computer is also the enemy of imagination and art, emotion and ingenuity, passion and joy, sensation and love.
This is not to say that the film negates the usefulness of technology; notice that Lemmy - and by extension, Godard - uses a camera, which is itself a piece of technology. The difference is that Lemmy controls his camera, makes it focus on what he desires, while Alpha 60 controls the humans living under its jurisdiction. The problem, then, is not technology, but rather, the lack of control over it. In order for the computer to serve our own empowerment, it needs to capitulate under human dominance. If the balance of power turns the other way around, as it does in Alphaville, then we are doomed. We, as inventors and builders, must maintain a state of supremacy over our own creations.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Children of Men
In many ways, this is something of a blasé film-buff darling by now. It re-introduced the edit-happy world of mainstream cinema to the concept of the long-shot; and it did so through nearly interminable takes careening through dilapidated Sarajevo-like city streets, densely populated sidewalks, and lonely roads through the forest.
Regardless of the film's merits, however, many have accused Cuarón of being nothing but a technical show-off. A man who has orchestrated a purely visual masterpiece; that is to say, a movie that is pretty, but lacking in characterization and depth.
These nay-sayers are half right. Going through the cast of characters, I am forced to admit that most of them are not really that well developed.
Michael Caine's Jasper is immensely likable, but he is such a stereotypical portrayal of rebellion, that he's finally rather cornball. Does the political freethinker HAVE to be an ex-hippie? Do they have the monopoly on iconoclasm? And if he needs be an ex-hippie, does he also have to sport long hair and smoke weed? It's as if the writers had gone to Google Images, looked up "Hippie," and then based Jasper off of that.
There's also the Psycho-esque heroine, Julian, who dies half-way to prove how serious the situation is. Julianne Moore succeeds in making her role somewhat enigmatic, but she hardly channels any feeling; she's stuck on some noncommittal chord, unable to play any other tone. From interviews, Cuarón says - and I paraphrase - that Julian is at a point where she cannot show emotion. I suppose, then, that Moore's nonchalance was intended. That said, if apathy was the goal of her performance, she doesn't really communicate this either. Instead, she underacts to the point where it's difficult to determine where, or to what cause, she is directing her passion and effort. She's a revolutionary, but she seems more flustered than inflamed; she's nostalgic about her once-strong relationship with Theo, but her intimations at love and playfulness seem slight, like friends at Summer Camp; she's apparently wrecked by the loss of her son twenty years prior, but during a conversation pertaining to him, she's hardly despairing - more like stern and cold.
Chiwetel Ejiofor turns in an impassioned performance as Luke, the leader of the Fish group, but he doesn't have much to work with. He's angry; so angry, he is willing to sacrifice the life of a child, the salvation of the world, in favor of the success of his politics. This is exemplified in his final appearance, where he shoots at Theo despite the fact that the baby is practically right next to the latter. He would rather kill the man who's ruined his plan, than save the infant. That's powerful stuff, no doubt about it; but there's nothing else to Luke. This is all he is about: endless indignation.
Then there's Miriam - the mid-wife, played by Pam Ferris . She is entirely memorable; a tough, brave, free spirit. Of the supporting players, she is probably the best one. But she suffers from what I'd like to term "The Idiosyncrasy Syndrome." This is a movie-character ailment, in which the subject exhibits random mannerisms for no reason. This occurs when the filmmakers want to make a character unique; therefore, they tack on weird quirks, but never explain why the character has those quirks, or how those quirks pertain to their substance as human beings. An example of this would be the Sniper in Saving Private Ryan. Why does he quote the Bible before each kill? Is it a way of honoring the victim? Is he asking God for forgiveness? Is it some fun shit to say before popping a cap on someone, as Jules from Pulp Fiction would phrase it? I don't remember an explanation... if Spielberg's movie does have one, and I simply don't remember it, don't hesitate, dear reader, to inform me of my error. At any rate, our friend Miriam offers no reasoning behind her particularities; why does she do the "Voodoo Hoodoo"? Is she a devout follower of this religion? Is she just naturally superstitious? Is this an element of her outsider-ness, as brave in the originality of her beliefs as she is in life? I don't know, although that last option sounds enticing. But the film never really implies one thing or another. Is she just silly, or are her strange ways part of her overall rebellion? Who knows!
So what does that leave us with?
The main characters. Who are, thankfully, the most well-defined.
There's something audacious about Kee (portrayed with whispers of bubbly cuteness by Claire-Hope Ashitey). Notice how she immediately agrees to escape when Theo reveals Luke's plans. She ignores her fears and instantly recognizes the gravity of the situation. This moment also shows the extent to which she trusted Julian; Kee allows herself to be led by Theo, a complete stranger, solely because of the complimentary words accorded to the man by the red-haired insurgent.
Also interesting is Kee's fluctuating determination in her cause. Her change in mindset does not occur on-screen, but is rather implied. During a monologue, she reveals how, when she first got pregnant, the thought of ingesting some Quietus, and relinquishing her responsibilities in death, was not altogether disagreeable. That she would think of killing herself, even while holding inside her the hope of an entire civilization, denotes a weakling, a scared buffoon who would trivialize the fate of mankind for the benefit of her own harmony. Yet the person we see is hardly a weakling; she never gives up, and even when Theo passes away in the end, she still does not get sidetracked. As the boat approaches, her attention shifts away from the inanimate Theo, and towards the bluntly-named "Tomorrow," the hope of a future. She has gone from banal and fatalistic, to sternly optimistic.
That is the same development exhibited by Theo, except his progress is made during the film's time span. His personal change is not back story, but the very narrative that moves the plot. His arch is not precisely a novel one in the history of cinema: he's only in it for the money at first, but as the story comes to an end, he turns increasingly unselfish. That's not unlike Han Solo, although Theo's persona is a bit more complex, and his turn, his volta, is likewise more subtle.
Money dominates Theo during the first scenes; he's not greedy, but is acting out of necessity. Julian suggest his poverty when she offers Theo some cash. She knows he needs it. He replies otherwise, but his negation comes across as an attempt at dignity, not an earnest argument in favor of any supposed wealth. He spends time gambling at the dog races; when he wins something, he insists on grabbing his returns, despite his being "in a hurry" to meet with the Fishes. In a bar, he tells Luke he'll escort the girl, a fugee, for bigger pay; he's willing to withstand any danger, as long as he gets money out of it.
Understanding this, consider the things he does near the end. As Kee is about ready to give birth, a border patrol asks Theo to give up his watch. He doesn't think twice, nor does he protest the loss of a material product. Quickly, he takes off the time piece - anything to get Kee to a safe haven as quickly as possible. Similarly, during the birth scene proper, he buys a lantern off of Marichka, effectively forsaking the little money he has in his possession, in favor of facilitating Kee's labor. At the end of the film, Theo is practically content with renouncing his own life; he offers not one word of complaint. Thus does Theo go from egotistically worrying about his own subsistence, to abdicating all that is important to him as an individual, for the betterment and continuation of the world entire.
He is not, as I said, an entirely original hero; but rarely has a film been so delicate and unobtrusive about the transformation of its protagonist.
Other things that are interesting about him. His re-encounter with Julian, considering their 20-year parting, might seem anticlimactic. Clive Owen's expression seems but slightly bemused; not entirely surprised. But it is important to remember that during that time Theo must have seen her picture in countless newscasts and papers. She has left his life, but she also has not. Their relationship has been over for decades, but she has continued to be part of his everyday wanderings, appearing constantly on bar-corners and computer telecasts detailing her newest violent escapade. When she kidnaps him, it is as if he had seen her just yesterday, because in a very real way, he probably had.
Later, when Jasper is killed, he reacts against Miriam, in a flurry of agitation that may seem out-of-place. Why is he angry at the mid wife? What has she done? Nothing. Yet he still associates her with "The People Who Have Gotten Him Into This Mess," which is to say, the Fishes and Julian. For Theo, the world is divided into a pair of groups: Life-Before-Kee and Life-After-Kee. Jasper belongs to the former group, Miriam to the latter. When Luke kills Jasper - a symbol for Theo of constancy and stability, since they've known each other for so long - the film's hero somewhat blames Miriam, who he's met through the Fishes, and because of the pregnancy that has brought about the life-altering events that have led to the death of a dear friend. It is not fair to be angry at Miriam; but it is understandable why Theo would be.
No discussion of "Children of Men" can possibly forget to mention the meticulously constructed filmic landscape. It is bewilderingly detailed; possibly to the level of a "Blade Runner" or a "2001: A Space Odyssey."
Notice the following:
Pollution is rampant. Smog covers the cities. The water is green with slime. Greenery is indiscriminately burned. Graffiti invades the walls. This isn't the cleanest place.
The irony of the "Ark for the Arts." The British Government is willing to fund a massive building for the express function of housing foreign masterworks. However, it spends millions to prevent foreign people from likewise entering the country. So, paintings and sculptures are a "go," but human beings are a "nay"? Hypocritical of this here government...
The lure and power of the media is absolute; the first shot in the movie illustrates this fact. Dozens of men and women stand entranced by the images on a thin-screen television. They pay dearly for their somnambulism. Moments later, a bomb explodes, and they are all killed. Digital billboards inundate the entire city; Quietus, Fertility Tests, Illegal-Immigrant Watch; all these important facets of Cuarón's futuristic world are shown by tangential advertisements hidden in the background, emphasizing how the barrage of messages from the authorities and the corporations dominate the dead space wherein the character move. That is, the very context in which Theo walks is soaked with ideological "recommendations" urging him to act certain ways and buy certain products.
Despite the bureaucratically accepted existence of Quietus - a drug designed to ease suicidal needs - marijuana remains illegal. More hypocrisy!
All of the images seemingly inspired by modern-world events - the Guantanamo style immigrant-detention center, the deportation of illegal aliens, the scenes of urban warfare - are not just ways of drawing parallels between the fiction of the film and our current state of affairs. They are also psychic cues. We respond to these images not just because of their importance within the plot, but also because they connote a historical baggage. That is, when apartment buildings go boom, we not only fear for Theo's life, but we are also consciously or unconsciously reminded of Bosnia and Iraq. The look of the film, by recalling unrelated true events, adds a special "oomph" value to the proceedings.
It should be clear by now (I hope, or else I've lost my time) that "Children of Men" is hardly shallow. If some of its characters are infantile in their elaboration, the core pieces of the movie are nevertheless as intricate as Emmanuel Lubezki's cinematographic wizardry. In no way is the film perfect, but Cuarón has achieved something of note here. If it falls short of the great science fiction works, then it should be noted that, asides from Spielberg's "A.I: Artificial Intelligence," nothing else in the past decade has been as close to speculative perfection as this.
Regardless of the film's merits, however, many have accused Cuarón of being nothing but a technical show-off. A man who has orchestrated a purely visual masterpiece; that is to say, a movie that is pretty, but lacking in characterization and depth.
These nay-sayers are half right. Going through the cast of characters, I am forced to admit that most of them are not really that well developed.
Michael Caine's Jasper is immensely likable, but he is such a stereotypical portrayal of rebellion, that he's finally rather cornball. Does the political freethinker HAVE to be an ex-hippie? Do they have the monopoly on iconoclasm? And if he needs be an ex-hippie, does he also have to sport long hair and smoke weed? It's as if the writers had gone to Google Images, looked up "Hippie," and then based Jasper off of that.
There's also the Psycho-esque heroine, Julian, who dies half-way to prove how serious the situation is. Julianne Moore succeeds in making her role somewhat enigmatic, but she hardly channels any feeling; she's stuck on some noncommittal chord, unable to play any other tone. From interviews, Cuarón says - and I paraphrase - that Julian is at a point where she cannot show emotion. I suppose, then, that Moore's nonchalance was intended. That said, if apathy was the goal of her performance, she doesn't really communicate this either. Instead, she underacts to the point where it's difficult to determine where, or to what cause, she is directing her passion and effort. She's a revolutionary, but she seems more flustered than inflamed; she's nostalgic about her once-strong relationship with Theo, but her intimations at love and playfulness seem slight, like friends at Summer Camp; she's apparently wrecked by the loss of her son twenty years prior, but during a conversation pertaining to him, she's hardly despairing - more like stern and cold.
Chiwetel Ejiofor turns in an impassioned performance as Luke, the leader of the Fish group, but he doesn't have much to work with. He's angry; so angry, he is willing to sacrifice the life of a child, the salvation of the world, in favor of the success of his politics. This is exemplified in his final appearance, where he shoots at Theo despite the fact that the baby is practically right next to the latter. He would rather kill the man who's ruined his plan, than save the infant. That's powerful stuff, no doubt about it; but there's nothing else to Luke. This is all he is about: endless indignation.
Then there's Miriam - the mid-wife, played by Pam Ferris . She is entirely memorable; a tough, brave, free spirit. Of the supporting players, she is probably the best one. But she suffers from what I'd like to term "The Idiosyncrasy Syndrome." This is a movie-character ailment, in which the subject exhibits random mannerisms for no reason. This occurs when the filmmakers want to make a character unique; therefore, they tack on weird quirks, but never explain why the character has those quirks, or how those quirks pertain to their substance as human beings. An example of this would be the Sniper in Saving Private Ryan. Why does he quote the Bible before each kill? Is it a way of honoring the victim? Is he asking God for forgiveness? Is it some fun shit to say before popping a cap on someone, as Jules from Pulp Fiction would phrase it? I don't remember an explanation... if Spielberg's movie does have one, and I simply don't remember it, don't hesitate, dear reader, to inform me of my error. At any rate, our friend Miriam offers no reasoning behind her particularities; why does she do the "Voodoo Hoodoo"? Is she a devout follower of this religion? Is she just naturally superstitious? Is this an element of her outsider-ness, as brave in the originality of her beliefs as she is in life? I don't know, although that last option sounds enticing. But the film never really implies one thing or another. Is she just silly, or are her strange ways part of her overall rebellion? Who knows!
So what does that leave us with?
The main characters. Who are, thankfully, the most well-defined.
There's something audacious about Kee (portrayed with whispers of bubbly cuteness by Claire-Hope Ashitey). Notice how she immediately agrees to escape when Theo reveals Luke's plans. She ignores her fears and instantly recognizes the gravity of the situation. This moment also shows the extent to which she trusted Julian; Kee allows herself to be led by Theo, a complete stranger, solely because of the complimentary words accorded to the man by the red-haired insurgent.
Also interesting is Kee's fluctuating determination in her cause. Her change in mindset does not occur on-screen, but is rather implied. During a monologue, she reveals how, when she first got pregnant, the thought of ingesting some Quietus, and relinquishing her responsibilities in death, was not altogether disagreeable. That she would think of killing herself, even while holding inside her the hope of an entire civilization, denotes a weakling, a scared buffoon who would trivialize the fate of mankind for the benefit of her own harmony. Yet the person we see is hardly a weakling; she never gives up, and even when Theo passes away in the end, she still does not get sidetracked. As the boat approaches, her attention shifts away from the inanimate Theo, and towards the bluntly-named "Tomorrow," the hope of a future. She has gone from banal and fatalistic, to sternly optimistic.
That is the same development exhibited by Theo, except his progress is made during the film's time span. His personal change is not back story, but the very narrative that moves the plot. His arch is not precisely a novel one in the history of cinema: he's only in it for the money at first, but as the story comes to an end, he turns increasingly unselfish. That's not unlike Han Solo, although Theo's persona is a bit more complex, and his turn, his volta, is likewise more subtle.
Money dominates Theo during the first scenes; he's not greedy, but is acting out of necessity. Julian suggest his poverty when she offers Theo some cash. She knows he needs it. He replies otherwise, but his negation comes across as an attempt at dignity, not an earnest argument in favor of any supposed wealth. He spends time gambling at the dog races; when he wins something, he insists on grabbing his returns, despite his being "in a hurry" to meet with the Fishes. In a bar, he tells Luke he'll escort the girl, a fugee, for bigger pay; he's willing to withstand any danger, as long as he gets money out of it.
Understanding this, consider the things he does near the end. As Kee is about ready to give birth, a border patrol asks Theo to give up his watch. He doesn't think twice, nor does he protest the loss of a material product. Quickly, he takes off the time piece - anything to get Kee to a safe haven as quickly as possible. Similarly, during the birth scene proper, he buys a lantern off of Marichka, effectively forsaking the little money he has in his possession, in favor of facilitating Kee's labor. At the end of the film, Theo is practically content with renouncing his own life; he offers not one word of complaint. Thus does Theo go from egotistically worrying about his own subsistence, to abdicating all that is important to him as an individual, for the betterment and continuation of the world entire.
He is not, as I said, an entirely original hero; but rarely has a film been so delicate and unobtrusive about the transformation of its protagonist.
Other things that are interesting about him. His re-encounter with Julian, considering their 20-year parting, might seem anticlimactic. Clive Owen's expression seems but slightly bemused; not entirely surprised. But it is important to remember that during that time Theo must have seen her picture in countless newscasts and papers. She has left his life, but she also has not. Their relationship has been over for decades, but she has continued to be part of his everyday wanderings, appearing constantly on bar-corners and computer telecasts detailing her newest violent escapade. When she kidnaps him, it is as if he had seen her just yesterday, because in a very real way, he probably had.
Later, when Jasper is killed, he reacts against Miriam, in a flurry of agitation that may seem out-of-place. Why is he angry at the mid wife? What has she done? Nothing. Yet he still associates her with "The People Who Have Gotten Him Into This Mess," which is to say, the Fishes and Julian. For Theo, the world is divided into a pair of groups: Life-Before-Kee and Life-After-Kee. Jasper belongs to the former group, Miriam to the latter. When Luke kills Jasper - a symbol for Theo of constancy and stability, since they've known each other for so long - the film's hero somewhat blames Miriam, who he's met through the Fishes, and because of the pregnancy that has brought about the life-altering events that have led to the death of a dear friend. It is not fair to be angry at Miriam; but it is understandable why Theo would be.
No discussion of "Children of Men" can possibly forget to mention the meticulously constructed filmic landscape. It is bewilderingly detailed; possibly to the level of a "Blade Runner" or a "2001: A Space Odyssey."
Notice the following:
Pollution is rampant. Smog covers the cities. The water is green with slime. Greenery is indiscriminately burned. Graffiti invades the walls. This isn't the cleanest place.
The irony of the "Ark for the Arts." The British Government is willing to fund a massive building for the express function of housing foreign masterworks. However, it spends millions to prevent foreign people from likewise entering the country. So, paintings and sculptures are a "go," but human beings are a "nay"? Hypocritical of this here government...
The lure and power of the media is absolute; the first shot in the movie illustrates this fact. Dozens of men and women stand entranced by the images on a thin-screen television. They pay dearly for their somnambulism. Moments later, a bomb explodes, and they are all killed. Digital billboards inundate the entire city; Quietus, Fertility Tests, Illegal-Immigrant Watch; all these important facets of Cuarón's futuristic world are shown by tangential advertisements hidden in the background, emphasizing how the barrage of messages from the authorities and the corporations dominate the dead space wherein the character move. That is, the very context in which Theo walks is soaked with ideological "recommendations" urging him to act certain ways and buy certain products.
Despite the bureaucratically accepted existence of Quietus - a drug designed to ease suicidal needs - marijuana remains illegal. More hypocrisy!
All of the images seemingly inspired by modern-world events - the Guantanamo style immigrant-detention center, the deportation of illegal aliens, the scenes of urban warfare - are not just ways of drawing parallels between the fiction of the film and our current state of affairs. They are also psychic cues. We respond to these images not just because of their importance within the plot, but also because they connote a historical baggage. That is, when apartment buildings go boom, we not only fear for Theo's life, but we are also consciously or unconsciously reminded of Bosnia and Iraq. The look of the film, by recalling unrelated true events, adds a special "oomph" value to the proceedings.
It should be clear by now (I hope, or else I've lost my time) that "Children of Men" is hardly shallow. If some of its characters are infantile in their elaboration, the core pieces of the movie are nevertheless as intricate as Emmanuel Lubezki's cinematographic wizardry. In no way is the film perfect, but Cuarón has achieved something of note here. If it falls short of the great science fiction works, then it should be noted that, asides from Spielberg's "A.I: Artificial Intelligence," nothing else in the past decade has been as close to speculative perfection as this.
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