Science fiction – Page 4 – Consumed By Film

Prometheus (2012)

★★★★★

Director: Ridley Scott

Release Date: June 1st, 2012 (UK); June 8th, 2012 (US)

Genre: Adventure; Mystery; Science-fiction

Starring: Noomi Rapace, Michael Fassbender, Charlize Theron, Idris Elba

Is Prometheus really that bad? Ridley Scott’s loose prequel to Alien digs an enormous hole and subsequently fills it with even grander musings; of humankind, creation, belief and life. It then plunges nose first into said crater, now as deep as the questions posed, before admirably clambering back to fresh air armed with purpose and answers. During this ascension we marvel at spectacle, engage in mystery, taste small bites of action, are disconcerted by horror and ponder classic science-fiction. To a certain extent Prometheus truly is a genre-splicer, but the outing always has its reels firmly planted in the wonders of sci-fi, exactly where they should be. In an era when summer often denotes the arrival of popcorn-churners, Prometheus survives on the front-line, waving the flag for intelligent and thought-provoking cinema.

Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green) are archaeologists on the brink of silencing the most emphatic of all historical debates: who created us? The year is 2093 and a team of seventeen personnel including Elizabeth and Charlie have just landed on LV-233, a moon prominent in a number of ancient diagrams discovered by the duo. Aboard their vessel funded by Weyland Corporation is David (Michael Fassbender), a robot whose appearance resembles that of a human being, and whose thought process is occupied exclusively by sense. The landscape that enshrouds the team bustles with unknown activity, enticing the crew’s inbuilt need to forage, which they do unwittingly and at their own peril.

Zipping up his spacesuit, David is confronted by Charlie who queries the need for the machine to dawn such protective attire. “I was designed like this because you people are more comfortable interacting with your own kind. If I didn’t wear a suit, it would defeat the purpose,” retorts David, summing up the philosophy of Prometheus in a single answer. The crew are on a voyage to meet their maker, but in doing so unknowingly present a case denouncing the ignorance of humanity. Collectively, we see ourselves as the pinnacle species yet we are wholly unjustified in our complacency. Damon Lindelof’s script explores how we not only rely on other genetic divisions — plants for medicine, animals for food, machines for everyday ease, Gods for belief — we even mistreat them.

Humanity’s naive demeanour is reflected in Charlie’s actions: he howls like a domineering wolf upon reaching a huge stone dome situated atop the uncharted moon, and proceeds to remove his helmet without approval, seemingly above any potential atmospheric ramifications. The film is an eye-opening critical analysis of human behaviour and although the results stop short at shining a positive light on us, they do beckon forth an important topic of discussion.

David’s response also reflects the insightfulness and opulence of Lindelof’s script, one that is not afraid enter to a room packed full of grandiose ideas, and is then brave enough to exit whilst leaving the door ajar. The occasional question is left unanswered which is absolutely fine (but we need some answerable continuity in the upcoming sequel). No issue remains unchallenged though, much to the filmmakers’ credit. Scenes prompted by deliberations over the various characters’ motives and beliefs are subtly tantalising; one involving David, Charlie and a snooker table particularly stands out.

These moments never overstay their welcome as they flirt with extravagant perceptions that are inherently connected to the science-fiction genre. Entering said realm we expect to contemplate life, the universe and everything and Prometheus encourages us to do exactly that. (“Where do we come from? What is our purpose? What happens to us when we die?”) Thankfully events refrain from boiling over into an indulgent territory; the aforementioned questions — unending in scale — are questions that cross our mind often and the significant consideration on show is warranted.

Reflective themes in the bank, Prometheus turns towards tension-ratcheting atmospherics. Alien is in part a horror franchise, there it is imperative that Scott’s prequel retains prequel retains an element of fear to complement the titbits of recognisable Xenomorph mythology on display. Marc Streitenfeld’s jarring soundscape is the genesis of discomfort; sequences that take place inside the aforementioned dome are accompanied by a chilling congregation of distant screaming. This eerie ambience disorientates us. The characters panic. A search buoyed by ambitious questions seeking conclusive answers yields unsettling possibilities. Never has the notion of being stranded in space upon an unknown entity felt so terrifying.

Then brass horns prevail, baring a deep verve that reflects the profundity of proceedings. The film’s stunning visual scale is just that, and its impressive execution qualms any potential worries over digital misfiring. Space vessels flow effortlessly, emitting a sense of authenticity as they embed into the landscape. At times, Prometheus’ sheen resembles that of Nicolas Winding Refn’s psychedelic Valhalla Rising; shots of unnaturally rapidly convulsing clouds remind us that we are in a foreign and undoubtedly hazardous environment. The weather too, another reminder that humankind is not the dominant species.

One element that doesn’t quite acclimatise is the occasional spouting of humour. Some may argue that without a light-hearted adage every now and again, the film would be taking itself too seriously. However, the ideas being batted back and forth along the outing’s grand narrative arc warrant a serious tone. Fifield and Millburn — geologist and biologist respectively — are the stock comic relief duo and though Sean Harris and Rafe Spall are solid in their roles, the characters are wholly unnecessary. In truth, the duo’s presence on the ship doesn’t really make sense — they’re buffoons, why would a multi-million dollar corporation hire them? If humour prevails at any point, it’s through Idris Elba’s suave poise and effortlessly blunt attitude as captain Janek.

There are no disastrous performances here by any means, nor are there any bad ones, but Michael Fassbender stands streets ahead of everyone else. One of two surprisingly ambiguous characters (the other being Charlize Theron’s practical Meredith Vickers, whose ethical mindset rides on a Ferris wheel throughout) Fassbender resonates a peculiar charm as robot David, whilst instantaneously channelling the nonchalant precision of HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Much like HAL, David’s actions take an increasingly perturbed turn; the combination of Fassbender’s astute portrayal and Lindelof’s creation of an opaque character adds up to compelling viewing. Noomi Rapace is another noteworthy performer as expedition leader Elizabeth Shaw. Her pained abdominal acting will have you grasping your stomach and wincing.

This dialogue-driven piece demands total engagement for just over two hours and justifies the attention it seeks. There’s a mountain of ideas here to sink your teeth into and, trust me, your jaw won’t ache. Scott’s film is a modern cinematic gem. Is Prometheus really that bad? No, it’s really that good.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): 20th Century Fox

Videodrome (1983)

★★

Director: David Cronenberg

Release Date: February 4th, 1983 (US); November 25th, 1983 (UK)

Genre: Horror; Science-fiction

Starring: James Woods, Deborah Harry, Sonja Smits

If David Cronenberg was as good at picking lottery numbers as he is at predicting the future, then he’d absolutely be a millionaire by now. No, a billionaire. You know that modern culture of consumption to which we all find ourselves enslaved, the same one that probably has you reading this on an electronic device? (Email, Twitter, Facebook, and Netflix later, perhaps?) It’s all here, in Videodrome, only thirty years early. Cronenberg unfurls a prophetic prosecution of television that feels even more relevant in 2014 than it likely did back in the early eighties, when small-screen dominance was probably just an anxiety-wrapped possibility. Videodrome, therefore, is steeped in a philosophy of purpose and accuracy, one that is interesting to consider within our contemporary context. Unfortunately, the film itself struggles to keep up with the ideas developed. Perhaps it’s because we’ve seen it all before, but Videodrome is just a bit… boring.

Max Renn (James Woods) is the kind of guy Sigmund Freud would’ve been had Freud awoken a century later and veered closer to the sexual in psychosexual. He runs CIVIC-TV, a television station based in Toronto that relays unorthodox programming, and is on the look-out for something new to up the ante, something different. Luckily for Max — or perhaps unluckily — he stumbles across a feed airing uncoordinated brutality, called Videodrome. What appears to be sensationalist artifice quickly takes on a disconcerting meaning, and begins to invade more of Max’s existence than desired.

“Television is reality and reality is less than television,” retorts Brian O’Blivion, a professor who professes only through the televisual medium. His character is the essence of Cronenberg’s agenda: a victim of media gobbling. O’Blivion has dedicated a significant portion of his own life to the study of human obsession when it comes to television in particular, employing the visual instrument ultimately as a means not to an end, but to a forever. If O’Blivion is the essence, then his creation Videodrome is the agent of consumption. Though the exhibits on screen are morally questionable, perhaps even legally ambiguous, our leading man Max is increasingly drawn towards goings-on. And not only Max, his romantic interest Nicki too. She, having seen Videodrome, desires only to become a part of it. To be infused in a new televisual reality. Up until this point, there’s a precise and engaging ideology being explored, one that is embedded firmly in the fabric of modern times. (We’re so absorbed by television that we now watch people watching it). The domineering TV pull is a wholly engaging stance and Cronenberg deserves credit, given how accurately Videodrome mirrors today’s norms.

Eventually, notions of mass societal control, planted memories and geopolitical monopolies come into play as Cronenberg’s condemnation of the television culture expands — in truth, perhaps too many strands are added. The tone switches from one of warning to one driven by preachy sound waves. Instead of a cautionary tale about how an inanimate object can become empirical upon leeching itself onto humanity, Videodrome advances down a route of denunciation as it attempts to make our minds up for us. We watch and listen as characters discuss standing firm against “savage new times”; society having to be “pure, direct and strong”; and a “cesspool TV station” whose viewers are “rotting civilisation away from the inside”. The message is clear: beware any abnormal pseudo-violent tendencies in order to avoid them flowing into real life. A noble message, had it not come by way of a fictional film.

A film, incidentally, coughing up splurges of violence from beginning until end. Torsos pave way for VCR slots and hands take on the form of guns. These images are nasty and gooey, yet not as memorable as Cronenbergian bloodshed normally is. The body horror prosthetics are as slimy and grimy as ever, but don’t quite fit the reality-imbued mould proposed by the film. There’s no denying the clarity illustrating this as an inherently Cronenberg creation: grotesque bodily malfunctions, a techno-infection prerogative, the socio-political framework, some inconclusive chronologies. Yet, unlike many of the Canadian’s previous outings, Videodrome manifests without much gusto. It feels a tad worn. Though the ideas mentioned earlier are engaging, perhaps they only really draw a fresh appeal because of their prematurity. These ideas of global consumption have been tossed to-and-fro relentlessly over the last few decades; only recently Transcendence hit cinemas, a film that takes this notion a step further by physically infusing technology with a human being.

James Woods is good as the disingenuous-cum-traumatised CEO Max Renn. He’s not a very likeable chap — not many of the characters are, another issue intertwined within the film’s ever-growing list of problems — yet Woods ushers forth enough of a switch in morality to justify some form of sympathy. As Max’s love interest and radio host Nicki Brand, Deborah Harry doesn’t have an awful lot to do, nor does her character boast any redeemable qualities, instead only a flip-flopping ethical stance. (“I think we live in over-stimulated times… and I think that’s bad,” explains Nicki, before chatting up Max whilst wearing a red dress.) Sonja Smits has a cup of tea as O’Blivion’s daughter Bianca, whereas O’Blivion himself Jack Creley implores us to listen through his direct and sincere vocal delivery.

David Cronenberg encourages discussion about issues of media consumption that herald even more relevance within the context of today’s cultural and societal posture. However, as Videodrome progresses and happenings lose practical clarity, the film too squanders precision and veracity by introducing extra narrative elements that preach to us rather than alongside us. Never mind, I think I’ve got an episode of Gogglebox to catch up on.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Universal Pictures

Her (2014)

★★★

Director: Spike Jonze

Release Date: January 10th, 2014 (US); February 14th, 2014 (UK)

Genre: Drama; Romance; Science fiction

Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Amy Adams, Scarlett Johansson

The last time Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams acted side-by-side they were components of an enigmatic collective, including the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, in an enigmatic film, The Master. Perhaps Scarlett Johansson’s most well-regarded stint in-front of camera was as part of Lost in Translation, and there are echoes here of that wayward soul in a hasty world mantra. Surprisingly then — given Phoenix, Adams and Johansson’s presence — Her somewhat ambles along uncertainly. Unlike The Master, it never reaches the pinnacle of engrossment, and it doesn’t quite have that admirable ambience of Lost in Translation. There is something delicate and charming though, admittedly often deriving from the performances of our fair trio. Yet aside from its lively textures, there’s a lacking sharpness, a missing clarity. Sometimes it’s all in the name, and the world in which Theodore Twombly exists is all a bit, well, wibbly-twombly.

It’s 2025 and Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix) splits his time between love letter composition for those unable to elaborate on their feelings, engaging in virtual gaming, and moping about his impending divorce. Given his own stuttering when it comes to expressing emotions, it’s miraculous that Theodore succeeds in his paraphrasing-mediation job. Inward and suitably unnoticeable among the masses of technology consumed beings, Theodore decides to invest in a brand new OS system, shortly thereafter named Samantha (Scarlett Johansson). At first he’s unsure, but still awkwardly encapsulated; by the impossibly sophisticated technology, the presence of something new in his life, and more than anything, Samantha’s sultry voice.

A voice that absolutely entices. Scarlett Johansson delivers a pitch perfect audio performance that rings both affectionate and strong-willed, increasingly growing in knowledge and pseudo-humanity. As viewers, we know of Johansson’s actual beauty and picture her as the OS system exhales airwaves, therefore it is easier to grasp on to her allure and, ultimately, understand why Theodore is becoming more and more infatuated with those wispy tones. Essentially, we see what he hears. On the empirical side of things, Joaquin Phoenix amiably bumbles as the lead. In reality Phoenix has a tough job, considering many of his conversations take place without the presence of another human being, and there’s no central location for him to direct speech towards. In evading this obstacle, Phoenix creates a flailing uncertainty that, even in direct conversation with another body, would probably still have him glancing from ceiling to floor. Theodore’s fidgety, glasses-adjusting unsettled social existence works well, in turn ensuring another successful acting outing for Phoenix.

Aptly, women are the order of the day in Her and another three effectively contribute, only in smaller doses. Olivia Wilde manifests as Theodore’s date, spiky in exterior yet personifying that lack of assurance that runs throughout the film. Soon-to-be ex-wife Catherine is played by Rooney Mara, appearing in a few montages and even fewer real-time scenes. Mara is fine, but doesn’t really see enough light of day to develop character-wise. Amy Adams gets a lot more screen time as Theodore’s childhood friend Amy and, much like her mate, is adoringly awkward. Which raises the first issue – the pair are so alike, seemingly very close and totally get on, so why are they not together? When we meet Theodore he is recently removed from a committed relationship, and Amy’s collapsing love life isn’t far behind. The premise obviously demands that there be an absorbing connection between its characters and their technologies, but the narrative still seems far-fetched in that neither Theodore nor Amy ever raise the issue of a potential relationship between the pair, which considering all the evidence, would be a flourishing escapade. Perhaps Amy’s human-on-human romance exfoliating with negativity subsequently forces Theodore’s mechanical-driven desire.

The insistence, then, on contemplating and evoking a social commentary on how civilisation is becoming enslaved by technology, starts edging towards overbearing status. Constantly, the screen cuts from unfolding events to convey the number of humans seen aimlessly wandering with an electronic voice in one ear. Yet a number of these techno-captives — not all — still convey surprise when Theodore details his rapport with an OS system (“You’re dating your computer?”). The notion is weird for the viewer, of course, but in the context of a future world driven by the machine, Theodore’s budding romance doesn’t really seem all that peculiar. To get around this, writer-director Spike Jonze delves further into the land of philosophical thought, encountering Samantha as she raises her own moral dichotomy. “Are these feelings real, or are they just programming?” she wonders worriedly. Is she even a she? Instead of Her, would Thing be a more suitable title? For a while, this dilemma sort of works as it becomes more about the creation of a new, potentially dominant artificial intelligence, rather than a human-computer relationship. Inevitably though, it wears.

Once Jonze gets past the schmaltz and hit-or-miss musings (“The past is just a story we tell ourselves” — guess I don’t need to return that television I stole yesterday then) and focuses on purely simplicity, Her really hits its stride. When Theodore and Samantha are having banterous, funny conversations, that’s when the film oozes charm and good-natured infectiousness. Moments of energy reign supreme over soliloquies of sad reflection. The film is encased in vibrancy, a future world that somehow gleams with a retro feel, almost as if we’ve returned to the inception of computers rather than their sovereignty. Theodore’s moustache is as welcome as his bright orange shirt and the multicoloured glass windows his office. This glossy texture, coupled with a hypnotic soundtrack not dissimilar to that of Lost in Translation, aids in capturing a setting that you wouldn’t mind spending hours encapsulated in.

Strong performances provide Spike Jonze’s Her with a required dose of oomph, as often the director’s relentless societal ponderings become too much or increasingly repetitive. Having said that, the film is entirely watchable and probably just as rewatchable, given its wonderful cinematography and generous atmosphere. Despite a few significant misgivings, Her is actually pretty good fun.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

★★★★★

Director: Stanley Kubrick

Release Date: April 3rd, 1968 (US limited)

Genre: Adventure; Mystery; Science-fiction

Starring: Keir Dullea, Gary Lockwood, William Sylvester, Douglas Rain

Where to begin?

The beginning of time, apparently. A group of apes, shepherded by an apparent leader, are growled at and hounded from their waterhole having already lost a member via the scissor-like teeth of a leopard. It appears; seemingly from nowhere, from nothing: a large and brooding object, known as the monolith. The beasts shriek, cower and then gain strength in its presence. Shortly thereafter, the now tactical, abrasive early hominids have reclaimed their waterhole. Clutching a bone, envisioning a tool, the leader tosses his symbol of construction, destruction and all else into air.

We’re floating in space.

It truly is a remarkable opening sequence, Stanley Kubrick’s depiction of premature life dissolving into an achievement-driven existence, an existence embodied by the amazing feat of spatial prosperity. By squashing life’s inception all the way through to thriving humanity into only a few minutes, is Kubrick trivialising said time period? Is he playing down the importance of thousands of years in anticipation of what is to come next? Perhaps. Yet it is the black structure, the monolith that is most intriguing. So odd in its appearance, the edged object turns ominous; what of its instantly empowering effect on the apes? Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey is one of the most influential pieces of cinema, of art, to be born out of the last century, and in less than 10 minutes it pillages viewers with more questions than answers. Over a two hour and 40 minute run-time these questions double, treble, as Kubrick raises issue after issue including our reliance on machines, mechanical manipulation, the significance of alien existence, of shapes even. He does all of this whilst celebrating humankind and our limitless prerogative. It’s wonderful.

Zarathustra, speak. Cue the brass…

Across four far-reaching periods of time, each one linked existentially and thematically to the next, 2001: A Space Odyssey engages in a tale — the tale — of life. After encountering the early hominid creatures, we ascend over the horizon into space and join Dr. Heywood R. Floyd (William Sylvester) are he prepares for a mission to Clavius Base in the midst of some abnormal goings-on. The narrative sprints ahead thereafter, to the Jupiter Mission, doctors Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) and David Bowman (Keir Dullea), and their increasingly claustrophobic relationship with ship computer HAL 9000 (Douglas Rain). Finally, Kubrick takes us on a peculiar and tantalising journey across, through and around the cosmos, blanketed in an array of magnificent cosmological phenomena.

This collection of chronological mini-movies, although odd at first glance, succeeds two-fold: in compounding the monumental story being told, and in detailing the development of mindful curiosity, technological prowess and emotional manipulation. The first strand — the only section to be located on land — portrays everything primitive. The ape, soon to become man. The waterhole, soon to become territory. The bone, soon to become a sword, and a sceptre, and a hammer. It’s smart, cunning almost, as the sequence sets your brain clogs in motion. And the viewer’s mind is certainly going to need to be switched on, as the black vacuum above plays host to everything that follows.

An iconic image: the bone thrown and subsequently plummeting through the air, snappily followed by a space shuttle harnessed by gravity. Perhaps an indication of humankind’s selfishly perceived stability all these years later. Selfish in their control over nature, and negligence of mechanical reliance. Machines that seemingly have a “dependence on people,” at least that’s the view of Heywood, and later both Frank and David. Kubrick switches his line of questioning, batting that now aged-old ‘man versus machine’ adage that was gaining prominence around the film’s release in 1968. The internal AI system, HAL, is essentially the ticking heart of Discovery One, Frank and David’s space liner — HAL’s physical appearance burns a bright reddish-orange, symbolising the sun. Yet the system is almost secondary to the humans on board, simply a part of their routine; machinery assists in cooking food (unlike the raw meat off the slain bone eaten by apes), in steering the ship, providing entertainment (HAL wins at a game of chess), and almost all else.

This notion of machine-driven consumption prevails throughout the film, climaxing in HAL’s eventual devilishness and therefore implying both that machine has absolute rule over man, and that it is perhaps the next stage in the evolution of life. Douglas Rain is deadpan as the system’s voice, verbalising in an incredibly unassuming-turned-condescending manner (“Without your space helmet, Dave, you’re going to find that rather difficult”). Coincidentally, this converging relationship between man and machine has once again reared its societal hand recently, in Spike Jonze’s Her, a story about a man who falls in love with his AI system. The topic is an intriguing one, and Stanley Kubrick tackles it as well as anybody has done (or will do).

There are also other subtexts rummaging around, including our intrinsic attraction to the search for alien existence, conveyed by how characters interact with the menacing monoliths scattered throughout. Another irregular data byte comes by way of shapes — the sphere: HAL, the ship’s centre, and planet Earth indicating a form of coming full circle; the rectangle: those brooding and dangerous monoliths, offering no leeway; and the picturesque octagon: part of Discovery One’s walkway, an uncommon shape signalling strange happenings.

Interspersed within this ocean of thought-provoking query is a soundtrack as wide-ranging as the eon covered, yet one that maintains a common brassy undertone. Celebratory and grandiose, Richard Strauss’ “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” blares as a triumphant recognition of achievement. Conversely, scores of haunting, ghostly tones wail out like human souls in fear of extraterrestrials; it’s the ambience of the unknown. Geoffrey Unsworth has a whole universe to work with, and his cinematography is marvellous. The special effects, though obviously not up to present day standards, are admirable in their imagination — the influence of the camera work on show here can be seen propelling modern movies like Gravity. Performances from Keir Dullea, Gary Lockwood, and William Sylvester are by no means the centrepiece of proceedings, but Dullea in particularly stands out depicting of the authority-battling and bearings-losing Dr. David Bowman.

Stanley Kubrick films are renowned for offering more questions than answers. This potentially problematic mantra shows no sign of miss-deployment here, instead thriving in tandem with 2001: A Space Odyssey, a film that encompasses all of time and that debates the multitude of lives lived throughout.

Images copyright (©): Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Gravity (2D) (2013)

★★★

Director: Alfonso Cuarón

Release Date: October 4th, 2013 (US); November 7th, 2013 (UK)

Genre: Drama; Science-fiction; Thriller

Starring: Sandra Bullock, George Clooney

Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity has been lauded with praise from audiences and critics alike since its recent big screen release, being labelled groundbreaking, pioneering cinema. Emphatically described as immersive and emotive. Even breathtaking. Perhaps so much so that no space-set extravaganza will ever be the same again, purely because space on film in the future has a Gravity-esque brass ring to aspire to.

This abundance of praise, however, has been attributed primarily to Gravity in its 3D format (heck, even Mark Kermode thoroughly enjoyed this version). The jury is therefore still out on Gravity in its classic, run-of-the-mill 2D version. Does the trend-setting cinematography and floaty camera work succeed at all in two-dimensions? Is the film as engrossing and all-encompassing without the plethora of protruding debris and George Clooney-ness?

Quite simply, the answer to these questions is no. Not a resounding no, but a no nonetheless. And this flares up a number of issues, the most significant being whether or not Gravity in 3D is, more-so than any other three-dimensional film to date, essentially a theme park thrill ride in a cinema. Perhaps even — put in the plainest of terms — a gimmick. This is not necessarily a negative — film critic Danny Leigh on BBC’s Film 2013 mentioned that the film which Gravity reminded him most of was the Lumière Brothers’ L’arrivée d’un train en gare de La Ciotat (known in the UK as Train Pulling into a Station).

First shown in 1895, the film is a short 50-second piece depicting a steam train’s arrival at a bustling station. The first of its kind, the oncoming train apparently startled audience members and sent them fleeing in fear of the vehicle. The Lumière Brothers, themselves pioneers in the art of filmmaking, perceived cinema and the cinematic experience as a physical one, where audience members would be totally entranced and involved in what they were seeing. This was the birth of cinema and back then cinema was an out-of-body experience.

Fast-forward over a century and, by all accounts, this wholly enveloping feeling has returned as Gravity in 3D. But the same cannot be said for Gravity in 2D. The film sees Sandra Bullock’s Ryan Stone on her first space shuttle mission, partnering spacewalk veteran Matt Kowalski (Clooney) on his final mission (you can see where this one is going). After hearing news of a Russian satellite accident, the pair are bombarded with the resultant debris and metal, leaving them separated, low on oxygen and in desperate need of a safe return to Earth — to gravity.

Gravity (2D) looks stunning. The intricately manoeuvring astro-camera delicately shifts around the blackness, almost giving off the sense that the viewer is up there with the mission team (it probably does relay this sensation entirely, in 3D). The screen displays the magnificence of planet Earth in its fullest form and the film, as a purely flat visual output, looks simply awesome. So awesome that the philosophical Kowalski comments on the “beauty” a number of times.

Bullock is good as Dr. Stone, a woman who has recently lost her child and finds solace in the emptiness of space — an emptiness that no doubt has engulfed her for what feels like millennia, and that has left her devoid of any genuine happiness or enthusiasm for life. George Clooney does George Clooney very well, bursting with unbridled charisma and charm. The pair, and Bullock in particular, do genuinely come across as actors who have gone hell-for-leather and to ensure that there is a completely organic impression emitted from their space-set performances, an organic understanding that the film itself does incredibly well to generate (a generation likely far greater in 3D) as it was obviously unable to shoot on location.

Here is where Gravity (2D) returns from cloud nine to the bleak pavements of earth: the narrative is nothing more than just alright. Much of the film sees the astronauts glide around space for a period of time before colliding with a number of space stations and shuttles as they search for a route back to Earth. The novelty of watching these small, inconsequential beings wander at times aimlessly around the dark beyond wears off fairly early on, and unfortunately the dialogue is too commonplace and puffy to keep the audience attentive. There are bountiful amounts of clichés (“I’ve got a bad feeling about this”) and a number of deep-rooted conversations about existence and life (foetal position alert) recycled from sci-fi B-movies. The film is self-aware of this, and it would seem that the 3D version of Gravity does not need to worry about plot because the entrenching nature of proceedings means viewers are too busy being wowed by that new, exciting feeling of immersion in space alongside the characters.

Here lies the fundamental dispute that the 2D versus 3D debate boils down to: Gravity (2D) is a visually wonderful, but narratively generic drama about people in space trying to return home, whereas Gravity (3D) is a revolutionary experience in watching and becoming part of a film — it is pure cinema, the essence of what the Lumière Brothers envisioned all those years ago.

There is a moment towards the end of Gravity (2D) where the camera pans above a number of objects travelling very rapidly over the Earth. Even in two-dimensions this is a spine-tingling moment, and it evokes a final 15 minutes that is tense, goosebump-inducing and quite simply brilliant. These final moments probably equate to every moment in Gravity (3D). If that truly is the case, Alfonso Cuarón has done something pretty special indeed. The director has vehemently pushed for the film to be seen in all its three-dimensional glory, on the biggest screen, and it seems that is exactly how it should be seen.

I’m off to the IMAX.

Elysium (2013)

★★★

Director: Neill Blomkamp

Release Date: August 9th, 2013 (US); August 21st, 2013 (UK)

Genre: Action; Drama; Science-fiction

Starring: Matt Damon, Jodie Foster, Sharlto Copley, Alice Braga

Acquiring aesthetic influence from director Neill Blomkamp’s District 9, and combining that with a story inspired by Total Recall, Elysium takes its time as it slowly burns through its first hour — asking many of the same questions as those proposed in District 9 and Total Recall. However, with 40 minutes remaining and a more prominent role for Sharlto Copley developed, Elysium explodes into life with sci-fi action as entertaining and engrossing as much that has gone before it this summer.

Much like Total Recall, Elysium is set in a future where the wealthy live idyllic lives and the poor are left to fend for themselves. This time around, an enormous manufactured space station called Elysium plays host to those whose class and money outbid most others’. The Earth has been over-worked and over-populated, housing the vast majority of humanity — most of whom are poor and without essentials such as health care and shelter.

Elysium was hyped up fairly extensively throughout a summer dominated by science-fiction. Perhaps this was down to a combination of being directed by sci-fi extraordinaire Neill Blomkamp and boasting a juicy plot set to ignite many a discussion amongst viewers. For the most part, Elysium does hold up its end of the bargain and meets the high standards set beforehand. The film is not too dissimilar visually to Blomkamp’s District 9, which portrayed some of the Earth as extremely run-down and over-saturated by people, rubbish and rot. This obvious likeness is not a problem as the film certainly needs and benefits from the landscape it is primarily set in, with the contrast between Earth and the fresh, artificial Elysium comprehensively mirroring the gap between the rich and the poor. The film begins by scoping across the worn city of Los Angeles, projecting visuals which would not be out of place in a post-nuclear disaster. The camera then pans up towards the gleaming Elysium, signalling the overall objective of the film — to explore the results of mass-immigration and its impact on class divide.

Blomkamp appears to take significant inspiration from Total Recall, as Elysium incorporates two geographically and internally separate habitats into its story: a wealthy and a poor one. The film also sparks up many of the same questions asked in District 9, and the combination of these two somewhat recycled elements act as a small constraint against the piece. For example, just as District 9 is an analogy of oppression against ‘outsiders’ (the prawns), so too does Elysium focus on a lack of acceptance of ‘outsiders’ (the poor). Another key element which makes its way into Elysium much like it did District 9 is the lack of adequate health care offered to those who are in need of it. Installing similar themes to the extent Blomkamp does here runs the risk of being too referential in nature, however Elysium manages to overcome such an obstacle by way of an interesting (albeit slightly predictable) narrative and, in particular, a storming second-half.

After an hour comprised of plot points designed to set-up the main act of the film, Elysium bursts into life with the more prominent, speech-driven arrival of Sharlto Copley’s character, Kruger. A mercenary who works in an unofficial capacity for the Elysium Secretary of Defence, Jessica Delacourt (Jodie Foster), Kruger’s primary objective is to prevent any immigrants from escaping Earth and establishing themselves on Elysium. Copley — who also starred in District 9 — is tremendously vicious in the role, giving off the impression that his character is so unhinged he could snap at any given moment. Interestingly, Kruger’s dishevelled, vile look indicates that he has spent his life living off of scraps along with the rest of the poor on Earth, which adds another dimension to his relationship with the pristine Delacourt — it is likely that he does not want to see any form of success or joy amongst his peers on Earth and in order to ensure misery, he must ensure nobody can migrate to Elysium.

Matt Damon stars as an ex-convict named Max Da Costa who is trying to turn his life around and who finds himself, through a variety of circumstances, as the head of a mini-rebellion against the corporate Elyisians. There is a wonderful scene between Damon’s Da Costa and a robot near the beginning of the film (robots control the Earth as most upper-class humans deem the landscape unworthy and too polluted to exist on themselves). Da Costa becomes increasingly frustrated by the machine’s lack of care or understanding in regards to what he is saying to it. This essentially sums up the whole film, as Da Costa represents the poor and their struggle to be noticed and aided, against a discriminatory, emotionally unavailable upper-class. Both Damon and Foster are thoroughly convincing in their respective roles, however Copley’s effortless attempts at vulgarity ensure he is loathed universally, therefore he demands most of the plaudits. The final 40 minutes of Elysium are well worth the ticket price, as the drama evolves into hard-hitting action whilst maintaining an enveloping aura, much of which is to do with the uncertainty surrounding Kruger.

Even though the early stages of Elysium are slow-burning and a little nonsensical in parts, the film eventually hits full throttle as it meshes together awesome visuals, good performances and exhilarating action. The Total Recall–District 9 hybrid poses a number of recycled-yet-relevant questions to the audience, assuring its intentions are in the correct place.