Stephen Sommers on board to direct GI JOE 2 — no surprises there

Stephen Sommers on board to direct GI JOE 2 — no surprises there

Aug 05

I liked GI Joe better than I liked Transformers 2 — that is to say, I hated GI Joe less than I hated Transformers 2. It was childish escapist prattle that somehow seemed harmless at the time, although my brain refused to talk to me for the following week.

Good (or bad) news, then: Stephen Sommers is back on board for GI Joe 2: GI Joer (note: probably not the real title). What, were you expecting David Fincher or something?

Given that GI Joe made $300m, it’s no big surprise that Paramount’s keen to kick the franchise along; it is something of a surprise that they’ve managed to secure the writing talents of Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, who wrote the excellent Zombieland.

Will Reese and Wernick capitalise on the inherent funniness of an action movie about a man named Duke and his strained relations with the busty redhead at work? Probably not, but GI Joe beats Transformers at its own game, so I support Joe 2 more than Transformers 3 — that is to say, I oppose the idea of Joe 2 less than I do Transformers 3.

The “leave your brain at the door” argument, and why it’s wrong

The “leave your brain at the door” argument, and why it’s wrong

Aug 03

You hear it all the time, often wailed in defence of Michael Bay’s latest crime against humanity: “you just need to leave your brain at the door of the theatre, and then you’ll have the time of your life.”

It’s spoken (or written) in a friendly but ultimately condescending manner, and is often followed up (especially online) with the suggestion that “you should get off your high horse,” “you should stop being so sensitive,” and, ultimately, “you should stop watching movies.”

That last one is dropped like some kind of clincher, like the author just hit the Win Button and is now allowed to swagger out of the room, put their sunglasses on, and ride off into the sunset in the vehicle of their choice, and that the conversation is forever dead and buried.

It implies that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m going about the business of watching frames flicker on a wall entirely incorrectly, that what I’m doing is uncool, lame, for dweebs or geeks, and doesn’t advance the social cause of being Awesome™. To me, it sounds a lot like “Shut up so I can concentrate on ignoring this movie better.”

A man by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge coined the phrase “willing suspension of disbelief.” When we approach an artistic medium – such as poetry, literature, or film – we understand the tropes and limitations of that particular medium, and we agree to give the author(s) a particular margin of artistic leeway, in order to get the most out of the experience.

Suspension of disbelief has been vital to storytelling ever since its inception. Looking back to the Greek “hero myths,” the one thing most of those heroes had in common was that the gods gave them superpowers. The gods were known to Greek audiences; they accepted the use of the “gods did it” device in the process of storytelling, so they could get to the cathartic bits about chopping off dragons’ heads and ravaging virtuous virgins.

That idea carries over into cinema. You know, when you watch a movie with Bruce Willis in it, that he doesn’t have to worry about firing a gun in public, he never runs out of ammo, that he can jump 20-foot gaps with ease, and that a single well-aimed bullet from his 9mm pistol is enough to cause any vehicle in the street to spontaneously combust. The source of Bruce Willis’ powers lies in the library of cinema leading up to this particular movie; you’ve seen it before, enough times (kind of like “the gods did it”), and exploding cars adds so much to this action scene, that you don’t mind the fact that it’s physically impossible.

It is, of course, possible to push the suspension of disbelief too far. When this happens, a movie’s credibility flees the cinema at the speed of light: think of that bit in Indiana Jones 4 where Indy gets in a fridge to survive a nuclear explosion, or that bit in The Quick And The Dead where the sun shines through a bullet wound, or that bit in Twilight where anyone says or does anything; after that happens, you get a creeping sense of disappointment, like the filmmakers think you’re really stupid.

But you’re not stupid. Do you want to know how I can tell? Because there are billions and billions of human beings all over the world who share 99.9% of each other’s DNA. You may be stupid, then, but you’re no stupider than me; you’re capable of using your brain just as well (or badly) as I am. So why do I get these “stop watching” comments from people?

Once upon a time, art and literature were esoteric pursuits reserved only for the most snobbish, upper-class echelons of society. The obstacle between the lower classes and art was the written language. Now that everyone (at least in this part of the world) is expected to be able to read, the prestige associated with art has been erased, opening the floodgates for more accessible (and sometimes better for it) works. Still, prejudice against classically “prestigious” forms of art remains, like the bitter memories of a jaded lover, and this hurts people’s appreciation of some media.

Adding to this is the 21^st century obsession with instant gratification. Where music used to be a 60-minute story told with a full orchestra in the town hall, rich in content and complex in delivery, music now is a 3-minute pop song that goes verse-chorus-verse-chorus, piped conveniently through the speakers in your car: it’s still music, but it’s music distilled to its most basic, lowest-common-denominator form.

Human beings now want (and expect) everything ready for them on a silver platter by the time they’ve asked for it. That desire extends to music, literature (think of those shallow-yet-thrilling page-turners by the likes of Crichton, King, Clancy and Rowling) and, sadly enough, film.

Consider dance music, a genre devoted solely to invoking the ancient ritual of shaking one’s body to a steady rhythm. Studies have shown that ritualistic movements like this stimulate particular parts of the brain, giving the dancer a sense of satisfaction (which explains why everyone loves dancing so much). Dance music is the ultimate in instant gratification – you don’t even have to think; all you have to do is hear the music and do what comes naturally and you get an emotional kick out of it.

The same holds true for movies. A movie like GI Joe or Twilight is like a dance song. It hits the beats, packs all the explosions and / or lingering looks you want, and tickles the aesthetic, ritualistic part of your brain, without providing a lasting experience you can savour for the rest of your life. But I want more — why shouldn’t film strive to echo the greatest sonatas or arias or ballads? Besides, film already has its equivalent to dance: comedy (a genre devoted to evoking immediate physical responses in the audience).

There is much pleasure to be derived from using your noggin. Great amounts of joy and awe can be gained from exploiting the curiosity / satisfaction loop in our mammalian brains. Rather than being treated as a second-class citizen of the brain, shouldn’t this loop be given more to do? Why shouldn’t it be treated like the wonderful, glorious adaptation that it is?

Movies can stimulate that loop as well as Mozart’s greatest works, while also banging the primal drum of dance music to fire the veins. It’s a one-two punch to our brains, targeting both the reptilian ritual-centre and the mammalian curiosity-centre lurking in our skulls; it’s a great thing when it works in concert, and the best film example I can think of to explain it is 2001: A Space Odyssey.

In 2001, the viewer is often left without any skerrick of explanation or plot for vast tracts of time. For some people this becomes tedious and their disbelief is no longer suspended; it’s boring, it’s too realistic, the spaceships move too slowly, the actors’ voices are funny, etc.

If, instead of immediately switching off when the experience doesn’t meet your quick demands, you start feeding these questions into your brain – why are we still in the plains of Africa? Why is that bone so important? What does this jump-cut signify? – you’ll start to get answers. You won’t get all the answers, that’s not the point; the point is that you get enough answers to suspend your disbelief and keep your eyes glued to the screen. The pleasure derived from answering these questions becomes the driving force of the movie, outweighing the modest visual thrills provided by Kubrick’s hallmark coldness, and providing a unique and resonant film experience.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is Transformers. The movie is loud and flashy, bludgeoning your brain with information so that it’s too stifled to think. If you could think, what questions would you ask? “Why are they going here?” To get to the action scene. “Why are they doing this?” To set up the kiss at the end. “What is the point of this character?” To act as cannon fodder for the enemy.

The answers are so quick to your mind, so familiar and uninspired, that the thinking loop becomes unrewarding, and you stop using it. You rely on the visual and auditory stimulation to provide your pleasure, a pleasure that is big but hollow, kind of like a dance beat that never changes. It delivers the emotional impact you crave, but it’s a stopgap rather than a long-term solution, kind of like choosing a chocolate bar over a three-course meal.

Maybe it’s time we all took pride in the delightful firing of neurons that stirs such storms of joy and fascination in us, instead of continuing to pretend that ignorance is Awesome™, thinking is gay, music is for dancin’ and books are for burnin,’ and that movies are just $100 million babysitters with delusions of grandeur.

Don’t sell yourself short; you’re better than that – I know this because we share the same brain. Maybe we should stop ignoring it and learn to use it. Until that happens, I’m not going to leave my brain at the door; I have too much fun with the thing to let it go.