Your Movie is Confusing

(It's another movie review, which means another non-book review. I promised five book reviews earlier, I know. To find out why I didn't post the rest, check out the postscript below. Otherwise, enjoy the review!)

Inception is the most-talked about movie since Avatar, and Nolan's film deserves that prize a damn sight better than James Cameron's The Smurfs Present Pocahontas Dances with Wolves did. What I've heard the most is that people thought it was confusing -- or extremely intelligent, for a summer audience. I disagree with both of these sentiments.

I think Inception was two things. It was intricate -- a deep system completely and absolutely thought out by the screenwriters -- and that allowed for Inception's second quality: it was innovative. Imaginative. It brought a feeling of freshness to the big screen which I haven't felt since (perhaps) Toy Story.

But back to that comment about it being confusing. The degree to which you understand this movie will depend upon how much you dream, and how much disbelief you are willing to suspend over what the subconscious can control during your sleep. Personally, I think that the more you think about it, the more sense the movie makes. But during the movie, there is an underlying feeling of "not-getting-it" that you have to get around. If you've seen the movie, you may know what I'm talking about. The fact of the matter is, though, that all you need to know about the dreamworld (that is, 90% of what Nolan tells you) is exposited in the first 90 minutes. What is it, then, that keeps the movie just out of your reach?

It's in that opening sequence, which you probably forgot. The film opens on a beach; the protagonist then speaks with a very old man. After that we cut to DiCaprio in the same room (or a similar one) in which he talks with someone else about something completely different -- and then follows a confusing sequence of dreams within dreams. It takes the audience an hour and a half to get over that initial shock of landing in worlds of dreams -- what is real and what isn't, anyway? -- but even after that, we have a feeling of unease because everything has not been explained. Those first few shots don't show up again until the end of the movie, in true Chris Nolan form.

The confusing or intellectual qualities of this film aren't really what makes it. Most of the film's success lies in the stupendous ideas about dreams. But another big part of it, and what makes the movie better than other confusing yarns, is the way the story is crafted emotionally. All the characters have motivations or places in the film. There are a few narrative threads that weave their way through the worlds. This gives the audience something to hold onto when all else is lost -- DiCaprio is searching for a way to let go, and the dream team is trying to pull an Inception, and Ellen Page is a student trying to help out DiCaprio for the good of the team. The point is that they are all familiar story beats, and even life beats, that we can relate to.

I think filmmakers can forget that this is what makes a movie good. I just watched another confusing movie, The Usual Suspects, in which we meet an unreliable narrator who tells about the criminal activities of himself and of his buddies. A huge chunk is told in flashback, but some flashbacks are told two or three times, and with different characters in different positions. But I never got attached to the characters, who had no motivation other than "breaking the system" (due to feelings of being stereotyped in an earlier police line-up). I never understood what was going on because they performed three or four unrelated jobs for no apparent reason. And most importantly, I didn't find the movie interesting because the only slightly unique thing about it was the twist at the end -- which I saw coming a mile away, by the way. What do we learn from this? Never bank your entire movie on one aspect of it. (Of course, when you see the early Pixar movies and realize two or three funny things happen at any moment that could spark your laughter, this makes sense.)

Here's a confusing movie that works, though: The Spanish Prisoner. Like The Usual Suspects, it changes direction midstream multiple times. However, each time it does so, we think we're watching a different kind of movie. We've been tricked the first twenty minutes, see, and now it's become a new kind of movie -- only twenty minutes later, it's a revenge thriller -- and then later on, it's an escape movie. Through the film's many acts, the characters have visible motivations and relatable emotions. The audience is rarely lost, and often tickled. Except for the first twenty minutes, the audience is never bored because we're trying to figure out what will come next.

Finally, there's Shutter Island, another movie that banks its entire premise on a twist. As with The Usual Suspects, I think that's weak for a movie, but it succeeds for (once again) two reasons. One, the twist is foreshadowed and developed through the film, so if you're paying attention, you suspect what's coming. Two, the film is made uncannily well, being a Scorsese piece. It is creepy and weird and messed up and terrifying, and at the end of the movie you find out why. That makes a bunch of stuff look non-sequitur at first, until you find out it's quite brilliant storytelling.

Movies should dare to be a little bit confusing, because it certainly spices up the selection at the cinema. But more important is that this confusing quality can force you to focus more on filmmakers' tools to make a quality movie, to draw the viewer in. Chris Nolan, David Mamet, and (to a degree) Martin Scorsese succeeded with their movies, while Bryan Singer's The Usual Suspects failed. Others are also good (The Sixth Sense) while some take a bit of thinking to figure out (Citizen Kane). The quality of the movie, though, always comes back to the quality of the filmmaking.

POST SCRIPT: On why I'm not writing book reviews.

Earlier I mentioned that I'm now reading several books at the same time. I promised no fewer than four reviews. This will not happen.

Here's why: I'm now reading twelve books at the same time, because of all I want to finish before I head off to college. I'm less able to think about books as entities of themselves this way, and it's harder for me to review.

What I planned to do originally was talk about themes that thread their ways through the books, but this seemed contrived and unnecessary, and I couldn't think of anything good to say, so I tossed it. I have an idea for a 1984 piece, but I don't know if I'll write it.

In short: the future of Berkeleian's Summer Reading Blog is up in the air. Any comments are greatly appreciated on the matter.

Blame the French

Whatever kind of Shakespeare reader you are -- casual, afficianado, avoider -- there is a very good chance that you have not read Henry VI, Part 1. It's not the kind of play you wake up one day and decide to read. As a matter of fact, most of the histories fit under this category. There are perhaps two that are widely known: Richard III and Henry V. And herein lies a problem: both of those plays are the final parts to Shakespeare's two history Tetralogies (four-part stories). In order to get the required backstory in those plays, it may behoove you to read their prequels.

This journey for me began with a nosebleed. I was home with one when I saw Lawrence Olivier's stunning performance of Richard III. His agonized cry, "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!" made me want to go back and read the play. But -- lo and behold -- you really do have to read the whole tetralogy first.

(I could have even started earlier. Shakespeare's Tetralogies weren't written in order; he was the George Lucas of his time. The one beginning with Henry VI, Part 1 was written first, and probably with collaborators. He wrote the Prequel Tetralogy later. But since this play is the likely chronological beginning of Shakespeare's works, I had no problem starting here.)

This was my first exposure to the Histories, of which I'd always wondered: how can they be interesting as plays? I imagined them very dry and pointless, like my high school textbooks.

Henry VI, Part 1 defied my expectations entirely. Firstly, the story is framed around the well-known story (well-known to me, anyway) of Joan of Arc. The story of the British histories is one of nobles quarreling amongst themselves, but this one brings in an enemy -- the French and their new leader. (Opposition would be a better word -- you see the story from their position often, and they're not wholly evil.) Thus the story balances precariously between the worlds of standard good-guys-versus-bad-guys story, and tragedy. The British nobles' tragic flaw, you see, is that they quarrel so much among themselves without getting anything done. The question becomes whether English losses are the France's fault, or England's. (Naturally, England tends to blame the French.)

Another reason why Henry VI, Part 1 works is that British history is just... interesting. It helps that I can flip back and forth in this yarn, and also that three family trees are provided. Shakespeare simplifies things -- in the first scene, for example, crisis after crisis reaches the British when in reality the problems were more spread apart. But simplifications of factions into lead characters is a good device which keeps the story moving.

Often the reasons for the infighting aren't given. I don't know whether I'm missing some information from earlier plays, but I largely doubt it. The point here is that English nobles are fighting for control, for dignity, and for power. And the king is no help.

The title is a misnomer. "The First Part of the Reign of Henry the Sixth" would be more accurate, as his reign begins upon the death of Henry V. His funeral begins the play; the new king shows up in act 3 of 5, and is absolutely useless at reparing the damage.

Another interesting device is some of the scenes in act 4, which have significant chronological gaps but feature the same characters. As a reader, it works, but I imagine that directors would have a tough time of it.

Last on my list here is the note that this play ends on a cliffhanger. As well it should -- the play sets up the next two at the end. Seeing it alone, I imagine theatregoers would be a little bit miffed, for good reason. All in all, though, I think the play told a complete story, which is more than I expected (neither a complete yarn nor a story). It's a pretty good introduction to British history.

A brief explanation of Cycle 1

Over my tropical vacation, I adopted a new style of reading in which I read many books at the same time, in a pre-determined sequence. Through this method, I completed five normal books; their reviews appear above. I also completed several installments of "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind" (a re-read; review to come shortly), Marvel's Civil War, a visual effects magazine issue, and parts of The Complete Chess Player. I say this only to let you know why so many reviews are appearing at the same time.

I have decided to call this method of reading "Cycle Reading". I don't know how long it will last. This is Cycle 1.