The #1 Thing I Want on Extended Cut or Special Edition DVDs
By “Extended Cut” or “Special Edition,” I am referring to any DVD release which includes additional footage in the movie itself or special features which otherwise are not available in previous versions. And what is it that I want from these special editions? The Theatrical Version! One of the things that drives me up the wall with DVDs is when the extended cut doesn’t come with the original theatrical release. If you go mucking about with a movie, I still want to be able to enjoy the film as it was seen by movie-goers. Star Wars fans were pissed off when George Lucas released the original trilogy on DVD without the original versions; we didn’t want the Special Editions that were released in the late 90s, and we definitely didn’t want a heavily edited Special Edition (remember Hayden Christensen put in place of Sebastian Shaw?). Even something like Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings runs into this problem. The extended editions replaced the theatrical release with an extended cut. They’re incredible movies in either for, but sometimes all that extra footage doesn’t make for a better movie; it’s there to make fans giggle inside. There’s nothing inherently wrong with these changes, even when those changes are kind of stupid. But sometimes the theatrical experience is the better one. Plus, I like being able to ignore the changes without having to buy two different versions of the DVD. Seems like a really simple thing, but sometimes movie studios don’t give you both versions on the same DVD. And it’s really annoying… What about you? What is the one thing you want in a special edition release of your favorite movie?
10 Things I’ve Learned From Prometheus (Or, Prometheus: A Testament to the Stupidity of Mankind)
Because everyone is poking fun at Prometheus, I’ve decided to join in on the festivities. Here goes: 1. Only an American-based expedition could be based solely on the personal beliefs of someone claiming themselves to be a scientist. The Evidence: Shaw and Holloway, the two archaeologists responsible for the Prometheus mission, have nothing but a handful of cave paintings to suggest that aliens visited Earth in the past. The rest of their hypothesis (aliens seeded Earth and left markers to convince humanity to find their makers) are based on absolutely no scientific evidence whatsoever. And the fact that the characters are from a variety of nationalities is irrelevant, since the entire mission is funded by a rich American businessman who has bought into the evidence-less hypothesis. In other words: America’s pathetic tendency to base political and social decisions on the whims of “beliefs” have so tainted the future that the term “scientific exploration” is more ironic than anything else. Thus, the only science in this movie is tangential. 2. In the future, medical pods will remind women that they aren’t important. The Evidence: The one automated medical pod in the movie is designed for the male anatomy. Why? Some argue that this has to do with Peter Weyland’s selfishness, but considering that the pod is perfectly capable of performing surgeries on women (Shaw uses a “foreign body” program to perform a Cesarean section), what this really tells us is that Scott’s future is a patriarchy for the sake of being a patriarchy. Considering that half the planet are women, it is absurd to think that medical pods are not being programmed for women; and if they are being programmed for women, then it really doesn’t make any sense to create two different kinds of pods when you could save considerable amounts of money on production to make one pod for practically all situations. After all, the pod in Prometheus can already perform the necessary surgeries on a female body anyway, just not under the appropriate surgical subheading. 3. Scientists are incompetent in the future. The Evidence: The geologist uses several orbs to map out the interior of the alien ship, but is completely incapable of using that map to find the exit. This is necessary for the plot, in which the geologist and his not-really-a-friend scientist buddy get lost and are then destroyed by evil alien snakes from hell. Likewise, there’s Holloway and Shaw, who refuse to observe quarantine procedures. Worse yet, Holloway decides that because the air appears to be breathable inside the alien ship, it is perfectly reasonable to remove his helmet. No worries about microbes. No attempt by an authority figure to reprimand him. In fact, it doesn’t seem like anyone put much thought into this mission at all. Oddly enough, the only technologically competent people in this movie happen to be the captain (Idris Elba) and his mini-gang of ship people. All three can read the geologist’s map, pilot the ship, use little computers and gizmos with expertise, and so on. But, hey, when you put together a mission based solely on the whims of a bunch of new age archaeologists, I guess you can’t expect to nab a few decent scientists to tag along. 4. Humanity hasn’t learned anything from all the science fiction stories they’ve written. The Evidence: Thousands of movies and books and short stories have been written in the last 100 years alone about robots, androids, and other synthetic beings going slightly mental, and yet we have not taken any of that into account in the world of Prometheus. Case in point — David (Michael Fassbender). Here’s what he’s responsible for doing in the movie: a) Invading the dreams of humans in suspended animation. b) Infecting Halloway with an alien sludge, resulting in Shaw’s impregnation with a mutant alien baby from hell and the death of Halloway. c) Denying Shaw the right to terminate her mutant pregnancy by using medicine (drugs) against her. Why? I don’t know. The movie never tells us his motivations for any of it. So either David is just naturally curious, and therefore dangerous to human beings, or he’s insane. Neither of those options sounds good to me. 5. The Roman statues were based on aliens. The Evidence: The Engineers (Space Jockeys) are all white as stone, perfectly sculpted, and surprisingly shaped like this guy: Some have criticized the film for its strange magic-Aryan-sperm-seeds-the-Earth ideology. I think it’s weird enough that humanoid aliens shaped like Roman statues could only seed other planets with their DNA goop by committing suicide. Seriously? You’re an alien race capable of interstellar travel and you can’t figure out how to stick your DNA into the lifeless streams of Earth without killing yourself?? You’ve got hands…just sayin’. (Yes, I’m aware that the concoction the Engineer drinks probably does something to his DNA. It’s still stupid.) 6. There are no female aliens. The Evidence: There are no female aliens. Seriously. None. Not a single one. Unless Scott is suggesting these nearly-human aliens reproduce asexually, like bipedal amoeba, then what we’re left with is an alien race that believes its lady aliens need to stay home and do whatever it is lady aliens are supposed to do. They don’t eat food, so maybe they just tend to the house (or whatever they live in). Why are there no lady aliens? Seriously. Are the man aliens the only ambitious and batshit crazy, dickish members of their species? 7. Two obviously different species can be the same species. The Evidence: We’re told in Prometheus that the Engineers are us, and we are the Engineers. On top of that, we’re shown it on a screen, where two strands of DNA (human and Engineer) are matched up. And guess what? We’re 100% the same! Wait, what? Have you seen an Engineer? They’re two or three feet taller than us, naturally muscular, and slightly off looking. Just look at him: He’s like Eugen Sandow on PCP! If that isn’t enough
Retro Nostalgia: The Fifth Element (1997) and the Legacy of Camp
The Fifth Element is one of those films that the genre community loves not because it is a good film, but because it’s actually pretty awful, and intentionally so. At least, that’s how I interpret it. It has always seemed like a film that deliberately sought out science fiction’s pension for high-flying, mythological fantasy (in space). In some sense, it’s the opposite of Starships Troopers, released in the same year. Both films are satires: Starship Troopers a more socio-political satire of the military industrial complex, and The Fifth Element a satire of genre — or what I call the “legacy of camp.” What amuses me about The Fifth Element is how easily it manipulates genre conventions to produce a narrative that functions in part through humorous hyperbole, and yet never needs to make a whole lot of sense. The central premise, for those that don’t know or only vaguely remember, is much like any Doctor Who season finale: some kind of evil, ancient alien force appears out of nowhere (in the form of a planet that gobbles up aggressive energy, like missiles, to increase its size), and the only one who can stop it is a genetically engineered messiah (Leeloo, played by Milla Jovovich) and an ex-soldier. Of course, there are lots of obstacles in the way: an inept human government/military, an evil corporate loon with the weirdest hairdo in history (Gary Oldman), some evil mercenary space orcs, and a couple of socially awkward priests. Let’s also not forget that one of the most important scenes in the entire movie is an opera/faux-future-pop mashup laid over Leeloo’s comical smackdown of those absurd space orcs. And did I mention that the music in said scene is performed by a blue alien diva with tentacles? Yeah. The plot is eccentric enough — and ever so genre — but the film’s technological imagination is where the nonsensical really shines. Take, for example, the main city: hover cars are everywhere, despite societal evidence that this would be a complete disaster; Chinese restaurants deliver in person, flying around in makeshift sailing ships; Korben Dallas (Bruce Willis) has enough high-powered rifles to make even an NRA activist scared (and apparently he’s not the only one); and homes are equipped with self-cleaning showers and other gadgets that would make Bill Gates wet himself. Elsewhere, we’re to believe that scientists can reconstruct any biological being from a handful of cells; luxury cruise ships roam the stars undefended, while mercenaries destroy everything they’re paid to eliminate; and aliens of unimaginable cleverness (who made Leeloo) are so inept at protecting their own ships that their destruction becomes a convenient plot device. It’s the kind of movie that, if it took itself seriously, would fall apart the moment someone started to think about it all. But The Fifth Element doesn’t take itself too seriously. It’s camp through and through. The acting is overboard, right down to a somewhat dumbfounded Tommy Lister playing President of, well, everything and Gary Oldman pulling out all the stops as the ridiculous Zorg, weird hairdo, accent, and all. It’s as if the creators sat down one day and said, “How can we make this movie so ridiculous it’s actually entertaining?” And it’s that willingness to embrace the campy side of SF that makes The Fifth Element one of those rare humorous gems, memorable not for being a gamestopper like 2001: A Space Odyssey or Blade Runner, but for being that absurd movie we can all watch and love together. It never needed to be a good movie. It only ever needed to be that right mixture of camp and humor (a skill Joss Whedon has learned to master quite well). This is where I have to wonder: What other films do the same thing? Do they work as well as The Fifth Element? Why or why not? —————————————— Retro Nostalgia is the product of my compulsive re-watching of classic and/or quality science fiction and fantasy films (and their related components). In each feature, I’ll cover some element of a particular film that interests me, sometimes from an academic perspective and other times as a simple fan. Previous columns can be easily found via the “Movie Rants” label.
Retro Nostalgia: Alien (1979) and the Uncanny Valley
Having recently viewed and podcasted about Ridley Scott’s prequel, Prometheus, I decided it would be a great idea to revisit the Alien franchise by re-watching Ridley Scott’s original: Alien. Released in 1979, the film remains one of the most terrifying science fiction movies to hit the big screen, despite the obvious dating in its technology (updated considerably in Prometheus — because computers with green letters and typewriter clicking sounds are so obviously old school). But what is it that terrifies us about the xenomorph in this film and its immediate sequels (Aliens and Alien 3)? For me, it has to do with the premise behind the concept of the Uncanny Valley: At its most basic, Masahiro Mori’s concept suggests that the more human an inhuman thing appears, the more uncomfortable human beings become. Many have applied the concept to robotics and video games, but I think the above image shows how it can also apply more broadly to the fantastic. While some research suggests that the hypothesis doesn’t hold up under scrutiny, I do think it remains an important explanation for why we are terrified of the xenomorph and other science fiction creations (perhaps someone could explore how it relates to Splice, which seems to dig into an even greater human terror: our creations turning on us). Where the xenomorph sits on the scale is up to speculation, but re-watching Alien reminded me how human these creatures really are. It’s against those humanoid features that its most terrifying aspects play out on the screen. It’s a bipedal creature with arms and hands not unlike our own, with an identifiable head, pelvis, and similar humanoid features, such as feet. But its skin is insect-like; it’s mouth is full of sharp teeth and hides a second mouth that shoots out to puncture flesh; it’s head is elongated to exaggerated levels; its blood is acidic; and it has a long, skeletal and pointed tail, which it uses to coax terrified prey closer to its mouth. All of these features at once remind us of ourselves, but also remind us of what we are not. And for me, that’s bloody terrifying. Giant squid other kinds of incredibly inhuman creatures don’t terrify me nearly as much as those beings that verge into human territory.* This is perhaps why the Space Jockey, as re-imagined by Ridley Scott in Prometheus, made me uneasy. Once you see what they look like underneath all that bizarre armor, they are surprisingly human, more so even than the xenomorph. And something about that makes their actions in the movie more terrifying, but also strangely more familiar (but that’s perhaps something to think about another day…). What about you? What terrifies you about the xenomorph or other science fiction monsters? The comments are yours. ————————————————– *I’m speaking about terror with regards to the unreal. If a xenomorph and a giant squid showed up in my living room, both with the intent to kill me, I would be equally terrified of both. Thankfully, that would never happen.
Retro Nostalgia: Sunshine (2007) and Science Fiction’s Supreme Optimism
I’ve argued before that science fiction is a naturally optimistic genre. One of the main reasons for this is the fact that SF almost always imagines a future in which we still exist. While watching Sunshine, however, my position became more nuanced. It’s not that we are still alive; it’s that we’ve survived. Sunshine is one such movie. Set in a future in which the Sun has prematurely begun to die out, humanity has been given the seemingly impossible task of jump-starting the gas furnace of the Sun and save Earth. Impossible is an understatement, really. It’s pretty clear from the start of the film that humanity has not progressed all that far from our present in terms of technology. We’ve mastered a few more stages of spaceflight, put bases and communication arrays on the moon, managed to solve gravity issues on long-range spaceships, figured out how to maximize oxygen production, plant growth, etc., and built ships large enough to house multiple humans and to protect them from radiation, the Sun’s heat, and so on. None of that should inspire confidence in our ability to control stars. And as the opening moments remind us, this is more true than we can possibly know. The first jump-start spaceship, Icarus, disappeared on its way to deliver its payload, leaving us with the Icarus 2, which, we’re reminded, is the product of Earth’s now limited resources. All of these facts are given to us in the earliest moments to remind us how dire the situation really is. But they also tell us something else: we’re survivors who can somehow manage amazing things in the darkest of times. After all, we’ve survived plagues, viruses, weather, and all manner of obstacles thrown at us by our ecosystem. And we’ve survived ourselves for centuries. Sunshine is yet another reminder of this: we are not dead from a nuclear war — as the Cold War Era thought we would be — or biological agents — human made or otherwise. Rather, our obstacle is a seemingly natural one. The Sun is dying and we’ve got to do something to fix that. But the kicker is the solution: impossible technology. The energy needed to successfully jump-start the Sun should be beyond us — should be unattainable. A science fiction trope if there ever was one. But somehow we’ve managed it in Sunshine. For me, the ability to imagine humanity beating the worst odds imaginable is a kind of optimism that cannot be outmatched. It is only in darkness that we can see the light, as they say, and so it is with Sunshine, wherein humanity bands together to defeat the greatest of foes: nature. It doesn’t seem terribly important to me that the technology in this movie is largely imaginary — after all, how exactly are you supposed to restart a star with little more than what can be found on Earth and some almost-magical-hand-waving? But that, to me, is a kind of optimistic notion, too — when handled correctly. That humanity can, in a science fiction universe, discover the means to solve a seemingly impossible problem reminds us how remarkable humans can be. Do any of you have the same feeling?
Retro Nostalgia: The Fascinating Paradox of Sphere (1998) (Or, Why Science Fiction Makes Us Think)
I recently re-watched the 1998 film adaptation of Michael Crichton’s Sphere (starring Dustin Hoffman, Sharon Stone, and Samuel L. Jackson, among others). What fascinated me about the film was that despite all its flaws, it is still an example of science fiction doing what it does best: explore the big ideas (Wikipedia tells me this is also true of the book, but since I haven’t read it, I can only comment on what is in the film). For those that have not seen Sphere, I suggest you watch it before reading beyond this point, because I’m going to ruin the ending. Starting now… The big idea in Sphere is a twist on the traditional “first contact” story. A ragtag bunch of scientists (and a psychologist played by Hoffman) are brought in secret to an underwater facility by the U.S. military. There they learn that the military has discovered a 300-year-old spacecraft, which they suspect to be alien. It turns out, however, that the craft is neither 300-years-old nor alien; rather, it is of American origin and from the future, having crashlanded in Earth’s past after a brush with a black hole. To add to the mystery, the characters discover a strange sphere inside the ship (nobody knows if it’s alien or not, and no answers are ever actually given). Eventually we discover that all those who go inside the sphere gain the ability to bring their thoughts to life. In the concluding scenes (inside a decompression chamber), the surviving members of the team consider the implications of what they’ve learned. Hoffman’s character rightly concludes that humanity is too primitive for the kind of power granted by the sphere, as their nightmarish foray in the underwater facility shows (they all more or less bring their nightmares to life). And so all three characters decide they will use the power to forget what happened, thereby denying humanity access to the information. What I find compelling about this ending is how it fulfills its own prophecy. Because the ship is from the future, we’re drawn to the realization that the choice of the characters to forget means that the mistakes which led them to this realization must always happen. It also means that humanity never actually learns the lesson that these individuals do, making it impossible for any kind of species-centered growth — there will be no forewarning of the dangers, no future-reversion, in which technology from the future influences the technology of the past, leading us to that future point (yay, a paradox!). But the paradox lies in that problem: if the spacecraft has no record of what the scientists discovered in the past, then something must have happened to prevent that information from reaching the authorities. We’re led to believe that this means nobody is meant to survive, but the truth is that the information is destroyed, making certain that nobody knows and that everything proceeds in blindness. Anyone thinking about this problem knows that something must happen or the whole world collapses (which is a problem for Sphere, a serious film, but not really one for Back to the Future, a humorous film). That idea — of meeting our future head-on and grappling with its implications, both technologically, socially, and psychologically — is what SF does best. It doesn’t really matter if Sphere is a great movie on its own; what matters is if its ending compels one to think — and ask the big questions. How do we grapple with technology that makes the “dreams come true” idea a reality? What do we do when we know our own future, and it’s immediate ramifications? And is it really possible to forget such power and history? And if you don’t forget, does that mean your future changes? Do we fall into one of those weird Back to the Future paradoxes? Would you know if things changed? And, of course, there’s this one: What is the sphere? Where did it come from? Will we ever know? I’ll leave it there for now, because I want to see what others thought about the conclusion of Sphere. How did you interpret the paradoxes and ideas presented in those final moments?