By Chris Rogers, Aug 19 2016 1:43PM
A violent crime thriller in which two men on opposite sides of the law circle each other in an unromantic Los Angeles of freeways, industrial lots and cheap diners until a fateful, existential confrontation… No, not the acclaimed Heat (1995), but William Friedkin’s underrated To Live and Die in L.A. (1985), which anticipated Michael Mann’s film by a full ten years even whilst borrowing elements of its look from that director’s television series Miami Vice (1984-89) and which is still fresh and meaningful today.
At the time of its release, Friedkin’s story of US Treasury Secret Service agents pursuing a master counterfeiter was criticised for a lack of substance, epitomised by stylised visuals and a score by British New Wave group Wang Chung. The contrast with Friedkin’s blockbusters from the previous decade, The French Connection (1971) and The Exorcist (1973), both of which were praised for their realistic settings, seemed to prove the point.
If fact this represents a fundamental misreading of To Live and Die in L.A., which takes that same concern for a grounded foundation on which to build a story and blends it seamlessly with a look (and sound) that go beyond surface gloss and mere imitation to achieve something greater.
The work began with the experiences of Gerald Petievich, who had spent fifteen years in the Secret Service tackling counterfeiters and protecting the President (years later the Secret Service would be transferred to the newly-formed Department of Homeland Security to concentrate exclusively on this more famous function) before embarking on a writing career. His novel formed the core of the script.
In realising this for the screen Friedkin added another layer of authenticity by engaging actual forgers as consultants, something Mann had done with safecrackers for Thief (1981). Finally, extensive use was made of locations, firmly avoiding those associated with the glamour and glitz of Hollywood. A genuine strip club, ordinary warehouses and homes and the LA river storm drain system feature heavily, and it is notable that about the most recognisable – the twin wedges of Century Plaza Towers – are glimpsed only at night as part of a helicopter fly-over. By shooting in these gritty, workaday places, and doing so with little rehearsal time and occasionally without any formal blocking, Friedkin generated a freshness and presence that contributes significantly to the final atmosphere.
The dialogue, with its blunt one-liners, speaks of the streets, too, a legacy of Petievich’s co-writing. Actors who were on the verge of coming fame also, mostly obviously William L. Petersen and Willem Dafoe but also John Turturro, aided believability. That established actor and film-maker Robert Downey appears without the ‘Snr’ suffix that became necessary when his son achieved his own breakthrough in Less Than Zero two years later confirms what a vital time this was for new talent.
It was with the assembly of his footage that the visual flair and sonic dissonance that so enraged critics appeared. Crucially Friedkin did not subject the entire production with its inherent verisimilitude to a shallow coating of polish, applied without thought. Rather, this was applied with real care, consideration being given as to how a given music track or editing technique would drive or enhance the pace and mood latent in the rushes.
The success of this approach is seen in the two dazzling montages that appear at the start of the film, cut to Wang Chung’s pounding score. Astonishingly economically, they set out its fundamentals – the use of fake banknotes and the making of them – whilst also forming self-contained mini movies in themselves. The first serves also as a title credit sequence, its matted cut-outs referring back to Bullitt (1968) – the same designer, Pablo Ferro, made both – but incorporating an animated blood spatter that becomes a palm tree, a kind of brilliant, brutal haiku for a film that is even more truthfully visceral than Yates’s. Crucially, this sequence also includes multiple flash forwards in the form of shots that will appear in the next two hours, a narrative technique that Friedkin uses repeatedly but subtly throughout the film to emphasise its principal, and opposing, themes: determination and fate. The degree to which the principal characters’ actions reflect these alternates forms the essence of the plot.
Masters, as his name suggests, is cool, controlled and in charge of his destiny, manipulating lawyers, informers and others to maintain the criminal life he chooses right to the (and its) very end. Chance, on the other hand, lives us to his name, being reckless, dangerous, and, ultimately, desperate – so desperate that he thinks nothing of kidnapping a stranger to aid his revenge. But there are similarities between them too. Both are unusual examples of their trade, Masters a fine artist as well as a forger, Chance an unconventional extreme sports enthusiast. Both have remarkably similar-looking slim, long-legged, blonde girlfriends. Both have near-identical first names. Both are unable to foresee their ends.
Importantly, the sickly-hued Los Angeles they inhabit is itself cynical, indifferent, a city of dust and steel and water and glass that can play you as well as any opponent can. As Chance’s reluctant, fretful new partner – and through him, the audience – eventually discovers, if To Live and Die in L.A. is about surface, it’s a surface that refracts as well as reflects, bending you inexorably to its will.
By Chris Rogers, Jul 31 2016 6:10PM
Having only recently started to get ‘into’ the Bourne films in a meaningful way thanks to their endless rotation on television, a friend’s suggestion to see this new entry on the evening of its release seemed like a good way to pass a couple of hours, especially given some positive press reviews – this despite it being hard to envisage, almost ten years after Matt Damon last played the role, how anything new could reasonably be added to the story.
The film picks up Bourne (Damon) living an anonymous life in Greece, albeit prize-fighting in Rambo III mode, before being buttonholed by former handler and ally Nicky Parsons (Julia Stiles) who has spotted something important and personal in a batch of CIA records stolen by a hacktivist. A second meeting, a night-time rendezvous in the middle of an anti-government demonstration outside parliament, turns into the film’s first major set-piece when the crowd starts to riot and the inevitable heavies – tipped off by new character Heather Lee (Alicia Vikander), a CIA analyst keen for promotion – arrive.
An extended sequence, this segment has some merits in terms of atmosphere (though it was actually shot in Tenerife) and some of its individual elements, but very soon begins to outstay its welcome in what proves to be a valid indicator of one of the film’s two fundamental problems.
The first, disappointingly, is the return of director Paul Greengrass to the franchise after a break to make the superb Captain Phillips (2013). Arriving for the second in the series (The Bourne Supremacy, 2004), Greengrass defined a particular style of ultra-realistic, closely-edited and -framed action that was so influential it quickly spread to inform/threaten the Bond films and many others in the genre. Often now referred to – both positively and negatively – as ‘shaky cam’, the approach certainly had and has its place, but here Greengrass seems to have felt the need to amp-up the technique to maintain its impact and that, inevitably, proves to be its downfall. The result sits at that uncomfortable point that is on the absolute limits of what this reasonably visually acute viewer could tolerate; the pace is too fast, the images too blurred and the whole is very hard indeed to comprehend. This is not helped by what appears to be some crude digital ‘enhancement’ of certain shots, discernible despite the chaos, which suggest the principals have been pasted into an artificial background even as they wheel and run. It’s bewildering, all in all, and has the ultimate effect of taking you out of rather than placing you in the narrative.
It was also a pity to encounter yet another nameless assassin-on-call (this time played by Vincent Cassel), able to appear at any point in the world to do his master’s bidding, suggesting even at this early stage that the script has in fact little new to say, the second major flaw. The remainder of the film confirms it, with familial revelations for Bourne that could have taken the film into genuinely interesting areas and a similarly promising sub-plot of a Mephistophelean deal between social media guru Aaron Kalloor (Riz Ahmed) and CIA Director Robert Dewey (Tommy Lee Jones) both frittered away as merely the background for personal revenge, executed in the same frenetic melange.
Another meeting/evasion in London, set and filmed around the somewhat self-contained Paddington Waterside area, again has potential but is again overwhelmed, this time by the powers of both Bourne and Cassell’s character (described and credited simply as ‘the Asset’, in a disappointing literalisation of the much more menacing equivalent in The Bourne Ultimatum, 2007). Both begin to assume supernatural status, something that further distances the viewer and – given the realism the series is built upon – begins to insult him. The problem is underlined when, in an egregious example of having your cake and eating it, omnipotence is glaringly ignored to enable a crucial plot point involving concealed mics.
With not a single scene involving any true emotion or indeed the time for the characters to even stop and think, the relentless pace is quickly draining. Indeed by the time things lead to the Las Vegas-based climax, the writer and director are apparently as exhausted as the viewer, a number of different films seeming to have been candidly mined for inspiration in this final reel. Thus an unnecessarily-complex succession of brush passes, tracking device plantings, misdirections and swipe card swiping owe a debt to Now You See Me rather than anything more grounded, whilst the frankly crass car chase is an orgy of manic destruction straight out of the rushes bin for the nth Fast And Furious. When this comes to a thankful, sudden halt, Cassel and Bourne could be mistaken for the Terminator and Kyle Reese respectively as they stomp into the basement of a hotel for the final battle.
Significantly, the most effective scene in the entire film occurs at the end of the Greece sequence, when things mercifully halt for five minutes. Bourne and Parsons are pinned down by the Asset, who in turn uses Parsons as bait; indisputable tension builds, and its release is powerful and effective. The shame of it is that this is the first and last time this occurs.
This, frankly, is desperate, actually quite cynical stuff. Any faint hopes of novelty are crushed as soon as they appear in a welter of trope repetition, and Greengrass seems to have abandoned the debt he owes to his journalistic routes in favour of a Marc Forster-style belief that more is always more (It is surely symptomatic that even Moby’s excellent closing theme, Extreme Ways, receives a bass-heavy remix that is messily redundant and only serves to dilute its impact too). Damon manages as best he can but is in danger of losing the goodwill the role has earned him up to now. Other cast members go through the motions for the most part, Ahmed and Lee Jones especially being wasted after promising starts. For me though Vikander is the most curious choice. Too young (-looking, at least) for the role and with a blankness of persona that may have been mistaken for detachment, she is a poor substitute for Joan Allen.
Calling the film Jason Bourne is an acknowledgement of the franchise’s key appeal, yes, but must also be a recognition that it really has nowhere left to go, as shown already by the clever but ultimately unnecessary sidequel that was The Bourne Legacy (2012). Add in Greengrass’s bafflingly over-cooked direction, and it seems that a better title might have been The Bourne Monotony, or perhaps even The Bourne Parody. Either way, it’s time to close this particular casefile for good.
By Chris Rogers, Jul 17 2016 11:37AM
Those who remain convinced that modern art is an elaborate con trick foisted on the public by a knowing elite must have found much to support that view in the very fabric of Tate Modern, the movement’s British high temple for the past fifteen years. From the baffling complexity of the escalator that takes people smoothly from the first floor to the basement without deigning to stop at the ground floor where the building’s riverside entrance is located to the lifts that are so slow they were finally plastered with signs urging people to use the stairs if they are able, Herzog & de Meuron Basel’s sober, not to say sombre, conversion of Giles Gilbert Scott’s power station can seem as wilfully difficult to penetrate as the art it was designed to house. With the recently-opened extension, called the Switch House and designed by the same firm, will such heretics find anything to disabuse them of that view?
The new block is a kinked, truncated pyramid ten storeys high attached to the landward side of the building’s western end. It has been built over the underground tanks that once held oil to drive the power station and which were opened a few years ago as the first stage of the new work. It effectively duplicates the programme of the original, containing galleries, a bar, shop and restaurant and a members’ room.
From the outside the sharp form of the new block, clad in brick like its cousin, is undoubtedly powerful and works well when seen against the neighbourhood context of spiky apartment blocks and the looming Shard. Especially impressive is the knife-edge buttress to the south, which rises from a large new plain of tarmac elevated above the street to seemingly disappear into the sky. The cladding, composed of several different shades of roughly-finished brick, is often perforated and is woven together where the façades meet like the interlaced fingers of clasped hands.
But this is also where the problems start, with a main entrance that I quite literally walked past twice without even noticing – it’s a sloped glass door set into a sloped glass façade that appears to lead only to the shop and bar. And the quality of some of the brickwork is also suspect for a £260m building – many individual pieces are badly set, the gaps between them are by no means even and the colour matching is quite poor close-to, whether considering the new work in its own right or the junction with Scott’s.
Fortunately the new lifts – two banks of them for the Switch House alone – seem efficient enough this time around, allowing easy access to the tenth floor ‘viewing level’.
A single, double-height room whose floor-to-ceiling windows are part-clad with that perforated brick (a decorative device only, in that each section is backed by conventional sealed glazing units), it is wrapped with a narrow open-air terrace that was very busy even on the dull, windy day I visited. The 360° vistas it permits are certainly impressive, not least that which includes Gilbert Scott’s chimney, a third taller than the Switch House. That there was a plan in the very early days for a viewing gallery at the chimney’s summit is no doubt forgotten by almost everyone today, but the Switch House makes a fine substitute and will no doubt prove popular. The new extension also sets up an interesting opposition of towers, with the much lower central blocks of the original building – now renamed the Boiler House – lying between them.
What appears to be a small counter area selling refreshments – not mentioned on the orientation map – will, along with the currently empty space itself, probably see more intensive usage soon, though whether for the general public or specially-invited guests remains to be seen. Closure might though come from another source since, disappointingly, the same poor quality on display ten floors below is evidenced here too; bricks pave the floor of the terrace yet are unevenly set and have no grouting, a trip hazard waiting to happen.
Within a rectangular parapet off to the side is what proves to be the top-most level of the Switch House’s main stair. This runs down through the new building in a most fascinating way, widening as it goes, sometimes shifting to the other side of a floor and often revealing nicely unexpected moments both inside and outside the building. These include cut-back floor levels, generous vertical and horizontal observation slots and variously-angled walls.
The materials palette throughout is as limited as that of the original conversion – smooth but otherwise unfinished concrete, blonde wood, used for the floors and general joinery, and that brick – but softer and lighter. This is welcome, but as with that earlier job the monotony becomes oppressive and the crudeness of some of the conjunctions between structural concrete walls and wooden partitioning is surprising. Elsewhere temporary safety barriers protect a shattered glass panel in the door to the staff restaurant and, rather oddly, an acute internal corner on one floor. As with the similarly-formed Saw Swee Hock centre for the LSE, the constant changes of level, plane and area mean some truly shocking interventions are necessary in the name of pragmatism, like the crude fire door mid-way up a wall that proves to be an unfortunate ‘feature’ of one flight of the stair.
The lower levels are more successful, achieving a scale approaching the heroic, with some good spaces, a couple of curved flights and a great spiral down into the basement that complete the descent. They are though almost aggressively varied, which combines with the austere palette to make one yearn for some unifying thread – visual or architectural – to tie it all together, and those strange detail decisions continue to baffle; fitting out the deep window bays with padded seats is a great touch, but stopping them apparently at random just as the sloping floor lets them reach child height is not.
Exploration of the galleries, the completed tanks and the high-level bridge that connects the two blocks across the turbine hall must await a further visit. Of what I saw, the Switch House has folded itself neatly into the locale and from a distance fits well with Scott’s mighty mass. Progress down the stair is lively and full of incident and movement. The project is sometimes a rather forced one, though, and much of the detail seriously disappoints in approach and quality. One would like to think that money wasn’t an issue, given the £50m or so overspend, so it must be due to the orthodoxy of the architect. Perhaps a different hand might have brought a surer touch.
None of this will stop the complex remaining wildly popular, of course, but nor will it prevent critics of the purpose for which Scott’s building was reshaped or the Swiss duo's initial efforts from citing it in their next indictment of both.
By Chris Rogers, Jun 29 2016 3:24PM
“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” The opening line of George Orwell’s novel, one of the most famous ever written, is replicated sonically at the start of Robert Icke’s and Duncan Macmillan’s pulsating stage version of this dystopian classic, co-directed by the pair and Daniel Raggett. Yesterday’s combined official opening and press night of what is the second, recast West End run of a Nottingham Playhouse / Almeida / Headlong production was a chance to experience this new meditation on the life and death of love and trust in a Socialist dictatorship Britain after a fortnight of previews. It was a dynamic ride.
Three conceits inform Icke’s and Macmillan’s adaptation. The first, inspired by Orwell’s appendix to the novel and apparently occurring inside Winston Smith’s mind, posits a second timeline, a century ahead of 1984, in which the Party has fallen and a lecturer and his students explore whether Winston and his diary ever existed. The second emphasises that the novel’s doubting of the actual, along with its notions of truth and fiction, loyalty and betrayal, past and present, occur firmly in the main protagonists’ heads. The third expands the totalitarian monitoring that pervades Oceania to include commentary on today’s mistrustful yet always online world of what Paulo Gerbaudo, writing in the programme notes, calls the consenting surveilled.
Each of these framing devices allows the play to emphasise the original text’s explorations of reality and unreality and the Newspeak concept of doublethink, the ability to believe two contradictory notions simultaneously. The writers also make more explicit the parallels between the period and concerns Orwell was addressing and our own, through twists to his text and new dialogue.
This approach is not always successful, nor even strictly necessary, not least because the novel is powerful enough to transcend its time without such complications. Links between the constant state of war that exists across Orwell’s three continental super-states of Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia and the current ‘war on terror’, for example, need little underlining and in fairness the point is not overdone, though something of the modern-day horror that is the hostage video can be seen in the various televised confessions included in the play. The ‘future’ scenes do seem largely redundant, however, despite their highly efficient staging, and serve mainly to dilute the core narrative and, sometimes, the sombre tone, as with the repetition of Winston’s concern over O’Brien’s telescreen (“is it switched off?”) by the lecturer in relation to a mobile phone.
Nevertheless some good lines reside in these changes, as with Julia’s delight in a commitment to “tiny secret acts” of sedition, an observation that “they will not look up from their screens long enough” and – best of all – “Big Brother is you, watching”. Meanwhile very recent events ensured an admission, from the students and directed at Party members, that “we should never have trusted them” drew ironic grunts of recognition from the audience.
Many of Orwell’s own phrases survive, and a thirty-year interval between my last reading of the book and this performance did nothing to blunt their impact or even the apprehension of that impact. That the on-stage reading stops at the penultimate line and omits what follows – “He loved Big Brother”, in turn one of the most famous last lines in literature – was therefore a disappointment, reinforced by an ill-advised decision to cut to a scene in the future timeline, but thankfully a swift return to the present saved the moment whilst a very clever alternative rendering of Orwell’s final sentiment was, frankly, a triumph.
Several scenes or parts of scenes are repeated, an encounter in the Ministry canteen smartly showing the fate of co-worker Syme and others stressing the dullness of a life of poverty and control. ‘Slow motion’ and ‘freeze-frames’ give characters room to express thoughts and deeds, some of which are contradictory – the ‘Two-Minutes’ Hate’ scene shows this well.
Of the eight principal cast members, Angus Wright impresses the most. His face, voice and manner are perfectly attuned to the role of O’Brien, the apparently benevolent senior Party member. Looming ghost-like throughout the play, he comes to the fore in the grimly convincing interrogation scenes that comprise the final act and Wright conveys their terrifying intimacy brilliantly. Catrin Stewart is
appropriately sexual in her early, near-wordless scenes as Julia, and seems convincingly – even wildly – free-willed later. The solidity of this pair makes the weakness of Andrew Gower as Winston, the final pillar of the vital central trio, a frustration. Too young and too healthy-looking for the part, he convinced only in the final scenes. Richard Katz as shop owner Charrington and the lecturer renders excellent support.
Chloe Lamford’s single set, a gloomy, wood-panelled, bookshelf-lined room with smeared internal windows lighting a rear corridor, resembles a post-war classroom or municipal library. It must surely derive from Allan Cameron’s work on Michael Radford’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984), the definitive visual interpretation of the novel to date. Throughout, the production adheres to the current orthodoxy of multi-media staging. Thus party slogans, video confessions, the computer screen used by Winston when ‘correcting’ the past at the Ministry of Truth and live camera feeds of his diary entries and assignations with Julia are all projected onto the upper portion of the set, these last subtly suggesting the hidden telescreen that will detect their transgressions and so making the audience complicit in their deceit. When the lovers’ world does indeed coming crashing down it happens literally, with masked Thought Police tearing apart the set to reveal the actual hidden room in the antiques shop which the audience – and, we feel, the Party – has until now only seen on a screen. The abrupt mood change is bulwarked by the dazzling, white-walled space within which the final act occurs.
Powerful strobe light flashes, often accompanied by deafening crashes of sound, combined with moments of complete darkness signal mental, physical and chronological shifts very effectively, if at times a little unnervingly. The approach works particularly well in the first act (nominally; there is no interval, with the play running – amusingly – for 101 minutes), where near-instantaneous transitions between Winston’s present-day reality and that imagined future involve other cast members or characters vanishing or appearing in seconds, a very traditional theatrical trick that recalls the Almeida’s superb
Music and sound is well used, with fragments of the crucial nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons employed as a mobile phone ring-tone, ominously circling helicopters and far-off singing haunting the theatre. Jolts of electricity in the closing torture scenes add their own charge.
Intended in part as a tribute to Brave New World (1932) by Aldous Huxley, Orwell’s novel has eclipsed that of his former lecturer in influence and popularity, and the play helpfully prompts recall of several responses to it by other creative talents. The telepathic police and mental reprogramming of The Demolished Man (1952), the book-burning and memorisation of Farenheit 451 (1953), the ‘summarising’ of books in Rollerball (1975) and the nightmarish, Kafkaesque bureaucracy of Brazil (1984) all draw on Orwell’s ideas. More recent works that do the same include the impossible duality – enforced by the threat of Breach – of The City and the City (2009) and the omnipotent super-weaponised drones of
Exciting and ingenious, and expertly crafted, this production stakes a perfectly valid place amongst the many interpretations of Orwell’s novel.
‘1984’ is at the Playhouse Theatre, Northumberland Ave, London, WC2N 5DE until 29 October 2016
By Chris Rogers, Jun 21 2016 12:02PM
On Monday 27 June 2016, the BFI Southbank are screening Norman Jewison's classic dystopian action drama 'Rollerball'. To mark the occasion, read my exclusive interview with editor Brian Smedley-Aston on how he assembled the film’s two stunning Multivision television sequences – Jonathan E's bittersweet home movies and his bone-crunching tribute broadcast. Brian explains how Rollerball game footage shot especially for these sequences was handed to him in Munich, and how he had to create the finished films-within-a-film before principal photography moved to Pinewood so that the Multivision footage could be included in the background of subsequent scenes. How did he do this, give each sequence involved not one but FOUR separate strands, one for each of the four Multivision screens? Find out…You can also read The Harmony of Havoc, my long-form piece examining the making and meaning of the film, kindly hosted on the Excuses and Half Truths blog. And finally, two reminders of previous pieces from me on aspects of the film; elsewhere on my own site, read more about how production designer John Box incorporated this futuristic broadcast system into the overall film, and over on The Big Picture, take in my imagined commentary from the last game seen in the film, as the World Championship is decided.
By Chris Rogers, Feb 12 2016 2:59PM
The closure of the print edition of The Independent is significant news. Although launched on 7 October 1986 as Britain’s first new broadsheet newspaper for over 130 years and thus bearing the dubious distinction of being the shortest-lived, too, in its heyday under original editor and co-founder Andreas Whittam Smith it was by far and away the least biased, best-designed and most engaging read in the country, developing a genuine ‘personality’ long before that became common in publishing, let alone a tiresome cliché.
With its proprietorial and editorial independence (it was owned by multiple shareholders rather than a ‘baron’ and pursued a centre-left line politically, hence the famous ‘The Independent. It is. Are you?’ advertising campaign), top contributors across the entire subject range including Robert Fisk and Miles Kington and subversive rule-breaking (it was the first paper to publish by-lined obituaries), it genuinely blazed a trail that helped change an industry. And though its journalistic credentials were impressive, its visual style proved even more influential.
Under Brian Harris, the legendary imagery created by the paper’s staff photographers was powerful and also fully in line with the paper’s ethos of standing out from the crowd. The team – including John Voos, Herbie Knott and Harris himself – elevated stories into art but with no hint of pretention, thanks to a gritty, moody, original approach, helped immeasurably by their work being printed in a rich, deep monochrome on thick, good-quality (but still traditional) newsprint. The paper also originated the idea of the caption story, with a single photograph and a few lines of text beneath.
Elsewhere a quirky wit was displayed, most notably in their famous take on the dull arena of the press conference; rather than a conventional close-up of the speaker, the Independent generally ran a picture that showed instead the crowd of press photographers shooting that principal. Not only was this sufficiently arresting to draw the casual reader’s attention, it also became a subtle commentary on the way media and PR were developing – McLuhan’s medium and message made real. That the paper immediately began to win awards for its photography and consistently scored highly thereafter proves the point.
Stephen Glover, another of the co-founders, explains the paper’s inception with candour and humour, but it’s worth expanding on one crucial point of context – Today, that market-disrupting national tabloid produced by ballsy northern businessman Eddy Shah just six months earlier. In fighting entrenched and outdated working practices and the unions who supported them to make a success of his regional titles, Shah had already proved that emerging technologies were critical in overturning the hold both had on the industry. Computer typesetting, in particular, brought multiple benefits; it allowed composition to be separated from printing, freeing the former from the need to occupy large, expensive, inner-city sites where presses took up the basement levels, meant printing could in fact be contracted out to anyone with the right machinery and enabled workers on both sides to join other, more enlightened unions or indeed none at all. Both typesetting and printing were also freed to explore new design directions, though it was a wise choice not to follow Shah into the world of colour, where quality remained elusive for some time to come.
The vision represented by the Independent certainly proved attractive to me; as I settled into commuting after leaving school, and after a couple of years’ flirtation with Today, I alighted on the Independent as my daily read into or at work. It was serious but not dull, smart, absorbing and really spoke to me as I set off into adult life, and I’m somewhat startled to be reminded that its first edition actually came out the day before I started in that first job (its last will be published on my birthday, which seems fitting). It was to the Independent, too, that I started writing letters, and which published them – the first, as I recall, on then controversial plans to turn a certain abandoned power station in central London into an art gallery... Even the paper’s cartoon, Peattie and Taylor’s Alex, was a winner; topical and innovative, its eponymous city trader barrelled through his Yuppie lifestyle with withering sarcasm and wordplay. Oh, and I still have Whittam Smith’s reply – in a letter, hand-signed – to a query I wrote in about.
But it was the Independent’s arts coverage that was to really prove pivotal in my life. The depth and breadth of it struck an immediate chord, with reviews, listings and special offers, and together with Jonathan Glancey’s weekly architecture column – many of whose pages I still have as cuttings – opened my eyes to a whole new world of culture. I began visiting exhibitions and galleries, looking at buildings and going to talks, and it’s no exaggeration to say that I would not have the interest in visual arts and architecture or the little writing career that I have today without the Independent.
Although, in the end, my loyalties did change, swayed by its move to the liberal left and a reliance on too many book serialisations, I would not have missed that fabulous black and white beast with its eagle masthead and seductive pages. So thank you, Andreas, Stephen and Matthew Symonds for taking the risks you did and soundtracking (in print) the formative part of my adult life.
I was. I know you were.
By Chris Rogers, Feb 8 2016 2:00PM
Tonight, more than a dozen years after the final season of the hugely successful original series was shown, The X Files are reopened for a limited run of new investigations. Fans and critics alike will be curious to see whether the same creative team can repeat the achievement. Much will depend on the nature of the anomalies that Mulder and Scully find themselves looking into, since it’s arguable that the programme’s true quality was found not in the alien conspiracy story arc around which it was conceived but in the quieter stand-alone episodes, which were frequently far more ground-breaking, powerful and memorable.
Perhaps surprisingly given its eventual success, the pilot episode of Chris Carter’s series slipped onto British screens – on 19 September 1994, a full year after its transmission in the US – almost un-noticed. Long before the internet allowed attention to be drawn to the most niche of interests, and despite – or possibly because of – the explosion in listings magazines that followed the 1991 end to monopoly publishing rights for BBC and ITV, the series received minimal attention and it was up to diligent viewers to discover it.
The general public, however, was aided by the fact that most quality newspapers’ television critics made the series their pick of the day that Monday, calling attention to the understated tone of the production and naturalistic performances of Duchovny and Anderson, whilst genre fans, in a viewing landscape devoid of Freeview channels, cable or DVDs, already knew BBC2 as the home of the Alex Cox-fronted film strand Moviedrome (which began in 1988) and screenings of cult classic 1970s series Kolchak – itself a stated inspiration for The X Files – as part of Richard O’Brien’s Mystery Train/ Dr. Terror's Vault of Horror strand (1991).
For both, The X Files appeared at a significant moment. A small but important gap – stylistic as well as thematic – had opened in the seemingly endless procession of more conventional speculative fiction series that had begun over a decade ago with the revival of Buck Rogers and continued with the likes of multiple Star Trek: The Next Generation, Knight Rider, Airwolf, Automan, The Highwayman and Street Hawk.
As this stream of high-tech action-adventure series – aimed at a more or less juvenile audience and broken by the odd thoughtful exception, such as Quantum Leap – exhausted itself, only the near-contemporaneous Babylon 5 from J. Michael Straczynski provided any real competition to Carter’s new series in scope and intelligence. Crucially, by observing the success of two popular new series in wholly different genres, namely Michael Crichton’s ER and Steve Bochco’s NYPD Blue, Carter was also able to establish a look and feel for The X Files which refreshed the genre, helped sell its fantastic content to a wider audience and, albeit unknowingly, set the direction for the gritty, ultra-realistic adult productions that were to come in the 2000s, including Dollhouse and Battlestar Galactica.
All of this is visible in that pilot, which is indeed so reticent that it lacks the now-familiar theme tune and even a proper title sequence. Scully, it should be remembered, is the professional sceptic assigned to finally close Mulder’s pet project, his home for “the FBI’s least-wanted” in the bowels of the J. Edgar Hoover Building that has been tolerated as a sop to the Bureau’s mission to combat all threats to the homeland but which is finally proving too embarrassing to sustain. With this in mind the pair’s initial case is fully in line with the common image of the series, with mysterious disappearances in a rural community, strange lights in the woods, the discovery of tiny medical implants of unknown purpose or origin and the creeping onset of paranoia.
What Paula Vitaris later called the “mordant, self-deprecating humour” of the series is already present, though, and the rest of the dialogue manages to simultaneously play down and highlight the uncanny amidst the everyday. The degree to which the technical and financial restrictions of the production (it was, for example, filmed in Vancouver, BC, for many years for cost reasons) are actually exploited to support this is also impressive; night filming, Mark Snow’s minimalist, John Carpenter-like score and effective locations and sets all contribute. That famous closing shot, an obvious but entirely appropriate nod to Raiders of the Lost Ark, provides a final punch and confirms the level of talent at work.
The relationship between the boyishly enthusiastic Mulder and coolly analytical Scully is key, of course, but even this is not what it later became. Her literal rush into his arms when she fears the worst raises eyebrows today, whilst only after the series finished was it revealed that she was initially given a boyfriend, who was not only written into the script but filmed; Scully’s guarded manner when she takes Mulder’s phone call late at night is because he is actually in bed beside her, a presence cut in the final edit. So was laid the will they/won’t they that also kept people watching for many series to come
Inevitably, this alien conspiracy unravelled as 200-plus further episodes unfolded, leaving the non-arc stories more worthy of examination. Though many stood out even on first exposure, it was in general the Kolchak-derived ‘monster of the week’ episodes that garnered the most praise, and viewing figures. It is those that fall beyond even this that appealed most to me, however, and which stand up even now.
The first tier includes those with outstanding individual performances by guest cast members or smart plot points. Here, then, must be located Tom Noonan’s subtle but terrifying child-abductor in Paper Hearts, the twist ending in Voodoo thriller Fresh Bones and Kristen Cloke’s portrayal of a reincarnation experiencer in The Field Where I Died, itself a powerful essay in cult methodology inspired by the Waco disaster a few years previously.
Next come the episodes which feature strikingly original overall plots or startling visual execution, or indeed both. Many – again seeking to turn around the show’s disadvantages – are ‘closed room’ thrillers, even if that ‘room’ is as large as a forest. Thus Sleepless features some beautifully cinematic moves when a soldier who has been kept awake for years as part of a military experiment finds he can conjure nightmares for others, and Darkness Falls sees Mulder and Scully trapped in a remote wilderness as an ancient swarm lifeform is released by logging activity. The Gothic horror of Home – pushing the boundaries of the time – recalls The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in its tale of an in-bred countryside family.
In the stunning Triangle, an alternative timeline is paralleled with the present day via extraordinarily-realised takes that appear to be 11 minutes long each, whilst characters move instantly between the two settings seemingly in the same shot (shown well before widescreen television sets were in use, the BBC had to ‘letterbox’ the episode for the 16:9-framed chase sequences to work). The plot itself, which has ‘Scully’ as an agent of the OSS, precursor to the CIA, protecting a key scientist from the Nazis aboard an ocean liner just before the start of world war 2, is an admirably clever variation on the series’ theme. With X-Cops, Mulder and Scully find themselves being filmed for the Fox network’s real-life police documentary series Cops as a mysterious creature is pursued across night-time LA; shot on videotape rather than film and with onscreen captions and real officers involved, the episode wittily plays up the differing reactions of the agents to the cameras – Mulder delights in it but Scully, embarrassed, does everything she can to block their view.
Runner-up for the title of most powerful and effective X File of all must be Drive. Mulder is kidnapped at a gas station and forced at gunpoint to keep driving west – always west – by his passenger, who is convinced he will die if the car ever stops. From the inventive and shocking pre-credits sequence, presented as if shot from a TV news helicopter, to the pathos of the ending, this story is truly absorbing. It combines closed-room drama with road movie, yet overlays both with a desperate urgency that arises entirely organically from the man’s dilemma. What makes it of even more interest is that the man is played by Bryan Cranston and it was written by Vince Gilligan, who worked on several episodes of the series before creating Breaking Bad for Cranston based on his showing in this episode.
For me, though, the series’ finest hour is the exceptional Pusher, in which Mulder and Scully fight Robert Model, a man who has the power to force or ‘push’ people into acting against their will. Whether a petite intern being able to beat up an FBI agent twice her size or a SWAT officer unable to stop himself dropping a lighted match onto the petrol he is covered with, the stakes are raised with relentless tension as the pair seek to understand his power and stop him. The climax, in which Mulder finds himself in a game of Russian Roulette as an apparently helpless Scully looks on, is one of the most emotionally draining ever seen.
Each scene is treated as a mini-motion picture in terms of its ambition and style, something seen even in the opening sequence in which Model is ambushed in a supermarket and arrested. From his relaxed attitude when he realises he is about to be detained to the worryingly large column of police vehicles needed to deal with him to his manipulation of the police driver, a shock ending caps this little masterpiece even before the episode proper gets under way.
Whether truth at this particular level is still out there, only time – and six new episodes – will tell.
The X Files, Channel 5, 9pm
By Chris Rogers, Jan 29 2016 10:26PM
Britain, the near future. Petrol, electricity and food are rationed. As governments squander precious resources on worthless space missions, rival gangs turn streets into warzones and force the authorities to permit unrestricted gladiatorial combat in public arenas in an attempt to keep control. Outside the cities groups of disenfranchised youngsters roam the countryside in a trance-like state seeking escape to a putative salvation planet. Everywhere, people scavenge and barter for what they need whilst the police, supplemented by private contractors, are routinely armed. When veteran scientist Professor Bernard Quatermass (John Mills) returns to London from self-imposed exile in Scotland to find his missing granddaughter, he is shocked to discover how far society has collapsed but when the desire of the ‘Planet People’ to be transported to another place is fulfilled by a horrific method lost to memory yet whose legacy is present in the very land itself, Quatermass finds himself working to prevent this mass harvest and make the ultimate sacrifice to save humanity.
Nigel Kneale is one of Britain’s most important, original and effective writers of speculative fiction. Three of his standalone television plays alone – future-haunting-the-past ghost story The Road (1963), prescient reality TV satire The Year of The Sex Olympics (1968) and contemporary psychological horror The Stone Tape (1972) – confirm this, even before considering Quatermass, his best-known creation. The professor appeared in three serials written by Kneale during the dozen years after Britain the war, confronting a new and topical societal fear in each and in so doing demonstrating how the classic tropes of science fiction could be harnessed to the immediacy and democracy of the still-developing medium of television to refashion the genre for an adult audience.
Less well known is Kneale’s fourth and final iteration of the Quatermass character, delayed by over a decade and reaching the nation’s screens only in 1979. Unfairly seen as outdated and irrelevant at the time, restoration for a new DVD release finally allows its inherent qualities to be appreciated.
The series originated with a 1965 invitation to Kneale from a BBC producer to revisit Quatermass for the start-up of the new BBC2 channel. Kneale declined but responded more positively to a later offer from Hammer Films, who had encountered significant success with theatrical versions of all three Quatermass serials, their screenplays also by Kneale. This also faltered after Kneale’s other work for the small screen took up all his time. The BBC renewed its offer in 1972, however, emboldened by the chance of international co-production and sales, and this time Kneale accepted. Ironically a protracted development period and concerns over rising costs and the use of locations such as Stonehenge eventually led to the series being taken to ITV – though not, curiously, by Kneale – where production was assigned to London weekday franchise holder Thames Television’s innovative and well-regarded drama subsidiary Euston Films. This ultimately proved to be the enabler for a very different Quatermass.
Known for gritty, realistic crime series like Van der Valk and The Sweeney, Euston’s programmes were shot on location, using 16mm film, rather than in the studio with videotape, whilst making features for cinema was also part of their remit. Both matched the wider canvas Kneale envisaged with his new serial, and in fact a decision was quickly made to shoot on 35mm with a budget of £1.25m (equivalent to around £10m today) to meet the writer’s expectations. Rather than by co-production, the high cost would be recouped by editing the four television episodes down into a feature-length release.
The previous Quatermass stories all drew on the concerns of their time: the dangers of manned space exploration, the visceral terror evoked by germ warfare and the tensions emerging in a nation undergoing profound change. This new chapter was no different and then-current events in Britain and elsewhere provided obvious stimuli, from the effects of the October War in the Middle East through acts of Baader-Meinhof terrorism in Europe and NASA-USSR Skylab and Soyuz link ups to the ‘flower power’ movement in America. Each found its analogue in the finished serial, as Kneale crafted a warning of the dangers of social collapse seen through the lens of that other contemporary concern, the ‘generation gap’. Audiences would see events through the eyes of the aging professor (Mills was 70 when the series was made) and, latterly, his granddaughter Hettie, played by 15-year-old rising star Rebecca Saire. A group of elderly fellow scientists, Quatermass’s friend Joe Kapp (Simon MacCorkindale) and his young family and the sinister figure of impromptu Planet People leader Kickalong (Ralph Arliss) provide additional shading of this second theme, which Kneale later described as “the idea of the old trying to […] save the young, a nice paradoxical, ironic idea, a sort of inversion of […] contemporary Hollywood.”
But there are other, arguably even more interesting, oppositions visible in Kneale’s screenplay.
Most obviously there is the conflict between science and faith. A wide range of technologies – television, vehicles, radio, satellites, space flight, even the atomic bomb – is contrasted with the Kapps’ Judaism, the Planet People’s belief that the scything light tearing them from the Earth is divine and even the street gangs’ simple colour-coded loyalties. Importantly, however, few of these beliefs are entirely fixed. Kapp is an astrophysicist, playing lip service to his religion, but eventually abandons his trade and seeks desperately to reconnect to his heritage; members of both the Blue Brigades and the red-clad Badders join the Plant People; and in the final scene, Quatermass seeks and receives the love of his estranged granddaughter to succeed.
There is then the tension caused by the past tugging on the present. Multiple references to the layers of history that surround us are encountered in the first episode, when the action moves from a battered London to the Kapps’ smallholding somewhere in the home counties. Here, the physicist uses twin radio telescopes, the latest technology for detecting that which cannot be found by the senses alone, but he controls them from a Neo-Classical observatory, itself a previous century’s attempt to do the same. His wife, an archaeologist, serves drink in a cup made by the pre-modern Beaker people and found on their land, in her speech connecting herself to the person who might have used it when it was first made. Outside sits a World War 2 pillbox – “A final refuge,” as Kapp describes it. Further away, geographically and chronologically, is a small stone circle, with its larger cousin, Ringstone Round, nearby. Also relevant is the fact that the Kapps face two directions – he is looking into the future, she is unearthing the past.
All of this is synthesised in the person of Quatermass himself, a figure from the technocratic Britain that snatched freedom from a terrifying tyranny yet who remains finely attuned to a past that for most is buried. And this proves to be the key that unlocks both the plot and the mind of its creator.
Mid-way through the series, Quatermass posits the theory that the harvest began thousands of years ago, facilitated via ‘markers’ or homing devices left deep in the earth. The memory of this terror was commemorated physically by the erection of stone circles above these invisible bullseyes and culturally by a number of folk traditions that have come down to us today, from the lure of ley lines and monoliths to a children’s nursery rhyme whose true meaning has been lost:
Huffity, puffity, Ringstone Round
If you lose your hat, it will never be found
So pull up your britches right up to your chin
And fasten your cloak with a bright new pin
And when you are ready, then we can begin
Huffity, puffity, puff
As the purpose of those stone circles – as warning, and war memorial or sorts – has become blurred and confused over the centuries, they have instead begun to attract innocent attention in a new age, even as the devices below lie ready to function again. A weapon of mass destruction is thus concealed within a self-sustaining myth.
Britain’s written and visual culture alike are rich with works linking its people to the history of their land, from the Arthurian legend to the art of Kit Williams, and in the 1970s both children’s and adult television drama reflected this, as seem in Peter Dickinson’s The Changes (1975) or David Rudkin’s Penda’s Fen (1974). Kneale himself is here returning to his own variation on this theme, one that appears throughout his work, namely how race memory is formed, mediated and experienced. The third of the early serials, Quatermass and the Pit, is the best example of this. In it the endless cycles of mass violence that so scar the human race, from the Crusades to the Inquisition to ethnically-motivated attacks, are linked to occasional reactivation of a long-suppressed trait of the human mind that is the legacy of genetic modification by alien beings millennia ago, whose own propensity for purges is thus reproduced in us, unknowingly but devastatingly. A long-buried Martian capsule is the catalyst, and in the new series, too, the markers are the trigger. With the gradual collapse of society, a kind of forced evolutionary regression, the entire piece can be read as a forewarning of the dangers of technology as well as of an ignorance of the past, even if the ultimate expression of technology, a nuclear bomb, becomes the means of society’s salvation.
The making of this ambitious series was placed in the capable hands of Piers Haggard, who had over a decade of experience directing many individual episodes of various television series as well as two prestigious and hugely popular serials, the romantic drama Love for Lydia (1977), adapted from the H.E. Bates novel, and Dennis Potter’s Pennies From Heaven (1978). Crucially he had shown the ability to handle complex technical challenges in his directing career, including the lip-synched musical numbers of the latter and the extensive use of early live video compositing in the experimental Play for Today staging of the Chester Mystery Plays (1976). He also had a feature under his belt in cult horror film The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1970). Haggard was thus well placed to ensure the new Quatermass’s visuals matched its writer’s ambitions, and this is seen at both the macro and micro scales.
Large set-pieces such as the gang shoot-outs in derelict London streets, the mass harvests at Ringstone Round and Wembley stadium and Kapp’s moveable radio telescopes benefit from a real sense of scope and place, with good use of sweeping crane shots – then a luxury – to convey both. Equally, Haggard shows sensitivity and ingenuity in the more intimate settings like the cosy hand-crafted Kapp house or the imaginatively-designed ‘warren’ of broken-down vehicles lived in by the frightened elderly. Haggard’s camera is also effective in pointing up the contrast between the abandoned factories and claustrophobic bunkers of the urban realm and the open landscape and stone circles of a more ancient Britain. One scene of genuine horror – the only truly shocking moment in the production, and all the more so as a result – draws on Haggard’s cinematic outing, but is wholly organic to the plot and not at all gratuitous. Aided by production designer Arnold Chapkis and director of photography Ian Wilson, even subtle background details play a part, such as Royal ciphers and graffiti suggesting a Britain ruled by King Charles III or the Kapp children’s book of illustrated nursery rhymes, in which Huffity, Puffity – written by Kneale though drawing on real sources – appears.
The performances of the principals hold the story together, with the quiet, homely Mills – not, apparently, Kneale’s preferred choice – and more dynamic MacCorkindale. Those in supporting roles are on occasion a little broad in their playing, a common problem with genre productions of the time. That said, Arliss is effective as the charismatic Kickalong, especially in the Pied Piper-like scene where he charms a soldier to join the Planet People, Donald Eccles is a delight as the aging perfumier Mr Chisholm (who will play a crucial part in the finale) and Brian Croucher, best known as the second Travis in Blake’s 7, is convincingly jaded as a ‘Pay Cop’ lieutenant.
Kneale was 70 as the project moved toward completion, the same age as Mills, perhaps his alter ego. Yet he was a positive man and the series itself has a positive though harrowing climax. Its build up is extremely powerful, the poetry of its gorgeously-shot evening setting at odds with the mayhem about to be unleashed. The mechanism of that mayhem is, in turn, an ironic end to what is a pre-apocalyptic thriller.
The lyrical epilogue brings hope, but a hope cleverly undermined by uncertainty. And the professor won’t be here next time…
'Quatermass' is distributed on DVD and Blu-ray by Network
By Chris Rogers, Jan 18 2016 6:22PM
Despite a preference for the contemporary crime thriller or science-fiction adventure, the natural world nevertheless retains a powerful pull. The western, the road movie and the period drama all adopt open space, wildlife and the weather as their default cinematic setting, often contrasting the scale, solidity and permanence of those elements with the transience and frailty of humanity. Director Alejandro González Iñárritu’s The Revenant, set in the mountains of the north American frontier in the 1820s, encompasses at least two of these categories and arguably also the third, as the titular character of Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) embarks on a long journey home through the wilderness with only his own resources for company after losing his friends, his son and much blood and bone, mostly thanks to a treacherous companion.
The set up for this story of endurance, pain and retribution is effective and absorbing, as a group of trappers camping at the water’s edge is attacked by a native American war party. Tough, startling and atmospheric, the sequence takes us fully inside this very different world in a way that is truly immersive and highly believable, though often inaudible dialogue is likely to be an oversight rather than any further attempt at realism. The freshness of the setting combined with the convincing, offhand brutality possible with modern film-making techniques catches the breath and the interest.
With the survivors escaping by boat and taking a cautious path along a river to what they hope is safety, the first of several film pioneers is evoked, not least Deliverance and Apocalypse Now. It is here, too, that Tom Hardy really begins to impress as poisonous antagonist Fitzgerald, with a performance of depth and real bite.
When the group is further split, Glass is left to face the horror of a near-lethal bear attack, a scene that grips with its viscerality even if one does find oneself distracted by working out quite how it was done (and settles, with a slight degree of disappointment, on CGI). The suspension of disbelief necessary to accept Glass’s survival miles from civilisation in a time before antibiotics, anaesthetic and fluid drips is significant but also compulsory, although it haunts the remainder of the film and is exorcised only by other objections.
The incident leaves DiCaprio mute for much of what follows, which inhibits his performance in a way many critics appear not to have noticed. Hardy, though, only grows in stature after Glass’s colleagues, on discovering him, debate how to proceed; when Fitzgerald volunteers to be the one experienced man who stays behind with Glass, an appropriate frisson of fear is transmitted and received thanks to Hardy’s inhabiting the role utterly. The trappers thus split again as the rest of the group hike to the nearest fort. The native Americans remain a presence, albeit one – in contrast to that opening battle – now curiously remote and ethereal, seeming only to shadow the white men rather than aggressively pursue them. If the aim is to stress the land and each other as the real enemy for the trappers, this point needed to be made more forcefully. As it is, there is a frustration over how Iñárritu and co-writer Mark L. Smith balance the competing legs of their plot.
The actions that follow drive a need for revenge in Glass, and although for me the emotion required to really believe in this was there in DiCaprio’s performance, his actual relationship with his son, as seen earlier in the film, didn’t quite convince. It thus fell to the survival strand to carry the day(s) that follow as Glass, now alone and with some characters forming yet another sub-group, attempts to return and exact it.
With endless periods in the wild, Emmanuel Lubezki’s cinematography is initially enticing, capturing great swathes of nature at its rawest and most incomprehensible, from glacial rivers and impenetrable forests to unclimbable hills. This is the stuff – and these are the men, of course – from which America’s founding myth is made, and it must again be accepted that The Revenant convinces absolutely in conveying the almost unfathomable effort required to make a stand, let alone build a nation in such circumstances.
But it is a story, an entertainment, that must also be shaped, and it soon becomes clear that the limitations of the script and the methods chosen to bring it to life cannot satisfactorily achieve that.
Thus the shots preferred by director and cinematographer – slowly-rotating 360 degree pans around a single character, and static contemplation of a clump of needle-straight trees by day, evening or night – soon becomes an irritation, whilst faced with the third hour of low-contrast footage regardless of subject the eye similarly tires, seeking a bright point to alight on. Ryuichi Sakaomoto’s score, again so pleasant at the outset, also falls into this trap of repetition.
Crucially, after the second or third brush with certain death subsequent to the bear attack, followed by the second or third escape and second or third evening by a tiny fire conjured beside another lonely resting place, Glass’s continued survival and, indeed, recovery moves from improbable to impossible, especially in the absence of any onscreen indication of elapsed time, by which means this miracle might have be made less unacceptable. Ironically the concentration on Glass and his fate other plot points, such as depiction of the arrival at the fort of the original main party, are omitted.
Fragmented, psychological fugue sequences that read equally as Glass’s dreams, visions and predictions are sensuously impressive but, decoupled from the native Americans, with whom a connection could otherwise profitably have been made, remain somewhat outside of the rest of the work.
Taken together, then, for me the content simply fails to sustained the excessive running time. The climax arrives well after it feels due, and once more falls victim to the insubstantiality that affects much of the film (other than Glass’s wounds, diet and ordeals, which are all rendered in loving detail). Although DiCaprio clearly suffers for his art and acquits himself creditably, this was for me a far less affecting performance than that which he achieved in Inception, where his relationship with Mal had all the weight of feeling absent, here, in that with his son. Only Hardy carries the interest throughout.
Too metaphysical for a period drama, not, perhaps, metaphysical enough for a road movie, ultimately this tale of one man against his nemesis functions effectively only as a western, and even here manages to lose the trail on the way.
By Chris Rogers, Jan 15 2016 2:08PM
Before man had even seen the Moon close-to let alone walked on it, Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke strived to create a believable setting for their new film 2001: A Space Odyssey. Whether drawing on research under way in government laboratories or partnering with consumer-oriented companies to create products that didn’t yet exist, the production crafted a world in which travel well beyond the bounds of Earth was not only possible but routine, a world in which every aspect of day-to-day life in the mid-1960s, from kitchens, toilets and washrooms to watches, telephones and pens, had been convincingly projected thirty five years into the future. Whilst much of this effort is visible and celebrated, there is plenty that awaits discovery in the background of the finished film.
The ships and vehicles necessary to take Kubrick’s characters from the Earth to the Moon and then on to Jupiter were designed by Marshall Space Flight Center engineer Fred Ordway and NASA technical illustrator Harry Lange. The pair took the script and consulted what Lange described as industrial, governmental, and academic institutions in the US and Europe, including Britain’s Hawker Siddeley and America’s Grumman, to determine how each could be visualised. In doing so they sought advice far beyond the basic form and arrangement of a given craft, considering – and, where necessary, imagining a future history for – every one of the systems that would be aboard such a ship as well, from its main drive to the hibernation chambers. As a result, every control panel and every switch had a logical reason for its existence and even a label or full instructions to describe its function.
The first stage of the journey, transporting Heywood Floyd to an orbiting space station, is accomplished via the graceful Orion space plane. Such a means of transport had been envisaged for some time in real life, not least by Eugen Sänger with his wartime hypersonic antipodal bomber. This took off from the surface of the Earth like an aircraft (albeit with the assistance of a jetisonable lower stage) but continued into sub-orbital flight like a rocket, reaching its destination – on another continent – by ‘skipping’ on or repeatedly touching the atmospheric boundary. Sänger’s design never left the proverbial drawing board but Orion, at least as described in Clarke’s novel of the film, employs a similar initial flight profile. The celluloid version is slightly differently conceived, with the rear-most portion of its fuselage and wing actually intended as a detachable booster, but – perhaps recognising that the delicate flower-like taper of this element adds much to the elegance of the ship – it remains firmly attached in the final film.
To enhance the verisimilitude of Orion, it was finished in the livery of arguably the only company that could truly sell the illusion of this journey as being utterly normal – Pan Am. The self-styled ‘World’s most experienced airline’ had established itself at the leading edge of commercial aviation after decades of innovation, much of which would have seemed borderline science fiction at the time. In recent years alone it had embraced the jet age by building the striking Pan Am terminal at John F. Kennedy International Airport outside New York, almost an earth-bound space station with its circular,
cantilevered roof, and begun a helicopter transfer service from the airport to the roof of the skyscraper holding its headquarters in the Big Apple, which in turn stood above the railway tracks of Grand Central. The airline had also effectively commissioned the new 747 from Boeing to open up the next wave of passenger air travel – the first of the model to fly in passenger service did so for Pan Am two years after 2001: A Space Odyssey was released – and was advertising its proposed supersonic service. Indeed for many, Pan Am epitomised the glamour of air travel, and placing its logo on the Orion and her crew seemed a natural extension of this remarkable record of progress.
Probably the most dramatic outcome of Ordway and Lange’s work was the gently rotating centrifuge at the heart of the Discovery that allowed Dave Bowman and Frank Poole to eat, sleep and exercise under normal gravitational conditions during their voyage to Jupiter. By no means a fantasy, it is in fact an almost exact reproduction of contemporary experiments by NASA which found that revolving a wheel about 40’ in diameter at a surprisingly low speed provided a useable level of artificial gravity for anyone walking on its interior. At this early stage of man’s exploration beyond Earth this was primarily intended to provide psychological reassurance, as well as some practical help. The physical toll that zero gravity would take on astronauts’ bodies during long-duration stays in space, including muscle atrophy and osteoporosis, would not be fully understood for some time. NASA mounted their wheel horizontally with the test subject suspended from a crane on his side, but since actual artificial gravity was not required on set, Kubrick’s version was erected vertically like a hamster wheel. By fixing the camera (or the actors) in relation to the rotating wheel or allowing it (them) to move with it, the centrifuge’s simultaneous linkage to and isolation from the rest of the ship was illustrated. Today, a centrifuge module is being considered for the International Space Station.
For the more utilitarian items in the film – the ships’ fixtures and fittings, the personal possessions of and things and services used by scientists and bureaucrats – either concepts were commissioned directly from companies in the relevant field, such as IBM, RCA and Honeywell, or existing products were tailored to the world of AD 2001. Both would appear in the finished film under their originators’ own logos. This approach – unique at the time, and seldom emulated since – added a further layer of reality to the world Kubrick and his team were building.
Thus Floyd’s pen, retrieved from its floating trajectory by Orion’s stewardess, was specially made by Parker. The cars seen on the seat-back screens – themselves a prescient notion – were concepts by General Motors. After the Orion docks at Space Station 5, Floyd calls his young daughter from a booth advertising a ‘Picturephone’ or video calling service, something much promised in science fiction and real life alike from at least the 1930s and here brought convincingly to life by the firm whose logo appears conspicuously during the scene – the Bell Telephone Company. Ma Bell, as it was known colloquially, enjoyed a near monopoly on telephone services in North America at the time the film was made, a situation that would last until its enforced break-up in 1984. A deleted scene showed a further call to Macy’s store as Floyd sought to fulfil his promise of a bush-baby birthday present. The dazzlingly white-walled corridor is near a clearly-signed Hilton hotel and a branch of restaurant and motel chain Howard Johnson, here advertising their ‘Earthlight Room’. These waystations’ appearance on this new type of highway appears a consistent outcome of thoughtful extrapolation rather than a simple brand placement exercise, even if there is no expansion of the idea beyond the latter’s genuine font and logo being used on the minimalist glass partitions. And, whether seen on the tables and desks or in the hands of those waiting to go “up or down”, date-specific issues of real magazines were produced for the film in liaison with their publishers. These included Paris Match and L'Europeo, an Italian news weekly. Perhaps surprisingly the voluptuous, bright red chairs that feature prominently in the sequence were a pre-existing design used entirely ‘off the shelf’ – ‘Djinn’, by Oliver Mourgue.
Later, the pilot of the Aries Moon shuttle wears a stylish watch invented by Hamilton specifically for the film, whilst that ship’s neatly efficient culinary facilities were designed by RCA Whirlpool. Aspirational American audiences would have recognised this last as the spiritual descendant of any number of exercises in suburban dream selling from the previous decade or so, whether the same firm’s ‘Miracle Kitchen of the future’ from 1956 or competitor Fridgidaire’s slicker equivalent from around the same period. They all promised the housewife the kind of effortless, push-button, automatic preparation and cooking of food that was now at the fingertips of the shuttle’s stewardess.
Computer giants Honeywell and IBM worked particularly hard on the film. The first provided a range of outputs and advice, as well as a briefcase – not seen in the film – containing the components of an electronic portable office including a video phone, computer and light pen. Concerned by the image problem presented by any association with the malignant HAL 9000 and promised, as a result, no connection to that character (whose name derives from ‘Heuristically-programmed ALgorithmic computer’ rather than any attempt at black humour aimed at that company), IBM instead designed almost all of the flight systems for the various craft, including the cockpit instrumentation of the Orion – their logo is visible atop its central monitor console. But the firm also originated the most startlingly prescient item in the film, albeit one that goes unnoticed by the vast majority of viewers.
As they sit comfortably and eat, Bowman and Poole each watch a page-sized, flat-screen portable display terminal, initially scanning text but then video imagery as the pair watch an interview with the BBC they recorded earlier. This is, of course, a tablet computer. Even more astonishing is its name, actually visible in tiny print at the bottom of the casing: it’s called a ‘Newspad’. As Clarke’s novel explains, it allows the user to “conjure up the world's major electronic papers; he knew the codes of the more important ones by heart, and he had no need to consult the list on the back of his pad. Switching to the display unit's short-term memory, he would hold the front page while he quickly searched the headlines and noted the items that interested him. Each had its own two-digit reference; when he punched that, the postage-stamp-sized rectangle would expand until it neatly filled the screen, and he could read it with comfort. When he had finished he would flash back to the complete page and select a new subject for detailed examination […] The text was updated automatically on every hour; even if one read only the English versions one could spend an entire lifetime doing nothing but absorb the ever-changing flow of information”.
Even the clothing seen in 2001: A Space Odyssey was by a noted designer in the field – Hardy Amies. Drawing on current fashion but also, as with every other facet of the film, a careful assessment of future needs, Amies gave a restrained look to the characters, with simple pieces that were practical as well as smart. His sketches demonstrate the same attention to detail that Ordway and Lange showed.
The overall result is a painstaking fusion of technological development and artistic licence that, whilst inescapably recalling its era and inevitably flawed as prediction, goes further than any other in giving audiences a coherent vision of a possible future in space.
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