A Constrained Machine: "Chappie" Review

(Photo courtesy of Columbia Pictures)

In 2009, Neil Blomkamp made a name for himself, not only within the science-fiction community but also in the world of cinema for his debut film, "District 9." Blending a documentarian-style type of filmmaking, whose origins date back to the films of Vertov and Flaherty, with updated digital technology, Blomkamp's style was not only distinct but also pivotal in bringing out the politics of his work. Since "District 9," however, Blomkamp's style has begun to lose its focus. With his next film, "Elysium," Blomkamp once again fused science-fiction with politics, in order to reflect upon real-world issues but what "Elysium" lacked was a certain amount of depth into its portrayal of political issues. Gone also was Blomkamp's stylized filming, exchanged in favor for something more dull. With his latest film, "Chappie," Blomkamp has, for the most part, lost what made "District 9" such an engrossing film.

Like "District 9," "Chappie" is also based off one of Blomkamp's earlier short films, this time "Tetra Vaal." "Tetra Vaal's" premise was one in which the police force was helped by autonomous robots. Within the film, Blomkamp raises the question of turning the robots from a force of violence, into a force much greater, hinting at the possibilities that technology could bring in terms of evolution. "Chappie" takes this idea and sees it completely through.

Set in the near-future of Johannesburg, the police force have adopted the use of autonomous robots, with the result being a decrease in both crime and casualties. Deon Wilson (Dev Patel), the inventor of the robots, as well as an engineer working for Tetra Vaal, the company that produces them, wishes to make something greater in the form of a robot with its own conscious. The idea itself isn't new in the world of film, let alone science-fiction. Stanley Kubrick's "2001 A Space Odyssey," is arguably best known for its robotic character "Hal," while Ridley Scott's "Blade Runner," examined the identity issues present between robots, that not only posses consciousness but also look human, and ourselves. Blomkamp's "Chappie" then becomes a film whose responsibility lies in creating something new from this age-old idea.

Deon approaches his boss Michelle Bradley (Sigourney Weaver), with the possible idea, and she understandably rejects him,  making for one of the finer points of the film. Bradley argues that as a weapons manufacturer, creating an intelligence that, as Wilson puts it, will "create art", will result in a loss of revenue.  Unsatisfied, Wilson goes behind her back, stealing a robot meant for destruction, and programs it to have a conscious. Bradley's aforementioned rebuttal changes the way in which we come to understand "Chappie."

Underneath its exterior which houses themes concerning robotics, advanced warfare, and trans-humanism, "Chappie" is also about money and the various ways in which it governs our world. Yolandi Visser and Ninja play the characters of Yolandi and Ninja, respectively. Yolandi and Ninja are gangsters, who, after a heist gone wrong, owe their gang leader an exorbitant amount of money. With their lives on the line, Yolandi offers the idea of kidnapping Deon, in order to control the robotic police force, thus being then able to perform the heist that will literally save their lives. Ninja and Yolandi very much represent the "have-nots," and stylistically, this is shown through the set-piece that the two call "home," an abandoned factory of sorts.

The walls of the factory are strewn with drawings, drawings who's child-like aura and demeanor are shattered by the written graffiti accompanying them, which bears various anarchistic and punk-like phrases. Their fridge, as revealed in one scene later on, is scarce and anything held within appears rotten. Yolandi and Ninja's room, as well as the rest of the house, is covered with junk, ranging from a broken down car, to toys and empty beer bottles. Yolandi and Ninja, however, are only representative of one dimension of the "have- nots," Vincent Moore (Hugh Jackman) being representative of a different angle.

Moore is a soldier turned engineer currently working for Tetra Vaal. Whereas Deon Wilson wishes to make robots with consciousness, Moore is interested in his own idea, a giant bipedal tank. Unfortunately for Moore, the police are uninterested as the weapon's fearsome capabilities outrival its actual need, leading to a loss of funding for Moore. Moore, then, like Ninja and Yolandi, is need of money. Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell, who shares the mantle of co-screenwriter, not only bring up the metaphysical question of at what cost it'll take for these technological advances to come about but also the literal cost. Moore's minor function in this ideological narrative, however, is about as interesting as the character gets. Written like a bad Saturday morning, cartoon-villain, Moore's character, as well as his ambitions remain the film's most shallow point. Driven by jealousy of Wilson's success, Moore seeks to oust the engineer and his robotic companion out by violent means. "Chappie's" biggest offense is the inclusion of Moore's character and the sub-plot which he brings along, because it turns the film into an unnecessary and bloated spectacle.

"Chappie's" biggest strength lies in its central character, whose name is eponymous from the film's title. Rather than focus on the social implications of Chappie as a robot with consciousness, Blomkamp and Tatchell merely hint at it, choosing instead to turn "Chappie" into a mediocre crime-action comedy. One momentous scene that demonstrates the former however, is the depiction of Chappie's "birth." Present are Ninja, Yolandi, their third partner in crime Yankie (Jose Pablo Cantillo), and Deon. Ninja, Yolandi, who takes on the role of a doting mother, and Deon are all ideologically split on how to "raise" Chappie. Ninja wants to make Chappie a death-machine for heists, in Chappie Yolandi finds the child she and Ninja don't have, whereas Deon wishes to nurture the creativity in Chappie. But what all these accounts are lacking is the question of what Chappie wants to do. Chappie's autonomy, ironically, is taken away from him by just having a conscious.

Neil Blomkamp's "Chappie" is a film of ideas. Ideas that are, unfortunately, too big for Blomkamp to properly handle. Constrained by its narrative, "Chappie" is never truly given the space it needs to fully cultivate its idea, resulting in a lackluster product.

Image is King: "Selma Review"

Martin Luther King, Jr. leads a protest in "Selma"

Photo taken by Atsushi Nishijima, courtesy of Paramount Pictures

In crafting "Selma," director Ava DuVernay approaches the film with a specific technique in mind, namely the use of still-images, which is supplemented by her slow and powerful camera-work. It's this use of the still-image that allows DuVernay to properly portray not only the racist political climate of the American south in the 1960s, but also the harshness of the Selma marches, which the film's plot is centered around. The film chronicles Martin Luther King, Jr's. (David Oyelowo) political campaign for equal rights in the south, specifically through what is now known as the "Selma March," a 54 mile march from Selma to Montgomery. "Selma" also examines the tumultuous political relationship between  then president, Lyndon B. Johnson (Tom Wilkinson) and King. While "Selma" doesn't explicitly vilify Johnson, it's more than difficult to take a liking to the ex-president. Johnson is a politician looking after his own interests first before those of his citizens that need his help most. King's requests for assistance in civil rights is impeded by Johnson's beat-around-the-bush speeches and political jargon. DuVernay wants to show that King's battle in leading the civil rights movement was fought on a two way front, with the American south and Washington being the respective battlefields, and she's successful in this. The various hardships that not only King had to go through but the rest of the African-American community draw attention to what a monumental feat that the passing of the Voting Acts Right was.  Last year, Justin Simien's "Dear White People" brought attention to some of the post-civil rights movement issues that African-Americans still face today. While "Dear White People's" setting was confined to a college-campus, Simien's film was one in which the small scale of the film opened a much broader macro-discussion on the race issues of today. In creating a fictional account meant to show real issues, however, Simien is never able to reach a political extremity that pushes the limits of cinema, one which the subject matter of the film called for.  This political extremity in combination with DuVernay's use of images is what makes "Selma" such a paramount film. DuVernay isn't willing to shy away from the worst of what members of the civil rights movement had to face, which makes for a portion of the film's most tragic moments, but it's these same moments which foreground not only why the Selma marches were so important but the civil rights movement as a whole. Innocent protestors are beaten by brutal policemen who have no qualms with taking a billy-stick to an older gentleman's head or a boot to a crouched woman's stomach. Hounds are set on crowds of people, hoses are used to violently cut them down, it's not merely the stuff of school textbooks but of actual history, brought to life, via the cinematic image.

The film opens with Martin Luther King, Jr. receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, but what's important is not the ceremony itself but what it reveals about King as a person. Before going onstage, King tells his wife Coretta, (Carmen Ejogo) that he's nervous. This is just one of the few ways that "Selma" goes about deconstructing King as a mythical figure. It is not that the actions of King are downplayed or that King as a person is slandered but rather, "Selma" is interested in portraying King as both the face of the Civil Rights Movement but also as the regular man behind the politics. King is held up to certain expectations by those that follow him and the toll that keeping his political image up to par takes, is shown. King's political life and personal life begin to intertwine against his will. The FBI wiretap his house, keep him on constant surveillance, and his wife is the victim of constant anonymous rape and death threats. The apex of this amalgamation of his two lives comes in the form of a scene where King is accused of being adulterous. Coretta simply asks him for a "yes" or "no" regarding the accusations but King doesn't respond immediately, and there's a heavy silence in the air. DuVernay focuses the camera on King's face and it's this shot that shows King at his weakest. Oyelowo plays the character with a multi-fastidiousness. His voice carries both a preacher's boom as well as King's boldness and humbleness. Yet in the aforementioned shot all that is taken away. Oyelowo portrays King here with an almost-crushed spirit, hinging between normalcy and a mental breakdown of everything catching up. In deconstructing King as a myth, DuVernay has quite possibly elevated King, even more-so, for portraying him as not just a political figurehead but as a human being.

Despite King being the main character of the film, the story of "Selma" is one that is as much about its minor characters, and the civil rights movement as a whole, as it is about King and the Selma march itself. Paul Webb and DuVernay pen the script with a hint of influence from the Italian Neo-Realists. More minor characters, such as the African-American citizens of Selma, are given their own smaller narratives. One example would be the portrayal of Annie Lee Cooper (Oprah Winfrey). Cooper is first shown early on attempting to fill out a voter registers form and subsequently being rejected on legal but racist and absurd grounds. Her appearance doesn't stop there and she can be seen in the audiences of King's various speeches, as well as being given more agency during one protest in front of the Selma courthouse, and finally appearing in both the initial Selma march which is unsuccessful, and the film's finale. The influence of the Italian Neo-Realist cinema is at its strongest here, during the film's portrayal of the successful Selma march. Reminiscent of Gillo Pontecorvo's "The Battle of Algiers," DuVernay splices footage from her own with film with actual newsreel footage of the Selma marches. DuVernay's technique here creates a poignancy which highlights the intimacy of the relationship between cinema and "real-life," one in which we come to understand cinema as not just mere entertainment but as a vanguard of both expressing ideologies and reflecting history.

The Perils of Political Filmmaking: "The Interview" Review

James Franco and Seth Rogan as Dave Skylark and Aaron Rapoport
Photo by Ed Araquel, courtesy of Columbia Pictures

There's a serious subject matter at hand in "The Interview--" a subject matter that the film doesn't seem to take seriously. It's a Western film attempting to satirize the internal horrors of North Korea and its leader Kim Jong-Un but that satire, for the most part, is absent.  Instead, "The Interview" is another Seth Rogan/James Franco romp but even then the film just isn't very comedic. There's nothing funny about the very real mass starvation, poverty, and political corruption in North Korea. The problem isn't that the subject matter is taboo but that "The Interview" fails to properly make fun of while also critiquing the politics of North Korea. North Korea, then, and by extension its citizens, seem to be the butt of a distasteful Western joke.

Mirroring a shot/counter-shot, the film's first two scenes create a political dialogue with one another. The opening depicts a North Korean concert where its star performer--a little girl--sings a song with purposeful absurd lyrics which attack the United States. Director Evan Goldberg's technique is similar to Sergei Eisenstein's in "Battleship Potemkin--" a different type of political film but one where it's camera techniques also highlight its subject matter. The camera first places its focus on the little girl singing and there's a surprise element to the scene. The song itself doesn't start off absurd, only simply praising Kim Jong-Un, but as the camera begins to pull back, the lyrics change into a political attack: "...Is for the United States to explode in a ball of fiery hell/May they be forced to starve and beg and be ravaged by disease." It is here that the camera then reveals a mass crowd of North Korean citizens at the concert and it's this use of filming a mass crowd, within a political film, that gives the scene its Eisenstein-like quality. Like in "Battleship Potemkin," the North Korean mass is used to connote a homogenized political group and way of thinking. Kim Jong-Un's beliefs are not simply his own but are reflected upon the entire country and for citizens of the United States, it's a terrifying reality that an entire country may be devoid of free-thought and speech--an ideal and practice that's common in a country such as the United States, where people are free to not only disagree with the president but do so in public without having to risk their lives.

In the following scene we're then introduced to Dave Skylark (James Franco) and Aaron Rapoport, (Seth Rogan) who together run a successful celebrity interview talk-show called Skylark Tonight. The celebrities that appear are played by their real-life counterparts further adding to the film's realism by not only having North Korea and its leader named but also the celebrities that appear on Skylark Tonight. But because the "The Interview" is distasteful in its satire that very realism, at times, works against the film itself. Skylark's guest for this particular scene is Eminem (Marshal Mathers). Eminem himself has drawn controversy over the years for his misogynistic lyrics which happens to be the topic for Skylark's interview. In asking why Eminem sings about women the way he does, the artist reveals that it's because he's scared of them and that singing for him, is a way to express this fear. It's those lines that then connect this scene with the first one. Screenwriters Seth Rogan and Dan Sterling  seem to be pointing towards a facade maintained by North Korea through its outward hatred for the United States. The concert at the start of the film then becomes a way for North Korea to express its fear against the U.S.--a fear that's rooted in understandable rationalism given the United States' military strength.

These first few minutes, however, are as about as deep as the film ever gets in its satire, before it begins to devolve into a series of crude humor that we haven't already seen in "Neighbors," "This is the End," or any of the other films that the duo have worked on. Franco plays Skylark with a blind absurdity for "what matters." Skylark's life is one characterized by drugs, women, and his interview show yet the character has no qualms with any of this. It's only when Rapoport begins to vie for something more, that the character begins to change thus opening the film's second satirical channel. If "The Interview" is a reflection of reality in its satire then Skylark Tonight is supposed to be the "fast-culture" of our own world. It's obsession with celebrities mirrors that of channels such as MTV or E!, and it's this type of fast-culture that Rapoport wants to move away from, in order to be taken seriously. There's a didacticism which inwardly points at the citizens of the United States, making fun of their wont and consumerism for this type of culture.

Seth Rogan plays a character that's the polar opposite of Franco's in attitude. Both live lives of debauchery but its Rapoport first that begins to want more than the life he soon views as vapid. Where Franco brings an impressive acting ability to his own character, one which breaks away from the type-casting the two have made themselves, Rogan does not. Scenes with Skylark turn out to be the most humorous for Franco's extreme portrayal of the character, one which borders the line of irony and realism whereas scenes with Rogan continue to churn out comedic material that we've already seen in the actor's career.

There's few laughs to be had in "The Interview." The film's best punch-lines don't arrive from its witty political-satire but rather the potty-humor that the team behind the film are known for. This leads "The Interview" to become just another Seth Rogan/James Franco film except this time, under the guise of a political-satire. Even as another film in the same vein as their other works, however, "The Interview" falls low on the comedic bar. Mired in its extreme media controversy, there's nothing too extreme in the film's politics at all but rather it becomes very forgettable outside, where the story around the film is much more interesting than the film itself.

Marriage meets Mystery: "Gone Girl" Review

Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike dangerously tip-toe around marriage in "Gone Girl"
Photo taken by Merrick Morton, courtesy of 20th Century Fox

In writing the script for "Gone Girl," Gillian Flynn has simultaneously created two narratives wherein as one story unfolds, peeling itself back, the second narrative underneath is revealed. At its surface "Gone Girl" is a film about a man who's wife goes missing and the subsequent drama that ensues--the police investigation, the media blitz, and the public outcry.  Beneath that, however, lies the film's satirical nature which takes the form of the film's second narrative. The real emphasis in "Gone Girl," while it may not be immediately apparent, is on the modern-day concept of marriage and love. What Flynn is pointing towards is a question of what exactly is marriage constituted of, and the manner in which director David Fincher frames the question, is what makes the film partly terrifying because of its realism. By modern-day standards, marriage is seen as the pinnacle of love between two persons. It's a union where two people are bounded to one another forever. At least, that's the idea behind marriage and it's not that Flynn herself is attacking this idea but perhaps the dangers of buying into a blind belief of marriage or true-love.

The film begins with a narrative voice-over from its protagonist Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) expressing his desire to crack his wife's head open. This verbal expression of violence is right after revealed to stem from not a necessarily physical abusive relationship between Nick and his wife Amy (Rosamund Pike) but rather from Nick's desire to know what his wife is thinking. As he puts it, it's "the primal question of any marriage." Already then, Nick and Amy, despite being married, don't fit into the normal perceptions of a married couple. Where our idea of a "normal" might suggest that Nick simply asks his wife the question of what she's thinking, Flynn distorts that idea of normal by having Nick speak the way he does, using words such as "crack," and "primal" which connote a sense of violence. Communication between Nick and Amy and by extension their marriage, is one which is framed by this violence. The couple then serve as the tools by which Flynn goes about satirizing certain ideological constructions of marriage and it's because Nick and Amy are so dysfunctional, that the satire works.

The film's story is at first told between present day time and flashbacks. In the present, Amy goes missing and through the film's narrative progression, its revealed that Nick may not have been the ideal husband, let alone a "good" husband. It is not that Nick doesn't fit into a certain ideology concerning the role of husbands but that despite having been married to Amy for five years, is unable to tell police investigators  basic things, such as her hobbies or whether or not she has friends. Affleck plays Nick with the bumbling ignorance of a self-concerned husband which gives the film a sense of dark humor at first before underlining the serious matters at hand.

The narrative taking place within flashbacks reveal a different Nick. First meeting at a party, Nick and Amy hit it off with one another.  Their dialogue is fast and rife with quip and the romantic nature of these scenes are almost enough to fool us that we're watching a different film altogether. The technique is similar to Derek Cianfrance's in "Blue Valentine," another film which examined the concept of true-love. A comparison and contrast soon begins to draw itself between an Amy of the past and a Nick of the present. Without giving too much away, it is apparent at one point that the marriage begins to appear one-sided with Amy taking up most of the weight. She's willing to indulge herself in Nick's hobbies, please him sexually just the way he likes it, and abandons her life in the city to move to Missouri for his sake. Pike brings to Amy the attitude of a young girl totally in love yet it's a love with a tinge of self-awareness. This is what characterizes Amy and ultimately drives her character, setting up Amy and Nick as a dysfunctional couple which then paves the way for the satire.

Ultimately "Gone Girl" uses its satire on marriage to not only open up further questions regarding normative gender roles in modern society but attempt to deconstruct the idea of those normative gender roles. The earlier plot points of the film, such as the media blitz on Nick, the police investigation, and the public outcry, which at first work towards constructing the film's first narrative, take on a dual nature themselves, working towards Flynn's agenda in regards to how she develops the film's themes. There's a danger in the belief of popular opinion that Flynn highlights through the portrayal of media in the film. Like the first narrative of "Gone Girl," Flynn creates a second ideological layer to society that can only be viewed once we begin to challenge and thus deconstruct  the normative views that have been created.

 "Gone Girl" is not only directed in a technically impressive manner but also masterfully directed in the way that Fincher goes about revealing the film's story. At over 2 hours long Fincher and his team build up the film slowly, allowing the mystery and the film's themes to properly unfold. In their third collaboration with Fincher, Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross return as the film's dual composers. It is their mark that first begins constructing "Gone Girl," with the soundtrack playing before any image is actually presented. The score is one that truly works in the background of the film. That is, mainly being composed of ambient tracks, it becomes difficult to realize that the music in itself is separate from the rest of the film, as the cinematic components of "Gone Girl--"its actors, camerawork, cinematography, and soundtrack--all work seamlessly together in stitching the film's atmosphere.

It's an atmosphere of quiet poignancy which serves to fit the film's ever-haunting theme. Fincher's own camerawork is slow yet powerful so that by the end of the film there's an extreme awe left hanging. An awe that will create a dialogue concerning the issues presented within the film and the different standpoints that can be taken. "Gone Girl" is controversial, but I use this term without any of the negative connotations that might be associated with it. In adapting her novel for the film's screenplay, there's no place that Flynn isn't willing to go to concerning the ideologies she wants to tackle. It's a risk but a risk that pays off. Despite its subject matter, "Gone Girl" never seems to take one side over another whether it's in how Fincher directs his characters or scenes or in how Flynn writes them. What's created then is a complete film where Fincher wraps everything nicely but ultimately leaves room for a dialogue to take place.