Casablanca

There are many movies that could be called "classic," but Casablanca (1942) is the one that, whenever I hear someone mention the title, makes me perk up and smile.  Its reputation has been going strong for over 80 years now.  Once you've seen it, it's easy to understand why.  Anybody who hasn't seen the movie is missing out.  I don't say this to be snobbish, only to point out that I spent nearly half my life not knowing what I was missing.

I didn't see Casablanca until I was in my twenties and immediately felt like I should've known better.  American audiences don't treasure films from the past as much as they probably should, especially films shot in black and white.  I hate to admit it, but there was a period in my life when old black-and-white films turned me off.  I like to think I've evolved enough to appreciate their beauty and understand their significance in cinema history.  Something about how they look seems more timeless to me now than color films.

Of course there are other noteworthy films from the same period, but you can probably tell by now that Casablanca is my favorite.  I grew up hearing the same snatches of (misquoted) dialogue as everybody else.  It made me worry that the story would be corny.  On the contrary, in the proper context, all the lines of dialogue I knew were either funnier or more meaningful than I had expected.  It causes one to realize that this is a sign of just how good the story is, no matter the circumstances surrounding the writing.  How many other films can you name where nearly every line is considered a classic and is still quoted 80 years later?

Legends have built up around the making of Casablanca.  In one respect it was a pretty standard studio production, with established writers, an experienced director, and a cast full of stars.  The one major hitch seems to be that the script was being written as the film was being shot, which only added to the usual stress of filmmaking.  Considering that the story was being written on the fly, with virtually no time for rewriting and editing, it holds up astoundingly well all these years later.  No one expected it to be a hit, they didn't think it was special in any way, but it won the Academy Award for Best Picture.  And here we are, still talking about it.  There are Best Picture winners from the last 20 years that have already been largely forgotten.  Casablanca may outlive them all.

The first thing that comes to my mind upon hearing the title is the interesting mix of characters.  There's the cynical yet mysterious loner, Rick (Humphrey Bogart); his loyal, observant, piano-playing friend Sam (Dooley Wilson); the stunning Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman), who keeps nearly as many secrets as Rick; resistance leader Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid); the enterprising and entertaining Captain Renault (Claude Rains); the face of the vile Nazis, Major Strasser (Conrad Veidt); the amusing and vaguely sinister Ferrari (Sydney Greenstreet); the slimy Ugarte (Peter Lorre); and many others, of course.

Throughout the story we meet character after character and realize that the movie is perfectly cast from top to bottom.  All of them are good actors, but to look at them is to instantly understand who they are.  I can't think of one weak link.  Even the people cast in bit parts are unusually effective and memorable.

Consider the cinematography.  The look of the movie is beautiful, and yet, if you watch carefully, you will realize there is nothing fancy about how the film was shot.  There are no shots that draw attention, no camera setups that stand out.  It's almost rudimentary, although it's a stellar example of how a director serves the story.  Michael Curtiz's direction always places emphasis on character and story and never makes it about "the look."  And yet we can't take our eyes off the screen.  Another contributing factor is the pitch-perfect costume design.  None of it is meant to be precisely realistic or accurate to the time and place, but it's all of a piece, so to speak, and works to create a strong look for the film.

The story has its complexities, but it's pretty straightforward.  Two German couriers carrying letters of transit are murdered at the top of the story, and everybody in Casablanca is on the lookout for the letters, while the authorities plan to seize the murderer.  Casablanca itself is considered "unoccupied," full of countless refugees and under the control of the Vichy French, who kowtow to the Nazis.

Most of the story takes place in "Rick's Café Américain," which is a melting pot of disparate characters.  When Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund arrive in Casablanca, the Nazis endeavor to keep Laszlo from leaving, and it's clear that his only chance to escape is to obtain the letters of transit.  While it never becomes evident to the other characters that Rick has the letters, it’s what they all suspect.  And even though Rick sticks his neck out for nobody, he's the real hero of the story (not boring Laszlo).  What complicates things, though, is that Rick and Ilsa have a past, one that will have to be resolved by the end of the movie.

Bogart and Bergman would forever be associated with these characters.  It's easy to see how they continue to resonate.  Rick and Ilsa love each other, but they do something almost heroic by looking beyond their love and doing what they think is right, even at the cost of their personal happiness.  That's why we remember them so well.  If Ilsa had run off with Rick, the story would have been forgotten soon after the movie was released.  But what Rick does at the end of the movie is noble, dignified, and unselfish.  When the movie was released, the world was still in the middle of a war, and audiences were craving stories that would give them hope.  A lot of the time, what people want are stories where characters do the right thing in the face of evil, and Casablanca delivers.

(Cinephile trivia alert.  Ingrid Bergman’s portrayal of Ilsa Lund is so memorable that the Mission: Impossible movies starring Tom Cruise feature Rebecca Ferguson—whose looks are reminiscent of Bergman—as Ilsa Faust, an absolutely wonderful character who can be found in . . . Casablanca, of course.)

There's one aspect of the legends surrounding the production that has always bothered me, and that's the myth of the filmmakers and actors not knowing if Ilsa would leave with Victor Laszlo or stay with Rick.  This rumor was perpetuated even by people involved in the production.  Roger Ebert pointed out (quite correctly, I think) that the production code at that time would have never allowed the married Ilsa to run off with Rick.  Yes, it's true that the writers were working on it right up to the end, but they did have to abide by current standards.  Why does the myth persist?  Well, it makes a good story.

Let’s talk about the music.  How many times have we heard people misquote Ilsa’s request of Sam?  To hear Ingrid Bergman say the real line, followed by Dooley Wilson’s inimitable performance of “As Time Goes By,” is a much more moving experience than I had ever guessed.  Composer Max Steiner wanted to write his own song for the movie, but he was stuck using “As Time Goes By.”  To his credit, he incorporated it into his score, lending it even greater emotional significance throughout the story.  Steiner’s use of the song helped make it timeless.

When it comes down to it, Casablanca is difficult to describe.  It doesn’t fit into any single genre.  It has thriller elements, romance, bits of comedy, suspense, and a healthy dose of patriotism.  (The scene where people in the café sing “La Marseillaise” to drown out the Nazis never fails to inspire me.  The power of music, my friends.)  Describing the film as a “classic” seems too simple.  It gives us something to aspire to, exemplified by Rick and Ilsa making personal sacrifices so that good can prevail.  The first time I sat down to watch Casablanca I came to realize that it was only the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The Remains of the Day

I know people who consider The Remains of the Day (1993) to be boring in the extreme.  The first time I watched it, though, I was glued to the screen.  The story holds deep fascination for me, not because of the time period so much as the unfolding internal human drama.  The most important parts of the story are almost never expressed through dialogue.  This is partly due to the time period and culture the characters inhabit, when genteel civility prevailed in "polite" society.  Most of the focus is on Mr. Stevens (Anthony Hopkins) and his seeming inability to share his thoughts, feelings, and opinions with his colleagues, if, in fact, he even has any.

Anthony Hopkins won the Academy Award the previous year for his portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs.  Although he deserved praise for taking such a disturbing character and making him inexplicably likable, I think what he does in Remains of the Day is much more subtle and even more difficult.  We don't always know what Stevens is thinking, but we are sure that he is holding back.  When we meet his father (played by Peter Vaughan), we gain a little understanding of the impossible standards that Mr. Stevens has been raised to uphold.  Other than that, we get no back story and can only guess what has led him to stifle normal human interaction, all in the name of service to his employer.

It's clear from the beginning that Mr. Stevens is possibly the most devoted butler in cinema history (except maybe for Bruce Wayne's butler Alfred).  He holds Lord Darlington (James Fox) in the highest regard.  It seems that Lord Darlington holds himself in the highest regard, as well.  Although he is a perfect English gentleman, he is a bit of a fool.  Thinking themselves learned and wise, Darlington and other English aristocrats dabble in international politics, foolishly believing that they can negotiate with a monster like Hitler.  After finding himself on the wrong side of history, Darlington is branded a traitor.  It's not Lord Darlington's fate that will haunt us after the story ends, though, but that of Mr. Stevens.  Was he as much of a fool in his blind devotion to a kindly, albeit misguided, master?

Even Darlington's godson, Reginald Cardinal (Hugh Grant), knows that something is amiss.  There is a sad scene where he tries to get Mr. Stevens to understand, yet Stevens is so focused on his duties, so sure of Lord Darlington's good intentions, that he doesn't seem to grasp the severity of the situation, nor the impact events will have on society at large.  As he reveals late in the film, he doesn't see it as his place to listen in on his employer's conversations, or to form an opinion of things.  His entire existence revolves around his duties as a butler within the contained world of Darlington Hall.

The one person in the story who attempts to pierce Mr. Stevens' facade is Miss Kenton (Emma Thompson), the head housekeeper.  In terms of the Darlington Hall chain of command, they have pretty much equal standing.  It becomes clear to us that Miss Kenton is attracted to Mr. Stevens.  What is less clear is how he feels about her.  I think he is deeply attracted to her, and yet he suppresses those feelings at every turn, as if he's unsure how to handle them.  Why would he do that?  We never find out.  I'm not bringing this up as a complaint; I think it adds intrigue to the story.  Having a character who is a bit of a mystery is usually more interesting, but it only works when you have the right actor in the part, and Hopkins is brilliant.

The relationship between Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton is really the most pivotal one in the film.  Emma Thompson's performance is the more "human" of the two, relatable to a larger degree.  Her efforts to become closer to Stevens are not overt in any normal sense, but in the carefully controlled realm of Mr. Stevens' repression, they are nearly earth-shaking.  She is only seeking a worthy human connection, yet Stevens is somehow incapable of such a thing, possibly lacking the knowledge of how to even go about it.  Nowadays people would probably label him as autistic or something like that, but I'm not sure it's that simple.

Consider a couple of scenes.  When Lord Darlington decides that a pair of cleaning girls should be dismissed because they are Jewish, it's obvious that Mr. Stevens is disquieted by this.  He knows that it's morally wrong, but he doesn't think it's his place to say anything, certainly not to his employer.  Only months later does Miss Kenton discover that Mr. Stevens was upset by the dismissal, after Lord Darlington expresses regret for his decision.  It frustrates her that Stevens keeps so much to himself, and yet it offers us a small glimpse into his soul.  He does have feelings.

Many reviews pinpoint the scene between Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton when she corners him and tries to find out what kind of book he's reading.  That scene leads to another that haunts me.  Feeling rejected by Mr. Stevens, Miss Kenton reveals that she is entertaining a proposal for marriage from Mr. Benn (Tim Pigott-Smith).  When she informs Mr. Stevens, she turns slightly cruel, describing the way she and Mr. Benn discuss Stevens behind his back.  What she's really trying to do is get a rise out of him, attempting to get him to show some kind of emotion.  But Mr. Stevens is professional to a fault (which we see earlier as he carries on with his duties even as his father is on his deathbed).  The only crack we see in the facade is when Stevens drops a bottle of wine in the basement.

Years later, when Darlington Hall is owned by retired United States Congressman Jack Lewis (Christopher Reeve, who is supremely effective in a critical dinner scene during Darlington's international conference), Mr. Stevens travels to the West Country hoping to reconnect with Miss Kenton and convince her to return to her old post.  Yes, they need a new housekeeper, although I think we know that Stevens, even if he doesn't realize it, secretly wants her back in his life.  Roger Ebert put it perfectly: "The closing scenes paint a quiet heartbreak.  The whole movie is quiet, introspective, thoughtful: A warning to those who put their emotional lives on hold, because they feel their duties are more important.  Stevens has essentially thrown away his life in the name of duty.  He has used his 'responsibilities' as an excuse for avoiding his responsibility to his own happiness."

There is so much more that could be said about the surrounding political environment, about people who live as servants, and the snoots who deign to employ them.  The story is even savvy enough to recognize how French leaders fooled themselves into making unwise accommodations for Hitler and the Nazis.  This film exposes a wide variety of subjects for examination.

The film was adapted by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala from the Kazuo Ishiguro novel, produced by Ismail Merchant, and directed by James Ivory.  It was made when Merchant-Ivory productions were quite a thing, displaying a mastery of the period.  From top to bottom their productions are top-notch.  Ivory's direction is never flashy, always paying careful attention to subtle details and acting choices.  Jhabvala took a novel that is largely internal and made it accessible from a visual standpoint.  And the actors are uniformly excellent, allowing us a fascinating glimpse into lives different from our own.

I'll give the final words to Mr. Ebert: "The Remains of the Day is a subtle, thoughtful movie.  There are emotional upheavals in it, but they take place in shadows and corners, in secret.  It tells a very sad story—three stories, really.  Not long ago I praised a somewhat similar film, Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence, also about characters who place duty above the needs of the heart.  I got some letters from readers who complained the movie was boring, that 'nothing happens in it.'  To which I was tempted to reply: If you had understood what happened in it, it would not have been boring."

Rear Window

Think of how movies make you feel.  Think of the effect they can have on us.  They can induce laughter, smiles, happiness and affection, they can make us sad and bring us to tears, and they can frighten us.  How well a movie can affect you depends on a complex myriad of factors, including writing, directing, acting, camera lenses, color choices, costumes, set design, art direction, sound design, and music—not to mention pace and timing.  All of these factors must somehow work together to fit the director's vision and (hopefully) create a reaction in the audience.

Rear Window (1954) is the first movie I can think of that implicates the audience as voyeurs.  When L.B. "Jeff" Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart) begins to watch his neighbors and come to conclusions about some of their activities, we're right there watching with him and coming to the same conclusions.  We have no choice; the film is shot almost exclusively from his point of view, practically forcing us to identify with him.  When things heat up in the final act, Jeff can only watch and is virtually helpless . . . and so are we.  Many people have written about how this is a metaphor for filmmaking itself, especially regarding the relationship between the director and the audience.  What this movie proves is that director Alfred Hitchcock knew exactly what he was doing.  That the film is so powerfully effective to this day is a testament to Mr. Hitchcock's singular abilities.

Stewart was the perfect leading man for this role (leading a company of actors who were also perfectly cast).  He became known to audiences in "lighter" roles, but after serving in the Air Force during World War II, he took on "darker," more complex roles, beginning with It's a Wonderful Life and continuing through his work with Hitchcock.  Audiences trusted him and found him easily relatable, sort of how many people feel today about Tom Hanks.  Even though some of his actions as Jeff in Rear Window are morally questionable, he's able to get us on his side just by the simple fact of who he is, and then he brings layers of brilliant acting to the table.  Stewart was known as a great everyman in the movies, and it still holds true.

Rounding out the cast are Grace Kelly as Jeff's girlfriend Lisa Fremont, the quintessential Hitchcock blonde; Thelma Ritter as Stella, Jeff's insurance nurse and the source of most of the best lines in the movie; Wendell Corey as Lt. Tom Doyle, Jeff's detective friend; and Raymond Burr as Lars Thorwald, the suspicious neighbor who lives across the courtyard from Jeff's apartment.  Along the way we meet some of Jeff's many neighbors, including Miss Lonelyhearts, Miss Torso, a songwriter, a pair of newlyweds, a couple with a small dog, and other assorted characters.

One element of Hitchcock's technique that I've always found interesting is how he doesn't shy away from shots that show us that "it's only a movie."  In his mind, it's always "only a movie" and he never strives for the realism prevalent in movies today.  It doesn't mean that one method is right, and the other is wrong, it's just an interesting facet of his work.  Rear Window takes this to the extreme: the entire movie was shot on a giant soundstage, although if you didn't know that you might not immediately make that guess.  As in his film Rope, Hitchcock is able to control every detail in an enclosed space, all the better to manipulate his audience.

When we first meet Jeff, he's been trapped in his apartment for weeks.  Following his (reckless) instincts as a photojournalist to get a spectacular shot, he winds up in a wheelchair with an oversize cast on one of his legs.  He's coming to the end of his temporary purgatory, which is causing him to become stir-crazy.  The only way to pass the time is to use binoculars and a telephoto lens to watch the neighbors. 

Through expertly and humorously deployed scenes, we are introduced to Thelma's disapproval of Jeff's voyeurism, and the handling of his relationship with Lisa.  There are all kinds of ways to read into his point of view, as the figuratively impotent Jeff sees too much disparity between his lifestyle and Lisa’s.  Although he thinks they're ultimately incompatible, he wants things to remain status quo.  The person putting all the work into the relationship is Lisa.  She doesn't agree with Jeff and will go on to show that she's a lot tougher and more reckless than he ever anticipated.  And while her actions scare the bejeezus out of him, you can see in his eyes how her status has changed.

As Jeff watches his neighbors, we learn a bit about each of them.  They're a mildly amusing bunch.  The neighbors we notice most of all are the Thorwalds, who live directly across from Jeff.  One night Jeff hears a woman scream and the sound of breaking glass.  Then he sees Mr. Thorwald, carrying a case, taking multiple trips in and out of the apartment during a rainstorm.  The next day, Mrs. Thorwald appears to be missing.  Has she been murdered by her husband?  Jeff becomes convinced she has, but convincing those around him turns out to be more difficult.

Jeff calls in his detective friend, Tom Doyle, who tries to humor him yet generally scoffs at the idea of murder.  Except for one detail that Doyle quickly discovers, we know only as much as Jeff does, which makes it easy to come to the same (logical?) conclusions.  But how does a person confined to a wheelchair prove that a murder took place?  Jeff has no physical—or even photographic—evidence, and most of what he describes to Doyle is passed off as speculation.  Think about it.  If someone you knew tried to tell you that his neighbor murdered somebody, wouldn't you initially write it off as paranoia, or some other symptom of severe anxiety?

On first viewing, the focus on Jeff and Lisa's relationship doesn't seem to be very important to the story at hand, but that's just Hitchcock laying subtle groundwork for what comes later.  His films are masterclasses on setting up relationship dynamics that will affect the story in its later stages.  Jeff and Lisa's relationship will very much play a part in what happens and how each character will behave.  While Jeff describes his life/job as some kind of endless, always-changing adventure, at the end of the movie he is relegated to a state of helplessness, feeling trapped in more ways than one, but unable to do much about it.  Don't get me wrong, Jeff is no dummy.  Yet Lisa becomes the man of action, so to speak, and shows that she has real guts and can make the same kind of daring choices as Jeff.

Stella and Lisa begin to be convinced that Jeff is right, only for Doyle to visit again and splash cold water on their theories.  But there is a neighborhood disruption when a small dog is found dead.  Notice how the pace of the story picks up from this point.  The excitement in the air is almost palpable.  Not because there's been a murder, but because the characters are so close to solving it.

While Jeff uses notes and telephone calls to draw Thorwald away, Stella and Lisa attempt to investigate.  At one point, Lisa enters Thorwald's apartment.  Unfortunately, Thorwald returns to the apartment and finds her.  Jeff calls the police, and they arrive in the nick of time.  As Lisa is subtly signaling to Jeff through the window that she has found Mrs. Thorwald's wedding ring, Thorwald realizes who has been watching him, and looks across the courtyard at Jeff—directly into camera.  This is probably the most shocking moment in the movie, because we realize, with a jolt, that Thorwald is looking at us.  And there we are, watching, helplessly unable to intervene.

There are many movie directors who are great at manipulating their audiences, but perhaps no other director has been as effective as Hitchcock at putting them in the shoes of the (supposed) protagonist.  In Rear Window he places us squarely in that wheelchair and behind the camera lens.  Part of how he gets us there is by getting us to invest in characters who seem a lot like us and are actually entertaining.  And even though the characters grow obsessed with a murder, this story isn't a serious slog.  There are plenty of chuckles along the way to the final scene.

Another interesting detail is the lack of a traditional music score.  All of the music heard in the film is called "diegetic," meaning it all generates from the world of the movie, whether it's from a radio or a piano, etc.  All the sounds we hear have been carefully controlled, including crowd noise, traffic, telephones, and ominous footsteps on the stairs.

I love several of the films by Alfred Hitchcock, yet Rear Window remains my favorite.  I think of it as his most purely entertaining.  Despite the potentially heavy subject matter, it's not as disturbing as Psycho, or as serious as other masterworks like Notorious and Strangers on a Train.  We're gently led into the story, eventually exposed to some truly suspenseful moments, and somehow come out the other end with a satisfied smile.  After all, it's only a movie.

Life of Pi

 Ang Lee's Life of Pi (2012), based on the novel by Yann Martel, is an extraordinary film of remarkable beauty.  He has taken a book that was considered unfilmable and brought it to vivid life, featuring astounding visuals and an incredible lead performance from first-time actor Suraj Sharma.

Although everybody knows that the story is about a boy and a tiger stranded on the ocean in a lifeboat, not many seem to know that Pi survives.  The movie gives this away immediately, showing Pi (played as an adult by Irrfan Khan) telling his story to a writer (Rafe Spall).  The writer has been prompted to hear Pi's story, a story he was promised "would make [him] believe in God."

The story begins in Pondicherry, India, where Pi is born and raised in a zoo owned by his parents.  His father gives him the name Piscine, after a famous French swimming pool.  In a successful attempt to rebuff the teasing he receives at school (played as a schoolboy by Ayush Tandon), he gives himself the moniker "Pi," after the mathematical constant.

Pi is raised as a Hindu but finds himself drawn to Christianity and Islam.  He sees the good in all, choosing to practice all three religions, to the frustration of his father.  This theme is introduced early in the film in a lighthearted way, only vaguely hinting at the depths the story will explore by the end.  Pi's father thinks that "believing in everything at once is the same as believing in nothing."  But Pi doesn't see things that way.  While most people focus on the differences among religions, he sees a myriad of possibilities through humankind's (unknowingly) unified search for answers from a higher power.  This is a boy who goes through life with an open heart, unafraid to ask difficult questions, and a faith that will eventually be tested to its limits.  In an era when people's views of politics and religion have become polarized, the character of Pi is a refreshing reminder that natural curiosity, combined with an open mind and heart, can manifest a life of fulfillment and gratitude.

One day Pi (played as a teenager by Suraj Sharma) and his family are informed by his father that they are moving to Canada.  The family, along with the animals from their zoo, find passage on a Japanese freighter and begin the journey to North America.  On the ship they encounter a surly French cook (Gerard Depardieu) and a kind Japanese sailor (Jag Huang).  (Notice how nonchalantly these characters are introduced.  We are not led to believe that they will feature much in the story, but we will remember them later.)

The freighter is caught in a tremendous storm and eventually sinks, still carrying Pi's parents and brother.  There is a heartbreaking shot of Pi floating in the water as he regards the sinking ship.  He finds a lifeboat that will eventually contain the only other survivors—animals from his father's zoo: an orangutan, a zebra, a hyena, and a tiger named Richard Parker.  Soon their numbers are reduced to only the boy and the tiger.

Having a tiger named Richard Parker could fool you into believing that he will eventually speak and become some kind of animated character, but that is not the case here.  The CGI work in this film is next level, and Richard Parker is one of the most realistic CG creations in movie history.  He behaves like a real tiger, bringing all the danger, speed, and impressive strength such a thing implies.  To complicate it even further, the filmmakers have revealed that there are around 23 shots of real tigers mixed in, which I dare you to find.  They've given enough care to Richard Parker to render him believable.  This is especially true in an early scene when Pi's father disabuses him of the notion that the tiger is anything other than a wild animal capable of killing without hesitation.

For a short while, as the boy and tiger learn to coexist in the lifeboat, the film almost settles into a rhythm as Pi uses a survival manual as a makeshift journal.  The film carries a unique tone, with a story of bravery and despair in the face of overwhelming odds set against a backdrop of breathtaking visuals.  There are harrowing elements to the story, but by the end we will not be wrung out and depressed; the final scenes are more thoughtful than we expect.

As with most movies, the experience of watching Life of Pi can't be properly captured by writing about it.  There's too much; thinking back over everything we've seen and heard is nearly mind-boggling.  But that's exactly what we will have to do to reach the ending of the story (if you can really call it an ending).  Throughout the story we visit towns in India, a French swimming pool, a zoo, a school, a dance class, various places of worship, a freighter, and a mysterious floating island filled with thousands of meerkats.  We see visual wonders that include whales, dolphins, sharks, flying fish, and visions in the stars and the depths of the ocean.

What resonates most, though, is Pi's faith and his belief in God.  Although he embraces multiple religions and numerous interpretations of gods and what Christians refer to as God with a capital "g," I think it's clear that Pi believes in a supreme being, whether that's one or many.  It's intriguing to note that some of Pi's narrated journal entries, and some of his verbal conversations, are directed to God.  And sometimes he directs his comments to Richard Parker, a being that he is convinced has a soul just like any person (this is one area where Pi disagrees with his father).  Pi's final comments to the writer about Richard Parker make me cry.  I think they highlight an important facet of his personality.  This is a man who has grown beyond the trauma of his past and been blessed with a real sense of peace.  He's one of the most open-minded, fascinating characters I've ever encountered.

(Major spoilers from here.)  Eventually, Pi and Richard Parker wash up on a Mexican beach.  Pi is brought to a hospital, where he is visited by a pair of Japanese insurance investigators who want to know why the ship sank.  His story strikes them as unbelievable.  They implore him to tell them a story “that won't make [them] look like fools"—they want "the truth."  Pi then tells a story that includes his mother, the cook, and the sailor, with only a few of the same details, but with more disturbing and depressing implications.  It's interesting to note that this story is not shown to us, we only hear it as told by Pi.  You could say it's a more "rational" tale.  And it clearly leaves the Japanese gentlemen uncomfortable.

Once Pi has finished telling this alternate version of his story, the writer picks out the similarities between the two tales and says, “It is a lot to take in, to figure out what it all means.”  Pi's response is wise: "If it happened, if happened.  Why should it have to mean anything?"

I think the following exchange is key:

ADULT PI: I’ve told you two stories about what happened out on the ocean.  Neither explains what caused the sinking of the ship, and no one can prove which story is true and which is not.  In both stories, the ship sinks, my family dies, and I suffer.

WRITER: True.

ADULT PI: So which do you prefer?

WRITER: The one with the tiger.  That's the better story.

ADULT PI: Thank you.  And so it goes with God.

That last line (“And so it goes with God”) seems to throw people off.  What does that mean?  As a viewer (or reader) we're confronted with the possibility that only one version is true.  I’ve been down a rabbit-hole reading endless online discussions that attempt to "explain” the ending of Life of Pi.  A few smart people seemed to have caught on that these online conversations mirror those between Pi and his father.

Even author Yann Martel has commented that the movie is less ambiguous than the book on this point.  Some viewers have argued that the movie, by showing only one version of the story, skews our perception of what is true and what is not.  Such a debate seems to contradict the purpose of the story.

I like these comments by blogger Edward Mullen: “...although the human story makes a lot of sense, it was not intended to be a twist ending.  The author leaves the question unanswered for the audience to draw their own conclusion, almost as if we are the Japanese men.  Whatever story you prefer is intended to gauge your belief in God.  Either you believe in things that can be explained rationally, or you allow room for such things as miracles and God.”

Here's another online comment: “The outcome is the same, it’s just how you choose to tell the story that’s the difference.  So it is with God.  People get so hung up on the literal interpretation of the Bible that they miss the point the Bible is trying to teach us.”

Could both stories be true?  Are they one and the same, first told as an allegory, then reduced to cold, hard reality?  I think it’s important to remember Pi’s approach to multiple religions.  This is a character who appreciates everything that brings him closer to God, regardless of the path (or belief system) that gets him there or the form in which God is presented.  There are stories in many religions that contain elements fantastic in nature that some so-called “enlightened” humans in the 21^st century now refer to as mythology.  Many religious teachings fall outside of rational explanation, much like Pi’s tale of survival.  Whether or not you find those stories/teachings to be “believable” is a test of your own faith.

In the final moments of the film, notice that the report written by the Japanese officials states that Pi survived 227 days at sea with a tiger.  It seems that they agreed with the writer about which is the better story.

There are many more interesting analyses to be found on the internet, all from different points of view, and all of them valid.  I don’t think there is one right answer.  What do I believe?  I believe that Life of Pi is a stunningly beautiful film with a story that’s structured more carefully than anticipated.  The more I watch it, the more I find to consider and think about.  Repeat viewings have only deepened my appreciation.  The real question is: what do you believe?

The Jungle Book

We live in a time when creativity and originality are simultaneously rewarded and stifled.  Movie studios now over-value blockbusters and the money they can make.  Smaller movies have a more difficult time succeeding because they can't compete on a financial level.  Everyone is so focused on box office results that they're forgetting how to make movies with real substance.  And some companies, including Disney, mistakenly think that the best thing to do is put out material that's already been successful, so most of the time we're getting live-action remakes of animated films, with very little original ideas.  They think it's a financially sound idea, but as far as artistry is concerned, it's extremely shallow.

Some of Disney's live-action remakes have been—to put it bluntly—wasteful.  Occasionally, though, something truly special happens, everything clicks into place, and a movie can improve on the original.  That's what I think happened with Jon Favreau's version of The Jungle Book (2016).  He and his team have taken a movie that was kind of episodic and given the story real weight.  The story now has a more natural flow, the danger seems real, and the emotions are stronger.  I always thought the original, released in 1967, was a bit boring.  This version captivated me from beginning to end.

Newcomer Neel Sethi takes on the role of Mowgli, which is more challenging than it seems.  Every interaction in the movie is between Mowgli and CGI animals.  The only real things we're seeing are Sethi and bits of set made to look like the jungle.  And the effect is seamless; the whole thing is done so well that we get caught up in the story and stop thinking about how it was made.  The CGI in this film raised the bar.

Somewhere in the wilds of India, Mowgli is an orphaned boy found by the black panther Bagheera (voice by Ben Kingsley) and taken in by a wolf pack led by Akela (voice by Giancarlo Esposito), with Raksha (voice by Lupita Nyong'o) becoming Mowgli's adoptive mother.  As a drought season sears the land, the wolf pack joins all kinds of other animals at a watering hole during a "water truce."  Mowgli's presence draws the attention of Shere Khan (voice by Idris Elba), a tiger who vows to kill the boy when the drought ends.  As the wolves debate the wisdom of allowing a human boy to remain with them, especially under threat from Shere Khan, Mowgli volunteers to leave, and Bagheera volunteers to escort him to a nearby "man-village."

The cinematography for this stretch of the movie is stunning.  We're shown breathtaking vistas and lush landscapes.  You can almost smell the locations (which, again, are mostly computer-generated creations, making the accomplishment even more impressive).  The boy and the panther are ambushed by Shere Khan and separated as Mowgli escapes with a herd of water buffalo.  Upon re-entering the jungle, Mowgli is found by Kaa (voice by Scarlet Johansson), an enormous python that hypnotizes the boy and tells him the story of how he was orphaned by none other than Shere Khan.  But before Kaa can have her way with him, Mowgli is rescued by a bear named Baloo (voice by Bill Murray).

Meanwhile, Shere Khan visits the wolf pack and kills Akela, hoping that word will reach Mowgli and cause him to return to the jungle.  In the 1967 film, Shere Khan was viewed as dangerous, but he came across as a rather stuffy English aristocrat.  In this iteration of the story, we're given a much more complex villain whose scenes are truly scary.  (This time, when characters hear the name "Shere Khan," it evokes real fear.)  Through the combination of Idris Elba's voice acting and the work of Disney animators, Khan is menacing from the start.  He doesn't want to defeat his enemies on a mere physical level but on a psychological level as well, as demonstrated by dialogue that simultaneously manipulates and denigrates.  And as the story reaches its climax, we see firsthand how physically imposing a Bengal tiger can be in a full-on display of frightening ferocity.  This Khan draws blood when he attacks.  Favreau and his team have taken an already memorable villain and elevated him to one of the greats.

Mowgli and Baloo become fast friends, with Baloo making use of Mowgli's ability to conceive of contraptions to help them acquire honey.  While Baloo's behavior is a bit manipulative, he and Mowgli genuinely enjoy their time together as they alternate between having fun, being lazy, and gathering food. Their escapades are interrupted by Bagheera, who insists that Mowgli continue with him to the man-village.  He convinces Baloo to turn Mowgli away in order to protect the boy from Shere Khan.  Just as Mowgli becomes emotionally distraught, he is kidnapped by monkeys.

The monkeys, known as the Bandar-log, take Mowgli to a mountain topped by ancient ruins.  In hot pursuit are Bagheera and Baloo, who make an amusing pair of rescuers.  Mowgli is taken before King Louie (voice by Christopher Walken), a character who did not exist in Kipling's stories.  Portrayed in other versions as an orangutan, in this version King Louie is a Gigantopithecus, and, like Shere Khan, he is more threatening than before.  He desires for Mowgli to show him how to create fire, which the animals in the story refer to as "the red flower."  (Even the use of fire in this movie carries more danger and consequence.)  Louie's similarities to a gangland mob boss are uncanny, with strong echoes of Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now, and Walken's take on the character is wonderful.  (And for those who appreciate obscure pop culture references, did anybody notice the cowbell?)

And that's enough of the plot.  There are so many things worth admiring in this film, not the least of which are the voice actors, especially Kingsley, Murray, Nyong’o, Elba, Walken, and a small host of vocal cameos.  We walk away surprised at how well it all works when it could have collapsed under the weight of "living up to the original."  Did the story need to be remade?  Not necessarily, but they found a way to do it (and I'm sure glad they did!) that smoothed out the storyline and made it more convincing.  They gave us animation that is astounding, and took characters we already know and love and somehow improved them.  This time we have elephants that don't behave like silly British military stereotypes; they are presented as majestic, powerful creatures of great importance.  Those kinds of details, that pay tribute to the original and yet create an even stronger emotional resonance, are sprinkled throughout the story.

Mowgli comes to a deeper understanding of friendship and family, surrounded by animals that showcase surprisingly human sensibilities.  By the end of the movie, we've gone on a journey with the characters, encountered danger, enjoyed some laughs, sung a few songs, and learned a few lessons.  What more could you ask for?

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

When J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books were first released, I somewhat snootily deemed the premise boring.  A British boy wizard goes to school?  Who wants to read that?  (As it turns out... everybody.)  In the Spring of 2001, when it was already an established phenomenon, I heard that they were adapting the books into films.  I happened to see a movie poster and decided to look (as I always do) at who the composer would be.  It was my hero, the most successful film composer of all time: John Williams.  And I thought, if John Williams is involved, it's got to be pretty good.  I mentioned this to my mother, who was with me at the time.  She said that she had read the books, enjoyed them, and thought that I would enjoy them as well.  Not long after that, I went to see Steven Spielberg's A.I. Artificial Intelligence in the theater—four times.  Each time I went, the trailer for Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was included.  It looked intriguing.  So I decided to give the books a try and bought the first one.

Well.  By Chapter Four, I had a feeling that I can't really explain.  The next day I bought all the available books, somehow already sensing the enjoyment that was ahead of me.  When the movie of Sorcerer's Stone was released, I had read the first four books and knew I would be a fan for life.  My mother and I attended the movie together (we were the only members of our family who had read the books by then), and we would look at each other every time something was accurately portrayed in the movie, which was quite often.  It was one of the most thrilling screenings I'd ever been to.  And I have no real complaints about that movie.  Sure, some things were changed, which happens with all adaptations.  But, overall, I thought it was glorious, with spirited direction from Chris Columbus, a perfect cast, and a phenomenal score by John Williams, of course!

Columbus also directed the second movie outing, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  After that, though, he decided to let someone else take over the directing duties as he took on the role of a producer.  Not only was Alfonso Cuaron brought in as the new director, but actor Richard Harris passed away and the part of Dumbledore was re-cast with Michael Gambon.  There was also a lot of (made up) controversy in the press at the time, with people speculating about the child actors aging out of their roles, if Cuaron would steer the story in a weird direction, and if Gambon could live up to Harris's portrayal of Dumbledore.

I'm pleased to see that history proved the speculation wrong.  By the eighth and final film, the lead actors were only three or four years older than their characters.  That's not much, really.  How many movies have we suffered through where actors in their mid- to late twenties are trying to play high school students?

I remember hearing people refer to Richard Harris as "the real Dumbledore."  (Evidence of snobbery.)  I think Michael Gambon did a wonderful job, capturing so many elements of the character as described in the book (minus the fancy robes), including his deep voice.  (When I read the books now, the Dumbledore in my imagination looks and sounds like a mix of the two actors.)

Something else that pleases me greatly is to note that Alfonso Cuaron's vision for the movie—along with Michael Seresin's cinematography—influenced every film in the series thereafter.  Portions of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban were shot on location in the Scottish Highlands, lending an authentic and realistic look to the surroundings.  Some viewers of the first two films were confused by this, but those films were restricted by their budgets.  The budgets for the films that followed were steadily increased.  I felt like the changes made the grounds around Hogwarts resemble the descriptions in the books even more.

Are all Harry Potter films equal?  Well . . . not quite.  As the books went on, they grew steadily thicker, which only increased the challenges of adapting them to film.  Indeed, by the time they made Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the filmmakers wisely decided to split it into two movies to do justice to the book.  And as the movies went on, the amount of material cut from the films increased.  Frustrating, yes, but ultimately necessary.  I despair of people who still complain about this, acting as if the movies have somehow "ruined" the books.  I think of the movies as companion pieces to the books, not as replacements.  Everything we've loved about the books is still there to be enjoyed and treasured.  Yet movies have a completely different sense of pacing and momentum and narrative.  I would argue that there is a difference between "being true" to the books and merely depicting what's in them.  Just by the sheer difference of the nature of the two storytelling forms, there must be changes.  Sometimes they work, and sometimes they don't (we'll discuss this later).

It so happens that Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004) is my favorite of the Harry Potter films.  The look and feel seemed to hew even closer to the books, and we delved deeper into an already well-established film universe.  It's not a perfect adaptation, and I have a few quibbles that I will mention, but by this point in the series, it finally felt like we'd really landed in the world of Harry Potter (no offense to Chris Columbus, who did an excellent job of setting things up and getting them rolling).  Naturally, the films began to take on a darker tone as they went, exactly like the books, which mirror how our outlook on life can change as we grow older.  By the time we got to Deathly Hallows, Harry's view of things had changed an awful lot compared to the near-constant sense of wonder in Sorcerer's Stone.  (And for the record, yes, the fact that they changed the title for American audiences bugs me.)

In this story, we meet several new characters and creatures.  The first is Aunt Marge (Pam Ferris), sister of Harry's dreadful Uncle Vernon (Richard Griffiths), who learns the hard way not to mess with a teenage wizard.  We then follow Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) on a humorously harrowing journey to London on the Knight Bus, a fantastical purple triple-decker that transports him to the Leaky Cauldron, where he is intercepted by the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge (Robert Hardy).  By now, Harry has learned of the escape of Sirius Black (Gary Oldman) from Azkaban Prison.  On the train ride to Hogwarts, Harry and his friends Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) have an encounter with a dementor, one of the spectral guards of Azkaban, as it searches for Sirius Black.  Luckily for the kids, Professor Remus Lupin (David Thewlis), the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, is on hand to shoo the dementor away.  Once they reach the school, headmaster Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) informs the students that the grounds will be patrolled by dementors as they search for Sirius Black.  (I've lost count of how many times we hear the name "Sirius Black" mentioned in the film, usually with an urgency bordering on hysteria.)  We also meet Professor Trelawney (Emma Thompson), who specializes in the art of Divination (which, for any Muggles out there, is the ability to foretell the future).

A new creature encountered this time is Buckbeak the Hippogriff (sort of a bird and horse combination), used in a Care of Magical Creatures lesson by the newly dubbed Professor Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane).  The scene reaches a climax with Harry taking a flight on Buckbeak's back around the castle and grounds.  This is one of my favorite scenes in all the Harry Potter movies.  Buckbeak looks even better than I had imagined, and the scene gives way to stunning visuals, accompanied by a powerful musical theme composed by John Williams.  The scene is a little different than the one in the book, yet it is a perfect demonstration of movie magic, showcasing the differences in storytelling between books and film.  (This is not an argument for one over the other; I love them both, but this is a blog mostly about movies.)

There are many familiar faces this time around, as well.  Not only the crummy Dursley family, but Professor McGonagall (Maggie Smith), Professor Flitwick (Warwick Davis), Draco Malfoy (Tom Felton) and his cronies, and, of course, Professor Snape (Alan Rickman).  Watch the way Rickman enters a classroom and instantly commands attention.  This film features Snape a little more than the others, and it is consistently rewarding.

We are also taken to Hogsmeade, a nearby village housing only witches and wizards, and introduced to the Marauder's Map, given to Harry by the Weasley twins (James and Oliver Phelps), which is not only a map of Hogwarts and the grounds, but shows the real-time location of everybody within the boundaries of the map.  Harry's use of the map leads to a scene of delicious tension—and a little humor—as he searches for one particular individual.

A critical part of the story revolves around Harry's parents, their friendships with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew, and a portion of the truth about why they were attacked by the evil Lord Voldemort (who doesn't even feature in this story beyond the mention of his name—which shall not be named, etc.).  Because of their shared history, Harry and Professor Lupin have an instant connection, and Lupin agrees to teach Harry how to use the Patronus charm to repel dementors.  However, we actually learn very little about Lupin until critical scenes later in the movie.

The plot of this third Harry Potter story is more complex than the first two in a way that I find highly satisfying.  As Harry's view of his world changes, the stories expand in scope and depth.  Rowling does an expert job of introducing the wizarding world a bit at a time early on, before dropping us into the deep end in later stories.  I can't remember having as much fun reading as I did the first time I read the Harry Potter books.

I mentioned that I had a few quibbles.  They contain spoilers for any poor souls who haven't seen the movie yet (which is now 20 years old!).  My main quibble has to do with information left out of the film, making it impossible for an audience member who hasn't read the books to understand certain moments and details.  For instance, just how did Sirius Black escape from Azkaban?  How do Lupin and Sirius even know about the Marauder's Map?  Who are Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?  How and why did Sirius become an animagus?  Why does Harry's Patronus take the form of a stag?  And it feels like too much is left unexplained about Peter Pettigrew.  Just when we should be learning how it all ties together, we spend a little too long on werewolf scenes.

These quibbles bother me a little, but they're not deal-breakers.  I still love the film (and, like I said before, the books are still there to fill in all the details).  Alfonso Cuaron and his team gave the look of Harry Potter's world, and even the magic within it, a more "realistic" look than ever before, which also contributes to a sense of real danger.  So many things are done extremely well, including Buckbeak, the Whomping Willow, and the use of a Time-Turner.  The handling of time travel in this film is exceptional.

A few years ago, I took my parents with me to see the Utah Symphony perform Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban as part of the "Harry Potter Film Concert Series."  At these concerts, the orchestra performs the score as the film is playing.  This gives film music geeks, like me, a priceless opportunity to see exactly how a film score is structured and utilized.  During the film, the audience applauded when favorite actors first appeared on screen (especially for Alan Rickman, who had recently died), but they also applauded at the end of most of the music cues, just as you would in a traditional concert.  There were several moments when it felt like they burst into spontaneous applause because the score itself prompted it.  (That also speaks to the genius of John Williams, who, sadly, left the Harry Potter franchise after this film.  Although other composers were involved and did a fine job, Williams's original themes live on with their unique power to conjure fond memories of the wizarding world.)  And, of course, the biggest applause was during John Williams's credit at the end of the movie.

I was able to return to see the Utah Symphony perform two of the Star Wars films.  I've been a lifelong Star Wars fan, and I've been a member of some super-enthusiastic Star Wars audiences, but there was something different—something special—about that audience at Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.  There were lots of kids (and some adults) in Hogwarts robes, lots of people wearing Gryffindor scarves, and less of the "fanboy" vibe you often get at Star Wars events.  The audience was united in a different way, a more magical way, that I have difficulty describing.  It all added up to one of the most stunning cinematic experiences I've ever had.

The stories of Harry Potter and Star Wars, at least in my view, both fall into the category of fantasy.  (Star Wars contains many fantasy elements, and the setting alone—in a galaxy far, far away—prevents it from qualifying as strictly science fiction, which is usually based on stories and/or characters that originated on Earth.)  Both franchises project traditional good/heroic values, although I've always felt that Harry Potter is much closer to reality, with even deeper meaning and more complexity.  And I'm not saying this to rank one over the other, only to note the differences in their respective fandoms (which, with me as Exhibit A, feature a lot of overlap).  Most kids instantly like Star Wars because it's cool.  Most kids who love Harry Potter, though, have a more complex emotional connection.

I have a friend who didn't want her kids to read the Harry Potter books because she thought they were about witchcraft.  That's like saying that Finding Nemo is all about swimming.  It's a feature of the story but not the focus.  The stories are about family and friendship, loyalty, compassion, telling the truth, doing the right thing in the face of adversity, increasing our knowledge through learning, keeping an open mind, dealing with a painful past, fighting to overcome evil, the joys and sorrows of teenage romance, standing up to bullies, and so much more.

I will always love Harry Potter.  The feeling I got when I was reading the first book has never disappeared.  I can’t predict the future, and yet, somehow, I knew all those years ago that I had begun an extraordinary, magical journey that could last my whole life.  I love the books and films in almost equal measure.  And I treasure this quote from J.K. Rowling: "Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home."

Knowing

Alex Proyas's Knowing (2009) is a divisive film, to say the least.  I think it adds to its fascination, but many people didn't agree when it was first released.  I also greatly admire the film's ambivalence, the way it intentionally walks the line between science and religion.  It raises several questions, possibilities, theories, etc., without providing any concrete answers.  I happen to like that.  Most audience members nowadays, unfortunately, can't handle that kind of storytelling.  Many moviegoers want to settle down, switch off their brains, and let the entertainment wash over them with minimal effort.  They want stories that are black and white, and seem to be uncomfortable with any gray area.  And heaven forbid the filmmakers leave anything unanswered.

I can't fault people for seeking out that kind of entertainment, yet I like it when a movie engages my brain.  (And Knowing doesn't ask us to work as hard as, say, Christopher Nolan's Inception or Tenet.)  I love it when a movie prompts discussion with the ideas and concepts raised by the story.  The movies I enjoy most are the ones that spark interesting conversations.  That's what most good science fiction stories do.  They usually present ideas in a way that sometimes make us reconsider how we view the world around us.

I know I'm probably in the minority of people who praise Knowing as a great science fiction movie.  I found it thrilling and was even more thrilled to discover that Roger Ebert gave it four out of four stars.  At least I'm in good company.  In addition to his review of the film, Ebert wrote two blog entries about it.  He wrote, "All of my considerations are probably irrelevant to enjoyment of the film.  But the film inspired me to think in these ways, and not many films do."

This could be a good starting point for me to debate the merits of the film, but I won't do that.  All I can do is say that it worked for me, and I'll do my best to explain why.

The story begins in a 1950s New England classroom with a girl named Lucinda Embry (Lara Robinson).  The students of Dawes Elementary are asked to draw pictures to place in a time capsule which will be opened in 50 years.  Lucinda doesn't draw a picture but writes down row upon row of numbers.  Her pages of numbers, once removed from the time capsule in the present day, end up in the hands of Caleb Koestler (Chandler Canterbury), son of John Koestler (Nicolas Cage), an MIT astrophysics professor.

Koestler at first thinks the numbers are nonsense.  Upon closer inspection and with the help of the internet, he is unsettled to find that the numbers coincide with the dates of major events/accidents from the last 50 years that resulted in multiple deaths.  Cage does a good job playing a man who is a scientist first and doesn't believe in supernatural hooey.  Yet scientific curiosity drives him to find out what's going on, propelling him (and us) through the story.  He instinctively wants to reject what seems like mere coincidence, but the specificity of the numbers tied to real events compels him to question everything he knows.  The most disturbing realization is that three of the events predicted by the numbers haven't happened yet.

In an early scene, Professor Koestler poses a question to his students, asking whether the universe is random or deterministic.  When a student asks what Koestler believes, he replies, "I think s*** just happens."  Until Lucinda's numbers shake up his world, that is.  He determines that the numbers indicate event dates and the number of deaths, but at first can't account for other numbers in the sequence.  He finds out, in a scene of powerful trauma, that the other numbers represent the longitude and latitude coordinates—when a plane crashes next to the highway where Koestler sits in a long line of unmoving traffic.  Koestler runs toward the wreckage, hoping to save lives, only to discover there isn't much he can do before emergency personnel arrive.  The scene takes place in one continuous shot, the first of several spectacular moments in the film.

Koestler's cosmologist colleague, Beckman (Ben Mendelsohn), cautions against the dangers of numerology, which is the study of finding significance in numbers.  Just the fact that this argument is made in a film like this makes it slightly smarter than average.  Too many films in this genre don't even try to rationally explain anything, much less bring up plausible counterarguments.  Not that there is much in this movie that counts as realism, but it could be argued that the behavior of the characters is reasonably plausible within the bounds of the story.

As he tries to get to the bottom of things, Koestler tracks down Lucinda's daughter, Diana (Rose Byrne), and granddaughter, Abby (Lara Robinson again).  Everything Koestler knows as a scientist tells him that Lucinda's ability to predict things in this manner should be impossible, but he just has to know for sure.  At first Diana is angered by his questions, insisting that her mother was a disturbed woman.  After John tries and fails to prevent a horrible subway crash, Diana is forced to agree that he may be right and reveals that she and Abby are being followed by the same mysterious figures that Caleb has seen (simply credited as the Strangers).

(Major spoilers from here.)  John and Diana visit the home of her deceased mother, only to discover that the numbers predict the end of the world.  And once John confirms that Earth will be decimated by a massive solar flare, the movie nearly sprints to the end.  Once they discover that the Strangers (whom the kids call "the whisper people") can speak in a way that can only be heard by Caleb and Abby, it quickly becomes the goal of the adults to try to get to safety.

As Koestler obsessively tracks down the final numerical prediction left behind by Lucinda, which he believes are coordinates that will lead them to safety, Diana flees with the children.  Her behavior is frustrating (and has fatal results), yet it seems to reflect the behavior of any panicked parent.  Why does she stop listening to Koestler's warnings?  Because, as Proyas says in the director's commentary track, things haven't added up for her the way they have for John.  Her behavior is dictated by her circumstances, which is the best you can hope for with any fictional character.  Proyas also points out in his commentary that she is unintentionally taking away the children's agency.  (More on that in a minute.)

When Koestler follows the coordinates and finds the children safe with the Strangers, we're finally ready for an ending chock-full of stunning visuals.  A massive vessel (starship?) appears, and the Strangers reveal their true selves as translucent/luminescent beings, the likes of which we've never seen before.  They wish to take Caleb and Abby with them, but it must be by choice.  While Caleb is understandably upset at the thought of leaving his father behind, John realizes that this is the only way to guarantee his son's safety and urges him to go.  As the children leave with the Strangers, we see numerous vessels leaving the planet.

After John drives to the home of his parents to share a final embrace, the story goes all the way to its logical conclusion and the movie lets rip with what Robert Ebert described as "merciless" special effects.  Cities are obliterated, oceans evaporated, and our world is scorched beyond recognition.  Elsewhere, Caleb and Abby are deposited on a plain of curious long grass on some distant planet.  The movie ends with a shot of them making their way toward a large tree (a new Garden of Eden, perhaps?).

So, let's discuss a few matters.

I have a friend who said he enjoyed the film "until the aliens showed up."  Are the Strangers aliens?  Observant viewers have pointed out that when the Strangers reveal their true form, they appear to have angel-like wings made of light.  Director Alex Proyas also points out in his commentary that the Strangers' vessel, if it had arrived in the time of Ezekiel in the Bible, would have probably been seen as something sent by God.  The vessel seems to match the description of such a thing in the Book of Ezekiel (with its "wheels within wheels").

The director is deliberately walking a line here.  In interviews, Proyas has refused to state if the film leans one way or the other.  The separation between religion and science is dramatically reflected in the relationship between John Koestler (a hardline scientist) and his father (a pastor).  Something in their past has caused them to be estranged, yet John's recent experiences have changed his understanding and by the end the two men have reached some sort of unspoken reconciliation.  Does this mean that Koestler is embracing his religious upbringing?  Not necessarily.  The film's ending could be read differently depending on where you stand on these issues.

On a personal level, I have always thought that science and religion go hand in hand and have never understood society's need to argue that one invalidates the other.  But that's just me.

Roger Ebert correctly pointed out in one of his blog entries: "The professor offered a false choice to his class.  No one thinks the universe is random, except possibly at a quantum level, and let's not go there.  Gravity doesn't randomly switch off.  Light doesn't randomly alter its speed.  The classical philosophical choice is between determinism and free will.  Is the future already predestined, or do we have a role in the outcome?  ...Strict determinism implies an absence of free will, and free will is a necessary component of all spiritual belief systems."

This illuminates a few intriguing details.  Proyas points out in his commentary that the Strangers aren't going around kidnapping anybody.  Only when Diana takes away the agency of the children do the Strangers step in.  The children must choose to leave, they aren't being abducted.  It's interesting to watch Koestler think this through and help Caleb come to what he thinks is the right decision.  And in the end, Caleb and Abby are . . . saved.  (Is it significant, when we see them in the final shot, that they are dressed in white?)

Maybe a lot of audience members didn't like the ambiguity and expected the story to have a clearer distinction between science and religion, especially regarding the ending of the movie.  I wasn't bothered in the least.  Does it leave things unanswered?  It absolutely does, but the questions it inspires open the door for some fascinating conversation.  To be fair, I've seen other movies that left too many things unanswered and felt like the filmmakers were jerking my chain.  I didn't feel that way with Knowing.  All art is subjective, and this film intentionally leaves it up to the viewer to wonder about the ending.  Debates about the story could be endless, which, for me, only enriches the experience.

I haven't even mentioned all the other factors that help make this movie great.  I think the acting is brilliant, the cinematography is top notch, and Marco Beltrami's score is exceptional.  I had a great time seeing this film in the theater and have loved it ever since.  While I can't convince someone else to love it like I do, I make no apologies for my taste in movies.