Star Wars: The Original Trilogy

 "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..."  Silence.  And then we're blasted into our seats by John Williams's opening fanfare, which is exciting and heroic and lets us know we're about to be taken on a grand adventure.  Can anyone think of a more iconic opening?

With the first movie of the Star Wars trilogy, George Lucas defied the requirements of the Directors Guild by eschewing any opening credits and saving them until the end of the movie.  When he did it again for The Empire Strikes Back, the Guild fined him.  But instead of changing the movie, he paid the fine and withdrew from the Guild.  It has influenced movies ever since.  Lucas was correct in his vision to create a powerful opening that allows audiences to immediately dive into the story.  (Title sequences can work with the right story, but it's strange to realize that people once tried to get filmmakers to shoehorn their stories into a uniform package.  You would think an organization called the "Directors Guild" would have a little more foresight.)

If the opening isn't already impressive, we get a starship being pursued by an even larger one, flying "over" us in a shot that seems to go on forever.  This shot alone placed Star Wars in a different category than traditional science fiction films, with their pristine, spotless, streamlined, futuristic designs.  Lucas already changed things up by telling us this story happened "a long time ago," and the look of the starships is strikingly different.  They're more industrial-looking, not always aerodynamic, and yet, somehow, we believe it.  The design aspect just works.  Lucas wanted a "used," lived-in look for his galaxy, and it's evident from the very beginning of the movie.

It's becoming increasingly difficult for modern audiences to fully understand the impact that was felt when Star Wars was released in 1977.  Two years after Steven Spielberg virtually invented the summer blockbuster with Jaws, Star Wars came alone and blew everyone's minds, creating a distinctive turning point in movie history.  Much like Orson Welles did with Citizen Kane, George Lucas gathered a brilliant and innovative team of people who combined well-known film techniques with new ones and changed the world of movies forever.

Is it any wonder that Lucas and Spielberg became good friends?  They are among the most financially successful filmmakers of all time and created the Indiana Jones franchise together.  They have almost exclusively employed composer John Williams, who went on to become the most successful, well-known film composer in the world.  Thanks to the success of the Star Wars movies, Lucas was able to establish Industrial Light & Magic (ILM), the special effects company that has handled many of Spielberg's movies—including their ground-breaking work in Jurassic Park—and has remained a leading force (pun intended) in the film industry.

On occasion I find myself amazed by how popular Star Wars still is.  It was enormously popular when I was a kid, but I never thought that it would have such a hold on the entertainment industry so many years later.

The first movie I ever went to was Star Wars, as a babe in my mother's arms.  I think that's why the music of John Williams is burned into my psyche.  Star Wars is in my blood.  I've been familiar with it my entire life and have seen the franchise grow and change just as I have.  I don't consider myself a "fanboy," and by comparison have learned that I'm generally a more moderate fan.  And Star Wars isn't the only popular franchise that I love.  I'm also obsessed with Harry Potter, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Batman, Spider-Man, Planet of the Apes, James Bond, etc., etc., etc.  But there is something about Star Wars that feels personal to me.  And yes, I can see the flaws as well as anyone and have my own quibbles about the various installments.  However, that doesn't change how I feel about it.  No one can say anything against it that will "ruin my childhood."  The fact that I'm a musician, my fascination with a multitude of art forms, and, especially, my love of cinema, can all be traced to my love for Star Wars.

The first entry in the trilogy is very much in the tradition of a classic hero's journey.  It’s easy to recognize mythologist Joseph Campbell’s influence on George Lucas’s storytelling choices.  The first story sets up many familiar archetypes, albeit in a newer, fresher way, lays the groundwork, and takes us on an exciting adventure.  This first episode, titled "A New Hope," could be a standalone story . . . except astute viewers noticed that Lucas also called it "Episode IV," as if we were in the middle of an ongoing tale (which, it turns out, we were).

Looking back to the first film, it's fascinating to realize that we meet four of the most iconic characters in cinema history within the first several minutes.  We meet C-3PO and R2-D2 as Imperial stormtroopers invade the Rebel ship, and then we meet Darth Vader and Princess Leia.  Audiences seeing the movie for the first time would have had no idea they were being introduced to the most iconic (I promise I'll stop using that word) movie villain of all time.  Darth Vader, embodied by David Prowse and voiced by James Earl Jones, is a supreme example of effective design.  Every element of his character lives in our collective consciousness; even if they haven't seen the movies, everybody knows who Darth Vader is.  All you have to do is hear his distinctive breathing to feel instant dread (or a thrill of excitement—Vader was always my favorite character).  (I could go on like this about every major character, but I will refrain.)

As the movie begins, Vader has chased down Princess Leia's ship to retrieve stolen plans for the Empire's secret weapon, the Death Star (a battle station the size of a small moon that can vaporize an entire planet).  Leia hides the plans inside R2-D2, along with a message, and the droids (a word made popular by Star Wars) take an escape pod to the nearby planet of Tatooine and wind up in the possession of Luke Skywalker.  With the droids in tow, Luke locates Obi-Wan Kenobi, the intended receiver of Leia's message.  Obi-Wan invites Luke to travel with him to Alderaan (Leia’s home planet), but Luke's responsibilities at home cause him to hesitate, until he discovers that his aunt and uncle have been murdered by Imperial stormtroopers.  With nothing to lose, Luke decides to join Obi-Wan in his quest.

As Luke, Obi-Wan, and the droids search for transport from Tatooine, they travel to the city of Mos Eisley and go to a cantina where pilots are known to hang out.  Back in the day, the scene that followed knocked people’s socks off.  It features John Williams's fun "Cantina Band" music, and all kinds of alien beings no one had ever seen before.  Sure, similar creatures had been shown in other movies, but not so many at one time, and not in so much detail.  Notice how Lucas takes his time with the scene, letting us get a good look around the place.  The original Star Wars trilogy is a masterclass in world-building.  The filmmakers went to elaborate lengths to imagine every corner of this far away galaxy, and they weren't afraid to let the camera linger.

Luke and Obi-Wan meet Han Solo, a hotshot pilot and smuggler, and his co-pilot Chewbacca the Wookiee.  The group barely make their escape in Han's ship, the Millennium Falcon ("the fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy"), with stormtroopers on their heels.  Meanwhile, on the Death Star, Grand Moff Tarkin grows tired of Leia's resistance to their interrogation techniques and decides to use the Death Star to destroy Alderaan to convince her to reveal the location of the Rebel base.  When our heroes in the Millennium Falcon reach the location of Alderaan, they're shocked to discover that the planet is gone, reduced to debris.  They end up getting pulled into the Death Star by a tractor beam, where they succeed in rescuing the princess and make a quick getaway in the Falcon as Obi-Wan is cut down in a lightsaber duel with Darth Vader.  (I don't even have to tell you what a lightsaber is, do I?  See what I mean?  Everybody knows.)

The heroes flee to the Rebel base on Yavin IV as they are tracked by the Empire and followed by the Death Star.  The stolen plans are quickly analyzed and a weakness is discovered.  The pilots of the Rebellion, joined by Luke, make a daring attack on the Death Star in the hope of destroying it—which they do.  Sorry, is that a spoiler?  The movie is nearly 50 years old, and the outcome was somewhat predictable even when it was released.  Yet Lucas and his team—including the actors, editors, designers, composer, et al.—managed to inject the story with real energy and a fresh approach.  (It’s interesting to note that Star Wars doesn’t fall into the regular science fiction category and is usually referred to as “space opera.”  It really qualifies as science fiction fantasy.)

While the first movie hews to classic tropes made new again, it's not until we get into The Empire Strikes Back (1980), Episode V of the ongoing saga, that real depth and nuance are introduced.  While the story grows more complex, the filmmaking itself makes an unprecedented leap in sophistication.  Lucas and his team were inventing new technologies as they went, creating visual effects unlike any that had ever existed up to that point.  Nowadays, audiences are used to computer graphics rendering anything a filmmaker can imagine, not only visuals and settings, but even entire CGI characters that look completely realistic.  The dazzling visuals we're accustomed to today wouldn't have been possible without the painstaking work by a group of young movie geeks who were gathered by a man with real imagination.

Although A New Hope involves the murder of Luke's aunt and uncle, the destruction of an entire planet, and the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi, it's a somewhat lighthearted adventure.  When the lights come up at the end, the good guys have seemingly beaten the bad guys, celebrations ensue, and we're awash in the thrill of victory.  Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back introduces more darkness into the story, disturbing and complex truths, and when the lights come up at the end, we don't feel like celebrating.  It's still exhilarating, but in a different way, with maybe the most famous cliffhanger ending in movie history.

As Episode V begins, the Empire, having been momentarily defeated in Episode IV, hits the Rebellion with everything they've got.  The increased scale of it all, from a ground battle on the ice planet Hoth, to a spaceship pursuit through an asteroid field, to the inevitable lightsaber duel between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, is astonishing.  Not that the filmmakers only went with "bigger is better."  Roger Ebert stated, "There is a generosity in the production design of The Empire Strikes Back.  There are not only amazing sights there before us, but plenty more in the corners of the screen, or everywhere the camera turns.  The whole world of this story has been devised and constructed in such a way that we're not particularly aware of sets or effects—there's so much of this world that it all seems seamless."

The second film of the trilogy gives us Vader unleashed, pushing his underlings to pursue our heroes no matter the cost.  No longer held back by Governor Tarkin, he commands Imperial forces with free reign, swiftly killing any who displease him.  His barely controlled wrath makes him a scarier, more threatening antagonist.  There is real tension whenever Vader is on screen this time.  And this film marks the first time audiences were introduced to Darth Vader's theme, "The Imperial March," which will forever be synonymous with the Empire and its iconic (sorry) figurehead.

After the battle of Hoth, our heroes are separated, with Han, Leia, Chewie, and C-3PO in the Millennium Falcon, desperately fleeing the Empire, while Luke and R2-D2 travel to the swamp planet Dagobah to seek Jedi master Yoda.  While our friends in the Falcon evade capture in an asteroid field, serving up some of the most stunning visuals in cinema, the heart of the story really rests within the scenes featuring Yoda as he teaches Luke the ways of the Jedi.

Yoda is one of the most fascinating characters in the entire trilogy.  Brought to life by the incomparable Frank Oz, Yoda is a small green creature who is several hundred years old, with a deep knowledge of and ability to use the Force.  Obi-Wan began teaching Luke how to use the Force, but their lessons were unexpectedly cut short (pun intended).  The lessons Luke learns on Dagobah are important, yet frustratingly (and maybe intentionally) vague and abstract.  I love the scene where Yoda explains the Force, accompanied by John Williams's powerful music, and then demonstrates it for his doubting pupil.

Han and Leia and company eventually make their way to the magnificent Cloud City, which is governed by Han's old "friend" Lando Calrissian.  Described by Han as a scoundrel, Lando ends up betraying our heroes to the Empire.  They are tracked to Cloud City by bounty hunter Boba Fett so Vader can use them as bait for Luke.  His plan is to capture Luke, take him to the Emperor, and turn him to the Dark Side.  (Billy Dee Williams does a great job as Lando, a character we're not sure we can trust, yet we can see how Vader keeps backing him into a corner and forcing him to comply.  We're not surprised when he reveals himself as a good guy late in the story, and by then we're ready to cheer him on.)

Is there anybody left that doesn't know the big twist at the end of The Empire Strikes Back?  Many movies have had twist endings, but I can't think of one that had more weighing on it than when Vader speaks his famous line ("No, I am your father").  Evidently, the cast and crew were kept in the dark.  Until the line was recorded by James Earl Jones, the only people who knew the truth were George Lucas, screenwriter Lawrence Kasdan, director Irvin Kershner, and actor Mark Hamill.  And they had to keep it quiet until the movie was released many months later.  The pressure must have been incredible.

By the end of the movie, the Rebels are back on the run, Han has been frozen in Carbonite and taken to intergalactic gangster Jabba the Hutt, Luke has lost a hand and learned of his true heritage, and evil has not been vanquished.  Except for the fact that our heroes barely escape Vader's clutches, the Empire, by and large, wins this round.  The ending is somewhat somber as the remaining heroes regroup and hatch a plan to rescue Han.

The film was not as critically well-received as A New Hope when it was released in 1980.  Only over time has it gained widespread acclaim and become considered (maybe) the best film in the saga.  Roger Ebert said, "If corners were cut in the first film's budget, no cost was spared in this one: It is a visual extravaganza from beginning to end, one of the most visionary and inventive of all films."

The final episode of the original trilogy, Episode VI: Return of the Jedi (1983), ties everything together in a way that I find highly satisfying.  We finally see Jabba the Hutt, featured in scenes that outdo the Cantina scene from Episode IV.  We finally meet the Emperor, the evil mastermind who's been pulling strings from the beginning (watch how controlled Vader is in his presence).  We encounter a new race of furry creatures called Ewoks that help turn the tide as the Rebels fight the Imperial army.  And we finally learn the truth about Luke's family.

As Leia and Han help lead the Rebellion in a final strike against the Empire and a new, unfinished Death Star, Luke strives to fulfill his destiny to become a Jedi and redeem his father.  For Luke, saving his father and defeating the Empire are one and the same.  While the entire Rebel Alliance struggles to defeat a galaxy-wide threat, the movie brings focus to a more personal conflict—a family conflict.  The brilliant intercutting between the larger and smaller conflicts could have been jarring, yet it's easy for the audience to see it all as one epic battle being fought on multiple fronts.  Even as the special effects continue to improve and expand the scope of the films, the storytelling is strong enough to make everything comprehensible.

Although The Empire Strikes Back is generally considered the "best" film in the trilogy, Return of the Jedi has always been my favorite.  There’s a little more whimsy in Episode VI (there wasn’t much room for it in Episode V, but it had its moments).  We also get the Sarlacc Pit, a speeder bike chase through a forest, an epic final battle, and best of all, we get to see Luke become a Jedi, and, because of his choices and influence, we see the defeat of the Emperor and the redemption of Anakin Skywalker.

It's worth noting that the characters in Star Wars are archetypes: strong enough to be memorable, simple enough to be relatable.  Except for one or two instances, this isn’t a deep character study.  (In my opinion, the first time that truly happened in the live-action Star Wars universe was in the Andor series.)  When we watch these movies, it's almost as if what happens in the story is happening to us.  And it's fun!  What kid (of any age) wouldn't want to fly around in a spaceship, use lasers and lightsabers and the Force, and interact with fantastical aliens on any number of distinct planets?  It's important to remember that George Lucas was intentionally aiming to satisfy a younger audience, and it worked beyond anybody's wildest predictions.

Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’ve barely mentioned any of the actors.  Many of them were so strong in their respective roles, and the success of Star Wars so widespread and abnormal that the actors became synonymous with their characters, sometimes making it difficult for them to be taken seriously on other projects.  That’s nobody’s fault, really, just an unfortunate side-effect of such a massive cultural phenomenon.  (But I probably don’t need to list their names, do I?  You probably already know who they are.)  The only one to truly break free from the “Star Wars curse” might be Harrison Ford, who eventually became one of the most successful movie stars of the last 100 years.  The others have had varying success in other areas and have probably had to make peace with the fact that they will most likely be remembered for Star Wars before anything else.

Lucas revisited the stories years later with the "prequel" trilogy, telling the story of a young Anakin Skywalker and how he would eventually become Darth Vader.  But the original trilogy can easily stand on its own.  It forever changed the course of filmmaking, singlehandedly inspiring countless individuals to pursue careers in cinema.  The widespread approach to film music changed dramatically.  And notice how many science-fiction films released after A New Hope subtly reflect the visual aesthetic of Lucas's trilogy.

Hollywood has tried ever since to replicate the success of Star Wars.  Even though Disney purchased the franchise and has produced some good work, most of it has struggled to achieve the same effect as the films made by George Lucas.  Film critic Matt Zoller Seitz said, "The singularity [Lucas] brought to the world that he created shames all but the very best 'Star Wars'-branded 'content' made during the Disney era."  (I would argue that Andor is the best, reflecting a strong, intelligently thought-out story arc as envisioned by Tony Gilroy—but that's a subject for another essay.)

An interesting part of the current attitude toward Star Wars is the fact that we're now a couple of generations beyond the original trilogy.  Kids in school nowadays weren't even born when the prequel trilogy was released.  When Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015) was released, I was involved in a group conversation when a high school student said, "It just didn't feel like Star Wars."  I kept my mouth shut, but I was appalled.  I guess it's typical of any upcoming generation to have a certain lack of awareness and perspective.  As far as I was concerned, the kid wasn't old enough to even know what it truly means to have a movie "feel" like Star Wars.

Movies like The Force Awakens and Rogue One (2016) were successful in capturing that retro 70s, tactile vibe of the original trilogy.  And although the prequel trilogy involved many of the same characters and details as the original trilogy, the feeling and execution were vastly different, mostly because of George Lucas's drive to push the boundaries of filmmaking technology.  He has stated in interviews that he hates the idea of creating "retro" Star Wars movies, and I understand what he's getting at, but some of the newer movies transported many of us back to our childhoods and reminded us of how we felt watching Star Wars for the first time.

Disney's Star Wars films have largely been a continuation of the movie industry's ongoing attempt to recapture the success of the original trilogy.  To be frank, it will likely never happen.  It wouldn't be fair to characterize the success of Star Wars as some random mistake, because many people worked hard to make it happen.  But there are a lot of things that just can't be repeated and mass-produced.  As a parent, you can't give birth to the same kid twice; the next one is going to be a little different no matter what.  Trying to recapture the magic seems to be a trend in our youth-obsessed society and nostalgia-based entertainment industry (even though the nostalgia factor can be done well and pay off big time).  George Lucas and his collaborators didn't come up with an idea that was 100% original, but something was in the air, they were all feeling the same vibe, and they captured lightning in a bottle.  It may never be recreated and have the same level of success, yet we can be grateful that it was ever done at all.

Of course, the impact of Star Wars can't be fully appreciated without discussing the music.  John Williams has had a long and varied career, but it really took flight when he began working with Steven Spielberg, who later introduced him to George Lucas.  With their direction and support, his work reinvigorated public interest in orchestral music and focused attention on its effectiveness in films.  Movies in the 60s and 70s began to use orchestras less, following a more fashionable trend of using contemporary popular music.  Although Williams had been working with orchestras for years, using the London Symphony for Star Wars granted him a new opportunity and almost made it appear as if he had singlehandedly resurrected the use of orchestras for film scores.  His score for Star Wars went on to become the best-selling symphonic album of all time.

When John Williams was the conductor of the Boston Pops, he was initially scorned (by some people) for his willingness to create concert programs with a mix of film music and traditional orchestra music.  Much has been written about the alleged snobbery of classical musicians and their disregard for movie music.  When E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial received a special 20th anniversary release, Williams performed the score with a live orchestra, which was the first time that had ever been done with a non-silent film.  Now it's common for people to attend orchestra events as part of a film concert series.  I've been able to attend such concerts for Harry Potter and Star Wars, and I know there are others for Lord of the Rings, James Bond, and many more.  This is being done at a time when orchestras are struggling to stay alive.  And what's helping them draw audiences?  Film music, the very thing some of them couldn't be bothered with 40 years ago.  I don't think it's a stretch to say that we can thank the man who reminded the world of the value, importance, and power of the orchestra.  Imagine the world of cinema without the music of Star Wars . . .

The original Star Wars trilogy may not be the greatest movie trilogy of all time, but it's definitely among the most influential.  That's not why people love it, though.  We love it because it's fun.  We love it because we want to watch the good guys overcome evil as they battle villains we love to hate.  We love it because it appeals to the kid in all of us.  There's an innocence to the original trilogy that has withstood the test of time and the criticism of anyone too grown up and cynical to remember what it's like to be a kid.  Some people may blame Star Wars for the current state of movies and Hollywood's obsession with blockbusters, but a movie should be judged on how it affects us while we watch it, not by its effect on the business side of filmmaking.  If we look at it from that angle, it's eminently successful, giving audiences permission to be excited and have fun, to use their imaginations as it presents a galaxy of possibilities.  Star Wars will always be my favorite.

A Monster Calls

Adapting books into films often prompts book lovers to say the same thing ("The book was better!"), and most of the time they're not wrong.  But they can become a little too defensive, acting as if the books have been desecrated in some way, forgetting that the books are still there to be enjoyed.  The stories have been retold in a new medium, that's all.  And people who haven't previously read the books that have been adapted to film tend to take the movies as they are (which, in my humble opinion, is what should happen anyway).  I usually consider the movie version of a book to be a companion, not a replacement.

A Monster Calls (2016) is in a slightly different category.  The screenplay is by Patrick Ness, who wrote the novel, based on an idea by Siobhan Dowd.  Although a few details have been tweaked and added in the manner of all stories adapted for visual storytelling, you would be hard-pressed to say the movie isn't faithful to the book.  Director J.A. Bayona has taken all the richness and complexity of the story and translated it into a beautiful, heartbreaking, moving, layered piece of filmmaking.  And in young Lewis MacDougall, he found the perfect Conor O'Malley.

Conor lives in a small town somewhere in England.  His mother (Felicity Jones) has passed on her talent for drawing and a love of movies, but she's dying of cancer (a word which is never spoken out loud at any time during the story).  His grandmother (Sigourney Weaver) steps in to assist, much to Conor's annoyance because they don't get on very well.  His father (Toby Kebbell) is remarried and living in America, which inexplicably leaves Conor with a feeling of abandonment.  He knows the adults around him aren't telling him the whole truth about his mother's illness, and this only adds to his frustration and anxiety.  And then, one night, a monster comes calling.

The monster, played by Liam Neeson, is an impressive achievement of design, animation, and puppetry combined with Neeson's motion-capture performance and brilliant voice acting.  Bayona and his team have succeeded in creating a real being, with real weight and realistic movement, and surprisingly subtle facial expressions.  As he visits Conor, always at 12:07 (the significance of which I will leave for you to discover), he promises to tell three tales.  After the tales are told, he will require Conor to tell a fourth tale, which leaves the boy baffled.

As the adults looking over him overcompensate and treat him too delicately, Conor faces bullies at school.  And having to put up with his strict, seemingly distant, grandmother doesn't alleviate any of the stress in his life.  But his mother is a special presence in his world, his one source of sunshine, and he can't stand the thought of losing her.  Felicity Jones does a wonderful job as a young mother trying to put on a brave face for her son, doing her best to give him the strength he'll need to get through such a bitter season in their lives.

When Conor's father does turn up, Toby Kebbell does that actor's trick of showing us a character whose dialogue says one thing, but his face and body language say another.  We as an audience somehow understand the character's conflict, which is also a sign of good writing.  Conor's dad loves his son, and still loves his ex-wife, but there is a weakness to him, one that he is aware of, and you wonder if he doubts himself too much to do anything about it.  He wants to be a better, more present father, and we can easily comprehend why Conor is so excited to see him, and so quickly disappointed.

When the monster tells the first two tales, they are rendered with beautiful, storybook-like animation, featuring a strong watercolor aesthetic.  The transitions are incredibly imaginative and effective.  And the stories are contradictory in unanticipated ways.  These are not simple stories of good versus evil, but stories that reflect the complexities of real life, where things can develop in unexpected ways.  Life often isn't "happily ever after," as Conor's dad tells him.  What we're left with is usually more bittersweet.  I love stories like this.  While I agree that our choices should, ideally, be more black and white, we have to sift through a lot of grey to get there.  Stories that present a more idealized world are useful and enjoyable, but stories that show us how to face our own realities can be more reassuring.

Conor's grandmother is different from any character I've ever seen Sigourney Weaver play.  She brings a different strength to this story than the kind she displays as Ripley in the Alien franchise.  She lets us see her as an older, somewhat fussy woman, with toughness in her core while masking a true vulnerability.  In due course we will see how much she really understands Conor, and just how much she loves him.  The fate of her character in the story, though, is to be seen through Conor's eyes.

And then there's Lewis MacDougall.  Only 12 years old while filming, he carries the entire movie.  It’s not what we expect, especially considering the famous actors working alongside him, but he proves their equal in every way.  This story is about the struggles of a young boy, and everything is seen from his point of view.  Conor will "come of age" by the end of the story, forced to grow up too quickly in a world too cruel to notice.  Yet tenderness and pure love are shared along the way.  He has hard lessons to learn as he goes, but he's never as alone as he feels.  When the monster finally demands to hear Conor’s story, when he finally reveals his truth, it’s undeniably brave.  Maybe what he’s going through won’t break him, after all, and he’ll grow in strength and wisdom.

This is a sad story, but not a bleak one.  As the monster tells his tales, profound truths are spoken.  (I love that the final words of the novel are spoken by the monster.  And then Patrick Ness decided to give the movie one last little scene beyond the end of the novel.  It provides a breathtaking moment that is open to interpretation.  Is the monster a manifestation of Conor’s worries and dreams, or is he an actual creature from an ancient time?  You get to decide.)  We come to love and understand a boy who faces some bitter realities.  By the time the movie ends and his journey to adulthood begins, we know he'll be okay.  And so will we.

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 today feel 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 didn't shy away from shots that show us that "it's only a movie."  In his mind, it was always "only a movie" and he never worried about portraying the level of 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 was 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 making him 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 and 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 become 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 but more 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, it 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 story 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 new 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?