science fiction — Floating World

Sunshine, 2007, directed by Danny Boyle

The Fountain, 2006, directed by Darren Aronofsky

Danny Boyle’s “Sunshine” and Darren Aronofsky’s “The Fountain” are two strikingly spiritual films – the former more surprisingly than the latter – yet the conclusions of either film couldn’t be more different than the initial similarities they share.

“Sunshine,” released in 2007, revolves a group of scientists above the Icarus II (a rather appropriate allusion the Greek mythology) that is carrying a sizable cargo of nuclear explosives, hoping to reignite a dying sun and ultimately to prevent the end of human existence. “The Fountain,” released in 2006, revolves around a neuroscientist named Tommy who is trying to save his wife Izzi from succumbing to a deadly tumor.

The dynamic of both films rests on the idea of mortality, and on our pursuit of scientific understanding in attempting to delay the inevitability of death. Oddly enough, I found “Sunshine” to be a more spiritually moving film than “The Fountain” despite Aronofsky’s obvious religious allusions throughout the film; likewise, I found the “The Fountain” to be oddly more academic and secular than “Sunshine” despite Boyle’s obvious efforts at creating a feasible, scientifically-sound scenario.

Spiritually Moving?

When I say “spiritually moving,” I mean it in a different sense than “religiously moving” in that spiritualism isn’t bound by any religious institution or credence – it is simply an individual experience, and a personal one for the matter.

“Sunshine,” ostensibly a hard science fiction film, places its scientists against the backdrop of a dying sun that is nonetheless awe inspiring and utterly, beautifully elemental. The sun is such an incredible presence throughout Boyle’s backdrop that the experience of simply seeing it becomes almost like a existential ritual for one of the crew members aboard the Icarus II.

“The Fountain” jumps between history, fantasy, and present day, three timelines that are interconnected by the emotional trajectory of Tommy as he copes with mortality. Two of the timelines, the historical and the fantastical, provide a escapist contrast to the bitter, grittier reality that Tommy physically occupies.

The visual effects in both films cannot be argued against: both tout some of the most fantastic, most awe inspiring landscapes that could possibly exist within cinema. Ironically, “Sunshine” is more successful in evoking a spiritual sensation than “The Fountain” for one simple reason: the specificity of the special effects themselves.

In “Sunshine,” the primary visual effect was the sun, and the nothingness of the space in between. The sun was simply a massive, incredible tour de force that each of the scientists faced, and in its shadow of space each character reacts differently: some regarded it with fear, some with awe, some with rational, some with despair, and some with hope. Everyone copes with their own moral and existential qualms differently, and after awhile I couldn’t help but be moved by the image of the sun as well. The sun, in its massive, elemental depiction, was something to behold, appreciate, and ponder.

In “The Fountain,” Aronofsky drew heavily from established religious symbolism that, ironically, actually detracted from the spiritual experience I can only assume he had in mind (this is separate from the emotional experience, which was a rather poignant one). There was less to be interpreted, less to be pondered about (there’s less to interpret about Adam and Eve, the Tree of Life, or passage from Genesis than a blazing, omnipresent sun); the film, with all its immense symbology and mythological-religious allusions, became more academic than spiritual by accident.

Since most of “The Fountain’s” symbology alluded to a previous mythological or religious interpretation, the film is essentially more eclectic than “Sunshine” and thus, ironically, Aronofsky created a less spiritually encompassing film than Boyle did. In fact, you could even argue “The Fountain” was more secular than “Sunshine” in some respects, at least in the academic sense.

Divergent Conclusions about Science in the Scheme of the Universe

Both “Sunshine” and “The Fountain” pose the same question regarding mortality – to accept it or to overcome it – and both come to different conclusions that are both completely rational and understandable.

The scientists of Icarus II “Sunshine” are given the task of reigniting the sun in order to save mankind after the Icarus I failed to complete its mission. It turns out that the captain of Icarus I was a extremely religious man that, after 16 months in space, concluded that the mission was sacrilegious (“I am Pinbacker, Commander of the Icarus One. We have abandoned our mission. Our star is dying. All our science. All our hopes, our… our dreams, are foolish! In the face of this, we are dust, nothing more. Unto this dust, we return. When he chooses for us to die, it is not our place to challenge God”) and kills his entire crew to prevent the success of the mission; eventually, he manages to board the Icarus II and attempts to stop the surviving scientists aboard the second mission from accomplishing their goal. Despite all of these setbacks, Icarus II manages to send their cargo of nuclear explosions into the sun, and mankind is saved.

In “The Fountain,” Tommy goes through several stages of emotional changes as his wife Izzi succumbs and eventually dies from her brain tumor. As a neuroscientist, he works obsessively in his lab to find a cure for brain tumors, at some points even prioritizing work over spending precious remaining time with Izzi. It’s only after she dies and he has a emotional outburst (“Death is a disease, it’s like any other. And there’s a cure. A cure – and I will find it”) that Tommy finally comes to accept the inevitability of death as the ultimate outcome, and that life moves on in some form or another (Tommy plants a seed for a tree to grow upon Izzi’s grave at the very end).

The conclusions of “Sunshine” and “The Fountain” contrast with one another like night and day, yet they are not at odds with one another. Despite the fact that “Sunshine” asserts that scientific understanding can overcome natural limitations and that “The Fountain” asserts that scientific knowledge will lose out to death, both conclusions about mortality, despite their inherent differences, complement one another. The reason is a simple difference between the emphasis on the collective in “Sunshine” and on the individual in “The Fountain."

In "Sunshine,” Pinbacker acts in accord with his own belief, and while he has every right to his own beliefs, his actions affect more than himself since humanity is at stake. Pinbacker effectively tries to impose his own views on the rest of humanity, a view that essentially aims to cut off any survival instinct and effort from continuing to exist. The crew of Icarus II, regardless of their own philosophies, place their own individual impulses beneath the task that humanity has given them to perform – a task that reflects the desire of the majority, a desire to continue living.

In “The Fountain,” Tommy’s efforts will ultimately impact humanity as a collective, but in the present his actions affect only a select few – himself, his colleagues, and Izzi. Death is inescapable, and that we spend a good deal of our lives attempting to delay its onset; however, Tommy initially refuses to believe this fact, and instead relentlessly tries to overcome the limitations of current scientific knowledge in order to cope with something completely out of his control. Izzi, on the other hand, comes to terms with her own demise, and spends her last moments in peace. Eventually, once he comes to terms with his grief, Tommy accepts his own limitations and the odds of life, and finally understands that there will always be a certain random, statistical aspect of life that he cannot control no matter how much knowledge her attains.

“Sunshine” concludes that the collective desire to survive outweighs the individual qualms, and “The Fountain” concludes that an individual’s mortality is an escapable fact of life. “Sunshine” touts the capacity of scientific pursuit in understanding and overcoming natural limitations, and “The Fountain” reminds us that scientific pursuit has its own limitations as well. Both films are spiritual and secular, though to a degree “Sunshine” succeeds more in creating a spiritual experience while “The Fountain” succeeds more in creating a secular one. Ironic, to say the least.

Gareth Edwards’ Monsters defies genre conventions much in the same vein The Host did back in 2006. It outrages fans of rampant, ravenous beast and excessive gore by going back to classical aspects of fear, where the worst dread is not the cause itself but the anticipation of the cause becoming present.

Looking at the Rotten Tomatoes consensus, I see that it describes the film as “[not] quite living up to its intriguing premise, but [Monsters] is a surprising blend of alien-invasion tropes, political themes, and relationship drama.” This description does the film little service, if any: not once did the film or advertisements claim specifically what Edwards’ cinematic vision would offer, nor does it explicitly explore political themes or relationship dramas. A more accurate description would be this – that Monsters offers a unique perspective into the disaster-monster movie by focusing not on the initial event itself, but the events thereafter and how we humans have simply learned to adapt to such an effect. Offering a incredibly plausible concept from a biological and evolutionary perspective, Edwards’ does what almost no modern horror, disaster or monster film director comes close to – build up an intimate relationship between the characters on screen and the audience, and to sustain us on technical-visual excellence at the same time.

The Appeal of the Monster Genre

Monsters unite humans. For whatever reason they go about terrorizing civilization their very existence gives us reason to set aside differences and to instinctually fear for the survival of the human species. In a strange sense, their (un)natural existence presents to us a entity that is beyond our immediate understanding, a sort of shock-horror appall paired with a awe of something so powerful, so unimaginable that for a few split second the gut instinct is mixed with terror and amazement.

Monsters rarely have any distinguishable personality or motivation other than to terrorize the bejeezus out of us wee people. Godzilla destroyed Tokyo, and King Kong thrashed about New York City; yet it happens that in all of these famous monster conventions it somehow never occurred to these beasts that they could plausibly terrorize some other species, like gorillas, lions, or those bastard dolphins who seem to think so highly of themselves. No, somehow we humans offer or threaten something more to extraterrestrials or mega-sized organisms, whether it be our brains or simply our capacity to be stupid. Either way, monster convention states that the very existence of humans lends itself to jealousy, and that in a moment of absurdity some giant thing will usurped all peace and harmony for the end result of wiping out humanity.

There’s an inherent human-centric side to monster films, in this respect. By making ourselves the sole victim (and perhaps victor) of a (un)natural battle frontier, it goes without saying how much people commonly believe we are somehow “above” nature, and that this de facto instantly makes us the target of enraged megabullies to get out of their slumber and throw rocks at skyscrapers. Somehow, while effectively naked and without many natural defenses other animals have like elongated fangs, rock-like skin or weight to throw around, we humans still manage to upset somebody, and somebody big.

Yet, perhaps another angle on the monster genre is one of environmentalism: by procreating and developing so extensively into the earth, humans have effectively ravished the natural environment for its fertility; distraught and angered, these monsters retaliate violently to shut us down, to slap us silly into existential humility. Still, this doesn’t account for why aliens would simply fly on down through the ozone to zap us away, and again reinforces the primary idea that the monster convention is inherently human-centric.

Why Monsters defies the monster convention

From a production POV, Gareth Edwards does wonders with only a five person crew including himself and the two actors. His feats include being the director, writer, and cinematographer/director of photography for the film, as well as improvising (and encouraging his actors likewise) at each location, and using Adobe Autodesk 3ds Max to create the spectacular special effects – all for only $15,000 (comparatively, Michael Bay spent on $200,000,000 on Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen). Edwards’ production epitomizes independent filmmaking at its best, demonstrating that good science fiction does not need to splurge on millions of dollars to be successful or even tangibly good – a trend that invariably began with George Lucas’s blockbuster success with the original Star Wars back in 1977.

More impressively, Monsters immediately defies convention for multiple reasons:

Chronologically, it does not take place at the initial event of interest when a monster/alien first arrives,
The ‘creatures’ are biologically tangible,
They are not out to terrorize humans,
The two protagonists are not extraordinary,
People don’t change, and do.

Chronologically Hereafter

By not focusing on the initial time of conflict – where creatures and humans first collide – Edwards focuses in on a much more subtle and quieter aspect of human nature: our ability to grow numb to the aftereffects of devastation. At one point in the film, the girl Sam (Whitney Able) turns on the television and sees a newscast about another tragedy/political event regarding the creatures, and her only reaction is to yawn soundly and plop back onto her bed. It’s a subtle detail, and an effective one: ask yourself, how many times have you turned on the telly to see something about the Middle Eastern conflict, or the BP oil spill, or the Haiti earthquake, or even the clean up efforts of Hurricane Katrina and simply found yourself a bit apathetic to what has already happened?

This is a important aspect of human nature that few filmmakers of the monster convention explore, simply because it is less spectacular and less glamorous to focus on so. Millions of people die every year, yet somehow a train wreck phenomena – in which a great number of people perish in a relatively short time span – unites the world in both horror and sympathy, a immediate common symbol for our capacity to care and act accordingly when disaster strikes. Reality, of course, is that after a few months have passed most people have moved onto the next big news, the next big thing in the public conscious.

In Monsters, this chronological aspect gives the movie’s premise something much more substantial and humanistic. The presence of the creatures is universally accepted, and while they still pose a risk to those in certain areas everyone still goes about their daily lives – culturally, socially, politically, and interpersonally.

Biologically Tangible

A fantastic choice on Edwards’ part was to make the creatures simultaneously extraterrestrial yet biologically tangible as well. The movie states that a NASA probe was sent into space to collect samples came back to earth and crashed into the ocean around Central America, resulting in alien lifeforms infecting and mutating cephalopods into what the world now knows as 'creatures.’ They lay their eggs on trees (thus creating “infected zones”) and travel hundreds of miles to procreate; it’s implied that they are drawn to electricity for reproductive reasons, perhaps for sexual display (not dissimilar to a peacock’s vibrant feather arrangement) or metabolic stimulation, or both.

From a biological point of view, this is absolutely ingenious. Fleshing out the physical presence of the creatures not only grounds them in a sense of reality, but perhaps even a bit of plausibility in the world of Monsters. Foremost, marine creatures are perhaps some of the most extraterrestrial-like creatures marine biologists can account for, and more; it’s more than possible that there are other deep sea creatures we have yet to encounter, let alone account for with current technology. With this in mind, it’s not incomprehensible why so many aliens seem reminiscent of creatures fathoms below – tentacles, cold flesh, bulging eyes, non-mammalian, how could we not subconsciously be influenced to project our ideas about these non-terrestrial beings into ideas about unnatural, extraterrestrial terrors coming down to earth? (An explicit example of this sea creature projecting is easily District 9, where the alien lifeforms are derivatively called 'prawns.’)

Their presence is a biological phenomena, perhaps extraterrestrial but biologically sound nonetheless. Realistically, they won’t always be seen at a given time, which Edwards wisely chooses to depict so from an aesthetic and budget choice; this results in an increased tension and intensity of each scene, since for the most part we rarely see or hear the creatures talked about so adamantly by everyone. This lacking presence creates more impact when we actually see or hear the creatures, perhaps even a mysticism and awe at the same time.

There’s one scene where Sam and Andrew are at a rest stop on their journey, and in the deep jungles they hear a creature roar. A nearby soldier raises his gun, and we can hear some rustling in the deep forest background; for a few moments we are enraptured by the scene’s tension, unsure as to whether or not the creature will make itself present and mark itself as an immediate threat. Edwards takes the time to let the time pass, letting both the characters and the audience hold their breath until the threat passes on – exactly like how nature functions in real life.

The Unwitting Terrorizers

“What is life than to keep meat fresh?” – Doctor Who

Closely tied in with the biological tangibility of the creatures in Monster is their implied drive to reproduce, a drive that is ubiquitous to perhaps every living organism inhabiting planet earth. Their motivation is primitive and plausible, and humans are only unfortunate enough to now be sharing the same environment with creatures otherwise capable of wrecking havoc along their journey to consummate and procreate for the survival of their species. If a few humans happen to get trampled here and there, that’s just the reality of survival of the fittest (and in this case, who can throw their weight around the best).

Monsters is all about survival and favors no one. It’s told from the perspective of people, which only makes sense because the production crew and target audience are presumably human; but otherwise Edwards makes no outright statement that the creatures are horrible entities with some ulterior motive to destroy humans. They are simply coexisting in the same environment we are, driven by the same instinct to survive, proliferate and extend into the next generation – a natural phenomena of biology that does not determine good or bad, but simply dictates what lifeforms can survive and exist in a particular environment at a given time.

This stance on the monster genre detracts away from the human centric convention, perhaps even deflating the human narcissistic tendency to believe we are above other living organisms. The truth is that beyond physical forms and cognitive abilities we humans are no less different than any other species inhabiting the earth: the inherent instinct is to survive, and to survive as a species sexual reproduction is a must. The drive for a sex is a powerful one, and arguably connects our own existence to that of other organisms around us.

The main conflict between the creatures and people in Monsters lies solely in the environmental niche the creatures occupy, and how their proliferation threatens to strain where people are currently able to live safely without worry of resource competition. There is no human-centric conflict at hand, which perhaps detracts away from our natural tendency to pride ourselves as human. Really, in Monsters we humans are just in the way of a new, emerging species that just wants to reproduce and proliferate on earth.

Unextraordinary Characters

There’s something to be said about depicting two characters that are neither heroic or extraordinary, but simply two people who find themselves in a tough situation which invariably draws them closer together.

It all begins with Sam Wynden running away to Mexico, and then her executive father requesting his employee/photojournalist Andrew Kaulder (Scoot McNairy) to take her back home to the states, where her fiance awaits. Initially bound by Wynden’s father’s request, Sam and Andrew grow close because 1) Andrew finds Sam attractive and 2) Sam can relax around Andrew, and feel comfortable too.

Many reviewers have commented that Monsters centers around a love story between the two leads. I disagree, primarily because loneliness is the primary emotional drive between the two, and love is perhaps a secondary symptom of their relationship. While I wouldn’t call ita Lost in Translation of the monster convention, Monsters’s substance is in the same vein of Sofia Coppola’s quiet character study: a situation pairs two people into an unlikely company, and the weight of their relationship lies solely on the situation which brought them together in the first place.

It’s implied that Sam and Andrew have turmoiled lives beyond their current get-through-the-infected-zone-and-stay-alive situation, and that perhaps the dangers of being trampled and killed by a creature, while intimidating and terror inducing, is only temporary compared to their chronic situation at home. There’s one scene where finally, at a gas station awaiting an army rescue troop, Sam and Andrew make phone calls separately – Sam to her fiance, and Andrew to his biological son. It’s a poignant scene because up until now, we’ve more or less been engrossed with Sam and Andrew in a situation centered around creatures possibly coming out and threatening their position; now presumably safe, the two separate temporarily to make their personal phone calls, and while they cannot see each other we can see a marked difference in how they act over the phone: Sam’s fiance is cold and perhaps overbearing, and the stiffened way she talks with him implies that she not only ran away from him, but also from her father with whom she similarly interacted with over the phone earlier in the film; Andrew emotionally breaks down after talking to his son, and forces himself to keep a steady voice while tearing up at the sound of his son’s ecstatic voice.

The scene effectively rules out the primary emotional connection of love between Sam and Andrew, suggesting instead that they are bound by desperation and sadness recurrent from their lives outside the presence of the creatures. It’s an incredibly moving scene, and perhaps marks Monsters as one of the few monster-disaster films to truly flesh out a real, substantial couple of protagonists.

People don’t change. And people do.

Monster convention commonly indulges in the notion that a disaster changes character, and more often than not for the better. In Monsters, people haven’t changed much since the creatures became integrated in the world: politics are still in perpetual turmoil, political statements are just as pervasive, and money means everything. On one occasion, when trying to get back to the States by ferry (the safer route), a Mexican official charges Sam a total of $5,000 for one ticket in a blatant rip off; on another, the woman Andrew has a one-night stand with ruffles through his bags and steals his and Sam’s passports. In a world with giant creatures, people are somehow still motivated by money.

There’s a funny dialogue between Sam and Andrew where she asks if he has any qualms about taking pictures and making money off of deaths and other’s misfortunes; he replies that doctors are just the same, and later elaborates that under Sam’s father’s publishing company, a picture of a dead child sells for a few grand while a picture of a happy child sells for zero. I chuckled and sighed a bit at this part, mostly because it’s true: a great majority of our world functions off of other’s misery, and money perpetuates it.

However, there is one scene that struck a particularly humanistic note: it occurs after Sam and Andrew’s caravan have been attacked by a creature, only leaving the two alive. As Andrew goes out to assess the situation and pick up supplies for the remainder of their journey back to the States, he sees the body of a dead girl lying sprawl on the ground, the result of the creature initially attacking the truck in front of them. He sets down his bag slowly, taking out a camera; our initial reaction is that he will take the opportunity to take a picture or two, less he secure some amount of fortune upon returning to his regular life; however, it turns out that he was only taking out a camera to get to his jacket, which he uses to cover the body of the dead girl. The scene unravels quietly and marvelously so, and while perhaps moralistic gives a sense of humanism and hope amongst turmoil and a perpetual, subconscious obsession with something as immaterial as money.

Closing Remarks

Monsters is not a great film, but it is certainly a fine one. Defying convention of genre and production, director Gareth Edwards’ cinematic debut is a strong one, and definitely a noteworthy one to date.

There have been numerous comparisons of Edwards to director Neill Blomkamp of District 9, as well as comparisons between Edwards’ and Blomkamp’s films. I feel, however, that this comparison is unfair: Blomkamp had the luxury of Peter Jackson’s producing and residual budget from an unmade Halo film, and while District 9 began with an intriguing premise rife with political and social implications it eventually fell way to a generic space opera convention. Conversely, Edwards effectively funded Monsters on a pennies-equivalent budget, and wisely kept the tone of Monsters constant throughout without promising anything it neither accomplished or aspired towards.

If anything, go see Monsters to see why there are still avenues in the science-fiction/monster-disaster genre to explore, and why a good story with a strong and dedicated vision can accomplish things otherwise unfathomable. Monsters will undermine and surpass your expectations, guaranteed.

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