1917: Defying Convention

[The following essay contains MAJOR SPOILERS for Sam Mendes’ 1917; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

While Sam Mendes’ 1917 has earned near-universal critical acclaim, its minimalistic narrative structure has attracted its fair share of detractors (especially in response to its numerous Oscar nominations). Even a few of the film’s supporters agree that it represents a classic example of style-over-substance—the ambitious visual presentation is the main event, they argue; the story is of secondary concern. But in my opinion, such a narrow assessment vastly underestimates the elegance of simplicity. Indeed, the straightforwardness of the plot actually becomes its greatest asset, drawing the viewer’s attention to those rare occasions when it does depart from the conventional formula (often in surprisingly significant ways).

In a traditional war movie, for example, Dean-Charles Chapman’s Tom Blake would undoubtedly be the protagonist. His introductory scenes establish him as charismatic, jovial, and noble—qualities that define both a strong leader and a strong lead character. His flaws, too, quickly become apparent: his swagger and sarcasm betray an overconfidence and naiveté that make him ill-suited to the horrors of trench warfare; at this point, the audience might begin to suspect that his experiences will gradually smooth out these relatively minor blemishes, sculpting him into a more seasoned warrior. Most importantly, he is personally invested in the mission that drives the action forward: his older brother is among the 1,600 soldiers marching straight into a German ambush, and will surely perish should he fail to deliver the message ordering the company’s retreat.

George MacKay’s William Schofield, on the other hand, would normally be relegated to the role of the contrarian sidekick. He is volunteered to accompany Blake on the borderline suicidal assignment against his will, and seemingly exists for the sole purpose of creating conflict: though he seldom complains outright, he frequently objects to Blake’s rash and hasty decisions. This cautious attitude is motivated not by cowardice, however, but rather by pure pragmatism—he’s been on the battlefield long enough to discover how little accolades and medals truly mean when you’re wading waist-deep through mud, filth, and corpses. His world-weariness and cynicism beautifully counterbalance Blake’s youthful optimism; it’s easy to imagine a scenario in which his comrade’s dogged determination ultimately inspires Schofield to sacrifice his own life for the greater good. Blake, for his part, would subsequently be forced to carry the guilt of having directly caused his friend’s untimely demise—a difficult but vital moral lesson along his path to maturity.

And yet, less than an hour into the pair’s perilous trek across No Man’s Land, Blake is the one lying sprawled out in the dirt, slowly bleeding out from a fatal stab wound. His death isn’t even particularly glamorous: the injury renders him so insensible that he initially curses Schofield for attempting to drag him to safety, unable to focus on anything other than his immediate pain.

Once Blake breathed his last, Schofield is left completely alone, lost in enemy-occupied territory with only an illegible map to guide him. Nobody would blame him for following his own earlier advice and prioritizing survival and self-preservation over the success of a fool’s errand that, in all likelihood, was always expected to fail. Instead, after a brief period of mourning, the previously hardened pessimist redoubles his efforts, all the more intent on preventing further suffering. He becomes our hero throughout the rest of the journey—and his heroism feels more genuine, more substantial, and more meaningful than Blake’s because of his lack of personal stakes in the story. He doesn’t require familial connection as an incentive to rescue the doomed regiment; he chooses (and it is a conscious, utterly selfless choice) to race against time to save hundreds of perfect strangers... simply because it is the right thing to do.

Random Thought Before Bed: Oscar Buzz

Well, the nominees for the 92nd Academy Awards have been announced, and the mainstream entertainment media has been spilling gallons of ink over all of the perceived upsets, snubs, and omissions. Personally, I’ve grown desensitized to such debates (the industry should be able to honor the accomplishments of its various artists without resorting to self-congratulatory back-patting—but I digress); I do, however, have some thoughts on a few of the big contenders:

Recently Viewed: 1917

1917 is a breathtaking technical achievement. Producing a “single-take” movie (even one as obviously stitched-together as this—not a criticism, merely an observation) tends to be a logistical nightmare under the most ideal of circumstances; when you choose to incorporate stunts, special effects, massive sets, and thousands of extras into the mix... well, frankly, you begin to approach the point where ambition borders on insanity. Fortunately, the gamble pays off in this case; here, the device is no shallow stylistic gimmick, but rather an essential component of the narrative.

I’ve seen a few writers superficially compare the film to 2017’s Dunkirk, but once you peer beneath the surface, it’s actually something of a structural antithesis. Whereas Christopher Nolan generated suspense by manipulating time, Sam Mendes traps the audience in it, making us active participants in the drama. From the very first frame to the fade-to-black, we’re completely immersed in the characters’ journey, sharing in their anxiety and trepidation as they trudge along, never quite knowing what new dangers await them over the next hill, within the next tunnel, or around the next corner.

And the depiction of violence—absolutely sublime! When death inevitably arrives, it is always abrupt, unexpected, and unwelcome. Additionally, nobody ever expires with any semblance of grace or dignity; instead, the fatally wounded cry out in agony, blubber inelegantly, and plead for salvation—reactions that all feel hauntingly authentic. The harrowing nature of the bloodshed serves as a potent (and, in light of current events, much-needed) reminder that war is mankind’s most vile, senseless, and self-destructive invention. Sure, one’s accomplishments on the battlefield might bring them some measure of honor and glory… but what good are such intangible comforts to the slaughtered and maimed?

As our protagonists near their ultimate destination, they gradually shed their military equipment, leaving behind their helmets, their ammunition pouches, and finally their rifles. The symbolism, I think, speaks for itself.

The Reconstruction of the Hero

"Why not just stay dead?"

As I sat through my second viewing of Skyfall earlier this afternoon, that single line of dialogue leaped off the screen and burrowed into my brain; as soon as the words left Gareth Mallory's (Ralph Fiennes) lips, I suddenly realized just how closely the trajectory of James Bond's character arc resembles Batman's in this year's The Dark Knight Rises. Each man begins his journey at his absolute lowest point, whittled down to almost nothing by numerous physical and psychological scars; looking back, it's hard not to draw parallels between the period of time Bond spends "enjoying death" (pretty much a booze and drug fueled tropical vacation) and the crippled Bruce Wayne's self-imposed exile. Each man must reassemble the shattered remnants of his life if he hopes to defeat the ruthless, cunning criminal mastermind du jour (while Silva and Bane appear radically different at first glance, their methods--orchestrating remarkably complex schemes-within-schemes-within-schemes--are nearly identical upon closer inspection). And each man manages to claw his way out of the deepest pit of despair (literally in TDKR's case) and build himself into a better hero: Batman becomes the symbol of hope that Gotham needs and deserves, redeeming his failure to save Harvey Dent by passing his legacy on to a more worthy successor; 007 conquers his dark doppelgänger (Raoul Silva, another victim of M's tough love) and proves--to his superiors and to himself--that he can still play by the ever-changing rules of the international espionage game.

I'm far too familiar with the protracted nature of film production to accuse Sam Mendes of ripping off Christopher Nolan, or vice versa; I simply feel that the similarities between the stories these esteemed directors chose to tell suggest a fascinating trend--especially when one considers precisely where each picture falls within its respective franchise. Nolan's Dark Knight basically personified moral ambiguity, working against conventional law enforcement to combat Gotham City's rampant corruption on his own terms; yet by TDKR's explosive climax, he's leading an army of fearless police officers into battle against Bane's mercenary forces. The post-reboot Bond movies, meanwhile, stripped the series of its wonderful gadgets, its exotic volcano lairs, and a decent chunk of its supporting cast (Q, Moneypenny) to reexamine the traits that really defined the beloved super-spy; but in Skyfall's closing moments, 007 steps into an office that longtime fans will find soothingly nostalgic--putting him one step closer, Mendes implies, to the classic formula introduced in Goldfinger.

Thus, both films feature the reconstruction an iconic hero--indeed, the reconstruction of the very idea that true heroes can exist. Nolan concludes his brooding, cynical saga with the comforting notion that "The Batman can be anybody," while Mendes--without resorting to camp!--embraces the fun, adventurous attitudes of his premillennial predecessors (if you require evidence, look no further than the triumphant return of the Aston Martin DB5, complete with ejector seat)--"sometimes the old ways are best," as Bond so eloquently puts it.

I find it particularly interesting that these developments occurred in the same year that saw the release of Marvel's The Avengers, which tackles the concept of super-heroism with a wide-eyed optimism rarely glimpsed since the Silver Age of comic books. If The Dark Knight altered how critics and audiences perceived big blockbusters, then Joss Whedon's enthusiastic, unapologetic, and (most importantly) monumentally successful celebration of colorful costumes and selfless sacrifice shook things up all over again. Did Nolan/Warner Bros. and Mendes/EON Productions sense change in the air and tailor their core thematic concerns accordingly? And what does this gradual shift toward brighter, more hopeful narratives--tales which emphasize the silver lining rather than the storm cloud--say about the times we're living in?

Have we (the moviegoers, the cinephiles, society), like Bruce Wayne, finally escaped the cold, oppressive, hellish prison of pessimism and anxiety and bathed in the warm glow of a sun which reassures us that, yes, a few inherently decent human beings do inhabit this scary, hostile, chaotic world?

Recently Viewed: Skyfall (2012)

We thought we'd seen the full extent of James Bond's "origin story" back in 2006, when Martin Campbell's Casino Royale re-imagined the character for a new generation of moviegoers. Oscar-winning director Sam Mendes apparently disagreed; his Skyfall brings the beloved super-spy's formative years to an definite conclusion, reintroducing several familiar series staples and placing the post-reboot 007 in a "new" context that loyal fans will find refreshingly nostalgic--proving that, sometimes, the best way to reinvigorate an old formula is to go back to the basics.

Of course, that doesn't mean that Mendes abandons the darker tone of the previous two films to indulge in the excesses of the Moore era. Skyfall is unmistakably set in the same grounded (though not necessarily "realistic"--this ain't Argo) world of espionage as Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace--and it stands on the same basic foundations. Daniel Craig continues to play a Bond torn straight from the pages of Fleming's novels (see: Doctor No, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, You Only Live Twice)--cold, cruel, hardened by his physical and psychological scars, haunted by his failures--and his tumultuous relationship with Dame Judi Dench's M remains an integral part of this characterization.

The opening minutes of Skyfall reinforce the difficult truth that 007 learned in Casino Royale: that his life is worth less than Her Majesty's fingernail clippings. Before we even hear the first chords of Adele's gorgeous title song, M has ordered Bond to leave a fellow agent for dead and made him the victim of friendly fire. Shaken and disillusioned, he falls off the grid for three months, vanishing in a haze of substance abuse and meaningless affairs. But when a sadistic cyberterrorist strikes at the heart of MI6 itself, he dutifully reports back to the bitch that nearly got him killed--realizing, perhaps, that she's the closest thing to family he has left.

At this point, M steps out from behind her desk and takes a surprisingly proactive role in the narrative, joining Bond in an uphill battle to defend the relevance of their somewhat archaic methods in a rapidly-changing culture of counterintelligence. These themes--staring down the ghosts of the past, gazing into an uncertain future--resonate through almost every scene, sometimes with delightful subtlety: consider 007's preference for cutthroat razors, his fondness for the Aston Martin DB5,  his debate with Ben Whishaw's baby-faced Q over the symbolic meaning of Turner's The Fighting Temeraire. Consider the climactic showdown, set against the backdrop of Bond's childhood home, in the shadow of his parents' gravestone.

And consider Javier Bardem's formidable villain, the product of one of M's countless "tough calls." In many ways, Raoul Silva represents Bond's reflection in a cracked mirror--a flamboyant and effeminate (possibly even bisexual) counterpoint to the male fantasy that 007 has always personified, but still his equal in strength, cunning, and sheer charisma. Both men were reshaped by tragedy and suffering, forced to confront their own insignificance--but while Bond managed to claw his way back into the light, Silva sank deeper into a personal Hell of despair and self-pity. He is the Joker to Bond's Batman--the monster that, under slightly different circumstances, our hero might have become.

All of these elements add up to create the most emotionally-satisfying cinematic experience in the history of this long-running franchise. By the end of Skyfall's 2.5-hour runtime, Mendes has shut the door on one loose trilogy and set the stage for an infinite number of exciting adventures to come. I can't imagine a more appropriate gift to commemorate the classic series' 50th Anniversary.

Previous Bond-related posts:

1. My Top 5 007 Films

2. Review of Doctor No (novel)

3. Review of 007 Legends (video game)