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December 2018

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“Bird Box” is Typical, Lazy, Trope-filled Garbage

Bird Box

Bird Box

I don’t know why I expect films that set up a difficult “Why” premise to ever answer it. It never happens. Why did aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) arrive, and what did they look like? Why did the hitmen in Pulp Fiction (1994) feel so adamant about protecting the briefcase? What was in it? And while these two examples use this restrictive technique to great effect, Bird Box (2018) fails to achieve the same impact. And miserably so. This film is a lazy piece of shit that caters to people with the fucking IQ of a baked potato.

Follow Sandra Bullock in a discount A Quiet Place (2018) scenario mixed with a Tarkovsky premise. This film is a pinata filled with manure. You expect that after beating a dead horse for the eternal length of a kid’s birthday party that there’d be some candy payoff, but you’d be wrong. It’s just more shit. There are some natural dialogue moments that I appreciated, but the obvious and overused tropes were so goddamned tiresome that I eye-rolled myself into an altered state. You have the casual mythology expert for no fucking reason explaining aspects of a doomsday scenario that, ultimately, is never resolved for the viewer. Trim the fat, you pieces of shit. Stop ramming square pegs into round holes. Did they have an obligatory news broadcast montage explaining an end-of-the-world phenomenon? You bet your ass they did!

I genuinely thought there would be some interesting, symbolic purpose for a creature (originating in Russia for some obscure reason) affecting you because of what you SAW. But it doesn’t. And not because it’s esoteric, but because it’s fucking LAZY!

I think about Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979), which had a similar premise (and the book is even more similar). But Tarkovsky positioned the arrival of the aliens in a way that was entirely plausible, so you didn’t bother asking questions about their motivation. They just showed up and that was that; the real questions were about the familiar, human reactions to their arrival (and immediate, subsequent departure). It didn’t require further explanation.

By contrast, I constantly found myself asking questions during this film that resulted from their laziness. “So I guess we’re just assuming they made it back from the blind drive without issue? Have any of the writers ever canoed? Do they know the impossibility of blindly rafting? So the creature affects anything visible, but isn’t allowed indoors – except through those it’s touched? Why are these rules important to know and do I give a shit…no…I don’t.”

It started off well enough, even though the obvious comedic relief was obvious, with the mom giving this emphatic, serious speech which we ALL knew was going to be revealed as directed at children. But as the film went on, it’s obvious twists got lazier still (not even sure how that was possible), with minor stressors injected into an already trite plot: kids doing stupid kid shit that’s inherently stressful. The little girl leaving the boat to find the surrogate mother…fucking stressful. But I’ll tell you: watching that little shit eating spaghetti over a white carpet would’ve been MORE stressful.

Kids are naturally stressful, and act as overused dramatic devices.

For the scale and budget of this movie, their lack of effort is inexcusable. This film was a waste of my time and I am going to file a class-action lawsuit against Sandra Bullock for this bollocking film. See what I did there? No worries, I’m going to have an obligatory black character explain the fucking joke to you before he unnecessarily sacrifices himself to serve my agenda….

richardfleming
In Education, Storytelling

“The Peregrine” is a Masterclass in Writing

The Peregrine by J. A. Baker

The Peregrine

Sublime and beautiful, violently poetic and gently observant, J. A. Baker weaves an unsettlingly fervent non-narrative account of the deadliest and fastest hunters of the sky. His almost stoic language stands as the absolute greatest nonfiction prose I’ve ever read. The Peregrine isn’t about birdwatching or nature; it’s about the shame and disgust of what it means to be human in a world full of beauty that we ignore and violate and disseminate; it’s about a grotesque evolution of our species compared to the refined, inimitable grace achieved by predators. It’s an account of a man so intolerant of his own existence that he actually wishes he could will himself into becoming a hawk.

A little research into the author suggests that he was suffering from some terminal illness, possibly with mental deficiencies as well. Who knows if this motivated him to spend more than 10 years observing these creatures, then to write an account over the course of 7 months (from autumn to spring); yet his obsession with this diminishing species of bird helped to reinvent language and the way stories are told.

 

An example of the lyrical gift of his writing:

“[The Peregrine] mounted like a rocket, curved over in splendid parabola, dived down through cumulus of pigeons. One bird fell back, gashed dead, looking astonished, like a man falling out of a tree. The ground came up and crushed it.”

And another passage:

“East of my home, the long ridge lies across the skyline like the low hull of a submarine. Above it, the eastern sky is bright with reflections of distant water, and there is a feeling of sails behind land. Hill trees mass together in a dark-spired forest, but when I move towards them they slowly fan apart, the sky descends between, and they are solitary oaks and elms, each with its own wide territory of winter shadow.”

Finally, because it’s too beautiful not to share:

“And for the partridge there was the sun suddenly shut out, the foul flailing blackness spreading wings above, the roar ceasing, the blazing knives driving in, the terrible white face descending – hooked and masked and horned and staring-eyed. And then the back-breaking agony beginning, and snow scattering from scuffling feet, and snow filling the bill’s wide silent scream, till the merciful needle of the hawk’s beak notched in the straining neck and jerked the shuddering life away. And for the hawk, resting now on the soft flaccid bulk of his prey, there was a rip and tear of choking feathers, and hot blood dripping from the hook of the beak, and rage dying slowly to a small hard core within.”

I could cite this entire book it’s so beautifully crafted and visual. Even the preface carries a wonderful milieu in singing its praises. As a filmmaker, I feel reading it has helped me write my own stories in more vibrantly colourful language. As a reader, I felt I went on the journey with Mr. Baker – felt the cold, crisp air burning hot in his lungs as he trudged through deep snow, panting to keep up with his idol-hunter.

Although some people may find the non-narrative structure difficult to follow, I would suggest reading this like as you would view the scenery on a pastoral stroll: there isn’t an objective or goal to reach; it is all for your enjoyment.

Peregrine Falcon Flying - The Peregrine

 

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