Thursday, April 27, 2017
Near a small settlement of apes and human slaves far from Central City, Virdon (Ron Harper) loses the magnetic disc that can help the astronauts return home to their time period.
Unfortunately, the magnetic disc has been retrieved by the local ape prefect, Barlow (John Hoyt), who runs gladiator games in the nearby arena to keep the humans in his territory in line.
While Galen (Roddy McDowall) attempts to get the disc back surreptitiously, Burke (James Naughton) and Virdon are captured attempting to steal horses, and slated for combat in the arena.
Meanwhile, a human father, Tolar (William Smith) attempts to teach his son, Dalton (Marc Singer) to be a warrior in the games, even though the boy’s mother was a pacifist.
“The Gladiators,” by Art Wallace is a not particularly memorable or scintillating episode of Planet of the Apes (1974), except for the presence of a very young Marc Singer -- future star of V (1983) -- as a pacifist human.
In terms of this 2017 retrospective of the TV series, I am looking in particular at not merely plot details, however, but the manner in which the episodes explore what I see as the key theme of the series: race relations on the planet of the apes.
Here, Prefect Barlow’s attitude towards the human race is very patronizing, but in a sense that’s to be expected, given what humans did, historically, to destroy themselves (and the planet).
Barlow notes, for example (much like Zaius did in the 1968 motion picture) that man is “the only animal that makes war on himself.” He believes that by giving the humans the blood they lust for in the arena, they can be controlled. “They’re waiting for blood. It’s their nature. Human nature,” he says.
The episode provides a counter-balance for this prejudice in the person of Dalton. Here is a human who does not wish to fight, even though his father wishes him too. Dalton is a reminder that Barlow subscribes to a stereotype, which might be defined as the failure to see a person as an individual.
Instead of seeing Dalton’s peaceful ways, and noting that they go against his perception of humans, Barlow hews to the stereotype for a long time.
And yet, Barlow does not seem like atotally bad person, despite his reliance on stereotypes. For example, he is also patronizing to the gorillas, noting that they have “no understanding” of either “beauty or culture.” So it is not as though Barlow is merely a racist towards human beings. He can clearly see that not all apes are wonderful people, either. At one point, he even likens the gorillas to children.
Of course, this comment is trading in stereotypes too, isn’t it?
Eventually, Barlow comes to understand the error of his ways and seeks a better way to govern his settlement. Although one does not sense that humans will ever be equal there, at least he has acknowledged, as one character notes, that “killing should stop.”
Barlow, as a character, seems particularly real. He has beliefs that are wrong, and yet is not “evil,” as one might conclude of another character: Urko (Mark Lenard). As this episode starts, Urko basically orders his subordinate, Jason, to kill the astronauts on sight. He does not want to “get to know” his enemy, or learn more about where they hail from. He wants them eliminated. His mind is closed. By contrast, Barlow's mind is, at least a little, susceptible to reason.
Galen, as usual, represents someone of very open mind and very few biases. When he learns that his friends have lost the magnetic disc, he puts himself on the line to help him. In this way, he reveals his “humanity.”
Intriguingly, the first scene of the episode establishes that Central City is not the Ape City from the movies (which was located near New York City). From a wall-map in Urko’s office, it is clear that the city is located in California. Later in “The Gladiators,” Burke notes that the fugitives are now somewhere “North of San Francisco.”
This episode also features the series’ typical McGuffin: the magnetic disk. It is ta plot device which gets the fugitives (Burke, Virdon, and Galen) into the story involving Tomar, Dalton, and Barlow.
Of course, as Burke rightly points out, there seems little way that the magnetic disk could actually prove useful to the astronauts. First they must locate a computer capable of reading it (and hence, reading their flight trajectory). Then, they would have to construct a spaceship which could return them to orbit (and the correct trajectory). I'm not certain how they think that could manufacture the necessary equipment.
Such an escape is the longest of long shots, but I suppose it is important that the astronauts on the series be viewed (by audiences) as purposeful and determined.They can’t just wander the countryside, and settle down. Instead, they have to be fighting to return to their world.
Finally, “The Gladiators” features a funny joke. Barlow is a collector of antiques from the distant past, and fancies himself an anthropologist/archaeologist of sorts. He proudly shows Galen a golf club, and mistakes it as some kind of ancient human weapon.
Next week: “The Trap.”
This Hugo Award-nominated TV pilot, which first aired on American television on January 23, 1974, represents another Gene Roddenberry attempt to craft a successful science fiction TV series after Star Trek (and following the failure of pilots including Genesis II and Planet Earth).
In The Questor Tapes, however, Roddenberry abandoned the "future world scenario" of Star Trek and both PAX TV movies and instead focused on the idea of an artificial man -- an android -- who, with great benevolence, would guide the human race through his troubled "infancy" in the twentieth century.
Thirteen episodes of the series were actually written, and NBC green lit The Questor Tapes, even officially granting it a time-slot: Friday nights at 10:00 pm. However, before the series could air, various behind-the-scenes factions fought a fatal tug-of-war, attempting to skew the fledgling series in a new direction, making it more like The Fugitive (1964-1968) or The Six-Million Dollar Man (1973-1978).
Roddenberry stuck to his guns...and walked away. His series was never produced. However, the pilot was novelized by D.C. Fontana in a book based on the script by Gene Coon and Gene Roddenberry. And even today, many fans fondly remember The Questor Tapes.
The Questor Tapes opens at "Project Questor," inside a highly-advanced surgical operating theatre on a college campus, where Dr. Jerry Robinson (Mike Farrell) and a team of scientists (including Majel Barrett Roddenberry) attempt to bring an android -- Questor -- to full consciousness.
This is a more difficult task than it sounds, however, because Questor's actual creator, Dr. Vaslovik (Lew Ayres) is missing and "presumed dead." The mystery man disappeared three years ago, without a trace. Questor, Vaslovik's child, is not well-understood by either the high-IQ Robinson or the other international scientists (James Shigeta, Fred Sadoff). Project Leader Darrow (John Vernon), fears that Questor is a "billion dollar pile of junk."
Questor rejects all programming tapes except the one created specifically by Vaslovik. Vaslovik's programming includes a background in "logic, law" and forensic medicine, among other things. Questor also boasts knowledge of "international laws and procedures."
Even after successful programming, Questor does not appear to operate normally. This vexes Robinson, who considers himself a "puzzle solver" and "gifted mechanic." A disappointed Darrow immediately seizes on the idea of selling Questor's valuable parts (like his stomach -- an amazing "nuclear furnace") to international bidders.
While unguarded and unsupervised, Questor (Robert Foxworth) activates himself, modifies himself to appear human (replete with skin imperfections), and leaves the facility. His overriding purpose is to locate his "creator," Vaslovik. Unfortunately, Vaslovik's programming tape was corrupted and now Questor does not possess human emotions, a fact he laments. "Is it possible, I was meant to feel?" He wonders.
Without programming to help him understand emotions and experience a sense of morality, Questor abducts Jerry Robinson and demands that the human being become his "guide" in such matters. Robinson isn't sure at first about befriending a "an ambulatory computer device," but soon realizes he has a responsibility to help the Questor "child" discover his creator, and find an "explanation" for himself.
Alas, Questor has limited time to complete his mission. If he does not locate the missing Vaslovik in three days, he will self-destruct...literally becoming a nuclear bomb.
After a jaunt to London in which Questor and Jerry meet Lady Helena (Dayna Winter), Vaslovik's courtesan, they proceed by jet to remote Turkey...to the very mountains where Noah's Ark is believed to have crashed. There, in a deep mountain cavern, Questor finally meets his creator, Vaslovik, and learns of both his origin and purpose.
Vaslovik and Questor are both androids of extra-terrestrial design. These androids (who build their own replacements before they expire...) have been protecting and guiding the human race in secret for 200 millennia. Questor is the last android of the line, because after his span (a duration of 200 years...), mankind will have outgrown a turbulent childhood and will no longer require safeguarding.
Unfortunately, Vaslovik can not provide Questor what the android desires most: human emotions. Although he would "trade anything to feel; to be human," Questor will have to continue to rely on his friend, Robinson, for an understanding of the human equation...
Had there been a Questor series, it would have picked up there: with Jerry and Questor "guiding" but not interfering with man as he broached international crises and problems that could threaten the human race.
In the pilot, we are introduced to what would have been an important set: Vaslovik's Information Center, a control room hidden in Lady Helena's wine cellar. From that location, Questor can monitor important locations worldwide (including the U.S. Congress), as well as private locations...like, uh, bedrooms...
The Questor Tapes is an almost perfect representation of the Gene Roddenberry aesthetic. There is (gentle...) criticism of 20th century industrial/technological mankind here, his "squalor...ugliness...greed...struggles."
Yet this damning view is balanced and tempered by an essential optimism about intrinsic human nature. Our "greatest accomplishment," declares Questor is "our ability to love one another."
Questor is a character much like Mr. Spock or Lt. Data -- an outsider who is nonetheless fascinated by mankind. The perspective as "outsider" permits Questor, Data or Spock to be both critical and positive about the human race, without any of it seeming personal, political or petty. Like Spock, Questor is dedicated to logic, and uses that word (logic) frequently. "Logic indicates the simplest plan is often the best," etc. And also like Spock, Questor is peaceful. He is not programmed to kill, yet he can incapacitate enemies with the equivalent of a "nerve pinch."
But if Questor is a child of Spock, he is also the father of Data. There can be little doubt of that. Questor desires to be human, just like Data, and wants to understand humor. "Humor is a quality which seems to elude me," he tells Jerry at one point.
Also, like Data, Questor is a sexual being, and this facet of his personality also conforms to an essential quality of all Roddenberry productions: kinkiness.
To get information out of Lady Helena Trimble, Questor -- an android -- makes love to her. Beforehand, he tells her that he is...um..."fully functional." Next Generation fans will recognize that particular turn of phrase from Data's seduction of Tasha Yar in the first season episode "The Naked Now."
In another scene from The Questor Tapes, Jerry and =Questor visit a European casino and Questor learns that the House is cheating, utilizing fake dice. The android is able to beat the cheaters by adjusting the balance of the dice. In the second season episode of The Next Generation titled "The Royale," Data does precisely the same thing.
The Questor Tapes has aged poorly in a few, minor ways...all mostly visual. For instance, a close-up glimpse of Questor's high-tech interior reveals a rotary telephone cord. And the very idea that "tapes" would carry an android's programming? Well, that is passe, of course too. Even Vaslovik's Information Center is obviously pre-world-wide-web.
Yet none of that matters in the slightest.
What matters here, and what grants The Questor Tapes a real "heart" is the relationship at the forefront of the production: the friendship between a human (Jerry) and a machine (Questor). There's funny banter and quiet affection there, and the relationship will remind you (in a positive, not derivative...) way of the long-lived Kirk/Spock friendship. It's different in that Jerry has no authority over Questor: he's a teacher in the subject of humanity, not a commanding officer. Despite the difference, there's definitely charm here.
I also appreciate the real and deep sense of compassion that Roddenberry and Coon bring to all their characters in The Questor Tapes. Lady Helena (Wynter), who is scandalously introduced as an aristocratic courtesan, is actually a woman of tremendous depth, intelligence and loyalty. And even the TV movie's villain, Darrow, is treated with compassion. When Darrow realizes that the military is going to discover Questor and dis-assemble him, Vernon sacrifices himself. He takes a tracer, flies Questor's jet...and dies when the air force blows it up.
Roddenberry watchers will also recognize other recurring themes here. The idea of an alien race peacefully guiding humanity out of his adolescence is straight out of Star Trek's "Assignment Earth" (story by Roddenberry; teleplay by Art Wallace.)
And the idea of a robot/android searching for his "creator" has been the core idea of original Star Trek episodes ("The Changeling" by John Meredyth Lucas) movies (Star Trek: The Motion Picture) and Next Generation installments ("Datalore," "Brothers," etc.)
What I enjoyed most about the "search for creator" subplot in Questor was this notion that it is a metaphor for man's search for his creator...for our God (a plot point that forecasts Prometheus ). At one point in the pilot, Questor must grapple with the notion that his creator (Vaslovik) is insane. This possibility is suggested by Jerry. Interestingly, Questor turns the concept around on Robinson and asks him: what if our creator (God...) is insane too? Robinson doesn't have an answer for that.
Roddenberry might have gotten away with that subtle swipe at religion in 1974, but I wonder if Questor could get it by censors today. In fact, it is rumored that one of the reasons that The Questor Tapes never materialized as a series is that NBC executives were uncomfortable with the concept - stated here - that aliens, not a Christian God, were overseeing mankind's development. The network was apparently afraid that Questor would be deemed the "Anti-Christ" by some viewers.
In recent years, there has been some movement (after Roddenberry's death in 1991) to revive The Questor Tapes concept as a series. I'd still love to see it happen. Today, more than ever, I think mankind could use Questor's help.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
The press has today reported the death of Academy-Award winning director Jonathan Demme (1944-2017), the talent who gave us our first glimpse of Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter.
Mr. Demme directed The Silence of the Lambs (1991), and took home the Best Director Oscar for his work on that film. That movie, and its thoughtful, intimate approach to serial killers (and matters of good and evil) inspired a slew of films and TV shows throughout the nineties.
Mr. Demme's impressive career in cinema began in the early 1970's and he directed in a wide variety of genres. Demme directed comedies including Something Wild (1986) and Married to the Mob (1988), and such documentaries as Stop Making Sense (1984), and Jimmy Carter: Man from Plains (2007).
Demme's dramatic films included not only the aforementioned The Silence of the Lambs, but efforts such as Philadelphia (1993), and Beloved (1998). In 2004, he directed the well-received remake of The Manchurian Candidate.
Mr. Demme's work was not limited to the cinema, and he also directed episodes of the acclaimed series The Killing in 2013 and 2014.
Today, Mr. Demme's near-documentary filmmaking-style and empathetic approach to lensing close-up shots are widely considered influential to the up-and-coming generation of film auteurs.
My deepest sympathy goes out to Mr. Demme's family and friends at this time of grief There are no words to make such a feeling of loss go away. However, film is unique in the sense that it permits for something like immortality.
Mr. Demme may be gone, but The Silence of the Lambs, and many of his other works too, will be watched and appreciated for decades to come.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
The Enterprise is tasked with transporting Ambassador Kollos of Medusa to a Federation summit. Kollos, and all Medusans are non-corporeal life-forms who are renowned as the galaxy’s greatest navigators.
However, if a human should ever gaze upon a Medusan, he or she would be driven permanently insane. Fortunately, protective visors can prevent such happenstance, and allow the races to co-exist and cooperate.
Two other passengers beam aboard the Enterprise with Kollos.
The first is Dr. Miranda Jones (Diana Muldaur) an accomplished telepath who has been selected to undergo the first human/Medusan mind meld or link.
The second is Larry Marvick (David Frankham), one of the designers of the Enterprise. His job, if Dr. Jones is successful, is to incorporate instrumentation aboard starships for linked Humans/Medusans.
Captain Kirk (William Shatner) hosts Dr. Jones and Mr. Marvick at a dinner, but Miranda feels threatened by Mr. Spock (Leonard Nimoy), who was the first choice to undergo the mind-link process. He intends only to honor her at the affair by wearing the Vulcan IDIC medallion, but Miranda is defensive and suspicious.
Things go from bad to worse when Marvick -- in love with Miranda -- attempts to assassinate Ambassador Kollos. Instead of succeeding, he views the Medusan without protection, and goes insane. He visits Engineering and while there seizes the controls, trapping the Enterprise in a strange, distant void.
Mr. Spock realizes that only an expert navigator, like Kollos, can help the ship to return to its proper place in the universe. To accomplish this task, however, he must mind-link with the ambassador, and Dr. Jones will be quite unhappy at the prospect.
Captain Kirk distracts Miranda with a walk in the ship’s arboretum, while Spock makes the link without her knowledge.
The ship is rescued, and returns to its original point in time and space, but an accident occurs after the transfer, which leaves a vulnerable Spock -- sans visor -- to view Kollos with his own eyes. Now Miranda, who has been deceived, must decide if she should help restore Spock’s mind.
“Is There in Truth No Beauty” is a good reminder of just how ahead of its time Star Trek (1966-1969) was when it first aired.
This story features a brilliant, complex female character, Dr. Miranda Jones (Diana Muldaur), who is dedicated to her own professional success and doesn’t require or want the permission of a man to pursue her goals.
It’s true that Kirk, Bones and Marvick fall all over themselves discussing her “beauty,” but the episode’s teleplay is clear that Jones is an accomplished individual in her chosen field. Sure, she possesses foibles; just as Kirk, Spock and McCoy do, but Miranda is a three-dimensional character, not merely “eye candy.” The episode’s symbolism suggests that all roses possess thorns, and it’s easy to apply that ideal to Miranda and her fits of rage and jealously. But the intriguing there is that the comparison applies, in various ways, to Kollos, and even Marvick.
Kollos is a good soul, of course, not meaning to do harm. But his “thorn” is the damage his appearance can do to those around him.
Marvick is clearly a genius -- the man who designed the Enterprise and is working on instrumentation for Kollo -- but his thorn is also “jealousy.” He is in love with Miranda, and covets her.
Incidentally, Miranda is also blind, but she does not allow that so-called “disability” to stop her from achieving her ambitions. And, the sensor-dress that Jones wears in this episode is clearly a precursor to Geordi’s visor in The Next Generation (1987-1994) as well as a prime example of Roddenberry’s “Technology Unchained” theorem; the idea that advances in technology will improve all facets of human life.
It is easy, in 2017, to look at this episode and find it in sexist since Kirk, McCoy and Marvick are so concerned with Miranda’s beauty, not her intellect, or even her prerogative to decide her life for herself.
Marvick’s line to Miranda to be a “woman” for a change is absolutely sexist too (just as the term “mansplaining” or “man up” is also sexist, in today’s world), and Kirk and McCoy’s concern for Miranda’s happiness is a bit overwrought. I think that’s to be expected in the third season of Star Trek. Everyone seems to be falling in love, all the time, at a far greater rate than in the previous two seasons.
But right there, in the text of the episode, Miranda gives it right back to the men. When McCoy toasts Miranda, he asks if those attending the dinner will allow so beautiful a woman to be surrounded by ugliness her whole life. Miranda responds with a sharp toast of her own, noting that those in attendance should also not permit McCoy, so lively a personality, to surround himself by disease and death.
Miranda reserves for herself only the privilege McCoy reserves for himself: the right to choose how she lives her life, and pursues her dreams. That is what equality is; and that is what “Is There in Truth No Beauty” is about.
The episode also presents, for the first time, the Vulcan concept of IDIC. The story of the IDIC pendant is legendary, of course, an opportunity for crass commercialism.
But the concept behind IDIC -- infinite diversity in infinite combinations -- is beautiful in its thinking. In fact, it was one of the key ideas that makes Star Trek so worthwhile: the concept of people of different backgrounds, cultures, genders, beliefs, and attitudes combining their efforts to do something great, or worthwhile, like explore the galaxy. When one gazes at the various Star Trek crews from 1966 to 2005, we see the practicality, the necessity, and indeed, the beauty of the IDIC concept.
It is still amazing to me that this program that aired in the mid-1960s was so forward thinking about diversity, and its benefits to everyone.
During the Civil Rights movement, it brought us an African-American female on the bridge of a starship. During the Cold War, it brought us a Russian to the same bridge. And, when those with a long memory still hated the United States’ previous enemy from another war, it also gave us a Japanese helmsman. “Is There in Truth No Beauty” reminds us, additionally, that those who face physical challenges (like blindness), can also be valuable, productive members of society.
This was by no means a mainstream view in 1968-1969.
Even the idea that Kollos is accepted by Starfleet and the Federation -- while still considered “ugly” -- speaks well of Star Trek’s commitment to the concept of IDIC. Kollos’ appearance causes madness and death in humans, and yet he is nonetheless considered a valuable ally, one who, with the right precautions, would also have a seat on the bridge of a starship.
This episode is nearly never referenced when discussing Star Trek’s finest episodes, and yet consider what it accomplishes. It sets out the foundation of a beloved Vulcan philosophy (IDIC), and it forecasts the future of the franchise, with the sensor web leading to La Forge’s visor in The Next Generation.
It’s true that some elements of the episode seem over-the-top -- each time Kirk and McCoy are in the presence of Miranda, for instance -- and yet some moments are quite beautiful too, particularly Leonard Nimoy’s performance as the Kollos/Spock union. Muldaur, once more, is extraordinary in terms of crafting a fully-realized character who seems to have a history and background beyond what we see on the screen.
So, I suppose we can remember the episode’s point: every rose has its thorns.
Despite those thorns, I would still count this as a top-tier third season episode of Star Trek.
Next week: "Spectre of the Gun."
[Beware of Spoilers. Swim at Your Own Risk]
The Void (2017), from directors Jeremy Gillespie and Steven Kostanski, is a new “homage”-styled horror film. That description means it derives much of its life-energy from a demonstration of reverence and appreciation for its beloved genre antecedents.
However, the directors here don’t merely pick a single film or a general cinematic style to honor or ape. On the contrary, they have created with The Void a veritable homage to the entire career of one (beloved) artist: John Carpenter.
The idea of, basically, name-checking an entire career’s catalog of films is an ambitious and original one. To wit: The Void begins like Assault on Precinct 13 (1976) a siege-styled movie, features elements of The Thing (1982) in terms of practical effects and gore, and then leaps wholeheartedly in its last act into a late-era Carpenter homage featuring aspects of Prince of Darkness (1987) and In The Mouth of Madness (1994).
So, we get in The Void, clever allusions -- visual and thematic -- to seventies Carpenter, eighties Carpenter, and even nineties Carpenter.
To describe this film another way, it’s as though the filmmakers assiduously studied all epochs of John Carpenter’s film work, and decided to create a master’s thesis about that work in the form of an actual motion picture.
On that admittedly narrow basis, I admire and enjoy The Void very much. As other critics have noted, the film is a rip-roaring “throwback” to old-fashioned horror movies, both in terms of effects, and setting/characterization. Set in the 1980's The Void thus corners the market, one might conclude, on nostalgic, niche, horror filmmaking.
And if any horror auteur is deserving of a film-long homage, today, it is certainly Carpenter, who still hasn’t gotten his due from mainstream Hollywood.
And yet, some aspects of the film are not entirely effective.
The Void’s narrative is convoluted and confusing at times, and Gillespie and Kostanski don’t yet possess Carpenter’s visual chops. The movie often captures well the thematic and narrative aspects of the maestro’s canon, but few of the visuals achieve the same kind of energy as a legit Carpenter film, or manipulate the audience as effectively.
Of course, in the age of cookie-cutter, mega-million dollar blockbusters, a Carpenter-knock-off is the closest we are likely to get to the experience of a new Carpenter genre film. To its credit, The Void successfully feels very “eighties,” and is a lot of fun overall. But another recent film -- It Follows (2014) -- still feels more like an original Carpenter film, and less like a pastiche of the director’s personal obsessions or best moments.
I recommend The Void for your viewing if you consider yourself a fan of Carpenter’s oeuvre, and also if you just straight-up enjoy 1980’s styled horror films.
If you’re seeking a horror film that is a bit more internally consistent, however, you may be disappointed by the film’s narrative problems and overall lack of visual distinction.
“You’d be surprised at the things you find when you go looking.”
A police officer, Daniel Carter (Aaron Poole) brings a wounded man he discovered on the outskirts of a dark forest to the nearest hospital, which is in the process of being closed down following a fire. Daniel is reluctant to visit that particular hospital because his estranged wife, Allison (Kathleen Munroe), works there. Not long ago, they lost a baby, and their relationship has since deteriorated.
Soon, the wounded mystery man becomes the quarry of a group of cultists, who surround the hospital, and turn off the power. And the same man, James (Evan Stern) also becomes the prey of a father (Daniel Fathers) and son (Mik Byskov) team of hunters, who seem to hold a grudge against him.
While Daniel tries to process all that is going on, new crises quickly capture his attention in the hospital. One nurse, Beverly, seems to go crazy, killing a young patient, while a young pregnant woman, Maggie, goes into labor in the emergency room.
As Daniel and Allison are further endangered, they learn that the doctor at the hospital, Ricahrd Powell (Kenneth Walsh) has undertaken a dangerous line of research involving the afterlife.
“There are things much older than God.”
In Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), as you may recall, a police officer played by Austin Stoker was given command of a lonely police station on the night it was to be shut down. He had only a skeleton crew to assist him, and things spiraled quickly out-of0control when a stranger ran into the precinct, pursued by members of a vicious, bloody gang.
By refusing to give up the prisoner, the police opened the door to an all-out attack by the gang Street Thunder. The majority of this Carpenter film played out as a siege situation, with the precinct under a relentless, all-out attack by the gang, and the policeman forced to team with criminals in the station’s jail, to repel the enemy.
As the synopsis above hopefully makes plain, the initial set up of this film mirrors Assault on Precinct 13 very closely. Here, we have a hospital that is understaffed, and is about to be closed down.
We also encounter another heroic police officer, Daniel, whose primary job becomes the protection of a stranger who is now in custody in an isolated location, in this case the hospital.
Intriguingly, Night of the Living Dead (1968) from George A. Romero plays on a hospital room TV set at one point, early in the film, and it is the movie that Carpenter sometimes credits as the spiritual ancestor of Assault on Precinct 13.
So if Night of the Living Dead is referenced here, why is The Void pretty much a Carpenter riff?
Well, consider that in addition to Assault on Precinct 13, Prince of Darkness and Ghosts of Mars are also siege movies. Romero may have made the horror grand-daddy of the form, but Carpenter has exploited that format at least three times, at all stages of his career (1970’s, 1980’s, and early 2000’s).
In this section of the film, there are some nearly shot-for-shot translations. Assault on Precinct features several exterior night shots of the gang, standing outside the police station in a vacant parking lot, forming a menacing phalanx.
Here, the cult-members in their white robes form a similar pattern, also standing in a dimly lit parking lot. One of the best scenes in the film sees the red and blue police lights of Daniel’s car, swirling over the non-moving cultists in white.
At any minute, like a juggernaut, they could leap into murderous action.
John Carpenter’s The Thing is another, obvious source of inspiration for The Void. The film starts with a variation of The Thing’s opening act narrative feint. Consider that in The Thing, we see a lone dog being pursued across an ice cliff, by Norwegian helicopter and sniper. The opening moments of the film suggest that the Norwegians have gone mad. Why else waste resources of chasing down a dog?
Of course, later on, we understand: the dog is a carrier of the alien virus of the thing. It is no longer a dog at all. It must be destroyed, even though that quest looks insane to an outsider.
The Void begins with a similar trick. At a lonely farmhouse in an isolated area (which reminded me, visually, of the farmhouse in the first act of John Carpenter’s Vampires ), a man and woman escape out the front door.
The man, James gets away. The woman falls, is pursued, and then, finally, burned alive by the father and son hunter combo. The natural assumption here is that the woman is the victim of the father and son, attempting to break free from captivity.
As is the case with the dog in The Thing, however, that assumption is quite incorrect. The woman “victim” is not a victim at all, but one of the monsters that Dr. Powell has experimented upon.
Another reference to The Thing involves the personification, or physical qualities of the “monsters” from the void.
They are moist, spurting, tentacled, misshapen monstrosities, much like the thing in Carpenter’s masterpiece. In that film, the ever-transforming Thing -- always in a state of flux -- represented the frailty of human flesh; its capacity for damage by perforation, injection, burning, you name it.
The same concept of frailty of the flesh gets play in The Void because so much of the film involves mortality; the weakness of the human form. There is not one, but two “monstrous” pregnancies in the film, and there are at least two instances of children who have died tragically, lost to their parents.
Just as The Thing featured many close-up shots of mangled, violated skin (think of the close-up of stitches being sewed into the flesh of Bennings’ leg), The Void features shots of knives being slowly pressed down and through human flesh, or scissors penetrating human eyeballs.
The Void like The Thing, also concerns transformation: the transformation of grief into misguided action; and the transformation of human flesh into something…horrible, and monstrous (if not down-right demonic).
Early in the film, we also get a very clear visual reference to Prince of Darkness (1987). A female nurse, Beverly, cuts her face off with a pair of scissors, and murders a patient (puncturing his eye-socket with said scissors).
She looks and acts very much like the pizza-faced Kelly (Susan Blanchard) in that film, attacking victims, and boasting a face that isn’t really hers.
Both Prince of Darkness and The Void climax in similar fashion as well: with a heroic self-sacrifice.
Specifically, both films concern protagonist (Catherine or Daniel) pushing the antagonist (Kelly, or Powell) through a portal to another dimension/reality. After doing so, the protagonist is trapped there, left to contend with a brave (or horrific…) new world.
Finally, of course, The Void features a strong Lovecraft influence. H.P. Lovecraft wrote frequently of the deities known as the “Outer Gods” or “The Old Ones,” horrible creatures such as Cthulhu or Shub-Niggurath. These are beings who once ruled Earth (and beyond), and still exist, just waiting to return.
A key Lovecraftian theme then, is the non-importance, or non-centrality of mankind in the grand scheme of the universe. The Void features such creatures who inhabit (and re-shape) human form, and cross from “the other side” represented by the portal, where an imposing black pyramid stands.
But importantly, The Void is Lovecraft by way of Carpenter, and in particular, his too-often neglected masterpiece, In the Mouth of Madness. That film establishes the power of the “others” over our world, and an invasion of our world from the outer place. That’s exactly what happens here, although we can hope, at least, that the invasion in The Void is stopped.
Basically, in In the Mouth of Madness, man’s propensity to seek terrible things (represented by the horror novels of Sutter Cane) is the thing which cracks open the portal to the dark place. In The Void, man’s inability to accept his own mortality, is the thing that props open the door to the Lovecraftian world. Dr. Powell is a Prometheus figure, not unlike Dr. Frankenstein, Dr. Channard, or even Nix in Lord of Illusions (1995). He is a man who goes in search of answers, and opens the portal to an evil realm.
I could argue that it is incumbent upon engaged audiences to recognize the allusions to Carpenter’s work here, and to movies, even, outside that canon, and then ask: what does it all mean? Why dramatize the story in this particular fashion?
In other words, is a Carpenter-homage an intrinsically intriguing way of telling Daniel and Allison's story?
The answer is affirmative, though with caveats. Through the references to Carpenter’s work, The Void takes on, or transforms, if you will, into a film of deeper meaning and resonance. All the references within Carpenter’s work carry meaning, and The Void absorbs those meanings, and also mirrors them. So the approach is not merely innovative, I would argue, but artistically valid. Daniel’s sacrifice, and final journey, for example, carries deeper emotional weight if we link it Catherine’s sacrifice, or compare the two.
However, The Void is not nearly as well-visualized as Carpenter’s films. Even lesser Carpenter films, like Village of the Damned (1995) manage to come off in a visual sense, capturing the imagination of the audience even when the narrative details prove disappointing.
The Void is a low-budget production, of course, but its monster-attack-in-a-hospital hallway does not compare favorably to scenes created 36 years ago for The Thing. Here, the lighting is dim, we get a lot of confusing close-ups, and there’s a dangling light panel flickering constantly, to assure we never get too good a look at the monster.
Similarly, there are moments of head-scratching character behavior in the film. At one point, Daniel exacts a promise from Allison that she will wait to visit a medical supply room until he comes back (from retrieving the shot-gun from his car.)
She makes the promise, and then ignores that promise to go to the supply room anyway, an event that leads to her demise (and sets up the film’s final sacrifice).
It also is not clear, at least to my eyes, why the cultists wait so long to invade the hospital after surrounding it and cutting off the power. The argument could be made that they are waiting for the birth of Maggie’s child, but it seems that the birth of the child (Powell’s girl, reborn) is such an important event that they would want to be in control of the hospital before it occurs.
Similarly, if memory serves, Powell constantly refers to the portal as the abyss, not the void. So how come the movie is titled The Void?
These are not big things. These are not disqualifying factors in any way. But they add up, and grant the impression of a film that is incoherent at times, and simply convoluted at others. It is ambitious and quite remarkable that the film apes the canon of Carpenter, but The Void needs a clearer, sharper script, so that those amazing elements aren’t thrown, well, to the void.
A void might be defined as a “completely empty space,” and indeed that is not a good title for this intriguing horror movie. The Void fills up its empty spaces with a reverence and respect for the works of one of our greatest horror masters.
It’s just that when these filmmakers have to paint in some of their own empty spaces (involving the narrative), they fall a bit short.
Monday, April 24, 2017
A reader named Ben writes;
“Hello there. I am really enjoying your writing. I read your Bond movie review last week and wanted to ask you a question that you have not answered yet.
Historically, whose interpretation of 007 is the most important to the franchise’s longevity?”
Ben, thank you for the question. I actually have a stock answer for this question, which is the same one I have used before, in regards to the Doctor, on Doctor Who (1963-1969).
Before I get to that stock answer, I’ll give a few options.
I could write, quite persuasively, that the most important Bond interpretation is Sean Connery’s, because he was the first actor to take on the role for the movies. Had he not “clicked” as 007, the franchise would not have taken off.
So from one viewpoint, Connery’s interpretation of the James Bond role is certainly the most important, and the one most responsible for the film series’ longevity.
I could also make arguments for other Bond performances.
Timothy Dalton re-grounded the role, when audiences began to seek more realistic action, during the late 1980s.
Pierce Brosnan brought the character back to life after a six year absence from the screen, and thus is responsible for “reviving” the franchise.
And Daniel Craig, of course, shepherded the film franchise “re-boot” of Bond to its most successful financial incarnation.
So you could probably make a plausible argument for any of those actors. Of course, those arguments may not be very strong, because by the time of Dalton, everyone was used to the idea of Bond changing actors.
But if you read my blog regularly, you know I prefer to think unconventionally, or at least outside conventional wisdom.
So here is my official answer: the most important Bond actor is Roger Moore.
Allow me to explain.
When people ask me who the most important Doctor on Doctor Who is, I always go with one answer: Patrick Troughton, the second doctor.
Had he not thoroughly made the role his own, Doctor Who -- while beloved during the William Hartnell Era -- would never have lived to see a second decade on air.
In other words, the era of greatest jeopardy for Doctor Who occurred when Hartnell, the First Doctor, wished to leave the role, and a new actor had to assume the mantle of the Time Lord.
If that actor had failed, we would likely have had no Doctor 3 – 12.
So, Troughton nailed the role at the time of greatest danger for the franchise, and the franchise endured. Hence, his importance.
I would make the same argument for Roger Moore. George Lazenby’s brief tenure as Bond -- just one film appearance in 1969 -- likewise hints at the importance of the second actor to catch-fire in a beloved role.
After Lazenby’s only film (which I love, by the way), the producers went running back to Connery for Diamonds are Forever.
It was not a certain thing, at all, at that point, that the James Bond movie series could endure in the seventies, and outlive Connery’s star presence.
But then along came Roger Moore, the Bond actor I grew up with, and one I think very highly of. His take on Bond -- while undeniably different from Connery’s -- re-popularized the character, and proved that the 007 film series could transcend one well-loved performer.
Like Patrick Troughton in Doctor Who, Moore came along at the time of greatest danger for the franchise, and gave it the second life 007 needed. Moore was the first talent who proved that Bond could survive the passing of the torch in terms of actors.
If Moore had failed to catch fire, as Lazenby had failed, we would likely never have gotten the Dalton, Brosnan, or Craig eras. James Bond in the cinema would have been remembered as a product of the 1960’s, not as an iconic character who has transcended his original cinematic context.
So I think you can clearly make a case for Connery as the most important 007. If he had failed to make Bond so appealing, the movie-going world might never have known the name Bond, James Bond.
On the other hand, Moore came in after Lazenby’s failure to succeed -- at the point of greatest jeopardy for the franchise -- and had to deliver a popular interpretation of the role when everyone already pictured 007 as Sean Connery.
He did, and the rest is history.
Don’t forget to ask me your questions at Muirbusiness@yahoo.com