Batman Begins: A Remarkable Genesis

Like any superhero worth his cape, “Batman Begins” has a few flaws. Let’s dispense with them in short order. The plot (involving Gotham’s water supply, nasty toxins, and some dubious physics) is somewhat contrived. The movie is twenty minutes too long. Gary Oldman (maybe the most versatile film actor in the business today) is utterly wasted as (soon to be) Commissioner Gordon. The fight sequences are poorly edited. The story is full of unresolved sexual tension. Katie Holmes keeps her clothes on and her lips sealed the entire movie. (I found this refreshing, myself).

But the truth is that director Christopher Nolan (whose films “Memento” and “Insomnia” are among the most interesting in recent years) has given us the best Batman to date, a complex, nuanced, haunted, brooding picture of one of comic lore’s most complicated (and camped-out – think Adam West) super heroes. And it’s not like the guy didn’t have big bat shoes to fill. (OK, I promise not to use any more “bat” terms as throwaways here). Directors Tim Burton and Joel Schumacher have directed the likes of George Clooney, Val Kilmer, and Michael Keaton in past “Batman” incarnations with varying degrees of success. (Who can forget Burton’s darkly comic Gotham stage set, or Schumacher’s decision to attach nipples yo the rubber bat suit?)

So what makes “Batman Begins” so good?

Start with the remarkable cast. Christian Bale plays Bruce Wayne with just the right mix of tortured angst and playboy insouciance. (I confess to being worried during the film’s first bit, when we meet Wayne, brow furrow going full bore - in an Asian prison full of hardened convicts). Katie Holmes delivers a solid no-nonsense performance as Rachel, Bruce’s childhood friend turned nail-tough if naïve Gotham assistant D.A. (Anyone who saw the delightful indy sleeper “Pieces of April” knows Holmes is more than this week’s Cruise obsession. The gal ain’t a bad actress). Liam Neeson (sporting the obligatory martial arts goatee), Rutger Hauer (as Bruce’s chief rival for control of Wayne Enterprises), Tom Wilkinson (as mob boss Carmine Falcone), and Cillian Murphy (whose Jolie-like lips and quiet menace give him a Hannibal-like aura) provide more than enough “bad guy” energy to drive the story forward. And, best of all, Michael Caine (as Alfred the butler) and Morgan Freeman (as Wayne Enterprises scientist and requisite Q-like techno-outfitter Lucius Fox) have the time of their lives supporting Bruce Wayne with both gear and gumption as he comes to terms with the meaning of his life.

And that’s really what this film is about: the struggle to figure out how to “become” (as the French existentialists would say) in a world gone mad. Some I know bridle at this: Bruce Wayne is a billionaire playboy. What does he know about such esoteric musings, such philosophical cares? He can (and does, in the movie) buy an entire luxury hotel simply to cavort in the lobby fountain with two half-naked and slightly drunken bimbos. So he can buy his way out of having to grapple with life’s curve balls (so to speak), right?

But he can’t, actually. Like anyone else, he must confront his past, including the fateful decisions he made as a child, even as he tries to decipher and define his own destiny as a man. And money simply complicates the picture, at least at first. That’s what makes Nolan’s film so interesting. He wisely chooses to play to the more subtle psychological aspects of the Batman story, rather than simply make this just another summer action blockbuster.

Imagine, being born a rich kid with not a care in the world, growing up in a city full of corruption, greed, corporate crime, illegal drug smuggling, and class divisions (I won’t draw any parallels between Gotham and our current situation – this is just a vapid summer movie, right?) Throw in a terrifying childhood encounter at a well bottom, a brutal post-opera double murder, and a nagging sense of guilt, tempered by fear, that somehow you are responsible for your parents’ deaths, and voila – you’ve got a recipe for a remarkable story, a gripping psychological Batman tale that, until now, has been subsumed by an emphasis on “style” (Burton) or “action” (Schumacher).

If you go to “Batman Begins” expecting escapist summer entertainment, you will be disappointed. In fact, the “action” portion of the film functions more as throwaway, designed (as always) to lure audiences to theaters and sell popcorn. Underneath the hood, Nolan and his cast have served up a Batman that speaks to our paradoxical times: confident yet haunted; monied yet hungry for meaning; violent, yet conflicted about the consequences of vigilantism in a world seared by injustice.

Are there lessons to be learned from his quest?

Perhaps.

FIRST PUBLISHED IN VERMONT GUARDIAN.

It is tempting to dismiss the new Angelina Jolie/Brad Pitt vehicle “Mr. And Mrs. Smith” as nothing more than mindless summer fun, in which Tomb-Raider Lara Kroft (sans padding), our sexy femme fatale and Girl, Interrupted, mixes it up with Fight Club’s Tyler Durden, the newest incarnation of Achilles, our hero of Troy. Few folks I know would contest the idea of throwing down ten bucks (popcorn not included) to sit in a dark room full of strangers and simply watch Brangelina (are they in love for real?) on the screen. And, if recent tabloid stories are any indication of our collective American fascination with all things celeb, then these two could do little more than have an on-screen therapy session (they do, for roughly 5 minutes of the film) and us audience members – fat, dumb, and happy – would be satisfied.

Fortunately, there is a bit more to the film than this. But only a bit. If you’ve seen the movie trailer, you know the basics. Brangelina play two married spies – Jane and John Smith - working for different secret agencies. Governmental? Corporate? Is there a difference? Who cares. After a chance first meeting while on separate assignments in Bogata, Columbia (gosh, no secret US corp/gov involvement in THAT country of late, eh?), they get smart, get drunk, and get horny – all within the space of 2 minutes or so – and bang!

Jane and John are suddenly married and living in the ‘burbs. Five years (or is it six?) have passed. While their neighbors perceive them as just another happily married upper crust suburban couple (with a gigantic house, “his” and “hers” Beamers and a tool shed and kitchen range to match – director Doug Liman has some fun with this), John and Jane use the other as cover, neither suspecting that their spouse is in a similar line of work. (You’d think the Bogata thing might’ve tipped off at least one of them).

And then one day, each is called in to make the same hit. Chaos ensues. Sparks fly. Guns go off. So do RPGs. Furniture is broken. Buildings are destroyed. Plot twists ensue. One liners are delivered. (Any last words?” Jane asks John. “Your new curtains are hideous,” John retorts to Jane.)
The best thing about this film is the way it plays, in a lazy and insouciant but clever way (sort of like Pitt and Jolie’s acting), with marriage as that most mysterious of institutions. At the end of the day, what exactly do husbands and wives do in all their spare time? (Don’t answer that by saying “holding down three or four jobs to pay the bills” – how gauche.)

In fact, perhaps the way to make sense of this film is to see it as a post-911 “war on terror” marriage manual, a neo-con’s wet dream (sorry, “nocturnal emission” – gotta be PC here). In Mr. And Mrs. Smith, all is illusion. No one is to be trusted. Not even your spouse. FOX is the only reliable news source. Everyone has a laptop and the latest encryption technology. Surveillance is simply a fact of life. Cops are everywhere. Guns are commonplace. Problems are solved through the numbing application of violence – fists, knives, guns, bombs, cars, SAMs, you name it. Your friends all work for the shadow government. Your friends are all over-the-top paranoid. Your friends appreciate you up until the point when you are deemed expendable, and then, well, they finger you and blow your cover. (Vince Vaughn does this shtick very well as supporting cast).

If all this beginning to sound depressingly familiar, at least based on the “reality” constructed by official White House press briefings, than so be it. The world is a dangerous place. Bad guys (and gals) are everywhere. All of us could benefit from a little combat training and the latest in $300 sunglasses. Just get used to it. Think of Brangelina as a sort of “self help” model couple for the new millennium. There ain’t nothing in this brave new post-911 world that a little lethal fashionista sense, a seductive look, or a well-placed karate kick to the groin can’t cure.

And heck, if all else fails, there’s always the mall! I’m sure it’s no accident that the final climactic shoot-out (oh, c’mon now – I’m not ruining this for you – it’s a summer blockbuster, remember?) takes place in a giant big box retail establishment, complete with rows and rows of family-friendly furniture, petroleum-laced fertilizer and discounted auto parts. Perhaps Mr. Liman wanted to call our attention to America’s obsession with consumerism, or the coming of global Peak Oil, or the imminent collapse of the U.S. Empire?

Nah.

I turned ten in 1977, the year that George Lucas’ first “Star Wars” film landed in theaters around the world. I saw the film dozens of times: first in the theater, then on cable (my retired grandparents, living the good life in Florida, subscribed to HBO back when it was new and trendy), and then on rentable video. The movie changed my life, sparking my young imagination and fueling my emerging interest in science fiction, fantasy, and matters spiritual. And yes, as a “tween” (a newly invented and high-powered marketing term referring to the 8-12 crowd) I amassed all the requisite Star Wars collectibles in my bedroom – trading cards, stickers, action figures, plastic models, toy light sabers - you name it. Looking back, if I had saved all of the allowance money I spent on Star Wars stuff, I now could probably afford to send at least one of my kids to at least one month of college.

So here I am, almost thirty years later, just after dragging myself to see the last (thankfully) episode in the George Lucas juggernaut – “Revenge of the Sith” – more out of a sense of reluctant obligation than anything else. What to make of Lucas’ grand vision now? Without giving away too many plot details (for those of you who are still planning to make the pilgrimage), here are some summary comments from one slightly jaded Star Wars fan.

Lucas’ last film gives new and depressing meaning to the term “space opera.” As expected, “Sith’s” CGI-generated special FX are remarkable. More crazy creatures, more digital cities, more explosions than ever before. But to a new generation of “screen-agers” and “screen-ager wanna-bes” raised on first-person-shooter video games and weaned on Matrix films, Lucas’ tricks have lost their luster, especially when he uses them to routinely advance bare wisps of a plot and keep his human actors from saying anything smart or even intelligible. Two-thirds of the film’s 140 minutes are comprised of violent action scenes – droid beheadings, “youngling” slaying, and a climactic immolation scene. Parents be warned: this is a PG-13 rated film that should have earned an R rating, and is definitely NOT for kids!

And then there are smaller narrative matters: plot, acting, and theme. While Chancellor Palpatine is mesmerizing at film’s beginning, and Ewan McGregor’s Obi Wan comes out OK, Natalie Portman’s talents are again wasted, as the good Senator, now pregnant but unmarried, sits in immaculate rooms sporting outlandish outfits and tries to deliver her lines with a small measure of believability. Hayden Christensen’s Annakin Skywalker, upon whose character the entire plot turns, does his best to create a complex and conflicted young Jedi, but his efforts continually fall flat. (He’s got great hair and a bad-ass black Jedi outfit, though – Lucas never mastered symbolic subtleties.) This is a film where droids routinely out-act real people, and R2D2 steals the show, which isn’t saying much. Where’s Han Solo’s youthful bravado when you most need it?

OK, you may be thinking, but isn’t Lucas’ film reflective of current political realities? You know: A Republic turns into an Empire because power-hungry megalomaniacs give in to the Dark Side while justifying their actions in the name of freedom, democracy, and security? “If you’re not with me, you’re my enemy,” explains Annekin, while Chancellor Palpatine, in one of too many moments of comically simplistic high drama, seizes control of the Republic’s political machinery to wage a coup against the Jedi Council with the blessing of the Senate, while Senator Portman, released from her bedchamber for one scene and one scene alone, gets to deliver her sotto voce line “So this is how Liberty dies, to thunderous applause.” Well, as Obi Wan explains warningly, “Only a Sith Lord deals in Absolutes.” The rest of us moral relativists can take small comfort in Lucas’ gorgeous digital Establishment shots, which take us around the Empire – the Wookie planet, the Republic, Tatooine, etc. ad nauseum – without really taking us anywhere, while the Jedi Knights themselves repeatedly confuse our most basic political terms, using “democracy” and “republic” interchangeably, for example, when they should know better. And what exactly is everyone fighting about, anyway? Oil reserves? Coffee? No one really knows.

But none of this really matters. In the end, Lucas’ films have become what Mel Brooks warned us about in his brilliant “Star Wars” satire “Space Balls:” a gigantic high-tech marketing juggernaut designed to move unnecessary plastic objects, Pepsi, and Burger King stuff. (If you don’t believe me, visit www.sithsense.com, and appreciate the fact that Star Wars merchandising over the past three decades has amassed more than $9 billion, triple the money made in actual ticket sales).

This thirty-year spectacle has left me with a bad taste in my mouth. The whole feeling can perhaps be summed up by a brief conversation I had with a bunch of lads I encountered in passing last week at the Maple Corners multiplex. I was there riding the escalators up and down with my two children (much more fun than ANY movie). “Going to see the new Star Wars?” I asked of them, as they walked past us. “Nope,” one responded with a slightly bored grin. “Been there. Done that.”

Indeed.