The Dark Knight and the Western

Duel in the Street

At this point, it shouldn’t be controversial to discuss The Dark Knight as a masterpiece.  It is a work that managed to combine massive cultural and popular impact with major artistic achievement--a very rare thing in modern movies.  While of course not everyone agrees with that artistic assessment, there is enough consensus for me to bypass defending it and get to my point.

I am interested in superhero movies for a number of reasons--I find them entertaining, they offer larger-than-life action sequences, the characters have complex histories in comic books and other popular mediums, their iconography lends itself to diverse styles and genres--but one thing that feels paramount to me is right there in the name: superhero movies are about heroes.  They display/represent what we desire from our heroes, what we admire, what we wish we could be.  A discussion of American heroes throughout our history could take us down many unusual paths (from Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Natty Bumppo to Alvin York and Audie Murphy, or even Martin Luther King), but when looking at modern popular culture the view can narrow a bit.  When it comes right down to it, I think there are only two homegrown American film genres which deal entirely with the hero: the Western and the Superhero.  

Other genres certainly have heroes, but they do not focus on or require the hero to the same extent.  Film noir has the hardboiled detective, but plenty of major works in the genre omit him.  Robert Warhow famously saw the gangster as a tragic hero (in contrast to “the Westerner”) and there is certainly truth there, but my focus and comparison is a little more narrow--genres which explicitly set up their protagonists as heroic and admirable, and then discuss the nature of this heroism.  The “cop film” might qualify if it were not so vague and diffuse, with sub-genres ranging from police procedural to buddy-cop to vengeful-cop-on-the-loose.  The generic “action movie” is obviously so broad as to be meaningless, even if it offers an interesting variety of heroic types from Rambo to John McClane to Jason Bourne.  All of these types can of course be compared and contrasted with one another, telling us interesting things about the evolving nature of our fictional heroes, but my point is this:  the superhero is the first major genre (although its limited numbers may still qualify it as only a sub-genre to some minds) since the western to consistently explore the qualities of a hero as part of its raison d’etre.  This is important to us as a culture, and I hope to explore the implications further in the future.  For now, I want to circle back to The Dark Knight, because I think it’s interesting to consider the movie in the context of the Western.

Most reviews of The Dark Knight when it came out brought up its supposed realism, and many (including me) compared it to crime dramas like Heat or The Departed.  Others, noting the villainy of the Joker, brought up serial killer movies like The Silence of the Lambs and Se7en.  Certainly all these comparisons are valid, but I’m interested in the way Batman himself compares with Western cowboy heroes, and how the film as a whole deals with classic Western themes.

In what I like to call the classic “Town Western,” a heroic outsider comes to live in a new community.  This community is struggling (sometimes failing) to become a good, stable place, a genuine outcropping of civilization in the wilderness, but it is threatened by a villain attempting to either control the town tyrannically, or terrorize the citizens wantonly and destructively.  The heroic outsider is the only one capable of standing up to this villain, and whatever other actors are involved, in the end it must come to a showdown between the hero and the villain, usually as a duel in the middle of the street.  In the end, with the villain defeated, the hero usually leaves.  He may be seduced by the town, by the love of a good woman and the possibility of settling down, but he knows this life cannot be for him, so he rides away into the sunset.  We see this pattern in movies like Dodge City, My Darling Clementine, and Shane, but it extends across the length and breadth of the genre.  

In The Dark Knight, Batman takes on many qualities of the western hero: he is an outsider (though not born one), the only one capable of fighting the villain when the townspeople run scared and the old law and order breaks down, and in the end he must ride away into the light.  (It was that final shot of the Bat-pod driving into the tunnel with light spraying out that first clued me in to the resemblance.)  The comparison becomes stronger when we remember the discussion of ancient Rome that Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent have in the restaurant.  For the Romans, the city was the state was the nation was the civilization, something we might link back even farther to Athens and the Greek polis.  So it is with the town in the Western and Gotham for Batman: the city is everything, outside are barbarians bringing chaos.  Thus, the action of the film is confined to the city, not even allowing us a view of the outskirts or suburbs.  (True, there is that jaunt to Hong Kong, but except for the brief shot of the boat, its glass and steel skyscrapers maintain a continuity of milieu.)  He who threatens the city threatens civilization itself.  More resonances are embedded here as well: While the Western town often represents American decency in the face of World War II and the Cold War, Gotham represents America in the age of terrorism.  They both speak to our fears and our ideals under attack.

The Western that best compares to The Dark Knight, that engages with the myths and ideals of law and order most closely (indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were genuine influence here), is John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.  Here we see remarkably clear analogues for Batman, Harvey Dent, and Rachel in Tom Doniphon (John Wayne), Ransom Stoddard (James Stewart), and Hallie (Vera Miles).  Stoddard is a lawyer, schoolteacher, and eventually politician, bringing order and learning to the west and representing legitimate republican government.  Liberty Valance, like the Joker, represents anarchy, a “liberty” that rejects all rules and order.  Doniphon is the only one who can stop him, but in doing so he must participate in a noble lie that turns Stoddard into a hero and gives up Hallie, the love of his life.  (Shades of Plato in both movies--the necessity of lies to maintain civilization.)  Unlike Harvey Dent, Ransom Stoddard does not fall into madness, but his success as a symbol for the entire territory rests on something he did not do, while the true hero recedes into obscurity.  Tom Doniphon, like Batman, is the kind of hero society can’t afford to celebrate.  The kind of hero who breaks the law to uphold the law, whose justice is too rough for the modern system to officially countenance.  The Roman dictator who saves the city by ignoring democratic process.  Unlike Wyatt Earp in My Darling Clementine, who rides away to finish the drive he started, or Shane who rides away to die, Doniphon has nowhere else to ride to, no more wilderness to roam.  He just goes back to his ranch and lives out the rest of his days doused in whiskey, consumed by loneliness and regret.  (Note that while Harvey Dent dies and becomes a symbol himself, there is a third figure in TDK to preserve law and order and maintain his status as a public hero: Commissioner Gordon.)

It’s so much easier when our heroes die in battle, their moment of greatness preserved forevermore as their final legacy, so we don’t have to figure out what to do with them later.  What use can Batman have in peacetime?  He is more than just a man (a man who now has no hope for a normal life), he is a symbol, and it is in the shifting meaning of him as a symbol to the people of Gotham that we perceive the uses we make of our heroes and villains.  We may also perceive the potential of the superhero genre to investigate these uses, a potential it has yet to fully tap.  This potential is why I keep coming back to the superhero genre, looking for something more.


(actually posted Feb 2015)

The Best Movies of the '00s: Part 5

10.  Inglourious Basterds (2009, Tarantino)
After watching Inglourious Basterds on the opening weekend back in 2009, I came back with my head buzzing, sat down, and wrote an interpretation of the film on a few sheets of yellow legal pad.  It was probably my first real piece of film criticism.  In that essay, I proposed that the film could be seen as a combination/extrapolation of The Dirty Dozen and Once Upon a Time in the West: Just as Leone set his film within a mythologized filmic version of the Wild West created by an entire genre of films, Tarantino’s insight was to recognize that World War II Europe has become a similarly abstract cinematic playground, with possibilities far beyond the historical realties and boundaries or the era.  Hence the title of the first chapter in the film: Once Upon a Time. . .in Nazi-Occupied France.  Tarantino is playing around with history and genre just as Leone was doing in the sixties.

I still think this view is correct, as far as it goes, but I’ve come to realize that the film is doing far more than that.  While all of Tarantino’s films are postmodern meta-movies that mix and match genres, Inglourious Basterds goes further, interrogating the effects that cinema has on audiences and on the real world.  Investigating propaganda and the thin line between corrupting influence and legitimate entertainment, it is a self-reflexive commentary on the war film genre on both sides of the conflict, offering an incrimination of both while admitting the appeal of simple, bloodthirsty fun. It is an indictment of the Nazi sin of defiling cinema, using a literal death-by-blazing-film to punish such a crime.  And finally, it is an act of celebration and reclamation of old, pre-war cinema for today, rescuing directors (Riefenstal, Pabst) and actors (Max Linder, Lillian Harvey) from the obscuring cloud of fascism, while condemning others (Emil Jannings) for their complicity.  An enormously complex commentary on the nature of film and its relation to politics and history, centering a battle within genre for the soul of cinema, it is Tarantino’s masterpiece.

9.  Spirited Away (2001, Miyazaki)
Hayao Miyazaki is the greeatest animator of all time, and this is his masterpiece.  This is saying something, as he already had two world-class masterpieces in My Neighbor Totoro and Princess Mononoke, and several other films very nearly as great.  Here, however, Miyazaki moves beyond his usual gentle, well-structured storytelling style into a realm of surrealism, ambiguity, and mystery that actually caused controversy within Studio Ghibli during production.  Chihiro's journey parallels that of Alice, a journey through a metaphorical rabbit hole into an abandoned Japanese theme park, and from there into a boathouse of the gods, a world of spirits and magic where reality is slippery and nothing is as it seems.  The boathouse is a world unlike anything else in cinema, a dominion ruled by a capricious witch who dotes on her monstrous baby, populated by living soot-sprites, talking frogs, many-limbed boiler-men, polluted river-spirits, and dragons who look like teenage boys.  Chihiro must learn to work and grow to survive in this world, proving herself by determination and courage.  In the film's extraordinary final act, however, this dramatic arc seems to fall away in service of poetry.  As if in a dream, all obstacles fall away in the face of Chihiro's newly awakened love and empathy.  Where Alice was stymied by Wonderland's paralyzing lack of rationality, Chihiro succeeds by maintaining her purity and innocence and by offering true emotional understanding to those trapped in this strange land between sleep and death.  With this ending, Miyazaki succeeds not only in his greatest imaginative achievement, but in one of the most profound statements of his humanist philosophy.

8.  The Dark Knight (2008, Nolan)
A seismic leap forward in the superhero genre and one of the most exhilaratingly huge action films ever constructed, The Dark Knight is not merely a crime drama with costumed vigilantes, but a film of enormous thematic complexity as well. It is a film consumed by dualities: good and evil, darkness and light, order and chaos, sanity and psychosis, grief and rage, truth and lies.  The very structure of the film reflects this in the difference of its two halves, before and after the Joker's capture.  The focus is on the knife edge separating the extremes and the spin of a coin it takes to flip from one to the other.  The implications are both moral and political:  What are we prepared to do to preserve civilization in the face of barbarism?  The answers mark the film as perhaps the most profound cinematic statement yet on the age of terrorism.

7.  In the Mood for Love (2000, Wong)
Wong Kar-Wai, the lovesick beat poet of the '90s, leaves behind single 20-something protagonists for married 30-somethings, in the process slowing down his usual blurry-clear photography and pop sensibility, exchanging them for a neo-classical style and lounge jazz rhythm that seems like his apotheosis.  It isn't quite as fun as his earlier films (and it isn't my favorite), but it feels more mature and profound.  Sometimes falsely identified as a societal critique, the film is instead an emotional and atmospheric portrait of a moment in time, a long, drawn-out moment of romantic possibility.  When it finally ends, as all moments must, it is whisked away in a haze of cigarette smoke, eternal only in memory (and celluloid), where it can be replayed again and again, as time goes by.

6.  Pan's Labyrinth (2006, del Toro)
Like Bridge to Terabithia crossed with Schindler's List, Pan's Labyrinth is a fantasy of childlike imagination in the midst of absolute evil and horrific violence.  Guillermo del Toro gives free reign to his imagination in his creature designs on a level only surpassed by Hayao Miyazaki among contemporary filmmakers, and his creations here have the indelible, unforgettable power of your own nightmares.  What is innocence and what is evil?  Can anything pure and fragile survive in the face of such cruelty and brutality?  Or should evil be the one frightened?  Is beauty the one that really conquers?  On a temporal level that may be too much to ask, but in an ultimate sense the film suggests that may very well be the way of it.

5.  Memento (2000, Nolan)
Do you know how you got where you are?  How you got into this room?  Are you sure that's what really happened?  Are you sure your mind isn't playing tricks on you?  Leonard Shelby doesn't remember any of that.  Ask him a few minutes from now and he won't remember this conversation.  He's trained himself to live without, though.  He's tattooed rules onto his body, attempted to drill routine into his muscle memory.  He's on a mission, and nothing is going to stop him.  But how will he know when he has succeeded?  And how can he know he's on the right track, on the right mission in the first place?  Maybe it's not just his mind playing tricks on him, maybe he is doing it to himself.  People do it all the time.  Maybe he's concealing something from himself, telling himself lies to prevent collapse.  Maybe you are, too.  After all, when it comes right down to it, what's really separating him from you?

4.  No Country for Old Men (2007, Coen)
When they want to be, the Coens are the most deliberate and perfectionist filmmakers since Kubrick, and that's what they are here.  In partnering with novelist Cormac McCarthy, the brothers have offered their most indelible vision of a Hobbesian universe, a world where everyone must devise their own code, their own system for living, in order to survive in the face of violence and evil.  The three central characters are pitted against each other in an existential chess match that can only end in death, their personal codes in conflict just as much as their bodies and intellects.  Llewelyn Moss: an opportunist, self-confident and self-sufficient, who believes he has control of his own life.  Sheriff Ed Tom Bell: the old man of the title, principled, weathered, gradually losing faith as he sees his ideas of the way the world should be mocked at every turn.  Anton Chirgurh: a sociopathic killing machine, believes himself an embodiment of fate, but fallible and blind to his own vulnerability.  They could be a revisionist take on the three central characters from a Leone spaghetti Western, tightened and focused instead of widened and iconic.  


The film is a revisitation of themes, styles, and plots from the Coens' Blood Simple, Miller's Crossing, and Fargo, but this time the philosophy is given even greater resonance by McCarthy's scorched-earth dialogue.  I suspect it may be their magnum opus.

3.  The New World  (2005, Malick)
A film that deserves so much more than the woefully small space I can here devote to it.  When it premiered in the last days of 2005 it was met with mostly bemused and exasperated dismissals from the critical establishment, which was then countered with a massive push-back from the still-young online cinephile community.  It is a film that almost always inspires boredom or ecstasy--there is no middle ground.


Malick does not merely look back on the historical events of Jamestown in 1607, he transports the audience there, re-imagining every moment with a sensory immediacy I've never felt with any other filmmaker.  Far from a simple indictment of English colonialism or celebration of a lost Native American culture, the film continually sets up dichotomies and then finds ways to collapse them in a constantly evolving vision of history.  Every detail, every moment, is presented as a New World in itself.  Malick examines the idea of America without worrying about politics or legal structures, instead identifying her as the ultimate land of possibility, untamed and impossible to put in a box.  While set in the 17th century, his strongest influences seem to be from the American Romantics and Transcendentalists of the early 19th.  Like Thoreau, he sees the individual in conflict with society; like Whitman, he sings a song of connection between all living things; and like Emerson, he sees history as a river reminiscent of "the flux of all things," and "every man an inlet to the same and all of the same."  Malick's melding of image and sound are unequaled, and the last five minutes are among the most perfectly transcendent passages of film I've ever seen.  It is no exaggeration to say that this film changed my life, and I'm not really sure how it's only at #3.

2.  Yi Yi (2000, Yang)
There is more of life in five minutes of this film than most works of art can manage in their entirety.  Every stage of life, from childhood to youth to marriage to middle age to old age and death, is encompassed in this film's three hours, and it does it with such boundless grace and subtlety that it consistently astounds.  If it is better than The New World, it is only in its sense of permanence and almost architectural structure.  Both films are astonishingly beautiful, but where Malick's images flow like water in a never-ending stream, Yang's come one after the other in a gentle but nevertheless firm and deliberate rhythm, leaving each shot on screen exactly as long as it needs to be.  Many reviews attempt to schematize the plot, which is tempting, for the film follows multiple characters over a very long runtime, accumulating incident until it is comparable in scope and detail to a 19th-century novel.  But this would be a mistake, for Yi Yi is not interested in being a soap opera or melodrama, and detailing all the events of the plot would only serve to lessen and trivialize it.  Rest assured, it is not a strange or difficult film, but a story of a middle class Taiwanese family as they struggle with various personal issues over a period of several weeks or months.  In many ways, this story and these characters could be found in any industrialized country, and by the end of the film this family will seem no more foreign to you than your next door neighbors.

The tone of the film is melancholy, occasionally heartbreaking, but I leave it refreshed and joyful.  All those poor, lonely people, running around and hurting themselves, oblivious to how alike they are in their pain.  The film is a profound act of love and sympathy by Yang, to his characters and to his audience: he helps us empathize along with him, shows us our own petty, sorrowful selves, and lets us know we're not alone.

Thoughts on Inception

I probably seem a long way behind the curve on this one, seeing as how Inception came out three months ago and every other critic, blogger, and fanboy on the internet weighed in in the first two weeks, but I think there’s still room for more discussion here. After all, the movie is still in theaters where I live, and I’ve just been biding my time and coming up with fascinating insights for three months (or procrastinating, take your pick). Anyway, this will be less of a review and more of a loose defense of the film from its critics mixed with a semi-organized list of interesting things I noticed about the film and the ideas it brings up. So if my paragraphs lack a thesis statement, don’t worry about it.

I’ve been a fan of Christopher Nolan’s since The Prestige. I consider that film an underrated masterpiece, and it introduced me quickly to the rest of his work. Memento, I believe, is his greatest film thus far, but The Dark Knight is not far behind, and he has yet to make a bad film. HIs record is unbroken, perhaps the finest record of any English-language director of the last decade--only Peter Jackson, Clint Eastwood, and the Coen Brothers can compete, and they each had their respective flops. (I would note here, in defense of my hyperbole, that are plenty of other great directors out there, many of whom have done things greater than Nolan has ever done, I just feel their films this decade were either too uneven or too few to include in this little group.)

If we define an auteur as a director with ultimate artistic control over the story, look and content of his films, a director with a recognizable style who returns to certain themes and ideas repeatedly, then Nolan clearly qualifies as one. He has at least a partial scriptwriting credit on all of his movies except Insomnia, which was a remake. Influenced by Michael Mann, Alfred Hitchock, and possibly David Fincher (plus numerous others I can’t identify--Jean-Pierre Melville perhaps?), each of his films has a similar look and style. He prefers a rather bleached color palette, especially blues, grays, and blacks, often using brighter colors to signify important details and thematic elements. Many images are repeated again and again in his films, gradually taking on new meaning and import each time. The Dark Knight remains his only film to be told entirely chronologically--even Insomnia had brief flashbacks. Nolan’s protagonists are all defined by traumas in their pasts which drive their actions in the present, and often have symbiotic relationships with their antagonists. He continually returns to themes of identity, memory, and perhaps most importantly, the nature of truth and the various natures of lies, especially the lies we tell ourselves.

Inception, as has been pointed out elsewhere, was initially met with deafening acclaim from the critics attending pre-release screenings, but was then criticized more heavily by the weekend critics. The pre-release screenings included numerous online and more movie-news oriented critics, while the later reviews tended to skew more toward established, print-based critics. There were exceptions to both rules, but this didn’t stop the eruption of a mini-battle/argument/flamewar between the perceived elitism of the print critics and the populism of the online community, playing out on websites like Rotten Tomatoes and the comments sections of blogs. Nolan has a great deal of street-cred among fanboys and young movie-fans in general, especially after directing the most popular superhero movie ever. Eventually, the more high-brow amateur bloggers started weighing in, and while no agreement was ever really reached, the controversy eventually died down, as mini-controversies will. I myself greatly enjoyed the movie, and can sympathize with the movie’s defenders (my previous comments might even place me among the Nolan fanboys), but I can appreciate some of the arguments made against the film as well. At the very least, they ought to be met with a reasoned response, not insults.

Critical opinions of Inception can be found here, here, and here. The major points of criticism seem to be these: The movie is too talky and concerned with explaining, it’s cold and humorless, the characters are not well-developed, Nolan doesn’t know how to shoot action, and the dreams in the film are not like the dreams we experience in real life. I think all of these are legitimate points, but I also think they can all be addressed, and none of them ruin the film.

The first two accusations are somewhat subjective. I found myself fascinated with the constant flow of information being given to the audience: instead of simply setting up an interesting concept and letting it play out, we were continually asked to process new data and reinterpret the events on screen as they were happening. This style of storytelling has its downsides, and there’s something to be said for simplicity, but how often do we get a film this ambitious and confusing that can connect with a mass audience? It is unquestionably the most ambitious summer blockbuster since The Dark Knight, far more ambitious even than Avatar, which merely wanted to impress with its technology. Inception wants to immerse us in a new world, engage with us on both intellectual and emotional levels, and leave us thinking. I am not sure if it is completely successful on the intellectual front (I’ll get to that in a minute), but for me at least, it’s narrative thrust was completely engaging and exhilarating. I also find it incredible that a film with so many rules apparently abides by them so strictly and logically. As to humorless, I think it could have used another joke or two. There were two or three LOL moments, but that was it, and the rest was very serious and plot-focused. This seems to be a Nolan trademark/curse: He is extremely focused and driven, but not particularly funny. He does not have a light touch, but he does have a strong, talented, authorial touch, and this can make up for it. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t mind seeing some more humor and jauntiness to Nolan in the future. His funniest film by far has been The Dark Knight, and that was entirely because of the violent black comedy of Ledger’s Joker. Hitchcock new how to make things funny and intense at the same time, and it’s an ability too many filmmakers today lack.

As for character development: I think the actors all did excellent jobs, conveying a sense of cool and magnetism that only real stars can pull off. Joseph-Gordon Levitt has been excellent for ages, but now he should finally start getting the attention he deserves. Ellen Page is more than Juno, and she can show it if she gets the chance. Tom Hardy is still an unknown to most people, but he could be one of the most exciting men in Hollywood if he gets a couple big roles. And DiCaprio always brings the intensity, but he was completely convincing here when he often isn’t. But I agree that aside from DiCaprio as Cobb, most of the other characters were only sketched lightly. Their inner lives were not explored at all. The actors’ performances were all exciting and intriguing, but they left me wanting more. This could be because the entire movie takes place in Cobb’s mind--they are all figments of his imagination, and therefore incomplete as people. I do not completely endorse this interpretation, but if you choose to accept it, the problem is solved. If you do not, you are still left with a compelling central character and plotline, and several subsidiary characters who are interesting enough that you want to know more--not so weakly drawn that they feel unnecessary and distracting.

As far as Nolan’s shooting of action goes, I think he’s getting better. His first two movies had no real action scenes, just some scuffling and gunshots, and he had no chance to practice the techniques needed to create intelligible, believable, exciting action. Insomnia had an excellent chase through the mist, filled with slick rocks, stumbling, and confusion. You couldn’t tell where everyone was, but then that was the point. The final shoot-out was spatially intelligible and logically played out, but I’ve never found it that compelling. Batman Begins was the worst offender as far as action sequences go. Early scenes involving the League of Shadows are admirably mysterious and visceral, but the central sequence--when Bruce Wayne finally defeats Ducard at his own game, in the middle of ranks of ninjas--is again meant to confuse and disorient. When Bruce gets back to Gotham and begins fighting as Batman, things get more confused. His escape in the Batmobile is wild and unintelligible, when it should be light, exciting, and funny. The Batmobile is seen leaping off buildings, smashing police cars out of the way, and generally causing havoc while policemen radio back and forth, trying to understand what’s going on. The problem is, the audience can’t understand what’s going on either, and the sequence loses its thrill. The climax is also problematic--cluttered, dark, and filled with too many cuts and overly-specific explanations. I had to watch it a couple times before I really understood what was going on, and even then, all Batman’s punches seem obscured and confused. The Prestige doesn’t have any action to speak of, but The Dark Knight has multiple scenes, each with their own advantages and disadvantages. The opening bank heist is brilliantly conceived, one of the most thrilling opening scenes ever, right up there with the opening to Raiders of the Lost Ark. Batman’s first scene, where he takes out drug traffickers and leaps onto a van in a parking garage is confused and over too quickly to care much. His trip to Hong Kong is exciting and intense, including the thrilling shot of Batman leaping off a skyscraper and having the camera plunge after him. The fighting is over quickly enough that we never feel things are getting confused. Then there’s the central armored car attack, filmed (at least partially) on Chicago’s Lower Wacker. This sequence strikes me as being about as exciting and well-staged as car chases get these days, and I have nothing to fault it for. The doctors-as-hostages climax, on the other hand is extremely choppy, snapping back and forth between Batman, Gordon, the Joker, and the two ferries so quickly that it requires multiple viewings to figure out how each little snatch of action in the building is actually related to the others. Everything seems shot so closely to the fighting, in such poor light, and chopped up so fast, that it’s difficult to feel part of the action, and instead I’m left trying to catch up or just going along for the ride, confident that it’ll eventually end up at a place that makes sense. And it does. To Nolan’s credit, he resists making the action the substance of the climax. Instead, the real climactic moments take place between Batman, Gordon, and Harvey Dent in the burned-out warehouse, and they focus on emotions and character instead of explosions.

So Nolan has a mixed record when it comes to action. He needs to learn to step back and film several seconds of a fight at a time, then learn to match cut it to other angles, so it looks like the fight is playing out clearly and logically. This is not the trend nowadays--things are supposed to look like they makes sense, but directors and editors feel they have to cut fast to keep the energy of the scene up. Faster cutting can help, but spatial and movement coherence are essential as well, and if you can’t accomplish both of these at once, your action scenes will be second-rate, even if your pounding music keeps people’s adrenaline up. I think Nolan accomplishes this better in Inception than he did before, though not entirely. Gordon-Levitt’s null-g fight in the hallway is absolutely spectacular, and is entirely spatially coherent. The car chase scenes are remarkably tense and exciting considering how brief and cut-off they are. The only place I feel the ball really gets dropped is in the final snow-fortress assault. Virtually none of the action here seems connected to anything else. It is supposed to be a maze, but we never get a sense of the process of getting through it. Mostly, we are focused on the overall progress of the plan and what is happening on the other levels of the dream, and the shots fired and punches thrown seem to be merely a distraction. I find it a little remarkable that he can keep four to five separate layers of dreams completely coherent, but all the action within one layer seems to be confused and unclear. Oh well. I would still contend that this sequence didn’t ruin the movie, merely hampered it’s thrills a bit. Hopefully Nolan can improve on his action scenes in the future.

By far the most serious accusation against the film is the contention that it’s dreams do not resemble real dreams and the film is therefore irrelevant. This criticism is more serious than it might appear, because it does address centrally what the film is about. If, as it’s defenders claim, the movie is so ambitious and so masterfully successful, surely it has some point? Some larger themes it is exploring? What does the movie really reveal about our subconscious, unconscious, and the nature of dreams? My answer to the latter question: Not much. The movie isn’t really about dreams and how they affect us; it simply wants to use the dreamscape as an environment, not unlike a video game, to stage an elaborate caper movie. This is not to say the dreams in the movie have nothing to do with real dreams. There are many details here which harken back to our most common dreams and the sensations we feel within them: You can never remember how you got anywhere, outside sensations--like the need to pee or movement--can be manifested inside the dream, repeated attempts to make something different happen (like see your kids’ faces) never succeed, paradoxes occur that could never happen in real life, walls close in on you, everyone stares at you, people are after you for reasons never explained, dreams reoccur that indicate psychological preoccupations, time in dreams can seem to pass much faster than while awake, and the sensation of falling or impending death can suddenly wake you up. All these characteristics of dreams are represented in the movie, but the movie isn’t really about how dreams work. It just borrows the familiar environment and architecture of dreams in order to construct a narrative, making up new rules as it goes. Some argue that this just makes things unrealistic and difficult to relate to, but I disagree. More tellingly, they suggest that a more imaginative and talented director would have more compelling and surreal dream-imagery, and that Nolan’s lack of imagination hampers, and--considering its clear ambition--ultimately dooms the movie.

It is true that Nolan’s dreams have rules and structure that are far more solid and complex than the bizarre storylines and lunatic imagery of my dreams, calling to mind the computer world of The Matrix rather than the surrealism of David Lynch. This has logical, story-based reasons, however. Nolan is far more comfortable exploring the mind as a maze than the Freudian mysteries of the subconscious. These dreams are not a single individual’s nightmare, but rather carefully constructed shared dreams that must seem completely real to the subject or the dream invaders will be discovered. This necessitates as little randomness as possible, with the dreamers going so far as to design whole dreams and environments while awake which they then draw upon instantly once asleep. The film is not filled with bizarre dream imagery because it is not “an unfettered dream movie” attempting to map the subconscious, but rather a sci-fi heist thriller set within the boundaries of the mind, which the subconscious occasionally infringes upon. Random imagery, if indulged, could have taken away from the plot; witness the similar idea but incomprehensibility of Paprika, an anime film which ends up reduced to several striking and wacky/creepy images, but lacks interesting characters or plot to carry it along. If you want movies that attempt to examine the subconscious more thoroughly and creatively, watch the films of David Lynch and Luis Bunuel, or Charlie Kaufmann’s Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Synecdoche, New York, or other surreal movies like Brazil or Spirited Away or even Coraline. All these movies have great virtues, but they are different virtues than Inception possesses, or was even trying for. Nolan probably could not make them if he tried, but then, he hasn’t tried.

Three other accusations that I saw against Nolan: (1) he doesn’t know how to tell a story in images, (2) he only makes movies for people who like plots, which makes him rather uninteresting, and (3) he isn’t a poet. To the first, I say you don’t know what you’re talking about. You are blind to the incredible imagery Nolan creates here, but you also haven’t seen The Prestige, where images explain everything. To the second, I concede the point that many great directors disregard plots in order to study people, map emotions, and elaborate on themes. But I also contend that most classical directors would emphasize plot above all else for making a good movie, and Alfred Hitchcock is worshipped even today for his control of plot. Plot should not be dismissed with a sniff, for nearly everyone who watches movies enjoys them for their plots. Plot is not necessary for art, but it generally is for popular entertainment, and no director has been popularly successful without it. And to the third, I answer, No, he’s not. Unfortunately, Nolan is not John Ford, Terrence Malick, or Wong Kar-Wai. But few directors are. Hitchock and Hawks generally weren’t either. They could achieve poetry at times, but more often they were concerned with other things. And this is all right.

• There are no opening credits, viewers are just plunged into a mystifying opening sequence that actually occurs at the end of the story (a trick I believe started with Citizen Kane).

• I am not a good judge of such things, but I thought Hans Zimmer's pulsing. heart-attack inducing score was terrific, and often gorgeous. It also, apparently hides a secret of its own.

• The most powerful performance in the film is that of Marion Cotillard. She is beautifully, mysteriously, achingly sinister. Other than the hallway fight, her heartbreaking tearstained face and sultry walk are the clearest images of the movie in my mind.

• Early suggestions by critics of the Kubrickian character of the movie were exaggerated. Several shots clearly show Kubrick’s influence--Saito’s orange meeting room, the hotel hallway, the vault at the end staged as a clear reference to 2001--but the film’s rhythms and characters and overall perspective are nothing like Kubrick, and the film should not be held to that standard. It owes as much to M.C. Escher as to Kubrick.

• Nolan’s cinematographer Wally Pfister has worked his way up from straight-to-video flops and crap like A Kid in Aladdin’s Palace, to become one of the best in the business, in the process being nominated for three Oscars.

• Nolan’s and Pfister’s visuals here are among the most striking I have ever seen in a big event movie, certainly as stunning as anything I’ve seen in a theater (which admittedly isn’t all that huge a group). Instead of attempting surrealistic symbols and clutter, they instead opt for bold lines and hi-def clarity, creating, very literally, an architecture of the mind, where every shot is defined by geometric shapes. Taking their cue from M.C. Escher, Stanley Kubrick, and perhaps Charles and Ray Eames, this is a film obsessed with squares and rectangles, and how they can be fited together to form buildings or mazes. Objects that aren’t straight--like the top or water droplets--are perfectly smooth, flowing in cool, clear, geometric purity. Mombassa and the crumbling remnants of Cobb’s city in limbo are the only places that rough edges are allowed to appear. As to striking images, of course there is Ariadne’s first dream, where Paris folds over on itself (in perfect right angles) and everything on the street starts to blow up (even those explosions happen in regular, star-burst patterns). But the more striking to me were those images which did not rely on computer generated effects--Saito’s palatial Japanese compound, which reminded me of the bathhouse in Spirited Away, lit with hundreds of spherical lamps arranged in straight lines; Joseph Gordon-Levitt walking on the walls of the rotating hotel hallway, still dapper in suit and suspenders; the sleeping team suspended in zero gravity, their limbs and the cables of the machine splayed out like spider-webs between tree-branches; Marion Cotillard’s face; and the slow-motion.

• Nolan and Pfister use slow-motion in a way I’ve never seen before, to achieve an effect as beautiful as anything done by Martin Scorsese, Sam Peckinpah, or Wong Kar-Wai (though perhaps not with quite the emotional impact). They slow time down to an extant probably never done in a mainstream movie before, not even in The Matrix, drawing out a couple of seconds into a quarter of an hour. Virtually every use of slow motion involves falling and how it affects other layers of the dream, meaning it is important plot-wise, not just a cool effect. It is speed-ramping done right, and ought to show Zack Snyder a thing or two. The effect is usually paired with water, whether splashing into character’s faces or engulfing them as they plunge backward into it. The sequences where Cobb’s chair rolls backward into the bathtub, or the van slowly hurtles off the bridge, or everyone’s legs and arms kick up at once as if part of a dance, are mesmerizing, especially with individual drops of water, like liquid glass, blooming outward through the air. Considering all this, I find it rather mystifying that anyone could complain about the lack of visual imagination evidenced in the film.

I have not yet endorsed an interpretation of the ending, and I don’t really intend to, mostly because I’m not really sure what I think myself. Some friends have suggested that it doesn’t matter whether he was dreaming or not, only that he was happy, but I reject this. If he was still dreaming he might have been happy, but he would have been lying to himself. This is a theme Nolan has explored repeatedly, in Memento, Insomnia,The Prestige, and The Dark Knight, and it is central to Cobb’s character throughout the film. Why should they have left limbo if they were happy there? Why would the person in Plato's cave want to crawl out to the sunlight? Because reality is much better/fuller than any dream our minds can construct, and any lie is eventually going to come crashing down or end in disappointment; it's only a matter of time. Then again, Plato also proposed the concept of a Noble Lie in order to achieve just ends, something that seems to be endorsed at the end of The Dark Knight. But the Noble Lie was something the enlightened elite would tell the masses to create harmony and agreement, it was not something you could tell yourself. Self-deception is never justified. Is it?

Perhaps more importantly, though, I believe the film ought to be seen as a metaphor for cinema itself. Nolan intentionally brandished his cinematic influences here as never before. The Dark Knight clearly took part of the bank heist from Michael Mann’s Heat, and Insomnia seems to me to be modeled after Welles’s Touch of Evil, but other than a bit or piece here or there, his other films are much more circumspect about their influences. Inception, however, is suffused with other movies: There are several shots borrowed from Kubrick, especially the room in the vault; a training sequence out of The Matrix, as well as null-g fights; the mirror scene with an infinite number of Ariadnes, recalling the infinite Kanes in Citizen Kane; a gathering of specialist thieves out of Rififi, Ocean’s Eleven, and practically every heist movie ever; the chase in Mombassa reminiscent of The Bourne Supremacy; another Michael Mann-style gunfight; the final snow level, with fights on skis out of From Russia With Love and a fortress out of The Heroes of Telemark; and many more that I haven’t noticed. DiCaprio modeled his character after Christopher Nolan himself, wearing a similar hairstyle and clothes, but also copying his intensity, focus, and drive. The dreamscapes are constructible like movies, and anything can happen within them. Inception imagines cinema as a shared, communal dream; a dream from which we don’t want to wake up; a dream which gives free reign to our imaginations; a dream which can indeed bring catharsis and real emotional release; but also, perhaps, a dream with dark potential consequences, which can suck us in and never let us go.

A couple more interesting takes on the movie: David Bordwell, probably the most insightful critic writing today, has two pieces analyzing the films narrative structure and how innovative is, here and here.

A "Far-Flung Correspondent" of Roger Ebert gives a nice little look at how architecture is used and depicted in the movie here.

And one of the more compelling interpretations (it's all a dream) of the movie can be found here.