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by Oscar O'Sullivan Hollywood seems to love adaptations, right? It is fairly easy to see why. In theory, throwing together a new version of an existing property is much simpler and more convenient than creating another franchise from scratch. You also get a built-in fanbase, who will surely turn out in droves to see your film. So why is it that Hollywood has a track record of fumbling these sure things? Maybe it is because adaptation is not quite as easy as it seems. Appeasing existing fans while drawing in new viewers, staying faithful to the original while still differing enough to be worth making in the first place, adaptation is a series of balancing acts in which failure is far easier and more common than success. Hollywood’s latest attempt has come in the form of Alita: Battle Angel (2019), based on the 1990 manga series Gunnm. If you want to talk about difficult adaptations, no medium has had a rougher time on the big screen than anime and manga. Part of this is due to the outlandish visuals common to the medium being impossible to recreate faithfully in live action. Another factor is the difficulty of compressing serialized, weekly plotlines with bustling, rotating casts of characters into two-hour films with a few central protagonists and villains. Having seen Alita for myself, I can confidently say that it is the best Hollywood adaptation of a manga property, hands-down. As a movie by itself, Alita is not brilliant, but it is leagues ahead of disasters like Ghost in the Shell (2017) or Dragon Ball Evolution (2009). Its success where others have failed can be boiled down to the mechanics of how it was adapted (mild spoilers ahead for the film and the manga): The film adapts Gunnm’s first four volumes into a two-hour film. The film is mostly faithful in its approach to the story, simply changing the order of some events and introducing characters earlier than in the original work. The restructuring does work in many places. The most significant example of improvement is the film’s handling of Alita’s second body, the Berserker. In the original manga, the powerful Martian body is given to her by Ido in the second chapter. The film instead has her discover the body herself while exploring a wrecked spacecraft, and only has her attached to it after the halfway point. Rather than a gift, the Berserker body is now something that Alita earns through her own agency. The movie’s withholding of the upgrade until later in the story also raises Alita’s badass cred. The purpose of the brawl in the Hunter’s bar is completely changed by the adaptation. Originally, the scene served to demonstrate the power of Alita’s new form, as she effortlessly manhandles dozens of hardened cyborgs. The film’s version of events plays out almost exactly the same, but with the crucial difference being that Alita is not using the Berserker body. Instead of highlighting the Berserker’s power, the fight now highlights the inherent power and skill of Alita herself. Changes like these, while benefiting the protagonist, can take their toll on the plot. Grewishka in the manga was the main threat for the entire first volume. His defeat at the beginning of volume two marked the end of that plotline, the beginning of Alita’s growth into the warrior she would later become, and the three-chapter fight is a suitably epic send-off for Alita’s first rival. However, the jumbling of events in the film takes away from Grewishka’s significance. He is one of four villains that are active in the plot, and having to share the spotlight with more developed or entertaining villains like Vector and Zappan, both of whom come after him in the manga’s story, greatly reduces Grewishka’s significance. Instead of Alita’s arch-nemesis, he is essentially The Heavy for the film’s villain ensemble. There is no time here for his backstory, or for any exploration of his motivations. The Grewishka of the film is a glorified goon, with barely enough dialogue and screen time to distinguish him from the nameless cyborgs Alita slaughters by the dozen during action set pieces. Inevitably, the process of adaptation has created as many problems as it has fixed. Most of the film moves at an acceptable pace, but the fact that it amalgamates two successive plotlines from the manga while mashing in parts of a third muddles the structure. The first volume’s plotline is sprinkled with elements of volume two, specifically Alita’s romance with Hugo and the presence of Vector. As I mentioned, the Grewishka plotline ends abruptly about halfway through the film, only to be resolved in under a minute after the film’s climax. The remainder of Hugo’s plotline is amalgamated with the later Motorball arc, replacing a short duel between Alita and a samurai-like Hunter with a visually stunning chase sequence, with Alita evading and obliterating an array of distinctly designed and deadly pursuers. This set piece works well as a replacement for the original battle, which would have necessitated the introduction of yet another under-developed villain. After this high-stakes sequence, the film limps to its conclusion, cramming two chapters of events into the final minutes of the film, then ending on a sequel hook. The ending squashes multiple resolutions together in a rapid-fire barrage, and none of them have half of the impact of the original. The conclusion feels rushed, which may be partially due to how much longer the movie’s opening feels when compared to the opening chapters of the manga. Changes made to characters can also be a mixed bag, but are positive on the whole. Hugo suffers the most from adaptation, and is undoubtedly the movie’s weakest character. The film’s decision to introduce him at the start is a good move on the surface, ostensibly giving the audience more time to get to know him, and making his romance with Alita feel less rushed and unbelievable. In this case though, the serialised structure of the manga worked better for Hugo’s story. Hugo was the pivotal character of volume two, and Alita was essentially a supporting character in his plotline. Film Hugo is a supporting love interest, bland and underdeveloped. His backstory from the manga isn’t so much as alluded to, so the tragedy of his struggles and solid motivations are completely lost on the audience. Hugo’s likeability is further damaged by a bland performance from Keean Johnson, who plays the character as the generic YA fiction teen heartthrob. Manga Hugo was a cheeky, Aladin-esque scamp, whose optimism and hope is worn down and shattered by the harsh reality of his situation in life. Film Hugo is utterly unmemorable, a plot device for Alita’s growth as a character. Other performances in the film are much stronger on the whole, and other characters fare much better from the changes made for the film. Zappan, who was an arrogant, minor foe in the original work, is given more prominence in the film as the Hunter-Warrior who chases down Hugo in the climax to get to Alita. Ed Skrein plays him with an entertaining smugness, making him a perfect love-to-hate character; you despise him, sure, but he’s always entertaining. The other major villain of the film, Vector, is played by Academy Award winner Mahershala Ali, who brings a real gravitas to the character that the original work simply lacked. Manga Vector was a huckster, a conman, who was never a real threat to any of the characters, pretending to be more important and connected than he really was. Ali’s Vector is connected, and he is dangerous. He is still a liar and a coward, but he is far better at hiding it. Similarly, the character of Dr Ido is elevated by Christoph Waltz’s performance. Manga Ido is a stock mentor in many ways, the only substance to his character being the secret pleasure he takes in violence, a trait which is never truly elaborated upon. Waltz’s Ido is inherently more likeable and interesting, partly thanks to Waltz’s effortless likeability, partly thanks to the film’s most major backstory change: the addition of Ido’s deceased daughter. This addition to the backstory is the films most significant and effective change. For one, it adds more nuance and sympathy to Ido’s character. Manga Ido built Alita’s body out of scraps and named her after his dead cat. In the film, Alita’s body was originally created for Ido’s late daughter, and he is very clearly using her as a substitute for his child. When manga Ido forbade Alita from becoming a hunter, he seemed to be treating her like a pet or a doll, like she was his property. When Waltz’s Ido becomes overprotective, it is far more understandable. Of course, he would not want his new “daughter” in danger. The film successfully adds far more emotional weight to the relationship between Alita and Ido than was present in the original. The reason for his profession is also changed from sadistic pleasure to righteous vengeance, a change which softens his character further.
What sets Alita apart from other manga adaptations then, is the way that it has managed to make these changes to the characters and plot, while still remaining faithful to the tone and spirit of the source material. Instead of toning down the outlandish visuals, it plays them for all they are worth, embracing the exaggerated character designs and hyperactive fight choreography that people love about anime and manga. The film tells the manga’s story faithfully, perhaps too faithfully in some ways, but makes changes that don’t feel disrespectful of forced. Is Alita a perfect film? Not at all. At best, it is a fun sci-fi romp, an entertaining action spectacle. At worst, it is an uneven story with clunky dialogue. What Alita is, then, is the new gold standard for live-action anime adaptations, and that is the hill I will die on.
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by Sean Lyons Every winter, cinemas are flooded with “social injustice” films which highlight a certain area of inequality or oppression, either in the past or present day. These films are blatantly tailor-made to appeal to awards committees, often presenting the issues in a one-dimensional and preachy fashion. At a glance, Green Book appears to fit this bill. Its plot of an Italian-American man being hired to drive an African-American gay man through the south of the US in 1962 reeks of “awards bait.” As a result, I had no great expectations when going to see it. However, Green Book is more than just an “Oscar movie” as it contains a number of interesting observations on race. It is careful not only to depict the overt type of racism that is easily identifiable to us but also the subtler manifestations of racial bigotry. It begins by introducing us to Tony (Viggo Mortensen), a nightclub strong arm who conforms to the traditional stereotype of the Italian-American male; he enjoys baseball, food, family, music and most crucially, he is a racist. This is displayed early in the film when he disposes of the glasses that two black plumbers drank out of in his house. We soon learn, however, that Tony’s prejudices are only skin-deep. In spite of the racist implication of the aforementioned action, he has no qualms when offered a job as a chauffeur to Dr. Shirley (Mahershala Ali), a black classical pianist. This is our first indication that Tony’s values are not as strong as he would have us believe. Dr Shirley flips all of Tony’s preconceptions of black people: he is well-dressed, well-spoken and well-educated. This forces Tony to dramatically reassess his view of black people. If Dr Shirley doesn’t conform to his view of the typical black man, does it mean that this view is a lie? It becomes clear that Tony has no true ethical opposition to African-Americans. His “values” at the beginning of the film are merely informed by his environment and upbringing. Dr. Shirley reveals himself to be tremendously resentful of lower-class black people, as demonstrated by his interactions with them in the south. He views himself as a black man who has risen above the common rabble and escaped the conventions of his racial stereotype. As a result of his climb, he believes that black people who don’t make the effort to better themselves are perpetuating stereotypes and contributing to racism. What is worth noting, however, is that no matter how much Dr Shirley betters himself, he still falls victim to racism wherever he goes. It becomes evident that in trying to improve himself, he is really trying to “make himself white” in the eyes of white racists and this can obviously never be the case.
Green Book asks a question about whether a person prone to persecution can avoid said persecution. It also answers this question: they cannot. At one point, Tony claims that he is “blacker” than Dr Shirley because he eats fried chicken and enjoys the music of black artists like Little Richard and Aretha Franklin. He also claims that his conditions are worse than Dr Shirley’s because he was raised in poorer circumstances and is also subject to frequent racism. What Tony doesn’t understand and what Dr Shirley deftly points out to him is that white people are born with innate privilege. The pessimistic note of this observation is that no matter how much a black person may improve themselves to break the glass ceiling that society places above them, the colour of their skin means that they will always be subjected to racism. Green Book has plenty to say about how we view race and racism. Sadly, the “we” in question is white people. The film is centred around Tony and how he develops from being a committed racist to being a kind and compassionate person who eventually welcomes Dr Shirley into his home. Tony is the “white saviour” who shields Dr Shirley from racism throughout the film. Dr Shirley only develops as a character with Tony’s assistance. It is very much a film about racism through a white person’s eyes and applauds Tony for his transformation more than it shines a light on his former depravity. As a result, Dr Shirley is of secondary importance in the film. What could have been a film about an African American gay man navigating the perils of a divided 1960s America is instead a film about the white man who found it in himself to see him as a human being. It focuses on the need for love in order to unite people of different ethnicities and backgrounds. In doing this, it spends little time depicting racism through the eyes of a black person. Despite this, the film’s multi-faceted look at race provokes thought in the viewer and makes it a film worth seeing. By Colin Hoyne Interstellar is directed by Christopher Nolan and co-written by he and his brother, Jonathan Nolan. Christopher brings interstellar travel to life in this epic and inspiring tale of human survival in space. The story centres on Cooper (played by Matthew McConaughey), as a widowed farmer who, along with his father in law, looks after his two kids. Cooper and his children have a strong relationship, but his most emotional bond is with his daughter, Murph, played by the marvellous Mackenzie Foy. Supernatural, or scientific, occurrences start happening in his daughter’s bookcase, which lead Cooper on an interstellar space journey beyond the stars as they he searches for a new home due to the worsening situation on Earth. Having been Christopher Nolan’s biggest fan since his work on Inception and The Dark Knight Trilogy, I became intrigued when Interstellar was announced. Because my biggest inspiration was going to be directing, I couldn’t hold in my excitement. Having now seen the film, I realize that I was not ready for the emotions as the credits rolled on and the screen turned blank. I had just experienced an emotional rollercoaster that lit up not just my cinematic world, but my world entirely, as I now looked beyond the stars to search for something more. This movie is an instant classic and will be for many years, as I will sit my family down and I will watch this in awe, like the very first time I witnessed it. The acting is superb, as McConaughey brings to life a father and pioneering space pilot who has to let go of his children and may never return. This is not just a journey through space but an emotional journey of a father who loves his kids. Murph plays a kid bursting with scientific intrigue as she is haunted by a “ghost.” As the children grow older and Cooper travels through space, we see Jessica Chastain and Casey Affleck take over as the now aged children. Anne Hathaway plays Brand, an uptight but believable scientist who takes part in the bravest of journeys while Chris Nolan favourite Michael Caine plays Professor Brand. With a supporting cast of Wes Bentley, David Gyasi, and John Lithgow, the film is not an action or science fiction film, but a film about human survival and the heights that we strive for in terms of space travel. Nolan creates a world that we can believe as the cinematography showcases Earth as a dust-riddled piece of land, and space as a mysterious, diverse and frightening open fragment of our galaxy. How Interstellar didn’t win an Oscar for Best Cinematography amazes me, as I was stunned by the imagery I experienced in the cinema. Nolan showcases far away land being filled with water and an planet so cold its clouds have turned to ice. Hans Zimmer has also given us another memorable and inspirational soundtrack, whose Oscar snub puzzles me. Nolan and Zimmer are certainly a match made in heaven as they produce another haunting score which stays with you.
Personally, the film is my favourite of all time and will stay that way for a very long time, as I will never experience an emotional rollercoaster like that again. Nolan has given me so much already and that man deserves an Oscar soon for his cinematic worlds filled with life, twists, scientific meaning, and imagination that can transform any young teenager into a cinema lover and future filmmaker. Indeed, that is the significant affect that Christopher Nolan has had on me through the years. IN NOLAN WE TRUST. Grade: 9/10 By Thomas John Moore Obsession is one of the most effective tools employed by any screenwriter to form the basis of a good story. Damien Chazelle’s 2014 feature Whiplash explores the relationship between a young man and his drum kit, delving into his aspirations and the extent to which he will go in order to achieve them. This deep exploration of the psyche takes the viewer on a journey of emotion as Andrew Nieman, brought to life brilliantly by Miles Teller, struggles to assume a position as one of the best jazz drummers in the world. The brilliance of this movie is difficult to explain; one really has to see it in order to understand. To simply describe the premise of the film’s plot, a young drummer striving to be better, is to do Whiplash a massive disservice. The music and aesthetics alone makes it worth the watch. Jazz music as an art form is a perfect conduit for emotion, and through the soundtrack of the film we experience all of the highs and lows of Teller’s troubled character. The cinematography ingeniously sets the atmosphere of the film, immersing us in Nieman’s world and the tribulations of the students in Shaffer music school. The feat that Whiplash achieves of keeping the audience’s attention despite little change in plot for a large part of the film is testament to the director’s ability. The quality of acting displayed by Teller, as well as by J.K. Simmons as Nieman’s terrifying, sadistic teacher is among the best I’ve seen. The unpredictable, abrasive nature of Simmons’ character is expertly portrayed, leaving the viewer both appalled and impressed in equal measure. That is not to undermine Teller’s performance, however, as the presentation of the depths of Nieman’s obsession and emotional conflict is sublime. Nieman’s conflict is evident and there is not a single scene in Whiplash in which the viewer will question the authenticity of the character. Ultimately, the focus of the film is on the inescapable and destructive nature of obsession, as we see both Nieman and Simmons’ characters constantly finding themselves getting dragged back towards the orchestra. At the end of the day, not much has changed, and yet the viewer can’t help feeling satisfied. That is the brilliance of Whiplash. by Oscar O'Sullivan Anyone else remember when the first you knew about a movie was when you saw the trailer a couple months before it hit cinemas? Studios had control over audiences’ initial reactions back then. They could decide exactly how much they wanted audiences to see. In the digital age, that power is gone: Online releases of trailers come into play much earlier than in the past, so audiences have longer to build their expectations. Even before a trailer is dropped, set leaks and photos often surface online with alarming regularity. Studios suddenly find themselves with less control over the first impression of their films than ever before. Birds of Prey (2020), a new film in the DCEU franchise, is set to release in February of 2020. Production of the film has only recently begun. One really has to wonder, then, what business Warner Bros. has putting out a teaser over a year before the movie is set to hit cinemas. Surely they have jumped the gun with their marketing campaign? I’d disagree with that assessment, even if I understand the sentiment. This teaser is very much that: a tease. Its 20 second runtime consists of nothing but brief shots of the principal cast in costume. The “trailer” lacks footage because there is no footage to use. This is a glorified photoshoot that tells us nothing about the tone or content of the product it is advertising, and is a brilliant move by a studio known for bone-headed marketing disasters, such as its tonally inconsistent trailers for Suicide Squad (2016), which left audience utterly confused as to what kind of movie the finished product would be. To explain my point, I will give you a contemporary example. Spider-Man: Far from Home (2019) recently released its first trailer, giving fans their first look at Spidey’s new costumes and Jake Gyllenhaal’s appearance as Mysterio. Unfortunately, instead of my first impression of Mysterio being his dynamic entrance in the official trailer, I had already seen photographs of him standing limply in the middle of some street. The potential surprise was gone. This is why I think Birds of Prey has done so well. They have beaten leakers to the punch by taking back control of that pivotal first impression. Instead of being introduced to the characters via amateur snaps of them chatting on set, our first look has been a dynamic, atmospheric and, most importantly, professional introduction. I believe that this marketing choice was a direct response to the prevalence of set leaks in superhero movies. Last year, when leaked set footage of Joker (2019) hit the internet, it prompted a spike of interest in the project that had been absent before. DC seemingly jumped onto this opportunity by posting the first official look at Joaquin Phoenix as the titular clown. Similar to Birds of Prey’s abbreviated teaser, it is a simple, 15 or so second clip of Phoenix looking at the camera. This clip built upon the buzz that the leaks had created, showing that studios are becoming aware of the way leaks like these can affect the all-important pre-release period. Sure enough, the Spider-Man leaks were swiftly followed by Tom Holland officially debuting the costume on Jimmy Kimmel Live. Studios are making a concerted effort to take back control of the first impression, and Birds of Prey’s marketing demonstrates the next evolution of that. If you are still wondering how effective this kind of teaser can be, consider that I am sitting here writing about a movie that I have not even seen footage of yet. Sure, people were discussing this movie before the teaser, but that kind of blind speculation is inevitable. This teaser has moved Birds of Prey to the top of the superhero speculation pile, if only for a few days. As I write this article, set photos have surfaced online of Margot Robbie standing about in costume. DC’s teaser beat the inevitable leaks by a day. This kind of teaser could well become the standard for superhero marketing going forward, especially when it comes to characters who have not been brought to the screen before. Once again, our first impressions will be in the studio’s hands, and that is just fine. I give the Birds of Prey teaser an 8/10, because arbitrary ranking is how you end an article these days, right? Yeah, that seems right. by Nathan Harold Graepel When we think of good film reviews, we are reminded of the cliché phrases used to promote film--"a visual masterpiece," "a must-see film," "a great piece of filmmaking,"--none of which can accurately be used to describe this piece of audible art. While Derek Jarman’s Blue (1993) is a celebration of incredible storytelling, it is certainly not achieved by using the medium of film. This piece of audible art takes its audience on an emotional roller coaster in an immersive experience, narrated by Jarman. It is a series of memory inserts that describe the traumatic experience of losing his eyesight through the crippling AIDS virus. The experiences recounted by Derek are presented to us in a dramatic manner, using incredibly descriptive terminology, powerful emotion-triggering music, and complemented with a range of sound effects that leave the audience in a constant state of unrest. We transverse the series of traumatic stories, each as depressing as the next with constant negative references to the colour blue. Blue plays the part of the antagonist is Derek Jarman’s disturbing recollection of events: "How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman, as they set out for the indigo shore, under this jet black sky? Some died on their feet with a backward glance, did they see death, were the hellhounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue black, growing dark in the absence of light did they hear the blast of trumpets?" In this abstract Jarman makes reference to all those afflicted by the AIDS epidemic and masterfully uses the colour blue and its various guises to illustrate their suffering. This is done throughout the piece and is the mechanism that allows the audience to understand his inevitable fate: "For blue there are no boundaries or solutions." During these emotion filled segments, Jarman makes constant reference to the fact that a key element of his connection to the world will be lost. Losing the visual sense, the sense that he interpreted the world through, the sense that led to the formation of his life memories, which Jarman anecdotally introduces at various intervals to remind us of what he once had and has now lost. From full colour visuals to a blank blue canvas, his vision has been taken and replaced with blue. As descriptive and immersive as Blue is, it certainly does not perform this through visual stimulation. The constant, still blue screen is monotonous and unnecessary. In fact, I found if I closed my eyes, I was able to better appreciate Blue. By closing my eyes, I was shutting out the blue-- the blue that distracted my train of thought and imagination, the blue that prevented me from forming the images that aided Jarman’s entrancing narration. While I appreciate that the purpose of Jarman’s creation and understand it to be a reflection of what he now endures, we cannot study and define it as a piece of film.
Film is defined as a sequence of moving pictures that usually tell a story or depict real life, and even when we delve into the world of experimental and abstract film, we are still describing film as something that is a series of moving images. Take Dante Brakhage’s, The Dante Quartet (1987), for instance: This piece of film certainly does not abide by conventions and norms, removing narrative and immersing the viewer in what could be interpreted as a confusing and unusual barrage of colour splashed images. But it is still film due to the conformative composition and is appreciated as ‘’Moving visual thinking,’’ in the words of R. Bruce Elder in Dante Brakhage and The Works of Energeia. If we compare the two instances of experimental film, one is clearly using the medium of moving images, images that can be witnessed using sight and then interpreted, the other a static, blue screen that simply does not conform to the fundamentals of film. While the blue screen may be representative of Jarman’s heartbreaking suffering, it does not do this through the medium of moving visuals. Film is an art form of its own right, determined by a loose set of conventions and guidelines. It is the art of marrying human emotion and thought with moving visuals that can often be complemented with the addition of sound. Blue can be defined as what we now call an audiobook or some other form of audible art and I think it is very important that we do not confuse the two, as this would do an injustice to both art forms. Artistic disciplines are defined and classified so that they can be studied, mastered, and critiqued. The ability to compare one artistic creation against another can only be done fairly if they abide by the same basic criteria--criteria that Blue does not meet. Just as one could not accurately critique a painting under the set of rules that would determine a good sculpture, I find it unfitting to analyse and interpret Derek Jarman’s Blue as film. by Gabrielle Ulubay UCC Film Writers was born out of a desire to explore, ponder, and write about film. I started the blog while co-teaching an introductory course to film theory at University College Cork, when the first-year Film & Screen Media students expressed the desire to share their film writing. These students are ambitious, talented, and incredibly intelligent, and I am thrilled to share their work here.
This is a space in which they are free to express their opinions in any literary or audio-visual format they see fit. Hopefully, it will serve to feed UCC students' enthusiasm for film, enlighten readers, and showcase the diverse talent and unique perspectives present in the Film & Screen Media department at UCC. |
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