One of the most successful things about The Passengers harkened back to my university days. I recall my lecturer, when discussing effective sci-fi, talked about extrapolating something from the current world into some extreme, and taking the story from there. It’s an approach I find a lot more rewarding than the usual galaxies and asteroids that science fiction is usually, inaccurately, ascribed to.
The Passengers extrapolates a multitude of prescient ideas from 21st century society that make for an engaging, believable and thrilling adventure. It’s a decent mix of ideas also, that may sound disparate but do gel together for a thrilling yarn.
Firstly, the idea of the driverless car – after over a century of innovation with automobiles, finally the human element is dispensed with. This is a technology that’s still in the ascendancy today, but taking strides ever closer to what is predicted in The Passengers. Indeed, one of the backstory threads – that all non-driverless cars have ultimately been outlawed – deals with one of the main teething issues experienced at the cutting edge of this technology – interaction with other cars, and the unpredictability of their human operators.
By removing this unpredictable element of human interaction, driverless cars are portrayed as the holy grail to an efficient personal transport system, largely devoid of the chaos and disorder that comes from having a human behind the wheel. The machinery and artificial intelligence simply runs to a set of rules, though an interesting twist that comes about toward the mid to latter stages of the book is quite what those rules are.
Of course, a decent sci-fi thriller takes an ordinary idea and asks one question: what if…? In The Passengers, this question is posed to be what if the driverless cars that have no manual override get hacked? We begin by following a group of seemingly-normal citizens from a cross-section of society getting in their cars, as Passengers, from therein the fun begins.
But the second societal notion that The Passengers plays with is social media and the mob mentality. Invariably, the “unhackable” cars are hacked, and the fate of the occupants is decided not just by the characters we interact directly with, but by a more intangible influence, that of social media. When lives are at stake, this quickly develops into a full-throated trial by social media with life and death at the hands of tweeters we never meet on an individual level but who only seem to exist as shifting masses, who prove feckless and fickle in the face of the evidence presented to them
This is all good stuff to chew on. But who do we meet as our cast of characters?
The main setting for The Passengers is the members of a supposedly-independent inquest into accidents regarding driverless vehicles, ostensibly to apportion blame. Our protagonist is Libby, a bog-standard everyman hero at first glance, introduced as the “token citizen” in the inquest. She’s forthright, fights for justice… all the characteristics you might expect. Indeed, her characterisation is a little thin, almost bordering on the trite; however the book acknowledges this toward the latter stages when we discover quite why Libby is even in the inquest.
We also have MP Jack Larsson, the antithesis to Libby’s good character – a shady, snide worst-of-the-worst politician, almost a caricature. And the mysterious Hacker, for most of the book an ominous (if slightly cliched) vocal presence throughout proceedings. We’re left to wonder what the Hacker’s motivations are – their initial opening is that they’ve taken control of the eight cars because they can, without making any demands. But this soon evolves into a sick game of life and death, with the participants of the inquest having to decide which occupants to sacrifice for the greater good, according to the rules of the game the Hacker decides to play.
On a conceptual and moral level The Passengers is a fascinating and gripping glance twenty minutes into our future – where autonomous cars are played in a sick game of trial-by-social-media, the purpose of which only becomes clear toward the very end of the novel. This collision of some thought-provoking, prescient social issues – driverless cars, social media power, even the art of spin and how facts are presented – in 2019 gels together well; considerably better than perhaps it might seem.
I’d be remiss to not acknowledge some of the weak points of the narrative and prose that are there – for me they weren’t inherent negatives to my enjoyment of the book. Firstly, the characterisation of the people through which the story primarily takes place through is fairly perfunctory – the characters exist for reasons that the plot needs them to, and we don’t learn a great deal about their personalities beyond tropes. This is fine – indeed, this shares a characteristic, that of the characters existing to help the plot, from one of my favourite technothrillers, Jurassic Park. The Passengers is refreshingly unliterary and plot-centric which results in a pacey, thrilling story that keeps delivering.
However I do feel that the narrative could’ve left the inquest room as a viewpoint more throughout the main thread of the hacked driverless cars – too often the societal impacts of the fast-paced change are merely reported as “thousands of Tweets” or a news report of “massed people”. It felt disconnected and a little subdued -I’d much rather be shown these events rather than be told about them by the social media advisor. But the main meat of the plot takes place over a couple of hours of narrative time so I understand if there’s simply not the space in the briskness of the plot to exit the room containing all the characters we experience the story through – who, conveniently, cannot leave – to adequately build alternate perspectives.
That said, despite a couple of glaring errors (why would Level 5 driverless cars have no manual override to stop the engine at all?) I thoroughly enjoyed The Passengers; to the point where the potential weaknesses were there but ultimately became unimportant in my enjoyment. There’s a great, brisk plot that delivers in spades – a sprinkling of social commentary packaged in an engaging, pacey wrapper – a great, engaging read that makes you think (not too much), and is written in an easy, breezy and slick prose that I really dug quite well. This was another random Waterstones table find that caught my eye – fair to say I’ll be seeking out more of John Marrs’ work on the back of it!
In 2011 I got my first and so far only Kindle – a grey Kindle 4 – and it revolutionised how I read. And now it sits begotten and forlorn on my shelf in its battered folio case, surrounded by paperbacks.
Honestly even thinking about this makes me realise how irrational this is. But front and centre I’ll admit now that I am re-converting back to paperbacks, to the degree even that I’m seriously planning to rebuy the books I have on Kindle as physical dead trees.
It’s mad isn’t it?!
Now don’t get me wrong, the Kindle is a fantastic piece of kit, and my Kindle is one of the rare pieces of technology I own that I truly love unconditionally. The eInk display is pretty much paper-like, without the glare of a backlit LCD that is objectively bad for your eyes. Indeed, the eInk is legitimately better paper than paper – features such as dynamic text size, font choice, and even context info and inline dictionary definitions for those tricky words make it objectively more capable than paper.
A Kindle can contain hundreds of books and not weigh the same as a small car. The battery lasts forever – even on my ancient Kindle 4. It fits in a bag very easily and the latest Paperwhite versions can even be read in the dark. But the Kindle remains a technological item in that it does run out of battery, it is reliant on WiFi and these niggles can break the experience of reading that a paperback – or other physical book – simply doesn’t need to worry about.
Largely I’ve found that Kindle books aren’t that much of a saving on traditional paperbacks, so the cost savings are modest. Taking into account, as of time of writing, three popular books sourced from the Top 50 Fiction on amazon.co.uk:
The Testaments by Margaret Attwood – Kindle £9.99; Hardback £10 Saving: 0.1%
The Holiday by TM Logan – Kindle £2.60; Paperback £6.60 Saving 87%
Echo Burning by Lee Child – Kindle £1.99; Paperback £7.99 Saving 75%
I’ve also drilled down into the Top 100 Sci-Fi Fiction:
Artemis by Andy Weir – Kindle £4.99; Paperback £8.96 Saving 45%
Neuromancer by William Gibson – Kindle £5.99; Paperback £6.87 Saving 13%
Already it could be said that the potential savings are considerable with a few exceptions; surely savings upward of 33% could be worth the downfalls of the format that I’ll touch on soon. It’s important also to note that there’s a few important caveats on that quick comparison: quite a few of the paperbacks are not discounted; the Kindle editions quite frequently are, heavily so. I’ve been able to find a great deal of mainstream chart books, for instance, the Lee Child Jack Reacher novels, significantly cheaper in physical format outside of traditional bookshops (think: supermarkets). This phenomenon was reflected in a couple of examples that I located of high-profile books being cheaper in paperback than Kindle, or more commonly, where the saving on Kindle was not significant:
Killing Floor by Jack Reacher – Kindle £4.99; Paperback £4.50 Expense 10%
The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins – Kindle £4.99; Paperback £5.99 Saving 17%
Of course it would be facile of me to disregard totally the trend for ebooks to be cheaper; it’s not a hard and fast rule, but a general trend, and it depends totally upon publisher and offer time. And those savings come at a price nonetheless, it just may not be monetary.
One of the things I’ve found refreshing about my own personal paperback renaissance is the sense that I am owning my books. With Kindle and other ebook platforms, you simply own a licence to access the content via the vendor in question’s storefront or platform – and your books are only readable on that specific platform due to DRM (though there’s millions of free ebook files to be found). Amazon’s infamous instance of remotely deleting 1984 from people’s Kindles is a tart example of the fallacy in this model, arguably. And indeed, what happens if the obscure format becomes unsupported?
And there’s something wholesome and comforting about perusing the shelves of a bookshop and taking punts on recommendations left by the staff, who all love reading themselves. Indeed, some of my favourite reads recently have been ones I’ve taken a punt on after spying a book in a bookshop – Feed by Mira Grant and The Blinds by Adam Sternbergh are two notable recent ones I thoroughly enjoyed.
The fuzziest reason I’ve gone back to physical books is the sheer experience. The feeling, the smell and the sensation of looking at a dead tree with some ink and hallucinating is really rather magical. Quite often when I do use my Kindle these days I have to think if I remembered to charge it recently, whether it was still connected to my WiFi, or whether I’d sent the document I wanted to read on it… with a paperback book I’ve found there’s none of those considerations – one just sits down and opens the book. While over time I have adjusted to a largely digital world and workflow – lord knows, I’d love a typewriter, for romantic reasons; my productivity would crater however – there’s something about the simplicity that comes from an analogue experience that just flows better for me. Again it’s fuzzy, sentimental reasoning, and I have no grudge or ill will towards those who live for their eReaders, but reading should always be a comfortable, personal experience and these days I’m content to bury my head in a well-presented paperback.
But the whole precis of this discussion is that I simply don’t much enjoy the Kindle experience, and that’s a shame – as I recognise the benefits of the Kindle: features like X-ray, the ability to store hundreds, even thousands of books, adjustable text size, font and margins… but it just comes across as a little soulless. So much so that I’m honestly deciding whether to start re-buying my Kindle purchases as paperbacks, a process I’ve already started with the likes of The Fog by James Herbert and One by Conrad Williams. But also series I want to rediscover – I recall reading a fair number of the Lincoln Rhyme books by Jeffrey Deaver and in a weird way they seem less accessible on my Kindle!
I’d be interested to see what people think in the comments! Get to it!
I picked up Dogs of War recently as a charity shop purchase – I was wary on buying it as I didn’t have a great experience with Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time at all. However, it was an inexpensive purchase and the premise of the book seemed intriguing, so I was happy to exchange some coins for it.
A book about biologically augmented dogs (and other creatures, but more on that later) being used in a dystopian near-future to fight humanity’s wars has the potential to be really quite gripping. And indeed, the opening parts to Dogs of War are quite effective as we follow bioform Rex and his cadre of augmented animals as they are used in a war in Campeche, Mexico against the Anarchista rebellion. This purpose is ostensibly that but the conflict quickly becomes the private war of the commander, Murray, who utilises the bioforms to commit a variety of quite brutal war crimes as he is left unchecked. Indeed, any attempt to interfere or provide oversight is met with hostility.
Had Dogs of War stayed in Campeche it would have been a very gripping, atmospheric and gritty book that explored the horrors of humans using augmented animals to fight wars that human soldiers aren’t to be “wasted” on. And indeed there’s plenty of ethical strife for Rex as his augmented intelligence clashes with his literal programming – he obeys his Master – Murray – because he craves the euphoria released by his feedback chip from being a Good Dog; likewise the fear of being a Bad Dog is tantamount in his mind, and there’s plenty of mileage in exploring what happens when Rex is unshackled from that hierarchy and has to make his own decisions.
However only the first quarter of the book takes place in the Mexican battlefield and this is where I feel Dogs of War quickly unravels.
The book pivots to be a political procedural of sorts that focuses on using Rex as a means to bringing Murray to justice and a more wider ethical exploration as to whether the bioforms are things (which can be destroyed) or sentient beings which deserve their own right to coexist alongside humanity.
Even writing that synopsis made me realise that the idea itself isn’t bad; however it is a quite trite and tired narrative thread. And once Dogs of War leaves the gritty battlefield of Mexico and expands to the civilian life of the bioforms – focussing on Rex as he battles with his new-found freedom from his hierarchies – the narrative completely seems to vent of momentum. Rex’s journey seemed immaterial as I felt he was a tool – a thing, if you will – for exploring thematic ideas rather than a solid plot.
To compound the triteness there’s a scene where Rex crumbles when questioned in court when presented with Murray, and the trial of his former Master collapses. I quickly began to be irritated by the stunting of Rex’s character.
There’s parallel narratives, much like Children of Time and the Rex chapters quickly started to bore me, honestly. Rex’s character hasn’t much depth – indeed, underneath the augmentations he’s just a dog, and the battle against his Good Dog/Bad Dog mentality, even when it no longer has any material basis on his actions. Honestly, Rex’s simplistic point-of-view doesn’t do the action portrayed any justice – it’s the narrative style given to Rex’s point-of-view that sells the story short. His perspective and recollection of events is so insulated from the brutal reality that the situations aren’t done justice.
Rex’s point-of-view seems more like a report or log of what happened rather than narrative with any sense of character and the prose of those chapters is too clinical and disconnected to be effective, ultimately. The prose’s insulation from the action it describes bleeds it very quickly of any impact and it becomes a hybrid of a report after-the-fact to a simple running commentary. It’s very tell-y; and the maxim that the author should show, not tell seems to have been purposefully ignored.
I am suddenly much happier. I am moving on all fours, working out where to take cover. Bees is mustering her units. Dragon wakes up and slithers into a stand of trees from where he can get a good shot.
All the not-enemy humans are still running. Some of them will still be in the way. The vehicles are coming very quickly. Already the enemy are shooting. They are only hitting other humans, though: they cannot aim at this range when they are moving.
Honey’s Elephant Gun explodes the lead vehicle. She is pushing through the not-enemy, and I tell her she should stay back to use them as cover.
Dogs of War, Chapter 6, page 47
I feel Dogs of War fails because it’s cramming too many thematic and ethical ponderances into a short book. The final fifth of the book was a race to the finish, ultimately, and I found myself caring less and less for Rex’s point of view. Indeed it was only toward the latter stages of the book that I learned that Rex’s fellow bioforms are not all dogs – he is accompanied by Honey, a bear, Dragon, whose species I never quite nailed down and more ponderously Bees, a literal hivemind of augmented bees that just doesn’t get the weight of attention that such a concept deserves.
Indeed, the character of this group of animals is expressed solely, it seems through the “telepathic texting” that was solely expressed through Rex’s point-of-view chapters. I didn’t quite understand this – were they communicating through aforementioned telepathic texting in real time? How did that work? This confusion just added to the sense of deep disconnect from the characters that Rex’s chapters were.
Ultimately I think Dogs of War worked less as a novel but more as a bit of an indulgence of the author’s desire to explore this well-trodden path of the ethics of utilising augmented animals and determining where the difference between beings and things seems to lie. But more fatally I didn’t come out of it convinced – the plot was ultimately predictable in its denouncement of humanity’s instinct to use its ingenuity to figure out a both more “acceptable”, marketable way of dealing with human problems that remains totally inhumane.
Humanity comes out the bad guy here and unfortunately the limited narrative in Dogs of War just can’t sustain that. Ultimately the themes that drive Dogs of War prove to be an old dog, and there’s no new tricks on show here to speak of.
In Children of Time the narrative enters a stall in the midsection of the book from which it was unable to recover; in Dogs of War the thematic weight behind the narrative forces it out through a puncture in the constraints that kept it taught and once it escapes into atmosphere, it quickly dissipates into nothingness.
A while back I posted a fairly well-received post explaining my struggles with fantasy fiction. There’s certainly a depth of feeling there as it’s a hot genre; and even those who may have disagreed, to a degree profoundly, appreciated that I set out my stall.
Recently my good friend Chris Kenny posted his thoughts on the latest in the seemingly-never ending Avengers film franchise, Avengers Endgame, which even culturally-unaware me has been unable to escape the media buzz about. Chris’s post certainly puts an opinion forward on the matter, which is great to read, but there was one overriding thought throughout the whole post, and indeed some of the other things I’ve read about Endgame…
Simply put, the comic-book wave has simply washed past me, and I think it’s high time (and slightly topical still?) to talk about that. And yes, expect a good deal of Comic Book Guy!
From sticking my finger in the air I feel that the prevailing stance is that a lot of the emotion that derives from comic book adaptations – and I focus mainly on the film adaptations as it is these that have really cemented themselves into the popular zeitgeist – comes from a familial attachment to the characters that really drives investment in the film franchises.
Certainly the Avengers films get people out into the cinema, in record numbers. And for the most part it seems to be an enjoyable romp. But I don’t have any predisposition to any of the characters so I struggle to relate.
Let’s back up with a brief personal history lesson: I didn’t really have any introduction to comic books as a child. My childhood was horrendously vanilla – not unpleasant, indeed I cherish my formative years in the 1990s very fondly; I didn’t have a bad time by any stretch – and I feel that’s almost socially crippled me throughout adolescence and now into adulthood.
But returning to the point in question… I just never developed the interest in comic books that feel is the main driving factor behind the success of film franchises like The Avengers. My dad did keep some comics but they were kept in the loft – indeed they remain in my possession and to my knowledge they’ve not been read by anyone except him.
So where does that leave me in 2019? Quite frankly, bemused and baffled by comic book films – though it probably will help to understand that I don’t have much interest in the cinema as a storytelling form anyway. I rarely visit the cinema; literally once a year at times. And that’s absolutely fine, I recognise it as an art form for sure – it’s simply not one for me. The films I do go to see I enjoy at the time but I don’t give them much thought afterwards.
Looking at the storied history of the Avengers franchise frankly fills me with dread – 22 films over 11 years. Is this particularly accessible at this point? Likely not, especially for someone with little interest in actively working through those films. So it’ll likely remain a cultural phenomenon that will pass me by.
On that point I find myself defending The Avengers films from silly click-bait articles from places like Deadspin that bemoan that films like Endgame do little to ingratiate themselves to non-fans. And indeed I know fellow non-fans who’ve seen Endgame – what’s the point? Even I realise it would be facile of me to sit through Endgame as I would get very little out of it as I’m not emotionally invested in the franchise, characters or story – whereas something like Game of Thrones I did become invested in.
Similarly it’s hard to recommend episodes of Game of Thrones in isolation, especially from the later seasons because you need that investment to really get the full amount of meaning from the events depicted. But like those what harp on about “not watching Game of Thrones”, I don’t want to necessarily be the one who harps on about “not watching Avengers films”. It’s almost too low hanging a fruit to criticise the films on a superficial level for “green aliens and talking racoons”.
Therein we pivot however to what I consider a better way of criticising these films – for their writing.
I’ve watched about one and three quarter films that could be considered from the comic book adaptation lexicon – Deadpool, roughly half of Guardians of the Galaxy and about fourty minutes of Scott Pilgrim – all lauded by fans as stellar examples of the subgenre, and that have performed at the box office accordingly. All of them I found quite deficient in terms of writing which marred my enjoyment, despite my best efforts to go in with a clean-slate open mind.
So where do we start? Deadpool was the best of the three to my recollection (I made it to the end) – with a self-aware main character who’s very much the deadpan snarker and, crucially I found, didn’t take the enterprise entirely seriously. The self-awareness of Deadpool the character was somewhat endearing to me; however I learned only after the film’s conclusion that it is indeed a comedy film. Without sounding like an old bore… none of Deadpool’s jokes – a lot of which were indeed very laboured – hit home. Why is that? The writing for Deadpool assumes the audience is 15-year-old guys and treats them accordingly. The humour was very juvenile and immature and while I don’t expect every film to be Schindler’s List it did seem a bit too juvenile and facetious to really take seriously. The story seemed fairly solid but the overarching theme seemed to be going from one crude joke to the next.
I found my experience with Scott Pilgrim largely the same but I had to turn the movie off after about fourty minutes as I suffered a fatal flaw to my immersion – I simply didn’t care about the protagonist’s journey. I didn’t care whether Scott “got the girl” – an original story arc if ever I’d seen one. But it was the lack of seriousness that I felt the film exhibited, combined with a similarly-juvenile writing standard that made me realise I had better uses of my time as it became apparent this film would tick none of my boxes.
And last in line is Guardians of the Galaxy which I tried to watch twice and ended up giving up on at roughly the same point an hour in – and I realise this is a fairly extreme position to take – and I would describe it as the worst film I can recall seeing. The reason? Not because it’s “green aliens and talking trees” but because I felt the story was particularly deficient.
A resource I use and view quite frequently in my own writing is TVTropes, which is a fascinating resource dedicated to identifying the use of “tropes” in fiction. Tropes can be narrative, plot or character devices that can be categorised; usually on TVTropes it is done in quite a dry humorous way. It’s important, also, to note that tropes in and of themselves. Some tropes are indeed indicators of poor writing, but the lesson from TVTropes as a writer is not to avoid tropes in my own work but to work to mask them in layers.
A trope is a storytelling device or convention, a shortcut for describing situations the storyteller can reasonably assume the audience will recognize. Tropes are the means by which a story is told by anyone who has a story to tell. [TVTropes] collects them, for the fun involved.
Tropes are not the same thing as cliches. They may be brand new but seem trite and hackneyed; they may be thousands of years old but seem fresh and new. They are not bad, they are not good; tropes are tools that the creator of a work of art uses to express their ideas to the audience. It’s pretty much impossible to create a story without tropes.
The reason that I bring up TVTropes is that when watching Guardians of the Galaxy, the writing felt so poor and one-layered that the tropes that comprise the plot and characters shone through so blatantly that I couldn’t help but notice it at every instance. Chris Pratt’s character is a one-dimensional juvenile who failed to endear himself to me (I suspect it’s akin to Deadpool, the “douchebag” characterisation wore thin rapidly) as one example. I only got as far as the first hour – wherein the titular Guardians are escaping the prison space station before my irritation forced me to cancel watching the movie, the tipping point being the convenience of their miraculous escape – of course the controls would start working at just the right time, and of course the talking raccoon would just happen to have the skills needed by that specific situation. Everything was telegraphed across far too readily.
Perhaps my writing background makes me more susceptible to anticipating and identifying these plot weak points but I think Guardians of the Galaxy actually stands as an exemplar of what I think does the comic book genre a massive disservice. The plot and characters from my recollection is particularly weak, simplistic and one dimensional. Does the film rely on the rose-tinted nostalgia glasses that the intended audience is expected to wear, having been ingratiated to these characters and tropes for a long time.
As an outsider I felt that Guardians was especially insular – it appealed to a particular type of fan. And I can understand why those people would enjoy it, and this isn’t a slight against them. I’m sure it’s a fun film. But I found it to be poorly-written and lightweight and it just didn’t endear itself to me; the opposite, in fact – I found myself actively irritated throughout my attempts to watch it. It just doesn’t seem to take itself seriously enough; but unlike, say, Deadpool, it doesn’t have the sense of being self-aware to satirise itself. Deadpool was savvy in its own way in that it almost knew it was a movie from the inside out and that helped it a lot in terms of holding my engagement and I recognise the merits there, while the writing choices seemed the low side of juvenile.
But that said, this is more about “hating on” Guardians of the Galaxy, which was a very commercially-popular film. It would be senseless to be that contrary for the sake of being contrary. But it does make me wonder if a film like Guardians does the comic medium – and its filmic interpretation – a massive disservice. Guardians is flagged as an exemplar entry in the comic book movie canon for its apparent quality – but it has no real substance.
It seems to strive to be the classic summer blockbuster – a flashy, impressive affair that doesn’t resonate once you leave the cinema. Which, I hasten to add, is absolutely fine. Indeed watching Guardians as an outsider I already felt that the film was more interested in catering to a particular kind of fan – perhaps it’s not so inclusive after all? I didn’t feel included when watching it, even though I’d been advised it’s a good film to start with, which only added to the feeling of disappointment when I gave up on it, twice at the same point.
Can comics deliver more than that though? I realise I’m perhaps in danger of doing the medium a massive disservice of my own through basing my opinion on three particular entrants; however I feel they’re good, and well-regarded examples. I’m sure that comics can and do – both in print and film form – tackle really tough, adult and nuanced stories. But if Guardians, Scott Pilgrim and Deadpool (though on writing I feel Deadpool’s only real flaw was the juvenile, 15-year-old-male joke writing) are the shining stars of the category, those examples that can have some narrative weight seem drowned out in the white noise of those that make a big bang but little impact.
Like I said earlier, I don’t expect a binary choice: Guardians of the Galaxy to Schindler’s List. But is there the diversity of storytelling – and arguably quality writing – in comic books to bridge that gap toward the centre more readily? As while a lot of this discussion is exposing the narrative flaws I feel a litany of exist in comic book movie adaptations, it’s also based in a sense of deep disappointment that an art form that can and is enjoyed by millions isn’t setting its sights higher. As I said, it’s not a binary choice between hard-hitting cinema or stories like Schindler’s List or narratively paper-thin glitz-fests like Guardians; I feel that there is a root of decent storytelling to be found, but on my superficial experience with the Marvel movie juggernaut, and others of that ilk? I’m not finding it readily available, and that is simply disappointing.
Indeed, in drafting this post I was made aware of this video in the Honest Trailers by Screen Junkies. It’s a biting, witty and humorous dissection of over a decade of films into arguably their constituent parts. The fact that a great number of these films seem to have, especially when laid out sequentially, so many plot or trope similarities that they can be grouped to me is an indicator of weak narrative development and an over-reliance on the tropes that have come to be expected almost. For me with my albeit-limited experience of the films myself, I can attest to this – the tropes the writers use are barely-concealed and repetitive. Without my prior understanding of the franchises (ergo, a lack of intrinsic affection for the intellectual property, which I feel allows a lot of these narrative “sins” to be excused or fly under the radar).
An interesting point made in the Honest Trailers video is that technology is magical. It’s also in line with Clarke’s third law – that “any sufficiently-advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” Indeed, in my post about fantasy I made the following observation:
Magic in fantasy should have clear and specific boundaries and limitations, otherwise why have a story with conflict, tension and jeopardy if a well-timed wave of a magic wand can solve the problem? It’s a deeply dissatisfying thing to experience when executed poorly and mishandled magic leads to many a deus ex machina.
And that’s exactly what happens in these movies, isn’t it? And just like with the tropes and trappings of high fantasy it is a trait that I find extremely narratively underwhelming. Quite simply, hand-waving problems that the plot throws at the characters with suspiciously-timed revelations about technological abilities is a bit of a cop-out isn’t it?
To reiterate: I’m no scholar of comic books by any means – but the Honest Trailers video is a dissemination of common tropes across these types of stories and films, is it not? And once we strip away the auspices of how the technology is treated – in effect, it’s reskinned magic – we’re presented with the same narrative boobytraps that befall high fantasy, in my opinion. And that’s a shame – because science fiction, and I’m sure comic books in general, with their filmic adaptations certainly too – can do so much better in terms of storytelling, but from my vantage point I can’t see it through the cloud. To highlight the point the Honest Trailers makes about cookie-cutter plot elements across the films… even the posters are eerily similar!
And while I realise a lot of this post is talking about comic book film adaptations, it does inexorably reflect back on the source material which seems to have entered the cultural lexicon throughout the years. Are these stories being judged now on their merits as pieces of writing or because the reader (or the reader’s parents) have imparted that sense of rose-coloured nostalgia that deafens them to issues and faults.
The more I think about it, the more I feel that there’s certainly some truth to the idea that the memory cheats – people recollect things from their youth that they revere with pleasure as being better than they might otherwise be given a more rational or objective assessment. It’s an argument that was controversially applied to the early episodes of Doctor Who in the 1980s against a perceived drop in quality of contemporary productions and I can’t deny the logic’s there. This notion on its own is worthy of evaluation in quite a bit of depth.
Certainly with long-running cultural franchises like Doctor Who, comics that have run since the 1940s and without question Star Wars there’s the danger that the nostalgia rubs off to insulate these properties from… not overt criticism but critical thinking and evaluation. It does nothing to the art form to excuse what’s frankly poor writing because it makes those immersed in nostalgia, with a connection that plucks their heartstrings, feel warm and fuzzy. Ultimately what we’d end up with if this is maintained is a sense of cultural rot that will only get bigger, and then the patient will be too late to save, if you will. Once the bug bites, as a character in a shining example of great video game writing says, you’ve already lost the patient.
Honestly, I’d really like to be proved wrong. This post is not intended to pooh-pooh comic books/movies – indeed these movies and the associated stories have become part of the public cultural lexicon, and I don’t begrudge at all those legions of fans that genuinely enjoy these stories, films and franchises. This is not intended as a high-handed essay sneering derision upon those people. I’m not here to “hate popular things” for the sake of it – the purpose here has always been to analyse objectively and then reflect on my own thoughts.
Speaking of reflection, as I write this, I can’t help but think how this seems almost endemic on the modern spin of comic book movies. But my own personal experiences as an outsider with films that I’ve been told are easy to get into just left me feeling more out of the cold, and more disappointingly, really, more feeling like I’m not missing much.
A few notes before we finish:
Yes, I realise a lot of the movie adaptations to which I refer or talk broadly about are Marvel movies. Aparently DC Comics exists also, but is a lot less promiment. It’s all Pepsi/Coke to me.
I realise that having watched virtually none of the films discussed it puts me at a massive disadvantage; ergo this post is a lot of “sticking my finger in the air and seeing how the wind is blowing” and painting in broad strokes. I accept that criticism readily but I wasn’t prepared to watch twenty films; I apologise if in your view this leads you to believe I am being intellectually dishonest in my approach
If it wasn’t clear this is not an attack on fans of these popular films by any stretch, so please don’t take my contrasting/differing opinion on something that is enjoyed by many as my being unduly contrary. This post has been on my mind for a good while! And it’s good to criticise and evaluate items in the popular lexicon as objectively as possible.