So when a young, independent animator called Steven Lisberger approached the company, looking for someone to finance an experimental science fiction film about video games, it seemed like the perfect fit. This was the era of Pac-Man, Donkey Kong and Frogger, when home computing was beginning to make inroads and the potential of all things digital seemed limitless: the so-called “silicon revolution” had just arrived. What better way for Disney to remain relevant than to release a film that capitalised on such a current trend?

That film, of course, was Tron (1982). Combining back-lit animation, traditional animation and computer-generated imagery with live-action footage, this was Star Wars for the impending Information Age. Its setting was stark yet elegant and often beautiful; its themes struck at the heart of the increasing commercialisation of a market hitherto dominated by hobbyists and academics. In short, it was the mythology for a new age.

And yet in 1982, Tron was maybe a bit too “out there” for most people. Lisberger created a world that was intended to draw the average person into the romance of computer-geek culture, but instead it only alienated them further. Too many adults at the time had no relationship to computers or the culture that surrounded them, and so there was no entry-point to allow for them to connect with the characters.. For a lot of children, however, there were no such problems.

The story centres around Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges), a programmer and video arcade-owner whose original games were stolen by a ruthless former colleague, Ed Dillinger (David Warner), now an executive at software company ENCOM. When Flynn attempts to crack ENCOM’s system from within the company’s own R&D lab, hoping to gain proof of Dillinger’s theft, Dillinger’s Master Control Program (MCP) uses an experimental laser to zap Flynn into cyberspace.

As a computerised version of himself, Flynn soon meets Tron (Bruce Boxleitner) a video game warrior determined to destroy the MCP and restore freedom to the system. Along the way, he drinks from a water-like power source, flies a Recognizer (a vehicle of his own design) and, most memorably, rides a light-cycle, a bike which, when on the “game grid”, can only turn at right-angles.

The plot itself is more-or-less the standard hero’s journey, but what makes Tron unique is the then-cutting edge technology on display and the way the design works with its limitations rather than against them. Primarily the work of Jean “Moebius” Giraud (who had previously worked on Alien (1979)) and Syd Mead (who was also working on Blade Runner (1982) at the time), the backdrops, vehicles and costumes perfectly blend angular, geometric elements with softer and more natural curves and shapes. The result is a world that is both high-tech and spiritual, where an “I/O tower” becomes a digital cathedral and belief in the “users” of the system takes on theological importance. When combined with the backlit animation and the high-contrast black-and-white footage of the actors, you have something unlike anything else before or since.

What no doubt threw people off at the time was the notion of electronic avatars. Both Boxleitner and Bridges play two characters each, where their programmes take on the appearance of their “real world” counterparts. (Warner plays two characters and also voices a third.) And although “cyberspace” is not referred to directly, even the idea of a digital, virtual environment where the intangible resides was just not something most people were able to relate to.

It’s taken almost 30 years, but now Tron seems more relevant than ever. Later this year a sequel will be released, with Disney finally ready to see the franchise take off. And with games like World of Warcraft being totally mainstream forms of entertainment, the idea of a virtual world full of avatars no longer seems so foreign to most people. Most ironic of all, however, is the fact that without Tron preceding it, the highest grossing film of all time would have been unthinkable.

Tron has endured precisely because it was ahead of its time. It has minor flaws—it can be corny and stilted at times, though this stems more from its genre roots than anything else—but it seems more and more prescient with each passing year. And just as Star Trek bred a new generation of scientific pioneers in the Space Age, Tron has given rise to Generation X’s Information Age trail-blazers. It is we, the few, the proud, the geeky, who have carried on its legacy and allowed it to rise from the ashes, 28 years later.

Here’s hoping the sequel lives up to the original.

Metropolis

This is one of the first bona fide horror films and the first to employ a twist-ending. More importantly, it was the first film to place a real narrative in a very unreal-looking world. The sets are truly staggering, looking like reality as seen in a fun-house mirror. Nothing exists at right-angles, with walls lurching in on the characters and trees almost seeming to grasp at passers-by (cue Snow White). Even makeup is, at times, heavily stylised, with flat-white faces and dark, ominous eyes marking-out one character in particular (cue Edward Scissorhands). The world as we know it has been twisted, distorted, up-ended in a nightmarish landscape that threatens with its stark, foreboding design.

Living in this insane setting is Francis (Friedrich Feher) who, along with his friend Alan (Hans Heinrich von Twardowski), attends a fair and sees the exhibit of Dr. Caligari (Werner Krauss). Caligari’s attraction is somnambulist Cesare (Conrad Veidt), who predicts that Alan will be dead before the next dawn. When Alan is then murdered, Francis becomes determined to find his killer.

None of this is terribly revolutionary as far as story goes, but juxtaposed against the production design, you have a film where your worst fears are realised. Caligari and Cesare seem the only true denizens of this world, suitably bizarre in their own ways and blending-in nicely with the angular backdrops. Francis, on the other hand, is utterly normal, though he and Cesare have something in common: like the somnambulist who has slept most of his 23 years, Francis seems doomed to exist in a nightmare he is unable to wake from.

It’s exactly this tension between the realistic and stylised elements that drives the film. The editing in particular is restrained and traditional, emphasising continuity over technique; meanwhile, the camera stays relatively fixed in each shot. Partly this is out of necessity—the sets were constructed out of paper, and if a scene were to be shot at the wrong angle, the illusion would be broken. But partly too, this is what made the film a success, grounding it for the spectator who would otherwise find the look of the film wholly disconcerting.

In recent times Caligari‘s mise-en-scène has been aped most obviously in Edward Scissorhands (as already noted). In actual fact, Tim Burton’s entire filmography seems based in no small part on the influence of Caligari in particular and German expressionism in general, right from his first short,Vincent, in 1982.

Anyone interested in film needs to see The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari at least once. It isn’t a chore to watch, however: rather than being a dry example of a bygone era, this is a vital piece of cinema that continues to resonate even today. Will the same be said of Letters to Juliet, 90 years from now?

That is a quote from The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009), Terry Gilliam’s tenth film as sole director. It is also the thematic thread that ties all his work together, from the childhood fantasy of Time Bandits (1981) to the supernatural wonderland of The Brothers Grimm (2005). For over 30 years, Gilliam has been bringing old-fashioned magic to the screen, despite audiences becoming increasingly cynical and jaded over that time.

If the veteran storyteller was once Sam Lowry, battling a faceless system in order to keep his dreams alive, he’s now Doctor Parnassus (Christoher Plummer), an aging showman whose magic mirror fails to spark the interest of a public captivated instead by the bright, shiny objects of consumerism. And yet he persists because he must—it’s too depressing to think that most people will choose cheap thrills over the power of the imagination, given the choice.

In the film this is depicted via a series of bets between Parnassus and Mr. Nick (Tom Waits), each vying for the chance to win human souls. Parnassus’ Imaginarium offers anyone who steps into his mirror a choice between the rewarding challenges of their higher purpose in life versus the baser delights of ol’ Nick himself. For an alcoholic, this is the choice between a “12 x 12 x 12 step program” on the one hand and a lounge bar on the other, and for each person who enters the Imaginarium, the choice is just as personal.

And so Parnassus travels through the streets of London with his accompanying show and troupe, hoping to prove himself right—that people, at heart, want imagination and magic—despite all evidence to the contrary.

It’s hardly a secret that Parnassus was Heath Ledger’s final film before his untimely death. Gilliam’s films have often been the victims of behind-the-scenes catastrophe, and so it only seems fitting that possibly his most personal project to date is also the film that he managed to salvage against the greatest odds. (He’s now working again on The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, a film he started in 2000 that similarly met with disaster.)

Here Ledger plays Tony, a mysterious stranger found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge, whose ideas for attracting new customers could be just what Parnassus needs to win his latest bet. Meanwhile, the stakes are now higher than ever, with Mr. Nick breathing down Parnassus’ neck at every opportunity.

I first saw The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus late last year at the cinema, and while intrigued, I was unsure of my ultimate opinion. There was a nagging sense that the end result was simply the best made of a bad situation, and more a reconstruction of “what might have been” than a finished film proper.

But seeing it again, those complaints seem both unfair and unjustified. This a return to form for Gilliam and his first truly fantastical work since The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988), not coincidentally the last film (until now) that he co-wrote with Charles McKeown. Ledger’s absence in no way compromises their vision here, and the use of Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell to play Tony inside the Imaginarium is inspired. In fact, the choice to have a duplicitous character take on more than one face when inside the mirror-world almost seems planned from the start.

While Depp may be the most enticing addition to the cast, it’s Farrell who saves the day, being totally believable as Tony in a third act right up there with that of Brazil (1985). Ledger’s cocky, manic performance is transformed into cool egotism by Farrell, as everything Tony desires materialises before his eyes. Lily Cole, who plays Parnassus’ daughter Valentina, is equally responsible for maintaining the illusion that this is the same character, not once missing a beat throughout the sequence. (Andrew Garfield as Anton does something similar with Jude Law in an earlier sequence.)

If anything, Ledger’s death hurt the film most in how it raised expectations. Sadly, most people do want the flashy, fleeting offerings of Mr. Nick over the genuine magic of Doctor Parnassus, and if such types found themselves entering Gilliam’s Imaginarium for the chance to see Ledger’s final performance, of course they’d be disappointed.

The problem here is that Gilliam’s mind runs a million miles a minute, and like all his films, Parnassus is crammed with so many brilliant ideas that it’s far too easy to judge it at first as chaotic, shallow nonsense. The visuals are spectacular but often overwhelming, and it’s only on the second viewing that you really start to appreciate what’s actually being said. Modern audiences, however, have been trained to tune-out when watching movies with recognisable stars, and so if it can’t be grasped immediately, it’s dismissed as being worthless.

Can the average person really be blamed if they go to see Heath Ledger’s Last Film, Starring Johnny Depp, expecting The Dark Knight meets Pirates of the Caribbean? When they’re then invited to climb Mount Parnassus, the home of the Muses, it’s no surprise when they run screaming in the other direction.

It’s for this very reason that this film is needed now more than ever. When I saw Parnassus last year, it was in the smallest cinema of a multiplex with maybe three other people also choosing to go along for the ride.  (Everyone else was probably too busy watching 2012 or something equally inane.) So many people have become numb to true wonder that they instead desire BIGGER EXPLOSIONS! and MORE CARNAGE! just so that they can feel something at the time, even if the experience is forgotten before reaching the parking lot. Parnassus, on the other hand, reveals its magic slowly, and repeated viewings only make it grow greater in the mind.

And while this is Ledger’s last performance, it’s Plummer who is the real standout here. His Parnassus is weary with age, mournful of all his mistakes in life yet unable to break the cycle. He is a man with two clear addictions—alcohol and gambling—and his soul has been slowly eaten away by the pains of life. Nonetheless, he’s likeable in a pathetic way, and its his struggle to find redemption that is the true emotional arc of the story.

Ultimately, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is designed for longevity, not big opening weekends. It has something important to say, and isn’t afraid to alienate those who lack imagination in the process. But if you have that imagination—if, like Gilliam, you can see the enchantment in the world we live in—the Imaginarium may be just the show for you.

So it’s refreshing to (finally) see a modern Seuss adaptation that at least tries to adhere to the spirit of his work. Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears a Who! (2008) is the fourth feature from Blue Sky Studios, who also produced Robots (2005) and the three Ice Age movies (2002, 2006 and 2009). Blue Sky are like the Chuck Jones to Pixar’s Walt Disney, and so while they don’t produce serious, studied entertainment in the Pixar vein, they also don’t resort to the mindless hipster grab-bag approach of DreamWorks Animation; instead, Blue Sky offer a manic charm all their own.

It’s only fitting, then, that Blue Sky Studios adapt one of Seuss’ more memorable children’s books, following in the footsteps of Chuck Jones’ own successful adaptations. This is not a nightmare-fuelled acid trip a la Ron Howard’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (2000) (and the less said about Mike Myers as The Cat in the Hat (2003) the better); rather, Blue Sky’s Horton is colourful and whimsical, giving spectators an amazing 3D realisation of Seuss’ illustrations that is as faithful as can be. And while pop-culture elements are a little overdone at times, this is still miles ahead of the horrors that DreamWorks might have visited upon the source.

The story involves Horton (Jim Carrey), an elephant who one day discovers an entire world on a speck of dust. The world itself is Who-ville, led by its mayor (Steve Carell), and the film largely concerns a dialogue between Horton and the mayor, as well as the attempts by each to convince others of this larger truth. In particular, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of an especially close-minded Kangaroo (Carol Burnett).

Horton’s struggles seem surprisingly similar to the debate regarding how Darwinian natural selection and Creationism should be taught in schools. Horton is a teacher to the younger animals, and Kangaroo (who “pouch-schools” her children) refuses to accept anything other than her own dogmatic worldview. But the message is general enough that, in fact, both sides can see themselves as Horton and the opposition as Kangaroo.

Notably, Geisel once threatened legal action against a pro-life organisation who used the line that “A person’s a person, no matter how small” as a rallying cry against abortion—Horton‘s theme is broader than the ideologies of any political groups who might wish to stake a claim.

In truth, Horton Hears a Who! is about everyone’s need to be heard. Our enemies are those who prefer partisanship to reasoned debate, and perhaps one day we’ll all be able to engage in honest dialogue rather than petty sniping. Until then, at least there are people trying to make films that actually have something to say, yet can be fun for all ages, too.

“Space: the final frontier…”

So goes the opening monologue for each episode of Star Trek (1966-69), a TV series that paved the way for every serious science fiction series in its wake. And yet, for a show that was so fresh and innovative at the time, its brand has become stale and repetitive over the years, turning into a shadow of its former self.

Enter the cinematic reboot Star Trek (2009), an attempt to revitalise the franchise some 43 years after its debut. Helmed by J.J. Abrams (the man behind Alias (2001-2006) and Lost (2004-2010)) and written by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (who also brought us The Island (2005) and Transformers (2007)), this is obviously not going to be deep or thought-provoking. With those names behind it, you can bet on things being fairly fun, however, at the very least.

The approach taken seems to be akin to recent Marvel origin films such as X-Men (2000) and Spider-man (2002): keep the fans happy while playing-up the novelty of seeing familiar characters meeting, all while adopting a light and breezy tone. And then throw in a few curve-balls to shake things up a bit.

And for what it is, Star Trek is quite entertaining and pleasant while it lasts, but it has an evaporating quality—it’s a totally forgettable experience. Furthermore, inconsistencies, contrivances and ignored plot points bubble to the surface after any kind of serious consideration. Why did they need to skydive at one point when they could have just beamed-down? (In-story answer: because the transporter was disabled; real answer: because it looked cool and added an element of danger.) Where was bad-guy Nero (Eric Bana) for 20-odd years between when we first see him and when he finally reappears? (Answer: in a sequence on the cutting-room floor.)

As a bonus, this is now the second Star Trek movie in a row to attempt to ape elements from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982). Of course, here Bana as Nero has pretty much nothing to do except look menacing over a viewscreen, and the brain bug that eventually pops up is never mentioned again, but at least they were trying.

The casting is surprisingly solid, however, considering that this could have easily been “Star Trek Babies” instead. Karl Urban in particular seems to inhabit the character of “Bones” McCoy, while Zachary Quinto plays Spock a bit like Dexter Morgan, which maybe isn’t so off-base after all.

In the end, the two main complaints I have of the film both involve pandering to the fanbase. Firstly, it seems that each character must say their respective catchphrase at least once. Secondly, a convoluted time-travel plot is included in order to please the continuity police by creating a new timeline—not only is this a reboot, it’s also a sequel and an alterna-prequel, all at the same time.  Neither of these features are necessary, and in fact they act as distractions, turning the film more into meta-Trek than a Star Trek film proper.

Nitpicks aside, it’s a fun, if frivolous, couple of hours. This Star Trek is for both the masses and the fans, and it’s competent as a science fiction/action extravaganza. Hopefully the sequel will attempt to do something new rather than simply jazzing-up former glories. Will they go where no one has gone before? We’ll see.

So let’s get the David Lynch and David Cronenberg comparisons out of the way. Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: the Iron Man shares a stark, black-and-white surrealist aesthetic with Lynch’s earlier work, as well as the body-horror theme that pervades every film of Cronenberg’s. But Tsukamoto’s approach is rooted more deeply in the cyberpunk genre, where technology consumes, devours and dehumanises, and his hyper-kinetic editing gives a whole different tone to this tale of man versus machine.

The plot is hard to describe without sounding insane. In short, a man runs into a metal fetishist with his car, and soon he himself begins transforming into a man-machine hybrid. But that’s only the start…

Between the protagonist being anally raped by a crazed she-demon with a long, metallic hose attached to her crotch, the large drill-bit that is his own transformed penis, the prolonged sex scenes that merge eroticism and horror and the final images of humans melded together in agony and ecstasy, Tetsuo uses metal as a kind of sexual metaphor. Is this strange montage of grotesqueries a cinematic primal scream, where sexual repression in a technologically advanced society finally bursts forth? Is it a visual depiction of the loss of identity experienced in the face of an all-pervading audio-visual bombardment? Who’s to say?

In any case, Tetsuo is undeniably captivating, but the jittery, manic editing comes at a price: the use of accelerating film speeds and quick cuts is almost unbearable by the end, where the novelty has long since worn off and sensory overload is starting to kick-in.

This is the work of an artist with a clear vision and vivid imagination, and the result is powerful. One viewing, however, is more than enough.

Never before had cel animation been used to tell a story in feature-length. Could animated characters display real emotional depth in a performance—enough to sustain an 80+ minute running time? Would audiences buy into the drama?

Three key scenes display the success of Disney’s gamble. The first involves the huntsman preparing to slay Snow White in the woods: the suspense builds as the spectator anticipates the blow, and yet as Snow White cowers, the huntsman finally relents and confesses. The second is where the witch offers Snow White the poisoned apple: again, the suspense builds, this time with the witch playing on Snow White’s innocence and naivety in order to trick her into taking a bite. Finally, the scene where the dwarves gather around Snow White’s bed to mourn her loss is heartfelt and genuine: the dwarves are real characters beyond their cartoonish, comedic function.

In all three scenes, characters other than Snow White carry the drama. Despite being the title character, Snow White is a foil, with her innocence and purity giving the surrounding characters something to react to. The Queen reacts to Snow White with contempt, the dwarves react to her with warmth and the woodland creatures react to her with curiosity and good cheer, but all find her archetypal nature captivating and powerful.

In truth, Snow White is nondescript. But how else can such otherworldly, abstract, ethereal innocence be portrayed? She is a blank canvas upon which the spectator can project. But around her, within the frame and beyond, the scenes bubble with life. Set against wonderful European backdrops with delicate lighting and careful use of colour, the screen comes alive: birds enter and leave, fauns watch from afar and even the trees themselves seem to express intent.

Indeed, one of the most powerful sequences occurs when Snow White flees from the huntsman. Tree branches claw and scratch, logs floating in water snap and menace and unseen foes (possibly the trees themselves) peer in the dark—this is the stuff of nightmares, and Disney is often unfairly judged as making his films too light and palatable when, in fact, he was not afraid to push the limits. Similarly, the scene where the Queen transforms into the witch is suitably impressionistic, drawing on horror traditions more than on simple animated shorts.

Of course, the film is not without its flaws. In particular, the middle section drags as the threat of the Queen is largely forgotten, though Disney was aware of this and cut two scenes related to the dwarves rather late in production. But the memorable images—of the dwarves returning home from the mine, the witch in the rainstorm atop the cliff ledge, Snow White in her glass coffin awaiting her Prince—are so enduring, so memorable that the film transcends its faults and reaches a state of near-Platonic perfection.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs remains the highest grossing animated feature in the U.S. (adjusted for inflation) and will continue to be a perennial favourite for years to come. Disney and his collaborators honed their skills further over the years, but it all started here, where all the rules were written. Every animated film since is in its debt.

Yet one of the most enduring images from the first few decades of cinema is undoubtedly the shot of Lloyd hanging from a large clock-face as he dangles several stories above street-level. Taken from his 1923 comedy Safety Last!, this scene is familiar to almost everyone, no matter their familiarity with Lloyd or the film itself.

The bulk of the film is entertaining though hardly noteworthy: the story of the boy trying to impress his girl by pretending to be higher up in the business world food-chain isn’t exactly revolutionary, even for 1923. But it’s all just a set-up for the climax, where Lloyd scales a building with no visible safety precautions.

This final sequence is gripping, to say the least. Yes, a few shots used a stunt double, and yes, Lloyd was above a mattress waiting to cushion a possible fall. Do these facts diminish the spectacle? Certainly not, especially given that it all looks believable enough. He really was that far off the ground, even if a ledge (or, more precisely, the roof of the real building) was only a couple of stories below—a fall was still not at all desirable.

And therein lies the thrill of Safety Last!: no chroma keying or CGI facilitates the spectacle. Instead we have one man determined to wow an audience at any cost. Star and hero were one and the same.

Made in 1902, this classic piece of early cinema is important for so many reasons, not the least of which is that, even today, it stands as a fine piece of entertainment in its own right, beyond any historical curiosity. The imagery is rich and startling: besides the famous image of the rocket lodged in the eye of the moon, the landscape of the moon itself is wonderfully realised with spires, craters and giant mushrooms, while faces appear in stars and moon inhabitants disappear in puffs of smoke. The whimsy alone carries the audience into a magical world of wonder and awe.

The story concerns a group of astronomers who build a rocket and voyage to the moon, just as the title implies. Soon they are captured by the natives and taken to see the commander, before escaping and returning to Earth. It’s not that elaborate a plot, but at least there is a plot, which is significant in itself. It’s in the details, however, where the real beauty lies, such as when an umbrella transforms into a mushroom before our eyes.

If it all seems laughably inaccurate and quaint for a trip to the moon, that’s the point. Even in 1902, nobody believed there was literally a man in the moon; Méliès was a stage magician interested in the use of film to create illusions and spectacle. To make the impossible (by any rational standard) seemingly materialise in front of the spectator was the objective, and the more obviously impossible the event, the more confounding (and thus impressive) the illusion.

A Trip to the Moon may not be science fiction in the strictest sense, but it’s the earliest special effects-driven film with a real narrative, making it one of the most significant films in cinema history. It’s also a lot of fun and well recommended.

But in terms of being a pure crowd-pleaser, Gilliam’s biggest triumph is undoubtedly Time Bandits (1981). While not as visually dense or bizarre as Brazil, nor as (relatively) sober as 12 Monkeys, Time Bandits possesses an innocent charm that his more cynical works lack. If nothing else, it was the first film to help establish Gilliam as a true auteur and cinematic visionary.

All of the director’s trademarks are here, such aa the use of giants and dwarves (allowing for many low-angle shots), the recurring motif of placing characters in cages (inspired by Walt Disney’s Pinocchio (1940)) and the blurring of the line between fantasy and reality. The production design veers between the stark and the lavish (this dichotomy being another trademark of Gilliam’s) and the humour is, as usual, dark-edged but playful.

The story involves the adventures of Kevin (Craig Warnock), an intellectually curious young boy whose parents seem more interested in gadgets and gameshows than in any of the interests of their son. After being surprised when a knight on horseback bursts into his bedroom one night, Kevin is soon the companion to a group of time-travelling dwarves determined to gather up as much booty as possible while darting from one time period to the next. Ultimately, however, the dwarves want “The Most Fabulous Object in the World”.

All of this takes place against a battle of Good (i.e. the Supreme Being, played by Ralph Richardson) versus Evil (David Warner), allowing for some very witty commentary on Creationism and the problem of evil, both of which are gently satirised without dominating the narrative.

The real theme is the unnecessary excesses of consumerism and the dismissive attitude by some towards anything that doesn’t feature the latest bells and whistles. Will 3D TV really enrich our lives? Do you really need to buy an iPad the day it hits stores? In this way, Time Bandits has much in common with Brazil, but the Orwellian overtones are largely absent in the former’s more family-friendly approach. (It could be argued that the Supreme Being serves the function of Big Brother here, however.)

Putting all that aside, Time Bandits is just good fun, being full of imagination, whimsy and wonder in the tradition of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. This is a family film that respects its audience, neither talking down to children nor desperately trying to grab cheap laughs from adults using irrelevant pop-culture references. If only the Shrek franchise would be this fresh and inventive.