Skyfail

Warning! Spoilers!

It was all going so well. Building on the grittier, grounded Bond of the Timothy Dalton years and the relatively modernized sensibilities of the subsequent Pierce Brosnan era, Casino Royale and it’s awkwardly-named sequel, Quantum of Solace, were poised to deliver not only a Bond for our times, but perhaps the definitive cinematic Bond. Gone, at last, were the zany gadgets, scenery-chewing villains, outré plots of world subjugation, and sexual innuendo that, more often than not, suggested masculinity still waiting to grow into adulthood. In their place: sensible but no less formidable foes plucked from today’s terrorist and corporate threats, and a Bond whose cunning, brawn, and burgeoning charm are the tools of choice above gizmos. And, of course, Daniel Craig with his inevitable comparisons to Steve McQueen.

When Sam Mendes & Co – which includes veteran Bond screenwriters Neil Purvis and Robert Wade, along with John Logan – announced their intention to return Bond to the “classic” era, at least by way of astral projection, I admit, in hindsight, to indulging expectations derived from the so-far excellent re-imagining of a cultural icon. Casino Royale offered a winning start with a surprisingly personal Bond story – delivered in a context of international crime, terrorism, and espionage that made the topic of finances seem awfully exciting. Quantum of Solace may have soured some fans and divided critics, but I was gripped by the frighteningly credible threat of an organization exploiting the geopolitics of water scarcity for the purposes of amassing money and power. The story successfully evoked the paranoia that comes from an organization with its own intelligence capabilities, network of operatives, mysterious power brokers at undisclosed levels of the group’s hierarchy, and necessary aversion to flash and theatricality – precisely the sort of threat intelligence agencies such as MI6 are intended to detect and defeat. 

I fully anticipated that the handsomely filmed Skyfall would complete Bond’s evolution from blunt instrument to vengeful machine until, at last, he could relax into the persona of playboy agent; ever deadly, but always receptive to the finer pleasures of the high-life. Bond could re-assume his place as the World’s Most Interesting Man, a title currently held by John Goldsmith on behalf of Dos Equis, with a turbulent psyche and conflicted morals smoothed over by carefully manicured hedonism. And wetted with a shaken martini. But while Mendes & Co make the film an homage to Bond’s golden age, stuffing the film with enough amusing references for a Bond museum, they also revive the franchise’s chauvinism, this time amplified into forthright misogyny. 

I can understand Bond’s aversion to anything more than fleeting romantic liaisons on account of his tragic affair with Vesper Lynd – but does he have to be an asshole? It’s depressing enough that, in a scene tinged with colonialist condescension, Bond fucks and forgets a pretty (read: exotic)woman without even politely dispensing sweet nothings or common post-coital courtesy. When another beautiful woman – a victim of sexual trafficking and slavery whom Bond also beds in a creepy sequence –is mercilessly executed by the film’s villain in a sadistic version of William Tell’s apple trick, the best Bond can do is coldly quip about spilled scotch. Sean Connery would never be so crass or mean. Therein lies the difference between the Bonds of yore and Skyfall’s Bond; past 007s may have only rarely loved women on a spiritual level, but they certainly loved women on the level of aesthetic, sensual and, to be fair, consensual gratification. We could understand why women longingly sighed for Bond; he offered not only sex, but good-humoured romance with no strings attached. Craig’s Bond, however, doesn’t even possess the aesthete’s appreciation of pleasure, let alone the effortless charm that lends itself to seduction, rendering his post-Vesper liaisions little more than outbreaks of redirected aggression. 

The past chauvinism of the franchise, tempered by the fact that Bond’s affairs were between consenting adults, is here manifested as disturbing hostility and dismissiveness. Consider the introduction of a female agent named Eve, a kick-ass sort played with moxie and humour by Naomie Harris. When a job goes wrong, resulting in Bond’s apparent death, she is sent scurrying back to headquarters to have her fitness for field-work reevaluated. Bond’s advice when they reunite? Not all people are fit for field work – an opinion confirmed when Mendes & Co have her choose to take an administrative position instead of returning to field duty. And there, in quick, is Miss Moneypenny’s origin story within the reimagined Bond universe; a promising field agent who ends up a secretary…but since the decision is contrived as voluntary, the patriarchy’s wish for willingly submissive women is fulfilled and excused. 

It’s demeaning enough to have the women stay home while the men fight the war, but even worse when Judy Dench’s M – a formidable force in the Bond universe and quite possibility the franchises’ most brilliant casting decision – is reduced to a damsel in distress and surrogate mother. I get it: she’s an old lady, though Judi Dench can never be old to me. As the head of MI6, however, with enough personality to power a metropolitan city for a year, M’s feebleness comes across as a jarring, unlikely contradiction. The film half-heartedly tries to give her some spunk and ingenuity in the climactic confrontation, only to reward her with a cheap, unworthy death saddled with the villain’s mother issues and a tarnished career legacy. 

There’s no denying the film’s kinetic energy, however, or the few delightful bon-bons plucked from the franchise’s most iconic elements. Like a roller coaster, the film succeeds in leaving thinking brains far beyond bodies exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. There are a few genuinely human moments, such as the welcome reintroduction of Q branch via an improbable museum encounter between Bond and the fresh quartermaster played by Ben Whishaw. The scene is one of the film’s best, as two generations meet, size each other up via witty repartee, and come out sparkling with the promise of a beautiful new friendship. But scenes with any hint of humanity, including promising glimpses into Bond’s sad childhood, are marginalized between extended action scenes that have only the thinnest application of plot to glue them together. Divorced from any semblance of narrative context, most of the action and fight scenes are thrilling in and of themselves, marking a return to the classical stunt choreography and practical special effects that, these days, have been replaced by CGI. The opening sequence, involving a chase that culminates with a train and construction equipment, is tense and exhilarating. Just don’t give in to the taboo of asking about collateral damage; thinking about the innocent lives put at risk, not to mention the property damage, is bad form for an action movie. Other scenes of destruction, ranging from large-scale to larger-scale, fare worse by unintentional evoking disbelief. One in particular, involving a train crash reminiscent of the Universal City studio tour, is partly brazen. Why is that train empty during rush hour? And if Mendes & Co had populated the train, wouldn’t the death toll and number of injuries be horrific? Given the superficial plot that is neatly, and entirely, summed up as a rogue agent’s revenge on M for a past wrong, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the details are muddled too. Also, note this: screenwriters Neil Purvis and Robert Wade are the same folk who gave us the invisible car in Die Another Day. Perhaps they missed the critical influence of their partner for the previous films, Paul Haggis.

Most action movies exhibit cracks in their plausibility but have enough momentum to race forward. This is partly true of Skyfall. Until the perversely hilarious end, that is, when it becomes clear that all that effort, what one could rightly refer to as storm and fury, serviced a con. Just as The Dark Knight Rises pranked viewers into believing the franchise celebrated Batman when, subversively, it took apart his mythology, Skyfall ends up signifying nothing. James Bond, once the hero’s hero, is here punctured by one the grandest Pyrrhic victories on screen in some time. After an entire film whose events are almost entirely and single-handedly orchestrated by Javier Bardem’s vengeful hacker villain, Bond takes charge and delivers a killing blow of his own only to simultaneously fail in preventing the end-game; M’s death. The prank in all of this? MI6 is blown up and hacked (repeatedly), a humiliation capped by the death of its head, and Bond, after spending most of the movie’s duration sulking, is restored to full Bond-hood in a celebration of failing upwards. And audiences are rewarded with a franchise reset to an earlier era that no longer has to consider the complex realities of the 21st century, let alone the nuances of the human spirit. 

Between the irony and the misogyny, however, I have so far failed to mention the film’s villain, a blond-haired fop who, as conceived by Mendes & Co, amounts to Hannibal Lecter homoeroticized for the unfortunate sake of a joke. Bardem is too good an actor to deliver a bad performance, and in this capacity he doesn’t disappoint; his Raoul Silva oozes every bit of quirky malice a cartoon supervillain requires. The sheer preposterousness of his brilliance – his computer skills defy MI6’s supposedly best-of-the-best Q branch – and ability to manipulate even the smallest events as part of his grand design is matched only by the sheer banality of his motive for revenge. Resolving his evil into psychological instability with suicidal tendencies and mommy issues doesn’t add layers to the characters. It highlights the malleability Mendes & Co exploit to suit an agenda that is devoted to style and aversive to substance. In any case, we’ve seen Silva before in the Bond franchise, only done with greater conviction and acuity, and less camp: he was called Alec Trevalyan and played by Sean Bean in GoldenEye. In Skyfall, Bardem’s Silva merely merely proves that the only threat worthy for

The good news is that, like Doctor Who, the Bond universe is not burdened with an excessive interest in continuity. Like the good doctor, the menu of different Bond actors and approaches to Ian Fleming’s creation means there can be a Bond for everyone. The bad news is that, also in keeping with the BBC’s revival of Doctor Who, the Bond revival with Craig does involve an undeniable connection between films. Just as Quantum of Solace’s injection of moral awareness into Daniel Craig’s Bond elevated Casino Royale in retrospect – by providing a psychological trajectory for the character to follow – Skyfall has the inverse effect of degrading the entire series. It is, to some extent, the same depreciation I experienced with Nolan’s Batman trilogy after watching The Dark Knight Rises. Where the latter, however, amounted to the disappointment of missed opportunities, Skyfall amounts to the outright repudiation of the past films. The significant franchise achievements of Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace seem much less worthy of praise knowing that they culminate in a profoundly dislikeable asshole Bond and in a franchise return to cartooning .

the dark knight rises...but not very high

Be warned! Here there be spoilers...

The third and, if Nolan is to be believed, final film in his Batman trilogy is arguably as satisfying an end as one could hope for – provided one relinquishes ambitions stoked by The Dark Knight and an allegiance to past interpretations of the character. Owing its narrative kernel, structure, and impression to Batman Begins, The Dark Knight Rises brings Bruce Wayne full-circle to the origins of his caped persona in a film that’s smarter and brawnier than the average action movie but also derived from the the genre conventions Nolan & Co expressly rejected in The Dark Knight. Hence, Gotham City is once more under threat of being exploded by agents of the melodramatic League of Shadows, and it falls to Bruce Wayne to dust off his armour and re-engage with the city he abandoned. Apart from an over-the-top opening aerial scene in which terrorists mutilate a plane in mid-air as part of a scheme to kidnap a scientist (and, unintentionally, audience credibility), the film convincingly pops the corn at a gripping pace that leaves implausibilities and nit-picks for the post-credits autopsy.

Although Gotham City remains a characterless amalgamation of grand US cities, a consistent weakness throughout the trilogy, Nolan’s production team delivers stunning industrial design in the forms of Batman’s costume, gadgets, and vehicles, including an intimidating flying version of the tumbler called the Bat. Jack Nicholson’s Joker is safe in his envy of Batman’s beautiful toys in Burton’s vision – more or less. If engineering ever matched aesthetics in its capacity to drop jaws it would have to be in the impressive technology Nolan’s Batman wields.

In keeping with the grounded production design, Nolan’s nominally realistic approach to the material delivers gritty urban action that fascinates without drawing on our culture’s easy fetishism for violence. It is curious, however, that his staging of spectacle such as the collapsing stadium creates a cerebral rather than strongly visceral impression of shock, an impression that achieves its effect yet nevertheless keeps emotions at a safe distance. In this regard, the film achieves an all-too-even tonality, rarely expressing outrage or other great emotion.  Nolan’s self-restraint is commendable for events that, handled by other directors, risk becoming amplified to histrionic excess but comes with the price that some events remain too understated to make a connection with audiences.

Counteracting the tendency towards a flattened affect , thankfully, is Michael Caine, who returns as Bruce Wayne’s butler and surrogate parental figure. He imbues the film with its most genuine human emotion. It is somewhat unfair to single Caine out, however, since series regulars Morgan Freeman, as technologist extraordinaire Lucius Fox, and Gary Oldman, as the put-upon Commissioner Gordon, respectively bring bemused compassions and world-weary gravitas to the film – that is, a measure of humanity distinct from Christian Bale’s grim Wayne. Among the newcomers, Tom Hardy as the masked Bane makes for a towering villain, physically commanding and possessed of a certain wit, whose flair for the theatrical is underwritten by the sustained promise of controlled but volatile savagery. Nolan & Co aimed to present Batman with both a physical and intellectual threat, and their conception of Bane works effectively in this regards. Hardy exudes menace and intelligence in equal measure, transcending the limitations of his face mask to deliver a worthy antagonist ever-so-slightly deflated by an undeclared origin concept. Also effective, if low-key, is Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a cop who runs hot but honestly towards an intriguing plot twist, and Marillon Cotillard as a Wayne Enterprises executive pushing the reclusive Bruce to use his fortune and company for noble purposes.

But what, we desperately want to ask, of a certain feline femme fatale? Wisely, Anne Hatheway’s sharp rendition of Catwoman steers clear of Michelle Pfeiffer’s iconic portrayal, setting aside the latter’s erotically charged menace in favour of an urban Robin Hood portrayal. Yet while Hatheway has the charm and intensity for the role, she lacks support from a script whose divided attention fails to fully take advantage of everything the character, arguably the most interesting addition to the ensemble, has to offer.

An underused Catwoman, however, is only a symptom of a film that delivers a thriller plot largely stripped of the thorny sociological challenges stirred up in The Dark Knight. The film’s weakness: a failure to logically explore the consequences wrought by Commisionner Gordon and Batman’s decision to whitewash Harvey Dent’s reputation. Although we are presented with the personal costs of choosing to hold Batman responsible for Dent’s murder spree as Two-Face, paralleled by Alfred’s decision to withhold a letter to Bruce from Rachel Dawes explaining her love for Dent, we are not given an account of the cost extracted from Gotham’s citizens. Commissioner Gordon, an honest man, predictably suffers from both the tragic fate that befell Dent as well as the injustice inherent in blaming an innocent man for crimes he didn’t commit. Bruce, his ability to function as Batman undermined, becomes a recluse with nothing to cling to other than the mistaken belief that he could have found happiness with Rachel had she survived the Joker’s machinations. Yet other than the mention of a Harvey Dent Act, the direct product of Gordon and Batman’s whitewashing that is instrumental to clearing Gotham of organized crime through draconian limitation of criminals’ civil rights, it is far from clear what price Gotham had to pay for its reduced crime rate. At the very least, one would expect that a reduction in criminals’ civil rights would spill over into a reduction of all civil rights, one whose very toughness on crime earned by relaxing safeguards sweeps the innocent as well as the guilty. What if, reasonably enough, the Act had resulted in the police force adopting Batman’s vigilante methods as a systemic policy, effectively institutionalizing extra-legal methods? Illustrating the debate between security versus freedom, presenting Gotham as a police state would have raised a deliciously complex ethical scenario further enriched by the topic of the individual as vigilante versus a legal institution. It is in this dichotomy that the link between superheroic vigilantism and fascist thuggery, raised by Watchmen and sustained by some comic book critics, could be explored as the politics of scale; what works for a lone individual may not work so well as a social paradigm. And then, naturally, after establishing the fragile status quo the film would throw in a grenade, namely, by exposing the city’s duplicity and, consequently, tearing down Dent’s heroic image.

The nature of the threat posed by Bane – an external force assaulting the city –largely prevents The Dark Knight Rises from fully confronting the aftermath of The Dark Knight, a narrative effort that requires introspection. Equally deflating is Nolan & Co’s lack of attention to the people of Gotham themselves except as a flock of sheep to be shepherded and protected. Without an exploration of how larger events influence the people who provide the major characters with their rationale for action, the film leaves questions raised by The Dark Knight unresolved and unexamined. When Nolan & Co finally toss the grenade into the fray, the end result is good PR for Batman, who is now free to resume his heroic role untarnished by Dent’s crimes, and good for inciting criminals to stage a prison break. It is, however, ultimately without significance.

Bane’s character concept is problematic both in general and in terms of his terror reign over Gotham, especially considering the view by some critics that the film is a “fascist epic” which, as self-described poet/lyriscist/philosopher bard Phil Rockstroh states, portrays “members of an Occupy Wall Street-type popular insurgency as boilerplate, comic book villains who rise from the city's underbelly, compelled by murderous grievances, to inflict a reign of chaos, reminiscent of Terror-gripped, late 18th Century/ early 19th Century France, on the city's economic elite.”  Yet here’s the rub for this perspective: at no time does Bane ever evince a sincere belief in the populist, Occupy Wall Street rhetoric he spouts. It is simply a means of manipulating Gotham citizens into a frenzy until such time as a nuclear bomb can be detonated to destroy the city. Aside from the fact that Bane’s motives are tied to the nebulous aims of the weakly-conceived League of Shadows introduced in Batman Begins, Bane’s efforts are also aimed towards the psychological torture of Bruce Wayne/Batman, whose death Bane wants to achieve only after forcing Wayne to watch the destruction of everything he loves and believes in. Only Catwoman espouses views in sympathy with Occupy Wall Street, but her character, as with her politics, are set aside in a plot that resides in the physical survival of Gotham rather than its sociopolitics, ideology, and very identity as a civic body.

Despite Harry Knowles profound disappointment that The Dark Knight Rises over the film’s lack of fidelity to the comics, Nolan & Co’s vision of Batman does share a similarity to previous incarnations in films and comic books. And that common denominator is this: Batman is typically pitted against extraordinary foes, thereby creating space of operations distinct from the space occupied by the police and ordinary citizens. There are certainly many smaller, more intimate stories that deal with street-level crime and the personal lives of various Gotham individuals within the comics canon, but for the most part Batman is pitted against a menagerie of grotesques to the point that the crime noir aspect of the character is diluted. This is another reason why the charge of fascist sympathies leveled against Nolan & Co. is empty, because Batman’s actions are the actions of an individual against another, not a manifestation of systematized/institutionalized policy.

As for the lack of faithfulness to the comics, Knowles does have a point in his doleful review at Ain’t It Cool, although he invites the rejoinder that if someone wants comic book Batman then he/she should read the comic. More important than individual details such as Alfred and Bruce’s falling out – an absolutely no-no according to Knowles – is the overall impression Nolan & Co’s create of the character, which does diverge significantly from the comics and Burton’s vision in the only other Batman movies that count. Despite attempts to extrude a cerebral dimension from the character subsequent to Batman Begins, in the form of Batman’s detective abilities, we are never offered the professional Batman who operates with a steely, steadfast resolve that is as moral as it is intellectual and physical. The excellent Mask of the Phantasm, for example, offered both suspenseful mystery and riveting drama in one of the best Batman films. We are given instead a reactive, volatile Batman, who begins the series as an anguished individual, continues as a tormented reactionary, and ends up bitter and reclusive only to pull back into the role of tormented reactionary when recalled to action. It’s enough to consider that Nolan & Co actually succeeded in subverting the Batman mythos by presenting us with a character who never achieves stability. There is the suspicion that Nolan & Co don’t truly believe in their Batman. For evidence, consider the film’s thematically weak ending. Unlike The Dark Knight, which gives us a chance to contrast Batman and the Joker when the two antagonists finally share a moment’s discussion, The Dark Knight Rises ultimately reduces any potential for ideological conflict to mere physical confrontation. Even then, however, Nolan & Co undermine Batman’s ideals – the morals that actually distinguish him from fascists such as his no-guns no-killing standard – by having Catwoman come blazing in at the last moment and unceremoniously shooting Bane to death. Her quip about being uncertain about Batman’s refusal to use guns amounts to low-brow mockery of a principle that deserves to be taken seriously.

If that’s not enough to view Nolan & Co’s Batman as a character to be pitied, however worthy of  respect risking his life to defend against physical threats, consider that only one character’s perspective on Bruce Wayne and Batman becomes validated in the film: Alfred’s, whose belief that Bruce Wayne would be better off leaving Gotham to find his happiness is proven correct at the end. Suggesting that the best Batman is one who doesn’t exist, what remains for Gotham is a city – guided by Commissioner Gordon’s example – that has developed a dysfunctional dependence on a vigilante incapable of driving the policy changes necessary for meaningful civic evolution.

The Dark Knight Rises is an interesting and often exciting interpretation, albeit one that counters expectations, and entertainingly realized on many levels. In the end, however, when I want my Batman served authentically gritty and noir, my preference remains with my favourite printed story, which surpasses even the legendary Long Halloween and its sequel Dark Victory: Dean Motter’s seamless and superlative Batman: Nine Lives.

the role of ethics in marketing/advertising

An assignment from a marketing ethics class I'm currently taking...

How do ethics play a role in the marketing and advertising strategies of a company?

The predictable answer is that, ideally, the role of ethics in marketing and advertising is to enable the creation of a trusting, mutually-beneficial relationship between a company and its customers – a relationship that ultimately drives a company’s financial success by reciprocally delivering value to customers.  However, the question as framed implies that ethics is a separate, detachable component – an optional subset, in essence – of marketing and advertising. This historically persistent distinction has been the underlying factor in the operations of companies who, in an economic utilitarian manner, have evaluated business decisions on the basis of consequences for financial growth (and the accumulation of personal wealth) rather than societal, ecological, and humanitarian considerations. Money becomes the end result of a business process rather than one of several possible means of achieving greater goals.

By attempting to retrofit ethics on an existing business model, a meta-ethical quandary is created whereby the use or rejection of ethics in itself becomes a cost-benefit proposition. Asking how ethics can play a role in business thus misconstrues ethics in which right actions should be undertaken precisely because they are right actions and not because of any instrumental value they can offer independently of their rightness. (Obviously, the challenge is defining what constitutes a right action at the outset.) When instrumental value becomes the prime motivator, with or without the disincentive of punishment, the ethical quality of a business or individual can only be as strong and durable as the methods used to enforce morally appropriate behavior. This is evident in the cyclical nature of business in which ethical lapses with catastrophic results prompt more stringent regulations and oversight only to loosen over a subsequently uneventful period of time. Regulations are then repealed or weakened, often under the guise of promoting economic growth, thereby setting in motion yet another catastrophe that prompts, once more, demand for stricter regulations. For an example, consider recent events in the banking industry.

This is not to reduce the question merely to a problem of virtue ethics in which the challenge entails defining moral character, although that is a critical problem. Designing ethical social structures that nurture moral behavior while discouraging immoral behavior is certainly an important consideration. In this respect, structuring marketing and advertising strategies within a specific and measurable ethical framework is reasonable and desirable. However, if we accept that thoughts influence behavior then it is necessary to question the psychological segregation of ethics (e.g. through our use of language) from other human activities such as business, especially considering how easy it is to forego moral actions when economic survival is threatened. A better question, then, is:  what kind of business practices can be derived from any given ethical perspective? Also: what are the defining qualities of moral agency in an economy that uses business to further ethical goals rather than the reverse? Finally: how do we organize society, and the business practices within it, to enable individuals to develop the ethical skills necessary to participate in an ethical economy?

Whether ethics is interpreted as the ground of a business practice or its shepherd, there is no question that its role remains to serve as a necessary arbiter for a company’s marketing and advertising strategies. The reasons for this are, in practice, both intrinsic (the right thing to do in-and-of-itself) and instrumental (financially beneficial). Nevertheless, the ultimate role of ethics should be not to have a role but to instead blur the distinction between itself and other activities whether economic, social, or interpersonal.

Smoke but No Fire in Scott’s Prometheus

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, but the point should be debated in regards to Prometheus, Ridley Scott’s return to science-fiction almost 30 years after Blade Runner. A splendour to behold, from the panoramic views of desolate Icelandic terrain to the imaginary landscape of a planetary moon with the unromantic designation of LV-223, Prometheus achieves the epic visual presentation one associates with the grandest of science fiction and fantasy films. Every scene is lavish with thoughtful design, whether in the muscularity of the titular spaceship, the organic morphology (both biologically and technologically) of the alien race dubbed “Engineers,” or the creature design. Dariusz Wolski’s cinematography is rich and atmospheric. Performance-wise, Michael Fassbender just about carries the film in his pocket in his role as an inconsistently characterized android with a duplicitous agenda and ambiguous relationship towards humanity.  It’s all beautiful smoke, but where’s the substance?

Some fuss has been made about the film’s narrative ambiguity. Though certainly not perplexing in the mode of Stanley Kubrick, the ambiguity is earned fairly. The narrative offers a credible sense of mystery by leaving obscured much about the Engineers except for facts that directly impact the literal aspect of the story, and using whatever answers are offered to set up new questions. Yes, the invitations has been issued for a sequel, but the film accomplishes enough that whatever direction the series takes – in a potential follow-up possible titled “Paradise”  – will build on Prometheus instead of charting the same territory.

So, no, a lack of answers is not the reason why the old syllogistic adage is wrong and the film lacks fire, a mortal wound in a film so intimately vested in the myth of Prometheus’ theft from the gods. It’s the lack of science and scientific reasoning, in a film ostensibly framed as science fiction, that reduces Prometheus to a false alarm. As if Scott and his screenwriters, Lost’s Damon Lindelhof and Jon Spaihts, had never read science fiction let alone familiarized themselves with how scientific research is conducted, Prometheus gives us a scenario of often astonishing incompetence.

Beginning with the scientists, Prometheus gives us a geologist unable to tell the difference between natural and artificial formations, a biologist without curiosity about alien life forms until the moment the narrative demands a grisly sacrifice, and assorted crew members who serve no discernible purpose. What little scientific method there is consists of reading computer screens. The only facsimile of science occurs at the beginning of the film, when archaeologists Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and Charlie Halloway (Logan Marshall-Green) discover a cave painting  that would make Erich von Daniken proud, and even that is little more than the sort of stumbling around any amateur adventurer can do.

Next comes the method, of which is there is none. One would expect an expedition to an unknown, potentially dangerous planet to involve strict protocols to preserve the researchers’ safety while uncovering new data using the best tools 2093 has to offer– robot probes, procedures for handling life forms both sentient and otherwise, extensive documentation – that is, a methodical process of investigation. But despite the offering of gadgets like robotic surgical pods and little robot spheres that can map terrain on their own very quickly, this is a primarily a film that gives us an idiot removing his helmet the moment his sensors detects breathable air, and a scientist who rejects weapons among the equipment manifest on account of being on a “scientific expedition.”

Do Scott and co really imagine that this is how a trillion-dollar voyage to another planet would be carried out, by a defenseless spaceship filled with unarmed scientists who blunder around? What are we to think of a script that succeeds in having characters get lost in relatively simple tunnels despite having access to maps and guidance from the ship? I half expected Scott to cut away to the two technicians from Cabin in the Woods, gleefully punching buttons on a console to orchestrate a sacrificial ritual for the appeasement of an elder god audience. No such luck; the only explanation for a poorly conceived scenario populated by incompetent and often outright stupid characters stems from the unmarried marriage counselors (to borrow a phrase from Charles Schultz) who wrote the script.

The film’s most notable act of intellectual dishonesty, as if implausibility wasn’t enough, is that while the script asks big questions it settles for small, unexamined answers. There is no debate or discussion about the questions, the answers, and the significance of either beyond the banal reevaluation of human origins as extraterrestrial in nature. Prometheus doesn’t feature scientists flinging evidence in support or refutation of the various scientific hypotheses that arise from the archaeologists’ discovery, or arguing the implications of challenges the body of evidence that favoured human evolution from primates. That the film stops short of providing definitive answers is not the problem, provided that we can share in the characters’ thrill of puzzling out the mystery and pondering the possibilities. Problematic is that the film’s protagonist, played by Noomi Rapace with strength and vulnerability worthy of Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley, demonstrates a markedly anti-scientific mode of reasoning: in the absence of evidence, her conception of knowledge is informed by what she chooses to believe. Instead of accepting the unknown as unknown, she emphasizes the film’s equivocation of truth and wishful expectations, with the only nod towards the false equivalency emerging when the expectations are fulfilled in a predictably brutal fashion.

In regards to the film’s implications in terms of the human condition, Prometheus makes the mistake of forcing a simplistic religious perspective on a non-religious paradigm of human origins despite the ill fit. As if centuries of theology, philosophy, and science have no bearing on the characters or issues, all we get is the view that the created somehow must derive the meaning and purpose of their existence from their creator. Imagine the problem, then, when discovering that the creator is not the burning bush but aliens with sinister secrets. But again, don’t expect the characters to engage in any meaningful debate as one would expect from people confronted with an awesome, unsettling revelation. The extent of the film’s shallowness extends to the wasted casting of Guy Pearce and Charlize Theron, both of whom play important characters that could have imbued the narrative with significant momentum had they been given the necessary screentime to dramatize the film’s subtextual concern with the fear of death.

There are irritations, such as the easy exploitation of female anatomy for body horror – a predictable extension of the not-so-vaguely sexual terror implicit in the phallic-shaped creatures, the oral penetration method of infection, and unnatural procreation that marked the Alien films. Yet Scott is a masterful director, so the objection only comes after the scene has passed and the mind can assert itself over the harrowing, visceral queasiness of the expedition inevitable succumbing to horror. The same can be said of the film as a whole; grandly cinematic and relentlessly captivating during its running time, but whose effect is too ephemeral to leave anything behind other than intellectual bankruptcy. Beautiful smoke from chilly embers.

A housekeeping note: For anyone wondering about the connection with the Alien films: there is indeed a strong link which marks Prometheus as a prequel of sorts. The film’s revelations provoke a reevaluation of the Alien mythology, but since it has no bearing on the narrative of any of the Alien films, the link isn’t a necessary one to understand.

a sad conclusion about doctor who from series 6

Series 5 of the popular Doctor Who revival, hereafter to be referred to as New Who, ended on a slightly ambivalent note; enthusiasm for Matt Smith’s hyperkinetic embodiment of the 11th doctor, frustration with his companions (i.e. Amy Pond), and an exhilarating feeling of disappointment with Steve Moffat’s vision as showrunner. Exhilarating disappointment  – an oxymoron? Hardly. Watching Series 5 –and, now, Series 6 – is like eating candy and eventually recognizing that it has no nutritional value whatsoever. The sugar rush is a thrill for a while, but eventually must yield the way to more substantive and mature appreciation. Or rejection.

Perpetuating the flaws that have marred New Who since its inception – notably grandiose plotting with delusions of narrative coherence – Series 6 adds in a few of its own, beginning with an amplification of a significant irritation from Series 5: the relationship between Amy Pond and Rory Williams. Thankfully, we have finally moved past Rory’s status, in Amy’s eyes, as side-dish to the Doctor’s main course. Yet after a season in which Amy has the hots for everyone’s favourite Time Lord only to jettison it all in a season-ending marriage to Rory, the coupling still fails to convince. We accept it only because the plot requires us to accept it, and because Arthur Darvill is the series’ unsung star performer in a role that blends the sensible and the vulnerable with hefty doses of bravery and bad-assery.

Far crueler to the Doctor’s companions than the conviction of their marital status is their relationship to the Doctor, namely, as appendages. Although the Doctor cares greatly for them, there is never the sensation of a two-way relationship in quite the same way the David Tennant’s Doctor enjoyed with Donna Noble or Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor with Rose Tyler. Perhaps the most honest acknowledgment comes when – spoilers! – the Doctor leaves Amy and Rory behind with the recognition that he was selfishly feeding off of Amy’s fangirl adoration. Much in the same way New Who feeds off the adoration of its uncritical fanbase.

All that could be dismissed as glitch rather than aggravation provided New Who’s fundamental structure, wobbly at best under Russell Davies’ guidance, had improved with Moffat in charge. Yet despite Moffat’s ability to crank out plots that take advantage of time travel’s convolutions, the plots remain stubbornly prone to magical resolutions and pandering scenarios. Telling stories from the school of plotting that demands escalated stakes, the writers long ago reached the dead end of positing the ultimate stakes – the erasure of reality itself – and repeating the same universe-destroying outcome as the challenge the Doctor must overcome.

More fundamental still is the show’s refusal to embrace its science fiction character, preferring instead to dwell in the arbitrary logic of fairy tales. Result: high concept stories are reduced to mere melodrama or yet another monster-of-the-week scenario, with the concept providing a backbone nobody cares to notice is broken. Consider “The Girl Who Waited,” an episode set on a planet quarantined from a deadly and incurable 24-hour disease. Through a medical facility capable of sustaining co-existing time streams running at different speeds, the dying can stretch their final day to last the lifespan of their loved ones. Into this fascinating idea comes a medical facility incapable of distinguishing human biology from other biologies, and an army of robots ostensibly intended to provide medical care but, in true Who fashion, display a sinister shark’s array of needles in their heads. (The xenophobia that is rampant in Doctor Who, manifested in an endless parade of cool but ultimately malicious entities is an on-going drag for a series that otherwise celebrates adventure and the search for universal wonders.) While the drama inherent in trapping Amy in a different timestream from Rory and the Doctor is compelling, the cavalier treatment of the episode’s core concept underscores how the writers are willing to jettison narrative integrity in favour of manipulating audience emotions. When magic is draped in science-fiction trappings, the cognitive dissonance that results doesn’t lend itself to credible narratives. Concepts are thrown around like wet noodles at a wall, sticking only out of sheer production will power and not because any of it actually makes any sense.

This is on par with the show’s disregard for continuity and consistent worldbuilding, in the sense that each plot idea – each new villain’s assault on Earth – seems to exist without consideration of past episodes. Hence, we have a planet Earth whose core was formed around a malevolent race of half-humanoid half-spider beings, which evolved a race of underground-dwelling reptilian humanoids, and subsequently was subject to an occupation by Silence so hidden that even past incarnations of the Doctor were unaware of it. Add in Torchwood, and we are given a race of ridiculously powerful fairies who also inhabit the Earth. Nevermind the fact that apparently all these beings have never interacted; Doctor Who’s anything-goes approach to worldbuilding, quirky in Classic Who but amplified in New Who, has reached the critical mass of absurdity.

The sad conclusion: New Who is no longer skilled fiction, if it ever was, but fan fiction – a comic book soap opera that panders to audiences rather than demonstrate artistic integrity. I’ll keep watching, if only because there remains a certain infectious entertainment value to the show, but I can’t say I have much respect for it. Not when there are other shows, like Merlin, Eureka, Sanctuary…that manage to have excellent characterization, clever show premises, and a solid grasp of narrative storytelling.