the m0vie blog

One of the more interesting aspects of living through a pop culture moment is that it is often quite hard to properly assess anything from that subjective vantage point.

It is too easy to assume that this moment is the most important moment in history, to suggest that the entirety of history has been a path leading to this moment or to the moment just beyond it. There is also a clear desire to find signal in the noise, to sift through the nearly impossible volume of data that threatens to overwhelm any filter and find a pattern. As such, it is always tempted to declare particular movies as the important to this particular moment, or to find trends when none actually exist.

At the same time, there is something to be said for trying to sift through contemporary pop culture and to observe trends. In particular, to see how those trends reflect back on the world in which those films were produced and the world in which they were released. In particular, one of the more interesting aspects of Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Last Jedi and Dunkirk is a clear and conscious shift away from the conventional heroic narrative inside genres traditionally associated with such grand epic themes.

At a point in time when the political right seems to veering closer and closer to fascism, it is particularly striking to have last year’s sweeping science-fiction epic and last year’s highest profile war film both consciously rejecting the politics of the “strong man” and the “chosen one.”

The past few years have been hard on liberal democracy. There are legitimate concerns about the erosion of democratic norms inside the United States, a country that largely branded itself as a bastion of liberal democracy. The President of the United States and his staff has made several overt gestures towards fascism; targeting specific racial groups, branding the press as enemies of the people, insisting on military parades, questioning the role of the judiciary in government, complaining about peaceful protests. More than that, his supporters embrace this strongman posturing.

This is no surprise. The strong man narrative is a core component of fascism. Indeed, it could fairly be argued that a lot the President of the United States’ cult of personality is built around the narrative of him as a political strongman – the belief that he represents the will of a forgotten people, and that he will stand up aggressively to anybody who threatens their interests. Various right-wing narratives around the election of Donald Trump cast him as a mythic figure in the culture war, some last great hope for a civilisation that is (in its supporters’ perspective) in a dire situation.

However, the “strong man” narrative is not just a political myth. It is a cultural myth, one that tends to resonate through popular culture, in tales of great protagonists who are chosen by destiny to accomplish impossible tasks. Think of Frodo journeying with the one ring across Middle Earth in The Lord of the Rings, think of John Connor destined to unite humanity against a cybernetic upraising in Terminator, think of Neo whose name is very anagram of his prophecised role as the “One” in The Matrix.

These stories have always been a part of mythology and religion, but they were arguably codified into American popular culture with the success of George Lucas’ Star Wars, a film that very consciously drew upon Joseph Campbell’s The Hero of a Thousand Faces to provide a cinematic blueprint for the archetypal “hero’s journey.” The story of Luke Skywalker permeated popular culture, and many of the heroes that followed can compare their journey to his own; characters raised from seemingly normal lives by the hand of destiny in order to save civilisation.

As such, The Last Jedi offers a refreshingly frank rejection of the hero’s narrative that is such an important part of the larger Star Wars franchise, in a manner that seems refreshing and exciting. To be fair, The Last Jedi was (and is) a controversial film. It attracted a lot of criticism. Some of that criticism was valid, but a lot of it was the whining of fans reacting instinctively to the slaughter of a sacred cow; fans who balked at the film’s treatment of Luke Skywalker and its elevation of characters would would exist at the fringe of other Star Wars films.

The Last Jedi accomplishes this in a number of different ways. Most obviously, and most controversially, it reveals that the entire new trilogy is rooted in a mistake made by Luke Skywalker. In a series of flashbacks over the course of the film, Luke reveals that he made an error in judgment that led to the current crisis. It is a small mistake, a human mistake. It is completely understandable, and it is not something for which he should be condemned. However, this mistake serves to underscore the dangerous of the “chosen one” myth, the difficulty in finding people who embody such myths.

Similarly, The Last Jedi cannily subverts expectations with the reveal of Rey’s parents. Fans spent years speculating about Rey’s heritage, about her identity, about her place in the mythic cosmology of Star Wars. What was her birthright? What special niche had she carved out for herself? The Last Jedi dashes all of this speculation to reveal that Rey is not the daughter of any established characters, nor is she an “chosen one.” Rey is the daughter of two anonymous nobodies who sold their daughter for drinking money. It is a brutal twist on the conventions of these types of stories.

However, the most brutal subversion of this “chosen one” archetype is in the story focusing on Poe Dameron. Dameron is one of the most interesting characters in the new trilogy, most likely because he is played by Oscar Isaacs. Isaacs is so charming in the role that he allegedly convinced JJ Abrams not to kill off the character in the previous film. Dameron just oozes charisma, a testament to Isaacs as a performer. He is in many ways the spiritual successor to Han Solo, the member of the ensemble with the same easy screen presence as Harrison Ford.

The Last Jedi plays with this idea in the plot focusing on Poe Dameron. The resistance find themselves trapped and imperiled by the enemy, hunted through space and massacred. The mysterious General Holdo refuses to explain herself to Dameron, who was responsible for the loss of the bombing fleet and had just been demoted by General Leia. Dameron is suspicious of Holdo, with the film hinting at a number of possibilities; it might be a class thing, it might be a paranoid thing, it might even be a gender thing.

Whatever the cause, Dameron decides to take radical action. Ignoring the chain of command, Dameron sets out to embark upon a risky and roguish plan to save the fleet without the consent or knowledge of Holdo. He drafts in two aides to take on a risk mission that has virtually no chance of success, relying on innovation and improvisation. This is precisely the sort of decision that audiences associate with “strong man” heroes, characters who instinctively know better than their superiors and who are the only thing standing between an inept leadership and disaster.

(Again, there are countless examples of this trope. Think about how many feature films involve a highly trained character in a military situation who is called upon by the events of the film to “go rogue.” This is particularly common in spy movies. Despite the fact that intelligence operatives rarely have a holistic sense of the political environment or even of the unfolding situation, characters like Ethan Hawke and James Bond routinely strike out on their own. They are inevitably proven correct, and inevitably accepted back into their organisations once they have accomplished their task.)

What is unique about The Last Jedi is that Dameron’s decision to strike out on his own does not save the day. Quite the opposite. Dameron’s decision to go rogue leads to Finn recruiting a smuggler and criminal to break onto the enemy ship, who betrays the heroes at the first opportunity. (The plot is somewhat hazy on the particulars of how Dameron and Finn could provide information to the smuggler of a plan of which they were not aware, but he may have overheard something at some point.) This has catastrophic consequences, sabotaging Holdo’s plan and leading to massive casualties.

This is a brutal subversion of the narrative that audiences have been convinced to expect, but something that reinforces the realities of what it is to serve in a military. Superiors do not have to explain themselves to subordinates, and certainly don’t have to outline top secret plans to unreliable and untrustworthy officers. Hierarchies and structures exist for a reason, and acting outside of those structures in pursuit of personal morality can have catastrophic consequences.

To be fair, it is debatable just how well The Last Jedi commits to these themes. Indeed, one of the most biting criticisms of the movie is that it refuses to follow these ideas to their conclusion. Luke Skywalker is allowed redemption at the end of the film, presenting himself as the hero that everybody imagined him to be. His light sabre is recovered. Dameron and Finn are not executed for their mutiny, and are not properly held to account for all the lives that they destroyed with their reckless actions.

Still, The Last Jedi still represents a strong deconstruction of the franchise’s engagement with the “chosen one” narratives of a few elevated heroes. Indeed, the movie’s opening sequence is one of the most moving and affecting moments in the history of the franchise, a largely dialogue-free sequence that focuses on the pilots and engineers who man the space craft that are routinely blown up during the franchise’s epic space battles. This is bookended neatly with a closing scene in which the story inspires a young boy to connect with the Force.

In its own way, Dunkirk touches on similar themes. Dunkirk is a story set during the Second World War, unfolding during the Battle of Dunkirk. As with Star Wars, the Second World War provides a mythic framework that colours contemporary culture. In particular, it is a vitally important aspect of British identity. It has also been appropriated by the aggressive right-wing Brexit movie, with Nigel Farage arguing that young people should watch Dunkirk and various pro-Brexit voices appealing to the fantasy of the “Dunkirk spirit.”

Again, the mythology is easy to understand. The popular myth of Britain during the Second World War is that the nation single-handedly repelled the Nazis as “the Island Fortress.” In some accounts, it often seems like Winston Churchill held the world together by sheer force of will, a mythology reinforced by the other Dunkirk movie among the Best Picture nominees, Darkest Hour. Of course, this neglects various realities; the military support that Britain received from the United States, the sacrifices made by the Russians to hold back the Nazis.

Indeed, Dunkirk itself makes a point to reject any pro-Brexit reading of this retelling of the myth. Towards the end of the film, the most senior military officer declines to join the retreat. “I’m staying,” he states. “For the French.” The film closes with an extended quotation from Winston Churchill’s iconic “we will fight them on the beaches!” speech, subverting the machismo by placing it in the mouth of a traumatised soldier. While only a sample of the speech is quoted, Nolan makes a point to include the oft-omitted appeal to the United States for help.

More to the point, though, Nolan consciously and repeatedly avoids constructing Dunkirk is such away that it could be read as a standard heroic narrative. The film isn’t the story of a “chosen one” or a single heroic figure in the same way as Darkest Hour. It is appreciably different from patriotic war films like Lone Survivor and American Sniper. Its central character is so generic that his name is “Tommy”, equivalent to calling an American soldier “Joe.” He is played by Fionn Whitehead, an actor with only a handful of credits to his name. He is no star.

When Nolan does cast stars in the movie, he tends to bury them. Harry Styles does not show up until a considerable way into the film, and hardly establishes himself as a heroic lead. Tom Hardy spends most of the film with a mask over his face. Cillian Murphy plays a character named “Shivering Sailor.” Michael Caine plays a voice on the radio. There is a clear sense that the audience in Dunkirk is not being asked to latch on to any individual character as the “star” of this story, as the leading player in this drama.

Indeed, anonymity seems to be the point. The characters in Dunkirk speak so rarely that it isn’t until the final twenty minutes that anybody realises that one of the central characters cannot speak a word of English. Even the Germans are anonymous, appearing on the edge of the frame and out of focus towards the end, described as “the Enemy.” It could be argued that Dunkirk is very much a “2017 film” in the same way as its fellow Best Picture nominees like Get Out or The Shape of Water. In many ways, Dunkirk could be seen as a movie that is fundamentally about empathy.

Consciously depriving the audience of back story or exposition, the film throws the viewer into war with the characters, and asks them to feel a primitive emotional connection to them. Dunkirk takes a bunch of characters to which the audience has no pre-existing attachment, and consciously avoids developing. There are no conversations about home, no pictures of sweethearts, no flashbacks to happier times. Literally all that the audience knows about these people is that they are in an impossible situation. Dunkirk believes that human empathy is strong enough to bond the audience to them based on that fact.

It should be noted that much of Dunkirk is given over to characters running away from combat and from heroism. Even the opening scene establishes this idea. The main characters are desperate to get off the beach, no matter what. They have little regard for military structures or heroism. A more cynical movie would label them cowards, but Dunkirk finds a lot of compassion for them. Dunkirk understands that war is not a place where men become men, instead is a state of anarchy and chaos, something approaching hell.

Nolan has frequently been accused of being a “cold” and “emotionless” filmmaker, but this is a very superficial reading of his work. Indeed, Dunkirk finds empathy for the kinds of characters who would be monsters or villains in other war films; deserters, grave robbers, murderers. The Shivering Soldier is responsible for the death of a young boy whose only crime was risking everything to help him. Dunkirk does not respond with condemnation or anger. It responds with compassion and understanding. War is hell, and there is no frame of reference for it.

In fact, the movie’s non-linear storytelling structure seems to reflect this rejection of the conventional narratives of rugged individualism and heroism. The sliding time scales are perhaps the most controversial aspects of Dunkirk, as various plot lines move at different paces, the narrative jumping back and forth between various threads. This non-linear storytelling is something of a Nolan trademark; barring a quick flashback or two, The Dark Knight is the only truly linear Nolan narrative. However, in Dunkirk, it serves a thematic purpose.

Nolan’s stories are largely about the subjective experiences of the characters, the worlds that they build and inhabit. The myth cultivated by Leonard in Memento in order to avoid facing the cruel reality of his existence; the legend that Bruce builds in Batman Begins to give his life meaning and his loss purpose; the dreams through which Dom wanders in Inception. This isn’t as strong a theme in Dunkirk, because its characters are not designed to have that level of interiority. Instead, the non-linear storytelling accomplishes this.

The passage of time is highly subjective. Hours can feel like minutes, under the right circumstances, and vice versa. Dunkirk reinforces this idea, suggesting that time passed much slower for the men on the beach as compared to the men in the air. These timelines provide a sense of subjective reality, how different characters process the same event in a different way. However, this idea goes even further. The passage of time serves to isolate the characters from one another. They occupy the same space, overlapping with an encountering each other along the way, but they do not share the same sense of reality.

Even if these realities brush against one another at various points – the “Shivering Sailor” encountering Tommy on the beach, the fighter planes flying over the Moonstone – it is only at the climax of Dunkirk that these individual realities really align. The film cuts between various perspectives of the same event, but they are all aligned. It is no longer three different narratives, but one single story told from three perspectives. Time is moving at the same pace for everyone. All the gears are in place.

Dunkirk argues that the events depicted in the film were only really possible when various different perspectives and viewpoints came together, when different characters allowed themselves to share the same reality with one another. Dunkirk is not the triumph of any solo act of heroism, but instead something close to an orchestral effort. Everybody came together, for one fleeting moment. It is a very firm rejection of the idea of individual heroism, to the point that Dunkirk even has certain characters criticised for playing unexpected parts in the drama, for not standing out. (“Where were you, mate?”)

(Dunkirk is somewhat even-handed in its assessment of this strange overlap. One of the smarter and least-discussed aspects of this non-linear structure is that the timelines don’t just intertwine, they also separate. The timelines move at their own paces coming out of the events. Tom Hardy’s timeline unfolds minutes or hours after the battle, while the younger soldiers’ storyline extended into the next day, all cross-cut. There is a clear sense that moments of alignment and shared experience like those at Dunkirk are few and far between.)

The Last Jedi and Dunkirk are both stories that eschew traditional and easy narratives about heroism and individualism, instead bending familiar storytelling frameworks to tell subversive and deconstructive stories. They are a welcome and timely rebuke to the familiar cultural templates of the “strong man” and “chosen one” , feeling very appropriate for the moment in which they were released.

Filed under: Movies | Tagged: chosen one, Dunkirk, fascism, hero's journey, the last jedi, war movies |