Why JJ Abrams understands Star Wars better than George Lucas.

A film review in three parts.

Parte the Firste – Why George Lucas has forgotten what Star Wars is all about

It may seem difficult to believe these days, but George Lucas was once the hottest director in Hollywood. In 1973 Lucas produced and directed American Graffiti, a film which is still one of the most successful of all time – making back its budget over 150 times. It was the film that allowed Lucas to bankroll 1977’s Star Wars. It was not, however, the film that Lucas wanted to make. Neither was Star Wars.

George Lucas wanted to make a Flash Gordon film.

Let’s face it though, he couldn’t have done better than this masterpiece.

As a child he was obsessed with the serial and its sequel Flash Gordon Conquers The Universe. These were pulpy, fantastical tales of heroes facing off against a maniacal evil emperor and his seemingly endless army of faceless soldiers. Morality was black and white, the heroes shot laser guns, and the each episode began with an opening crawl of text outlining the plot.

It’s clear then that Flash Gordon was a heavy influence on Star Wars, and Lucas has never shied away from this. Star Wars was the film he made when it turned out that the film rights to Alex Raymond’s books had already been acquired by Federico Fellini (of La Dolce Vita and 8 1/2 fame). Star Wars was Flash Gordon filtered through the 1970s, counter-cultural young mind of George Lucas. Who was a terrible writer. As Harrison Ford once quipped “You can type this shit, George, but you sure can’t say it!”. For example, who actually talks like this?

“Governor Tarkin, I should have expected to find you holding Vader’s leash. I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board.”

Much like that of its inspiration, the dialogue acted as clunky exposition. Telling rather than showing.

But where Lucas is an undeniably bad writer, he is also an undeniably good filmmaker. Star Wars worked because of its bold, new vision and strong use of montage. Recall the trench run on the Death Star – a breathless 10 minute montage cutting between a dozen starfighters, a battlestation and the moon base in its cross-hairs. It’s still one of the most exciting sequences in Hollywood entertainment, made possible through the power of montage.

So what went wrong with the prequels?

Too. Easy.

I’m not going to engage in a post-mortem of the prequel trilogy because frankly Red Letter Media has already hung, drawn, and quartered them in some of the best film analysis I’ve seen on YouTube. But the crux of the problem was this: Lucas kept the same exciting power of montage, kept the same bold vision, but almost completely moved away from the series’ pulpy origins. Instead of pantomime villains escaping to be fought in the next episode, clear heroes defying the odds in life-and-limb struggles, and a fast-paced adventure we got trade negotiations. Galactic politics. Overpowered heroes never in any real danger. By stripping away the comic book nature of the movies, Lucas created what he thought was a more serious, emotion-driven plot. But written by a dreadful writer. Who, when not informed by intimate knowledge of the format, could not create characters or dramatic tension to save his life. And without those two elements, no matter how good at filmmaking you are, you can’t get an audience invested in what’s happening on screen.

Which brings me at last to Episode VII and JJ Abrams.

Parte the Seconde – Why Episode VII is a great Star Wars film

JJ already demonstrated with his 2007 reboot of Star Trek that he *got* movie science fiction. He understood how to make an exciting action film. But what he demonstrated with Episode VII was that he understood Star Wars. And by comparison to the prequels, he understands it a lot better than George Lucas now does.

As many have pointed out, Episode VII is basically a re-hash of Episode IV. Our protagonist is plucked from a desert planet by a not-too-honest pilot on the Millennium Falcon. A girl is rescued from the innards of a massive, evil space station. Plans stashed in a droid are chased after. An old mentor is cut down by a black-clad evil-doer. But this, at least in my eyes, is totally fine! Star Wars was always meant to be episodic. Heck, each film even has an episode number in the title. And like Flash Gordon before it, both characters and plot elements are meant to be recycled – because Star Wars was never meant to be thought-provoking, high-brow cinema. It was meant to be pure fantasy, an escape from the real world for two hours – and an escape with the promise of further episodes yet to come.

If that is what Star Wars is, then Episode VII is an unmitigated triumph.

Much like Poe Dameron’s style. Hot damn.

Episode VII picks up about 30 years after the Return of the Jedi, coincidentally about 30 years old, and is peppered with callbacks to the original trilogy that have Star Wars geeks tripping over themselves (the chess set, the training droid, the Falcon gas masks) as well as plot elements and sequences almost in full such as the TIE fighter chase. So the universe that we are shown very much feels like a continuation of the Star Wars universe that we are familiar with, both in minor details and in broad strokes. The Millenium Falcon is back! Han Solo! Admiral Ackbar! Other traditions are also silently observed – every single Star Wars movie begins with a crawl, followed by a tilt down to show a planet and a spaceship, while the last shot shows a group of people. Without making a fuss about it, Abrams ensures that Episode VII continues these traditions.

This extends beyond the script however, with Abrams demonstrating both visually and acoustically what makes a Star Wars film, a Star Wars film.

Visually Abrams worked with long time collaborator Dan Mindel, of Star Trek and Mission: Impossible III fame. The announcement of this left many people worried that the JJ Abrams lens flare would dominate the visual style.

It’s literally a miracle that anyone could see anything on that bridge.

But of course both Abrams and Mindel are far too smart to use a visual motif so completely at odds with the visual style of the original films. Episode IV was shot by Gilbert Taylor (who, incidentally, went on to DP the 1980 Flash Gordon adaptation) in a classic Hollywood style – while all the ground-breaking special effects wizardry was happening, Taylor was relatively conservative in terms of framing, movement and colour. Mindel carried this on, and again used a traditional look (shooting on 35mm) somewhat different to his previous work – while not many shots are on a tripod, the excessive camera shake and operator noise seen in some of his other work is gone. A lot of space-based shots are lit through grilles, a technique used in Episodes V and VI. The one framing addition that I personally think really gels with the Star Wars look is the inclusion of POV shots from X-wings and their pilots, making the dogfights seem much more immediate.

To preserve the classic look Mindel even went so far as to design new lenses with Panavision that emulated the warm, forgiving feel of the original films, but only for scenes involving the Resistance. For scenes involving the First Order harsher, more modern lenses were used to emphasise the visual contrast already created by different colour schemes. It’s a breathtakingly subtle technique, but it works – the feel of scenes involving the two parties are completely different.

Of course no discussion of the cinematography of the film would be complete without talking about THAT shot of Kylo and Han on the bridge. As the sun outside is being eaten by Starkiller base, the light shining on Kylo in his confrontation stutters and fades, leaving his face illuminated only in red, and poor Han gets turned into a lightsaber kebab. It’s great, great visual filmmaking that makes sense within the story. But it only works as the culmination of a lighting strategy that exists throughout the film. In most shots of helmetless Kylo Ren, his face is illuminated by red and white in different proportions, representing his internal conflict. I wasn’t paying too much attention on either of my viewings but I’ll happily bet that the proportion of red increased steadily as the film went on. It’s a really simple technique, but the simple ones are often the most effective.

Much like the ol’ lightsaber to the chest.

That’s enough about visual storytelling. It would be remiss of me to not mention what Episode VII sounds like. As John Williams is the man, it sounds amazing, and a fluid continuation of the series. The music is so effective that you barely notice it’s there, with the exception of famous motifs such as the force theme swelling as Rey goes on the offensive with Luke’s lightsaber. I honestly wonder if there is any point in making Star Wars after Williams passes away – his music is so linked to the films that it’s difficult to imagine anyone else scoring a Star Wars. With Rogue One coming out this year being scored by Alexandre Desplat, I guess we’ll find out soon enough if another composer can step into the giant shoes of probably the greatest film composer in history.

Likewise to Williams, there can be little doubt that Ben Burtt is the greatest sound designer in movie history, with the way that Star Wars sounds almost entirely resting on his and Williams’ shoulders. And because Burtt came back for Episode VII, it sounds exactly like a Star Wars movie should, but still moves forward – for example with the adorable puppy droid of BB8. But some traditions can never die – did you spot the Wilhelm scream?

So between plot elements, cinematography, sound, and the much-lauded return to practical effects, Episode VII is a perfect entry into the Star Wars canon. But that doesn’t make it a perfect film.

Parte the Thirde – Why Episode VII isn’t perfect

When you’re making the most talked-about film of the decade the biggest problem is always going to be anticipation. Every single Star Wars fan had a pre-conceived notion of what Episode VII would be like. And somehow, miraculously, the film seemed to live up to people’s expectations. But there’s a second kind of anticipation that is just as important, and it’s this form of anticipation that Episode VII falls down on. And that’s, within the film, the anticipation of the next act.

Typically films follow a three-act structure, with the first act given over to introduction, the second act to an initial conflict or journey, and then the third act to a climactic confrontation or struggle, the resolution of which has profound implications. In the case of Episode IV act one corresponds to Luke leaving Tatooine, act two to the rescue of Leia from the Death Star, and act three to the trench run and destruction of the Death Star. This structure is effective because its one that the audience is familiar, though most likely on an unconscious level, from other stories. The story of the hero’s journey in three parts features in most works of mythology, as described in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, and when we’re watching a film one thing that we’re doing is subconsciously anticipating the next act. When watching Episode IV while you may be watching Leia being sprung from her cell and flown away by Luke and Han, you’re subconsciously expecting the events of that act to influence some as-yet unseen final conflict.

In Episode VII act one corresponds to Finn meeting Rey and them stealing the Falcon, act two to the journey returning BB8 to the resistance, and act three to the destruction of Starkiller base. The problem is that there simply isn’t enough dramatic tension to clearly delineate the three acts. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but in particular between acts two and three there is a certain something missing that should tell you “what you’ve seen so far has been building up to this attack, buckle up cowboy”. If I had to guess, I would say that it was a lack of peril for the main characters – at no point in act two did I feel that the main characters were in any real danger, with the relaxation from that danger then setting up the even greater danger of act three. Or perhaps the death of Han Solo was misplaced? In Episode IV the almost exact analogue is the death of Obi Wan at the hands of Darth Vader, and it occurs at the end of act two. This then raises the stakes for act three, having demonstrated that main characters are not invincible.

At any rate, the lack of antipation for the next act of the journey hampers how effective Episode VII is at engaging with the audience.

Further criticism could be levelled at how slavishly the movie stuck to the plot of Episode IV, and while I said before that the episodic nature of Star Wars encourages callbacks and re-use of plot elements perhaps the film took it too far and was not inventive enough. For a film that is clearly trying to get the taste of Episodes I-III out of the public mouth however, a traditionalist approach is completely understandable. If Episode VIII makes the same mistake though then we know we’re in trouble.

On an editing point there were at least three sequences that were almost comically drawn out sequences of near-identical shots of people staring at each other – Rey and Kylo duelling, Rey returning Luke’s lightsaber, and Kylo force torturing Rey. I’m honestly not sure what editor Mary Jo Markey was thinking but it jolts you right out of the film – you’ve made your point, move on to the next bloody shot!

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Seriously. Either say something or end the movie here!

Lastly while the new lead characters are great (I’m a big fan of how Furiosa-esque Rey is) the supporting cast didn’t really get enough to do. Both General Hux and Captain Phasma for example are left woefully underdeveloped – I wanted to see a new Admiral Piett and Boba Fett respectively out of those two, and Phasma in particular barely gets enough screen time to register on the eyeballs, let alone be a badass. And while I like Andy Serkis as much as the next man I’m not wholly convinced by Supreme Leader Snoke. Something about the character or maybe just Serkis in general has the stench of The Hobbit all over it. Hopefully in future films we’ll see more of the character (and the awesome basso profundo piece that Williams wrote to accompany him) and find out what kind of dude specifically requests a chamber built so he can be hologrammed three stories high.

For all of these criticisms though, I enjoyed Episode VII immensely. It is a good film at the end of the day. It represents a huge return to form for one of the most significant film series in history, and nicely sets up what will hopefully be equally good sequels. If the sound of JJ Abrams kicking himself for not signing on to do more isn’t enough proof, then I think Episode VII shows that the creative heads behind the scenes have moved past Lucas’ mistakes with the prequels and made Star Wars great again.

In fact the very first line sums up the film’s contribution to the Star Wars saga perfectly well – “This will make things right.”

Two and a half hours later, I was inclined to agree.

Un Chien Andalou – a cut apart from the rest

On a recent trip to Madrid with my girlfriend we were doing the rounds of the city’s fantastic art museums – I was particularly keen to go to the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía to see Picasso’s Guernica, his painting in protest of the Spanish civil war. Going around the museum it turned out that there was an exhibition of Salvador Dali’s work as well, including a constant showing of his 1929 short film Un Chien Andalou. Being aware of the film’s significance in the history of cinema, I thought it would be worth spending 21 minutes drinking it in and learning something about the origins of a whole bunch of different filmic conventions.


Dali did not direct Un Chien Andalou, instead writing it and providing it with clear impetus for its surreal imagery. However given that the film has no sound (though the screening was accompanied by Wagner and Argentinian tangos, as was the premiere) and no plot, well, at all, imagery is pretty much the sum total of the film. So to call it Dali’s film is justified. And if you have ever seen one of Dali’s paintings you know what that means.


Un Chien Andalou is historically significant because it has one of the most famous cuts in cinema – very literally. The opening of the film shows a man sharpening a blade and gazing up at the moon. We see a razor-thin cloud cut across the moon, and are then shown the man drawing the blade towards a young woman’s unblinking eye. Cut back to the moon. The cloud slides through the white orb. Cut back to the razor cutting open a calf’s eye, bleached to look like a human’s, spilling vitreous humour down the face. It’s an early example of effective montage with the sucker punch of the actual shot of the eye being slit open catching you by surprise. And it’s one of many visually shocking images in the film – the slit eye, the donkeys on the piano, the ants crawling out of a hand.


The problem with Un Chien Andalou though is that it’s just that – a series of images designed to shock. To quote the wiki article on the film, quoting a biography of Dali:

Buñuel told Dalí at a restaurant one day about a dream in which a cloud sliced the moon in half “like a razor blade slicing through an eye”. Dalí responded that he’d dreamed about a hand crawling with ants. Excitedly, Buñuel declared: “There’s the film, let’s go and make it.”

I’m pretty sure this isn’t how Citizen Kane or Pulp Fiction were conceived.

The film was designed to shock – in fact Buneul is quoted as saying “Historically, this film represents a violent reaction against what at that time was called ‘avantgarde cine,’ which was directed exclusively to the artistic sensibility and to the reason of the spectator.” And it does shock. And if it does today you can only imagine what audiences in 1929 must have thought. But it does basically nothing else.

Un Chien Andalou makes you question the meaning of the film – raising deep questions such as “what the f*ck did I just watch?” and “why did I spend 21 minutes of my life watching this?”. Historically it’s important – its editing, lack of connective logic, and daring imagery definitely advanced cinema. It pushed the limits of what could be committed to celluloid. But it’s not something that I would watch again.

Pulp Fiction – he flipped out over losing a watch that was in a stranger’s ass for three years?

A big confession. Until this weekend I hadn’t watched any Tarantino.

Friends of mine who are proponents of an auteur theory of cinema – that the director should be regarded as the “author” of a movie, using shots in the same way that a prose author uses words – in particular seem to be dismayed that I’ve never seen any Tarantino. Him being director, writer and actor in almost all of his projects gives him a large amount of control and so make his projects more personal than arguably any other director today. Other directors with a consistent visual style such as Wes Anderson, Ridley Scott, and Tim Burton are the only others who come close.

So if Pulp Fiction is a very personal, Tarantino movie, what does that mean? Profanity, ambiguous morals, violence, and razor-sharp dialogue, but also a willingness to believe that the audience is intelligent. Pulp Fiction uses a non-linear narrative, jumping around the lives of various L.A. personalities (and in time) in a fashion that makes the film much more interesting to watch. It would be very easy for a studio to believe that audiences would find this confusing and that things should be realigned to be in order. But Tarantino trusts that we can keep up with this, much like he assumes that we can keep pace with the fast-paced dialogue. And it makes the film much stronger for it.

This also translates into the visuals. I watched the film only a few days after watching this excellent video essay about creating tension through editing, and something that Pulp Fiction does very effectively is use the long take intelligently. The amazing Tony Zhou has done a fantastic video essay on how Spielberg uses the long take, and Tarantino takes a leaf out of the same book. By allowing action to play out for almost three minutes without a cut in some shots, he allows us to draw our own conclusions from the film frame, letting our eyes roam where we like without deliberately showing us where to look with short, snappy cuts. I am a big fan of this kind of editing, as it doesn’t draw attention to the fact that you are watching a movie, and again treats the audience as intelligent. You are – effectively – trusted to be intelligent enough to look where is important. And in the age of Michael Bay-esque shots lasting frames rather than tens of seconds, it’s really refreshing.

This does lead me to a criticism of the film. My only criticism really. And that’s the episodic nature of the movie. Perhaps to make the non-linear plot a bit easier to understand, Tarantino breaks the film into sections, fading to black between them and in some cases introducing them using titlecards. Now this is very much a personal opinion, but I find this detracts from the pleasure of watching the film, because it draws attention to the fact that you are watching a film. In this sense Pulp Fiction is like an anti-Birdman, a film seemingly shot in one continuous take that tries very hard to hide the fact that you are watching a pre-prepared production that would not be possible in real life. Pulp Fiction embraces the impossibility of its own construction and runs with it. It is a movie meant to be watched ‘as a movie’ rather than being an ‘experience’ like Birdman. Choosing to run production credits before the movie as a 1950s picture would, having Thurman’s character Mia draw a square in the air with her hands, and having text appear on-screen with the entrance of Keitel’s Mr Wolfe reinforces this. Pulp Fiction is aware that it is a movie, but counteracts this by allowing the viewer to explore its frames by using long takes and trusting that you are intelligent to unpick its complex structure. It says “here, take me as I am – which is f*cking awesome”. Much, it’s worth noting, like the magazines and crime novels that the film takes its name from (and its poster reinforces). To some people, like my cinephile housemate, this is to the film’s advantage. To others, like myself, it detracts from the film. But it’s a very personal opinion.

No review on this website would be complete without mentioning the work of the cinematographer, in this case Pole Andrzej Sekuła. Pulp Fiction looks gorgeous. Using a relatively saturated colour profile with relatively high contrast, the film makes the most of the range possible visually. From exterior shots with a flat colour profile such as outside Butch’s apartment

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to the deep shots with pulsing neons of Jack Rabbit Slim’s


almost every possibility is explored, much much more than was the case in my earlier watch, Forrest Gump. What is also worth mentioning is the film’s use of the colour red – in almost all of the major locations (and most of the main characters at some point) use the colour red. To my mind this reminds the audience that violence is always just around the corner, with blood a very common sight on screen, and even when it’s not, red upholstery, red lipstick, a red necklace, even a red ball-gag (or two) is. I’m sure that other colours were used repeatedly throughout but this was the only one that jumped out at me on first viewing. I loved the cinematography of this film.

There is so much more that I would love to talk about this film. Its repeated theme of saving people. Specific shots of decisions being made. The almost ASMR-y sound design. The music. The question of what was in that case. But alas I’m stricken with freshers flu. And I should probably get back to writing my thesis.

If a movie can be smart and sexy, then Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction is it. Perhaps above all else it is just cool. It takes some of the worst parts of modern society – violence, drug use, organised crime – and glamorizes it into something that is slick and stylish and obviously constructed. I loved watching it, but I wouldn’t call it one of my favourite movies of all time. Its episodic nature renders it too artificial (for lack of a better word) for me to want to truly put a ring on it. Some of its dialogue seems unnecessary to the film’s construction (the taxi ride, for example). But from its great screenplay, colourful characters, and even more colourful cinematography do I recommend that you watch it if you haven’t already?


12 Angry Men – Infuriatingly good

Picture the scene – twelve ordinary people are sat around a table in an ordinary room. The heat is stifling and they are all perspiring freely. I burst in the door, gasping for air.

“You guys, 12 Angry Men is absolutely amazing!”

The occupants of the room are unfazed.

“We know… we’ve already seen it…”

Ok, so I am really late to the party on this one. But 12 Angry Men is one of the best films I’ve ever seen. It is a remarkable pairing of an engaging story with simple but effective cinematic techniques. I’m almost angry myself that it’s taken me 24 years to finally get around to seeing it.

As normal, I won’t spoil the plot (despite the fact that it is basically public knowledge by this point), but the premise is this – a young man stands accused of murder, and if found guilty will face the electric chair. The 12 men of the jury retire to a room to reach a decision, which must be unanimous. After an initial vote 11 men vote guilty while one man stands alone and votes not guilty. And so the group unravels…

As I stated in my first post my principal interest as a filmmaker are the visuals on screen but it would be criminal to not talk about the plot of 12 Angry Men. Originally written as a teledrama, then adapted into a stage play and then adapted into a film, it very much plays like a one-act play. But remarkably it doesn’t suffer for it. The characters all get a good amount of screen time to reveal their complex natures and motivations, and each are characterised just enough to make them distinct and interesting. Everyone comes away with a few favourite jurors – #8, #2, and #11 for me – despite never knowing their names. Each juror is referred to simply by number, with the exception of two jurors (who I won’t name) who identify each other in the very last shot of the film. The shot in question being one of only a handful to take place outside the stifling jury room – of the film’s 96 minute running time only 3 minutes take place outside the sixteen by twenty four foot space, and yet the film again doesn’t suffer for it.

In fact 12 Angry Men seems to laugh in the face of typical filmmaking practice – instead of showing you the events of the film, it tells you what happened. Characters are reduced to a simple list of occupations and opinions. The camera is limited to a space no bigger than a train carriage. And somehow director Sidney Lumet (in his debut, I incredulously mention) makes it all work. And more than just work – the film is a triumph of pared down storytelling.

Lumet makes two very effective directing decisions that span the whole film in impressive consistency – as the film progresses shots get tighter, and lower. At the start of the film the room is shot in long takes with wide lenses at a high angle, to set the scene and give a sense of scale. As the film progresses the wide lenses are ditched in favour of telephoto ones, and the framing on each character gets tighter and tighter, representing the building tension and claustrophobia (and number of sweat patches) in the room. The viewpoint is lowered as well, moving from an almost omniscient high angle to being level with the members of the room, drawing you in.

Compare a shot from the beginning of the film...
Compare a shot from the beginning of the film…
... to a shot from toward its conclusion
… to a shot from toward its conclusion

This is then undone at the film’s conclusion, with the last shot of the film following juror #8 leaving the courthouse shot on the widest lens used in the whole film at a high angle. Lumet has said in interviews that this was used to convey the sense of release and freedom associated with the shot, and it works. For such a simple technique, it really contributes to the building tension throughout the film. The shot of juror #3 which acts as the film’s denouement represents 80 minutes of tension ratcheting up and up and when the wave of emotion breaks it is just breathtaking. I can’t praise the effectiveness of Lumet’s direction on this matter enough.

Apart from these two techniques the use of camera movement to keep the film’s static location dynamic is also very effective, as is the use of some geometric framing techniques. One shot in particular constructs a triangle between three jurors, which is an effective technique in itself.

Note the triangle formed between the heads of jurors #2, #8, and #11
Note the triangle formed between the heads of jurors #2, #8, and #11

But what Lumet (and cinematographer Boris Kaufman) then does is interrupt this triangle with the arrival of juror #10 twisting the facts of the discussion to fit his prejudice.

...and now juror #10 interrupts the constructed triangle
…and now juror #10 interrupts the constructed triangle

By disrupting a classic framing technique the juror’s interruption becomes even more impactful and even more brash. This is just one moment in a sequence of excellent shots, and yet this one stands out in particular. Visual directing at its best.

Lastly on the visual front the film is beautiful to look at. Kaufman lights in a pseudo-noir fashion, with extensive hair lights providing deep shadows on the juror’s faces, and highlights on the face provided in ‘glamour shots’ at key moral moments. It’s probably the best-looking black and white picture I’ve seen, right up there with Gregg Toland’s work on Citizen Kane.

Is there anything wrong with 12 Angry Men? If I was splitting hairs I would quibble with the use of dramatic music at certain points at the film, as is so common with pictures from this time. Entirely how people didn’t find it over-the-top at the time I will never know. But this is me splitting hairs. 12 Angry Men is one of the best films I’ve ever watched. The way that it handles racial tensions, personal prejudices, conflict resolution and an escalating tension is just world-class. If you’ve never seen it, or only watched it after being forced to for GCSE English, please do yourself a favour and give it a watch. It’s an engrossing 90 minutes and a masterclass in how you can take a simple premise and make an excellent film out of it.

The Little Mermaid – Best Disney villain ever?

I’ve been a fan of animation for as long as I can remember, though modern Disney wasn’t really a part of my childhood. Despite (or perhaps, because) Pocahontas was the first film I saw in the cinema, we didn’t really have modern Disney in the house. The Aristocats, One Hundred and One Dalmations and The Jungle Book were regularly in the VCR machine, while the renaissance-era classics like The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid went sailing by my pre-adolescent head. Having now caught up with these titles I think that was a great shame. And The Little Mermaid is a classic example of what I was missing out on.

A good Disney film in my opinion has to check multiple boxes – good soundtrack/songs, visually engaging, a solid plot (for a kids’ movie), and perhaps most importantly a GREAT villain. The Little Mermaid checks all of these boxes and so definitely deserves the cult following it seems to have among university students, though falls short of The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast on most fronts. With one exception – The Little Mermaid has what I think must be one of the best Disney villains of all time. The scheming Ursula has it all – megalomania, a lust for power, being (briefly) all but omnipotent, and having freaking octopus tentacles for legs.

Take that, Scar.

When I was a kid I would have been scared of Ursula, and that’s one box on the Disney list very definitely ticked.

The plot is serviceable – Ariel, the daughter of the sea king (having evolved from Goldeen) Triton, falls in love with the unfortunately named Prince Eric. Unfortunately Eric is a landlubber and Ariel is a mermaid who has a confusing respiratory system that allows her to breath water and air, and a fish tail for legs. Ursula sees her predicament and offers her a deal with a short fuse and horrible consequences… which I won’t ruin if you haven’t seen the movie. It’s a simple plot but not to the point of condescending its target audience, and moves along at a fair clip after a sluggish start. Without much fat at all, the plot gets a tick.

Visually The Little Mermaid is a great example of what traditional animation is capable of. While it might suffer by comparison to Pixar’s Finding Nemo in having sparser frames and a less engrossingly underwater feel, it is still a gorgeous picture to look at. Specifically, art directors Michael Peraza Jr. and Donald Towns use abstract images of sometimes just two tones to create really visually striking frames. In particular the storm sequence in the first act and basically any scene involving Ursula (especially in the final act) is visually gorgeous by being pared down to such a limited palette. While this is possible in live action, and directors like Wes Anderson are known for doing it, the king of this kind of visual abstraction is traditional animation. Another technique which animation allows, and this film in particular uses to lovely effect, is matching scene transitions – to see how another great of animation, Satoshi Kon, uses this I highly recommend this excellent video essay from one of my favourite YouTube channels, EveryFrameaPainting. Visuals – tick.

Lastly, and to many people most importantly, what does the film sound like? Pretty good, is the short answer. While composer Alan Menken doesn’t produce his best work for the score (that accolade definitely belongs to Beauty and the Beast) the score is still good, and his decision to use a simple leitmotif to connect the plot together works very well. The songs however, written by Menken with Howard Ashman, are really top notch. The film is credited with bringing the Broadway style into Disney films, and with musical numbers such as the famous ‘Under the Sea’ you can easily see why the style was copied by the other films of the Disney renaissance, and is still copied to this day with releases like Frozen. The last tick goes in the box.

I do still have issues with Disney animation. The overly simplistic (even for a kids’ film) world view, the emphasis placed on the need for women to make love fall in love with them, the white heteronormativity (though this is hardly exclusive to Disney films from the era), and the unrealistic body expectations portrayed still rankle me. But The Little Mermaid is a good film. Well made, and historically interesting for representing a return to form for the studio. Give it a watch, especially if you are a fan of the style of music in early 90s Disney films. Or if you like badass villainous women. Especially that.

I mean, come on! Look how EVIL she is!
I mean, come on! Look how EVIL she is!

Forrest Gump – 40 years of American history, as seen by a violent halfwit and his child-abused girlfriend.

Entirely how this film passed me by I will never know. I remember seeing the distinctive white case in just about every VHS collection in friends’ houses when I was growing up, but for some reason I never saw it myself. Robert Zemeckis’ most famous film could have been a saccharine mess in the hands of a lesser director but instead carries some real narrative heft, though still occasionally strays into over-sentimentality.

If you – somehow – also haven’t seen the film then I’ll spare you spoilers, but the condensed plot of the two and a half hour run time is the life of Tom Hanks’ eponymous character, spanning from his childhood in the 1940s to the film’s conclusion in the 1980s. Gump finds himself at several famous events from the time, including meeting Elvis, JFK, and Jon Lennon. Notably almost everyone that he meets seems to end up dying. These famous encounters are only a sideshow however, with the main narrative being Forrest’s lifelong love for his childhood friend Jenny, and his attempts to be with her across the years.

Somewhat unsurprisingly for such a well loved film I enjoyed it a lot, and found myself moved especially by the film’s conclusion underneath Gump’s childhood tree. As well as being moving it was really quite funny, with almost all the laughs coming from Hanks’ justly-lauded performance. The editing of Arthur Schmidt also deserves praise, with effectively placed jump cuts breaking the unobtrusive style of most of the film.

I do take issue with the film on a few areas however. For one thing the way in which Gump resolves conflict – namely, violence – is never addressed, nor are many of its characters fleshed out beyond pantomime-esque roles. That said, the main three characters of Gump, Jenny and the legless wonder Liutenant Dan (played by Gary Sinise) are wonderfully complete. My primary gripe with the film is its visuals. Cinematographer Don Burgess uses a relatively muted colour palette, bringing out warm pastel tones and only occasionally straying from a relatively flat profile. The notable exception to this is the storm sequence and a few shots of the Vietnam war. This aesthetic fits in with other films from the mid 1990s such as Mrs. Doubtfire – interestingly, also driven by a strong male lead performance and appealing to a wide audience (and featuring a turn from Sally Field) – in being inoffensively low contrast, using smooth tracking camera moves and relatively wide shots. To me this is rather boring. I would much rather have seen more contrast between different parts of Gump’s life visually, such as employing a greater contrast and harsher lighting in the Vietnam sequences, and gradually increasing saturation of the film as time went on. This would mirror what the soundtrack does most effectively, changing as the times do. This could also have created a greater contrast between Gump’s mainstream cultural life and Jenny’s counter-cultural one.

A last point to be made is the film’s commendable use of visual effects to mesh Gump into historical footage – sometimes very effectively, while sometimes less so. Being released only a year after the huge breakthroughs of Jurassic Park and three years after Terminator 2, the film’s subtle use of computer technology (including the removal of Sinise’s legs) is definitely to be commended, even if some of the historical sequences have aged well into uncanny valley territory.

So did I enjoy Forrest Gump? Yes. Did it deserve as many academy awards as it received (6)? I’m not hugely convinced. Especially given the strong competition offered in 1994 by The Shawshank Redemption, The Lion King, and Pulp Fiction, I think the film is somewhat overrated. But if like me you haven’t seen it, give it a watch.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

An explanation

My name is Simon Clark, and I am a charlatan and a fraud.

For years I have claimed to be a film fan, and it is true that I know a lot about films and how they are made. But over the years gaps have appeared in my watching history – friends would often say “How have you not seen…??” when I confessed my ignorance of a particular classic.

This happened so many times that eventually I sat down to write out a list of films that I really should have watched by now. I ended up with over 200 titles that spanned pretty much every genre.

I had to conclude that I wasn’t a very good film fan.

The point of this blog is to watch one of these films a week and post what might well be the most delayed movie reviews in history. Interspersed between monumental classics that I’ve somehow missed will be more niche films that I have always wanted to watch, either for curiosity value or for their technical prowess. As a filmmaker I’m most interested in cinematography, and so my focus in some posts will be on visual aspects of the film. I’m also very interested in the history of cinema and how productions and technology developed over time, so some reviews will incorporate the story of how those visuals made it to the screen or why they are historically significant.

Essentially this blog is my journey to being a better film fan, and (hopefully) a better filmmaker. While film has been a passion of mine since my mum brought home the Star Wars special edition box set in 1997, it’s only now that I find myself drawn to picking up the camera and creating visions of my own. After 5 years of making YouTube videos I’m determined to make the leap to cinematic storytelling, and hopefully I’ll be posting some of my own work in months to come.

Through this blog I hope to learn to better articulate what I find poetic in cinema, and share the stories behind the stories on screen. And I’d be delighted to have you along for the ride.