Archive for the filmmaking Category

Re-imagining Dragons: Gojira, Kami, and the Kaiju of Unintended Consequences

Posted in anxiety, Apocalypse, archetypes, armageddon, collective unconscious, emotion, Film, filmmaking, Horror, Monster, Monsters, Myth, Mythology, Pop culture, Religion, Science, Science fiction, social psychology, Speculative fiction, Technology, terror, war with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 16, 2014 by Uroboros
Godzilla (2014)

Godzilla (2014)

It must have been an eerie moment when, half an hour after the sky lit up over Bikini Atoll, the flakes began to fall. The crew of a Japanese fishing boat called the Lucky Dragon had no idea the ashes swirling down around them were from Castle Bravo. The 15 megaton hydrogen bomb dropped on March 1, 1954 was the most powerful weapon ever tested by the US military. The blast exceeded its expected radius, and the dust the crew brushed off their heads and shoulders that day was contaminated. Upon returning to Japan, the whole crew was sick, and, seven months later, Aikichi Kuboyama, the boat’s chief radioman, died from the radiation. Less than a decade after the end of WWII, the Lucky Dragon incident reignited the post-Hiroshima traumatic stress still festering in the Japanese psyche, sparking an idea in the mind of filmmaker Ishiro Honda, an iconic character he described as “the A-bomb made flesh:” Gojira (a mash-up of the Japanese words for gorilla and whale), which in English, of course, became ‘Godzilla.’

Operation Bravo: H-Bomb Test

Operation Bravo: H-Bomb Test

In its groundbreaking 1954 cinematic debut, this scaly leviathan, roused and swollen by nuclear contamination, emerges from the sea and smashes its way through Tokyo, whipping its gargantuan tail and spitting radioative fire. The original black and white movie alternates between scenes of fatalistic dread and apocalyptic devastation that are so downbeat and dire one wonders why it was such a hit, spawning, not only an ever-growing brood of sequels, but a whole new film genre. What does it say that, so soon after WWII, Japanese moviegoers paid to witness the simulated destruction of Tokyo again and again? One wonders if it was just a mindless diversion—an escapist fantasy where, in a state of titilation and sublime awe, they could feast their eyes on images of mass destruction—or if something deeper, more cathartic was happening. Were audiences subconsciously cleansing the psychic stain of national traumas and tragedies?

Gojira (1954)

Gojira (1954)

During the postwar occupation, the United States prohibited Japanese filmmakers from depicting anything overtly militaristic, so the Kaiju (“strange creature”) genre became an indirect way for Japanese culture to cope with its collective A-bomb PTSD and critique the accelerating Cold War arms race. Behemoths like Gojira, Mothra, and King Ghidorah were perfect symbols not only for contemporary anxieties but also a repressed, pre-industrial past that must have still haunted Japan. Kaiju can be seen as cinematic incarnations of kami, powerful spirits who often represent natural forces. According to Shinto beliefs, countless kami permeate reality, emerging from a hidden, parallel dimension to intervene in human affairs when our polluting ways upset the natural order and flow of energy. The central concern in Shintoism is purity. Ritual cleanliness pleases the kami and thus increases the chances of a successful, fruitful life, hence Japanese culture’s preoccupation with cleanliness. Pollution, impurity, and contamination, however, incur the wrath of the kami.

Ryujin

Ryujin

From this perspective, Gojira is reminiscent of powerful sea kami like Ryūjin (or Ryōjin a.k.a. Ōwatatsumi), a wingless dragon with massive claws who symbolizes the power of the Pacific Ocean. Fishermen performed cleansing rituals to Ryūjin in hopes of bolstering their catch. In East Asian mythologies, dragons tend to represent the vitality and potency of nature, so here we see a clear psychosocial link between radioactive pollution and a scaly, fire-breathing beast bent on utter destruction. Gojira symbolizes natural forces that, once contaminated by modern humanity’s technological hubris and careless disregard for the environment, return in misanthropic forms to lay waste to the source of the pollution. The King of All Monsters represents modernization run amok—the law of unintended consequences writ large.

It will be interesting to see how Japanese audiences respond to post-Fukushima versions of Godzilla. How do you think Gareth Edwards’ reboot will do in Japan three years removed from another nuclear disaster? Will moviegoers turn out in droves to see the latest incarnation of this wrathful kami? Will Hollywood be able to help cleanse the psychic stain of this national tragedy?

Japanese Godzilla (2014) poster

Japanese Godzilla (2014) poster

For more discussion see:

http://web.archive.org/web/20050203181104/http://www.pennyblood.com/godzilla2.html

http://www.wnyc.org/story/the-making-of-godzilla-japans-favorite-mon-star/

http://www.npr.org/2014/05/02/308955584/the-making-of-godzilla-japans-favorite-mon-star

Martin Scorsese and the Trauma Machine

Posted in Dreams, Entertainment, Film, filmmaking, Hugo, Martin Scorsese, Philosophical and Religious Reflections, Pop Cultural Musings, psychoanalysis, Uncategorized with tags , , , on March 2, 2012 by Uroboros

Besides being an exceptional bit of cinematic wizardry, Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is a real rarity in terms of the spin it puts on its themes. Many modern stories cast a wary eye on technological innovation. Sci-fi novels and films, especially, tend to find humanity’s knack for creating gadgets  and mechanisms to be dehumanizing, if not downright self-destructive. The Terminator and Matrix franchises, for example, paint gloomy pictures about the fate of our reliance on machines. Hugo, however, not only celebrates humanity’s technological prowess but actually argues that, far from dehumanizing us, the gadgets we invent can help us fulfill our potential as human beings.

Hugo Cabaret is the orphaned son of a clockmaker who secretively maintains the clocks at a train station while feverishly trying to fix the automaton his late father salvaged from a museum. The child believes the automaton, which is designed to write, will pen a message from his late father, something which will help Hugo understand his purpose in life. The wish is, of course, fantastical, the product of a child’s vivid imagination, pure make-believe. As unrealistic as it is, though, this dream fuels Hugo, intertwining his destiny with that of the pioneering French filmmaker Georges Melies. In the film, both Hugo and Melies are deeply-wounded and broken creatures, who, through the power of technology, are healed, achieving a wholeness which restores a sense of purpose to their desperate lives. The revitalizing technology, of course, is the film camera.

The Automaton

Scorsese revels in the power of cinematic storytelling, championing it as a perfect medium for human beings to express and articulate their dreams. Hugo‘s underlying argument is psychoanalytic. As Freud and Jung theorized, when we dream, whether at night or during the day, we’re experiencing symbolic, coded messages from our own unconscious, a personal repository of repressed fears and unfulfilled wishes for Freud, a collective reservoir of human potential for Jung. In the film, Melies waxes rhapsodic about filmmaking as the stuff of dreams, a means for transforming personal visions into the focal point of collective experience. This is the magical force latent in the film camera, the celluloid balm projected onto the silver screen. Scorsese is unabashed in celebrating the potential therapeutic value inherent in a technology he’s dedicated his life to mastering. The revered auteur was a lonely boy, too, with a vivid imagination and passionate dreams. As a sickly child, he spent many afternoons watching the world from his bedroom window conjuring up personal versions of the stories he experienced at the movie theater down the block. If you’re a fan of his work—of Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas, etc—then you’ll recognize Hugo as both his most un-Scorsese-like film and his most deeply-personal.

It’s no surprise he revisited Melies’ story, either. Melies didn’t invent filmmaking. The technology had been around for a while. Melies’ great insight was in imagining how movies could be more than mere novelty—more than dropping a nickle into a machine in order to get a spectacular but fleeting thrill. Melies grasped film’s potential for turning the unconscious inside out; when he looked at a camera, he saw a dream machine. If you automatically associate filmmaking with storytelling, then you’re seeing the medium as Melies envisioned it. Through Hugo’s quest, Scorsese offers the audience a wonderfully-mythologized account of the early evolution of film, rendered in lavish light and colors, set in intricately-detailed locales, and framed in eye-popping and content-appropriate 3-D (as opposed to how 3-D tech is used in most films these days, a money-making gimmick tantamount to the Nickelodeonapproach of pre-Melies cinema, i.e. titillating thrills as fleeting and disposable as the plastic glass through which they’re viewed.) Here, technology not only serves Scorsese’s story. It is the story. The narrative focuses on people who are either driven or haunted by dreams, the sting of unfulfilled passions. This duality is captured by the German term for dreaming itself, traumen, which, of course, suggests ‘trauma.’ In other words, dreams are a kind of wound, the expression of something within that needs to be healed. We suffer dreams in the sense of ‘undergoing’ them; they’re spontaneous passions which move us through pain toward pleasure; they’re a renewable energy source for the pursuit of happiness. Hugo reminds us that, far from hindering this pursuit, the technologies we generate along the way can help us achieve our ends.  Machines can actually make us more human.

It’s a strange, unique message. Modern culture’s anxiety about rapid technological progress has grown increasingly gloomy, if not apocalyptic, over the last several decades. As a culture, we do need to tell and retell the Frankensteinian stories about technology run amok. We need to consider the destructive and dehumanizing impact our scientific breakthroughs can have. But, watching Hugo, I was reminded that Frankenstein isn’t the whole story. Hugo envisions another kind of image in the ink blot, one where the automaton’s pen—the cogs and gears, the clicking and winding—doesn’t necessarily spell humanity’s doom. Instead, they help us reconnect the broken parts and revitalize that spark which makes us human: the ability we have to use our imaginations to produce meaning and manufacture happiness long enough to keep the human project itself running.

As Hugo Caberet tells Isabelle:

Everything has a purpose, even machines. Clocks tell the time, trains take you places…Maybe that’s why broken machines make me so sad. They can’t do what they’re meant to do. Maybe it’s the same with people. If you lose your purpose, it’s like you’re broken…Machines never come with any extra parts. They always come with the exact amount they need.

If the world is one big machine, Hugo adds, no one is an extra part. We’re all here for a reason. In an age when people feel trapped in an overly-mechanized culture, it’s refreshing to hear a radically different take on the nature of machines, a more optimistic answer to questions concerning technology and its potentially traumatic impact on human nature.         

%d bloggers like this: