You have to hand it to George Lucas, because he really is one of the most talented men in Hollywood. As well as giving the world three of the best, and three of the worst, movies of all time, he is also a pioneer of special effects, through his company Industrial Light and Magic. Perhaps most impressively of all, he is one of those few filmmakers who has managed to milk the same project for tonnes of money for over thirty years.
According to my count, the announced release of the Star Wars saga in 3-D will mark the fourth time the franchise has been re-worked, re-designed, the special effects updated. My own introducton to the Star Wars trilogy was when the Special Edition films were released in 1997, at the 20th anniversary of the original Star Wars film. Lucas rejigged the films again, for DVD release, in 2005 to make the old trilogy fit more seamlessly with its demented spawn, the new 'prequel' films, the final of which, Revenge of the Sith, was released in 2005.
In one sense, special effects for George Lucas represents something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, since he has always argued that he was waiting for special effects to catch up with his vision of Star Wars (this comes in the wake of the release of Spielberg's Jurassic Park in 1993).
This got me to thinking of the number of late 1970s, and early 1980s films which have had 20th, or 25th anniversary re-releases. These include Ridley Scott's Alien, along with its subsequent sequels, Steven Spielberg's E.T, Blade Runner (Scott again) and, this month, Back to the Future. Some of these have resulted in new edits of the films, some have just been to acknowledge anniversaries, as is the case with Back to the Future.
Star Wars is one of the first in those blockbusters that would come to define the early Eighties cinema, a sudden boom in action and adventure films, including E.T., the Indiana Jones films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Terminator and Blade Runner. Along with Lucas's follow-ups in the Star Wars trilogy, the films of the Eighties mark a new corporate, blockbuster era, where the franchise and the sequel become more prevalent, and where films become more effect driven.
Some of what I will write here needs a bit more thought, but what struck me about this era of films is, firstly, how they seemed to represent a nice synthesis between character, story and effects and, secondly, how there is a certain cultural irony to the fact that, in some of the films I have outlined above, their narrative concern is with the progress of technology in a filmmaking era driven by new technology.
First, let's look at Star Wars as an example. I have heard a friend of mine say on several occasions that the Star Wars films are not science fiction, they are fantasy. This is certainly true, since the story of Luke Skywalker is heavily indebted to old English legends of King Arthur, and Beowulf: a boy plucked out of obscurity to become the saviour of a tribe, a country, in this case a whole galaxy. Furthermore, Lucas owes much to Japanese cinema, such as YoJimbo and even World War Two action films.
Importantly, space in the trilogy is not a frontier of scientific exploration; much like Arthurian legend, it is a place of untold and untapped magic. The Force, as it is described in the films, binds the universe together, and with the Jedi being those 'worthy' enough to harness it.
Technology in Lucas's first trilogy is associated with the scientific, the secular, and the destructive. It is the Empire who are superior in terms of technological advancement, with the Death Star representing the ultimate example of mass destruction, with its ability to wipe out whole planets. Technology for the Rebels, the 'good guys' of the narrative, is frequently dirty, dusty, broken, and often works against the odds. The Millenium Falcon, is notable for its enclosed spaces, its defective technology, its pilots Han Solo and Chewbacca, engineers who work with their hands. Meanwhile, technology for the Empire is technology for its own sake, an endless display of power. When the story introduces the Emperor in Return of the Jedi, he is a master of the dark side of the Force, power for its own sake, supported by an alienating technological empire. The world of Star Wars, like so many realms in the modern American film, is cut off from its own history. Harrison Ford's Solo is one example of a person who has lost touch with the idea of the Force, a non-believer who must ultimately be saved by Luke's abilities. Similarly, the Jedi are an extinct religion, by the time the first film begins.
Ridley Scott's Blade Runner also uses technology as an allegory. Where Lucas's science fiction is more mythical, more fantastic, the Replicants in Scott's film represent something of an ontological challenge: what makes a human a human? Is it flesh, or memory, or feeling? Can beings designed to mimic humans, actually think, feel and love like humans? The lone private detective of the film noir is given a science fiction twist, since Deckard (Harrison Ford again) is not only an outsider in 21st century Los Angeles, but may also be an outsider to the human race; debate rages over whether Deckard is a Replicant or not. The vision of the future presented by Blade Runner is corporate where Lucas's universe is imperial. The brain behind the Replicants is Elden Tyrell, the owner of the Tyrell Corporation, enshrined within a building which is the pinnacle of a hyper-industrial city. The poor are forced to live out life in a society divided by technology; other parts of LA are also claustrophobic where the Tyrell building is spacious, buildings broken down and dilapidated. Robots are slaves, subaltern, exiled from human society. Yet the world of Blade Runner shares the Star Wars idea of a space, a realm beyond what can be perceived by the technological. The history of the world, as originally portrayed in Philip K. Dick's novel To Robots Dream of Electric Sheep is always present, pressing against the boundaries of the film. Where the Force is the unknown element, for Blade Runner, the fantastic is portrayed by Rutger Hauer's Roy, a Replicant who, in his final moments, describes his experiences in the space beyond the known world - "attack ships on fire off the shoulders of Orion [...] I watched c-beams, glitter in the dark near Tannhauser Gate". Memory for the Replicants is a precious commodity, the thing which makes them human, but lost in the rain of the American city.
The alien, the idea of outer space, is also a thing of wonder in Spielberg's films. For the characters of E.T., space is an unseen realm just beyond the reach of a troubled suburbia. E.T. lands in a world where adults cannot be trusted, they are either absent, like Elliot's father, in need of care themselves, like Elliot's mother, or merely exploitative, like the scientists who come looking for E.T. The audience never sees the other aliens of E.T.'s race: they are merely bright lights and silhouettes in the middle of the night.
Time and time travel are used to explore aspects of Eighties urban America in films of this era. Los Angeles is used as a setting for The Terminator but what is depicted in James Cameron's first seminal film, is two versions of the same space. LA in 1984 is constantly juxtaposed with LA in 2029. The noise of a building site makes Michael Biehn's Kyle Reese dream of the future where human bodies are raked, and disposed of, by the sentient machines. The Terminator is constantly framed against the backdrop of seemingly innocuous pieces of machinery; the answer machine in Sarah Connor's flat, the factory where Schwarzenegger's Terminator is finally destroyed. Once again, questions of fate, free will versus pre-determined circumstance, are explored in the film. Reese must travel back in time to father his own son, bringing into question boundaries of the past, the present and the future. Contemporary America is, according to the title card which opens the film, a battleground for the survival of the human race. History in America is in flux, capable of change at any moment.
There is an anxiety in these films, about what cannot be seen, or cannot be known, events beyond the control of the characters. When Reese explains the history of the future to Sarah, it is chilling because the viewer is left to imagine the horror that is to come. Returning to Star Wars, Darth Vader is such a fascinating villain for the film because his origin is steeped in mystery. The original film is at its best when it leaves some aspects of its own history to the imagination. Vader, famously, was once Anakin Skywalker, a figure who is depicted as principled, a great leader, even more heroic than Luke himself, until his eventual corruption. The brief glimpse we do have of Anakin is of a man twisted by machinery and it is a great moment because it is so brief.
Eighties films have ultimately the same goals as films of the 2000s i.e. to make money, to entertain, to create successful merchandising. I am not suggesting that the blockbuster films of the Eighties had a nobler artistic vision, or were attempting to make a cultural statement which is somehow lacking in their present day counterparts. Yet the wave of big budget, effects driven films of this era had a sense of wonder, fuelled by compelling stories, characters that you found yourself caring about. The original Star Wars trilogy was groundbreaking in terms of special effects, yet there was still a 'less is more' feeling to them. Lucas and his production team seemed to be more innovative while they were waiting for technology to catch up - the Falcon is one of the most recognisable and distinctive space ships, the image of the Death Star blowing up, the noise of the TIE fighters, all of these are lovely touches in films that were, in 1982, already visually and conceptually rich. George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Ridley Scott and James Cameron, all were already guilty of taking old stories, myths and narratives, and reworking them in a new era of high-concept films.
It is when technology does catch up with Lucas that you get his next phase in filmmaking. In 1999, Episode I of the Star Wars saga was released, and fans were treated to the long-awaited beginning of one of the greatest sagas ever devised. Just before that, he had released the original trilogy with new effects. The problem with Lucas's updates is, when you hear him discuss them, it's rather like listening to a person with OCD tell you how much they've cleaned their living room, especially if they've done it to the extent that Lucas has "cleaned up" the Star Wars films.
The new trilogy is pretty much a thundering disappointment; it effectively ruins all the mystique of the original films. The delineated characters and simple plots are gone. The producers can't seem to make their minds up about what kind of films they want to make. The later films are part political intrigue, part action, but can't do either very well.
Most of all, those special effects that made the old films so magical have become a kind of technological excess, with every moment of the new films becoming almost an overload for the senses. Nothing is low key, and the wooden characters interact in front of overly glossy landscapes. The capital city of the Old Republic is like Ridley Scott's LA, without the atmosphere. The new films are meant to chart the rise of the Empire, but it is hard to care when the old world is not that different from what will come to replace it; the technology is so advanced and the characters so two-dimensional, that the fall of Anakin Skywalker and the destruction of the Jedi passes you by.
The gift that Lucas gives to the post-millenial action film is the obsession with the effect; this is synonymous with the rise of the prequel, the reboot, the origin story as a way for studios to cash in on already successful formats. All that can be seen, when you think of some of the big budget films of the last decade. James Bond, Spiderman, Batman, Superman, the X-Men, all have been turned into franchises, or had their franchises re-invented. One-off commercial films like The Matrix and Pirates of the Caribbean, become franchises in their own right.
In literature, it is often thought theorised by academics such as Fredric Jameson, David Harvey and Patricia Waugh, that the postmodern begins when writers become aware of, and begin to experiment with, the artifice of the novels that they are writing. Is there then a similar awareness developing within Hollywood, since films, and filmmakers, are suddenly becoming more aware of the medium through which narratives are consumed. The era of high definition, and three-dimensional cinema is synonymous with the prequel because suddenly the audience member knows and sees everything. Prequel and origin films are predicated on the idea that the viewer knows how the story will end before it has begun. The viewer is allowed a wry smile when Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne testdrives the Batmobile for example. The mystery and wonder seems to have diminished, because there is an excess of it.
This reaches is peak when one consider's Avatar. Through the power of the the three-dimensional avatars, the audience sees everything (we imagine) as Sam Worthington's commando sees it. The visual perceptions of the characters, and the visual perceptions of the audience, become one and the same. As the film comes out of the screen, so the viewer climbs into it. As these films become more 'real', DVD extras and 3-D advertising paradoxically provide us with a greater insight than ever into the artifice of the film: "how it's made" is part of the marketing of every film, since the knowledge you are watching 3-D means you are willing, if not expected, to pay more money.
If we talk about "special effects" then, are we in danger of using an outmoded phrase? In one sense, the effect is no longer 'special' since it is part and parcel of most modern films; similarly effect is no longer a reliable signifier. "Effect" suggests an afterthought, a touch of magic to better illustrate a story. Cinema is instead perhaps a fuller 'experience'; the effect has become the selling point of the film, to a whole new degree.
Yet Avatar was also lacking that compelling script, the memorable characters. Like Lucas's later projects, the emphasis was on visual saturation, not narrative drive.
That said, Disney Pixar has done some spectacular films, with charming stories, in 3-D. Whimsical and endearing characters are the hallmarks of the Toy Story films and Up! It is possible for 3-d to offer compelling stories. Perhaps it would be more interesting if George Lucas's imagination now moved to catch up with technology and he tried to do something new.
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