Ntuple Indemnity

As somewhat who spends a disproportionate quantity of time writing about film, this is admittedly nothing short of blasphemy, but eulogies for the late, great Marlon Brando are going to have to wait. First, I need to catch up on this Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Terminal business so I can get to what I really want to do, which is write volumes about the so very special Spider-Man 2. All three are worthy of a trip to the cinema, but it is the superhero sequel that boasts a volume of potential for literary critique that outstrips the other two combined. Fortunately – in the sense of getting reviews out of the pipeline, anyway – in spite of De-Lovely opening in arthouse screens this weekend in the United States, a Canadian release is nowhere in sight; the essay in the making that is I, Robot is two weeks away; as such, I have a fair bit of catch-up time at my disposal.

Fahrenheit 9/11 has been discussed to death in circles political and otherwise, and there is little this here writer can add to the volume of discourse on the subject other than taking sides on certain issues. The primary question, then, is whether or not a film that has exhibited such an impact in the media at large just by existing, let alone having its contents examined, can be discussed free of contextual prejudices – in other words, as a documentary and nothing else.

Since I do not possess a fanciful array of fact-checkers at my disposal, let us focus not on whether or not this Michael Moore character is right or wrong about the disunited state of America, but on what this movie says about his skills of an artist. Those of you with long memories or bound editions may recall my glowing review of Bowling For Columbine in the 24 September, 2002 issue of The Gateway (which, sadly, is not present in the online archives). I called it “a mosaic of celluloid evidence that is objective in its structure and cinematographic style… [it] juxtaposes these clips in a fashion that coheres as a cunningly subliminal and utterly convincing argument against everything that Moore blames” – and the activist filmmaker tries to do the same thing here. Like Columbine, Fahrenheit 9/11‘s primary strength is in its meticulous editing, a juggling act of footage that informs, entertains, or tries to jerk a few tears. In the film’s more amusing moments, it splices clips from classic television shows such as Dragnet and Bonanza, not to mention an interview with Britney Spears, and manages to make them look impressively topical.

In stark contrast is how it follows Lila Lipscomb, a war mother from his hometown of Flint, Michigan – seen early in the film as a proud and patriotic woman who hangs an American flag outside her door every morning, only to return later alongside a key piece of new information: that she lost one of her children to last year’s campaign in Iraq. Think of it as a structural representation of that time-worn camera direction, “pull back to reveal.” As in his other works, Moore often features himself as an onscreen interviewer with an arsenal of loaded questions, but is at his best when he sits back and leaves the narration to the unstageable. For all the accusations of fakery and manipulation, the substance of some of his points still holds. The impact of one soldier’s loss on his family is something that is statistically negligible in war, but Moore plays it in so personal a way that it demands sympathy, and advocates his belief that the reasons for entry into Iraq were not worthy of a single death.

It should be noted, though, that of the two, Columbine is the stronger film – and this is where context can no longer be avoided. The difference lies in the extent of sin by omission. Up until Fahrenheit arrived on the scene and gave them bigger fish to fry, the ongoing debates about the factual accuracy of Moore’s earlier documentary raged on, but the disputes failed to topple the essence of his thesis, which is presented with such conviction it seems irrefutable: that a lot of Americans own guns to flaunt some cultural identity or right, and boy, is it silly. The thesis of Fahrenheit 9/11 is that George W. Bush does not always have America’s interests at heart in order to flaunt some conflict of interest with his Middle East business buddies, and boy, is he silly. The problem with the latter is that the material he quite intentionally and sensibly omits – after all, one does not carry the burden of presenting the opposition case – is a lot stronger and a lot more relevant to the big picture. Identifying the Bush administration, not its enemies, as being the solely responsible force that sends innocent soldier boys to their physical or psychological deaths is already a big step towards implicitly absolving Al-Qaeda and Saddam Hussein of any guilt; the former dictator’s Iraq is portrayed as harmless, toothless little place in the sun where little boys play in the streets, never mind its curiously unmentioned security-by-fear approach that Moore openly fingers Bush of abusing.

Fahrenheit 9/11 carves out its intent as to entertain those who smile and nod in agreement with everything it says, pick a good fight with the other end of the political spectrum, and bring the undecided voters of America onside. With respect to the first two, it excels; but its success depends on whether or not that third demographic actually exists, and if so, to what extent. Without a doubt, by compiling all the anti-Bush arguments of what they call down there the “liberal media” into a two-hour timeframe and releasing it in a highly accessible medium, Moore has made a movie that will keep the Republicans on the defensive for a few months to come. Whether or not anybody will actually be swayed by a movie they likely attend with some built-in preconceptions has yet to be seen; for all we know, it could be the equivalent of a Mustafa Hirji campaign against a Universal Bus Pass deal – clever, substantial, but ineffective insofar as getting anybody to switch sides.

There are two separate items I want to discuss in this post, and the way they relate to each other will be quite immediately evident. The first is, of the two, the more direct example of cross-pollination between the mythologies of America and Asia. The second, and altogether lengthier subject about which I will write the usual thousand-worder about the “storytelling potential of the cinematic medium” and related jargon, concerns a cultural legend of Japan that sports a new look and is worth a trip to the silver screen.

This article on Comic Book Resources speaks for itself:

Eastern Swing: Sharad Devarajan Talks Indian Spider-Man

What’s the hottest comic book topic right now?

If you said Spider-Man, you’d only be half right.

As officially announced by various East Indian newspapers last week and confirmed online this week, the South Asian comics distribution company “Gotham Entertainment” has reached a historic deal with Marvel Comics to publish a new version of Spider-Man in an upcoming four issue mini-series. No, it isn’t just a new continuity: Spider-Man is now an East Indian by the name of Pavitr Prabhakar and the Green Goblin is tied to Hindu mythology. To tell CBR News and its readers a bit more about the project, Gotham’s President & CEO Sharad Devarajan spoke with CBR News.

…

“Though we will remain true to the underlining mythos of Spider-Man, which is epitomized in the phrase ‘With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility,’ the character will be reinvented so his powers, problems and costume are more integrated with Indian culture. Unlike the US origin, which is deeply rooted in science, the Indian version is more rooted in magic and mythology. This version of Spider-Man will gain his powers from ancient mystic in order to combat the evil threat of the Green Goblin, who will also be reinvented as a modern day Indian demon from myth.”

Yes, the article has pictures – and yes, an English-translated American edition will also come at some point, though of course, that will lose some of the authenticity. Now, forget for a moment the irony of a company called Gotham doing a Marvel title, and take a minute to let the genius of this idea sink in. I will not claim to be anything less than generally oblivious to Indian mythology, but this sounds like a brilliantly-conceived take on the universality of mythical heroes, which I mention in case I’m not the only one currently reading too much Joseph Campbell for his own good.

Oh, and “Pavitr Prabhakar”? Gold.

Now let’s move on to the more easterly nation of Japan, a country about which I am somewhat less qualified to speak than say, Adam Pauls. I venture a guess that the vast majority of my readership is not too familiar with the Japanese television and film character Zatoichi. If that is the case, go catch up on your readings, and I’ll see you next class. The capsule summary runs thus: Zatoichi is a blind man, a masseuse by day, with a distinctive sword sheathed in a cane, and the sharpened senses to use it. Sounds very much like a certain man without fear, if you ask me. The extent of intentional mutual influence between Daredevil and Zatoichi is unclear; the former first appeared in 1964, the latter in 1962.

The reason I bring him up now is because of ‘Beat’ Takeshi Kitano’s update of the character in the film Zatoichi: The Blind Swordsman, wherein he both directs and stars. The new Zatoichi is now making the rounds in Canada, having played at the Uptown Stage and Screen in Calgary this week, and currently at South Common for you Edmontonians. It draws Marvel comparisons right off the bat, having initially hit the festival circuit last year on the heels of Ben Affleck bringing Matt Murdock into the mainstream consciousness, but also because Zatoichi’s cane sword in the film is a blood-red cylinder, which is apparently something new – understandable, given that the Zatoichi films of old were in monochrome. But beyond the shared basis of a blind superhero with a cane, and the aforementioned bit about the universality of heroes or whatever, the similarities are few.

Nowadays you see people take the word “postmodern” and spread it like margarine everywhere they go, but the new Zatoichi is where it actually applies. For the most part, it is a throwback to an older age in filmmaking, one of patient, stationary but conscientious shots, and minimal scoring in the musical department. Kitano’s stark blond hair aside, the majority of the film would not look out of place in the sixties. It’s a refreshing break from the over-edited muddle of Matrix imitators that are so excessive in cutting and camera movement that the action is impossible to follow, but casual audiences will find it to plod for stretches between the swift and gory swordfights. It feels like a movie with a sense of first-hand cultural authenticity, unlike the recent crop of American samurai movies, such as Quentin Tarantino’s unabashedly reverent Kill Bill and the faux importance of The Last Samurai.

Occasionally, though, Kitano’s approach is one of experimentation. Early on in the film there is a brief scene of farmers tilling a field, cut in such a way that the sounds develop into almost a techno beat – never mind the tap-dancing festival at the conclusion that stops just short of The Matrix Reloaded, to everyone’s relief. It is almost as if he is asking us to listen to the sounds associated with the images in the same manner a blind man would, without ever bringing us into pitch darkness or superhero sonar-vision. Watching Kitano perform the lead role himself is a delight; he alternates between staggering gambling addict and legendary blademaster with comfort and conviction.

The fights are remarkable given how short they are, forsaking extended clashes of katana-on-katana for a brief swell of anticipation-resolution as the participants strategize, then execute. After all, Zatoichi would hardly be a master swordsman if he took his time slicing and dicing the local goons. If you contrast this with the likes of Hong Kong cinema and its own folk heroes like the martial arts master Wong Fei-Hung (in more films than any character in history, and played by Jet Li in the now-classic Once Upon A Time In China), the difference in style is very representative of how Japanese and Chinese martial arts traditions diverged in their own developmental paths. Hong Kong cinema has the ten-minute fights with fancier flourishes of cloth and blade; Japanese cinema demonstrates the gutting of enemies with a stroke or two apiece.

Now, I do not claim to be too well-versed in Zatoichi lore myself, but where the film is a little lacking is focus; not in the visual sense, but in its focus on the main character. To put it briefly, a lot of time is spent elsewhere. Those of you who have trouble discerning names and faces right off the bat will have a doozy following the tangled web of concealed identities in the plot, which concerns two geisha assassins exacting revenge on the gang bosses who murdered their parents. It does make sense by the time the credits roll, but not so much until then. As I mentioned earlier, Zatoichi is also what one would apologetically call patient, and may not hold the attention of those weaned on the speed of the standard twenty-first century Hollywood action movie. Nor does it ever tread on the literary seriousness of the average arthouse foreign film. In a category-defying self-contradiction, it is both conventional and avant-garde, but thankfully succeeds at both.

On a final note, time to break professionalism and be a complete geek. I just about flipped out when I saw the end credits – specifically, the name associated with the music in the film: Keiichi Suzuki. This is the same Keiichi Suzuki who composed for one of the greatest RPGs in the short history of video games, namely, EarthBound for the Super Nintendo. His versatile soundtrack for that game featured everything from weepy melodies on tinny piano evoking the sentiment of homesickness, to the Blues Brothers stylings of the Runaway Five, to the harmonic distortions of enemies from outer space. While his work for Zatoichi is minimal, it is significant, and just as diverse, covering everything from traditional Japanese folk music to the pseudo-techno breakbeats I mentioned earlier.

But never mind the score for Zatoichi – there is just something inherently cool about seeing a name from a phenomenal element of the Nintendo experience appear onscreen. If only somebody could get Nobuo Uematsu on a movie, we’re set.

Roland Emmerich’s latest Movie of Mass Destruction, in which the culprit responsible for desecrating the Statue of Liberty yet again is neither an invading race of space aliens nor a knockoff of a radioactive Japanese lizard, but no less a threat than global warming, is a movie in two parts. The first half of The Day After Tomorrow deals with the melting of the polar ice caps triggering a cataclysmic change in the North Atlantic Current that, in a dramatic reversal of Inigo Montoyan proportions, brings about the abrupt glaciation of all of North America. Think of it as Kill Bill, Vol. 1, but with the Los Angeles skyline shredded by tornadoes instead of masked henchmen shredded by a Hattori Hanzo blade. The second half focuses on the survival of a group of teenagers stranded in New York on account of a trivia competition, particularly Sam (Jake Gyllenhaal) and Laura (Emmy Rossum), while Sam’s father (Dennis Quaid) embarks on an epic snowshoeing trip to rescue them. Think of it as Kill Bill, Vol. 2, but with kids buried in the New York Public Library under twenty feet of snow instead of Uma Thurman buried in a coffin under six feet of dirt.

Likewise, I will follow the same narrative structure in this review by doing it in halves: the part that everyone actually came to read, followed by a few paragraphs of melodrama where this reviewer valiantly begs to be taken seriously.

Roland Emmerich is often criticized for being one of those filmmakers whose films quite unfortunately started making money before he ever learned the fine art of subtlety. The naysayers need not say nay to this latest movie of his, as it embodies all manner of clever literary devices in its very title. Now, while pretty much everybody in the business of making fun of movie titles has already trodden on this with the standard attempts to emulate Abbott and Costello (“Did you buy tickets for The Day After Tomorrow?” – “No, I bought them for today.”), what has not been done thus far is its subjection to the rigorous critical analysis that it deserves, an appraisal that exposes its true genius.

What the target audience of “people who inexplicably still watch television dramas” will miss completely, but any respectable aspiring film scholar should pick up on right away, is that the title The Day After Tomorrow is an obvious allusion to Casablanca. In Rick’s last speech to Ilsa before she boards the plane to Lisbon, the same one where he makes the observation that “the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world,” he also says: “If you don’t get on that plane with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.” This applies very well to a scene early on in the film that establishes the father-son dynamic in preparation for the second half of the film, where Sam’s father rushes home to send his son to the airport for his flight to New York. Besides that – if not today, and not tomorrow, then when doth regret arrive? That’s right: The Day After Tomorrow.

The Casablanca connections don’t stop there; recall how Rick tells Major Strasser, “There are certain sections of New York, Major, that I wouldn’t advise you to try to invade.” The subtextual point is that according to Emmerich, the coming of a new ice age heralded by global warming is analogous to no less than the Third Reich. Take that for what you will.

But let it not be said that this is the be-all and end-all of subliminal allusions in the piece. For a moment, let us turn our attention to the real reason anybody would pay to see this movie: not the thunderous wanton annihilation of an entire continent, but whether or not Emmy Rossum is a good enough actress to carry The Phantom of the Opera. Sadly, as was the case with Gerard Butler (who plays the Phantom) in Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life, the jury is out. Perhaps what The Day After Tomorrow needed more than anything was a musical number about how “the sun’ll come out tomorrow,” not that it’s been done or anything.

Still, even without any singing and dancing – not even on ice skates – Emmerich does not ignore the Phantom Phactor: that if the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical makes a successful transition to film, people may one day watch his apocalypse flick and exclaim, “Hey, that’s Christine!” like how they pick out Bob Falfa in American Graffiti as Han Solo with a cowboy hat. Observe the two-part structure of the film I pointed out earlier, and how this is really two movies in one – one before the disaster that befalls the United States, and one after, which works its way towards a big happy reunion. Now observe what Christine sings in Act II of Phantom: “Past the point of no return – no going back now, / Our passion-play has now, at last, begun… / Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question / How long should we two wait, before we’re one?” Case closed.

And now for something completely different – the boring part where I actually talk about the film.

For a movie boasting variants of the typical Roland Emmerich clichés – the Sceptical Authority Figure whose negligence and resemblance to Dick Cheney lead to the deaths of millions, crowds huddling around televisions watching the disaster on a breaking-news segment, a sympathy-wrenching boy afflicted with an incurable disease (a level down to which even Don Cherry would not sink) – The Day After Tomorrow feels surprisingly fresh. On a visual level, it is almost the opposite of a standard disaster movie: there are no fiery explosions that blossom into the lovely mushroom clouds of a nuclear spring, but tidal waves that engulf cities and icy winds that creep along walls and chase you down and freeze you on the spot. Count on Emmerich to preserve his long-standing tradition of defying physics and explaining it with threadbare junk science, but innovate when it comes to executing such defiance itself. As an effects spectacle, it holds up well, and in all likelihood there is little about its images of an apocalypse-in-progress that will look dated a decade from now. The five-minute destruction of Los Angeles by tornado has more visceral impact than all of Twister put together, and the flooding of Manhattan is a serviceable prequel to A.I. if there ever was one.

The most significant change from the norm is that this time, the world is faced with a disaster that cannot be defeated or stalled; nobody flies up to Mother Nature with an Apple Macintosh and infects her with a virus. The characters have to accept the consequences, suck it up, and sit around trying not to die. It makes Tomorrow a lot more human and mature than the average movie of its sort, and justifies the implausible survival of the protagonists without going one step too far and having them save the rest of the world, too. It is easy to pass off the human-driven drama of the movie’s post-disaster phase as extraneous and juvenile – and admittedly, it is written that way – but at the end of all things, the actors do what they can considering the material they are given, and emerge with their careers largely unscathed.

The political messaging does not fare so well. (Note that I said “messaging” and not “subtext”. Messaging is overt, and subtext has already been discussed.) It is tellingly comical that The Day After Tomorrow is a hot-button topic in political circles when its grasp on how policymaking actually works is more of a children’s fantasy than its pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo. Basically, the movie is trying to tell us all that global warming will doom the human race, in the same way that every other movie back in the 1950s had nuclear fission heralding the environmentalist’s Cassandra. At one point it even dares to slip the K-word (rhymes with “Schmyoto”). This is not to say that the politicking is not at least somewhat intentionally tongue-in-cheek; there is, I kid you not, a mock newscast about an hour in that makes a passing mention of the President suddenly forgiving all Latin American debt. So much for your aid budget, Mr. P.

Notably, this is Emmerich’s first motion picture since Manhattan was actually sacked back in 2001, but it pulls no punches when it comes to tearing the island apart. If anything, the eponymous event of Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 almost lends false credence to the reality depicted in Tomorrow, now that the images of unfortunate innocent extras panicking in the shadow of skyscrapers getting their windows knocked out are no longer as far-fetched as they once may have seemed. Some may call this penchant for picking on New Yorkers a demonstration of cinematic insensitivity, but this is a case where the circumstances enhance the experience.

The end product of The Day After Tomorrow proves to be a very watchable, albeit forgettable film that in many ways represents a high point for everybody’s favourite Hollywood sadist with a Lady Liberty fetish, but should not be seen for anything more than what it is: a disaster effects extravaganza that just happens to substantiate the theory that in the world of cinema, every story has already been told – by Casablanca, that is.

Perhaps it is fitting that the hundredth post on this weblog concerns what is only the second film to date to have opened above $100 million domestically in its first weekend, Shrek 2. This film is an interesting one to critique for a number of reasons, one being that Andrew Adamson’s next directorial project is the biggest blip on the 2005 radar not entitled Star Wars Episode III, The Goblet of Fire or Cars: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe starring Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef and Eli Wallach. Okay, so maybe I made that last part up, but one can only dream.

Another reason why Shrek 2 is notable is because it is a model fence-sitter when it comes to a diagnosis of acute sequel-itis, a movie that falls short of its predecessor in many respects but does not fail to deliver a fresh experience in its own right and do what good sequels are supposed to do, which is to reveal an understanding of the first film that nobody knew needed revealing, and enhance the canon of the franchise in question on the whole. If there are any comparisons to be made here, it is not to the zenith of sequels (The Empire Strikes Back), the forgettable and pointless rehashes (Men In Black II), or even the disputed territory in between (The Matrix Reloaded), but to the other big parody sequel in recent memory, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.

Now here’s a critical quotation they should put in the ads that pretty much sums up what an audience can expect: “Shrek 2 is the Spy Who Shagged Me of animation!” Even ignoring the Mike Myers factor, the approach is similar: satisfying the reason why audiences demand sequels in the first place by giving them more of what they saw in the first: more of the same type of humour, but with send-ups that were left out of the original or simply could not be done at the time; for an idea of the latter case, the references to The Lord of the Rings and Spider-Man. Given that Shrek planted itself firmly as the definitive cinematic representation of the “fractured fairy-tale” subgenre, the territory of Jon Scieszka children’s books, this is hardly a bad thing.

The casting is nothing short of ingenious. Antonio Banderas lends a swashbuckling personality to the hired assassin Puss in Boots that overshadows the returning characters from the first movie. The Fairy Godmother, played by the latter half of French & Saunders, has a few bouncing musical numbers to herself that are among the movie’s more whimsical moments. Even bit parts are spot-on when it comes to the voice work: Joan Rivers as herself? Larry King as the Ugly Stepsister? It’s all here, and it all works.

On a purely visual level, the first Shrek was impressive enough, but by the time the sequel is over, one can tell that this franchise has defined a stylistic palette to call its own. The technical advances are clearly visible in the final render, but feel like a natural and evolutionary extension rather than an overhaul. The human characters look and move more fluidly without shooting straight for realism like Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within, and the designs seem inspired by the Claymation eyes, ears and cheeks of the Aardman variety; think Wallace and Gromit. Shrek 2 is also no slouch when it comes to pulling off what the first did in spades, some of the most radiant and magical transformative sequences committed to film. They are but subtle scenes with flashes of light, yes, but the way they are staged has an atmosphere about it that is quite reassuring when one takes into consideration that the same imaginative aptitude is going to make a stop in Narnia.

Some of the fairy-tale cameos in the first film such as Magic Mirror, the Gingerbread Man and Pinocchio return in the sequel as a cast of second-tier sidekicks, and it is a mixed blessing. On one hand, it makes for the best film spoof in the movie, and I’ll give you a hint: it’s based on something released a full three years before The Matrix but feels at least three times more refreshing than the bullet-time rehash in Shrek‘s Robin Hood fight. However, this ends up feeling very much like a pale imitation of an established Pixar tradition, and these guys don’t match up to Rex, Hamm and Slinky Dog. Ironically, Shrek 2 is at its best when it does what Pixar does, but it defines itself by doing what Pixar doesn’t – in particular, the subtle adult humour of Austin Powers territory.

Substantially, though, the main reason why the sequel falls short of being a classic is that despite its serviceably amusing extension of Shrek‘s wry humour, it misses the boat on something key. The quality of the first movie was not due to its humour, but rather because it explored the entire range from Jar Jar Binks flatulence to something ultimately more sentimental and self-contained, and knew how to switch between the two at a moment’s notice with impeccable timing. Shrek 2 has but a fraction of the heart, and its lack of a deep emotional core reduces it to no more than a lighthearted and fun movie. This may be enough for some fans of the original, but it comes off as a step backwards in comparison.

Part of the reason behind this deficiency may be that the relationship between Shrek and Fiona has little room to develop. We do see a greater exploration of what the first film hinted at about Fiona’s personality, which is that she did harbour expectations of living her adult life as a beautiful princess who lands herself a handsome prince, as opposed to say, an ogre who lands herself another ogre. This is all well and good, and what I earlier referred to as “what good sequels are supposed to do,” but it never legitimately puts their marriage in danger, even when one takes into account the major plot device of Prince Charming (Rupert Everett) trying to steal her away.

The movie ends far too quickly and feels much too short, but that is to its credit, and speaks to the frantic pace of the superbly entertaining last half-hour. The final impression as the credits roll, though, is that while Shrek 2 complements its precursor well and proves to be a lot of fun, it is just that and little else. For an ogre movie, it sure is a lightweight when it comes to actually being emotionally affecting, and that relegates it to being a cotton-candy summer sequel – sweet, but it could have taken a lesson from onions and had a few more layers beneath the surface.

Troy ends with an almost joking dedication, “Inspired by Homer’s Iliad,” when adaptation-wise it more precisely sits somewhere in between O Brother, Where Art Thou? being inspired by the Odyssey and, to draw an obligatory Peter O’Toole connection for a moment, Lawrence of Arabia‘s roots in Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Never mind the Homeric credit; this is a film best watched for what it is, which is not at all an arm of mythology, but rather a dramatized historical portrait of mythmaking.

Before I get any further, it should be made clear that discussing spoiler material is quite necessary for a proper appraisal of Wolfgang Petersen’s latest offering to the deified audiences of epic cinema. Suffice to say, if you don’t know that Achilles gets shot in the heel, that’s about equivalent to watching Titanic and not knowing the boat sinks, and there is no hope for you.

That leads me to the first curiosity about Troy, which is where it situates itself in its assumptions about what and what not to consider a priori, a problem for any historically-minded film to resolve. For example, Saving Private Ryan never feels it necessary to explain the nitty-gritty of the significance of the Normandy landings and what that whole D-Day schtick was about in the first place. A more recent example is The Passion of the Christ, which asserts some degree of familiarity with the source material on the part of the audience, and tends to fare better with those who know who the likes of that Simon of Cyrene guy are.

Troy‘s assumptions in this regard make it an accessible film without ever openly insulting the audience, with the asterisk that its source material is less the Iliad than the archaeological remains of the titular city, and what else we know of the classical civilizations. David Benioff’s screenplay freely takes Homer’s dramatis personae and the who-kills-whom scorecard and embellishes it with characterizations specific to the film, which work when they are present. What the film appears to be trying to accomplish is to re-enact not Homer himself, but what Homer may have written about, and thus it is imbued with a worldview of secular realism, with no sign of cleanliness’ next-door neighbour aside from the beliefs of the characters themselves. This is a more than legitimate excuse for the liberties taken, as in the same respect, better films have done worse.

But without the mythical element behind it all, Troy faces a unique challenge: it has to make the human characters interesting enough to carry the story. Given that these characters are in many ways archetypal personas defined by their Homeric stature, this is no easy proposition. In exactly three cases, it lives up to the challenge, thanks in large part to the acting power behind these roles. These are Brad Pitt’s portrayal of Achilles, Eric Bana as Hector, and the consistently marvelous Peter O’Toole as Priam.

All three lend physical personality to their characters in their own ways. With Achilles, we see the stature of an epic character defined not by heroics but by a rebellious arrogance, as well as what proves to be a unique fighting style to call his own. Hector is perhaps the strongest presence in the film, and walks tall with a sense of heroic nobility that goes unmatched. Eric Bana was long overdue for a star-making role despite coming close with a hammerhead shark and a big green angry guy, and this may prove to be it. Priam is a kingly character, and besides, this is Peter O’Toole we’re talking about; sadly, his screentime is just as limited as fellow Lawrence alumnus Omar Sharif’s in Hidalgo, which comes off as almost wasteful.

This is not to say that Troy is not without its distractions, and there are many. Many of them involve pacing, particularly of the first and last act. The opening is riddled with an excess of title cards that cheat their way around exposition, and the initiation of the conflict proved to be a pickle when avoiding any mucking about with that god brouhaha. At the end, after the point at which the Iliad has had its fill, the movie suddenly realizes that it has some unfinished business, and rushes to completion. It’s as if someone in the editing department realized that once Hector is out of the picture, the glue holding the movie together starts to dissipate, so why not wrap everything up in a hurry? Before long, Troy is sacked and Achilles is shot in the heel, all because of a trick with a horse that is in obvious reference to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The conflict resolution is, in a word, patchy.

Conversely, the movie has its best moments when it takes its time, particularly with the two key duels – first between Paris (Orlando Bloom) and Menelaus (Brendan Gleeson), and later, Achilles and Hector – and Priam’s key scene, when he appeals to Achilles for an honourable funeral for his son. Believe it or not, the 160-minute epic could have done well with being longer, taking its time to properly transition between scenes and establish roles such as Sean Bean’s all-too-brief appearance as Odysseus, while remaining true to itself as what William Goldman would call the “good parts” version.

One would think that a film that promoted itself with the tagline, “If love is worth fighting for, then it has known no greater battle,” would be a little more competent in the romantic side of things. Unfortunately, this is not the case; despite an attempt to salvage Achilles’ hero status by overplaying the captivity of Briseis (Rose Byrne), about the only romantic depth we see is in Orlando Bloom’s portrayal of Paris as a besotten idealist who acts on infatuation alone and hides behind the nobility of his brother. As for the subject of said infatuaton, Helen of Troy (Diane Kruger) is hardly even a presence, a concern the film dodges by establishing that her supposed beauty had little to do with launching a thousand ships in the first place; again, realpolitik at work in the Ancient World.

Thematically, what holds Troy together and sets its tone as a work of cinema is the relationship between its characters and the very idea of being immortalized in legend. It outright rejects mythical elements such as Achilles’ purported physical immortality, but shows the origin of myth by implication; Achilles is found dead with an arrow in his heel, and such a circumstance overshadows the fact that it is not singularly responsible for his demise. Where this kind of pragmatism falls short is in the case of Agamemnon, who comes out of this story looking the most outright villainous. Brian Cox is only as good a bad guy as the material he’s given – see X2: X-Men United for a recent comparison – and here, it’s not much more than your standard megalomaniacal fare.

There are very few complaints to be had about the production on a technical level. Roger Pratt, best known for his collaborations with Terry Gilliam and saving The Chamber of Secrets from Chris Columbus’ inability to move a camera, shoots Troy entirely in shades of desert yellow, treading the line between consistent and stale, but ultimately producing a look and feel reminiscent of the period epics of the sixties. James Horner’s score is at times in far too close proximity to Hans Zimmer’s work in Gladiator and Black Hawk Down in its use of ethereal vocals in exotic modes, but by the end of the movie, he carves out a Troy theme that manages to stand on its own. While much has been made of the decision to scrap an allegedly more ambitious score by Gabriel Yared, Horner’s work is sufficient to be shortlisted for an award or two, albeit penalized on the basis of originality.

At the end of the day, Troy receives credit for serving as a fairly definitive narrative of the siege of the titular city, if not quite a retelling of Homer. It is at least as good as some of its lesser big-budget costume epic forebears, the kind that rightly won few awards in its day but still sees release and critique; like Spartacus, but an hour and an Olivier shorter. Flaws are noticeable in an abundance proportional to expectations and a priori baggage, but by no means is Petersen’s project a disaster like the one that befell its namesake.