George Oppen and Fernand Leger

I was unable to shoehorn this bit on Oppen and Leger into a long essay I've just completed on Oppen -- so here it is.

When Oppen and Pound met in 1969 in the New York offices of their mutual publisher, New Directions, after nearly 30 years, they both “wept openly” (as recounted in Eric hoffman's excellent bio of Oppen, A Narrative). Oppen revisits the moment in his 1972 poem “Of Hours” where he asks: “but why did I weep/Meeting that poet again what was that rage//Before Leger’s art poster/In wartime Paris.” The poem concludes with the single one-word line “Unteachable” – a final indictment of a lost soul.

It's an odd splice in time. Oppen's syntax conjoins the two moments, so far apart in time but not in emotional charge. He was not a man to shirk from reality yet one can't help but feel that his outrage over Leger masks a deeper reaction to the war itself.

But if Pound was unteachable, we might venture to say that Oppen could be somewhat intransigent himself. Case in point: his response to a Fernand Leger poster he saw in Paris. As Mary Oppen recounts in her autobiography, “Meaning a Life,” itdrove George “berserk: there was no way to express my anger at these Parisians who could care about such mediocrity at the time.”

Ironically enough, Leger, who had fought on the Western Front in World War I and spent WWII in America, was, like Oppen, a member of the Communist Party. He was singled out for ire by a congressman from Michigan, George Dondero, who attacked the State Dept’s “Advancing American Art” project of the late 40s, which was designed to convince European elites that modern art could flourish within an anti-Communist left:

“The artists of the “isms” change their designations as often and as readily as the Communist front organizations. Léger and Duchamp are now in the United States to aid in the destruction of our standards and traditions. The former has been a contributor to the Communist cause in America; the latter is now fancied by the neurotics as a surrealist.” (qtd. in Menand https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2005/10/17/unpopular-front

In my interview with the Oppen’s daughter, Linda, at Harvard in 2011, (which can be viewed online) she related how, during their extended stay in Mexico in the 50s, her father abruptly ended a friendship with a fellow expat over Fellini’s "La Strada" (1954), which like Leger’s poster, he deemed frivolous. One supposes this was because Oppen as a good card-carrying Communist, viewed it as a betrayal of Neo-Realism. And indeed when Fellini was awarded the best film prize at the Venice Film Festival, a fight broke out between the Marxist supporters of Luchino Visconti, whose "Senso" had been in the running, and those of Fellini.

Those were the days.

In any case, Oppen, a self-declared “man of the 30s,” seems to have suffered from an acute case of brow-anxiety, as Menand might put it: a desire to build a wall between high brow seriousness and what Dwight MacDonald labeled “masscult.” It makes you wonder what Oppen might have made of Ashbery, if in fact he ever read him. “Daffy Duck in Hollywood”?

In the interview, groping after some notion of Oppen as regular chap, I asked Linda if her father had liked baseball or Westerns, which I had fantasized he might have, “Oh, nooo,” she said, shaking her head.

Late Style in Jorie Graham

Jorie Graham’s new poem in the London Review of Books (LRB 46.8, 4.25.2024) would seem to be a poem expressing anguish over the situation in Gaza (or maybe it’s Ukraine. Or Sudan. Or Name The War Zone) though it’s so cloaked in her typically murky arabesques it’s difficult to tell. It’s about loss. It’s about suffering. It’s about relief that her beloved is still alive and that, well, she is, too.

https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v46/n08/jorie-graham/no-one-today

(Her partner of many years, the poet and artist Peter Sacks is reported to have hurt himself badly while out for a run on Martha’s Vinyard, where they both live part of the year. His plight as well as Graham’s cancer diagnosis were reported in “The New Yorker” in genuflectional prose by Katy Waldman, who doesn’t seem to know much about poetry but does know how to butter up an interview subject).

No one today

of my own died. I
did not die. My
love did not. Is intact. I
checked.

“Is intact. I/checked” are phrases that make one wince. Graham is always pleading for the urgency of her case – her poetry makes “palpable designs” on the reader as Keats famously put it. Is “I/checked” Graham’s attempt at poking fun at her own seriousness? Alice Notley pulls that off effortlessly. Graham, not so much. Readers in search of irony in her work will go a-begging. This is high-wire stuff – Rilkean predicaments for the jet set. But then Rilke was rather jet set, too.

Despite many grace notes and indeed passages of harrowing beauty, the poem is pockmarked with these characteristic asides, designed as annotations of the process of consciousness itself, footnotes, as it were, to emotion or perception, but which in fact come across as pedantic, self-important, clumsy neurotic signposts to her Big Drama. Little effort is expended on creating language that enacts anguish – though she does some nifty stuff with syntax, bending her tight quatrains at acute angles. These broken stanzas carry some real power, though again, she can’t resist editorializing.

No oblivion

was visible

to us, no one
lay waiting to be buried
under the vast
sound then the unending

weight which imitates
eternity
perfectly – where suddenly
we’re down in

the burning
mounds the slippery
pits – how did our room
disappear – & is that a

cry under there, is that a hand

“Is that a hand” – this kind of stuff is embarrassing and yet it’s been Graham’s stock in trade for decades. Her “searing honesty,” if you will. I took issue with this aspect of her work in my review of the otherwise excellent “Overlord, where I wrote of the poem "Posterity": “No one could doubt Graham’s sincerity. But the poem veers dangerously close, as James Wright often did, to a self-valorizing sentimentality in which psychological honesty becomes fetishistic self-flagellation.”

https://www.joriegraham.com/pritchett_2006

These lines come off as someone who' swatched too much CNN. But can we genuinely find fault with a poet for feeling too much? Well, yes, if the feeling results in mawkishness.

The thing about Graham’s work that has always put me off is the way she is always at the center of her poems in such a flagrantly melodramatic way. In this she shares a lot in common with the late Louise Gluck. As Michael Robbins observed in his review of Gluck’s “Collected,” “she’s a major poet with a minor range.”

I much prefer Gustaf Sobin's posture: "There's little room in my poetry for myself," he once told Ed Foster. "I’m there to structure the poem. To get it to fly ... tightening a syllable here, releasing a line there … to get language to lift ... to defy … the weights of the explicit."

Amen.

Still, “No One Today” ends on a poignant note. The pleading has modulated into a dernier cri, a tender, even hauntingly elegiac tone takes hold – last things are being said; next to last things. The short, compressed lines mark a departure from Graham’s recent work, with its bloated long lines threatening to run off the pages in a kind of gaseous all-out Whitmania. These stanzas vibrate with force; the enjambment does the kind of work a long line simply isn't outfitted for:

don’t bend that way

you’ll hurt yourself,

no you can’t
hurt yourself, you are all
gone all
gone
who ran in the

light with me to
the beach last
Saturday … Shall we venture out
I ask – at bedtime

now – tomorrow, &
my sleepy ones say
maybe, if

it is fine,
and I say yes, of

course, if it is fine.

The nod here to Woolf’s “To The Lighthouse” is lovely, invoking a mother’s solicitude for her “sleepy ones” – children perhaps, or the beloved – is he truly gone? Or does the poem make some kind of pre-emptive apotropaic gesture against loss? Graham’s earnestness is never less than sincere. But she often seems to swim upstream against it, setting up obstacles where none are needed, undermining the very effect she wants to produce by overloading even her short lines with palpable design. I can’t decide if it’s a feature or a bug. Mannerism afflicts a poet who can no longer write around her own blind spots, who gets too comfortable in her own style. It’s an occupational hazard and it afflicts most of us. Jorie Graham takes tremendous risks, as if daring the reader to cry “hold, enough!” Yet one can’t help but feel that the risk taking would be more impressive if only she stuck the landing a bit more.

But a counter-argument could be advanced that Graham has been writing in what Adorno called “late style” as early as 1987’s “The End of Beauty.”

Late style, according to Adorno, is not ripeness, or completion; not some quintessential distillation of spirit as the purely subjective (idealist) expression of final plenitude. Instead, he says, it is “the sudden flaring up” with which a work of art abandons its own status as art. Late style is the style of ruins, the scorched earth policy of form.

As Shierry Weber Nicholsen explains, “the essential feature of late work [is] the disjunction of subjectivity and objectivity, so that as work becomes late it becomes increasingly inorganic.” Late work is not about transcendent summations, but radical discontinuity. As Adorno remarks: “The caesuras, the abrupt breaks that characterize the late Beethoven more than anything are those moments of eruption; the work falls silent when it is abandoned and turns its hollow interior to the outside world.” The mystery, he writes, of the relation between compositional fragments is never resolved, only held in a perpetual field of tension. “What is objective,” he concludes of Beethoven “is the crumbling landscape; the subjective side is the light that alone illuminates it.” “In the history of art,” he concludes with a Teutonic rumble, “late works are the catastrophes.”

And yet – Graham’s work finally militates against such a reading. She holds the fragments in a field of tension, to some extent. But unlike poets such as George Oppen, Michael Palmer, or Nate Mackey, she always come down emphatically on the side of the subjective. Of some kind of closure. The tensions must be resolved -- not undergone, not held in suspension.

Alex Garland's "Civil War"

Alex Garland’s much ballyhooed “Civil War” is a classic case of midcult entertainment, as Dwight McDonald would have put it. It overpromises and under delivers. Garland posits a dire crisis for the fate of the republic but cowardly refuses to lay out the stakes. A complete evasion of any coherent moral point of view masquerades as some putative form of old-style objective journalism. But without that moral point of view the film is nothing more than a cynical grab bag of sensationalistic cliches. It’s all fire fights and madcap pursuits. It never really comes alive, despite all the incessant mayhem.

Midway through the first act I muttered, hasn’t Garland read Sontag’s “On Photography”? Sontag's famous argument is that photography tends to aestheticize and romanticize its subjects rather than act as bearers of witness or unimpeachable representations of reality. This is esp. true of war photography which has a complicated relationship to the truth. For Sontag war photos don't heighten our awareness, they merely anesthetize it. If the film had tackled that it would have been far more compelling, trying to grapple with something complex and real.

“Civil War” purports to follow a group of photo-journalists covering the conflict in order to report the horrific events. As if America were Gaza or Sudan or some other generic war torn hellhole. Not doubt in the pitch meetings this seemed like a daring idea. But in the execution it comes across as hollow. Oliver Stone's “Salvador” covers a lot of the same ground but with far more moral urgency, as does Kubrick’s uneven but powerful “Full Metal Jacket.”

There's a cavalcade of shots of the principals snapping , well, shots, but it adds up to less than nothing. A smug exercise in the self-reflexive. Didn't "Rear Window" and "Blow Up" already cover this ground? But Garland’s staging is so utterly empty, so devoid of actual witness and emotion. Witnessing is represented as mere tedious spectacle. So is the film a critique of social media culture? One the contrary the whole enterprise is massively self-serving. Kirsten Dunst, looking very haggard, works hard to emote in fraught close ups. But the film insults the intelligence of the audience at every turn. Its central conceit is that a photograph is an unembellished represetation of "what really happened." That it conveys an unmediated reality. Of course, no such thing is possible. Images are always already mediations, at one remove from the actual. "Civil War" is nothing more than an extendned act of nostalgia and bad faith.

The film reminded me of a scene near the end of Michael Herr’s brilliant book on Nam, “Dispatches,” where Tim Page, the wild British photojournalist, is asked by a reporter if it’s possible to take the glamour out of war. Page’s response is priceless:

“Take the glamour out of war? I mean how the bloody hell can you do that? Go and take the glamour out of a Huey, go take the glamour out of a Sheridan … Can you take the glamour out of a Cobra or getting stoned at China Beach? It’s like taking the glamour out of an M-79 … it’s like trying to take the glamour out of sex, trying to take the glamour out of the Rolling Stones.”

And indeed, this madcap paean to a deep if unpleasant Freudian truth about our Dionysian impulses is impossible to refute.

So that the net result of all of Garland’s frenetic staging achieves the exact opposite of what he sought to attain. Objective journalism? If only. As Truffaut once observed, all anti-war films end up glamorizing war.

Not once does the film pause to ask – what *is* a photograph? Esp. a photo of an atrocity? The main character, veteran war photojournalist, Lee, clumsily named after the renowned WWII photojournalist Lee Miller, evades all moral responsibility for her vocation – we’re just here to record the event, she says. It’s up to others to explain it – a massive evacuation of the very moral responsibility photojournalism tasks us with. A description, an image, constitutes a moral judgment. I guess she skipped class that day.

On Louis Simpson, Richard Wilbur, George Oppen, and World War II

(N.B. this is a draft fragment from a much longer essay in progress about George Oppen's war poetry. Some of this was written in China for a keynote address to a conference on “Language, Culture, and the Military” at Changsha’s National Defense University of Technology. The talk was titled “How to Write a War Poem: George Oppen’s Broken Language.” Jan. 4, 2019. Except for a scholar from Hong Kong who called herself Smile, mine was the only the talk delivered in English. A tall, dashing Pakistani officer joked to me afterwards, “you’re a *real* scholar." His own talk had been about strengthening ties between Pakistan and China, given in English and flawless Mandarin. We bonded over a common love of LeBron James -- basketball, a language more universal than poetry).

Among American poets who fought in Europe during World War II, three carry the unusual distinction of having fought in the Battle of the Bulge, then gone on to win the Pulitzer Prize: Richard Wilbur, Louis Simpson, and George Oppen. Their reports on their experiences in that theater of war vary considerably in both tone and depth. Unlike Wilbur and Simpson, whose first books contain war poems, Oppen didn’t write about his wartime experience until rather late, when he was in his early 50s. Poems like “Blood from a Stone,” and “Survival: Infantry” (from 1961’s The Materials) weren’t delayed, as it were, because of some larger strategy on the poet’s part. Rather, the severe trauma Oppen suffered necessitated a longer gestation period. As a result, the war poems he began writing in the 1960s achieve a haunting, introspective quality that are lacking in Wilbur and Simpson. Oppen’s circumstances – deep wounds from mortar fire, later persecution by the FBI – allowed him, if that’s the right word, to more thoroughly metabolize his experience.

(N.B.: Wilbur won the first of two Pulitzers in 1957 for Things of This World; Simpson, in 1964, for At The End of the Open Road; and Oppen, for Of Being Numerous, in 1969).

As Anthony Beevors relates it in Ardennes 1944, Louis Simpson, “came across a Sherman tank, with a sergeant from the 10th Armored Division ‘seated negligently in the turret, as if on the saddle of a horse.’ Fifty metres down the road a panzer burned. He asked the sergeant what had happened. ‘They tried to get through,’ the sergeant replied in a bored voice and turned away … ‘I saw Tolstoy’s sergeant at Borodino, with his pipe stuck in his mouth, directing the fire of his battery. On men like this the hinge of battle swung. They did not see themselves in a dramatic role. They would do great tasks, and be abused for not doing them right, and accept this as normal’” (A 209-10). This, of course, is the essence of the Tolstoyan view of history: that random actions by anonymous individuals and odd chances shape the outcome of large historical events rather than the grand designs of Napoleons.

Simpson’s war poems like “Carentan” and “I Dreamed That in a City Dark as Paris” carry a poignant melancholy but they’re finally, for all their sincerity, too placid, too Wordsworthian, to adequately convey their speaker’s actual experience. Indeed, the weaknesses of Simpson’s war poems have only been magnified by the passage of time. They serve to underscore the long-running argument about traditional and radical conceptions of form that’s shaped so much of the anthology wars: is form a matter of adhering to regular meter and rhyme, or does it follow content, as Olson and Creeley urged, creating self-sustaining patterns based on breath and perception? Simpson’s war poems act as containers of experience. Indeed, he describes how “Carentan’s” ballad-like structure enabled him to get a purchase on the trauma of the war, which had left him in a semi-amnesiac state. “Carentan” is a personal favorite of mine. It’s a poem that continues to grow on me, even as its shortcomings become more pronounced over time. To find it wanting by comparing it to Oppen’s war poetry is crass. But its emotive power feels remote, encased under glass.

By contrast, Oppen’s poems – with their internal fissures, their half-exploded stanzaic patterns and jagged, shrapnel-like enjambments – are centrigual rather centripetal. They do not seek, in Beckett’s words, to contain the chaos of postwar reality but to let it in. Not as an orderly and formal report on experience, but as the written trace of trauma.

No man
But the fragments of metal
Tho there men there were men Fought
No man but the fragments of metal
Burying my dogtag with H

For Hebrew in the rubble of Alsace (NCP 218).

According to Robert McDowell, writing of his Collected in a1989 issue of The Hudson Review, Robert Bly and others criticized Simpson’s earnest traditionalism, faulting it for its failure to adequately express “grim modern realities.” McDowell, nothing if not lavish in his fulsome praise, goes on to declare At The End of the Open Road “the poetry volume of the sixties” – a judgment that sounds risible now (The Hudson Review 42.1 158-164). Of course, nothing is easier to mock then the smugness of older critics’ notions of posterity. But in a decade which ratified the emergence of Creeley, Levertov, Baraka, and Ashbery the idea that this book defined the decade is absurd. That said, At The End of the Open Road probably stands as Simpson’s most singular achievement and still rewards attention, especially the title poem, notable for its elegant, understated and ironic juxtaposition of utopianism and muted, postwar despair.

Simpson served with a glider-infantry regiment of the 101st Airborne Division in France, Holland, Belgium, and Germany. In combat he was a runner; carrying messages – a not unhazardous undertaking. In Holland he was wounded by a shell, and at Bastogne his feet were frost-bitten; but he survived. After the War, however, he had a nervous breakdown and was taken into hospital suffering from amnesia. The War was blacked out in his mind, as were episodes in his life before the War. When he was discharged from hospital, he found that he could hardly read or write. In a contributor's note to an anthology, Simpson says:

“Before the war I had written a few poems and some prose. Now I found that poetry was the only kind of writing in which I could express my thoughts. Through poems, I could release the irrational, grotesque images I had accumulated during the war; and imposing order on those images enabled me to recover my identity. In 1948, when I was living in Paris, one night I dreamed that I was lying on the bank of a canal, under machine-gun and mortar fire. The next morning I wrote it out in the poem 'Carentan O Carentan', and as I wrote I realized that it wasn't a dream, but the memory of my first time under fire.” (qtd. in Jon Stallworthy, "The Fury and the Mire," The Oxford Handbook of British and Irish War Poetry, ed. Tim Kendall (Oxford: OUP, 2007): 566–67.

Perhaps Simpson’s most evocative poem of the war is “I Dreamt in a City Dark as Paris,” from 1959’s A Dream of Governors. The instant irony of the title, for Paris is commonly known as the City of Light, takes us into its melancholy, rueful dreamscape at once, in the which the speaker imagines himself addressing a soldier much himself like from 1914.

The helmet with its vestige of a crest,
The rifle in my hands, long out of date,
The belt I wore, the trailing overcoat
And hobnail boots, were those of a poilu.
I was the man, as awkward as a bear (DG 83).

As Hank Lazer remarks, in looking back from the 1940s and Simpson’s own bitter experience, the poem offers a lament for the futility of both conflicts, indeed, of all wars. (On Louis Simpson: Depths Beyond Happiness, UP of Mich, 187). Janis Stout draws a similar conclusion, noting that “the two soldiers’ experiences have an essential sameness” (159) (Coming Out of War: Poetry, Grieving, and the Culture of the World Wars, Alabama UP 2016). Indeed, the poem positions Paris at a grave intersection of the diachronic and the synchronic, where a certain historical fatalism and cultural instinct for self-destruction keep reenacting themselves.

Simpson’s World War II poems record the personal but gesture at the universal. Oppen’s poems, written at a much later date, steer away from any larger statements about the war – except of course “the we” of “of being numerous.” His experience taught him to be wary of such generalizations. Such declarations, such claims to totality, had been knocked clean out of him.

On the other hand, Wilbur’s expertly crafted poems about his experience in Alsace have a remote, detached flavor to them. They read like someone on holiday, as though the poet were only a tourist, a voyeur at the Battle of the Bulge. Let me blunt: as war poetry they are embarrassments. The real war seems to have occurred outside the compass of his experience or his ability to convey it. They have a polite distant feel to them, as if conveying trauma would be an act of bad manners. Wilbur’s experience is suffocated by the straight-jacket of his technique.

According to Robert Bagg, Wilbur served as a radio operator behind the lines with the second detachment of the 36th Texas Division Message Center. As Bagg notes: “Explosions that failed to kill anyone appear as momentary inconveniences” (THR 440). It’s not clear how much actual front line combat he saw. Bagg states that his unit came under heavy fire as they advanced through the Midi. Yet Wilbur’s posting allowed him plentiful leisure time in which he could write poems and letters home to his parents. Wilbur’s perhaps best-known war poem, “First Snow in Alsace,” sounds a rather off-key note of the pastoral that verges on the soporific. To judge from its calmly measured tone, one would never know he was in the biggest battle of the European Theater. Although the snow covers ammo dumps and the bombed-out roofs of homes, its benign presence altering the landscape by temporary erasure, Wilbur’s effort to evoke the miraculous in the midst of ruin borders on the banal:

Persons and persons in disguise,
Walking the new air white and fine,
Trade glances quick with shared surprise.

At children's windows, heaped, benign,
As always, winter shines the most,
And frost makes marvelous designs (PRW 182).

If this is irony, it’s rather filigreed. Harvey Shapiro, in his introduction to the LOA anthology “Poets of the Second World War,” notes that Wilbur, along with fellow combatant Anthony Hecht, have been criticized for a certain “decorative formalism,” but he hedges it with an ambivalent “wrongly, I think.” I have no such qualms. In the midst of war’s horror, Wilbur’s poem seems leeched of life, bloodless, a mere formal exercise in the nicety of perception that defined the ideal of the well-made poem in the 1940s. Its lulling tone-deaf rhyme schemes give it a precious, hand-embroidered feel, as when the poet observes in “Mined Country,” that “cows mid-munch go splattered over the sky.” The frivolous tone of the poem is not, as one might expect, imposing some kind of ironic distance on scenes where cows suffer grotesque dismemberment.

By contrast, Louis Simpson’s famous poem “Carentan,” sounds a classic ballad-like dirge about the fierce fighting to take that key French village as part of the D-Day invasion. Simpson’s simple four-beat measure echoes the stark cadences of “The Battle of Harlaw.”

The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords,
They laid on us fu sair,
An they drave back our merry men
Three acres breadth an mair.

And here's Simpson:

Lieutenant, what’s my duty,
My place in the platoon?
He too’s a sleeping beauty,
Charmed by that strange tune.

Carentan O Carentan
Before we met with you
We never yet had lost a man
Or known what death could do

Simpson, who as a member of the legendary parachute division, the 101st Screaming Eagles, took part in the bitter D-Day fighting in Carentan (as memorably dramatized in the HBO series “Bands of Brothers,” though he was not part of Easy Company). He conveyed his experience of combat by relying on the traditional meters and protocols of the ballad, which gave him a form with which he could transmit something urgent yet contained.

Unlike Simpson’s elegant constructions and Wilbur’s rather glib poeticized gems about his experiences in Alsace, Oppen’s poems about the war are not neatly packaged nuggets loaded with dull ironies. They are haunted, shot full of holes, figuratively and literally: the broken syntax enacts the trauma of war and specifically of his being wounded by mortar shrapnel. The broken syntax signifies “the strange ego” that replaces “the simple ego” of lyric untouched by war.

Oppen’s approach joined his commitment to an impersonal modernist aesthetics consistent with the principles of the Objectivists to the experience of the war. In Samuel Beckett’s trenchant phrase, he sought for a form that could “admit the chaos and … not try to say that the chaos is really something else … form that could accommodate the mess.” As Oppen himself put it in his poem, “Blood from a Stone”: “There is a simple ego in lyric,/A strange one in war.” The lines indicate a fracturing of consciousness – a vivid before and after portrait. One becomes estranged from oneself and the simple purchase one had on one’s pre-war mind is pulverized by the brutality of combat.

Oppen’s wartime experience – along with his disillusionment with modernism itself, especially that espoused by his former mentor, Ezra Pound, led to his deep distrust of language. As he writes in, “A Language of New York”: “Possible/to use/ words provided one treat them/as enemies./Not enemies—Ghosts/Which have run mad/In the subways” (NCP 116). But who are these ghosts that haunt the poet? They represent the failure of language itself -- of the inability of words to adequately express the most basic experience, which the war has destroyed.

Wonder, Pathos, and The Death of Monsters: On Douglas Trumbull and Ray Harryhausen

When Tom Hanks inducted Ray Harryhausen into the Academy of Motion Pictures with a lifetime achievement award in 1992, he declared, with perfect sincerity: “Some people say Casablanca or Citizen Kane. I say Jason and the Argonauts is the greatest film ever made.” He was not wrong.

Perhaps it helps if you are of a certain age to appreciate the insouciant wit and insight of this outrageous remark. Does it reek of nostalgia? Of course. But it gets at the very heart of what makes movies a magical experience.

As a boy in South Bend, seeing it on a Saturday matinee TV program called “Creature Feature,” Jason enchanted me. Re-discovering Jason as an adult, though, has been a revelation. The first thing to say is that Bernard Hermann’s score ranks as one of his very best. Since some of his other legendary works include Citizen Kane, Vertigo, and Psycho, that’s saying a lot. Jason’s swelling brass and pounding drums conjure heroism incarnate: the music of the greatest boy’s own story ever told.

What I never cottoned to, though, as a wee lad is perfectly obvious now: the homosocial bonhomie that marks the Argonauts, in particular, the ephebe Hylas and Hercules, played by the great Nigel Greene, who also distinguished himself in Zulu as the calm, masterly Color Sergeant. Their friendship – and I call it a friendship, rather than a lover’s tale – is foundational to the spirit of the movie. Is it homoerotic? Almost certainly. The filmmakers seem to be winking their eye here. Yet like any pair of impetuous lads they get into a spot of bother on the Isle of Bronze. As if to allay or countermand any “tendencies,” once this adventure reaches its sorrowful conclusion the film is at pains to place us back on a firm heteronormative footing by having Jason rescue at sea the utterly beguiling Medea.

Played by popular bit actress Nancy Kovack, Medea is a stunner, as Dante Gabriel-Rossetti would put it. (She later guest starred in many TV series of the 60s, including Star Trek, usually cast as a seductress). What’s left out of the film – and properly so – is the wrath of Medea once she and Jason return to Greece How she slaughters her own children, according to Euripides, to take her vengeance on him for jilting her. Hell hath no fury. But such complex gender dynamics has no place in this happily simple YA tale.

Medea truly shines when the story arrives in her native Colchis, As high priestess to the goddess Hecate she and her maidens perform a dance in full Martha Graham mode: flowing robes, long dark tresses, the whole modernist Sapphic works. Hermann’s skirling woodwinds make for a vibrant paean. It’s stirring, majestic, and well, pretty damned sexy, too.

But I digress.

Before I get into special effects though, a few words about cinema in general. When critics talk about f/x they always mean specially processed shots designed to render the fantastic in a realistic way. Coleridge’s verisimilitude, in a word. What they so often forget, however, is that all cinema is a special effect.

In his famous essay “The Ontology of the Photographic Image,” French film critic André Bazin lays out a powerful and deeply influential account of what sets film images apart from all previous instances of pictorial representation. “Only a photographic lens,” he writes, “can give us the kind of image of the object that is capable of satisfying the deep need man has to substitute for it something more than a mere approximation … the photographic image is the object itself, the object freed from the conditions of time and space that govern it.” Bazin’s conception of the film image is almost mystical.

Bazin envisions the power of the cinematic image as somehow impossibly liberated from the director’s framing, as though the lens itself were solely responsible for delivering us to the real. In our current era of blockbuster filmmaking, we’ve grown habituated to being bludgeoned by the gigantism of motion pictures. Outside a few rare practitioners, like Terence Malick or Steven Soderbergh, the image has shrunk to an impoverished thing. Instead we are assaulted by massive spectacles of destruction, or what Bazin calls elsewhere “the Nero complex” of film makers obsessed with visual bombast. The anti-cinema of CGI is used by most directors to obliterate perception, rather than tutoring the eye in how to see more deeply. But some of the greatest moments in the history of film derive their power from a certain withholding, a discretion of the camera, a holding back, or merely a sly bit of inference. At the same time it must be remembered that all filmmaking, even the most naturalistic (think Ford, Renoir, De Sica) is a form of special effect, and that the greatest special effect ever devised in the movies is still the close up. There’s something divine, beatific, mad, transfiguring in a close up.

OK. Now that I’ve got that out of my system.

There are only two special effects masters I can think of who might be ranked as actual auteurs, or co-auteurs, so profound is their impact on the visual look and sensibility of whatever film they work on. One of them is Douglas Trumbull, best known for the Stargate sequence in 2001, the mothership in Close Encounters, and Blade Runner’s infernal L.A. He also directed two intriguing but somewhat lackluster SF films: Silent Running and Brainstorm, which was Natalie Wood’s final movie.

In the spring of 2015 I invited Trumbull to visit my Science Fiction Cinema class at Amherst College. Instead, he invited us to his remarkable studio/farm redoubt in the southern Berkshires. After giving us a tour of his compound, which included a design shop/library, woodworking and metal shops, and a fully-equipped studio, with a green screen scrim and a crane, Trumbull demonstrated his state-of-the-art projection system. Dubbed MAGI, it’s a kind of super-duper 3-D, based on shooting at 120 fps and producing film of almost hallucinatory clarity (Peter Jackson and Ang Lee have employed this technique, with mixed results). The sample short he screened for my class was about the reality of UFOs and smacked a bit of crank conspiracy theory. Trumbull is a true believer. But like many true believers he has absolutely no sense of humor about the subject.

Trumbull is on a quest to eliminate “blur” from action sequences. Personally this has never bothered me. But it’s an idee fixe for some filmmakers. In the manner of some serious visionaries, he never once smiled during all this except when, while addressing the class, I called him “a master of the sublime.” In general he gave off the sullen air of a neglected, albeit immensely successful, genius – a man who has accomplished miracles in film yet is still rolling the stone uphill. I suppose many great filmmakers feel the same way. And it was a thrill to see the table top scale model of L.A. used for the opening shots of Blade Runner. About twenty feet long, each building or structure packed with thousands of LED lights.

Trumbull’s MAGI project is not really practical for wide-scale distribution. Built like a pod that can seat about 50, there is one currently at the Smithsonian.

The other master is from an older generation: Ray Harryhausen. Where Trumbull excels at creating vistas of the technological sublime (see under David Nye and Fredric Jameson), Harryhausen specialized above all in the pathos of the death of monsters. In this he followed his mentor, the great Willis O’Brien, who made King Kong’s death a pathetic spectacle of the first order. Harryhausen stages monster death throes as though he were in the Globe Theatre:

“For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings”

Imbuing his otherworldly creatures with life and purpose, he then slowly, beautifully, majestically destroys them. Watch the death throes of the great green dragon in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. The way it thrashes about, a giant arrow imbedded in its fore-flank. Or the epic showdown between the dragon and the Cyclops. Or how Gwangi (an improbable Allosaurus from a “lost valley” somewhat on the order of Conan Doyle’s “The Lost World”), tormented by flames inside a grand Mexican cathedral, whips and yowls to its uncomprehending demise. The fall of the lost, confused Ymir in 20,000,000 Miles to Earth from the top of the Colosseum. The agony of the magnificent Rhedosaurus in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, a forerunner to Gwangi, as it, too, burns alive, trapped inside a Coney Island roller coaster. (Lee Van Cleef, be all your sins remembered).

The spectacle of the death of a monster is sublime for several reasons. It is staged on a gigantic scale, like the death of some elder god: larger than life, towering over the aghast human on-lookers, and laden with pathos. As they die, the emotional tone of these films shifts from terror to pity. What, a moment before, had been wreaking havoc and destruction, is suddenly invested with what Emerson called a certain alienated majesty. These creatures are lost geniuses of their inhuman realms: strangers in a strange land, in many ways undeserving of their fate at the hands of latter-day usurpers. Often the monster’s fate seems like an allegory for a world of mystery that is being destroyed by technology and thoughtless expansionist progress.

What these beasts tend to share in common is that they are often themselves removed from some original habitat, transported to the future as it were, or from another planet, to a place where they don’t belong. They are refugees from myth or prehistory.

Beyond distension or scale, though, what Harryhausen’s monsters express is their vulnerability, their common fate with us lesser mortals. We identify with the monster, only at its demise, since we undergo the same fate. Its colossal aggression and rage are suddenly tempered; in its death we perceive that its wild behavior had only enacted the primal revulsion we all feel at the thought of our own death. The monster is the mirror. They act less out of malevolence than instinct; melancholy exiles from lost worlds of ancient sovereignty, disrupted by technology and man’s fatal ambitions.

Harryhausen’s particular brand of magic peaked in the 60s. His final film, 1982’s disappointing Clash of the Titans, through no fault of his, is a slog, stifled by the pseudo-Shakespearean presence of so much august British acting royalty. The pacing is abominable and the monsters are never really given their proper moment in the spotlight.

But his earlier films have lost none of their weird power. What endows these doomed creatures with such fearsome charisma? It’s simple, really: they’re miniature clay models filmed using the painstaking process of stop-motion animation, an antiquated technique all but forgotten today (except for Wes Anderson’s twee films) but which possesses incredible charm. Stop-motion, with its slightly uneven contrivance, makes Harryhausen’s brutes seem both less real than real and more real. Their uncanny liveliness embodies the very stuff of childhood imagination. (When I was five, I underwent a tonsillectomy. I insisted on taking my shoebox full of plastic dinosaurs with me to the hospital. Playing with them gave me great comfort when I awoke the morning after. This sums up for me the Harryhausen aesthetic in a nutshell).

In the deaths of these hand-crafted monsters we witness a world stripped bare of the brides of enchantment – all their chthonic power usurped; the very complaint registered by Theodor Adorno and Max Weber. Myth is brought low, as D.H. Lawrence might put it. Man’s appetite for supremacy exacts its puny vengeance. It can only be satisfied by the throes of reptilian extinction. But who gave us permission to kill these fantastic gods? How dare we slay awe and terror? And what price for that deicide did we not reckon with?

The motion of Ray’s monsters is not jerky. When the cowboys are trying to lasso Gwangi, the snapping of the dinosaur’s jaws is astonishingly fluid and vivid. When Jason battles the Hydra the illusion of movement is more real than real. You believe in these monsters. They are fearsome, yet somehow never evil, however threateningly they may loom over their human antagonists, who have suddenly found themselves radically displaced in scale. And they far surpass the CGI-generated dinosaurs of the bloated Jurassic Park and its sequels.

In her book On Longing, Susan Stewart explores our fascination with both the miniature and the gigantic.

“The miniature offers us a transcendent vision which is known only through the visual. In approaching the miniature, our bodies erupt into a confusion of before-unrealized surfaces … [wheras] we are enveloped by the gigantic, surrounded by it, enclosed within its shadow … we find the miniature at the origin of private, individual history, but we find the gigantic at the origin of public and natural history.”

Harryhausen’s creatures dwell on the borderline between the miniature and the gigantic: they are gigantic to the film’s actors when superimposed via optical printing. But we get an extra thrill from knowing that they are also scale models, exactingly manipulated to create a believable yet still uncanny life-like appearance.

Harryhausen brought life to many monsters throughout his career, but it’s the downfall of the implacable metal giant Talos in Jason and the Argonauts that offers the most moving depiction of a monster’s demise in his output. When he drops his massive sword and clutches with both hands at his throat as the ichor gushes from his heel, we feel a strange pity for this frightening colossus. Harryhausen’s genius is to invest his creatures with genuine pathos as he brings his monster’s suffering to a fevered pitch. The pain Talos feels in his carefully choreographed death throes is grandly operatic. His tragedy in a way is inseparable from his muteness and self-opacity. He cannot know why he is dying, he can only undergo it. Ray Harryhausen’s extraordinary monsters kindle one of the most powerful sensations the movies can give us, a sensation that very little CGI can successfully deliver: wonder.

The Unabomber

“THE PURE PRODUCTS OF AMERICA GO CRAZY:”THE UNABOMBER & PURITAN PATHOLOGY

The author FC, now known to us as Theodore Kacyzinski, makes a by now familiar case against the putative evils of technology in his tendentious manifesto, “Industrial Society and Its Future.” Part reactionary Luddite jingoism, part half-baked psychological analysis, his essay is immediately notable on two counts: its complete lack of intellectual distinction, and its utter failure to delineate a specific and practicable method for the abolition of technology. FC’s Cassandra-like warnings of humanity’s imminent doom from technology we have been hearing since at least the time of Blake. His brand of pre-Industrial nostalgia is nothing new. What’s of interest in the document is the awkward, self-conscious motion of a deep and private pathology on full display. This is a conclusion, moreover, any intelligent reader can easily arrive at without knowing anything more of the violent pogrom Mr. Kacyzinski directed toward American technocrats.

One of the more curious features of the manifesto is its author’s focused rage against what he calls “the dangers of leftism.” Leftism, FC assures us, is one of “the most widespread manifestations of the craziness of our world” (6). (N.B. Because of Internet formatting numbers for quotes refer to paragraphs, not pages). Who are these leftists? None other than the “socialists, collectivists ... feminists, gay and disability activists, animal rights activists and the like” (7). Left out of this accounting are environmental activists, long and almost exclusively associated with the Left. For FC, though, they are part of his revolution against the industrial state. Leftism is subjected to a sophomoric psychoanalysis, its causes found not in the formation of the modern nation state (the French Revolution was a failure, we are told in passing), but in “feelings of inferiority” and “oversocialization.” This latter condition might best be described as going so far as to want to live with other people. The inferiority that mysteriously afflicts only members of the Left (or causes them to go Left, it’s not clear,) expresses itself through feelings of hatred for anything that is “strong, good or successful,” which basically includes all of “Western civilization” (15).

It would be tedious to outline the remainder of FC’s outlandish conceptions of history and culture. He castigates contemporary humanity for pursuing “surrogate activities” instead of real goals, but he never states what a real goal looks like (40-41). From his description of the surrogate goals, they look a lot like real ones. Interestingly, when he begins to expound on the nature of freedom, FC almost rises to the level of discourse analysis. His attack on the institutional practices of surveillance, the culture of the modern police state, etc., sound a Foucauldian note (95). And a little later on, we come on this cogent diagnosis of our ills: “Imagine a society that subjects people to conditions that make them terribly unhappy, then gives them drugs to take away their unhappiness.” Marx himself couldn’t have put it better. These are brief lapses into reason, though. Immediately, we are back on FC’s relentless hobbyhorse.

At the heart of “The Unabomber Manifesto” lies a deep terror, not of machines or technology per se, but of what can only be called ontological mutation. For FC, dogmatic essentialist that he is, human nature is a category of the real that has seemingly remained undisturbed for millennia. He correctly intuits that technology acts as a kind of self-reflexive mechanism capable of effecting qualitative psychological changes in human beings. And he is afraid that these changes will only lead to the increasing collectivization of humanity. There’s a sneaking compulsion to admit that he may, afterall, be right about technology, though for all the wrong reasons. FC’s answer to the terrible threat posed by technology, however, is expressed in an absurdly nostalgic longing for the past, for the primitive, and finally, for an order that is not any order at all. His revolutionary project, his vision, is a-utopic, in a sense, for he has no wish to replace the existing order with a new order, only to abolish it (182).

But FC’s paranoia about technology is really a fear of progress in general and it has ample precedent in American cultural history. Historian Richard Hofstadter has admirably outlined this strain of American paranoia in two of his books, Anti-Intellectualism in American Life and The Paranoid Style in American Politics. William Carlos Williams has perhaps best summed up this reactionary Puritan fever in his poem, “To Elsie” (from Spring and All), where he writes, “the pure products of America go crazy.” Though he only hints in his manifesto at a form of violent resistance to the industrial state, FC’s modus operandi as the Unabomber is as American as apple pie, exemplifying what historian Richard Slotkin has called in The Fatal Environment and other works the central trope in the American Frontier Myth, namely, “regeneration through violence.” Briefly, “the structuring metaphor of the American experience,” the trope of regeneration through violence grew out of the colonists desire to reconstitute their personal lives and institutions, a desire that inevitably became linked to the violence used to attain it.

FC is the postmodern avatar par excellence of this peculiar strain of American “nativist,” Know-Nothing isolationism. This ideology, which he shares in common with the numerous militant groups now flourishing in the hinterlands, relies on a discourse of rugged individualism for its philosophical underpinnings. Its true psychic vector was located by D.H. Lawrence in Studies in Classic American Literature. Commenting on Fenimore Cooper’s Natty Bumppo, Lawrence writes, “you have there the myth of the essential white America ... the essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted.” The cult of the American pioneer derives more from Nineteenth-Century propaganda than from the actual historical record. The settlement of this country, as historians Donald Worster and Patricia Nelson Limerick have pointed out, was made possible by the very government and business interests FC decries for the accelerating decline of the quality of life.

Heidegger’s conclusion in “The Question Concerning Technology” that technology offers humans a deeper way into Being sheds some much needed light here. For Heidegger, the process of Enframing (which is accelerated by technology), whereby things, and through things the quiddity of Being itself, are reduced, singularized and homogenized, threatens to pauperize the human relation to Being. But it is precisely this danger which offers humans the opportunity to engage Being at a deeper level of cognition. He quotes Holderlin to illustrate his point: “But where danger is/There also is the saving power.” As Heidegger puts it, man’s solemn duty to watch over unconcealment (that is, truth, or the presencing of Being) is heightened by the danger technology poses. “It is precisely in this extreme danger that the innermost indestructible belongingness of man within granting may come to light, provided that we, for our part, begin to pay heed to the coming to presence of technology” (32). And it is precisely this kind of argument (its arcane rhetoric notwithstanding) for a deeply responsible engagement with technology -- with its awareness and acceptance of the full complexity of the issue -- that eludes the benighted FC. For in the final analysis, as Heidegger so wisely realizes, the problem of technology is first, last, and merely the continuing problem of how to be human.

Knowing, Alex Proyas (2009)

N.B. I wrote this review shortly after the film came out. Originally it was to be part of a longer piece on SF films whose central themes dealt with latent or hidden extra-solar codes that hold the secret meaning of human history. This theme is locatd at the juncture where teleology succumbs to the pathology of paranoia. Other films to be considered were "Prometheus" and "Stargate." The piece isn't quite finished. I offer it here FWIW. Having also directed "Dark City," "I, Robot," and others, Proyas, along with Andrew Niccol, is one of the most prominent among contemporary SF auteurs at work today.

Like the comedy Ghost Town (2008), this 2009 film directed by Alex Proyas belongs to an emerging class of post-9/11 films that offer consolation by way of displaced representations or allegories of grief. It is also a film about the dangers of the risk society. More importantly, for this discussion, it exemplifies many of the features of the alien artifact film. The first two elements, it should be noted, are combined in the figure of the second of two ghosts who occupy and drive the film’s protagonist, John, namely, the figure of his wife, who, we learn via backstory, died in a hotel fire. The means of her death – by the failure of a building – seems designed to echo or point to the larger catastrophe of the World Trade Center’s structural collapse. Both events – the actual disaster and its pared down fictional counterpart – indicate the basic unreliability of modernity, the fact that structures and entire systems can overload or breakdown, often without warning.

[As an MIT astrophysicist, John is actually little more than a mouthpiece for the script’s metaphysical nostalgia. In an early classroom scene he expounds tritely on whether or not the universe functions by design or randomness, teleology or contingency. Later, he tells X that he thought he was supposed to feel it when his wife died, halfway around the world.]

The film’s prologue is set in a 1959 Lexington, MA elementary school named for William Dawes, a heroic Minuteman, invoking both the early alarms of the Revolutionary War, Cold War paranoia and the threat of total destruction, and a perverse boomer nostalgia for lost innocence. The installation of a time capsule (undertaken while a brass band badly plays the pastoral-triumphalist portion of Holst’s “Jupiter”) likewise signals both the onset of an alien knowledge that drives its child possessor Lucinda (the story’s main ghost) to dementia and eventual drug overdose. As we learn she is unwillingly subjected to transmissions from the alien archive of the future in the form of telepathic noise represented as overlapping whispers, which she is forced to translate into a series of seemingly meaningless numbers. The gleaming time capsule itself emblemizes Cold War anxieties with its burial of the now for some possible future retrieval, even after Armageddon. What its designers hope will stand as a message to the future becomes for that future a note from the angel of death.

[Brief note on time capsules: 1939 World’s Fair – to be opened in 6939. Implies an absurd faith in the future; it's meant to foster a hope in continuity, but becomes instead a message from our ruins to latter-day archaeologists and an acknowledgment of our fragility].

The film’s core theme – astrophysical theories of randomness versus determinism (a code word perhaps for intelligent design) – is explicated in an MIT lecture by the hero, John Koestler (the last name here rather needlessly alluding to Arthur Koestler and his book on the paranormal, The Roots of Coincidence). Still grieving the loss of his wife, J. appears consumed by the theory of randomness – “shit just happens” as he bitterly tells his class – there is no higher or larger meaning or design. Here the film plays up the binary of randomness/determinism all too reductively, as though the former were equivalent to nihilism and not some form of deeper complexity and emergent systems behavior that develops rhizomatically into decentralized self-organizing systems. "God," in this view, is not merely in the details; he is the details.

After his son Caleb, during a ceremony marking the opening of the time capsule, receives the mad scribblings of the girl from 1959 (Lucinda Embry–the name portentously suggests both illumination and embers) it becomes clear that her random strings of numbers depict a map of worldwide disasters. Some of these disasters are natural – earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis – and some are man-made: 9/11, the first one decoded; along with other plane crashes and massive infrastructure failures.

While this mix of registers proves fatal to the film’s logic, we might read these disasters as all man-made in the sense that the high death tolls they incur are the result of massive population clustering in narrow coastal and urban areas which lack adequate alarm and evacuation procedures. Cities, in other words, like buildings, or planes, or cars, are death traps, waiting for the right set of random circumstances to trigger their destruction. The conditions produced by the risk society greatly increase the likelihood of the traps’ chances to engulf its inhabitants.

John is able to decode the alien archive further and realizes that three events have not yet occurred. The first one (which leads to the decoding of the remaining set of unexplained numbers as lat/long coordinates) is a spectacular crash of a commercial airliner over I-90. This disaster revisits the trauma of 9/11 in a visible way, even if on a reduced scale. Improbably, as part of its fantasy of redemption, John staggers through the plan’s scatter path as EMT’s, who’ve arrived with miraculous alacrity, escort a few improbably surviving passengers away from the burning wreckage. He decodes, but is also unable to stop, the second of three remaining disasters on the list, this one involving a subway crash in NYC.

Both of these disasters are like compulsive re-enactments of both 9/11 and his wife’s death. His foreknowledge of them only makes him feel more impotent to stop them. He becomes a Cassandra-figure, isolated in his ability to make his warnings understood by the authorities, the classic position of the hero outlined by Sontag in her early, influential essay “The Imagination of the Disaster.”

Teleology here undergoes a shift from the dream of a completed totality, the fulfillment of history through universal emancipation, to a paranoid sign system in which all things, once understood as interconnected and legible, only signify total destruction and universal anarchy. The knowledge of all things is a zero-sum game. In a related sense, the knowledge of the beyond – of the future – which the alien archive transmits (thereby contaminating its readers with a kind of lucid dementia) is also a form of religious experience, a conversion from the placid containment of unbelief’s protective repression to belief’s holy terror.

What the alien archive finally represents is a theology of trauma – apocalypse, followed by survival of the chosen ones. The conversion experience John undergoes and later, if more reluctantly, Lucinda’s adult daughter, Diana, allows them to make sense of their pain and loss – which, finally, is the task of stories and art in general. The archive or code may not save them, but it does offer shelter for their children, thereby insuring a future for the human. [The SF Ark. The aliens have come to shepherd Earth’s children to a new planet, a rather sappy vision of the Wordsworthian sublime]

The logical link between man-made disasters and the planet-killing solar flare which strikes at random is never made by the film. The earthly disasters are produced by a risk society; they are the result either of the hazards of accelerated modernity or its corollary, the reactionary forces of political terrorism. The solar flare is a cosmic accident. It could be argued that it embodies the ultimate form of risk – that of living at the mercy of enormous and ungovernable stellar forces. But in the progression of disasters the film asks us to see that all disasters are somehow created equal: the only difference between the collapse of a bridge or a downed jet liner and the end of all life on earth is one of scale. This preposterous logic makes a hash of “Knowing’s” theological intervention, reducing it to a cynical ploy, an exploitation of the audience’s hopes for redemption.

The film’s dramatic ending, with a fleet of spaceships leaving Earth to deliver the children to a new world, can actually be read as a fantasy projection of the protagonist, somewhat in the vein of The Sixth Sense. John’s research has already revealed to him the threat the sun poses to the earth. The occult code of numbers, the menacing, black clad strangers (the Whisper People) who appear to be threatening his son only to transform into rescuing angels, all this is simply a delusion he has concocted to shelter him from his own knowing of the inevitable apocalypse. These angels are not rescuers, though; they are angels of death, and the new Eden we are shown at the end is merely John’s fantasy of a Heaven which does not exist. This becomes clear when we consider how this scene is cross-cut with John’s reconciliation with his minister father.

The rescue of the children and their transportation off-world to a new Edenic home, complete with a heraldic white tree, brims with Christian sentimentality; a sugar-coated denouement to the apocalypse. The trench-coated aliens transform into glowing angelic beings and the staging of the earth’s death takes on the trappings of the sublime. John, “left behind,” makes peace with his estranged father, a Christian minister, who assures him that death is not the end. This is a science fiction version of the Rapture.

How, then, to read the role of the alien archive in this compelling, but finally cloying, drama of trauma and redemption? The chain of numbers delivers random occurrence into the emplotment of knowing, that is, of pre-determined meanings which, properly decoded, spell salvation. Yet the connection between human catastrophes and the planet-killing solar flare is made tenuously, at best. The archive does not provide answers to this; only further obfuscations. The smaller disasters of history, according to the film, are to be understood as teleologically-driven, preludes leading up to the final disaster, which is itself a leap outside the logic of history, randomly driven, but responded to providentially.

The antithesis to knowing, of course, is believing. All of John’s knowledge of both science and the future don’t give him the power to alter the course of events. Only by returning home again, like the prodigal son, is he able to reinvest himself with the comforts supplied by faith.