The Case for Sequels

With The Matrix, the Wachowskis created a deeply complex and endless-seeming world that is entirely open to revisitation. The Matrix is engaging to audiences not only for the fight scenes or for its classic narrative, but also because the Wachowskis crafted a compelling and engaging world. The fundamental world-building process inherent to most science fiction movies benefitted the The Matrix because its world was not fully realized by the end of the movie. The film offers itself up for sequels by telling a captivating story, teasing viewers about the scope of its world, and intentionally weaving threads of future importance into its narrative.

There is a lot going on in The Matrix, to say the least. Yet at the same time, it’s the typical story of the hero refusing the call and then actually going for it and ultimately succeeding. In fact, Neo’s character arc matches up nearly perfectly to the “hero’s journey” as theorized by Joseph Campbell. The point is that for all of the complication, nuance, and philosophizing found in this film, it remains very accessible and straight forward. It’s really just about one guy “beginning to believe,” as Morpheus would have it. It’s about the underdog taking on the system, and at the end of the movie, the audience has been given a satisfying taste but is still hungry for more. And thats part of the reason why The Matrix: Reloaded  made $742 mil at the global box office; audiences were eager for more.

Where does it end?

The imagery in the film almost insists upon further exploration. The above image stuck out for me as it evokes a sense of endlessness. Viewers are logically inclined to seek physical approximations, and when the film makers don’t provide concrete answers to about the exact size or boundaries of a space, we are left wanting more. We don’t even see the ground in this image, let alone the surrounding area, or a city-scape-type view, and we are left to fill in the gaps ourselves. This works on multiple levels because it asks the viewers to think more about the world of The Matrix while also leaving the potential for the film makers to explore the world in further adventures. 

Another great case for sequels comes from Agent Smith’s speech to Morpheus after his capture. This is a great soliloquy not only for Smith’s musings on humanity’s virus-like nature, but because it foreshadows Smith’s direction in future movies. The Wachowskis allow the viewer into the head space of the villain and build his motives for his own (ironically virus-like) replication and escape from the Matrix in the sequels. At once the film’s villain is humanized by making him also want to escape a hostile environment and also made more loathsome because he is diametrically opposed to the existence of us, humans. The film makers cleverly set up Smith’s escape later when they have Neo seemingly destroy him in the finale, but thankfully they leave this thread untouched during the denouement. Since The Wachowskis have built this world, they define its rules. So in the same way that Neo returned from the dead, Smith has the possibility of revival (and coming back even stronger) when the world is revisited.

The Matrix creates avenues for sequels both explicitly, as with Smith’s desire for freedom, and implicitly through the use of imagery that asks questions about the world. Viewers wanted more after The Matrix because it offered a glimpse at an impossibly large world with insane and enticing qualities. The parallel worlds of The Matrix also offer themselves up to further world building on two different platforms. Zion, in the real world, is a destination that is teased to the audience, and the Matrix, seemingly the size of our real world, is equally available to be explored. Viewers came back for the sequels because The Matrix introduced them to an entertaining world that did not attempt to contain itself.

They Bring Color

In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, director Steven Spielberg along with Vilmos Zsigmund, his director of photography, made countless decisions to saturate the film with layers of meaning. The result of their decisions was the creation of an image system that provides linkages to seemingly distinct aspects within the film.

My first instinct was to talk about the lighting because it is incredibly stark and recurrent. Mercado explains however, that lighting choices are not part of an image system and that they are merely tools that “make [an] image system work” (Mercado, 21). But I knew that the lights, especially on the UFOs were significant to the story so I examined it more closely, and I discovered that color, specifically, is an important agent in the image system. Color has a unique relationship to the extraterrestrial beings in the film, and we’ll examine how that relationship works.

This image is from the scene where Roy is finally digging into his close-encounter inspired breakdown, for lack of a better word. He has to do something about his life and engage with the devil’s tower image that has been seared into his mind. He knows that it is related to the aliens somehow and he needs to see the lights and colors again. The film makers manipulate color in this scene in order to encourage the viewer to go along with Roy for the ride. The colors everywhere around him (on his house, his clothes, his car, and even his neighborhood) are strikingly dull and bland. This is his life without the UFOs, without knowing. It’s dull and it’s sad. This is an uncomfortable scene to watch based on Roy’s manic episode alone, but the blandness is another huge contributing factor. It is a visually uncomfortable location, completely different from one in which the aliens are present. Spielberg and Zsigmund manipulate and ration the use of color in every frame of the film in order to convey meaning. Here, the lack of color has a definitively negative meaning, but there are countless other examples of the image system at work in different ways throughout the film.

The meaning associated with color in this image is very basic to understand, and it has a similar meaning in most of the scenes with the UFOs. Essentially, color has a very positive association here. It represents awe, curiosity, wonder, amazement etc. These images from the end of the film are bursting with these types of meaning due to the artistic use of color. If these ships were black, we would have a very different feeling about the ships and their intentions. Instead, color lights them up and makes them happy, just as they have from their first introduction.

Before that introduction happens, we are introduced to Roy’s life. As we can see from this image, his life is conspicuously lacking color–lacking joy and wonder et all. The film begins shaping an aspect of its image system by pairing the visually dull and muted to the emotionally dull and muted. Mercado would explain that this decision guides viewers to decode meaning in the film. When the UFOs truly introduce us to color and all its positive associations, then the viewer immediately latches their interest to the UFOs because they are visually stimulating. Watching and waiting for the UFOs becomes much more rewarding when they contrast an essentially monotone setting.

Our first real shot of a UFO brings much needed color into the film. This is not to say that the film is completely devoid of color when the UFOs are absent, rather that there is an almost unnoticeable lack of color when they are not around. This is simply magnified by that fact that the ships are extremely colorful and visually engaging. This pattern of bright colors having direct association with presence or absence of UFOs is constantly at play during the film.

This still is from the scene where Lacombe and his interpreter are investigating a group of people who are singing those five notes. The color of their garb is symbolically significant because their bright colors indicate that they have had a special interaction with the UFOs, and this is even before that famous shot where they all point to the sky. Thus the viewer is introduced in scenes like this one to a real relationship between color and the UFOs.

Color is significant in the film not only because it is visually intriguing, but also because it is a UFO-nearness metric. In this way the absence of color makes us miss the UFOs, and anticipate their return. The return of the UFOs is satisfying because we have had cues to wait and also because they bring color and are pleasing to the eye. Color is a crucial aspect of the image system because it defines and creates relationships between images throughout the film.

Who’s the real doctor, here?

Commander Adams, in Wilcox’s 1956 Forbidden Planet, at first glance seems to be an archetypal, conventional hero. According to Burke, Adams’ trope fulfillment, his ultimate triumph over evil, getting-of-the-girl, and saving-of-the-day suggests a hero that is basic and un-evolved. Yet there is much more underneath the surface that prompts an in-depth look at Adams. Adams’ final scene with Dr. Morbius, the one in which he identifies “the monster” in the movie as a physical manifestation of Dr. Morbius’ id (THE ID, MORBIUS, IT’S YOUR ID!), is particularly stirring. From there it is only natural to back-track through the movie to establish how exactly Commander (or is it doctor?) Adams arrived at his stunning diagnosis.

When we first meet our heroes, the crewmen of C-57-D, they are on arrival to the planet Altair-IV, and a sickly Dr. Morbius protests that they must not land. Disregarding his plea, Commander Adams sets down the ship and sets himself to figure out what had really happened to the last crew on the ship. Both Adams and the viewer know that the intrigue is directly tied to Morbius because he is the sole survivor, and thus the focus becomes getting inside Dr. Morbius’ head to unravel what has happened.

The relationship between Commander Adams and Dr. Morbius evolves exactly like a doctor-patient relationship; yet in this one, Adams is the doctor and and Morbius is the patient. As was a hallmark of early psychiatry, the doctor, in this case, Adams, has aggressively situated himself into the patients life under the banner of authority, and now seeks to uncover his secrets for scientific governmental purposes. Adams’ investigation is interesting because he relies on Dr. Morbius’ technical insights and knowledge to arrive at a conclusion. This is the same way in which a patient would supply all of their thoughts and then a psychiatrist would perform a diagnosis. Psycho-analysis was hugely popular at the time that this movie was produced, and it is clear that Adams contains elements of a therapist working to uncover mysteries within an individual’s mind. Burke would say that this is an example of a hero reflecting the conditions of the society from which it came. Adams is an ordinary hero, a detective, but the frame-work of the film suggests that he is a different type of hero. An analytical hero.

When Adams first arrives on Altair-IV, he is greeted by Robby the Robot, an extension of Dr. Morbius’ conscious. Adams plays along by going for a literal and figurative ride with the robot in order to meet Dr. Morbius. It seems as though Adams has put himself into a dangerous situation and the viewer does not know whether to trust Robby or the mysterious Dr. Morbius. Yet Commander Adams, our hero, is the character who should be questioned. It is merely the guise of authority that leads the audience to believe that Adams’ intentions are noble. From here Adams will let Dr. Morbius “show him around” and tell him about what has happened on the planet. The things which Dr. Morbius shows Adams’ have symbolic meaning, and as a proper analyst, Adams allows Dr. Morbius himself to go deeper and explain the real meaning of the things in his life.

The most important of all the things which Dr. Morbius shows to Commander Adams is the inner-working of the Krell structure. This structure symbolically represents Dr. Morbius’ mind. It is the space in which he completes all of his work, and it is the processor for Dr. Morbius’ research. Adams allows Dr. Morbius to literally take him through the structure, through his mind. Once inside the mind, Dr. Morbius explains everything down to the technical details, and tells Adams what he needs to complete his diagnosis of the problem. This is either a skewering of psychoanalysis (that the psychiatrist knows very little, and any authority figure could be one), or an ironic, unintentional reflection of the time period.

Adams is a typical hero in many senses, he is handsome, strong, charming, and empowered by an official position among other qualities. But he does not physically possess the analytical skills to uncover what has really happened on this planet. All of the exposition comes from Dr. Morbius, yet the final moment of clarity occurs through Adams. The simple hero synthesizes all that he has been told in order to pin Dr. Morbius’ id as the culprit and the real villain of the story.

According to Burke, “an excellent way to analyze the [various] meanings that underlie the bulk of American popular film… is to see how the particular focus on a hero or villain character defines the limits or purposes of a genre.” The genre here serves merely as a prop. The real focus of the story lies within Adams and Morbius’ doctor-patient relationship.

Creative exposition

In Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious, Devlin is driven by his love for Alicia and by his pride. Though his love for Alicia ultimately triumphs, it is Devlin’s pride (and Alicia’s hurt) that allows Alicia to be embedded with Alex Sebastian in the first place. Part of the suspense in this movie is that the tension could seemingly be dissolved at any moment if either Devlin or Alicia were able to overcome their own egos and hurt to explain their feelings. Instead the two of them are too similar and too prideful for the situation into which they are thrown. Hitchcock amplifies certain visual aspects in order to push the audience to understand the motivations of both characters and how their relationships define them.

When Alicia and Devlin first get to Rio they sit outside and chat. Just after Devlin says it “wouldn’t be hard” to fall in love with Alicia, she delivers a significant line: “You’re sore because you’re falling for a little drunk you’ve taken in Miami and you don’t like it… The invincible Devlin, in love with someone who isn’t worth even wasting the words on.” Though he silences her with a kiss, Alicia has hit at some truth. Devlin cannot say that he loves Alicia. The underlying importance is that Devlin’s exposition is occurring through Alicia, and the audience therefore is subconsciously considering Alicia’s opinion when evaluating Devlin. By having Alicia deliver this line, Hitchcock engages the viewer in their relationship and sets a standard for understanding the two through each other. Their relationship throughout the film is both the impetus for the action and the story itself.

After Devlin has returned to Alicia’s room with the news of her assignment, there is a scene where the two are driving to meet Sebastian for the first time. Besides their body language (arms crossed, surly demeanor) Alicia’s costume mimics Devlin’s. This is more a reflection of Devlin than it is of Alicia. While neither was able to back away from the assignment since it was put forward, Alicia is showing through her wardrobe that she is acquiescing to Devlin’s level and approach; Devlin came home with the assignment and therefore to Alicia (and transitively the viewer), he is the architect the assignment. By dressing like Devlin, Alicia becomes like him, and their game continues.

                          

The scene at the racetrack also provides another example of seeing Devlin through Alicia’s perspective. This time we literally see Devlin through Alicia’s perspective through the use of POV. As Alicia reveals that she has slept with Sebastian we experience the moment through her eyes. Curiously, this moment is more about Devlin than it is about her. The shots work in tandem to the dialogue. The two stand next to each other, she turns to him to give the news (the first screen shot) and then right after the news, through her POV (second screen shot), Devlin says “fast work.” Then the shot pattern repeats two more times. Alicia calls him out: “you knew what you were doing,” and then Devlin: “skip it.” Finally she says “Didn’t you tell me what to do?” and through her last POV we see Devlin: “A man doesn’t tell a woman what to do, she decides for herself.” All three of Devlin’s lines are cold and hurtful to Alicia—to the audience. The POV forces the audience to experience this moment as Devlin’s doing, even though Alicia has carried out the action. Alicia possesses the real power, sex appeal, and this power enables her to move the plot along. Yet we are passively sympathetic to Alicia despite this fact, whereas we are actively resentful of Devlin for his reaction, and for his inability to stop the events of the movie sooner.

Although Devlin uses himself to save Alicia in the end, his power is negligible compared to Alicia’s as the driver of the plot. Notorious succeeds because of Hitchcock’s choices to experience the characters in terms of their relationships. Devlin and Alicia both play a childish game but the audience is primed to see Devlin as more of a culprit strictly based on how we are exposed to the characters.

Meaning in motion

Countless decisions are made in Citizen Kane to saturate each scene with meaning. We can get at a set of meanings through examining blocking in the film. When interacting in real life, we can convey and interpret infinite meanings through body language. Welles harnesses this knowledge to apply subtext to the story and to provide the viewer with hints about character relationships, motivations, and the direction of the film.

Early on there is a great scene when Mr. Thatcher comes to collect Kane from his mother’s boarding house. I was initially drawn into this scene because of the composition of the shot; Kane is seen innocently playing outside in the snow through a window while his mother finalizes the plan with Thatcher to take her son away to boarding school. Kane’s father protests from aside. It was interesting to see the young Kane playing happily outside while a dramatic decision for his future was being coldly settled inside. But there’s way more than that.

Mrs. Kane is kept in the forefront of the shot from the beginning until the end, a bookend where she watches her son playing for the final time at his home and then returns to the window to end his playing, sending him away. Yet between that time, Welles allows Kane’s father to mount a small protest for dramatic effect. Though he is sidelined, he is physically between the son and the mother. The final, albeit weak, barrier to Kane’s inevitable future. Mr. Kane comes over to the table to voice his final piece, and the frame changes briefly to reflect that he might yet carry some weight in this discussion.

The father’s presence here actually seems somewhat intimidating when taken out of context. He is prominent and towering above the two at the table, seemingly challenging the actual power dynamic. In due time he is rebuffed and quietly slinks back to the sideline, but his protest is supplemented by the blocking decision and ultimately provides dramatic pay off when the mother shuts him down for the last time.

The last time we see both parents with Kane, the father is completely behind them, in physical terms he is merely spectating the boy’s send-off. Though he has some bit of final protest, the blocking is all we need in order to see that the father is completely irrelevant to this bit of action. Another scene stands out to me for providing excellent subtext to the story.

The depression has just hit and Bernstein reads a letter informing Kane that his empire has taken huge losses. He continues reading the letter to reveal that Kane still has a source of wealth and that all is not lost. Instead of having this simple bit of dialogue take place in a static board room, Welles blocked the scene in order to underscore this information and assign more clout and importance to Kane.

Kane begins off screen, as Bernstein begins reading the letter. The news could almost go either way, just as Kane will shift away from Bernstein upon hearing the bad information, and then approach when he hears the good news.

Kane is in small and in the background when he finds out about the losses that his business has suffered. We are meant to think of Kane in this scene as a physical manifestation of (his) wealth. Perhaps that is all he is throughout the movie–a man measured in terms of wealth. Metaphor or not, we see Kane at the center of the frame, the center of importance, and he appears physically diminished by this news. Both his distance from Bernstein in the foreground and the deceptively large scale of the set windows serve to obscure Kane. He is small.

Next the news turns around, and so does Kane. He approaches Thatcher and Bernstein, signaling his financial comeback just as his ending position signals his dominance–he towers above the two men. We often see Kane looking down on others or his material possessions. Here we are provided with a clue as to why this is the case: he is empowered by his wealth. This scene provides an important key to understanding how we see Kane in the rest of the film. If Kane may actually be understood in terms of his financial power, then we can attempt to decode other scenes in the movie in this way. When Kane had nothing, after all, he also appeared small and in the background of the action..