The Birth of Excellence

So the broad consensus is that television has finally reached its golden age. Somehow, magically, it doesn't necessarily suck anymore. People have figured out how to use the medium to do something substantial and engaging, and while not every show follows through on this potential, or does it well, the artistry is loose -- and some damned excellent things have been coming of it: The Sopranos, Lost, Battlestar Galactica. Most people seem to trace this evolution down to the mid-'90s, in particular to The X-Files. A few nerds throw around Babylon 5. I recently saw a proposition that it was a three-step process begun with Twin Peaks (showing that something substantial could be done with the medium), developed in The X-Files (showing that an involving long-form narrative was possible), and refined in Buffy (moving that narrative focus from plot to character development).

What strikes me as just as important, though, is the development of DVD. Again we can thank The X-Files for establishing precedent of DVD compilations; now with shows like Lost, and shows developed straight for pay channels like The Sopranos, that otherwise have no direct commercial value, television is produced with the end user -- and an end product -- in mind. Whereas the '90s shows demonstrated the artistry, DVD provides a framework; a structure. Shows are designed to be cohesive, coherent long-form narrative units that people can pull off their shelves and watch, enjoy, as a single work, with the actual broadcast little more than a taster for the eventual consumer product. I've even heard cases of networks developing and showing series at a loss or near the break even point (though I'm scraping my mind to remember which ones, and where I read this), with the long-term expectation of DVD revenue, once the ratings and word of mouth have made their rounds, to make up the balance. As a result, TV shows are more and more made as a long-form work, that can be watched over and over, rather than for serialization.

I've said before that television is, in theory, the novel to film's short story or novella. Whereas films are self-encapsulated, short narratives with a single premise, meant to be taken in at a sitting, both novels and television are serial formats. Many novels even start off as a series of short stories (Catch-22), or as newspaper or magazine serials (Musashi, anything Dickens). It's only when they're compiled into a single, tangible volume that they are assessed and evaluated as complete, legitimate works. And though there is a certain elegance to the short story or novella, revolving as they do around a single conceit, there is a reason why the novel is considered the true test of literary skill: as a serial, it has the scope and structure to explore plot, character, and theme with a nuance impossible in the shorter works. Of course, most novels still suck; that's what happens, though.

What DVD has done is allow television that objective, tangible distance. Long-form works now can be compiled and assessed as a whole, in the same sense that they provide a target structure for the narrative. It's just a strange coincidence that it happens to have come around immediately after the artistry. I think it's the final critical step for the medium, in that previously that objective distance was impossible to attain. Even with the occasionsal VHS release, television was transitory. There's a reason why the BBC archives (among others) were systematically wiped; just as life doesn't become a story until it has an ending, a serial doesn't become a novel until it's bound. You have to be reminded to value the fleeting because it is fleeting, rather than ignore it because you can't grab hold of it and place it on an altar.

Film, it got its act together years ago. Decades ago. Before sound, even -- though it wasn't until the New Wave that it got all self-aware and critical. Reason? It's already self-encapsulated. You don't need it bound; you don't need it on your shelf; you don't need to have it compiled for you, because it's brief and simple enough to be instantly comprehensible, and easily exploited. (Relatively speaking, that is.) I think there's a reason why in film the main artistic force is perceived as the director (Charlie Kaufman aside), whereas with television it tends to be the writer. Each dictates the essental narrative structure of the work. Since film is comparably simple and short, each shot, each visual juxtaposition is of greater narrative importance. Since television sprawls, the basic narrative block becomes the chapter rather than the scene -- meaning an increased reliance on script as a source of content and momentum, rather than rote imagery.

Funny thing is, soap opera was way ahead of its time. All it really lacks is sophistication and an end structure -- neither of which were even developed until a few years ago.

(January 30^th, 2007 @ 01:44am)

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The Car Door is Miyazaki

The Castle of Cagliostro is better than I expected, even knowing its reputation. What struck me after seeing it -- aside from how reminded I was (and with good reason) of Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' On Heaven's Door -- was how imperfect the movie was. How imperfect Lupin seemed, in comparison to how he might have been. After all his effort and his skill and lucky chances, he, indeed, in a move which must put a gleam in Robert McKee's eye, fails his mission.

This is part of the standard screenplay arc; the hero must rise to a height, then fall so he might rise again. See any boxing movie ever made, and note the moronic misunderstandings every couple must face three-quarters of the way through a romantic comedy, just so the man can make it up to the woman and they can realize how stupid they were for acting like completely different people just long enough to create tension. The difference here is, although we have a pretty good idea that Lupin will succeed, somehow, in the end, it never is certain. When he does succeed, he does it not because the plot demands it (although again, it does) so much as because he has earned it: not because he must, but because he might.

This works because we see him fail. Lupin is a flambuoyant man. He swings for the ropes, and although he knows what he's doing, there's a certain element of risk built into this behavior. Sure, Lupin can control himself -- but that's different from being in control. And with as small a window of success as his stunts need, if it's not one darned thing it's another.

Take a look at the episode on the rooftop, where Lupin intends to cross the several hundred yards of empty space, to a tower. He has one plan; life has another. That he is rescued by a sight gag -- should we always be so fortunate -- does little to dampen the near-disaster he put himself into. By the time Lupin does so suddenly, and arbitrarily, fall, we are prepared for it. We aren't prepared in that we expect it; just in that it comes from somewhere. Yes, these things happen -- and oh damn, he almost made it. It feels unfair, and frustrating -- because we know on another day he might have succeeded. Chances are, he would have. Those are just the odds. What is all the more upsetting is that it is not until then we fully realize all that had been riding on Lupin. Even his archantagonist, Zenigata, had been on his side; with Lupin's failure comes that realization so many antagonists come to: that without the protagonist, they have no reason to be.

The solution, then, is to stack the odds. The rest of the movie plays out much as one might expect: all the characters play to their strengths; the world is set to its normal order, perhaps a little wiser, perhaps a little sadder. We get perspective on the unending battle of the TV series. We feel wistful. And the oddly-silent credits roll.

Still, what we got is better than it need be. Better than, maybe, it should be, for what it is. A movie based on a long-running cartoon: this ain't the kind of place you expect to go looking for truth, much less of the standalone sort. Agnes mentioned how confused she was the first time she saw it, because the characters jump into play with no real introduction. It's true; it does expect that you know the players. Else, why would you be watching a movie like this? No introductions are really needed, though. Relationships are implied, and used to the extent that the movie implies them. No one needs announce himself, as the personality is evident. One look from Lupin, and you know who Fujiko is -- even if you don't, really. She isn't in the movie enough for it to matter, anyway. If you're still burning for information, she clarifies the matter towards the end, saying nothing that first look didn't.

I don't know if I need to see this a dozen times. Then, for what the movie is, maybe it would be a failure if I did. It is worth the time, however.

Oh, and Konami almost certainly borrowed from this when designing Castlevania.

(December 28^th, 2004 @ 01:00am)

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One Fist Too Many

I think Agnes is on to something. It feels like the "Harmonica" character was inserted into Once Upon a Time in the West after-the-fact. He's sure unnecessary. He makes the movie longer than it need be, attracts time away from the main plot for no good or interesting reason, and generally clutters the situation. I think he wasn't supposed to be there; that Cheyenne was the only male protagonist, and that half of Cheyenne was split away to form "Harmonica" (who, note, is an Indian -- yet the other guy is named Cheyenne).

Assuming this is the case -- well, why? I've an idea it has to do with Ennio Morricone. You see, by this point he was no longer writing the music at the last moment. I understand that, after the success of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, where he wrote a number of themes beforehand, he began to work more closely with Leone, working out the music before the movie was set, such that Leone would have something to guide him, conceptually.

From how he's used, it feels like "Harmonica" was an experiment in tying the music more closely to the material. In other words, he's an artistic gimmick. He plays harmonica (poorly), which gives an excuse for a harmonica theme to dominate the soundtrack, blurring lines that really don't need to be blurred.

I feel that's enough Leone for me, for now.

(November 23^rd, 2004 @ 01:39am)

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Western Deconstruction

Structure of the first half of Leone's The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly:

1. Title sequence
2. Showdown #1; The Ugly identified
3. Showdown #2 (and aftermath); The Bad identified
4. Showdown #3 (and aftermath); The Good (such as he is) identified
5. Back to The Bad; he beats a woman, showing how bad he is
6. Back to The Ugly; the strange gunshop scene, where he displays his strange character traits
7. (in the restored version) Added scene setting up the logic for the following scene; helps to space things out and show a little more of Tuco's character
8. Back to the Good, via Tuco; Blondie shows how sensitive he is, with the gun-cleaning scene; the outside world interferes for the first time, saving Blondie and setting the rest of the movie in motion
9. (in the restored version) Back to The Bad; Angel Eyes' eye-opening scene, where he is exposed to the effect of the war; some logic, to help explain why Angel Eyes returns when he does
10. Back to the Ugly, then the Good; the squabble resolves. Blondie is again saved when the outside world (the stagecoach) again interferes, thus giving a greater goal for the movie and setting the third leg in motion.
11. (in the restored version) Added scene setting up the logic for the following scene; helps to space things out and show a little more of Tuco's character
12. Tuco and Blondie at the mission; Tuco's eye-opening scene, where he is exposed to the effect of the war; Tuco's character is fully established, making Blondie more sympathetic to him
13. Tuco and Blondie get caught up in the prison camp, to finally intersect with Angel Eyes
14. etc.

I'll fill the rest in later. It's all downhill from here. Very... clean.

The removed scenes mostly help with the plot. Only one (aside from the boot thing, which is lovely) strikes me as important to the tone of the movie; that's the early scene with Angel Eyes. The others are all nice to have, and make the movie feel fuller. More complete. I can see why they were cut, though, if cuts had to be made.

(November 15^th, 2004 @ 07:08pm)

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