Bubble

Amber

[Amber and Bubble (my original suggestion for their names, Bubble and Squeak, was vetoed by both G and the Hungarian), sisters purchased from Erika, have settled in since arriving in their new home on 27th June. These pictures represent my first efforts at using my new Nikon D-70S, an investment made with RB in mind...]

The restored spheres of the Atomium gleamed in the tentative sunshine of the early afternoon, their perfection leaving the skeletal frame of the uncompleted ball more conspicuous than ever. As G and the Hungarian queued for the customary popcorn, chocolate and drinks I made my way into the air-conditioned darkness in search of seats. Although the car park and the hallway of the cinema complex were virtually deserted the centre of each row had been strategically occupied. As they entered the trailer for youth accounts drew to a close. Its hero a somewhat ugly, withdrawn and inarticulate Scottish lad in his late teens tells the story of how the spots on his face and forehead can be read by blind people. Moreover, the language of the text changed depending on what kind of food he was consuming at any given juncture (cut to a Chinese restaurant with applauding spectators listening to an old man whose fingers caress the bumps as the boy shovels in slippery noodles from a bowl). His gift had elevated him from fairground attraction to dressing-gowned owner of a sumptuous villa complete with indoor pool (hence the need for astute financial management).

Spielberg’s take on the definitive science-fiction masterpiece had tempted me where other celluloid fare had kindled but a fleeting interest. I was fairly sceptical, afraid that the transposition to a contemporary American setting would leave in tatters everything I cherished about the original. My initial reaction to the trailer months ago had been curiosity (much as though I admire Morgan Freeman I have heard Richard Burton’s narration on the Jeff Wayne musical version too often for anyone else to measure up). The opening sequence of the simple DNA of bacteria swarming in a drop of water (repeated at the end to bring the narrative neatly full circle, symbolising the restoration of order after the chaos and destruction in between) followed by an aerial view of pedestrians and cars throbbing like so many corpuscles along a complex network of arterial roads, their drivers oblivious to anything but the vehicle in front, reassured me that the audience was in safe hands.

Tom Cruise’s character Ray, a stevedore, is introduced at work, perched in the cabin of his crane loading containers (the visual parallel with the later tripod sequences immediately apparent). The hard hat, working class dockyard environment established an immediate association with rugged, no nonsense masculinity. His outstanding skill is likewise made clear by his superior begging him to return early as only he can load twice as fast as anyone else. Ray quotes trade union rules as he refuses (remarking inaudibly to the foreman that he could consult a number of women as to his numerous other faults) rather than own up to the real reason, which might compromise his “hardness”, namely that his ex, Mary Ann, is dropping off the children for a couple of days with him whilst she visits her parents accompanied by the new man in her life (by whom she is pregnant), Tim. The latter is obviously wealthy (Ray sneers at his choice of car, safe, reliable, responsible and probably fitted with a catalytic converter to avoid noxious emissions rather than the Ford Mustang – Bullit’s preferred model – loud and aggressive like the untamed stallion, which Ray prefers to hurtle through the streets in). Mary Ann has married up the social ladder, done better for herself and by extension the children (the suggestion throughout being that their welfare constituted her primary motive for splitting up and moving out). Ray bristles with hostility as she opens the fridge in front of Tim, commenting on the lack of produce chilled on its shelves whilst sniffing at the dribble of milk to check its freshness. He resents her invading his private space as if they continued to enjoy a sufficient degree of intimacy to entitle her to do so in his eyes, her evaluative scrutiny of the accommodation (the V-8 engine spread in oil blackened pieces over the living room table not the best token of suitability) touching the raw nerve of his failure to provide as well as Tim (Ray shuts the door to his bedroom firmly by way of indicating it is off limits, their sexual and emotional bond having been definitively severed). Mary Ann complains about the children being forced to share a bedroom with such a wide age gap between them (he cannot afford a larger house), the contrast thrown into high relief when Ray, Robbie and Rachel later tumble out of the car into the ideal home supplement perfection of Tim and Mary Ann’s spacious residence (not a speck of dust or stray magazine in sight).

The gulf that separates Ray from his offspring is emphasised repeatedly during the first half of the film, for example when his daughter Rachel orders a takeaway from the health food shop. Ray casually dips some pita bread into a tub of humus, an exotic substance with which he is unfamiliar, denying it the status of food (his tastes are unrefined and do not stretch beyond the standardised cosmopolitan). Similarly, his son Robbie takes delight in rubbing his father’s nose in his lowly status in comparison with the usurper by reminding him that Tim is funding his college education. Indeed, in the course of the conversation in the back yard as Ray and Robbie practice throwing and catching a baseball (at Ray’s insistence), Robbie undermines his father’s authority by stumping him with a simple question concerning the capital of Australia and rejecting the joke he had heard so many times before (Ray’s defence had been to quip that between them he and his brother knew everything and that when unable to answer he would reply that his brother knew that one). When shown up for the deficiencies in his book knowledge, Ray responds by hurling the ball at his son with all his might. Robbie dodges rather than attempting to land it in the glove and the window pane is smashed signalling Ray’s sense of impotent frustration and the break between father and son. When the motif of the framing shot through glass occurs again (when Ray lies trapped in the pickup and has no choice but to watch Rachel being snatched by the mechanical arm of the tripod through the shattered windscreen) the reversal of the perspective (initially we look at Ray’s reaction from inside the dwelling, whereas on the second occasion we look through Ray’s eyes at what is going on outside) is matched by the complete mending of the relationship between father and daughter (she first voluntarily seeks physical closeness with him after he has murdered Ogilvy to protect her; he treats her rather brusquely at the beginning of the film, more or less ignoring her in favour of his son and brushing aside her advice on how to get through to Robbie with a bitter and unnecessary comment on whether she is his mother, clearly taking out his resentment at Mary Ann on the substitute female; his impatience with her is more understandable when they are fleeing the city in what could well be the only roadworthy car, its solenoids having been replaced by the local mechanic after the EM pulse paralysed traffic and knocked out the power grid). Subtle touches such as these reinforce Spielberg’s claim to auteurial stature.

However, the blame for the absence of spontaneous warmth between Ray and his children is laid firmly at the main character’s door. He has been a rotten father and is paying the price for his neglect. As in Close Encounters family tension erupts over food. Roy Neary’s (Richard Dreyfuss) compulsion to sculpt the mountain to which he is being mysteriously called from mashed potatoes, heaping them high on his plate is so abnormal as to provoke tears and consternation, whilst Ray, having tried to lighten up the situation by dealing out slices of bread as if they were playing cards, betrays ignorance of his daughter’s allergy to peanut butter. In the mistaken belief that she is being fussy in order to bait him, he sarcastically enquires “Since when?” to which she retorts accusingly “Since birth”. When rescued from the trauma of witnessing hundreds of corpses being washed down river after running to the bushes to relieve herself (a scene, which not only injects an uncharacteristic note of realism into proceedings – how many films have you sat through where the script discretely elides the matter of bodily functions altogether? – but also illustrates the extent to which our social conventions are ingrained as demonstrated by Rachel’s shyness about peeing in front of her brother and father even in the face of imminent threat) she runs to Robbie, flinging herself into his embrace and asking in despair: “Who’s going to take care of me if you leave?” Furthermore, when Rachel requests that he soothe her with a lullaby he confesses he does not know the words to her favourites, but improvises with a ditty about a car, true (compensatory) focus of his affections hitherto (none of this sentimental rubbish style, yet he is willing to learn).

Spielberg slips in allusions both to his previous epic charting a benign alien visitation, Close Encounters (with the bushes rattling ominously outside the window and disorientating coloured lights piercing their way through every crack, as well as with the blond(e), blue-eyed prescient child, Barry Guiler and Rachel respectively) and pays homage to Byron Haskin’s 1953 version with the snakelike camera peering into the basement (Spielberg’s access to superior special effects technology allowing him to make the ordeal longer and more nail-biting to the point where it stands out as the most effective moment to my mind, particularly when Ray, Rachel and Ogilvy huddle in terror behind the mirror) and the spindly arm and fingers of the dying beast extending slowly out of the open hatch of the fallen tripod. A superficial comparison of the two reveals how society has evolved in the meantime. Religion does not feature nearly so prominently in the current remake. A church spire comes toppling to the ground as the entire edifice splits apart and Wells is quoted directly in the final narration (“God in His wisdom”), but otherwise the context is entirely secular. There is no preacher reading aloud from scripture as he courageously but naively offers a hand of friendship to the foe before being unceremoniously incinerated, nor stained glass windows illuminated by enemy fire as the faithful light candles, sing hymns and pray. The function previously fulfilled by the hero’s romantic interest (an adult woman), that of engaging audience empathy by screaming helplessly and being rescued has been displaced to a little girl clearly marked as a figure of nurture (the tie of blood rather than mutual amorous inclination). The initial reflex to ascribe the attack to terrorists equally indicative of today’s preoccupations (Robbie’s disingenuous “You mean they’re, like, from Europe?” when informed by his father that the invaders are from far away eliciting sniggers, although mention in the newscasts of the Ukraine being hit by devastating lightning storms proves that the cultural resonance of Eastern Europe as both backward and remote remains the same both here and in the States). Most evident of all, however, is the refusal to endorse Ray’s emotionally stunted brand of maleness (after his protestations of being a “real” man in that he “works for a living”, Tim presumably being a member of an effete, white-collar profession under whose fingernails dirt never accumulates). After all that he has suffered in delivering Rachel back safely to her mother (for which Mary Ann indicates her gratitude by mouthing a silent “Thank you”), only Robbie rushes out to hug him as he stands isolated in the street. He experiences a reconciliation with his son after the sneering, defiance and rebellion, yet there is no hint that he will be clasped to the bosom of the family (therefore I do not agree with critics who regard the ending as syrupy – the Hungarian also pointed out the inconsistency of Robbie arriving at his mother’s only a few minutes earlier as his unwashed state would imply).

Refreshingly free of triumphalism (no US flags fluttering defiantly), the only utterance avowing a belief in American supremacy is voiced by Ogilvy (his statement to the effect that if the Japanese in Osaka could take out a few of the tripods it was inconceivable that his fellow countrymen could possibly be outstripped in ingenuity) who teeters precariously on the brink of insanity before finally toppling over the edge. The choice of “maggot’s eye view” (Ogilvy: “This is no more of a war than there is a war between men and maggots. This isn’t a war, this is an extermination”) with use of camera shake at strategic junctures to emphasise the protagonists’ fraught mental state represents a masterstroke on Spielberg’s part (partly because it alleviates the strain on the budget from the sheer quantity of effects that would otherwise have been called for), reducing the scale of events to manageable proportions. Ray’s shaking the ashes out of his hair in the relative calm of his home of people who had been disintegrated by the heat ray as he fled was particularly effective in this respect.

Likewise the ferry evacuation not glossing over the ruthlessness required in enabling but a few (in theory) to survive. Although the fight over the car prior to this accurately depicted human savagery and selfishness when the chips are down I cannot help but feel Spielberg’s relentless pace ultimately detracted from the overall experience. A twinge of disappointment assailed me when the unscrewing of the cylinder was jettisoned in favour of tripods bursting forth from beneath the tarmac, admittedly more spectacular, yet abandoning the careful build-up of tension to cater for the soundbite, attention deficit disorder age. Also the feeling of devastation and loneliness conveyed by the howl of the stricken fighting machine (the ship’s foghorn blast does not capture the spine-tingling eeriness or the unabashed exultation of the “ulla” and other cries) over the rubble was sacrificed for military reprisal. Here, the 1953 images of the professor wandering despondently through the empty avenues with smashed shop fronts and tumbleweed and newspapers blowing everywhere carried immeasurably greater poignancy.

These gripes do not mean that I did not find the film entertaining. I cannot quibble with the sheer effort and craftsmanship invested, but I nevertheless emerged into the lobby having caught my first glimpse of Peter Jackson’s King Kong with the suspicion that the New Zealander would have surpassed Spielberg’s slick but soulless reworking, which could be every bit as thrilling in the nineteenth century England Wells laid waste in his imagination.