We Need to Talk About Morgan

by Rob DiCristino

On empathy, character, and “calling the ending.”

Spoilers ahead for Morgan:

You probably missed Luke Scott’s Morgan last year. If that’s the case, you’re Fine. You get most of what you need from the trailer: Ex Machina meets Splice meets a thousand other “creepy person in a mystery box” science fiction premises. Is she human? Is she machine? Where does she poop in that glass room? You get the idea. Luke (son of Ridley) Scott’s debut feature is a strong technical exercise from a filmmaker with a lot of potential. Movies are very hard to make, and Luke Scott is probably going to be very good at making them if he continues to do so. But Morgan lacks soul. It lacks purpose. It lacks that often-intangible quality that transforms a film from a mess of bits and pieces into one of Roger Ebert’s empathy machines. Now, this isn’t to suggest that every movie needs a romance or a hero’s journey or a Jar Jar fucking Binks to make the kids laugh. That’s not what this is about. Plenty of great films challenge traditional structure and revel in their weirdness. This is about building a narrative in which we understand who characters are to each other, themselves, and what pushes them to action. This is doubly important in a film like Morgan, one so interested in the little nuances that separate human beings from everything else.

So, Morgan: At a secluded institution in East Jesus Nowhere, Drs. Simon Ziegler (Toby Jones) and Lui Cheng (Michelle Yeoh) lead a group of scientists to a major breakthrough in the development of artificial DNA. Their prize achievement is Morgan (Anya Taylor-Joy), a five-year-old girl with synthetic parts and crazy growth hormones. She appears much older than her physical age and displays remarkable intellect and intuition. Trouble is, she also displays remarkable strength and emotional instability. After attacking Dr. Kathy (Jennifer Jason Leigh — blink and you’ll miss her), Morgan is confined to her habitrail pending an evaluation by The Corporation’s risk-management agent, Lee Weathers (Kate Mara). At first, Morgan tests well: she shows empathy for those she hurt and seems to feel real remorse for her actions. Even her handlers, weary of Lee’s cold professionalism, are defensive and territorial. They insist that Morgan is a person who deserves the right to make mistakes and learn from them. Lee disagrees, and after Morgan takes a bite out of the new psychologist (Paul Giamatti — this cast is ridiculous), she insists that the project be terminated. Morgan has other plans.

Morgan should work because it’s got a decent premise and a tremendous cast (further including Brian Cox, Rose Leslie from Game of Thrones, and Vinette Robinson and Jonathan Aris from Sherlock), but it’s dragged down by bland execution and underdeveloped characters. It’s not the only film guilty of that sin, of course, but it’s so much worse when digging into what makes those characters tick is supposed to be the whole damn point. If we’re supposed to be debating Morgan’s humanity and her influence on the larger family dynamic between all the scientists, then shouldn’t we have some understanding of who those scientists are and what shapes their behavior? Take Rose Leslie’s character, Dr. Amy. She’s Morgan’s favorite handler and the lynchpin to this whole escape scheme. She promises to take Morgan somewhere peaceful, somewhere she can soak in the true beauty of the universe and all that jazz. Aside from that, we basically know two things about her: she doesn’t like Lee, and she’s got the hots for hunky kitchen monkey Skip (Boyd Holbrook). There’s a bit early on to suggest that she has “boundary issues,” which sets up her devotion to Morgan, but there’s not much else to go on. Their connection is emphasized in dialogue, but only briefly shown.

A more infuriating example might be the red-hot romance between Dr. Brenda (Robinson) and Dr. Darren (Chris Sullivan), which consists of one conversation at dinner and one scene that implies they’re off-screen banging each other. Again, a better-developed dynamic might add weight to their insistence that Morgan was the “child” that helped build their relationship. Instead, we’re told they share a deep connection. We never see it, and they never spend significant time with Morgan (sorry, wait. Darren calls her “buddy,” so that’s a thing). Dr. Simon seems protective enough of Morgan, but we get the sense that what he’s really protecting is the blood and sweat he put into researching the project that developed her. Dr. Lui reads more as the enigmatic head honcho lady who supervises a number of projects, so no real personal connection there. The point here is that Morgan’s third act shift is meant to be motivated by contrasting Lee’s cold, calculated precision with the deep-seeded emotional bonds that this crew shares with their child. We’re supposed to be questioning what makes a person a person, what right a synthetic creature has to determine its own destiny, and how ethical standards can get wonky when affection becomes a factor. We can’t do that with the pieces Morgan gives us.

Put it this way: it’s never fair to compare movies, but Ex Machina works because Ava manipulates Caleb’s human need for connectivity and, in doing so, displays a weakness and authenticity that Nathan (an actual human being) seems to lack. Caleb is then forced to examine his own humanity (the arm scene!) and, as a result of some soul searching, moves to free Ava from her prison. What happens next perfectly illustrates the way Caleb’s humanity allowed him to be put in that position and the way Ava’s adaptation to humanity allowed her to take the actions she does. Again, it may seem inappropriate to compare one film with another, but Morgan and Ex Machina share so many themes (and the latter film develops those themes in such a superior way) that it’s hard not to see the similarities. None of this is meant to disparage Anya Taylor-Joy, who does what she can with very limited material. Morgan’s character arc is built around her ability (and right) to learn from the mistakes she’s made as a result of her model’s increased capacity for emotion. It’s a great hook on which to hang the film, really, because we often struggle with those same questions ourselves. What right does a person have to make a mistake, learn from it, and progress? Taylor-Joy plays that angle with all the latitude she can, but she’s never given the opportunity to develop it.

Lastly, the ending: I often joke that “if your friend says they saw the twist ending to ______ coming, they’re lying.” I get a lot of flack for that. People say I’m not looking hard enough, or that they just have more experience watching movies than I do.

The reality is that guessing a bad twist ending often has less to do with actual signifiers in the film than it does with viewing habits. It’s natural to speculate, but movies are not supposed to be our enemies; we shouldn’t spend their running time trying to outsmart them. We should allow a film to take us where it wants us to go, and we should judge it as a cohesive whole when it’s over. Case in point: Morgan’s twist ending is total bullshit. Yes, it explains how Lee was able to survive her injuries and why she was so weird around everyone. Yes, it pays off Jennifer Jason Leigh’s “assassin” line and Lee’s sterile, androgynous vibe. But the revelation that she’s also a synthetic person (an older model, free of the tendency toward emotion) rings like a cop out. That’s what my “lying” line is about: the film didn’t earn the twist, so there’s no way it’s going to feel right. It’s not in service of anything. It’s lazy dressed up as profound, answering a question the film never really asked. Morgan ends up arguing that emotional entanglements create complications. That’s fair, but we’re never emotionally involved enough in the film to care.

Review: Rogue One

by Patrick Bromley

It's the first standalone Star Wars movie! If by "standalone" you mean "entirely dependent on another Star Wars movie."

Rogue One, the newest movie in Disney's current Star Wars model that will put out at least one film a year, alternating between "episodes" in the larger continuity and self-contained "side" stories, is in many ways a big experiment. It eschews the opening title crawl and John Williams' score, maybe the most iconic of all movie music. It is darker and grittier than any Star Wars movie that precedes it, focusing heavily on the "wars" part of the title. It is, to its great credit, the most diverse movie in the series; there is only one white face in the ensemble of heroes, and it belongs to a woman. It breaks from the tradition of the franchise in a number of ways, which is why it's too bad that it isn't willing to break even more. Rogue One makes A New Hope a better, richer movie but sacrifices itself in the process.

For those who have not yet seen the movie, I won't indulge in spoilers or really even divulge many of the plot details. Suffice it to say that the film takes place in the weeks prior to A New Hope, when the rebel alliance plans a secret mission to steal the plans for a new weapon the Empire is preparing called the Death Star. I think we all know how that works out.

I have spent the weekend reading reactions to Rogue One online, and they are overwhelmingly positive. I have read fans declare it is their new favorite Star Wars movie, or the best Star Wars movie since The Empire Strikes Back. People love this film. So I guess let me apologize up front for not sharing those views, since I know that between this being a Star Wars movie and the amount of affection people have expressed for the movie, I understand how a less-than-glowing reaction can feel personal in a way that puts us on the defensive. I have no intention or desire to shit on anyone's enjoyment of a new Star Wars movie. I am truly glad that people are loving this movie, and the comments I've read about inclusion and identification are legit moving. At the same time, I can only report my honest reactions. This is not, as the kids are fond of saying, a "hot take." This is just me saying that I did not love Rogue One.

I'll admit to having my doubts in director Gareth Edwards. He made an interesting debut with Monsters, prompting me to wishing to see what he could do with a real budget at his disposal. Then he got a real budget to make Godzilla and I realized some wishes shouldn't be granted. I don't think Edwards is what's wrong with Rogue One, though; he does a good job with shooting and balancing the action, and that's the stuff in the movie that works best. I can't say as I agree with his decision to once again drain the fun out of an iconic science fiction property, but that's just a question of taste. I like the cast and I'm all on board for the idea of a "men on a mission" ensemble entry in the series. And yes, this is that, but not in a way that I found particularly satisfying. Most of these actors don't have real characters to play -- they have costume designs and designations, but not characters. Donnie Yen, the biggest standout in the group whose first fight scene against a group of Stormtroopers is the action highlight of the movie, is blind. And spiritual. And that's it. He's actually better defined than some of the other characters, like Wen Jiang, whose defining trait is that he's Donnie Yen's friend, or Riz Ahmed, who is a pilot. Ben Mendelsohn is an incredible actor, but his Orson Krennic might be the worst villain the series has ever seen, again not because he's actively bad but because there's just hardly anything there (and what there is offers only echoes of previous better bad guys). Even the central character, Felicity Jones' Jyn Erso, feels mostly like a cipher -- another in a long tradition of Star Wars characters who defines herself in relation to who her parents are. She's tough and she's capable, but also a bit of a blank. It's hard to come off The Force Awakens, with its likable, realized characters that were the best thing about the movie, and accept the "types" that Rogue One offers.

The movie's pacing is also weird, with a first half that's handed over to a lot of "go there, do this" that amounts to pretty much nothing. The screenplay credited to Tony Gilroy and Chris Weitz (yikes) spins its wheels a whole bunch to seem busy, devoting a big chunk of the running time to a mission in which the characters have to locate another character so they can talk him into helping them find another character so he can help them do this other thing; not only are there at least two steps too many here, but it just fails to add up. No new information is offered, the characters don't change. There's time for some additional fan service -- something this movie really doesn't need any more of (are these supposed to be Easter Eggs for Star Wars fans inside the Star Wars movie?) -- but it isn't until the mission proper begins that the movie truly comes to life.

Here we get the biggest and longest action sequence in Star Wars history, one that takes place partly on the ground and partly in the sky (so it's a lot like the climactic sequence of Return of the Jedi, but don't mention that to the most die hard fans because you might as well be comparing to the prequels...which, this being a prequel, is also a little bit like). While our knowledge of the franchise means we all know how this battle will turn out, it is to Rogue One's credit that the sequence manages to still be engaging and exciting. It's also this stuff that makes those few lines of dialogue about the price paid to steal those plans in Star Wars carry much more weight, as this is the movie in which we really get to see the cost of the sacrifice made by so many. Does that work as a standalone movie? I'm not so sure, since we need to be familiar with Star Wars and how all of this pays off for the film to have the proper emotional impact. It ends on what is structured as a cliffhanger but really exists just to tee up Episode IV with more fan service, including another instance of some CGI on which Gareth Edwards leans heavily despite the fact that the technology is not there yet. While it is more successful in its goals than the entries that tell us about the Clone Wars or that time Anakin Skywalker met Obi Wan Kenobi, Rouge One still exists ultimately to fill in backstory rather than expand the world of Star Wars.

Maybe the biggest bummer of the reception to Rogue One is that it has already made it ok to shit on The Force Awakens, I guess because this movie is "darker" and "edgier" -- it's the Star Wars for cool kids -- or because this movie is carving out its own path by not including a Skywalker (even though it does) or by telling a standalone story (even though it doesn't). I don't insist that everyone like TFA and I know there were a lot of fans who never got into it, but if Disney's new model is going to mean a shelf life of only a year for each new entry in favor of the shiny latest, it's going to make being a Star Wars fan a pretty big bummer. And I know the two movies don't necessarily need to be compared, but I will mention that while TFA has bigger problems than anything in Rogue One, it also has much higher highs. The things that are good in The Force Awakens are transcendent, whether it's a character or a beat of behavior or a line of dialogue -- these are the things that remind us of what it was like to love the Star Wars universe in the first place. I don't know if it's because Rogue One is trying to be different or because Gareth Edwards just doesn't know how to give a movie personality, but the whole thing feels weirdly indifferent. It's never actively bad the way the prequels could be at their worst, nor does it ever achieve the heights of the best Star Wars movies. It just sort of...is.

I'm happy to see director Edwards continuing with the more grounded aesthetic that JJ Abrams brought back with The Force Awakens; like the original George Lucas trilogy, this entry takes place in a "lived-in" universe. I like how many practical props and locations he uses, and with the exception of a couple egregious choices -- you know the ones -- even the CG is terrific. K2SO, a new android voiced by Alan Tudyk, is an impressive creation and one of the film's best characters, always looking like he's really in the scene even when we know he isn't. I like the way Edwards frames the film, too. It isn't just that he does away with the wipes; there is less epic fantasy scope and more of a real-world immediacy to the shot construction, less informed by classical westerns than it is by contemporary combat movies. For me, the movie is just missing a kind of life -- characters or moments that pop or a spirit to the whole endeavor. Some kind of...force.

Again, I'm sorry for not enjoying Rogue One more. I don't like to be the buzzkill that comes to the party and spills all the drinks and ruins everyone's good time. I'd love to see it again and realize I completely missed the boat the first time, but there wasn't enough spark to make me actually want to revisit it. I'm glad so many people got a new Star Wars movie that they love, and I do think this is Gareth Edwards' best movie to date even though I think it's still just ok. If nothing else, the movie makes me hopeful that we will start seeing big-budget blockbusters with different faces and ethnicities outside of the Fast and Furious franchise -- movies that more closely resemble the world in which we live. But if this one-a-year installment really is going to be the new model for the Star Wars universe, I'm looking forward to stories that don't take place with characters and events and timelines with which we are already totally familiar. It's a big universe. I'm ready for Star Wars to start thinking bigger.

Review: Arrival

by Rob DiCristino

“Why do I have to talk to him?”

Minor spoilers for Arrival ahead:

The best science fiction compels us to consider the world we know with an alteration or two, to ask “what if?” What if our defense systems became self-aware and turned on us? What if our reality was actually a computer simulation created by blood-sucking robots? What if someone forgot to lock all the dinosaur cages? It was only a matter of time before director Denis Villeneuve (Enemy, Sicario) started asking those questions. His new film Arrival (based on the short “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang) is far broader and more ambitious than any of his work to date. In many ways, though, it’s a continuation of themes his fans will be familiar with: authority, social structures, and (pun absolutely intended) alienation. It’s a film about the constructs and connective tissues that make up a civilization on both a macro level (nations, governments) and a micro level (brain chemistry, phonetics). Most importantly, it’s about the way we communicate with each other and the chaos that arises when that communication breaks down.

Sometime in the near future, twelve alien ships touch down in various regions around the world. They hover silently upright and bear no visible weaponry or clear plan of attack. Linguistics professor Louise Banks (Amy Adams) and theoretical physicist Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Renner) are recruited by the U.S. military to make meaningful contact with the beings inside the “shell” that hangs above rural Montana. Their goal is to determine what these creatures are, how they got here, and what they intend to do. They join scientists and mathematicians from every world government, each of them using a variety of techniques (everything from binary code to advanced calculus) to establish some kind of dialogue with the alien visitors. Their first breakthrough comes when Louise discovers the squid-like Heptapods’ written language, a series of inky blotches that seem to hold a hidden message. She and the others must decipher that message before itchy trigger fingers around the world start an intergalactic war.

Arrival’s marketing has been largely spoiler-free, but there’s very little about the film to be gleaned from a few minutes of out-of-context footage, anyway; it’s really only comprehensible in the moment. Its visuals are stunning and bizarre: the Heptapods, a mix of H.G. Wells and H.R. Giger, float ominously in a murky fog behind a glass-like barrier. It’s a design that demands willing suspension of disbelief; we’re never going to suss out how their warp drives work or what their toilets look like. They’re more symbolic than anything else, faceless and ethereal. Seeing them isn’t the exciting or interesting part; it’s all about feeling their influence over Louise as the film progresses. At one point, she and Ian discuss the way learning a foreign language can rewire a person’s brain, meaning that the language we speak largely influences the patterns and pathways we use to think and make meaning. The more Louise learns about the Heptapods, the more her (and by extension, our) pathways change. She learns to think multi-directionally (“Imagine trying to write a sentence with two hands, each starting on either end of the page”), which changes our entire perception of the events that have happened and those which are to come.

That’s right: Arrival doesn’t just teach its protagonist to Think Different. It also plays with the very nature of cinematic language. Louise learns to write with both hands while we learn to feel time and space in new ways. We learn to reconsider the nature of what we saw before just as the film pivots toward introducing something new. Flashbacks become flash-forwards. Exposition becomes subtext. The very shape of the film changes. While Villeneuve clearly has a ton to say about cooperation, empathy, and the nuances of international diplomacy, the most successful parts of Arrival are in the audience’s experience. It gets us in lockstep with its rhythm so that we can recognize the narrative summersaults and subversions of expectation when they come later on. They don’t all work, but they do build to an epiphany moment that your friends will all lie and say they saw coming. It’s a remarkable achievement in storytelling that we’re going to be unraveling for years to come.

It’s also a stunning audio/visual exercise: Villeneuve and cinematographer Bradford Young create stark lighting contrasts and barriers between characters within the frame that develop the theme of communication in an elegant way. We’re constantly looking at video screens or through glass panels, contrasting an odd sense of claustrophobia with the film’s otherwise sweeping visual landscapes. The shell’s design (as you’ve seen on the poster) is familiar enough that it doesn’t distract and yet unique enough to still be interesting. Villeneuve regular Jóhann Jóhannsson composes the kind of thumping, droning score that seems to be a staple of prestige science fiction, but he manages to walk a blurry line between diagetic and non-diagetic elements that leaves us wondering where one ends and the other begins. It may be trite at this point to say that a film must be seen in a theater, but Arrival is the kind of movie that wants to wash over you. You would do well to see it as big and loud as possible.

Arrival is likely to draw favorable comparisons to a film like Interstellar, another science fiction epic about the nature of choice and destiny. They share similar problems (not the least of which is an overwrought, plodding ending that feels like a bad studio note), but Arrival’s vision is much clearer and more satisfying. Some will complain that the characters are not fleshed-out enough, that the emotional stakes are underdeveloped. A second viewing might reveal that the film quietly builds its emotional stakes from the first frames; we just weren’t looking for them until they were right in front of us. It’s been said in other places that Arrival could not be a better antidote to the post-apocalyptic political landscape the U.S. currently finds itself trudging though, and that’s true. It is a hopeful film. It is a loving film. It’s about trust and acceptance and understanding. It’s not only one of 2016’s best, but (excuse the hyperbole) one of the most unique and ambitious science fiction films of the 21st Century.