Road Warriors, Anti-Heroes, and Astronauts: Some Thoughts on Film Genre

I've devoted a significant amount of my film watching lately to genre films of varying kinds, from action and horror to science fiction and anime, and I've become fascinated by genres and the ways in which they stagnate or evolve. I suspect that this fascination is a natural extension of my interest in film form; just as certain movies perpetuate or radicalize cinematic form, others have similar effects on genre. Barry Langford, who wrote a full-length study on the subject, argued that film genre is actually "a process rather than a fact" (Film Genre: Hollywood and Beyond, Edinburgh University Press, 2005, p. 5). In its initial stages, a genre typically establishes and articulates its conventions, only to shift and evolve as it becomes "self-aware" and as audiences become dissatisfied with its predictability. Eventually, the genre reaches a more mature or "revisionist" phase (pp. 23-25). Interestingly enough, film genres often seem limited and, in many instances, staggeringly repetitive, as films feed off one another; but genres can actually be rather expansive. "No individual film," as Langford points out, "can ever embody the full range of attributes said to typify its genre; by the same token -- as volumes of frustrated critical effort attest -- no definition of a genre, however flexible, can account equally well for every genre film" (p. 5). 

This point of view certainly holds true for several films I've recently re-watched after years of absence or have seen for the first time: George Miller's dystopian action films Mad Max (1979) and The Road Warrior (1981), John Carpenter's equally pessimistic Escape from New York (1981), Neil Marshall's homage to Carpenter and Miller, Doomsday (2008), and Danny Boyle's intelligent science-fiction thriller Sunshine (2007).The first four fit, or define, the conventional descriptions of the dystopian action film. Each is set in the near future; each offers a stark depiction of the animalistic base of human nature, the prevalence of savage criminality, the reversion of humanity into warring tribes, and the transformation of modern life by industrialization, mechanization, war, and generalized violence. I don't think Doomsday is particularly watchable, but it adds to the litany of woes by establishing a deadly virus as the root cause of trouble. In each of the first four films I've mentioned, the protagonist is actually an anti-hero, impure in motive, far from altruistic, unfriendly or hostile to the establishment, and alone, a solitary figure living without the benefits of community or love and speaking primarily in the language of violence and aggression. Kurt Russell's relatively laconic Snake Plissken, black eye-patch and all, is an avowed criminal, while Mel Gibson's far more laconic Max is perhaps the perfect embodiment of the anti-hero trope, endlessly wandering the open highways of the Australian outback after the death of his family. He is as much a victim of the anarchic state of society as he is its progenitor, having abandoned his calling as a police officer to become a criminal in his own way.

In addition, these films contain what Langford calls "generic iconography," "visual conventions, such as settings, costumes, the typical attributes of characters and the kinds of technologies available to the characters" (p. 13). In Doomsday, Marshall makes iconography one of the purposes of his film by essentially cataloging references from The Road Warrior and Escape from New York: Rhona Mitra's eye patch and black tank-top recall Russell's, just as the containment wall around Scotland recalls the one around Manhattan; in a one-on-one battle late in the film, Mitra kills her opponent the way Russell did in the boxing ring in Escape from New York; an arrow shot from a crossbow passes through the open windows of a speeding car and hits an unintended victim, just as one did in The Road Warrior. Mitra fulfills another generic convention by being in excellent physical shape. The lean, muscular, agile physique, clad in black, is part of the action genre's signature iconography; both Russell and Gibson had similar physical qualities in their respective films. But it's in this sense in which Doomsday seems to illustrate a generic shift; as in a number of films in recent years (Underworld, Resident Evil, among others), the traditional male role of the anti-hero has been co-opted by a woman. The action film's time-worn assertion of violent masculinity has changed. Or has it? The film itself provokes the question if a genre truly evolves when the presentation changes but the behavior remains the same (plus, I'm not sure if the trend of female anti-heroes is a post-modern form of feminism or a regression, in the sense that women are expected to act exactly like their male predecessors).

Another element of generic iconography is hardware. Mitra drives a beautiful, black Bentley Continental GT that runs on a 550-horsepower, twin-turbocharged, twelve-cylinder engine, and the sheer sound of it as she stomps on the gas pedal is a lovely thing indeed. The car's antecedent need not be mistaken; it would be the nitro-injected, 600-horsepower Ford Falcon GT Gibson drove in Mad Max and through part of The Road Warrior until the car, the "last of the V8 interceptors", crashes and explodes. For George Miller, the use of such iconographic hardware occasioned his own contribution to the evolution of the genre. As Miller's cinematographer, David Eggby, explains in the audio commentary on the Mad Max DVD, the film crew, in 1979, used the first tracking vehicle in Australia. This vehicle allowed Eggby and Miller to capture the sense of extreme speed and fluidity of motion; the camera often sat only six inches to a foot off the asphalt and only two to three feet from the passing cars. Miller's other visual contribution, of course, was his use of landscape. Employing the same CinemaScope ratio of 2.35:1 for all of his Mad Max films in much the same way that Sergio Leone did in his westerns with Clint Eastwood, Miller was able to connect the wide, bleak expanses of the Australian outback with the desolate, chaotic condition of his violent, lawless society. The visuals, the mise-en-scene, took on an existential meaning.

Miller's visual style is one reason why I think Mad Max and The Road Warrior are somewhat avant-garde, art-house action films. Genres do tend to evolve in a linear, chronological fashion, and Miller's films are certainly foundational; later action directors would use his techniques and generic conventions in various ways. But, for viewers, cinema is much less a linear continuum; it is simultaneously prospective and retrospective. I hadn't seen either Mad Max or The Road Warrior in years, and so I was surprised by Miller's economical approach, his relatively longer takes and his relatively minimal use of cuts. Carpenter's approach in Escape from New York bears a similar simplicity (Carpenter himself seems to like the long, uninterrupted panning shot). And Miller's approach to narrative is patient, even delayed. He allowed the action not to hit fast and hard, but to fulminate slowly, stretched as it is across connected sequences, such as Jessie's long walk (in Mad Max) through the woods, down to the beach, and back through the woods; Miller delayed her accosting by the gang of bikers who were hiding in the forest and thereby increased viewer anticipation (he took a similar approach to Goose's death; we think Goose will crash and die during his fast motorcycle ride after his bike's been sabotaged, but his fate comes later). By contrast, the action films of succeeding decades, such as those of Michael Bay and the Wachowski brothers, are far louder, more immediately violent, and have more rapid and frequent cuts. Miller's films, in retrospect, feel refreshing, unique, and as such illustrate how the boundaries of genre exist not only within films but within the experiences of the audience.

Some genre filmmakers don't just employ specific tropes or techniques while abandoning others or fashioning new ones; they can also synthesize genres and mold them into something else. Boyle's Sunshine is a perfect case in point. It adheres to certain traditions: like many science fiction films, it pits its protagonists -- eight astronauts and physicists -- against an external threat, in this case a dying sun; it compels them to harness modern technology, namely, a nuclear bomb that will reignite the sun and "create a star within a star," as Capa (Cillian Muprhy) explains in voice-over; the technology at their disposal becomes an enemy in and of itself, as mishaps and a series of disastrous events challenge the crew's intellectual, emotional, and physical resources. But the science in Sunshine is both intellectualized and, in some cases, quite accurate, whereas traditional science-fiction films, particularly those of "B-movie" status that have more immediate social or political concerns, tended to exaggerate or pervert science. Boyle helped ensure the informational accuracy by hiring a scientific consultant, professor and physicist Dr. Brian Cox, although in certain situations he did take artistic license with reality for dramatic and cinematic purposes. Most of all, though, Boyle combines science-fiction conventions with several elements from horror, with unforeseen monstrosities that victimize the astronauts and wreak havoc on their ship, with hide-and-chase sequences that increase fear and tension, with violence against the human body. The crew of Icarus II must also solve a baffling riddle about a preceding mission that had failed seven years earlier. Sunshine, like Ridley Scott's Alien, is therefore a set of multiple genres at once: the science-fiction film, the suspense film, the horror movie, and, in a certain sense, the quasi-documentary. That it is also beautifully shot only adds to its appeal as a genre film; far from the simplified generic exercises of the past, it accepts the conventions of genre while asking more from them.

Comments

[Doug Cummings]

An excellent write-up, Michael, on a topic that interests me a lot--genre evolution--but one I've never heard systematically explored; thanks for the heads up on Langford's book!

I'm also a fan of the cinematic sensibilities of early Miller and Carpenter; I'm not sure what happened to the latter in recent years, but his use of tracking shots and the Steadicam in the '70s an dearly '80s was at times breathtaking. I consider "Babe 2: Pig in the City" a major work, maybe even Miller's masterpiece. Its images are operatic, but its characters are marvels of CGI put to subtle, emotional use, and the mixture works very well. Both of those filmmakers are genuine masters of the widescreen--they really know how to use it rather than fill it.

I wish I could share your enthusiasm for "Sunshine", though! Despite its excellent effects, I was disappointed by the way the plot revolved so much around the elaborate deaths of each member of the cast in a formulaic, one-by-one construction--and particularly by its outlandish final act. (Which I understand is typical of Boyle?) I found it rather cold and picturesque, as opposed to, say, Carpenter's "The Thing", which for me conveyed more otherworldly menace as well as an elliptical treatment of violence (though it was criticized precisely for not doing so at the time).

[Michael]

Doug, it's good to hear from you. I like your phrase about Miller and Carpenter using widescreen, as opposed to filling it. That's a succinct summary of their visual style, and it's one reason why I admire them as directors. I've never seen Miller's Babe or Babe 2, but you've now piqued my curiosity. Langford's book is quite good, so I'd definitely recommend checking it out.

I can understand your reservations about Sunshine, and when it initially appeared in theaters I recall several critics making similar remarks about it. The construction is somewhat typical for Boyle. 28 Days Later, which starts off as a fairly smart variation on the zombie picture, becomes sort of a standard white-knuckle action/horror film, and for me the last third or so made the film less interesting overall. The odd thing is that, while I didn't like this approach for 28 Days Later, I liked it for Sunshine, in part because I think the final act retained some of the overall mystery (Pinbacker's survival isn't entirely explained). I do agree that the story's formulaic -- I was actually telling Girish recently that one can almost telegraph exactly what's going to happen in the film. However, I think that's where it's interesting as a genre exercise; it almost follows the pattern of a film like Alien and, like it, mixes genres while also upping the ante for the science in the film.

When I got the Sunshine DVD, I was jazzed to learn that there's an audio commentary track by the science consultant, Brian Cox. A lot of what he says is very fascinating -- he discusses what's accurate, what's slightly erroneous (things he and Boyle just inadvertently didn't catch in the screenplay), and what was changed for effect. I think these kinds of scientific elements made an otherwise conventional sci-fi film more compelling. Having said that, I'd say I liked the film's visuals most of all -- "picturesque," as you say (though, in this particular case, that was a plus for me).

Like you, I like Carpenter's The Thing quite a bit. The menace in that film is indeed more immediate and more frighteningly otherworldly. Talking about it now makes me want to see it again (it's been quite some time since I last watched it).

[Doug Cummings]

Oh Michael, you've got to see "Pig in the City." It's one of the cinema's great fantasies. Totally buried by the studio and ignored by the public.

Boyle was at my screening of "Sunshine" and specifically referenced "Alien" and said he wanted to make a film just as scary and impacting.

The solar imagery is indeed stunning...

I first saw "The Thing" on VHS as a teenager and thought it was an okay movie, but I rediscovered it on laserdisc (and later DVD), where I first saw it in widescreen, and it felt like a completely different movie, much more immersive, threatening, and artfully constructed.

[Michael]

Doug, I'll put Pig in the City in my Netflix queue. I, too, originally saw The Thing as a teenager, probably on TV, where it was definitely edited, but it wasn't until seeing it later in its proper format that I was able to understand what's good about it.

[M. Leary]

Great comments all around, but specifically on why the first two Mad Max films can be thought of in existential terms (additionally, there is a great Senses of Cinema piece on Miller that vectors in some Australian political connotations as well).

I have a massive interest on genre convention in 70's road films (Vanishing Point, Two Lane Blacktop, Dirty Mary Crazy Larry, The Driver, Knightriders, and Duel to name a few). Off the top of my head I can't remember the ratio of most of these, but there are certainly some of the same generic expectations in play. A lot of the same tracking shots and vehicles, linear narratives that mimic the continual forward physical movement in each film, frequent attempts to frame vehicles against dramatic/open landscapes, surreal tones of criminal underworlds, etc... Other than Vanishing Point and Duel, however, none of these 70's road films seem to obtain existential description.

Perhaps what makes the first Mad Max (even more than Road Warrior) such an intriguing film is because it vectors two different genre, the road film and the apocalyptic film. The points at which these two sets of conventions align in the film are extremely generically gratifying.

[Michael]

Aside from Duel I don't think I've seen any of the other films you mention (at least I don't recall seeing them), though I think the common elements you mention are interesting, and they link nicely to Miller's films. Doug recommended Two Lane Blacktop just a few days ago, and I'm going to try to get to it soon. Mad Max is a unique case indeed, almost entirely within its genre and yet simultaneously outside it, defining it in a new way. The film stood up extremely well after not having seen it in many years, and I think being able to view a remastered edition with the original Australian dialogue/soundtrack made a significant difference; before that, I had only seen the version distributed in the U.S., which contained a bad American overdub (and I saw it in pan-and-scan on a small television!). I now think it's an essential 70s film.

[M. Leary]

An essential modern film as well. I have no qualms of talking about Mad Max alongside Walkabout and Picnic at Hanging Rocks as admirable takes on nature and transcendence. Too bad Morefield's book has no chapter on spirituality in Australian cinema.

You can tell someone is a Mad Max fan when they watch the un-dubbed version as well. Kudos to you.