When it comes to discussing the best film-makers of our time, French-Canadian film-maker Denis Villeneuve should be a part of that conversation. If not for his ability to make deeply personal films with a true sense of artistic identity, they aren’t niche films either. Although Blade Runner 2049 didn’t break the bank, the critical response from audiences and critics was overwhelmingly positive. Some even went as far to say that it surpasses its decades old predecessor, hailing it as one of the best films of the last decade. I agree with the latter. This came less than a year after his science-fiction masterpiece in Arrival, and just about two years after his political crime drama in 2015, Sicario. Some would say that no director has had as good of a run within a decade as Denis Villeneuve, and they may be right. On a critical and commercial level, Denis has managed to appeal to a vast demographic of audiences that earns just enough money to continue funding his projects, as well as earning him awards recognition, and continuous positive word of mouth. What is it about Denis that we love about him? What about his movies make them do just enough to earn the attention of general audiences, as well as having enough personal strokes to give his projects individuality? For too long I’ve tried to figure this out, and recently I’ve settled on the identity of Denis falling on the line of borders and what they represent for their respective stories. Where does this stem from? Why? What do we learn from it?
Born in Gentilly, Quebec, Canada, Villeneuve became interested in movies at a young age, and started making short films once he got to High School. Despite growing up with an interest in science, Villeneuve entered film-making competitions once he graduated from college. Shortly after, he started embarking on journeys with other small-time Quebecian film-makers through the National Film Board of Canada to sharpen his craft. This is where Denis honed in on making surreal films and executed on his newfound love with his first two films, August 32nd on Earth and Maelstrom. From here, the rest of Denis’ career writes itself as he went on to shoot commercials, direct some short films, before returning to feature films with Polytechnique and Incendies. His career in Hollywood then took off in 2013 with Enemy. It was at this stage in his career where Denis formed into the storyteller he would be moving forward.
Looking at these three films (Prisoners, Sicario, and Arrival), Denis creates a specific language associated with trying to understand the impossible. Whether it’s a family drama, psychological thriller, or retelling of a horrific event in Montreal’s history, Denis constructs his films with the intent to reach into territory that challenges the nature of each character. It’s the way he builds his films up from the outside, and manages to tear them down from the inside that makes them special. It refills all that previously inhabited space with a new perspective that tends to nurture the overwhelming themes at work. It isn’t necessarily deconstructing genres or archetypes, but it does adopt a new form of large scale storytelling and how to minimize it into deeply personal moments. It’s something very few directors in the modern era have come close to capturing.
Pray for the best, but prepare for the worst.
I contributed a lot of my love for film on a deeper level to the Summer of 2013, including the release of Prisoners. I had gone from watching movies to actively looking at them on a deeper, broader level that brought my eye towards sources of light, structure, and sequencing. Sequencing in how mysteries intentionally allude to very obvious conclusions, but sneakily make it about something much more than simply finding the suspect. That sequencing within an overwhelming structure is an emotional epic about two men holding on to whatever part of themselves they have left in the case. The more that is to be revealed, the less of themselves they have left to hold onto as they grapple with faith and the contradictions of their actions. When I nearly had an epiphany that Denis’ films were about borders, going back to view Prisoners with that in mind was incredibly satisfying. From the beginning, he establishes (through prayer) that faith will play a role in this narrative, and how all the main players will embody a role that personifies a realm of faith.
Hugh Jackman’s Keller Dover resembles the contradictions of the men of faith. Hands that are typically used to carry our loved ones, hold each other in moments of despair are turned into weapons. Dealing bloody blows in the name of God in search of his children contradicts everything he preaches. There are often times where Keller stands arched over Paul Dano’s Alex with his voice booming from out of frame as Alex looks up at him in fear with his hands bound. Perhaps as a visual metaphor of the hands of God plunging his children into a state of fear and panic as he searches for answers. Jake Gyllenhall’s Detective Loki (namesake aside as the Norse God of Mischief), is the embodiment of purgatory. An infinite space subjected to those seeking penance as recognition of, and contrition for one’s sins. He is neither fueled by faith or the damnation of Hell; he exists between the two extremes as his role is continuously challenged. Detective Loki’s bearing of a Freemason ring is a visual aid that he belongs to a system separate from the extremities that have waged war with one another over the course of many lifetimes. This extends to the prime beliefs of the Freemasons. The Fatherhood of God; the brotherhood of Man; relief to others; and the search for truth. These prime beliefs all play a role in how the story, themes, and relationships unfold in the film. Lastly, Melissa Leo’s Holly Jones represents the snares of the devil. Trapping the children of God in her twisted reality in seeking some sort of justification for her eternal torment. These three players dramatically change the outcome of the narrative for each other, just as much as they do for themselves. They put themselves into situations that force them to have to reckon with the consequences they’ve created.
Prisoners challenges the basic premises of faith and the lines not meant to be crossed by the practitioners, non-believers, or defiers. It isn’t as morally complex as The Last Temptation of Christ or Silence, but it puts itself on a path of confronting the fears of adulthood under the umbrella of faith. It’s redundant, but it’s aggression services a reality that feels all too real in an era where men seek forgiveness for their inhumanities. Prisoners is an unforgiving whirlwind of perpetual sin that remains unsolved and never ending. Much like his following film, Sicario. A relentless piece of film-making meant to capture the stalemate of America’s war on drugs that reaches over literal borders in an attempt to incite fear and terror to those in the margins of that reality.
You should move to a small town where the rule of law still exists. You will not survive here. You are not a wolf. And this is the land of wolves now.
Having recently rewatched Sicario for the first time in a while, it’s apparent that Denis Villeneuve was the perfect match for Taylor Sheridan’s script. Not to mention that Villeneuve and cinematographer Roger Deakins teamed up once more, and it is arguably their best work. They’re great compliments to one another because Denis takes care of the subtlety, and Roger harnesses every goal Denis has in mind by allowing it to blossom into grisly, overwhelming images. In a few decades we should be looking back on Sicario with nothing but praise for a movie that could not have captured the war at the border at a better, more crucial time. Not that Sicario is engaged with justifying the muddy politics of a divisive era, but that it uses it to tell a story about what it’s done to so many people within its radius. Much like Prisoners, Denis carefully articulates the lines that’ll dictate the narrative, as well as if they’ll be crossed or monitored. This starts with the literal border between the United States and Mexico, and how that grows to represent the morally grey area between both sides by presenting the immediate conflict, and expanding on it as the story moves forward. The decision in making Emily Blunt’s, Kate, the eyes and ears of the audience is a simple way to ease the audience into the film. Her character being left in the dark and having to discover the reality of the situation allows us to go on that journey with her. It creates this immediate sense of companionship with the movie thanks to the talent showing clear signs of trust in the audience to experience this story rather than view it as a zombie would.
As the quote above indicates, Sicario is a story about wolves being let loose to hunt. The wolves being the U.S. Government setting the book on fire, rattling the tree, and hiring someone to complete a job they can’t. Not only does it end up bringing Benicio Del Toro’s, Alejandro, to a proper conclusion, but it ties together every loose end. For as much of a slow burn that Sicario is, the way it forces your heartbeat to escalate is virtually unmatched. Denis forces us to get down and dirty with back alley politics that opens this film up to explore moral conflict that challenges us. There are no heroes in this story, and that’s what really sets it apart from so many movies like it in this time. American ideals have forced us to believe there is a collective group of bad guys in our backyard, which they can be, but they don’t have to be on the other side of the border to be one of the bad guys. The tragedy of Sicario is that America feels it has to maintain order by bending the very rules they put into place to maintain a safer community and image than what America actually is. A land of wolves can no longer be the land of the free. The land of wolves being a reference to the game that the American system has rigged to force people into a specific livelihood that endangers their families. The system was never put in place to stop something from happening. It was put into place to force something to happen, so something else can happen as a consequence. It’s a cycle of trying to maintain order, and the consequence is losing your life or being subject to a life of inflicting fear where you can.
Think about Alejandro. He is someone who was pushed to pursue exacting vengeance on the man behind the murder of his wife and daughter. The nature of American politics, specifically on this subject, is to strip away what remains of our humanity and weaponize that to wipe out those who dare oppose. America’s war on drugs has seemingly changed over the years, but the ideals and exceptionalism of American identity has taken hold of many people, young or old. What remains is that sliver of what we once had that grounds us in our reality. When Alejandro is sent to kill Kate for preparing to speak out against the crimes committed by the government, Alejandro lets Kate know that she reminds him of his daughter. As he holds a gun to her head, she cries as her moral compass is shattered. Knowing that she must sign a document she doesn’t agree with, to live. Alejandro wipes away her tears as if it were his own daughter, reluctant to let a bullet loose and taking away someone else from somebody that cares about her. This is the film’s most grueling and neverending moment, and it’s the best way to prepare you for the end. A group of Mexican children are playing soccer. The children are joyous. Screaming with delight and excitement as their parents cheer them on until their joy is suppressed by the sound of neighboring gunfire. Silencing them as they look towards the sound of danger right in their very backyard. A choir of angels (an audible representation of the children) harmonize. The bass from the belly of the beast takes over. Title card. Fade to black. Roll credits. Masterpiece.
Language is the foundation of civilization. It is the glue that holds people together. It is the first weapon drawn in a conflict.
I’m about five years removed from seeing Arrival for the first time, and each subsequent viewing has pushed me to tears. There are a myriad of reasons as to why it does, but none other than simply falling in love with how much you can tell everyone involved deeply cares about what they’re creating. Have you ever watched a movie you can tell you’re in love with, and then at some point be nearly moved to tears because you can feel the love radiating off the screen and connecting with you in a way you’ve never felt? No? Am I just weird? Perhaps, but Arrival does something magical and manages to accomplish every goal it intends to. It’s just as much of a sweeping science-fiction epic as it is a romantic drama, as well as being a metaphor for watching movies. Yes. Watching movies. After the release of Arrival, a popular video essayist on YouTube, Nerdwriter1, released an essay stating that Arrival is, “a response to bad movies”. I’d say this video was an inspiration for me, because it changed how I watched movies, as well as how to structure my own essays down the road. With that being said, I completely disagree with everything he had to say in that video. I don’t believe Arrival is a response to bad movies, it’s a love letter to movies in general.
Dr. Louise Banks is a linguist brought to uncover why “they” have arrived. Although fluent in multiple languages, Louise is completely unprepared for the first contact with “them”. From this moment forward, Arrival studies the identity and significance of language being the pathway to guiding human connection. Throughout the film, characters use jargon dramatically different from other scenes meant to convey other moods. The sound of a childish “I love you” offsets the dialed in verbage of science, or a deeper understanding of language. It allows for the warmth of the story to peek into the specifics of the plot and how that sets up it’s cathartic finale.
Language is the backbone of civilization, and its different presentations, sounds, drawings, and letters spark identity. That identity creates purpose and how we begin to form ourselves, and how we choose to share that with other people. When Louise and Ian first experience going into the pod, that fear of the unknown becomes the known. They’re approaching something inhuman, extraterrestrial, foreign, that bears a new sound they’ve yet to hear. That language is also presented on a screen for them to learn from, as it gives them a deeper understanding of a new form of language. This is what going to the movies is like. We spend roughly two hours sitting in a room lit only by the screen in front of us, that shares a story with us, so we can learn something about ourselves, or anyone else around us. It’s the overused quote of Roger Ebert saying,”Movies are a machine built to generate empathy.” He’s right; but without diluting the meaning of Arrival, it expands on that principle idea by reflecting what their experience means to us internally.
Louise is occasionally swept through emotions she has yet to feel. She doesn’t know whose emotions they are, but they belong to her, and she carries them. Until she learns, through communicating with extraterrestrial life, that these feelings are hers, and not someone else’s. She’s adopted a new language by understanding it. The design of this language is generally presented in the same shape, with more volume scattered around it each time to create a new phrase or meaning. It looks similar to the last writing, but is just different enough to mean something else entirely. This is how we watch movies and connect with them. Think about the last handful of movies you’ve seen. Do they bear resemblances in structure, story, genre, or acts? Probably. What are they filled with? Applicable meaning. Why do we cry with a character going through something we never have? Why do we accept that what we are seeing is something worth emotionally investing in? Perhaps I’m getting a bit too philosophical now, but there’s a reason we continue to watch movies. They’re extensions of human expression, identity, and purpose. Movies are a language. That language being expressed as art, and what we can derive from it to help us better understand something about ourselves today, to prepare us for the inevitable future. There is something about the inevitable that is just as exciting as it is terrifying. Living a life full of knowledge knowing that our stories are all meant to go in a specific direction, but it’s embracing that journey as if we had no idea what today will hold that makes living special. That’s the power movies hold, and what the special ones share.
They teach us and guide us. We sit beneath a looming screen at one point in fear, maybe the next grinning from ear to ear. But we study it, learn from it, apply it, and then we go on to share it. Movies are universal. We may not feel similar towards one, but we can express why it meant something more to me, than it did for you. Vice versa. Despite those differences we share a communal experience only art can generate. They allow us to cross into new territory personalized with boundaries to experience new worlds and stories worth investing in. This is what Denis expresses in his filmography, not exclusive to Arrival.
Before I become long-winded (in before, “too late”), as I’ve alluded to, shared and expressed, Denis Villeneueve makes films about the borders around us, and how we maneuver them. The barriers of language, politics, faith, gender, humanity, and psychology are present across his filmography. His films are a study of people and the lengths that they go to find purpose in their story. All of his characters are capable and qualified of doing their job, but are directly challenged by the themes of the movie. This allows the story to unfold with the intention of leaving characters in a place where they reflect on what they’ve discovered, and how that helped them understand their journey. Dying for the right cause. Dancing with your family’s skeletons in the closet. Defying the extremities of politics. Descending into the fear that faith creates. Distributing the worth of universal communication.
That is who Denis Villeneuve is and will continue to be. A storyteller that understands how to convey emotion through a screen by granting us the ability to reflect on a variety of people, the emotions they feel, the stories they share, from the memories that spawned them.
They all think it's about more detail. But that's not how memory works. We recall with our feelings.
Comments