Not So Fast.

I really liked The Hurt Locker, but I’m not sure how I can explain the damn thing to you. The film has been called a lot of things: Epic War Journal, Suspenseful Thriller, Action Extravaganza, Insular Character Study; the list goes on. It’s a little bit of each of these, but not really all of any of it, which makes the thing so hard to categorize — but is also more than a little responsible for its success.

“War Movie” is probably the most obvious and misleading of its descriptors. Sure, almost all of it takes place during a war, and most of what we learn about the characters comes to light because of (and is heavily informed toward) a life of neverending battle on Whatever Constitutes The Front Lines These Days. But it’s not at all your typical Hollywood peacenik “My God, War is Hell” diatribe, which might have made for some quality post-Vietnam stories but can’t seem to find an audience with this century’s ever-jaded audiences.

A lot of critics have been calling this the first great film about the Iraq War, and I think that’s exactly because the film isn’t trying to be. At least, not exactly.

The Hurt Locker does something very simple: it seeks nothing more than to tell a story in the best way it can. Nothing gets in the way: not ideology, not inflated egos, not mass-market paranoia.

Wait, in Hollywood? (This is probably why it started as an arthouse film, only growing to wide release thanks to overwhelmingly positive word of mouth. Look, I don’t need to tell anyone that arthouse fare is generally better-written and more insightful than the average megaplex feature. I guess the reason this film throws these differences into such sharp relief is that, on first glance, it looks like it belongs at the megaplex, what with the explosions and expansive sets and even Guy Pearce. We all have such strong expectations of how a film like this typically behaves, and Locker so deftly subverts them within its first ten minutes that you can’t help but sit up and wonder, now more than ever, why more films can’t not just look but also feel so real.)

Locker explores a small number of characters in a wartime situation that happens to be Iraq. The rationale for the war is never explored; the soldiers’ place in an infamously contentious situation never outright questioned. There are no grandstanding judgments or righteous crusades, no Ultimate Antagonists without or within. Even the protagonist, who suffers from a kind of cowboy-action-hero syndrome, is shown as neither Perfect American Hero nor out-of-touch goofball. The film explores these characters and how they live with a situation that exists beyond their control or understanding. And it’s that deceptively simple framework that produces results far more interesting and surprising than anything you’re going to see in those other war movies that decided they were going to be “important” from day one.

It speaks to a larger idea of what’s supposed to be important versus what is important; the divide between intent and execution. If you’re creating something, there should never be such a divide – unless you’re creating some experimental wankery about artist vs. audience and all that, and if so, best of luck to you – but how do you ensure that intent is execution? It’s the same deceptively simple answer as before: make sure your intent is to tell your story the best you possibly can.

That may be unfairly reductive, especially when many have to deal with the whims of financiers, editors, deadlines, feeding one’s family, etc. But I see it more as an umbrella term with a lot of possible manifestations, like Keep Revising, Do Your Research, Let the Story Tell Itself. Don’t Discount Someone’s Feedback Because They Don’t Understand Your Big Ideas. Do Not Expect to Win an Oscar. And however many other rules you can think of.

And this extends to other walks of life too. If all you can think about at the office is getting that promotion, you’re not going to be able to put in the work necessary to earn it. If you’re killing yourself always trying to look flawless for the opposite sex, you won’t be able to loosen up and actually engage with anyone. (This last one, I am still working on.)

So the moral of the story is… well, I guess you could boil it down to one of many familiar idioms, in one way or another. Look Before You Leap. Don’t Count Your Eggs Before They’re Hatched. It’s All in the Follow-Through. You get the idea. But just spouting the idiom kind of takes away from all the work you put in to get to that point, and the understanding you reach from having achieved that knowledge on your own. Which, I guess, is an inverted way of saying what I already said. Maybe this wasn’t so hard to explain after all.

But how does it make you feel…?

So far, one of the most critically-praised albums released this year has been Dirty Projectors’ Bitte Orca. I like the album a lot, though I’m kind of surprised to see just how wide a range of accolades it’s received; for all its arhythmic constructions and obtuse lyrics, the thing seems well on its way to the kind of success enjoyed by more mainstream-friendly bands like Spoon and TV on the Radio. (2009 has also, of course, been The Year of Animal Collective, but that’s another story.)

I read a recent interview with Dirty Projectors frontman Dave Longstreth, hoping he would illuminate an album which I enjoy but have a hard time understanding. But maybe understanding isn’t really the point. When asked about the meaning behind the album’s title, Longstreth said:

“There’s not really a literal meaning to draw out of the phrase. But I like the way the words sound together. I feel like there’s some kind of sense just in the relation between the two. Sort of like, “please please me” or something. There’s a part that’s sort of gentle, and supple, and then there’s a part that’s barbed, and demanding. “Bitte” is a polite word, but it’s sharp.”

And later on, with reagrds to the same phrase used in the song “Useful Chamber”:

“Lyrically, it’s just the sense of the words become aural rather than literal. I guess I don’t think of it as dodging and weaving in terms of coherence, or you know, like as you were saying, emotional forthrightness.

“But yeah, one of the beautiful things about music is how simple and direct a line of communication it is. And I guess what I want to do, and what we want to do, is try to make music that feels good, and feels expressive– even as it does so in a new vocabulary.”

In other words, it’s not really about the words in the context of linguistics or grammar; it’s about the meaning behind those words, an almost subconscious association we make between sound and expression.

An emphasis on lyricism over syntax is nothing new in the world of art, of course; you could look at James Joyce’s Ulysses or Finnegans Wake or even half the nursery rhymes your mother sang to you at bedtime. Even in indie rock: reading an interview with The National frontman Matt Berninger, I was kind of disappointed to hear that they’d actively avoided specific interpretation while putting together one of my favorite albums, Alligator. (At the time I guess I wanted a back-pat for “cracking the code” or whatever. I’d like to think my listening habits have since changed.)

Even Edgar Allan Poe, a poet obsessed with details and structural minutae, has also long championed the meaning behind the words above all else. But Poe also admitted that discovering meaning was no easy task. Near the beginning of “Eleonora”, he writes:

“the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence — whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound — does not spring from disease of thought — from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret.”

Now, I’ve always been pretty awful at poetry. Legendarily awful. And maybe it’s because, as Poe speculates, I’m not all that mad. (Though I do daydream a lot.) Though now I’m thinking it’s because I may just be too literal. And really, the media I’m writing for at the moment are too consumer-oriented to dip into the pool of subconscious; can you imagine if an episode of Lost was a stream-of-consciousness Paean To Summer, where all the actors shirked their lines and instead gesticulated, hummed and bellowed nonsense to each other for forty minutes?

Actually, I would totally watch that.

But I can’t be totally jaded about this, right? Surely there’s some example of modern filmmaking or television that expertly splits the difference between syntax and feeling; something less stilted than broad comedies but more accessible than The Tim & Eric Awesome Show. I mean, right? Maybe?

Watching out for myself

I haven’t posted in a while because – I swear! – I’ve been doing a lot of work towards getting my projects together, researching, rewriting, all that. I’ve also been trying to watch more films lately. I’ve seen very few movies over the last few years, because planning to spend 2 hours watching a movie often strikes me as a colossal waste of my free time, because think of how much other stuff I could be getting done in that time, right (even if not much actually ends up getting done, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess?). But I find it’s easier to commit to that time if I know I’m going to think critically about the film I’m about to watch, in terms of its script and story structure, and how I can use that information to better my own process.

In other words, I’ve been on the front end of the screenwriting process for so long that I need to regain a clearer view of the back end; it does no good to sit around and assume I know what studios are looking for if I don’t get out there and see the kinds of stories they do pick up, and which ones are successful.

(Granted, many scripts purchased or optioned never see the light of day, and those that do are often rewritten and mucked about with by studio, director, actor, test audience, etc. So it’s an imperfect science. But, like everything else, if you can’t predict the future you should at least try to make an educated guess.)

So I engaged a few recent films with my Critical Writerly Eye, hard-forged from constant peer review and structural study, to see what I could see. Results and SPOILERS! after the jump.

Slumdog Millionaire: Oscar®-Winner for Best Picture 2008! Wow! This movie must be amazing, right? I had high expectations, which were mostly filled out by Danny Boyle’s typically expert and unique direction, strong performances from many age groups of actors, and some really beautiful locations. It’s impossible not to feel for Jamal and his eternal quest for Latika, and there are some incredibly emotional moments in the film. But the resolution left me feeling a little flat, and it took me a while to figure out why.

For all its skill and flavor, the Slumdog story is missing one of the cardinal components of what constitutes a “structurally sound” script: its protagonist, Jamal, has no real flaw. Sure, the guy is a little nerdy and does have to resort to crime at a young age to survive, but none of this causes an internal struggle that must be overcome in order for Jamal to succeed in his quest (to win Latika and, to a lesser extent, to be able to support her financially). Even Jamal’s status as a Slumdog in caste-obsessed Mumbai takes the form of an external impediment to his success; we get no hint of internal turmoil when he strives and searches in settings and lifestyles far beyond his own. Jamal simply continues on his single-minded quest to win Latika and succeeds at the end, his personality remaining the same as it was at the story’s beginning (even, arguably, as it was a decade earlier in the character’s life).

Is this a bad thing? It may depend on your point of view. If I had brought this script to a peer review, I almost certainly would have been lambasted for such an omission (and would have been referred to several memorable protagonists who do have to overcome an inner obstacle over the course of their journey, like Lethal Weapon‘s near-suicidal Sgt. Riggs or As Good as it Gets‘s misanthropic Melvin Udall). But I’ve spoken with several writers about this and most seem strangely OK with it. Most of their reasoning has to do with it either being adapted from a book, or purposefully trying to feel like a modern fairy tale. I understand both of these points, but I’m not sure I agree with either one. Would Slumdog have been better and more interesting if Jamal had a deep flaw to overcome? Maybe. I personally find it hard to root for idealized characters, but your mileage may vary.

District B13: Watched this for research on Parkour and freewalking. A French film that went by with not a lot of fanfare in 05/06, it was a really enjoyable action flick with a fairly solid script and enough humor to keep the whole experience really enjoyable.

As noted, Parkour was a huge component, thanks in no small part to the presence of co-star David Belle, who actually helped create the Parkour movement in the late ’90s. His Parkour sequences are breathtaking to watch; you’re not likely to find this stuff anywhere else (though Casino Royale has a pretty good sequence in its own right). In fitting with the Parkour aesthetic, his movements aren’t flashy or aggressive (he’s typically running and escaping, not fighting or showing off), but they’re no less impressive for their ingenuity, proficiency and audacity. (The hour-long making-of doc on the DVD does reference Parkour, though I was hoping for more than a brief mention of one of the film’s most unique dimensions.)

Story-wise, there are a few ridiculous and inexplicable moments, sure, but for the most part it’s solid and even fits a few cool spins on old ideas here and there; the typical action tropes of “tacked-on love interest” and “bad guy gets his just desserts” do surface, but here too, a little innovation goes a long way. Even the clichéd “some problems can’t be solved with violence” message really fits – again, in no small part thanks to the philosophy behind Parkour. At any rate, I enjoyed the film a lot.

Terminator: Salvation: Woof. The less said about this, the better.

The Hangover: Absolutely hysterical. And as a broad, high-concept comedy, this is exactly the kind of film I stand to learn the most from. If there’s one thing the script does best, it’s the sheer volume of real jokes, packed into almost every line; and here I’ve been using entire scenes to build up to one punchline! Everyone in Hollywood has been amazed that a film with no bankable stars has made so much money. I’m not, really, and anyone who’s seen the film probably shouldn’t be: with such a funny script (finely acted by all involved), easily explained to Joe Public and more than able to be cut into a hilarious trailer, why wouldn’t droves of people want to see it? Some even twice, because they were too drunk to remember much of it the first time, appropriately enough?

As with most broad comedies, the bellylaughs do disguise some plot holes and character development, though it’s far more infrequent (and the quibbles more minor) than you’d expect. The gang’s visit to the Tyson residence doesn’t move the plot or their quest forward (especially glaring since the rest of the scenes do such a good job of this) – it only shows them, via security camera feed, that their missing buddy Doug was with them at that point in the night, which doesn’t really propel the story anywhere. And this is further complicated by a later discovery of photos of the night, which show the guys going off to Tyson’s after they put Doug to bed? I also would have loved for Heather Graham’s character to have evolved past the typical sweet-smiling, ever-understanding love interest typical in broad comedies like this. At least she’s a hooker. (Which is probably the first time I’ve ever used that phrase.)

Finally – and this might say more about me than it does the movie, but – in keeping with my focus on plot, structure, character, etc, I felt there was a lost opportunity in the character development of Phil (Bradley Cooper), so deftly introduced to us as he swindles his students out of money for his Vegas trip. Here’s another kind of misanthrope, who will nevertheless pull out all the stops for his best friend; I wanted to know more about this guy, especially when he says early on, and with very little irony in his voice, “I hate my life”. I saw this as the starting point for his character’s journey over the next debaucherous days; but, as he marshaled the search for Doug, kept his motley crew of groomsmen alive and motivated, and finally reached the wedding only to lovingly embrace his wife and son, I realized that journey never came. Maybe that “telling” line was poorly delivered or poorly interpreted by me; maybe his character scenes got cut (we’ll see when the DVD comes out). And maybe it’s just in my head: I brought this up to my friends as we left the theater, and they didn’t seem bothered. They actually liked that it wasn’t a Thing; that if his character did evolve, it happened beneath the surface. Maybe because not everything needs to be fully explained, or it would have detracted from the laughs, or it just wasn’t necessary. It bothered me, but again, there’s varying mileage.

***

So what did I learn? I think after all of this I came out with more questions than answers. When it comes to writing and story structure, do “rules” really count for anything? Am I already interpreting movies in a far different light from most other people? Am I paying too much attention to the plot to be able to forgive or enjoy the rest of the film? Is there an incorrect way to watch films, or a correct way to watch anything? Or should I, you know, sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride?

I wish I knew.

Dead Rock and Roll, Remodeled

What makes a bad story? Or – if it’s a different question – what makes a story bad?

I’ll admit I enjoy a bad story every now and then, whether it’s a book or movie or TV show or whatever. I think a lot of us enjoy a kind of creative schadenfreude, and there’s a certain unique enjoyment you can only get by gathering around with your friends to experience something just indescribably, laughably bad.

But, okay, as a writer, I can also try to justify this viewing/reading/listening as a tutorial of What Not To Do. I could learn a lot about filmmaking and storytelling by watching any of this year’s Best Picture nominees; but, in theory, I could learn just as much watching something like Zoltan: Hound of Dracula.

Yesterday, as we sat down to re-watch the infamous MST3K classic “Manos” the Hands of Fate, a no-budget ’60s “cult horror film” generally recognized as one of the worst (and most unintentionally hilarious) movies ever made, I began to have new and unsettling thoughts. “This movie is awful,” I thought to myself, “but did it have to be?” And, following the only genuinely creepy few seconds of the film – a quick gloss over a decrepit mantle, with what looks like the ashen silhouette of a dead man burnt into its relief – I began to have an even more unsettling thought: “could I remake this into a good film?”

There’s no doubt that this film is pretty terrible on every level, from the wooden acting to the incompetent shot framing to the almost-nonexistent plot. But there is a plot, as bare-bones as it is; and that plot came from a rough outline, which in turn came from a germ of an idea which surely must have looked far better in writer/director/star Hal Warren’s mind than what Manos eventually became. Could that idea have actually borne fruit? What’s the difference between a shitty story and a story made shitty?

If I had to summarize the plot of Manos, keeping my opinions out, it would go something like: “A vacationing family spends the night in a desert shack, not knowing they’re the prey of a nearby satanic cult”. OK. So far, so not bad. A logline like this could pretty easily form the basis of a decent film, and, if the stars align, maybe even a great one. It’s not impossible to imagine.

But let’s add in some more details. Let’s clarify that the cult is essentially one man and his harem of wives, all of whom only come out at night; let’s also say that the family is initially cared for – and then betrayed by – a deformed and creepy caretaker named Torgo. And (spoilers!) we admit that the cult will successfully imprison the family, with the wife and daughter (who can’t be older than five!) added to the harem, and the husband/protagonist taking up the caretaker position after Torgo apparently dies. Also, the main cultist sleeps outside on a slab of rock while his wives sleep tied to poles (though they seem able to free themselves at any time). The wives also love to wrestle each other for hours at a time. And don’t forget the guy wears a black robe-thing with gigantic fucking red hands on it!

See? It’s tricky to spot the point of no return.

But there’s examples in other media too. Take the relatively-unknown novel The Lost Truth by Mike Pesko. Pesko wrote most of the “military thriller” (?) as a teenager, and was lucky enough to have it printed by a small publisher. Check out some of these highlights:

“”Come on, men,” Fletcher shouted to his hundred soldiers as he ordered ten of them into the air. He directed half of them to take out the two big gunners and the other three to hold the easily vulnerable transport ships in captivity and demand an unconditional surrender.”

“”Get your ass out of bed,” the commander barked with a different timbre than used the last time they talked.”

“There was more than one way to capture or kill a foreign military general. If casualties on their side were large compared to your casualties, then you have killed the foreign general. If you took out his capital building, then you have captured him. There were also other miscellaneous ways.”

Although we’ve wanted to turn this into a movie – so faithful to the book that every time we see a map of Dushku (yes, Dushku) it changes from an island to a series of islands to an archipelago to whatever else – I also confess to imagining the possibilities of, you guessed it, remaking the book to see if it could really work. At its base, The Lost Truth is about a man struggling to unite diverse groups of people against an enemy force almost completely indistinguishable from their own.

God, put that way it sounds a lot like Battlestar Galactica, doesn’t it? Even moreso when we add the detail that it takes place on a distant planet populated with humans much like us. But let’s keep going. Let’s add the detail of the enemy forces: the deadly, galaxy-traveling Are (yes, Are) race, who are able to possess humans because they’re one-dimensional beings (this couldn’t possibly have been an intentional joke), though they never have a larger goal besides victory through warfare. Also, a series of ill-defined neighbor countries who are always at war for generally left-wing reasons such as personal freedoms or democratic voting recounts. And, hey, a lot of sea life died due to an orbit change because the sun doesn’t have enough gravity for Dushku anymore. Again, that slippery slope is tough to navigate.

But here’s the thing. Despite how Manos and The Lost Truth turned out, there’s no reason to think Hal Warren or Mike Pesko couldn’t go on to produce competent pieces of work. The creativity is obviously there, even if craftsmanship is lacking. These guys obviously had stories they wanted to tell, and I couldn’t fault anyone for that. But what would it have taken to make these works competent? Would they even be recognizable in comparison to what we have now? I wonder if The Lost Truth could have been saved by an editor or writing classes. I wonder if Manos would have prospered with a larger budget (and all the improvements that entails). Would we all be better off? Or are these works actually more important to us as failures, as warnings to future travelers along the road of creativity?

Truth be told, I don’t have answers for any of this, aside from “Everything is the way it is” and “Speculation will buy you the greatest mansion you’ll never see”. I can’t think of a single infamously bad work that someone has tried to recreate as an actual good story. It might be a fun experiment for those with the time and inclination, or an unexpected cash cow for a Hollywood that’s obsessed with remodeling over new-modeling.

Yeah. now we’re talking.

Who Judges the Watchmen? Or Really, Who Doesn’t?

Alright! We doing this! Come on, Greatest Graphic Novel of All Time! Bring your Hollywood Blockbuster brother! I ain’t care! It’s on!

So, yeah, I saw Watchmen. I’d read the book several times – and reread it again in the days leading up to the film’s release, which, in hindsight, may not have been the best idea. But it’s clear that those who have read the book will have a pretty different viewing experience from those who are coming in with fresh eyes.

If you’ve never read the comic, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by Dave Gibbons, I honestly have no idea if you’ll enjoy the film. And I’m not sure that reading my review will be of much help to you. But I’ll try a quickie. The film looks amazing. Production design is awesome, special effects generally great, good fight sequences that aren’t too overdone. Patrick Wilson is particularly great as the nebbish Nite Owl, and Jackie Earle Haley’s intense few scenes out from under Rorschach’s mask are really satisfying. Most of the rest of the acting is good, though there are some weak links, and a few line readings fall flat. The retro soundtrack is pretty killer. And the plot moves so fast you can’t help but get swept up in its velocity; whether you can follow the intricate plotting or not, you’ll never be bored. At best, you’ll come out of the theater wanting to read the comic (and if so, good! Go out and buy a copy, you won’t regret it). At worst, you’ll be entertained for two and a half hours, and will have forgotten about most of it after a week or so.

But if you have read the comic before, or want to know how it translated – we’ve got a lot to talk about! And I am going to talk about a lot, including the ending, so here’s your Spoiler Warning! Come back later if you need to.

More than a few people have called Watchmen “unfilmable”, and while I don’t agree with that in a literal sense (in a perfect world, it would make a great miniseries or even a series of films), it makes sense from a practical standpoint. The Hollywood system being what it is, mass consumer culture and short attention spans being what they are, a fan of the comic couldn’t reasonably expect anything more than an imperfectly enjoyable 3-hours-or-less adaptation. And that’s pretty much what the film is.

A lot had to be taken out, obviously, but most of what’s there is slavishly faithful to the comics, for better or for worse. While most of the memorable images from the book have been recreated verbatim, so has a lot of dialog that sounds like it came from, well, a comic book from 1985. Some of the lines have not aged well. Many of the heroes’ costumes look pretty awful, but that was true in the comic, too (poor Doctor Manhattan went through four “outfits” in the series, and the least offensive, ironically enough, was his birthday suit), and I think that actually works to the benefit of the story, adding “lack of fashion sense” to the litany of flaws these characters have.

The story itself moves at a breakneck pace. It has to: there just isn’t enough time to get through everything the filmmakers want to tell, even after pruning almost half the plot of the book. And although there are a few times where the speed prevents a few character moments from really transcending, by and large I think the writers did a great job distilling everything into as compact a package as possible (especially the new ending, which I’ll get to in a moment). Yes, everyone has a favorite scene or character or theme that was cut, but that’s the nature of the beast. And the filmmakers are at least able to throw in references to the omissions where they could: the excellent and complex production design is full of fanboy nods, from the Gunga Diner blimp to the post-disaster Millennium billboards. Though Bernie the newspaper vendor and Bernie the young reader don’t get a story, we do see two extras obviously meant to be them during the climactic scene of disaster, so it’s not difficult to imagine that their story has been going on, perhaps in the theater next door. Even Laurie’s childhood snowglobe is there, if just for half a second. Snyder and co. earn a lot of goodwill from me just by making the extra effort to at least imply the presence of details that couldn’t be thoroughly examined.

But the film’s emulation is so exacting that the few moments of actual innovation feel out of place. Though most of the heroes in the story (actually called “The Watchmen” several times in the film, though not once in the novel, interestingly enough) are portrayed as sad-sack, out of shape or out of touch, each of them gets one or two shiny new Bad-Ass Fight Scenes, which may annoy the purists but were probably added to appease everyone else. And certain characters, once normal humans, can now punch through concrete and survive multiple-story jumps – also presumably for spectacle. It does kind of go against Moore’s painstaking effort to show these characters as humanly as possible, masks on or off. But if any of this increased bad-assery benefits anyone, it’s the Silk Spectre, who wasn’t given much to do physically in the comic beyond beating up a thug and leading folks across a bridge. I don’t think Moore treated the women in Watchmen very favorably; they’re forever only reacting to the men in their lives, too clearly defined by their need for affection or companionship to be able to do very much. Poor Janey Slater especially reads like a Fainting Nellie out of some old genre sci-fi, so it was good to see her get a moment of proactive payback (whether real or manipulated) in the film.

The biggest change comes at the end of the story, and by and large I think it actually works really well. Ozymandias’s manufactured threat now comes in the form of framing Dr. Manhattan, and though I miss the squid, it’s kind of astonishing how easily this new ending fits into the story, with far less exposition needed than having to detail secret islands and missing artists and psychic bombs. Going into the film knowing that the ending would be different – but not how – I actually grew really excited during the final scenes in Antarctica. Because – unlike most superhero films where the final battle is always won by the just and moral hero – in the world of shades of gray that is Watchmen, I genuinely had no idea what was going to happen. It was almost like reading the book again for the first time. And being able to produce that feeling, even for a veteran reader like myself, has got to be one of the film’s greatest triumphs.

There were only two changes that really bothered me, and the first is admittedly not a huge deal and more of a fanboy rant, so bear with me. The original Watchmen graphic novel is absolutely stuffed with visual symbolism – reflections, mirroring, image transposition, and, especially when Rorshach is involved, symmetry. Everything in the man’s life is symmetrical, from his mask to the locations he visits to the page layout of issue five. The effort Moore and Gibbons took to impress this upon the reader borders on obsession. So I was fascinated to note, upon rereading the book, the panel following Rorschach’s death in Antartica. Essentially exploded by Doctor Manhattan, all that remains is a spatter of blood on the snow. But where you might expect further, morbid symmetry, the remains are instead wild and random. There is no symmetry in Rorschach’s death, and purposefully so. But in producing the film, Snyder or Hayter or someone must have noticed the omission but missed the significance of it, because the film proudly displays a giant Rorschach blood blot in the snow; a perfectly symmetrical image that the camera lingers on so long that it kind of becomes the morbid punchline of the character’s existence. Zach astutely noted that morbid punchlines are exactly what Watchmen is all about, and that’s true, but I still feel it did the character a disservice that was actively avoided in the source material.

The other negative is far more significant, though it actually begins at almost the same time. In the film, Nite Owl witnesses Roshach’s death, and his reaction is the typical melodramatic “Nooooo!” which results in another failed fistfight with Ozymadias. “You haven’t saved humanity”, Nite Owl says, “You’ve twisted it! Perverted it!” And then he and Silk Spectre exit the building, looking down their noses in Moral Judgment at Ozymandias. Oz’s last scene in the film is a lingering shot standing alone and sad in his ruined home, ostensibly contemplating what’s been lost. As Dan and Laurie begin a happy life together, if not a new one (they appear to continue their costumed adventuring, which is a huge misread of the book’s intent), the film seems to be saying that they were in the clear moral right, that the ends did not really justify the means. Though it’s fine for some of the characters to voice such an opinion, the book itself never takes sides. Rorshach, the only one whose life was black and white, is gone, and the others continue to live in varying shades of gray. It’s one of the great and most unique moments of the entire story (especially for a mainstream comic book), and not a difficult one to understand. So it feels strange and false for the film to actually go to the same dark point the book did, only to make a moral apology for it after the fact. By the end of Watchmen the comic, there are no heroes left; our protagonists are either dead or complicit in the deaths of millions. But Watchmen the movie tries to have it both ways, making the tenuous argument that Dan and Laurie will keep Adrian’s secret but, dammit, that won’t keep them from always trying to do the right thing. It seems like the very definition of the dreaded Producer Note, so Snyder and the writers might not be to blame for this. We may never really know. But it’s there, and for me the 11^th hour sermonizing comes very close to undoing everything the story hoped to accomplish.

Was that change (or any of the others made) truly severe enough to justify Moore demanding his credit be removed from the film? I don’t think so. Yes, Moore’s films generally don’t translate well to the screen, whether in spite of best intentions (V for Vendetta) or due to simple Hollywood apathy (League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, or, God, LXG), so I can understand his vulnerability. But Watchmen the film is hardly hackery or mockery. Time and an impartial eye will tell if it can survive on its own merits, but it’s impossible to argue that the film hasn’t been beneficial to the source material in terms of sales. Thanks to excitement for the film, Watchmen the collected graphic novel sold over a million copies in 2008. That’s an incredible achievement for any comic today, never mind one that’s over 20 years old. Whatever you may think of the film, it’s brought many new readers to an industry starving for numbers; hopefully many will stick around, curious to read other books from the same creators or of a similar mold. Realistically, what more could you ask for?