Although Star Wars will remain the apex of my formative years as a young writer and dreamer, Close Encounters of the Third Kind plays a close second. At the risk of blasphemy, the latter film was significantly superior to the Lucas’ space western, offering insights into humanity and our possible place in the Universe that I couldn’t begin to fathom until later in life.
Such films are rare.
Arrival, which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival and opened widely this week, is one of those films and is a worthy successor to Close Encounters.
Directed by Denis Villeneuve and written by Eric Heisserer, a man better known for horror films like the reboots of The Thing and A Nightmare on Elm Street, Arrival opens with the arrival of 12 alien space craft—looking a bit like fat Pringles—at strategic positions around the globe.
Almost the entire story is told from the perspectives of linguist Louise Banks (Amy Adams) and physicist Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Renner) and shows their efforts to communicate with the aliens under the watchful eye of military commander Colonel Weber (Forest Whitaker), as scientists and military commands near the other 11 craft attempt the same.
While the trio works to simply comprehend the existence of the aliens, let alone try to communicate with them, the outside world falls apart as fear and a sense of insignificance grasps at the hearts of populations being told largely nothing, feeding the paranoid darkness that resides within all of us.
Without giving key aspects of the story away, the movie deals with broad metaphysical questions about existence and time, while at the same time, providing insights into our species at both its greatest apex and deepest nadir. And at its very base, it encapsulates the importance of trust in our evolution as individuals, as a society and as a species.
This is Amy Adams’ movie, and so all of these concepts are displayed through her fears and growth. She must learn to trust her human colleagues. She must learn to trust her alien counterparts, adorably nicknamed Abbott and Costello. And most importantly of all, she must learn to trust herself despite flashes of what seems like madness.
To tie back to Close Encounters, Adams is this movie’s Richard Dreyfuss, and she embues her character with both the same manic trepidation and child-like wonder as Dreyfuss’ Roy Neary.
Renner and Whitaker, for their parts, are incredibly subdued in this film.
Renner’s Donnelly is an emotional anchor for Adams. Coming from the academic world, his tone is at once familiar and playfully combative.
Whitaker’s Weber is authoritative and yet unthreatening. He is the calm in the intellectual storm, grounding the two academics for what they are about to witness and becoming increasingly appreciative of the miracle that unfolds before him.
What I found particularly interesting about Heisserer’s story was that the antagonist of the film was Fear.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of mortality. Fear of our own insignificance. And more importantly, our deepest fear that as individuals, we simply don’t measure up.
And breaking the rules of screenwriting, this fear was not embodied in a single antagonist, but in all characters, and it was only in fleeting moments that any individual character acted upon his or her fear. And yet, as fleeting as those moments were, each was vital to the evolution of the story and the critical relationships to their next stages.
Again, these moments fed back to the question of trust, particularly in the face of betrayal.
To assure everyone that this film isn’t simply a cerebral exercise—although it is beautiful in what it does accomplish—there is also a very deep emotional thread that runs through this movie, again centering on Adams. And from the opening, it seems like this personal journey is completely disconnected from the sci-fi plot.
But as the story unfolds and we begin to explore what is possible in an infinite cosmos, we begin to realize that the external and internal journeys are one and the same. There is no distinction. The line between physical and emotional is an artifact of our choices as humans and society.
Will Arrival be to adolescent minds today what Close Encounters was to mine in 1977?
It is a much more adult film that its predecessor, with many fewer action sequences to engage the eye. And Villeneuve’s views and sensibilities are very different from Steven Spielberg’s.
But Arrival is the closest thing to those seminal films that we have seen in a generation or more. And for the more engaged child or adolescent, it will open a window to another plane of storytelling.
Movie Review: Arrival (Danny F. Santos)
Amy Adams supplies emotional core of alien invasion film “Arrival” (Richard Crouse, CTV News)
Amy Adams has a sublime word with alien visitors (The Guardian)
How would you like to give the greatest gift of all without emptying your bank account?
More than things. More than money. Time is our most valuable commodity.
The willingness to spend time with someone—or some many—is the greatest sign of their value to you.
Spend time listening to a loved one.
Spend time helping a stranger.
Spend time remembering those we have lost.
Spend time with yourself.
With no money down and no payments until EVER, show people how much you care by giving them your time.
As an added bonus: For every time you give another, you get a time for yourself. That’s two times the time for one small investment of…you guessed it…TIME.
“Being naked and too honest makes you predictable and maudlin,” chided one of the characters early in OverTime, which premiered tonight at the Robert Gill Theatre for the Toronto Fringe Festival. And for the next 85 minutes or so, the cast proved the exact opposite was true.
In some ways, watching OverTime was like redecorating a home, peeling back the decades of paint one layer at a time. As each coat is removed, you uncover the laughter and tears of that moment in time. And once the last layer is gone and the history is revealed, all that’s left is the truth.
It is only as the play deepens that we learn that truth is what retired school teacher Carla (Elva Mai Hoover) feared most when she uttered that line to her protégé Darby (Timothy Eckmier). As Carla mentored Darby to become the next great playwright, she argued that mystery must be maintained.
Truth was also the motivation behind the other plotline of the play as young blogger and photographer Jewel (Andrea Brown) struggles to pull her father Linus (Tufford Kennedy) out of the safe environs of the hockey rink. A successful coach on the outside, Linus is a wreck inside, and Jewel wants to ease that burden.
OverTime playwright Romeo Ciolfi did an amazing job weaving these two story lines together. With each passing moment, it felt like another layer of paint was removed to reveal a bit more of the truth. And at least for me, the story was anything but predictable.
Sure, I felt Ciolfi could get a little heavy-handed with the metaphors. I would not have been surprised, on occasion to have seen a surtitle card reading “Metaphor here”, but I never felt they detracted from the increasingly tightly woven story.
What impressed me even more, however, was how the same layered revelations arose from each of the characters. With each passing moment, the characters became deeper and darker. Part of this richness was the writing, but I also credit the cast.
Rarely do I praise an entire cast of a production, but I could not find fault with any of the performances. And no single actor deserves loftier praise than any other. To me, this was an ensemble performance. Remove any one of these actors and I don’t think this play would have been as good.
As with the play, there were times when impassioned performance became overwrought melodrama, but I largely felt these moments were the exception. These actors and their descent into raw truth had me mesmerized for 90 minutes, and I found myself praying we would go into overtime.
Without hesitation, I would watch this performance again and again, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
[Adapted from a review that first appeared in Mooney on Theatre.]
Terry’s biggest fear was pain. He had a particularly low threshold for it, and so the thought of his limbs bashing against the rocks had brought a clammy sweat to his palms.
Turns out, he was worried about nothing.
After the initial crunch of what used to be his left knee cap, the free rotation of his leg really didn’t hurt. Rather, it was more of a surreal distraction.
What actually bothered Terry was the unquenchable cold, as wave after wave of grey water sponged the heat from his flailing limbs.
Winter had come early to the Scarborough bluffs, and despite being well into April, showed no signs of releasing its crystalline grip on the world. More than one chunk of ice from the nearby shore added insult to stony injury as Terry rolled with the currents, thrown tantalizingly close to the pebbled beach only to be unceremoniously tugged back to the depths.
To all outward appearance, Terry was as lifeless as the shredded plastic bags that clung to his limbs as their paths crossed. Even the gulls had stopped their surveillance, his constant mobility keeping them from determining his potential as food.
Terry didn’t thrash. Nor did he scream.
What his lost will to live couldn’t achieve, the water completed as his body involuntarily pulled muscle-activating blood from his extremities, its focus completely on preserving his heart and mind. Ironically, these were the two things that first failed Terry.
In the grey waters under a grey sky, tumbling mindlessly with wave and wind, Terry knew his death was just a matter of time.
And oddly, for the first time in his life, Terry had all the time in the world.
Kevlar strands of extruded protein
Home and snare in one
Patterns of neglect woven by time
Forgotten relics of a life now gone
Dusted, drowned and swept away
Urban renewal for insectine lives
Saddened by the sense of accomplishment I feel, having started this “project” at the New Year.
It’s a long weekend, this weekend in Canada. We’re celebrating Victoria Day, which is a celebration of either the capital of British Columbia, a previous Queen of half the planet, or a friend of mine who blogs Victoriously.
Regardless of what we call it, however, it is a celebration of Spring (welcome to Canada) and of drinking beer on patios and at cottages—the May Two-Four weekend, as some of us older folks recall it (commemorating the Canadian single-serving case of 24 bottles).
What makes this year’s version a little odd for me is that for the last year or so, every weekend has been a long weekend, for I am a freelance writer. On any given Monday or Friday, I can choose not to work. Likewise, on any given Saturday or Sunday, you are likely to find me working. Day nomenclature has ceased to hold meaning for me.
For all intents and purposes—and I have plenty of both—the only real difference between a Wednesday and a Saturday is how many of my friends can come out to play at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. And most of my friends are in entertainment, journalism or science, so even that constriction isn’t very strict.
Admittedly, I am less likely to hold an interview for an article assignment on the weekend, but those are few and far between.
Now, my freedom comes at a price…or lack of a price, as the case may be. My pay packet is smaller than it once was. I have no health benefits but what the government gives me (welcome to Canada!). I often have to make myself go for a walk to ensure I get some exercise.
However…I don’t attend meetings. If my boss is an ass, I’m probably looking in the mirror. My commute is maybe two metres. And my drinking problem doesn’t seem to be suffering (phew!).
This morning, I seriously argued with myself as to whether I was going to work on a feature due next week or take my camera out for a walk…and it could have gone either way (I strangely decided to work on my feature).
I have no family about whom to worry or of whom I need to take care, so I understand I have a luxury of options that many feel they cannot afford.
At the same time, I watch many of my responsible friends—typically the ones who can’t come out to play at either 2 o’clock—and see them dig themselves an early grave, fighting to give their families everything except the one thing their families probably want most of all: themselves.
I may die tonight—exercising that drinking problem—or I may live for another hundred years. I don’t know. But either way, I’m not worried about it. I don’t have a timer on things to accomplish.
That’s a nice feeling.
All y’all have a great series of days that may be a weekend!