Lower Decks

As far as genre film franchises go (and because horror has never really been my bag, it should be understood that when I say “genre” I mean sci-fi and fantasy), it used to be Star Wars and Star Trek. They were the only ones that mattered to me. These days, I know how in those times, it was possible for many mores film series to attract me: Planet of the Apes, Superman, Alien, Mad Max, Terminator, Robocop. These days, I know the list has grown exponentially: Batman, Spider-Man, X-Men, The Matrix, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Pirates of the Caribbean. Each with their own little universes to explore, cottage industries waiting to be exploited.

Star Wars had been a family tradition, Star Trek almost a routine. They’re how I grew up. When I was older, Star Wars ushered in a second age, when The Phantom Menace was released in 1999. Earlier that same summer, I had entered The Matrix. Eventually, of course, I came to realize that although both these new series would remain popular, they meant more to me than I could recognize around me. The split really crystallized around Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings films, which became a three-year phenomenon, something critics and audiences agreed to be instant masterpieces, culminating in historic Academy Awards wins in 2004, including Best Picture. I remember being perfectly thrilled with the first installment, The Fellowship of the Ring, with its rich sense of gravity and companionship. Then the hype refused to budge. It built, actually, when The Two Towers was released, around the scrawny shoulders of Gollum. I didn’t understand. What I saw in that film was someone resting on the work they’d already done (concurrently, actually, as those films were made and the reason they were able to release one after the other so quickly). The vision was too dense. This middle chapter went nowhere, not even forward, as it was meant to, merely drifted along in misery and assumed gravitas, having run the best of the course already. The third installment, Return of the King? Worse yet, and that’s the one that did what even Star Wars couldn’t?

The issue haunted me for years. Why were these films so popular, so widely embraced? Why, when these others that I so admired were not-so-secretly derided? Peter challenged nothing, ultimately said nothing, produced nothing but a very pretty canvas, and for this he won universal acclaim? Well, all along at the same time, Harry Potter was being translated to the screen. At this point, five have been made, with the sixth to be released next summer and a seventh and eighth to follow, the longest continuous story every brought to film. In the overlapping, Harry was the family-friendly figure, Lord of the Rings the serious-minded, true aficionado experience, the one being taken seriously. Superheroes like Spider-Man and the X-Men were wowing audiences, too, redefining the summer season. Then, of course, Captain Jack Sparrow came along, Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

Who can say how that one happened? Johnny Depp, by all accounts a widely respected actor and character man before this role, obviously drove the success of this first film, the unexpected triumph of something made out of a theme park ride. Then the second one was released, Dead Man’s Chest, and absolutely blew everything else out of the water. Didn’t get the respect, but certainly got the dollars. It was followed by At World’s End, released during a summer of third films, including Spider-Man’s. Though it made buckets of money (both films, actually), the thrill was gone. This summer, we found out what it would take to get genre fans jazzed again, Iron Man and Dark Knight. Different paths again.

All these franchises I was familiar with, but I knew there were others. I had a reasonable experience with the Terminator films, but had never truly sat down to appreciate what they had accomplished, either separately of as a whole. I had never seen the Alien films, never Mad Max. Even Superman, which I was a fair bit familiar with, experienced a new surge when the Richard Donner cut of the second film, along with Superman Returns, were released in 2006. Eventually, I had to watch the whole series all over again. Big revelation-time. As with the Star Trek films, it was common enough that the success of Star Wars inspired a new era in genre film, including the first Superman, yet I didn’t appreciate what the first one had done until I rewatched it earlier this year. It’s not just an introduction to the Man of Steel, or Gene Hackman’s curly-haired buffoon genius Lex Luthor, but a comprehensive version of the whole story, including a far greater version of Krypton’s doomed final days than I had realized previously.

It was the same with Mad Max. I only knew that it was a starting point for Mel Gibson’s career, and that it involved fast cars. Actually, that’s pretty much all it is, and its sequel, Road Warrior, too. It’s not until Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome that the character steps beyond a basic archetype and a thoroughly prescient backstory to embrace his potential to create a new story, a new myth, all its own. With The Terminator, I got to find out how the story began, which is apparently not all that different from Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Again, it’s not until the third film, Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, were a new cohesion can be found. I understand that because James Cameron did not participate in this one, it’s seen as somehow less legitimate. But with a TV series and a new series of films set to begin next summer, now is as good as any time to look past such petty criticisms and see how this third installment pushes the story forward for the first time, both in obvious and more subtle ways. It’s no longer merely an interesting idea with groundbreaking special effects and Arnold Schwarzenegger finding someone new to steel leather and wheels from.

Getting back to Star Wars, I think what strikes me even now is that it never had that kind of problem. If George Lucas must be hanged over anything, it’s his stubborn insistence that it’s the story that’s always most important. He only repeats something (destroying a Death Star) twice, and it means something different both times (even though, in 1977, audiences might have been forgiven to expect the good fight to have been won already). When he does the new trilogy, in my mind, all he’s doing is telling more of that story. It’s the same with The Matrix films. Where some audiences in 1999 might have been content to watch victory apparently achieved, I was fascinated in 2003 to discover what it would really take, and what it ultimately meant, for a conclusion to be met in the war between humans and machines. With the Pirates films, the same pattern can be found, whereas with Harry Potter, at least everyone knew the story was only going to keep building.

The nature of these films in particular intrigued me, because by their nature, as with the books, they were following year to year one story in its every development, whatever that meant, meaning the number of them as they expanded past traditional notions never bothered me. I followed big screen Star Trek in almost the same way. I saw all the original ones for the first time on video, but I was aware that they had originated elsewhere, not from the television the franchise was comfortable enough in to support six series (including the animated show). As in most genre film series, Star Trek even had a trilogy, from II to VI, during its peak. Because of its success, more films were made, and when The Next Generation concluded its run on TV, it only seemed natural to translate it to theaters as well. I was happy to support these efforts, through thick and thin, whether they were popular or, increasingly, anything but. I knew they weren’t being conceived because of any great need to tell a grand Star Trek saga in film, but, to contextualize an old argument, as individual installments reminiscent of what the franchise was best known for, but on a bigger scale. I think what happened was audiences began to grow tired of nothing building from all of it, as these films should.

With the Lord of the Rings, which I found so hard to understand, I think what made them such a success was that they were, like all these other franchises, something different, something that knew exactly what it was, and was offering an experience that everyone already knew. The series succeeded despite rumblings of shortcomings ranging from the kind I saw (actually, I still think I’m the only one who saw those), to those of Tolkien fans who saw less faithfulness than they cared to, because the first film got everything off on exactly the right foot, the second film delivered a novelty (Gollum) to keep everyone engaged, and the third film was, well, the conclusion, and everyone figured it was worth sticking around to see what was what. And truth be told, once again, in the last hour, everything did come together again, the magic revisited.

Like Mad Max, like Terminator, I should probably and will take fresh eyes to those particular films again. They are already a part of my experience with this genre within a genre, ordinary magic expanded to extraordinary proportions. I will talk more about these franchises in later columns, individually, but for now, the mere tradition of it ought to be celebrated as another indelible corner of the genre experience.