It’s interesting reading Dune immediately following a mass-reading of Vernor Vinge’s catalog, because both authors are essentially fascinated by post-humanity: Both see something essentially incomprehensible in the transhuman, but they approach it in different ways. Vinge chooses to approach it at oblique angles – from the POV of children; or on the rapid approach to it; or from a great distance; or through the lens of the primitive.

Herbert, on the other hand, tends to tackle the transhuman directly, but he does so from a fundamentally religious point of view.

To be clear on the distinction here: Vinge also equates transhumanity with godhood (the references to “Applied Theology” and “deicide”, for example, in A Fire Upon the Deep). But Herbert actually structures his narrative around a religious viewpoint – he couches his understanding of the transhuman through symbolism and prophecy; through divine mystery and ceremony.

Of course, the post-humanities of Vinge and Herbert are not exactly identical, either. But it would be interesting to see Vinge tackle Herbert’s thought (as expressed in an interview): “I had this theory that superheroes were disastrous for humans, that even if you postulated an infallible hero, the things this hero set in motion fell eventually into the hands of fallible mortals. What better way to destroy a civilization, society or a race than to set people into the wild oscillations which follow their turning over their critical judgment and decision-making faculties to a superhero?”

And it would be equally interesting to have seen Herbert tackle Vinge’s thesis: “Let an ultraintelligent machine be defined as a machine that can far surpass all the intellectual activities of any any man however clever. Since the design of machines is one of these intellectual activities, an ultraintelligent machine could design even better machines; there would then unquestionably be an “intelligence explosion,” and the intelligence of man would be left far behind. Thus the first ultraintelligent machine is the _last_ invention that man need ever make, provided that the machine is docile enough to tell us how to keep it under control. … It is more probable than not that, within the twentieth century, an ultraintelligent machine will be built and that it will be the last invention that man need make.”

But I digress.

For those of you completely unfamiliar with Dune, it may suffice to say that it is one of those works grouped with the Foundation Trilogy or The Lord of the Rings: A transformative and pivotal classic which cast a long shadow upon the entire genre from the moment it was published.

To understand how Dune achieved this stature, consider for the moment a seemingly simple question: What is the most impressive thing about Dune?

The trick is not in any particular answer. It is in the breadth of answers your question will provoke. Many people will point to the planet of Arrakis itself — painstakingly rendered and with a completely realized ecology. Others will point to the manipulation of prophecy. Or the action-packed battle sequences. Or the alien cultures. Or the evocative future history. Or the exploration of religious themes.

The story of Dune is a political thriller; it’s a character drama; it’s high tragedy; it’s mythological; it’s religious. And then Herbert tells it in the style of historical fiction within one of the most deeply realized science fiction settings ever realized on paper. It’s a gestalt creation.

And what do I, personally, find most impressive about Dune? The fact that Herbert successfully realized a story with the emotional depth and archetypal resonance of a Greek tragedy. I’ve probably read, watched, and listened to the Dune story more than two dozen times. And yet, every single time, there’s something fresh and new which can be gleaned from the experience.

GRADE: A+

For additional comments on Dune, which include SPOILERS, click here.

Frank Herbert
Published: 1965
Publisher: Ace
Cover Price: $7.99
ISBN: 0441172717
Buy Now!

Every so often I’ll discuss plot holes in movies. Sometimes I’m critiquing a movie I liked. Other times I’m excorciating a movie I hated.

For example, last month I posted a lengthy essay discussing (among other things) some significant problems with Batman Begins and The Dark Knight.

Another example would be the plethora of plot holes Peter Jackson created in The Two Towers. (Gratuitous examples include teleporting ents, the elven legion from Lothlorien that teleports to Helm’s Deep, and Faramir’s strangely psychic ability to know events taking place in Rohan on the same day that they occur.)

And frequently, during the ensuing discussions, someone will trot out what I’ve come to refer to as the Big Sleep Fallacy.

The Big Sleep is a classic movie starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It’s a noir detective story based on Raymond Chandler’s novel of the same name and Chandler also wrote the screenplay. It’s widely considered to be one of the best movies ever made. It’s also remembered as having an incredibly convoluted plot. The most notable example of this is that one of the murders in the film is never explained. When asked about it later, Chandler himself couldn’t identify the murderer. It’s a huge gaping plot hole.

And the Big Sleep Fallacy looks like this: “The Big Sleep was a great movie. The Big Sleep has a famous plot hole. Therefore, there’s nothing wrong with having plot holes.”

Err… No. If you think that makes sense, I’m afraid you’re in dire need of a remedial logic class.

If you want to go for the weaker conclusion that “movies can have plot holes and still be good”, then you’re in decent shape. But with the stronger conclusion you’re assuming the unstated premise that “great movies are without flaw”. And even if you can swallow such a patently ridiculous premise, you’ve now introduced an ancillary conclusion that “plot holes aren’t flaws”… which also appears to be patently ridiculous.

You can also scent the fundamental error here by noting that The Big Sleep is specifically noteworthy for having such a significant plot hole while still being considered a great movie. In other words, that type of thing is unusual and therefore merits mention. If great movies routinely had gaping plot holes lying around, then the appearance of one in The Big Sleep wouldn’t be of notable significance.

… and that’s my rant for the day.

Well… that was mediocre.

Okay, here’s some background:

(1) I am quite willing to stand up and defend the prequel trilogy films as being diamonds in rough. I feel that watching those films is roughly equivalent to watching the Special Edition versions of the original trilogy: There are good-to-great films buried in there, but they’ve been ruined by George Lucas’ inability to edit himself. The only difference is that we’ve seen the original versions of the A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi — that makes it (relatively) easy for us to ignore the crap Lucas has shoveled on top of those films. With the prequel trilogy, we’ve never seen the version without the fart jokes.

(2) The original Star Wars: Clone Wars animated series was broadcast on the Cartoon Network. It had a story by George Lucas, but the project was largely spearheaded by Genndy Tartakovsky. This series was single-handedly responsible for rekindling my love of Star Wars. After years of abusive mediocrity, I had literally forgotten how much I loved this universe. After watching Clone Wars, I tracked down high quality versions of the original versions of the original trilogy and, watching them, I realized just how much I still loved these films and how much damage George Lucas had inflicted on his own creation.

(3) I wasn’t alone. The Clone Wars series was so popular it got extended for a second series. And when that was a success, Lucas decided to turn it into a full-blown TV series. The animation was “upgraded” from 2D cell art to 3D CGI, and then Lucas felt that was going so well that he took the first several episodes and packaged them into a feature film for theatrical release.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the line Genndy Tartakovsky didn’t make the cut. (He’s apparently working on the sequel to The Dark Crystal, a fact which fills me with glee.) The loss of Tartakovsky is unfortunate because, frankly, Star Wars: The Clone Wars doesn’t capture the same magic as its progenitor. (Note the difference between Star Wars: Clone Wars and Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Thanks for the crystal-clear titles.)

Basically, here’s the run-down:

(1) Visually, the animation style is surprisingly effective and often incredibly beautiful.

(2) Unfortunately, from a cinematic standpoint, the directing and visual storytelling just doesn’t cut it. There are lots of battles, for example, but none of them are particularly compelling or memorable.

(3) But certainly part of the problem the director has is that the script just isn’t that interesting. The story never manages to make me care about what’s going on (which is largely because nobody in the movie seems to care all that much), the dialogue is cliche-ridden, and the whole thing is riddled with plot holes and inconsistencies. Plus, while there’s often a lot of sound and fury, the author doesn’t find anything particularly unique to do with it. So in the battles, for example, there are lots of lasers being fired and lightsabers being swung around… but it’s just visual noise. Very pretty visual noise, but still utterly forgettable.

(4) Perhaps most disappointingly, the characters are largely flat (with one exception which I’ll note below). The only reason I even vaguely care about any of them is because of their previous appearances in other films. The argument could certainly be made that it would be difficult to do anything meaningful with characters who’s stories have already been told from beginning to end in the original six movies, but I can literally point directly at Tartakovsky’s work in the original animated series as an example of how you can always find fresh dramatic material.

(5) The pacing of the film is also very poor. But that leads me to a larger point, which is that this material was not originally intended to be a single feature film… and I think it shows. Amidala, for example, doesn’t show up until the third act of the film, and then plays an almost deus ex machina role in wrapping up the plot.

I suspect that if I had been watching this as three episodes of a television series, my reaction might have been more positive. (So I’m probably going to give the TV series a shot when it premieres.)

(6) It’s almost as if Lucas intentionally tries to find something incredibly stupid to put into his films. In this case, it’s Jabba the Hutt’s flamingly homosexual uncle. I just… I wish I was making that up.

(7) On the other hand, the one thing I did like was Anakin’s padawan, Ahsoka. Her initial introduction left me skeptical, but she rapidly grew on me despite the weak and repetitive nature of the script. She’s the one character that the film, on its own merits, makes me care about. And I’m mildly interested to see if the series can develop the serious dramatic potential in the relationship between Anakin and Ahsoka.

I’ve seen a few people trying to defend the weaknesses of this movie by saying that it’s “aimed at kids”.

Well, even if we ignore the PG rating of the film: So what? There is a difference between “aimed at kids” and “stupid”.

When I was a kid I could tell the difference between the stuff that I actually liked and the stuff that was created by some adult trying to patronize me. I don’t think I was alone. And I reject out of hand the flawed logic that “it’s OK that it’s bad because it’s just for kids”.

Star Wars: The Clone Wars isn’t a mediocre movie because it’s aimed at young teens. It’s a mediocre movie because it’s a mediocre movie.

I thought I’d written this on here before, but apparently I was just imagining that. In regards to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull:

I would like to thank George Lucas for making the Star Wars prequels. Without the valuable training I have gleaned from those films, I would have found it much more difficult to ignore all the ridiculous foibles of this film and enjoy it as much as I did.

The trick, you see, lies in being able to instantly assess that something is both incredibly lame and completely irrelevant to the film. You then jettison that information instantaneously and go back to enjoying the rest of the film (which is rather good).

Michelangelo is quoted as saying, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

I have a theory about George Lucas: He’s like Michelangelo. Except he’s gotten lazy and he doesn’t bother carving away all of the marble necessary to reveal the angel. The portions of the angel that you can see are still pretty awesome, but there’s all this other marble — the absurdities, the bathroom humor, the extraneous nonsense — getting in the way.

And, as I say, the Star Wars prequels trained me pretty well in the “fine art” of ignoring all that excess marble Lucas leaves lying around. So Lucas throws in some stupid scene with Shia LaBeouf swinging around like Tarzan and leading a tribe of monkeys, and I promptly reach into my brain, grab that idiocy, throw it away, and pretend as if the film existed without that scene (or the many other scenes like it).

And I’m happier for it.

Of course, the film itself is still flawed. But at least this way I can enjoy — in a somewhat marred fashion — the angel that could have been.

So, long story short vis-a-vis Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: A decent enough flick. I was hoping that Spielberg would be more successful in reining in Lucas’ excesses, but despite that it’s enjoyable enough. I mean, it’s not even close to being a Raiders of the Lost Ark or an Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, but it’s fun enough.

Before I say anything else, let me say this: The Dark Knight is probably the best superhero movie ever made. It may also be the best movie of the year. It may even deserve a spot in the Top 100 movies of all time (but that depends on a few more viewings and some reflection).

I’m not one of those fanboys who confuse geekgasms with quality (although there’s nothing wrong with a good geekgasm), but The Dark Knight really is that good: The scripting, directing, and acting all come together to create something that’s thematically, dramatically, and cinematically complex and rewarding. Heath Ledger’s performance, alone, would make the movie worth watching again and again — and he’s just one jewel among many.

SPOILER WARNING

With that being said, however, I did have one major problem with the movie: The ending, while thematically powerful, makes absolutely no sense.

BATMAN: They must never know what he did.

GORDON: Five dead! Two of them cops! Three crooked mobsters! You can’t sweep that under the rug!

BATMAN: We’ll say that I did it.

GORDON: What?

BATMAN: Admittedly, I have no motive. Plus everyone knows I don’t kill people. And there’s absolutely no way that you could know that I was responsible for these killings and I have absolutely no reason to confess it to you, but I think you should get on your radio right now and call it in.

GORDON: But Harvey is lying dead right here. And I haven’t even had time to get the story straight with my family. And what possible explanation could I give for my family being here anyway?

BATMAN: No. This has to happen. I can be this guy. I can be the Dark Knight. Call it in!

GORDON: … I’m sorry, were you still talking? I was just thinking about the hundreds of people — including dozens of cops and mobsters — that the Joker has killed all over the city in the past 24 hours.

BATMAN: What about them?

GORDON: Oh! Hey! Here’s an idea. If we’re going to cover up the truth anyway, how about we just blame the Joker?

BATMAN: Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes a lot more sense. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinkiing.

GORDON: It’s okay. You’ve been hit in the head a lot today.

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. That’s not the actual ending of the movie. That’s just the Way It Should’ve Ended.

But, seriously, the ending of the movie bugged me. This type of logical plot hole usually bugs me, but I think it particularly stood out in the case of The Dark Knight because the rest of the movie was so unmitigatingly perfect. It’s like the difference between seeing a fly land on your hot dog during a picnic and seeing a fly in your soup at a $100-per-plate restaurant.

But I think it also stands out because this particular plot point was being used to tie together the thematic content of the entire film. And that thematic content was rich and powerful, so seeing it become fatally flawed at (literally) the last minute was very disappointing for me. It was like watching Achilles get shot in the heel.

And, to be sure, it would be very difficult to have corrected this problem without losing the thematic closure of the film. Off-hand, I think the only solution would have been to have Two-Face bring together everyone he felt was responsible for Rachel’s death in order to determine their fate. (This would have put Batman at the scene of the murders, made it more important for a scapegoat to be found, and allowed for the creation of a plausible narrative — mobsters and crooked cops kill Harvey Dent, Batman takes revenge.) By opting for the more streamlined approach of having Two-Face kill them (or spare them) in a series of encounters, the narrative is simplified… but, unfortunately, it’s simplified to the point of making it nonsense.

Is this a nit? Yes.

But I can also draw a direct line between this foible of The Dark Knight and a similar problem with Batman Begins: Specifically, the scene in Ra’s al Ghul’s compound at the end of Bruce Wayne’s training when he’s asked to execute a murderer and refuses. Again, this is a thematic lynchpin for the movie. And, again, it makes no bloody sense.

BRUCE: I won’t execute this man. I am not a killer… And because I’m not a killer, I will KILL ALL OF YOU.

… say what?

I guess we’re supposed to give him a pass because he saves the life of Ra’s al Ghul. But, oddly enough, the theme of the movie is a little less powerful when interpreted as “I’m different than the criminals because I won’t kill anyone played by a recognizable movie star”.

I have similar problems with the end of Batman Begins, which suffers from two gaping holes in its logic:

(1) You have a machine which vaporizes water inside metal pipes buried underground… but has no effect on any of the fleshy bags of water wandering the streets of Gotham. (By “fleshy bags of water”, of course, I mean “human beings”.) I don’t have a problem swallowing super-technology in a superhero movie, but could you at least try not to insult my intelligence?

(2) Batman seems to consistently suffer a lobotomy at the end of these movies:

BATMAN: I have a plan. Wait until the train that’s a couple blocks away starts moving. Then you drive the Batmobile and race the train towards Wayne Tower. Just before it gets there, blow up the pylons nearest to Wayne Tower and cause the entire train to collapse.

GORDON: And what will you be doing?

BATMAN: I’ll be on the train, fighting a largely meaningless battle with Ra’s al Ghul.

GORDON: Or — and this is just an idea mind you — why don’t you just get back in the Batmobile right now and blow up the train pylons we’re practically standing right next to. Or any of the other pylons between here and Wayne Tower.

BATMAN: Huh, that’s actually a pretty good idea.

GORDON: Or I could just place a quick call to Wayne Tower and tell them to cut the power supply to the tracks.

BATMAN: Huh. Okay, that’s an even better idea. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.

GORDON: It’s okay. You’ve been hit in the head a lot today.

These were not my only problems with Batman Begins: The character of Rachel — although powerfully redeemed in The Dark Knight — was a complete waste in Batman Begins. Batman’s willingness to engage in mass property destruction with seemingly little regard for the consequences or the lives that might be lost was not only disturbing, but also unnecessary and thematically inappropriate. Also, the destruction of Wayne Manor seemed wasteful and pointless.

But there’s also a part of me that feels a trifle Scrooge-like in making these (perfectly legitimate) critiques, because there is so much to love about both these movies. Batman Begins may be a significantly flawed film, but it’s also a very good film. And The Dark Knight, as I have already mentioned, may have one glaring imperfection, but is otherwise one of the best movies ever made.

I am particularly entranced with Nolan’s thematic exploration of the Batman mythos.

For example, the concept of “fear” has always lain at he heart of Batman’s origin. In Detective Comics #33, the original telling of that origin, we can read:

WAYNE: Criminals are a superstitious cowardly lot. So my disguise must be able to strike terror into their hearts. I must be a creature of the night. Black, terrible… a… a…

–as if in answer, a huge bat flies in the open window!

WAYNE: A bat! That’s it! It’s an omen… I shall become a BAT!

And thus was born this weird figure of the dark… This avenger of evil. The BATMAN.

And so it was perfectly natural for Batman Begins to put the words “I shall turn fear against those who prey on the fearful” into the mouth of Bruce Wayne. But giving Wayne himself the fear of bats as a young child and then having that fear create the situation that results in the death of his parents is a master-stroke. It allows Nolan to thematically ground Batman’s origin story into a character arc of overcoming and then inverting that fear.

This achievement by itself — taking an existing theme of the character and deepening it — is impressive. But Nolan doubles down again and again by exploring the concept, theme, and use of “fear” from as many angles as possible: Ra’s al Ghul, the Scarecrow, and Carmine Falcone all use fear in different ways. Gotham City itself is described repeatedly as a place of fear. And, of course, the entire plot is driven by fear in its many aspects.

When you create a work of art that explores a theme as deeply and richly as Batman Begins explores the concept of “fear”, the work can take on a life of its own. Beyond whatever statement Nolan himself might have been trying to make, the work itself is so complex and comprehensive in its treatment of the subject that the audience will find its own meanings reflected in the material. Different people will find different aspects of the movie resonating for them in different ways. And this also makes it a movie that’s not just fun to watch again, but rewarding to watch again.

We see a similar thematic exploration and expansion on multiple levels in The Dark Knight. The title itself alludes to this as the movie creates a contrast between the White Knight (Dent) and the Dark Knight (Batman).

Even the rivalry between Batman and the Joker is deepened. There has, of course, always been a sick and twisted dance between the two characters. One doesn’t have to look any farther than the Joker’s death in Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns to see that. But when Ledger’s Joker says, “I think you and I are destined to do this forever.” It’s a haunting moment that rings painfully true.

And I think the reason it rings so painfully true is because Nolan has done such a remarkably effective job, throughout the entire film, of establishing this as the confrontation that happens when “an unstoppable force meets an immovable object” in the “fight for this city’s soul”.

When Nolan plays these themes — the Joker vs. the Batman; the White Knight vs. the Dark Knight; the corruptible vs. the incorruptible — against each other, the resulting tapestry is woven together into a deeply moving and deeply meaningful narrative.

I’ve already seen The Dark Knight twice. But it’s a movie that I will need to see many more times before I’ll be able to truly appreciate the depth and subtelty of Nolan’s accomplishment. And it will always be a movie that rewards another viewing… no matter how many viewings I’ve given it.