A week ago, I had the pleasure of seeing one of my favorite movies of all time on the big screen: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Now, I've seen a few rereleases this year, ranging from the Spider-Man franchise to the Star Wars prequels. However, it was Peter Jackson's fantasy trilogy that reminded me why we go to the theater.
As a fan, I had obviously seen Fellowship countless times before, but on the silver screen, every inch of the story comes alive in a way that it never does on a TV. The cinematography, whether it be covered with the dark and fiery sprawls of Mordor or the beautiful snowcapped mountains of New Zealand, immediately envelops you. There's contrasts between light and dark, great movement for palpable action scenes, and beauty in a world being threatened by evil. On the TV it's beautiful, but at the theater, it's far more enthralling.
In addition, Jackson's film strikes with incredible sound design. Of course, it's led by a phenomenal score by Howard Shore, but there are also many realistic and stylized choices that transport you to a world that doesn't exist.
The moment that perhaps best exemplifies the theatrical experience is the iconic death scene of Boromir (Sean Beam). It takes place in the heat of battle, where the clashing swords and flying arrows are heard repeatedly. Yet, as Boromir is struck down, these sounds fade. Instead, we hear an Elvish choir sing a mournful song. This departure from the reality of the situation not only invokes sadness, but places us in Boromir's state of mind. We are no longer in a fight, but at a funeral, as we prepare to mourn a hero who has no way out.
It's a great scene in a movie rife with them, but it attests to my overall takeaway from the experience: movies only truly exist at the cinema. Okay, perhaps that's an overstatement, but the viewing experience of Fellowship was drastically different in a theater than it was at home.
While you could likely say that about most films, Jackson's trilogy starter remains so affective because it understands what a movie is. Although there's been much discourse about what constitutes a "real" movie, there are only two things that really comprise a film: visuals and sound. While there are many different ways to utilize each aspect, every single movie ever made is a moving visual presentation with accompanying sound.
Of course, this has looked vastly different over the years. Early theaters would play separate scores out loud to silent films, while modern theaters have speakers that can shake the room. Visuals in film have always been changing too, with color eventually taking over for black and white, cameras always improving in quality, and animation taking on a life of its own during the 90's.
Yet, no matter the decade, a movie is just something to see and hear. Great films not only realize this, but they take advantage of it.
When you're in a theater, everything is curbed to experiencing the movie. There are no lights besides the beaming screen in front of you. The speakers today are equally overtaking, making every explosion or rumble unignorable. In this combined experience, a movie has the chance to immerse you with amplified storytelling, to wrap you in an emotional human story or take you to another world that'll eclipse all of your sorrows.
Sadly though, not every film does that. Many films today are satisfied to present a story with little visual or audial flare. The creative choices are made based off general satisfaction instead of what the story needs. Opting for safely reliable filmmaking instead of inspired but risky choices leads to alright, but forgettable films.
For instance, let's look at the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Now, I am a huge Marvel fan, but I'm willing to admit that their output has become sloppy in recent years. After devising a successful formula of charismatic heroes, humor, and fun action, their films have started to feel quite factorylike. Their visuals are meant to appease the masses and their music is hardly memorable. The risks of Iron Man and Guardians of the Galaxy are long gone and the cinema spirit seems to be less present with each installment.
Hopefully, this is a problem they'll rectify soon, other studios have encountered similar issues. Many modern blockbusters fail to leave a memorable mark because they don't make the most of what the theaters give them. As such, we are left with a plethora of merely okay products that have the same effect as if they were watched on a TV at home.
This isn't to say that most films made today are awful. Many critics would likely argue that, but I won't go that far. They're just forgetting what it means to be films.
Luckily, many directors haven't forgotten that, with the biggest champion of cinema being the now Oscar winning Christopher Nolan. Throughout his entire career, Nolan has made excellent use of the theater system by offering well-crafted blockbusters that engulf you with their look, sound, and story. Of course, filming with IMAX cameras and having Hans Zimmer always helps, but he still commands great control of the sound and screen.
For instance, take the final scene of Inception. After Dominic Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) has spent years traversing dreams, he has finally made it back to his kids. However, the only way to be sure he's not in a dream is if his token, a spinning top, falls down.
He doesn't stay to see whether the top has fallen, as he has accepted his fate, but the final shot lingers on the spinning top. Before we get any confirmation though, the screen cuts to black and we're left with an ambiguously iconic ending.
Yet, as we cut to black in an instant, the music abruptly stops. In this moment, both picture and sound act in unison to remove us from the story, cutting us off before any conclusion is given.
Regardless of your opinion on the ending, Nolan masterfully moves you into realizing that this story is over, likely before you wanted it to be. It isn't a groundbreaking approach, but it demonstrates how Nolan hits you every chance he gets to tell his story.
He demonstrated this again in the newest Best Picture winner, Oppenheimer (2023). It tells the life story of Robert J. Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy), the creator of the atomic bomb. Although it's a biopic, it forgoes many of the conventional choices biopics make that render them predictable.
For instance, the story is told in two parts: the first is his life story and building of the bomb, while the second is about a trial he faced afterwards in the fifties for potentially communist ties. It's two different storylines that intersect often despite being set decades apart.
To hammer their differences though, Nolan filmed his life story in color and the trial in black and white. He reportedly said that this was because his life was a personal account, while the trial was supposed to be objective, but there's more to it than that. Oppenheimer's life story is characterized by his aspirations to make the world a better place. We see that aspiration throughout his life with colorfully abstract frames reflecting Oppenheimer's wonderous views of science. Despite the dreariness around him, Oppenheimer knows there are beautiful gems to uncover and believes his research will do so.
However, the trial represents the reality of the world crushing in on Oppenheimer. There's no beauty or optimism, just the cold grey facts that threaten Oppenheimer's legacy. Not only does this reflect Oppenheimer's progression from a bright-eyed scientist to a man forever scarred by the effects of his work, but it also shows how politics and trivialities can suffocate the greatest of aspirations.
All together, Nolan's films work wonders because of how well they use both sound and screen together. He takes chances and they don't always pan out (i.e. his much maligned sound design in Tenet), but it's creatively driven to tell the most affective story.
Of course, Nolan isn't the only director to do this. Rather, he's the only one with enough notoriety anymore to be able to do whatever he wants and still make a profit. Every other director has to worry about whether audiences will respond or not, possibly risking a box office bomb. Even Steven Spielberg is not immune to such worries, as his remake of West Side Story utterly failed at the Box Office despite great reviews.
Nowadays, young auteurs who aim to follow in Nolan's footsteps are relegated to Netflix and Max, a place where their visuals can be seen and their sounds can be heard, but neither will ever be truly felt.
As for the theaters, we are sure to continue to get a flurry of enjoyable, but average films. They will probably have fun visuals and loud sound, but neither are likely to move you substantially or engross you in their story.
That being said, do enjoy the blockbuster popcorn flicks. It's not a given that the theaters will be there forever, so live in their joyful glow while you can. Plus, you never know when the next Nolan will be around to shift things up, so make sure you're there to see it.
