Pi and Following: Different Takes on Similar Concepts, and Why Remakes Might Not Suck.

In 1998, two filmmakers now considered modern geniuses released their debut films. Christopher Nolan released Following, a quiet black and white noir thriller about a man, obsessed with following people, who gets in too deep and ends up destroying himself in the resulting web of crime and deceit. Darren Aronofsky, at the same time, released Pi, a quiet black and white noir thriller about a man, obsessed with finding numerical patterns in the universe, who gets in too deep and ends up destroying himself in the resulting web of crime and deceit.

...I swear, I just described two films. And not just two films, but two very different films. But what is most interesting about them is what it says about the filmmakers, then just starting their careers, and how the differences in these films echo in the directors' later works. Because, and maybe this is just me, I believe if they had switched concepts, their debuts would have looked strikingly similar to what they are now.

Before I go any further, assume spoilers for all or most of both directors' movies. Also, I haven't seen Insomnia or The Fountain, so if I use phrases like "all their films", I mean with those (possible) exceptions.

First, as it is the freshest on my mind, Following. The film follows Bill, a wannabe writer, who in his loneliness, starts to follow people. At first, that's all he does; he follows people, sees what they do, and that's it. He attributes it to gathering material, but it's clearly because it gives him a sense of association with other people. However, his routine is soon upended when one of the people he's following, Cobb, confronts him and introduces him to his own special brand of very personal burglary. He falls deeper into the rabbit hole, particularly as he revisits and attempts to have a relationship with a woman whose house he broke into. As it goes on, you eventually see the conspiracy emerge, in which Cobb (with the help of the woman) is attempting to frame him for murder; or, as the film reveals in the last minutes, maybe he simply used him for a burglary and set everything up to ensure Bill was to blame.

The film isn't entirely clear about how it ends. Sound familiar? Inception comes immediately to mind, as do The Prestige and Memento to a much lesser extent.

I should come out and say that I have a number of problems with the film, certainly more than I have for Pi. I do, however, think I have a good idea of where the film's strengths and weaknesses lie, regardless of my opinions.

The film works almost solely on how well crafted it is. Both in script and direction, every event is written and placed in such a way to keep the plot intriguing, keep just enough details out of reach, and to maximize the effect of the film. It is very much a film that runs on what you don't know, on letting you build your own expectations then trashing them. It keeps you engaged by giving you little hints and tidbits and making you wonder how the hell it all fits together. Then, when the movie ends, it comes together in such a way that it couldn't have worked any other way, yet you're still surprised and alarmed.

This is a huge strength of Nolan. His ability to craft these really complicated plots, to dive and spiral and loop around a story without missing a beat, is what drives most of his films. Memento is one of his most acclaimed films, and all he had to do was tell a standard revenge thriller backwards. Saying it like that makes it sound easy though; it's amazing that he's able to tell such a compelling, thrilling story essentially backwards, and make it feel like you really truly don't know what's coming next (or before?). It shows in his direction too, particularly in his ability to bounce between the slowly rewinding story in color and the slowly unfolding story in black and white, without missing a beat or causing any confusion. Inception is a great example of this too, where the story has such potential to spiral into confusion, but his impeccably crafted script keeps the story very much intact and his direction keeps it straight in the film.

His other major strength is in his shocking surprise endings, the endings where you didn't see it coming but there's still no other explanation. It's obvious in Following, as you see when it's revealed first that Cobb and the blonde are both just using Bill, and again when Cobb kills the blonde and we watch as Bill's story collapses under scrutiny. In Memento it's huge, as we find out Leonard is living out a lie, and that perhaps that's exactly how he wanted it. It's also especially big in The Prestige, which is interestingly a good way to look at his films: he gives you these magicians, pits them against each-other, we watch as they one-up each-other, and finally in the end we see how they did it, which far exceeds anything anyone would expect at the start of the film, or even halfway through.

But I should point out weaknesses too. Following has a problem with characters. Frankly, it doesn't really have them. There are people who are there to fill out the plot and spout dialogue, but none of them feel like real characters, let alone people you can empathize with. Moreover, there's no character development. The characters are introduced, and never actually go through any changes, for better or for worse. It's unsurprising, looking at Nolan's later work, to see how weak the characters are, though that isn't to say he still can't write characters. The Prestige and Inception both contained adequate character development, but it was certainly far overshadowed by the plot.

Ultimately, the way he makes his movies, he doesn't necessarily need much character development. His films are puzzles, albeit puzzles he wants you to be too confused by so he can put it together for you as you watch in awe. This is part of why he's such a perfect fit for the Batman films. Batman, being very much a detective superhero, often involves very puzzle-like webs of crime that lead back to a grandmaster scheme from a supervillain; they concoct a huge series of elaborate plans that Batman finds out just late enough in the game to stop at the last minute.

But what's the point of all this? The point is that this film pretty conveniently serves as a picture of Nolan's natural strengths and weaknesses, in the same way Pi does for Aronofsky.

In Pi, we follow Max, a mathematical genius/loner working on finding a pattern in the stock market. His only real friend, former teacher Sol, tries to convince him to drop it and enjoy life, but he keeps going until he finds a mysterious number, just by chance, which appears in Pi, the stock market, and the Torah. He keeps pushing to find the full sequence, even while being harassed by a Wall Street company and a group of hasidic Jews. As he gets closer and closer, he slowly delves deeper and deeper into madness, until finally, upon learning the number, he puts a screwgun to his brain.

With this film, it's a bit harder to find Aronofsky's weaknesses as a director; Pi is a much stronger film than Following, and some of the flaws within the film aren't quite as prevalent in all his work as Following's flaws were in Nolan's. However, there are some very clear threads that can be followed.

Starting this time with the flaws, Pi suffers from a lack of focus. At times, this is actually a good thing; the film spirals into confusion and madness, so a lack of focus at times helps to amplify that. However, other times it seems unintentional, less like a tool to enhance the mood and more like amateur mistakes. The Wall Street company, for the first half of the film, is not only never really defined, but is shrugged off as a mere inconvenience for Max. When they finally emerge in the story, you expect them to be there in a misguided attempt to help Max, or maybe they're just salespeople; however, they very shockingly leap from inconvenience to a force to be reckoned with, trying to bribe him and eventually resorting to force, which comes off as a strange turnaround. You can sort of see what he's trying for in that group with the hasidic mathematicians; the first one comes off initially as an inconvenience, then piquing his interest as he realizes they might have information he could use. However, as it goes on, you see they just want his information and will do anything to get it, leaving Max to drive further from companionship into his own madness.

This lack of focus is one of the primary reasons critics bash The Fountain. However, in The Wrestler and Black Swan, he keeps the reigns on it really well, spinning an unfocused story in a focused way with The Wrestler and using confusion and lack of focus in Black Swan to enhance the descent into madness.

Speaking of The Wrestler and Black Swan, let's move to Aronofsky's strengths. Most notably, character.

Pi, The Wrestler and Black Swan can all be considered character studies (Requiem for a Dream is not a character study, but it doesn't tell the characters that). Each one has a rich main character, where even if the other characters are weak, these characters (and the actors portraying them) are extremely rich, human characters with extremely discernible character traits and flaws. The flaws are important, since all his films revolve around self-destruction. Each character has their goals, hopes, dreams, and reasons those will all be crushed.

His greatest skill as a writer or director is his ability to make you not just empathize with the characters, but completely understand and side with the characters, and to force you through whatever the character is going through firsthand. In being able to do this, he can make the same loose plot of self-destruction bring out different emotions. For example, by the end of Requiem, we are completely stripped of all hope, but at the end of The Wrestler, even though the character is going to die, we have a sense of purpose, belonging, that he wants it this way and that everything is right with the universe.

In Pi, he finds the number, and we get the sense that his entire life all built up to this moment; but at the same time, he's driving a screw-gun into his head, so we're left with a kind of unsettling, confused success. We've experienced the feeling of success against all odds that Max gets, but he's seen something we haven't; he's transcended our petty minds, so while we assume his success is a good thing, we can't help but wonder why it made him put a drill to his brain.

So after all that, it doesn't sound like these films are similar at all. And, yes, the writer-directors' far different approaches make the films very different, but the similarities still bleed through. Both films often aim to achieve a sense of mystery, and both tease you with information often, through different means.

Okay, so I wrote a wall of text about two directors. What can be gained from this? Besides nothing? Well, personally, I see it as a very clear example that similarly-concepted films from different directors, and by extension, remakes, are completely valid and worth watching.

I say that with a grain of salt; particularly in the case of remakes, you have an extremely good chance of simply releasing an unnecessary rehash of something you've already seen and loved. There are a million reasons not to remake a film, but there are quite a few reasons why it might not suck.

I'm not going to delve into this, because it's supposed to be the conclusion here, but let me highlight Fright Night. The original had no need to be remade; well, depending on who you ask, the film is brutally sluggish and bordering on too campy, but most critics and audiences seem to agree, it hits all the right vibes to create a fun 80's horror-comedy. I was among the crowd excited for the remake without having seen the original, solely based on the director and the casting, but after watching the original, I started to get second thoughts. It wasn't a perfect movie, but I couldn't see how a remake could improve without losing out what the original had.

Then I watched it, and I managed to be impressed. The concept, under this director, managed to differ hugely. In some cases, not for the best (the character of Peter Vincent took a hit, but let's be honest, they weren't gonna match Roddy McDowell anyway), but mostly, if it didn't distinctly improve on the original, it at least set itself apart. We have the same concept, but what feels like a completely different cast of characters, all thanks to being re-imagined by people who knew what they were doing.

The point I'm driving at here is that, since remakes aren't going anywhere anytime soon, you might as well admit they aren't always bad. You might have a bunch that aren't done well, but for every one of those, someone actually does it right, and instead of having a great movie and a dud, we have two great, distinct movies.

So, I guess what I'm inadvertently saying here on the whole is that I want Darren Aronofsky and Christopher Nolan to do remakes of 80's films. But I guess that's just me.

Links in Thematic Styles of Writers and Filmmakers

So I like to think I'm a budding writer, which means, of course, that one of my greatest talents* is procrastination. I'm no amateur; I don't just watch videos of cats, I spend all my time and energy reading about writing, reading about filmmaking, reading books and watching films so that I can stay convinced that I'm not procrastinating.

So pro.

Anyway, the point: I've done a lot of meditating (well, procrastinating) on the thematic styles of writers and filmmakers, particularly directors who aren't writers. Sometimes, it's extremely painfully hard to find; Sidney Lumet, for example, has a vast and intriguing filmography that seems to avoid any kind of coherent overarching thematic style. At least, on the surface. Maybe there's a distinct link between all his films, or maybe everything is exactly as it seems, I'd be lying if I told you I knew.

But, upon examining a decent selection of filmmakers, I'm inclined to believe there's something there, if only because many of these filmmakers seem to be doing this by accident. In some cases it's the director's personal style and how they approach different stories, and in some cases it's a writer-director simply rehashing the same plot points. In some cases, though, the writers/directors simply write or choose stories that resonate with them on some deep, subconscious level, which produces thematic links in a director's filmography despite even attempts to vary their work.

One example of this I like is Danny Boyle, who has some very clear thematic links through his work even though the genres and types of stories he's telling, even the formats, are so completely different, ranging from a rowdy stylistic take on the harrowing addiction movie to his stark, realistic, and humanity-driven view of the post-zombie outbreak; to his quiet contemplative marriage of hard sci-fi and spirituality to his gripping true story of man versus the elements, isolation, and his own self; to his kids' Christmas movie to his foreign film to his dark comedy and so on.

It seems silly to think all his work has a common thread, but it does. I'd go into that, but then what am I going to write new blog posts about?

What I CAN go do is present a few more examples. Some of these filmmakers are really obvious: Guy Ritchie movies almost always consist of the everyman-petty-criminal, character with street sense and a slightly more reasonable set of morals than most of the cast, who nonetheless screws up and ends up in debt to a big intimidating mob boss. To get on the right side of said mob boss, they come up with a great plan that inadvertently ends up a perplexing situation that ends in a lot of death, and the ultimate success of the protagonist, often through sheer luck and the efforts of all the other characters over their own.

...that's an oversimplification, but you get the idea. The point is, anyone who has seen some of his movies can pick out Guy Ritchie's style from a mile away, both in the way he directs and the way he writes. Tarantino is similar, though certainly a bit more nuanced and varied with his writing style.

On the other hand, some directors seem attracted to certain arcs, thematic elements and internal conflicts. This is readily apparent in Darren Aronofsky's work: He gravitates towards character studies, and particularly the effects of being absorbed or destroyed by their passion. However, the details and style can be radically different, as between The Wrestler and Black Swan, which share major themes and arcs, but are otherwise completely different in nearly every way.

So between and during whatever my other blog posts turn out to be, I'm going to be attempting detailed analyses of whichever filmmakers or writers that happen to strike my fancy. I'll probably start off with obvious directors with tiny filmographies like Ritchie, Tarantino and Aronofsky, but eventually I'll move up the ladder until I get to directors like Scorsese, Ridley Scott, Spielberg, and hopefully, eventually, Lumet.

Okay, clearly I've only been thinking about directors, cause to be completely honest, I find it more interesting when a non-writing director has these thematic links through his or her work. But I'll certainly take into account screenwriters (Aaron Sorkin, Charlie Kaufman, Paddy Chayefsky all come to mind) and writers of prose (Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut spring immediately to mind, but that's because I've been on a them-binge). But for now I'm focusing mainly on filmmakers. 

The only problem in my way is that I need to actually watch every one of their movies, or at least most (I'd like to think I can ignore widely-regarded shite like Ritchie's "Swept Away", or films where the studio held far more sway than the director, like Fincher's "Alien 3", but I'll nonetheless go for all of them, cause even bombs have something useful to say). I'm also gonna keep a minimum three movies, partly so I can justify looking at Edgar Wright and Tom McCarthy, but also just because when you have so few movies, it might seem easy to find links that tie together movies when, in reality, their larger filmography over time will end up looking nothing like that. Tarantino is a good example of this, since his first two films are much more similar to eachother than they are to the rest of Tarantino's work, and looking at those films alone, one would likely paint a much more specific picture of his style. 

It may seem silly and easy to have to cut out directors with only one or two movies, as opposed to cutting it at four or five or six, but it's a lot more painful than it looks. Duncan Jones and Rupert Wyatt are both intriguing, talented directors I wouldn't mind looking at, and there are a number of recent first-time directors who have caught my attention (such as Joseph Kosinski, for his extremely undervalued work on Tron Legacy). But I won't touch on any of them, especially not the first-time directors. Maybe I'll take a look at Jones and Wyatt in some form in the future, but not to any huge extent.

To top all this off, if all goes according to plan, I'm going to use this as a way to break out of my procrastination. That's right, ending where I started, I'm so clever.

More specifically, I've been working a little on a series of projects which are likely too expensive to actually implement, but writing words costs me no money, so I can at least write them. Essentially, once I've come to a clear understanding (at least, as clear as it can get) of a director or writer's style, I'm going to attempt to apply this style to an original story. Chances are, most of these will dance the thin line between parody and love letter; an already in-progress Aronofsky-fueled story, for example, is, despite his heavy dramatic tone, a positively goofy concept, if a bit less silly in practice.

So there's that. Tune in for more, or log in, or whatever the reading-a-blog equivalent is. If you're wondering why you should care, you don't necessarily have to. I'm doing this for my own improvement and simply offering my findings on the internet.

So.


*Not my greatest talent, because that is Diddy Kong Racing. If people still played it I'd be a world champion, I swear.