Anarchy Loves Company: A Review of 'The Dark Knight'

The Hollywood Blockbuster equivalent of James Joyce in narrative style, The Dark Knight is a mad, free-association assemblage of moral quandaries and spectacular destruction.

In superhero fashion, dark is the new black. Mood and introspection are the accessories of the now. The backlash has already begun, and films like Hancock and Iron Man actually appear ‘niche’ because of their insistence of lightweight fun. It’s tempting to blame Tim Burton for all of this, his Batman and Batman Returns revelling in the demented grotesquery of the circus freaks who populated a wildly over-conceived and dangerously top-heavy Gotham City, itself an ornate architrave beneath which combatants duelled theatrically. Burton’s films fed upon the yuppie consumer malaise of Reaganomics, depicting a fear subverted by fetishism and all but eliminated by societal apathy; in Christopher Nolan’s fresh take on the franchise the fear, like the hallucinogen in Batman Begins, has infiltrated the bloodstream of the social body and is ready to explode at the flick of a switch.

That 2005 reboot told the story of a simple billion-heir punishing himself in various ways in order to understand why bad things happen to good benefactors: Bruce Wayne, his parents killed, learns lessons both martial and moral, then unleashes both on a cabal of assassins attempting to destroy the city. Batman Began, but seemed unsure how he was going to get to wherever it was that he was going: the plotting could only be considered anything other than a complete mess if one read the film as an externalised Jungian nightmare, which was a stretch at the best of times. The same confusion affects the sequel, only this time reveals itself to be an intention rather than a vice – in The Dark Knight, the word to spread is most certainly panic, but it spreads beyond the schemes of the villains and the reactions of the citizens, infecting the performances of the actors, the composition of shots, the musical score; the very texture of the film.

Gotham City, evolved from a composition of urban environs into a Chicago-inspired (and shot) dystopia of political aspiration and mob rule, is attempting to haul itself out of the mire of corruption and depression. Hot-shot D.A. Harvey Dent is giving the ordinary people hope against an empowered criminal underclass. Newly-minted Batman is thwarting drug deals and gaining co-operation from the police, particularly Major Crime Unit commander Jim Gordon. Bruce Wayne remains a pompous, over-sexed jerk. Before any of these elements are established, however, Christopher Nolan and his co-writer (and sibling) Jonathon Nolan have introduced the match-head which threatens to burn down this particular urban forest: standing half-hunchbacked on an intersection in the sunlight, clown mask in his hand, the Joker begins his reign of terror.

Cut loose from the time-shifting opening acts of Batman Begins and The Prestige Nolan initially seems to be floundering, his drifting narrative lacking the excuse of warped chronology. Events in this first act notably fail to cohere to one another, creating less a plot and more an incredibly high-sheen superhero soap opera. This fractured, shard-like style never lets up; where its predecessor eventually jettisoned the fragments for a linear roller-coaster (the frenziedly elliptical editing notwithstanding), The Dark Knight has no choice but to revel in its own chaos, sub-plot proliferation and jaunts to Hong Kong abound. The Joker arrives as an almost extra-textual element to the film, a demented punter setting fire to the auditorium, causing the performers on screen to desperately utilise celluloid means to extinguish a corporeal flame.

And what a flame it turns out to be. Not since Robert Duvall turned the volume up on Ride of Valkyries has so much destruction been wrought over such a wide area with such panache. Like the characters of Michael Crichton’s Sphere, the Joker seems to need only to conceive of some malevolence than the barrels of gasoline appear and the clock starts ticking. The gleeful nature with which Nolan instantaneously manifests such chaos puts shame to Batman’s silent appearances and vanishings. These moments begin to transcend their earlier incarnation as plot-holes, following as they do the logic of a nightmare. The Dark Knight is in awe of such power: even composers James Newton Howard and Hans Zimmer seem cowed by the Joker’s mere presence onscreen, their normally bombastically ominous score becoming nothing but a shrill whine as some fresh horror of his making unfolds.

The destruction mounts, and Nolan stages particular sequences with a verve and tension that at times beggar belief. A three-way cross-cut sequence leading to an assassination (but whose?) is edge of the seat stuff, despite two of the imperilled characters being mere bit-parts. The most cohesive fifteen-minute stretch – a street-chase involving an armoured convoy, a bazooka-wielding Joker, some monumental stunt-work, and very little music – makes the film worth the price of admission no matter what the cost, playing out with vintage Michael Mann precision rather than comic book bedlam.

This sequence aside, the film suffers the similar (albeit enviable) fate as its forbearer and remains a collection of grand and fantastic ideas under-executed and swiftly departed from. Floated relatively early is the plot-point that the Joker’s reign of terror will cease only when Batman reveals his true identity; a few scenes later this is effectively dropped, so that later still when the two come face-to-face the Joker fails to even suggest that the bat has an alter ego. While this is an intriguing way of suggesting the growing synergy between the two characters (i.e. as the Joker has no past or alter ego, neither does the man in black), it flits past so quickly, and is surrounded by so much flying debris, that it is in danger of being lost to the cacophony. So too is the concept of an ontological sonar-based CCTV system which Batman uses to hunt down his nemesis, the thrill and danger of one man being able to map in real-time the movements of an entire populace becoming just another piece of visual bombast in a sequence already full of it. The most resonant idea being heard above the din is that there is just no point to it all, and that if – as the final act suggests – the expected moral norm that an individual is more ethically sound than an endangered mob can be inverted, then anything is fair game and the very concept of heroism is meaningless.

The Joker’s schemes affect not only other characters within the film, but the very texture of the film itself.

With the vision of a city in chaos, hospitals exploding and bound hostages being used to deliver messages via the nightly news, The Dark Knight is at pains to be fiercely contemporary. It becomes impossible to speak of the plot in a vernacular that does not reflect Western political anxiety; even the characters within the drama give up halfway through and identify the Joker as the terrorist that he is. Beyond these aesthetic lifts the most original expression of the new normal within the film is the uncertainty which grows with every minute. Every character can be killed, every building can be destroyed, and every good man can become a ruthless murderer. Beyond this, the Joker’s insanity infects even the plotting: whatever framework of control the characters or the audience attempt to impose (It’s the story of a superhero in crisis! It’s a love triangle! It’s about an imperilled political operator! It’s the story of an alliance between the mob and a madman!) is literally blown to smithereens almost in the very moment at which it is conceived.

The cast, for the most part, are as unhinged by this randomness as the viewer. While the aforementioned lighter summer films of Hancock et al were designed around central star personalities, Christian Bale’s Bruce Wayne neglects to command such control, ceding it instantaneously to Heath Ledger’s fluttering psychotic. Much praise will be given to Ledger’s performance (much of it entirely deserved) and all I would attempt to add here is that – for all his violent audacity – the character is beautifully anchored in some miniscule way by a bittersweet sense of something lost (sanity? history?) which could never be regained. Bale himself deserves praise for making his Bruce Wayne as casually dislikeable as possible, and his dark Knight as monotonous as possible – just as Wayne himself would play the Bat. Other actors seem pleasingly frazzled by the chaos around them, Gary Oldman being a particular stand-out, elevating his Jim Gordon from the one-note idealism of the first film into a living, breathing, middle-aged criminal investigator seemingly way out his depth in this particular sea of madness. The casting of the bit-parts, meanwhile, goes beyond the mere stunt and into an inexplicably euphemistic realm – witness Eric Roberts playing, effectively, Eric Roberts, and the in-joke casting of former ‘Batmanuel’ Nestor Carbonell as the new Mayor of Gotham.

At two-and-a-half hours the film is certainly long, and with its extended third act and constant state of frenzy, it is easy to feel wearied. However, the brilliance of the craftsmanship (the brooding score, Lee Smith’s flash-point editing, Wally Pfister’s granite-like cinematography) makes the elongated running time welcome. While others have termed it the greatest superhero film of all time, I hesitate to apply that label, for the principal reason that I do not feel it is a superhero or comic book film: the pleasures on display are for the most part divorced from the sorts of thrills that are contained within that generic label. The Dark Knight is far more notable for its social theory, emotional tone, and (most of all) the originality of the narrative-style than for its duels or its scenes of caped crusaders flying through the air. As such, it represents a director pushing the boundaries of his craft in the most literal way possible, and demands viewing on the biggest screen you can find.

Down From The Mountain: A Review of 'Seraphim Falls'

Coming to us courtesy of a director whose experience has been limited so far to television cop shows of varying repute, Seraphim Falls has far more to offer an audience that simply a name that needs to be spoken twice to anyone who asks it. Firstly, it gives Pierce Brosnan another chance to bring his brand of business-like charisma to the screen, something which is always welcome, and delivers some fantastic photography in addition to a surprisingly engaging story.

‘Never turn your back on the past’ is the tagline for the film, which is presumably an attempt at irony on the part of writer-director David Von Ancken, as the film-making seems resolutely against giving any additional information other than the presently-occurring facts: Brosnan, name unknown, is being pursued through the wintry climbs of some mountains in the American south-west in the years following the civil war by a band of calmly calculating gruffians, led by Liam Neeson, name unknown. The one man flees from the rest, getting shot, injured, submersed in ice cold water; all the while the film staves off an explanatory flashback in the same way that Brosnan’s character keeps one step ahead of those after him; when the past seems to catch him, it is but a fleeting glimpse, the chase resumes, and the audience stays in the dark.

I am sure that Ancken was pressured to put some kind of explanatory titles at the start of the film; that he has not caved makes him worthy of real credit. It is a rare pleasure to simply watch events unfold without repeated overtures made to what led everyone here. It lends the film an urgency and excitement that it is able to maintain for much of its lean-feeling two-hour running time. When the details begin to trickle through it feels natural, not forced: Brosnan introducing himself as Gideon, and the dropping of Neeson’s character’s name being Carver. These are not introductions, they are overheard snippets.

In lieu of back-story, we get to watch Brosnan repeatedly mumble and wince in pain as he is put through several tortures, which suggest the makers recently viewed Die Another Day. His character is described as one ‘who doesn’t speak much’, and it is indeed half an hour before he says a word. It is hard to see why Brosnan was cast in the role (the involvement of Mel Gibson’s Production Company Icon and the near-constant infliction of pain suggest the erstwhile lethal weapon was previously drawn to the part), but it works a treat, as does Neeson’s quietly venomous but ultimately human portrayal of a man out to catch another man.

Moving from icy primitivism through familial concern and towards the corporate civilization of the railroad (via Christian missionaries, of course), the various stocks-in-trade of the American Frontier myth are addressed and subtly manipulated. Having thus crafted a state-of-the-nation circa 1868, the film then veers towards the surreal, in the last reel moving unexpectedly into David Lynch territory (although one suspects even he would have had second thoughts about Wes Studie cameoing as a character in charge of a watering hole called Charon.) This is not entirely unwelcome; indeed, it brings a new slant to the story, as does the movement from the top of the mountains, through an autumnal pine landscape, and onto the boiling heat of a featureless salt flat. One might criticise that the visceral energy presented, however mutely, in the first hour begins to ebb away from the piece, but if this slight remove gives off the whiff of intellectualism, surely that is a far sight more interesting than another town-based gun battle, no matter how confidently staged? The film demands a second watch, not because of any plot twists or character revelations, but because it conjures up the sights, smells and atmosphere of its locales in a way that few other films, let alone Westerns, manage so confidently.

In the final reckoning – having mixed a tweaked Outlaw’s Progress tale with various elements of Greek tragedy, biblical emotions, and historical cliché – Seraphim Falls is oddly able to walk into the sunset with head held high.