Films like these suggest the questions that sf film makers should always ask themselves. These are questions which show respect for the audience, especially for its capacity to understand while viewing a film. It should not be asked what will be familiar to the audience, or whether some science fiction sequence will be too technical, but rather how to make it comprehensible: logically, emotionally, dramatically, visually. One need not succeed on all levels with all people for them to know and appreciate the significance of what is happening. 2001: A Space Odyssey is a wonderful example of this kind of success. So many people knew or sensed what was happening on some level—intuitive, emotional, intellectual, scientific—to some degree, that it put to shame the literal-minded critics who believe that communication runs only in certain explicit and univocal channels.
The audiences of 2001 are now ready for still better things in sf film. The lesson is that all film, including sf film, can and must educate its audiences to expect more, understand more next time. It must whet appetites, not feed the audience pablum. On television the pablum gets so bad so regularly that even mildly innovative programs are greeted with enthusiasm.
Sf film, like all film, then, can create its own demand for better film through itself. There will always be films which are visually meritorious, though poor in other ways. And we will have those who are drawn in this direction, crying that this is all there is to it, the summit of what film does and can ever do; the sound of the craftsman in love with his tools, fearful of revealing that the tools cannot do everything. And there is considerable truth in this, though we should be wary of saying how much. We are still in the honeymoon phase of the sf film maker's art. Many films are exercises of talent, compendiums of differing abilities, showing us bits and pieces which are the shadows of a whole work.
Those who undertake the making of sf films should do their homework, and understand the problems. They should view those few sf films which are reasonable successes by all the demands discussed. There are not many such films. The film maker should not be dominated by attitudes of "pure cinema," but simply be influenced by them. In those few cases where a science fiction writer was directly involved in the making of an sf film, the product came out weighted toward science fiction virtues—ideas expressed visually, through the spoken word, musically, the virtues of intelligence and coherence in regard to sf characters and events. Often the visual craftsman had more to bite into as a result. His ingenuity was challenged again and again by the content which he had to express.
The first great sf film, although its view of the future is quite simplistic, is Fritz Lang's Metropolis, an epic silent released in 1926. It is a flawed film, but one which genuinely works to express its ideas visually and dramatically. We know and see what ideas are in conflict. We see how the huge technology works, how it oppresses, and what the people think of it. Metropolis says everything it wants to say, but fails in credibility at the intellectual level. Its characters are puppets for its ideas. Its view of the future cannot be seriously held for social, economic, logical, and technological reasons. Its future is symbolic projection, not extrapolation, a grotesque nightmare only visually satisfying. More can be said of it as a social document of the times in which it was made than as real sf film. The special effects are still startlingly effective. The film is a technological gothic.
The first sf film to succeed on almost all counts is the Wells—Korda—Menzies Things to Come of 1936. Like almost all sf films, good and bad, it was overpraised or unfairly condemned, and continues so. Like the later 2001 its virtues are considerable.
It has a strong screen play, which is acted by giants, characters who speak out against each other and against their fate with classical passion. Its themes are lasting ones, despite the film's specifics. The anti-war sentiments are historic now in the light of the war that followed—especially in view of the Vietnam war, whose end was promised again and again much like the repeated promises of the Chief in Wells's film; the idea of man remaking the earth; the insistence on law and sanity; the love of reaching for the stars, of risking comfort for something creative in us; the sense of human waste and ignorance; the ascetic, apolitical superman, who is calm, saving his passion for the most worthy ends. All these things, which belong so clearly to what many of us who write and know science fiction think of as a worthwhile future, make the film a unique expression of general attitudes that surely belong in any good future.
But the film is rich in more than this. It rises to a special kind of brilliance, Baxter points out. He is on strong ground when he writes, "The most remarkable quality of Things to Come is the coherence and consistency of its design. Menzies may not have been a master of direction, but his sense of balance and mastery of what Eisenstein called "visual counterpoint" has never been better displayed than in this film. Concerned only in the most general way with textures and movements within the frame, Menzies puts his whole effort into the balance of his sets, the conflict between masses, and the choreography of matter. His designs fill the frame, both vertically and horizontally, while the use of the low angle sends individual groupings surging out at the audience." Baxter should say at this point that the film's design supports its ideas and theme; its visual side is integral with its science fiction content.
The sequence of special excellence is the final one at the reflecting telescope, as Cabal (played by Raymond Massey) and Passworthy (Edward Chapman) catch a fleeting glimpse of the space vehicle on its way to the moon. The scene is lighted from one side only, giving the character's faces a dark edge which contrasts well with the white telescope and dark, starry heavens. One could easily make a case for the explicit symbolism of man's backward and forward looking natures in the halfdarkened faces.
Passworthy asks, "If they don't come back—my son and your daughter—what of that, Cabal?"
“Then, presently, others will go."
“Oh, God, is there never to be any age of happiness? Is there never to be any rest?"
“Rest enough for the individual man—too much, and too soon, and we call it Death. But for Man no rest and no ending... First this little planet with its winds and ways, and then all the laws of mind and matter that restrain him. Then the planets about him, and at last out across immensity to the stars. And when he has conquered all the deeps of space and all the mysteries of time, still he will be beginning."
“But. we're such little creatures. Poor humanity's so fragile, so weak. Little. little animals."
“Little animals. If we're not more than animals we must snatch each little scrap of happiness and live and suffer and pass, mattering no more than all the other animals do or have done." John Cabal points to the reflection of space in the mirror. "Is it this—or that: all the universe or nothing? Which shall it be, Passworthy? Which shall it be?"
Baxter writes, "Over this dialogue Bliss imposes a soft but powerful melody, building with the intensity of Cabal's speech until the full orchestra and choir surge up at the end with an echo of his final question. The final scene is a triumph of music and image. The hard edged side lighting and almost stylized close-ups of Massey's face, his impeccable delivery of what is basically a technocratic credo and Bliss's profoundly moving music combine to give it a unique quality of optimism and dignity."
At this point Baxter again fails to complete the statement he should have made about music and science fiction. Music has always had the quality of transcendence and striving, qualities directly associated with science fiction ideas. Things to Come employed Sir Arthur Bliss, the English composer, to create a serious score for the film. But it was Kubrick who fulfilled the promise of serious music for sf film. He took the intuition, held by many in science fiction, that the music already existed. He took the work of serious composers and gave it new life in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The music in both films expresses what Baxter calls "the essential spirit of science fiction." It supports the transcendent movement of ideas which belong to good science fiction, generally the ideas of change and creativity.
What is important in the ideas department of Things to Come, something which the thesis of Baxter's book prevents him from approaching with any perceptive enterprise, is that Wells wanted us to understand not his specifics, which belong to the world of the film's story, but the general constructive attitudes —the idea that the future must be an object of creative concern, that futures are to be made, invented, not passively predicted. "The essential spirit of science fiction" with which Baxter credits the film has never stood for one party-line future. The dull Utopia that Baxter complains about is far from static. It is itself being shaken up by the conflict over the creative space venture which is the film's finale. I need not point out that this conflict is a modern one, and still with us. As in the film, it is a challenge to further growth, one which strikes at out entire awareness of the earth as an island in the void. That the idea of space travel should be pitted against the reality of human welfare on earth, and in 1937, is proof that even in his old age Wells had an historical imagination of the first order. Even the much-ridiculed electric cannon which launches the space craft in the film, is a much more sophisticated invention than many know about. It is not a simple Vernian cannon, which would compress the astronauts into pulp when fired. It is a "graduated electric catapult" in the shape of a cannon within a cannon, which would accelerate the vehicle by stages. Both the U.S. and the Soviet Union have considered such economical ground-based and powered booster systems.
Wells could not sneer at "whole-wheat" Utopias in a world where so much was lacking. He did have a sense of priorities in the full modern sense. Wells scholars are gradually freeing his name of the taint of technocracy and scientism which has been imposed on him by proponents of the "two cultures" myth. Things to Come is rich in ideas as well as being an excellent film. It demonstrates that ideas are an important part of good sf film, and that written sf is not hopelessly at odds with the film medium. Baxter fails to demonstrate the truth of his charges against Wells and the film. He merely states certain secondhand and untenable assertions which represent a superficial and antiquated view (from a critical-scholarly standpoint) of the historical Wells.
The interplay of ideas in the film can be demonstrated, even briefly. They show a unified movement without which the film's images would be diminished. The visual counterpoint is paralleled by a counterpoint of ideas. A tug of war goes on in the film between Wellsian social ideas and Vernian technological elements, between what Alexei Panshin defines as the didactic and romantic elements in science fiction. On the one hand there is a concern with the improvement of human life in practical material and engineering terms; and on the other hand there is a concern with the ineffable, the aesthetic, noble and transcendent. All these things are present in what we see and hear. In every scene the film expresses the intrusion of the unknown into the known and limited—the sort of thing which every now and then pushes our imaginations into new realms, and without which life would not be worth living. It is the attitude which Wells tried to harness to the remaking of the world. He did not have to succeed with the world, or be a perfect prophet with a workable scheme on the screen, to make this a great sf film —which it is because it does everything necessary to such a work.
Where Things to Come falls somewhat short is in its model work, which is inferior to Metropolis, though adequate. But for all its visual beauty Metropolis fails as sf film, though not entirely as film, because it says so little—not much more than something about how workers and factory owners should cooperate. The story and characters of Metropolis carry no conviction. At its most simplistic, Things to Come projects a sense of open possibility absent from Metropolis. Things to Come has a strong grasp on the polar opposites of safety and adventure, of boredom and novelty, of consolidation and innovation. Its finale is an archetype of great science fiction moments—in this case the moment when a future state of affairs is about to be surpassed by further progress.
Wells was a critic of progress, as Jack Williamson has pointed out in his study of Wells, not simply an advocate. In Things to Come we are made to feel dramatically, intellectually, and visually that the overall pattern of progress cannot be grasped in advance, except momentarily; and that beyond the attainment of social welfare lies the problem without end, the question of what makes living worthwhile: creative ventures of our own choice, made possible by the dull comfort of material welfare which Baxter scorns. This problem lies deeply in human nature, and is the source of pessimism about humanity. That Wells should present it to us alongside the outward looking dream of space travel, constitutes a vision of maturity, a turning away from the frustration of solipsism and despair, the diseased pessimism which World War II placed over his mental life like a shroud.
Other science fiction films which were good science fiction include Destination Moon (1950). It taught audiences about the reality of space travel (ironically a child of the war) and its problems. It taught them to expect accuracy in scientific details, as well as showing them the natural beauty of earth-moon space, as much an object for visual poetry as any part of nature. The film was made by George Pal, with the cooperation of Robert Heinlein. As with Things to Come, Destination Moon has the virtue of being well spoken. The characters speak with a moving, quiet dignity and authenticity, though on a lesser scale than in Wells's film. The element of the spoken work is one of the things that makes both films exceptional drama.
The Time Machine (1969), also by George Pal, is a well made adaptation of Wells's classic novel. As in the book the film clearly reflects Wells's fear of a comfortable Utopia which will put us to sleep. The film has been called conventional, but it does capture Wells's technical wonders—the time machine itself—as well as his concern for mankind. Rod Taylor is perfect as the likeable time traveler. No one who is attentive to the film's all around virtues will come away disappointed. It may not be what it should have been, but it is good sf film—an almost nonexistent thing.
More recent examples give cause for hope. Good sf came to television regularly in the 1960s, and a few of the best examples of sf film were presented on the small screen. The finest examples were Harlan Ellison's "Soldier," and "Demon With a Glass Hand," both one hour episodes in the anthology series The Outer Limits.
“Soldier," a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a fighting man from the future lost in our present, becomes more meaningful during reruns, as we watch him trying to understand our world—where war is not the all embracing reality, even though we took a step in that direction during the 1960s. The film brilliantly gives us indirect glimpses into the terrible reality of the future world, where cats are bred to be intelligent spies, where super-weapons and inhuman war situations require human war robots, bred artificially, parentless devices of the state. The meticulous craftsmanship of this film is a wondrous thing to be seen, and more than once.
“Demon With a Glass Hand" is more fantastic, but an intriguing joy to watch and think about, again fulfilling that union of genuine science fiction ideas and brilliant film making. The idea of the title, a computer hand with five plug-in fingers, is a concept that can live brilliantly in a film or science fiction novel. The story was shot in an old iron-latticework office block, and gives the film a unique quality of brooding darkness.
Ellison later went on to write "The City at the Edge of Forever" for Star Trek. It was one of the few episodes which made its people live and suffer believably in a science fiction framework which genuinely pervaded the entire situation, and which provided both its human and science fiction resolution at once. Traditional by written sf standards, this episode was brought with
conviction to the television screen.
In Modern Science Fiction: Its Meaning and Its Future, edited by Reginald Bretnor (1953), Don Fabun wrote: "In time we may see the modern literary form called science fiction legitimately married to novel and exciting techniques. written by craftsmen who are skilled at writing with real actors. just as today's better writers are skilled in turning out really fine stories for the printed page." He laments that the visual media's plasticity can be realized by few living writers.
The situation began to change by the late 1960s. 2001: A Space Odyssey, made with the help of Arthur C. Clarke and directed by Stanley Kubrick (who confessed that he wanted to make the good sf film that everyone was always talking about), proved that a new audience for sf film had arrived.
2001 brought out clearly, through the reactions of audiences and critics, all the problems associated with sf film. It became obvious that the critic or viewer chooses to pay attention to one thing or another, and his assessment of a film depends on what elements he happens to value above others. But we have seen why sf film demands an attention to a variety of elements on the part of the filmmaker. And this same attention must also be demanded of the critic and viewer. Like the viewer the critic must learn to understand, not preconceive. The critic has no business watching a film casually or uncritically. An sf film, especially, demands more than facile reactions written in ignorance of what makes a good science fiction film.
2001 was full of science fiction ideas presented visually. The film did what no sf novel could do outside the imagination of a perfectly imaginative reader. It worked well for those who brought to it only minimal understanding of its backgrounds and concepts, as well as for those who knew science fiction. Like the other sf films which involved sf writers significantly, 2001 preserved much of its writer's character and concerns in its final form. The lesson is not that every sf writer will work well in film if given the chance, but that many surely will, for reasons which are not enigmatic. The same holds for directors who know sf. We are at the start of an innovative period in science fiction film.
Science Fiction Today and Tomorrow Page 7