jaywolfenstien

About midway through Black Widow, I realized my eyes constantly fell upon Gene Tierney during her scenes. Even when Van Heflin or another actor delivered his pivotal and emotional speeches which would otherwise command attention, I found myself watching Tierney's quiet reactions. Sometimes her presence in a scene amounted to nothing more than subtle eye movement; nevertheless, I found her mesmerizing.

I state this observation not to draw attention to Tierney's performance (a fine actress, indeed, but she does not have much to do), rather, I mention this to criticize director Nunnally Johnson's utter incompetent frame. An artist controls his canvass through focal points; he commands the viewer's eye to journey through the image across a predetermined path. This sets up a visual rhythm, helps the audience take in and process the imagery, and motivates the viewer to continue, you know, viewing.

Johnson's frame, though, remains bland, flat, and uninteresting—a non-descript street where a parade of characters will march, deliver their lines, and rigidly move the plot along to a monotonous drum. Never does the camera linger on the sights or appreciate the visual aspect of the medium. Characters appear, they move around, and they talk. Oh, do they ever talk. They talk so much that Black Widow could transition to a radio drama with minimal altercations.

Some films, such as Blade Runner, are so visually spectacular one could mute all sound and let the images speak for themselves. With Black Widow, one could shut off the picture and lose absolutely nothing. Since Johnson failed to provide a frame worth looking at (much less a focal point), is it any wonder why the eyes might settle on Tierney even when she's just part of the background? I know, I know. Not all movies are equal, and not all movies are supposed to be Blade Runner caliber demonstrations of artistic virtuosity. The focus—nay, the entire point—of Black Widow is the plot. So, a young attractive writer (Peggy Ann Garner) moves into town and turns up dead in producer Peter Denver's (Heflin) apartment. In traditional Hitchcockian fashion, the innocent man must clear his name, get to the bottom of the accusations, all while avoiding the authorities.

This brings me back to Johnson's directing (and writing) where a lack of subtlety all but announces the killer, which proves fatal in the telling of a murder mystery. The deceased woman had a relationship with the husband of a famous Broadway actress. Well, there's a whole two men in the movie that fit that bill, and we know one did not do it. Now throw in ominous lines of dialog like, "no darling, I'd never cheat on you. You'd strangle me in my sleep." Is it a coincidence that the victim also died by … nevermind.

Like all murder mysteries, the ending is a series of monologues explaining what may have happened and, ultimately, what did happen. And when the audience has pieced together the puzzle twenty minutes ago, it gets quite boring watching the characters play catch up. You just want to sit down next to Gene Tierney there in the background, chill out, and wait for the plot.

When I was 10 years old, I remember seeing Terminator 2: Judgment Day in the theater. And when Arnold first saves John Connor from the T1000, I recall the vivid awareness that I wasn't just watching that Summer's action Blockbuster. It was something more. At the time, I didn't really know or understand that feeling. But years later, when I'd revisit T2 it would click into place.

I wasn't watching a movie. I was watching a Dream.

Across the years, I've been blessed to encounter a handful of other films that gave me that same feeling—the feeling that I could close my eyes, and awaken to a new world of distilled imagination. Blade Runner, Pan's Labyrinth, Metropolis, and Nosferatu are a few names on that short list. Early in Avatar, when paraplegic Jake first links with his Na'vi avatar and races across the Pandoran landscape, exhilarated to be running again, I leaned forward in my seat and smiled. Once again, I wasn't watching a movie. I was watching a Dream.

Avatar uses the classical narrative structure of a man who must step beyond his culture, become one with a society alien to his own, and ultimately make a stand with his new brothers. And unlike previous telling of this tale, Jake can literally step outside of his human skin and take on the form of a blue-skinned and golden-eyed humanoids called the "Na'vi."

Neytiri, a female Na'vi, guides Jake in the ways of her tribe, and as they make this journey together a bond forms between them. "I see you," she whispers to Jake. "I see you," he whispers back the way two lovers might exchange "I love you"s. And there couldn't be a more appropriate expression of affection for these characters. "I see you." Director James Cameron wants to open his audience's eyes, as Neytiri opens Jake's eyes, to the breathtaking sights of Pandora. But unlike visual effects masturbations like G.I. Joe and Revenge of the Fallen both of which throw CGI out randomly in an effort to create the most/biggest/boomest explosion, Avatar aims to recapture the child-like wonder of experiencing a *vision* that, to quote Manohla Dargis, "really is bigger than life."

Another director would be content to show the majestic floating "Hallelujah" mountains in the distant background, but not James Cameron. He goes further and invites us to climb them with Jake and the young Na'vi hunters. After dangling perilously from vines and rock faces and clawing our way to the top, Cameron then lets us ride on the back of winged dragon-like creatures, the Mountain Banshees, and soar above and between this magical landscape of towering miracles and impossible valleys.

But more importantly: amidst the overabundant spectacle, Cameron never loses sight of that child-like curiosity driving all fantasy. Do you remember staring at the cover art of your favorite book asking, "What would it be like to fly? How exhilarating would it be holding on to a Banshee for dear life while it dove 300 feet straight down? To feel the roaring wind rush past with the intensity of a hurricane as you fly—really, truly, honestly fly?" James Cameron remembers asking those questions.

He's filled the world—the vision—of Avatar with sights both grand and subtle. This is a movie that will go full throttle into an epic battle where a legion of Banshee-mounted Na'vi fly fearlessly through the airborne mountainscape while the military gunships unleash a hellstorm of missiles, and yet it also has the patience to let Neytiri reverently pause to observe where the drifting Seeds of Eywa fall. It will show you giant colorful dinosaur-like creatures smashing through trees in the all but obligatory stampede sequence, but look closely when the Na'vi get ready to ride a Banshee and you'll see gill-like orifices through which the creatures breathe. The world of Avatar feels bigger than life, yet I felt like I could reach out, grab a sample, and take it with me.

Is Avatar perfect? Far from it. It blatantly contradicts itself during the climax and brushes a little too close with propaganda in places. But like a dream, it didn't matter. When you've looked across the Pandoran landscape at night and absorbed the mystical beauty of the self-illuminating flora, when you've felt the thrill of watching Jake command the meanest predator on the planet and unite the Na'vi tribes, when you've *seen* Avatar … you don't care about its logistical faults.

It's a movie about sights, and James Cameron isn't shy about that point. It's the heart of the film. It's in every frame—in the very fabric of the film. Hell, it's even spelled out in the dialogue.

"I see you."

In the cold mechanical adult world of unforgiving cause and effect, Avatar is the movie to reawaken the forgotten child of so long ago. The child who believes in searching for undiscovered frontiers to explore, who believes dragons and magic exists, and who believes dreams are real. It's always refreshing finding out our inner child is still alive, that the jaded real world hasn't killed him off entirely yet.

Thank you, James Cameron.