“He travels fastest who travels alone.”
My personal journey with trailers has been both winding and fraught. I’ve mentioned here before that Suicide Squad was and is the worst movie I can remember seeing in a theater.
[Sidebar: I mentioned that in the Aliens Film Lit Pitch. And, look, I don’t want to get too deep into the weeds here, and I certainly don’t want to toot my own horn too much, but based on the metrics I’ve seen, a few of you would benefit from reading that one. The movie itself rules, and I had fun writing that post.]
What I have yet to mention is that what made my disappointment in that movie so acute was that Suicide Squad had one of the absolute best trailers I’ve ever seen. To be clear: it would not be unfair to say that at that point in my life, I was a trailer addict. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I watched no fewer than three every lunch, on my computer in my classroom. I mean, I watched the Suicide Squad trailer at least twice a day in the weeks prior to its release. I could not get enough trailers, and I definitely couldn’t get enough of that particular trailer.
And then I saw the movie.
And I instantly went cold turkey on trailers. I was angry at myself for letting the studios con me. And it would be years before I saw another non-right-before-a-theater-movie trailer. I did not want to go through the Suicide Squad heartache again. Seriously, the next one I saw on my computer was for The Matrix: Resurrections. And I’ll tell you: I tried my best—I really did—not to watch it. But I did give in. And binge-watched the heck out of that sucker. Perhaps this is the old addict Mark talking, but that trailer is a masterpiece. Phew. (Definitely old addict Mark speaking here: in writing this post, I did go back and check out the Suicide Squad trailer again. It still rules.)
I saw 1917 in my trailer-free era. Famously to recent Film Lit students, I also saw Parasite during my trailer-free era. (Heads-up: I’ll pitch Parasite in early 2024.) Both of these great films kept me convinced that a trailer-free life was the way to go. Because in both cases, that I didn’t know much about the story helped me enjoy crucial moments a whole lot more.
As I write, 1917 is an occasional participant in my very fun and amorphous Unit 6, the final unit of the semester. I’ve paired it recently with Dr. Strangelove (Pitch available here) and The Lives of Others (Pitch available here), in a three-part “War Movie” Unit. I think it would also work well in an early-semester unit focusing on effective visual storytelling and effective screenwriting structural elements. And as I write that, I do think it might be fun to pair it with Dunkirk some day. (Yes, there will be a Pitch for that movie at some point.)
“May I tell you something that you probably already know? It doesn’t do to dwell on it.”
Act I is direct and jarringly short. In his meeting with Blake and Schofield, General Erinmore is stark and economical. And then, before anyone has had a proper chance to get their bearings, he says, “Good luck.” We’re at six minutes. By that point, we already know the nature and scope of the mission, and we have at least a general sense of the emotional stakes, as well. Act I’s brevity signals an aggressive and brave story—one that is fearlessly, unforgivingly, kinetic.
[Editor’s Note: Let’s take, in contrast, another famous Act I ended by someone saying, “Good luck”: Taken. We all love the famous monologue to get Liam Neeson’s journey started. And it’s also the case that it occurs no sooner than thirty-five minutes into the picture.]
Once we get the story started, we don’t stop, we don’t stay anywhere for long, and we don’t go back. We meet people abruptly—numerous cameos come and go with little fanfare—and then never see them again.
[Editor’s Second Note: To be fair, I suppose you could make the case that Act I actually ends when Blake and Schofield leave the trenches. Even then, Act I is around fifteen minutes—still short. Less fun, but still short, and still on-brand.]
When Blake and Schofield leave the meeting, they are under tremendous time pressure. They are also very unsure of what they are actually up against. Schofield’s warning about what will happen “[i]f we’re not clever about this” is both important and urgent, but, in Blake’s mind, there’s no time to stop and think. These two unbeatable and ever-present enemies—time’s relentless march onward and foggy, incomplete information—add tension and anxiety for the duration of the story.
Indeed, one of my favorite elements is how emphatic individual leaders are that they know what’s actually going on, and that anyone who presents them with contrary information must be wrong. This pattern leaves the viewer constantly on edge, never able to trust or anticipate with confidence.
And the story plays with that anxiety. On one hand, complications and obstacles come out of nowhere. My favorite small example here is when Schofield accidentally plunges his recently cut hand into the corpse—it’s a cringe-inducing moment, and reminds us that nothing is easy for these guys; there is danger around every turn. But then, this complication does not lead anywhere significant. I remember seeing this film the first time and thinking that his hand would become infected soon enough, and that infection was going to put him in even more danger, or prevent him from functioning at his best. I was wrong.
On the other hand, major build-ups often do not always lead to major events. My favorite here is when Blake and Schofield are just about to cross what they believe to be the Germans’ front line. The music crescendos, and then . . . “they really have gone.” And we all get a big sigh of relief. But then, we eventually find out that we (and Blake and Schofield) have been lulled into a false sense of security—in the tunnels there are, after all, lethal traps.
“Just like you . . . a little older”
This dynamic makes the best scene in the film, and one of the best scenes I can think of, even better.
[Editor’s Note: Loyal fans know and remember that our first Operating Principle is that “I will assume you’ve already seen the movie.” (For the complete list, see here.) I mention that because what you’ll read here next is about as big a spoiler as they get. So if you haven’t seen 1917 yet, do yourself a favor and go see it. And then come back and finish reading.]
It all starts innocently enough, with Blake and Schofield watching their compatriot win a dogfight. And then, continuing the film’s modus operandi, the German plane appears over the horizon—and all of a sudden Blake and Schofield have to save themselves from a fiery death.
As war movies go, Blake’s emphatic kindness to the German pilot leading to tragedy is fairly conventional; I think more than a few of us watching this scene for the first time were frightened and suspicious when Blake insists that Schofield get the German pilot some water. We knew something bad was going to happen.
But that we don’t get to see the actual stabbing—Blake comes into view with the knife already in him—is as unconventional as it gets. And it’s jarring as hell.
I can’t remember being more surprised at something I was watching on a movie screen than when I saw Blake dying. And I certainly can’t remember rooting so hard for something not to happen. It’s such an intense sequence, in no small part because while my emotional brain was running wild, my intellectual side was doing all sorts of mental gymnastics trying to figure out a way out of this mess. And then you realize: there is no way out of this mess. That just happened.
This moment put into clear relief the value of knowing little about the film before I saw it. From the opening, I was convinced that if someone were going to survive, it would be Blake. I wasn’t sure what path he would take, but I felt in my heart that Blake would find his brother.
The scene itself is masterfully constructed, brutally excruciating. The effect of the scene is profound—at least it was to me. If Blake can die, I thought, then any outcome is on the table. When it comes to a reversal, a plot device that keeps the audience on edge for the rest of the movie, it’s hard to think of a more effective one.
“It was very quick.”
Another consequence of my relative ignorance about the film before I saw it was that I was totally surprised—and quickly taken in—by the visual storytelling approach. I kept waiting and waiting for a cut, and then, eventually, got it: the whole movie is going to (appear to) be one long tracking shot.
As I’ve told my Film Lit students, this technique accomplished its mission with me: I remember holding on the the arm rests and idiotically leaning forward and craning my head, hoping to get a better sense of what was going on, as if somehow I could put my head in the frame and get a look around.
That I did something this dumb—and did it more than a few times—speaks to the effectiveness of using technique to forward agenda. Because that’s the whole bit, right? The reason Sam Mendes presents one long apparent tracking shot is to keep the audience imperfectly informed, so they will be afraid and anxious throughout. You, the viewer, never get a chance to take a breath, and never get a chance to know, fully, what’s going on.
In the light, the camera work and script work beautifully to synthesize a message: war is a harrowing, relentlessly dizzying experience. And, to be sure, that message is not breaking ground in this arena. But the approach and execution on display to convey this message are impressive.
“There is only one way this war ends: last man standing.”
See you on November 29th, when we discuss Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969). (I’m taking Thanksgiving Break off from official posts. I’ll post a fun list for November 22nd.)