“I always think ape better than human. I now see how much like them we are.”
For those who missed last episode, I’ll put on my announcer voice, and tell you, “Previously, on The Film Lit Pitch: Rise of the Planet of the Apes.” (Check it out to get all caught up.)
I’ll announce here that after the next Pitch (on the trilogy-concluding War for the Planet of the Apes) our summer session will conclude with my list of the Top Ten Sequels—specifically, second franchise entries. And it will not be a spoiler to loyal readers that Dawn of the Planet of the Apes will be on that list. (But what number will it be? Tune in August 7th!) This film does what any excellent sequel should do: build on and remain loyal to its predecessor’s best elements, and add new dimensions.
Like Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Dawn shows us the beauty and power of directness. The opening sequence, featuring a literal throughline from the first film (a replay of the haunting mid-credits graphic from Rise), is both quick and dense. It world-builds by way of tracing the fracture and disintegration of human society, and covers a lot of ground in two minutes. The sequence is gripping and unrelenting, and establishes that this film will take a no-nonsense approach.
(I should add, too, that watching this scene on this side of 2020 is a lot different, a lot harder, than it was when I first saw the movie in the theater. I mean, yikes. And just as if all the sadness and devastation weren’t bad enough, that guy speculating (correctly) that the virus came from a lab eerily presages countless Infowars-adoring COVID cranks.)
The opening thus tells the viewer to prepare for a story with little fat on it. To use a vague but reliable metric, it’s difficult to multitask while watching this film. If you pay attention throughout, it is not difficult to keep up; turn your head for a second, though, and you can find that when you turn your head back, you missed something big.
And yes, I get it: the use of sign language and subtitles is a factor. And it’s also the case that every scene features rich subtext, and, as often as it can, shows rather than tells.
“Scars make you strong.”
As we discussed last time, efficient storytelling is in line with the precedent Rise sets; but Dawn sets a precedent that will define and elevate the rest of the franchise. Specifically, its scenes often sit in a particular pocket: its dilemmas are at once simple and complicated.
In the process, it illustrates the values of three of Legendary Screenwriting 434 professor Lew Hunter’s founding principles. Let’s lay them out, and then see how they play out.
First, he preached that in a good screenplay, character drives structure. Think about Dawn’s key plot points and turns. So many of them come from decisions that make sense and are reasonable and defensible given the decision-maker.
Second, Professor Hunter believed that a good screenplay presents its characters with Film-Lit-Famous “No-Choice Decisions,” situations with no good way out. (In my Film Lit story structure lecture, I always refer to the “Best Bad Idea” scene in Argo as a favorite example of this storytelling principle.) (If you don’t like that one, maybe you’d prefer this other excellent example, from The Matrix, when Neo decides to rescue Morpheus.)
Until the final assault, the many negotiations and planning sessions are fraught and tense, because there is no path that would obviously avert disaster. Dawn thus routinely shows us how quickly and efficiently a disciplined screenplay can raise the stakes and turn a situation from safe to unworkable.
Third, Professor Hunter ingrained in us that sometimes the best scenes are the ones that force us to ask, “Why are these people arguing, and why are they both right?” Dawn repeatedly presents us with opportunities to ask this question. The conflict is often layered, especially because it’s not just between but among species. That pattern makes Dawn’s moments of conflict even more effective, because the viewer can’t just dismiss one side of the argument out of hand.
“And I want you to know: It’s not just about power. It’s about giving us hope to rebuild, to reclaim the world we lost.”
Before we get to how we see these principles play out in the apes’ side of the story, I want to quickly give credit to screenwriters for applying them to the humans’. Specifically, I just love the portrayal of Dreyfus. It would have been easy enough to make him a power- and blood-thirsty maniac. And we know that because we can remember what happened to Jacobs in Rise: he quickly becomes a stock evil stand-in for corporate greed who gets his in the end.
Instead, Dreyfus is a well-meaning and nuanced war-time leader. As with the rest of the humans, trauma has scarred and changed him. It matters that the first thing he does when the power comes back on is tearfully look at what the pandemic took from him.
Even though he is a soldier, war is not his first choice. But the crisis Dreyfus faces is real: there is no viable path forward without power. And because he knows his resources are scarce, his approach to the discovery of the apes is one based in pragmatic fear: if we do not know how many of them there are, we have no choice but to prepare for conflict.
Dreyfus’ character development pays off when he blows up the tower. Of course we know that Malcolm is right—that with more time, Caesar can end the fighting. But Dreyfus does not. From his perspective, he’s doing the right thing, and has dwindling time to do it; he’s sincere when he says, “I’m saving the human race.” And, in light of what he’s experienced and seen, what reason does he have to trust Malcolm, especially when Malcolm has an assault rifle pointed at him? His detonation of the C-4 is, from his perspective, a reasonable—indeed, the only—decision: cold and math-based, as combat decisions must be.
Dreyfus is principled, has a noble goal, makes hard decisions, and sacrifices himself for others. His story is a sad one, and one that adds richness to the story. If this film ever makes it to Film Lit, Dreyfus tees up a class discussion question: “Dreyfus leads the force that opposes the apes. But is he an antagonist?”
“I would do anything you ask. But we must show strength!”
That question, of course, leads us right into talking about Koba and his break from Caesar. I don’t think it’s going too far to say that the arc of their relationship is Shakespearean. (Dare I say it: et tu, Koba?)
It matters that we see Koba first as a staunch Caesar ally, a noble lieutenant. When the story opens, he wants what’s best for all apes. Indeed, though his ambition clearly gets the best of him, I’m still willing to believe that the origins of his conspiracy to replace Caesar lie not in self-interest but in community survival. I believe he is looking out for Caesar when he says, “I fear for Caesar’s life.”
His schism with Caesar comes from a good-faith recommendation based on his lived experience. Caesar’s desire to avoid war, of course, has both cultural and pragmatic motivations. He does not want to center his culture around war; and he is rightly concerned about the war’s costs, that this moment might be their best and last chance to avoid war.
But, especially if you’re Koba, it’s also the case that Caesar’s faith in the humans reveals his privilege. Put simply, he trusts humans because he’s loved and been loved by humans.
Koba is not so lucky. Perhaps his most poignant argument is when, in response to Caesar’s suggestion that the humans continue their work, Koba points to his many scars and describes them accurately as “human work.” The humans have done nothing to earn Koba’s trust, and he believes—again, fairly—that Caesar’s past allegiances blind him.
And Koba is not wrong, about the humans or Caesar. The smartest thing to do would be to attack the humans as soon as possible. As soon as Malcolm’s group encounters the apes, war becomes not a question of if but a matter of when. Caesar’s decision to help the humans makes the destruction of his culture more likely: as soon as the humans get power, they are on the radio trying to get help. In the universe where Koba does not lead an attack on the humans, I’m sorry: the humans will very soon launch an attack on the apes.
I’m not too big on the tried hot take framework that posits that the supposed antagonist is really the protagonist, and that the supposed protagonist is actually the antagonist. (Unless and until we’re talking about Aliens and/or Starship Troopers.) For example, I have no interest in arguing that T’Challa is the actual antagonist in Black Panther.
So I’m not out here saying that Koba is some sort of hero. What I am saying is that he’s a complicated antagonist. (He’ll certainly make a future Top Ten Antagonist list.) And because that’s true, he also illuminates how complicated Caesar is as a protagonist; he makes (and admits to!) crucial errors, and falls short of his own ideals.
“Ape started war. And human . . . human will not forget.”
See you on July 24, when we discuss the conclusion to this trilogy War for the Planet of the Apes (2017).
P.s. Dumb and nerdy note: On my most recent viewing of Rise, I couldn’t help but wonder what the Star Wars prequel trilogy could have looked like in the hands of Dawn’s screenwriters. I mean, so many moments in Anakin Skywalker’s tragic path are compelling as hell: so many no-choice decisions, so many noble-but-misguided characters making decisions that only they would make. But I don’t believe these screenwriters would have taken eight hours over three movies to present them.