Ender's Game: Movie Review

Several years ago, I chanced upon an audio version of Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, and I really enjoyed it. The book was published in 1985, but until now it had never been translated into film. Somewhere—I don’t recall whether it was a part of the audio or in print—Orson Scott Card discussed the problems in getting the book onto the big screen. One of the problems was age of the characters. I don’t recall exactly how old they were in the book, but they were young. For this and other reasons, no film version came to pass—until now. It was worth the wait. 

The problem seeing a film adaptation any book that you’ve really enjoyed is that you’re likely to suffer a disappointment. There are exceptions, To Kill a Mockingbird comes to mind as a great book and a great movie. And some books probably become better as films. I’m guessing here because I never read the book, but I imagine that The Godfather is better as a film. But the finer the book, the more likely the disappointment in seeing its film adaptation. I can now add Ender’s Game as an exception to this rule. The screenplay sticks closely with the book (as far as I can remember, as it has been several years). Ender’s relationship with Valentine and Peter is not as fully developed—wasn’t Peter on the way to becoming some type of fascist leader?—but on the main points, I think they adhered to the major scenes and themes. The lead (Asa Butterfield) looks like a pre-pubescent boy (if he has any peach fuzz on that face I couldn’t see it). Some of the others were older, and some younger, but we see that Ender and the others  are kids. The premise that kids could be trained more effectively than adults in the complex and intuitive skills required makes sense. The filmmakers have maintained this crucial aspect of Card’s original vision. A child shall lead them—but at what price?

The crucial part of the adaptation is that Ender remains the central and enigmatic character. Ender is at once sensitive and ferocious. (One has to ask, once the testosterone gets turned on, what’s this guy going to be like?) We don’t know where the ferociousness comes from, perhaps the book addressed it—a combination of genetics and having Peter as an older brother? But Valentine helps nurture Ender’s sensitive side. If Ender hadn’t worked as a character, the film wouldn’t have worked, and for this we have to thank the director and young Mr. Butterfield. Others in the cast worked well also, the young actors and the veterans. I must say, however, that I wonder if Harrison Ford doesn’t tire of having to snarl in every movie (although I’m sure that’s what they hire him to do) and Ben Kingsley doesn’t tire of playing a burly, tough heavy (each new role an anti-Gandhi). But both fulfill their roles appropriately.

I read an article from The New Yorker about politics and SF in which author Tim Kreider makes an argument that really resonated with me: politics is about the future*. This strikes me as profound and accurate. Indeed, we might extend that and say that life is about the future. In any event, since politics is about our collective future, the SF genre is well suited to explore politics because of its ability to experiment with future societies. I know of political science courses based on SF literature. (Alas, I was never was able to take the one that was taught at Iowa by one of my profs.) Ender’s Game, both the book and the film, addresses tough political and moral issues (and these two subjects are often combined). An attack by the Formics traumatizes humanity. The task assigned to Ender and his fellow youngsters by the leadership of a seemingly united humanity becomes a project of genocide. I was surprised to hear the term genocide used in the film. The decision to annihilate the Formics before they annihilate humanity has been made at the highest levels. But is this necessary? The question occurs to Ender and to us. The ending leaves us wondering what becomes of Ender and his quest. Is his accomplishment a source of pride or guilt? Wisdom or foolishness? The film doesn’t try to answer the question (perhaps Card does in his later installments in the series), but to have the questions raised encouraged me that a mainstream American SF film can address tough questions. These issues are relevant to decisions made in our world every day. Most recent SF films have disappointed me, with an overemphasis on special effects and loud booms. Don’t get me wrong, FX is great, and I’d love to play in that zero-gravity training room with those stun guns—that would be terrific! But such neat stuff can’t substitute for some gravity of theme, and I’m happy that this film doesn't ignore that ingredient. 

*Science fiction is an inherently political genre, in that any future or alternate history it imagines is a wish about How Things Should Be (even if it’s reflected darkly in a warning about how they might turn out). And How Things Should Be is the central question and struggle of politics. It is also, I’d argue, an inherently liberal genre (its many conservative practitioners notwithstanding), in that it sees the status quo as contingent, a historical accident, whereas conservatism holds it to be inevitable, natural, and therefore just. The meta-premise of all science fiction is that nothing can be taken for granted. That it’s still anybody’s ballgame.

P.S. This entire essay is worth reading. 

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood

We humans like to be scared, even in our reading. Ghost stories, tales of Gothic horror, thrillers—in all sorts of circumstances we want to have ourselves scared. But there is another form of fiction that we don’t typically categorize along these lines, but that I find really scary, or perhaps creepy is the right word. These are books that I recognize as revealing something to me in the now, something about me or my world. Those books that take what seems quite normal and then reveal that the situation harbors frightening consequences. Dystopias of the near future can do this very well. Think of the classics, Brave New World and 1984: what makes them so disturbing? Not any thrills in the plotline, but the familiarity they contain, the plausibility they reveal. Indeed, we can think of dystopian writers as the prophets of today—not in the mistaken sense of those who predict the future successfully. Quite the opposite: you don’t want the prophet’s vision to come to pass. The prophet—exemplified by the Old Testament messengers of God—foretells a future that will arrive if the people don’t turn away from the error of their current ways. A successful prophet’s vision of the future does not come to a realization. The successful prophet turns the people away from disaster. Thus, we can label Orwell a successful prophet because (or to the extent) that we don’t live in a world of 1984. (The NSA isn’t reading this, right, Big Bro?) In this century, writers of dystopian visions of the future serve as our prophets, and we must count Margaret Atwood among them. 

Oryx and Crake is the first of a trilogy of books set in the near future. (MaddAddam, published in 2013, completes the trilogy.) Atwood sets the story in the near, recognizable future; a future with genetic engineering, gated and guarded compounds, and (continued) international sex trade. The tale deals with how one person, Snowman, once known as Jimmy, arrived at a Robinson Crusoe-like existence from that original, familiar setting. While surviving (one could hardly call it more than that) in this new world, the narration recounts the events that led him to his current circumstance. Crucial in the story are two others, the girl Oryx, first seen by Jimmy on a computer screen, and his friend Crake, a genius who rises quickly in the world of genetic engineering. 

Atwood writes from Snowman’s point of view, alternating between his current dire circumstances and the tale of his life that led him into this new world. Atwood persuasively captures a sense of alienated, increasingly nihilistic teenage boys who turn into alienated, nihilistic young men. This is one of those creepy aspects of the book. One can believe that a young Jimmy (young Snowman) and a young Crake (the nickname of his friend) exist in multitudes today. How do young men, endowed with the awesome power of science, especially with the power of biology to alter life, deal with this power? Might they abuse it? When we think about gun violence, as we all too often must, we realize that we readily allow young males (nearly always the culprits) easy access to guns. Look what happens. What if we allow them access to the ability to create and alter life at the most basic levels? Do you feel comfortable with that thought? This part of the tale is as old as that of Victor Frankenstein, but today we have powers that Mary Shelley would never have dreamed of. Who was the greater threat: young Victor or his creation? 

Atwood also plays with the idea of abundance and scarcity, including the problem of jealousy and violence. Will this new world—perhaps not so brave as Shakespeare hoped and not so soporific as Huxley mocked—still engender violence and jealousy? Will the abundance of computer porn and accessible “sex workers,” along with genetic engineering, alleviate the violence created by male rivalry and quests for status? In this aspect of the book, the character of Oryx, a young woman brought to the world of Jimmy and Crake from the sex trade of south Asia, provides an enigmatic key. A wisp of a woman, she remains a mystery of sorts, even to the two men, Jimmy and Crake, with whom she becomes involved.

Atwood’s tale moves fast. Her imagination streams quickly from here to there via a light, deft prose that keeps the tale moving while describing this new world and the characters in it. Atwood doesn’t ruminate. She keeps the plot moving, but the lively pace of events allows Atwood to shine her high-intensity flashlight into as many aspects of these worlds as she can. She doesn’t need to explain; the spotlight of her imagination reveals enough.

Movie Reviews: Zero Dark Thirty and Oblivion

ZeroDark Thirty was okay. Just okay. It left one pondering a number of things that might have been explored, although by documentary might have been a better format; for instance, the efficacy (in terms of gaining information) of torture (as shown in the water-boarding scenes), the effect of torture on the torturers, how the widespread knowledge about the U.S. government use of torture affected U.S. standing and prestige in the world and particularly in the Islamic world (i.e., did it create more jihadists?). Of course, no Hollywood movie wants to go down that rabbit hole (not to mention the morality of torture). So, we have to say that while this film hints at such issues, it skirts them.

The film could have been made more interesting if the character played by Jessica Chastain had been interesting, but she was not. During the course of the film, from her initiation into “enhanced interrogation”, through her experience of a terrorist bomb, the death of her friend through lax security and naiveté, to a gun attack, and finally to stationing at Langley and participation in the bureaucratic politics, she doesn’t seem to change. (A tear in the final scene in the hollows of a C-130 doesn’t really reveal much.) Chastain’s character was to serve as the thread of the film, but she appears inert to the world around her, so how was her character (and by necessity) the film to prove interesting beyond the details of the attack and killing of OBL? Compare her character to Claire Dane’s character in Homeland (Season 1). While I wouldn’t want Dane’s character working for the CIA, she is an interesting character (well portrayed by Danes). Thus, in reality, give me Chastain’s rather bland character working for the CIA, but for drama, Danes’s Carrie Mathison proves by for more interesting vehicle for driving a story. 

Oblivion, the new Tom Cruise movie, is billed as homage to 1970’s SF, and within that modest goal, it works reasonably well. The plot hangs together pretty well. The post-apocalyptic landscape (complete with NYC landmarks) seems appropriate. Ecological disaster combined with alien invasion brings in two familiar motifs. Yeah, I get it. 

On the other hand, it doesn’t break new ground. IG, who, despite her prejudices against SF, attended, thought it a rip-off of Star Wars. Only in the 70’s SF look, I’d say. Mad Max might be a better comparison (although take a look at Morgan Freeman’s helmet . . . . hmmm, where have we seen that before?). Cruise is adequate to the role. He’s not yet too long of tooth to play this type of adventure hero role, but he’s getting close. So, on the whole, worth seeing if you enjoy SF and a nod back to some earlier flicks.