FILM: The Fault In Our Stars

What makes a sad story? It is an interesting and important question to ask, and to attempt to answer, for any artist who wishes to involve their audience emotionally. Incidentally, The Fault In Our Stars - both the book and the film - has been described as incredibly sad and emotional, as you will no doubt have heard. So what does make a story sad? Is a story “sad” if it depicts sad events or themes, or if it makes its audience feel sad? How does one go about constructing a narrative which accomplishes this goal?

The Fault In Our Stars is a film based on John Green’s novel about teenagers with cancer. It claims to be about “telling the truth”, rather than sugar-coating tragic events and themes. While cancer is certainly a sad and distressing thing, merely depicting it in fiction is not enough to evoke an emotional response. The events and characters must draw the audience into the story so that we may involve ourselves with the emotional journey - for that to happen, the story requires characters we can empathise with and relate to. Not only do we need to see that people are dying, but we also need to care about it.

This film appears to rely too much on teenage romance drama clichés to tell this part of the story, rather than actual characterisation. Themes such as obsession over a love interest (“waiting to call”, etc.) and sentimental attachment in other ways play a major role in The Fault In Our Stars - at the end of the day, the film is about teen romance and love. And that subject has been done to death in the past. The Fault In Our Stars relies on the cliches of teen romance to tell its story and to emotionally involve its audience, and I would argue that is not adequate, because other peoples’ love stories are inherently uninteresting to all except those involved. While their relationship might matter to them, there is nothing which would - or should - make anyone else care about them. And this is because the film has not built its characters to make them likable. We, as the audience, only meet them superficially, and do not get the opportunity to genuinely know and understand who they are. Furthermore, there is not much about them which is interesting or intriguing - for the most part, Hazel and Augustus play archetypical roles for a generic teen-romance story. The characters are solely defined by their love interest, and not by their own characteristics - this makes them very difficult to empathize with.

It is true that the story does deal with some interesting philosophical themes, particularly about nihilism, existentialism and death, and Hazel’s choice of the word “oblivion” carries that rather nicely. There is some discussion about afterlife - but more importantly, how the world continues to exist after we die. A very, very common theme in similar stories is how our death will affect our loved ones - family, friends, lovers etc, and The Fault In Our Stars isn’t an exception to this. There is discussion about how one is remembered after death, and the bigger picture of certain human annihilation on a long enough timeline is invoked. It raises some interesting questions, particularly given the terminally ill in question are under 20 years old, and the existentialism of death is all the more poignant when concerning the young.

But this is secondary to the primary theme of love and romance, and the idea of death is carried by the protagonists’ romantic love. In the film, Hazel, who is dying, decides to shut herself off from her love interest because “I don’t want to hurt you” [sic]. This is another cliché which is presented as though it were something new - I’ve seen it countless times before, and I’ve never been fond of it. By common sense, would it not be the choice of the one who was to be hurt? He even says himself “I don’t care if I get hurt”, and yet she refuses to concede his point. This whole scenario is an exercise in laughable, unoriginal sentimentality, and marks poor characterisation and plot development.

The other aspect that an emotional story needs is effective contrast. Tragedy doesn’t mean much unless it’s juxtaposed against something positive, and often writers depict their characters gaining something positive before taking it away from them, thus creating a tragic event. In The Fault In Our Stars, Hazel gains a lover, and then loses him - therein lies the contrast. However, for much of the first half, the film carries an overwhelmingly positive tone in which everything is going perfectly for the young couple, peaking at the expensive (free) romantic dinner in Amsterdam. It overplays the positive aspects to the point where it becomes absurd and difficult to take seriously; the resulting contrast, when everything inevitably and predictably falls, is surreal and contrived, and likewise difficult to take seriously. 

As well as this, whilst the film champions honesty and candidness, it sports an overtly polished and glossy production which makes it feel fake. Many of the lines spoken appear pre-rehearsed and contrived, which is possibly a product of poor acting, as well as many of the scenes. Why, for example, is there a crowd of spectators and subsequent applause when the young couple share a romantic kiss in the Anne Frank house? It is a film that is very difficult to take seriously when it possesses this fake and unrealistic quality.

But the major downfall for this film is as I outlined above - while it claims to be a film about death and loss, the major theme is teen love and romance. It reminds me of The Hunger Games: an interesting idea is marginalized and drowned out by a generic teen love affair. While the interesting philosophical themes are present, the film is dominated by the romance. Love - specifically romantic love - is a boring subject in fiction, and is almost always played out in exactly the same way. And it is for this reason that I don’t find The Fault In Our Stars particularly sad, sombre, or emotionally effecting. As I have mentioned before, romantic affairs in fiction are either specifically tailored to the individual characters’ situations, or generic and clichéd - in both cases, they are difficult to relate to, and therefore boring. It is difficult to become invested in watching someone else’s love story - and as such, any film which relies on it for emotional involvement is likely to fall short. 

It likes to remind us, as well, of how “edgy” and innovative it is. The opening narration, seconds into the film, proclaims that this story does not “sugar-coat” the truth “like they do in the movies” [sic]. Later on in the film, Hazel’s narration confesses that, while she would like to say Augustus was brave and courageous in the hospital, “that’s not what happened.” Throughout the film, there are constant reminders which reiterate how different and candid The Fault In Our Stars is - particularly, compared to other films. Yet the reality sends a very different message - for the most part, this film is little more than another generic teen-romance flick, with a touch of cancer and death added. The focus is skewed in favour of the romantic themes, and the more interesting existential themes are downplayed as a result. And perhaps it is “edgy” by mainstream Hollywood standards - but those standards are not what any filmmaker should strive to meet.

It is for all these reasons that The Fault In Our Stars is not particularly affecting or “sad”. This is not to say that the film was completely lacking in power - the core of the narrative itself, involving young people dying, is a fairly strong one, and no doubt taps into young peoples’ fear of death. But  while the narrative itself is fine, it is in the execution and presentation of this narrative that the film fails; greater emphasis on the themes of death, dying, and existentialism, while diminishing the role of love and romance, would have made a significant difference, and a far greater emotional impact, in my view. Fundamentally, the problem is one of priorities.

There are also some character-based themes which could have been expanded on. Augustus, in all his pretentious smugness, does suffer a moment of weakness when his metaphorical cigarette is taken away from him. Notably, that metaphor is his defense mechanism - it makes him feel as though he has the power to cheat death. It’s a power trip, and they could have played more into the potentially anxiety-inducing effects of that metaphor being “not allowed on this flight”. It would have given the audience a window into his true character, beyond the facade he presents to others, and overall enhanced the emotional weight of his demise. As it stands, not knowing the characters beyond a superficial level makes it difficult to care about what happens to them. That sort of thing needs time to develop - or at the very least, attention - which is why something like Game Of Thrones is so powerful, because we have had a long time to become attached to the characters we are fond of.

So while I’m not saying it’s completely incompetent, popular opinion has greatly exaggerated the actual depth and power of The Fault In Our Stars. Despite this, I would be very interested to see whether the novel is any better than the film is - not enough to read it myself, mind - because most of what I have heard has been about the book. But for now, all we have is another teen-romance film with only a hint of something more interesting. 

FILM: Frozen

So there’s been a fuss about Disney’s latest animated musical film for some time, and after much apprehension I finally got around to having a look. I have not been fond of Disney’s traditional cliché-ridden style of storytelling, and I appreciate even less their general popularity. Frozen, apparently being the highest-grossing animated film of all time, begs some scrutiny, particularly in the company of many genuinely brilliant animated films. What is it, for instance, that makes a film like Frozen so popular? 

It is a film which illustrates precisely why I dislike musicals as a rule; because they combine music and film in such a way that neither are performed adequately. While music and fiction are good mediums on their own, one which endeavors to combine the two inevitably results in both aspects being sub-average. The music is written solely to convey parts of the story, thereby making it literal, straightforward and simplistic. It is for this reason that adding music to story rarely adds anything of value to the experience - one might argue, and many have, that music adds depth to the story by expressing  elements in another dimension. But because the music is simplistic, no emotive depth is added; it is written for the sole purpose of carrying the lyrics - and there is nothing sung that could not be spoken. Likewise, with the focus on musical performance, there is little room to expand on complex story or character arcs, so many fall upon cliche to tell the story.

As with most musicals, the songs fall upon the generic and rather overused traditional Broadway style - light-hearted orchestral songs with squeaky American voices. Once again, there is nothing sung which could not be spoken, and the songs instead provide a vehicle to labour a point not worth dwelling on. This is most well illustrated in the conversation between the two sisters in the castle: the conversation is carried almost entirely in song for no apparent purpose. Rather than adding any depth, it simply makes it appear melodramatic and contrived. Perhaps this could have been amended if the music was interesting to listen to - but as it stands, that is not the case.

So the music part of the musical does not perform its purpose - namely, to add depth to the story. The story itself, then, should ideally stand competently on its own. It does touch briefly on some interesting themes, particularly regarding emotional attachment and the true nature of love. It is interesting how it uses ice as a literal representation of a cold attitude towards other people, and a repudiation of emotional attachment to others, and it is something which could have been expanded on with far greater depth had the film not placed so much focus on the music. As it stands, the ice-power serves as a physical manifestation of Elsa’s social withdrawal, while also being the cause of her withdrawal - this symbol could, and should, have been elaborated on as a major theme. I don’t mean it should be overtly referenced, but a greater emphasis on her cold dismissal of affection as  part of her character development would have been fitting. However, that appears to have been an endeavour too complicated for the writers and producers. 

Other people have mentioned to me that Frozen employs a clever subversion of Disney tradition by abandoning their usual depiction of romantic love. As far as I can see, this is explored in two instances: the first is a conversation about love at first sight, in which the idea of marriage to another whom one has only recently met is ridiculed. The second instance is the overall point, culminating in the conclusion of the film, about how “true love” is within families, and not romantic. Some might say this is a clever move for Disney, and that they should be praised for their originality. However, even with this “progress” from Disney, they are still many years behind and have a long way to go. This isn’t really innovation from Disney - rather, a step in the right direction which has been overdue for decades. In order to be fair, then, they don’t deserve much credit for this development.

Children’s films are an interesting phenomenon. As far as I am concerned, there are two types of children’s films: films made for children, and films which children can watch. The former are dumbed-down, simple-minded and “friendly” films made solely for children to enjoy; the latter are regular films made for anyone to enjoy, including children. Pixar’s films, for example, are nearly always from the latter category - they are all good films with complex structures, interesting characters and strong writing. They also happen to be appropriate for children to watch. Whereas the alternative involves most Dreamworks animated films, including their sequels (Madagascar sequels, Shrek sequels, etc.) in that they pander to the minds of children. Frozen is almost certainly in the latter category, which makes it near impossible for anyone - other than children - to appreciate it. Yes, there are some mildly complex themes, but they are presented only in a simplistic manner, and hardly elaborated on such that they can be genuinely interesting.

I certainly don’t hate Frozen - at least, nowhere near as much as I had expected I would. In truth, there aren’t many films I truly despise. But what I do loathe is when something mediocre, or below-average, attracts a mass of hype, popularity, and - inevitably - money. While being relatively inoffensive, and lukewarm as worst, Frozen is nothing exceptional, and is barely worth talking about. It is okay when it is not singing. But, as is tradition in musicals, too much effort and focus has been spent in writing catchy sing-along songs, leaving very little room to explore the narrative themes with any depth or complexity. It is very straightforward and simplistic, the humour is lacking (with few exceptions, including the nonchalant psychotic snowman), and the music is generic and uninteresting. Yet, for some reason, this needs to be explained to the kind of fanbase who will get excited over the mediocre; who will revere the average. It helps to have some kind of perspective - there’s nothing in Frozen worth being excited about.