Of Gods and Monsters

There's a scene, partway through Gareth Edwards' rather brilliant new Godzilla, that reveals much of the filmaker's project in this unexpectedly essential updating of a classic. You've seen it in the trailers. Ken Watanabe and Aaron Taylor-Johnson are talking. Johnson; "A monster." Watanabe; "No, a God." I trust that you can figure out who they mean. It's an interesting moment both for the content and for where it appears in the story. We've gotten a glimpse, at this point, of a giant monster in action, although as we later discover it's the least of the three in this film. Godzilla himself has yet to lumber onscreen. So why make worshipful noises now?

Many critics have pointed out, accusingly and otherwise, Edwards' similarites to a young Spielberg. Certainly there are similarites in some of their stylistic quirks. Delaying the monster's first appearance, shots of wide-eyed youngsters gazing upwards, beams of light piercing fog etc. But, Spielberg's great weakness has always been a lack of thematic coherence in most of his filmography. He's a brilliant visual storyteller, but I don't know if you can point to many of his films and say that they're about anything other than exactly what they appear to be about. I don't mean this insultingly; Most every other director walking the planet would kill for that career, and Spielberg is one of the most accomplished and influential filmmakers who's ever lived. But, there's a certain lack of depth to a lot of his movies, and that will continue to weigh on critical opinions of his career (assuming that matters). Edwards does not and will never have that problem.

Back to Watanabe's line in Godzilla: Edwards puts it there because he wants to make very clear the true topic of his film; Man's utter insignificance in the history of this planet. We are a blip, the flickering flame of a solitary candle. The Muto are a hurricane, come to extinguish us forever. That we survive is by the grace of, yes, a God. So, I suppose, Edwards is not stating a thesis so much as asking a question; When the storm comes, whether that be in the shape of drastic climate change, world war, or pre-historic giant monsters, what is going to save us? Can we depend on a miracle defender? And if not, what do we need to do in order to make sure we're never put in that position?

The best allegorical films function on multiple levels, and Godzilla is first and foremost one of the best and most unique monster movies ever made. Edwards' tone here is elegiac, mournful, although whether he mourns for the vast human toll taken by the monsters, or for the passing of the monsters themselves is very much an open question. Nevertheless, this isn't a movie that revels in destruction (paging Mr. Bay….), but one that recognizes the terror on display. Godzilla is unequivocally a hero, but he's not what you'd call surgical in his combat with the Muto. Lots of people die in this movie, and Edwards' greatest accomplishment may be to acknowledge that fact while still crafting a thrilling adventure.

To be clear, the adventure I'm talking about belongs to the big green dude. We're given human characters, but they're too cursory to be worthy of much analysis. Aaron Taylor-Johnson is very handsome, very buff, and very, very blank. Elisabeth Olsen, one of the best young actresses in cinema, is similarly asked to do little beyond fawn over the little tyke she's very clearly too young to have mothered and scream at the sight of various beasties. She does both of these things well, but I do wish the writers had found material worthy of her talents. A lot of other ringer-level actors show up for a few minutes to do expository things, but Edwards clearly doesn't give a shit about them, and around the time the first Muto planted a huge claw on the side of a pit, I started to feel the same way.

Edwards' filmmaking carries much of the hugeness to be found in a Michael Bay joint, but tempered with a patience and sense of visual craft that reminded me of nobody so much as the great Korean auteur Wong Kar Wai. There is a sequence, of men leaping from a plane and into a burning night, that is the most lyrically beautiful thing I've seen this year. Indeed, many stills from this movie could serve as framed posters. Watching, we recall that the essence of cinema is photography, and that the best directors exhibit a healthy respect for cohesive imagery. In the climactic fights the camera moves with precision, holding off on fully revealing the monsters until it's time to stop doing that, at which point it reaaaaalllly stops doing that. Everything is shot with a sense of scale and geometry, to allow the viewer to feel how f-ing huge these things are, and where they are in relation to each other and everything else. I fondly imagine that people raised on Bay's epileptic Transformers flicks may find Godzilla somewhat novel, even puzzling.

Looks, I'm not saying the movie is perfect. The script is largely useless, the plot nonsensical, the lead performance thoroughly wooden. You'll realize all of these things after the credits roll, after you've had some time to recover from the experience of being played, piano-like, by one of our new masters. What matters is that this film is a magificent feat of imagination, made by one of the most gifted artists currently working. Its vast technical virtuosity comes in service to a story about nothing more or less than the fate of the Earth, and the insignificant, delicate little humans who think they can control it. Edwards is evoking the slumbering Titans deep within Earth's surface, showing us the consequences of their anger. With such stakes, can you blame him for aiming over man's head?