Fierce Frontiers: How the Oscars Ignored Two Masterpieces in 2014
The Oscars are notorious for neglecting genre films in their Best Picture category, let alone in the major non-technical categories: Acting, Directing, Writing, etc. In 1969, 2001: A Space Odyssey wasn’t even nominated for the top honor, and Kubrick lost Best Director to Carol Reed for Oliver!. Yes, Oliver!, exclamation point included. That’s just one example, but it’s generally accepted this is the case: there are good movies, there are Oscar-bait movies, and then there are the genre movies that don’t pander to the accepted benchmarks of culture and taste in order to ingratiate Academy applause, the kinds of movies that make steam blow out of the Weinsteins’ ears, genuinely great achievements in cinema that are rarely recognized properly by the only awards show that the public even half-recognizes.
2014 has two such movies to boast. One is a hammy, big-budget Spielberg-ish epic, the other an edgy art house piece whose synopsis could read as a reboot of Species (1995): Exactly the kinds of movies that can make an Academy member’s blood run cold-to-tepid. To be fair, on the surface those aren’t the most flattering descriptions. But both Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar and Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin are worthy of what should be a term of particularly lofty praise in certain circles, not a stigma—and that term is “real science fiction.”
As in, not an action-adventure movie with outlandish costumes or an excuse for a vast and over-stimulated art team to design some ridiculous CGI horror, no, not that sci-fi (and not that Syfy). This is fiction where speculation is made about the very fabric of our world and our existence, as a way to dive deep into those murky unknowns of what and whom we are, what defines us, where we’re going. These are fierce frontiers to be explored, and they are not for the dull, the uninspired, the gladhanding, the moribund, the biopic. This is where “based on a true story” means “based on a story that could one day be true,” talking about truths far deeper than facts but inspired by facts that dazzle by being stranger than fiction (Hey, relativity’s kinda real, critics who panned it as implausible in Interstellar.) It’s about reaching, stretching for truths not yet grasped. And sometimes there are aliens and robots, too, and that’s cool.
While both can claim Kubrick as a point of reference and inspiration, Interstellar and Under the Skin couldn’t be much more different, aside from their genre and their ambition and, well, the small matter of actually sharing some like themes. For Nolan, the shadow of Kubrick is more about production value, attempting to bring a sweeping sense of realism to his own grand space odyssey, and it’s also very much about repeating soundless shots of machines doing space ballet while Hans Zimmer’s insanely loud and unbearably awesome score compels full submission to the formal viscera. Nolan’s got the scope, Glazer brings the stylistic rigor and the clinical, almost inhuman dissection of concept.
Under the Skin is more heartily embraced by the critical community because it is so unified in purpose and drive. It is a biting examination of sexual politics and a dissertation on the bodies we inhabit and how those bodies create a paradigm of ownership. Scarlett Johansson plays the alien avatar, the predator, the cipher whose weakness is her awakening humanity. When she looks in a mirror, lost in a gaze at her own body, it’s a reminder to us to find some remove from our weary familiarity with our selves and to think, “Golly, what strange things we are.” The film’s tragic conclusion is an assertion that we achieve some positive ideal of what it is to be human when we accept a state of vulnerability, when we forsake the power position in our sexual communication. When we allow for the reality of our frailty, we can care for the frailty in all around us—and this is a very dangerous thing to do. Especially in a world riddled with corruption and malice that seeks to press its advantage.