The Fake Life - Love movies? We do too!

Thursday, August 16, 2007

The Best Hollywood Endings

As we all know, Hollywood loves to make everything overblown. The major blockbusters all seem to be a hundred and twenty minutes of sound and fury, punctuated by deafening orchestras and epic visuals that like to say "this thing here, this is huge." And of course, this is always accelerated by 88mph at the end, so that you leave the theater with a huge sense of satisfaction that you've just seen something huge, something epic, something, well, giant-sized.

Of course, nine times out of ten this turns out to be overbaked crap. Note the F14s swooning across a Bruickheimer-orange sky to the soaring tones of the Righteous Brothers or Hugh Jackman and Kate Beckinsale gloating atop a cliff as her family looks down ala the blue floaty Jedi spirits at the end of RETURN OF THE JEDI, or even Val Kilmer, Chris O'Donnell and Alicia Silverstone wobbling towards the camera in a scene that seems to be missing all the BLAM! and KA-POW! intercutting phrases it surely deserves. These are all crap. Even geniuses like Spielberg are not immune to this, judging from the insipid picturesque storybook ending to MINORITY REPORT, which was, to be fair, absolutely pants.

But sometimes, the blockbusters get it right. Sometimes a film finds a way through the netherworld of excess and actually presents a genuinely emotionally satisfying ending that still conforms to the usual standards of gigantic swelling orchestras and near-pretentious "final shots." Let's take a look.

KING KONG (1933)

KONG has it all. The big epic ending, striking visuals (especially for the year it was unleashed), and a magnificent orchestral climax, as composed by score wunderkind Max Steiner. But KONG also has something most monster movies before and since haven't had: pathos. While the later remakes placed Ann Darrow (or Dwan!) clearly as having strong, if not equal feelings for the big guy, he has no such luck here.

Unfortunately for our titular hero, Ann has just as much disgust and hatred for the guy as the rest of the world. The only person who holds any compassion for Kong is Carl Denham, and by extension, the audience.

In any other movie, we would be cheering on the planes as they fire upon Kong. In the hands of another filmmaker, this would be just another gung-ho action sequence with the audience baying for the bastard creature's blood at the behest of his wave of destruction. But the whole sequence is constructed so well to play on Kong's character development through the film, so that it's not joy and excitement we feel as the airplanes find their target, it's absolute pain, heartbreak and compassion.

As Kong falls to his death, Denham and the audience are left to contemplate Kong's demise, his worthless death as he lies stricken on the pavement, his life spent. It's with a sense of regret and guilt that he delivers that famous line, "It wasn't the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast," a confession in so many words that he alone is responsible for bringing Kong to New York, for juxtaposing him against Ann and creating that relationship, and for killing the Eighth Wonder of the World. It's a devastatingly tragic moment that very few movies even attempt, and all the more richer for the emotionally brutal way it's presented. And a piece of Hollywood genius.

KING KONG (2005)

George has already included THE LORD OF THE RINGS in his list, so I'm going to make a quick mention of Peter Jackson's other blockbuster. While it has more in common with the 1976 remake than Jackson would probably like to admit, KONG '05 is a stunning work. Sure, it could stand to lose forty or fifty minutes, and like LOTR, the bits that don't work really don't work, but the parts that do much outweigh the previous, and boy are they spectacular. Never more is this demonstrated than in the film's climax. Obviously, with the differing dynamic of Kong's relationship with Ann in the remake as compared to the original, the context is changed somewhat, but the end result is essentially the same. Where Jackson's picture differs is that instead of being somewhat passive observers in the original film, with ourselves the only ones who are really protesting Kong's death, here we are thrust directly into the heart of the matter, with the action being presented very strictly from the point of Ann.

The lovers' relationship is stressed even more here, with Ann - and the audience - being forced to watch as Kong is slowly murdered. And I mean slowly. The film is notorious for being long, and drawn out, but the ending is a case where both those things are true but in a positive manner. The pacing of Kong's death makes it excruciating to watch - and heartbreaking. Never has a movie made me weep more. A defining moment is that which portrays Kong's last bit of fighting spirit, his nobility. He sits atop the Empire State Building, roaring at the top of his lungs, knowing what is going to happen, with Ann beneath him screaming. It's such a painful moment and so personal between the two, that when it continues to its natural conclusion - Kong's death - you're left utterly helpless.

Indeed, when Ann embraces Jack after Kong's fall, it's an embrace borne not out of the relationship that was built between the two, but instead a catharcism needed by Ann. Whether it be Jack or a security guard, Ann would have hugged him like he was her saviour. Because she, like the audience, just needs that embrace, lest she actually follows Kong herself. The climax is slightly lessened by Jack Black's reading of Denham's final line, which simply doesn't have the right reverence. But James Newton Howard's music - which, like the film, is sometimes middling but often superb - soaks up the emotion of the scene and leaves us with the right mix of regret and grandeur to close the movie.

SPIDER-MAN (2002)

Like many other superhero movies, SPIDER-MAN ends in a similar way to Richard Donner's SUPERMAN - the loose threads sewn up, the hero is celebrated in a final goodbye to the audience, usually flying - or in this case, swinging - through the city. In Sam Raimi's picture, the ending ties together the usual heroism with the definition of who the character is. Peter Parker stands at Norman Osborn's funeral, with one of his best friends telling him he will pay in the future for what he's done, and another telling him she loves him. Yet because of who he is, because of who he's become, Peter cannot reveal his real self to either of these people.

And it's all summed up in some of the best lines ever to end a picture: 'Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words: "With great power comes great responsibility." This is my gift, my curse. Who am I? I'm Spider-Man. ' With that, that amazing image of Peter walking away from the funeral, alone, transforms into a stunning sequence of Spidey as he soars above the city, scored by Danny Elfman's amazing theme. A quick flick around the stars and stripes, and he's off! - ready for more adventure. And we're with him all the way.

STAR TREK II: THE WRATH OF KHAN (1982)

The climax of what is considered to be the best Star Trek flick by a country mile begins like the climax of just about any other Star Trek movie, or episode, or book, or video game. The starship Enterprise is in trouble as the universe's most powerful weapon (made from a device designed to create new life) is about to explode and consume everything within four hundred lightyears, including the famous starship. Captain Kirk and the crew are begging Scotty for warp speed, but the poor Scotsman is incapacitated - leaving the ship's most beloved comrade to step into the breach and save the day, with the only sacrifice being himself.

Where this ending kicks into overdrive, and greatness, is at the moment Kirk realizes what has happened. The voice of a shocked McCoy comes over the radio, saying "Jim... you'd better get down here." Kirk spies Spock's empty chair, and runs to the engine room, intercut with the creation of the Genesis planet, a pure vision of the flourishing world juxtaposed with the dying flame of Spock's soul. Kirk's final moments with Spock challenge every fibre of Shatner's acting talent, with the man coming up trumps every time. But Nimoy's acting in that scene cannot be underestimated.

Those final words - 'I have been, and always shall be your friend' - leaves Kirk a broken man. As he says at Spock's funeral, "Of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most... human." A possible insult in Spock's irony-free eyes, but nevermore has there been a more honest Kirk. His machismo stripped away, his melodrama shattered, he can do nothing but swallow back the tears. And as Kirk stands on the bridge paraphrasing Charles Dickens, he can but revel in the creation of new life, one which was caused by the selflessness of his friend. And as we see the torpedo on the surface, followed by Spock's reading of the famous introduction, we gain a sense of hope, a transference from mourning to reflection. And that reflection is one we're glad to experience.

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN (1955)

Jack Arnold's SF classic takes us on the journey of a man as he shrinks, adding the usual sci-f/horror trappings the Universal pictures always loved, but also - as per Richard Matheson's novel the film was adapted from - as a study of misogynism. As Scott Carey gets smaller, his reactions toward the women in his life, particularly his wife, get more and more explosive, borne out of frustration at his disease but also at being cut down to size, namely the same size, as them, and even smaller, relieving him of any comfortable social structure.

This struggle continues in a more visceral and primal form as Scott shrinks down to minute size, first being attacked by the family cat but then being locked in a fight to the death with a monstrous spider, able to fit in the palm of his hand in his original size, but now as big as a car. But no matter how small he is, Scott's ingenuity and adaptability are as strong as ever, and he defeats the spider, only to find out that he's too weak even to really eat the cake he killed the spider for.

It's at this point where tragedy again gives way to life-affirming hope, in what has to be one of the weirdest endings to ever be seen in a mainstream picture. Carey finds himself shrinking ever more, and in an existentialist monologue explains to us that he is now the first of many occupants in a brave new world, and that he will continue to exist. You have to hear this monologue to appreciate it, so here you go!

THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK (1980)

You've just had your hand cut off, you're hanging from a weather vane above what might as well be a bottomless pit, and to top it all off, you've found out the galaxy's most evil man is your dad. If your name is Luke Skywalker, you're having the bad day to end all bad days.

Fast forward a bit. Luke's been rescued, Darth Vader's very pissed off, and everyone is licking their wounds as the Rebel fleet masses. This is where possibly the most perfect example of how much of Star Wars' power is in John Williams' music. And Artoo-Detoo. As the fleet glides by to the strains of the Force theme, Lando and Chewie prepare to depart to rescue Han. A quick chat with Luke and they're off, the Han/Leia love theme swelling as the Millennium Falcon zooms into the distance, leaving only a glimmer of hope behind.

And that's what makes this ending work so well: the complete lack of any resolution. If you're a cynic, you'll say "well of course they'll rescue Han," but at the end of this movie you don't have any idea what'll happen. What makes this work so well is the body language between Leia and Luke, once possible lovers, now brother and sister in everything but name. As Luke puts his arm around her in a typically brotherly act, and Artoo sighs, any chance of success seems so far away. And there it ends, with Williams' music and Peter Suschitzky combining fiercely to show just how simple these films are, yet so damn hard to replicate.