CG Why?

CG Why?

The search for something real in a digital world.

As the finale of HBO/ Sky Atlantic’s record breaking, internet crashing Game of Thrones drew to a close recently, we were left with many a troubling fate to consider.

Which of our favourite characters had survived George R Martin’s increasingly adapted storyline to make through to season six?

Who and how many of the leads fell into the abyss of death among the cries of desolation from the throats of this self proclaimed master piece’s millions of fans worldwide?

One such stomach butterfly inducing quandary surrounded the ‘Mother of Dragons’ Daenerys Targaryen portrayed by Emilia Clarke.

Having been spirited away on the wings of her beloved Drogo the mightiest of the three Dragons she somewhat birthed a couple of season’s ago, we find Queen in waiting Daenarys lost and isolated with an injured, spear spiked, massive reptile that doesn’t want to hunt.

Were that not bad enough we are left to contemplate her fate as she is swiftly engulfed in a sea of nomadic horsemen, screaming death rattles and wielding an assortment of gnarly looking weaponry.

It does not look good for Daenerys Targaryen.

Emila Clarke (on the right)

But conversely it does look good for the viewer…really good, and that is perhaps the problem and indeed the opportunity.

Are we in fact willingly sacrificing depth and content for aesthetic style?

As the Queen is encircled by ever increasing numbers of riders, moving at pace in tight formation, one cannot but marvel as the spectacle of dressage comes to life reminding us of the martial roots and ever present application of the skills of these incredible athletes.

How can they be so sharp? So accurate? So precise?

I find myself in awe.

By what magic of Westeros can the producers be sure this valued asset, this silver haired delicate beauty will not be trampled under exuberant hoof?

Indeed the real and untimely injury of the Mother of Dragons would surely lead to the mother of all insurance claims, something one suspects Sky Atlantic Mogul Rupert Murdoch would not appreciate.

The camera pans out, now we have an aerial shot, there are thousands of riders.

This is incredible; the budgets of this show truly have no limits.

What incredible equine choreography we are witnessing.

How many months of training and preparation? I am instantly jealous that I am not among them. Even with my rather feeble riding skills, surely I could lurk at the back somewhere, I can wave a sword, I can shout. Oh where is my bow? Bring me my charger…but wait.

A realisation is dawning upon me.

I’m looking at pixels. Am I not?

The ones up close to Daenarys were real enough; anyone could see that but what about the rest?

Suddenly I’m catapulted to Middle Earth, or Peter Jackson’s New Zealand version of Middle Earth.

Un-commanded for the umpteenth time in the last few years I picture a particular moment in Jackson’s trilogy as it was at the time.

It was the scene that ruined the movie, at least for me.

Not the dreadful sudo west country accent of Sean Astin portraying Sam Gamgee, nor the Orc that runs up to his commander growls a fearsome line looking like a pumped up gym bunny with cornflakes stuck to his face…but something far worse.

Tens of thousands of riders, maybe more ,roaring down the impossible escarpment bring to life J R R Tolkein’s defence of Helm Deep, a final desperate attempt of men and elf to stand against the hordes of Isengard, a last chance to stave off the ruin of life and love in favour of treacly darkness and despair.

My heart sinks a little.

Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers

There is a point while watching when the inescapable thought invaded my psyche…I’m, watching a cartoon. This is not real. They are not riding those horses. Those horses do not exist.

It is fake.

So what? What on middle earth did I expect? It is not real, it is a story.

The scene I am not really enjoying properly is a scene in a film. It is designed to deliver a spectacular blow of narrative that will cause my simple brain to emote certain sensations, nothing more.

I should grow up accept it, buy in anyway…but no.

That will not do I’m afraid.

In a world where Harold Lloyd can swing from a clock putting my heart in my mouth and Jackie Chan can repeat the same type of stunt 60 years later there has to be a place for authenticity.

Harold Lloyd

Jackie Chan

Not a new idea of course.

Who can forget Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof where he unambiguously set out his stall to produce and complete a live action romp devoid of any and all computer generated images?

Death Proof

Well most of us is the likely answer because it was not that good. None the less, the thought process arguably was spot on.

As Jackie Chan so eloquently stated (back in 1980 something) on Jonathan Ross’ Incredibly Strange Film show Special featuring the Asian superstar, “I know when the audience comes to see my films, they come to see Jackie, not a double. Also I like to kind of show off, show the audience what I can do. That is why I decided to do the dangerous stunts myself.”

What would Jackie Chan (back in 1980 something) have made of the looming world of computer graphics? One suspects, not much. It fundamentally detracts from what he would consider ‘good action.’

To drill down into this phenomenon a little further I consider the mindset of a close friend of mine who will regularly cheer himself up by watch the pre scandal Mel Gibson’s Braveheart.

Braveheart

An odd sentiment some might say. Aside from being a pack of historical untruths, Gibson’s epic where every Englishman is a sneering villain is far from a ‘feel good’ movie.

But actually his reasoning is quite sound.

He knows one of the lead horses, he has himself ridden that four hoofed starring stallion and loves to remind himself of a friend and relationship lost to time.

Here we can find a resonance of a truth.

A relationship between two sentient beings.

Game of Thrones has been widely criticised as well as adored for its graphic depictions of sex and violence.

Perhaps its breakthrough appeal lies in its ability to shock. That ability is increasingly rare in a world where the most graphic images are so readily available and indeed almost inescapable. Many commentator s have spoken of the virtual impossibility to move in any tangible way the emotions of a cynical weary public who have been subjected to wonders and horrors layered thick fast and relentlessly on them through a myriad of media sources.

Small wonder then that the spectacle of thousands of screaming riders is unlikely to raise an eye brow let alone a re-commissioning . Is it simply a case of, ‘so what? Seen it all before?’

Why should I do this feature the courtesy of ‘buying into it?’

How can I suspend my disbelief enough to see past the corn flake faced orc, let alone an army of cartoon horses? How can I enjoy this? What will it take for me to overcome my own grating, sneering apathy?

The answer perhaps lies in that afore mentioned relationship.

Let us briefly visit another film.

The 1994 American Pastoral heart strings ‘pretty boy’ vehicle for Brad Pitt, The Legends of the Fall. Some may argue this film was made simply to show a variety of shots of Mr Pitt looking beautiful.

I have suffered too many nights in 1990s University halls of residences faced with poster evidence that this was indeed the overriding reason the film was made to counter a viable argument the contrary.

Legends of the Fall

Therefore perhaps there is no apparent reason why I should suspend my disbelief enough to surrender my intellect in order to bear two and a half hours of this slushy rubbish.

Except for one very important and personal reason.

In 1996 I learned to ride in New Paltz, Upstate New York while attending University ‘Stateside.’

Other alumni students of my stables included Aiden Quinn, Julia Ormond, Sir Anthony Hopkins and a Mr Brad Pitt. They were making an American pastoral heart strings puller of some description.

So when I revisit this film as I have done infrequently I see something different.

The cinematography of that feature whether by design or accident expertly lights relationships.

Of course primarily between the human protagonists though not exclusively.

Much care has been taken to demonstrate the complexity of relationships with nature and indeed how our own nature is at mismatch to the impassive non partisan personality of the world beyond people, Mother Nature herself.

Brad Pitt (on the right)

Within this chasm we are presented with a plethora of close shots featuring many of the stars riding at pace for some important reason or another.

The camera reveals human and horse moving together, a symbiotic expression of muscle and sinew.  A flowing relationship which should it fail at any point could most certainly lead to the demise of some of the most adored humans we had at the time.

Is it simply a case of camera angles and lighting or is it something else?

One might argue it is the focussing on the micro rather than the macro. A close shot revealing an authentic piece of action featuring as Mr Chan tells us not a double but the lead stars putting themselves on the line as opposed to the aerial spectacular cartoons of Peter Jackson.

This tells us there has been effort, training and there is real and tangible risk.

In that scenario I have far less trouble buying into the larger narrative.

To my mind the producers, actors, stunt co-ordinators and everyone else has earned my attention and I will happily surrender myself to the experience…for a while at least.

If one wishes to find the most direct and hideous opposite to this unspoken contract of artistic acceptance see Keira Knightly as the undisputed Lord of the pirates at ‘World’s End.’ No, no and thrice no!

Rubbish Pirate Keira Knightley

Not that I wish this to be some sort of Jackson attack.

There are some wonderful scenes featuring the Horse Lord Shadowfax where we are told not only that this God among horses will only bear us should he wish but in arm tingling vocal prowess Sir Ian McKellan’s Gandalf requests, “Shadowfax, show us the meaning of haste.”

Shadowfax

Of course we must attribute much of this praise to the author rather than the director, though the latter expertly and with flair brings the saga to life.

So where does this leave us? Are we dead to emotion? Have we lost our connection to vicarious fantastical excitement?

If the inexorable rise of reality television is a sign post to this depressing destination then count me out. The end does not justify the pallid means in any way.

“Fine then misery guts” you may justifiably shout; “sport it is and only sport.”

Pray not because I for one can find little or no joy in the various incarnations of chasing leather around grass pitches. The ebbing narrative of this actual reality is not as exciting as for example the skull lifting, scalp tingling, testing quandaries of brilliant story telling. See once again J R R Tolkien for details.

Vinny Jones & Paul Gascoigne Leather Chasers

For me the answer lies in not what we look at but where we focus and that relies on the lens of the imaginer. Not just the literal lens of the camera which as previously mentioned makes the world of difference but moreover the internal filters that make up the consciousness of the narrator.

If what makes them tick is what makes me tick then it will move me as it moves them and we will both be happy.

Skills impress me, but it needs to be skills I can recognise. I don’t suppose upon watching the Lord of the Rings many cinema goers came out and stated that they were thrilled by the CGI. At best it goes unnoticed. One might even argue that gone are the days when we declare that the ‘special effects’ were amazing. Sadly as in many arenas in life, last year’s thrill becomes this year’s expectation.

Finally perhaps we are ready on mass to ascend through this nonsense and return to those things deep within ourselves that resonate beyond expensive computer graphics, these things haven’t changed.

Show me courage, endeavour, skill, adversity, despair and ultimately triumph and if you can’t do that…

Kit Harington as Jon Snow

at least make Jon Snow survive to season six.

By Mark W Hunter