Cult-Movie Review: Dark Star (1974)

Conceived as Planetfall, Dark Star (1974) is the first film of director John Carpenter and writer Dan O’Bannon. The film began as a student project at U.S.C. in 1970, with principal photography occurring early in 1971. 

The film underwent re-shoots in 1972 to extend the fifty-minute production to eighty-minutes, and to make it viable for a theatrical release. The film was then purchased by Jack H. Harris (The Blob [1958]), who demanded additional re-shoots. The film finally premiered in 1975, and met with positive reviews, but relatively little audience appreciation.

Regardless of its origin as a student film, Dark Star is today considered a cult-classic.  Its low-budget nature does not take away significantly from the film’s success in part because it is clear the filmmakers had both a creative strategy, and an example to follow.  

In short, Dark Star is the anti-2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  As a work of (caustic) 1970s art, it knowingly draws all the opposite conclusions about space travel, mankind, and man’s place or role in the universe. In so cleverly over-turning the 2001 apple cart, Dark Star not only lives up to its title, it remains one of the funniest science fiction films made in the 1970s.

“Don’t give me any of that intelligent life crap. Just give me something I can blow up.”

Eighteen parsecs from Earth in Sector EB-90, the spaceship Dark Star continues its apparently un-ending mission: to destroy unstable planets in order to pave the way for human colonization. 

Unfortunately, the ship has grappled with some severe damage recently, and the newly promoted captain, Doolittle (Narelle) is ill-prepared when one of the ship’s thermonuclear bombs prepares to detonate while still attached to the underbelly of the ship.  Dark Star’s computer suggests teaching the bomb the study of Phenomenology. 

While Doolittle grapples with this existential crisis, Sergeant Pinback (Dan O’Bannon) battles a mischievous alien pet that has escaped from captivity and Lt. Talby (Dre Pahich) dreams of seeing the mysterious Phoenix Asteroids with his own eyes…

“Are you willing to entertain a few concepts?”

Dark Star is an outer space comedy that succeeds brilliantly on the basis of a very good, well-told joke. Visually, thematically, and in terms of philosophy, the film cleverly operates as the antithesis of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).

Being the “Anti-2001” may sound like a relatively simple or juvenile thing, but actually the opposite is true considering how consistently Carpenter and O’Bannon’s film develops its world-view.  By creating a world so clearly and deliberately the inverse of Kubrick’s vision, Dark Star’s creators have fashioned an intelligent and challenging response to that beloved science fiction film, one that meaningfully re-evaluates mankind’s nature and his place in the universe.

In brief, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a majestic, stately picture that establishes the mysteries of the universe in the form of the monolith, but which also suggests that man’s progress over time possesses a shape and a purpose; moving from ape-like primitive to evolved star child. 

By contrast, Dark Star suggests the absolute absurdity and pointlessness of the human existence, and therefore of the universe itself.  Right down the line, element-to-element Dark Star mirrors and parodies 2001’s sense of “cosmic purpose” with its own sense of man’s irrelevance in the scheme of things, as well as his general pettiness.

In Kubrick’s 2001, the space age is beautiful, stately, wondrous and because of man’s intended destiny, even ordered.  The spaceship and space station interiors are depicted as roomy and minimalist, and the incredible visuals of space vessels in flight -- docking and landing -- are sometimes accompanied by instances of classical music such as the Blue Danube Waltz, a composition that suggests the formal, dance-like nature of objects in space, and in motion.  

2001’s “theme song” as it might even be considered is “Thus Spake Zarathustra,” a formal composition by Richard Strauss (1864 – 1949) which again, primarily denotes order.  As Kenneth Von Gunden and Stuart H. Stock wrote in in Twenty All-Time Great Science Fiction Films (Crown; 1982, page 190), the composition:

“…opens with an ascending phrase of three notes…which represent Nietzcshe’s view of the evolutionary rise of man…These three notes serve note that the number three is essential to the film: from the perfect alignment of the three spheres of Earth, Moon, and sun at the beginning to the appearance of things in threes.”

Dark Star’s first anti-2001 conceit is to adopt country music -- the vernacular of personal stories and human emotions -- as its theme song.  The country music genre is not generally symbolic in nature, but literal in its storytelling of failed love affairs or a relationship now lost.  So where Kubrick utilizes his music to suggest the transcendent and ordered nature of space travel, Dark Star’s theme, “Benson, Arizona” by Bill Taylor evokes nothing of grandeur or cosmic importance.

The lyrics of “Benson, Arizona” explicitly involve the long separation between an astronaut and his Earthbound love, a love that connects that astronaut not to the future (and evolution), but the traditional past.  

This connection is like a tether, dragging him back to earthbound concerns and therefore precluding the chance for growth or transcendence.  Dan O’Bannon noted this context when he said in an interview that the astronauts’ days aboard Dark Star were sad and ridiculous.

The specific comparison between 2001 and Dark Star involves the nature of life on a ship traveling in space.  In A Space Odyssey, the crewmen fly the roomy Discovery towards a rendezvous with destiny near Jupiter.  In Dark Star, the unkempt astronauts fly their ship, the Dark Star on an endless quest across the galaxy to destroy unstable planets.   One journey is, in keeping with the name of the ship, about “discovery.”  The other is about death and destruction…about “blowing things up.”

In the course of these journeys, both men are contacted by home, and again, Dark Star makes a point of inverting the themes featured in Kubrick’s film.  In 2001, a news anchor for BBC-12’s “The World Tonight” interviews astronauts Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea) and Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) about life on ship.  There is a time lag of approximately seven minutes because Discovery is 80 million miles away.  But meaningful conversation about life in space is still possible…just delayed.

Dark Star opens with a message from McMurdo Base on Earth as a military officer contacts the crew and notes that there is a ten year time lag in conversation because Dark Star is 18 parsecs distant from Earth, a gap that makes any meaningful conversation impossible.  In 2001, the “entire world” joins the BBC interviewer in wishing Dave and Frank a “safe and successful journey” to the stars.  Dark Star’s communique to Earth, by contrasts gets play in “prime time” and “good reviews in the trade,” but the actual content of the message from home is negative.  Earth will not be sending replacement radiation shields to the damaged ship, because of budget cuts and the vast distance separating the ship and the home world.

Both 2001: A Space Odyssey and Dark Star also comment on “intelligent” devices and their relationship with mankind.  In the former film, the mellifluous-voiced HAL 9000 becomes murderous on the journey to Jupiter, and must be de-activated.  Under Dave’s auspices, man re-asserts his rightful control over the machine (thus symbolically conquering technology; the latest in the line of tools since the ape-man through that bone into the sky in the film’s prologue…) and then heads off to evolve via the stargate/monolith “trip.” 

Once more, Dark Star inverts that very premise.

Here, the crewmen of the Dark Star must interact with a talking bomb, one who is convinced that it must detonate (following an accident aboard ship which activates it) and thus kill everyone.  The ship’s acting captain, the appropriately-named Doolittle (Narrelle), -- who all-things considered would rather be surfing – must teach the bomb Phenomenology in order to prevent it from self-actuating and detonating.  After the bomb learns Phenomenology -- the study of consciousness, essentially -- it becomes an ego-maniac, convinced that it is the only sentient being in the universe.  The bomb decides that it is God and before detonating declares “Let There Be Light.” 

In other words, in Dark Star, man does not conquer his technology.  Instead, he is eclipsed and destroyed by it. Technology supersedes man, and man does not evolve…he is destroyed.  Dark Star even re-parses the transcendental stargate sequence of 2001 to its own ends. It is notable too that the bomb adopts the self-image of man: as destroyer.  The ship’s mission was to blow up planets, and now the bomb will blow up man, a variation of that mission.

In Kubrick’s film, Bowman endures a “cosmic trip,” and the aging process, and then is re-born as the evolved “star child.  There’s a cosmic trip” in Dark Star too, but it is not transcendental in nature.  A crewman named Talby (Pahich) joins the glowing, colorful “Phoenix Asteroids” and becomes indistinguishable from them.  The message is hence that man is not unique and special -- he is not a delicate snow-flake -- but rather part and parcel of a vast, meaningless universe, and in some ways just another grain of sand inhabiting it. 

Doolittle, meanwhile also meets his distinctly not transcendental end. He surfs into the atmosphere of a planet…and burns up. His point of greatest self-actuation is reliving his favorite form of leisure…a hobby.

Up and down, Dark Star functions so colorfully and so amusingly because it undercuts and reverses the premises of the grand Kubrick film again and again.  In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Discovery is a perfectly-ordered technological paradise featuring very few signs of human character or individuality.  The Dark Star’s living quarters, by contrast, look like a messy dorm room.  The Discovery is so spacious that Frank Poole can jog alone through a vast circular track.  The Dark Star, by contrast, is so small that its crew literally possesses no elbow room on the bridge.

The men of Dark Star are also not the brave, resourceful astronauts we have come to expect from efforts like 2001 or Star Trek.  Talby sits alone on the observation deck, isolated from the crew.  Pinback can’t be bothered to feed his alien pet.  Doolittle would rather dream about surfing in Malibu than handle the ship’s problems. Even the injured captain, Powell -- who is kept stored barely alive in some kind of cryogenic freeze unit -- is more interested in his hobby (baseball in general, and the Dodgers specifically) than in helping the ship survive a crisis.  The evolution of man does not seem like much of a possibility with these characters as the spearhead for the future age, does it?

Even visually, Dark Star plays knowingly as a mirror reflection of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  In Stanley Kubrick’s film, the Discovery first passes on the screen from left to right, a visual short-hand for a journey outward.  In John Carpenter’s Dark Star, the ship passes from right to left, thus implying a journey back rather than forward.  Since the film concerns man’s inability to transcend petty concerns and specific incidents (reflected in the use of country music as well as the crew’s petty demeanor), the idea transmitted is that mankind is forever journeying, but not really heading anywhere of import.

There’s an old truism about movie-making that goes: the best way to criticize a film is to make another film yourself.  In some crucial and cerebral fashion, Dark Star epitomizes that notion, and note-for-note, it overturns the premises and ideas of the grand 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

If the 1970s is truly the wake-up from the hippie dream, as my friend and mentor, Johnny Byrne used to insist, then Dark Star is pointedly the wake-up from the 2001 dream; an acknowledgment of the absurd and pointless nature of man’s existence…even in the Space Age.

Television and Cinema Verities: John Carpenter's Halloween (1978) Edition

"I screened the final cut [of Halloween], minus sound effects and music, for a young executive from 20th Century-Fox (I was interviewing for another possible directing job). She wasn't scared at all. I then became determined to "save it with the music."

- John Carpenter discusses one movie executive's response to his first cut of Halloween (1978), in the liner notes of the films soundtrack album, from Varese Sarabande. "A Note from the Director and Composer," by John Carpenter, February 5, 1983.

At Anorak: The Five Most Underrated John Carpenter Movies

My latest article, now posted at Anorak, tallies up the five most under-appreciated John Carpenter movies.

As all readers here know, I have long been an admirer of Carpenter's output, and consider him a truly great genre director.  I believe his films are superbly-crafted, and thus stand the test of time.

Here's a snippet of the article:

JOHN Carpenter’s film career has had its critical ups and downs, but time – the final arbiter of success, perhaps – has been almost universally kind to the vast majority of his cinematic work.

Reviled upon release in the summer of Spielberg’s E.T., John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982) is now revered as a horror classic and a work of art superior to the Howard Hawks film of 1951.

Similarly, Carpenter’s anti-yuppie battle cry, They Live (1988) has been re-evaluated as an ahead-of-its time masterpiece about the imminent death of the middle class in America, and “vulture capitalists” picking at its bones.

Even In the Mouth of Madness (1994), dismissed on original release as lesser-Carpenter, is widely considered now to be the finest interpretation of the Lovecraft aesthetic yet committed to film.

Why do Carpenter’s films age so well, and thus almost universally merit serious re-examination?

In part this pattern repeats because his neo-classical visualizations — his understanding of where to place the camera for maximum visceral and artistic impact — compares so favorably to the modern green-screen “fix-it-in-post” approach to modern movie-making.

And in part this occurs because Carpenter’s work is admirably consistent. His canon features what might be readily termed an umbrella of unity.  In particular, the director almost universally contextualizes his films as Westerns…only as westerns set in unusual settings such as Mars, or at the (supernatural) town of Hobb’s End.

The following five films — including Carpenter’s two most recent works — as yet await the full light of critical study and appreciation, but nonetheless deserve to be spotlighted.  They are, as of right now, Carpenter’s most underrated works of art.

Ask JKM A Question: The Thing Part 3?

Friend and regular reader SGB writes:

"John since we are both John Carpenter fans, I was just wondering if you think THE THING 3 has been set up by the end of the THE THING (2011) prequel to the THE THING(1982) film.

I liked that THE THING (2011) fit as a prequel to the THE THING(1982) exploring both the spaceship crash site and Norwegian camp that Kurt Russell would later do. The way the THE THING (2011) film ended with the beginning of the THE THING(1982)  film was excellent. All set in the year '82.

Now my question is do you think that a potential THE THING 3(201?) has been established to be made if they wanted to?  

It would be still set in '82, I would like to see a sequel to the THE THING(1982)  film with Kurt Russell, Keith David and the survivor Mary Elizabeth Winstead  of the  THE THING (2011) film meeting up on their journey to the previously mentioned Russian camp base for rescue or another encounter with the thing. A perfect trilogy. Kurt Russell and Keith David could reprise their roles with makeup in my opinion."

Thank you for the question, SGB!

Since 2011 and my original mixed review, my appreciation for the prequel, The Thing (2011) has grown a bit. I own the film on blu-ray and have watched it in conjunction with Carpenter's The Thing (1982) a couple of times.  Although I dislike the CGI effects, I feel the prequel is a good faith effort to continue the franchise in terms of spirit and approach, and that the two films generally fit well together.

Now, in regards to The Thing Part 3, I think the sequel you outline would have been possible (maybe even probably) if the prequel had succeeded at the box office.  I know that I have desired to see a John Carpenter-helmed sequel to The Thing since I first saw the 1982 film on a double bill with Ridley Scott's Blade Runner in Los Angeles that long ago summer.

However, the unpleasant reality is that, worldwide, the prequel made only approximately 28 million dollars, on a budget of 38 million dollars.  And that budget figure doesn't include, I assume, marketing costs.  

Now, DVD/Blu-Ray sales also aren't factored in to the worldwide gross figure I noted above, so perhaps the movie broke even on the secondary market, but I wouldn't bet on it.  And that fact, means that no The Thing 3 is in the offing.

Carpenter's The Thing was also a notorious box office bomb in 1982 -- though it seems impossible to believe, now -- and it took thirty years for the world to catch up with the fact that the movie is a masterpiece. 

Although the prequel's reputation will grow in the years ahead, perhaps, I don't feel it will achieve the same blazing trajectory, in part because it owes much of the energy it does possess to (successfully) re-creating the atmosphere of Carpenter's film  And without achieving that "escape velocity," so-to-speak, I just don't think there's going to be an impetus to see the sort of Thing sequel we both desire.

On the other hand, someone could start a Kickstarter campaign to produce The Thing 3.  But I would guess, given the figures for the prequel, thatabout forty-million dollars would have to be raised.  That's a high threhsold, and even the successful Veronica Mars kickstarter was considered a giant success at 5.9 million dollars.

I hope I'm not being a "debbie downer" here, because you know I'm in your corner (and The Thing's corner).  I just feel that Universal Studios wouldn't consider a Thing 3 a viable enterprise at this juncture.  

At some point in the future, someone will no doubt choose to adapt "Who Goes There" one more time, but I feel like it won't be in the language/visualization of the Carpenter version.

Richard B. Riddick: Escaped Convict, Murderer and John Carpenter-styled Anti-Hero

"All you people are so scared of me. Most days I'd take that as a compliment. But it ain't me you gotta worry about now..."

- Carpenter-esque anti-hero Riddick (Vin Diesel) assesses the situation in Pitch Black.

In my review of writer/director David Twohy's Pitch Black (2000) I described it as "the best John Carpenter movie not actually directed by John Carpenter." In terms of explanation, this comparison all comes down to the vital character of Richard Riddick (Vin Diesel), and the way that Pitch Black's anti-social hero interfaces with his distinctly imperfect universe.

Specifically, Riddick relates to his world and views his surroundings (and fellow humans) in a manner remarkably similar to the Carpenter anti-hero prototype depicted in the auteur's filmed works from Assault on Precinct 13 (1976) and Escape from New York (1981) to Ghosts of Mars (2001).

Given this postulate, I propose six essential qualities of the Carpenter-esque hero and his world. After noting pertinent examples in Carpenter's cinematic canon, I will describe how Riddick -- at least in Pitch Black -- also fits the bill.

1.) The Carpenter Anti-Hero is a man whose reputation precedes him. He's also a Bad MF..

In Carpenter's oeuvre, the anti-hero is often a notorious man known because of his (usually criminal...) exploits. His deeds have separated him from most of humanity; and the masses gaze at him with a combination of fear, awe, and curiosity. 

Napoleon Wilson (Darwin Joston) in Assault on Precinct 13 is a subject of intense curiosity to members of the establishment class, including his jailer, Starker (Charles Cyphers): "You're not a psychopath. You're not stupid," he says "why did you kill all those people?" 

This question allows us to understand that Wilson is not simply a run-of-the-mill thug, an indiscriminate killer. There was something...else going on when he committed his crimes.

In Escape from New York, Snake Plissken is greeted at virtually ever destination with the same comment; one that establishes his history and mythic stature: "I thought you were dead." 

In Escape from L.A. (1996), a satiric take on the character, this comment is changed to "I thought you'd be taller." 

The point, in both circumstances, is that before meeting the anti-hero for themselves, people already boast a pre-conceived, larger-than-life notion of him and his actions.

The anti-hero may be a law-breaker, but he's no ordinary law-breaker. He's much more than that. 

In Pitch Black, Riddick is described by Jack (Rhiana Griffith) in similar fashion, as an accomplished murderer, a total BMF: "He'd probably get you here, right here, under the chin, and you'd never even hear him. That's how good Riddick is!," he establishes. 

Earlier, Riddick's captor, Johns (Cole Hauser), notes that Riddick is dangerous "only around humans." And that if Riddick finds you in your sleep, he could well "skull-fuck you." 

Again, this is myth-making pure-and-simple; a creation of the character as something out of the realm of the ordinary.

Why build-up a character, a criminal, like this? Well, when the moment of dying comes, these various films require a protagonist of extraordinary skill and efficiency; one the audience can have utter confidence in. 

And, Carpenter is eternally in the anti-establishment camp, so traditional heroes like policeman, aren't going to do the job. Carpenter's anti-heroes universally-combat members of the establishment too, including Hauk, Malloy, Starker, etc.  Riddick has this kind of establishment nemesis as well: the drug-addicted Johns.

2.) The Carpenter Anti-Hero is a Man of Unique and Distinctive Vision. Literally.

The Carpenter anti-hero is universally a maverick "born out of time," to quote Wilson, a man who views the world quite differently than the forces of authority who dominate it.

Snake Plissken (Kurt Russell) sees the United States as corrupt and bereft of freedom in both Escape films. John Nada (Roddy Piper) discovers the alien conspiracy behind humanity's existence (and the Republican agenda...) in They Live (1988).

In Pitch Black, Riddick is also a character who shuns authority, and exists only around the periphery of it.

More trenchantly, the "vision" of these characters is all hampered (or perhaps augmented?) in a fashion that visually separates them from the other dramatis personae in the films. Snake wears an eye-patch. John Nada adorns a pair of sunglasses (which he wears throughout the film), so that he can see reality as it is; the very opposite, one might conclude, of rose-colored glasses.

Riddick is no different. His eyes have been surgically altered. "When you get sent to a slam, where they tell you you'll never see daylight again, you dig up a doctor, and you pay him 20 menthol Kools to do a surgical shine job on your eyeballs," he tells Jack. 

This means Riddick can see in the dark (and also see who is sneaking up on him.) Like Snake and Nada, Riddick's vision is literally a quality that separates him from others. The idea that he "sees" differently is critical to an understanding of the anti-establishment character, and we have that in Snake, Nada and Riddick.

3.) The Carpenter Anti-Hero establishes kinship with a woman with perceived comparable qualities.

A long-time admirer of Western director Howard Hawks, John Carpenter often populates his films with the so-called Hawksian woman. Authors Tim Bywater and Thomas Sobchack describe a Hawks woman in this fashion (Introduction to Film Criticism, Longman, 1989, page 72):

"She has a sense of identity beyond her alliances (with high society), and she is committed only to those personal ties she wishes to acknowledge."

Think of Feathers (Angie Dickinson) in Rio Bravo (1959), or Leigh (named after Leigh Brackett) in Assault on Precinct 13.

In the case of the latter, Leigh (Laurie Zimmer) is able to cross societal barriers to accept Napoleon Wilson - a criminal -- as a trusted ally and even a man of honor. In Ghosts of Mars, Melanie Ballard (Natasha Henstridge) is able to put aside her role as hard-boiled cop to team up with the notorious criminal Desolation Williams (Ice Cube). They come to realize that they are, in essence, two-of-a-kind.

In Pitch Black, Riddick similarly detects something kindred in pilot Caroline Fry (Radha Mitchell): they're both survivors; they both understand their situation, as well as the sacrifices that will have to made. Only in Caroline's case, after nearly making a decision that would kill her wards during the crash, she willfully steps back from the moral precipice. She refuses to accept her own survival as the bottom line and actively seeks to save the other people stranded on this pitch black planet of the flying piranhas.

Importantly, Fry also chooses to place her trust in Riddick over his nemesis, Johns, who masquerades as a police officer (but is really a merc). So again, a Hawks-styled self-sufficient woman has put aside established "roles" in society, and selected an alliance based on her own "personal ties" and feelings about which man is more trustworthy.

Riddick mercilessly tests Fry, urging her to leave the other stranded castaways behind, but she beats him at his own game. She shames Riddick by her refusal to act in selfish terms. They may both be tough; they may both be capable, but Fry is connected to the human race in a way that Riddick is not. Riddick thinks he can grow Fry's killer instinct; Fry proves she can nurture Riddick's dormant conscience. Her extraordinary qualities have an impact on a man like Riddick.

4.) The Carpenter anti-hero is a man been burned by religious faith, though it still has a place in his psyche.

The Carpenter anti-hero is one with few connections to the mortal coil, and yet who feels equally disappointed by the dogma of religion and faith.

In The Thing (1982), Kurt Russell's helicopter pilot MacReady notes that "faith is a hard thing to come by these days." He won't take anyone -- or their identity -- on faith.  Not with the shape-shifting alien nearby.

In Assault on Precinct 13, Wilson comments that, as a boy, he met a preacher who told him that, as he grew up, he would "have something to do with death." This odd comment affected him. It was a prophecy that came true.  He has always known, in some sense, his destiny.

Riddick also has a relationship with faith that isn't strictly positive. When he is questioned about his religious beliefs by the Imam (played by Carpenter regular and star of The Thing and They Live, Keith David), Riddick rails against him, and against the Divine's role in his life:

"Think someone could spend half their life in a slam with a horse bit in their mouth and not believe? Think he could start out in some liquor store trash bin with an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and not believe? Got it all wrong, holy man. I absolutely believe in God... And I absolutely hate the fucker."

Incidentally, Riddick's bad childhood also gives him another trait in common with Carpenter anti-heroes such as orphaned Jack Crow (Vampires [1998]), and Nada, from They Live, as we see below.

5.) Through the Anti-hero's actions, some aspect of "The Order" is changed.

The Carpenter anti-hero is one who, through often his final act, changes the shape and order of things in his world.

In Escape from L.A., Snake Plissken activates the Sword of Damocles and plunges the world into darkness, so that America can start over, and liberty can be re-born.

In They Live, John Nada destroys the alien satellite dish sending constant hypnotic signals to all human beings, revealing the world as it truly is; not through the filter of reality the alien echo chamber has created.

In The Thing, MacReady destroys the base, and holds the Thing at bay in the icy winter, even though it means his eventual death.

In an intriguing variation of the Carpenter aesthetic, the order that Riddick changes in Pitch Black involves his own personal code of conduct. After Fry dies, instead of fleeing the planet in the escape transport, Riddick returns to rescue the Imam and Jack. He essentially fulfills Fry's mission. He is shamed by the fact that she has "died for him," (certainly a religious allegory; a kind of Christ-like self-sacrifice from Fry that essentially washes away Riddick's sin). 

"Not for me!" He complains. He views himself unworthy of Fry's sacrifice, and now must make himself worthy.

After the escape from the planet, Jack asks what should be done if the transport encounters the authorities (and mercs).

"Tell them Riddick's dead. He died somewhere back on that planet," Riddick states, an acknowledgment that the change has come from inside his soul. 

The old Riddick is dead. The Riddick that Fry tried so hard to nurture has finally taken his place.

6.) He is a man whose enemies represent a faceless, unthinking legion; a legion that doesn't recognize individual personality, pain, or even humanity.

The Carpenter anti-hero -- a flawed (but strong) human -- is almost universally pitted against a very specific kind of enemy: an attacking horde that seems to lack the anti-hero's enormous sense of individuality.

The gang in Assault on Precinct 13, Street Thunder, consists of hundreds of undifferentiated goons who keep attacking the police station regardless of personal injury or mortality. They just keep attacking, like robots, or zombies.

Inside New York Penitentiary, Snake encounters the "Crazies," another band of indiscriminate, animalistic killers. Even in Ghosts of Mars, the warrior Martians are not differentiated as individuals on the whole (save for Big Daddy Mars), but rather as a horde. And when one dies, his spirit moves into another body, sort of the ultimate in anonymity and horde-attacking. Likewise, Prince of Darkness also features hordes of homeless people as "cells" manipulated by Satan.

Although not human or even humanoid, the flying dragons of Pitch Black boast some of the same characteristics. They are indeed a swarm; a beast-like enemy that seems able to act both collectively and individually, and on instinct rather than evolved human motives. Riddick defeats them because he can "see" them in a way the others can't. He learns their weak spots.

Given how easily Riddick fits into the Carpenter anti-hero paradigm, Pitch Black is not merely a terrific, scary and engaging horror film (and one of the best of the 2000s), but a production that faithfully pays homage to one of the finest genre directors of the past quarter-century. Thus Riddick joins the ranks of Napoleon Wilson, Snake Plissken, John Nada and Desolation Williams. He is a criminal, a murderer, an outsider, and a maverick.

And when "the tide is getting high" and the "time of dying" is at hand, Riddick is also the one man you absolutely want fighting at your side.

Late Night Blogging: The Top Ten John Carpenter Films (at Arrow's Video Deck)

As many of you know, I've been working with Arrow Video in the UK, as of late.  I have written articles for their (gorgeous...) Blu-Ray booklets for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, and for the upcoming Big Trouble in Little China (1986).

To celebrate the latter film's new home release, I posted at their blog, The Video Deck, my selections for the top ten John Carpenter films.  Check it out here.

Here's a snippet:

"It’s always a difficult task to weigh a director’s career output in terms of a mere top ten list, but much more so in the case of John Carpenter.  The auteur and maverick has directed so many great films --- and in so many genres -- that often times it feels like comparing apples and oranges.  For example, how does one choose between two legitimate masterpieces like The Thing (1982) and Halloween (1978)?

Below, I have endeavored to tally the top ten John Carpenter films as I view them right now, and the reasons behind those selections.  Those who have read my book The Films of John Carpenter will note that I have re-jiggered the order some since that book was first published.  This is because John Carpenter’s films are almost universally ahead of their time, and sometimes a “true” sense of a film’s value only becomes apparent on retrospect."

Cult Movie Review: Dark Star (1974)

Conceived as Planetfall, Dark Star (1974) is the first film of director John Carpenter and writer Dan O’Bannon.  The film began as a student project at U.S.C. in 1970, with principal photography occurring early in 1971. The film underwent re-shoots in 1972 to extend the fifty-minute production to eighty-minutes, and to make it viable for a theatrical release.  The film was then purchased by Jack H. Harris (The Blob [1958]), who demanded additional reshoots.  The film finally premiered in 1975, and met with positive reviews, but relatively little audience appreciation.

Regardless of its origin as a student film, Dark Star is today considered a cult-classic.  Its low-budget nature does not take away significantly from the film’s success in part because it is clear the filmmakers had both a creative strategy, and an example to follow.  In short, Dark Star is the anti-2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  As a work of (caustic) 1970s art, it knowingly draws all the opposite conclusions about space travel, mankind, and man’s place or role in the universe. In so cleverly over-turning the 2001 apple cart, Dark Star not only lives up to its title, it remains one of the funniest science fiction films made in the 1970s.

“Don’t give me any of that intelligent life crap. Just give me something I can blow up.”

Eighteen parsecs from Earth in Sector EB-90, the spaceship Dark Star continues its apparently un-ending mission: to destroy unstable planets in order to pave the way for human colonization. 

Unfortunately, the ship has grappled with some severe damage recently, and the newly promoted captain, Doolittle (Narelle) is ill-prepared when one of the ship’s thermonuclear bombs prepares to detonate while still attached to the underbelly of the ship.  Dark Star’s computer suggests teaching the bomb the study of Phenomenology. 

While Doolittle grapples with this existential crisis, Sergeant Pinback (Dan O’Bannon) battles a mischievous alien pet that has escaped from captivity and Lt. Talby (Dre Pahich) dreams of seeing the mysterious Phoenix Asteroids with his own eyes…

“Are you willing to entertain a few concepts?”

Dark Star is an outer space comedy that succeeds brilliantly on the basis of a very good, well-told joke. Visually, thematically, and in terms of philosophy, the film cleverly operates as the antithesis of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).

Being the “Anti-2001” may sound like a relatively simple or juvenile thing, but actually the opposite is true considering how consistently Carpenter and O’Bannon’s film develops its world-view.  By creating a world so clearly and deliberately the inverse of Kubrick’s vision, Dark Star’s creators have fashioned an intelligent and challenging response to that beloved science fiction film, one that meaningfully re-evaluates mankind’s nature and his place in the universe.

In brief, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a majestic, stately picture that establishes the mysteries of the universe in the form of the monolith, but which also suggests that man’s progress over time possesses a shape and a purpose; moving from ape-like primitive to evolved star child. 

By contrast, Dark Star suggests the absolute absurdity and pointlessness of the human existence, and therefore of the universe itself.  Right down the line, element-to-element Dark Star mirrors and parodies 2001’s sense of “cosmic purpose” with its own sense of man’s irrelevance in the scheme of things, as well as his general pettiness.

In Kubrick’s 2001, the space age is beautiful, stately, wondrous and because of man’s intended destiny, even ordered.  The spaceship and space station interiors are depicted as roomy and minimalistic, and the incredible visuals of space vessels in flight -- docking and landing -- are sometimes accompanied by instances of classical music such as the Blue Danube Waltz, a composition that suggests the formal, dance-like nature of objects in space, and in motion.  

2001’s “theme song” as it might even be considered is “Thus Spake Zarathustra,” a formal composition by Richard Strauss (1864 – 1949) which again, primarily denotes order.  As Kenneth Von Gunden and Stuart H. Stock wrote in in Twenty All-Time Great Science Fiction Films (Crown; 1982, page 190), the composition:

“…opens with an ascending phrase of three notes…which represent Nietzcshe’s view of the evolutionary rise of man…These three notes serve note that the number three is essential to the film: from the perfect alignment of the three spheres of Earth, Moon, and sun at the beginning to the appearance of things in threes.”

Dark Star’s first anti-2001 conceit is to adopt country music -- the vernacular of personal stories and human emotions -- as its theme song.  The country music genre is not generally symbolic in nature, but literal in its storytelling of failed love affairs or a relationship now lost.  So where Kubrick utilizes his music to suggest the transcendent and ordered nature of space travel, Dark Star’s theme, “Benson, Arizona” by Bill Taylor evokes nothing of grandeur or cosmic importance.

The lyrics of “Benson, Arizona” explicitly involve the long separation between an astronaut and his Earthbound love, a love that connects that astronaut not to the future (and evolution), but the traditional past.  

This connection is like a tether, dragging him back to earthbound concerns and therefore precluding the chance for growth or transcendence.  Dan O’Bannon noted this context when he said in an interview that the astronauts’ days aboard Dark Star were sad and ridiculous.

The specific comparison between 2001 and Dark Star involves the nature of life on a ship traveling in space.  In A Space Odyssey, the crewmen fly the roomy Discovery towards a rendezvous with destiny near Jupiter.  In Dark Star, the unkempt astronauts fly their ship, the Dark Star on an endless quest across the galaxy to destroy unstable planets.   One journey is, in keeping with the name of the ship, about “discovery.”  The other is about death and destruction…about “blowing things up.”

In the course of these journeys, both men are contacted by home, and again, Dark Star makes a point of inverting the themes featured in Kubrick’s film.  In 2001, a news anchor for BBC-12’s “The World Tonight” interviews astronauts Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea) and Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) about life on ship.  There is a time lag of approximately seven minutes because Discovery is 80 million miles away.  But meaningful conversation about life in space is still possible…just delayed.

Dark Star opens with a message from McMurdo Base on Earth as a military officer contacts the crew and notes that there is a ten year time lag in conversation because Dark Star is 18 parsecs distant from Earth, a gap that makes any meaningful conversation impossible.  In 2001, the “entire world” joins the BBC interviewer in wishing Dave and Frank a “safe and successful journey” to the stars.  Dark Star’s communique to Earth, by contrasts gets play in “prime time” and “good reviews in the trade,” but the actual content of the message from home is negative.  Earth will not be sending replacement radiation shields to the damaged ship, because of budget cuts and the vast distance separating the ship and the home world.

Both 2001: A Space Odyssey and Dark Star also comment on “intelligent” devices and their relationship with mankind.  In the former film, the mellifluous-voiced HAL 9000 becomes murderous on the journey to Jupiter, and must be de-activated.  Under Dave’s auspices, man re-asserts his rightful control over the machine (thus symbolically conquering technology; the latest in the line of tools since the ape-man through that bone into the sky in the film’s prologue…) and then heads off to evolve via the stargate/monolith “trip.” 

Once more, Dark Star inverts that very premise.

Here, the crewmen of the Dark Star must interact with a talking bomb, one who is convinced that it must detonate (following an accident aboard ship which activates it) and thus kill everyone.  The ship’s acting captain, the appropriately-named Doolittle (Narrelle), -- who all-things considered would rather be surfing – must teach the bomb Phenomenology in order to prevent it from self-actuating and detonating.  After the bomb learns Phenomenology -- the study of consciousness, essentially -- it becomes an ego-maniac, convinced that it is the only sentient being in the universe.  The bomb decides that it is God and before detonating declares “Let There Be Light.” 

In other words, in Dark Star, man does not conquer his technology.  Instead, he is eclipsed and destroyed by it. Technology supersedes man, and man does not evolve…he is destroyed.  Dark Star even re-parses the transcendental stargate sequence of 2001 to its own ends. It is notable too that the bomb adopts the self-image of man: as destroyer.  The ship’s mission was to blow up planets, and now the bomb will blow up man, a variation of that mission.

In Kubrick’s film, Bowman endures a “cosmic trip,” and the aging process, and then is re-born as the evolved “star child.  There’s a cosmic trip” in Dark Star too, but it is not transcendental in nature.  A crewman named Talby (Pahich) joins the glowing, colorful “Phoenix Asteroids” and becomes indistinguishable from them.  The message is hence that man is not unique and special -- he is not a delicate snow-flake -- but rather part and parcel of a vast, meaningless universe, and in some ways just another grain of sand inhabiting it. 

Doolittle, meanwhile also meets his distinctly not transcendental end. He surfs into the atmosphere of a planet…and burns up. His point of greatest self-actuation is reliving his favorite form of leisure…a hobby.

Up and down, Dark Star functions so colorfully and so amusingly because it undercuts and reverses the premises of the grand Kubrick film again and again.  In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Discovery is a perfectly-ordered technological paradise featuring very few signs of human character or individuality.  The Dark Star’s living quarters, by contrast, look like a messy dorm room.  The Discovery is so spacious that Frank Poole can jog alone through a vast circular track.  The Dark Star, by contrast, is so small that its crew literally possesses no elbow room on the bridge.

The men of Dark Star are also not the brave, resourceful astronauts we have come to expect from efforts like 2001 or Star Trek.  Talby sits alone on the observation deck, isolated from the crew.  Pinback can’t be bothered to feed his alien pet.  Doolittle would rather dream about surfing in Malibu than handle the ship’s problems. Even the injured captain, Powell -- who is kept stored barely alive in some kind of cryogenic freeze unit -- is more interested in his hobby (baseball in general, and the Dodgers specifically) than in helping the ship survive a crisis.  The evolution of man does not seem like much of a possibility with these characters as the spearhead for the future age, does it?

Even visually, Dark Star plays knowingly as a mirror reflection of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  In Stanley Kubrick’s film, the Discovery first passes on the screen from left to right, a visual short-hand for a journey outward.  In John Carpenter’s Dark Star, the ship passes from right to left, thus implying a journey back rather than forward.  Since the film concerns man’s inability to transcend petty concerns and specific incidents (reflected in the use of country music as well as the crew’s petty demeanor), the idea transmitted is that mankind is forever journeying, but not really heading anywhere of import.

There’s an old truism about movie-making that goes: the best way to criticize a film is to make another film yourself.  In some crucial and cerebral fashion, Dark Star epitomizes that notion, and note-for-note, it overturns the premises and ideas of the grand 2001: A Space Odyssey.   If the 1970s is truly the wake-up from the hippie dream, as my friend and mentor, Johnny Byrne used to insist, then Dark Star is pointedly the wake-up from the 2001 dream; an acknowledgment of the absurd and pointless nature of man’s existence…even in the Space Age.