In the past few years, big-budget science fiction has moved in the direction of visuals that are “breathtaking” and “cutting-edge” (read: CGI). The power of visual storytelling seems to have an iron grip on Hollywood these days; if the visuals can’t wow an audience, then presumably the audience can’t be wowed at all. And nobody’s saying visuals don’t have power. But what happens when the quest for visual grandeur outweighs the genre’s old standbys: the careful plausibility of science (or at least its pretend brother, “scientifiction”), the deep philosophical waters that the old pile of paperbacks used to issue forth like fish, and the tight, intricate character relationships that beam the story along like a well-tuned particle accelerator?
Overkill in Aesthetics: When Emphasis on Visuals Subsumes Storytelling Consider James Cameron’s film Avatar (2009). It is a visually stunning illustration of almost every imaginable film technique. The planet Pandora—with its bioluminescent forests, floating mountains, and other bizarre topographical features—represents nothing less than a triumph of CGI and computer animation. But beauty is not enough, and what drives the story (if indeed it really drives anything) is a piece of colonization and environmentalist propaganda that does not quite reach the level of sophistication we expect from Cameron after films like Aliens (1986) and The Terminator (1984). Indeed, for all its technological achievements, Avatar has followed and condensed into motion part of the largely unexamined visual aesthetics of the campus cinema and its artful soundtracks—soundtracks that do not quite redeem the rather overripe, somewhat predictable storyline.
A common problem with big-budget sci-fi is that they concentrate so much on the visual aspect of the movie that they neglect the depth of the story itself. The Avatar movies are prime examples of this issue. When thinking back to the great sci-fi films of the past—like 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey—they seem to be the total package, combining stunning visuals with narratives that ask real questions. For instance, 2001 seems to question not just human evolution but the very nature of consciousness. By comparison, the Avatar films seem to be trying to parenthetically fill world and screen time with spectacle while the story in and around that world struggles to sustain itself over three hours.
One major factor contributing to this trend is CGI’s rise as the dominant method for creating special effects. There’s no disputing that CGI has taken the filmmaking world by storm, permitting even limitless artistic invention. But herein may lie CGI’s greatest deficit: the more technical wizardry is able to conjure up boundless images, the less impact they seem to make. Hollywood certainly cranked out its share of audacious visual spectacles in the age of the Titanic practical effect, but the more awe-on-demand the moviegoing public comes to expect, the less gigabytes of cute-and-cuddly dinosaurs in “Jurassic Park” seem to deliver.
Think about the film The Matrix (1999), which blends practical effects and CGI to create a world that feels both surreal and grounded. The iconic bullet-dodging sequences are renowned not just for their aesthetic appeal but for their storytelling merit. They speak directly to the narrative’s themes concerning perception and reality. But is this the rule of thumb for good CGI? Is it, at its best, an aesthetic vehicle that delivers the storytelling payoff without a perceptible drop in its pace? Or, conversely, should we even concern ourselves with this aesthetic pay-at-the-appearance-points narrative vehicle? And what happens when the appearance vehicle breaks down?
When CGI Becomes a Distraction I frequently see in many of today’s blockbuster films that an emphasis on CGI can become a distraction rather than an enhancement. A prime example is Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker (2019)—the final film in a much-beloved science fiction series. It has many stunning visuals, from breathtaking space battles to the far-too-elaborate-for-its-own-good CGI set pieces that dominate a few too many of its scenes. Yet, these visuals feel like they’re being used to paper over some pretty damned serious storytelling problems.
To say that the movie’s story is thin would be an insult to unpromising storylines everywhere. Characters stumble through an even-more-clichéd-than-usual series of emotional arcs. And, on the sound business advice front, the filmmakers definitely had a “play it safe and go with nostalgia” strategy.
This isn’t only about specific movies; it’s about something changing in the industry. Studios are betting bigger and bigger on visual effects, and they seem to be betting those big bets predominantly on the storytelling side of things. Complaining about this tendency is hardly new. In 1968, Roger Ebert slammed 2001: A Space Odyssey for its coldness and lack of character. And in more recent times, directors from Christopher Nolan to Quentin Tarantino have taken potshots at their VFX-loving peers for being all spectacle and no story.
How Sci-Fi Can Remain an Intellectual and Provocative Force Sci-fi captured my affection because of its cerebral nature. The great works of sci-fi tell us more than we might initially understand about our societies, our technologies, and even our human natures. When filmmakers focus on producing the kinds of eye-popping set pieces that will wow audiences, though, those damn-the-thought provocation qualities can drift right out of the genre—putting sci-fi one step closer to being regarded as yet another superficial summer blockbuster.
One might consider the film Interstellar (2014) when contemplating scientific plausibility and emotional depth alongside grand visuals. Directed by Christopher Nolan, this nearly three-hour time-bending saga has moments of stunning computer-generated imagery, like the depiction of a black hole. Yet, this is a movie grounded in a story that grapples with not just the appearance of time, but its true nature; the nature of love, which, in a way mirrored by the earlier film Contact (1997), becomes the stand-in for the “higher dimensions” of existence we’ve yet to truly fathom; and the nature of human survival, which is apparently coming down to whether we can leave or save Earth to live another day.
What Makes Indie Science Fiction a Different Perspective
Some of the indie scene’s most stimulating recent works have been awarded the title of “sci-fi.” That may well be because sci-fi, at its best, can be the most intimate yet the most profound way of telling a story. Ambitious storytelling can happen anywhere outside the traditional studio system, and on occasions when it does, we find ourselves in the realm of sci-fi. Talking about a recent such instance, I would easily mention “Ex Machina,” which nearly defies the conventional appearance of a popular blockbuster. While it boasts a star-studded cast and a certain level of production value, “Ex Machina” is pretty much a low-key endeavor, given the genre it’s embarked upon.
In the same way, Annihilation employs its haunting, surreal imagery to carry a tale about self-destruction and the unknowable. Director Alex Garland allows the film’s ambiguity to hover, trustingly leaving it up to the audience to engage with the film’s profound inquiries rather than requiring every plot point to be perfectly outlined. For this reason, and because of the six or so years of development the film has undergone, Annihilation ranks among the most faithful adaptations of VanderMeer’s work. When I think about sci-fi, I think about mind-bending images and narratives. Annihilation is both when you get right down to it.
Huge budgets, significant risks—but what about the substantial ideas?
Big-budget sci-fi movies are not flawed. In fact, their capability of pulling in an audience can create moments where filmmakers can serve up stories that make viewers think about the kind of future we’re heading toward. But too often, these films are cautious when it comes to storytelling, featuring action that is nearly as loud and furious as the filmmakers’ intentions, focusing on the visual razzle-dazzle rather than on developing characters and plumbing the depths of their themes. It’s those things that science fiction talks about like no other genre.
I consider a film like Blade Runner 2049 (2017), which had the huge budget of a must-see blockbuster yet kept its focus on atmosphere, character, and philosophical wonder—and which, by the way, also had a very slow pace and a good deal of visual ambiguity. It’s a film that gives as much as it gets, rewarding the viewer’s investment with both stunning visual design and a thought-provoking narrative. Yet, as Josh reviews some of the “disappointments” of 2017, he points out that the sequel to the 1982 classic was one of those films that “underperformed.”
The route ahead for high-budget science fiction
Where does that leave us? I think there’s definitely a place for visually breathtaking sci-fi blockbusters, but they shouldn’t come at the expense of narrative and thematic depth. I believe that filmmakers should aim for a harmonious marriage of visual and idea spectacularness in their stories, with each scene theyilding to a larger narrative purpose. Directors like Denis Villeneuve and Christopher Nolan have shown ways—at least two ways—to achieve this kind of spectacular, yet intellectually respectable, storytelling.
In the end, potential negates everything if it isn’t followed by the realization of that potential. For sci-fi to be more than our space ghetto, it must speak to us about our “hopes, fears, and future.” In the way we hope, intend, and plan what our tomorrow will be, it must serve as a conduit for its big messages and not just for the big-budget visuals that again, just wow us. What put the Burj Khalifa on our horizon if it doesn’t confer a difference we can see, a vision of future urbanity that speaks more to us than a moon-landing preparation course?
Best to keep pushing the form and the genre at both ends—MFing at nearly menacing levels.
