The opening shot of Gravity reveals Earth from outer space, wide and looming and magnificent. From the distant shadows, an insignificant dot drifts into focus -- a spacecraft, the Explorer, dwarfed by the enormity of the planet behind it. Within its mechanical structures, even smaller figures float through space -- astronauts, explorers, humans -- about whom a story of survival in this inhospitable environment will be told. Dr. Ryan Stone is on her first journey; Matt Kowalski is the weathered old vet on his last mission. They are but insignificant blips of matter in an otherwise empty vacuum, small but precious, inconsequential yet supremely influential.
Gravity is a remarkably complex film and a gratifyingly simple one too. Director Alfonso Cuaron returns to the bravura long takes he so elegantly used in Children of Men. But here, Cuaron doesn’t necessarily use the camera as a technical tool to capture images. Indeed, the camera is treated with such respect and dexterity that Cuaron actually dances with it. Every image floats through the screen, its every angle, framing, and composition exquisitely crafted with the pinpoint accuracy of a clockmaker. At one point, the camera drifts from outer space into Dr. Stone’s helmet, turning back out to view space from her point of view, complete with instruments readings on her helmet. We hear her panicked panting, echoing deeply inside the confined helmet. We are literally in her head, feeling exactly what she feels. Then just as gracefully, the camera retracts from her point of view and back out into the coldness of space, leaving us to gauge the true extent of her loneliness. It’s a supremely simple camera move; but it is one that would not resonate nearly the same if the act wasn’t grafted onto Dr. Stone’s emotional journey.
It is this insistence on humanistic ambitions over technical wizardry that makes Gravity so very special. Cuaron, also serving as screenwriter, has crafted a high-concept space movie as an undisguised metaphor for transcending pain, for overcoming any and all obstacles. We find out that Dr. Stone carries with her a tragic backstory -- one that has directly or indirectly pushed her to escape the pain by literally retreating as far away as possible. And throughout the film, we understand Dr. Stone’s struggle to escape that pain, and how she keeps getting pulled back to those memories -- at first reluctantly, then somewhat triumphantly.
It’s a story of rebirth, of picking yourself back up after falling down. Repeated use of harnesses in zero-G environments throughout the film echo the imagery of umbilical cords in wombs clearly enough. But if it wasn’t for the final sequence of the film, which replaces the metallic hollows of outer space with the primal vegetation of Earth, Gravity wouldn’t transcend the mediocrity of dozens of similar survival tales. It’s Dr. Stone’s final return -- her literally being pulled back down to Earth -- that cements the metaphor for rebirth, right down to her need to shed all excess armor she had accumulated during her time in space, right down to her slowly adjusting to Earth’s forces and learning to take the first step all over again. It’s a satisfying reversal of everything we’ve seen up until that point -- warm, lush, and thriving instead of cold, sterile, and detached.
In its trim 90-minute runtime, Gravity changed the way I view films. It proves that in the right hands, modern filmmaking is limitless. It can transcend all expectations, all obstacles. Gravity proves that great movies can transport audiences into the furthest reaches of space just as easily as it can conjure a deep, intrinsic empathy for human life. It is fantastic, groundbreaking, and breathtaking. It is by far the best film of 2013 and may be my favorite film from the past few years.
Gravity is a remarkably complex film and a gratifyingly simple one too. Director Alfonso Cuaron returns to the bravura long takes he so elegantly used in Children of Men. But here, Cuaron doesn’t necessarily use the camera as a technical tool to capture images. Indeed, the camera is treated with such respect and dexterity that Cuaron actually dances with it. Every image floats through the screen, its every angle, framing, and composition exquisitely crafted with the pinpoint accuracy of a clockmaker. At one point, the camera drifts from outer space into Dr. Stone’s helmet, turning back out to view space from her point of view, complete with instruments readings on her helmet. We hear her panicked panting, echoing deeply inside the confined helmet. We are literally in her head, feeling exactly what she feels. Then just as gracefully, the camera retracts from her point of view and back out into the coldness of space, leaving us to gauge the true extent of her loneliness. It’s a supremely simple camera move; but it is one that would not resonate nearly the same if the act wasn’t grafted onto Dr. Stone’s emotional journey.
It is this insistence on humanistic ambitions over technical wizardry that makes Gravity so very special. Cuaron, also serving as screenwriter, has crafted a high-concept space movie as an undisguised metaphor for transcending pain, for overcoming any and all obstacles. We find out that Dr. Stone carries with her a tragic backstory -- one that has directly or indirectly pushed her to escape the pain by literally retreating as far away as possible. And throughout the film, we understand Dr. Stone’s struggle to escape that pain, and how she keeps getting pulled back to those memories -- at first reluctantly, then somewhat triumphantly.
It’s a story of rebirth, of picking yourself back up after falling down. Repeated use of harnesses in zero-G environments throughout the film echo the imagery of umbilical cords in wombs clearly enough. But if it wasn’t for the final sequence of the film, which replaces the metallic hollows of outer space with the primal vegetation of Earth, Gravity wouldn’t transcend the mediocrity of dozens of similar survival tales. It’s Dr. Stone’s final return -- her literally being pulled back down to Earth -- that cements the metaphor for rebirth, right down to her need to shed all excess armor she had accumulated during her time in space, right down to her slowly adjusting to Earth’s forces and learning to take the first step all over again. It’s a satisfying reversal of everything we’ve seen up until that point -- warm, lush, and thriving instead of cold, sterile, and detached.
In its trim 90-minute runtime, Gravity changed the way I view films. It proves that in the right hands, modern filmmaking is limitless. It can transcend all expectations, all obstacles. Gravity proves that great movies can transport audiences into the furthest reaches of space just as easily as it can conjure a deep, intrinsic empathy for human life. It is fantastic, groundbreaking, and breathtaking. It is by far the best film of 2013 and may be my favorite film from the past few years.
