Perhaps more effectively than any other director, Paul Greengrass humanizes larger than life characters in a tumultuous world. He cherishes human life; he doesn’t belittle or trivialize death and suffering. His 9/11 documentary-film United 93 is still perhaps the most emotionally devastating film I’ve ever seen. It brazenly confronts the emotional and psychological toll of people fighting for their lives, inevitably leaving you with a deep appreciation for humanity.
Greengrass similarly humanizes Jason Bourne in The Bourne Supremacy, the most emotionally mature installment of the Bourne trilogy. The entire film revolves around Bourne’s quest to retrace clues to a botched assassination attempt in his past. It’s not until the end of the film that we discover Bourne’s final goal was to reach the daughter of the man he so coldly killed years ago. He seeks to apologize for the pain he’s caused; he yearns for reconciliation, not violence.
Captain Phillips is actually not that far off from a Bourne story -- the protagonist is similarly bright and pragmatic; he is direct, capable, and heroic. He is a regular man thrust into extraordinary situations and forced to fight for survival. The big difference however, is that Richard Phillips is a real man who was captured and held for ransom by Somali pirates in 2009. His steadfast will to live is the bedrock of this adaptation of his novel A Captain’s Duty: Somali Pirates, Navy SEALs, and Dangerous Days at Sea.
Like he’s done so effectively before, Greengrass imbues Captain Phillips with an overwhelming visceral energy and unflinching urgency. The story unravels briskly, rarely breaking for a breath, forever forging ahead in tension and danger. We are by Captain Phillip’s side for almost all of the 2:15 runtime; and we empathize with every emotional beat in his fight for survival. When he pleads with the pirates to take the cash on-board and leave peacefully, we secretly hope that they do so. When he tries to escape only to be recaptured, we feel his disappointment like a punch to the gut. When he finally reaches safety, we can’t help but diffuse the tension, fear, and danger with a chuckle and a tear. This is perhaps the greatest testament to the film’s respect for humanity. The film’s final scenes, a sequence of extraordinary emotional turmoil, incredulity, and gratitude, is the stuff of great, unforgettable, classic movies. This is partly due to Greengrass’ exceptional buildup to this emotional apex; but the credit must go to Tom Hanks who once again so gracefully proves why he’s one of the best actors in the business.
While watching Captain Phillips -- and finding myself getting much more emotional than I expected to be -- I was reminded of recent superhero films such as Man of Steel, in which buildings upon buildings are laid to waste by men with seemingly every superpower imaginable except for the capacity to save lives. I was reminded of Django Unchained and Inglourious Basterds, films that were far more concerned with glorified revenge violence than discovering anything truthful about the fragility of human life. I understand such films are meant to be taken as fiction; they are a means for the public to escape the trivialities and burdens of real life. But the best forms of entertainment are the ones that stir something in us, ones that change us and propel us to become better than who we were. Captain Phillips succeeds because it brings its characters front and center. It explores the emotional toll of people facing impossible circumstances. It doesn't so cleanly define villains and heroes; but rather, it reconstructs a world in which individuals are simply doing what they must to survive, no matter the cost.
In a recent op-ed by Matt Singer, he compared the heroics -- and the underlying differences in storytelling mechanics -- between Captain Phillips and Captain Kirk from Star Trek Into Darkness, noting that "at every single moment [in Captain Phillips] we know exactly who is onscreen and what they're doing, and most importantly, why it matters. Summer movies, in contrast, thrive on chaos. The only motivation that's relevant at any moment is the one that makes stuff explode." This succinctly drives at the distinction between what makes a movie great and what makes a movie cool. Star Trek Into Darkness has giant space explosions, laser guns, and magical immortality blood. It's fast and flashy and cool but its whimsical fiction makes it extremely forgettable. Captain Phillips may not be flashy or colorful, but its emotional impact can in no way be fabricated, its turmoil not so easily shrugged off. The great movies, it seems, has their own price.
Greengrass similarly humanizes Jason Bourne in The Bourne Supremacy, the most emotionally mature installment of the Bourne trilogy. The entire film revolves around Bourne’s quest to retrace clues to a botched assassination attempt in his past. It’s not until the end of the film that we discover Bourne’s final goal was to reach the daughter of the man he so coldly killed years ago. He seeks to apologize for the pain he’s caused; he yearns for reconciliation, not violence.
Captain Phillips is actually not that far off from a Bourne story -- the protagonist is similarly bright and pragmatic; he is direct, capable, and heroic. He is a regular man thrust into extraordinary situations and forced to fight for survival. The big difference however, is that Richard Phillips is a real man who was captured and held for ransom by Somali pirates in 2009. His steadfast will to live is the bedrock of this adaptation of his novel A Captain’s Duty: Somali Pirates, Navy SEALs, and Dangerous Days at Sea.
Like he’s done so effectively before, Greengrass imbues Captain Phillips with an overwhelming visceral energy and unflinching urgency. The story unravels briskly, rarely breaking for a breath, forever forging ahead in tension and danger. We are by Captain Phillip’s side for almost all of the 2:15 runtime; and we empathize with every emotional beat in his fight for survival. When he pleads with the pirates to take the cash on-board and leave peacefully, we secretly hope that they do so. When he tries to escape only to be recaptured, we feel his disappointment like a punch to the gut. When he finally reaches safety, we can’t help but diffuse the tension, fear, and danger with a chuckle and a tear. This is perhaps the greatest testament to the film’s respect for humanity. The film’s final scenes, a sequence of extraordinary emotional turmoil, incredulity, and gratitude, is the stuff of great, unforgettable, classic movies. This is partly due to Greengrass’ exceptional buildup to this emotional apex; but the credit must go to Tom Hanks who once again so gracefully proves why he’s one of the best actors in the business.
While watching Captain Phillips -- and finding myself getting much more emotional than I expected to be -- I was reminded of recent superhero films such as Man of Steel, in which buildings upon buildings are laid to waste by men with seemingly every superpower imaginable except for the capacity to save lives. I was reminded of Django Unchained and Inglourious Basterds, films that were far more concerned with glorified revenge violence than discovering anything truthful about the fragility of human life. I understand such films are meant to be taken as fiction; they are a means for the public to escape the trivialities and burdens of real life. But the best forms of entertainment are the ones that stir something in us, ones that change us and propel us to become better than who we were. Captain Phillips succeeds because it brings its characters front and center. It explores the emotional toll of people facing impossible circumstances. It doesn't so cleanly define villains and heroes; but rather, it reconstructs a world in which individuals are simply doing what they must to survive, no matter the cost.
In a recent op-ed by Matt Singer, he compared the heroics -- and the underlying differences in storytelling mechanics -- between Captain Phillips and Captain Kirk from Star Trek Into Darkness, noting that "at every single moment [in Captain Phillips] we know exactly who is onscreen and what they're doing, and most importantly, why it matters. Summer movies, in contrast, thrive on chaos. The only motivation that's relevant at any moment is the one that makes stuff explode." This succinctly drives at the distinction between what makes a movie great and what makes a movie cool. Star Trek Into Darkness has giant space explosions, laser guns, and magical immortality blood. It's fast and flashy and cool but its whimsical fiction makes it extremely forgettable. Captain Phillips may not be flashy or colorful, but its emotional impact can in no way be fabricated, its turmoil not so easily shrugged off. The great movies, it seems, has their own price.
