STYLE X SUBSTANCE: On Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
Film criticism of the 21st century scoffs at style, opting for that most dullard of concepts: substance. orangesaint. — the tireless champion of the stylish and the outcast — bats for Tenet, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.* and the truism that style is substance.
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*Spoilers follow for Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
The literate illiterate is easy enough to spot. The gentleman or lady in question:
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wears Marks and Spencer clothes two sizes too large but struts around like Mr. Yves St. Laurent was a family friend;
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is highly educated. If it hasn’t been mentioned already, a university degree reeking of esteem sitting proudly on the lifeless wall right in front of the entrance to a cramped office will do so (said office is on an important enough floor to warrant a minute-long lift ride, but the gentleman or lady’s self-importance outweighs that of the floor: high enough to lick the sky but not to leave a hickey);
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possesses the emotional maturity of a My Chemical Romance song circa 2007;
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bemoans the lack of intellect in tent pole summer films — “Transformers just adds to the challenges faced by postcolonial feminism” — but weeps at the end of the decidedly sexist To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before;
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needs meaning. Demands it. A film cannot be worth watching if it doesn’t advance the proposition that art is made for intelligence, rather than for the aesthetic. The two are as disparate as a Tory and agreeableness. Obviously.
That Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. are the most unfortunate victims of this literacy pandemic is not surprising. In a landscape increasingly dominated by reboots, sequels and pangs for the past, originality is the enemy. Originality is uncertain. It demands the desire on part of the viewer to be challenged about preconceived notions.
Mr. Ansel Elgort’s sunglasses scream 80s. Ms. Kendall Jenner’s jeans shriek Britney. Mr. Bertrand Russell twists in his grave. The world is suffering from familiarity, from the belief that obviousness advances a message far better than considered contemplation.
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[It] is better to glide around like potpourri than plod around like landfill.
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We forget that films are art and creators are artists. Most critics complain about not understanding Tenet and understanding The Man from U.N.C.L.E. far too quickly. Of course, they understand neither, forgetting that the greatest films are a pleasure to both the mind and eye.
Substance takes many forms. Saying something is of vital import to the human existence. But, it is better to glide around like potpourri than plod around like landfill.
To borrow a phrase, we think too much and feel too little. In the stampede to be crowned first to recognise the next societal malaise to sanctimoniously bring attention to (and thereby preempt guilt), film critique has forgotten that films should always be an experience.
A movie should indulge the senses, breaching the buttresses of the eyelids and painting a de Chirico on the pupils. It should soothe the ears like Le Festin or assault it like Wall of Glass. And finally, it should trap the mind in a labyrinthine plot, the unravelling of which should form a glorious climax that awakens the mind to a new world, or the potential for change in a very real one.
That Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. do so with unique panache should not mark them out as failures. And yet, the literate illiterate crucifies both films for being instantly recognisable, as if this negates any of its moral or social commentary. As if every work of art needs to make a statement, instead of just being artistically astounding. As if art cannot simultaneously do both. They make you think, and they do so stylishly.
Both are Bond babies, this much is certain. While Tenet is the introspective, precocious and cerebral older child, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is the well intentioned but spoilt, extroverted trendsetter.
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It is true that Messrs. Nolan and Ritchie expect you to feel it wholeheartedly, and consider you intelligent enough to at least attempt to understand it too...This, then, is another qualifier of the literate illiterate. The gentleman or lady in question never does the feeding; it is much preferred to be fed.
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Both are inspired but not pastiches; both are frivolous and yet thought provoking. This Guardian article conveniently critiques of Mr. Christopher Nolan’s filmmaking: “Clocks literally tick.”
While there is some truth to this — the Dunkirk score is literally the ticking of Nolan’s actual watch ensconced snugly by Mr. Hans Zimmer’s unmistakable brilliance — both films are far more nuanced experiences.
And it is the truest of truisms that different films are different experiences. While The Avengers (and indeed every Marvel film bar the first Captain America) was an excessively brash advancement of plot-less spectacle, Tenet is a deep séance with a Caravaggio, five minutes before opening time on a Sunday in a dimly lit Louvre.
Mr. Michael Bay’s Bayhem needs no elaboration, but neither does the opening sequence of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. The red line à la Saul Bass immediately renders the stylish, sensuous and suspicious world of ‘60s espionage, replete with Mr. Guy Ritchie’s witticisms.
Both films, then, are unique experiences off the bat. Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., though, use this distinctiveness as springboards for a richer, lusher plot and world. Marvel and Bay stay content with their distinctive brands being the sole thrust of their films: the sickly frogs that float in their wells like benevolent dictators but never contemplate journeying outwards (and never contemplate, period).
To paraphrase The Libertines, both movies get straight to the heart of the matter, but don’t make you glum by laying it all out on a platter. “Don’t understand it,” Tenet’s Clémence Poésy says matter-of-factly. “Feel it.” It is true that Messrs. Nolan and Ritchie expect you to feel it wholeheartedly, and consider you intelligent enough to at least attempt to understand it too. This, then, is another qualifier of the literate illiterate. The gentleman or lady in question never does the feeding; it is much preferred to be fed.
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[The] Protagonist is dropped into the middle of an overwhelmingly foreign world. We don’t need an emotional connection with him. We are him.
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We live in a world of contradictions.
In India, the political left is often the right and the political right is often the left.
In England, the serial winner Mr. José Mourinho considers his runner-up season at Manchester United his finest.
And in Italy, olive oil is increasingly an import.
Which is all to say that art is only successful if it is contradictory, because this status quo correlates it with life.
The literate illiterate criticises Nolan and Ritchie because, obtusely, their characters think too much and feel too little. That blame is the perennial crown of thorns and thistles to be laid on someone else’s head is obvious. It is a worthy cause, however, to disprove this notion.
In Tenet, it is the anonymity of Mr. John David Washington’s Protagonist that makes him relatable. He actively avoids sharing his identity (old Indian proverb: if the sweltering Delhi heat can’t make a man talk, nothing will). This is intentional: the Protagonist is dropped into the middle of an overwhelmingly foreign world. We don’t need an emotional connection with him. We are him. And besides, separating himself from connection and emotion, at least consciously, is what helps him survive.
Neil, played by an increasingly adroit Mr. Robert Pattinson, is the narratorial adversary. He seems too keen to establish a relationship, both with the Protagonist and with the audience. We later find out why, in the deceptively emotional denouement. For, while the Protagonist is the Protagonist, Neil is the protagonist. He surreptitiously moves, shakes, positions and sacrifices in order for the Protagonist to survive in the present (Neil’s past. And present. So the Protagonist can make it to the future, which is Neil’s present. And past. Yup.). He is, at the risk of unintelligent, paraphrasing flippancy, the hero we deserve, but not the one we need for the movie’s duration. He’s not our hero. He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector. A dark knight. *Cue The Batman*
The Man from U.N.C.L.E. marries the Protagonist and Neil, and proves for the cinematic world that fashionable fashion maxim that less is more. In the simultaneously sardonic and genuinely funny sandwich scene, its nonchalant discovery and consumption belies a much more intrinsic inner struggle than dialogue ever could, renders the off-screen boat chase much more vividly than violently quick on-screen shots ever would, and instantaneously deepens the relationship between Messrs. Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin. And, of course, it teaches us one of life’s most important rules: anything can be handled with wine, a Panini and Mr. Peppino Gagliardi.
We receive this much character information because U.N.C.L.E. depends more on its characters, in particular the Solo-Kuryakin partnership, than on the plot. Tenet, oppositely, use time as a marionette for its plot, and characters are secondary. This is fine: different stories demand different storytelling.
What is common and shared between both films is Ms. Elizabeth Debicki. In the 6ft. 3 in. Australian, Hollywood has most assuredly found its truest leading lady in years. In Tenet, her Kat holds the films emotional threads. We want her to save her son. We want her to break free from Sator. And we want her to not be the clichéd distressed damsel. That she achieves all three of these wants contributes greatly to the feeling of resolution at the resolution of the film. She’s smart enough to see through the Protagonist’s alias. She tricks Sator. She kills Sator (before the male-designated moment). And she saves her son. The feminism of Captain Marvel was condescending, pitting genders against one another. All characters have relatively equal dollops of agency in Tenet. Kat ultimately saves herself. Priya is ostensibly the true villain of the piece but even then one gets the sense that her villainy is borne from good intentions.
We all want to be the Kat that jumps off of the ship, bathing in absolute freedom (and Hollywood sunlight), free of iron shackles and yet safely comforted by the fact that her selflessless vis-à-vis her son is what gives her her freedom. The character of Kat, in the end, is the ideal I.
In U.N.C.L.E., we still (perversely) want to be Ms. Elizabeth Debicki. Her Ms. Victoria Vinciguerra is absolutely free in her unabashed villainy, the living embodiment of that niggling, gnawing craving in everyone and their grandmother to be bad. Just bad. Like, nuke the proverbial excrement out of half the Western world bad. That she does so subtly, rejecting bombast for refined menace, makes her an excellent villain. The clothes help as well: combining Greco-Roman fluidity with sharp angles that would make Ms. Coco Chanel envious is always recommended.
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[It] is fashion that’s pretty. Style is human. Style is individualism. And style can be dirty. Because humans can be dirty. Humans can be individuals. And humans can be humans.
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And so back to the literate illiterate, who demands meaning. Demands that everybody say something. Most times, anything, as long as it is something. First thought, best thought. Something is better than nothing. Something is better than silence. Got it?
Of course, not every body is Mr. Jack Kerouac. It is a true maxim that speech should only be afforded time (by oneself) when one has something to say. Most times, we think utter rubbish. Imagine if we always spoke what we thought. Mr. E.M. Forster was right: something can come out of nothing. It’s usually hogwash. Case in point: Passage to India.
Which makes Tenet and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. all the more remarkable: both films engage in articulate conversation without the frivolity of reckless speech. Tenet preaches what Neil wryly states, that “what’s happened, happened.” Move on. That Nolan uses time as a device to put forth a tenet for life (that revolves around time) is unsurprising. But the movie also reminds us that art exists. It isn’t perfect; Reddit will prove this. But art’s imperfectability is what makes it perfect for the human experience, which is, of course, imperfect.
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U.N.C.L.E. has more humble ambitions. The final fight is dirty. It’s muddy. It’s ugghh. And this juxtaposes neatly with the neatness of everything that leads up to the scene (and everything that follows). Mr. Guy Ritchie (who once gave a three minute extempore on the death of the suit) reminds us that it is fashion that’s pretty. Style is human. Style is individualism. And style can be dirty. Because humans can be dirty. Humans can be individuals. And humans can be humans.
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And so we have the substance, the morality of the tale, the intellectual thesis that would make the literate illiterate sit comfortably in the theatre seat when the lights go on, safe in the knowledge that the movie that has just ended is contributing to the knowledge and discussion of the intelligentsia. Information that few are astute enough to be privy to, and even fewer are brave enough to purvey it to the uninitiated masses.
What the gentleman or lady in question does not realise is that style is not to be discarded; in fact, it is the style that the medium of the moral; the facilitator of the hallowed substance.
And so style is substance. But what is style? It is certainly the sharp suits tailored to within a hair’s breadth of Mr. Henry Cavill’s bespoke brown monk strap shoes, worn with an insouciance that belies his character’s steely resolve. It is certainly Ms. Elizabeth Debicki’s languid robes and gowns, symbiotically matching her body language that screams of someone wholly at ease with their physical self and the physical selves of others. And it is certainly Mr. John David Washington’s dull palate of suits that do nothing to hide the disdain with which his Protagonist wears them (the British might have a controlling stake in snobbery, but Mr. Michael Caine isn’t the only one who can spot an individual with an avid disinterest in suits).
But in the cinematic world, it is more than that. It is more than Ms. Alicia Vikander’s cutesy skirts and dainty hats (they don’t have to match!). It is more than Mr. Armie Hammer’s flat cap and drool-worthy leather jackets. And it is more than Mr. Robert Pattinson’s casual, partially crushed beige suits, worn with an air of almost colonial indifference.
Style is style. Style is the panache a filmmaker has in conveying a point. Style is recognisable individualism, preferably a likeable one.
In Mr. Christopher Nolan, the viewer is presented with a series of contradictions. The perennial, prehistoric fight between realism, logic, randomness and sheer, bloody-minded chance of the unknown drives Inception, in its exploration of the subconscious, The Prestige, in unprecedented and unexplainable magic, Dunkirk, in singularly apocalyptic war, and Interstellar in, well, space.
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In her excellent book The Memory Illusion, Dr. Julia Shaw eloquently explores, constructs and proves that memory is most untrustworthy. Nolan does so too, most famously in Memento, but more generally in his belief that very fantastical characters can operate in a very real world. Motivations change. Memories change. Everything can change.
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Cinema is great because it is absurd. And cinema is absurd because it is great.
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Mr. Guy Ritchie, it seems, has more fun. His distinctive quick cuts and irreverent treatment of a camera’s zoom feature makes for a viewing spectacle that entrenches one firmly in the character’s perspective, not dissimilar (and criminally not as celebrated as) to Mr. Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk. In doing so, he does away with bombast and brings to the fore that most sought after trait in movies and in life — humanity.
While wit is a trademark and certainly makes for compelling humour, Ritchie always — always — reminds everyone and their aunt that style isn’t prettiness, fashion is. Style is individuality, and just his own self, Ritchie’s characters are individuals. And then some.
For better or worse, the term auteur hangs over his head. Over Nolan’s head too. Whether it hangs like the North Star hangs over the Indian Ocean, a beacon of aspiration and home for the distraught or audaciously plucky journeyman, or like the guillotine hangs over the royal Frenchman is subjective.
But life is far too short to be literate and yet still a, for want of a better word, dunce. Understand the movie and feel it too. Messrs. Nolan and Ritchie expect you too and you’re too intelligent, nay, too human not too. Cinema is great because it is absurd. And cinema is absurd because it is great.