Star Trek (2009): One Foot In, One Foot Out

by James Hansen

Already a successful attempt to resuscitate a dormant franchise, JJ Abrams’ Star Trek moves the series back to square one for a new generation of fans. Lest ye Trekkies get offended, desperately grappling for your nostalgiac memories of something that can never be replaced, Abrams makes plenty of unnecessary nods towards the franchise’s past, while firmly moving it onto new, if infinitely more conventional ground. Star Trek shows that Hollywood may not be comfortable with a complete reboot, as the hackneyed script by Roberto Orci & Alex Kurtzman confuses itself by attempting to justify the new franchise’s very existence by pitting it alongside, yet in an alternative reality (2009) than, the series’ first reality (1960s/70s/Vietnam/Cold War era). Perhaps cries of heresy would have arisen if there was no recognition of what Star Trek has already been, but Star Trek (2009) feels befuddled when it starts making referents to its own past that it uncomfortably accepts while it wishes it could deny more completely.

And yet. AND YET.


Star Trek is an abundant success as an action movie and a launch for a modern cinematic franchise. Abrams, ever present as a television power, shows big screen confidence that was absent in his directorial debut Mission Impossible 3. Perhaps a credit to his development with the large canvas of Lost, Abrams’ uneven yet oftentimes dazzling TV series, Star Trek is commanding, loud, and aggressive, all the while remaining visually coherent even if it is a bit haphazard at times. Abrams and cinematographer Damien Mindel clearly want to keep things moving in and out of action sequences, as the camera spins, turns, pans, and tracks as much during both the Enterprise’s assault on Nero’s ship as it does when Spock’s rejects his position from an organization that sees his human side as a drawback. Oftentimes, the camerawork really does nothing other than draw attention to itself ¬– a sure sign of Abrams’ sophomoric direction. Still, the sharp editing (not a synonym for rapid) from Maryann Brandon and Mary Jo Markey layers the action and maintains a visually vibrancy. Though it can’t do much to save large scenes that should have been removed entirely (the script really is the major pitfall, as Joe Schuster as thoroughly explained), there is enough spunk amid some mishaps to make the new Star Trek very alive.

What takes Star Trek beyond being another pretty decent action movie are the terrific, charismatic performances by the young cast. Chris Pine, as Kirk, and Zachary Quinto, as Spock, display the kind of chemistry missing from tech-driven franchises and show flashes of deeper characters beyond what is given to them by the script. While Trekkies undoubtedly know these characters inside and out before they are even seen on screen, there is little information given about who they are – another sign of the movie’s confusion of having one foot in the old series and one foot way out. Luckily, the supporting performances, especially from Simon Pegg and Anton Yelchin, are polished, lively, and fun. They provide the support that Pine and Quinto need to carry Star Trek past its weaknesses and to a surprisingly effective high.

And yet. AND YET.


I wonder how well this movie actually serves a legendary series and franchise like Star Trek by means of restructuring the entire product. Without ignoring the original series completely, something fans of the series and the makers of this movie clearly don’t want to do, what direction is the already successful new Star Trek franchise headed in? And do Trekkies out there even care? Is everyone happy enough to see the much beloved characters reunited? Or should there be a stronger desire for some political and social aspects that seem so central to “the Original” to remain embedded in the series? As someone with little connection to the series, perhaps I’m actually the target audience for this – the next generation of fans – and I’m perfectly happy to see a well made, space opera action series. Is that what Star Trek is? Was? Should be? Should I be dreaming of hours of content on the sociopolitical aspects of Vulcan planets? Because, Trekkies, with Abrams at the helm, those days are long behind you. While some may argue this was merely a set up for content to come later, Star Trek, as a uber-mainstream $70 mil opening weekend franchise, isn’t going to suddenly be interested in politics. If anything, the only things that will increase are the recognizable names in the cast, the budget, and the number of explosions, fight scenes, and unnecessary time travel. Perhaps everything new should be accepted as existing in an alternative reality, as the plot of Star Trek (2009) suggests. I’ve got no problem with that. But what does that do to Star Trek (1966- present)? Is this a good Star Trek movie, or just a good movie? Or either? Does it matter? Maybe not. But I suspect if Abrams doesn’t get new Star Trek on some firmer ground next time around, fans, new and old, may be wishing Star Trek lived long and prospered in their nostalgiac minds rather than on the stage its headed towards.

But hey, it’s still a good movie, right?
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Epically Personal

The monster-as-metaphor method of filmmaking is a time-tested practice, dating back to the original Gojira (1954) and spanning to the very recent, The Host (2007). While giant creatures usually wield an arsenal of biting (ha!) sociopolitical commentary on such varied topics as atomic energy, war crimes, sexuality, nationalism, and pollution, the J.J. Abrams produced, unconventional box-office smash, Cloverfield, takes the monster metaphor and shrinks it down to a very personal, almost interior allegory. Though the relationship between the film’s dazzlingly special-effected action sequences and the attacks of 9/11 is obvious and much discussed, it takes a back seat to the original and fresh use of a monster-movie to detail the trajectory of a romance that isn’t particularly witnessed on-screen, except in the symbolic havoc created by the truly horrifying beast.

Cloverfield begins with a home movie of a couple, Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David) and Beth McIntyre (Odette Yustman), playfully talking as a post-sex glow illuminates their hot-ass faces. The footage, helmed by Rob, eventually morphs to display a different event, a going-away party for Rob held a few weeks later, who has recently received a high-level job in Japan. Constantly inter-cut with the footage of the party (and the rest of the film) is the continuation of the Rob and Beth home movie, which involves a trip to Coney Island and other pleasantries. During Rob’s party, his friend Hud (T.J. Miller) is put it charge of the camera and remains the film’s cameraman and commentator throughout the visceral destruction that crashes Rob’s party. Not surprisingly, Beth has grown distant from Rob as a result of his leaving and seeming lack of concern for her needs, and the tension mounts throughout the party, culminating in a heart-to-heart-to-heart between Rob, his brother Jason (Mike Vogel), and Hud on the balcony. As the conversation comes to a close, Jason gives the significant brotherly advice that Rob should stop thinking about his job and start worrying about the people he cares about, presumably Beth. Immediately after Jason finishes speaking, the shit hits the fan and the crazy-armed, spider-demon shedding monster starts whacking Statue of Liberty heads across Manhattan and stomping buildings.


Aside from the incredibly scary and sensationally effective non-stop action that follows, Cloverfield is notable for the metaphorical link between the monster’s arrival and Rob and Beth’s relationship. Most important in this allegory is the permeation the Japan/Godzilla association into cultural mythology. In a fascinating, possibly unintentional move by screenwriter Drew Goddard, Cloverfield seems to use this associational mythology to relate, through an exciting action film, the impact of Rob’s move to Japan on his connection to Beth. Revealed in the final shot of the film, a flashback to the Coney Island trip, something falls from the sky, hardly visible, that is presumably the creature, notably the monster arrives as the two kindle their romance. Their fated separation seems star-crossed and comes in the form of an alien creature, which apparently matures during the period of their estrangement before Rob’s party. The creature finally attacks at the angry collapse of their relationship, just after Rob’s brother nails it home that Rob is making a mistake. Does the monster then come to symbolize Rob’s misgivings regarding Japan and the negative impact his move will have on his love for Beth? The remainder of the film seems to suggest so.

After the monster-thwarted attempt by Rob, Hud, and assorted other hipster party friends to leave Manhattan via the Brooklyn Bridge, Rob realizes that he must save Beth, who is trapped in her apartment building in the heart of Manhattan. As Rob ventures to save Beth, it becomes clear that the monster (the physical representation of his move to Japan) has inspired him to repair his romance with Beth. The allegory is continued throughout the film, although I’ll not detail exactly how for spoiler reasons, forming an interesting and complex take of monster metaphors, told through the most personal of visual media, the home movie. The film displays the personal both in form, style, and content in this way, creating a large, involving narrative that is really, just about two people in love, rather than using two people in love to relate a huge social issue, as in many tragic romances. The use of a single tape, constantly recorded over and spliced into other footage also creates an excellent memory aesthetic, furthering the film’s deeply personal significance. The editing used to merge all of the footage in Cloverfield, as well as to uphold the film’s blistering pace, is phenomenal, and editor Kevin Stitt deserves as much credit as possible for making Cloverfield as intense and cohesive as it is. Likewise, Michael Bonvillian’s inventive, at times insanely tough to watch, cinematography is remarkable in its energy and avoidance of redundancy.

With competent performances and mature direction by Matt Reeves, Cloverfield explores the power of the personal in its thrilling, fresh monster allegory. A masterpiece of digital cinematography and impeccable in its editing, the film is engaging and challenging, like an 84 minute Godzilla film directed by Stan Brakhage. Most importantly, the film is a narrative experiment, utilizing symbols and imagination to carve a romantic arc that never allows viewers to leave the edge of their seat.

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