Cameron Crowe’s 2001
sci-fi-remake-romantic-psychological-Tom Cruise-phantasmagoric-drama was an
incredibly divisive release in the waning days of that year. Okay, I added
phantasmagoric for effect, and while I’m not entirely certain what genre that is;
I know it’s definitely NOT Vanilla Sky. There were a handful of notable critics
who found the heady mixture of pop-obsessed science fiction and vain white man
redeems himself allegory to a be a complete disaster. Others, including myself,
found it to be an ambitious, yet flawed, but ultimately moving work of one
director purposefully impregnating another’s vision with his own directorial
DNA. It’s a film where homage gives way to assimilation, and eventually
domination. It might be a remake of a Spanish-language film, but Cameron Crowe
is the only filmmaker who could have made this particular film.
Upon exiting the theater that cold
December day, (it might not have been cold, but this was back when weather used
to match up with it’s seasonal alignment on a somewhat more consistent basis),
the first thought that popped into my head was: “I think I liked nearly every
single song on that soundtrack.” My brother Nate commented that he in fact
“owned nearly every single song on that soundtrack.” The fact that music played
such an integral part of the film should have come to no surprise. As this was
the same director who gave us the In Your Eyes/Say Anything boom box moment,
the Tiny Dancer/Almost Famous bus sing-a-long, and most certainly influenced my
life long love of Pearl Jam with the inclusion of two of their tracks on the
Singles soundtrack. A soundtrack, I should add, I bought when it came out when I
had little to no interest in seeing the actual movie. I felt something
different about Vanilla Sky, perhaps because it was a more modern collection of
bands, and I was at the perfect age to discover that kind of music. Here is
just an idea of the bands I eventually became enamored with because of Mr.
Crowe’s track selection skills. Red House Painters, Mark Kozelek, Sun Kil Moon,
Sigur Ros, Jonsi, Beth Orton, Chemical Brothers, Looper, Josh Rouse. Not to
mention the acts I was previously acquainted with such as Bob Dylan, R.E.M.,
Radiohead, and Jeff Buckley. Spiritualized’s title track from their landmark
album, “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space” was also used in the
film, although not included in the soundtrack. In all fairness, Nate had
previously introduced me to Spiritualized that fall with the use of a track in
one of his student projects.
There was one band and one track
that particularly stood out for me. Sadly, it was also not included on the
actual soundtrack. It is the last piece of music used in the film (aside from
the Paul McCartney end credits original), and it’s there to score the incredibly
powerful ending. During the film’s release, it was only available as a live
bootleg and it wouldn’t be until November of the next year, 2002, that it would
gain a proper release. It is the song of many names. It is Sigur Ros’
Njósnavélin, aka, The Nothing Song, aka Untitled Track Number Four.
This song and sequence immediately
grabbed my attention as soon as it began. One reason for this might be that the
preceding 10-15 minutes are nothing but wall-to-wall necessary exposition. And
in these moments, we are meant to challenge nearly every single piece of
information we had been given by the film up to this point. Then again, maybe
we aren’t. If the explanation were the end of the film, it would rob the story
of the shot of adrenaline it had acquired wherein David Aames’ life starts to
fall to absolute shit and chaos. After
this barrage of information, something interesting happens when Aames gets to
the top floor of the literally sky-scraping building located in the middle of
Manhattan. It gets quiet. Now, that’s not to say that the dialogue becomes non-existent
and the film becomes nothing more than a selection of free-association abstract
images. The dialogue that remains becomes a little sparser and a little more
oblique. The lasting auditory effect we are left with is the music of Sigur Ros.
What I love about how this particular piece is used, is that it is all at once:
frightening, soothing, loud, quiet, distant, uncomfortably close, strange, and
then ultimately as natural to the soundscape of the scene as the wind. With
Jonsi’s otherworldly vocals, the wail of the lead guitar as it is played with a
bow, and the steady pounding of the percussion, the song comes to reflect the
ultimate fate of the world of David Aames. It’s important to make
that distinction because this final scene is not just about the obliteration of
one man, but of his entire world. Given that one of the titles of the track is
Nothing Song, it makes sense that the scene attempts to capture both the
creation and destruction of a way of life.
Once Aames makes his leap, this is
when I feel the film becomes its most eloquently expressive self, and it does
this entirely free of dialogue. After some potentially (too) cutesy exchanges
between David and Sofia, and a meta-audience-as-spectator-and-character-in-the-film-line
from Noah Taylor, the dialogue is finished. Nothing Song takes over and David
takes the plunge. There are many ways to
look at this and perhaps the most obvious is that the seed planted in the
beginning of the film about David’s fear of heights had to be addressed
eventually. Another is that taking a leap of faith was a common science fiction
trope at the time, if you’ll recall the many sequences of people jumping in the
original Matrix (a film without which, Vanilla Sky probably would never have
been made). The interpretation that makes the most sense to me is that this is
a suicide. It is a suicide because he’s
killing the life he has now and the world he’s always known. At the same time,
he’s most certainly taking something with him. He is told he will wake up 150
years later in an all too real world with little more than the clothes on his
back (or not, depending on what kind of future it is). His fate is yet to be
determined and nothing will be in his control. The song ultimately succeeds in this sequence
because it conveys a tone that is at once hopeful and fatalistic. By selecting
a song with such depth of emotion, Crowe seems to imply that within this death,
there will be a life. Within the mad rush to the ground, there will be an
epiphany. And finally that within the fabulous life of David Aames, a life
over-flowing with consumption and excess, all it amounts to is nothing more
than a series of fleeting memories.
Memories filled with life, but memories nonetheless. As past, present,
future, family, pop-culture, friends, lovers, glances, shrugs, hugs, kisses,
experiences, regrets, and the rest of the over-whelming nature of existence collide
on impact, David truly opens his eye for the first time in his life. The Nothing Song embraces the acceptance that
we may never understand the ingredients that make up a life. Imagine you are watching a home movie of
yourself as a baby. Clearly, the events on screen transpired exactly as filmed.
You were most certainly present during the filmed activities. Yet, it’s almost
as if you’re looking at someone else’s life. You are watching someone else’s
story. What happened to the experiences
and sensations you had to have felt? Will they all come rushing back to us the
moment before it all ends? The music of
Sigur Ros and the films of Cameron Crowe do not pretend to come anywhere close
to answering this question. By
presenting this moment with a flush of images, song lyrics written in an
indecipherable made-up language, and a melody flushed with eloquent eeriness,
they simply ask: when the time comes, what will you see? What do you want to
see?
