Vanilla Sky

365 Films

Entry #93

Vanilla Sky (2001)

Directed by  Cameron Crowe

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?