Cloverfield Revisited

A little while ago, I posted my reaction to Cloverfield (Here). Since then, an interesting conversation has begun in the comments of that post. I'd like to respond to them, as well as put some more information forward.

In case you don't want to read TFA, my original essay said essentially this: Cloverfield failed in my eyes as a postmodern film because it turned its back on too many conventions without making appropriate adjustments to its structure to allow for the movie to stand on its own. Had the movie been direct to Avant Garde, I wouldn't have minded, but since Cloverfield was a major mass marketed hype machine, the movie failed to be truly accessible to the masses. Because it isn't accessible to the masses, Cloverfield is a prime reason why folks shy away from attempting to view/consume postmodern/experimental works. Cloverfield's broken structure leaves the audience feeling gypped, nauseous, and saying, "now what?" Any piece of art/literature/film/etc that invokes such feeling on a large scale is somehow failing. And in today's content-starved culture, I feel it's a travesty for people to give a movie like this good scores when they say things like, "I didn't understand it, but it was awesome."

So that's the gist of what I said earlier. Before I start, I want to establish a few things that I hold to be true for modern film:

1. All big production films are mass marketed, meaning that they are written, produced and directed to be accessible to the largest demographic possible for their genre.
2. Movie-goers spend a lot of money at the theater (~$30 for 90 minutes entertainment anymore these days), and thus expect to be entertained.
3. No one likes to be made to feel dumb, especially when they're paying to be entertained.

Having said that, BlueNight, has posted a pair of fairly detailed rebuttals to my basic premise. His argument is that Cloverfield is indeed a successful postmodern experience. While I agree that the movie is indeed postmodern, this movie is by far not at all successful.

A large part of BlueNight's refutation revolves around classic identifiers of modernism vs. postmodernism, wheras Modernism = enlightenment/immersion and postmodernism = denial of enlightenment/metafictive form. In this binary system of identification, Cloverfield is indeed postmodern. There is no big reveal, and since the movie is a movie of a movie archived by the DOD, we are removed wholly from the actual experience. However, simply being postmodern doesn't make it good. Here's why it's not good:

Metafictive nature:
Metafiction is a tricky bird to play with. If done incorrectly it will entail frustration, anger, etc from your audience. The reason behind this is this: metafiction forces the audience into a state of instability and unfamiliarity. By far, realist/modernist experiences dominate our mental processes, so when you are forced to reckon with the notion that you are watching a film of a film, your mind has to do extra work to keep all the balls in the air (granted, you could ignore the metafictive nature and receive the work as a mondernist experience, but that would be denying the full effect of the piece). Furthermore, metafiction breaks the ontological wall between reality and fiction, or in this case, reality and the movie. In Cloverfield, we are shown the exterior framing of the DOD stamps, which tell us that we are about to see footage relating to an event that has already happened. Since this event happens in a clone of real-world NYC, our minds kick into overdrive to create a parallel ontological sphere where our real world NYC can become destroyed by said monster. This framing is further reiterated throughout the movie by the cuts to "best day ever" and the obviously amateur filming strategy. In a modernist world, we would be able to accept this as "Truth" and get on with the story, but since this is very obviously a postmodern metafictive construction, we also have to entertain ontological questions in addition to the modernist's epistemological questioning. And my big question regarding the ontology of Cloverfield is "Why." Why am I viewing DOD footage of a monster attack on this ontic sphere NYC? I've been placed in this position metafictively, but the metafictive nature of the movie doesn't resolve itself. Cloverfield opened the door to this ontology, but it doesn't give me, Joe audience, any Idea of what to do with it.

Let me give an example from literature to demonstrate. In John Barth's "Lost in the Funhouse," from very early on you have an authorial intrusion setting up the metafictional status of the story. The first intrusion, "A single straight underline is the manuscript mark for italic type, which in turn is the printed equivalent to oral emphasis of words and phrases as well as the customary type for titles of complete works, not to mention." (Lost in the Funhouse p.72). At first glance, the reader is lost to the metafictional importance of this and several other authorial intrusions. All metafiction will cause initial confusion; it's an inherent danger of the form. The pay off comes when the metafiction resolves itself.

Here's another way to put it. Have you ever read a novel that was going along just fine, and then in the last 2 pages, one of the characters says, "and so that's why I wrote this book." Such a statement immediately throws the entire book into a metafictive state. We're reading a book written by a character within the book, but we didn't know this until the end. Usually when I encounter this, I end up walking away angry because the metafictive nature of the book was tacked on as an after effect. One that might make someone untrained in postmodern there say, "ooh a twist" but at the same time, this is something that is a grievous failure from the perspective of application and structure, because at this point, you've now made me say, "Why have I read this entire novel you wrote, without knowing you were writing it?" This is further problematized if the character-author wrote about him/herself in third person. Why?

In "Lost in the Funhouse," Barth slowly reveals to us that Ambrose, the story's protagonist is also the story's author. And in this slow, controlled reveal, we see that the writing of the story mirrors the structure and form of being lost in a funhouse, where funhouse becomes an allegory to both writing and life.

In Cloverfield, we've been given the same sort of "ooh a twist" kind of metafiction. Yes, it's framed by the DOD, but the DOD framing and the amateur filmmaking don't actively contribute to the structure of the movie. I'm not talking enlightenment, I'm talking structure. Structurally, Ambrose's authorial intrusions had to be there. I'm not entirely positive that any of the postmodern elements in Cloverfield had to exist. And my lack of confidence is brought on by all of the ontological questions left unanswered. Assuming that Joe Audience didn't partake in the alternative reality game, the movie offers very little content wise, but at the same time, it offers a lot of promise: Take this hyperreal NYC, add a monster, memories/fear from 9/11, and film it like Joe average would film an incident like this. Also take the DOD and slap some pre/post graphics to set up how this footage is relevant. Now, we've established this ontology. The failure here is that we have nothing to do with the ontology except to take it as it is delivered to us. By nature of the metafictive content, we are removed from the action, and we are also placed subjectively into a single experience of the attack. However, our viewpoint is objective because it comes from a camera's lens. Therefore, defying postmodernism, we are given "Truth" of what happened to that particular group. By referencing this "Truth" solely (i.e. we don't get anything else from the DOD but this amateur film), we are forced out of our ontological experience and back into an epistemological/modernist experience where we are immersed (save for the brief moments of "the best day ever") in the event.

I think it's pretty easy to see how things have "broken" in a postmodern structural sense here. If the movie were to retain it's subjective postmodern stance, it has to offer more subjectivity; we have to see others' struggles in the wake of disaster. Or, if that isn't available to us, we need to see Why this particular video is more important than all of the other experiences contained within the Cloverfield disaster. Why is this the most important event? Why is this the defining moment of the Cloverfield attack? What can we learn from it? What can we do with it in the future? All of these questions should have some sort of inkling to resolution for the ontic sphere of Cloverfield's NYC to be stable. Without these answers, we can't truly believe in the hyperreal representation of Cloverfield, and thus our connection to the world deteriorates.

BlueNight also challenged my interpretation on Cloverfield's dramatic structure. He contends that the movie follows Campbell's Mythic Hero Journey instead of Freytag's triangle of dramatic structure. While the story's protagonist does follow the pattern of the Mythic Hero, such a pattern is contained by the simpler Freytag triangle. Freytag's triangle has existed in drama since its birth with the Greeks, and is the de facto standard for dramatic interpretation. And the Mythic Hero cycle is just a more complex revision of the triangle (you still have exposition, rising action, climax and denouement in the cycle). But in truth, Cloverfield doesn't really prescribe to either form fully. It can't. The metafictive nature of the movie, denies a fully immersive plot arc focusing upon the protagonist (you'd have to throw out the DOD framing if you want to use the mythic hero). Since the movie opens with the DOD framing, we are forced to start our plot arc there. Because of the metafictive nature of the movie and its multiple temporal shifts, you really end up with three pieces on their own freytag triangles:
1. Framing elements: DOD stuff (largely unresolved)
2. The "best day ever" flashback arc
3. The primary action of Cloverfield
Each arc runs independently from the other, and this is where Cloverfield deviates from the structural norm. As we watch the movie, we constantly switch between each arc as they appear. Fortunately, we aren't too burdened by these arcs, as they all progress linearly, but at the same time, each arc is separate enough that there is a healthy amount of distance between them. While arcs 2 and 3 work in a pretty traditional flashback manner, filling in character details to aid the viewer with the present, the DOD arc remains problematic. It tells us only that we're about to watch a video of the incident. Once the video finishes, this arc closes without any further mention, rising action, or resolution. In essence, it is a dead arc, and combined with its metafictive failures, we're forced back to reality as the credits roll without any real notion of what to do with what we've seen.

I guess that's the overall difference, in my opinion, between modernism and postmodernism. In modernism/realism, you receive an experience and you walk away content with that experience. With postmodernism, you are forced to question the nature of an experience, and enlightenment comes out of successful questioning/analysis/interaction with the ontology before you. I can't satisfy my questions towards Cloverfield based upon the information given to me, and to me, that's a sign of postmodern failure. And furthermore, as an avid supporter of postmodern/experimental forms, I think it's a particularly spectacular failure because of the sheer amount of marketing hype that went into the movie. Think about The Matrix (just the first one). It had a giant pile of philosophy packed into it, and it was really hyped up. The result? A global hit with several philosophical endeavors stemming from it, as well as a universal sense of postmodern satisfaction/enlightenment.

With Cloverfield, most of the movie audience boo'd the ending. That's a disconnect. A failure. People didn't agree with some element of the movie. Granted, most of the people were likely looking for a modernist explanation/defeat of the monster, but I don't think such an explanation was ever necessary. All we really needed was proper structuring and usage of postmodern style. I think the movie would have gone over a lot better had the makers just gone a little farther in establishing good postmodern form, rather than sloppy "we're going to look so smart for invoking metafiction and nontraditional storytelling" elements.

BlueNight, I do agree that Cloverfield is postmodern, but I fail to see how it succeeds in entertaining the largest demographic audience possible. I don't really see it succeeding on a small demographic. I think it succeeded largely because mass marketing told us that it was an awesome movie, and anymore these days we listen to what we're told instead of making our own decisions--a point very accurately brought up by Susane's comment: "People want soo badly for something new and exciting that they are willing to accept CRAP just because it is different. I want good different.....not the crap."

And now that I've written a book, what's everyone else have to say on the matter?

Further Introspection on the Topic of Posmodernism

Last week, I talked about the failure of Cloverfield as an experimental/postmodern film. This week, I want to resurrect a nice little essay I wrote some time ago about John Barth's National Book Award winning Chimera. Like Cloverfield, Chimera uses a significantly different dramatic structure than our standard expectations, however, in this book, the dramatic structure sustains, and completes itself in a structurally and entertaingly sound manner, leaving us with a book that is both experimental and entertaining. Here's the Essay:


Narrative Schmarrative: Interesting Bits from Chimera

With a book such as John Barth’s Chimera, writing a paper examining its craft can become rather daunting. Which elements to choose? How can I relate through analyzing craft, the great feeling I get from reading a book so well written? Easy. Emulate his voice (But you’ve done that already--see “Self Serving [ ] [Another Essay I Wrote on John Barth {I tend to be very self referential at times}]”). Right. So rather than dive into emulation as a means of description, I think this time I’ll try to focus upon the narrative elements within this book, and hopefully avoid dropping myself into a large writing project. So narration it is.

About the book: Chimera, like the mythical creature is really three novellas, which are connected through one medium (which of course works in a couple of ways: self referral, connection to other works by Barth, and all appearing in the same book --> notice the three, chimera like aspect of the connections as well). Each novella examines some old myth, the 1001 nights, Perseus, and Bellerophon. However, in doing so, Barth examines these tales from different circumstances, such as from the point of view of Scheherazade’s sister Dunyazade, or Perseus at age forty looking back upon his life and wishing he was young and heroic again (likewise, somewhat, in the case of Bellerophon.) Therefore, though the stories told through the novel are largely unchanged from their original form (save that the language is spiced up), Barth tells the stories in a different manner in effect to revitalize an old lost form of literature, as mentioned in his essay, “The Literature of Exhaustion,” when talking about Jean Louis Borges’ Quixote (a novel where a fictional character authors Don Quixote). Barth describes this rejuvenating action because “[Borges] confronts an intellectual dead end and employs it against itself to accomplish new human work” (31). Therefore we can expect to find similar with Barth’s treatment of these mythical subjects.

I guess what I’ll do here is devote a section upon his narrative actions within each of the three novellas.
SECTION 1: DUNYAZADIAD
The “Dunyazadiad,” as I’ve previously stated tells the tale of the 1001 Nights. However, the tale starts after Scheherazade has told the last tale, in the king’s brother’s bedroom, to be exact. However, the only indication that the reader is given alluding to the story starting after the end of the tales lies with the opening character, a set of double quotes—we are being told a tale. As it so happens, this tale starts on the 1000th night of Scheherazade’s storytelling. He narrates the tale in a kind of looping manner, making use of multiple narrators and viewpoints. Because of the looping story aspect of the novella, the structure of its plot is directly affected by its narration.
The entire first part of the three part novella is told as a massive monologue from the perspective of Dunyazade, which interestingly enough does not end with a complete thought: “Your brother’s docked; my sister’s dead; it’s time we joined them’” (38). Barth uses this open ending sentence as a sort of launching point into the next section and a more or less third person objective narration. Until the very end of the first chapter, the last lines to be exact, the reader has no real idea where Dunyazade is, nor does the reader know how far in the future this monologue is taking place. By doing this, Barth has set up a great deal of reader suspense, stringing us along, knowing that she is talking to Shah Zaman, brother of Shahryar, but not knowing the circumstances. Thus when we are revealed the location of the speaker, standing over Shah Zaman with a razor to his privates, we are interestingly justified for the great sense of suspense that has been building, a sense of suspense that would likewise be growing in Shah Zaman as Dunyazade neared the end of her story and likewise the possible end of his sex life. Thus the first section goes from the almost present (1000th night of the Nights) back to the pre-night days and then forward clear to the present—a large loop, with wavy bits in the middle (not all 1001 tales are retold).

The second chapter of the book follows a similar, yet slightly altered pattern. As I said, it’s told in 3rd objective, and the two argue back and forth during this middle section. However, while we do hear Dunyazade’s voice here, largely the chapter follows Shah Zaman’s tale concerning his role over the past six and some odd years with the raping/murdering thing. He then, like Dunyazade, loops back to the beginning and tells his tale to the present time, which of course has advanced some since the first chapter. In essence, Barth tells parallel tales in a strangely separate manner, which though Shah Zaman’s story is unwritten in the original publication of the 1001 Nights, its ending sufficiently meets the requirements of the original ending: “the royal couples…emerge from their bridal chambers after the wedding night, greet one another with warm good mornings…bestow Samarkand on the brides’ long-suffering father, and set down for all posterity The Thousand Nights and a Night” (55).

One of the rather interesting things that comes out of this double looping narrative is that it manages to create two almost equal climaxes in the story, of which the third chapter becomes the dénouement. The first climax comes at the very end of the first chapter and beginning of the second, as the reader is first shown the situation of Shah Zaman, and his impending and possible doom. Since he is allowed to tell his tale, we are again given rise of suspense, this time wondering if Dunyazade will believe him, which comes to its own climax at the very end of their conversation: “Good morning, then! Good morning!”--They had made it through the night without killing each other (54). In a sense, Barth has achieved double the efficiency out of the same setting and characters; he does this through using the first climax as a sort of springboard towards the second climax, creating a slightly different, extended, arrangement of the basic parts of the story: exposition, rising action, climax, dénouement:

Because Barth is employing a slightly modified story pattern he also uses a slightly different method to finish the story. The main necessity for modification here is required due to the skipping of the proper dénouement of the first climax, so thus both dénouements need to be picked up in the third chapter. However, the third chapter itself does nothing to further the story, so in a sense the story has no true dénouement (i.e. the small ‘e’ in the above diagram referring to the perpendicular line immediately following the climax indicates the true end of the story’s progression). The remnants cleaned up in the denouement chapter, therefore represent at once an authorial defense of the reasoning behind the novel and the end of the first triangle, which concerns Dunyazade. At this particular junction, Barth is at liberty to explain the need for Dunyazade’s story to end after Shah Zaman’s story, which
must end in the night that all good mornings come to. The Arab storytellers understood this; they ended their stories not “happily ever after,” but specifically “until there took them the Destroyer of Delights and Desolator of Dwelling-places, and they were translated to the ruth of Almighty Allah, and their houses fell waste and their palaces lay in ruins, and the Kings inherited their riches.” (56)

Without realizing the morning after, the story, thus cannot end, and therefore, this is why Barth’s slightly mutated plotting pattern comes into making good sense.
Although there are many other aspects of narration that apply themselves throughout this novella, I believe Barth’s use of narration to control plot in this unique manner is, by far, the most interesting aspect of the narration employed. Although he starts his story in a position that would not normally allow for a proper ending (the end of Dunyazade’s story would not lead to the good morning after in any way or form, thus breaking the Arabic standard), he uses an extended plot diagram, through controlling the narration of the story, and efficiently ties the story up without any real required denouement (save one to explain why he couldn’t stop the story with the end of Dunyazade’s story).

SECTION 2: PERSEID
-text missing-
SECTION 3: BELLEROPHONIAD
-yep, same here-
Works Cited
Barth, John. Chimera. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1972.
Barth, John. “The Literature of Exhaustion.” The Atlantic. Aug. 1967: 29-34.


In case you're wondering, I believe we had a 5 page limit to the essay, so Sections 2 and 3 were never completed. Sadly, I rented this book out and never got it back. Going to have to re-buy it someday, as it was one of Barth's best.

The Failure of Cloverfield, Or, Why Experimental Art is Reviled

******HOLY SHIT! CLOVERFIELD SPOILERS! *******

Sigh. This will be long, but necessary.

I do love experimental art forms. There is something magical, to me, about the notion of taking an existing system, breaking it, rebuilding it and forming a new artistic experience out of the ashes of the contemporary form. However, doing so always incurs a certain amount of danger. When you break something, take it apart, fiddle around with the nuts and bolts, you always run the chance of fucking it up beyond repair...and then you end up with a piece of shit that will generally offend (on some level) everyone in the vicinity.

I'd like to think that my particular vein of experimentation sides with the audience in mind. I want to do some structural screwity, but I want to do it in a way that I don't leave people standing a quarter mile down the road, scratching their ass and saying, "Do what, now?" What I'm getting at, is, I think the difference between Avant Garde kind of experimentation, and a more blue collar type (for lack of a better term). Avant Garde experimentation operates on the following notion: "I am doing something artistic, and it is awesome. If you are too stupid to figure out why it's awesome, then you aren't a member of the cool kid club." I've read some of that stuff, and some of it is good...if you're willing to lay down a lot of effort to become a member of the cool kid club (I think Ben Marcus' Age of Wire and String would be a pretty decent example of this kind of writing). The cool thing about Avant Garde, though, is that it's fearless.

Cloverfield, too is fearless in design (in the movie, everyone is pretty fucking terrified). In addition to being fearless, it was surrounded by an incredible amount of hype (which should have been a clear warning sign). Cloverfield is an example of an Avant Garde art form, but it is also a flawed experiment in theatrical form. It used a lot of good ideas, but it alienated its audience. And with movies, far more with books, you can't ever alienate your audience. For the rest of this post, I want to illustrate the experimental attributes of the movie, as well as how these attributes led to the the movie's failure instead of it's success.

First, let's identify what I would qualify as the "experimental" elements of Cloverfield.

1. The entire movie is shot on a home video camera.
   
2. It uses a framing structure that insinuates that the home movie that you're watching is part of some Department of Defense project
3. It uses a modified version of Freitag's triangle for its establishment of dramatic structure.
4. It avoids standard, Hollywood, events and structures
5. The movie presented itself in a metafictive situation, ala the Blair Witch Project's "this is real" argument

Now, let's establish some things we take for granted, things that come as standard equipment for movies, and literature in general:

1. There is an identifiable beginning, middle, and end
2. The protagonist character struggles against some form of antagonist and either succeeds or fails in his/her struggle
3. somewhere between the middle and the end the climax of the protagonist's struggle is reached. The character is forever changed from this point on.
4. The nature of the artform is transparent (the author is invisible); focus is placed upon the action/plot/characters of the story rather than the story's construction
5. the purpose of the artform is to entertain its audience
6. the artform is accessible to a large number of people

The big experiment in Cloverfield is to distance the audience from many of the assumed trajectories, and create a new kind of monster movie. If done well, Cloverfield could have launched a new wave in cinematic style for monster movies. And if you look at what a lot of people are saying on RottenTomatoes.com, they're saying exactly this, that Cloverfield has breathed life back into the dead monster movie genre. The problem is that Cloverfield is making such a big scene, and getting good reviews, because it's different, not genius. Cloverfield is really a kind of Avant Garde monster movie, and since the masses can't quite figure all of it out, they've decided that it must be good because they can't understand it. You hear the same thing when folks read experimental literature for the first time. I've seen a lot of people pick up John Barth and give the same kind of reaction to a story like "Lost in the Funhouse." They'll say it was great, or that it blew their mind...but since they've never seen anything like it before, they lack the cognitive ability to analyze the work to see if it, well, works. And coming from the creator of Lost, I think Cloverfield is banking on people going with the "I liked it because I didn't understand it" mentality, because, Lost operates in the same manner. Not only that, but Cloverfield has a very extensive Alternative Reality Game attached to it, so moviegoers that didn't get involved in that are further made to feel inferior, leading them to assume that "they're just missing something, and that the movie must be better than what it is."

Sorry folks. You're not missing anything. Cloverfield is broken on the structural level, and because of that, it cannot aspire to be a complete movie. I wouldn't be surprised if Cloverfield 2 came out in six months from now (with Cloverfield 3 coming out six months after that).

Let's start with the framing. We all know the framing motif in movies: movie starts and is framed by another ontological layer of existence. Think of The Princess Bride--it's a movie of a grandfather telling his grandson a story, and then we go into the story, which becomes the movie. At the end of The Princess Bride, we then shift back up one ontological layer, and finish with the grandfather finishing the story. This is a well established gimmick, and works with varying degrees of success. In Cloverfield, the movie opens with an interesting Department of Defense reel, as if the movie is part of some manner of collection. As part of this reveal, it seems to suggest, also (by the titling) that there are other such videos/clips available, and to appear in the movie. However, we only get the one video. Once the video starts, we remain with it to the end of the movie. Once the video camera dies, we get maybe 10 seconds of Department of Defense do not copy footage and then end credits. The framing element, then, really does nothing for the movie. It suggests that the army found the tape amid the wreckage of New York, but it doesn't explain why it's being shown to us.

A frame, in the best sense, always should act as an element that defines the purpose for the thing it contains. This frame really doesn't provide any useful depth to the story, nor does it explain or otherwise validate the film it contains. In short, the frame was used as a flashy way to roll opening credits without "making it look like a movie."

Since the frame doesn't give us a true sense of purpose to the film, we turn to the content itself--a horribly shot (My God, if you go to see the movie, take Dramamine if you have ever gotten motion sick in your life) home movie of a party and then four friends trying to survive in the aftermath of the monster attack. It doesn't explain why the monster attacked, what the monster is, or even if the monster was finally destroyed, nor should it do any of those things--this camera is tied to the viewpoints of the characters that control it. However, by putting the audience in the hands of unreliable narrators, the film makers have sacrificed a large portion of audience appeal; they've sacrificed the reward of finding out "what really happened."

Had the movie included multiple viewpoints from several sources, not only would the frame be more strongly defined, but also we would be able to view the incident from several viewpoints, and thus be able to piece together "what happened." But the movie makes no amends to explain any of those things--this is a purely avant garde move. People don't like not knowing what's going one, ever. If you're going to withhold information, you better damn well come up with it later, otherwise, you're establishing a Red Herring, because your audience will spend the entire time trying to find out "what happens," and they hate it when they can't get some form of resolution. Remember how pissed off you were when you never found out what was in the suitcase in Pulp Fiction? Things like that eat at you. We're wired to want to know why. This movie not only keeps the answers from us, but it punches us in the gut at the end when the lead character says to the camera, "If you're seeing this then you probably know more about what's going on than we do."

I think if you asked one of the makers of Cloverfield why they chose not to reveal things, they'd probably say something like, "it's not about the monster; it's about the characters' relationships, and coming to terms with their love for each other." And deep down, Cloverfield is exactly that: a love story about friends who are about to be separated (the guy is going to work in Japan), and they just realized they love each other. The climax of the movie following this model is when Guy saves girl from girl's apartment--they have united in their love for each other and forgiven each other for the fight they had at the party. But this is a monster movie, not a love story. However, only the love story gets any sense of resolution; the characters do change, and their dramatic arc is upheld. And since this is a monster movie, the audience gives less of a shit about the protagonist and his girlfriend, and a lot more about identifying the monster, and seeing how it gets killed--such is the nature of monster movies. Unfortunately, we learn very little about the monster. We don't know what it is (alien, water creature, other). We don't know why it attacked. We don't know why it isn't being harmed by FUCKING TANKS, BAZOOKAS, and BOMBS. Nor do we know if the military managed to kill it.

So, structurally speaking, Cloverfield also departs from the standard scheme of dramatic structure to it's very own modified version. Now let's take a look at Cloverfield's Dramatic Structure
First look at the standard dramatic structure model. Line AB represents a story's exposition. BC is the story's rising action, which climaxes at point C. CD is the Denouement of the story, which should be resolved relatively quickly. This model of dramatic structure is the standard model used in most forms of art and film; it's predictable and we expect it.

Cloverfield uses a modified model. In Cloverfield, AB is the party scene--this is the portion of the story that is wholly exposition. Once the Monster attacks, however, the movie's true plot takes off, leading on a steep incline of increasing tension. The reason Cloverfield's BC line is so steep is because Cloverfield abandons the traditional pattern of building and releasing tension throughout the progression to the climax. The tension levels in Cloverfield continue to rise, because the danger never abates, nor is a resolution met. Essentially Cloverfield is all rising action that climaxes with the characters' deaths at point D. Notice how there is no Denouement here. Denouement is important, and though it should be kept short, it shouldn't be left off unless it is well justified. Had the movie made use of its framing structure, the denouement could have been relayed within the frame--much like the Princess Bride.

Also notice how Cloverfield's climax isn't really the climax of the film. Point C in Cloverfield represents the point in which they save the girlfriend from the tower. But since no one is safe, nor is anyone irrevocably changed, point C isn't the true climax of the film--it's more of a subplot climax, and within the subplot climax, the characters are finally together again, but they're not safely out of the city, so while the love plot is more or less resolved, it's still contained by the larger, unexplained arc of the monster plot.

Cloverfield uses its alternate dramatic model to keep viewers interested by overloading our sense of tension. We feel anxious and afraid, because for 84 minutes, we are constantly on the edge of our seats. Unfortunately, this model fails because it offers no real resolution at the end, and such an unresolved ending leads to audience dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction because we expect to gain some sort of reward for sitting through a movie made with bad video footage, and ultra-high tension. We get nothing. And because we get nothing, the movie fails in it's only true goal, entertainment.

It's unfortunate that many movie-goers think that this movie is too clever for them. It's not. It's unfinished, and it doesn't live up to our expectations, especially considering the hype surrounding it. And though most of this post seems to advocate a more mainstream approach, it's not what I'm calling for. I want to see more experimental films hit the big screen, and I have seen several that do a great job: Crank, Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels, and Snatch all come to mind. But Cloverfield is not the new vein of monster movie. It's a failed attempt. And while it might garner some better copycats, its own nature is flawed. The movie has broken its bond with the audience, and did nothing to help restore that bond.

Those are my two cents; hopefully future film makers, fiction writers, and other creative types (including myself) will heed these paired pennies and make way for a future in experimental art where the masses aren't afraid to sample the weird, the strange, the unexpected.