The Facts of Death: Quantum of Solace, Part IV

With the aid of M and Tanner, Bond learns that Dominic Greene is moving to Bregenz, Austria. The narrative mechanics by which M determines that the CIA have been working with Greene make for one of the better connect-the-dots moments in the Craig films, and it also features the film’s niftiest graphical interface, a large glass display-screen that doubles as a wall of M’s office.

The CIA has significantly more knowledge of Quantum than their British counterparts–Felix Leiter, who makes his first appearance in this film in this scene, will later note that they “know who Greene is” and express his reservations about cooperating with him–but the CIA also knows less than they think they do; they’re being duped by Greene, having been purposefully misled into believing that they might be able to get oil rights out of the Bolivian revolution Quantum is manufacturing.

The Americans come off looking very predatory in Quantum of Solace, with Felix Leiter serving as the the “Not All Americans” ally who lends Bond a hand later in the picture, but even Leiter’s turn only happens reluctantly, after Bond twists his arm. The film laces more than a few barbs at the USA’s foreign policy throughout the picture, but this scene fixates on it. Greene’s remark–“You don’t need another Marxist giving resources to the people, do you?”–is perhaps the most brazenly political moment in the entire Bond franchise.

Wright’s Leiter remains relegated to a largely passive role throughout Quantum of Solace. He sulks his way through the film, following the lead of his superior, the very greasy Gregory Beam (played with wonderful hamminess by David Harbour). In this scene, Beam tests Leiter by pushing him to identify Bond to Greene; Leiter tries to avoid it, only for Beam to call him out in front of Greene. Beam defends this uneasy partnership with Greene on the grounds of realpolitik–“You’re right, we should just deal with nice people,” he sneers to Leiter when Leiter expresses his reservations–and then bullies Leiter into submission by hinting that the success of Leiter’s career depends on his cooperation.

The Craig era continually underlines the notion that spies–and even their masters, like M–are just employees who are subservient to a larger bureaucracy that isn’t particularly concerned with their best interest and will gladly discard them whenever they become too inconvenient. There’s no longer an assumption that Britain and America are necessarily the “good guys” on the international stage.

The architecture of the Bregenz Opera House blends neatly into Dennis Gassner’s more stark, sleek approach to production design, and its watery stage makes for one of the most richly atmospheric locations in the Craig era. In the early drafts of Quantum of Solace, the opera house was to be the locale for the film’s climax, but rewrites shifted this setpiece to the film’s midsection. The notion of a criminal organization using an opera performance for their business meeting is blatantly absurd due to its transparent impracticality–it’s amazing that the crowd doesn’t shush all the members of Quantum who are talking about water rights and piping–it’s also the kind of brilliantly surreal conceit that Bond movies thrive on, transforming something as dull as an executive board room meeting into vibrant spectacle.

Bond isn’t dressed for the occasion, so he steals a dinner jacket from the opera’s cast and crew lockers (naturally, it is conveniently tailored to his physique). The theft of his black tie ensemble unfolds in a confusing string of cuts that marks the one “off” editing beat in an otherwise well-constructed montage depicting the build-up to a gala performance of Puccini’s Tosca.

David Arnold’s eerie cue for this sequence, arguably the highlight of the score, pays homage to John Barry’s “Space March” from You Only Live Twice, reworking Arnold’s sinister motif for the Quantum organization into an electronic-accented march that builds into the “Te Deum” from Puccini’s opera.

Bond identifies a Quantum member by noticing that only a few members of the crowd receive specialty gift bags. The bags contain ear pieces and a “Q” pin. The pin seems a bit too cutesy and seemingly conflicts with later dialogue from Greene that indicates that none of the Quantum members are supposed to actually see one another face-to-face.

As Greene and his entourage take their positions in his private box, Elvis becomes the focus for an odd moment–he gives another of Greene’s henchmen a kind of imbecilic, friendly look, only to be met with a dead stare. It’s yet another of the film’s many curious “gags” related to this character, and one occurs just a few minutes earlier, during the CIA meeting with Greene, when Elvis tries to start up conversation with Leiter and is completely ignored. The nature of Elvis’ relationship with Greene is never addressed directly, but is certainly affectionate (when leaving the box later, Greene will escort Elvis out of the room with his hand on Elvis’ lower back). Certainly, Greene has an unusual tolerance for his bodyguard’s incompetence. Taken with Greene’s desperately performative displays of heterosexuality when it comes to Camille, it is all too easy to read Green and Elvis’ relationship as coding Greene as being homosexual (or perhaps bisexual, given Greene’s desperately performative declarations of heterosexuality throughout the film). That said, both Amalric and Taubman (who plays Elvis) concocted their own backstory for the characters: Elvis is Greene’s cousin, and he had previously been destitute before Greene rescued him by bringing him into the Quantum organization.

The Bond production team originally hoped to utilize the Bregenz production of Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera as the setting for this sequence. The set for Un Ballo in Maschera featured a giant skeleton flipping through the pages of a book, an image very suited to a series as dominated by death-imagery as the Bond series is, but they were quickly informed that this would not be possible, and so the Bond team agreed to utilize Tosca instead.

The extravagant floating set for the Bregenz production of Tosca centers around a giant eye. Bond perches at the top of this ever-watchful eye as he observes the crowd, identifying himself (and the profession he embodies) with it. Quantum’s business meeting unfolds as of Tosca‘s first act reaches its climax, the “Te Deum.” During this spectacular moment, Tosca‘s villain, Scarpia, declares his love for the diva Tosca and his plans to coerce her into becoming his lover. The bold fanfare that accompanies Bond and Greene’s face-to-face encounter in the opera lobby marks the musical conclusion of the act. The subsequent montage of scenes from Tosca that are interspersed with Bond’s firefight with the Quantum assassins breaks with the opera’s chronology and mingles different moments from the opera, but will most directly fixate on Tosca’s murder of Scarpia at the end of Act II, foreshadowing Camille’s struggle with the predatory General Medrano during the climax of Quantum of Solace.

If you listen carefully, you can hear that this is the first time the organization refers to themselves as “Quantum”; this only happens one more time, towards the end of the film, when Greene mentions the name to Bond. The organization’s name was apparently chosen very late into production; scribe Paul Haggis stated that he was unaware of the name or the reasons for its selection.

Bond decides to interrupt the meeting, hoping to force Quantum out of the anonymity of the crowd, and does so with dialogue that is more blandly functional than clever (“Can I offer an opinion? I really think you people should find a better place to meet”). To identify the members of Quantum, he uses a nifty phone app that captures and reconstructs their faces from blurry photographs by assembling various angles into a composite face.

Mr. White has come to the Quantum meeting, too, but he’s sharper than the rest of his organization, and, accordingly, he gets the best line of the scene. Noting the departures of his colleagues, he turns to his companion: “Well, Tosca isn’t for everyone.” This turns out to be Mr. White’s last scene in the film, leaving a loose end which Spectre later picks up on. The original ending of Quantum of Solace actually featured Bond killing Mr. White, but the Bond producers deemed it to be too much of a cliffhanger and was ultimately left on the cutting room floor.

The impressionistic montage that depicts Bond’s tangle with Greene’s henchmen is self-consciously arty in way the series has rarely been, eschewing the thrills of well-documented action choreography for the thrills of montage. It resolves itself in one of the film’s more self-referential moments; Bond cornering one of the henchmen on the opera house’s rooftop recreates a similar moment from The Spy Who Loved Me. Unlike the baddie in Spy, this henchman does not cooperate with Bond, and Bond promptly drops him off the roof without a word.

The henchman actually survives, landing on the hood of Greene’s car. In keeping with this film’s penchant for overcomplicated plotting, the henchman isn’t one of Greene’s, but is actually the bodyguard of Guy Haines, a powerful advisor of the Prime Minister. When M learns, via Tanner, that the henchman was found shot, she naturally blames Bond (which isn’t entirely inappropriate, given that Bond did drop him off a roof and presumably intended for him to meet his demise).

M, recoiling from the news that the Quantum organization may have significant influence on the British government, tries to pull Bond back to Britain to debrief him. Bond refuses to let the trail go cold, and, when M attempts to restrict his movements, he effectively goes “rogue,” a choice that Craig’s Bond makes quite regularly throughout these films.

Bond learns that MI6 has shut him down when his company credit card is declined at the airport. Bond, ever courteous to service representatives, charmingly asks the attendant to tell anyone who calls about him that he’s headed to Cairo. We’ll very quickly find out he has other plans.

Terror and Solitude

“What has this man from Illinois created–I ask myself, closing the pages of his book–that his episodes of the conquest of another planet fill me with such terror and solitude?”

~ Jorge Luis Borges on Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles

The Little Men

“An age which is incapable of poetry is incapable of any kind of literature except the cleverness of a decadence. The boys can say anything, their scenes are almost tiresomely neat, they have all the facts and all the answers, but they are little men who have forgotten how to pray.”

~ Raymond Chandler, in a letter to Charles W. Morton, dated January 5, 1957

The Facts of Death: Quantum of Solace, Part III

David Arnold’s score gives way to reverberating guitar riffs as Quantum of Solace shifts its locale from Siena to rainy London. Director Marc Forster worked closely with Arnold on Quantum of Solace, providing Arnold with samples of sounds and musical styles that he wanted Arnold to embed into the film’s score. The result of their collaboration is, far and away, Arnold’s strongest work on the Bond films. Arnold’s affection for senseless bombast is in evidence now and again during the film’s setpieces, but, for the most part, this is a texturally varied score that applies its effects with precision.

Bond and M’s meeting in Mitchell’s apartment unfolds with Quantum of Solace‘s typical impatience with any exchanges that could be considered expository, but there are some nice touches here as M expresses her horror and exasperation in being caught up in a conspiracy about which she knows practically nothing. Throughout the Craig era, governments and their institutions consistently prove to be too myopic to identify the true threats, allowing the villains (who are, Skyfall‘s Silva aside, sinister venture capitalists out to manipulate world events to their own gain) to move about in plain sight and infiltrate the corridors of power. The throwaway joke here about M not knowing her traitorous bodyguard all that well–she notes that she gifted Mitchell an ashtray, and Bond deadpans his reply: “I don’t think he smoked”–is a clever way of reinforcing M’s own tendency towards this short-sightedness.

MI6 headquarters has moved locations since Casino Royale and is now housed in Frobisher Crescent. No reason is ever given for this transition, and we might reconcile the films together by speculating that the Vauxhall Cross offices from Casino Royale were being remodeled (after all, they look a bit different when Skyfall rolls around). Really, though, this is simply inconsistency extending from a general indifference toward aesthetic continuity. Dennis Gassner’s design for the MI6 offices is sleek and highly technological, all sterile glass and steel, dispensing with any hint of traditional British elegance and placing MI6 on the cutting edge of technological innovation.

Quantum of Solace employs technology much better than any of the other Craig films, abandoning a sense of verisimilitude for advanced computer systems with complex interfaces that may be somewhat nonsensical but have a beauty in their design (they were conceived by MK12, the same group that designed the film’s title sequence). The touchscreen table used in the briefing scene here nicely embeds a great deal of visual information into an otherwise fairly dry exchange.

Tanner’s strange non-sequitur that occurs just before they enter the briefing room (“Not in the mood”) might suggest that some connective tissue was cut out of the scene. If so, it’s not hard to believe. Quantum of Solace‘s production was notoriously frantic, and anecdotes shared by those present during parts of Quantum of Solace‘s scattershot shoot have indicated that a substantial amount of footage was left on the cutting room floor. Still, once you’ve seen the film enough times to keep up with the information being presented in this briefing scene, the scene depicts a clever–if sensationalized–riff on actual investigative techniques, allowing MI6 to trace money back to another Quantum agent.

The trail leads to Port-au-Prince, and here are the broad strokes of what unfolds in this, the film’s most preposterously overcomplicated section: Bond kills a Quantum assassin and takes over his identity, and then stumbles into a meeting with Camille, who turns out to have been the original assassin’s target, having been lured into a trap after trying to investigate the actions of Dominic Greene, with whom she’s been having a relationship, and who wanted her dead after he discovered her betrayal. After Bond and Camille’s meeting turns sour, Bond discovers that the assassin he killed had a partner, takes him out, and then pulls some smartphone gymnastics to get a line on Dominic Greene after following Camille to him. The film furthermore introduces us to secondary villain General Medrano, a focal point in Greene’s plans to start a coup in Bolivia in order to get rights to some seemingly empty land in the desert, and who also was responsible for the death of Camille’s entire family. Some of this connects in this whirlwind of exposition, much of it doesn’t. Structural clarity is not this film’s gift.

It all begins well enough, though; Bond’s fight with Slate in the Hotel Desalines might very well be the film’s highlight. The frantic editing actually works here, maintaining enough clarity to maintain tension. In fact, it’s better composed than any of the hand-to-hand combat in the Greengrass Bourne films to which it owes a significant stylistic debt. The sound design accentuates the frantic choreography, ensuring that every inelegant blow registers with wince-inducing force.

Bond impatiently waiting for Slate to pass on greatly exceeds any of Casino Royale‘s numerous attempts to demonstrate just how dehumanizing Bond’s duties can be. There isn’t another death scene in the entire Bond series that has the same existential sting. Quantum of Solace sadly does not showcase Craig’s performance with the same attentiveness that Casino Royale did (whatever else you could say about Campbell’s direction on the film, he knew when to hold on Craig’s face), but this is one moment where the film indulges Craig’s gift for internalized acting.

The ensuing conversation with the hotel desk clerk is not particularly notable, but it does serve as a nice showcase for how odd Quantum of Solace‘s impatient editing can be. This simple exchange leaps from shot to shot with no discernible purpose.

I’m very fond of Olga Kurylenko’s Camille, even though she is, on occasion, ill-served by the film. Camille has a narrative and psychology that exists outside of Bond’s own storyline, which can’t quite be said of Casino Royale‘s Vesper Lynd. Starting with Camille’s impatient “Get in” and Bond’s somewhat befuddled response, Bond and Camille have a very blunt, direct relationship. This first meeting is far too disorienting for its own good–the plotting is just too intricate here to let the characters become the focal point of the scene–but there’s still something appealing about having their first meeting end with Camille attempting to put a bullet in Bond’s head.

When Camille pulls some fast car maneuvers to obstruct her pursuer’s path, a truck ends up spilling its load of coffins all over the street, a casual, implementation of the death imagery that has naturally recurred throughout the franchise. When Bond meets up with the same henchman a few moments later, he flips the henchman’s bike, a moment executed with great visual flair. Alas, Bond’s verbal comeback (“You were supposed to shoot her!” / “Well, I missed!”) isn’t exactly a model of wit, though this script will have far clunkier attempts at humor.

Throughout Quantum of Solace, M continually scolds Bond for killing potential sources of information, picking up on her “big picture” rant from Casino Royale, but it’s unclear whether or not we’re actually meant to agree with her. Yes, the film will hint that Bond has become something of a loose canon, but it also exonerates his actions by putting him in situations where it’s either his life or his opponent’s.

Dominic Greene and Camille meeting by the docks ranks among the worst-written scenes in any Bond movie. At the very least, it’s the most bizarrely elliptical; reading the scene in transcript form is even more baffling than watching it play out on-screen.

Unlike Mr. White (there’s a weird, unremarked upon feature of the Quantum organization having many members with color-based surnames: White, Greene, Slate), Greene never seems particularly threatening–he’s always shielding himself behind the organization he represents–though he clearly has a sadist’s temperament and loves to pontificate. Amalric plays him as a man always caught up in his own mental calculations, as though he’s sizing everyone up around him to see where he stands. (One nice little touch is that when Camille first bursts in to confront him, Greene has been goofing off, toying with paper and stamps like a child.)

Greene’s primary henchman, Elvis, seemingly functions as little more than an odd running gag. Every moment that showcases him has been designed to emphasize just how ineffectual he is, climaxing with his cartoonish demise during the film’s climactic battle. I’m not certain any of these moments properly land–they always feel like strangely edited non-sequiturs–but it’s very consistent, starting with his ineffectual scolding of the guard.

General Medrano arrives on the scene, and he has a level of menace Greene and Elvis don’t. That said, he’s also much less interesting than the Quantum cabal, a more flatly literal kind of villain distinguished only by his predatory instincts. He’s one of the more repulsive characters in the franchise, but all he has to define him is his own appetite for abuse, which the film pushes to exploitative extremes.

Quantum of Solace has a much stronger political consciousness than the other Craig Bond pictures, and it’s in evidence as Medrano and Greene discuss the economics of these struggling South American countries. Quantum of Solace depicts the inhabitants of these countries as the victims of predatory political and economic powers, and we’ll come to find that Bond’s own government will prove to be complicit in Quantum’s planned destabilization of Bolivia. Throughout the film, Forster takes a break from story-driven sequences to simply showcase the victims of these sinister machinations; one of these stretches occurs immediately after the boat chase, as Bond drives to the airport. These people are anonymous, part of the background, but simply showing the squalor of their lives is something of a radical moment for a Bond picture.

Little good can be said about the boat chase. Many Bond action sequences have been lackluster, but no others are this staggeringly ineffectual. The suspenseful build-up to the chase itself works pretty well (and features a very fine motorcycle stunt, to boot), but once Bond grabs Camille off of Medrano’s boat, the chase achieves the strange distinction of being utterly lethargic and overly frantic at the same time as boats roar around a space with little sense of geography. The inscrutably edited climactic beat, involving the use of anchor to destabilize the last remaining boat pursuing Bond and Camille, squanders what otherwise might be a decent concluding stunt.

After rescuing Camille, who inadvertently confirm Bond’s suspicion during the boat chase that Greene is the next link in the chain, Bond callously abandons the now-unconscious Camille with an attempt at a throwaway Connery-esque one-liner (“She’s seasick”). As always, Craig’s Bond cares more passionately about the thrill of the hunt than he does anything else.

Mission: Impossible – Fallout

Mission: Impossible – Fallout marks the first time a Mission: Impossible director has returned to direct a follow-up installment, though writer/director Christopher McQuarrie has been a major contributor to this series as far back as Ghost Protocol, on which he served as writer. Recognizing that this film series was originally intended to function as a kind of director showcase, McQuarrie decided to vary his stylistic approach for Fallout. While the preceding two entries were characterized by a kind of bouncy energy, for Fallout, McQuarrie has decided to borrow the aesthetic of Christopher Nolan’s blockbusters.

McQuarrie is a better craftsman on a nuts-and-bolts level than Nolan; McQuarrie’s action sequences have a clarity and meticulousness that has always eluded the latter. Still, Fallout so often lacks the vividness and force of an actual Nolan blockbuster. The script and production design and cinematography and score blatantly evoke the work of Nolan’s collaborators–there are too many nods to the Nolan Batman films to count, including a League of Shadows-y cabal of villains calling themselves “The Apostles,” and a climax set in the icy mountains of Asia that recalls the icy vistas of Batman Begins–without capturing its force and scope, often reducing sequences to a pervasive brownish-grayishness backed by a numbing score. There’s still a sense of proper spectacle here (among other things, Fallout makes better use of prominent world landmarks than any of the recent Bond films), but the imitation-Nolan lacquer deadens the material.

Indeed, the textures and structures of Nolan’s films, messy and frustrating though they often are, extend from conviction. Nolan constructs grandiose, blunt-force expressions of his own secular mysticism, for which humanity’s transcendence (or failure to attain it) is always the greatest concern. The only transcendence with which Fallout is concerned is the transcendence of Tom Cruise.

The series has always been, to one extent or another, about Cruise himself, but it was only two films prior, on Ghost Protocol, that Cruise’s Ethan Hunt character truly found his groove. There, Hunt was formed into a charismatic cipher, a monastic hero driven by sheer will and determination. It’s an effective angle, but it offers little room for development; its sequel, Rogue Nation, didn’t really develop the idea as much as it forcefully reiterated it. Fallout does the same, but misguidedly tries to mine Hunt’s internal life for drama, punctuating the film with Hunt’s bland nightmares and monotonous speeches about why Hunt does what he does. Hunt is a thin avatar, and the character can’t (and shouldn’t be forced to) sustain this kind of inquiry. His headspace will never be as interesting as his feats of strength.

Those feats are certainly impressive, and Fallout‘s most satisfying, focused stretch begins with an all-timer: a breathtaking HALO jump that one-ups the memorable aerial sequence from Moonraker. From there, the film settles into a tense groove, becoming, for the next few scenes, a vicious and taut thriller that echoes the John Wick films while surpassing them in lushness and narrative intrigue. It’s no coincidence that this satisfying stretch of the film foregrounds Henry Cavill and Vanessa Kirby, both of whom have much more vivid and compelling relationships with Cruise’s Hunt than any of the series’ returning ensemble.

As with McQuarrie’s prior Mission: Impossible feature, Rogue Nation, Fallout loses its way the more it tries to integrate narrative tissue and characters from the prior films. This series has never been narratively satisfying enough to merit the construction of a true series mythology, and the more characters are added into the mix, the more it seems that these characters are saddled with uninspiring material while Hunt gets to do the truly showstopping stuff. (This becomes a significant issue during Fallout‘s helicopter climax, which fails to build momentum because of the constant cutting back to the rest of the ensemble, none of whom are doing anything anywhere near as interesting.)

To its credit, Fallout does seem to recognize that it is the conclusion of a certain trajectory, though it naturally leaves the door wide open for more shenanigans. With any luck, whoever directs the next one will bring the frisson of personal vision back to the series; it has been absent since John Woo directed his installment, and I miss it.

Novecento

Bernardo Bertolucci’s Novecento (more widely known as 1900) is a marvelously insane film, as vital as it is unsubtle. Bertolucci’s images always carry more charge than the dramatic and thematic constructs he uses as a foundation for them, and, in this regard, Novecento, shot by the legendary Vittorio Storaro, offers an embarrassment of riches.

Since watching it, I have been thinking about how much I enjoy sustained viewing experiences. Novecento has a runtime of over five hours (and, in its original cut, was actually released as two films). With any film of that length, your investment naturally ebbs and flows, and classic cinematic epics were designed in ways to accommodate that, to allow your attention to drift and to circle back to the object of your attention.

I can enjoy a film like Novecento and still walk away emotionally and intellectually energized, but most recent two-and-a-half hour blockbusters exhaust me. Our recent blockbusters pummel you with stimulation, desperate to keep you immersed.

I am reminded of a quote from Raúl Ruiz, taken from his Poetics of Cinema 2:

“There are those who believe that the best thing that can happen is for us to be fascinated by a film from beginning to end. Hence, they believe detachment is useless and boring. There is an expression that is widely used by film fabricators in Hollywood: ‘When you lose your spectator (that is, when you are no longer fascinating him), you lose him forever.’ According to this criterion, detachment is not only unnecessary but also dangerous. It’s not what I think. I have a few reasons to believe that detachment is indispensable, and not only so that we may apprehend the film rationally–we already know that reason doesn’t have a good name in the practice of art–but so as to experience the film’s events in their full complexity. We mustn’t forget that to experience a work of art is not simply letting oneself be fascinated by it, a mere falling in love with it, but rather it’s understanding the process of falling in love. For this one needs the freedom to move away from the loved object in order to return to it freely. The amorous encounter with the work of art is a practice that can be summarized in the following formula: ‘To love renders one intelligent,’ which certainly contradicts the formula which states being in love is more like being hit on the head by a club.”

The Lost World: Jurassic Park

The opening of The Lost World is, by some measure, the best sequence in any of the Jurassic Park films, our purest glimpse of Spielberg the Sadist since his camera watched dispassionately as a young girl was dragged beneath the waves by an unseen menace at the start of Jaws.

Jaws presents a vision of nature that is not just indifferent, but opposed, to humanity. Civilization only extends as far as the shoreline. The thrust of The Lost World is similar. Its Isla Sorna is a hostile space, a space out of time where prehistoric monsters roam free. To dare to journey there is to put yourself on the menu.

Here, the fodder is a young girl, brought to the island by extremely wealthy parents on a cruise. Spielberg spares us the undoubtedly horrifying images as she’s pecked to pieces by dinosaurs, but he lets us hear her screams and see the terrified face of her mother. The film then hilariously and chillingly smash cuts from the mother’s scream to Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) yawning in front of a poster in a subway station, as human-made an environment as has ever existed.

These are the film’s two worlds, and The Lost World suggests that regardless of which realm invades the other, the outcome won’t be good for humanity. Even those with good intentions, the environmentalists sent to protect this dinosaur paradise, are at risk; if you fix the broken leg of a baby Tyrannosaurus, you’re still dealing with a Tyrannosaurus.

In the film’s giddy monster movie coda, Spielberg unleashes the T-Rex on San Diego. To the T-Rex, the modern city looks like just another territory to conquer, its swimming pools serving as new watering holes, humanity’s domesticated canines making for easy prey. As it effortlessly prowls through the streets, it becomes comically clear that the king of the dinosaurs could easy become the king of the metropolis, a dark echo of the original film’s declaration that “life finds a way.”