Twilight of dual worlds

Rating: Null/10 (2 September 2011)

I am always on the lookout for movies that operate on two levels; one the apparent reality where human experience is trapped in the inadequacy of dual opposites, the other where karmic ledgers are kept, as in film noir , or, as in Solyaris, where the images we use to describe reality are born. The motifs may appear distinct but they describe the same thing; the level where things arise and disappear.
So, here we have the heavenly world in the old-fashioned notion as actually above. It's a campy spectacle, disarmingly overwrought, where costumed thespians pantomime sweeping proclamations about war or betrayal surrounded by the most outrageous computer-generated sets – the Bifrost as this dazzling neon catwalk. It is like mock-Shakespeare furiously situated inside anime. You will want to smirk at the outmoded pomposity.
But then all of this trickles down below in the mortal, waking world, where, amidst small-town mundanity, the lofty drama is shown to be just how silly and out of place - just as we thought. Branagh takes the p#ss of the gilded world above – his own cinematic world, where once-powerful kings slip into their meridian and sons conspire for the ascendancy – but it's pretty delightful stuff.
There is, of course, the notion that mythology is merely the primitive, degenerate narrative of some secret, now lost knowledge or revelation – if you ever found merit in von Däniken, you will feel vindicated by this. The more sophisticated, important reading of world myth of course, is that we are directed inside for revelation.
It is interesting then to see how Hollywood transmutes the myth in pursuit of that revelation. The film imports these characters under a guise that will make contemporary sense; so, Thor is basically the good old fellow, except tragic enough - the fallen son of a king - to register on a dramatic level.
But Loki and Odin, far more complex entities, present a problem. In both their original context and the film, they are who set the world in motion. Odin creates the world from the body of a slain adversary, while Loki fathers the instruments that will bring it to an end. Thor is merely the action hero.
So while Norse Loki is the agent of world end; by freely traversing the lines between good and evil, he reconciles, shatters both into the plan of life-renewing destruction and exists, in the first place, so that all of this will be reborn anew, the function of Branagh's Loki is narrowed-down to a misguided, disgruntled tyrant. He schemes not for world end, but for flag and nation. So, look how the idea of war has shifted in the interim; it is no longer the means by which to release the energies, but a way to preserve them. Loki is thus reduced from trickster to represent the status quo clinging to power.
Odin is a different matter. Here, the spiritual essence of the Allfather is carefully concealed behind kingly robes. It is left to us to decide whether or not the entire narrative of the film was engineered by him in the first place; but at the crucial moment of conflict he slips into meditation – deep sleep according to the film, in simplified terms, but tellingly a sleep from which he sees all.
This is the most enduring image of Odin. He did not lose his eye in battle, as the film shows, but willingly sacrificed human vision for world wisdom; hung, aftewards, upside down from the windy tree for nine days, he sees and knows all in the one, all-seeing perspective.
So this image of Odin lost in meditation we need to work to unearth in the film. How the world is set in motion by the twin-engine of Loki-Odin is built into a shaky structure. The narrative engineered by Odin in the film resolves to provide Thor, the son, with simply a lesson in good governance; it's stuff like this that just barely stand. But it's still the best Marvel film to date. Which is not saying much either, considering how low the bar has been set.