Interstellar (2014) made its well-known debut last weekend. In Chicago, the film (yes, we can still call it that) screened in its “intended” format of 70mm at the Navy Pier IMAX. Its appearance there and at other such venues was predictably celebrated by old school cinephiles as yet another defiant declaration of celluloid’s continuing value in a culture of cinema that has increasingly done away with the old medium. Meanwhile, just across the border in the nearby state of Wisconsin, the so-called “end of film” was also marked that same weekend by a very different, less celebrated, event—the closing of the Keno Drive-In in Kenosha, Wisconsin, for the season, and most likely, permanently. In many ways, this was a more apt snapshot of film today—as well as the value in fighting for it—than Christopher Nolan’s high-profile blockbuster.

The arrival of Interstellar did little more than reiterate that celluloid’s use going forward will largely be as a high-end, niche phenomenon (confined to museums more than IMAX). And the rhetoric around film’s aesthetic superiority, frankly, obscures as many important questions in the digital age as highlights (a debate which will continue being pointless given the endlessly shifting technology). But the closing of the Keno—one of hundreds closing down in the last month or so across the United States—is more representative of the digital transition’s impact on the economics of film. Like many independent theatres, drive-ins often cannot afford the expense of converting from older 35mm projectors to digital ones (to say nothing of imminent maintenance costs)—an issue the studios and several major chains have forced by going almost exclusively to distributing movies as Digital Cinema Packages (DCPs).

“Of the 366 Drive-in theatres left in the United States,” Variety reported in 2012, “only a handful have converted to digital projection; another 10% are expected to convert before this summer.” Last year, this led to “Project Drive-In,” a campaign funding by Honda to provide the funds necessarily for digital conversion to the rare few drive-ins that won a nationwide voting contest (a drive-in in nearby McHenry, Illinois, was one such lucky recipient).

The Keno wasn’t nearly as fortunate—though its situation is admittedly somewhat different. While the operators of the drive-in were willing to cover costs, the shift to DCP is forcing the issue of land repurposing (including the persistent rumor of a certain “Big Box” retail mega-store). The repurposing means that The Keno is a business which risks having a projector—but no screen.

Still the value of the many closing Kenos of the world are worth exploring further—and beyond just the reassuring nostalgia offered by loving tributes such as the Going Attractions (2013) documentary. The digital conversion reveals at least one darker truth underlying the too-often-utopic rhetoric of digital cinema—innovation is not making things “easier” or “cheaper” for most people involved in the many aspects of the movie business today. Studios save considerable expenses on distribution costs, of course. Lisa Dombrowski highlighted how the “digital [conversion] will produce an 80 per cent savings on direct releasing costs [. . .] (a digital print costs between $100 and $300, while a 35mm print averages $1200 to $2000 more).”

Yet these savings have not “trickled down” to the smaller theatres dependent on 35mm—or to the audiences that pay an increasing premium on all tickets. The same can be said of independent filmmakers and others who may benefit from short-term savings in production and distribution, but will also find it increasingly difficult to get recognized or obtain a livable wage. In short, as with all market shifts in the age of late capitalism, this is simply an unsustainable long-term, financial situation.

So, it’s easy enough to look at the rampant nostalgia today surrounding the drive-in’s imminent demise—where all but a small handful will soon be Wal-Marts—and dismiss it as little more than a wistful longing for a bygone era of Americana that’s neither here nor there. Indeed, that does seem to be the city of Kenosha’s “brand,” as it were—a former auto town, with its historic Women’s Professional Baseball League-era stadium, its four museums in a twelve-block radius, its boxcar diner, its countless drive-in restaurants, or its still functioning Streetcar system. But there is also value in how the nostalgia for New Deal liberalism can be less about returning to the past, and more about using that utopic sense of history to shape something better, something more viable, still to come.

The reassurance of nostalgia often anchors innovation’s newness. Despite being the first digitally-animated feature, Pixar’s debut, Toy Story (1995), was deeply nostalgic—reenacting the baby boomer’s fond memories of growing up within the material prosperities of post-war America. The tension between Woody (Tom Hanks), the all-too-earnest cowboy, and Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen), the lovably-misguided astronaut, replayed the transition from a `50s obsession with frontier Westerns to the `60s atomic-age space race. This generational address was more acute in Toy Story 2 (1999), which foregrounded Woody’s status as a valuable antique explicitly based on a 1950s television show. Somewhere in the eleven years between Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3, however, that narrative faded.

The third film’s nostalgia resonated for a very different audience. Its powerful ending, where a now teenaged Andy gives up his beloved Woody to a little girl, was more about the generation of kids who grew up with Toy Story. One couldn’t reproduce this effect with children today—it’d require showing them the first one, waiting four years before letting them see the second, and then another eleven years before seeing the conclusion. No child would go along with that (and, generally, our media consumption habits are such that if we discover something new—such as a television series on DVD or Netflix—the inevitable temptation is to devour it all at once). The specific effect that Andy’s decision has on teenagers and twenty-somethings today could never be repeated for another generation—it’s a useful demonstration of how historically specific audiences’ relationship to media texts can be. I suspect, over time, Toy Story 3 will lose some of its luster.

I spent so much time unpacking the nostalgic trajectories of the Toy Story trilogy because I feel somewhere in there is also the story of Pixar’s continuing challenge. The premise of Monsters University, where Sulley (John Goodman) and Mike (Billy Crystal) head off to college, is a symbolic continuation of Andy’s departure for school at Toy Story 3’s conclusion, reflecting how Pixar’s core demographic is also now college-aged. It’s simple enough to highlight Pixar’s artistic rut by recycling properties over and over, rather than explore more original, ambitious narratives, such as 2008’s Wall-E. Yet the truth is the company is very much beholden to its loyal audience in ways that restrict the kind of innovation that helped distinguish Pixar in the early days of computer animation. Or, perhaps, the innovation comes in how to carefully negotiate those nostalgic impulses.

Pixar’s journey over the years is not unlike that of the parent company it’s often fairly but misleadingly tied to—Disney. The idea is that Pixar is focused on squeezing older properties dry because of Disney’s corrupting corporate influence, but this requires a more nuanced understanding of Uncle Walt’s company. Like Pixar, Disney defined itself in the beginning through cutting-edge innovation in animation—the first successful integration of sound (as much the reason for Mickey’s popularity as anything), the first use of three-strip Technicolor (1932’s Flowers and Trees), the first feature-length cartoon, Snow White (1937), and so forth. Like Pixar then, Disney was both critical and commercial darling in the 1930s. The 1940s, however, were generally unprofitable, with government WWII contracts keeping the company afloat. But on the eve of “Disneyland” in the 1950s, the company discovered a whole generation of parents now nostalgically recalling their memories of Mickey and Silly Symphonies. This generational nostalgia sustained the ABC program of the same name, and paid for and promoted the theme park in Anaheim.

Yet like Toy Story 3’s success with college-aged audiences today, it was somewhat luck—Disney leveraged broadcast rights to its old properties out of financial desperation. Meanwhile, Pixar waited so long in making sequels/prequels precisely because it feared being perceived as money-driven and creatively bankrupt (there’s also a parallel to Disney’s reluctant embrace of the now-ubiquitous “Princess” films, explaining why it took fourteen years after Snow White to return to the fairy tale genre with 1951’s Cinderella). In short, it’s not only about creative stagnation, but about an awareness that such recycling negotiates and reinforces the powerfully self-sustaining nostalgia which anchors the company’s success—both for Disney in the 1950s, and Pixar today.

Paul Thomas Anderson (from Vanity Fair)

Paul Thomas Anderson’s forthcoming film, an adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice (2009), is quickly stockpiling quite the all-star cast. Rumors of Sean Penn, who was originally slated for the part of Dean Trumbell (eventually played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) in Punch Drunk Love (2002), add to an already impressive line-up that includes lead Joaquin Phoenix, Benecio Del Toro, Josh Brolin, Jena Malone, Martin Short, Owen Wilson and Reese Witherspoon (originally attached to The Master [2012]). The anticipation is quickly building, and it seems as though—perhaps even inexplicably—Anderson’s authorship has finally reclaimed a certain industry viability that was lost in the indulgences of the Magnolia era (1999), as well as through the long pre-production histories of both There Will Be Blood (2007) and The Master. It’s an exciting time for fans of the director, but what final product will emerge out of this is still to be determined—especially as we see Anderson to some degree returning to his own inherent vices.

Having begun to develop a reputation as a more deliberate filmmaker (previously making only three films in thirteen years), the quick turnaround from 2012’s The Master is impressive—though unsurprising. Anderson worked on both scripts largely simultaneously. Committed to a somewhat different version of The Master with Jeremy Renner and Witherspoon, Anderson dropped that during rehearsals and went to Inherent Vice—at one time with Robert Downey, Jr., attached. Yet just as it appeared the latter project might gain traction, Anderson went back to The Master, finally completing the film we know today. It is thus understandable that production on Inherent Vice could move quickly—though its more surprising that he found funding so easily, especially with a major studio (Warner Bros.) backing the project.

Although Anderson is a critical darling, his movies have never made money. Boogie Nights (1997) did better on home video than in theatres. Magnolia and There Will Be Blood barely broke even, despite generally strong critical support. Indeed, partly why There Will Be Blood took five years to get made (Daniel Day-Lewis committed years before it went into production) was because the filmmakers couldn’t convince financiers it had any commercial viability—especially for what was, on paper, a pricey historical epic. Anderson only got the film made once his agent, John Lesher, took over as head of Paramount Vantage in 2006. So Warner Bros.’ support of such a commercially-suspect project—an Anderson adaptation of a Pynchon novel—is impressive, especially on the heels of The Master’s poor box office and mixed critical response.

Joaquin Phoenix on the set of Inherent Vice

As with casting Magnolia on the heels of Boogie Nights, Anderson is taking advantage of the hype to grab numerous stars. Yet this itself should be a cautionary tale—part of why Magnolia became such a bloated epic (unlike the smaller, more intimate narrative originally envisioned) was because Anderson focused on writing parts for all his friends. Granted, Inherent Vice is a more straightforward genre project on paper, which shouldn’t lend itself to the scattered nature of an aimless epic. Yet, the first cut of Anderson’s debut, Hard Eight (1996)—also essentially a noir film—was a meandering two-and-a-half hour character epic, very different from the taut 90 minute genre exercise audiences know today.

However, the discipline of adaptation may prove to reign in the worst excesses and self-indulgence that marred the earliest parts of Anderson’s career. In the late 1990s, Anderson unsuccessfully attempted to adapt Russell Banks’ Rules of the Bone (1995) for director Jonathan Demme. By his own admission, Anderson struggled to work within the voice of another artist and finally gave up. Meanwhile, the screenwriter had an easier time a decade later working with Upton Sinclair’s Oil (1927) to produce There Will Be Blood. Yet, partly what made that generally loose adaptation remarkable was not only Day-Lewis’s iconic performance, but also Anderson’s recent tendency to strip his stories down to one or two central characters instead of the massive Altmanesque ensembles that structured his two late `90s films with New Line—Boogie Nights and Magnolia. Anderson’s most recent films wisely centered largely on a single (irrationally angry) protagonist—Barry Egan (Adam Sandler) in Punch-Drunk Love, Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood, and Freddie Quells (Phoenix) in The Master.

So how will Anderson’s turn back to large ensembles ultimately pan out, especially coupled with his noted loyalty to actor-friends? It’s interesting that Anderson was quick to reunite with Phoenix, given that for a while he challenged himself to work with different actors, after largely reusing a lot of the same names in the 1990s (Philip Baker Hall, John C. Reilly, Melora Walters, Hoffman). Inherent Vice’s remarkable casting news could prove to be a double-edged sword. The book itself certainly fits Anderson’s thematic interests—from Magnolia to The Master—his films often deal with existential crises amidst the hollow prosperity of postwar American commodity culture. How it will translate to the screen, though, is anyone’s guess.

It was also clearly a ruse—maybe not inaccurate per se, but some kind of misdirection. “John Harrison” reminds me of something Roland Barthes once said: “Partially true . . . and therefore totally false.” The name was planted to generate more publicity (read: free fan labor)—another Lost-esque mystery for fans to dissect across the internet. Within minutes, the speculation began: maybe Cumberbatch’s character assumes multiple identities throughout the narrative, and something as mundane as “John Harrison” was surely not the name he really goes by. The most dedicated even speculated that it was a reference to “Harrison,” a character from the Trek episode (“Space Seed”) where Khan was first introduced.

The rather “unremarkable” caption thus served its purpose. Trek filmmakers are more interested in selling a mystery than in selling a film. In this regard, they’ve taken the old truism—that the movie’s never as good as the trailer—to a new level. By now, it’s a familiar pattern (Dark Knight Rises, Prometheus), a whole lot of smoke and mirrors designed to hide the fact that—at its core—Into Darkness will undoubtedly be a pretty straight-forward genre film. It’s not enough to craft an intelligent (to say nothing of original) story that goes beyond one-dimensional revenge narratives.

But then something else telling happened—in the caption’s wake, director JJ Abrams came out of his shell to throw Trek fandom under the bus (he can do better). JJ responded to a reasonable question from an Ain’t It Cool reporter about the Enterprise’s newfound ability to be submerged under water with a derisive, “enjoy your reruns!” Earlier, in an MTV News interview, JJ was asked about the speculation around Harrison from “Space Seed,” prompting Abrams to giggle awkwardly and derisively call the journalist a “geek.” The comeback was not only condescending, but also disingenuous. Having spent so much time crafting the mystery, the director knew exactly what he was doing when the photo was released.  JJ went further still, saying that he not only cared little about Star Trek fans, but that he didn’t particularly care about fans of his first Trek either. The interview ended with him rambling in generalities about how great Cumberbatch is. Somewhere in there, JJ lost track of what he wanted to say, and to whom.

If it wasn’t obvious by now, the new Trek filmmakers are interested in branding, not Trek, especially since remaking older properties seems to be a specialty. Not for nothing have they acquired the nickname, “The Hack Pack”: a generation obsessed being affiliated with high-profile blockbusters, but generally little interest in creating one of their own. Why try to create your own Star Wars when Star Trek (same thing) is just sitting there, collecting dust? What established properties with proven fanbases can be taken and remolded in another pre-packaged, pre-sold transmedia blockbuster? And, of course, the investment is in the latter, not the former, which is largely a means to an end. Thus, the investment in creating a generic sci-fi blockbuster for “everyone” risks forgetting the audience (or even good old fashioned product differentiation).

The narrative seems to be that Trek fans aren’t enough to sustain a Trek movie. A rather strange but persistent myth is that JJ and co. somehow made Star Trek more “fun,” or accessible, but there’s not a lot of evidence to support this. For one, the look and sensibility of most old properties are inaccessible to a modern audience, so the idea of “updating” a property such as Trek doesn’t require scraping and starting over. More quantifiably, with obscene IMAX prices and general ticket inflation, the 2009 version didn’t really make more money than the franchise was pulling in during the height of its theatrical popularity in the 1980s. And audiences were sustaining not only the features but several TV spin-offs, such as The Next Generation. But more important is that the open contempt for fans becomes counter-productive. Non-Trek fans might “like” the newest Trek if they take the time to see it, but these generic spectacles could just as quickly get lost in the crowded summer marketplace shuffle.

The reference to Lost is not arbitrary, of course, as its showrunner, Damon Lindelof, was also one of Prometheus’s writers. It’s pretty obvious halfway through the movie that he and others are simply drawing on Lost’s playbook—throw out a few interesting characters, a few promising narrative possibilities, and a whole lot of messy gaps. Then, wait until later to figure out what it all “means” (or hope the fans do it for you). This is why some turned on Battlestar Galactica in later seasons—when it started to think about “meaning,” when it shifted from tight sci-fi action to broad intro-level philosophy, some got turned off. Prometheus, meanwhile, is a collection of several possibly good story beginnings instead of one truly great finished one.

So, half-baked babble or post-television cinema? I’m inclined to say the former, if for no other reason than the fact that no one involved with Prometheus will ever actually have to back up its unfulfilled potential. I don’t see three or four more movies coming out of this—the kind of epic narrative canvas that would begin to deepen this film’s easy ambiguity. The degree to which one likes the new film seems in rough proportion to the degree to which you are drawing on the kind of post-network television narratives like BSG and Lost as your point of reference, or whether or not you are approaching it from the standpoint of the Alien franchise it’s so disingenuously aping.

What’s most frustrating is how Prometheus is trying to have it both ways in relation to the larger brand. The film instantly became an elite A-list project once Scott attached himself to it, which not only returned the legendary auteur to his early sci-fi roots, but also ensured a certain expectation of big budget polish in a franchise reduced to B-level junk like the Alien vs. Predator series. But, early on in the film’s production, there was clearly a mixed message at work in its paratextuality—Scott and company seemed to be going awkwardly out of their way to say it’s not an Alien film.

Yet, it’s absolutely part of the Alien franchise—explicitly existing within the same universe, filled with identical characters and iconography, and structured in obvious and subtle ways just like the original 1979 film. And, has anyone else noted that the premise—archeologists on Earth find clues in the ice that point towards an alien intelligence, causing dying rich guys from the same family to pursue a larger meaning to life—is exactly the same premise as the one in the much-maligned Alien vs. Predator (2004)?

At the time, I read the Alien ambivalence as fanboy contempt, but also auteurist pride—Scott didn’t want to admit he was retreating to well-worn territory, the site of one of his two greatest accomplishments. Although I didn’t feel this way, the decision to return to Alien could be read as creatively lazy, or worse, desperate, especially in the “Event Film” era where all of the old school is doing elaborate CGI blockbusters now. So I read the not-Alien Alien messages as a careful negotiation of that.

Now that Prometheus is out, I think all that white noise about not trying to be an Alien film was more to inoculate it from all forms of criticism. I’ve repeatedly read in the last few days some variation on the “it’s trying to be something else (or more)” defense—but that’s not the issue people have with Prometheus. It’s pretty clear that, like many recent reboots (such as Star Trek), Prometheus is more interested in creating its own new world under the veil of a pre-sold brand, than in doing anything insightful with what’s already there.

The oft-circulated idea that it’s not an Alien film, or that it’s taking on grander ideas (as though the two are mutually exclusive) becomes an attempt to hide the obvious—that Prometheus is just another mediocre big-budget summer genre exercise. And I think the problem people have with this post-televisual film is that it doesn’t know what it does want to be.