Studio Auteurs: The Blockbuster Anomalies

Of all the reasons why film fans commonly look down upon many franchise movies, I think it could be argued that the principal reason is that these films often lack a distinct personality. Whether it be the thirty-first installment in a cinematic multiverse of superheroes, or the thirteenth installment in a slasher franchise where a supernatural killer strikes yet again, it seems like there is often an undeniable sense of familiarity to franchise fare, a pervasive feeling of sameness that the crowd instantly recognizes. A good way to describe this familiar franchise formula is the term house style, in the sense that most franchise films are intentionally directed with a certain amount of bland anonymity and seamless continuity with previous installments, as if to assure audiences that the movie they’re about to see is exactly what they paid for, precisely what they’ve come to expect, nothing more, nothing less.

That’s why it is so striking and worth noting when certain filmmakers get the chance to make franchise movies, and they actually imbue studio films with their unique voice. These are the installments that stand out amongst the rest, the big-budget blockbusters that feel surprisingly personal, bold, and idiosyncratic. And for as much as it can feel a bit reductive to overly rely on the auteur theory (which states that the director is always the primary "author" behind a film), I do agree with the general notion that many filmmakers have such an unmistakable style, and such a specific set of interests, that those traits can’t help but influence all other aspects of their movies, to the point where it becomes almost impossible to imagine those films being directed by anyone else.

With all this in mind, I want to talk about a couple of my favorite examples of auteurist filmmakers working within franchises, and why their particular installments feel so special.

A childhood classic that still remains as one of my favorite films is Alfonso Cuarón’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004). After the previous director Chris Columbus did such a wonderful job introducing audiences to the Wizarding World with its first two installments, starting out with a suitably childlike tone and patiently laying the foundation for more mature stories yet to come, Prisoner of Azkaban was a notable turning point, as it was the third installment where audiences could palpably feel that the tone was getting darker, the stakes were getting higher, and it became truly clear here that the films themselves were growing up in tandem with the young actors, creating a very organic sense of maturation and elevation. But beyond the film’s easily identifiable qualities (such as the gorgeously gothic visuals, the phenomenally stacked cast, the ingenious usage of time travel in the narrative, and the notable absence of the series’ main villain, Voldemort), what astounds me most about this film, all these years later, is that it somehow maintains this balance of feeling like the most fantastical film in the franchise while also being the most grounded.

There is an infectious playfulness that Cuarón brings to his direction, as the camera flies freely through mirrors, the frames distort, beautifully rendered special effects unfold quietly in the background of shots, and dreamlike transitions carry us from one scene to the next. It is, in every sense of the word, pure movie magic (pardon the obvious pun, for it had to be done). But wisely, the film never forgets that the characters populating this magical world are deeply human, and it embraces the personalities of the leads. Notice how often we see Harry, Ron, and Hermione wearing their normal clothes, with distinct color palettes that match them (as opposed to the black-robed uniforms that they constantly wear in the previous two films). Think about how often the film simply decides to spend time with the students of Hogwarts, as we see them having fun and bonding, so much so that they genuinely feel like real teenagers who live in this otherwise fantastical realm. Those naturalistic choices that Cuarón brought to the franchise, as well as his signature filmmaking wizardry, are the qualities that make Prisoner of Azkaban feel so alive.

For those of you who know me very well, I’m sure you are well aware that I’m a huge fan of Rian Johnson’s Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017), as it is easily the film I’ve defended the most against many fans of the series, who tend to hate this particular installment with an unshakeable passion. It is easy to understand why this subversive eighth installment has proven to be so unpopular with Star Wars fans, as so much of George Lucas’s original creation was based upon a fairly binary understanding of good and evil. It was all just so accessible for anyone to enjoy a story in which the Rebel Alliance and the Jedi were the heroes, while the Galactic Empire and the Sith were the villains. What was perhaps most indelible, however, is that a heroic protagonist like Luke Skywalker gained such an iconic status by the end of the original trilogy, an almost saint-like reputation of goodness and wisdom that made fans around the world consider him to be nothing less than a legend.

So, after decades of a character receiving such unadulterated adoration and worship, the fact that Johnson took a risk by actually humanizing this legend, showing his frailty, his mistakes, his capacity for darkness, his guilt, and the severe consequences of his actions (as well as that of the entire universe of Star Wars on a grander level), all of that was a level of moral ambiguity that many fans simply did not want to engage with, as they felt it went against the very principles of what they grew up with. Personally, I have found the film to be increasingly powerful, thought-provoking, and inspiring every time I watch it, and it actually makes me retroactively appreciate the rest of the series even more than I already did. All of the film’s qualities that many people dismiss (its goofy sense of humor, its sincere sentimentality, its intricate structure, and its painterly compositions) are very indicative of Johnson’s work, which I adore wholeheartedly. The biggest argument I can make for The Last Jedi is that, speaking as a lifelong fan of the franchise, I do not think it is a film made by someone who hates Star Wars and who wants to demolish everything it stands for. I genuinely see it as a film made by someone who loves Star Wars and who is earnestly interrogating its themes to make a reflective installment that stands out from the rest, and in that regard, I believe Johnson has succeeded.

Other notable examples that I want to shout out are James Cameron’s Aliens (1986), Guillermo del Toro’s Blade II (2002), Brad Bird’s Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol (2011), Ryan Coogler’s Creed (2015), and James Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy Trilogy (2014-2023), all of which stand out so wonderfully within their respective franchises.

In terms of upcoming examples of this studio auteurism, I am very much looking forward to seeing what Denis Villeneuve does with the James Bond franchise, as I think his particular knack for meditative storytelling and awe-inspiring visuals (as shown in his masterful Dune films) is something that could certainly make that iconic character feel refreshing. In general, I always think it is worth celebrating cases like these, when talented artists are given the opportunity to tell their personal stories on a massive scale, to remind audiences that art and entertainment should not be considered opposite sides of a spectrum, but rather, two sides of the same coin of storytelling.