The Abyss (1989): A Movie About Brock From Titanic?

The Abyss can be seen as a spiritual predecessor to the Titanic in that it marks Cameron’s love affair with the ocean and his desire to push the furthest limits of special effects in its discovery. It’s even been rumored that Cameron took on the assignment of Titanic as an excuse to indulge his zeal for undersea exploration. In addition to being one of the few people to dive to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, he holds the record for having spent the most time on board the Titanic (with the caveat that he never spent an hour with the ship when it was above board).

Among the things that fascinate me about this film is that he created an entire film for Brock.

Brock is the deep see gem miner played by Bill Paxton, who can be seen as an avatar for Cameron (considering a certain 2009 film, I’ll have to add a “no pun intended”). Both pride themselves on their adeptness, both feel comfortable in command, and both are capable of being moved by a story. 

In an alternate ending, Brock actually catches Rose in the act of throwing it in the ocean. Rather than do everything in his power to stop her, he holds it for a moment, lets Rose throw it over and laughs. It's as if he learned a (very improbable) lesson on the true power of wealth.

James Cameron has been known as a controlling man on set and he has likely made enemies from the studios for overspending their money. If Titanic didn’t hit that lightning in a bottle and win big at the box office, it would have gone down as cinema’s biggest failures. Maybe Brock was a way to justify Cameron himself.

Whereas the final cut doesn’t give Brock the satisfaction of moral agency (he’s in the dark), it’s indicative of the way Cameron wants to see himself as a man who values wonder and exploration above everything. As an auteur, the way he (some might say carelessly) drives up the budget of his films reinforces this.

The Abyss is one of the most ambitious underwater films ever filmed this side of The Poseidon Adventure.

As part of the 1980s, it’s heavy on heroes and action. At its center is Bud Brigman. Played by Ed Harris, he might not look like a Sylvester Stallone or Harrison Ford; but he has the chip on his shoulder and the confidence in his own vision that is requisite of a frustrated auteur like another James Cameron stand-in. There’s also a quasi-military element which matches other films of the era like Hunt for Red October and Top Gun.

As Brock is potentially implied to be powered by greed (if we go by canon), Bud’s faults are presented by his soon-to-be-ex-wife and professional foil in Lindsey (Mary Elizbeth Mastrantonio).

But here’s the thing: We only see the competent version of Bud. The only negative things we hear of him are in flashback through Lindsey. It’s as if the flashbacks are a way for Cameron to address rumors or his internal doubts, while the man he wishfully presents to the world is an ordinary-looking man who becomes a hero.

Without giving too much away, Bud’s transcendent journey comes from curiosity and appreciating wonder. He also gets the girl back, just as Titanic and Avatar have non-romantic issues resolved through a cathartic love story.

La Bamba (1987): Can a Rock God be Sweet?

Can a rock god be a sweet angelic boy — someone wants nothing more than to buy his mother a house and do right by his high school sweetheart and extended family?

My experience with rock and roll biopics (Ray, Walk the Line, Dreamgirls, Bohemian Rhapsody, The Doors, Almost Famous) has taught me otherwise. If the movies (and the occasional Rolling Stone article) has taught me anything, it’s that rock is a corrupting influence. It’s only a matter of time before your head gets big, you abandon your friends and business partners, you succumb to groupies (or in the case of Bohemian Rhapsody, a strangely evil form of gaydom) and drugs get the better of you.

In Bohemian Rhapsody, for instance, Freddie Mercury was far more a uniting force than a dividing force and there’s little evidence of him taking his band mates for granted. Contrary to what the movie states, they all started solo careers around the same time.

I’m not enough of an expert to comment on whether reality serves the story in these cases or the other way around, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some exaggeration was necessary.

Then again, a well-behaved rock and roller is not only a boring story, it seems antithetical to the spirit of rock and roll or any of its variants. Whether the country stylings of Johnny Cash or the sounds of Motown, it seems like music in the last 70 years wouldn’t be what it is if its creators weren’t driven by a rebellious streak.

This isn’t so in the case of Richie Valens. Or at least the version played by Lou Diamond Phillips in the 1987 film La Bamba was pure and angelic. Born Ricky Venezuela to a single Chicano mother, Venezuela was true to his high school sweetheart, forgiving of his abusive brother, and he never had a desire to do anything but earn enough money to buy his mother a house. Valens’ life came to an end in a plane crash along with Buddy Holly and J.P. Richardson in an event that served as a humongous blow to the burgeoning rock and roll movement. It was most famously catalogued in Don McLean’s hit “American Pie” where the term “The Day the Music Died” was coined.

You might say that Richie Valens was a paragon of virtue is giving him an awful lot of the benefit of the doubt considering he died at the age of 17. It’s possible that in an alternative reality, Valens would have knocked up seven girls and killed a cat had he survived to 18. In fact, one of the smarter things the film does is hint at that rock-and-roll-infused destruction and what might have been with Valens’ doppelganger in the form of his wreckless brother Bob who occupies a large role in the film. But 17-year-old Ritchie is rock solid. The film is pretty convincing that this is a man who would have stayed true to himself no matter what happened.

But just like my knowledge of what Johnny Cash or Ray Charles is limited, I don’t really know what the future of Ritchie Vallens held, and in a way it doesn’t matter. Rock stars have always been and always will be legends. In any given point in American history, there have been thousands of people who play the guitar and write songs but through some combination of marketing, luck, and talent, a few become symbols that are part of something larger than themselves.

Valens was immortalized by Don McLean who wanted to use his passing as a metaphor for lost innocence. American culture tended to get pretty metaphorical in that way as it came out the other end of Vietnam. The film chooses to symbolize Valens that way. I’ll take it.