![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"65" isn't a dinosaur movie with Adam Driver in it, it's an Adam Driver movie about grief, loss, love, courage, and how we define "family" that happens to also have dinosaurs, and that's an important distinction to make. I expected Adam to do his usual magic trick of bringing a character that's only lived in 2 dimensions on a few pieces of paper to vivid life, and he did not disappoint.
I was lucky enough to be able to go see "65" twice on opening day, and I'm still attempting to process all of my really huge feelings about this character as a result. I started painting this two weeks ago, finished it just before I went to go see it for the first time, and now I suddenly have so much more context for this scene.
This moment comes fairly early on in the story. Having lost his own daughter to a terminal illness, unable to be with her in her final days due to the job that was paying for her treatment, Mills was already a heartbroken man. Initially, thinking he was the sole survivor of this catastrophic crash, he is overcome with suicidal despair, grieving for all of those he was powerless to save.
The discovery of another survivor, the knowledge that he is not, in fact, alone in this predicament, fills him with a new found determination to find a way to get home. Not for his own sake-- he made it clear with his first message reporting the crash, when he believed himself alone, that he views his own life as not being worth saving-- but for the sake of the young girl he finds himself the sole protector of.
Mills wouldn't risk fighting his way across 15 km to that shuttle for himself, but it's clear he is willing to do it for her.
This moment comes just after dawn on their first full day post-crash; Mills is scouting the area, searching for the missing section of his ship that contains the escape pod which will, hopefully, carry them to a rendezvous with a rescue mission. He's spotted an intense flash of light, high up the side of a mountain, and is using his scanning device to take a better look.
His hair is tangled, shiny with damp but swept neatly enough back from his face, a few gleams of silver glinting at his temple and along the crown of his head. The same light shining off those waves is also caught beautifully in his brow, lashes, and the fine hairs of his beard, and the angle at which it falls emphasizes the topography of his cheek, the subtle folds, tiny scars, and moles, as well as the hollow under the wide sweep of his cheekbone. Still in his protective suit, Mills is gazing intently at the device he's holding at arm's length, eyebrows drawn in and down, rumpling the skin above them, the lower lids of his eyes pursed slightly as he focuses on the image projected, which you can see faintly reflected on the surface of his eye.
The sense of focused determination comes from several things, but the one that leads all the rest is the tiny, stubborn, downward tilt of his chin. It's not a lot, but it's enough that leveling his gaze at the scanner means he's almost looking up through his eyebrows. It also means the angle of the front of his face, from brow to chin, leans forward ever so slightly, and the end of his nose, which normally has a very slight tilt up, is nearly perfectly level. It creates a sense of him leaning forward into the challenge being presented to him, even when he's sitting perfectly straight.
Reference used was a production still for "65" taken by Patti Perret and edited by me.
About 17.5 hrs of painting time, with blessings and curses upon the costume designer, Michael Kaplan, who also created the quilted surcoat for Kylo Ren, for making this such a beautifully complicated costume to render.
I was lucky enough to be able to go see "65" twice on opening day, and I'm still attempting to process all of my really huge feelings about this character as a result. I started painting this two weeks ago, finished it just before I went to go see it for the first time, and now I suddenly have so much more context for this scene.
This moment comes fairly early on in the story. Having lost his own daughter to a terminal illness, unable to be with her in her final days due to the job that was paying for her treatment, Mills was already a heartbroken man. Initially, thinking he was the sole survivor of this catastrophic crash, he is overcome with suicidal despair, grieving for all of those he was powerless to save.
The discovery of another survivor, the knowledge that he is not, in fact, alone in this predicament, fills him with a new found determination to find a way to get home. Not for his own sake-- he made it clear with his first message reporting the crash, when he believed himself alone, that he views his own life as not being worth saving-- but for the sake of the young girl he finds himself the sole protector of.
Mills wouldn't risk fighting his way across 15 km to that shuttle for himself, but it's clear he is willing to do it for her.
This moment comes just after dawn on their first full day post-crash; Mills is scouting the area, searching for the missing section of his ship that contains the escape pod which will, hopefully, carry them to a rendezvous with a rescue mission. He's spotted an intense flash of light, high up the side of a mountain, and is using his scanning device to take a better look.
His hair is tangled, shiny with damp but swept neatly enough back from his face, a few gleams of silver glinting at his temple and along the crown of his head. The same light shining off those waves is also caught beautifully in his brow, lashes, and the fine hairs of his beard, and the angle at which it falls emphasizes the topography of his cheek, the subtle folds, tiny scars, and moles, as well as the hollow under the wide sweep of his cheekbone. Still in his protective suit, Mills is gazing intently at the device he's holding at arm's length, eyebrows drawn in and down, rumpling the skin above them, the lower lids of his eyes pursed slightly as he focuses on the image projected, which you can see faintly reflected on the surface of his eye.
The sense of focused determination comes from several things, but the one that leads all the rest is the tiny, stubborn, downward tilt of his chin. It's not a lot, but it's enough that leveling his gaze at the scanner means he's almost looking up through his eyebrows. It also means the angle of the front of his face, from brow to chin, leans forward ever so slightly, and the end of his nose, which normally has a very slight tilt up, is nearly perfectly level. It creates a sense of him leaning forward into the challenge being presented to him, even when he's sitting perfectly straight.
Reference used was a production still for "65" taken by Patti Perret and edited by me.
About 17.5 hrs of painting time, with blessings and curses upon the costume designer, Michael Kaplan, who also created the quilted surcoat for Kylo Ren, for making this such a beautifully complicated costume to render.
