Every year Pro Wrestling Illustrated releases its PWI 500, ranking the best wrestlers in the world (and a few hundred others). And every year I complain about the results. Well, not this year.
In a strange way, I think it's because of TNA's increased instability. As one of the editors discusses in a commentary, this was an issue last year, too. And this year's top star from the promotion reached only #18, and that would be Lashley, the one-time second coming of Brock Lesnar. With fewer and fewer eyes on its product, TNA has had the chance to gamble on Ethan Carter III (#30) for whatever future it has left, while seemingly spending just as much time showing what its apparent successor Global Force Wrestling might be able to do better. (At this point it's become difficult to remember who is a TNA guy and who GFW.) Bobby Roode (#22), Kurt Angle (#25), Eric Young (#33), Drew Galloway (#37), Jeff Hardy (#47), and Austin Aries (#50) all had impressive years with TNA, and were rewarded for it. The problem is, none of them really pulled away.
(You'll note for the record that out of TNA's seven top finishers, five have previously competed for WWE. Samoe Joe, #46, competed for TNA during the grading period, and then made his WWE debut for the NXT brand. Some fans criticize TNA for being apparently reliant on WWE personalities. But WWE wouldn't be what it is today if it hadn't raided all the best available talent in the '80s. Slightly different story. But still, exactly the same. In baseball, someone can play for the Red Sox and then the Yankees, and the world does not technically end.)
Taking TNA somewhat out of the equation left WWE with a lot of ground to cover. Technically, the top wrestler in the ranking this year, Seth Rollins (you know how little PWI thought his name would sell copies when this was one of those covers that went out of its way to obscure who exactly would take first), is about as "weak" a champion as anyone TNA fielded. Rollins, no matter how great, is a transitional champion. He's not the top guy because of his overwhelming popularity, but because he can get the job done until WWE can position someone else to take that spot. Still, he was absolutely the logical choice on PWI's part. Normally the magazine goes with whoever came out on top at WrestleMania, and managed to stick around as champion for a lengthy amount of time. Rollins certainly did that, but had already been a standout before that despite his utility status.
WWE had wanted Roman Reigns to be the top guy, but realized he wasn't ready. Rollins was. So they went with Rollins. Reigns still landed #4 on the list, which might be considered somewhat generous. The problem is that there were so few viable champions to list in the top ten. Brock Lesnar was ineligible for his limited schedule (despite being ludicrously dominant during the period and arguably the most popular attraction in wrestling today). John Cena, the 500's only three-time top ranked wrestler, took #2, and he was the only other world champion during the grading period. That ranking was generous, but nothing to complain too much about. Even Randy Orton (#6) and Rusev (#8), who clearly benefited from a somewhat limited field, are more acceptable than similar ranking in years past (here I'm think of Bray Wyatt taking sixth in 2014, only to rank #21 this year, which on the whole is exactly where he should have been last year, too).
Rounding out the top ten are A.J. Styles (#3), Shinsuke Nakamura (#5), Jay Briscoe (#7), Alberto El Patron (#9), and Kevin Owens (#10). Owens probably made an excellent case for ranking higher than he did, making a tremendous impact in both the WWE and NXT rosters during the grading period. Compared to his year, the other guys were practically also-rans. Styles has been impressive wrestling in Japan, which has shown far less reluctance putting him in the spotlight than TNA ever did. But he's been slow to be relevant anywhere else. Time will tell if his recent winning of a title shot in ROH finally lands him the last piece of gold he'd need to complete a remarkable career before a potential jump to WWE and/or NXT. (One can dream.) Nakamura is PWI's annual Japanese star tossed into the top ten. For whatever reason, Hiroshi Tanahashi (#11) keeps getting left out. Briscoe has been with ROH from the start, and has come into his own as one of its leading faces (or, heels). This is recognition he fully deserves. El Patron, as PWI itself references, is in the same spot as Styles, soaking up love around the wrestling community if not actually being given the opportunities he could easily handle. Even Lucha Underground didn't make him champion. Still have no clue why.
Prince Puma (#16), was that promotion's pick instead. As good as he is, being champion didn't give him near the same profile as El Patron, or Johnny Mundo (#32) for that matter. Johnny Mundo is the former John Morrison. I'm glad he's found a new spotlight. I'm no longer obsessed with his needing to be a promotion's champion. But it wouldn't hurt.
Personally, I would have ranked Dolph Ziggler in the top ten. But PWI is probably gunshy, given how many times WWE has backed away from pushing the guy as far as he can conceivably go, even though Ziggler has been on the right trajectory since last November. I'd also have liked Dean Ambrose (#13) in the top ten. I mean, you could substitute Randy Orton at least, right? Ambrose scored multiple major card main events during the grading period. He's all but the second coming of Steve Austin. PWI will be kicking itself a year from now.
On the other hand, Neville (#15) is ranked too high, Jay Lethal (#17) too low. But there are so many spots. I wish Sami Zayn (#23) could have done better, but he's lost a lot of time on the shelf. He can easily climb higher next year. Finn Balor (#28) is another excellent representative of the NXT generation. I'm surprised Sheamus (#42) ranked so low.
But as I said, these are quibbles. This was a good ranking, given that the whole field is in massive transition. TNA is sliding downward. ROH can't seem to decide if it wants to put in the necessary work to improve itself. NXT has been called the hottest thing in wrestling. Lucha Underground looks like its closest competition. And WWE probably wishes Daniel Bryan (#14) had not gotten a concussion, or any of his other recent injuries. A year ago, he was the one who started the next wrestling renaissance. Now he'll be lucky if he isn't left behind. And Rollins is forced to do what he can, however brilliantly, until someone else takes his spot. Which is inevitable.
But who? This was the kind of PWI 500 a real fan loves to see. Everyone's scrambling. Everyone wants to be the next big star. Let's see who succeeds next year, because by then, I think we'll have a definitive answer.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
#842. Trank and Trank, What Is Trank?
In 1941, Orson Welles released his magnum opus, Citizen Kane. In later years it became famous for topping critics lists as the best film of all-time. At the time, it ruined his film career. He developed a reputation as an enfant terrible, so full of himself that he sabotaged his own career by making it very difficult for anyone to work with him. Oh, and audiences even today, generally speaking, don't really get him.
I'm not saying Josh Trank is Orson Welles, but history seems to be repeating itself all the same. After the surprise success of his 2012 movie Chronicle, Trank became Hollywood's latest wunderkind, which led to the latest big screen adaptation of Fantastic Four, which famously just bombed. Word is he was hard to work with, and this reputation cost him a shot at directing a Star Wars movie.
Now, my defending Trank at all, or the would-be merits of Fantastic Four, would seem to be true-to-form (my own sister told me today I can find a way to like anything), which is to say, if it's considered bad I'm probably the guy who will argue that it's good. I mean, I'm the guy who likes the most infamous superhero movie bomb, 1997's Batman and Robin.
So let me just say upfront that I have seen Fantastic Four and can say, it's not great, but it's hardly terrible. If anything, it's a revelation. It's something to build on. And in terms of the Marvel template it actually pushes the narrative forward, something that's seemed impossible ever since the release of 2000's X-Men, which immediately set the classic Marvel tone of underdog superheroes overcoming ludicrous odds through sheer scrappiness and ignoring what weirdo misfits they always are. In a lot of ways, Marvel took this template from Edison's long overshadowed rival, Tesla, and somehow found a way, repeatedly, to change the narrative, to unparalleled success. I mean, every single time, unorthodox science saves the day! From Peter Parker to Bruce Banner to Tony Stark, and even the mutants of evolution, these are people making the impossible an everyday feel-good story, even when they're monsters.
The Fantastic Four, by the way, started the Marvel phenomenon, and as the first big successes at creating modern monsters. Look no further than Invisible Woman herself, Sue Storm, aping one of the classics quite blatantly. Of course, her brother Johnny, the Human Torch, always did it more spectacularly (he was the breakout and indeed only crowd favorite from the two previous movies in this franchise), and his own template was a Marvel original. And the Thing, well, he's a sideshow freak that only the modern era could dream up, and with all the popularity to show for it.
Standing at the center, though, is Reed Richards, Mister Fantastic. Trank's movie puts him squarely in the center, a science geek who has an incredible breakthrough that proves irresistible (eventually). His predecessors (or successors) in Parker and Stark have nothing on him. But this gift comes as a curse. You could say that this is what Trank's movie is all about.
And in turn, you could say that the movie is incredibly meta. Because no one emerges unscathed from the attempt to dramatize Reed's struggle for recognition. At one point, Sue tells him that his goal was to become famous. Reed counters that what he wanted was to be taken seriously. By the end of the movie, he's taken his place among the rest of the team. And by all accounts, this was a movie whose production was very much the product of a, er, team effort, whether Trank liked it or not. (Although I'd love to see his version, some day. You can see the seams that were ripped apart to create this one.)
There seems, at any rate, a restlessness at the heart of what we have now. Trank has no better luck with child actors than the old adage that used to promote them as hard to work with as animals (or maybe that was babies, or directors like Welles), and that's a drag at the beginning of the movie, and the obligatory fight at the end feels rushed (I'd have waited, personally, to reach a climax with Doom later, in a sequel or two, but I'm a Star Wars baby).
No, where you see Trank's hand is in the character of Ben Grimm, the Thing, who's a childhood friend of Reed's, whose part pre-transformation is minimalist, but once rock-sized can barely wait to take up the screen. Only Johnny Storm, as usual, can compete visually (and they absolutely nail that visual). Grimm is like Trank's stand-in throughout the movie, the lurker, who is absolutely essential but can be misinterpreted if you're not paying attention.
Watching Reed go where no Marvel scientist has gone before, beyond the dreams of superheroes, is not only ripped straight from the comics but a step in the right direct for movies fifteen years in the spotlight that have rarely taken risks. There's a formula they tend to follow, and that formula has proven incredibly popular, in the original Spider-Man trilogy, the Avengers cycle, obviously, and to a lesser but sustained extent, the X-Men saga, the one that has tried the hardest to make a statement and keep moving along its original trajectory of social allegory. There have been misfires, too, and smaller triumphs (everyone tends to forget the original Marvel breakthrough, Blade), but suffice to say, Marvel has emerged as a formidable force at the movies, challenging if not supplanting DC's traditional dominance with the one-two punch of Superman and Batman.
DC's big guns have endured reinvention a number of times at this point. What Trank manages above all else is to help begin that process over at Marvel. I will always be a supporter of Marc Webb's nuanced take on Spider-Man, but what Trank does is something perhaps more remarkable. He goes a step further than refining an approach. He attempts a new one. Actually, he nails that much. As far as I'm concerned, as an origin alone, Trank's movie has set the new bar for the Fantastic Four. If Trank himself can't build on it, I hope at the very least it won't be forgotten. It's a touchstone. In an era of movies where scientists are unquestionably heroes, and space movies adore disaster, if Fantastic Four had been anything else, I think it would have found a more appreciable audience.
I mean, it was a tall order to begin with, for Trank. I don't even think Christopher Nolan nailed his first time out with superheroes. I was and am again a huge fan of his prior to 2005's Batman Begins. And I don't think anyone thought he nailed it with that one, except in changing the message from Batman and Robin. It wasn't until The Dark Knight that Nolan became a true household name, and a blockbuster machine in his own right.
Fantastic Four began to look like it was going to become another Interstellar, and in a way it did. Interstellar was Nolan's latest movie, a space disaster movie. For every Gravity there is a Prometheus. (We'll see how The Martian does.) This was the one that broke the bubble Nolan had created around himself. He pushed a little too far, for both critics and audiences.
Moviegoers wanted something a little more simple, a little more rousing, than what Trank delivered. Never mind anything you know about how the movie was created. Famously, Titanic was supposed to be as disastrous as, well, the Titanic's maiden voyage. Don't pay attention to a reputation. A reputation only means something until the message changes. I mean, Citizen Kane ruined Welles' career. Great art tends to do that. But today, a masterpiece.
Fantastic Four isn't great art. But it didn't have to be. Trank aspired to greatness. The evidence is there. And it's something that can be used as a foundation. History should be so kind.
I'm not saying Josh Trank is Orson Welles, but history seems to be repeating itself all the same. After the surprise success of his 2012 movie Chronicle, Trank became Hollywood's latest wunderkind, which led to the latest big screen adaptation of Fantastic Four, which famously just bombed. Word is he was hard to work with, and this reputation cost him a shot at directing a Star Wars movie.
Now, my defending Trank at all, or the would-be merits of Fantastic Four, would seem to be true-to-form (my own sister told me today I can find a way to like anything), which is to say, if it's considered bad I'm probably the guy who will argue that it's good. I mean, I'm the guy who likes the most infamous superhero movie bomb, 1997's Batman and Robin.
So let me just say upfront that I have seen Fantastic Four and can say, it's not great, but it's hardly terrible. If anything, it's a revelation. It's something to build on. And in terms of the Marvel template it actually pushes the narrative forward, something that's seemed impossible ever since the release of 2000's X-Men, which immediately set the classic Marvel tone of underdog superheroes overcoming ludicrous odds through sheer scrappiness and ignoring what weirdo misfits they always are. In a lot of ways, Marvel took this template from Edison's long overshadowed rival, Tesla, and somehow found a way, repeatedly, to change the narrative, to unparalleled success. I mean, every single time, unorthodox science saves the day! From Peter Parker to Bruce Banner to Tony Stark, and even the mutants of evolution, these are people making the impossible an everyday feel-good story, even when they're monsters.
The Fantastic Four, by the way, started the Marvel phenomenon, and as the first big successes at creating modern monsters. Look no further than Invisible Woman herself, Sue Storm, aping one of the classics quite blatantly. Of course, her brother Johnny, the Human Torch, always did it more spectacularly (he was the breakout and indeed only crowd favorite from the two previous movies in this franchise), and his own template was a Marvel original. And the Thing, well, he's a sideshow freak that only the modern era could dream up, and with all the popularity to show for it.
Standing at the center, though, is Reed Richards, Mister Fantastic. Trank's movie puts him squarely in the center, a science geek who has an incredible breakthrough that proves irresistible (eventually). His predecessors (or successors) in Parker and Stark have nothing on him. But this gift comes as a curse. You could say that this is what Trank's movie is all about.
And in turn, you could say that the movie is incredibly meta. Because no one emerges unscathed from the attempt to dramatize Reed's struggle for recognition. At one point, Sue tells him that his goal was to become famous. Reed counters that what he wanted was to be taken seriously. By the end of the movie, he's taken his place among the rest of the team. And by all accounts, this was a movie whose production was very much the product of a, er, team effort, whether Trank liked it or not. (Although I'd love to see his version, some day. You can see the seams that were ripped apart to create this one.)
There seems, at any rate, a restlessness at the heart of what we have now. Trank has no better luck with child actors than the old adage that used to promote them as hard to work with as animals (or maybe that was babies, or directors like Welles), and that's a drag at the beginning of the movie, and the obligatory fight at the end feels rushed (I'd have waited, personally, to reach a climax with Doom later, in a sequel or two, but I'm a Star Wars baby).
No, where you see Trank's hand is in the character of Ben Grimm, the Thing, who's a childhood friend of Reed's, whose part pre-transformation is minimalist, but once rock-sized can barely wait to take up the screen. Only Johnny Storm, as usual, can compete visually (and they absolutely nail that visual). Grimm is like Trank's stand-in throughout the movie, the lurker, who is absolutely essential but can be misinterpreted if you're not paying attention.
Watching Reed go where no Marvel scientist has gone before, beyond the dreams of superheroes, is not only ripped straight from the comics but a step in the right direct for movies fifteen years in the spotlight that have rarely taken risks. There's a formula they tend to follow, and that formula has proven incredibly popular, in the original Spider-Man trilogy, the Avengers cycle, obviously, and to a lesser but sustained extent, the X-Men saga, the one that has tried the hardest to make a statement and keep moving along its original trajectory of social allegory. There have been misfires, too, and smaller triumphs (everyone tends to forget the original Marvel breakthrough, Blade), but suffice to say, Marvel has emerged as a formidable force at the movies, challenging if not supplanting DC's traditional dominance with the one-two punch of Superman and Batman.
DC's big guns have endured reinvention a number of times at this point. What Trank manages above all else is to help begin that process over at Marvel. I will always be a supporter of Marc Webb's nuanced take on Spider-Man, but what Trank does is something perhaps more remarkable. He goes a step further than refining an approach. He attempts a new one. Actually, he nails that much. As far as I'm concerned, as an origin alone, Trank's movie has set the new bar for the Fantastic Four. If Trank himself can't build on it, I hope at the very least it won't be forgotten. It's a touchstone. In an era of movies where scientists are unquestionably heroes, and space movies adore disaster, if Fantastic Four had been anything else, I think it would have found a more appreciable audience.
I mean, it was a tall order to begin with, for Trank. I don't even think Christopher Nolan nailed his first time out with superheroes. I was and am again a huge fan of his prior to 2005's Batman Begins. And I don't think anyone thought he nailed it with that one, except in changing the message from Batman and Robin. It wasn't until The Dark Knight that Nolan became a true household name, and a blockbuster machine in his own right.
Fantastic Four began to look like it was going to become another Interstellar, and in a way it did. Interstellar was Nolan's latest movie, a space disaster movie. For every Gravity there is a Prometheus. (We'll see how The Martian does.) This was the one that broke the bubble Nolan had created around himself. He pushed a little too far, for both critics and audiences.
Moviegoers wanted something a little more simple, a little more rousing, than what Trank delivered. Never mind anything you know about how the movie was created. Famously, Titanic was supposed to be as disastrous as, well, the Titanic's maiden voyage. Don't pay attention to a reputation. A reputation only means something until the message changes. I mean, Citizen Kane ruined Welles' career. Great art tends to do that. But today, a masterpiece.
Fantastic Four isn't great art. But it didn't have to be. Trank aspired to greatness. The evidence is there. And it's something that can be used as a foundation. History should be so kind.
Monday, July 27, 2015
841. We need to talk about Bill Cosby
We need to talk about Bill Cosby.
No, not in the simplistic sense that we've been talking about him. And listen, I have every reason to take the allegations against him seriously, because I've been affected by this sort of thing personally. It is never acceptable to take advantage of someone else that way. But it's also never acceptable to gloss over the facts. And there are certain facts about Bill Cosby that are being lost in the narrative being constructed around him today.
Remember the last time people talked about Cosby? I bet you don't. The thing is, he had finally become a social crusader. After decades of Hollywood entertainment, being known for a succession of television series and as a stand-up comedian, Bill Cosby stood up in a different way, and attempted to address the problems facing the black community. Not as they stood in the 1960s, the last time there was serious discussion in that regard, in the realm of civil rights, which was necessary in a different way. This time, Cosby was addressing the problems in the black community itself. This is an article about that.
He even released a book about it. And this was years before the series of sensational police confrontations that drew national attention to race relations all over again. Curiously, I've seen very little about any of this in the blogging community, at least the tiny corner where I happen to reside. That's exactly how these things happen. We actually like boxing ourselves into tiny little corners, isolating ourselves from the greater world, pretending that these things don't affect us. But this is a national conversation, and it behooves us to participate. We fear alienating each other, but that's exactly the problem, because we live in a culture that thrives on alienation, because there's very little connection between these segments of the population, these millions of segments that exist within the millions of inhabitants within the United States. We have, in many ways, fragmented to a far greater extent than ever before in our history, which by the way is riddled with fragmentation. You may or may not recall that even at its founding, during the Revolutionary War, there were those who were fighting, and those who called themselves Loyalists, who supported the British cause. Which is to say nothing about the Native American population, never members of the official population, much less the slaves who belonged even to some of the Founders.
The transition from slavery to the population at large was a long and difficult one for black Americans, and for years we patted ourselves on the back because we had finally established what seemed like true social equality. I don't know about you, but I never stopped hearing grumbles about Equal Opportunity. Cosby existed, it seemed, completely outside of this whole conversation, much the way Willie Mays did in the Jackie Robinson era. Mays was criticized then. Cosby didn't seem relevant at all. He starred in one of the most successful sitcoms of all time, and represented as a result what the culture thought as one of the greatest triumphs of the further integration of the black population into everyday American life.
If only. And this is strange, too, because Cosby didn't start out his life on the national scene with The Cosby Show. His first brush with fame was the mid-60s adventure series I Spy, where he starred opposite Robert Culp, and nothing was made of this interracial dynamic. He next focused on Fat Albert, arguably his most famous creation. The Cosby Show lasted for nearly a decade and at that point, when he had reached middle age, that was the end, more or less, of his popular career. Ghost Dad was an abysmal failure at making him a movie star. He continued landing TV projects, but the culture had moved on, somewhat reluctantly, from him.
So he changed his focus. It's worth remembering how Cosby began life before we move on with this discussion. His father was absent during Cosby's formative years, living a military life during WWII. At this point, we ask ourselves, how much of an impact did that have on the young Cosby? Because when we look at the legacy of The Cosby Show and his later message about the crucial importance of personal accountability in the black community, the further question must be, Was Cosby affected for the worse or the better by this absence?
The answer, I would argue, is more complicated than the current narrative would suggest, even as it neglects to look at the man beyond the current controversy. His reputation and his accomplishments, indeed his entire voice is being threatened with total erasure. I think this is wrong. What he did was wrong, too, but needs further examining. Desperately.
What Cosby himself was saying in later years, in effect, was that children need fathers. Without fathers they lose direction. For most of his life, Cosby seemed like nothing at all had gone wrong with his life because of his absent father. But when you look at the importance of fatherhood in The Cosby Show, you may come to a different conclusion, too. This was perhaps the last great sitcom to celebrate the notion of fatherhood, which at that time was coming under fire by the evolving popular culture. Married...with Children and later, Family Guy, began sending a different message. The Cosby Show was the last time fatherhood was presented as a paragon of virtue in the household.
And yet what do we say about The Cosby Show now? That it was a Bill Cosby vehicle. And in fact it was, his last great platform to say something substantial to the culture around him. Because the next time he spoke, nobody listened. And, I would argue, he angered the black population he was seeking to help. Because the very thing he sought to champion, personal accountability, has completely left the conversation in the current climate. There has been no one arguing what he argued, just a few years ago, when Cosby's last days of popularity vanished in an instant. Once he stopped being funny, nobody cared what Cosby had to say anymore.
All along, while taking the allegations seriously, I questioned the timing of bringing them up again. Look around you and you'll find race relations charged as they haven't been in decades. There have been no leaders, however, to emerge to try and make sense of it. We live in a culture where everyone has a voice, but most of us feel like saying the same thing, and we don't much think about what we repeat. And that's a shame and that needs to change. When we have conversations at all, they're more argument than anything, ignoring and vilifying the other side. There's very little intelligence in any of it.
What I'm saying is, someone became interested in silencing Cosby. Whether in retaliation, because in a lot of ways he was one of the pillars of the black community and was easy to take down because of unrelated issues, or because he would have been voicing things in this climate that were not a part of the emerging message. Yes, Black Lives Matter, but as Cosby had argued, they're as subject to accountability as anyone else's.
The other side of Bill Cosby worth talking about, which has been and needs to be addressed, is what he was doing to women for decades. But also, what women were doing to themselves. Yes, he was wrong, but those women should never have put themselves in those predicaments to begin with. Their fathers failed them. This is not me arguing, blame the victim. But this was a man who had been famous for decades. That's the other point of reminding you about I Spy. Because while everyone remembers The Cosby Show these days, it seems everyone's forgotten that he was famous well before it. What does prolonged fame do to someone? It affects them, naturally. Cosby wasn't just famous for one thing, but for at least four career successes, three TV shows and his stand-up. He was married through all of it, by the way.
And yet, for whatever reason, woman after woman, because of that fame, kept presenting themselves to him. Not to submit themselves to some wicked appetite, but ultimately, it was a temptation Cosby couldn't turn away from. The thing is, these women were drawn to a famous figure. Regardless of their motivations, this becomes, at least in part, a cautionary tale about fame. Not just about what Bill Cosby did, but what led to it to begin with.
There have been various comments made that the Hollywood community knew, more or less, what was going on, and other comments that of course Hollywood knew, because that's what Hollywood does. But is it really a Hollywood thing, or a cultural phenomenon? This is what fame attracts. Any time a male music act attracts crazed admiration from young women, that's what's happening. It's completely irrational otherwise. When you remember the reaction Elvis Presley provoked, or the Beatles, or One Direction, you should hopefully understand Bill Cosby a little better.
The problem is, figuring out how to equate, in your mind, Bill Cosby with Harry Styles. There just seems to be too vast a disconnect. But there it is, all the same. Harry Styles didn't do what Bill Cosby did, but he's in exactly the same situation. And that's what Cosby was trying to talk about concerning the black population, too, this issue of accountability. The father figure of The Cosby Show doesn't seem capable of what Bill Cosby did anymore than you can envision Styles taking advantage of one of his fans, drugged or otherwise. The Bill Cosby who was a comedian doesn't seem to have had any problems you might have associated with an absentee father. He seemed far too well-adjusted, too successful. But the successful Bill Cosby didn't emerge right away. He was someone before he was a comedian, before he was famous, decades before The Cosby Show. Yet at the height of his fame, he chose to address fatherhood, its incredible responsibility, as the important subject he viewed it to be. Because he knew firsthand what happened when the father isn't there. It negatively impacts a life.
He saw the black population losing its accountability, spiraling out of control, losing all its cultural momentum, the more fathers disappeared from the black community. Cosby would have been the voice saying that it wasn't the police but the victims who should have been examined in all these shootings, questioning why they were in that position to begin with, not blaming them but asking why that scenario happened at all, not blaming white cops and ingrained racial problems, but looking further. Questioning.
He knew this because he saw the flaws in his own life. If you were to ask Bill Cosby today, instead of accusing and condemning him, he would be repeating that same message. He tried to do what he could when he could. This despite his own flaws. What I'm asking now is, Are we going to lose his message because of the man behind it? Or learn from it, and continue to learn from Cosby himself, because this seems like the last opportunity we'll ever have. Because we seem poised to stricken Bill Cosby from the record.
And that would be a mistake. That's why we need to talk about Bill Cosby.
No, not in the simplistic sense that we've been talking about him. And listen, I have every reason to take the allegations against him seriously, because I've been affected by this sort of thing personally. It is never acceptable to take advantage of someone else that way. But it's also never acceptable to gloss over the facts. And there are certain facts about Bill Cosby that are being lost in the narrative being constructed around him today.
Remember the last time people talked about Cosby? I bet you don't. The thing is, he had finally become a social crusader. After decades of Hollywood entertainment, being known for a succession of television series and as a stand-up comedian, Bill Cosby stood up in a different way, and attempted to address the problems facing the black community. Not as they stood in the 1960s, the last time there was serious discussion in that regard, in the realm of civil rights, which was necessary in a different way. This time, Cosby was addressing the problems in the black community itself. This is an article about that.
He even released a book about it. And this was years before the series of sensational police confrontations that drew national attention to race relations all over again. Curiously, I've seen very little about any of this in the blogging community, at least the tiny corner where I happen to reside. That's exactly how these things happen. We actually like boxing ourselves into tiny little corners, isolating ourselves from the greater world, pretending that these things don't affect us. But this is a national conversation, and it behooves us to participate. We fear alienating each other, but that's exactly the problem, because we live in a culture that thrives on alienation, because there's very little connection between these segments of the population, these millions of segments that exist within the millions of inhabitants within the United States. We have, in many ways, fragmented to a far greater extent than ever before in our history, which by the way is riddled with fragmentation. You may or may not recall that even at its founding, during the Revolutionary War, there were those who were fighting, and those who called themselves Loyalists, who supported the British cause. Which is to say nothing about the Native American population, never members of the official population, much less the slaves who belonged even to some of the Founders.
The transition from slavery to the population at large was a long and difficult one for black Americans, and for years we patted ourselves on the back because we had finally established what seemed like true social equality. I don't know about you, but I never stopped hearing grumbles about Equal Opportunity. Cosby existed, it seemed, completely outside of this whole conversation, much the way Willie Mays did in the Jackie Robinson era. Mays was criticized then. Cosby didn't seem relevant at all. He starred in one of the most successful sitcoms of all time, and represented as a result what the culture thought as one of the greatest triumphs of the further integration of the black population into everyday American life.
If only. And this is strange, too, because Cosby didn't start out his life on the national scene with The Cosby Show. His first brush with fame was the mid-60s adventure series I Spy, where he starred opposite Robert Culp, and nothing was made of this interracial dynamic. He next focused on Fat Albert, arguably his most famous creation. The Cosby Show lasted for nearly a decade and at that point, when he had reached middle age, that was the end, more or less, of his popular career. Ghost Dad was an abysmal failure at making him a movie star. He continued landing TV projects, but the culture had moved on, somewhat reluctantly, from him.
So he changed his focus. It's worth remembering how Cosby began life before we move on with this discussion. His father was absent during Cosby's formative years, living a military life during WWII. At this point, we ask ourselves, how much of an impact did that have on the young Cosby? Because when we look at the legacy of The Cosby Show and his later message about the crucial importance of personal accountability in the black community, the further question must be, Was Cosby affected for the worse or the better by this absence?
The answer, I would argue, is more complicated than the current narrative would suggest, even as it neglects to look at the man beyond the current controversy. His reputation and his accomplishments, indeed his entire voice is being threatened with total erasure. I think this is wrong. What he did was wrong, too, but needs further examining. Desperately.
What Cosby himself was saying in later years, in effect, was that children need fathers. Without fathers they lose direction. For most of his life, Cosby seemed like nothing at all had gone wrong with his life because of his absent father. But when you look at the importance of fatherhood in The Cosby Show, you may come to a different conclusion, too. This was perhaps the last great sitcom to celebrate the notion of fatherhood, which at that time was coming under fire by the evolving popular culture. Married...with Children and later, Family Guy, began sending a different message. The Cosby Show was the last time fatherhood was presented as a paragon of virtue in the household.
And yet what do we say about The Cosby Show now? That it was a Bill Cosby vehicle. And in fact it was, his last great platform to say something substantial to the culture around him. Because the next time he spoke, nobody listened. And, I would argue, he angered the black population he was seeking to help. Because the very thing he sought to champion, personal accountability, has completely left the conversation in the current climate. There has been no one arguing what he argued, just a few years ago, when Cosby's last days of popularity vanished in an instant. Once he stopped being funny, nobody cared what Cosby had to say anymore.
All along, while taking the allegations seriously, I questioned the timing of bringing them up again. Look around you and you'll find race relations charged as they haven't been in decades. There have been no leaders, however, to emerge to try and make sense of it. We live in a culture where everyone has a voice, but most of us feel like saying the same thing, and we don't much think about what we repeat. And that's a shame and that needs to change. When we have conversations at all, they're more argument than anything, ignoring and vilifying the other side. There's very little intelligence in any of it.
What I'm saying is, someone became interested in silencing Cosby. Whether in retaliation, because in a lot of ways he was one of the pillars of the black community and was easy to take down because of unrelated issues, or because he would have been voicing things in this climate that were not a part of the emerging message. Yes, Black Lives Matter, but as Cosby had argued, they're as subject to accountability as anyone else's.
The other side of Bill Cosby worth talking about, which has been and needs to be addressed, is what he was doing to women for decades. But also, what women were doing to themselves. Yes, he was wrong, but those women should never have put themselves in those predicaments to begin with. Their fathers failed them. This is not me arguing, blame the victim. But this was a man who had been famous for decades. That's the other point of reminding you about I Spy. Because while everyone remembers The Cosby Show these days, it seems everyone's forgotten that he was famous well before it. What does prolonged fame do to someone? It affects them, naturally. Cosby wasn't just famous for one thing, but for at least four career successes, three TV shows and his stand-up. He was married through all of it, by the way.
And yet, for whatever reason, woman after woman, because of that fame, kept presenting themselves to him. Not to submit themselves to some wicked appetite, but ultimately, it was a temptation Cosby couldn't turn away from. The thing is, these women were drawn to a famous figure. Regardless of their motivations, this becomes, at least in part, a cautionary tale about fame. Not just about what Bill Cosby did, but what led to it to begin with.
There have been various comments made that the Hollywood community knew, more or less, what was going on, and other comments that of course Hollywood knew, because that's what Hollywood does. But is it really a Hollywood thing, or a cultural phenomenon? This is what fame attracts. Any time a male music act attracts crazed admiration from young women, that's what's happening. It's completely irrational otherwise. When you remember the reaction Elvis Presley provoked, or the Beatles, or One Direction, you should hopefully understand Bill Cosby a little better.
The problem is, figuring out how to equate, in your mind, Bill Cosby with Harry Styles. There just seems to be too vast a disconnect. But there it is, all the same. Harry Styles didn't do what Bill Cosby did, but he's in exactly the same situation. And that's what Cosby was trying to talk about concerning the black population, too, this issue of accountability. The father figure of The Cosby Show doesn't seem capable of what Bill Cosby did anymore than you can envision Styles taking advantage of one of his fans, drugged or otherwise. The Bill Cosby who was a comedian doesn't seem to have had any problems you might have associated with an absentee father. He seemed far too well-adjusted, too successful. But the successful Bill Cosby didn't emerge right away. He was someone before he was a comedian, before he was famous, decades before The Cosby Show. Yet at the height of his fame, he chose to address fatherhood, its incredible responsibility, as the important subject he viewed it to be. Because he knew firsthand what happened when the father isn't there. It negatively impacts a life.
He saw the black population losing its accountability, spiraling out of control, losing all its cultural momentum, the more fathers disappeared from the black community. Cosby would have been the voice saying that it wasn't the police but the victims who should have been examined in all these shootings, questioning why they were in that position to begin with, not blaming them but asking why that scenario happened at all, not blaming white cops and ingrained racial problems, but looking further. Questioning.
He knew this because he saw the flaws in his own life. If you were to ask Bill Cosby today, instead of accusing and condemning him, he would be repeating that same message. He tried to do what he could when he could. This despite his own flaws. What I'm asking now is, Are we going to lose his message because of the man behind it? Or learn from it, and continue to learn from Cosby himself, because this seems like the last opportunity we'll ever have. Because we seem poised to stricken Bill Cosby from the record.
And that would be a mistake. That's why we need to talk about Bill Cosby.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
840. Star Wars, "a 1977 space movie"
I've been reading a survey of war throughout recorded history, and came across a reference to the 1980s missile defense program, which was famously nicknamed Star Wars in honor of the popular films. At that time, it was probably embraced with a laugh.
From today's vantage point, we can begin to consider a different context. As a longtime lover of literature, I've constantly had to confront the notion of historical impact. Many of the stories we read today come from days long past, and they've transcended their original contexts. The origin of The Iliad has particularly interested me. This is a presentation of the Trojan War, written centuries after the fact, credited to a man named Homer, who has undergone considerable skepticism over time. Did he even exist? Is it a matter of convenience that we ascribe The Iliad to him? The existence of Troy itself was in great doubt until Heinrich Schliemann discovered its ruins.
Fans today quibble about Star Wars in every way possible. They question George Lucas every time he revisits Han Solo shooting Greedo. A hundred years from now, if anyone is still talking about Star Wars at all, will they even care? This is the sort of thing I think about.
Will it become a footnote, the way the military survey handled it, or will history be kinder, the way we presumably view Star Wars now in relation to the outdated missile defense system? Does Lucas continue to be a visionary every time he tweaks his own work? Because in time, if Star Wars endures at all, it will be revisited. We're seeing new creators entering into the saga for the first time even now, something that was previously unthinkable (until you consider Lucas didn't direct the second and third movies).
Film is such an interesting topic. We've seen multiple formats emerge in preserving it for home consumption. Critics have routinely touted the early movies as enduring classics. I've been wondering about that. Some film-makers (Orson Welles) seemed to grasp the enduring nature of the medium, while others (the vast majority) were fine with the limits of their age, which become more and more obvious over time. As an art-form, film has been nascent, and there's no other way to describe it, the youngest of the arts by far, something that was initially slow in development, but has taken great strides in the blockbuster age, the very era that has routinely seen critics bemoan the end of serious cinema. Imagine if ambition were a crime in art. So long, Da Vinci!
The better and more consistent the technique, the better films are in general. If the medium becomes worthy of an enduring legacy, does it in fact become something that can credibly be envisioned as still being done in a hundred years? And if then, are they still holding all the old movies as untouchable, the way some people today like to think of them?
Which is to say, is Star Wars as we know it truly sacred? Or can multiple versions truly compete? Fans, many of which are the original fans, consider Star Wars untouchable today, even by George Lucas himself. In times to come, if it truly is untouchable, which is to say enduring, it will have to be more malleable. The original versions might endure, but there will have to be others, if not to replace the originals, then to justify them.
Or it really will become a footnote in history, "a 1977 space movie." Just another forgettable cultural ephemera. History marches on!
From today's vantage point, we can begin to consider a different context. As a longtime lover of literature, I've constantly had to confront the notion of historical impact. Many of the stories we read today come from days long past, and they've transcended their original contexts. The origin of The Iliad has particularly interested me. This is a presentation of the Trojan War, written centuries after the fact, credited to a man named Homer, who has undergone considerable skepticism over time. Did he even exist? Is it a matter of convenience that we ascribe The Iliad to him? The existence of Troy itself was in great doubt until Heinrich Schliemann discovered its ruins.
Fans today quibble about Star Wars in every way possible. They question George Lucas every time he revisits Han Solo shooting Greedo. A hundred years from now, if anyone is still talking about Star Wars at all, will they even care? This is the sort of thing I think about.
Will it become a footnote, the way the military survey handled it, or will history be kinder, the way we presumably view Star Wars now in relation to the outdated missile defense system? Does Lucas continue to be a visionary every time he tweaks his own work? Because in time, if Star Wars endures at all, it will be revisited. We're seeing new creators entering into the saga for the first time even now, something that was previously unthinkable (until you consider Lucas didn't direct the second and third movies).
Film is such an interesting topic. We've seen multiple formats emerge in preserving it for home consumption. Critics have routinely touted the early movies as enduring classics. I've been wondering about that. Some film-makers (Orson Welles) seemed to grasp the enduring nature of the medium, while others (the vast majority) were fine with the limits of their age, which become more and more obvious over time. As an art-form, film has been nascent, and there's no other way to describe it, the youngest of the arts by far, something that was initially slow in development, but has taken great strides in the blockbuster age, the very era that has routinely seen critics bemoan the end of serious cinema. Imagine if ambition were a crime in art. So long, Da Vinci!
The better and more consistent the technique, the better films are in general. If the medium becomes worthy of an enduring legacy, does it in fact become something that can credibly be envisioned as still being done in a hundred years? And if then, are they still holding all the old movies as untouchable, the way some people today like to think of them?
Which is to say, is Star Wars as we know it truly sacred? Or can multiple versions truly compete? Fans, many of which are the original fans, consider Star Wars untouchable today, even by George Lucas himself. In times to come, if it truly is untouchable, which is to say enduring, it will have to be more malleable. The original versions might endure, but there will have to be others, if not to replace the originals, then to justify them.
Or it really will become a footnote in history, "a 1977 space movie." Just another forgettable cultural ephemera. History marches on!
Monday, July 20, 2015
839. Superman: beyond good and evil?
Next year we'll get to further the conversation about Zack Snyder's Superman, once Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice is finally released. Snyder's Man of Steel has been endlessly debated as being too dark, too unrepresentative of Superman in, ah, his best light.
Which prompts the question: What is Superman in his best light? Those who consider Snyder's Superman as too dark insist that the character should be beyond ordinary human pettiness, that he's a paragon of virtue, much like the old mantra of "Truth, Justice, and the American Way" always suggested, or the nickname pegging him as the Big Blue Boy Scout. After years of one-dimensional but crowd-pleasing movies based on Marvel comic book superheroes, Snyder's Superman is uncomfortably associated with Christopher Nolan's Batman (two out of three with titles literally including the word "dark," apparently just so there was no confusion).
They use as justification that Superman's origins include the famous adoption by a kindly Kansas farmer, who instilled in him good old American values. All this is very curious, however, because Superman's appearance in Man of Steel is in response, in many ways, to another ongoing debate entirely, to whether or not the character is still relevant at all. America has been at the reluctant forefront of the globalization idea for decades at this point. To say "...and the American Way" has been a part of Superman's legacy that has undergone as much reconsideration as Star Trek's "...where no man has gone before" (revised in The Next Generation to read "where no one has gone before"). So whose values does Superman represent? If we remove one part of the equation, where does the rest end up?
Actually, Superman's comic book counterpart has been examining that for years, mostly in obvious but interesting ways. One of the most famous examples is Superman: Red Son, in which the rocket from Krypton lands in Soviet Russia instead of Kansas. Interestingly, even though he becomes a Communist dynamo, Superman is still a hero with exceptional morals. If not Jonathan Kent, then who?
The question here is really the classic nature versus nurture. Superman's nature is actually pretty straightforward to analyze, not because of his alien origins but his awareness of them, his emerging abilities and what they mean about how he'll be able to interact with the world around him. Superman is a story about an outsider. This is what the best writers understand. That he chooses to help rather than hurt is an example all its own, and because he's the most famous superhero, by default Superman has always represented superheroes as a whole. But at the character's heart is something more complicated than that.
Defensive mechanisms always spring from ideas that are at first rejected by society as a whole. Tim Burton's Batman rejected Adam West's, went completely the other way, just as Joel Schumacher's was crafted as a response to Burton's, and Nolan's as a response to Schumacher's. Bryan Singer's Superman was meant as a continuation of Richard Donner's, the rare instance of accepting rather than rejecting (which isn't odd at all, since Singer's X-Men movies were patently created as allegories for the gay community, and his later visits have been to reintegrate new interpretations with the old) something that has come before. And yet, Snyder's Superman was clearly a rejection of Singer's (even while it was a continuation of Nolan's work).
Marvel's characters are only just beginning to see reinvention come into play (even though the Hulk took three tries to reach popular approval). Spider-Man's second cinematic life was rejected mostly because his first is still roundly celebrated. The Fantastic Four have gotten a reboot because their first appearances were deemed unsatisfying. Daredevil has gotten a new incarnation. You can imagine how poorly it'll go when Iron Man is played by someone else for the first time. Can you say George Lazenby?
When Snyder focuses on the effect Superman has around him, lets us see how the world develops around him, we see the character from an entirely new perspective. Superman normally is depicted as nearly instantly formed, everything he needed coming from his Smallville upbringing. He's seen as Moses to some people(rocket for a basket), and Jesus (another obscured development of a savior) to others. Yet he's just a comic book character, and he only means as much as the stories he's in, the impact he's allowed to have. If he's presented as "just" a great heroic figure, then he becomes just another action hero. Movies have plenty of those. What they don't have is Superman, one whose presentation is as confident as his legacy in the culture is to date. Later generations, you may need reminding, won't know or care what we thought. If the material doesn't speak for itself, Superman will slip into oblivion.
He has a chance to become something greater. Snyder recognizes that. He has a chance to embody everything his character suggests. If reduced to mere functionality, he's nothing. That's the simple truth. What does he say about good? What does he say about evil? Superman becomes a hero, in Man of Steel, because he doesn't have a choice. He feels compelled. He can do a thing, and so he does. He rescues people. His father, Jonathan Kent, cautions him to be fearful of the reaction. Because people fear what they don't understand. He'll be hounded. Nolan had his Batman hounded, too, but that was because he really was just a man. He could be chased. So inevitably, he would be. The consequences are different, however. Batman was always subject to human laws. Superman isn't. He transcends all of them. In time, this is something everyone is bound to discover. He's more than a man. He's an idea.
People tend to try and make every fictional character from the past to be a real person. They want to find the historical Robin Hood, the historical King Arthur. Or they want to make real people into fictional characters. They say Homer didn't exist, that Shakespeare didn't. People can be funny. They want Superman to transcend the one thing he shouldn't, which is internal logic. If presented with a given set of circumstances, despite variations, the end result is a man who becomes Superman. He's more than a superhero. If you believe that your life can have an impact on the world, you will believe in Superman. But to have that chance, you have to overcome great odds. So does Superman.
To achieve that, you have to overcome great obstacles. In Greek myth, Hercules (to be completely accurate, Heracles) had to undergo a series of legendary labors. This part of his story is thrilling. Less so the part where he's murdered by his ex-wife. Yet without that murder, the story is incomplete. You can't tell Superman's story properly without delving into the dark. Because otherwise he doesn't have a chance to shine.
Which prompts the question: What is Superman in his best light? Those who consider Snyder's Superman as too dark insist that the character should be beyond ordinary human pettiness, that he's a paragon of virtue, much like the old mantra of "Truth, Justice, and the American Way" always suggested, or the nickname pegging him as the Big Blue Boy Scout. After years of one-dimensional but crowd-pleasing movies based on Marvel comic book superheroes, Snyder's Superman is uncomfortably associated with Christopher Nolan's Batman (two out of three with titles literally including the word "dark," apparently just so there was no confusion).
They use as justification that Superman's origins include the famous adoption by a kindly Kansas farmer, who instilled in him good old American values. All this is very curious, however, because Superman's appearance in Man of Steel is in response, in many ways, to another ongoing debate entirely, to whether or not the character is still relevant at all. America has been at the reluctant forefront of the globalization idea for decades at this point. To say "...and the American Way" has been a part of Superman's legacy that has undergone as much reconsideration as Star Trek's "...where no man has gone before" (revised in The Next Generation to read "where no one has gone before"). So whose values does Superman represent? If we remove one part of the equation, where does the rest end up?
Actually, Superman's comic book counterpart has been examining that for years, mostly in obvious but interesting ways. One of the most famous examples is Superman: Red Son, in which the rocket from Krypton lands in Soviet Russia instead of Kansas. Interestingly, even though he becomes a Communist dynamo, Superman is still a hero with exceptional morals. If not Jonathan Kent, then who?
The question here is really the classic nature versus nurture. Superman's nature is actually pretty straightforward to analyze, not because of his alien origins but his awareness of them, his emerging abilities and what they mean about how he'll be able to interact with the world around him. Superman is a story about an outsider. This is what the best writers understand. That he chooses to help rather than hurt is an example all its own, and because he's the most famous superhero, by default Superman has always represented superheroes as a whole. But at the character's heart is something more complicated than that.
Defensive mechanisms always spring from ideas that are at first rejected by society as a whole. Tim Burton's Batman rejected Adam West's, went completely the other way, just as Joel Schumacher's was crafted as a response to Burton's, and Nolan's as a response to Schumacher's. Bryan Singer's Superman was meant as a continuation of Richard Donner's, the rare instance of accepting rather than rejecting (which isn't odd at all, since Singer's X-Men movies were patently created as allegories for the gay community, and his later visits have been to reintegrate new interpretations with the old) something that has come before. And yet, Snyder's Superman was clearly a rejection of Singer's (even while it was a continuation of Nolan's work).
Marvel's characters are only just beginning to see reinvention come into play (even though the Hulk took three tries to reach popular approval). Spider-Man's second cinematic life was rejected mostly because his first is still roundly celebrated. The Fantastic Four have gotten a reboot because their first appearances were deemed unsatisfying. Daredevil has gotten a new incarnation. You can imagine how poorly it'll go when Iron Man is played by someone else for the first time. Can you say George Lazenby?
When Snyder focuses on the effect Superman has around him, lets us see how the world develops around him, we see the character from an entirely new perspective. Superman normally is depicted as nearly instantly formed, everything he needed coming from his Smallville upbringing. He's seen as Moses to some people(rocket for a basket), and Jesus (another obscured development of a savior) to others. Yet he's just a comic book character, and he only means as much as the stories he's in, the impact he's allowed to have. If he's presented as "just" a great heroic figure, then he becomes just another action hero. Movies have plenty of those. What they don't have is Superman, one whose presentation is as confident as his legacy in the culture is to date. Later generations, you may need reminding, won't know or care what we thought. If the material doesn't speak for itself, Superman will slip into oblivion.
He has a chance to become something greater. Snyder recognizes that. He has a chance to embody everything his character suggests. If reduced to mere functionality, he's nothing. That's the simple truth. What does he say about good? What does he say about evil? Superman becomes a hero, in Man of Steel, because he doesn't have a choice. He feels compelled. He can do a thing, and so he does. He rescues people. His father, Jonathan Kent, cautions him to be fearful of the reaction. Because people fear what they don't understand. He'll be hounded. Nolan had his Batman hounded, too, but that was because he really was just a man. He could be chased. So inevitably, he would be. The consequences are different, however. Batman was always subject to human laws. Superman isn't. He transcends all of them. In time, this is something everyone is bound to discover. He's more than a man. He's an idea.
People tend to try and make every fictional character from the past to be a real person. They want to find the historical Robin Hood, the historical King Arthur. Or they want to make real people into fictional characters. They say Homer didn't exist, that Shakespeare didn't. People can be funny. They want Superman to transcend the one thing he shouldn't, which is internal logic. If presented with a given set of circumstances, despite variations, the end result is a man who becomes Superman. He's more than a superhero. If you believe that your life can have an impact on the world, you will believe in Superman. But to have that chance, you have to overcome great odds. So does Superman.
To achieve that, you have to overcome great obstacles. In Greek myth, Hercules (to be completely accurate, Heracles) had to undergo a series of legendary labors. This part of his story is thrilling. Less so the part where he's murdered by his ex-wife. Yet without that murder, the story is incomplete. You can't tell Superman's story properly without delving into the dark. Because otherwise he doesn't have a chance to shine.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
838. Self/less review
The first thing you should know about Self/less is that it is a movie about our growing cynicism with science. The second is that it is hugely infused with second life imagery. The third is that it is less a remake of the 1966 movie Seconds and more like a response to it.
The fourth, and probably first, is that it is a film by Tarsem, and the fifth and probably second, is that it stars Ryan Reynolds. But because Tarsem doesn't have much of a popular reputation, and Reynolds frequently struggles to have a good one, and because critics are lazy, Self/less "is" a remake of Seconds. Obviously.
You may have noticed that people have gone crazy in their ideas about dieting. Because of the obesity epidemic, everyone wants to figure out ways to make themselves thin, eat "healthier," the latter I put in quotations because a lot of what is considered in that light has dubious merit at best but anyone is willing to believe because we've let the art of science run away from us. And this just in, too: climate change! This is something we've been talking about for decades, literally decades, but every time someone wants to sensationalize it again, they'll act as if we haven't. In personal experience, I know that we've obliterated the mill industry that polluted much of our waterways, and we've seen dramatic results from that (the Androscoggin River used to be known for having the kind of fish you'd normally have found in early seasons of The Simpsons), and that's just one example of actual results from the efforts of environmentalists over the years. But still we hear only mindless doom and gloom. The people who are all for the doom and gloom message are happy to hear the climate change mantra. The people who aren't are usually assumed to be the ones causing it.
I'm not hear to talk about climate change, however, but Self/less, but it's appropriate to sidetrack a little because this is a movie that clearly very few people have bothered to understand. Go back and read how I began this review for starters. It should provoke thought. It's designed to provoke thought.
The plot concerns a real estate tycoon (it's no wonder that critics have particularly, and without any real merit, savaged this character, because the only real estate tycoon anyone knows these days is making hash work of his current presidential campaign) who is dying of cancer and looking for some reassurance. He's approached by a man who tells him he can start all over again with a new body. Naturally in his desperate straits the real estate tycoon ends up accepting the offer.
In most reviews, the real estate tycoon is described as a thoroughly unpleasant man. I don't see that in Ben Kingsley's actual performance. I see a man struggling to cope with his illness with as much dignity as possible. I see the straight-backed posture others have noted as a symptom of that. I see the man's questioning as a setup to how and why he begins to question the program that gives him his second chance. He's unsettled by the whole thing the first time he gets a glimpse of what's really going on. I see a man who pushed so long and so hard all his life that he never gave his actions a second thought. But he's about to.
Some critics argue that Tarsem is a director who doesn't really know what he's doing. He came up through music videos, and there's a special feature in the original home video release of his first film, The Cell, entitled "Style Before Substance," which is what I assume has become his reputation ever since. Except Tarsem has generally mastered his stories to a superior degree. As far as I can tell, he knows exactly what he's doing. Which can be intimidating. I suggest that critics who think he doesn't are more used to open-ended stories. Because Tarsem's conclusions are usually pretty definitive. In The Cell, for instance, Jennifer Lopez plays a psychologist who helps find the intended final victim of a serial killer, and finally has a breakthrough with the boy she was treating previously. In The Fall, the suicidal stuntman learns how to live again. In Immortals, the hero dies but his son rises. In Mirror Mirror, Snow White lives (I contend this last one was Tarsem's desperate bid to be understood in the easiest context possible, which was complicated by the fact that Snow White and the Huntsman was released around the same time).
How does Self/less end? As with an M. Night Shyamalan movie, perhaps that is a necessary thing to talk about, because otherwise you end up talking about anything but the complete story, and there have been reports that because the real estate tycoon seems so selfish, that the whole movie is better off being called that instead. But it's called Self/less for a reason. It reminds me very much of how Source Code ended. I thought and continue to think that Source Code is brilliant, but Self/less comes to as different conclusions as it does in relation to Seconds.
Fearful of science, and replete with second life images, but they all appear to be incidental. As with all of his movies, you have to pay attention to what Tarsem is doing. Once the real estate tycoon has gotten his new body, he is temporarily relocated to New Orleans, a whole city of second life images. After Katrina, it's far easier to see it that way, because even in its foundations it's a city about reshaping the landscape. It's also a sequence that is in some ways an answer to Birdman, a movie suffused with jazz. But it's a sequence that reclaims jazz, and reminds you, subtly, how jazz began, and yes, how it was repackaged for later consumption. Jazz, you may or may not know, began as an expression of slave culture, the same as the blues. It's one of the most remarkable artistic achievements of American culture, but in order to be accepted by American culture, it had to be introduced by white people to the masses (this is not to say the greats didn't include Louis Armstrong or Sarah Vaughan or many other great black performers), so that it also gave birth to big band and swing music, rock and roll, dance, hip hop.
Which is to say, if you understand why there's jazz in the movie, you understand Self/less itself a little better.
There are many other such images in the movies, and it's all very deliberate without being too forceful. More like being artful, in a way that Tarsem hasn't been in the past, so for me, although I will likely continue to consider The Fall his masterpiece, Self/less represents a considerable artistic evolution for the director, a show of further creative confidence.
The story, meanwhile, does in many ways mirror Seconds, a movie that does in fact seem to have been the source for a lot of its material. But if you research and/or see Seconds for yourself, you will discover a movie that perhaps explains better than presents Self/less. The villain in Self/less, in particular, might find a better presentation of his methods in the earlier movie, because at first it seems like the action in Self/less is otherwise a random manifestation to energize the movie. And yet the villain has carefully chosen subjects for his program so that they will be able to present themselves as formidable physical challenges, including the one the real estate tycoon was provided. If the real estate tycoon had been anyone else (the villain repeatedly tells him that he asks the wrong questions, but this is a mistake on the villain's part; it's not the questions but the answers that matter), he would have ended up like the character played by Derek Luke.
And let's talk Derek Luke for a minute. And Ben Kingsley. And Ryan Reynolds. These are all actors with a proven record of taking roles that speak directly to what Self/less is trying to say. Luke became famous for starring in Antwone Fisher, which among other things was Denzel Washington's directorial debut. Luke's casting was one of the things that helped define the movie, because it was clear that Washington had found, well, another actor much like himself, and Luke's further career so far has helped prove that. (He's also played Sean Combs, who has constantly reinvented himself, in Notorious.) Although while watching Self/less, Luke reminded me of Mos Def, who has gamely attempted to reinvent himself as an actor over the last decade after starting off in hip hop.
Anyway, Kingsley's career speaks for itself. He's a known chameleon. As far as I'm concerned, this is one of his few recent roles where he's allowed to reclaim his dignity (which as to the role itself, is an irony). So let's talk about Reynolds. Critics remembered that he's also got The Change-Up in his credits, in which he swaps bodies with Jason Bateman. As far as I'm concerned, the relevant connection is, rather, Smokin' Aces, the first time I saw Reynolds as a force to be reckoned with. Normally dismissed as one of the many movies trying to recreate Tarantino, Smokin' Aces reveals in its conclusions a second life puzzle, and forces a dramatic decision much like the one Reynolds once again embodies in Self/less, to end a series of morally reprehensible decisions when a spy's life is considered more valuable than his son's, and Reynolds decides the whole thing is as crazy as the assassins who have swarmed the preceding events (watch those guys for a Chris Pine performance that's unlike any other you've seen to date).
For me, all of that boils down to a movie that is far more interesting, and better, than anything you have previously heard about Self/less. Since it's quickly exiting theaters, this will be a movie you will have to rediscover later. Which is actually appropriate. As for why all the vitriol for Tarsem from critics, I assume it's because industry insiders like him, and not the outsiders like critics. But they'll come around. That's only appropriate, too. Second chances, right?
The fourth, and probably first, is that it is a film by Tarsem, and the fifth and probably second, is that it stars Ryan Reynolds. But because Tarsem doesn't have much of a popular reputation, and Reynolds frequently struggles to have a good one, and because critics are lazy, Self/less "is" a remake of Seconds. Obviously.
You may have noticed that people have gone crazy in their ideas about dieting. Because of the obesity epidemic, everyone wants to figure out ways to make themselves thin, eat "healthier," the latter I put in quotations because a lot of what is considered in that light has dubious merit at best but anyone is willing to believe because we've let the art of science run away from us. And this just in, too: climate change! This is something we've been talking about for decades, literally decades, but every time someone wants to sensationalize it again, they'll act as if we haven't. In personal experience, I know that we've obliterated the mill industry that polluted much of our waterways, and we've seen dramatic results from that (the Androscoggin River used to be known for having the kind of fish you'd normally have found in early seasons of The Simpsons), and that's just one example of actual results from the efforts of environmentalists over the years. But still we hear only mindless doom and gloom. The people who are all for the doom and gloom message are happy to hear the climate change mantra. The people who aren't are usually assumed to be the ones causing it.
I'm not hear to talk about climate change, however, but Self/less, but it's appropriate to sidetrack a little because this is a movie that clearly very few people have bothered to understand. Go back and read how I began this review for starters. It should provoke thought. It's designed to provoke thought.
The plot concerns a real estate tycoon (it's no wonder that critics have particularly, and without any real merit, savaged this character, because the only real estate tycoon anyone knows these days is making hash work of his current presidential campaign) who is dying of cancer and looking for some reassurance. He's approached by a man who tells him he can start all over again with a new body. Naturally in his desperate straits the real estate tycoon ends up accepting the offer.
In most reviews, the real estate tycoon is described as a thoroughly unpleasant man. I don't see that in Ben Kingsley's actual performance. I see a man struggling to cope with his illness with as much dignity as possible. I see the straight-backed posture others have noted as a symptom of that. I see the man's questioning as a setup to how and why he begins to question the program that gives him his second chance. He's unsettled by the whole thing the first time he gets a glimpse of what's really going on. I see a man who pushed so long and so hard all his life that he never gave his actions a second thought. But he's about to.
Some critics argue that Tarsem is a director who doesn't really know what he's doing. He came up through music videos, and there's a special feature in the original home video release of his first film, The Cell, entitled "Style Before Substance," which is what I assume has become his reputation ever since. Except Tarsem has generally mastered his stories to a superior degree. As far as I can tell, he knows exactly what he's doing. Which can be intimidating. I suggest that critics who think he doesn't are more used to open-ended stories. Because Tarsem's conclusions are usually pretty definitive. In The Cell, for instance, Jennifer Lopez plays a psychologist who helps find the intended final victim of a serial killer, and finally has a breakthrough with the boy she was treating previously. In The Fall, the suicidal stuntman learns how to live again. In Immortals, the hero dies but his son rises. In Mirror Mirror, Snow White lives (I contend this last one was Tarsem's desperate bid to be understood in the easiest context possible, which was complicated by the fact that Snow White and the Huntsman was released around the same time).
How does Self/less end? As with an M. Night Shyamalan movie, perhaps that is a necessary thing to talk about, because otherwise you end up talking about anything but the complete story, and there have been reports that because the real estate tycoon seems so selfish, that the whole movie is better off being called that instead. But it's called Self/less for a reason. It reminds me very much of how Source Code ended. I thought and continue to think that Source Code is brilliant, but Self/less comes to as different conclusions as it does in relation to Seconds.
Fearful of science, and replete with second life images, but they all appear to be incidental. As with all of his movies, you have to pay attention to what Tarsem is doing. Once the real estate tycoon has gotten his new body, he is temporarily relocated to New Orleans, a whole city of second life images. After Katrina, it's far easier to see it that way, because even in its foundations it's a city about reshaping the landscape. It's also a sequence that is in some ways an answer to Birdman, a movie suffused with jazz. But it's a sequence that reclaims jazz, and reminds you, subtly, how jazz began, and yes, how it was repackaged for later consumption. Jazz, you may or may not know, began as an expression of slave culture, the same as the blues. It's one of the most remarkable artistic achievements of American culture, but in order to be accepted by American culture, it had to be introduced by white people to the masses (this is not to say the greats didn't include Louis Armstrong or Sarah Vaughan or many other great black performers), so that it also gave birth to big band and swing music, rock and roll, dance, hip hop.
Which is to say, if you understand why there's jazz in the movie, you understand Self/less itself a little better.
There are many other such images in the movies, and it's all very deliberate without being too forceful. More like being artful, in a way that Tarsem hasn't been in the past, so for me, although I will likely continue to consider The Fall his masterpiece, Self/less represents a considerable artistic evolution for the director, a show of further creative confidence.
The story, meanwhile, does in many ways mirror Seconds, a movie that does in fact seem to have been the source for a lot of its material. But if you research and/or see Seconds for yourself, you will discover a movie that perhaps explains better than presents Self/less. The villain in Self/less, in particular, might find a better presentation of his methods in the earlier movie, because at first it seems like the action in Self/less is otherwise a random manifestation to energize the movie. And yet the villain has carefully chosen subjects for his program so that they will be able to present themselves as formidable physical challenges, including the one the real estate tycoon was provided. If the real estate tycoon had been anyone else (the villain repeatedly tells him that he asks the wrong questions, but this is a mistake on the villain's part; it's not the questions but the answers that matter), he would have ended up like the character played by Derek Luke.
And let's talk Derek Luke for a minute. And Ben Kingsley. And Ryan Reynolds. These are all actors with a proven record of taking roles that speak directly to what Self/less is trying to say. Luke became famous for starring in Antwone Fisher, which among other things was Denzel Washington's directorial debut. Luke's casting was one of the things that helped define the movie, because it was clear that Washington had found, well, another actor much like himself, and Luke's further career so far has helped prove that. (He's also played Sean Combs, who has constantly reinvented himself, in Notorious.) Although while watching Self/less, Luke reminded me of Mos Def, who has gamely attempted to reinvent himself as an actor over the last decade after starting off in hip hop.
Anyway, Kingsley's career speaks for itself. He's a known chameleon. As far as I'm concerned, this is one of his few recent roles where he's allowed to reclaim his dignity (which as to the role itself, is an irony). So let's talk about Reynolds. Critics remembered that he's also got The Change-Up in his credits, in which he swaps bodies with Jason Bateman. As far as I'm concerned, the relevant connection is, rather, Smokin' Aces, the first time I saw Reynolds as a force to be reckoned with. Normally dismissed as one of the many movies trying to recreate Tarantino, Smokin' Aces reveals in its conclusions a second life puzzle, and forces a dramatic decision much like the one Reynolds once again embodies in Self/less, to end a series of morally reprehensible decisions when a spy's life is considered more valuable than his son's, and Reynolds decides the whole thing is as crazy as the assassins who have swarmed the preceding events (watch those guys for a Chris Pine performance that's unlike any other you've seen to date).
For me, all of that boils down to a movie that is far more interesting, and better, than anything you have previously heard about Self/less. Since it's quickly exiting theaters, this will be a movie you will have to rediscover later. Which is actually appropriate. As for why all the vitriol for Tarsem from critics, I assume it's because industry insiders like him, and not the outsiders like critics. But they'll come around. That's only appropriate, too. Second chances, right?
Monday, July 13, 2015
837. Tarsem and the challenges of genius...
A couple weeks back Alex Cavanaugh took a light-hearted dig at Tarsem based on his critical record at Rotten Tomatoes. Cavanaugh was talking about the then-upcoming release of Self/less, Tarsem's latest movie that in fact ended up having a poor opening release this past weekend. True to form, critics didn't like Self/less anymore than Tarsem's four previous films, calling it a shameless ripoff of John Frankheimer's 1966 movie Seconds at best.
See, I have a problem with this because I happen to think Tarsem is a genius. This isn't the first time I've talked about him (most recently in my Gladiator/300/Immortals discussion, which itself was my first reaction here to Cavanaugh's comments). But how can I consider Tarsem a genius when everyone seems to think he's anything but? Well, for starters, this is exactly the reception geniuses tend to receive. Melville's Moby-Dick famously was an epic flop that wasn't rediscovered for decades. Orson Welles saw his career fall apart after Citizen Kane.
And yeah, Moby-Dick and Citizen Kane even today are hardly universally acclaimed, insofar as anyone who doesn't particular consider themselves a connoisseur finds them difficult or pretentious. But the acknowledgement of genius is not a universal distinction. If it was, there wouldn't be such a hard time identifying it in the first place. There's a reason why students slog through Shakespeare, because you have to be able to understand something in order to appreciate it.
Yeah, I'm tossing Tarsem into the likes of Melville, Welles, and Shakespeare.
His first film was 2000's The Cell, the last movie Jennifer Lopez made before her emerging music career destroyed all her critical credibility (somehow). Today it would be an artful episode of Criminal Minds. This is a movie that's like The Silence of the Lambs combined with The Matrix, or perhaps most accurately Tarsem in his best comparison, channeling Christopher Nolan's Inception years in advance. Inception is another movie critics who want to dismiss it will say there were other movies with similar ideas. Anyone who says they don't like something because they saw a similar idea before, no matter how similar, cannot be taken seriously. If you cannot distinguish form from content, or content from form, you are not being critical. You're going the easiest possible route, to not being critical at all. Comparison, at its best, is about seeing contrast in its best light, or its worst, not for the mere fact of a similar idea. I mean, you could take literally anything you personally have ever loved, and thought insanely original, and come up with a hundred other similar ideas.
Anyway, it's funny, too, about originality, because if you want to go that route, you could even compare that distinctive psychopath from No Country for Old Men, Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh ("Call it, friendo.") and notice that Vincent D'Onfrio's Carl Stargher in The Cell not only has a similar hairstyle, but a whole background the starkness of the Coen approach (which is how No Country succeeds, by the way) can't even approach, much less in terms of depth.
What Tarsem achieves in The Cell, most of all, is the beginning of his distinctive voice. No, not the visual voice, which is what anyone who knows or bothers to know anything about him will talk about, but his storytelling. This is where the complete concept is considered, and tellingly, very few critics ever talk about the complete concept. They earn their paychecks by picking up on one aspect, and try to define the entire movie by it, the way Self/less is endlessly discussed in relation to Seconds, or other body-swapping stories.
I haven't seen Self/less yet, but conceptually one of the criticisms that bothers me most is how Ryan Reynolds doesn't evoke the speech or mannerisms of Ben Kingsley. And why would he? It's Kingsley's mind that has been transplanted. On a basic level, I can see what people are talking about, but when you think about it, the physical and vocal quirks Kingsley presents are the last things that embody the character he portrays. It's the mind, the thoughts, the thought process: these are the elements of Kingsley's character that are transferred. Everything else is supplied by Reynolds' host body. Which, by the way, quickly begins to assert its previous host. Having Reynolds act and speak like Kingsley would be a far worse gimmick, all the way around, than whatever you might think of the concept of the film itself.
Speech and mannerisms are a direct extension of experience, experience rooted in the body and the environment around you. A person who grew up in the fishing communities of Maine (where the "Maine accent" comes from) but whose parents were English, wouldn't speak with a British accent but a Maine one. A person who grew up with one kind of body wouldn't suddenly suddenly change their posture if they lost their memory. Posture is an unconscious act, just as an accent is.
So why again would Reynolds magically start behaving exactly like Kingsley?
Tarsem's storytelling voice is all about awareness. His most telling movie is also his most brilliant, 2008's The Fall, about a stuntman who tries to commit suicide, and ends up recovering in the same convalescent home as a precocious little girl, who won't leave him alone. So he begins telling her stories. Immediately the viewer is aware that the stories as depicted in the film are what the girl imagines, not as the stuntman does. If you persist in confusion over this, please note the changing look of the stuntman's hero, who are various points looks like the girl's father (I like to compare The Fall to The Wizard of Oz, another movie that borrows familiar characters for additional roles) or the stuntman himself.
The stuntman's whole reason for telling his stories is to ingratiate himself with the girl, so he can trick her into giving him pills so he can try and complete his suicide. This is pretty horrible, but that's not the end of the story. It's the girl who forcefully insists on a happy ending, changing the stuntman's story when he reaches a bitter one so that it does. It's bittersweet and heartbreaking and uplifting in the best possible way, a movie of such insight into the human condition, so casual and breathtaking that I've never understood why even the critics had a hard time embracing it.
But it's because it's a challenge. Critics don't like challenging movies. I made peace with that long ago. They say they do, but they really don't. Critics are easy to manipulate, even though they say the movies they hate the most are the ones that try to manipulate. What they love most is the ability to join a bandwagon before the public does. In most instances, except when they want to join a public bandwagon (always the most harmless and least critical ones, such as calling the most innocuous superhero movies superb, as they did with The Avengers), they try their best to like movies they know the public won't (see: the Oscars most years).
And you would think Tarsem would be someone they'd love. But he started out with The Cell. If he'd started out, as Christopher Nolan did, with Memento (though Nolan's first film was actually the little-seen Following), something that was relatively modest in its ambitions, he might have had a shot. Instead, he turned out to be another Terry Gilliam. Critics sometimes pretend to like Gilliam, but more often than not dismiss him for the same reasons they dismiss Tarsem. It's one thing to be Tim Burton and to throw the idea of the artist all over the screen, but Tarsem and Gilliam, as incredible as it is to believe, are more subtle than that. Gilliam's Brazil, the one that made and broke his career, is in the end a fever dream of existential angst. This is the kind of thing Charlie Chaplin used to do, and even Chaplin struggles to be accepted as the genius he was. A devoted following, no matter how loud, must still be acknowledged for its limited scope. Chaplin never won an Oscar (he received honorary ones in 1929, at the first one, and 1972), the same with Welles (likewise an honorary Oscar, in 1971). Tell me how that's even possible.
In The Cell, Tarsem's awareness is about as plain as it can get. That's what hunting psychopaths is all about, and certainly the dream sequences. In 2011's Immortals, Tarsem deals with a depiction of Greek mythology that goes beyond the variety seen in either version of Clash of the Titans, where mankind's relationship with gods, and vice versa, is the source of the struggle, not incidental to it or some kind of game. There's a crazy king running around who seeks to "end the reign of the gods" by unleashing their predecessors, the Titans, so they can be wiped out once and for all. Zeus decides this is a bad thing, but tells his fellow gods to stay out of the conflict, even while he actively encourages the human champion, who never learns who the old man was who guided him.
It's very much a movie that you have to pay attention to in order to fully comprehend. I suspect a lot of people are more distracted than they'll admit. A movie that demands your attention, especially one that looks like it'll be a mere visceral experience like Immortals, is instantly frustrating, because it plays against expectations. Yes, Immortals is dominated by its images, and knowingly so, but to judge it only on those images is to miss the whole. And this is a movie with something to say.
Tarsem's next movie, 2012's Mirror Mirror, is far more direct in its social commentary, and perhaps even more confusing, as it casts perennial audience favorite Julia Roberts in the role of the villain, the evil step-mother of Snow White, who usurps a kingdom and gleefully embodies evil without overacting. This is a playful movie, but its form of the Tarsem awareness archetype is in pushing Snow White into a position of strength from her original position of weakness, all but completely hidden away until she begins to assert herself. And that's pretty much the summary of Tarsem's instinct, too. In all of his movies, a true self is struggling to emerge.
I realize that it's not Cavanaugh's job to defend artistry. But it was shocking to see him so dismissive, regardless of how much snark he tends to use in his movie remarks, of a talent I consider in such high esteem. Because that really is the general estimation of Tarsem. And I'm a little tired of it. What I'd like is to be pleasantly surprised, to hear about someone liking Tarsem, being as wowed by him as I have been, consistently, and in a variety of ways (which itself is a considerable part of why I'm still so wowed by him).
I look forward to seeing Self/less. I probably won't get to see it in theaters, but when I do catch it, I'll let you know what I think. When I judge a movie, I'm judging the whole thing. For me, a good movie is not defined by a good ending, but a good ending can help make a good film. A good movie has everything: a good story, good directing, good acting. Tarsem brings all this together with considerable regularity, and makes it work in concert, the way all good directors do. I like him, in the end, for the same reasons I like Nolan, I like Tarantino, I like Shyamalan. He's someone who looks at film-making as a full-on artistic possibility, a challenge to embrace with each new project.
See, I have a problem with this because I happen to think Tarsem is a genius. This isn't the first time I've talked about him (most recently in my Gladiator/300/Immortals discussion, which itself was my first reaction here to Cavanaugh's comments). But how can I consider Tarsem a genius when everyone seems to think he's anything but? Well, for starters, this is exactly the reception geniuses tend to receive. Melville's Moby-Dick famously was an epic flop that wasn't rediscovered for decades. Orson Welles saw his career fall apart after Citizen Kane.
And yeah, Moby-Dick and Citizen Kane even today are hardly universally acclaimed, insofar as anyone who doesn't particular consider themselves a connoisseur finds them difficult or pretentious. But the acknowledgement of genius is not a universal distinction. If it was, there wouldn't be such a hard time identifying it in the first place. There's a reason why students slog through Shakespeare, because you have to be able to understand something in order to appreciate it.
Yeah, I'm tossing Tarsem into the likes of Melville, Welles, and Shakespeare.
His first film was 2000's The Cell, the last movie Jennifer Lopez made before her emerging music career destroyed all her critical credibility (somehow). Today it would be an artful episode of Criminal Minds. This is a movie that's like The Silence of the Lambs combined with The Matrix, or perhaps most accurately Tarsem in his best comparison, channeling Christopher Nolan's Inception years in advance. Inception is another movie critics who want to dismiss it will say there were other movies with similar ideas. Anyone who says they don't like something because they saw a similar idea before, no matter how similar, cannot be taken seriously. If you cannot distinguish form from content, or content from form, you are not being critical. You're going the easiest possible route, to not being critical at all. Comparison, at its best, is about seeing contrast in its best light, or its worst, not for the mere fact of a similar idea. I mean, you could take literally anything you personally have ever loved, and thought insanely original, and come up with a hundred other similar ideas.
Anyway, it's funny, too, about originality, because if you want to go that route, you could even compare that distinctive psychopath from No Country for Old Men, Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh ("Call it, friendo.") and notice that Vincent D'Onfrio's Carl Stargher in The Cell not only has a similar hairstyle, but a whole background the starkness of the Coen approach (which is how No Country succeeds, by the way) can't even approach, much less in terms of depth.
What Tarsem achieves in The Cell, most of all, is the beginning of his distinctive voice. No, not the visual voice, which is what anyone who knows or bothers to know anything about him will talk about, but his storytelling. This is where the complete concept is considered, and tellingly, very few critics ever talk about the complete concept. They earn their paychecks by picking up on one aspect, and try to define the entire movie by it, the way Self/less is endlessly discussed in relation to Seconds, or other body-swapping stories.
I haven't seen Self/less yet, but conceptually one of the criticisms that bothers me most is how Ryan Reynolds doesn't evoke the speech or mannerisms of Ben Kingsley. And why would he? It's Kingsley's mind that has been transplanted. On a basic level, I can see what people are talking about, but when you think about it, the physical and vocal quirks Kingsley presents are the last things that embody the character he portrays. It's the mind, the thoughts, the thought process: these are the elements of Kingsley's character that are transferred. Everything else is supplied by Reynolds' host body. Which, by the way, quickly begins to assert its previous host. Having Reynolds act and speak like Kingsley would be a far worse gimmick, all the way around, than whatever you might think of the concept of the film itself.
Speech and mannerisms are a direct extension of experience, experience rooted in the body and the environment around you. A person who grew up in the fishing communities of Maine (where the "Maine accent" comes from) but whose parents were English, wouldn't speak with a British accent but a Maine one. A person who grew up with one kind of body wouldn't suddenly suddenly change their posture if they lost their memory. Posture is an unconscious act, just as an accent is.
So why again would Reynolds magically start behaving exactly like Kingsley?
Tarsem's storytelling voice is all about awareness. His most telling movie is also his most brilliant, 2008's The Fall, about a stuntman who tries to commit suicide, and ends up recovering in the same convalescent home as a precocious little girl, who won't leave him alone. So he begins telling her stories. Immediately the viewer is aware that the stories as depicted in the film are what the girl imagines, not as the stuntman does. If you persist in confusion over this, please note the changing look of the stuntman's hero, who are various points looks like the girl's father (I like to compare The Fall to The Wizard of Oz, another movie that borrows familiar characters for additional roles) or the stuntman himself.
The stuntman's whole reason for telling his stories is to ingratiate himself with the girl, so he can trick her into giving him pills so he can try and complete his suicide. This is pretty horrible, but that's not the end of the story. It's the girl who forcefully insists on a happy ending, changing the stuntman's story when he reaches a bitter one so that it does. It's bittersweet and heartbreaking and uplifting in the best possible way, a movie of such insight into the human condition, so casual and breathtaking that I've never understood why even the critics had a hard time embracing it.
But it's because it's a challenge. Critics don't like challenging movies. I made peace with that long ago. They say they do, but they really don't. Critics are easy to manipulate, even though they say the movies they hate the most are the ones that try to manipulate. What they love most is the ability to join a bandwagon before the public does. In most instances, except when they want to join a public bandwagon (always the most harmless and least critical ones, such as calling the most innocuous superhero movies superb, as they did with The Avengers), they try their best to like movies they know the public won't (see: the Oscars most years).
And you would think Tarsem would be someone they'd love. But he started out with The Cell. If he'd started out, as Christopher Nolan did, with Memento (though Nolan's first film was actually the little-seen Following), something that was relatively modest in its ambitions, he might have had a shot. Instead, he turned out to be another Terry Gilliam. Critics sometimes pretend to like Gilliam, but more often than not dismiss him for the same reasons they dismiss Tarsem. It's one thing to be Tim Burton and to throw the idea of the artist all over the screen, but Tarsem and Gilliam, as incredible as it is to believe, are more subtle than that. Gilliam's Brazil, the one that made and broke his career, is in the end a fever dream of existential angst. This is the kind of thing Charlie Chaplin used to do, and even Chaplin struggles to be accepted as the genius he was. A devoted following, no matter how loud, must still be acknowledged for its limited scope. Chaplin never won an Oscar (he received honorary ones in 1929, at the first one, and 1972), the same with Welles (likewise an honorary Oscar, in 1971). Tell me how that's even possible.
In The Cell, Tarsem's awareness is about as plain as it can get. That's what hunting psychopaths is all about, and certainly the dream sequences. In 2011's Immortals, Tarsem deals with a depiction of Greek mythology that goes beyond the variety seen in either version of Clash of the Titans, where mankind's relationship with gods, and vice versa, is the source of the struggle, not incidental to it or some kind of game. There's a crazy king running around who seeks to "end the reign of the gods" by unleashing their predecessors, the Titans, so they can be wiped out once and for all. Zeus decides this is a bad thing, but tells his fellow gods to stay out of the conflict, even while he actively encourages the human champion, who never learns who the old man was who guided him.
It's very much a movie that you have to pay attention to in order to fully comprehend. I suspect a lot of people are more distracted than they'll admit. A movie that demands your attention, especially one that looks like it'll be a mere visceral experience like Immortals, is instantly frustrating, because it plays against expectations. Yes, Immortals is dominated by its images, and knowingly so, but to judge it only on those images is to miss the whole. And this is a movie with something to say.
Tarsem's next movie, 2012's Mirror Mirror, is far more direct in its social commentary, and perhaps even more confusing, as it casts perennial audience favorite Julia Roberts in the role of the villain, the evil step-mother of Snow White, who usurps a kingdom and gleefully embodies evil without overacting. This is a playful movie, but its form of the Tarsem awareness archetype is in pushing Snow White into a position of strength from her original position of weakness, all but completely hidden away until she begins to assert herself. And that's pretty much the summary of Tarsem's instinct, too. In all of his movies, a true self is struggling to emerge.
I realize that it's not Cavanaugh's job to defend artistry. But it was shocking to see him so dismissive, regardless of how much snark he tends to use in his movie remarks, of a talent I consider in such high esteem. Because that really is the general estimation of Tarsem. And I'm a little tired of it. What I'd like is to be pleasantly surprised, to hear about someone liking Tarsem, being as wowed by him as I have been, consistently, and in a variety of ways (which itself is a considerable part of why I'm still so wowed by him).
I look forward to seeing Self/less. I probably won't get to see it in theaters, but when I do catch it, I'll let you know what I think. When I judge a movie, I'm judging the whole thing. For me, a good movie is not defined by a good ending, but a good ending can help make a good film. A good movie has everything: a good story, good directing, good acting. Tarsem brings all this together with considerable regularity, and makes it work in concert, the way all good directors do. I like him, in the end, for the same reasons I like Nolan, I like Tarantino, I like Shyamalan. He's someone who looks at film-making as a full-on artistic possibility, a challenge to embrace with each new project.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
836. Moxie Day 2015
Every year Lisbon Falls, Maine, becomes something other than a bedroom community when it hosts its annual Moxie Day festival. For thirty-three years, one of the original soft drinks, still tasting more or less how it did originally (when they were marketed as medicine, if you can believe it), is thrust into the spotlight along with the town that's also home to the Kennebec Fruit Co. (the Moxie Store) and Frank Anicetti, third generation owner and a hundred years later.
This year's celebration (if you listen to Anicetti, the town seems to be trying its best to sabotage Moxie Day) seemed like a step back from years past. The parade (a half dozen years since Klingons have appeared!) was fine (my nephew, like every does, loved the crazy Kora Shriner carts), though Main Street looked like it was kind of going through the motions, except for my favorite part of the festival, which is the library book sale. Last year's was a true shadow of its former glory, but they seemed to make an effort to return to the glory days, meaning I came back with a good haul:
This year's celebration (if you listen to Anicetti, the town seems to be trying its best to sabotage Moxie Day) seemed like a step back from years past. The parade (a half dozen years since Klingons have appeared!) was fine (my nephew, like every does, loved the crazy Kora Shriner carts), though Main Street looked like it was kind of going through the motions, except for my favorite part of the festival, which is the library book sale. Last year's was a true shadow of its former glory, but they seemed to make an effort to return to the glory days, meaning I came back with a good haul:
- Dave Barry, Is Not Taking This Sitting Down
- Bernard Cornwell, The Bloody Ground
- Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum
- Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex
- Robert Graves, The Golden Ass
- Mark Helprin, Freddy and Fredericka
- Brad Herzog, States of Mind
- Carl Hiaasen, Basket Case
- Elizabeth Kostova, The Historian
- Naguib Mahfouz, Palace Walk (The Cairo Trilogy I)
- Dorothy Parker, Complete Stories
- Spider Robinson, Time Travelers Strictly Cash
- Salman Rushdie, The Moor's Last Sigh
Which for me represents a considerably nice bounty. I've been a big fan of Dave Barry for years. I think I've read this particular book, but somehow didn't have it in my collection. I just mentioned to comment-maker Pat Dilloway the other day how I wanted to read Cornwell. I've read Umberto Eco before, but not one of his best-known books like this one. Middlesex is one of those books I knew of thanks to working at Borders. The Golden Ass, to be clear, concerns Greek mythology. It is not porn. Helprin also wrote Winters Tale, which was later adapted into a movie I love. Herzog famously published his book after appearing in the early days of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? (according to Savage Garden, Regis Philbin). Hiassen was Florida's original signature literary genius, before Dave Barry moved there. I used to have The Historian before it failed to survive the 2013 purge (details explained elsewhere on that), so to have it again and have a chance to actually read it is nice. I earmarked The Cairo Trilogy as something I wanted to read a little while back. Parker is one of those writers I knew about but hadn't had any real exposure to her actual work. Spider Robinson has one of the best names ever. Armchair Squid just read Moor's Last Sigh, and I've been a fan of Rushdie since reading The Satanic Verses, so reading more is always a welcome opportunity.
I also visited an indoor flea market in town for the express reason of finding out whatever happened to a comics and games shop that had just opened last Moxie Day on Main Street, but was gone by the time I had a chance to visit again just a few weeks back. Of course they transplanted. But the best comics in the flea market weren't being sold by these guys, ironically. Still, those guys were there yesterday (Moxie Day) and completely did not understand when I tried to explain my surprise about how their fortunes have changed in the past year. I mean, there are some quick turnarounds in small business (I applied to work at a new used bookstore in Colorado Springs and didn't get the job, but the store was out of business within a few months anyway), and strategically they did a very smart thing. I have no idea why it looked like they still weren't properly settled at their new location. Or why the flea market was surprised that very few people were visiting them (it's not a terribly visible location, and there wasn't any other Moxie-related activity going on in that part of town, and they didn't have any presence on Main Street, and they didn't have any big signs advertising themselves in front of their own building...the list goes on).
Last year I got my first-ever orange Moxie t-shirt, and coincidentally it was up in the rotation (I have a t-shirt rotation), not that I wasn't going to wear it anyway, so I felt like a faithful member of the celebration this year, walking around all morning with it on.
Hopefully the town pulls itself together and starts helping the event fire on all cylinders again. I guess there's been a lot of thought about ancillary activities like concerts and various new locations around town to host events throughout the three-day festival, but to lose sight of the main event, and its central setting, is kind of missing the mark.
And bring back the Klingons!
Tuesday, July 07, 2015
835. Coming back to Warrior
In a lot of ways, life revolves around specific moments in time, ones we can't really let go of. For me one of those is the fall of 2011. At that point the Borders bookstore chain was going out of business, and after five years with the company I went out with it. The horrid state of the economy and my own finances were only starting their work in making things difficult for me, and in truth there had always been considerable frustrations in that job, but I was still sad, in too many ways, to see that era come to an end.
So it doesn't usually take much to bring me back to that point in my life, but sometimes life can be a little more literal than that. At my current job (a blessed miracle that helped dig me out of the pit I had landed in, although replete with its own frustrations), people tend to leave magazines hanging around, and some of them tend to be old, like waiting room old. One of which was a copy of The Week ("the best of the U.S. and international media"), from the week after I left Borders forever. Included in the issue is a review of Warrior, the last movie I saw in theaters that year, which I instantly understood, in what was already an exceptional years for movies, as the best movie I would see in 2011.
The composite review references The New York Observer, Newsday, and Salon.com, and gives Warrior three out of four stars. This is not horribly unusual, for a movie I dub the best of a given year to not receive similar critical consensus. What got me was when the article criticized Warrior in comparison to Moby-Dick, saying it tries very hard to be the movie version "of mixed martial arts movies." I kind of figured, if people weren't going to get this movie, they would dismiss it as "a mixed martial arts movie." But it really isn't. It just happens to feature the stuff.
And to add insult to the Moby-Dick comparison, the article is tepid to identify Warrior's Captain Ahab. Which the article suggests is one character, and really, why even guess at all? because its choice is both the obvious one and the right one. So to read what the critics The Week surveyed thought was instantly frustrating, and yes, totally explains why so few people seemed to respond as favorably to Warrior as I did (and as I still regard it now).
This is not even to say that in the comparison alone, I wondered if they even knew what Moby-Dick itself was about, not so much an epic tale of obsession and revenge, but very much an intimate story about failure and reconciling with the past at the expense of a present scenario that proves how doomed we sometimes allow ourselves to become.
(Pay no attention to the allusions to the life I'd allowed myself to fall into concerning Borders that fall...)
Every soul aboard Ahab's ship is a lost soul. That's kind of the point. And everyone in Warrior is a lost soul, too. If people tend to fixate on Ahab, who sought to avenge himself on the white whale (the whole story could read completely differently if it in fact centered on Ahab instead of the narrator Ishmael; there was a book released about a decade back called Ahab's Wife, which I suppose I really ought to read at some point).
The fact is, the outcomes of Moby-Dick and Warrior are inevitable precisely for the characters having tried so hard to avoid them. And that's the whole point. But otherwise, they're not the same story. Nick Nolte plays the father of Tom Hardy and Joel Edgerton, who pushed his boys a little too hard, until he pushed them away, and the whole family splintered as a result. That's not the story of Moby-Dick at all, which is basically an allegory for how difficult a life at sea really was in the 19th century, something Herman Melville knew all too well, and had previously exploited to great success, as long as he was writing Robinson Crusoe tales. When he at last wrote the truth, the whole epic version of it, he became blacklisted in the literary community. It's more accurate to say Nolte plays a version of Melville than Ahab, someone who pushes too hard and ends up ruined for it.
I could write all day about Warrior, and writing about Moby-Dick at all makes me want to read it all over again. And it needs reminding, again, that Moby-Dick was hugely unpopular for decades until it was recognized as one of the first and greatest American classics. And readers even today still don't quite understand it. Sometimes the best experiences are those that aren't so easy to comprehend, or can't be enjoyed by just anyone. Will Warrior one day be hailed as a classic? I don't know. For me, it is, unquestionably so.
And in the meantime, life goes on. Even when it seems everything has ground to a halt, it really does.
Wednesday, July 01, 2015
834. Gladiator/300/Immortals
I've talked about Gladiator here in the past. I've talked about Immortals, too. I love both of them. I don't think I've talked about 300, but rest assured I love it, too.
What fascinates me is that all three exist, and because of that, people are free to compare them. Inevitably, there are in fact unfavorable comparisons, which seem to enter the picture only when talking about Immortals, the newest of the three and the one to impact pop culture least spectacularly, even though it was a hit at the box office.
I decided to talk about them in relation to three common utterances:
What fascinates me is that all three exist, and because of that, people are free to compare them. Inevitably, there are in fact unfavorable comparisons, which seem to enter the picture only when talking about Immortals, the newest of the three and the one to impact pop culture least spectacularly, even though it was a hit at the box office.
I decided to talk about them in relation to three common utterances:
- Gladiator - "On my command, unleash hell."
- 300 - "Spartans, ready your breakfast and eat hearty, for tonight we dine in hell!"
- Immortals - "Witness hell."
Each time, the speaker is also the embodiment of the movie itself, and each time, it is completely different, and so this is a good way to compare and contrast the experiences.
In Gladiator, the speaker is Maximus, the main character portrayed by Russell Crowe in arguably what remains his most famous and significant role. He says his version in the least threatening way possible, which is odd because he's leading his Roman legion into battle, but also completely indicative of the modest man he is, how he represents the whole point of the movie, the man who defies the mad emperor because he's not obsessed with power, despite every opportunity to seize it.
In 300, the speaker is Leonidas, the main character portrayed by Gerard Butler in the role that made his career and often considered the version of Crowe's Maximus you might expect simply on a visual level. It is the most ridiculously masculine part ever committed to film, every bit the match for the stylized visuals that propelled 300 to great popular acclaim. To call Leonidas brash would be an understatement.
In Immortals, the speaker is Hyperion, the character portrayed by Mickey Rourke. What's interesting, and perhaps key to understanding the whole movie, whether in relation to Gladiator or 300, is that his is very much the part embodied by Leonidas and Maximus, but played to its logical conclusion. This is the brute who is the villain, at last, the lunatic who immediately cuts the throat of the hero's mother after uttering his variation on the hell dialogue.
It's a logical progression all the way. Gladiator was released in 2000, won the Oscar for Best Picture, and because it basically contradicted every expectation, is still a puzzle for critics. 300 was released in 2007 and was a surprise hit at the box office, but unlike Sin City or Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, other highly stylized movies, has managed to not only gain but retain a favorable reputation, in part because it was the movie Gladiator was expected to be: the modern historical epic in all its glory. Immortals was released in 2011, and was immediately compared to 300, marketed in relation to it, and otherwise not at all taken seriously, perhaps because it, too, was highly stylized, propelled almost completely by its visuals rather than in conjunction with an actor like Butler, going for the gusto. It stars Henry Cavill in his one major role prior to Man of Steel, but Rourke makes a bigger impact, because he's the one playing the part that everyone expects from a movie like this.
By this time, Rourke had already completed his comeback, and everyone was kind of over it. It was Sin City that helped revive interest in his career, but The Wrestler that pushed Rourke as far as he was ever going to go (only to lose the Oscar for Best Actor to Sean Penn). By the time Immortals was released, he'd already appeared in Iron Man 2, which is generally considered to be one of the worse Avengers films (though not by me). Crowe's career was made by Gladiator, just as Butler's was by 300. Immortals didn't have that opportunity, for Rourke or Cavill; by the time it was released everyone knew the latter had been cast as Superman.
But whether or not Immortals is well-regarded is beside the point, whatever it did or did not do for its actors. Creatively it made definite choices, as did its predecessors. Taken as a whole, there's ample room for analysis, which reflects favorably on all of them. Rourke's line is the shortest of the three, which is completely symbolic of the film around it, which is much more interested in making a point of how chaotic the idea of incorporating the larger myths that tended to surround this material when it was originally developed, in ancient days. John Hurt is one of two actors portraying Zeus in the movie, along with Luke Evans. The trick is that Hurt is not generally understood to be Zeus, because he interacts with Cavill's Theseus in the guise of an old man, our hero none the wiser. Cavill as the hero, although he looks and acts like the hero, begins from a position of weakness, of powerlessness, and as such that's another reason why he can't be compared to Maximus or Leonidas. He does eventually stand in front of an army and give an inspiring speech, and like the other heroes dies at the end of his story, but what Immortals understands so well, and what is so difficult for the audience to understand, is that this is a man caught up, well, in hell.
And thus we circle back to that other thing that unites these movies, those utterances that are as equally united in character as they are different in tone and execution, but speaking to each other just as much as the movies do in relation to each other, why Immortals can't be thought of without 300 and 300 without Gladiator. A vicious little circle.
I think it's a mistake to consider similar things as needing to be considered together. These are films with vastly different objectives artistically. Gladiator is a lament, 300 a spectacle, Immortals a meditation. We are meant to reflect on the heroism embodied by their lead characters, but again, the kind of heroism differs. Leonidas is in fact a king, something Maximus steadfastly refuses to be, and Theseus is rejected by the army, initially, because he is the logical extension of Maximus, a modest man who only wants to fight for his home. That's what they're all doing, and being pushed to something greater, being pushed all the way to sacrifice. But the journeys are different. And each fascinating in their own way.
When I consider these movies, I don't really see them in relation to each other. I became interested in them for different reasons, like them for different reasons, and in fact like them to varying degrees, not because one or the other pails in comparison, but because of their own merits. In their own ways, they each embody the art of film-making remarkably, though, and that's something I admire equally in all three.
In Gladiator, the speaker is Maximus, the main character portrayed by Russell Crowe in arguably what remains his most famous and significant role. He says his version in the least threatening way possible, which is odd because he's leading his Roman legion into battle, but also completely indicative of the modest man he is, how he represents the whole point of the movie, the man who defies the mad emperor because he's not obsessed with power, despite every opportunity to seize it.
In 300, the speaker is Leonidas, the main character portrayed by Gerard Butler in the role that made his career and often considered the version of Crowe's Maximus you might expect simply on a visual level. It is the most ridiculously masculine part ever committed to film, every bit the match for the stylized visuals that propelled 300 to great popular acclaim. To call Leonidas brash would be an understatement.
In Immortals, the speaker is Hyperion, the character portrayed by Mickey Rourke. What's interesting, and perhaps key to understanding the whole movie, whether in relation to Gladiator or 300, is that his is very much the part embodied by Leonidas and Maximus, but played to its logical conclusion. This is the brute who is the villain, at last, the lunatic who immediately cuts the throat of the hero's mother after uttering his variation on the hell dialogue.
It's a logical progression all the way. Gladiator was released in 2000, won the Oscar for Best Picture, and because it basically contradicted every expectation, is still a puzzle for critics. 300 was released in 2007 and was a surprise hit at the box office, but unlike Sin City or Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, other highly stylized movies, has managed to not only gain but retain a favorable reputation, in part because it was the movie Gladiator was expected to be: the modern historical epic in all its glory. Immortals was released in 2011, and was immediately compared to 300, marketed in relation to it, and otherwise not at all taken seriously, perhaps because it, too, was highly stylized, propelled almost completely by its visuals rather than in conjunction with an actor like Butler, going for the gusto. It stars Henry Cavill in his one major role prior to Man of Steel, but Rourke makes a bigger impact, because he's the one playing the part that everyone expects from a movie like this.
By this time, Rourke had already completed his comeback, and everyone was kind of over it. It was Sin City that helped revive interest in his career, but The Wrestler that pushed Rourke as far as he was ever going to go (only to lose the Oscar for Best Actor to Sean Penn). By the time Immortals was released, he'd already appeared in Iron Man 2, which is generally considered to be one of the worse Avengers films (though not by me). Crowe's career was made by Gladiator, just as Butler's was by 300. Immortals didn't have that opportunity, for Rourke or Cavill; by the time it was released everyone knew the latter had been cast as Superman.
But whether or not Immortals is well-regarded is beside the point, whatever it did or did not do for its actors. Creatively it made definite choices, as did its predecessors. Taken as a whole, there's ample room for analysis, which reflects favorably on all of them. Rourke's line is the shortest of the three, which is completely symbolic of the film around it, which is much more interested in making a point of how chaotic the idea of incorporating the larger myths that tended to surround this material when it was originally developed, in ancient days. John Hurt is one of two actors portraying Zeus in the movie, along with Luke Evans. The trick is that Hurt is not generally understood to be Zeus, because he interacts with Cavill's Theseus in the guise of an old man, our hero none the wiser. Cavill as the hero, although he looks and acts like the hero, begins from a position of weakness, of powerlessness, and as such that's another reason why he can't be compared to Maximus or Leonidas. He does eventually stand in front of an army and give an inspiring speech, and like the other heroes dies at the end of his story, but what Immortals understands so well, and what is so difficult for the audience to understand, is that this is a man caught up, well, in hell.
And thus we circle back to that other thing that unites these movies, those utterances that are as equally united in character as they are different in tone and execution, but speaking to each other just as much as the movies do in relation to each other, why Immortals can't be thought of without 300 and 300 without Gladiator. A vicious little circle.
I think it's a mistake to consider similar things as needing to be considered together. These are films with vastly different objectives artistically. Gladiator is a lament, 300 a spectacle, Immortals a meditation. We are meant to reflect on the heroism embodied by their lead characters, but again, the kind of heroism differs. Leonidas is in fact a king, something Maximus steadfastly refuses to be, and Theseus is rejected by the army, initially, because he is the logical extension of Maximus, a modest man who only wants to fight for his home. That's what they're all doing, and being pushed to something greater, being pushed all the way to sacrifice. But the journeys are different. And each fascinating in their own way.
When I consider these movies, I don't really see them in relation to each other. I became interested in them for different reasons, like them for different reasons, and in fact like them to varying degrees, not because one or the other pails in comparison, but because of their own merits. In their own ways, they each embody the art of film-making remarkably, though, and that's something I admire equally in all three.
Monday, June 15, 2015
833. On the Passing of Christopher Lee
I delayed this tribute a little because I suspected there'd be a flood of them. Sure enough there was. And of course Christopher Lee deserves it. The funny thing is a lot of what he's known for today skims only the surface of his life, the recent past, what one wonders he himself might have considered all that important in his experiences. But this is what many of us have to work with.
And that means two roles, Saruman and Count Dooku. Peter Jackson's greatest accomplishment in his Lord of the Rings trilogy was in the casting. In truth given such a ridiculous bounty and a relatively thankless villain's role contrasted against Ian McKellen, Lee was almost easy to lose in the shuffle. Then George Lucas came along and added him to the Star Wars prequels beginning with Attack of the Clones, in which he becomes the embodiment of Sith potency. I've long championed these films and many a head has been scratched in trying to figure out why. One of the reasons is Christopher Lee. Having been introduced to him, in effect, through a relatively disappointing role, I found his Dooku a revelation. During his discussion with the captive Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku dispenses with his apparent innocence in such a casual manner, the mark of a truly confident actor, and of course it's the acting that fans most complain about in these films, yet there's Lee commanding the scene so effortlessly, setting the stage for Ian McDiarmid's best work as Palpatine in Revenge of the Sith, and it's here that perhaps the whole story Lucas has attempted to convey should be understood: Anakin Skywalker's fall is about frustrated youth, the extravagance of inexperience, everything we're denied so happily in the fallen world of the original trilogy with its very casual interpretation of heroism, the very thing Dooku shatters so elegantly...
The last time we see Lee in epic mode is in The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies. It's more of a cameo than anything, but the remarkable thing is that Saruman is reclaimed from the abyss in an instant, summoned for a moment of great heroism, the complete opposite of everything we'd seen previously from him. It is very much like a fond farewell, not so much to the character but to the actor. I realized as I was watching what a cherished moment this was set up to be, and it is undeniably the best sequence in the movie, perhaps the true justification of Jackson's return to Middle-Earth.
All of which is to say, farewell Christopher Lee. You accomplished many things in your life. One of them was to imprint yourself into our memories, in a way that will only continue to unfold. As they say, the road goes ever on and on...
And that means two roles, Saruman and Count Dooku. Peter Jackson's greatest accomplishment in his Lord of the Rings trilogy was in the casting. In truth given such a ridiculous bounty and a relatively thankless villain's role contrasted against Ian McKellen, Lee was almost easy to lose in the shuffle. Then George Lucas came along and added him to the Star Wars prequels beginning with Attack of the Clones, in which he becomes the embodiment of Sith potency. I've long championed these films and many a head has been scratched in trying to figure out why. One of the reasons is Christopher Lee. Having been introduced to him, in effect, through a relatively disappointing role, I found his Dooku a revelation. During his discussion with the captive Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku dispenses with his apparent innocence in such a casual manner, the mark of a truly confident actor, and of course it's the acting that fans most complain about in these films, yet there's Lee commanding the scene so effortlessly, setting the stage for Ian McDiarmid's best work as Palpatine in Revenge of the Sith, and it's here that perhaps the whole story Lucas has attempted to convey should be understood: Anakin Skywalker's fall is about frustrated youth, the extravagance of inexperience, everything we're denied so happily in the fallen world of the original trilogy with its very casual interpretation of heroism, the very thing Dooku shatters so elegantly...
The last time we see Lee in epic mode is in The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies. It's more of a cameo than anything, but the remarkable thing is that Saruman is reclaimed from the abyss in an instant, summoned for a moment of great heroism, the complete opposite of everything we'd seen previously from him. It is very much like a fond farewell, not so much to the character but to the actor. I realized as I was watching what a cherished moment this was set up to be, and it is undeniably the best sequence in the movie, perhaps the true justification of Jackson's return to Middle-Earth.
All of which is to say, farewell Christopher Lee. You accomplished many things in your life. One of them was to imprint yourself into our memories, in a way that will only continue to unfold. As they say, the road goes ever on and on...
Sunday, June 14, 2015
832. The Top 50 TV Shows from the 2014-2015 Season
As reported in the June 8-21 edition of TV Guide, here are the top-rated (using a combination of live and delayed viewing) TV shows from the 2014-2015 season, with commentary.
1. The Big Bang Theory (CBS)
Eighth season.
This is one of those popular things that's surprisingly unpopular on the Internet, mostly because the Internet is inevitably the home of people who "don't feel adequately represented" in the sitcom's depiction of geek culture. I've longed self-identified myself with geek culture, and I've loved Big Bang Theory from the start. Besides, it's one of the rare things I love that's also extremely popular.
2. NFL Sunday Night Football (NBC)
3. NCIS (CBS)
Twelfth season.
Officially survived the loss of Ziva.
4. The Walking Dead (AMC)
Fifth season.
Officially the geek alternative to The Big Bang Theory, by the way. I maintain that it hasn't been worth watching since the death of Shane. But at least Darryl is still around.
5. NCIS: New Orleans (CBS)
First season.
This counts as vindication for Star Trek: Enterprise, by the way. Officially did not kill the career of Scott Bakula.
6. Empire (Fox)
First season.
I count this as a victory in the career of Terrence Howard first and foremost.
7. NFL Thursday Night Football (CBS/NFL Network)
8. Scorpion (CBS)
First season.
I think this technically counts as the procedural version of The Big Bang Theory.
9. Blue Bloods (CBS)
Fifth season.
I've enjoyed this series in the past. No real idea what it's been up to lately.
10. The Blacklist (NBC)
Second season.
James Spader in this particular version of creepy procedural.
11. How to Get Away with Murder (ABC)
First season.
Shonda Rhymes with her newest and currently most successful series.
12. Dancing with the Stars (ABC)
Nineteenth and twentieth seasons.
They just keep finding people who want to be famous who previously had other such opportunities not strictly related to dancing...
13. Madam Secretary (CBS)
First season.
Political shows are periodically successful. This is one of those.
14. Criminal Minds (CBS)
Tenth season.
Another show I've watched in the past.
15. The Voice (NBC)
16. The Voice (NBC)
Seventh and eighth seasons.
The series that single-handedly...made Adam Levine more mainstream than he already was. Moves like Jagger!
17. Modern Family (ABC)
Sixth season.
Unlike Big Bang Theory hasn't proven particularly durable.
18. NFL Monday Night Football (ESPN)
Football is big business. As if you didn't know.
19. Person of Interest (CBS)
Fourth season.
I haven't been able to watch a lot of TV lately. This is the series I most regret losing track of.
20. Downton Abbey (PBS)
Fifth season.
Proof that success in television these days is absolutely not restricted to the networks or premium cable.
21. Scandal (ABC)
Fourth season.
The second of three Shonda Rhymes blockbusters.
22. NCIS: Los Angeles (CBS)
Sixth season.
Ladies love cool James.
23. 60 Minutes (CBS)
Forty-seventh season.
24. Hawaii Five-O (CBS)
Fifth season.
The last time I caught it, I didn't see Scott Caan. They can't take him away!
25. Castle (ABC)
Seventh season.
Something-something Nathan Fillion.
26. The Good Wife (CBS)
Sixth season.
At a certain point, doesn't the premise become entirely cancelled out?
27. Two and a Half Men (CBS)
Twelfth season.
So long and thanks for all the laughs.
28. The Mentalist (CBS)
Seventh season.
After the big reveal of Red John induced complete apathy, it was inevitable to learn this series was in fact about to be done.
29. Mom (CBS)
Second season.
Counts as the most successful new sitcom of the past two seasons.
30. American Idol (Fox)
Fourteenth season.
As if no one saw coming that the producers succeeded in killing its impact. And so it's soon to be gone. Finally.
31. Grey's Anatomy (ABC)
Eleventh season.
They just killed off McDreamy. But it'll take more than that the finish off the leader of the Shonda Rhymes brand.
32. Survivor (CBS)
Twenty-ninth and thirtieth seasons.
Long-time fan of this, so I can't complain. And I was happy with one (Mike) of the two most recent winners, so can't complain.
33. The Odd Couple (CBS)
First season.
Some people hate remakes. Some people have no concept that the whole history of mankind is littered with remakes. This one is pretty good.
34. Elementary (CBS)
Third season.
Haven't watched it in a while but support it in general. Because, Lucy Liu.
35. CSI (CBS)
Fifteenth season.
Just announced as finally being put to pasture.
36. CSI: Cyber (CBS)
First season.
But don't worry, this will still be around.
37. Chicago Fire (NBC)
Third season.
Inexplicably the lead in a whole franchise.
38. American Idol (Fox)
The fact that they kept up two nights all that time is kind of the reason...
39. Stalker (CBS)
First season.
Was actually cancelled. They cancelled Maggie Q???
40. Chicago P.D. (NBC)
Second season.
The second in the Chicago franchise. Inexplicably does not feature CM Punk at all.
41. Law & Order: SVU (NBC)
Sixteenth season.
Listen, I'm happy this is the one that ended up lasting. But even I wonder why it still exists.
42. Mike & Molly (CBS)
Fifth season.
The fact that Melissa McCarthy is so popular at the box office but nonexistent in a TV series she's been doing simultaneously...Mike & Molly, you're doing something horribly wrong. How is it that you still haven't figured that out???
43. The Bachelor (ABC)
Nineteenth season.
Women like to watch.
44. Gotham (Fox)
First season.
The most successful of a generous helping of superhero TV series.
45. Game of Thrones (HBO)
Fifth season.
Hey, this is the season that features Alexander Siddig, right? I might actually have to care about this series for a change...
46. 2 Broke Girls (CBS)
Fourth season.
I love this show's snark.
47. The Middle (ABC)
Sixth season.
I don't think it can be stressed enough how unfortunate it is that someone actually thought a sanitized version of Malcolm in the Middle was a good idea.
48. black-ish (ABC)
First season.
I hope this series is decent.
49. Once Upon a Time (ABC)
Fourth season.
So, bringing in Frozen did not make it a ratings juggernaut after all...
50. The Goldbergs (ABC)
Second season.
If you love the '80s...
It's worth noting that the series I most want to catch up with at some point is the CW's The Flash, which is a TV show I never thought could possibly happen, not only a second attempt for DC's scarlet speedster (after a similarly genius but short-lived version from a quarter-century earlier), but one that acknowledges that earlier series, does superheroes directly and without apologies, and shamelessly evokes familiar comic book material.
And Yahoo! just helped Community conclude a six season run, and that was a pleasure to see unfold among those expanded outlets that are also incredibly popular these days.
What did you watch?
1. The Big Bang Theory (CBS)
Eighth season.
This is one of those popular things that's surprisingly unpopular on the Internet, mostly because the Internet is inevitably the home of people who "don't feel adequately represented" in the sitcom's depiction of geek culture. I've longed self-identified myself with geek culture, and I've loved Big Bang Theory from the start. Besides, it's one of the rare things I love that's also extremely popular.
2. NFL Sunday Night Football (NBC)
3. NCIS (CBS)
Twelfth season.
Officially survived the loss of Ziva.
4. The Walking Dead (AMC)
Fifth season.
Officially the geek alternative to The Big Bang Theory, by the way. I maintain that it hasn't been worth watching since the death of Shane. But at least Darryl is still around.
5. NCIS: New Orleans (CBS)
First season.
This counts as vindication for Star Trek: Enterprise, by the way. Officially did not kill the career of Scott Bakula.
6. Empire (Fox)
First season.
I count this as a victory in the career of Terrence Howard first and foremost.
7. NFL Thursday Night Football (CBS/NFL Network)
8. Scorpion (CBS)
First season.
I think this technically counts as the procedural version of The Big Bang Theory.
9. Blue Bloods (CBS)
Fifth season.
I've enjoyed this series in the past. No real idea what it's been up to lately.
10. The Blacklist (NBC)
Second season.
James Spader in this particular version of creepy procedural.
11. How to Get Away with Murder (ABC)
First season.
Shonda Rhymes with her newest and currently most successful series.
12. Dancing with the Stars (ABC)
Nineteenth and twentieth seasons.
They just keep finding people who want to be famous who previously had other such opportunities not strictly related to dancing...
13. Madam Secretary (CBS)
First season.
Political shows are periodically successful. This is one of those.
14. Criminal Minds (CBS)
Tenth season.
Another show I've watched in the past.
15. The Voice (NBC)
16. The Voice (NBC)
Seventh and eighth seasons.
The series that single-handedly...made Adam Levine more mainstream than he already was. Moves like Jagger!
17. Modern Family (ABC)
Sixth season.
Unlike Big Bang Theory hasn't proven particularly durable.
18. NFL Monday Night Football (ESPN)
Football is big business. As if you didn't know.
19. Person of Interest (CBS)
Fourth season.
I haven't been able to watch a lot of TV lately. This is the series I most regret losing track of.
20. Downton Abbey (PBS)
Fifth season.
Proof that success in television these days is absolutely not restricted to the networks or premium cable.
21. Scandal (ABC)
Fourth season.
The second of three Shonda Rhymes blockbusters.
22. NCIS: Los Angeles (CBS)
Sixth season.
Ladies love cool James.
23. 60 Minutes (CBS)
Forty-seventh season.
24. Hawaii Five-O (CBS)
Fifth season.
The last time I caught it, I didn't see Scott Caan. They can't take him away!
25. Castle (ABC)
Seventh season.
Something-something Nathan Fillion.
26. The Good Wife (CBS)
Sixth season.
At a certain point, doesn't the premise become entirely cancelled out?
27. Two and a Half Men (CBS)
Twelfth season.
So long and thanks for all the laughs.
28. The Mentalist (CBS)
Seventh season.
After the big reveal of Red John induced complete apathy, it was inevitable to learn this series was in fact about to be done.
29. Mom (CBS)
Second season.
Counts as the most successful new sitcom of the past two seasons.
30. American Idol (Fox)
Fourteenth season.
As if no one saw coming that the producers succeeded in killing its impact. And so it's soon to be gone. Finally.
31. Grey's Anatomy (ABC)
Eleventh season.
They just killed off McDreamy. But it'll take more than that the finish off the leader of the Shonda Rhymes brand.
32. Survivor (CBS)
Twenty-ninth and thirtieth seasons.
Long-time fan of this, so I can't complain. And I was happy with one (Mike) of the two most recent winners, so can't complain.
33. The Odd Couple (CBS)
First season.
Some people hate remakes. Some people have no concept that the whole history of mankind is littered with remakes. This one is pretty good.
34. Elementary (CBS)
Third season.
Haven't watched it in a while but support it in general. Because, Lucy Liu.
35. CSI (CBS)
Fifteenth season.
Just announced as finally being put to pasture.
36. CSI: Cyber (CBS)
First season.
But don't worry, this will still be around.
37. Chicago Fire (NBC)
Third season.
Inexplicably the lead in a whole franchise.
38. American Idol (Fox)
The fact that they kept up two nights all that time is kind of the reason...
39. Stalker (CBS)
First season.
Was actually cancelled. They cancelled Maggie Q???
40. Chicago P.D. (NBC)
Second season.
The second in the Chicago franchise. Inexplicably does not feature CM Punk at all.
41. Law & Order: SVU (NBC)
Sixteenth season.
Listen, I'm happy this is the one that ended up lasting. But even I wonder why it still exists.
42. Mike & Molly (CBS)
Fifth season.
The fact that Melissa McCarthy is so popular at the box office but nonexistent in a TV series she's been doing simultaneously...Mike & Molly, you're doing something horribly wrong. How is it that you still haven't figured that out???
43. The Bachelor (ABC)
Nineteenth season.
Women like to watch.
44. Gotham (Fox)
First season.
The most successful of a generous helping of superhero TV series.
45. Game of Thrones (HBO)
Fifth season.
Hey, this is the season that features Alexander Siddig, right? I might actually have to care about this series for a change...
46. 2 Broke Girls (CBS)
Fourth season.
I love this show's snark.
47. The Middle (ABC)
Sixth season.
I don't think it can be stressed enough how unfortunate it is that someone actually thought a sanitized version of Malcolm in the Middle was a good idea.
48. black-ish (ABC)
First season.
I hope this series is decent.
49. Once Upon a Time (ABC)
Fourth season.
So, bringing in Frozen did not make it a ratings juggernaut after all...
50. The Goldbergs (ABC)
Second season.
If you love the '80s...
It's worth noting that the series I most want to catch up with at some point is the CW's The Flash, which is a TV show I never thought could possibly happen, not only a second attempt for DC's scarlet speedster (after a similarly genius but short-lived version from a quarter-century earlier), but one that acknowledges that earlier series, does superheroes directly and without apologies, and shamelessly evokes familiar comic book material.
And Yahoo! just helped Community conclude a six season run, and that was a pleasure to see unfold among those expanded outlets that are also incredibly popular these days.
What did you watch?
Friday, May 15, 2015
831. If Harry Shearer really is done...
If Harry Shearer really is done with The Simpsons I can think of two things that might or should happen as a result. Here they are:
1) Don't recast the characters he helped make iconic. I mean seriously, the voice cast on The Simpsons is as iconic as anything else about the show, and it's been the same since the very beginning. You could do mimics, or change the voices of all Shearer's character entirely...The better, the best option is to retire those characters. The Simpsons is known for its sprawling cast. It hasn't added many new characters in years, and even if it doesn't now, it could easily survive a trimming. Part of the reason so many fans think, have thought for years that the show has been stale, stagnant, is that nothing has changed for years. Every time something does change, it comes off as a publicity stunt. Think of this as an opportunity to prove everyone wrong, once and for all. I mean, South Park survived losing Chef (even though he was probably the best thing about it). Shearer doesn't even voice any of the main characters. And The Simpsons already survived losing its best voice actor, Phil Hartman, and retired his characters, right? If worst come to worst, simply bring on Kelsey Grammer full-time. That would be a challenge. But it could also be the Sylar-ing of Sideshow Bob. I think I could live with that, though.
2) This is a sign that The Simpsons is finally winding down. Finally losing one of the iconic voice actors, after incredibly keeping all of them for twenty-six seasons, is already historic. But if they've lost one, chances are becoming better that they will lose more. And as I've already suggested, The Simpsons is nothing if not its voice cast plus everything else. Emphasis on voice cast. The show will end. I'm not saying this because I'm gleeful about the prospect. But it is inevitable. And now we have a better idea of how it will happen. And it seems pretty obvious now, doesn't it?
1) Don't recast the characters he helped make iconic. I mean seriously, the voice cast on The Simpsons is as iconic as anything else about the show, and it's been the same since the very beginning. You could do mimics, or change the voices of all Shearer's character entirely...The better, the best option is to retire those characters. The Simpsons is known for its sprawling cast. It hasn't added many new characters in years, and even if it doesn't now, it could easily survive a trimming. Part of the reason so many fans think, have thought for years that the show has been stale, stagnant, is that nothing has changed for years. Every time something does change, it comes off as a publicity stunt. Think of this as an opportunity to prove everyone wrong, once and for all. I mean, South Park survived losing Chef (even though he was probably the best thing about it). Shearer doesn't even voice any of the main characters. And The Simpsons already survived losing its best voice actor, Phil Hartman, and retired his characters, right? If worst come to worst, simply bring on Kelsey Grammer full-time. That would be a challenge. But it could also be the Sylar-ing of Sideshow Bob. I think I could live with that, though.
2) This is a sign that The Simpsons is finally winding down. Finally losing one of the iconic voice actors, after incredibly keeping all of them for twenty-six seasons, is already historic. But if they've lost one, chances are becoming better that they will lose more. And as I've already suggested, The Simpsons is nothing if not its voice cast plus everything else. Emphasis on voice cast. The show will end. I'm not saying this because I'm gleeful about the prospect. But it is inevitable. And now we have a better idea of how it will happen. And it seems pretty obvious now, doesn't it?
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
830. I was right but I wasn't right about these Star Trek episodes...
I've been committed to writing what I should probably start referring to as recommendations rather than outright reviews of every Star Trek episode for a few years now. I happen to be a fan of the whole franchise, so I consider myself to be in a unique position to be fair to every series. Part of the reason I've undertaken this task is because far too often Star Trek fans wear their biases on their sleeves. If they hate a series, or particularly loved one, they can't even pretend to be objective. And that's what I try to be.
I'm calling them recommendations rather than reviews because really, I can't be bothered to do the whole review thing. This is too big a task to do such a tedious thing for every episode. I don't want to analyze the whole story, scene for scene, but rather talk about what did or didn't work in it. And because I'm approaching this as a guide to the whole franchise, I like to be inclusive of the whole franchise, with references to various series as points for comparison, as well as discussing the relative merits of an episode for the series in which it airs.
All that being said, recommendation over review provides me with an additional opportunity, because it's just as likely that anyone who watches any TV-related thing these days will binge. This is not a new phenomenon, but it's an increasingly popular one. So anyone watching any Star Trek at all will probably not cherry-pick but rather view en masse, episode after episode, seasons and indeed series at a time. And they won't be consulting whatever I think along the way. The point, then, is to give them perspective. A recommendation helps put the episode in context, a review thinks the whole thing is a matter of life and death.
And really, it isn't. Two episodes I've covered I actually had the chance to watch with fresh eyes recently, and the results were something different from what I recorded in my recommendations. This is worth talking about for a number of reasons. Opinions change. That's something I think we all forget. But when we put something down in words, we begin to think they take on permanence. How silly of us. The version of you that hated something yesterday might very well give way to a version of who that will love it tomorrow, not because the thing itself changed but because you began to think differently of it. When I first heard U2's "Beautiful Day," it was accompanied by the music video, and Bono was trying especially hard to be a rock god in it. I hated it. I thought Bono was beyond obnoxious, and it created a giant rift between me and the Irish band. I thought I'd stick by that opinion forever. But soon enough, I came around, and actually, U2 became once and for all one of my favorite rock bands ever. And I even love "Beautiful Day." (No, I haven't revisited the music video.)
Two episodes from the original Star Trek series' second season, "Catspaw" and "I, Mudd," are what I'm really here to talk about. "Catspaw" has the distinction of being one of the rare episodes I offered no basis at all for recommendation, while "I, Mudd" I wrote mostly about Harry Mudd and not much about the rest of the episode around him. Here are some additional thoughts on both of them, although I won't be changing my previously established thoughts, which can be found here and here respectively.
"Catspaw," I originally argued, was a bad Halloween episode, specifically created for that holiday and as such easy to completely disregard. The thing is, it's another in a long line of episodes throughout the franchise involving beings with unusual abilities messing around with Starfleet officers, and in some ways a unique one in that there are two such beings who can be played against each other. Besides a Q episode or two, this never happens. These were beings that uniformly had to be bested at the very end of the episode, and certainly never outsmarted. In that sense, "Catspaw" has a good reason to watch. But it's also somewhat completely ludicrous in concept, the very essence of why some fans will always say "Spock's Brain" or "Threshold" should be summarily dismissed (ask a Star Trek fan about those two).
"I, Mudd," meanwhile, does in fact have a lot to say about Harry Mudd, and while I gave it a generous recommendation, it eventually degenerates in full practice into a ludicrous display every bit the equal of if not worse than "Catspaw." In order to defeat a civilization of artificial beings, Kirk persuades his crew to perform, essentially, experimental theater. It becomes quite absurd. In fact, anyone still looking for some reason to explain why the whole series had to fight an uphill battle to become a lasting phenomenon need look no further than "I, Mudd" for an explanation. It's incredibly hard to take seriously. And why did I, in that original recommendation? Because I focused on the best element, which is Harry Mudd, another atypical element for the series that in that sense pushed it to something with a less limited appeal than was typical (i.e. Kirk and friends sit around bemused or in peril for an hour in general sci-fi mayhem), being a guy who stood his ground rather than backed down, being as much hero as villain (sort of, most of all in this appearance, anyway), having a killer mustache.
But on the whole, "Catspaw" is still as easy to dismiss as I originally did, and "I, Mudd" deserves less applause than I originally gave it. Is there more to say about both than I did, and have? Of course. Tomorrow I might have more things to say about both of them, and really, no one will be interested. People will either have seen what I've had to say and be interested, or they won't. The point is, I've provided a point of reference. What other people do with my thoughts is now in their hands, not mine. And really, those people are just as likely to think something completely different than to agree with me. That's another reason to write about an episode on the level of a recommendation rather than a review, because a recommendation is more capable of being objective than a review, which by definition is subjective, no matter how hard a critic might try to make it sound otherwise. I personally tend to hate reviews, because most critics are painfully subjective, and they don't seem to realize or care.
So when I get to say an episode is generally terrible, it's easy to explain why, and when I get to explain how an episode that's generally regarded as terrible isn't, I get to talk about the things I like about it, that reflect well on the series, the franchise, storytelling in general...The thing is, when I say I like Star Trek, I'm recommending it as a storytelling vehicle, because I love good storytelling. The best way to incur my wrath? Fail at that. Because at that point, I no longer see the point of the thing.
I'm calling them recommendations rather than reviews because really, I can't be bothered to do the whole review thing. This is too big a task to do such a tedious thing for every episode. I don't want to analyze the whole story, scene for scene, but rather talk about what did or didn't work in it. And because I'm approaching this as a guide to the whole franchise, I like to be inclusive of the whole franchise, with references to various series as points for comparison, as well as discussing the relative merits of an episode for the series in which it airs.
All that being said, recommendation over review provides me with an additional opportunity, because it's just as likely that anyone who watches any TV-related thing these days will binge. This is not a new phenomenon, but it's an increasingly popular one. So anyone watching any Star Trek at all will probably not cherry-pick but rather view en masse, episode after episode, seasons and indeed series at a time. And they won't be consulting whatever I think along the way. The point, then, is to give them perspective. A recommendation helps put the episode in context, a review thinks the whole thing is a matter of life and death.
And really, it isn't. Two episodes I've covered I actually had the chance to watch with fresh eyes recently, and the results were something different from what I recorded in my recommendations. This is worth talking about for a number of reasons. Opinions change. That's something I think we all forget. But when we put something down in words, we begin to think they take on permanence. How silly of us. The version of you that hated something yesterday might very well give way to a version of who that will love it tomorrow, not because the thing itself changed but because you began to think differently of it. When I first heard U2's "Beautiful Day," it was accompanied by the music video, and Bono was trying especially hard to be a rock god in it. I hated it. I thought Bono was beyond obnoxious, and it created a giant rift between me and the Irish band. I thought I'd stick by that opinion forever. But soon enough, I came around, and actually, U2 became once and for all one of my favorite rock bands ever. And I even love "Beautiful Day." (No, I haven't revisited the music video.)
Two episodes from the original Star Trek series' second season, "Catspaw" and "I, Mudd," are what I'm really here to talk about. "Catspaw" has the distinction of being one of the rare episodes I offered no basis at all for recommendation, while "I, Mudd" I wrote mostly about Harry Mudd and not much about the rest of the episode around him. Here are some additional thoughts on both of them, although I won't be changing my previously established thoughts, which can be found here and here respectively.
"Catspaw," I originally argued, was a bad Halloween episode, specifically created for that holiday and as such easy to completely disregard. The thing is, it's another in a long line of episodes throughout the franchise involving beings with unusual abilities messing around with Starfleet officers, and in some ways a unique one in that there are two such beings who can be played against each other. Besides a Q episode or two, this never happens. These were beings that uniformly had to be bested at the very end of the episode, and certainly never outsmarted. In that sense, "Catspaw" has a good reason to watch. But it's also somewhat completely ludicrous in concept, the very essence of why some fans will always say "Spock's Brain" or "Threshold" should be summarily dismissed (ask a Star Trek fan about those two).
"I, Mudd," meanwhile, does in fact have a lot to say about Harry Mudd, and while I gave it a generous recommendation, it eventually degenerates in full practice into a ludicrous display every bit the equal of if not worse than "Catspaw." In order to defeat a civilization of artificial beings, Kirk persuades his crew to perform, essentially, experimental theater. It becomes quite absurd. In fact, anyone still looking for some reason to explain why the whole series had to fight an uphill battle to become a lasting phenomenon need look no further than "I, Mudd" for an explanation. It's incredibly hard to take seriously. And why did I, in that original recommendation? Because I focused on the best element, which is Harry Mudd, another atypical element for the series that in that sense pushed it to something with a less limited appeal than was typical (i.e. Kirk and friends sit around bemused or in peril for an hour in general sci-fi mayhem), being a guy who stood his ground rather than backed down, being as much hero as villain (sort of, most of all in this appearance, anyway), having a killer mustache.
But on the whole, "Catspaw" is still as easy to dismiss as I originally did, and "I, Mudd" deserves less applause than I originally gave it. Is there more to say about both than I did, and have? Of course. Tomorrow I might have more things to say about both of them, and really, no one will be interested. People will either have seen what I've had to say and be interested, or they won't. The point is, I've provided a point of reference. What other people do with my thoughts is now in their hands, not mine. And really, those people are just as likely to think something completely different than to agree with me. That's another reason to write about an episode on the level of a recommendation rather than a review, because a recommendation is more capable of being objective than a review, which by definition is subjective, no matter how hard a critic might try to make it sound otherwise. I personally tend to hate reviews, because most critics are painfully subjective, and they don't seem to realize or care.
So when I get to say an episode is generally terrible, it's easy to explain why, and when I get to explain how an episode that's generally regarded as terrible isn't, I get to talk about the things I like about it, that reflect well on the series, the franchise, storytelling in general...The thing is, when I say I like Star Trek, I'm recommending it as a storytelling vehicle, because I love good storytelling. The best way to incur my wrath? Fail at that. Because at that point, I no longer see the point of the thing.
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