Sucks-Ass

So I finally got around to seeing Kick-Ass. You know, the "daring, subversive" movie from earlier this year that turned the superhero genre on its head? No? With the brilliant deconstruction of the superhuman do-gooder psyche, exploring the question, "What if REAL PEOPLE became superheroes?" Still nothing? How about the one with the 10-year-old purple-haired girl who dices thugs to bits after calling them fuckin' cunts?

Yeah, that's the one.

I'll admit, for roughly the first half of Kick-Ass, I was enjoying myself. It appeared to be a comedic take on Watchmen, a satire exposing the inherent ridiculous nature of the superhero fantasy. It totally lacked Watchmen's intellectual conceits, mature characterizations, and overall sense of hopelessness, appropriately enough for a comedy. When Nicolas Cage shoots his daughter point blank as a lesson in taking a bullet, it was so absurd that I genuinely laughed. At this point, the film worked. Nothing great, per se, but certainly entertaining.

But when director Matthew Vaughn forces us to endure watching two of our heroes being tortured to death, the laughs stopped. Now, as Hit Girl is blasting viscera all over the place, we're not to root for her out of a sense of wild abandon but rather genuine empathy. What was once satire is now a dark, bloody revenge flick; what was once reversing genre tropes was now stooping to their use. The film had lost me in its final hour, a constant "You have got to be kidding me!" buzzing around in my brain.

There's nothing original about Kick-Ass. It's superhero thematics are well-worn territory between the aforementioned Watchmen, The Incredibles, and probably a billion other properties that I'm not even aware of; the public has had the genre jammed down its collective throat over the past decade. There's nothing brilliant about it either; a couple of cracks about teen heroic fantasies, superheroes on MySpace, a thug obsessed with a bazooka -- enough comedy to sustain a decent SNL sketch or two, perhaps, but not to justify an entire motion picture's existence. And Hit-Girl? I suppose it is subversive in this day and age of oversensitivity to feature a 10-year-old sociopath swearing up a storm and blowing people to bits, but it certainly isn't brilliant. It's CHEAP. Shock humor, plain and simple, with all the substance of an awkward fart joke.

As someone who considers himself a nerd, it shames me that so many others in my demographic believe this to be a masterful work of art. It's pandering crap, the celluloid "geek" equivalent to a crusty tissue discarded in a garbage bin. What little promise it held was squandered the instant the film revealed it had nothing of substance to offer, falling back on the genre standards that it had promised to upend with a calculated dose of cheap controversy. Perhaps it is a sad state of affairs that this was far from the worst film I've seen this year, but I am truly ashamed that apparently I am supposed to enjoy something as crass and shallow as that which Kick-Ass devolves into during its second half.

You want ultra-violence? Watch Kill Bill Vol. 1. You want a worthwhile deconstruction of superhero tropes? See (or better yet, read) Watchmen, or, for a comedic bent, James Gunn's The Specials. Kids behaving badly? Stand By Me. But don't praise something as crude and shallow as Kick-Ass and then, when it underperforms, declare that its brilliance went above the heads of the general public, because I assure you that it didn't. There's no more brilliance here than in your average rom-com. Kick-Ass didn't kick ass because, well, it sucked.

Some Kind of Star Trek

I realize that this list probably seems ill-timed; it would have been more relevant a little over a year ago when J.J. Abrams' reboot was released. However, up until the past couple of weeks I had yet to see four of these films. Now, having watched Insurrection, I have watched all of the canon Star Trek films and feel mildly compelled to share a few thoughts on each. Below, I have ranked all of the films in qualitative order from best to worst (IMHO, of course):

1) Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan -- "I have been, and always shall be, your friend."
The crown jewel, to which standard all other Trek movies will be judged. Despite some poorly aged production design -- honestly, who thought oval-shaped screens on square boxes was a good idea? -- no other film in the series achieves such an effective synthesis of theme, tension, and character. From the early CG animation depicting the Genesis project to Ricardo Montalban's operatic performance, from Shatner's immortal cry of "KHAAAAAAAN!" to the battle in the magenta hues of the Mutara Nebula, the peppering of quotes from Shakespeare and Melville to what is easily the most emotional of all Trek finales, the film is littered with memorable moments. The best-realized story by far.

2) Star Trek: First Contact -- "The line must be drawn HEAH!"
Not quite up to Khan's standard, but it's the best TNG-era film by far and a damn fine action/adventure film in its own right. The script is engaging on an emotional level, the key elements being Picard's desire for revenge against the Borg and Zefram Cochrane's reluctance to accept the mantle of history, allowing the audience to overlook several logic issues regarding the time travel plot device. This is also the only TNG film that truly feels like a film in direction and production values, beginning with the very first epic pullback within the Borg cube -- very impressive from first-time feature helmer Jonathan Frakes. Also notable for introducing S&M to children across the world via the Borg Queen.

3) Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country -- "You have not experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon."
The final film to feature the entire original cast, and a pretty good one at that. Reflecting the end of the Cold War, Undiscovered Country's story of political conspiracy carries a darker tone than perhaps any other Trek film besides First Contact. There are several moments of hokum -- mainly during the Rura Penthe sequence -- but overall the script is quite solid. The opening explosion of the Praxis moon and the zero-gravity assassination sequence feature effects that were groundbreaking for their time, and Christopher Plummer really hams it up as nefarious Klingon General Chang. Neither as technically polished as First Contact nor as well-written as Khan, this is nonetheless in the upper ranks of the Trek series.

4) Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home -- "Double dumb-ass on you!"
I avoided watching this quirky film for the longest time because, despite being well-received and the highest-grossing film of the series, the story sounds incredibly stupid -- the Enterprise crew travels back in time to 1986 to rescue humpback whales and save the future from a destructive probe. Yet, ultimately, I found it surprisingly enjoyable. Watching it right after its somber predecessor, Voyage Home is a refreshing change of pace for the films in that it is almost purely a fish-out-of-water comedy. It mines for humor by affirming just how different the world of Trek is from our contemporary reality, yet because these juxtapositions remain true to the characters the audience has grown to love over the course of the series and films, it works. In terms of artistry and ambition, this is a bit of a downward step from the series' heights, and it is overall a consistent and entertaining effort.

5) Star Trek III: The Search for Spock -- "I... have had... enough of... you!"
Now we've entered a new territory for the series -- the interesting but seriously-flawed middle-ground. The most satisfying of this lot has to be Search for Spock, in no small part due to its resolution of the cliffhanger(s) from Wrath of Khan and the destruction of an icon. The crew's theft of the Enterprise from spacedock and Kirk's reaction to suffering another devastating loss are great moments, worthy of the best of Trek. Despite these admirable efforts, however, the film has some serious hang-ups: the scenes on the Genesis planet look cheap to the point of breaking the suspension of disbelief; the Spock-child subplot, while interesting in concept, was poorly executed (namely experiencing Vulcan puberty); the Star Wars cantina rip-off didn't mesh with the Trek universe; and (admittedly, this is a personal hang-up) while his performance was fine, I couldn't stop thinking of Christopher Lloyd as Doc Brown instead of Kruge. All in all, Search for Spock is still an enjoyable watch, but it isn't good enough to transcend its flaws.

6) Star Trek: Insurrection -- "Have you noticed how your boobs have started to firm up?"
This is another film I had been avoiding due to its reputation and was, in fact, the last of these films I had never seen until quite recently. Like Spock, it's not a bad film but it suffers from several serious problems. The foremost of these is one of scope -- Insurrection feels like a television episode, and coming after the particularly cinematic First Contact, it is especially grating. After repelling an all-out assault on the Federation in both space and time by the Borg in the last movie, now the TNG crew is going to fight for the right of 600 people to stay in their homes. Whoopie. It also doesn't help that the villain, played by F. Murray Abraham of Amadeus fame, is constantly whining and is about as intimidating as a grouchy cat lady. Furthermore, despite the weighty moral implications of the story, forced moments of humor are interspersed throughout the film, no doubt the worst of which is when Picard and Worf start singing "HMS Pinafore" to placate a malfunctioning Data. Still, the morality play at work is mildly intriguing. It's a shame that the entire production seems so inconsequential.

7) Star Trek: The Motion Picture -- "An answer? I don't know the question."
The first film, the post-Star Wars resurrection of the property that launched the film franchise, and a major disappointment. Directed by veteran director Robert Wise, The Motion Picture wanted to be a grandiose, philosophical sci-fi epic in the tradition of 2001. Unfortunately, this ambition came at the expense of character and storytelling. While the film is beautiful to look at and asks interesting questions regarding the nature of intelligence and evolution, it is mind-numbingly dull to endure for its full length. Other than First Contact, it is probably the most cinematic of the series and Jerry Goldsmith undoubtedly composed the series' best score for this film. The Motion Picture is worth an occasional viewing for the grandeur of the music and visuals, but has very little other than its high production values to recommend it.

8) Star Trek V: The Final Frontier -- "What does God need with a starship?"
Ah, the most infamous Trek of them all, nick-named "Shatner's folly." Indeed, Final Frontier isn't a great or even a good film, but there are a few diamond moments to be found in the mud. Giving Spock an emotionally-uninhibited, religious-fanatic brother was undoubtedly an unwise move, and many of the attempts at humor are misguided at best (60-year-old Uhura dancing naked atop sand dunes was jaw-droppingly miscalculated); due to the success of Voyage Home, Paramount insisted that as much humor be inserted into this film as possible, despite the fact that Shatner intended it to be a profound examination of spirituality. The film is also hampered by the befuddling decision, rather than use tried-and-true ILM, to go with a start-up SFX company that produced some less-than-spectacular results. Still, at least amongst our three leads, the characterizations are stronger than ever and keep the film from becoming unwatchable; the Yosemite scenes (minus "Row, Row, Row Your Boat") and McCoy's "pain scene" are all highlights. Make no mistake: Final Frontier is a seriously-flawed film, but it is a far cry from the worst in the series and is certainly worth a watch.

9) Star Trek: Generations -- "They say time is the fire in which we burn."
We've now reached the bottom rungs where the films are so flawed that they become unwatchable; unfortunately, they're both TNG-era films. Generations was doomed from the start with a rushed pre-production and studio demands that a) Kirk must be in the film to pass the baton and b) the Enterprise-D from TNG must be destroyed to make way for a new ship in the following film. These story demands led to the creation of a limitlessly powerful plot device, the Nexus, which the characters only ever attempt to use in the most lazy way possible; i.e. with the ability to return to any point in time or space to stop Malcolm McDowell's madman, Picard chooses to return with Kirk to the last possible two minutes as opposed to, say, the first time he talked with McDowell in Ten Forward and having the two captains dump the bastard out an airlock. The story problems are too many to enumerate here and would require their own blog entry, but there are numerous production concerns as well; Nimoy and DeForest Kelley were unwilling to return for the beginning, so Scotty and Chekov are used instead which feels unnatural, especially since it is painfully obvious that their dialogue was written for Spock and McCoy; the TNG-series uniforms look awful on screen, and the constant swapping between TNG and DS9 uniforms seems unprofessional and annoys throughout; and the music score is as bland and uninspired as they come. With plot holes large enough to accommodate a starship and uneven production quality, Generations is a rushed mess. While some of the ideas within are solid, the execution is so poor that the film is difficult to sit through and isn't one to often be revisited.

10) Star Trek: Nemesis -- "Just when I thought this couldn't get any worse."
And here we splash down into the sewer. While Generations is a mess, it at least tried to be its own animal. Nemesis is a pathetic, shameless rip-off of Wrath of Khan, copying plot points (and even production methods) in a stupefyingly incompetant attempt to revitalize the franchise. From Khan: villain motivated by personal vendetta against the Captain, check; death of the beloved fan-favorite, check; weapon of unspeakable power, check; director hired from outside the franchise to invigorate with new life, check. The problems are that Picard's clone, Shinzon, is poorly conceived and motivated; Data already had an identical twin in Lore, but this was ignored so they could rehash old gags about androids employing childish behavior; the uneducated Reman underclass would have lacked the knowledge and resources to construct such a large, advanced weapon; and Stuart Baird is not Nicholas Meyer. It's obvious that the executives in charge had run out of ideas in the blatant recycling that occurred here, and it's insulting to the audience that they believed this lazy rehash was worth making. Perhaps these flaws are more forgivable to those more unfamiliar with the franchise, but anyone who has seen Wrath of Khan will know every twist and turn of the Nemesis story; there is nothing original here. It is a terrible shame that the TNG crew, the crew that I grew up watching on television, went out on such a sour note, but it is little wonder that between Insurrection's ambivalence and Nemesis' incompetence that the franchise was rebooted. The lack of imagination and refinement evidenced within this tenth Star Trek film is appalling; if you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and don't. Anything within has been done better at an earlier point in the franchise, believe me.

Of course, you may be wondering why I haven't mentioned J.J. Abrams' 2009 reboot. Simply put, I don't view it as a part of this series, but rather the start of a new one. It is far more action-oriented and, while it got the character dynamics correct, much of Star Trek's thematic resonance was lost in the translation. Don't get me wrong; I greatly enjoyed Star Trek. But it's space opera, not science-fiction. And as such, it is separate from these ten films. For curiosity's sake, in terms of pure enjoyment, I would rank it approximately equal with First Contact.

And that's it. Almost a decade in the making, I have finally seen every Star Trek film and ranked them accordingly. I feel like I've earned some sort of merit badge...

An exerpt from "Dandelion Wine" by Ray Bradbury

[I had to type this passage for another purpose and, well, considering the length, I figured I would share it. If anyone is unfamiliar with the oeuvre of Mr. Bradbury and is unwilling to commit to reading an entire book, perhaps this will entice you further.]

The facts about John Huff, aged twelve, are simple and soon stated. He could pathfind more trails than any Choctaw or Cherokee since time began, could leap from the sky like a chimpanzee from a vine, could live underwater two minutes and slide fifty yards downstream from where you last saw him. The baseballs you pitched him he hit in the apple tree, knocking down harvests. He could jump six-foot orchard walls, swing up branches faster and come down, fat with peaches, quicker than anyone else in the gang. He ran laughing. He sat easy. He was not a bully. He was kind. His hair was dark and curly and his teeth were white as cream. He remembered the words to all the cowboy songs and would teach you if you asked. He knew the names of all the wild flowers and when the moon would rise and set and when the tides came in or out. He was, in fact, the only god living in the whole of Green Town, Illinois, during the twentieth century that Douglas Spaulding knew of.

And right now he and Douglas were hiking out beyond town on another warm and marble-round day, the sky blue blown-glass reaching high, the creeks bright with mirror waters fanning over white stones. It was a day as perfect as the flame of a candle.

Douglas walked through it thinking it would go on this way forever. The perfection, the roundness, the grass smell traveled on out ahead as far and fast as the speed of light. The sound of a good friend whistling like an oriole, pegging the softball, as you horse-danced, key-jingled the dusty paths, all of it was complete, everything could be touched; things stayed near, things were at hand and would remain.

It was such a fine day and then suddenly a cloud crossed the sky, covered the sun, and did not move again.

John Huff had been speaking quietly for several minutes. Now Douglas stopped on the path and looked over at him.

"John, say that again."

"You heard me the first time, Doug."

"Did you say you were -- going away?"

"Got my train ticket here in my pocket. Whoo-whoo, clang! Shush-shush-shush-shush. Whooooooooo..."

His voice faded.

John took the yellow and green train ticket solemnly from his pocket and they both looked at it.

"Tonight!" said Douglas. "My gosh! Tonight we were going to play Red Light, Green Light and Statues! How come, all of a sudden? You been here in Green Town all my life. You just don't pick up and leave!"

"It's my father," said John. "He's got a job in Milwaukee. We weren't sure until today."

"My gosh, here it is with the Baptist picnic next week and the big carnival Labor Day and Halloween -- can't your dad wait till then?"

John shook his head.

"Good grief!" said Douglas. "Let me sit down!"

They sat under an old oak tree on the side of the hill looking back at town, and the sun made large trembling shadows around them; it was cool as a cave in under the tree. Out beyond, in sunlight, the town was painted with heat, the windows all gaping. Douglas wanted to run back in there where the town, by its very weight, its houses, their bulk, might enclose and prevent John's ever getting up and running off.

"But we're friends," Douglas said helplessly.

"We always will be," said John.

"You'll come back to visit every week or so, won't you?"

"Dad says only once or twice a year. It's eighty miles."

"Eighty miles ain't far!" shouted Douglas.

"No, it's not far at all," said John.

"My grandma's got a phone. I'll call you. Or maybe we'll all visit up your way, too. That'd be great!"

John said nothing for a long while.

"Well," said Douglas, "let's talk about something."

"What?"

"My gosh, if you're going away, we got a million things to talk about! All the things we would've talked about next month, the month after! Praying mantises, zeppelins, acrobats, sword swallowers! Go on like you was back there, grasshoppers spitting tobacco!"

"Funny thing is I don't feel like talking about grasshoppers."

"You always did!"

"Sure." John looked steadily at the town. "But I guess this just ain't the time."

"John, what's wrong? You look funny...."

John had closed his eyes and screwed up his face. "Doug, the Terle house, upstairs, you know?"

"Sure."

"The colored windowpanes on the little round windows, have they always been there?"

"Sure."

"You positive?"

"Darned old windows been there since before we were born. Why?"

"I never saw them before today," said John. "On the way walking through town I looked up and there they were. Doug, what was I doing all these years I didn't see them?"

"You had other things to do."

"Did I?" John turned and looked in a kind of panic at Douglas. "Gosh, Doug, why should those darn windows scare me? I mean, that's nothing to be scared of, is it? It's just..." He floundered. "It's just, if I didn't see those windows until today, what else did I miss? And what about all the things I did see here in town? Will I be able to remember them when I go away?"

"Anything you want to remember, you remember. I went to camp two summers ago. Up there I remembered."

"No, you didn't! You told me. You woke nights and couldn't remember your mother's face."

"No!"

"Some nights it happens to me in my own house; scares heck out of me. I got to go in my folks' room and look at their faces while they sleep, to be sure! And I go back to my room and lose it again. Gosh, Doug, oh gosh!" He held onto his knees tight. "Promise me just one thing, Doug. Promise you'll remember me, promise you'll remember my face and everything. Will you promise?"

"Easy as pie. Got a motion-picture machine in my head. Lying in bed nights I can just turn on a light in my head and out it comes on the wall, clear as heck, and there you'll be, yelling and waving at me."

"Shut your eyes, Doug. Now, tell me, what color eyes I got? Don't peek. What color eyes I got?"

Douglas began to sweat. His eyelids twitched nervously. "Aw heck, John, that's not fair."

"Tell me!"

"Brown!"

John turned away. "No, sir."

"What you mean, no?"

"You're not even close!" John closed his eyes.

"Turn around here," said Douglas. "Open up, let me see."

"It's no use," said John. "You forgot already. Just the way I said."

"Turn around here!" Douglas grabbed him by the hair and turned him slowly.

"Okay, Doug."

John opened his eyes.

"Green." Douglas, dismayed, let his hand drop. "Your eyes are green.... Well, that's close to brown. Almost hazel!"

"Doug, don't lie to me."

"All right," said Doug quietly. "I won't."

They sat there listening to the other boys running up the hill, shrieking and yelling at them.

---

They raced along the railroad tracks, opened their lunch in brown-paper sacks, and sniffed deeply of the wax-wrapped deviled-ham sandwiches and green-sea pickles and colored peppermints. They ran and ran again and Douglas bent to scorch his ear on the hot steel rails, hearing trains so far away they were unseen voyagings in other lands, sending Morse-code messages to him here under the killing sun. Douglas stood up, stunned.

"John!"

For John was running, and this was terrible. Because if you ran, time ran. You yelled and screamed and raced and rolled and tumbled and all of a sudden the sun was gone and the whistle was blowing and you were on your long way home to supper. When you weren't looking, the sun got around behind you! The only way to keep things slow was to watch everything and do nothing! You could stretch a day to three days, sure, just by watching!

"John!"

There was no way to get him to help now, save by a trick.

"John, ditch, ditch the others!"

Yelling, Douglas and John sprinted off, kiting the wind downhill, letting gravity work for them, over meadows, around barns until at last the sound of the pursuers faded.

John and Douglas climbed into a haystack which was like a great bonfire crisping under them.

"Let's not do anything," said John.

"Just what I was going to say," said Douglas.

They sat quietly, getting their breath.

There was a small sound like an insect in the hay.

They both heard it, but they didn't look at the sound. When Douglas moved his wrist the sound ticked in another part of the haystack. When he brought his arm around on his lap the sound ticked in his lap. He let his eyes fall in a brief flicker. The watch said three o'clock.

Douglas moved his right hand stealthily to the ticking, pulled out the watch stem. He set the hands back.

Now they had all the time they would ever need to look long and close at the world, feel the sun move like a fiery wind over the sky.

But at last John must have felt the bodiless weight of their shadows shift and lean, and he spoke.

"Doug, what time is it?"

"Two-thirty."

John looked at the sky.

Don't! thought Douglas.

"Looks more like three-thirty, four," said John. "Boy Scout. You learn them things."

Douglas sighed and slowly turned the watch ahead.

John watched him do this, silently. Douglas looked up. John punched him, not hard at all, in the arm.

---

With a swift stroke, a plunge, a train came and went so quickly the boys all leaped aside, yelling, shaking their fists after it, Douglas and John with them. The train roared down the track, two hundred people in it, gone. The dust followed it a little way toward the south, then settled in the golden silence among the blue rails.

The boys were walking home.

"I'm going to Cincinnati when I'm seventeen and be a railroad fireman," said Charlie Woodman.

"I got an uncle in New York," said Jim. "I'll go there and be a printer."

Doug did not ask the others. Already the trains were chanting and he saw their faces drifting off on back observation platforms, or pressed to windows. One by one they slid away. And then the empty track and the summer sky and himself on another train run in another direction.

Douglas felt the earth move under his feet and saw their shadows move off the grass and color the air.

He swallowed hard, then gave a screaming yell, pulled back his fist, shot the indoor ball whistling in the sky. "Last one's home's a rhino's behind!"

They pounded down the tracks, laughing, flailing the air. There went John Huff, not touching the ground at all. And here came Douglas, touching it all the time.

---

It was seven o'clock, supper over, and the boys gathering one by one from the sound of their house doors slammed and their parents crying to them not to slam the doors. Douglas and Tom and Charlie and John stood among half a dozen others and it was time for hide-and-seek and Statues.

"Just one game," said John. "Then I got to go home. The train leaves at nine. Who's going to be it?"

"Me," said Douglas.

"That's the first time I ever heard of anybody volunteering to be 'it,'" said Tom.

Douglas looked at John for a long moment. "Start running," he cried.

The boys scattered, yelling. John backed away, then turned and began to lope. Douglas counted slowly. He let them run far, spread out, separate each to this own small world. When they had got their momentum up and were almost out of sight he took a deep breath.

"Statues!"

Everyone froze.

Very quietly Douglas moved across the lawn to where John Huff stood like an iron deer in the twilight.

Far away, the other boys stood hands up, faces grimaced, eyes bright as stuffed squirrels.

But here was John, alone and motionless and no one rushing or making a great outcry to spoil this moment.

Douglas walked around the statue one way, walked around the statue the other way. The statue did not move. It did not speak. It looked at the horizon, its mouth half smiling.

It was like that time years ago in Chicago when they had visited a big place where the carved marble figures were, and his walking around them in the silence. So here was John Huff with grass stains on his knees and the seat of his pants, and cuts on his fingers and scabs on his elbows. Here was John Huff with the quiet tennis shoes, his feet sheathed in silence. There was the mouth that had chewed many an apricot pie come summer, and said many a quiet thing or two about life and the lay of the land. And there were the eyes, not blind like statues' eyes, but filled with molten green-gold. And there the dark hair blowing now north now south or any direction in the little breeze there was. And there the hands with all the town on them, dirt from roads and bark-slivers from trees, the fingers that smelled of hemp and vine and green apple, old coins or pickle-green frogs. There were the ears with the sunlight shining through them like bright warm peach wax and here, invisible, his spearmint-breath upon the air.

"John, now," said Douglas, "don't you move so much as an eyelash. I absolutely command you to stay here and not move at all for the next three hours!"

"Doug..."

John's lips moved.

"Freeze!" said Douglas.

John went back to looking at the sky, but he was not smiling now.

"I got to go," he whispered.

"Not a muscle, it's the game!"

"I just got to get home now," said John.

Now the statue moved, took its hands down out of the air and turned its head to look at Douglas. They stood looking at each other. The other kids were putting their arms down, too.

"We'll play one more round," said John, "except, this time, I'm 'it.' Run!"

The boys ran.

"Freeze!"

The boys froze, Douglas with them.

"Not a muscle!" shouted John. "Not a hair!"

He came and stood by Douglas.

"Boy, this is the only way to do it," he said.

Douglas looked off at the twilight sky.

"Frozen statues, every single one of you, the next three minutes," said John.

Douglas felt John walking around him even as he had walked around John a moment ago. He felt John sock him on the arm once, not too hard. "So long," he said.

Then there was a rushing sound and he knew without looking that there was nobody behind him now.

Far away, a train whistle sounded.

Douglas stood that way for a full minute, waiting for the sound of the running to fade, but it did not stop. He's still running away, but he doesn't sound any further off, thought Douglas. Why doesn't he stop running?

And then he realized it was only the sound of his heart in his body.

Stop! He jerked his hand to his chest. Stop running! I don't like that sound!

And then he felt himself walking across the lawns among all the other statues now, and whether they, too, were coming to life he did not know. They did not seem to be moving at all. For that matter he himself was only moving from the knees down. The rest of him was cold stone, and very heavy.

Going up the front porch of his house, he turned suddenly to look at the lawns behind him.

The lawns were empty.

A series of rifle shots. Screen doors banged one after the other, a sunset volley, along the street.

Statues are best, he thought. They're the only things you can keep on your lawn. Don't ever let them move. Once you do, you can't do a thing with them.

Suddenly his fist shot out like a piston from his side and it shook itself hard at the lawns and the street and the gathering dusk. His face was choked with blood, his eyes were blazing.

"John!" he cried. "You, John! John, you're my enemy, you hear? You're no friend of mine! Don't come back now, ever! Get away, you! Enemy, you hear? That's what you are! It's all off between us, you're dirt, that's all, dirt! John, you hear me, John!"

As if a wick had been turned a little lower in a great clear lamp beyond the town, the sky darkened still more. He stood on the porch, his mouth gasping and working. His fist still thrust straight out at that house across the street and down the way. He looked at the fist and it dissolved, the world dissolved beyond it.

Going upstairs, in the dark, where he could only feel his face but see nothing of himself, not even his fists, he told himself over and over, I'm mad, I'm angry, I hate him, I'm mad, I'm angry, I hate him!

Ten minutes later, slowly he reached the top of the stairs, in the dark...

---

"Tom," said Douglas, "just promise me one thing, okay?"

"It's a promise. What?"

"You may be my brother and maybe I hate you sometimes, but stick around, all right?"

"You mean you'll let me follow you and the older guys when you go on hikes?"

"Well... sure... even that. What I mean is, don't go away, huh? Don't let any cars run over you or fall off a cliff."

"I should say not! Whatta you think I am, anyway?"

"'Cause if worst comes to worst, and both of us are real old -- say forty or forty-five some day -- we can own a gold mine out West and sit there smoking corn silk and growing beards."

"Growing beards! Boy!"

"Like I say, you stick around and don't let nothing happen."

"You can depend on me," said Tom.

"It's not you I worry about," said Douglas. "It's the way God runs the world."

Tom thought about this for a moment.

"He's all right, Doug," said Tom. "He tries."

FAT BOY SLIM, or: How I Stopped Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the PS3

Most people who know me may remember my initial skepticism regarding Sony's console this generation.  They marketed it as the crème de la crème, selling it at the seemingly ridiculous price of $599, and while Sony was indeed the market leader by a vast margin at the time, their corporate attitude stunk horribly of hubris.  I even made a documentary short on the subject, poking fun at Sony while trumpeting Nintendo's Wii as the undiscovered country of gaming.  Blu-ray was a waste of money, the outcome of its war with HD-DVD still in heavy dispute, and the majority of consumers would be satisfied with their upscaled DVDs for years to come as they only finally managed to get the full worth of even those discs as they upgraded to their 16:9 digital displays.

That was then; this is now.  And boy, have times changed.

The Wii and I had a short and somewhat bitter marriage, with the smooth promise of "Super Mario Galaxy" somewhat undermined by the annoying shake controls of "Twilight Princess," the imprecision of "Okami," and most of all by the blurry 480p graphics.  "Galaxy" was beautiful, no doubt, but it was painful to consider just how much more beautiful it would have been had it been rendered on tech that wasn't nearly a decade old.  When the most satisfying experience on your console is bowling, you have problems.  The Wii has migrated to other lands than mine.

My 360, my first investment in this generation, rests atop a small table, an improvised stand in the tiny bedroom, practically unused.  I fear to play it, having gotten the dreaded RROD once already, and am annoyed that because I was an early adopter, I am forced to live with using the outdated VGA cable for my video connection rather than the more simple and reliable HDMI that came with the later Elite and Zephyr boards.  Inserting a disc is equally a scary proposition as the drive has clearly begun to wear and the DVD upscaler leaves much to be desired.  The media player is, like its Windows counterpart, clunky and dysfunctional.  Our relationship is on the skids, hanging on by the threads of "Symphony of the Night," "Arkham Asylum," and "The Orange Box," as I have little desire to repurchase these titles again for the small influx of cash that disposing of the system would bring.

By contrast, the relationship with my new sleek black mistress is thriving, primarily due to a single factor:  the once-dreaded Blu-ray.  Having conquered HD-DVD, and with the ugly spectre of locking discs to specific players seemingly discarded (so far), it appears that my initial reluctance was somewhat misplaced.  Granted, at the time I had a television only capable of 720p, but now, having benefited from a defect-related refund, I have a 1080p set and am capable of receiving the full benefits of the format's resolution.  Indeed, while I had thought that quite a few of my upscaled DVDs looked excellent, Blu-rays -- at least on spectacle films stuffed with comprehension-defying detail -- are absolutely superb.  The Planet Earth series features perhaps the greatest picture I have ever seen; it is truly awe-inspiring, with vibrant colors and a three-dimensional POP! that is wholly lacking from the six-times reduced DVD image.  Honestly, I've still yet to be impressed by the "added functionality" that the Blu-ray profile and BD-Java brings to the bonus features, but I whole-heartedly confess that I was mistaken about the benefit in regards to image.  With the right material, it is a TREMENDOUS leap forward.

Additionally, with the new Slim models, the PS3 is little more expensive than a fully-featured stand-alone player with the added substantial benefit of game functionality.  I can still get my "God of War" fix, and I've found a surprising wealth in rediscovering "Final Fantasy VII."  Media streaming works splendidly through TVersity with a slick interface and a gorgeous visualization of the earth from orbit.  While I've not taken full advantage yet, it's nice that I don't have to pay a subscription fee to access multiplayer or to use my Netflix account over PSN.  Not to mention that the design of the system itself, from the curvy onyx surface to the liquid smooth XMB interface, oozes class.  The sound of a tuning orchestra gives me chills every time I start up the machine; it's pretentious, perhaps, but also far more pleasant to the ear than the annoying strobe sound effect on the 360 (along with the painful memories of the console freezing half the times it was started).

No one is more surprised than I at how far my opinions have changed.  I've no doubt that watching the gripes in my doc would seem quaint (for a whole host of reasons).  I regretted and rectified my purchase of a Wii, and I still regret receiving an Xbox 360; if I knew four years ago what I know now, undoubtedly I'd have simply waited for a PS3 -- there's still no way in hell I'd have paid $599, even if the damn Xbox ended up costing a considerable amount higher due to Microsoft's nickel-and-diming.

In the future, I'll maintain greater respect for my Tokyo overlords.

La Cucaracha

It is with no small amount of pleasure that I bask in the knowledge that soon I will be out of this infested hive of an apartment in three days' time.  I have killed two roaches in The Room That Formally Was Neil's, both disturbingly close to where my mattress is resting on the floor.  The first one was tiny, likely a tiny roach baby.  That makes me Aaron, the roach baby-killer.  Perhaps Roach O'Reilly will invoke the lunatic roach right-wing to assassinate me... but their window of opportunity draws to an end.  The second was an adult and left an adult-sized smear of goo on the floor from where I stomped its head and its stomach into gooey roach paste.  More than likely, I am a roach-baby-mama-killer as well.

In three days, I will be moving to Van Nuys to share David's studio until I can get an income and properly support my own damn self.  I visited last weekend and was very pleasantly surprised.  The living space will be roughly equal to when we shared Conquest's supposed "one-bedroom" in Tropicana, but with an infinitely superior location and more closet space to boot.  I was even surprised that I enjoyed the Valley, which is tantamount to sacrilege, I know.  But I'm still a suburban midwesterner deep inside, and that means that on some deep dark dirty psychological level, I find large strip malls and open wide parking lots -- the So Cal prairie lands -- comforting.  That of course is with the full knowledge that the full urban culture experience is only a half-hour drive away, should I so choose to escape the inanity of it all.

I've got an interview at the Arclight after years of swearing that I would never work again in a movie theater.  Granted, there's a large difference between the cheap theater in an Ohio suburb overrun with over-caffeinated pre-teens and the Arclight, but its not exactly the halcyon days of my youth we're talking about here.  Still, in an economy this shitty, a job is a job, and I'm sure I won't mind taking full advantage of the employee discount.  Hopefully, if I do start working there, it won't be too long before Amotz and Echo Lake can find something more substantial (or something good happens on the writing front, but finding a good job is more likely to happen first, I would imagine).  And if the Arclight doesn't work, I still have the possibility of joining the hipsters at Amoeba.  And other jobs worthy of my brand-spanking-new $160,000 degree.

The night is dark and hot as hell.  It is no doubt warmer in Van Nuys, and yet it in no way deters my desire to get out of the proverbial Dodge.  Three days.  A few more to possibly landing a job.  And if more roaches get in my way, I may give Hans Landa a run for his money as the most vicious mass-murder this summer.

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,

ya no puede caminar

porque no tiene, porque le falta

las dos patitas de atrás.

Northern Lights

Dark stillness hovers in sky above
Void of man’s wisdom and his love
Only emptiness and longing
Glinting pinpricks of faded light
Distant echoes of lost memories.

But softly shimmering you appear
Magnificent ribbon amongst the stars
Nature’s magic, igniting dreams
What wonders yet remain unseen?
The heavens harmonize to your song.

Endless night once spurned must stay
Your glories radiant expand my sight
Would ever I possess titanic strength
For the dreaded daylight to restrain
And in your glow forever basking
To remain.

"Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid People in Large Groups"

Today, I read this article and some of the comments surrounding it, and I have to say that it riles me up.

Changing "Sci-Fi" to "Syfy" is quite possibly the most ridiculous change in branding I have come across in my 23 years of existence. Supposedly, their focus group says that it is similar to how the channel would "text," but honestly, it makes me think of syphilis. Not exactly an appealing notion to market your network on. It's also clearly a step in "broadening" the appeal of the network for a "more mainstream" audience.

What happened to the concept of loyalty in this country? To fidelity? To fit into a niche and supporting a small but very loyal following? Why is every product dumbed down to the lowest common denominator (ECW Wrestling, reality TV, etc.)? The entire purpose of cable TV was to create content for these niche audiences, content that wouldn't be found on the networks, but now, in the midst of a conglomerated culture that has sought to be all things to all people in an effort to post the most profit in the least amount of time, diversity is considered nothing more than an impediment to dividends. They want babys and grandmas (but most especially those Generation X-ers in-between) to watch everything at every time for maximum revenue generation. It's not about long-term loyalty and all about short-term profit margins -- the same bullshit mentality that has brought this country's economy to its knees.

Personally, I have a hard time believing that "Syfy" was rigorously vetted through focus groups. Sure, you can trademark it, but that doesn't make it intelligent or appealing. I see only syphilis.

It should be a hit for the kids.

The other mass stupidity on my mind today is this constant scapegoating of the media. No matter if you're a lefty-loony or a righty-tighty, the media is always biased to the other side if what they report doesn't subscribe to your viewpoint. Right now, if Obama is praised or defended, it's the liberal elite media. If he's criticized or if Bush is defended, it's the corporate shill mainstream media. I'm not saying that there's no validity to such complaints, but to simply dismiss all the media because one article or reporter apparently takes a stand different that your own is sophomoric at best and schizophrenic at worst.

To my mind, the fact that both sides can complain suggests that SOMETHING must be right; if one side were always ignored, there might be some validity, but everyday the media is presented as both; even the same network can be accused of being "Obamabots" or "rethuglicans" at the SAME TIME. If anything, the problem is that the media is incompetant, having lost sight of reporting the truth and is instead more interested in "gets" and generating maximum ratings -- another casualty of the modern corporate culture. It is perfectly natural to disagree with the media's spin, perhaps even preferable. We shouldn't resort to namecalling and generalization simply due to disagreements. Calling out a specific person or article, that's fair, but a blanket dismissal is intellectually lazy.

We've got to end this entire "more is more" corporate stupidity in this country, wanting all with us now and forgetting about the long haul. Whether it's crushing a niche market or devaluing alternative points-of-view, this mentality is undermining the fabric of America. We were meant to disagree, to listen to varied opinions, and to enjoy different leisures. These differences are what keeps our society dynamic and in balance; without them, we will become stagnant and "drown" in our own filth. We can break off into smaller, more concentrated groups, whether it be the Green Party or a gang of geeks settling down for a Star Trek marathon. That way, when we all mingle at work or the neighborhood barbecue, the interactions will be all the richer for it.

Smarter, smaller, more diverse trains of thought for all!

Goodbye, Andy

At the service last week, I was unable to speak. I've written this post to serve as my eulogy for Andy.

When Mom died almost eight years ago, it was a severe blow to our family. It personally sent me into a such a state of denial and depression that for six months I truly believed it to be some sort of twisted practical joke and was incapable of talking about it for any length of time (to anyone) for over two years. The one major positive that came out of that ordeal was that it forced Andy, my little brother, and I to get over some of our petty sibling squabbles and be there for each other. That's not to say we never fought after that, but there was always a sense that we could count on one another whenever the going got rough or when one of us needed a quick laugh. We were brothers, and no matter what life would throw at us, we knew that we would help each other get through it.

Which is why when I received a phone call early in the morning two Sundays ago, I didn't just get the news that no big brother wants to hear; I got the absolutely worst and most horrible news possible:

Andy had died.

He had just turned 21 in January. He'd finally found a major he was interested in. He was so happy. So young. There was so much that he had yet to do with his life, so much to see. There was so much for us to do together -- weddings, crashing Hollywood parties, cross-country road trips, and undoubtedly more rides at Cedar Point.

The coroners determined he suffered a brain hemorrhage in his sleep early Saturday morning, probably caused by a seizure, a lingering side-effect of when he was attacked near Ohio State's campus over a year ago. I can't help but see that as a form of murder.

The two weeks that have passed have been grueling for me as I've soared highs, trying to interpolate what's been taken, and plunged depths, drowning as I attempted to fathom what's been lost. I've found solace in great friends, both in my own and in Andy's; knowing how well he was loved, despite his youth, has been a great comfort, but it has also been a source of sorrow.

When I think of Andy, his constant smiles and laughter spring instantly to mind. He always searched for the levity in everything, and I can't think of a moment when he wished ill on anyone. Rather the opposite, he often expressed concern or sympathy for those around him, always wanting to lighten the mood. Between spouting non sequiturs and using his goofy laugh, he almost always succeeded. I can't express how many boring afternoons spent at home Andy saved by simply being Andy, or how many holiday dinners, or car rides, or summer afternoons raking the lawn.

I never told him this, but I consider Andy to be a better person than I am. I'm shy to a fault, even among friends, withdrawn, introspective, and in constant need of barriers in some misguided attempt to protect myself. But Andy, he was exuberant and uplifting, happiest amongst others and always eager to laugh and comfort. Not to say he was faultless, as none of us are, but surely Andy's flaws as a person number far less than my own. And I'm proud he lived this way, and eternally grateful. I hope that one day I can be as open and as warm and as good a person as my brother.

Going home for his funeral was the hardest thing I've ever had to do because he wasn't there to cheer me up. I can't imagine what going back in the future will be like, after the reality of this loss has fully sunken in, but I know that not a day will go by in which I won't wish I had Andy to talk to. To laugh with. Our whole lives, we've been Aaron and Andy; now I'm alone.

Goodbye, Andy. I could really use a good laugh right now. I miss you so much, but I hope that you're with Mom and you're happy, and that someday we all will see each other again. Until then, know that your big brother loves you very much.

Goodbye.

January 12, 1988 - February 21, 2009

The Schmoscars

A couple of thoughts after seeing the nominations:

The Dark Knight absolutely deserved a Best Picture nod. A win would have been debatable, but a nod is undeniable. For universal acclaim, production quality, and ambition within its genre. A disgrace that it was snubbed. I've not seen all the nominees yet, but the hatred seems centered on The Reader.

Even more egregious: Synecdoche, New York! Where in the hell are its nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay? Quite possibly the most interesting and affecting film of the year gets Jack Shit.

Right now, I'm pulling for Slumdog Millionaire. It's the only film nominated right now that isn't meant to be Oscar-bait, and it'd be nice to see Danny Boyle recognized.

A few contemporary thoughts while procrastinating

I'm attempting my very best to avoid finishing my first film review, so I thought I'd share some thoughts I've had today.

I'm really exciting about finally owning a car. I took a gander at my future pride and joy, a 2002 Nissan Altima, yesterday afternoon. I hope to have it in hand in a week or so, though some logistical details (*ahem insurance *ahem) still need to be worked out. Here's a pic I took:

On a slightly different track, I've just read an article debating the schism between so-called "hardcore" and "casual" gamers. The article itself seemed to be a rallying cry for the hardcores to calm themselves and listen to reason instead of bemoaning the dumbing down of their beloved pastime for the masses, while theorizing that the distinction between the two is far more complicated than one might think.

I concur with the article, and am appalled at the simplicity of the hardcore argument. Truly, the example put forth in the article from their camp was that because "Gears of War 2" had its default, easiest difficult made more accessible, the game was diminished. Having not played the game (I wasn't a particularly big fan of the first in the series), I won't claim to be an authority figure, but I do remember that the first had selectable difficulty modes, and the article seemed to indicate that the second game does as well? If this is so, what is the argument? What is wrong with having a new, easier difficulty for beginners? Why should they be unable to play the game that you enjoy? To keep it more exclusive for your macho ass? If you think it's too easy, play on one of the harder difficulties! Surely, as an experienced hardcore gamer, you wouldn't even think of touching that default beginner's difficulty anyway. If that's the best example they can provide, it's a total non-argument.

Personally, I do view myself as a "casual" gamer. I play games as entertainment, as one of several forms that I enjoy. I measure my enjoyment based on the overall experience, which, more often than not, is severely hampered by a severe difficulty. I'm not a fan of trying the same puzzle, boss, or section of terrain for more than an hour of repetition; I consider that to be a form of torture.

Frankly, a lot of "hardcore" gaming -- collecting every last achievement, completing the secret fifty level dungeon, repeating the same 80-hour game seven different times just to watch an ending with a new 10-second tag -- seems like masochism. Not to mention, many of the hardcore genres seem to be stuck in a perpetual rut. After all, how many more "space marines" shooters do we need? Oh, sure, you've added cover and squad mechanics, but you're still just going around shooting hideous beasts until they explode in fountains of blood. It's getting old.

Speaking of gratuitous, pointless violence, I came across this today. The story is heartbreaking; reading about it is bad enough, but watching the video is very tough. I would read the article before attempting the video to provide the proper context. I could only stand to watch about half. If, after that, you don't have some reservations about what's going on over there, I would postulate that perhaps you're not a human being.

What a world we live in.

The Evolution of Apple, Inc.

Then:

Now:

From Brawny to chic, such are the days of our lives.

"My God, It's Full of Stars!"

I was a bit of a Johnny Come-Lately to the Nintendo Wii scene. While excited about the system before its debut, the difficulty in obtaining one for a reasonable price had left me fairly resigned to the fact that I would likely not be obtaining one. In playing Wii games via the generosity of friends, I found them fun, but without spending a significant amount of time with the console I found it hard to get hooked. Besides, I had gotten a 360 and fallen in love with its High-Def goodness; who needs "two Gamecubes duct-taped together" to have a good time, right?

Fast-forward to a more recent, better time: as a result of Providence, I had laid my hands on a Wii, as well as the game that had never let my desire to purchase one completely die out -- "Super Mario Galaxy."

You see, the biggest fly in my 360 ointment was the lack of a good platformer. Yeah, yeah, "Braid" was pretty good once you got past the attrocious, pretentious-as-fuck narrative. "Psychonauts" turned out to be a relative disappointment because all the quirky personality in the world can't quite make up for wonky controls, and beneath the personality the story wasn't really all that involving. I had -- make that have -- no interest whatsoever in poorly programmed Disney-themed games. My last, great hope was for "Banjo-Kazooie: Nuts & Bolts," but playing the demo only confirmed my gravest fears that Rare had once again screwed the pooch (or bear, to be more accurate to our unfortunate furry friend). And, while I attempted in vain to satiate this inner craving for liquid smooth platforming fun, I had heard all about how great "Super Mario Galaxy" was. I had even managed to play it a time or two, and found it enjoyable, but again, did not gain enough exposure to get me hooked.

Suffice it to say, I've now been hooked.

The game received enough accolades upon its release a year ago that I don't feel particularly obligated to add to them. Playing the game is fun and almost never repetitive as it is always presenting you with new obstacles and ways of surmounting them. The graphics are good enough that the "low" resolution doesn't matter half a hoo-hah. (Pray tell, what is a hoo-hah?) Certain objectives are frustrating (I throw a glance your way, Sweet Sweet Galaxy), but never to the point where you want to quit; on the contrary, you're always driven forward. It's hands-down vastly superior to "Sunshine," holding its own against the great "Super Mario 64."

Given the quality of the game, particularly in a genre that has been teetering on the brink via endless copycatting and corrupted with shooting mechanics in the "Ratchet & Clank" series, I have no issue understanding how it received such universal praise. However, I have been amused by looking at reviews that are critical of the game, complaining about the story and such. True, the narrative doesn't amount to all that much in "Galaxy," but what is there is arguably the finest offered in any Mario platforming game; critiquing Mario for not going all Tolkien on us is a bit silly if you're going to endlessly praise "Super Mario Bros. 3" when its story is inferior. Nintendo did at least attempt something new in this area with the Storybook chapters, so bitching about this point seems like... well, bitching. In a nasal voice. Mario games are all about gameplay, not story.

But, to give credit where it is due, that argument at least has a shred of merit to it. Believe it or not, there is another, more ludicrous argument against the game that seems to come up in the mediocre reviews, one best summed up in this quote from one such review:

"This game has too much originality, and lacks newer concepts to Mario's games."

Such brilliant insight is brought to us courtesy of radred2004 of GameFAQs.com. Notice the oxy-moronic quality: too much originality, by definition new concepts, yet it lacks new concepts. The game is too similar, but tries too many new things? Uh-huh. Those retained concepts -- the collecting of stars, the hub world, Mario, Bowser, fun -- those help to maintain series continuity. The new concepts -- the manipulation of gravity, globular worlds, massaging a bee -- those are there to always keep the game feeling fresh and interesting. Something that clearly went over your tweenish head. Considering your preferral of Sonic Adventure 2, I'm guessing you enjoy absurdly-complicated plots starring furry creatures and games that feature cheap deaths. Mario should never, ever be made more similar to the 3D Sonic games. That's like preferring the Star Wars prequels to the originals. Which, if you're a tween, is also probably the case.

I guess it just goes to show that no matter the quality, truly universal praise is never possible. There will always be at least one person with absolutely horrific taste, preferring their Manos: Hands of Fate to my Apocalypse Now.

And I shudder to think of it.

The Dark K-nig-et

I know that I was a bit late to the party, but after an excruciatingly long week of spoiler-dodging I finally did see "The Dark Knight" at the ArcLight's Cinerama dome, and I have to say... the wait was worth it.

I went with Neil, who had just returned from his India sojourn, and while I knew that both the Batsuit and the Joker's costume would be displayed in the lobby, it was a pleasant surprise to find the Tumbler and the Batpod sitting outside on the sidewalk. I still have a special place in my heart for the Burton-era Batmobile, but seeing the Tumbler in person was rapturous. It's a sexy machine, that Tumbler. (The Batpod was cool as well, but having not seen the movie yet, it didn't really mean much to me and, even after seeing the movie, it's just not the same as the car itself.) After a few minutes of gawking, we entered the dome and prepared for the film to begin.

I will admit that, for about the first hour, I was wondering why the buzz was so high. Don't get me wrong, I was enjoying the film, but it seemed to be merely a really good movie -- perhaps on par with, if not more high-minded than, "Iron Man" -- as opposed to the colossal force that I'd been hearing about for the past week.

But after the nighttime confrontation with the Joker about halfway through, the film became something else. The questions posed and the dilemmas presented, the hospital scene and the ferry game -- Nolan infused the film with the all of the appropriate gravitas and conflict and EXCITEMENT that I could have ever wanted in a Batman film. Everything about the film screamed that it was a class act, with the acting, cinematography, editing, and direction coalescing into a nearly flawless crystal. Even the score, an element that had bugged me from "Batman Begins," seemed to mesh perfectly with the whole. I can honestly say that "The Dark Knight" may be, in my opinion, the best so-called "popcorn" flick I've ever seen. The last time that I can remember feeling so satisfied leaving a movie theater was ages ago when I first saw "Independence Day," which was the perfect film for an unpretentious ten-year-old boy; if "The Dark Knight" can satisfy me so completely as an adult film student, then it must be something special indeed.

Much has been made of the fact that "The Dark Knight" has overtaken "The Godfather" as the #1 movie on the IMDb's Top 250. I don't understand what the big deal is, as anyone who bothers to use their brain effectively understands that not only is that list not a definitive quantification of a film's objective stature, but just such a quantification is impossible to achieve. Everyone has different tastes, and so filmic taste is subjective. Any knowledgeable film buff knows that "The Godfather" is a superbly-made, landmark film. For my money, so is "The Dark Knight." But "The Godfather" was made to be an epic art film, ripe for awards season while "The Dark Knight" was made as a summer tent-pole movie, primarily to entertain; both are superlative examples of their respective intentions, and they are really incomparable.

Personally, while I acknowledge the importance and craftsmanship of "The Godfather," it is not one of my favorite films -- I much prefer "Once Upon A Time in America" for a more compatible comparison. [EDIT (2/8/2009): Um, upon seeing "The Godfather" again, I must retract this statement. That film is almost flawless. Still, I stand by my belief that "Dark Knight" is a great film, among the best of the year.] "The Dark Knight," however, is truly a milestone summer film. It entertains not only through spectacle, but also through the character relationships, the themes of duality and morality, and the overall stellar production quality. It demonstrates that "tent-poles" don't have to be vapid CGI-fests, and that moviegoers have every right to demand high quality in ALL of their entertainment. I am not saying that I believe "The Dark Knight" is better than "The Godfather," but I am saying that it is a cinematic achievement worthy of respect. To dismiss the film based upon its intentions and its status on a website's arbitrary list is misguided at best and snobbery at worst.

All-in-all, despite having my expectations lifted to impossible heights, the film still managed to completely satisfy me. I can't see how Christopher Nolan will be able to top this one with the inevitable third film, but I had similar doubts following "Batman Begins."

I look forward to being surprised.

A New Look...

Howdy, y'all.

Did some quick changes to spruce up the ol' blog, make it a tad bit less gloomy and such, you know. I know this ain't the first time I said this, but I'm gonna aim to update this more often; right now, it's more forgotten-bastard-child than blog, seein' as it only gets an update every few months.

Anyways, look for a new blog entry of substance soon; hopefully the first of many.

Gosh durn. Pudding.

Abominations

Man, it has been a while. Then again, I don't think anyone reads this (or if they do, they leave no evidence, like tricksy rats they is) so who gives a damn?

I'm not writing a noir, I'm writing a melodrama about the Xenia, OH tornado in 1974. Or, rather, the aftermath. I don't think I want to write a melodrama ever again. They are abominations to the logic of the mind.

Black MacBooks have issues. My logic board and then my hard drive failed within a month of each other ON THE SAME DAY OF THE WEEK. Monday nights. Creepy. As Charles so wisely suggested, do not buy anything Apple that isn't white or silver; they will die on you because they are an abomination to the Apple name.

Mass Effect is like a bad Stargate SG-1 episode. Maybe a good episode. I don't know because I never watched that show. I do know that it reminds of non-Battlestar Sci-Fi channel fare, and that is the epitome of abomination.

Actually, I take that back. The epitome of abomination is CNN, Fox News, and anything else that dares to call itself TV news. Watching G4 is like staring into Satan's acid-glistening asshole. And an Ohio-made horror film, Horrors of War, about Nazi zombies, makes my eyes and ears bleed; however, it was partially shot on my grandfather's farm. Probably helped the crops grow a little better that year.

Time to eat.

A Bit of Gobbling Before Turkey

Well, it's been a while, dear blog o' mine, but I'm back.

The world has been a rather busy though moderately forgiving place of late, and I still have a mountain of work ahead of me in the coming few weeks; tomorrow (technically today, i suppose) will be the beginning of the last push to climb this monster. Fortunately, the past few days have been mostly relaxing thanks to the just-in-the-nick-of-time arrival of Thanksgiving break.

I'm not sure if it was the workload or something else, but by the time this past weekend had rolled around your humble blogger had entered a rather nasty patch of the ol' melancholy. Even going out did not reverse these effects--quite the reverse, in fact. It was not the jolliest of birthday weekends, and the prospect of spending eight working hours with the most anal-retentive person I have ever met on my actual birthday was not exactly the type of thing to bring me out of this little slump. But by the end of the 19th of November, I'd eaten a good meal and managed to regain some perspective on life.

In the interval of time between then and now, I've discovered two new joys:

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler -- I'd heard plenty about Chandler and, with some excess time and money to kill, I decided it was about time to find out about the master of "hard-boiled" detective fiction myself. I'm only about half-way through, but I think I may be hooked. I've already been somewhat inspired; I've had a film noir idea kicking around my head for a while now, and reading this has convinced me that it's time to move forward. Next semester, "Alternative Narrative," it's going to be a noir.

Mass Effect -- Last year, when I made the decision to go with the Xbox 360, this game was a major deciding factor. The preview videos showcased the spectacular graphics, and Bioware has one hell of a reputation for making great RPGs. Some less than enthusiastic stories about the world that was created, and my growing anathema for shooter mechanics, had me just about ready to write this one off no more than a couple weeks ago...then I saw the new trailers. And then I saw the reviews. And then I said to hell with it and bought the damn game. It may not have the most original universe--pretty much every semi-successful sci-fi brand of the past thirty years is reflected in some aspect of the game's design--but I'll be damned if it isn't engrossing. Hell, even the shooting is fun again because there's an actual story and strategy that goes into it. If you have a 360 or just know someone with a 360 that you can play on...go buy this game. Now. You won't regret it. That is, unless you don't like games with stories. Or games in general. Or grandma.

Anyway, that's a decent summation of the past few days. Down then up with much relaxation. But all good things must come to an end, and tomorrow I've really got to start writing my struggling little heart out. Ironic that during Thanksgiving break, the day I finally buckle down to begin my work is none other than Thanksgiving itself. Of course, as long as I eat hearty then the holiday is still fulfilled, is it not?

Thanking my lucky stars. You probably know who you are.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

Long time no see...

Hello, blog. It's been roughly four months since I've last updated you, probably since I've last even glanced upon your glowing lines of code.

I will frequent you more often, I promise. Especially now that something is rotten in the state of Denmark, though I honestly can't remember a time when everything went smoothly so...yeah. Anyway, life has its problems.

All for now. A meaningful entry, I know.

The Runaround

Oh, the frustration. My status on Facebook was a bit of an explosion, but allow me to explain the wonderful customer service experience I've been dealing with for the past three weeks.

I lost my cell phone at the airport on May 15, probably either in the rental car my roommate's father had driven us all to the airport in at 4 am or the tram that dropped me off at the terminal. I was distracted at the moment by the extreme hour, which was exaggerated by the fact that the assholes next door had been partying all night long and were still going after we had left; virtually no sleep, you see. Also, the handle on one of my suitcases wouldn't go down, and I kept trying to fix it so that they would accept it on the plane or the handle wouldn't get snapped off. It wasn't until the suitcase was fixed and I was in line to check my baggage when I noticed that my Chocolate phone was no longer safely in my left side pocket.

Fuck.

Only a few minutes later, however, and I was at peace. After all, had I not gotten insurance when I replaced my waterlogged RAZR over spring break? I just needed to go home, suspend the phone, file the claim, and by next week I'd be holding a new and improved Chocolate in my patient hands.

How wrong I was.

I suspended the phone that night when I arrived home, but it was about a week before I got around to filing the police report as I was eager to see my friends back home and just settle down. Also, I was desperate to find a paying job, and so that seemed to get the majority of my free time. A few days passed before I researched who I needed to call and what information I needed to get. A police report from the location of loss: at first I assumed it was LAPD, but LAX has its own police force. Check.

I called the LAX police but had trouble getting ahold of the front desk, as apparently only one officer is on duty there at a time and the line was busy. A day later, I finally got through, only to be told that before they could take a report on my phone, I would have to show up in person with a copy of my signed cellular contract. I attempted to explain that I was in Ohio for the summer and would be unable to appear in person. Still, the officer persisted, asking how far I was from the airport. After about four iterations of "I'm in O-H-I-O" the officer seemed to grasp that I was the better part of 3000 miles away and said I could fax my contract. I then said my contract was in storage in LA. He said I could have Verizon mail me a new copy and it could be faxed to their office and then, and only then, would they take the report. I asked if there was a time limit to filing the report. "Don't worry," the officer replied. "You'll be fine."

Figuring I had plenty of time to file the claim within 60 days of the loss, it was about another week before I finally got around to requesting that contract from Verizon; admittedly, my mistake. When I got ahold of Verizon, they acted completely shocked that I should ask for such a thing. "I've never heard of that before," said the servicewoman. "Usually you just give them the make and model and you're good." But after a few minutes, she promised to send me a copy of my contract, saying that it would be here in a week at the latest. She provided me with the phone's electronic serial number and bade me good day.

That week ended yesterday. No contract. No contract today, either. I called Verizon to inquire what had happened. Their response? That no contract had been mailed because it was an "electronic contract" and, therefore, there was nothing to mail; I had waited a week for absolutely nothing, and not only that, but they could not send me the contract. However, they assured me that I could still file my claim using an officer's name, badge number, and the precinct phone number, and it should still be processed.

I call the LAX police back, and they will NOT divulge that information without first filing a police report. I explain that it is impossible for me to provide them with a contract, telling them that Verizon had told me there was nothing to send because the contract was electronic. The police officer then said, "Contract? What we need is a copy of the original receipt." They said that it's common for Verizon and Cingular to fax them a copy directly; "Usually they're so good about it."

AAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I call Verizon, and the serviceman again asked surprised at my request. "I've never heard of the police requiring a receipt to file a police report before." After about twenty minutes of being put on and off hold, the man tells me that a copy of the receipt will be in the mail and in my hand in 1-3 business days. He will not fax it to the police. I call the police back to make sure that if I supply them with the receipt they will file the report; they claim that they will. I ask if there is a time limit to file the report, and they say 30 days. I confirm that if I file before June 15 they will file the report, they say yes. I ask what happens if I can't file before then, and the officer says they will make an exception in my case, because I've been trying. I ask if I should provide any information so that there's a record of my trying; she claims that the call is recorded and record enough.

Ugh.

Both parties claim that the other is asking for something exceptional. Time is running out, admittedly through some fault of my own, but I also was delayed a week by someone's incompetance. They have my home phone number, my email address; couldn't Verizon have SOMEHOW notified me that they couldn't mail the damn contract before the entire week had passed?

Someone is being exceptionally uncooperative, giving me the runaround. I'm inclined to believe that it's happening a bit on both sides of the equation, and I'm caught in the middle. Three weeks without a cell phone.

And I haven't even begun to deal with the insurance company yet.

Goodness Gracious Me

Whew. That was quite the semester. Busy busy busy busy busy busy busy, film film film film film, edit edit edit edit edit, plan plan plan plan plan plan. WRITE WRITE WRITE WRITE WRITE.

Okay, I'll stop doing that. Regardless, this was undoubtedly the most hectic semester yet at USC and there were many times where I cursed my work load, my professors, and life in general. Clearly my intended "daily blog posts" didn't quite pan out, not by a long shot. I could only earn about half as much money as I needed to stay afloat because work-study on the weekends is verboten in 290-Land; the weekends are for filmmaking-time, friends.

Yet I can't say that I hated it because this has also been the most productive period in my entire life. I produced five short films and contributed to a sixth. I wrote a 102 page screenplay, which is the longest work I've ever managed to complete. I wrote two short scripts and a couple of short stories. None of these are masterpieces but, damn it, they're done and I made them. For the first time, the reality seemed to sink in that we're in film school and instead of passively absorbing and regurgitating rhetoric and theory we actually applied what we've learned and we know into practical creative enterprise.

It may have sucked at the time, but damn if it wasn't also exhilarating.

Now 'tis time for a break, though it will quite likely not feel like one, as I'm probably going to be working my ass off to earn a nice cushion of cash for next school year AND complete a second screenplay over the summer.

Ah, the joys of youthful ambition. How long before the weight of the world crushes it? Only time can tell.

Pretentious Polarizers are Preposterous

I'm sick to death of everything, every little damn piece of shit, in this country being politicized and, therefore, made polarizing.

Case in point, 300. Many of the negative reviews, in addition to deriding the film for being totally devoid of "substance," also chided the film for being a supposed piece of conservative propaganda. Iranian diplomats cry foul, that the film's depiction of Persians is "racist."

Excuse me? The film also has 40-foot-tall elephants, satyrs, and an obese tank of a monster with blades for arms. It's based on a goddamn comic book! It's PURE ENTERTAINMENT, for Christ's sake! It's an historical event retold through a lens of fantasy. Candy for the eyes. A fun diversion for two hours. Reading anything more into the film is like seeing shapes in the clouds--if you're looking for it, you'll find it.

It seems that since the bitterness of the 2004 election, people just can't agree to disagree anymore. Even our movie reviews for escapist entertainment are polluted by it. It's always "bloody liberals" or "bigot conservatives," blah blah blah blah blah. I'm fucking sick of it, aboslutely fucking sick of it. Can't people relax anymore? Does everyone have to be up on their high horse all the goddamned time?

Yes, we're in a war, and it sucks. It sucks the Big One. Just about everyone (excepting defense contractors) would agree on this point, because no one wants to be at war. But when I'm watching a film based on a comic book about epic battles and blood spattering all over the screen and there's lots of pretty colors, I don't want to be thinking about the war; I'm watching the damn movie so that I don't have to think about the war. If I wanted to think about the war, I'd watch Jarhead or Black Hawk Down or something grounded in reality, not a fantasy comic-book epic. Not every film needs to be an intellectual wank-fest ("Look, film's an art form too, just like books! See how literate and culturally aware I am! Oh, YEAHHHH!!")

I appreciate films of artistic merit and I appreciate staying on top of current events and everything, but goddamn it, I also appreciate being able to escape and relax once and a while; to enjoy something not because I found great meaning or because it agrees with me, but because it's fun.

Relax, people.