5/23/20
This week I:
1) Scrubbed through The Avengers, perhaps watching its 140 minutes in 70
2) Obtained brief ideas of the middle two films
3) Watched Endgame
I understand this would hardly excuse an intent to "review" the Avengers franchise; but seldom am I interested in qualified reviews on this blog. It's a place for me to practice writing and thinking, specifically about a topic I enjoy, so I am happy to assemble thoughts around these films regardless.
Context: I've rarely watched movies the last few years; I just watched the three new mainline Star Wars; I've maybe seen a film or two in the MCU.
I'm guessing this is trite to say: these movies seem almost perfectly engineered for bank-shattering popularity. Yet I expected more of a soul. The first movie was exactly what I expected, and is probably oft-imitated since. Endgame wasn't really surprising, but lacked the soul and grandeur I expected. Obviously it's monumental in various objective ways, and strives constantly to be epic, and it emotionally burdened many fans. But, disregarding my lack of emotional investment in Marvel due to little experience, still Endgame was not as epic as I expected. I felt the same about The Rise of Skywalker. The mega-blockbusters of my generation have now been around so long, and myself deaf to them, I guess I expected them to melt all watching minds, annihilate all souls. I took years away from video games, and returned for one video game, supposedly a culmination of visual and cinematic artistry in video games; after many years away I expected perfection in the modern gaming experience, and it was so far from it. Similarly after years away from blockbuster films I expected a perfect and annihilating experience, and both Star Wars and The Avengers were relatively mild. Again, I'm not a dedicated fan of either, but I still think I can deduce the situation. I think I can assume emotional gravity in Iron Man's arc, and in seeing all your favorite movies converge into one at the final assembling, and still report failures of grandeur.
It was alright -- I didn't mind the films or anything, but they were exceptionally basic. Formulaic, obvious, artificial. In high school I grew cynical of my society, exaggerating its artificiality. Then over the years my ego shrank and I tried to understand human beings better. Now I'm watching these movies with a smaller ego, expecting to succumb as everyone else does -- and they're failing me. They're supporting my old hypotheses, that my society is depressingly basic and artificial. The people aren't, but the products are.
Star Wars was far more profound to me, though superficially more juvenile. The Avengers was more mature in its presentation, but elementary in its content. The ridiculous discussion of quantum mechanics in Endgame serves as a microcosm -- use mature language to try and justify your childish concept of time travel. It's almost offensive how these films speak to mask their emptiness. It feels intentionally deceptive, almost unethical (though I can't really say that). I have no ethical issue with people making and selling these films, but the deception is gross to me, like gilding. It's a blameless but gross reality. These films pretend to be profound and mature, but they're basic. At least Star Wars had a rumor of something profound. The Avengers was written for the adolescent living in the minds of adults, and not in a good way. Star Wars was written for the adult living in the hearts of adolescents. Star Wars guides children into adulthood, while The Avengers regresses adults back into immaturity.
These movies didn't affect me, though they were fine and sometimes fun to watch. They weren't even that fun though. Obviously they were stimulating, but not emotional. I care very little about Marvel, if Endgame affects me so little. I'm sure it affected those who watched every MCU movie. But if this is supposedly the most profound and grand of them all, Marvel has little for me. Even if they're basic I could expect they'd affect me -- but they don't. Maybe I'll be thankful for that, so I can forget them, and reclaim some old ego.
Saturday, May 23, 2020
Saturday, May 16, 2020
Star Wars VII VIII IX
Review of IV V VI, Jan 2017
The Force Awakens - 5/10/20
Two people watched movies in adjacent rooms. One watched The Force Awakens, the other watched Parasite. They ended almost exactly the same moment. One emerged like a tree after a tsunami. The other emerged like one who's been chewing a lot of bubble gum, though he was hungry. One was crippled and dripping, a cup spilling, overfull; the other still bounced in his seat for something that never came.
Though I kind of liked it, The Force Awakens was lame. Maybe I'm just not a Star Wars fanatic, but maybe it's not my style. It all seems so trite. How could it provide rich experience to anyone but juveniles and fanatics, being so obvious and vacuous like a light show? I really expected more -- depth, weight, darkness, awe, intrigue, beauty. Was I hoping JJ Abrams would do for Star Wars what Christopher Nolan did for Batman, Martin Campbell for James Bond? Not entirely, but I figured decades removed from the original three would naturally pull the franchise into 21st c. epic gravitas (notwithstanding cheap 21st c. humor alongside, which I expected). But I didn't realize: this is for adolescents and fanatics. It's a good transition for kids into adult movies; and fans savor it regardless, like I would anything Tolkien-related, no matter the quality. Outside these two perspectives, the movie is vapid. Rest assured all tropes are rehashed. The only refreshment is its socially progressive agenda, especially regarding female roles: it may not be very progressive, but at least it's intentional, and anyway all I'm saying is this is refreshing relative to the older ones. At least they got mindful about something, while most else is stupidly obvious. I still like it fine, but I expected more intellect and inspiration. Actually, see Lion King 2019 post.
So there are several ways I can appreciate and respect this movie as a cultural entity, but hardly as a movie in itself. It lacks the beauty and intelligence I seek in all movies, in all things. If it fails to provide beautiful or interesting experience, what more can I say?
I did enjoy it. I wasn't bored. I might even follow up with 8 and 9. But my expectations were high, and it was relatively lame.
The Last Jedi - 5/11/20
Most striking writing moment for me: Luke says reach out; Rey reaches her hand out; Luke says "Reach out with your feelings." This reminded me of Jane Eyre "Am I a machine without feelings?" However, that instance is far more forgivable, being many years before "feelings" became the weakest word to describe any condition of the human soul. I want the Force to be profound. If the Force isn't profound, nothing in Star Wars is profound. And you're telling me the Force resides in your "feelings"? Maybe it does, but was this written by a child? Or are we offending children by assuming they'll only understand this language? Children might have written much of this movie, actually. But if we're writing for children, we can challenge and respect them much better (I keep forcing myself not to mention Tolkien, again and again). And if the Force isn't profound, then stop writing "hell" into the script, because this movie is only for kids. Again, see Lion King 2019 post.
Speaking of profound, I think my favorite element in all of Star Wars is its flirting with divinity. This occurs across several characters and concepts. Nearly all characters are consistently shallow to me except in moments they look almost like deities. I only realized this during The Last Jedi, with its focus on Luke and the developing histories of Kylo and Rey. My most beautiful and profound moments in Star Wars seem almost always to be during confrontation with nebulous divinity, transcendent power suddenly unleashed. This says something broader about myself. It's why Gandalf is one of my favorite characters in all of fiction. His sudden outbursts of power and beauty and depth stun me. Maybe it's the rare humbling of my excessive ego I crave -- it strikes me still with an awe I rarely experience. It humiliates my normally-unappeasable standards for beauty and intelligence, those pillars of experience I mentioned earlier. Maybe the divine is fascinating and beautiful to me, to paralyze my wits and my senses like so little can. Gandalf is the perfect antidote. Even Aragorn shows sporadic outbursts of that Firstborn blood. I understand everyone loves when Luke is shot a thousand times and stands unharmed. But I think it strikes me in a particular way I'm rarely struck. It excites my emotions and veneration, it lights my eyes, like nothing else in Star Wars has been. The same vein is Rey and Kylo turning back to back and fighting the mob with simultaneous strength and elegance, supernaturally endowed. Or when Rey lifts the rocks at the end. I know everyone likes this. But it stands far apart from the rest of the movies for me. I wish Star Wars took itself even more seriously. Sometimes it's very serious, sometimes melodramatically serious, but ultimately the most profound elements are underplayed. I remember years ago I was disappointed with the character arc in Under the Skin. Bill asked "what do you want, just two hours of Scarlett Johansson luring men into the abyss?" Affirmative. I want to feel awe. I don't want to comprehend everything. Comprehension has stolen emotion away from my life. Every game I play is intelligible. I want to see things with natures unfathomably deep. This is what inspires me: gods, with power and intelligence I can't touch. It's what's beautiful to me. This may be all that redeems Star Wars -- its trace of the divine, coursing through numerous entities. It's rarely indulged to my satisfaction. Yes, I just want to sit back and watch the power unleashed continuously. Star Wars tarries in such shallow water 95% of the time. I said the same thing in my reviews of the original three. In fact I may have formulated much of this in different words there -- I don't remember. The mechanics and dynamics of the divine are what make Star Wars interesting and beautiful, when it is.
I still enjoyed the movie, and I especially appreciated awe-inspiring demigod expressions. I'll watch the last, mostly to see how these demigods evolve. I certainly don't care at all about the Resistance winning the galaxy, nor Finn's story. Of many subplots, I care almost universally little, but the sweeping evolution of the semi-divine and the rocking balance of the universe keep me interested. In Tolkien, especially the books, the whole vision for a world is planted in each particular, so that everything has depth and meaning. A major difference is this: Tolkien was crafting his world for solitary decades, with no end besides artistic expression, and while studying and teaching completely different things. He needed to express his vision, and therefore did so with unparalleled authenticity. For these filmmakers, box office billions were guaranteed. Maybe they love their subject and product ecstatically. But they only put a small fraction of the soul Tolkien put into his work into theirs. Maybe it's not their fault. The production companies needed very specific things from these movies. The filmmakers mostly just needed to show up. And maybe that's all they did. Anyway, capitalism set a thousand parameters on these movies. They needed to be something specific, and were created for it, while Tolkien's work simply needed to be created.
The Rise of Skywalker - 5/13/20
Now I am happy. The Rise of Skywalker struck deepest. It's obviously not all I want it to be, but three movies in, I can adopt the rhythm and tone, fall in with the characters, and of course, finales are often most profound. My most emotional couple of moments occurred in this movie. My greatest triumphs, fears, and surprises occurred here. Despite relentless jokes, this one was bleakest. It also confronted high concepts clearest. Perhaps its most exquisite virtue, up against the other two, is that it surprised me a few important times. The writing isn't all bad, if it can surprise me and still make sense.
As before, nothing in these movies can touch the concepts of Jedi, Sith, and Force for me. The powerful incomprehensible is more beautiful to me than anything else here -- far more beautiful than almost everything human happening in these movies. The human aspect is always way too archetypal, such that it doesn't impact me. Only parent/child relationships, perhaps, enriched these movies for me, since that topic is poignant for me right now. Bloodlines, natures, "dynastic imperatives." Obviously Star Wars is significantly involved in these concepts, which I appreciate. Besides that, I cared little about most human meddling here, but was invested in the divine dynamics. Of course I care about humans, but not human figures cut from paper. But my investment in the Jedi, Sith, and Force only ramped up over time, such that by the crucial confrontation (all-Sith meets all-Jedi) my eyes went wide and my heart fluttered. I have to say my sinuses moistened. Rey is a small frame and a sprightly visage to represent all Jedi ever! It's challenging and beautiful to comprehend her significance on sight, like the infant Christ. Whether Rey is written consistently profound is interesting. I'm always surprised when profundity descends. I guess that's significant about Christ's figure in literature -- he's never not profound. But in almost all cases, profundity descends, or appears to. Gandalf selectively reveals his power. Nordic Choir singers are usually ditzy. Bob Dylan eats breakfast. It blows my mind, really. Rey is profound, powerful, and beautiful. This is why I watch Star Wars. It's trite to emphasize repeatedly how much I enjoy the expressions of power. But I'm not in love with this -- it's simply by far the thing I most want to talk about, regarding these movies. I like some of the human stuff -- I like Finn and Poe and the fighter pilots and some of the relationships -- but I'll forget them fast. What I'm going to remember, doubtless, and yearn to see again, are expressions of power from Rey, Kylo, Luke. The moments they rose above everyone else, fought everyone else's fight, bore the whole world's bane.
This brings me directly into my next topic, which distracted me throughout this last film. I regret disrespecting this film by repeatedly thinking and speaking of another, rather than experiencing it in itself, but the parallels were unmistakable. The Rise of Skywalker was nearly directly influenced by Tolkien's War of the Ring, there can be no question. The filmmakers may have watched The Return of the King for inspiration on closing a trilogy. Since this blog is primarily for myself, not readers, I rarely burden myself to provide examples, but I think they're clear, and I'll just mention: they even said "dark throne"! Tolkien's war and world are far more profound to me, but it's no coincidence this film affected me significantly more than the other two. It shared some arcs with Tolkien.
I enjoyed it all, and even got a little emotional near the end. The supernatural dynamics held my interest when nothing else did. I'm a sucker for power and profundity, which turns to beauty in my perception. These things were present enough. Most of the action was really cheap, but sometimes sufficiently tense. Most of the dialogue was childish, but I didn't care too much. I mostly ignored that. I needed rich conceptual backdrop, and Star Wars has always had just enough of that, perhaps in spite of the writers, to hold me here. I certainly don't love it. But I like it, and I almost love Rey. I wanted an even more epic conclusion. One thing I should mention that I seriously appreciate about these three movies, besides the supernatural and the "dynastic imperative" thing, is their respect for the past. As the dynastic imperative thing strikes me personally, and timely, so does indulgence in the past, and these three movies are gluttons. I should have mentioned this earlier, but I remember it now: I would have liked these significantly less without such retrospection. Some would cheaply call it nostalgic, some excessively so, but I find reflection on the past to be beautiful, emotional, and of ultimate necessity. The new three Star Wars indulged me plenty.
I liked it all, I didn't love it, and it was exceedingly lame much of the time. But I like it.
A few days later
I do miss Star Wars already. It's rare I indulge in such escapism, and immersive media in general, which certainly intensifies my pining. But as expected, what am I thinking about? -- just those glorious semi-divine moments. Finn definitely ended up not mattering much, relative to his heroic entrance in The Force Awakens. I guess the writers realized he was peripheral halfway through. His role was primarily straight-man, in a couple senses. I eventually became tense about the galaxy's political battle, just like the strife in The Return of the King. In both cases the bleak odds become devastating, before they are wiped by one supernatural event perpetrated by a small hero bearing the entire bane and burden. Despite all my stoic criticism in this post, I actually became devastated by the odds near the end. It was terribly sad, like fighting before the Black Gate, or at Pelennor, or before the Elves arrive at Helm's Deep. It's crushing. I guess the late arrival of the galactic allies in Star Wars is very analogous to the arrivals of Rohan and the Undead at Pelennor, or maybe the Elves at Helm's Deep, while still the war is never won without our small supernatural hero. But in this sense, I was eventually affected by the human element. Only at the very end, in the devastating situation at Exegol, but I was eventually affected. However, like I was saying, as expected, I miss none of this -- I only miss Rey and Kylo. I only miss the gods. Everything else is forgettable, but I long to see Rey again, I long to see Kylo. As The Lord of the Rings is not about The Lord of the Rings in itself, only in its historical context, nor about any of the company or races involved, but in itself actually largely just the story of a hobbit, that is, in itself, not in its historical context; so these three Star Wars are in themselves not really about the Star Wars, nor the Sith, but are the story of a Jedi. In the greater Tolkien context, The Lord of the Rings is about ending The Lord of the Rings, precipitating the exodus of the Firstborn, and ushering the age of Men we live in today. But to read the books is to experience something completely different -- the story of a hobbit. Obviously The Hobbit does that identically, though its analogy to Star Wars is weaker given its limited historical importance. The Lord of the Rings is of profound importance, so as to define an Age, but still largely feels like the story of a hobbit. These three Star Wars movies are historically important to their world, but feel like the story of a Jedi. My point is, I care far more about the Jedi, singular and plural, than the rest. I already miss these movies, but what do I miss? -- just Rey, Kylo, and the beautiful incomprehensible expressions of the deep and divine. I eventually cared some for the rest of the meddling, but ultimately I yearn for the ecstasy watching the gods interface and evolve, Rey dangerously unassuming like infant Christ, Kylo quivering unto kingship, all tenuously balanced, light and dark caught like a leaf shimmering between sun and storm. I want to see Rey again. I want to see Kylo. I want them to fight opposite, and fight together. I'm tempted to say I love these movies, for these reasons, like hormonally-deprived Jane Eyre loved Rochester so soon. I rarely experience cinematic escapism, or indulgent immersive excessive media in general, so I'm confused into calling this love. I don't think it's love, but I did like it, and I miss it, and it kindled both my affection and my reverence by the end. And I think it's exceedingly lame, but it affected me a little.
The Force Awakens - 5/10/20
Two people watched movies in adjacent rooms. One watched The Force Awakens, the other watched Parasite. They ended almost exactly the same moment. One emerged like a tree after a tsunami. The other emerged like one who's been chewing a lot of bubble gum, though he was hungry. One was crippled and dripping, a cup spilling, overfull; the other still bounced in his seat for something that never came.
Though I kind of liked it, The Force Awakens was lame. Maybe I'm just not a Star Wars fanatic, but maybe it's not my style. It all seems so trite. How could it provide rich experience to anyone but juveniles and fanatics, being so obvious and vacuous like a light show? I really expected more -- depth, weight, darkness, awe, intrigue, beauty. Was I hoping JJ Abrams would do for Star Wars what Christopher Nolan did for Batman, Martin Campbell for James Bond? Not entirely, but I figured decades removed from the original three would naturally pull the franchise into 21st c. epic gravitas (notwithstanding cheap 21st c. humor alongside, which I expected). But I didn't realize: this is for adolescents and fanatics. It's a good transition for kids into adult movies; and fans savor it regardless, like I would anything Tolkien-related, no matter the quality. Outside these two perspectives, the movie is vapid. Rest assured all tropes are rehashed. The only refreshment is its socially progressive agenda, especially regarding female roles: it may not be very progressive, but at least it's intentional, and anyway all I'm saying is this is refreshing relative to the older ones. At least they got mindful about something, while most else is stupidly obvious. I still like it fine, but I expected more intellect and inspiration. Actually, see Lion King 2019 post.
So there are several ways I can appreciate and respect this movie as a cultural entity, but hardly as a movie in itself. It lacks the beauty and intelligence I seek in all movies, in all things. If it fails to provide beautiful or interesting experience, what more can I say?
I did enjoy it. I wasn't bored. I might even follow up with 8 and 9. But my expectations were high, and it was relatively lame.
The Last Jedi - 5/11/20
Most striking writing moment for me: Luke says reach out; Rey reaches her hand out; Luke says "Reach out with your feelings." This reminded me of Jane Eyre "Am I a machine without feelings?" However, that instance is far more forgivable, being many years before "feelings" became the weakest word to describe any condition of the human soul. I want the Force to be profound. If the Force isn't profound, nothing in Star Wars is profound. And you're telling me the Force resides in your "feelings"? Maybe it does, but was this written by a child? Or are we offending children by assuming they'll only understand this language? Children might have written much of this movie, actually. But if we're writing for children, we can challenge and respect them much better (I keep forcing myself not to mention Tolkien, again and again). And if the Force isn't profound, then stop writing "hell" into the script, because this movie is only for kids. Again, see Lion King 2019 post.
Speaking of profound, I think my favorite element in all of Star Wars is its flirting with divinity. This occurs across several characters and concepts. Nearly all characters are consistently shallow to me except in moments they look almost like deities. I only realized this during The Last Jedi, with its focus on Luke and the developing histories of Kylo and Rey. My most beautiful and profound moments in Star Wars seem almost always to be during confrontation with nebulous divinity, transcendent power suddenly unleashed. This says something broader about myself. It's why Gandalf is one of my favorite characters in all of fiction. His sudden outbursts of power and beauty and depth stun me. Maybe it's the rare humbling of my excessive ego I crave -- it strikes me still with an awe I rarely experience. It humiliates my normally-unappeasable standards for beauty and intelligence, those pillars of experience I mentioned earlier. Maybe the divine is fascinating and beautiful to me, to paralyze my wits and my senses like so little can. Gandalf is the perfect antidote. Even Aragorn shows sporadic outbursts of that Firstborn blood. I understand everyone loves when Luke is shot a thousand times and stands unharmed. But I think it strikes me in a particular way I'm rarely struck. It excites my emotions and veneration, it lights my eyes, like nothing else in Star Wars has been. The same vein is Rey and Kylo turning back to back and fighting the mob with simultaneous strength and elegance, supernaturally endowed. Or when Rey lifts the rocks at the end. I know everyone likes this. But it stands far apart from the rest of the movies for me. I wish Star Wars took itself even more seriously. Sometimes it's very serious, sometimes melodramatically serious, but ultimately the most profound elements are underplayed. I remember years ago I was disappointed with the character arc in Under the Skin. Bill asked "what do you want, just two hours of Scarlett Johansson luring men into the abyss?" Affirmative. I want to feel awe. I don't want to comprehend everything. Comprehension has stolen emotion away from my life. Every game I play is intelligible. I want to see things with natures unfathomably deep. This is what inspires me: gods, with power and intelligence I can't touch. It's what's beautiful to me. This may be all that redeems Star Wars -- its trace of the divine, coursing through numerous entities. It's rarely indulged to my satisfaction. Yes, I just want to sit back and watch the power unleashed continuously. Star Wars tarries in such shallow water 95% of the time. I said the same thing in my reviews of the original three. In fact I may have formulated much of this in different words there -- I don't remember. The mechanics and dynamics of the divine are what make Star Wars interesting and beautiful, when it is.
I still enjoyed the movie, and I especially appreciated awe-inspiring demigod expressions. I'll watch the last, mostly to see how these demigods evolve. I certainly don't care at all about the Resistance winning the galaxy, nor Finn's story. Of many subplots, I care almost universally little, but the sweeping evolution of the semi-divine and the rocking balance of the universe keep me interested. In Tolkien, especially the books, the whole vision for a world is planted in each particular, so that everything has depth and meaning. A major difference is this: Tolkien was crafting his world for solitary decades, with no end besides artistic expression, and while studying and teaching completely different things. He needed to express his vision, and therefore did so with unparalleled authenticity. For these filmmakers, box office billions were guaranteed. Maybe they love their subject and product ecstatically. But they only put a small fraction of the soul Tolkien put into his work into theirs. Maybe it's not their fault. The production companies needed very specific things from these movies. The filmmakers mostly just needed to show up. And maybe that's all they did. Anyway, capitalism set a thousand parameters on these movies. They needed to be something specific, and were created for it, while Tolkien's work simply needed to be created.
The Rise of Skywalker - 5/13/20
Now I am happy. The Rise of Skywalker struck deepest. It's obviously not all I want it to be, but three movies in, I can adopt the rhythm and tone, fall in with the characters, and of course, finales are often most profound. My most emotional couple of moments occurred in this movie. My greatest triumphs, fears, and surprises occurred here. Despite relentless jokes, this one was bleakest. It also confronted high concepts clearest. Perhaps its most exquisite virtue, up against the other two, is that it surprised me a few important times. The writing isn't all bad, if it can surprise me and still make sense.
As before, nothing in these movies can touch the concepts of Jedi, Sith, and Force for me. The powerful incomprehensible is more beautiful to me than anything else here -- far more beautiful than almost everything human happening in these movies. The human aspect is always way too archetypal, such that it doesn't impact me. Only parent/child relationships, perhaps, enriched these movies for me, since that topic is poignant for me right now. Bloodlines, natures, "dynastic imperatives." Obviously Star Wars is significantly involved in these concepts, which I appreciate. Besides that, I cared little about most human meddling here, but was invested in the divine dynamics. Of course I care about humans, but not human figures cut from paper. But my investment in the Jedi, Sith, and Force only ramped up over time, such that by the crucial confrontation (all-Sith meets all-Jedi) my eyes went wide and my heart fluttered. I have to say my sinuses moistened. Rey is a small frame and a sprightly visage to represent all Jedi ever! It's challenging and beautiful to comprehend her significance on sight, like the infant Christ. Whether Rey is written consistently profound is interesting. I'm always surprised when profundity descends. I guess that's significant about Christ's figure in literature -- he's never not profound. But in almost all cases, profundity descends, or appears to. Gandalf selectively reveals his power. Nordic Choir singers are usually ditzy. Bob Dylan eats breakfast. It blows my mind, really. Rey is profound, powerful, and beautiful. This is why I watch Star Wars. It's trite to emphasize repeatedly how much I enjoy the expressions of power. But I'm not in love with this -- it's simply by far the thing I most want to talk about, regarding these movies. I like some of the human stuff -- I like Finn and Poe and the fighter pilots and some of the relationships -- but I'll forget them fast. What I'm going to remember, doubtless, and yearn to see again, are expressions of power from Rey, Kylo, Luke. The moments they rose above everyone else, fought everyone else's fight, bore the whole world's bane.
This brings me directly into my next topic, which distracted me throughout this last film. I regret disrespecting this film by repeatedly thinking and speaking of another, rather than experiencing it in itself, but the parallels were unmistakable. The Rise of Skywalker was nearly directly influenced by Tolkien's War of the Ring, there can be no question. The filmmakers may have watched The Return of the King for inspiration on closing a trilogy. Since this blog is primarily for myself, not readers, I rarely burden myself to provide examples, but I think they're clear, and I'll just mention: they even said "dark throne"! Tolkien's war and world are far more profound to me, but it's no coincidence this film affected me significantly more than the other two. It shared some arcs with Tolkien.
I enjoyed it all, and even got a little emotional near the end. The supernatural dynamics held my interest when nothing else did. I'm a sucker for power and profundity, which turns to beauty in my perception. These things were present enough. Most of the action was really cheap, but sometimes sufficiently tense. Most of the dialogue was childish, but I didn't care too much. I mostly ignored that. I needed rich conceptual backdrop, and Star Wars has always had just enough of that, perhaps in spite of the writers, to hold me here. I certainly don't love it. But I like it, and I almost love Rey. I wanted an even more epic conclusion. One thing I should mention that I seriously appreciate about these three movies, besides the supernatural and the "dynastic imperative" thing, is their respect for the past. As the dynastic imperative thing strikes me personally, and timely, so does indulgence in the past, and these three movies are gluttons. I should have mentioned this earlier, but I remember it now: I would have liked these significantly less without such retrospection. Some would cheaply call it nostalgic, some excessively so, but I find reflection on the past to be beautiful, emotional, and of ultimate necessity. The new three Star Wars indulged me plenty.
I liked it all, I didn't love it, and it was exceedingly lame much of the time. But I like it.
A few days later
I do miss Star Wars already. It's rare I indulge in such escapism, and immersive media in general, which certainly intensifies my pining. But as expected, what am I thinking about? -- just those glorious semi-divine moments. Finn definitely ended up not mattering much, relative to his heroic entrance in The Force Awakens. I guess the writers realized he was peripheral halfway through. His role was primarily straight-man, in a couple senses. I eventually became tense about the galaxy's political battle, just like the strife in The Return of the King. In both cases the bleak odds become devastating, before they are wiped by one supernatural event perpetrated by a small hero bearing the entire bane and burden. Despite all my stoic criticism in this post, I actually became devastated by the odds near the end. It was terribly sad, like fighting before the Black Gate, or at Pelennor, or before the Elves arrive at Helm's Deep. It's crushing. I guess the late arrival of the galactic allies in Star Wars is very analogous to the arrivals of Rohan and the Undead at Pelennor, or maybe the Elves at Helm's Deep, while still the war is never won without our small supernatural hero. But in this sense, I was eventually affected by the human element. Only at the very end, in the devastating situation at Exegol, but I was eventually affected. However, like I was saying, as expected, I miss none of this -- I only miss Rey and Kylo. I only miss the gods. Everything else is forgettable, but I long to see Rey again, I long to see Kylo. As The Lord of the Rings is not about The Lord of the Rings in itself, only in its historical context, nor about any of the company or races involved, but in itself actually largely just the story of a hobbit, that is, in itself, not in its historical context; so these three Star Wars are in themselves not really about the Star Wars, nor the Sith, but are the story of a Jedi. In the greater Tolkien context, The Lord of the Rings is about ending The Lord of the Rings, precipitating the exodus of the Firstborn, and ushering the age of Men we live in today. But to read the books is to experience something completely different -- the story of a hobbit. Obviously The Hobbit does that identically, though its analogy to Star Wars is weaker given its limited historical importance. The Lord of the Rings is of profound importance, so as to define an Age, but still largely feels like the story of a hobbit. These three Star Wars movies are historically important to their world, but feel like the story of a Jedi. My point is, I care far more about the Jedi, singular and plural, than the rest. I already miss these movies, but what do I miss? -- just Rey, Kylo, and the beautiful incomprehensible expressions of the deep and divine. I eventually cared some for the rest of the meddling, but ultimately I yearn for the ecstasy watching the gods interface and evolve, Rey dangerously unassuming like infant Christ, Kylo quivering unto kingship, all tenuously balanced, light and dark caught like a leaf shimmering between sun and storm. I want to see Rey again. I want to see Kylo. I want them to fight opposite, and fight together. I'm tempted to say I love these movies, for these reasons, like hormonally-deprived Jane Eyre loved Rochester so soon. I rarely experience cinematic escapism, or indulgent immersive excessive media in general, so I'm confused into calling this love. I don't think it's love, but I did like it, and I miss it, and it kindled both my affection and my reverence by the end. And I think it's exceedingly lame, but it affected me a little.
Sunday, May 3, 2020
Dave Chappelle: Sticks & Stones
December 2019?
I knew before it began that Sticks & Stones would be the last Dave Chappelle special I watch for a long time. I'd completed to my impossible satisfaction the full Dave Chappelle gamut and was achieving with him the kind of artistic/intellectual closure I constantly seek and rarely experience in my insatiable life. But I wasn't prepared for such an intimate and heroic experience as Sticks & Stones and its Epilogue. I dreamt a couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with my friend Dave Chappelle at his Manhattan flat. Today my friend rose in the sunlight amidst a crowd into a hero and an idol and at last a king. His specials are one thing; his Epilogue is deifying. Someday I will watch it all again from the beginning; someday I will feel bewildering distress when he releases something new; someday I won't believe he's dead who was once so alive. He's entered this echelon of icons for me. I don't think I worship him any more than I would a friend -- if I have a friend who's defining an art like this. He's like a very interesting and great friend. The difference is -- that I would speak of his glimmering ascension -- that he has thousands, literally and sometimes simultaneously, looking up at him in this way. I always think of a friend or lover differently who gains an audience like myself but not myself. I venerate that which has been venerated or taken from me. I relish the relished and neglect the neglected, and I plead the treasured trash back. Dave Chappelle is an unequivocal icon as merely the credits after his specials can reveal. A lot of his stuff over the years isn't that great! And it's a relatively small output to the general public. But we love this guy. In 2000 he was phenomenal like a kid genius; in 2019 he's accessible like the best friend you ever had. He must be the sanest great man in show business, flawed and joyous and ultimately beloved. Comedians emanate a fascinating magnetism. I am probably permanently tied now, in my artistic/intellectual soul, to Dave Chappelle's often mediocre comedy. Or maybe someday I'll leave this baggage behind and exit this world of triviality for a purer existence. Until then I love Dave Chappelle.
I knew before it began that Sticks & Stones would be the last Dave Chappelle special I watch for a long time. I'd completed to my impossible satisfaction the full Dave Chappelle gamut and was achieving with him the kind of artistic/intellectual closure I constantly seek and rarely experience in my insatiable life. But I wasn't prepared for such an intimate and heroic experience as Sticks & Stones and its Epilogue. I dreamt a couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with my friend Dave Chappelle at his Manhattan flat. Today my friend rose in the sunlight amidst a crowd into a hero and an idol and at last a king. His specials are one thing; his Epilogue is deifying. Someday I will watch it all again from the beginning; someday I will feel bewildering distress when he releases something new; someday I won't believe he's dead who was once so alive. He's entered this echelon of icons for me. I don't think I worship him any more than I would a friend -- if I have a friend who's defining an art like this. He's like a very interesting and great friend. The difference is -- that I would speak of his glimmering ascension -- that he has thousands, literally and sometimes simultaneously, looking up at him in this way. I always think of a friend or lover differently who gains an audience like myself but not myself. I venerate that which has been venerated or taken from me. I relish the relished and neglect the neglected, and I plead the treasured trash back. Dave Chappelle is an unequivocal icon as merely the credits after his specials can reveal. A lot of his stuff over the years isn't that great! And it's a relatively small output to the general public. But we love this guy. In 2000 he was phenomenal like a kid genius; in 2019 he's accessible like the best friend you ever had. He must be the sanest great man in show business, flawed and joyous and ultimately beloved. Comedians emanate a fascinating magnetism. I am probably permanently tied now, in my artistic/intellectual soul, to Dave Chappelle's often mediocre comedy. Or maybe someday I'll leave this baggage behind and exit this world of triviality for a purer existence. Until then I love Dave Chappelle.
Les Misérables (2012)
I love Les Misérables. I've seen it thrice in the last year, and never before. I've read small pieces of the novel, which were phenomenally interesting. Without doubt here's a work that explores a greater fraction of human experience than most, and with tremendous empathy and intellect. Even the film, a hasty synopsis of the novel, strikes powerfully, again and again in its 2.5 hours. It seems every ten minutes is a devastating blow. As I have often said, these last few years saw my sensitivity increase and emotional tolerance decrease for all fictions, especially movies. Yet Les Misérables seems to tower above others, for scale, scope, intrigue, impact, power and profundity. The dramatic intensity would be enough, without the empathy, intelligence, and artistry, but the whole creates a singular cinematic experience. How great must be the literary experience.
Components: acting; dramatic narrative of the novel; music; writing; historical interest.
I think the actors' performances are outstanding, almost incredible. It's rare to see vulnerability and magnitude co-achieved like this. Tackling both at once is fearless, and achieving both at once makes the performance among the best in Hollywood. To have several of these miracles converging on one screen is a testament to the musical's impact on actors. At least three of them came and delivered some of the most heroic acting of the century so far. The format is unique (novel to stage musical to musical film), therefore difficult to compare with other performances, save with terms of experience: authenticity and emotion.
The drama struck me as Shakespearean. It's an old breed of drama, like the Old Testament, ancient poets, and Shakespeare, that needn't be believable in our age to get a point across. It's exceedingly dramatic, in all major uses of the word. "Dramatic" is one of the first words I'd use to describe both the film and what I've read of the novel. Impossibly dramatic, larger than life, even indulgent, but always authentic and profound. Hugo writes like a man aware of his extreme intelligence. He is not shy. The game is over, no one is pitching, and he's still hitting home runs on his own little tosses -- and we're still glued to our seats. It's amazing to watch. Each page I read was full of intelligence and fascination. It was a subtle genius whose expression was anything but subtle, and a mad spongey sort of genius, rambling intelligently about virtually anything. Yet he crafted this perfect narrative. The drama is almost excessive, and often incredible, yet never flawed for it, and not only spectacular but brilliant and beautiful.
I appreciate and love the music, though I go here and there with it. It's interesting enough, and embedded well enough in the rest of the experience, that I never criticize it like I do almost all modern music. It's interesting, thoroughly embedded, and beyond that very good. But it's not genius, it's not perfect, it's not fascinating, it doesn't strike my taste precisely like other elements of the film. I love it, and it's excellent, and saying it's not genius/perfect/fascinating wouldn't be saying much if I didn't consider other elements of the film genius and perfect and fascinating. The music is excellent and I love it. But it's not overwhelmingly positive an experience for me, like other elements. The reader should immediately remember: I am not a novelist, not a playwright, not an actor, not a historian, not a filmmaker, but I am a musician. Anyway, the music fits partly with modern popular music, therefore makes sense to the ear, yet strays plenty enough to make it interesting. For someone accustomed to music music and not "musical" music, much of it hardly makes sense. I would definitely be in this camp if I had less sophisticated musical training. My generation doesn't hear music like this anymore, at all, unless they go to the theater. For some reason the theater still breaks the molds of the radio, which is such a blessing. Well, I suppose the musical is from 1980. I have heard quite some basic theater music lately. The '80s were different. This also is not American, importantly. So now I'm defeating my own points. But it's still impressive how the theater continues to spice up our musical culture. Kids instantly become more sophisticated when they listen to theater music, which still delivers that rumor of classical music. Even when it's not symphonic, it has those key modulations, left-field chords, quirky melodies, ambiguous song structure/arc, nebulous rhythms, sort of cadenzas, trained operatic voices, almost a randomness we've missed since classical music became irrelevant. Musical theater may be the only remaining relevant rumor of the old style. And looking forward, musical film may be the only thing keeping musical theater relevant. As we get increasingly basic, impatient, and artistically stupid, everything transitions to TV and radio. Classical music went under a long time ago; musical theater carried a rumor of its spirit; now it's films like Les Misérables that may keep musical theater alive, for a while. Eventually it will all just be mumbling, and the 1% of us will fall upon our swords lamenting the past. Anyway, make no mistake, the apparent randomness of classical music is absolutely precious. It kills ever the mumbling over four-on-the-floor. It is drowning, but Les Misérables enshrines it in one cross-cultural generation-leaping monument. We cannot overestimate the significance of this achievement -- nay, service. The music of Les Misérables blends pop with classical; it is excellent stuff for this age; its pop basis is not exactly my taste, even within pop, but it is still quality stuff, and wonderful to hear; it has many terrific songs, many terrific moments; I love it; it is about as sophisticated as pop-based music gets; and it carries a torch bearing a small resurgence of the old flame. God bless it.
The writing is good. I only noticed this third time how it repeatedly leans on repeated phrases. For example, in four bars 1234 rhyming ABAB or ABCB, it's as though the writers wrote strong firsts and seconds, then strong fourths to rhyme with seconds, and then wrote thirds to fill the gap just rehashing the verbiage of the fourth but with a different final word or two, because they didn't want to think of or couldn't think of a really strong third. It's definitely an easy way out, to be honest, and it works, but it comes across as lazy or weak when you notice it many times in one work. I only remember one example, and it's not a great example: "you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live." It's not a great example, but the first two lines make sense, and the fourth works, so this is something I'm familiar with having written some poetry in my life: you write the first line first, inspired for content; then a second, also mostly for content, without much mind for rhyme, pending how things play out; then you imagine a fourth under rhyming necessity, and all three of these can be good; then you have to fit a third in; it's tough, it's crammed, it's the most restricted, it has to flow rhythmically, it has to flow thematically; and you end up rehashing the fourth in the third, because people pay least attention to the third anyway, and in fact have less attention available for #3 by nature, and repetition is very powerful, and puts greater emphasis on #4. But it's an easy way out, and you remove 25% of potential content, and it's ultimately weaker than achieving a really strong third, though that's often difficult. Ideal would be to add content for #3, without cramming too much content, because #3 is the toughest spot to grasp as the audience, yet subtle simple meaning can still be grasped. The repetition is certainly powerful, but is weak writing when indulged repeatedly. Beyond this I really like the writing. The vocabulary and style is largely simple old-fashioned. It's like a tasteful 20th-c. biblical translation (I wish I knew specifically which one to cite) -- not archaic and not too modern, not ornate and not basic, just a tastefully simple rendering of ageless terms, in fact quite like Tolkien at times, yet simpler. The quotation above ("you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live") exemplifies the simplicity, brevity, and timelessness I consider a virtue of the writing, although this example is too elementary. Better examples are more mature, and abound in the movie, though not in my immediate memory for citation. Tolkien is one of my favorite examples of simple yet profound and mature writing, and obviously Hemingway is the brevity guy, but Dylan Thomas (especially early in the collection) is ultimately my greatest example. If God had 100 English words to talk about human experience, they would be Dylan Thomas's. His words are simple, pointed, rich, and timeless all at once. Les Misérables did a good job with this. It will age better since it stays pretty simple and timeless, it strokes all human experience in general terms. And the rhymes are really nice, often surprising. An elegant rhyme that also surprises is one of the best things in all of writing, for me. They seem easy, almost effortless at times in this movie. Many instances convince one it's easy to write and rhyme. But it's not, and this is the nature of elegance. Effortlessness is one of my old core virtues of art, and lots of the writing in this movie appears effortless, elegantly simple.
As I age I feel myself increasingly interested in history. This reflects my increasing interest in identity, especially my own or extensions thereof, and in humanizing the Other. Often the projects are one in the same -- humanizing the Other entails integrating a broader extension of my identity, which always satisfies me, and all of this is enriched by history. History humanizes, and humanizing identifies, and identity is what I love and need. Histories of all kinds and of all entities achieve this. I can see myself reflected in any entity better if I know its history, because it's the dynamics of entities through time that reveal a universal nature, a universal identity, and not snapshots of entities. If all is Brahman, or all is fire, I can see and love myself as Brahman or fire better not viewing an image of a wave in the ocean or of fire but viewing a wave in the ocean transforming in time or viewing fire in its flickering. History reveals myself to me via revealing myself in others to me via revealing the transforming of others through time which looks a lot like me. The personal history of Jean Valjean, the political history of France, Hugo actually wraps many histories into one narrative; especially reading the novel it is clear Hugo is interested in history; therefore I am interested in Hugo, and his narrative is thrilling to me. Historical context enriches almost anything to me. I didn't love Wisconsin until I read its history; I didn't love math and my Senior Project concept until I read its history; I didn't love many people throughout my life until I heard their histories (seriously); I wouldn't love Les Misérables without its appreciation for history.
I love Les Misérables. I love the characters, the story, the music, the historical interest, and the whole thing was highly emotional for me. Every ten minutes was a profound emotion, each of a different color. The thing is monumental. Every page I skimmed of the novel was extraordinary. I should read more of that.
Components: acting; dramatic narrative of the novel; music; writing; historical interest.
I think the actors' performances are outstanding, almost incredible. It's rare to see vulnerability and magnitude co-achieved like this. Tackling both at once is fearless, and achieving both at once makes the performance among the best in Hollywood. To have several of these miracles converging on one screen is a testament to the musical's impact on actors. At least three of them came and delivered some of the most heroic acting of the century so far. The format is unique (novel to stage musical to musical film), therefore difficult to compare with other performances, save with terms of experience: authenticity and emotion.
The drama struck me as Shakespearean. It's an old breed of drama, like the Old Testament, ancient poets, and Shakespeare, that needn't be believable in our age to get a point across. It's exceedingly dramatic, in all major uses of the word. "Dramatic" is one of the first words I'd use to describe both the film and what I've read of the novel. Impossibly dramatic, larger than life, even indulgent, but always authentic and profound. Hugo writes like a man aware of his extreme intelligence. He is not shy. The game is over, no one is pitching, and he's still hitting home runs on his own little tosses -- and we're still glued to our seats. It's amazing to watch. Each page I read was full of intelligence and fascination. It was a subtle genius whose expression was anything but subtle, and a mad spongey sort of genius, rambling intelligently about virtually anything. Yet he crafted this perfect narrative. The drama is almost excessive, and often incredible, yet never flawed for it, and not only spectacular but brilliant and beautiful.
I appreciate and love the music, though I go here and there with it. It's interesting enough, and embedded well enough in the rest of the experience, that I never criticize it like I do almost all modern music. It's interesting, thoroughly embedded, and beyond that very good. But it's not genius, it's not perfect, it's not fascinating, it doesn't strike my taste precisely like other elements of the film. I love it, and it's excellent, and saying it's not genius/perfect/fascinating wouldn't be saying much if I didn't consider other elements of the film genius and perfect and fascinating. The music is excellent and I love it. But it's not overwhelmingly positive an experience for me, like other elements. The reader should immediately remember: I am not a novelist, not a playwright, not an actor, not a historian, not a filmmaker, but I am a musician. Anyway, the music fits partly with modern popular music, therefore makes sense to the ear, yet strays plenty enough to make it interesting. For someone accustomed to music music and not "musical" music, much of it hardly makes sense. I would definitely be in this camp if I had less sophisticated musical training. My generation doesn't hear music like this anymore, at all, unless they go to the theater. For some reason the theater still breaks the molds of the radio, which is such a blessing. Well, I suppose the musical is from 1980. I have heard quite some basic theater music lately. The '80s were different. This also is not American, importantly. So now I'm defeating my own points. But it's still impressive how the theater continues to spice up our musical culture. Kids instantly become more sophisticated when they listen to theater music, which still delivers that rumor of classical music. Even when it's not symphonic, it has those key modulations, left-field chords, quirky melodies, ambiguous song structure/arc, nebulous rhythms, sort of cadenzas, trained operatic voices, almost a randomness we've missed since classical music became irrelevant. Musical theater may be the only remaining relevant rumor of the old style. And looking forward, musical film may be the only thing keeping musical theater relevant. As we get increasingly basic, impatient, and artistically stupid, everything transitions to TV and radio. Classical music went under a long time ago; musical theater carried a rumor of its spirit; now it's films like Les Misérables that may keep musical theater alive, for a while. Eventually it will all just be mumbling, and the 1% of us will fall upon our swords lamenting the past. Anyway, make no mistake, the apparent randomness of classical music is absolutely precious. It kills ever the mumbling over four-on-the-floor. It is drowning, but Les Misérables enshrines it in one cross-cultural generation-leaping monument. We cannot overestimate the significance of this achievement -- nay, service. The music of Les Misérables blends pop with classical; it is excellent stuff for this age; its pop basis is not exactly my taste, even within pop, but it is still quality stuff, and wonderful to hear; it has many terrific songs, many terrific moments; I love it; it is about as sophisticated as pop-based music gets; and it carries a torch bearing a small resurgence of the old flame. God bless it.
The writing is good. I only noticed this third time how it repeatedly leans on repeated phrases. For example, in four bars 1234 rhyming ABAB or ABCB, it's as though the writers wrote strong firsts and seconds, then strong fourths to rhyme with seconds, and then wrote thirds to fill the gap just rehashing the verbiage of the fourth but with a different final word or two, because they didn't want to think of or couldn't think of a really strong third. It's definitely an easy way out, to be honest, and it works, but it comes across as lazy or weak when you notice it many times in one work. I only remember one example, and it's not a great example: "you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live." It's not a great example, but the first two lines make sense, and the fourth works, so this is something I'm familiar with having written some poetry in my life: you write the first line first, inspired for content; then a second, also mostly for content, without much mind for rhyme, pending how things play out; then you imagine a fourth under rhyming necessity, and all three of these can be good; then you have to fit a third in; it's tough, it's crammed, it's the most restricted, it has to flow rhythmically, it has to flow thematically; and you end up rehashing the fourth in the third, because people pay least attention to the third anyway, and in fact have less attention available for #3 by nature, and repetition is very powerful, and puts greater emphasis on #4. But it's an easy way out, and you remove 25% of potential content, and it's ultimately weaker than achieving a really strong third, though that's often difficult. Ideal would be to add content for #3, without cramming too much content, because #3 is the toughest spot to grasp as the audience, yet subtle simple meaning can still be grasped. The repetition is certainly powerful, but is weak writing when indulged repeatedly. Beyond this I really like the writing. The vocabulary and style is largely simple old-fashioned. It's like a tasteful 20th-c. biblical translation (I wish I knew specifically which one to cite) -- not archaic and not too modern, not ornate and not basic, just a tastefully simple rendering of ageless terms, in fact quite like Tolkien at times, yet simpler. The quotation above ("you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live") exemplifies the simplicity, brevity, and timelessness I consider a virtue of the writing, although this example is too elementary. Better examples are more mature, and abound in the movie, though not in my immediate memory for citation. Tolkien is one of my favorite examples of simple yet profound and mature writing, and obviously Hemingway is the brevity guy, but Dylan Thomas (especially early in the collection) is ultimately my greatest example. If God had 100 English words to talk about human experience, they would be Dylan Thomas's. His words are simple, pointed, rich, and timeless all at once. Les Misérables did a good job with this. It will age better since it stays pretty simple and timeless, it strokes all human experience in general terms. And the rhymes are really nice, often surprising. An elegant rhyme that also surprises is one of the best things in all of writing, for me. They seem easy, almost effortless at times in this movie. Many instances convince one it's easy to write and rhyme. But it's not, and this is the nature of elegance. Effortlessness is one of my old core virtues of art, and lots of the writing in this movie appears effortless, elegantly simple.
As I age I feel myself increasingly interested in history. This reflects my increasing interest in identity, especially my own or extensions thereof, and in humanizing the Other. Often the projects are one in the same -- humanizing the Other entails integrating a broader extension of my identity, which always satisfies me, and all of this is enriched by history. History humanizes, and humanizing identifies, and identity is what I love and need. Histories of all kinds and of all entities achieve this. I can see myself reflected in any entity better if I know its history, because it's the dynamics of entities through time that reveal a universal nature, a universal identity, and not snapshots of entities. If all is Brahman, or all is fire, I can see and love myself as Brahman or fire better not viewing an image of a wave in the ocean or of fire but viewing a wave in the ocean transforming in time or viewing fire in its flickering. History reveals myself to me via revealing myself in others to me via revealing the transforming of others through time which looks a lot like me. The personal history of Jean Valjean, the political history of France, Hugo actually wraps many histories into one narrative; especially reading the novel it is clear Hugo is interested in history; therefore I am interested in Hugo, and his narrative is thrilling to me. Historical context enriches almost anything to me. I didn't love Wisconsin until I read its history; I didn't love math and my Senior Project concept until I read its history; I didn't love many people throughout my life until I heard their histories (seriously); I wouldn't love Les Misérables without its appreciation for history.
I love Les Misérables. I love the characters, the story, the music, the historical interest, and the whole thing was highly emotional for me. Every ten minutes was a profound emotion, each of a different color. The thing is monumental. Every page I skimmed of the novel was extraordinary. I should read more of that.
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