Recent music

Recently I've accepted music listening back into my life. It started with my accepting ownership of dish washing.

Nahko and Medicine for the People:

    Rumors of Mount Vernon: young, talented musicians, hopeful, passionate, not quite polished, not quite subtle, playing jam band stuff, funk, ska, before the leader steps aside for a deep centripetal dive.

    A few albums in, I far prefer Nahko's solo album. I'm privileged not to have to rally around social justice music (I'm being served relatively well by my society), so Nahko's more personal struggles in My Name is Bear resonate deeper than the war cries of his band. War cries indeed -- the prevailing tone is much more aggressive than the solo album. One of my favorite things about the latter is how Nahko stays steady and mellow amid swelling orchestration. The groove builds and his voice is solid, serious. A couple of my least favorite moments on that album are when he raises his voice to amplify an already-functioning groove ("yeah, this is resistance", "I love I love I love you just the same"). The groove loses subtlety, but that's rare enough on that album. I also don't like the happy-go-lucky ska-ish stuff quite as much on that album. Anyway, the Medicine for the People albums seem to have a lot more of what I didn't love on My Name is Bear, plus more politics. Much more ska, much more rally, much more anger. The songs are generally solid, some quite good, but generally less aligned with my taste. Regarding "social justice music", as I called it (protest music?), I realize my GOAT is one of the faces of protest music. But that characterization is limited, and anyway Dylan is the far superior lyricist. Lyrically, Nahko is hit-and-miss. His poetry can be stylistically immature. I also prefer the musical taste of Dylan's protest songs to that of Nahko's. Some of Nahko's more personal songs, though, on his solo album, rank pretty high against my lifetime of musical sensibility.

    I should clarify: Nahko's solo album My Name is Bear has massively featured in my music listening revival these past six months. It just featured earlier on, so I speak of it in a little more of a past tense, as more of an immutable reference. But six months ago it was surely not. I suppose I can write about it now.

Nahko:

    In 2017 or 2018 I heard bits of My Name is Bear on my cousin's record player. Some of it was groany hipster (the interludes, the album art), but a few of the songs stuck with me better than most songs I've only heard a couple of times do. First "Hamakua", also "Kirby, Joe" and "Dragonfly". Somehow I remembered them well enough to occasionally sketch them out on piano or guitar over the next couple of years. But largely I refused to listen to them again. They became symbols of my good times in 2018, living out East and visiting my cousin, tinted rosy by memory of family, scratchy vinyl, good beer. I was a blooming luddite, strict with my consumption, and anyway didn't want to taint my Nahko memory. I'd rather hear it again in my cousin's house, on the record player. I wish I could only ever hear it that way.

    I didn't return to Richmond for a while. This June I finally did, but things were busy; I managed to squeeze out maybe the first couple sides of the album. The good songs were at least as good as I remembered. It was joyous.

    Maybe I'll write more later...

Big Red Machine:

    I hadn't heard them until this year, but with Bon Iver tickets in my pocket, I wanted to catch up on his last few years.

    My expectations were low. My first listen to i,i was (mistakenly -- I'll mention this later) disappointing, and I was down on 22. I was thrilled with his trajectory.

    I really enjoy Big Red Machine. In fact, independent of Bon Iver, they rank among the bands I'm happiest with these days. That's not independent of the Bon Iver bias (hometown pride) but independent of my musical evaluation of Bon Iver. Big Red Machine is different, and solid.

    For years I've been really harsh on any music that isn't hip hop, jazz, classical, or consciously cheap (a lot of pop). It's been hard for indie, alternative, stuff like that to impress me. Enter BRM and Nahko... Again I have the hometown bias, and both artists are closely linked to my cousin in my mind, whose influence really rearranges my standards. Being around him I've learned to find happiness in some things that previously didn't impress me. For whatever reason, I'm impressed by and really enjoy BRM.

Bon Iver:

    I also thoroughly listened to Bon Iver in anticipation of June's show. Most of the old stuff was unsurprising, but I really came around on i,i. I downright love a few of those songs now; they're in the Bon Iver canon. Others I'm not a fan of. But it's a real Bon Iver album to me now.

Dave Matthews Band:

     I listened to a few albums in anticipation of November's show. I didn't have time to track back too far... apparently he has a lot of stuff I've never heard. I was a little lost, for almost half of the show. I'm really neutral on a lot of his stuff, but I like Dave Matthews. I respect him. There's a really strong link to my cousin here too, which always makes me more forgiving. But I like Dave.

Enya:

    I listened to five or so Enya albums. I'd heard and liked a few before. I guess I'll keep talking about bias and associations in this post... this one's not with my cousin though. I very vaguely associate Enya with two things strongly associated themselves: Tolkien and a past relationship. It's really vague though. I think if I had more mystical beauty sort of stuff in my life the association wouldn't be so strong. But there's some direct connection as well (Enya sang "May It Be", and so did my past partner, once). And obviously Enya is our closest thing to a Tolkien elf, as Chilly Gonzales suggested in his book Enya book. He's another reason I returned to her.

    I like Enya a lot. Some of it is truly mediocre, some cringey, but if you suspend your cringe, most of that clears up, and even if you don't, some of this shit stands alone. Enya is special. She's my antithesis. I felt that listening to her music was good for my soul -- any soul, but especially mine. I need stuff like this. I need to suspend my analysis betimes. I need more intuitive purity.

    This could use validation, but I remember thinking she peaked with either Shepherd Moons or A Day Without Rain. But those were the two I knew best, so I'm not 100%. Watermark, A Memory of Trees, and Amarantine didn't quite strike me so well. "Anywhere Is", though, from A Memory of Trees, is one of my favorite least-favorite but actual favorite Enya songs. It took some inner strength to admit that, aligning with Chilly's principle of unguilty pleasures. Enya is not a guilty pleasure, just an antithetical one.

Kendrick Lamar:

    see posts on MMBS and DAMN

Jacob Collier:

    He doesn't deeply threaten my self-worth like he used to, but he is truly amazing, and also idiosyncratic. I don't always love his music, but he's extremely impressive. Here's what I wrote a few months ago:

    The first time I heard him I had an identity crisis. I felt overwhelmed by his talent and execution. I felt discouraged as a musician. So I've tried to understand him better.

    I think he's probably a prodigy -- maybe an exceptionally empathetic one -- but I've pulled my opinion down to earth in some ways, probably inspired by my ego's self-defense. I don't think it's as easy for him as it looks. His Logic session for Moon River reveals what are for me unfathomably long hours in his basement, recording and editing. If he's alone in all of this, his dedication surges far beyond my interest. 

    I'll quickly over-justify our disparity in skill, so be careful, but over time I'm seeing through the talent to the quirks (dare I say weaknesses). I don't mean the talent is a mere mask, just that I've listened to him enough now that the talent doesn't overwhelm all other perception. I can perceive more of his nuances, now that I've grappled (sonically and existentially) with his talent.

    I listened to to five albums, all Spotify has. In a way I think he declines from his early stuff, though I'd need to re-evaluate Djesse 3, since it seemed unexpectedly subdued. But generally, as he goes from in his room to Djesse, I think he gets overproduced, and some weak songwriting is revealed. I think he's always been an inconsistent songwriter -- brilliant at creating music, but there's some about the song he doesn't seem to comprehend. Bob Dylan is all about songs. He has a new book on songs. For generations people have focused on songs. In jazz they're called tunes, but I'm especially talking about songs, which often have lyrics. There's this great tradition of songs, forged by people who have probably experienced far more pain than Jacob Collier. Bob Dylan was sort of an exception... he somehow convinced the world he was authentic, to the point where he's probably really authentic. Jacob Collier is writing songs as a young and (I assume) hyper-privileged millennial. It's hard for me to believe his writing, and I was saying that before I knew much about him. He doesn't have the air of authenticity. As Hannah says, he sounds like AI. He has great musical sense, and truly beautiful, but at the same time he's too obsessed with theoretical gimmicks, and has he experienced anything he's writing about? His lyrics sound sort of AI -- mashed and smoothed from thousands of similar songs.

Bo Burnham: Inside

I found this really impressive and immersive. A few times I laughed; many times I wondered at the originality. I wasn't prepared to enjoy Bo Burnham; I only remembered hearing him in high school; but I did enjoy it, with a mighty dose of respect. His acknowledgment of his petty humor allows him to elevate it. Maybe the brutal intimacy of the special will distress some audience. For me it elevates an otherwise throwaway humor.

It feels akin to Neal Brennan's Netflix specials (3 Mics, Blocks). If such alienated works can feel solidarity, it must be with one another.

Christopher Nolan

Random note from April '22. I think this was after watching one of the Batman movies, having not seen older ones like Memento in many years...

For a while I mistook his cerebral style for sophistication, but his skill is cerebral blockbusters (almost oxymoronic). He's not very artistically elegant. His movies are cheesy and unsubtle in all but plot. He's not a really sophisticated artist -- but he's cerebral and can make exciting movies, which is nontrivial. I guess I mistook him for sophisticated because I was cerebral before I was artistically subtle (if I ever even have been), and that's when I was watching his movies.

Casting in Peter Jackson Tolkien movies

I thought this exercise would be interesting, since I saw the movies many times before reading the books (Hobbit+LotR+etc), but then thoroughly read the books for years without seeing the movies, and have now returned to the movies. So maybe in all this deliberation I'm finally lifting above my biases.

Gandalf: Ian McKellen feels essential. There's probably a little bias, having seen the films first and loved Gandalf above all else, but I think it's tangible too. Unlike other characters, nothing about book-Gandalf felt incongruent with the films. I read some Frodo dialogue and thought "I can't picture Elijah Wood's Frodo saying that," but this has never happened with Gandalf. Ian McKellen covers the entire range. To be fair to Elijah Wood, Ian McKellen had more experience in acting and life. I'm not a good critic of acting, but I can say how the performance felt: essential. Maybe one complaint: his joyous laughing. But that's such a small fraction of the performance.

See also: https://andrewtalksaboutmoviesetc.blogspot.com/2020/11/the-hobbit.html

Arwen: far too immature. She's plump and dramatic, belying her centuries of grace. Even stationary I don't think Liv Tyler matches Arwen's sheer beauty, but especially her expressions and inflections don't match. Liv Tyler portrays a teenager -- not the ancient pride of her people.

Frodo: Elijah Wood is a weird-looking guy, and therefore a surprising choice for the universalized face of a Hollywood mega-franchise (I don't accept people calling Aragorn the main character; an argument could be made for Sam as main object of empathy, but he's still not first on the posters). What if Frodo was nicer-looking? I'm not sure Elijah Wood's performance was stellar either, so overall an interesting choice. I won't hate on him though, as it seems others might. It's a hard role. It's a complex character. He's an uncommon hobbit even in childhood, and now he's pulled by forces we can't understand. I'd say Frodo in the book is more mature (he's visibly older too), but I accept weird-looking Elijah Wood delivering a tough character.

Aragorn: this is one of my toughest evaluations. As much as I want to love Viggo as much as his character, I just don't. I didn't love Aragorn until I read the book. Now I weep for him. When I said earlier that I've loved Gandalf above all else, only Aragorn flashed in my mind, and only after reading the book. He's competition for my favorite character in all of fiction. But only after reading the book. Viggo didn't light my fire. I realize there was some narrative in the films to keep him bashful for a while, but even after his coronation he doesn't shine like he should. See him next to Boromir -- Boromir is proud and great. Aragorn isn't just subtle or subdued or measured -- he's diminutive. His voice doesn't surge or ring. He isn't charismatic. I think Aragorn should have the instant charisma of a leader millennia in the making. I don't mean humor or flirty charm, but some height and light that commands deep respect. Aragorn is bashful, maybe even slightly awkward. Is Viggo charming? He doesn't portray Aragorn's ineffable leadership. I don't know how any actor could portray such depth, but Ian McKellen does it, and I think just a little charisma could go a long way. Viggo feels a little awkward. He's only heroic in an underdog sort of way. Aragorn should never feel like an underdog for others' respect. The respect should be there upon the moment of meeting. Now I'm curious to read his encounter with Boromir at the Council of Elrond. In the movie, if I remember right, Boromir underestimates him ("mere ranger") until Legolas corrects him, at which point Boromir gazes in wonder (and I cry), but then I think he turns back to the pride of Gondor. I wonder how Tolkien wrote this encounter.

Theoden: no problems here.

Eowyn: problems here. I don't think she's nearly as stunning as she should be. Don't even ask me about when she starts singing in the extended scene. She's no bombshell, and she can't figure out her dignity either. I guess that's true in the book as well, but in a different way. She's finding her purpose in the book, relative to men, but her grace and dignity never wane. She is a lordly lady the entire way. She is steel and flower. In the movies she's weak and insecure and fragile. Too much foul, not enough fair.

Sam: no complaints. I think he's slightly too attractive, not quite humble enough in looks, but it's fine. I like this performance.

Denethor: too much foul, not enough fair. Denethor should be fair and great. In the movies he's wholly despicable. I guess it simplifies things for mass-consumption, but they don't cut corners like that in other aspects... I guess you have to cut some corners. Denethor didn't get his justice in the movies, though I don't think it significantly harms the greater picture.

Faramir: come on. Should I blame the performance or the script? I'm guessing it's the script. Faramir should be one of the most admirable characters. He has all the Westernesse of Denethor without the corruption of heart. Faramir gets the shaft with his father in the films. Mostly I like the performance, but Faramir is written too sadly. Audiences will sooner remember his daddy issues than his kingliness.

Merry & Pippin: this is fine.

Galadriel: I like Cate Blanchett here, although why does she seem so borderline-evil? Galadriel has no evil in her, yet she continually stokes fear and disquiet in the movies. That should expel very soon after meeting her. Her house should be as homely as the Last Homely House. Her age and ability and wisdom should be more comforting than unsettling, but I like Cate Blanchett here.

Gimli: I can't dislike his comic relief, excessive though it may be. Otherwise, Gimli is effective.

Bilbo: see also: https://andrewtalksaboutmoviesetc.blogspot.com/2020/11/the-hobbit.html

Rosie Cotton: too old!

Elrond: not fair enough. His brow is harsh, visage not soft and neutral like Legolas. Legolas looks like an elf. Elrond looks like a fallen elf, the Saruman of elves. I partly blame the script, which substantially diminishes his grace, but I also blame Weaving's countenance.

Legolas: this may be as pixel-perfect as any on this list?

Melancholia

2015 post

If Justine hadn't snapped at her sister near the end, I might consider it a happy ending -- she'd be redeemed by her grace with the boy, general uplift in spirit, facial expressions in the storm, and holding her sister's hand. But with that snap the ending is bleak. Severe depression is not magically redeemed, even in an intimate apocalypse, even with salvation in sight, infernal though it be. Justine lifts her countenance to relief by total combustion, sheds one tear, and sighs into oblivion. Her atoms must briefly soar like Sauron, then sigh like Saruman, while the world groans.

7.5 years ago I caught the style but missed the meaning. For all my attraction to melancholy, it's taking me decades to understand true melancholia. Back then the movie was a tale of two parts: the first an exaggerated image of misery; the second an intimate but literal apocalypse. The first was painful but theatrical; the second was thrilling. And I perceived good style throughout.

    But I completely missed the metaphor and the authenticity. I may have enjoyed the connection between the name of the planet and her condition, and the unique drama it bred, but only in von Trier's universe. I often perceive cinematic universes, and fail to connect them to ours. I don't think allegory is my forte. Often I watch movies for style. I enjoy allegory when I see it, but oftener I miss it.

    Von Trier's universe thrilled me, though mostly once we moved past the discomfort of her depression -- discomfort to the rest of us, that is. I watched her illness unfold from the thoroughly third person -- never imagining she was me or even a member of my reality. She was fictitious and fantastical and deliberately painful, like horror designed to agonize and entertain you. I endured Part I, probably heroizing those frustrated by her recklessness? In retrospect, what should she have done differently? Not tried to get married on whatever glimmer of hope of happiness? Humans have every right to attempt happiness. Whomever she wrecked on the way, she deserved a shot at a wedding, if she thought it might make her happy. If she never thought it would, and remorselessly wrecked everyone involved, that's another story. I'm not sure which is true. I give her every forgiveness to attempt happiness, unless among equal opportunities she's remorselessly choosing those that hurt others. But maybe the wedding was a last valiant effort. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps until the incident with the guy on the golf course. That's reckless at best (sadomasochist at worst... I guess all moral actions are sadomasochist at worst).

    I empathize with Claire and her husband. I've been alternately patient and incredulous dealing with another's chronic, senseless misery. It is miserable and helpless and baffling. I think I perceived those two characters accurately 7.5 years ago. Justine and the foreign planet were the only alien elements. Justine was like a foreign planet -- alien and intolerable. Claire was all-too-human. I perceived her, though I missed her moonlight.

    Part II is thrilling even bereft of allegory, as I could well have told you in college. I vividly remembered three moments from the movie: the planet overfills the wire ring; we realize John gave up; Claire panics upon final impact. Other hazier memories: the incident with the guy on the golf course; uncomfortable speeches; Justine basking by the creek; the early collision animation; nothing about real depression and its fallout.

    I really like this movie. I wish I loved a character more -- Claire is just a little too anxious and maternal. If she wasn't, we wouldn't have such a foil, but I may love the movie more. It's hard to love a movie without loving or holistically empathizing with a character, if it's character-driven at all. Claire was a little too anxious and motherly. Contrast Gainsbourg's role with her other two sandwiching it in the Depression trilogy. I admire the combination.

Game of Thrones pilot

Despite a persuasive social situation and my inflated perception of its maturity, I was chilly toward this pilot almost eight years ago. Now, without the social influence (it's negative if anything), while identifying its trashy elements, I feel tempted.

I wasn't critical of it as television, eight years ago -- I was critical of television. I still am, but somehow I feel this pilot's tug. It's not as mature as I remember thinking, which reflects well on my development. I was technically a teenager at the time, so my evolving taste shouldn't be surprising, but it's refreshing to observe among all my other plateaus. I'm continuously peaking in some crucial ways, and riding decades-long plateaus in others. My artistic taste continuously matures, hence my subtler perception of the episode; yet I probably peaked in deliberate living during high school or college, hence my prior rebuff and my present quickening.

Eight years ago I thought the episode was good (I rated it 3/4) but I didn't even consider slipping into the series. I think this is remarkable, knowing my partner and the whole world around me wanted me involved. I remember it just felt like TV, and TV was never justified like movies were. TV always delivered less artistic value per hour invested. I was really interested in movies, and not interested in any digital entertainment that couldn't stand on its own after just a few hours. For that we have books. I thought Game of Thrones looked respectable, but sprawling, and addiction-driven like all TV.

Presently, this episode was really stimulating, and I want to know what happens next. It hooked me as it should. But there's no way I can let myself continue... right?

Yesterday I finished reading The Lord of the Rings

I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. (foreword to The Lord of the Rings)

So why do I devote so many hours to Tolkien's work? "Applicability" is indiscernible; I haven't studied its themes; I don't particularly identify with any characters; I loathe escapism; I cherish my time.

Tolkien is my measured dose of escapism. Humans have long suspended reason for beauty when their world feels empty, and I can't wholly condemn a practice so essential to my ancestral history. In fact, given my broad operational skepticism, I could probably use such an occasional supplement, to keep me up. I am in principle determined to find joy and wonder in my tangible experience, but in practice handicapped. Total commitment to the principle would mean total isolation from my social environment, though it'd be difficult even in a vacuum (well, it'd be different for several reasons in a vacuum).

So I permit, enjoy, and resent occasional escapism. Tolkien is principal. Why Tolkien? The escapism is thorough (applicability is indiscernible), it connects me to my past (college was profound), and it's intellectually rich. Mostly it wormed in deep enough to feel essential: it's sad to imagine life without Tolkien. I could survive so easily, possibly even more effectively, but I would feel like I'd lost a love. If it went away, I'd regret not cherishing it more. This seems to be the nature of love. So: I love it. It's closely associated to the time I discovered it -- memories I love and would regret not cherishing more if they went away. So, half-independently and half-attached to old times, Tolkien feels essential to me despite my better judgment.

Amassing small loves is a busy, inflexible life, but a full one I suppose. Still I deflect new attachments as long as possible. To me, attachment is not intrinsically rewarding, but it is intrinsically burdensome, and bitter if it severs. I have a drive to keep my attachments few and deep and sustainable. If I'm already sufficiently attached to Tolkien to guarantee the regrets I mentioned above, I may as well fortify the cord, and lean my life on this love.

The Smile

Everything Thom Yorke does will be cool and alien, because that's who he is: an intelligent alien who likes to dance. Everything is still cool. But it's gotten shallower since 2007. Well, so have I; I caught up with Radiohead around 2009-2011, when I was just ripe; since then, I've paid peripheral attention as we all age past our prime for finding emotional depth in this music. I feel I'm slowly graduating to jazz, classical, and traditional music. Jonny expanded into film. Thom is Thom, an icon, stalling. They've always been oblique, but they used to fall frequently into lushness; now they fall oftener into skittish funk. So the heart remains, but it's dried up a bit. Meanwhile I'm growing stale to this sort of thing. Maybe ten years ago this album would surgically alter my development, like the old stuff did; but I think the band and I stale simultaneously. I'm finding other avenues for fulfillment, but I wonder how Thom's doing.

The Tragedy of Macbeth

Its redundancy (after the 2015 film) saw through its abstractions and shed interrogative light on the fact that it's just another movie. Unapologetically it's a movie: the set was as simple and stilted as high school theater, and not even Michael Fassbender and Marion Cotillard scream "movies" like Denzel Washington. It all felt too self-aware, therefore silly, while the earlier film was immersive. It can hardly avoid its de facto premise: create the other film again with a more famous actor, a cheaper set, and just a couple of new decisions. I surely enjoyed the Shakespeare and the artistry -- I surely enjoyed this movie -- but I was entirely too sober.

Too sober too at Meow Wolf Denver, grimacing at the cheap staging. Here my attention repeatedly drifted to the hollow-looking stucco, as I pictured Denzel leaving the warehouse in sunny Hollywood for a lunch break, then working himself back into character upon return. Too sober, too sober, and with a narrow glance.

The other film probably also took itself too seriously, but it didn't feel so self-conscious. It spun me tighter. I might be biased by the order in which I saw them, but it's the filmmaker's duty to respond to such obvious viewing conditions. Amazon would loth ignore Peter Jackson's Middle Earth in its own making.

Maybe I'm working hard to circumnavigate a challenging truth... was Denzel just not a good Macbeth? I was never sold on him, not for a minute. Maybe he's too iconic to play characters -- he's always just Denzel. That's how I felt hearing Beyonce in The Lion King. I got nothing of the character and everything of the icon. I wasn't thrilled with Frances McDormand either. Maybe both were just too far out of their element. Even if they acted well, it might not convince the familiarized viewer.

The Notebook

The Gosling/McAdams piece ended up more mature than I expected, but it didn't connect successfully with the larger structure. Standing alone it could have been worthwhile: without time spent on the older couple, we could have fleshed out and wrapped up the younger romance better. Alternatively, in a longer-form medium or a defter adaptation, it could complement the older romance well. I can see how it could work in the novel, or a longer movie, better movie, or series of movies. It didn't cram well into this 2hr movie. The purpose was confused. It seems like it's just trying to be an ultimate love story, which needs more time than 2hrs, or really skilled decisions. Titanic had 3, and a narrow setting (one voyage). The Notebook would need to narrow its scope or extend its expression. Maybe the novel works.

It came off as striving to be the ultimate love story by its ending, which didn't connect to the rest of the story as far as I'm aware. Was their mutual death supposed to recall some earlier element? If so, I missed it. If not, it's out of scope -- it introduces too much right at the end without connecting to the rest. That's classic poor closure. If the ending would have tied well with the rest, I'd feel much better now, but it felt really disjoint and confusing. The vision suddenly faltered. Maybe it made sense to the adaptor or anyone else who had read the novel. But as a film, it was really disjoint. If I didn't know this was originally a novel, I'd be a little disgusted by those decisions at the end. It would seem like really bad filmmaking. Since I know it's an adaptation, I can understand better, but still call the end bad filmmaking in my opinion.

I also, critically, just didn't feel any connection to the older couple. I think they were poorly cast, and perhaps poorly written and poorly played. This is tragic for the movie. Every piercing thing in the younger narrative was blunted by the older. Further, the older was positively uncomfortable for me. Maybe I'm too crushy and defensive on Gosling, but I genuinely disliked his older incarnation. It didn't feel authentic, and worse, it felt like a mild betrayal.

The younger narrative was more nuanced and challenging than I expected though. It's really bleak and tragic. I'm not sure it's really suitable for teenagers. I certainly wouldn't expect them to understand some of the tragedy, like 7 years falsely believing the other didn't write, and all the innocence lost in that interval. It's kind of devastating. And Allie's final dilemma was bitter. Thankfully her fiancee handled it perfectly (for her sake), but even so, it wouldn't work so well to return to the romance. You forfeited it years ago.

Dr. No

6/25/22

More sincere, less silly than expected. More detective. Less Christian.

Licorice Pizza

It's a stylistic statement, a case for naturalism, a movie for people interested in movies, defying narrative convention. It unfolds life-like, rife with loose ends and dead ends, chaos tumbling forward but advancing on average. Some real stories can be made into sports dramas or crime podcasts, but most can't. Most of life is vaguely tumbling forward, like Licorice Pizza. Paul Thomas Anderson generates a lot of leads and then, I think, deliberately drops them in a statement of style. We expect things to build and climax; instead, time passes, things happen, and we slowly progress. I know he's capable of tying lit threads -- he's done it before -- but it would have been a tall order anyway to cohere this flotsam/jetsam. It's baffling, sometimes excessively, threatening the naturalism with outlandish cameos. But keeping the all-stars where they should be, in the periphery, this is just the unfolding of a meager relationship, played by two deliberately unproven actors. So that's another statement: Sean Penn, Bradley Cooper, and the several others are highly superfluous, while the kids are essential. Attract people to the movie with a couple of studs (would anyone be attracted otherwise?), then baffle them with loyalty to a couple of unfortunate randos.

I thought Cooper was great. Is it just me, or was there a moment he stood with the phone in one hand and the fingers of the other pressed to his eye, directly recalling his father in PTA's Magnolia? I don't think it's this exact moment, but it's this scene:

I think I rooted for their relationship, but not unreservedly. I wasn't a huge fan of Alana. I liked Gary, he really impressed me. But both made numerous questionable moves. Gary is forgiven easier, for his age. Hannah did not easily sympathize with Gary, but I did. He's 15 -- how is he supposed to act? I rooted for their relationship because it felt like home, despite substantial flaws. Again, they're young -- time can iron out some of this crap.

I liked the movie, I thought it was good. It's not profound or passionate for me, but I appreciate the experience, and the idea. I'd appreciate more movies like this, though I'd probably rarely find them worth my time. The naturalism seems noble to me, like a balm for every other cultural irritation. But the thing about conventional storytelling is it's easier for the viewer to justify, since they can take something home with them. Movies cost time and often money -- it's nice to feel like you took something away: a moral lesson, an experience that can be neatly tied off... Licorice Pizza doesn't provide much other than a vague warm experience, and a study in modern movies perhaps. I think it's noble, but if it wasn't PTA, I don't think I'd be very interested. Realism isn't really where I gravitate, not because I don't appreciate the idea, but because it's just a little harder to justify for someone really selective with his time. If I want realism, why am I watching a movie? It's easier to justify fantastic fantastical movie experiences, because I hardly get those experiences elsewhere. To me, movies must prove themselves worthy of my time. My default state is never watching movies (or never letting myself watch them). I wait for worthwhile movies to reveal themselves, or for the temptation to watch movies to occasionally intensify. A lot of it is connecting with my past (which is why I keep up with PTA). But I do love movies, generally. I love them and they connect me to my past -- but they're hard to justify for me, rationally. Realism and naturalism are especially handicapped, though often artistically noblest.

I've clung to the concept of ecstasy lately. When I spend time absorbing art or entertainment, I'd like it to be fascinating and/or ecstatic. I'd classify some of my older PTA experiences as ecstatic, along with older Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas experiences, and many others. But I rarely touch this anymore. Licorice Pizza isn't ecstatic -- but I'm a lot less emotional than I used to be. Maybe it would change my life in high school. That's not saying much -- everything changes high school lives. My "favorite movies" are fossilized in what was high school plasticity. Experiences don't embed so easily anymore, hence my stale "favorite movies" list. 

PTA and Kaufman embedded in my adolescent plasticity, forever fossilized. It's hard for anything new to penetrate. It's not impossible, but it often requires new forms. Maybe there are ecstatic and fascinating experiences to mine throughout classical, jazz, and traditional music; the visual arts; all kinds of literature; adventurous experience; new philosophies; new relationships; and more. I don't expect film to lead that charge like it used to. In high school it was film and music: Bob Dylan, PTA, Kaufman, and Radiohead. Music still matters a lot to me, though I have to be creative with it. But film is more of a relic for me. I love movies, and I'll probably continue to keep up with them, but I won't expect them to change my life like they used to. Or maybe I will expect it, and be repeatedly disappointed. I certainly still seem to use old experiences as a standard. How could hormonal adolescent experiences be my standard? My faculties were really unevenly developed, some mature, so I can't assign that time a deceased identity -- much of that person is very alive now. In some ways I'm actually working toward that identity again, and foundering. Bob Dylan said "I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now." He probably didn't mean much by that, but I definitely idolize my high school persona in some ways. I was more mature in some ways. And I was more emotional. And less mature in most ways. But there's an angle at which I can reflect on high school and catch a glimpse of my greatest self, like sunlight through the crevasse at Moon House ruins. 

Gone Baby Gone

Watched a couple weeks ago. Not bad, I liked the gritty heroism, the honesty. My biggest problem with this movie, other than its general weak impact on my life, was its reliance on moral dilemma in what for me was an obvious decision. To me, it never sold the option of leaving the kidnapped with the kidnapper. I'm not even sure that was a conflict for the protagonist. Yet it seemed the movie hinged a lot of its drama on that dilemma. It needed the tension of that plot twist, which was severely underwhelming given how straightforward the protagonist reacted, and how easy it was for me get on his bandwagon. Some movies are angled toward the ending the whole time. That works, if the ending delivers. Gone Baby Gone just didn't deliver the crushing cognitive dissonance it needed toward the end. I had zero problem dumping Michelle Monaghan.

Soul

Watched a few weeks ago. I'm privileged, being particularly interested in jazz, abstract things, black culture, and examining death, so this was about as interesting as family movies get for me. Soul bounced confusingly between these identities. It could have just been the jazz Pixar movie, or the death Pixar movie, or the first black Pixar movie. It juggles all three, which keeps it engaging yet shallow. Nothing was fully explored. That's okay, for progressing things like racial diversity in animated movies, or jazz's popularity -- you don't have to pay so much attention to them that they become abnormal -- but the intrinsic impact of the movie blunts.

It was more engaging for me than most family movies, due to its subject matter. But it's still a family movie, which, apparently, can't do much for me.

Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers

I'm still assessing, but here were some quick notes.

First listen (5/17/22)

I liked it a lot. I was initially disappointed by more gimmicky repetitive stuff, and he does continue that trend, but there's also a lot of good stuff here -- possibly more than DAMN. DAMN was kind of his foray into basic rap, plus some classic Kendrick here and there. MMBS harmonizes both, I think, plus big doses of personal and spiritual.

I had no idea what to expect, after five years. Hearing the new "The Heart" was surprising -- it was more familiar than I expected, after all this time, from an increasingly outlandish artist. Skyrocketing artistry and fame often drive a grounded GOAT off a cliff. I was worried about Kendrick. But he's as competent as ever. He hasn't lost a technical step, and he still has a lot to say. I remember worrying, a few years ago, that he'd run out of things to say. He seems to have improbably retained his technique and voice. He mixes in new flavors now, some of which I love, some of which disappoint me, but it's still Kendrick. Which is delightful.

I'm skeptical I could like this as much as To Pimp a Butterfly. For me that's the pinnacle of all rap. I could use more of its jazz here. Some of MMBS was almost downright trap; some was kind of electro; on average it wasn't as flavorful as TPAB, I think. GKMC was the street album, TPAB was the jazz album, DAMN was the basic easy one... MMBS is an evolution, I think, but I'm not yet sure how to classify it. It did feel more personal and spiritual. This may be an overgeneralization, but I wonder whether the pandemic accounts for that. I think he also started having kids after DAMN. So starting a family and enduring quarantine may have caught him in centripetal orbit; pair that with vast social reckoning and burgeoning vulnerability and maybe it makes sense Kendrick is unearthing old trauma, reflecting on broader social issues microcosm-ed in his childhood, and speaking more to his audience's personal pain now than their political conscience.

I'm not sure what DAMN was about.

Chelanga's favorite moment of TPAB was a non-moment -- it was when Kendrick didn't repeat "in the presence of your chico, ah", didn't repeat the form of that line at all. He only did it once. Chelanga called out the "restraint" to have an idea, execute, and let it be. Most rappers are beating dead horses for a living. I wonder what Chelanga would think of the last two albums. Certainly a lot of droning -- call it tired or lazy. That "restraint" endeared me to Kendrick. It takes energy to hold back. He had that during the making of his masterpiece. Now, sometimes he sounds tired. He's expanded his work marvelously, but lost a little of the old energy and precision.

But I'm surprised how good this was. My expectations weren't very high. DAMN was a little disappointing, and it's been five years. It's been seven since his peak, and five without a peep. Black Panther happened, some of which I really liked, but it didn't encourage me regarding his trajectory. It was very gimmicky and tired. I didn't expect he could hold his level so high all this time, especially given the family. I must look at my favorite rapper in a new light. He endured when I didn't expect him to. He matured and held his level. Elite rap must just be in him. Even the early records are elite, and he's pushed the game's artistry ever since without sacrificing his world-class fundamentals. It's really impressive. Even if he never makes a greater album, as long as he puts out music roughly this good, he's constantly cementing his superiority.

I'm sure there are other rappers roughly at his level out there -- but I haven't heard them. I've never heard anything at his level. I haven't heard Flower Boy in a while, but I remember being very impressed by that. I'm sure there's lots of cutting-edge underground stuff occurring. But Kendrick is doubtless the best I've personally heard. This album doesn't chip his legacy, nor advance it too much; it helps cement it.

Second listen (5/30/22)

Before DAMN I didn't know he could do mindless melodic mumbling. Now it's convincing me further of his superiority. He can do almost anything -- a couple rap masterpieces into a career he jumps on the mindless melodic mumble wagon and instantly excels. His versatility is incredible. MMBS scans most styles, some unexplored in his previous albums. One example is Graduation-like stadium synths. So Kendrick can even do Kanye. Look, not everything is perfect -- he might trade some of Kanye's old charisma for intellection. It's not like I can't think of other rappers' strengths in his light. There's some extroverted levity to those first few Kanye albums that Kendrick's obsessive introspection can't quite touch. Hearing Kendrick rap over beats Kanye may have produced back then is an interesting juxtaposition. I found myself missing Kanye in a way, and Kendrick almost felt like an impostor -- too cerebral. I don't believe his mindless stuff, sandwiched in the most mental rap I've heard. But they're still good songs. These are all good songs.

I don't know where to rank MMBS in his discography. I get the sense I'll prefer it to DAMN and not to TPAB, but I can't really hear the latter anew, so that will be difficult. I get the sense this is a great album. It has so much, across such a wide spectrum, all of substantial quality. But I don't think it's ecstatic. I think I mentioned after my first listen the declining energy after he shook the earth in 2015. He still has more energy than any rapper I've heard, and most of them sound heavily medicated at all times. Kendrick is always the sharpest rapper alive, as far as I know. But I still feel there's something missing -- maybe the need to prove himself. Maybe the desire to create the greatest rap album ever. He's done both already as far as I'm concerned. No one can sustain that drive for so many years. Bob Dylan put out at least five of the greatest albums in rock history in sequence, but that was in only three or four years. While unrepeatable, it's a different thing to sustain that drive for many years, even significantly less prolific years, and Kendrick has now been at it a while. If you examine Dylan's career, he always did a bunch of dogshit in between greatness (except in those 3-4 shooting-star years). Kendrick has been less prolific (his quality bar is pretty high), but you still can't change the world every single time for 10 years. MMBS feels like a great album, and I think it advances the game. But will Kendrick be able to reinvent himself? That was one of Dylan's boons -- he could morph into a new artist and define new styles by shedding his old identity. For Kendrick to change the world again, wouldn't he need to shed his skin? We know this idea of Kendrick at this point -- wouldn't he have to decimate it? And for that, wouldn't he have to decimate himself? What's that line from Descartes' Meditations about slowly dismantling all of his opinions?

There's a lot of room for me to learn the thematic content better. I've done zero research on this album, its background, its public and critical reception, even its lyrics. I could learn a lot just by looking up the lyrics. But I still think there's something noble about an uninformed, unadulterated play-through. All I have are my artistic sensibilities and my relationship with his past work. Mostly, I'm a musician who grew up loving rap. I can tell you the chord progressions to the songs, and I can tell you it's better than all the rap I listened to growing up. I don't know everything he's talking about, I don't know everything going on in his life, I don't understand every slang word, or reference. But this is more engaging and interesting than other rap.

Musically, though -- what's it worth to me? I like keeping up my relationship with rap, and I legitimately enjoy the genre. But it's not as musically satisfying as stuff I can find in more formal forms. I can find pieces of jazz, classical, or traditional music that are ecstatic to me. I have no regrets keeping up with Kendrick, and I think a core part of me is connected to this music. But it doesn't contain the musical ecstasy and purity I'd typically seek. Especially since I've known Kendrick for seven years now, and he hasn't changed enough to renew the ecstasy for me. But familiarity with such a musician is a joy. I'll always have these songs. They're the best manifestation of this genre I love that I've ever heard. I'll always have the old songs from childhood, especially the Kanyes, and I'll always have my GOAT, and all the experiences I associate with him. Association with Kendrick's music is and has been a joy. It's not the purity and elation I seek in other forms, but it connects to a core part of myself, and I'm proud of it.

As It Was (Harry Styles)

My first time hearing this reminded me of my reaction to my first time hearing Meghan Trainor years ago: production mimicking a decades-old style doesn't make a good song. Most styles of music throughout history require good melodies; skillful production isn't enough. I don't like the present song's melody. I especially noticed how it stalls on the fa over the I chord, after the descent (do ti la sol fa...), which betrays the I chord's identity more than any other note in the major scale. Also the droning "as it was, as it was,..." : "sol re re" wasn't impressive. I don't remember why else I didn't like the melody. But if I don't like a melody, I can scarcely like the song, besides in a few select styles. The mix and orchestration and beat can't save it. I'm especially bitter, perhaps biased, by the principle of robbing another decade's style without serving it good honest songwriting. As mentioned with Meghan Trainor, and many others, I-iv-IV-V doowop (or maybe more accurately, blue-eyed soul) had a renaissance lately, more likely in popularity than quality. It irritated me a little. I just thought it was lazy -- the songwriting wasn't actually good, and seemed to assume one could trick listeners with old-fashioned style and none of the principles of good songwriting. I could ignore this, but it threatens to devalue the actually-good songs of yore. I don't mind pop culture circling back to roots, but let's respect the roots enough to acquaint deeply with them, not just appropriate their cheapest qualities. If the trend turned out good songs, I wouldn't complain moralistically -- but in my opinion the trend hasn't even been effective.

"As It Was" feels like another grasp back at old styles to try and feel new, without putting in the effort of genuine songwriting.

Did I mention the Weeknd?

DAMN

From the first time I heard it to the most recent, I've always found DAMN noticeably inferior to his earlier two major albums. It reflects the trend of gimmick-driven rap -- I don't know what to call it -- that has infected pop, Kanye, and even Bon Iver. I think it aligns with "melodic rap", trap, and Post Malone. It's a string of gimmicks rather than a continuous creative flow. I remember my disappointment that Bill Evans' "Peri's Scope" solo felt like a string of discontinuous templates, rather than a flow of inspiration. Rap is doing this to an agonizing degree, even the most creative of them. It feels really lazy and usually dumb. That's okay, maybe Kendrick deserves a little laziness -- but it got the Pulitzer, and seemingly vast praise, which I don't really understand, though I love the album in a personal way. Musicians (and likely their audiences) seem incapable of sustaining inspiration, or even attention, so they smash random ideas together and then repeat each ten times to equal a 2.5-minute song. I miss verses that are a couple minutes long and have no identifiable patterns or structure, just rap. I just miss rap.

The Eiger Sanction

I think I saw this in January 2017 (not my idea, which is probably why I never blogged). I think I remember it being a big old load of dookie. Art history professor, world-class mountaineer, and the most dangerous man in the world... this is like a farther-fetched James Bond. This is like James Bond, but he's also a world-class mountaineer, and an art history professor. There's also an albino Nazi, the most evil and most gay gay person of all time, and a black seductress named Jemima Brown... Actually, what could go wrong?

I haven't seen the Connery Bonds in a long time, but maybe The Eiger Sanction ages like those, and like Enter the Dragon: poorly, but you can imagine their original thrill.

The Godfather

I've read a good deal of the novel. It's actually kind of stunning Coppola made the movie as subtle as it is. I've heard of unsubtle adaptations, but how often is the adaptation subtler than the source? The Shining?

The novel is almost pulp. The Godfather is the greatest man who ever lived. Sonny is the manliest man who ever lived. The sex is always absolute ecstasy. The sphincter always opens at the moment of death. It's all graphically descriptive. It's quite entertaining, but nothing like experiencing the film. The novel stays cranked to 11, but the film stays relatively subdued. Brando mumbles softly; one mournful trumpet sings in the distance.

I'm not sure I can call it low-brow though. I haven't read enough of that kind of thing. It's nothing like "classic literature", but it seems well-crafted and intelligent. I don't think it's despicable, it's just not very subtle. It's one of the more entertaining novels I've read.

It's just interesting that the filmmakers read between the lines and saw the potential for a far more subdued yet massively popular film. I think Puzo helped write the film, and its sequel, which is even drier, if I remember right. I guess this is what I've asked of superhero films lately. I like the foundation of superhero stories, but the execution is never subtle, at least not in film. The filmmakers made The Godfather subtle and mature. The vision to do such a thing is interesting. I guess I try to do the same in playing pop songs on the piano. I want to extract the sensational elements of pop and age them to something more complex. I aim to put pop in oak barrels -- the flavors are there but they're mellowed and surrounded by new mellow variations.

The Godfather, The Shining, stripped versions of pop songs, lots of modern art,... artists often try to interpret lower-brow culture, it's just surprising to see it from novel to film, since film is intrinsically more sensational. Things usually get less subtle in that direction.

Wit

3/24/22, accidentally unpublished:

Watched a week and a half ago

I liked Wit. I like poetry, and language, and grappling with the idea of death, so I was advantaged as a viewer. Maybe it should have stayed a play; I'm guessing it was only made a movie to reach new audience, not because it was destined by nature to be a movie. It's probably better as a play. But the trade-off is interesting: the film dedicates considerable surface area to Emma Thompson's micro-expressions, which wouldn't succeed so well on a large stage; yet the stilted, literary feel doesn't work as well in an essentially escapist medium, so ultimately I'd rather see it on the stage. Her micro-acting, however legendary, doesn't feel quite authentic anyway in this script. Least authentic is the poetry talk -- it's informed, but unrealistic. Maybe it wouldn't matter so much onstage. It frustrated me a little. It's like the physics talk in Interstellar -- it's exciting for me to hear, and the writers' research shows, but it's also a little annoying and unrealistic.

I liked the movie. I liked the literary and morbid themes. And I liked her performance, though it doesn't align with my typical interest. Without the social justification behind this viewing, I don't think I ever would have watched it. It's quite a ways from my standard criteria. But it's not so far from my affection and appreciation.

The Batman

I didn't mind it. I thought the subdued tone ramped up enough by the end -- enough to get by, though there's nothing earth-shaking here. It feels unnecessary, but valiant. It trades glamor for subtlety (as subtle as Batman can be, which is not subtle at all), and I always like subtlety. It can't ditch glamor entirely without losing lots of money, but I like that it's toned down. Again, this is all relative to previous iterations, especially the Nolans, which are really glamorous (Batmobile is a tank, Bruce is charming...). Relative to those, The Batman is almost underground. Most severe is Pattinson who doesn't smile once. What's all this for, for his depressive Bruce? The movie didn't give me any sense of his motivations, so I assume they don't exist, which is a big blow to empathetic investment. He doesn't feel human. It feels like he could slip into death at any point without making a sound. His one supposedly human moment with Alfred felt very forced to me. There were some loose threads -- another that comes to mind is the Riddler's bit about being orphan kin with Bruce. That felt underdeveloped or forced. I'm sure it's hard to craft epic Batman villains AND explain their motivations (The Dark Knight just says "some men just want to watch the world burn). I didn't buy the Riddler's motivations. But in a franchise rethinking one can forgive a couple loose threads. Not that a franchise rethinking was necessary in the first place.

I guess I'm fairly sympathetic here, especially given how stupid I find the idea of all these reboots. I didn't mind it. It wasn't great or thrilling or awesome, but I wasn't repulsed, and I think that says a lot. I didn't think it was as cheesy as the Nolans, nor nearly as repulsive as the other DC and Marvel stuff that's going on. Again, more subdued.

I'm ambivalent on Paul Dano's performance. It was one of the least subtle and most epic components. I've written on the progression of Oscar-royal Bond villains -- I resent the perceived need for increasingly alien villains (Skyfall...Spectre...No Time to Die). They're abstract and unrelatable. This trend transcends Bond though. Superhero movies also seem caught in a futile game of one-upping that pulls the ground out from beneath the villains. I understand the principle: the foreign terror is real; meeting these villains is akin to meeting the black hole in Interstellar. But it's getting too obvious and silly, especially for movies trying to be grounded. The Bond franchise has always been hyperbolic, of course, but their attempts to ground it in real human drama have largely failed thanks to ungrounded villains. The Batman is also going for something more subtle and underground than recent superhero movies, including the Nolan iteration -- yet simultaneously participating in the silly villain one-upping. By the end, Dano unhinges whatever subtlety persisted. His talk with Batman in the cell did it for me -- and that was his big moment. It felt like acting. It felt like There Will Be Blood. How do cerebral serial killers speak in reality? I don't know, but I'm guessing it's nothing like this. Hopefully Dano did some research, if not actually spoke to some. It felt ridiculous. Here's Robert Pattinson with his little bat ears, and Eli Sunday Paul Dano shouting pulp poetry at him... don't the actors feel dumb? Dano's performance was arresting, but excessive.

I'd be more qualified to write about all these superhero movies if I read the comics. But I like movies, and I'm interested in movies, and all these superhero movies are pretty questionable, even when fun.

One of my biggest problems here was not understanding Bruce's motivations. It didn't feel like he had anything to fight for, so any failures would feel inconsequential. At least Christian Bale had Rachel and other normal human instincts. Pattinson was a bat cave himself -- cold and empty. I think we need some reason to care about Batman's life and fate. I didn't sense much here. He felt like a martyr just waiting to be martyred for a city probably doomed anyway.

Inland Empire

It got too incoherent too fast. I gave up. I don't think it felt so hopeless in Mulholland Drive, my only other Lynch experience. This felt familiar after that -- actress playing actress, shifting identities -- but this felt out of control. I'm sure there are some threads of sense for the braiding, but I don't feel motivated -- it was too much. Too much chaos, not enough payoff. Mulholland Drive balanced these better. I believe I like and respect this movie, and most of the time my interest endured said chaos, but I really expected a more powerful experience. The experience lost its gravity too early. It needed to keep reeling in the viewer, honestly, building more trust before betraying it.

Maybe I was watching surreal movies too young, learning to succumb too soon. Often I've given up on difficult movies before others who are less acquainted with such movies, and I lose a lot. Often I fail to make sense of movies, possibly because I learned to give up too young. I gave up on identity-shifting movies like Mulholland Drive and I'm Thinking of Ending Things before my viewing partners, and missed some enlightenment thereby. I'm curiously bad at making sense of movies -- curious given my interest and experience.

All I'd really heard of Inland Empire was, from two independent and trusty sources, that it was terrifying. I'd seen Mulholland Drive a couple times since early high school when it scared the shit out of me and I composed one of my first movie reviews ever: "it went from dream to wet dream to nightmare". Mulholland Drive was formative for me. Peter Travers told me to succumb, and maybe, for the next decade of movies, I took him too seriously.

I didn't think Inland Empire was that terrifying. It was certainly nervy and grotesque, but, adolescence notwithstanding, I seem to remember Mulholland Drive being scarier, probably largely because it kept the viewer honest rather than severing all empathy. Laura Dern just seemed like a tired new iteration of Naomi Watts, and the incoherence onslaught came overswift.

I'm glad some threads connected near the end -- not sensibly, perhaps, but self-referential enough to ponder. I needed more of that. I also thought the setup in the first hour was effective, and could have gone somewhere. It really didn't.

This movie felt off-the-rails. It was a strong experience, but not a deep enough. It also lacks the sheen of Mulholland Drive, so it felt less beautiful and less impactful. I'm certainly interested though -- interested enough to finish up this post right now so I can go read about it for a while.

Bad movies

Films I Have Seen

I haven't seen many legendarily bad movies. The bad movies I've seen are mostly throwaway kids movies when I was a kid. I've seen some bad movies as an adult, but not "worst films of all time" or "so bad it's good" territory. I'm not sure I really believe in that anyway -- I mean I'm sure it could be interesting and ironic, but I doubt I could really enjoy that fare. I do believe some people enjoy it. But I think usually when I've seen bad movies it has felt soul-crushing. Either way, I doubt I'd prioritize it.

As a side note, here was one of my worst film experiences as an adult, of a film whose critical reviews are not even that bad: Review: Razor's Edge. I still don't understand that experience.

I think the only movies I've seen on Wikipedia's List of films considered the worst are the Friedberg/Seltzer parodies and Batman & Robin (which I didn't mind as a kid).

I might add more thoughts when I get a chance.

Zach Snyder's Justice League

I watched its four hours in maybe two. At some point in the last couple years I scrubbed through the theatrical cut. Of course I'm no student of the theatrical cut, but I didn't notice much difference, for my purposes. Personal and artistic takeaways were roughly equivalent -- just cheap thrill for a lifelong movielover. I guess I could tell which was which if I blind-tested them back to back? Probably just by Snyder's general grunge. But in the scope of my life it'd be splitting hairs -- both are so insignificant the differences hardly matter. It's still all interesting to me -- I can't help it -- but I can't call either movie very good.

I'm consistently disappointed by superhero movies (as mentioned recently). I'm not sure I've ever seen a superhero movie I'd call really good. The Dark Knight was supposed to be the one, but my last viewing was quite underwhelming. I think part of the trouble is we're trying to make immature material mature. The comic books were written for a different audience than these movies, and the translation doesn't work. I'm not trying to say comic books are intrinsically, universally immature -- but there's something about them that doesn't translate to blockbuster Hollywood. Example: I was watching an ostensibly dark, mature moment in The Dark Knight, and I noticed the ears on his suit, and it looked stupid, and I felt stupid and confused for watching this, which tore me out of the immersion. Some of this is just ridiculous. The comic books were probably never intended to be translated like this.

It's like Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy, where they tried to make a mature blockbuster epic out of a children's fairy tale. Everything is supposed to be epic these days. Not everything can be epic. Some things will die before they're epic. Tolkien's Hobbit wasn't designed for epic. Maybe these comic books weren't either. It's just silly to treat them so -- and as far as I'm aware, not a single great movie has come of all these colossally-expensive attempts.

But will I keep trying? It's hard to resist. I'm so interested.

Note: Wikipedia's take on the differences between the two cuts sounded as biased as anything I've ever read on Wikipedia. I guess I'll trust Snyder's cut should be considered more authentic, but boy was Whedon vilified for (again, for my purposes) vaguely equivalent cheap entertainment.

Batman Begins and The Dark Knight

Less mature than I remembered. My expectations for superhero movies are consistently too high. I still get excited about them, which is interesting given the consistent mediocrity. I might even say I like the genre, without loving a single movie in it. I get excited, and they're all less subtle and mature than I expect. This must reflect some difference between me and the mass audiences obsessed with these movies. The similarity is the excitement; the difference is the fulfillment. It's largely about the writing -- I'm attentive to writing, which is a weak point for this genre. The Dark Knight with exactly the same story but better dialogue may have been great. Instead it's childish.

The Dark Knight was probably better than Batman Begins, although I'm more attracted to the idea of Batman Begins. The Dark Knight has too much chaos, not enough Batman. It's centrifugal; it needs more digging into the Batman character. But Batman Begins is probably not original enough or epic enough. Both are stunted by juvenile dialogue.

Even back in high school I wasn't impressed with The Dark Knight Rises, so I don't feel the need to watch it now. There are ways to make superhero movies feel real; you can manipulate the materials of reality without affecting its dynamics; and these movies fail, because the dynamics don't feel authentic. This isn't how people would react to singularities like Batman and the Joker. You need a good "straight man" type -- people reacting to absurd situations the way you would. But these movies are unrealistic, ignoring the singular characters: not even the extras are believable. It doesn't feel real. I can't empathize. It's all superhero fiction.

West Side Story (2021)

Ansel Elgort's puffy, sleepy face ruined it for me. I just couldn't buy a relationship between one so lifeless and the other so full of life. This is largely a love story, of instant, intense infatuation. That's Romeo and Juliet and that's West Side Story. Such infatuation isn't credible when one severely underwhelms the other's energy. She wouldn't care about him. He'd be like Chino. This isn't so in the 1961 film. There, Tony has a spark in his eyes, spring in his step, big smile, facial muscles capable of expressing emotions.

I wonder what the rest of the cast thought. We're all so multi-talented and vivacious, and then there's Ansel. It's really a bummer. It's a bigger bummer for the romance than anything, but also a bummer for his other scenes. He doesn't fit in, and it blunts the whole movie.

Everyone else is excellent: Maria, Bernardo, Riff, Anita. They are inspiring and energetic. I got the feeling there was less dancing this time around; I could have used more of it.

I wouldn't mind sleepy Ansel in other contexts. Sometimes I idolize that archetype. But it doesn't work here. Would it work in any musical theater? Why does it seem this obvious incompatibility went unnoticed?

The only other flaw that really stuck out was some confused tone/mood. There were moments the emotions were poorly guided and I felt confused or awkward. I know that's what real life is like -- lots of ambiguity -- and some movies pull it off intentionally, but here it felt accidental. It felt like I was supposed to be swept up in a tide that was baffled by destructive interference. Movies can be sweeping or ambiguous, and pull either off, if it's subtle. I think this one fumbled a few times between the two. It wasn't a huge deal though. Maybe wakeful Ansel would've been enough to secure the sweep: the final bristle. 

West Side Story (1961)

I'd rather see it on the stage, not just for purity, but hoping to shed some old Hollywood cheesiness. I'm not sure exactly what it is though; maybe the adaptation was taut; maybe it was more technical (sound engineering, etc). Maybe the acting was more authentic on the stage, or at least felt more authentic in that consciously staged environment (see my recent post on Wit and adapting stage to screen). The movie felt cheesy and dated; I wonder what Robbins/Bernstein/Sondheim/Laurents thought of it. I guess Robbins co-directed, so it must not be too contrary to the play. I may be more forgiving of these elements on the stage. I was disappointed in the races and nationalities they had playing the Puerto Ricans. Hopefully the 2021 film did better; I wonder about the original Broadway cast.

It's strange to review adaptations having never experienced the source material, nor other adaptations of it. It's like reading the Bible in only English: to what degree am I getting the Bible and to what degree a translation? The translator is deeply involved; so is the adaptor to film. I considered skipping the 1961 film and going straight to the 2021, but I'm glad I didn't: adaptations are often influenced by earlier adaptations of the same source, especially earlier ones with profound cultural influence. Amazon's new Tolkien series is unapologetically responding to Peter Jackson's trilogy; it can't avoid it; the earlier is too influential; Jackson's Minas Tirith is culturally canonized just like Tolkien's, so Amazon must respond to both if they intend to tap the same popularity; ignoring the earlier adaptation will alienate an enormous viewership (probably a bad example: imagine a LotR adaptation casting actors to play the main hobbits who are the ages the main hobbits are supposed to be. It would probably upset lots of people at first, it would feel blasphemous given the legacy of the Jackson movies, and those familiar with the source would have to justify it to everyone). The 1961 West Side Story is very close, in time and directorship, to the musical, so I figured I wouldn't have to worry so much about liberal interpretation. I'm guessing it's pretty close, barring some technical details, and maybe acting?

It's interesting when experiencing a second adaptation sheds light on the source, when you've never experienced the source. This happens by exposing inconsistencies between the first adaptation and the source. Maybe the 2021 film will point to the original musical by defying elements of the 1961. I'll never see West Side Story on stage in the '50s; anything I'll ever see will be an adaptation; but seeing 10 adaptations, centripetally orbiting, would let me construct some semblance of the source. I'm reminded of this theory of symbols pointing to the unspeakable, maybe from Paul Tillich? It also sounds like inferring the properties of black holes by the behavior around them, direct study (and safe return) being impossible. I'm sure I could think of many more examples of an influential entity that is only experienced indirectly, and the more angles you get, the better you understand that which you can't access. This doesn't quite work for Bible translations though, since many are not translated directly from the original languages, and anyway, haven't we lost many of the original documents anyway, if there were any to begin with for some of these books, and rely largely on oratory history? This idea of gaining the source by observing its satellites doesn't work as well when the satellites have their own satellites. Do any of Jupiter's moons have moons? Actually, maybe it'd be like observing the planets in our solar system to understand the black hole at the center of the Milky Way; instead we just find ourselves talking a lot about the sun. It'd be better to observe suns in our galaxy than planets in our solar system.

I'm ambivalent about Bernstein's score. I'm interested in him. But I can't say I loved it. I don't love John Williams, and this sounded kind of similar. I'm far more interested in Bernstein than John Williams. But both seem to embody this sort of pop-classical, not like Lorie Line or Dustin O'Halloran... but maybe compare the Jurassic Park theme with the "tonight, tonight" theme. Compare both with "music of the night" from Phantom of the Opera. All seem to be extremely popular and celebrated, but I don't quite get it. I don't love the music from Star Wars, including the main fanfare. I don't really understand this classical theatrical stuff. I love stuff from each component -- classical, theatrical, film -- but I'll have to hear more Bernstein, and maybe more Williams, and figure out what's going on there. It's almost trying to be pop but it's too formal. It works for formal settings like "Imperial March", but not for common pathos. I guess I still like the West Side Story music, but not as much as I expected, mainly because it doesn't sink in -- it has a dated formality. I'm trying to be more precise, but I'm not sure. I liked "Simple Song" from Bernstein's Mass, last I heard it. It had a modern harmonic sensibility. West Side Story is sort of trying to be poppy and modern and affecting, with its I and IV chords, but the melodies don't quite land. There are far older pieces that are formal and affecting but not dated. So it's not just a symptom of its age. Maybe I'm not a huge fan of lydian. West Side Story liberally employs it, and I think Jurassic Park and Star Wars do as well. Oh! Also Howard Shore's Lord of the Rings. I love some of it, but if I really look at the music, some of the melodies that are supposed to be really affecting aren't for me (hobbit theme). I never loved that score as much as I wanted to, and it's certainly not for lack of love of the context. It's in the music itself, the melodies and chords. It's formal, older men trying to do pop, perhaps. Maybe they just aren't hip. Hip is a real thing. Old formal doing old formal is one thing, but old formal doing hip is tough. I don't know if that's what's really going on in West Side Story. I'm trying to figure it out. There are certainly classical artists through history whose work stabs forth to modern hearts. My now-tired example is Holst's "Jupiter", but I'm sure you can imagine classical artists in all media with modern or timeless sensibilities. I'm not sure West Side Story transcends its era so well. The music didn't seize me, at least not the stuff that seemed intended to seize me (the multiple love themes). Les Mis did better, as far as musical theater before my lifetime goes. Jazz musicals have some successes too. The music of West Side Story interested me, certainly. But it didn't hit me like great popular music does, or even like passionate classical music with modern pathos.

I want to see the 2021 film though, so we'll see how these ideas evolve.

I liked it, I respect it, I wish I could see it on the stage, I plan to watch the 2021 film, and I'm reserving judgment on Bernstein. I liked the dancing a lot. I'd love to see it on stage. It's all good, just not the joy I'm accustomed to with theater.

Kanye

Unorganized notes on College Dropout and Graduation:

It's impossible for me to experience these fresh, given I know lyrics to so many entire songs. But there was some freshness ("Homecoming" is about Chicago the whole time!!). I hadn't listened deeply to these albums since middle school or high school, just a few tracks on and off. They remind me how down-to-earth Kanye once was. Still, even in the few years between these two, I feel like I can hear the fame softening and corrupting his verses. But his mother's death is probably the turning point, seen in 808s. As far as I recall, Graduation were his last consistently solid verses. Well, what about MBDTF? It's really hard for me to compare all these albums, since I grew up with them, and haven't marathoned them all. People love MBDTF. I don't think I did. I'm not sure I have the stamina to marathon them all. Nor do I need to be a Kanye scholar. But it is tempting...

Indeed I'm mostly in this to connect with my past selves. I grew up with him. Listening back, I can see why I liked it. Unfortunately he went a little off-the-rails and his quality foundered, so I haven't kept up with him closely, and his current output doesn't match my current taste very well. But I'll always be interested in him, I think, and I'll always have that first handful of albums.

I've only heard Late Registration thoroughly once since high school, but hearing College Dropout and Graduation now, it aligns in theory that it would be a peak for me. College Dropout seems gritty and honest but a little unpolished; Graduation seems a little too polished and privileged; Late Registration, I think, splits the difference. Graduation is a little too glossy, but I love it. I'd love to see it live, perhaps as much as any album from anybody. It's still grounded Kanye, but thoroughly famous.

jeen-yuhs

As a document of a complex icon, it's essential. As a movie, it's curiously aimless. I could be talking about Dont Look Back, but if that were the case, I'd be thrilled and changed. I guess when I first saw Dont Look Back I was obsessed with Dylan. Jeen-yuhs is for peopled obsessed with Kanye. I've been a fan one way or another since elementary school, but my taste has drifted a ways. I see his earlier work as superior, and more nostalgic for me, so it's been years since I was actively passionate as a fan -- but even examining his earlier work, some of which I love, I'm often underwhelmed. Kanye has made some great music, and I love it, and I'm a lifelong fan; but I don't see him as a superlative artist. Even when Dylan disappoints me as an artist, he's still profoundly magnetic in a way Kanye isn't. Kanye is original, but he lacks the subtlety of others interesting to me like Dylan. Aggression doesn't always suit me, which I've said before. I always liked "Family Business." Consider how rare such tenderness is in the grand scope of his discography and cultural influence. Most of his impact is aggressive or otherwise unsubtle. Aggression can be subtle if it's layered, but his often manifests superficially like medication-stilted stream-of-consciousness rather than draughts of a deep artistic well. Dylan had his amphetamine anger, and it's not my favorite part of his work, but his body of gentler subtle work is colossal compared to Kanye's. Maybe it's unfair or uninteresting to keep comparing Kanye West to Bob Dylan, but it's natural for me, and Kanye himself certainly wouldn't fear the comparison, nor would many culture critics, it seems. Kanye also wouldn't fear comparisons to e.g. Kendrick, but they're very unflattering for him, in my mind.

I feel Kanye has an inspired mind, but not necessarily a subtle one. Again, I don't mean he shouldn't be aggressive or abrasive, but usually his artistry is bigger than it is deep.

I do love Kanye, ultimately, especially the first few albums. But I've lost a little touch with him, like the filmmaker did. I don't idolize him like I do Dylan, so the minutiae isn't enough to carry the documentary. Dont Look Back was all about the minutiae of the icon, with minimal performance footage. But these are two different icons for me, personally.

Enter the Dragon

Okay, it's fine, but this really isn't what I wanted. I haven't seen early James Bond in a while; what's the difference between that and this? Just combat style? This really isn't what I wanted. I guess I have my introduction to Bruce Lee, which should be sufficient for any future trivia nights. I doubt I'll need to see another. I wanted pure immersion in Asian martial arts cinema, but this didn't miss a single Hollywood cliché. Nor did I get good martial arts: I'd rather watch the driest amateur tournament than these ridiculous double roundhouses, if it's real. It's about gravity: movies can be spectacular if they maintain gravity, stay grounded, retain empathy. Ip Man had gravity; I could feel it. Enter the Dragon was so archaically staged I couldn't feel it. Movies have an odd task: convince the viewer's subconscious of the movie's reality enough to manipulate their empathy. If you can't convince the viewer, you can't manipulate their empathy. That's the trouble with primitive production: we're desensitized to sensationalism so it really needs to feel life-like. Enter the Dragon might have been awesome in 1973, but it feels silly now. It barely moves my emotions. I've seen too many action movies; I've built a tolerance; it had better look and sound and feel real.

Can I appreciate this for what it is? I'm not sure. They say it's one of the greatest. I don't get it. A couple things stand out, like the final scene with the mirrors, but most of it is tired formula. Maybe it invented some of this formula, and I'm desensitized, but it's hard for me to imagine this being a great movie at any period. It seems sensational at best. I can understand if it was awesome, in the 70s, but not a great movie. Great movies have more timeless artistic value. Enter the Dragon seems culturally meaningful and entertaining but not artistically profound, and the entertainment wanes. It's a tough fate for a movie I feel I respect, but maybe they never strove for timeless art. They hit the world hard, made a mark, and live through their offspring. Some works are so singular they don't really have offspring, but stand alone through generations. This isn't one. Enter the Dragon, like the original Star Wars, made a mark, planted a cultural seed that sprung a lineage, and lives therethrough. I respect that, but prefer to spend time with works that will make a mark on my life now. My pure interest in film tethers me to icons like Enter the Dragon that will not actually impact my life, and I will probably continue to kindle interest for things I don't need. But I will try not to spend so much time with them. Life's too short not to chase curiosities, but it's also too short for much idle escapism. You can curate your curiosities to a degree, and try to make your time make a mark.

Ip Man

2/19/22

I enjoyed this. I'd be interested in more martial arts (I've hardly seen any -- Kill Bill inspired this). The problem I foresee is cheesiness: even modern instances with convincing production, like Ip Man and Kill Bill, suffer via hyperbolic characters, and that's not to mention older instances with production worthy of a modern middle-schooler (I've seen a couple Bruce Lee clips). So I mean even with advanced choreography and sound effects, as in the aforementioned two, I'm still wanting the subtlety of other movies I consider "good". Has martial arts film gotten there? Should I try Crouching Tiger?

The fighting in Ip Man was just what I needed. Its brutality was selective and timely -- I don't need the constant cringe of Kill Bill; its combat narrative and choreography were awesome yet grounded -- Ip Man against a mob never felt as far-fetched as The Bride against the Crazy 88. Of course it was exaggerated, but consistently so, true to its tone.

I just wish the surrounding drama was subtler. An all-around convincing martial arts movie could be a powerful thing.

After a little research, it seems Enter the Dragon and Crouching Tiger are the two martial arts films I should most heed -- which I anticipated. Oldboy showed up, but is that a martial arts movie? Seven Samurai also appeared, which I've seen, but hardly remember.

jeen-yuhs Act I

The pacing is confusing: we're a third of the way through, and he hasn't even finished writing College Dropout? Kanye has enough material (musical and otherwise) for a 10-part docuseries. But this is a trilogy. If it's intending standard biography scope, there's way too much idle banter for its runtime. I don't inherently mind the banter (much), but the scope is confusing. So far it's almost entirely the short period between Kanye's arrival in New York and the release of College Dropout. The rest of his career will have to be absolute lightning pace if the intended scope is what I gathered from the trailer. But I'm reserving conclusions -- just confused.

Two gems shone through the mass: "Family Business" and Donda.

I always loved "Family Business." It's major soul chords and sentimentality -- two hallmarks of my taste in hip hop. I'm soft in a way: major sevens over harmonic minor, melancholy over anger. I always loved "Family Business", and I haven't heard it in a while. Hearing it now, with one stunned word of approval from Scarface -- "Incredible" -- was satisfying.

And Donda: what a presence. I've always had a warm and supportive mother, but Donda's warmth and support were astounding. No wonder Kanye treats her like an angel, if two brief glimpses tell the truth.

Tarantino

Extremely tentative ranking; I'd really need to rewatch some, and watch a few for the first time (Once Upon a Time, Jackie Brown, Death Proof):

1. Pulp Fiction
2. Reservoir Dogs
3. Kill Bill
4. Inglorious Basterds
5. Django Unchained
6. The Hateful Eight

Past posts:

• 2/12/22 Kill Bill Vol. 2
  
• 2/11/22 Kill Bill Vol. 1
  
• 9/21/20 Django Unchained
• 11/4/17 The Hateful Eight
• 12/31/15 Reservoir Dogs
• 8/28/15 Inglorious Basterds

I think he's struggled with ending otherwise great movies a few times, including Kill Bill, Django, and Hateful Eight. With stronger endings, I might love these movies, but I don't: that's how much it matters. I liked Kill Bill a lot, Django was largely great to me, and The Hateful Eight had a lot of potential, but ultimately I thought these endings were weak or aimless, which really taints the impression. I'm not sure if they ran out of steam, couldn't be reigned, shouldn't be reigned, or what. The latter two felt aimless, as I recall. Kill Bill didn't feel aimless, but anticlimactic. That one was more admirable to me, with the motherly resolution. But I thought the other two were just kind of baffled. Those I haven't named (Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Inglorious Basterds) I don't recall having weak endings, but those are also the ones I haven't seen in a while. But I don't recall those being weak.

I like his movies: they're supercharged by his passion for movies. Their stylistic and entertainment values are high. My only trouble is they're really just movies. They're movies for people who like movies. They're extremely movie-like. If someone had never heard of movies and asked for an example, Tarantino would be a great example. He just loves movies, and makes great ones, but they're heavy on the escapist entertainment side.

Yes, I do think movies can stray a ways into the Art and Life areas. See my relationships with Lord of the Rings, Synecdoche, Tarkovsky,... Life is the most subjective. Tarantino is pretty distinct from all this. I can't take much away, outside my intrinsic interest in movies. If I wasn't so interested in movies, it would just be escape, even further toward the Entertainment corner. This is tough for me, since I have a habit of rigorously justifying how I spend my time, and movies are not the easiest art to justify. Art itself requires justification for me, and movies even more than most -- and Tarantino even more than most movies I watch. I like and enjoy his movies, but they're outside my typical domain where I'm trying to get more art and life out. But I love movies in general, and maintain interest in them, and Tarantino is far from the furthest from my interest.

Kill Bill Vol. 2

I'm ambivalent on Vol. 2 due to its opposing tendencies: diminishing intensity and building purpose. The intensity diminishes, which is a big blow. Vol. 1 is thrilling, in part for its novelty, part for its brutality. The novelty wears off for Vol. 2, and Tarantino tones down the brutality. I was terrified during the early massacre scene. For the first time in a very long time, I pulled my gaze from a movie out of fear. Little came of it: suspense was released with a fading shot and the action out of view. I was stunned and relieved. It seemed out-of-character. Now, I say intensity diminished in Vol. 2 -- I mean gradually. That scene was as intense as any in Vol. 1 for me, but maybe its resolution taught me not to fear so much. An early shot also assures us she survives healthily, so even the burying-alive is tamed. Without that early assurance, the burying-alive would have been brutal. It nearly was anyway. Even if we're pretty sure she survives for the sake of the movie, sometimes visionary directors surprise you, and it's another step to be directly assured by the filmmaker like we were. I'm shocked he spared us the massacre, and I question his decision to assure us her healthful survival. It tames the movie. Maybe it keeps it palatable. The diminishing intensity is disappointing though, especially by the end. Vol. 1 is satisfying because you know there's a lot of time left to climax. Vol. 1 climaxed in an extended mass battle, but you know there's far more meaning to mine in the Bill confrontation and the outstanding offspring. Unfortunately these things don't build the intensity; it's deliberately subverted upon her arrival to them. That's okay, if it's re-raised, but it isn't. It gets too reasonable. They have some relatively normal conversations. You can actually empathize with Bill. Again, that's okay, and nothing new in movies -- the enemy is often empathized before their downfall. But we need some way to rebuild the intensity. It doesn't come. They hardly even fight. You get some reasonable conversation and a rapid defeat. And that's it. But now for the second tendency: the building purpose. Once we meet the child, the movie quickly begins to flip. Prior, the goal is Kill Bill. I worried this was doomed for Revenant-level emptiness. Revenge movies must always face this dilemma: if revenge is achieved, now what? Did it reverse the original wrong? Did it bring happiness? What did it mean? The Revenant faces this, voluntarily or involuntarily, and it's depressing. I worried Kill Bill would suffer the same. But as I said in the last post, for Tarantino's extravagant reputation, he has depth, and he finds a reliable way to bring meaning to the ending. The movie flips from Kill Bill to regaining the child. Bill dies anyway, but unlike The Revenant, the child is won. This move saves the movie from that deflating nihilism. How else could it have ended? Her death? She gets a lot of money? How could we be satisfied? She gets her daughter is about the best it could be. Well, I certainly would have preferred more climax on the way. Ultimately I'm disappointed, but by the grace of the ending I'm content enough. I feel flat about it -- ambivalent. I'm glad it closed off well, but it fell a little flat.

Once again I was really disappointed when cheesy fantasy entered. Last time it was jumping off the sword in the mass battle: this time it was jumping on the sword. The master jumped on the sword, did some other unrealistic things, and threw the sword back in its sheath. I really wish such fantasy could be avoided. I roll my eyes and care less about the movie. Thankfully this was momentary, and I felt invested the rest of the time.

I like Kill Bill. It had more depth than I expected. I was emotionally involved. It was exciting. The second volume was disappointing, but I don't feel frustrated. A mother winning her child is about the most placating thing of all time.

Next day notes:

It sounds like the mother-story came late in the writing, after Tarantino observed Thurman with her child. This explains why it felt like a left turn, why its relief was so surprising. I guess he didn't even conceive the Bride's daughter survived. I wonder how he would have ended it otherwise.

Why was Michael Parks's Esteban performance so enthralling to me?

Kill Bill Vol. 1

Kill Bill so far is about what I expected, but a touch more meaningful. I avoided it all these years as an ostensibly self-indulgent pleasure picture riding on gore and camp. It's more than that. First, Tarantino and Thurman make an honest effort to sympathize the character. Without this, Kill Bill would be martial arts porn worth my avoidance. Second, while Tarantino's signature is unmistakable, it isn't excessive. I rolled my eyes a couple times in Django. I haven't felt that at all in Kill Bill. It has that flavor that makes everything more entertaining, but not so much that I'm hyper-conscious I'm watching a movie. I was immersed. Time flew by. I was surprised to discover only 20 minutes remained. It helped knowing there's a second volume, but the Tarantino sparkle combined with the sympathetic characters drove the movie well. I'll add one caveat: I did become hyper-conscious I was watching a movie during the final fight scenes. It wasn't from the Tarantino sparkle, but from the absurd mass fight sequence and Zoe Bell's astonishing but ridiculous stunts. These are so central and climactic it may feel sacrilegious to question, but I wonder how the movie could turn out without the absurdity of the mass fight. Everything else in the entire movie works for me, is mutually consistent. Nothing else stuck out, including the fighting before and after this scene. But during that scene things got temporarily ridiculous, and I was torn from the world of the movie. Her odds were improbable and her stunts fantastical. In one sense this scene rounds out the movie, topping off the gore/camp/porn cup I mentioned earlier, for any yet-unfulfilled aficionado; it also elevates the character, it's epic, and it's entertaining. But I'd argue it compromises the film. It compromises my sympathy for her: she's a god now. Every other fight scene was thrilling and fearsome because I could feel her humanity. Here it became clear she couldn't lose. I feel far less affection for an invincible character. Thankfully the final fight pulled her back down, but I think the quality of this film depends on its humanity, and its humanity was seriously undermined in the mass fighting. It was cool, but I started caring less about the movie.

So I guess that scene crystallized what I expected of the movie all these years. I'm thankful the rest wasn't like that, and I was surprised how much I cared. He did a good, genuine job. It's not just a... what do they call artwork created for the artist's own self-indulgence that particularly eschews audience and criticism? Anyway, for Tarantino's extravagant reputation, he has depth. This movie is intoxicating, no surprise, but also affecting and artistic. For my interest in cinema I'm glad I tried it. I'll probably watch Vol. 2.

Note: I had some social justification in watching this. I wonder whether I ever would have otherwise. I liked it, and it's good for reference. But it's not the kind of premise I seek.