Follow the MockingJay

It feels wrong to write something negative about the awkwardly titled Hunger Games; MockingJay, Part 1. There's a phenomenal amount of stellar writing, locked-and-loaded acting, crisp photography and haunting images in this penultimate movie of the best of the innumerable dystopian-whatever teeny franchises. In the theatre I saw a trailer for the second Divergent flick, which is related to this film in the way poodles and wolves technically share an ancestor. There's a ferocity and a specificity underlying the Hunger Games that the many imitators lack. Suzanne Collins' novels are raging about the state of our culture and in particular our media, the soullessness and patheticness of what we're becoming. The films don't play quite as rough (have to protect that PG13), but the rage remains. This is a brutally efficient movie. It's the creak of a bowstring as the arrow is drawn back, the oiled click of a rifle bolt. And that's the issue. For two hours we sit and watch and wait for the arrow to fly. But not yet, and that can't help but be unsatisfying.

Like the 7th and 8th Harry Potter films, the decision to split the Hunger Games finale is driven by money. That earlier franchise went out of its way to re-invent the penultimate film, with mostly positive results. Harry Potter and the Whatever, Part 1, is a road movie in a fairly constrained series, a gorgeous meditation on friendship and struggle, something unique in that world. It is, to my mind, the most patient and adult of the series, and works independently as a lovely tone poem at feature length. The Hunger Games doesn't have the opportunity for so much differentiation. The stage may be different, but the orchestra is playing the same notes. Arrows fly, pain spikes, Jennifer Lawrence runs and rages. All expertly executed, all mesmerising to watch. But what you aren't sure is how to feel afterwards.

It says something about this series that, when tasked with filling two new and fairly important roles, it called upon the great actors Michael K. Williams and Julianne Moore. These are not people accustomed to wasting their time in pointless or unchallenging projects. Williams is a model of strength, charisma, and no little wry humor. Moore has the bigger and flashier role. It makes me eternally happy that Phillip Seymour Hoffman spent many of his final scenes sparring with her. In the next film, Moore and Donald Sutherland will hopefully have the chance to spit a lot of ice at each other. You'll notice the pattern here; In the next movie….

The actors are so good that we almost don't notice how little is happening. Except, oddly, for Lawrence. She's never less than appealing, but it occurs to me that she's called upon to do a lot more acting in this film than the predecessors. Those movies called on her to explode under pressure, to play fear and adrenaline and fury. This movie is quieter, and she spends much of it sparring with actors who, for the moment, may be a bit out of her weight class. It's a more internal role, politics rather than war. She comes alive with the bow, snarling lines into a camera. There's an amusing scene of Katniss struggling to act. I wish it didn't hit so close.

This is a powerful film, loaded with the kind of imagery that in lesser hands would feel exploitative. It evokes Naziism and Slavery. Its subject is the power of media and spectacle to distort the worldview of the watcher, subject and object twisting about one another until the results are horrifyingly unrecognizable. Katniss is given a camera crew and we wonder only why it took so long. She is the ultimate star, her authenticity carefully drawn out and recorded in pre-selected war zones.

Notice that when the camera requires a still subject, someone to stand and talk as diversion for a geurilla raid, the crew turns to Finnick. He is a broken man, but switches on for the show and plays his role flawlessly. Katniss is the opposite. She can only be herself in the desperation of combat, and if a camera happens to be nearby, then so much the better. The movie places her in danger and pain over and over, but only to run in circles. Her frustration feeds into the authenticity. When she destroys a hovercraft, it's the most genuine she's been in ages. The MockingJay is a fighter, not meant to be caged. She is a creature of action and dynamism. One wishes that the movie would act accordingly.

Draw Back Your Bow

Even in the choppy early days, Arrow had all the markers of something special. Beyond the spectacular fight scenes, gleam-of-sin choreography, and sneakily excellent acting, the show always had a certain edge juuust on the right side of arrogance. Consider the strength of its' early choice to make Oliver Queen a complete asshole. How many shows would make the protagonist an emotionally distant, stone-cold killer, and yet have the confidence to allow the audience to grow fond of him over an extended rampage through both Starling city and the emotional lives of its' wealthiest citizens? That, my friends, takes the big brass arrowheads. Still, the first season was bumpy, suffering from a combination of cliched plots, inconsistent character work, and perhaps a bit too much suspension of disbelief even for a show about a bow-weilding master assassin saving a city.

These are issues, yes, but common to every young show trying to fill 23 hour-long episodes (which is a whole lot of content). By the end of season 1, which brought a simmering plot to volcanic boil and unleashed the great John Barrowman as a lethal villain, we could see maturity and confidence to match the early swagger.

Season 2 was simply fucking magnificent. Operatic, profoundly emotional, expanding on every strength (seriously, this show has the best action on tv and somehow does that on a CW budget) and eliminating every weakness, I'd argue that Arrow S2 was legitimately one of the best things on television. It isn't a deep show, or particularly full of insights into the human condition, other than the efficiency of ending same through a well-placed broad-head, but as a blast of adrenaline and fun there's really nothing to match it.

So, what the hell is happening now? I praised the show for three paragraphs to highlight the awesomeness we've seen and that I have every confidence we'll see again. But man, the third season has been rough. I'd diagnose the problem first as a lack of stakes. Sara Lance was a fascinating character, but her occupation and the cough-and-you'll-miss-it nature of her death have diluted the impact of what should've been a crushing event. More importantly, I don't believe for an instant the way our protagonists have reacted. Sara was probably the closest thing to a love of Oliver Queen's screwed-up life. He's been conducting business a bit too close to the usual to be believable. Yes, the man locks his emotions as coasts lock an ocean, but come on. Would the Oliver who hunted Slade Wilson have given up on finding Sara's killer so quickly?

Actually, the only character whose reaction I believe is the show's worst; Laurel. Arrow has never quite known what to do with the local pole-up-ass alcoholic DA, and the choice to have her assume the mantle of her vastly more interesting sister is, simply, an error. Imagine an arc based on Sara hunting Laurel's murderer, even as she tries to continue her journey towards morality and a life with Oliver. Wouldn't that be fun? Instead, we get to see Laurel's flirt-boxing with the ruggedly appealing Ted (Wildcat) Grant, and what I'm sure will be disastrous early adventures in crime-stopping. I don't want to sound too negative, because the plot is well-handled and the actors are doing very fine work, but Laurel is correct when she calls herself unworthy of being the Canary.

 Actually, these are my issues in a nutshell. There's nothing particularly wrong with Arrow S3 thus far. The show hasn't forgotten how to stage a fight, characters continue to evolve, and we've gotten a lot of wildly enjoyable moments sprinkled in with the boredom. But, coming off what I'd call the single best stretch of episodes in the history of superhero television, something so shapeless and low-key has to feel like a disappointment. I'd like to think there's a longer game here, something besides the constipated looks Oliver and Felicity keep exchanging, but I'm not sure. Ray Palmer showed early promise as a potential villain, but he's nothing beyond a bundle of tics. Brandon Routh is so charismatic that the character hasn't worn out his welcome, but if he could stop fucking around and actually do something, that would be immensely appreciated. Same goes for Thea, Nyssa, and (especially) Malcolm and Ra's. These are compelling characters played by good-to-great actors, but there's only so many times John Barrowman can snarl threats without killing anyone before the Magician starts to feel like smoke and mirrors.

I still have hope. This is a show at the peak of its powers on a technical level. The recurring cast is rich with dramatic possibilities, and the leads are assured and accomplished emotional centers. Individual moments still sing. Isla Corta is a beautiful little caper flick full of flickering quicksilver emotion. Malcolm and Nyssa spitting venom made me cackle with glee. Ray Palmer is up to something, even if he doesn't seem to be sure what. What we're missing is that note of Opera, the apocalyptic whisper of Slade Wilson's sword clearing the sheath, the thud of boots as masked archers dance across a rooftop. It's time for Arrow to let itself fly.

Twiday the 13th

In which lions, and sparkles.

In our last edition of "throwing shade at Twilight," I pretty deliberately didn't spend much time actually talking about the book. Mostly because the book sucks. We're going to do things differently today, because this particular chapter sucks in some new and intriguingly awful ways. There is no plot, beyond the remarkably weird bit about Eddie glittering in the sun like an oversized engagement ring, which is pretty much exactly what he is. I'm honestly not sure what our dear Mrs. Meyer is going for here, but I'm quite certain that this is the first time in the book I've laughed out loud. I'm not one to say that new iterations of a familiar genre need to hold sacred any traditions of same. So, if she wants to have vampires who can come out in sunlight, I guess that's just dandy. But a little respect for tradition would be nice. This is a de-fanged vampire, a noble, tortured soul who happens to be a mass murderer. The sickeningly worshipfull imagery and description tells us that there's no monstrosity, no genuine evil in Edward. I disagree, but the book's point-of-view is difficult to mistake. What SM fails to realize is that a true redemption story, a bad man made good, is vastly more interesting than this twaddle.

Just to be clear; Edward is a fucking monster, just not in the appealingly broody way his author seems to have aimed at. Consider the line about how Eddie wanted to start munching on Bella's neck in a "room full of children." We have yet to learn how old Bedward actually is, but it's a bit older than seventeen. Consider also his assertion that "the lion fell in love with the lamb." Does anyone actually think this is a balanced power dynamic, a joing together on equal terms of two souls? Bella is a kid. She's a fucking child, and a not-particularly-mature one at that. The plot of this book concerns whether or not Edward can resist forcibly penetrating her - whether you read that as blood sucking or rape is entirely your call, and I'm not sure which one is worse. When they nuzzle and he sniffs along her neck or whatever, the image reminded me quite forcibly of the horrifying recent piece on campus rapes in Rolling Stone.

Edward even admits that she's "intoxicated" by his very presence. In other words, drunk on the mixture of hormones and adrenaline that is responsible for the majority of every teenager's actions. I don't know how many ways Ms. Meyer can demonstrate that Bella CAN"T GIVE CONSENT TO THE RELATIONSHIP. But hey, who cares about that, right? Anyone? Bueller?

Fuck this book. Seriously, fuck it.

Twilight, the 12th

You know, there's a fascinating moral dilemmna at the heart of this shitshow of a book. Vampires are very, very dangerous. Edward wants to penetrate (we'll come back to this word) Bella's neck with razored fangs. His sissie worries that the budding relationship will "end badly." So, naturally, he arranges to be alone with her in the woods for hours on end. Oh, right, because that's exactly what you should do with someone you care about, whose neck you're perpetually tempted to shred. Pardon me while I bash my head against a wall.

Now, that penetration thing…. Vampirism, in the literary / fictional sense, has all sorts of sexual overtones and connotations. Dracula, the Bram Stoker original, is essentially about the spread of sexually transmitted plagues throughout Europe. The metaphor works. An intimate encounter, taking place at night and generally in the bedroom. Removal of clothing. The climactic act of penetration, followed by a slow, creepy descent into madness, monstrosity, and disease. Normal Friday night, basically.

Twilight is a book of sex. Actually, scratch that, it's a book about wanting sex. Drinking blood takes the place of making sexytimes. Edward wants it, clearly, and is struggling to resist his temptations. Bella also wants it, although she's kind of dancing around the issue because she's incapable of making up her mind on any issue more complex than tonight's dinner selection. Does anyone else see the issue? There's no conflict here. They want the same thing, it'll happen eventually, and there's gonna be much making of icily-perfect babies and riding off into the sun… er…. moonset together.

Considering this book's progenitor makes its' flaws all the more readily apparent. The bloodline has become weak, diluted. Dracula, for all that it's a relic reflecting an older mindset, is actually the more enlightenened, interesting work. It features strong female characters with control of their own agency, who fight to protect their bodies and sexuality with the ferocity that those things deserve. I've said before that I'm not one to judge an author's mindset from her work. But, it bears pointing out just how little say or even interest Bella has in her own destiny. She's an observer, a bored and boring voyeur. Dracula is apocalyptic in stakes and tone. It occurs to me that Twilight is a rather brilliant title for a book that lacks the conviction to choose the brightness of love or darkness of fear.

Thoughts on Minimalism

My two hobbies are writing and weightlifting. The one feeds off the other. To explain I will offer a negative comparison: Every day people pace aimlessly around the gym floor, adjusting headphones and tapping touchscreens and gazing into televisions. They socialize with other regulars and occasionally perform a set on a well-sanitized piece of plastic and metal. Some of them have overpaid trainers following them around and pretending to pay attention. Shockingly enough, they progress slowly or not at all.

I don't know the names of anyone at my gym. I try not to be anti-social, and always nod or greet everyone I recognize. But that's it. The weights are meditative. The iron teaches through its lack of caring. It doesn't know that I haven't slept, that the big project is due at work, that the pretty redhead on the treadmill keeps shooting me looks. The iron demands the fullness of my focus and attention, and I give it no less. I've made the mistake before, and paid a high price. As a teenager I demanded too much of myself without really knowing how to ask the questions. Pushed too hard, went too heavy. Scars tell the tale.

What does this have to do with writing? I believe in absolute focus. I turn off the wifi, hide the phone, put on some music, and generally develop tunnel vision as I flow through a piece. In a world constantly demanding our attention in a hundred places, it's a rare and valuable skill to do less. There's a kind of courage to it, really, a certainty and confidence that being the very best at a single thing is far better than sucking at many things.

I've recently been watching the show "Shark Tank" quite a bit. It's wildly entertaining, a kind of steroidal embodiment of capitalism. Many entrepeneurs come with big ideas, wild dreams, promises of changing the world. The Sharks care only about making money. They care little for dreams, and speak only in revenues, supply chain, online vs retail. It's the clash between ideologies that gives the show its appeal. Companies that get funded have made the Sharks confident in their ability to do exactly one thing, no matter the route taken in pursuit of profit. There are infinite methods but only one methodology.

With writing, and the weights, and so many other aspects of my life, there is always a goal. Sometimes I can achieve it in a day, sometimes five years. But always there's something towards which I'm working. Consider day to day, hour to hour, second to second, whether you're getting closer to whatever it is that you need. Act accordingly.

Twilight, 11

In which; Oh look, shiny car!

Zach Snyder's Man of Steel (or, Superman: The Christ-ening) isn't a great movie, although I'd argue that it's become genuinely underrated due to some weird critical misinterpretations. But I digress. The movie gets one thing very, very right: A genuine sense of awe at the discovery that there are fucking aliens living on Earth. Pa Kent chooses to die in order to protect the secret of Kal-El's existence, believing that the world simply isn't ready for the knowledge. Late in the film, as Zod's threats echo across the globe, we get a montage of awestruck faces from a dozen cultures, the words translated into as many languages. Pa Kent was right. When the news breaks, it's a huge moment for humanity, maybe the hugest since the moon landing. There are aliens among us, and nothing will ever be the same. Snyder correctly treats the moment with respect and gravitas, and all that follows is more powerful as a result. Basically, he gives his revelation some stakes, some acknowledgement of the firestorm of a chain reaction that we know will result.

Bella Swan finds out that there is an alien in her small town, one with super-strength, functional immortality, and a genetic bias towards slaughtering humans. They talk about gym class and favorite colors. I want to punch things. Edward's smug face would be a nice start. I am unsure of why this chapter exists. It does nothing to accelerate the (non-existent) plot. We learn nothing of importance about any character. There's no development, no major hint that I've noticed. Oh, Edward's sissy drives a nice car. Bella has heard of BMW, an automaker with an average of 220,000 in annual US sales over the past decade. Her mother must be so proud.

Bella just doesn't act like a normal teenager. Actually, fuck that. She doesn't act like a rational human of any age. The chapter is offensively and agressively stupid. Young ladies, take note; If you feel a spark coming off of your date, I recommend telling him to leave the fleece at home. Otherwise, seek help. Yes, two people who want to bang sitting close to one another can often lead to bonerization (or female equivalent), but let's not pretend that there's some sort of magical love spark or whatever. I don't even know anymore….

Twilight, Chapter 10

In which…. Sigh. And murmur. Lots of murmur.

Twilight borrows (steals) heavily from lots of classic sources, including most of Shakespeare, Emily Bronte, and Jane Austen. Yes, Steph, we get that your shelves are admirably stocked. Anyway, thinking about antecedents make me wonder whether there's really any precedent, both commercially and artistically, for this book. It's a difficult question. Shitty books and movies break big on a depressingly regular basis. But something this shitty, this juvenile and insipid? Rare, right? But I eventually found something while browsing Amazon Prime. I'm talking, of course, about Romeo + Juliet (to be clear, the late 90's Leo DiCaprio / Clare Danes film).

I'll say first that the movie is vastly superior to the book in every conceivable way. This is not a perfect comparison. But the parallels are intriguing. It's become clear as I've slogged through Twilight that the book is going for a kind of fever-dream, breathless intensity. It fails, but one can see the headlong rush of adrenalized young love lurking in the space between murmurs and whispers. Thing is, Romeo and Juliet (original), pretty much patented that tone. The play has much on its mind besides, but ultimately the story is one of young idiots who get too fucking besotted to think straight. I actually tend to think that the Luhrmann movie is an even better embodiment of those storytelling bones than was its progenitor.

The film is simpler, shallower, all surface (on first watching, the second gets better). What surfaces they are, though. It's a deeply beautiful movie, lush, everything shining like sin. Colors pop, voices sing, raw emotion sparks through every scene. At first I wasn't sure if the film has much to offer beyond that, that and the simple pleasure of hearing Shakespeare spoken well, but any work able to accomplish visual wizardry while letting talented actors rip is one worth admiring. It's a feverish, wildly propulsive movie, moving at the speed of its' young heroes' hormones. Everything is exaggerated, every emotion the depest and most powerful ever felt by man. The movie certainly isn't perfect; I'm still not sure if the words and pretty pictures are serving the same tone and story. But, it's exactly the kind of intelligently lurid storytelling Twilight can only hope to be when it grows up.

Much of this intelligence comes down to self-awareness. Romeo and Juliet are morons. Passionate, cute, deeply sympathetic, but their love is all-powerful and blinding and they know deep down that that either they're together or the world ends. So, basically, they're pretty standard hormonal teenagers. The movie gets it. We're meant to weep for these two, not want to be them. It's a tragedy, not a romance. If one looks past the shimmering beauty of the world (and Clare Danes' eyes), one might see that Luhrmann is after something elegaic, haunting, and mournful. He loves the characters deeply, but he doesn't admire them. It's a stunningly immersive film, but there's a layer of intellectual remove, especially in showing the clockwork mechanics of missed chances and wrong turns, that keeps it at least a little outside their perspective. I missed all of this on the first viewing. It's too easy to simply get lost and drink in the words and pictures. On a second viewing, I started to notice the depth of Luhrmann's thematic concern. This is really a mature film, thoughtful, commenting on the MTV generation without being of it.

So what does this have to do with Twilight? Well, maybe not much. But it's instructive, to see the book's goals so deftly accomplished by another work. Luhrmann earns his emotions, because we believe that Romeo and Juliet truly love each other, and so we weep even as we shake our heads at their folly. I do not believe, for a single second, that Bella and Edward love each other. They don't even know what the word means. How could they? Chart their interactions over the course of the novel. Where the fuck did it happen? When Romeo declares his love, it's lovely and hot-blooded and sad all at once. When Edward asks if Bella could possibly believe that she cares more than he does, it's just gross and fake and rotten to the core. Food for thought. And yes, much more apple imagery to come.