I'm not in the mood to see a four hour documentary on nazis

ABOUT EIGHT MINUTES AND TWENTY THREE SECONDS IN, TILL THE END:

I haven't posted here for a while and I'm going to blame a whole myriad of distractions for that particular neglect. I'm watching the end of Six Feet Under, which, for some reason, I never got to (I think all the bleak emotionalism and pseudo-realism were really getting to me; I ended up watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer instead). I'm insatiably hurricane-ing through The Walking Dead, which is becoming, far and away, my favorite comic book series to date; the melodrama and social commentary have this grotesque marriage and it all manifests itself in the flesh (I got goosebumps reading volume four the other day). I'm spending a lot of time avoiding papers. More or less, I'm procrastinating a metric-fuck ton of stuff. I'm still watching movies (although I'm a bit behind on my movie-a-day quota), and I'm still thinking about this place. Just, I haven't had the liberty or the imagination to post anything terribly worth my own time, let alone yours. So, I think, for a while, I'll stick to some simple "I liked, I didn't like" sort of posts and or something like that. I don't know, we'll see what happens.

Nonetheless, watching THE SORROW AND THE PITY Sunday and I couldn't be any more excited. It seems as if documentaries are really demanding a majority of my viewing time recently. I don't want to see SHOAH at all. Strange.

P.S. Someone should inspire me to write something worthwhile, eh? Eh?

Chicago, Peanut Butter & Jelly, and Documentaries

MY TRIP TO CHICAGO
AND (IN THE SUBTEXT)
HOW IT CHANGED ME

For some of us accessibility is a serious obstacle. All considering on what exactly you're looking for, accessibility can always be an issue, but, for some people, it's that much more of a daunting task when attempting to see a particular movie. I live in Northwest Indiana, in a town called Valparaiso. I'm just about the poorest, sickest, and happiest person I know. On top of my poverty, I'm also jobless and without car - this is both a reflection and a cause of my aforementioned happy-poverty. All I mean to say is this: I'm in a small town with little cultural advantage, and I have no money to sustain a Netflix account or an obsessive DVD-purchasing habit. So, for me, accessibility is one of those obstacles which forever haunts me in my path towards filmic enlightenment.

Last week I had the privilege of receiving a vision: the city. Valparaiso is about an hour and a half from Chicago and taking the pilgrimage isn't exactly rare. However, what is rare, at least for myself, is spending anymore than a night in the city. As I have quite a number of friends living in the city, the opportunity is actually quite open to myself. Last week, the morning after the Perseid meteor shower, I finally took that opportunity. I stayed with my art studenty, furry friend Robbie D. in his sort of dirty, but very welcoming Logan Square apartment. The first night I was in we took a very long and aimless walk full of philosophically tangential conversation dotted with moments of ghostly inwardness. I knew that this trip was important, something big.

I was having just about the closest thing to a spiritual experience an atheist can have. I was in a new land, with a good person, and predisposed to a great deal of introspection. But, for some reason, everything just kept coming back to film - as if my states of contemplation all began with a title card and ended with rolling credits. As Robbie is a film enthusiast himself, we decided it would be appropriate if we spent a considerable amount of time watching movies together. Well, nothing was playing at the Gene Siskel, or the Music Box, or, really, anywhere for that matter. So, Robbie brought me to the John M. Flaxman Library at the Art Institute. This is where my envy, free in my excitement, began to claw at my insides; not until I began to flip through the video catalog did the monster bend my ribcage and tear itself from my flesh.

I knew then, in absolute certainty, that I needed to be somewhere that actually served to cultivate my enthusiasm. Netflix and other extra-medial services will always be dear and near to my heart, my head, and my cock, but the welcomeness and open exchanging quality of the art and cultures within the city is penetratingly intoxicating. There were so many things that I wanted to see, needed to see - and, it was all there, right in front of me. It all seemed so easy and so encouraging. This was the sort of accessibility I craved! Oh, rapture!

In the course of three days, I think we watched nine movies (mostly documentaries, mostly at the library itself, big screens are nice). It felt really good. And, I wouldn't call it dread, but there was a sinking feeling the entire time; I knew I was to return home Netflixless, Flaxmanless, and completely broke (Chicago, for all its accessibility, is fucking expensive). Now that I'm home, I'm actually stupid comfortable, but part of that may be because that sense - that I can just take the Blue Line to the Flaxman and watch whatever I like - hasn't exactly disappeared yet. In a somewhat related note, I'm really happy I don't sell Bibles for a living.


When I did get home (Friday afternoon), I immediately went to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona (playing at a theater nearly forty minutes from my home) and think I cared for it as much as I did merely because of the idea of anyone, ever, going to some foreign place (literally), but actually going somewhere much further (experientially, metaphorically), and then returning home a different person. Woody's dialogue was clichéd and rigid, Scarlette Johansson's "hotness" was talentless, and Javier Aquirresarobe's photography was uninspired, but I didn't care! The music was cool, and, and... Vicky and Cristina we're whispering things to me in their going-back-home-awkwardness. The next morning I shaved my mustache (of which I have great affection).


__________________________

This post has no finality and little contingency, in a sense, it's perfect in expressing, in form, the sort of feeling I have right now. I'm going to wake up in seven hours, take a shower, have two eggs, hashbrowns, and toast (with mixed fruit jelly and butter) for breakfast, watch "Conversations with Dead People" (Buffy the Vampire Slayer 7x07), and then leave for a meeting with my supervisor for undergraduate admissions and registration at PUC in Hammond. I'm excited. I want to watch a really good movie right now, any suggestions? Who wants to do some VHS trading? Oh, by the way, I got these two guys at this little-big cool pawn shop (the sort of place I think I might live at) somewhere in Chicago (I never caught the name, oops):

I Didn't Like I

Another instance of Roman Numeral (proper) confusion: "I didn't like #1" is the first of another series which will play parallel, in a sense, to the "I liked" series. In contrast with its cousin series, the "I didn't like" series will showcase films I've seen recently that didn't exactly thrill me (makes sense, huh?). More or less, this is just an extension of the primary idea of letting you know a bit more of what I'm doing while, at the same time, increasing content (despite the fact that this is more less just an excuse to define my taste, log it, and post a pretty picture). I have screening logs which I have been keeping since June, perhaps they will find their way here sometime soon as well. In either case, I applied to college really late and I'm really anxious now. Also, I think I'm a bit passive-aggressive personality disordery.














Satan's Playground
(Dante Tomaselli, 2005)

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog (Joss Whedon, 2008)

Horribleness,
Getting the Girl,
Anarchy, and the
Greek Tragedy:

Much like in Whedon's seminal television work, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, nothing is exactly as it seems in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. In the horror world, before Buffy, we knew who was bad and we knew who was good. We knew who was helpless and we knew who wasn't. This assurance made facing the horrible all that less horrifying - it was a safe, formulaic, and predictable world. These sorts of clichés were the immediate inspiration for Buffy. Whedon created a woman with power, who was a hero, and placed her in the horror realm where, traditionally, "the little blonde girl... goes into a dark alley and gets killed." Whedon explained this rebellion as a more subverted feminism: "The very first mission statement of the show was the joy of female power: having it, using it, sharing it." [1] This would, essentially, become a sort of "whedormula" in of itself; Villains would become heroes, heroes (sometimes) would become monsters (or be monsters), and you could learn to expect the unexpected.

The formula was successful; Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a critical and cult success and remained on television for seven full seasons. The Buffyverse further extended into the (equally successful) spin-off Angel, several different comic book series (both canonical and non-canonical), heaps of novelizations, action figures, video games, and even university-level lectures. Buffy was at once not only a commercial success, but an immensely successful philosophy. Even today both the surface and subverted qualities of Buffy are discussed on an academic level [2]. What I mean to illustrate by introducing the origins and success of Whedon's earlier work are the recurrent ideas (behind and implemented into nearly all of Joss' work) that echo and reverberate in
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.

Just as Buffy inverted and played on the ceremonies of the Horror genre, Dr. Horrible subverts the super hero world. There is a perfect sense of anguish and irony that serves as an undercurrent throughout all three acts of Dr. Horrible, arguably resurfacing from the sort of dubious way many of us, as children, must have viewed super heroes. Batman was an obvious capitalist cheerleader (independently wealthy, kicking the shit out of petty criminals). Superman was the personification of the American Dream (the ultimate immigrant, rising to success and heroism in the new world). Often the lines between good and bad were not only drawn, they were bolded and made to carry giant flashing billboard size marquees, "Joe Chill bad, very very bad!" Sure, there was serious socio-political subversion in the comic world, especially into the twenty-first century, but the majority of super hero worlds were full of democracy-wielding-might-as-well-be-slave-traders dressed up in capes and masks. Even as children we knew that this wasn't how the world worked, and we became aware of the pacifying nature of most media.

Dr. Horrible is the result of all this skepticism we have for our heroes (which includes capitalism, democracy, love, and charity), and because of this we immediately relate to him. His frustration is our own. His pain is not just a plot device or character motivation, it is a real and honest discontent that we all have with the world, and the "powers that be." This is why Dr. Horrible's arch nemesis, the so-called hero, Captain Hammer is such a prick. Captain Hammer is the embodiment of all that is wrong with the world: unmitigated egoism, exaggerated masculinity, bombastic idiocy, and malicious deceit. This is the most immediate inversion within Joss' new creation; Dr. Horrible, the villain, is truly our savior while Captain Hammer, the hero, is truly the bad guy. This point is obvious, but is necessary to establish before pushing this tale to its iconoclastic end.

What Dr. Horrible is, after a confused, love sick, and angst ridden young man (Billy), is an anarchist, and that the anarchist is our hero speaks volumes to the subversive elements present in Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. Captain Hammer "corporate tool" is a destructive, militaristic entity; he is careless, moronic, yet well-liked and exceedingly powerful. I mean to posit that Captain Hammer is democracy, corporate interest democracy and Dr. Horrible is freedom, anarchy (sensitive, confused, impractical, vilified). As such, it is no surprise that romance is what moves both of these characters. For Dr. Horrible, Penny (the beautiful nerd from the laundromat) is the gentleness of mankind. Without the hope of a better future (Penny), Dr. Horrible could never aspire towards social change, or an upheaval of power. So, it is integral that Dr. Horrible love Penny, despite, of course, having never actually made contact or consummated his love (either of which would mean an actualized hope, and a new future which steps outside of just mere fantasy). However, Dr. Horrible fails to save his love and Penny is, ironically, the last to be corrupted by the perversion of Captain Hammer, and therein lies the tragedy.

As Dr. Horrible reported in his blog, "the status is not quo." And, it's true. The world is messed up. This is, fundamentally, why Dr. Horrible is our hero - however mistaken, he intends to save the world. However, his savior role is powered only by the love he holds for Penny. Some may see this as a character flaw, or a selfish conceit, and they wouldn't be wrong. But, in my model, Penny is symbolically the innocence and purity of mankind, thus, Dr. Horrible's love interest is not only optimistic in nature, it is also the root of his anarchistic aspirations. If mankind truly has no love, then we could not hope to survive in a state of... statelessness. Penny provides that hope for a better future, and, as such, operates as a justification for any "evil" committed in the hopes of revolution. At the end of the first act, when Dr. Horrible inadvertently introduces Captain Hammer to Penny, the real downfall of our hero begins.

Penny is slowly seduced by the power and disguise of Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible feels helpless to save her. This is when (in the second act) the darker tones of the series begin to truly flesh themselves out. Billy (Dr. Horrible) sings, "hopes and dreams are shattering apart, and crashing to the ground," and that "evil inside" of him "is on the rise." This is the depressive state of cynicism Billy faces after having seen his love in the arms of his enemy. Or, to put it in other words, this is the pessimism born from the innocence of man being destroyed. Later, when Billy's aspirations of domination are challenged, he decides, for the first time, that he may be ready to kill to get what he wants, and he decides to assassinate Captain Hammer to claim his victory. This rash behavior, however, will amount to Billy's harmartia and the story's tragic ending.

The final battle, which ends in the malfunctioning of Dr. Horrible's death-ray, is set at the press opening of Captain Hammer's single-signature homeless shelter (a treatment of the symptom). Here, the mob style fans are present in full force and "justice" is renamed "Captain Hammer." But, Dr. Horrible lays in wait. In the middle of Captain Hammer's address, which amounts to self-praise and mob appeasement, Dr. Horrible freezes the Captain and delivers his own address. In his final mantra, Dr. Horrible sings, "now that your savior is still as the grave you're beginning to fear me," asking "can you really hear me?" In a violent rage, Dr. Horrible fires his death-ray into the air and the crowd runs for cover. For once, Billy has his chance to end it all by taking the life of Captain Hammer, yet he hesitates. This mistake is fatal.

Having been unfrozen, Captain Hammer gets the upper hand and turns the death-ray on Dr. Horrible. Hammer ignores Billy's warnings and misfires the death-ray, sending debris from the rifle everywhere. For the first time, Hammer feels pain and runs off in tears. For a moment, Dr. Horrible realizes his victory, that is, until he sees Penny. Shrapnel sent flying from the exploded death-ray had impaled his love. Apparently unaware that Captain Hammer had effectively murdered her, Penny tragically ensures Billy with her dying words that "Captain Hammer will save us." The press spins the story in Hammer's favor, labeling Dr. Horrible as a murderer. As a murder was the requirement for Dr. Horrible's admittance into the Evil League of Evil, the events are a sort of demented success. Dr. Horrible gains popularity, power, and dominance, yet loses the love of his life. In the final song Dr. Horrible is seen, for the first time, wearing his goggles singing, "now the nightmares real. Now, Dr. Horrible is here to make you quake with fear, to make the whole world kneel." Here is Billy's transformation into true villainy: the colors of death adorned and the light of day obstructed. This is the result of Dr. Horrible's anarchy without the hope he had for mankind, without Penny. The persona of Dr. Horrible has become overpowering and Billy hides away from the world and all its sensation by giving into the evilness which arose inside of him after Penny's death. In a final frame, Billy is seen sitting at his blog without his supervillain costume. He sings the last words of the last line of the last song, "and I won't feel a thing."

In the end, what is Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog but an exceedingly poignant and complex tragicomedy? The absurdist, almost silly quality of the whole thing only makes its tragic and socio-political concerns that much more cathartic. The audience is lulled into a musical sanctuary - hidden from the themes of tyranny, pain, and obsession - but, what we're left with is an unbelievably cynical ending punctuated by the downfall of our hero and the death of mankind's innocence and sincerity (all within an already dark and insincere world). And, really, the final absurdity of it all is how enjoyable and celebratory the whole thing is (I'm still singing the songs in my head). It works almost perfectly on the level of a Shakespearean tragedy; it grants the same sense of assertiveness and fascinated marvel that permeates from the pages of Macbeth or Julius Caesar. When we found a hero in Dr. Horrible, we truly found ourselves. In the end, we're forced to examine and reconcile the relationship we have with our hero selves (our revolutionary aspirations, and our fairy tale romances) and our true place in society (the "not so heroic" place Captain Hammer sang of). We have to recognize Dr. Horrible as an evil fool, but a beautiful, forgotten, and confused hero nonetheless.

-------------

*this whole thing has essentially been me thinking far
too much about the ideas behind this sweet little creation
by Joss Whedon. But, nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed it,
and I hope you support Whedon's efforts here in his extra-
media experimentation (buy DVDs, buy Soundtracks, etc.).
Also, if you have any comments on my unsorted, scatter-
brained ideas (or any theories of your own), let me know.

I Really Know Very Little

I, much unlike most cinephiles and snobs, was born after the war was waged, by competing media and technology giants, for the video market. In the early 1970's home video cassette recorders (VCRs) first became available. On April 16, 1975 the first consumer-popular video format was introduced: Sony's Betamax. A year later, in an act formerly considered market-suicide, The Victor Talking Machine Company of Japan, Limited (JVC) denied the dominance and popularity of Sony's Betamax by inventing a videotape format of their own, VHS. Thus began the long-winded and bloody market battle that became known as "the videotape format war." It wasn't until a decade later that a clear victor in the battle had emerged, and that victor stood in contradiction of technological superiority (aside from running time, Betamax was superior to VHS in every way). I was forced into this world in 1988; it was the same year that Sony conceded defeat and began to produce VHS cassettes. [1]

In 1975 Opening Soon at a Theater Near You premiered on WTTW (PBS Chicago). The show starred print-critics Gene Siskel and (now) jawless-celebrity-status Roger Ebert. In '78 the show was retitled to Sneak Previews. In '82 the two critics left the relatively popular public broadcast in order to create their own show under Tribune Entertainment called At The Movies. Four years later the thumb-wagging duo signed under Buena Vista Entertainment (Disney's television division) and became the hosts of Siskel & Ebert & the Movies. In 1989, when I was nearly a year old, the series' title would change for the last time before Gene Siskel's death; "The Movies," was taken out of the title, "Siskel & Ebert" was all that remained. That same year the phrase "two thumbs up" was trademarked. This coincided with the show's immense success. It was becoming increasingly lauded and integrated into the public conscious. Arguably, this also coincided with a disheartening decrease in academic or scholarly film criticism. [2] American film critic Pauline Kael, who wrote for The New Yorker magazine from 1968 to 1991, was once asked by a prideful Ebert if she had seen his show. She responded scornfully, “If I want a layman’s opinion on movies, I don’t have to watch TV.”[3]

All this serves to inform me of the commercial and consumer orgy of video-media I was born into. Intelligent criticism had been replaced with thumbs, film was being seen merely as a "fun" time-wasting entertainment only academically considered by smelly eccentric hoarders, and "Blockbuster" was becoming a household name. I'm lucky though, really. I was born into the first wave of the information age. I have a world of knowledge at my disposal: this is actualized autodidacticism. Without any of this, I wouldn't even have my passion for cinema, let alone the ability to communicate it to you (anyone want to start a tape trade?).

In my small room, my mother's small apartment, the small town I live in, I am a sort of film aficionado, a real "cinephile": I know who Jess Franco, Frederick Wiseman, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Dušan Makavejev, and Andrzej Zulawski are. However, this is not to say that I truly know anything about them - because, essentially, I don't. Despite the fact that I have been gifted with the rare opportunity to see some of the work of each of these artists, all of those instances have occurred in the last year, were dependent on some sort of (more or less) freak accessibility, and have only served to marginally ascend myself towards any degree of so-called snobbery. In my little town I'm a particularly knowledgeable and well-viewed movie-goer. However, in the perverted and exceedingly expansive terrain of underground network cables - the world-wide-web - I'm somewhat of a foolish, infantile, and half-blind insect. I'm small and insignificant in comparison to the verbose, well-read, and projection-absorbed elite who live inside of the corners of the most obscure world-cinema.

Despite all this, I have my own aspirations and that is what moves me to start this blog. I truly do have a love for film and a passion to dedicate myself to its study. Film has transformed, defined, brightened, and devastated my life - it is a force and power that I could not, for anything, oppose. Because of this, I have resolved to watch at least one movie a day. I have the hopes of genuinely expanding my knowledge of cinema and I not only want to catalog this journey for myself, but possibly give others insight into the process and the procedures it entails (finding some of these movies is impossibly stupid). Further, I need something - I have a deficiency in discipline - to keep me anchored and on task... I'm watching a movie a day.

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[3]. What we Don't Talk About When we Talk About Movies by Armond White