A Misfit Among Misfits - Entering The Rose Cavern

Galleries crowded with patrons
Silence of contemplation lost
Visuals inspiring yet impassionate
Leaving pretentious moue
No room left with space
No artwork without million eyes
Should be expected as so
Yet grating all the same
For without reflection
The gallery is merely streets
With colors and shapes irrelevant
To purposes of which one traverses them
Sudden muted trumpets croon
Regarding a funny valentine
Investigation leads down the hall
To an exhibit of a rose cavern
There inside lies a mirror
In the mirror a man stands
He’s more straight than limp though
But nonetheless strange in form
His beard matching dark forests
His shirts plaid and drab
His eyes peering forward
With only pensive soulful thoughts
The mirror’s tint is green
Yet the man’s color is lavender
Contrast to his lover beside him
Whose as the mirror intends to be
Also present on the man
Stripes yellow, blue and red
With white blots gleaming brightly
All blending into his face
His lover brings him for romance
Lips locking with his colors fading
For nine minutes they were entangled
Each one making his colors normal
With him devoid of any reason
No explanation of his colors
Watching the scene in glass realms
Seeing none in terms of sense
Behind them a sculpture
Phallic and yonic
Curling into itself with each note
Of both the melody within
And the passion in front
Anger still stayed from the confusion
Of what became of the colors before
But now was erotic displays
Forbidden by impenetrable windows
Only could be seen were forceful reflections
Plaguing in their prominence
No more could witness be bore
To actions inaccessible yet tantalizing
Now in a red-violet room
Only music pierces souls
Mirrors are standard without tint
And the noise within is now without
It was rare to enter the rose cavern
To be brought to the lavender man now green
And what horror was come to be
When standard mirrors showed him back
Alone and staring pensively

Freiwerk Nonanarratives - The Mystery Of Sigma LeBlanc

In the middle of the town of Caladay, Sigma LeBlanc was making a whole bunch of drunks happy. He had just offered to cover the tab of every patron at the bar, buying drinks left and right, while singing a merry jig. Sigma himself was inebriated beyond belief, having gulped down an entire bottle of the most expensive item the bar had to offer – a bottle of Kentucky bourbon that Ulysses S. Grant had stashed away just in case the Confederates had won the war. The bottle had been on display there ever since the bar was opened, which was around the time that Caladay was founded. It was quite a moment for the bar, beyond the alcohol-fueled antics.

Sigma LeBlanc, originally named Samuel Weiss, was a resident in the town, one who seemed to live at the bar rather at home. There was hardly much to say about him as Samuel. From his short, portly stature, to his unkempt blonde hair, to his chalk-covered shirts and glasses more fitting of cartoony scientist’s goggles, he was as unappealing as he was a boozer.

Ever since he became Sigma, with his finer suits, darker and cleaner hair and classier glasses, he’d create a spectacle just by entering an establishment. Many in the town of Caladay would come to experience moments made by Sigma LeBlanc. Yet they couldn’t figure out what had brought about this sudden change. Some figured he won the lottery, but no convenience store had any proof of the winning ticket. Others figured that he had made a new academic breakthrough, but those were often laughed at for being so absurd. More and more speculation would pile up but none seemed to reach beyond conspiracy. Sigma himself never really wanted to speak of how he got the money. He’d much rather throw whatever bills he had in his wallet around and hope that it would finally silence the questioning.

Since he had amassed an unknown but vast amount of money, certain key figures of Caladay became interested in meeting with him. Sigma only cared to meet with one, and he chose to speak with him and his wife in his newly acquired house on the west side of town.

“Mr. LeBlanc, it is so nice to be meeting with you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it is, Dean Palisain” Sigma made little effort to contain his resentment, as the dean firmly grasped at his hand trying to choke it. “Nice to see that you came along too, Mrs. Palisain.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have much else to do back home, and I would rather not let you two have all the fun.”

“Mmm, yes,” the dean rolled his eyes, “…anyways, Mr. LeBlanc, let’s get down to busin-”

“Wait, wait, before we get to yapping, let’s get some bubbly over here.” Sigma got up and went to fetch a bottle of fine foreign champagne. The dean scowled towards his wife but quickly changed his face as soon as Sigma turned to face him and sat back down to talk.

“So, Mr. LeBlanc…I was hoping we could get to talking about Caladay University.”

“Sure, what’cha want to talk about it?”

“Well, currently the university has been having a few financial issues. We’ve had to resort to reusing old textbooks, classes have become quite crowded and one of the libraries ended up burning down.”

“Honey, didn’t you say that the university had one library?”

“No, I said that the university has no libraries and that we use the only library the town has.”

“Okay, so you got a big mess there, and you’d like me to fork over some cash.”

“A rather succinct way of putting it, yes.”

“Well, sure, I’d be happy to help out Caladay U. Kids could certainly use the help.”

“That’s wonderful! I guess now we can open the bottle to celebrate.”

“Ah, I’m not done yet, Palasain,” Sigma remarked, as he popped the cork out, hitting a window. He took a big chug from the bottle before pouring a glass for the three of them (to which the dean pushed his away). “I’ll help you out, but you gotta do three things for me.”

“Alright,” the dean responded, tilting his head upwards, “go ahead with your requests.”

“One, all the new stuff I give Caladay U has gotta have my name on it with big shiny letters.”

“That’ll be a given…”

“Two, I want ya to get a better coach for the football team! I wanna see them in the finals!”

“I’ll see what I can do...”

“And three, I want tenure.”

“T-tenure?” The dean’s eyes popped out. “Are you insane?”

“Come on dear, I don’t think it’s that bad of a request.”

“See, your wife doesn’t think it’s a bum deal.”

“I most certainly will not give you tenure! What, you think you can just buy it from me?”

“Oh, so now you’re all Mr. Integrity, eh? Telling the profs to pass the governor’s kids was alright, but I ask you for tenure and now we’ve crossed a line.”

“I’m not giving you tenure, Mr. LeBlanc.”

“Professor LeBlanc! I. Am. A. Pro. Fe. Ssor! If you’re not giving me tenure, at least give me that!”

“I won’t give you the pleasure of such an unworthy title! In fact, I shouldn’t even be calling you Mr. LeBlanc. You remain the same pitiful Sam Weiss whose intoxicated lifestyle has sullied any decent reputation Caladay University could ever hope to achieve.”

“You’d really put your ego over possibly helping the youth of this town?”

“Quiet, woman!”

“You don’t talk to her that way.”

“I can talk to my wife in however way I want! I’m not spending another minute with you any more,” Dean Palisain growled, marching towards the door to then slam it on his way out. Sigma scoffed as he drank his glass and the dean’s, later taking another swig from the bottle. Mrs. Palisain sat there, speechless as Sigma would wither in his chair, slowly emptying out the bottle. The dean had left in the car, leaving her stranded. All she could think to ask was the question that the whole town was asking.

“Professor LeBlanc…”

“Yeah?”

“Where did all this money come from?”

“You know I’m not gonna answer that.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve told a lot of things to me. Especially about what my husband did. I never heard a word from him.”

Sigma stared into Mrs. Palisain’s amber eyes, venturing into a reality that wasn’t so cruel. He had tried to refrain from telling her the truth, but between the emotional bond they shared and the champagne loosening his lips, he could no longer keep quiet.

“I’m just trying to make up for past mistakes, Mira.”

“What past mistakes?”

“You don’t need to know what they all. All you need to know is that they brought me here.”

“Is that why you’re now Sigma LeBlanc?”

“Among other reasons, yes.”

“I see…”

“I really did want to help those kids, Mira, I really did. But your jackass of a husband just keeps making things difficult for me,” Sigma put the bottle down, pouring another glass for Mrs. Palisain.

“Perhaps there’s some way to change this. You seem to have a lot of money. Why not try to compete with him?”

“It’s not that easy.”

Mira sighed. “It never is.”

A Misift Among Misfits - Quicksort

I think of the world
Like a bunch of arrays
That we all inhabit
Throughout our days

Some sorted with bubble
Other through insertion
But some special arrays
Get a different version

For that version is quick
So fast and cruel
But for modern society
It is a vital tool

See, we all have a number
A value of our worth
It is given to us
From the time of our birth

Some of us get lucky
Others not so much
We either work to make it better
Or use it as a crutch

No matter the situation
We are all in one place
And someone among us
Gets to be the deciding face

That person is the pivot
And you’re either left or right
Left is lesser, right is better
So is the sorting plight

It would be simple, if we each had one value
But to tell you the truth, that is frankly a lie
We have many numbers, all judged on different merits
Some of them are low, and some of them are high

And as each sort is made
Groups shrink each time
Some will make you feel fine
Others seem like a sentence to a crime

But don’t fret too much
For you may be a pivot too
Saying who is left and who is right
One day that could be you

When that time comes
You’ll be left in your own slot
At least you had some fun
Being the big shot

At the end, it all gets sorted
Each person in their place
Knowing where they’re in the hierarchy
After being judged by face after face

Freiwerk Nonanarratives - A Box Full Of Peychaud's

I remember when I went to visit my grandfather for the very last time. He was cooking that day, as he would any other day. “A man like you should have a hearty meal,” he’d say to me. We talked as we ate and then a while afterwards until we no longer had anything to say to each other. The silence lasted longer than either of us expected. He broke the silence by getting up and bringing me to the garage. There, he pulled out a wooden box full of bottles of Peychaud’s. It was one of the many souvenirs he still had from being a salesman. He told me that this box was set to last him and generations down for their entire lives. He handed it to me as I was set to leave and brought me close into a tight hug.

“You’re a good kid.”

The words echoed in my head as I went back to that box. The smell of oak and licorice were still as strong as ever. I pulled out one of the bottles and went to the kitchen counter where I already had my mixture of absinthe, whiskey, sugar and orange bitters. Two dashes from that bottle and I had my daily midnight cocktail that would let me sleep in relative peace.

I was thankful that it was the weekend. All I wanted to do was hang out with my friends and play video games. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to enjoy it.  I felt my head pulsating like an out of control heart, with my brain seemingly slamming against my cranium at each pulse. I hurried to a glass of water which managed only to slow down the pace of the pulses, but each one hurt ten times as much. I headed out to my car and drove my friend’s house trying to bear the pain. I had to. I bailed out on them far too many times lately not to. The headache would not relent. It got worse. One of the pulses took the wind out of me in the middle of the highway. Thank god I didn’t crash.

“Dude, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I said, fixing my disheveled hair.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” my other friend chimed in.

“Nothing.” The coffee on my shirt was not coming off.

“You sure? You look like you ran through traffic rather than drove through it.”

“I said I’m fine.”

As soon as I fixed myself up, I went to get another glass of water and chugged it. It ended up going in my larynx causing me to cough violently, pushing at my head even further.

“Good god, you’re a mess.”

“No shit.” My sardonicism far surpassed my light sarcasm in that instant.

“Aren’t you in a mood.”

“Please, he’s always in some mood.”

“Can you guys quit busting my balls already? I’m good now.”

We were there for a few hours. We had some conversation about sports, girls, the like. I mostly was listening to the two of them, occasionally chiming in. I pressed the tall cold glass I got on my head and took measured sips from it. Eventually my headache had subsided and my mood had bettered.

“This is nice. A warm summer day with a cold drink in the hand. I really needed this.”

“Same here. This week was brutal.”

“You’re telling me. The night shift at 7-11 is killer.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I responded.

“Bro, you’ve got it easy.”

“I have my own problems as much as you do.”

“Dunno man. Everything seems to be in order for you what with that cushy desk job of yours.” He rolled his eyes at me, as if I was being pretentious with my remarks.

“Dude, don’t.”

“Look, I said I was sorry about not being at your party.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Things come up. I can’t bend the world to your fucking will.”

“That’s what you said when I caught you hanging with your friends from high school after you bailed out on us.”

“Dude, chill.”

“I’m not gonna chill. He comes up here trying to act like everything’s fine and dandy but it ain’t.”

“I don’t need to deal with this shit, alright. I’ll leave.”

“Oh yeah, leave! Lord knows all you’re good at is not being there!”

“Fuck off!”

“Fuck you!”

“Goddamn it.”

I raced back home, bringing back with me that horrible headache. Even though it was afternoon, it was winter, so the sky was pitch black. When I got home, I went to drink a bunch of glasses of water. Nothing. I then went to make that midnight cocktail, pulling out that box to find the same bottle I used before. I turned on my TV and turned on some Pac-Man to ease myself. I took a swig and stared down at the empty glass. Before I could start, I prepared another and played for a while.

The game became a tedious ordeal. All I managed to do was eat the pellets mindlessly and lose lives. Every time I got the giant one, I never managed to get one of those ghosts. I’d chase them and chase them but they’d always slip from my grasp. Once the ability wore off, I’d go on for a while and then one of them would sneak up on me. Once I lost the last life, I slammed my controller down and turned off the TV, leaving to make another drink.

Perhaps my friend was right that I had it easy. Compared to all the heartbreak that he’s faced. But at least he’s a decent friend to others. At least his relatives are still healthy. At least he can visit them when they’re sick. Especially if they’re very sick.

I needed another drink. I needed it bad. My worries compounded, magnifying my headache. I turned on a light so the darkness would not consume me, but no matter how bright it was, I still was drowning in misery.

All I could hear were the reverberations of each step I took as I went to finish that box. I already felt the chill of loneliness for too long.

I did not want to face the sting of loss.

I wanted to finish that box.

I wanted to drink.

Drink. Drink. Drink.

Drink.

Drink.

…

Darkness.

…

Suddenly, light peered through. In that, I saw a nurse come up to me. She told me I had faced a terrible blackout. She said that if it weren’t for my friend, I would have died. He had come to my house to apologize and found me collapsed on the floor. I apologized for being rude and rubbed my head which thankfully was not aching. Though the rest of my body was not in great shape.

My cellphone was ringing in my pocket. I slowly picked it up. Once I heard the voice on the other line, I began to cry. I hardly managed to get a word in through my tears. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I was too caught up in emotion to get any of it through. In my state, I frankly didn’t remember much of what it said. All for what that voice said to me at the end of the call.

“You’re a good kid.”

The Breathlessness Of Isolation

There is no way
To articulate
The comfort
Of dying

Death is there
A desperate lover
Sick from envy
As one lives on

Their love pleasantly haunting
Passionate in its silence
Peacefully in a choke-hold
Embracing nothing

Melancholic is existence
For more than a second
So death declares
Libidinal in its goals

Soon a sickness forms
From a cloud of negative thoughts
Swallowed into the spirit
Piercing the flesh, right into the core

Romance fades away
Death shivers from warmth
A lonely love fills space
With a hole cut by us

Once Upon A Time In Hollywood Review

Supposedly the penultimate film from acclaimed director Quentin Tarantino, Once Upon A Time In Hollywood is the tale of Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth. One is a down-on-his-luck actor that finds comfort in the bottle. The other is his stunt double with a laid-back demeanor and a checkered past. Both of these men rely on one another as they face the challenges that lay ahead of them in 1960s Hollywood. On their journey, Rick tries to re-ignite his career while Cliff tries to kill his boredom doing errands for him, with both of them coming into contact with Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) and the Manson family. 

Tarantino has been no stranger to controversy. Since the day he got his hands on an 8mm camera, he has been stirring the pot, popping monocles from the critics high up in their ivory towers. It was especially evident earlier on when his works would be derided as low-brow, crass, exploitative. They were right, but you know what else they were? Fantastic. There was a love for cinema that always burst through like the copious amount of blood packets that littered his films. He enjoyed the greats but he also loved the grimy, and he was masterful in making the two of them co-exist together. It's creators like him that are wonderful to follow, as they erode the notions of high and low art in favor of providing us compelling art, art that can be as simple or as complex as you desire.

Of course, not all of the controversy stemming around him is based on haters of postmodernist theory or fun. Others are more focused on how well he focuses on the subjects he touches upon, along with his personality and how eager he is to blurt out the n-word. Perhaps the one criticism that hits the hardest to Tarantino is immature. That for all his defiance of norms and intense effort into constructing his works that they would be seen as sophomoric pastiches. He just can't tackle heavy subjects properly. It's not entirely the case, but one could tell that he was becoming more self-conscious of this when making The Hateful Eight. Though it stumbled in some areas, it was generally seen as a step in the right direction. Once Upon A Time In Hollywood serves to be the next step into a different Quentin Tarantino although it already had some alarms ringing off just by bringing in Charles Manson and Sharon Tate into the picture. Some feared he was going to go too far there. Having already seen I can tell you that you don't need to worry about him being offensive with that material. I can't say the same for how Bruce Lee was portrayed but I was less offended as I was confused.

For the most part though, I could say that the film was quite tasteful, insofar as a Tarantino film can be. There's still some over-the-top violence but the film is quite self-aware of how its using the violence. It's more indulgent on reliving LA through the 1960s, with an aggressive attention to detail. I'm particularly fond of how it's able to recreate the production quality of the era, with its grainy footage, slightly off audio quality and raw nature. However I'm not quite as fond of the radio-esque approach to the soundtrack, especially at certain moments when it creates this auditory blur on a scene. Though if we really want to talk about a distracting indulgence, it has to be the feet. It almost felt embarrassing akin to being caught with your pants off masturbating. I'd be surprised if that wasn't how he was directing half the film.

At its core, much of Once Upon A Time In Hollywood feels like if Tarantino was channeling the Coens through its shaggy dog story, cinematographic panache and focused performances. The entire film is beautifully shot with no still feeling off (apart from any with feet at the forefront). Much of the performances were done well, with Leonardo DiCaprio being of particular note as he is consistently compelling every time he's on screen. Brad Pitt does well as a side-kick, fitting pretty well into his established role of being Brad Pitt, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Al Pacino in even though I probably shouldn't have been if I had looked into it a little more. By far the most fitting performance was having Lena Dunham play a white woman who's friendly demeanor harbors a deep unpleasantness that is almost haunting in its facade. Its only crime with the cast is how poorly utilized Mike Moh (who plays Bruce Lee) and Margot Robbie are.

It's strange how the most controversial character from the two isn't the one that people were expecting. Like I said before, I'm not exactly sure why Bruce Lee was portrayed as a cocky asshole that would be wrongly schooled by Cliff. It didn't really seem to make much sense since it wasn't particularly amusing or necessary. It would have made more sense to put in Chuck Norris despite his glory days being in the 70s rather than the 60s. Having Bruce Lee in the film felt very much like an afterthought, with Sharon Tate not fairing much better. It's a shame that Margot Robbie feels so underutilized in this film, unable to do much with her role as Sharon other that be ditzy and awkwardly trip in the middle of the story. Her presence only serves to give Bruce Lee something else to do for a millisecond and justify Cliff's whole thread of coming across the Manson family. It's necessary for the story but not so much beyond that.

Only one third of the movie feels properly thought out and worthy of being fully invested in and that's Rick's whole arc of improving as an actor. I have my own selfish reasons for why I enjoy those parts, but there is a real sense of purpose and coherence to them that I'm not quite seeing from the rest. Cliff's plot thread provides some compelling and entertaining elements but it's hard not to feel like its just a lot of faffing about. Which I suppose is the point but when you're telling a shaggy dog story but a shaggy dog needs to have more going for it if its going to end up nowhere. The ending manages to tie everything together but I would hardly say that in doing so it fixes how meandering the rest feels. It's quite a controversial ending, possibly exploitative I'd even say, though not in the way that you'd imagine.

Somehow Once Upon A Time In Hollywood shows Tarantino willing to show himself as a more mature director but also unable to indulge properly. It commits the mortal sin of Hollywood-centric films in that it seems more invested in breathing in the Los Angeles air than giving something for the rest of us. It has been said that it is Tarantino's mid-life crisis film, and I can certainly see where that claim is coming from. He certainly seems to lack some confidence in himself, and tries to self-reflect and strive for better. Rick's entire journey reflect this as he fights his self-doubt in his ability, and the film desperately wants to look cool, when deep down it comes off feeling hollow. It's not to say that he's out of his element, Jackie Brown has proven that he can indulge properly and tell a complex story. But that film feels more like a movie about having a mid-life crisis rather that a movie made in a mid-life crisis.

I wouldn't discourage anyone from watching Once Upon A Time In Hollywood if they were initially inclined to do so. I certainly think it's a crime that with such talent it cannot surpass that barely mediocre Lion King remake as I would rather see something original try than a remake just shrug its way into success. When it is able to get out of its stupor of self-pandering and aimlessness it is quite an experience. But I'm glad that this is not the last film on his resume, because this is definitely not the way you want to wrap up a career as acclaimed as his.

A Lion King Remake Review Of Sorts

It's been a while since I've written something these past few months. Not just for this blog but in general. I could say that I have actually written a couple of things recently but it's nothing that has actually been completed or that I'm willing to publish. I suppose poems could count as something that I've written lately but those are pretty short and sparse so it almost seems like I haven't written anything at all. Lately it just seems like my writing has gotten more in an aspirational phase rather than a productive phase. Like there's a lot of ideas roaming around my head on things that I could be writing, but in between my personal responsibilities and weak muscles of productivity, I'm not devoting that much time into pressing those keys, or scribbling with the tablet or really much of anything. Basically I'm more just calling myself a writer than actually being one. Same could be said for being a creator. I have to be a better creator.

Anyways, that's enough of my agony, lord knows this would be better if it was a script for a video rather than the contents of a blog. If you clicked on this, you're probably wondering why I didn't just make some Twitter thread about my thoughts on the Lion King remake instead of forcing myself to get onto Blogger, create a new blog entry and type away into this downward spiral. Well, for one, the Twitter thread would be incredibly long, to the point that I don't think neither I nor anyone reading that thread would find it bearable to read through it. Twitter threads are bad formatting for walls of text. I need better formatting to articulate what I thought here. Moreover, I can set a better tone here. That tone of course being one of exasperation and exhaustion. 

I struggle to be a creative because I feel very limited by what I have. Time, resources, energy, skill - all of these have become painfully finite. Sometimes I am given a boost in one of these fields, but it may only provide a few seconds of productivity. Other times, one of them will become so depleted that it leaves me with little option but to watch a show or play video games, which will make me feel like I'm accomplishing something. Creating anything lately has more often felt like pressing my hand against hot coals in an empty cave, painstakingly enduring the process only to be left with a part of myself melted away and hearing the echoes of my agony. If I could only be one of the largest entertainment conglomerates in the world, I could spend less time reiterating my frustration of being productive and instead turn whatever thought that crosses my mind into a reality. Shit, I wouldn't even need to exhaust myself, the brunt of the effort would be delegated to teams of randos that I wouldn't give a second thought to bring my vision to reality! My idea could turn out to be mediocre, it might've been mediocre from the start, but I could always get this machine to pump out plenty more to make up the damage. I could have a whole world to myself. 

That could have theme park rides. And mascots. And tons of merchandise. 

Now I could get angry as to why the world has made me a mortal that needs to take days to write a blog entry and not a company that can remake one of its most memorable properties in one of the most ill-conceived ways and still be stable enough to make more. That really wouldn't be a good look. I'd look jealous. But I am jealous. Corporations are truly enviable entities, and Disney certainly has to be one of the most enviable. It's powerful. It's prestigious. It's profits are non-stop. It doesn't need to contemplate its existence. It doesn't feel like it's wasting time. It'll live longer than the oldest person on earth. To think that they could get their hands on such stunning technology and use it in the most laborious rehashing makes my blood boil, but I could only wish that I could make even half from such a similar move. 

With that said, I'm still quite peeved by the Lion King remake. The circumstances that led me to watch this film I can't really get into but it required none of my money going into its box-office. That provided some relief in that I did not directly contribute to it. However it's hard to shake that I am not at least part of the problem. I didn't bother to watch any of the live action remakes of the Disney properties, given that I am not slavishly devoted to their products. About the only time I am is if I want to garner some traction on a dating application, since a lot of women would happily give their lives over to the Mouse if it wanted to go to war with any nation. The Lion King is (and hopefully will remain as) the exception. My curiosity got the better of me, I just had to know what it was at the end. It didn't seem right to find some pirated copy, I had to be there in the theater and experience it as a proper moviegoer.

Already I can tell you that whatever you initially thought about the movie, you will come out unchanged. The lovers and the haters will hardly cross paths in their admiration. As a hater, I wanted to at least be open to the idea of being a lover. It seemed too easy to reiterate about the asinine decision to opt for such ultra-realistic animation. Aficionados of the medium have already decried how it insults the original, reinforcing the notion of traditional animation being nothing more than dumb cartoons. Most everyone else has focused on how it fails in conveying emotion and looks just the worst when there's a musical number. Even focusing on specific scenes like Mufasa's death and the daytime rendition of Can You Feel The Love Tonight looking wrong is redundant. My take needed to be fresh. 

Alas, my take remains cold, though not with any particular bitterness. The music was a noticeable downgrade, most of the actors were either trying too little or trying too hard with Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen being the worst on the latter. The animation is by far the most galling factor of it all, the wasted rendering hours to get all the individual strands of hair to appear on screen only for it convey little more than what a blank wall could. Any fury I could muster quickly dissipated as I reminded myself of how little it would accomplish. Though perhaps that was because I could empathize with the film. Not with the characters or the story, but with its production. There's something in how serviceable the mediocrity in The Lion King is that makes it special.

The voice acting was adequate, in much the same way furniture is to an empty room. I think the only three that I felt were really trying were James Earl Jones, Chiwetel Ejiofor and John Oliver. Jones had the good fortune to get paid to do the same role again. Ejiofor provided a slightly different interpretation of the original that almost works, save for some awkward deliveries and lesser musical number. Though with the music, I could trick myself in enjoying it. It would require me to close my eyes from how laughable the visuals and the melodies don't sync up together but I could reasonably applaud the soundtrack for how passable it was. It's not to say that the visuals weren't still amazing to look at some of the time. If I concentrated hard enough on a few stills, I could see the better movie hiding underneath. It needed to be free to experiment more, to express itself more. It should have been unrealistically real, not realistically real. 

What captivated me about The Lion King wasn't its impressive attention to detail or its inclusion of the Queen Bey or even the absolute letdown of not making Timon and Pumbaa explicitly gay as they so very well teased. It was seeing it as a tired being, knowing that it had too much on its plate and couldn't deliver on it, and still doing what it could to justify its existence. I didn't think I could come to understand a film through personifying it and projecting myself onto it, but Disney has managed to achieve this incredibly surreal experience within me. In a way it inspires me. I just need to continue on my path, and grow ever stronger in making my work. And that even if I make a mess that I try to polish that mess and sell it with as much confidence as I can muster. 

The Lion King still is a shit movie though, don't bother with this remake. Fuck Disney.