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. 

Political Crab Mentality

Quick, which animal best suits a politician? More often than not, the choice would come down to a fat smug cat, with a shit-eating grin and a snappy tuxedo and top-hat ensemble. Some may opt for a pig if they don't want to be too cliche, while others may choose the slithering, suspicious ways of a snake. If one is really conspiratorial, they would honestly assume that politicians are actually lizards rather than characterize them as such. Rarely however is the politician shown to be a crab, whom it is said that if several of them were to be put into a bucket, they would all pull whoever was trying to get out rather than work together to get each other out.

With the 2020 campaign for the Democratic nomination taking place before 2019 can reach its half-point, we are all being subjected to an aggressive competition to hog all the attention between a group of candidates that could populate a modest roster for an independently published fighting game. It makes sense that they would all claw at each other in the hopes of coming out the victor but the idea is that after the process they will all rally around the winner. They may pull each other down but they expect to get out of the bucket eventually, and hope that they may accompany the winner into office if the two see eye to eye enough. However, there is one candidate whom many hope would die in that metaphorical bucket, left to be gutted rather than resuscitated. However it might strike him as odd to be made into a non-kosher animal in this scenario.

Bernie Sanders continues to be seen as a thorn on the side of politics that the mainstream can't find a way to get rid of, with his growing influence prompting melodramatic screams of how he's making things worse. Some members of the Democratic Party have little faith in him, like Pete Buttigieg, who sees fit to run with no policies but eager to shoot Sanders down if he were to win. It may appear to be part of the usual oratorical fisticuffs of a competitive campaign, but it's more of a reaffirmation of the establishment's position. One need only to look to Nancy Pelosi when she winces with a mirthless grin when candidates or voters of the more progressive wing make a suggestion or query of any sort. The media also seems ready to throw him under the bus as a variety of polls would always talk about Joe Biden being ahead in them before he ever uttered the phrase, "I am running for president of the United States of America". Even more galling was how they recently skewed the town halls to frame Sanders's ideas as being more wicked than they are. Rather than put all the candidates into the bucket and let them go at it without intervention, they would rather tie one of them with weights and declare another who hasn't even gone in as being the one most likely to get out.

It's naive to assume such neutrality from politics, and more so when it comes to Sanders. The current narratives merely retread those from 2016, the year that should have popped that delusional bubble that the media were in. Back then, liberals were rushing to crown Hilary Clinton as the presumptive nominee, with conservatives gleefully foaming at the mouth to take her down. Then out of nowhere, Bernie rose as a formidable opponent to her, carrying a charisma with him that probably made Clinton fume at the idea of 2008 happening all over again. Her worries would have been exacerbated once Sanders had robbed from her that same label that Obama did of being the more progressive candidate. She could deal with a senile socialist with a horrible haircut, but to lose the flair of being the bolder, more innovative candidate? That would be too much to bear. Of course, she needed not to worry as the game was rigged thanks to her friend Debbie Wasserman-Schultz, and she could happily claim to have been pushed to the left thanks to Bernie's efforts only to be exposed as a cold and corrupt corporate puppet. If she couldn't be the progressive nominee, then no one could. 

Her elitist indignation would prove further that she was not willing to make the move that needed to be done. This is especially evident when it comes to the focus of the 2016 campaign. Sensationalism was rampant and there was more concerned with personality than policy. Hilary Clinton and her ardent supporters would like to say that her passions lied with the latter, but one could never see that appetite when the conversation shifted to the latest scandal on character. They might argue that she was cornered into such discussions but one can easily do that themselves if they run towards where the walls intersect. Adding on her dismissal of Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin as if she was about to be inaugurated tomorrow, and it makes sense how she lost despite having won. Donald Trump may have not been the better candidate but even critics have to admit that he was better at being a candidate. 

Speaking of which, the existence of Trump shows a facet of the political crab mentality in the view of that old saying, "the lesser of two evils". Many people rejected Trump with an intensity that seemed to signal that they could never be converted to his side. Yet, a slew of shifty characters that have made more offensive remarks towards him than his opponent act as cheerleaders and cabinet members pushing for his agenda. As terrible as he was, they'd rather see him burn down the country than Hilary. The sentiment would be echoed on the other side, as focus would be less on dejectedly sighing under their breath to vote for Hilary and more for passionately crying out into the airwaves that Trump must be stopped. Analyzing the candidates closely though, with their approval among the populus being tantamount to those that enjoy the smell of gas station bathrooms, it would have served better to repudiate both and pick another pair from the 300+ million people that would come to be ruled by one of them. 

I am not saying this as some startling and unorthodox revelation. This is already plainly obvious to anyone during that hellish year. It is no bolder to state Trump and Clinton were both awful than to consider the two-party system as two sides of the same coin. However, both of them want to appear more like they are two coins that belong inside the same purse, as if that makes a considerable difference. It makes enough of a difference to them since they would be more willing to fake partisanship than admit bipartisanship. Clinton should know as well given how she and Bill amplified Ronald Reagan's agenda but proved to be marginally better at acting than him with their performance as "progressives" (though having a foil like Newt Gingrich could make anyone seem more rational and compassionate). Obama did much to denounce Trump as a divisive, reprehensible figure as Trump did to caricature Obama as a disgrace to the office. Yet if you wanted a president that deports illegal immigrants frequently in a manner that can be generously called careless, who champions himself as boosting the coal industry and who overzealously embraces the military industrial complex and corporations while uttering empty populist platitudes to the rest of the nation, you could find it in either one of them. Trump can both claim he's tougher on those issues and deflect criticism of his harshness by pointing to Obama as the originator, but he can never agree to them.

Is this inability to agree on enacting the same terrible policies a charade? The optimistic answer would be that it is. The truth however is that there does indeed exist differences between them, superficial as they may be. Most of what will differentiate them or motivate them will be personal, either rooted in their own alliances or how they behave. There may be many ideological contrasts but it will pale in comparison to what the two will agree on. Ironically, this serves to justify the media's sensationalist tendencies, though it does not excuse the quality and quantity of which those aspects are reported on. Can you honestly say that Trump was running on deeply held beliefs and principles? He was more motivated by ego, greed and pettiness, which some could very well find good if they are the type of people to stop Micheal Douglas on the street and tell them how Gordon Gekko got them into stock trading. 

The Trump administration shows the same power struggles as everyone working there has some fundamental agreements with each other on either pushing for what's worst for most everybody or being malleable for their own malice, but where they're willing to stand firm depends on their own origins. Steve Bannon, Stephen Miller, Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner, Rex Tillerson, John Kelly, and every pundit on Fox News all shove one another to get the president's ear. But they can never hold on to it for too long once Trump wants to assert his own ability to be a leading authority. It's precisely that irrationality and that stubbornness that adds to the absurdity of the Russia collusion narrative. You can point to the cornucopia of Trump associates and Putin associates that partnered and canoodled with one another, along with the chummy relationship that the two leaders share with each other, but Trump's isolationist worldview, hostility to allies domestic or international and ambitions to make America's nuclear tippy-top seems less like bowing to the Kremlin more than showcasing that typical boorish American yokel attitude they've come to expect. Even if he did swear allegiance to Russia, as he does with Saudi Arabia and Israel, his loyalty only goes so far, even if properly bankrolled. 

And yet such insanity continues, fitting perfectly with the post-truth, "satire is dead"era we live in. The media cannot admit to the error they made on Russiagate, much in the same way that the Democrats and Republicans can't admit they're closer to each other. They continue to have their own allegiances, clash with their personalities and argue over semantics and trivialities. For the media, those aspects stem much more from which corporations and organizations own them than they do for politicians. Politicians can wield their power more tangibly than the media can. All of them do share a common enemy with those that are truly more radical and hope to dismantle (or erode) the kakistocracy that they share a symbiotic relationship with. They may hold a truce, but it will falter the more they are unable to defeat their foe. Even with the desired victory, each individual in each faction of either the media or the establishment desires the same thing - to pull anyone attempting to get out of the bucket down to be torn apart by the rest and hoping they can get out and toss that bucket into an abyss of their own making. None of them will ever manage that, as in their clawing, they only subject themselves and the rest of us further into an chaotic darkness that will become less unavoidable the harder they fight.  

Isn't It Romantic Review

Isn't It Romantic follows Natalie (Rebel Wilson) an architect whose grown incredibly cynical of her romantic life, and moreover, romantic comedies. Her friends, Whitney (Betty Gilpin) and Josh (Adam DeVine) try to lift her spirits and ask her to take more chances. This happens to backfire on her as she is knocked unconscious and transported into the world of rom-coms. Corny music follows her around, she has a gay best friend out of the blue and even Blake (Liam Hemsworth), her client that previously treated her like dirt now finds her quite beguiling. Unable to deal with the saccharine madness, Natalie tries her best to get back to reality.

Subversion is one of those concepts that appears so often yet never really feels outdated. So much of the best media out there deals with challenging a set of established values for how truly valuable they are. Though it doesn't always have to be so high stakes as to criticize deep-rooted social constructs or systemic problems. Sometimes, it's just going against genre stereotypes. There's a group of works out there that tend to get the approval of the haters of the genre that they take on. Usually it's because they both play into what frustrates those who are against the genre but also sneak in what makes the genre stand out in a meaningful manner. Animated movies getting too cutesy and Disney for you? Shrek adds some snark to the fairy tale. Super hero movies a little too by-the-book? Deadpool spins the formula around. Hate how campy musicals are? Chicago makes it racy. Isn't It Romantic seems to be wanting to court the anti-rom-com crowd. I don't quite consider myself as fervent in my hatred of them as other people do but I am a man, and it's in our DNA to just not be fond of them. But I'm willing to be wooed by a subversive take on it.

Usually on movies of this nature, there is a need to emphasize the stupidity of the genre's cliches either implicitly or explicitly. Shrek tends to have wonderful subtle instances of this, as most every character has a certain lack of grace that isn't befit of their fantastical origins. Deadpool is more blunt in its approach, with Deadpool being incredibly cocky of just how much he can get away with that other superhero films can't, especially with the addition of the R rating. Isn't It Romantic is a bit too eager in spelling out the conventions it's mocking, as there is rarely a moment where the film doesn't heckle itself on how unrealistic rom-coms are. For a few instances, the joke lands its punch when Natalie is brought into the rom-com alternate reality as the contrast between its sincerity and her cynicism play off each other well. In other instances however, it's about as fun as bringing a friend with your partner to hang out where they're clearly acting like an annoyed third wheel.

Obvious comedy in movies that subvert genres isn't a problem in itself. Sometimes being over-the-top in the absurdity of the conventions is fun, but such needs to be paced properly. Moreover, it needs suitable context that isn't quite as blunt as the jokes made at the genre's expense. Build-up in a subversive movie not only wins over the haters with how well it mocks conventions but also provides the heart that the genre has at its core. Much of Isn't It Romantic's premise plays on how rom-coms deliver unrealistic and toxic expectations to women. Women like Natalie aren't as represented in them as much, the dynamics within them tend to glorify romantic recklessness and it gets far too silly with how flaming the gays are in it. But there isn't a proper build-up to Natalie obtaining resentment against rom-coms; she's just told by her mother she'll never fall in love with a hunk as a child and it cuts to her all grown up and single. Neither are the dynamics that Natalie has with others in the rom-com world explored beyond her innate need to return back to reality.

The worst instance of Isn't It Romantic providing little set-up for its payoffs is in regards to who Natalie should be in love with. It acknowledges that her being with Blake is superficial as he's just her wet dream - a rich hunk that will wait on her hand and foot (which it turns out is not really the case). So naturally there needs to be another of whom she must fall in love with, but there's quite little that supports this new relationship. The movie is aware that it didn't properly explain itself there and tries harder to push it by having some dialogue that every screenwriter teacher would bang their head against a wall with "show don't tell" written on it. But even with this flimsy excuse, it tries to have a twist on the revelation, which makes sense generally speaking but isn't properly evoked through the presentation.

Story-wise, it's on par with rom-coms in being mediocre at best, which would work to its advantage were it not for the reason that its mediocrity is not due to the genre's conventions but in its inability to make a compelling story in deconstructing them. Most of the performances are cardboard cutouts with only Rebel Wilson standing out for how much she seems to fight with her role. I certainly enjoyed some of the cheap shots made at the expense of rom-coms and the karaoke scene was kind of delightful in being one of the only instances where the movie really has fun with itself, but I can't say it won me over. Perhaps I misunderstood it and it was more meant as a film for rom-com fans to have a little bit of a self-deprecating laugh at, but I would think that they would find it a bit too lifeless for their tastes.

Overall, Isn't It Romantic feels like an unsuccessful round of speed-dating. You're just going through so many people and cycling through the same few topics to get some small talk going. Then you finally meet someone that you almost get to liking but they get distracted texting with their phone far too often that by the time you almost feel like something more might happen, you're already heading out with nothing more to go by. It's a shame that there wasn't more that could ignite that special spark.

The 2019 Oscars Or How Hollywood Is Gonna Please No One

Saying that the Oscars aren't exactly all they're cracked up to be is the equivalent of saying that a shot of Everclear will get you drunk instantly. It's a no-brainer, but fuck if that'll stop you from partaking in it just to see what happens! And given that now the lords of entertainment have bestowed to all of us who is worthy, the disappointment is as palpable as the vomit rising from a lightweight shotgunning a flask of 99% proof alcohol. It's been hard-pressed to find anyone who agrees with the Academy's choices. Certainly I could spend my time smashing the keyboard in my rage of Can You Ever Forgive Me being pushed aside for Best Picture to Vice, but harrumphing about personal decisions on nominations really is best suited for Twitter conversations or chats down by the pub. Rather, I just want to focus on the spectacle itself, as this year has definitely not been golden for the greatest awards Tinseltown has to dish out.

No one wanted to host this sucker. Well, Kevin Hart raised his hand to want to give it a try, but we all know that he thinks that the gays should be wearing a pink triangle instead. So now they're scrapping together to see how they can pad out the drama of Pixar winning Best Animated Feature. You can't really blame entertainers for not wanting to host award shows. From what they say, hosting the Oscars is more tense than a stand-up routine at a maximum-security prison. No one's really interested in the hot take that Drumpf bad, they just want to know if they're getting that goddamn golden Adonis or not. There might be a few laughs from the most plastered seat-fillers in the auditorium, but what comes up more is the dead eyes of a A-lister wanting to suck out the host's soul as a B-lister mugs to the camera to become a reaction image. It's not surprising then that their material isn't exactly their best, because why put effort in making a house of cards right before a hurricane's about to hit?

The whole idea of handing out industry awards doesn't need to be exaggerated into a massive glitzy affair. No one really thinks about the wonderful dresses the wives of automobile companies wore to the J.D Power And Associates Award Show. That's because J.D Power doesn't feel it necessary to make it a show. It would serve just as well to have the Oscars inside of a dusty Warner Brothers stuido lot with no cameras in it. The Academy however has to do all this self-fellating, not only because it feels good but also to brag about how great they are that they can do it. It's the largest way for them to showcase their moral posturing. Which you know, is funny from an industry that MeToo revealed was comprised of enough creeps that they should have their own Spotlight made about them. It's not really like they learned their lesson, as Bryan Singer could happily walk back in with a movie that makes Freddie Mercury come off as a selfish asshole, even though new allegations popped up before the red carpet could be rolled out. Add that they neglected to nominate any female directors and one might opt to think that wearing that pin was just a fashion choice rather than a moral stance. But you know, they got Black Panther and BlacKkKlansman in their nominations, so sorry to bother them. 

Course why focus on these identity politics? If a movie's good, a movie's good. Well, I'd appreciate a little bit more diversity in the awards, especially when Hollywood makes a big fuss about trying to be more inclusive. They sure seem to take their time to get with the times. They want to pretend that they're these hallmarks of progressivism but their performances are better suited for the Razzies. Sure, Hart was a little insensitive back in the day but how much more can the man say sorry? You don't need to be a fan of him to think that the Academy's full of it when they revoke him of that wonderful privilege of padding out the largest annual vanity fair. You can almost sympathize when MAGA chuds hate how smug those limousine liberals are, raising their noses up in the air as how much better it is not living in flyover country. Who are those hypocrites to think they're any better? Course that doesn't justify the rest of their views but it's rare to find issues where we can be bipartisan.

You know what I think the Academy should do? Own their inability to please anyone. The Oscars only manage to stand out with gaffes. All this work to sanitize the show seems counter-intuitive to the overwhelming press coverage that comes from a single mix-up of envelopes. Controversy is the adrenaline shot that keeps celebrity culture thriving. If all we're going to get is panem et circenses, then make the circenses fucking bonum. Have the worst celebrities present the awards. Ensure the acceptance speeches are rambling and crazy enough that the orchestra won't be able to cut them off from being stunned by how incoherent they are. Shoot Billy Crystal out of a cannon. I bet you even conservatives would be entertained from a proper shitshow taking place. Because given the current attitude that Hollywood has, the only thing that they deserve is another Sacheen Littlefeather-like lecture on their facade. 

Welcome To Marwen Review

Welcome To Marwen is the story of Mark Hogancamp (Steve Carrell), an artist who is beaten nearly to death by a group of five men for liking to cross dress. After the fight, he is unable to recall any prior memories and so to cope, he takes up photography. Mark creates a fantasy WWII-era town of Marwen, where a group of Allied soldiers (many of them women inspired by women he knows) fight a group of Nazis and Deja, the Belgian Witch of Marwen. Along with creating this exhibit, Mark tries to deal with the pain as he readies himself to confront his attackers at his trial.

Having a theater to yourself is an interesting experience. Usually when you're in that situation, you've either chosen something really terrible, gone in at an inconvenient time, or you're a rich asshole. But when you have that chance, you're able to put a movie to the test. One of the major components of a theater is to be designed in a way so that the audience pays attention. Everyone is properly packed into the seats, the screen is massive to accommodate for everyone and lure the eye in, and the surround sound adds further to the immersion. The added norms of the movie-going experience add even more incentive for you to take in what's on screen, with the film doing it's best to keep you satisfied. However, when one is alone, it's mob rule. You're free to be distracted, to cheer and jeer at your pleasure. A movie that can rein you in when there's no incentive to do so, is one that is honestly engrossing.

Welcome To Marwen did not manage to get my respect for attention. Though it came out in late December, it felt very much like a Fuck You It's January film from the trailer. The soaring music paired with the edited dialogue bringing about this hopeful message, it all seemed so corny. I had likened it to what it would have looked like if Steve Carell was one of the actors in Tropic Thunder, aiming too hard at wanting an Oscar. To some extent though, I wanted to forgive it.  It wasn't aiming to that level, it wanted to be a good movie under its own merits. Trailers also tend to mislead with the tone of a film. Given the story of Mark Hogancamp, I expected that it would perhaps be more true to his pain and how he was able to cope. I could reasonably expect something more pointed. Unfortunately, it's hard to expect a biting production when someone as toothless as Zemeckis is involved.

Lately, it seems like he's trying to capture the same lightning in a bottle that he had with Forrest Gump. His attempts to do so have often fell short of that, and even now that lightning has managed to spoil. Still, he tries to see if he can get it, and doesn't really change much of his tactics in doing so. To it's credit, Welcome To Marwen is appropriately performed. All the actors, including Steve Carrell, are trying their best to deliver with what they're given. After all, the events are bizarre and harsh, but ultimately with a ray of hope. They are keen enough to tune themselves to that odd frequency and settle down when the drama requires it. It's a shame though that Zemeckis shifts the dial of the movie's tone to bring about the most jarring transitions.

Much like how Mark fights with his addiction to painkillers, Zemeckis fights with the film's tone. It's weirdly sexual, as there are an abundance of scenes that focus on how sexualized the women of Marwen are and how Mark himself has his own lusts. Yet at the same time it doesn't explore that in a meaningful way, only opting to focus on the legs because Hogancamp likes women's heels. The violence isn't really much better, as the action scenes tend to go mild with the blood and gore, minimizing it's impact. It aims to be a drama but it clumsily pratfalls as it tries to ease the tension. Which is only made even more tragic by how you hardly feel any of it.

Personally, it would have been better for them to have committed more to delivering on the dramatic element. However, it makes sense to turn the story into more of a dramedy as there are plenty of quirks that allow for a lighter experience. But it feels wrong to restrain either of those approaches under a PG-13 rating, given that it suffocates the material. This is mostly due to Zemeckis's use of CGI, to animate the dolls in Hogancamp's pictures. To some extent, it makes sense to view this as a necessary evil, given that you would need to incorporate the dolls in some way. Simply showing their recreations wouldn't suffice to fill in the story. With that said, it would have been much better just to delve into the scenes with the actors and then returning them into doll form to punctuate a transition. Having them as their own whimsical entities only serves to diminish the impact of dramatic scenes and add an uncanniness that doesn't fit with the events.

What most confounds me about Welcome To Marwen is how dull it is given just how much of a mess it is. Marwen's creation and lore is perfectly suitable for a surreal experience and an intricate delving into the story of Hogancamp's creation, yet the film feels like a weird dream that you quickly forget as soon as you go into the shower. Never has a film based on true events felt so trite. I was more interested in looking up random things on my phone or making the occasional tweet than being invested. Any time I was willing to focus on the film, I couldn't help but comment on it, either for its corniness or for how it lacked any substance. I suppose I was lucky I had the theater to myself to be so disrespectful, but I doubt there will be a time where those seats will be filled with viewers that are rightfully irritated by anyone acting the way I did. If anything, they'd join in.

An Unconventional Review Of First Man

The following is an unconventional review of First Man, a movie directed by Damien Chazelle which stars Ryan Gosling as Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon. This review is less about the abilities of the crew to create a cinematic experience and more about how that experience became something more penetrating to the following viewer.

Let me begin by saying that I am not trying to exaggerate when I say just how powerful the following experience was to me. Whether I have chosen to or not, the emotions I have felt and the thoughts that I have dispelled have a degree of insincerity compared the reality of my being. There is no way for me to convey the strength that I felt that will not come off as incredulous. For my experience was aided by a psychedelic enhancement. I went about this journey of the self in the most contrived and intolerable manner. So I understand if all that I evoke is sneers and if what I represent is a pretentious intoxicated fool. I cannot fully comprehend your understanding of the world and meld myself well enough to build the gateway between our selves to a mutual reality. For that I am sorry. But so much of our matter is the same that I may still be able to relate what I felt to some degree.

As you can already tell, this review of First Man will stand to be more literal than other iterations. What I aim to achieve with this piece is to replicate the altered state that I was in upon viewing the film to the best of my linguistic and creative ability. Though film criticism is generally a subjective matter, one can hope to inject some objectivity by relating it to schools of thought and common approaches that have shown to be successful. To focus on First Man in any objective terms will be near impossible. For it in conjunction with the sedative sensations brought about spiritual passion. Passion has no place in objectivity, but I was so overwhelmed by it in the moment that I cannot help but speak about it. Absurd as it all may seem, the journey of one man to the moon dramatized by Hollywood artists provided an understanding deeper than the darkest depths of the oceans.

I went in, expecting nothing more than a bit of fun. So often I heard that anecdotal rubbish of enhancements to your media-viewing experience. That whole line of “gaining a better understanding of your fellow man” felt like posturing from lowlifes that had thrown their life away to loaf about. But given that I had a chance to indulge, I opted to explore the possibilities. I did not feel it so much to discredit them as I did not think to even consider the potential effects. It was more an experiment. So I went in, securing my treat, and consumed it right from the start.

At first, I thought I had made a mistake. The movie opened with a heavy dramatic sting of Neil Armstrong struggling to maintain control of the world around him. Death was a common visitor and his aspirations of becoming the first intergalactic pioneer dwindled with each day. The discrepancy between my childish expectations and the intense reality being presented felt comical to me, but no humor should be derived of a man suffering from a loss of a child. So I focused in on the movie, absorbing its beautiful, haunting visuals and sublime musical score. Every motion felt disorienting, every sound locked into a collective harmony. The dialogue and performances all felt so pointed, so carefully designed. But it did not feel relevant to the larger context this movie was framing.

Midway through the film, something unlocked in my head. I had become so glued to the narrative in front of me, I did not bother to check on my self. When I did, my vision contorted into fish eye lens. My hands had shrunk and would do so even more as I extended them outwards. Each motion I took was sluggish, without concern for gravity or speed. I began to feel as though the film I was seeing was tangible. It wasn’t physically speaking – I could not pluck out the moon from the sky and crumble it with my hand. But I could feel its pulse, I moved along with the movie in such a profound way, that each beat that it took was not only logical but enlightening.

We often perceive ourselves as minimal. As such, we believe we are only capable of minimal thought. Sure, we think more than any other animal in the world, but fundamentally speaking we are limited by size and scope. We inhabit only three of the possible dimensions out there. Bats hear more than us and shrimp see more than us. So as such, the idea that we are even capable of extending our minds far beyond the stars is one that is scoffed that. Indeed the movie presents how dismissive everyone is sending a man to the moon when there is more important matters to attend to. Important meaning within our own control. We are minimal, so we think minimal. That assertion is immensely flawed and demeans humankind, equating ourselves to tortoises without the reflexes to avoid a sledgehammer dropped from fifty stories above it.

If we are truly so worthless to be as a species, then how can we bring ourselves to reach further from our current capabilities? Why did we flirt with oblivion to establish ourselves as beyond the scope of a blue marble sitting above the dustbowl of darkness? Are we just simply unable to admit to the awesome might we possess and instead meander about with squabbles so granular that they slip from the seams of time like sand in a sieve? We could truly ascend if we took a collective pause and fused our potential together to piece the void with colorful force. First Man made it so clear that our potential is hypergalatic.

However, it was only the moon that we went to. No more beyond that. My claims of the experience with a cinematic masterpiece appear more as deceitful incomprehension and incredulous hyperbole of our proportion to the universal populous. But what I found from my stay in the delicate machinations of Damien Chazelle’s making and what befell to my greater senses is the important of Armstrong’s journey to that silver satellite that circles our world. Him analogous to him and his team and all who assisted them. They all sliced through that stable flux that we had of our own understanding. That our own eyes brought about a massive lie. They proved that we can derive order more grand than the glands inside our brains. They brought us clarity and introduced us to the third eye. It is the eye that we all share, one that sees the galaxy for the attractive desolation that it is.

For Neil to peer out to the far side of another celestial body, for them to view a new horizon was a risk so high it would be like pleading for success from rolling the universal die. The gamble stacked against us to lose smashed out all existing expectations and deserved more elation that in got. In one moment, Neil was every possible permutation bound by reality of a person that could come to be. Our whole kind streamlined to a synecdoche of an Ohio astronaut. Collective deaths, stresses, worries, concerns, pains all burdened upon Neil, forming courage for the path ahead. With that, the glass of our cosmic creation shattered and charged through to reach to the edges of one of its cliff sides. And there in the emptiness of space, we were reminded of our plight. Of what should be our true goal.

(closest image to a scene in the movie)

The whole performance was empowering, the viewing of our self confronting reality and acting as it were in our grasp to control it so hopeful. The sets so real made even more by what affected my system. It only seems more bittersweet how fleeting it was that it was just scraping the confines we were in. We have not yet slipped through the holes we made and journeyed any further. When Neil stepped on the moon, that step was into a new realm. And much like his step, Neil was frozen, overwhelmed by the success of this grand experiment. The moon was nothing more than grey powder, but stepping on it was pressing down on space itself. But the significance of this achievement was ignored, as we ignore our miracle of our unique existence. All the odds that we beat to be so unimpressive to us, we collective mope and double down on crawling into the crevices we made to cope with a growing human misery.

Amidst melodic visuals and striking melodies, First Man erases concepts of humanity and instead imposes exposure of us at our most finite of molecular congregations. We are dried and hung up by the universal thread of our existence. Every concept that we’ve concocted fades away into the odyssey as the fuel for our prodigy against the solar systems’ forces. We tore a hole for insight into our whole – the whole of our meaning.

Immediately after viewing the film I eased my way home, owning up to my existence and doing my best not to be overwhelmed. Here I was, a singular individual with their minuscule concerns still fortunate to carry along with a multitude of seconds allotted to me. But with an experience that had left me with a sentiment so impactful, majestic and cryptic, I could not let it fall to the wayside. I wrote eight pages of what was on my mind. It could not compare to what I thought up while in the theatre and even what is on here now is not what was on the page. It is the modification of a recollection of the echolocation of the mental dictation that took place. What has resulted is a riddle that is both trying to be established and trying to be solved at the same time.

The difficulty is that there does no exist a logical system to formulate the question that was posed to me in my viewing of First Man. Nor does there exist one to solve it. The words that I write are incapable of the emotions and the realizations that were so visceral that I felt them as a waterfall of my soul. Awash with confusion, my hands helplessly articulate my efforts to defeat this intellectual incompetence. Alas, all I can muster that is properly comprehensible is my adoration for the movie and the experience. With the right combination of entertainment and recreation, it seems one can discover a greater understanding of us as a whole. First Man was a beauty beyond compare, far ahead of 2001 for bringing a more personal touch and adding our amazing potential for the greater good. If I ever return to that warped perception into greater self-realization, I hope I amass more of a better understanding of our state. Perhaps then I can improve in how to communicate the awe of sinking between dimensions.

I know that this is not something to play around with. These things are not meant to be abused. They have a time and a place. Additionally, what I saw in the film will not be what I may see in the film, nor what you may see. So I cannot encourage the experience outright as much as I give it glowing praise now. Instead I can offer an imitation of a fraction of the emotion I felt overall. There’s a song in the film, Quarantine. It plays right around the end of the film. There, a harp plays softly as one listening can imagine a silence of sight. A theremin looms over as the bright edge of a new celestial body. The two waltz together and a new body is formed. In there, a new understanding is made that relaxes the tensions of everyday grievances. Confidently we must continue into this illusionary stabilization that we’ve developed to fight against the cosmic truth. One’s spirit can take a deep breath, alleviating pressure caused by the current disease we’ve afflicted on ourselves. This is the only thing that can remind me of the epiphany I had: the paradox of our lives is how we futile beings have the immense ability to give purpose to our being.

Fahrenheit 11/9 Review

Given that we're nearing the midpoint of Donald Trump's tenure as leader of the free world, it's surprising just how little we've seen of him in film. It's not a bad thing, but given how television is drowning in supposedly witty zingers about Number 45, I would have expected to seen more of him on the big screen. At the very least, I was expecting 10 crappy impersonations spray-painted orange to have popped out of some raunchy low-budget comedy making a joke that even in 2008 would have been too easy. But instead I suppose we got the next best thing, a Micheal Moore documentary focused on him which inverts the date of the most catastrophic attack to occur on American soil in recent history. Godwin only knows what will come out of that bout of subtlety. 

To Fahrenheit 11/9's credit, Trump doesn't really become the main topic so much as Trumpism being the umbrella of which the movie's topics fall under. Much of what is discussed about Trump is already known: he's a narcissistic pervert, the media has done a great job of playing into his hands, and he has gotten away with so much garbage right out in the open. Even the opening makes a point about how the campaign was all a publicity stunt. This all serves as contextual fodder to segue into recent events such as the West Virginia teacher's strike, the Parkland shooting, and of course the Flint water crisis. In fact, Flint takes up such a significant part of the film, that it almost seemed as though Moore was intending to go with that first but then had to adapt it to Trump now that he was president. Course, that would be ignoring how Moore was pretty much on the money about the Don. 

While there is a great deal that is being juggled, Moore does well enough to tie everything together but the tone does take some sharp turns that can be as disorienting as the daily news. In his other works, Moore does well to provide a good balance of humor and calm to an otherwise grim or upsetting reality that he constructs. Fahrenheit 11/9 diminishes its comedy for a starker reminder of the damage that has been wrought. The humor is isolated into small segments that are inundated with so much panic and deadpan conversations that any relief that you might've gotten is lacking. Perhaps this adds to the urgency but it further confuses what Moore's trying to aspire to, a commentator or a propagandist. 

Its brand of alarmist comedy reminds me of Full Frontal With Samantha Bee, as it appears to want to be more proactive in pushing its message and uses jokes as the ice pack that the punch delivers. Both also attack the threat from within, calling to that old political adage that Democrats are a bunch of spineless compromise-happy liberals. Moore's efforts to puncture the Democrats certainly was a lot more biting, as he chided Hilary for her complacency to the presidency and disgusting perpetuation of political establishmentarianism along with Obama being a fraud of progressive ideals, using Flint itself as one of the turning points. I've heard these points before, but having someone more mainstream as it were making them was heartening to see. Much as I would commend him for pushing the envelope a little, I can't help but feel like its not enough to win over those that feel that he's just flirting with progressivism. Despite him have some decent credibility to being a leftist rather than a run of the mill liberal, he did not necessarily hold Obama to the same fire that he has chosen to roast both Trump and Bush under. Not to mention that he still can come across as nothing more than a celebrity armchair activist. 

Perhaps the reason that I find myself so mixed on the film is because I'm mixed on the country itself. It is a nation that willingly has blinded itself to the ugly truths before it. It's one where disgraces are perverted to noble traits. It's so horrifically dismissive to consider that the entire nation approves on the travesties that the government commits domestically and worldwide or that they are merely idiots that cannot help to fall into their worst impulses out of ignorance. But they exist and they represent the United States of America. Internal divisions have distracted from larger threats that have permeated in the system and the wounds of partisanry are so deep that it does feel like something truly ugly could come to pass. Fahrenheit 11/9 encourages one to be on the alert, to not depend on easy solutions, and that eventually a collapse of the system will come, be it by the force of the people or the faulty structures caving in. Yet, it only seems that those motivated will be those that already were. And I bet you they're already doing something else than going to the movies to watch this.