BWOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMP

Tonight, Michelle and I (re)watched Inception for the first time since it hit theatres in 2010.

Yes, I can see roughly half of you rolling your eyes. Don't think I can't. It stands to reason: Inception was hit pretty hard by the usual trend of being adored by everyone so much upon first viewing that it quickly soured upon repeat viewings, with people very keen to point out all of its fallacies, flaws, and less-than-stellar elements. Granted, the film still strikes me as fairly cold, with strikingly little emotion or characterization in the majority of its cast - particularly odd for a film all about coping with, and moving on from, trauma.

Oh sorry - I mean "a thriller set within the architecture of the mind." My mistake.

I do find it interesting how much a film like this serves as a litmus test for different viewership. A lot of people latched onto it as a high concept film, engaging largely in discussions of memory/time travel/parallel realities/what is reality/what the hell is happening anyway and is it all a dream. My take is that this is largely how Nolan conceived of the film first and foremost, which would explain why the screenwriting is fairly factual, exposition heavy, and occasionally stilted. That's more of an observation than a criticism, and there's something to be said for being so transparent about treating characters more or less like chess pieces and courting viewership on a different level. It's probably not how I would gear a film, but it certainly works well enough.

For me, though, the film was (surprise surprise) all about psychology. And this goes beyond the fairly surface level of trauma, acceptance and moving on. To me, the most interesting part about the film was the idea that you could remove the dream narrative(s) altogether and still have a pretty compelling treatise about how rhetoric and persuasion work, and the basis by which most human beings make decisions. It made me think of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink more than anything else: the idea that we vastly overcomplicate snap judgments that are made on very primal sensory or emotional levels above all else.
[Coincidentally, Leo was also supposed to star in the cinematic adaptation of Blink back when that was a thing that almost happened]

More and more these days I've been finding Occam's Razor to be a pretty applicable principle. And, in the Nolan era of filmmaking in which every narrative seems to become increasingly tangled in Gordian knots within Russian dolls within Rubik's cubes (don't ask me to visualize that), there's something pretty refreshing in 'The-Man-Who-Would-Be-Bane' quite sensibly rooting his entire plan upon "he has Daddy issues."

Kickin' it? 

Or even "Leo can't let her go [yup, you asked for it] because letting go is hard." Elegant and oddly profound in their simplicity, particularly amidst all of the crumbling skyscrapers and Bond pastiches (and yes I am on board with the complaint that there are so many vastly more inventive ways to cinematically depict dreams than by having everything involving shooting, crumbling or being wet - we really are in Nolan's cinematic 'wet-dream' - ZOMG INCEPTION PUN).

It also helped explain some of the film's infamously flat performances and nonexistent characterizations as an artistic choice rather than inherent flaw: these characters are so fucked up, traumatized and used to baring their innermost selves in their dream-infiltration work that in 'real life' (but what IS... ah fuck it) they are guarded and sphinx-like, even to the audience. They are professionals here to do their job, and that is all we ultimately, on a base level, need to know. 

Sure ain't the best for winning you Oscars, though. 

This resonated, because more and more I've been finding a propensity for simplicity to work really well to keep my life and mood on track these days. It helps that I started reading Kurt Vonnegut again, who is the master of concise profundity, and generally a wildly inventive yet deeply calming fellow to revisit like an old friend. I spent so many months this summer trying to just allow myself to be chill and just enjoy where I was at in life but also get as much as I could done. The result: I struggled with all of the above more often than I'd be comfortable admitting, and more often than not ended up with paralysis, accomplishing little, and being pretty frustrated with myself because of it. I'm writing in the past tense here, but I'm sure I haven't fully run the gamut of experiencing this delightful brain dance in life. But it has gotten a shit-ton better this week. It's no coincidence that I start rehearsals for the Vancouver Fringe Festival play I'm in and camp work as of Sunday; it's as if the upcoming presence of scheduled commitments has an aura of productivity than I can sniff and feed off of a week away. But, with that has come some rather lovely clarity, which I thought was worth documenting in case it proves transitory. 

What I think is the wisest attribute of Inception is how it houses such raw simplicity amidst all of its convoluted exterior trappings. Brains are ultimately quite simple despite how staggeringly, unfathomably complex they are. Similarly, I think I, like a lot of other people, tend to clutter up my brain and life with a lot of "what if"s or "what could/should never be"s  when the feelings underneath are actually quite simple. It's almost as if the brain gets frustrated at how simple the underlying thought principles are and tries to stoke the fire into becoming more complex and lofty. But really it's the same old shit: fear of not living up to potential butting heads with daring to indulge myself with being comfortable and happy = not much of either getting done. It's the same struggle I had when I was half my current age [all right now, everyone pull out your calculators. Oh, right - pull out your cell phones, which is where most of the world's calculators exist now. Back in my day... ah forget it]; there are just more fancy-schmancy "adult" (and I use the word loosely) trappings adorning it now. I doubt it will ever fully leave me in peace. 

So, the best means of mediating this? [I won't use the word solution, partially because that implies finality that I doubt will ever be the case with this kind of thing, and partially because I'm in the midst of reading the rather excellent The Book Thief which makes me think of 'The Final Solution' which gives me the heebie-jeebies]. The same solution as always: to just take thoughts, feelings, and experiences as they come, allowing them to exist without judgment. Counseling psychology calls this the "mindfulness" approach. Buddhism sometimes calls it something different, but the principle is the same. The "without judgment" part has been really useful for me - noting what is going on as a means of observation rather than criticism or even an attempt to actively manipulate or reshape things. It's not easy. But it has worked multiple times in the past. And it worked again this week. Part of that was being at peace with the realization that a large part of why I'm feeling more relaxed now is because of the proximity of my upcoming business without the customary follow-up of scathing 'why couldn't you fix this on your own steam, goddamit?' 

Some days I don't end up getting a lot done. Some days I just want to play Skyrim instead. Some days I don't, but end up doing so anyway. And that's all okay. 

A tip, for any beloved readers who find themselves in similar quandaries: it seems to help if I have to-do lists, but don't necessarily set hard and fast objectives every single day (unless stuff is due, of course. Then the oh-so-helpful last minute panic and adrenaline set in, and everyone knows they are productivity's best friends). That way there's less worry of always feeling inadequate, like there's always more to do and like a failure, and more like "hey, I got some stuff done today! I chipped away at shit! Cool!" Again, pretty simple stuff, but you'd be surprised how effective it can be. That said, everyone has their own mental rhythm, so if that particular tactic doesn't work, try try again. 

Basically, this week I reminded myself that I'm rather extraordinarily fortunate, and quite happy despite myself. And that was a pretty awesome realization to sink in, no matter how temporary it might prove. Right now it's pretty rad. 

And check it: I found a nifty fact and everything, and it was just waiting to be plucked up from a sandwich board outside a pet washing place on Broadway of all places! 

#63: 

Cool, right? I thought so! Just one more reason to desperately want a dog. *Wistful sigh* 

So, with that note, I am being mindful (geddit?) of the fact that it is 2:40am and I should probably sleep soon. Accordingly, I will leave you to peruse through some of the more awesome bits of Inception trivia, should dregs of trendy skepticism still remain intact. I encourage you to play Edith Piaf [one of my favourite songs!] on a simulacratic loop as you do so. 

"If you take the first letters of the main characters' names - Dom, Robert, Eames, Arthur, Mal and Saito - they spell "Dreams". If you add Peter, Ariadne and Yusuf, the whole makes "Dreams Pay", which is what they do for a mind thief."

[cool!]

"In an interview with 'Entertainment Weekly', Christopher Nolan explained that he based roles of the Inception team similar to roles that are used in filmmaking - Cobb is the director, Arthur is the producer, Ariadne is the production designer, Eames is the actor, Saito is the studio, and Fischer is the audience. "In trying to write a team-based creative process, I wrote the one I know," said Nolan."

[Very cool!]

"The running time of 2 hours 28 min is a reference to the original length of Édith Piaf's song "Non, je ne regrette rien", which lasts (on its first recorded edition) 2 minutes 28 seconds."

"The running time of the movie on DVD is exactly 8888 seconds."

[SUPACOOL]

"Dom Cobb's main objective is to get Home. His name, Dom, literally means 'home' in most Slavic languages. The root word "*dom" comes from the Latin word "Domus". Words like 'Domesticated' and 'Domicile' all share the same "*dom" root."

[how's that for efficiency in characterization? Scott Bukatman, who wrote a great piece about characters being singularly - sometimes restrictively - defined through their names would probably have something to say about that] 

"The slow, gloomy, blaring trombones in the main theme of the film score are actually based on an extremely slowed down version of the fast, high pitched trumpets in the beginning of the Édith Piaf song "Non, je ne regrette rien," which is used as a plot device in the film. Furthermore, when music is heard by someone who is currently within a dream, the music is perceived as slowed down. Thus, the main theme of the film score is almost exactly what the beginning of "Non, je ne regrette rien" would sound like to a dreamer. This thematic device is brought to its logical conclusion when the song plays at the end of the credits, signaling that the audience is about to 'wake up' from the film."

[and here I always liked to fondly refer to it as 'the foghorn theme']

And, as a final note, I'd like to point out that the discourse on dreams was, as is usually the case, conclusively rocked by Bill Watterson. 

She moves in mysterious ways

So... that little ol' thesis?

142 pages, 14,000+ words, and over a year's work (I've been trying not to be melodramatic and say "my whole life's work"...), and it's been submitted, defended, revised, and published online.

(just in time, of course, for there to be actual developments in the U.S. military that could have proved crucial pieces of cultural analysis for my argument. Me: "Why must this come out right after my thesis defense?!" Trevor: "So that you have something new to say in the next degree?" Arrggh. Also, I find it funny they're naming their knockoff Iron Man suit after a God from Skyrim. Maybe not consciously, but that's all a lot of people are going to here. Seriously though: with $10 million already invested and no budget cap[!] for this stupid idea, I can afford to make fun of it. "Hammer tech: ten years away.")

Ahem. But yes. It's done. I'm done. No more school.

Let that sink in.

And do let that sink in. That's essentially all I've been doing: trying to sort out frustratingly unresolved financial affairs, preparing for camp work, and generally shuffling around in a daze feeling like this.

(Shuffling. Yes. Remember this kind of word choice - it comes to play, and soon)

Thankfully, amidst all of my increasingly obsessive Skyrim playing (I finally know where that accursed "I took an arrow in the knee" meme that was so popular about three years ago is from!) and indulging myself with non-superhero films (the rather excellent Orson Welles Nazi-hunting film The Stranger [from 1946!], which I've been meaning to see for years), I'm finally allowing myself to creep back into creative work as well. There are play plans a-brewin' (more on that next time, hopefully), and, on a hike yesterday with Becky and Cyrilla, I decided it was time to actively begin my campaign for more eccentric vocabulary use.

As usual, Bill Watterson thought of this first (and better):

 (When I posed this same "wet leaves" query to Becky and Cyrilla while hiking, Becky, the pragmatist, replied "Smells like fall". Touché.)

But, of course, there have been Facebook and Buzzfeed posts circulating for years regarding "Words there are no English equivalents for" (sometimes with clumsy use of the word "foreign" in the title, but I digress, grumble grumble snuff snurff). And, although Cyrilla raised the astute point that there is something rather beautiful in having certain sensations or feelings that can never fully be exemplified in words, I also find that there is a certain sense of deep satisfaction and fascination at doing our darndest to find exactly the right word for exactly the right moment. That's the joy of writing, isn't it?

I thought of this largely in terms of movement. We move, to paraphrase U2, in mysterious ways (it feels wrong to namedrop that without mentioning that Becca and I used to quote this while frantically doing an octopus dance in front of each other in high school, so Ima mention that as well). So why not have vocabulary that reflects the nuances of it?

Why, for example, would you say you "walked down the hill" when you could GALUMPH down the hill? I hadn't even realized this was an officially dictionary-sanctioned word, but it is! "Galumphing: verb, informal. Move in a clumsy, ponderous, or noisy manner." Pretty ideal for walking down mountains while exhausted, wouldn'tcha say?

There's another I've used this week: JUGGERNAUTING.

I like to think that a lot of people would know the Juggernaut.

If only from this: 

Hilarious when I was 17. A bit less so now. 

Thank you, oh thank you, Days of Future Past (not only for retconning Ratner's mess, but for giving us the glorious Quicksilver scene that got such a euphoric response I ended up mentioning it in my thesis. I mean, it's no Nightcrawler White House attack, but it's an extremely close second for me).

But think about Juggernaut as a verb: to run in a singular direction at such a destructively fast pace that nothing is going to stop the runner. How much more apt is that then... well... the lengthy description I just gave? So much better!  

So, the next time you're moving along, think about how you're moving. I daresay there is just about always a more applicable verb (whether an existing one or not) to encapsulate the particular nuances of your movement more than "walking". Give it a go! 

And look! I've even dredged up a fact after all this time! Huzzah!

#62: You can give yourself an ear infection by plugging your nose and blowing really hard to pop your ears. And, as I very usefully learned here, there's a better way to do it anyway: 

•     Hold your nose, close your mouth
• Turn your head to the right until your chin touches your shoulder
• Swallow hard until your left ear pops
• Turn your head to the left until your chin touches your shoulder
• Swallow hard until your right ear pops
• Continue doing this until hearing is fully restored

I've since tried this. For SCIENCE (and also because my allergies are still so flippin' bad that I'm blowing my nose and promptly plugging up my ears quite regularly still). And guess what? It works! 

So go forth, my plug-eared children, and divest thyselves of thy infernal auditory congestion in a safe and likely more effective way! 

But remember to slap an appealing verb on your manner of doing so. :)

Do the Wright Thing

What's this? you query. Is that Joss Whedon? Why, if he's about to eat a delicious ice cream cone, does he look so solemn? And salute-y? 

Well, true believers, it's because the ice cream cone he's holding up in solemn salute is a Cornetto. Ring a bell? Probably not for the majority of you. But a select (and awesome) few of you might recognize the phrase "Cornetto Trilogy" as pertaining to the peerlessly wonderful filmic collaborations between Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, and director Edgar Wright - namely, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World's End. Those of you who know me well know that few films are as precious to me as Wright's Cornetto trilogy - hell, I almost wrote my thesis on the trilogy, and the notion of internal grammar and interconnected filmic world-making. In fact, most of the films that do matter more to me are mostly those that I am writing my thesis on: the superhero films of Marvel Studios. So, you can probably understand why I've been gibbering with glee since approximately 2008 at the prospect of the twain meeting, with the following film:

What film is that? you muse, perplexed as ever. Exactly. Marvel's Ant-Man would never have had much brand recognition, were it not for the involvement of Edgar Wright. Instead, as Wright is a superbly talented and caring director, known for his hyperkinetic stylistics and knack for making nerdy obsessions seem as fresh, relevant and cool as ever (he also cracked into the comic book universe with Scott Pilgrim vs. the World - surprise surprise, another of my favourite films). Ideal fit to elevate a B-tier Marvel hero into more cultural capital than ever? Uhhhyeah. 

Except it was not to be. 

On May 23rd, the internet exploded with headlines reading "Edgar Wright departs Marvel's Ant-Man."

And my heart broke. 

That sounds like hyperbolic exaggeration, but it only barely is. Given my aforementioned passions, this was devastating to me. I would have been fatalistic, and said that such a match made in heaven could never have survived, were it not for the fact that Wright has been in official production with Marvel for eight years (and has been pitching the film since 2003). It was a hard blow, and I reflected a lot on my reaction to it. 

First, I found a nagging voice in the back of my head griping What's the big deal? It's only a movie. People are dying every day worldwide and you're all choked up about a movie? A movie called Ant-Man...? Grow up. 

And that's fair enough. I would never privilege a film over the tragedy of human lives lost or anything even remotely comparable, and it is pretty conceptually weird that this particular loss stuck with me in the face of the kind of global catastrophes proliferating the news every day. But still - that line of thinking essentially eradicates and devalues the existence of fandom across the board... or caring about movies, or liking things, or happiness, or finding any real meaning in life. The world is a pretty dour place a lot of the time, and I think it's worth mining it for joy in whatever capacity resonates with you. 

For me (and apparently quite a few other people), two such examples are films and comic books. I see the appeal of them as transcending mere superficial escapism too, and, as I've argued before, including in my thesis, tapping into all kinds of resonant nodes, including nostalgia, mythic hero narratives, omnipotent power fantasies, but also the existence of a transcendent moral code that (yes, if implemented in 'real life,' holds major red flags for totalitarianism and fascism - it's nice to dream, though, in the same way that it's nice to fantasize about being able to teleport or fly), at its best, provides a very helpful framework for making sense of life (not at all unlike the way religion does - I don't know if that's controversial, but I see a similar, if less engrossing, appeal), especially as a kid. I also truly believe in the value of film in allowing an escape from life, or provide structuring narratives and thematic devices to help make sense of it - often simultaneously. So, in short, I care about comic books, movies, and comic book movies. Deal with it. Yes, that means you too, voice-at-the-back-of-my-head.

Ant-Man, moreover, to me, was an example of the 'only-a-couple-times-in-a-lifetime' alignment of stars in which two things I could get particularly passionate about finding a merger. It felt like two old friends that you always felt would be perfect in a romantic union together finally hooking up (James Gunn, director of Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy, used a similarly effective analogy). And things were lining up SO WELL: the screened test footage looked amazing (yes, I know - the guy 'narrating' the video is annoying as fuck, and I apologize for that, but it is telling that he, like many, uses "This all looks really silly, but that's okay, because it's directed by Edgar Wright" as the film's main draw) and the film had lined up an impeccable cast, including Paul Rudd(!!), Michael Douglas (?!), Michael Peña, Patrick Wilson, and Corey Stoll from House of Cards, and who also memorably embodied a drunken, violent Hemmingway in Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris (who I was hoping would be playing Whirlwind). Even Wright's ever-so-clever tweets about the film's production just felt right. 

(In fact, my only real gripe – which is really part of a much larger ideological gripe – was Marvel wussing out of the opportunity for representation of a significant non-white female lead for once, as the casting of an Asian [or half-Asian] Wasp would be in accordance with the Ultimate Avengers universe, which the films have largely been following [see: Sam Jackson]. But nope - we got the tremendously interesting Evangeline Lily. Whoopie. Note sarcasm. Did the stupendously awesome Ellen Wong, who already worked with Wright as the ever-so-memorable Knives Chau  in Scott Pilgrim, occur to nobody? I mean, yes, she's a bit young to be a love interest for Paul Rudd, but that's never stopped Hollywood before, and there may even have been Wright-like comedy and social commentary to be mined from that. Grr.)

Regardless, for years, I was able to babble on about why Ant-Man would take everyone by surprise and inevitably take its ranks among the best superhero films ever made with considerable conviction. And many people agreed with me, discussing how the character's lack of recognition, the announced fusion of comedy and spy genres, and the creative inventiveness of Wright, could make for the "boldest Marvel movie yet," and allow them to actually take chances and strive for new creative heights instead of simply being locked into formula. Not unlike that Guardians of the Galaxy film that everyone said would be stupid until they saw the trailers, and suddenly cared more about it than any other film this summer, one might even hazard. I, for one, was particularly stoked for the prospect of a much smaller (ha) and more playful superhero film that doesn't have to span universes to be awesome. 

But, as with any such union, there was always the fear of somebody getting hurt. And lately, since the 'break-up,' I've been caught in a double-bind between knowing who to blame. It kind of feels like a family member just punched my best friend in the face. Or, rather, it's hard not to view it as such: to frame Marvel as the big bully who demanded Wright's lunch money so often that he had to switch schools. We'll probably never be privy to the actual specific details behind his departure, but, given allegations that Wright departed after Marvel making substantial, unapproved changes in his (previously approved) screenplay to the point of thematically changing it, and in the wake of the callous dismissals of Terrence Howard and Edward Norton (remember them?), it's pretty hard not to see Marvel as the bad guy here. 

Things haven't gone well for them since. I suppose the prospect of an auteur director trumping the worldwide love for Marvel didn't really occur to anyone beforehand, but the backlash from this has been pretty harsh. There have already been a slew of B-list directors who have passed on the project (including Adam McKay of Anchorman - and, yes, the excruciating Anchorman 2 - fame, and the director of the goddamn We're the Millers. The upside is Roger Corman's hilarious two cents on the matter), which is publicly embarassing for Marvel. Even Joss Whedon and James Gunn, who are tightly enveloped by the clutches of Marvel, have publicly expressed support for Wright, albeit carefully and diplomatically. Since then, tons of articles have hit the web with pretty on-the-nose titles like "It's time for Marvel to squash Ant-Man - without Edgar Wright, it won't work". 

And I'm finding it hard to disagree with them. The prospect of a Wright-directed Ant-Man was so joyful for me that, as much as I'm still sticking with Marvel, I kind of want it to fail now. Yes, me. I've heard many such sentiments from tons of people who aren't nearly as invested in Marvel or Wright as me. It's just kind of sad, though. Not only is this an unfortunate story, and a grim tale of capitalism and studio interference quashing a passion project that we were teased with the prospect of perpetually surviving (it's like losing Community all over again...), but it feels like something so innocent and joyful got snuffed from the world. For a day or two, it made me not care any more about superhero films, casting hype, and so on. For me, that's a pretty substantial deal. 

And Marvel hasn't really won me back much since. Even the casting reveal of major puppet master antagonist Thanos, which should have been a HUGE deal, was treated as a muttered afterthought, as if even Marvel realized how shameful it looked as a follow-up. 

Yup. It's Josh 'W.' Boring. I mean Brolin.

(Don't get me wrong: I like Brolin just fine (I have, in reference to Spike Lee's 

dumbass Oldboy reboot, referred to him as "Mr. Unremarkable"), but, as I said to Wade, 

a universe where Josh frickin' Brolin plays arguably the most important character in

the upcoming MCU while Idris Elba toils thanklessly in the role of Heimdall in the 

Thor films has something deeply wrong with it.) 

Anyway, I've been grimly pontificating for years that I feel like the bubble-burst heralding the end of the superhero film zeitgeist is coming, and that Ant-Man would roughly make or break it. With this in mind, it's pretty hard to not feel like that might be a necessary inevitability. If superhero films aren't going to take chances and shoot for interesting things, I think dialing back on them isn't such a bad call.

(If John Cusack actually gets cast as Dr. Strange, I might eat my words. Maybe. I just hope things at least hold out until we get a Black Panther movie. Even a low budget one. God knows we could use some variety in representation in Hollywood, let alone in the superhero genre.)

Anyway, I designated this post as more of a personal rant than my usual fact stuff, so I'm going to abstain from a fact of the day as my means of solemn Cornetto-tipping solidarity to Wright. I guess we can at least bitterly celebrate that, like The World's End, he's free to do what he wants, any old time (or perhaps paraphrasing Loki or Hydra's "Free of freedom" remarks would be more appropriate). So, until next time, True Believers...  

RIP. 

Perspective

Last night, talking with Kristy, I coined the following saying: "If factually stating things about your life sounds like bragging, you live a pretty damn good life."

Immediately afterwards, I farted so loudly I made myself laugh, which made me choke on my ice cream, which made the cold sensitivity in my back molars flare up, resulting in me falling to the floor, a hacking, dribbling, giggling, and wincing mess.

Yup. That sounds about right.

In conclusion, enjoy these artist's renditions of the mechanics and choreography of dinosaur sex.

I'm especially a fan of Sauroposeidon's o-face here.

Prodigiosus Rhinocerotidae (Or: how Hatch resurrected Spider-Man. Maybe. Kind of)

So, in spite of the fact that almost everyone advised me against it - but, I'm going to argue, not against my better judgment - I went and saw The Amazing Spider-Man 2 today. I say not against my better judgment because it probably the least falsely advertised film I've seen in an eon. Every single prediction I had about the film came true. Except for a few fleeting things, which are still bouncing around my head enough that I found them to be worth blogging about, instead of sleeping, which is what most civil people would do at this hour. So enjoy my half-cooked reflections on a pleasantly mediocre film - most of which are going to pertain to this bad boy here.

First off, I say all of this with the caveat that, increasingly, basically all superhero films not made by Marvel these days come across as the sputterings of enthusiastic studio heads who ultimately know or care little about the comic source texts. I don't mean to sound absurdly biased, but I wouldn't be so pro-Marvel if the competition could step it up a bit. I'm even getting more leery of X-Men: Days of Future Past than I'd like. And it's always the same two complaints: trying to do/include too much, and not enough reverence for the comics source material.

I know I sound like a puffed-chest fanboy here, but hear me out.

First off, ASM2 was by no means unenjoyable. It was generally a pleasant, albeit predictable, and overly-spoiled, watch, and I don't regret seeing it. There was an ample sprinkling of interesting bits - I was initially a bit thrown by the 'Electro Dubstep' music, but it quickly grew on me. There was one crucial moment in particular - which is hardly a spoiler, but I won't fully ruin here - which, although anyone even remotely versed in the comics lore would expect, still managed to be unexpected and take my breath away in its execution, so props. Sally Field is generally adorable, Emma Stone is perfection, and Andrew Garfield, although he is still far from the definitive Peter for me, is without question the best cinematic incarnation of Parker and - especially - Spider-Man, to date. What a superb physical actor, and he handles small emotional moments with surprising finesse. Bravo.

The biggest boon to the film were its few genuinely elating moments, like this'un:

There were, of course, innumerable complaints. Jamie Foxx's performance was kind of a shame, ranging from yawn-worthy and one note to his earlier "I'm a reclusive nerd who just wants to be noticed!" mugging actually making me cringe and be embarrassed on his behalf. It's a bummer, because the further I go in life, the more I realize there actually are a surplus of people who are entirely functional yet still perilously close to tumbling off the deep end, and it's worth tapping into the obsessiveness of dangerously ignored and marginalized people in a villainous capacity. That said, doing it correctly takes a particularly deft touch, and that would necessitate both careful handling and judicious character development, neither of which the screenplay allowed Foxx's Mr. Dillon...

Wub wub wubbbbbooooooring.

And yes, he does suffer from similarities to too many other blue super-characters as well.

(Da ba dee, da ba dah)

Not to mention he also regenerates himself from dispersed energy, while floating, Dr. Manhattan style. 

(D'oh)

Still a step up from this lame-ass, though.

"Poor Peetah Parkah. You're all alawne!" 

...probably because it was too busy developing the billion other subplots, most of which felt tiresomely misguided. Harry Osborn is dying of an inherited genetic disease? Sheesh. Way to cave to the "How to punch up the scope of a supporting character 101" curse. Dane DeHaan is a spectacular actor, but I think it would take meshing him with the characterization of the James Franco Osborn - never thought I'd willingly bring him up again - to get the definitive Harry. At least it led to a pretty badass Chris Cooper cameo, though if his Norman never gets the chance to stomp around and steal scenery I will be mighty pissed.

Also, the shit with Peter's parents? Almost cool, but should have been much more of the focus, or excluded entirely. It aaaaaaaalmost works as a narrative motivation here, but it feels too cumbersome and too much of a downer.

A downer? you ask? But aren't all these films supposed to be about how dark and terribly serious the lives of superheroes are, thereby validating their being taken seriously culturally... yet still somehow also being really enjoyable? 

Well, that does seem to be the double-bind most superhero movies are stuck in these days. Somehow being darker and yet more fun than ever before. It certainly resulted in the particularly clumsy tonal fluctuations in ASM2 (and, yes, they almost made it work, but, no, they didn't succeed). There are, of course, several examples of good balance - *coughbutallofthemareMarvelcoughalsomaybeX2*. But, seeing as all the superhero films that proliferate in cinemas these days are all still trying to hit the same such notes, but also distinguish themselves from each other? Sheeeeeesh! Good luck.

And this, true believers, is where the Rhino and Mr. Giamatti come in.

First off, Paul Giamatti in this movie is ri-fucking-diculous. Seriously. His overacting slides into Jim Carrey territory, his Russian accent couldn't have been more caricatured if his name was Boris Vodkaswiller Borishnikov, and he takes his character name somewhat literally, as his every line sounds like a rhino grunting in satisfaction at letting out a particularly overdue poop. There has never been a cinematic superhero character as hammy as him shy of the 1990s Batman villains (ha! Two Mr. Freeze cracks in one blog post! As Arnie would quip, "Ice!"). In fact, the only one who rivals him and his Looney Tunes accent is Martin Czokas as the "Europeeank" Dr. Kafka in the same film. But Czokas is an incidental character and way more over the top and way less a) fun, and b) good at it. Fuck that guy. 

Back to Giamatti. Ri-fucking-diculous. Just look at him!

(walking around, grabbing his you know what, flipping the you know who [yeah, but he's so cute though] - whoops, another Eminem tangent. I would learn to control those, if they didn't add such spice to these ramblings. Also, if you're still reading all my blathering, you deserve to follow my train of thought). 

Anyway, my fanboy beef is that the Rhino mech suit looks fucking stupid. Him walking around on two legs with that surplus of guns and missiles is almost farcical Iron Man/Transformers-theft overkill. Him walking on four legs is arguably worse. There, I said it. 

THAT SAID, as with everything else about this silly movie, I knew I would think that all along. And yet, as I was lying in bed earlier, I found myself unable to fall asleep. Why? Because I kept thinking about the Rhino. 

Now, I've written before about the power of decades of vested interest in reading comics and connecting with characters translating into over-evaluating their cinematic incarnations. I won't argue that that was the case here - Giamatti's Rhino was grotesquely over the top, and the film's treatment of him was stupid. Did I mention you don't even get to see the fight scene that the trailers all hinted at? Yeah, the entirety of that not-fight scene... is in the trailers. Its inclusion at all is, at most, a tenuous means of demonstrating Peter re-accepting his identity as Spider-Man (in a way that was done waaaaaayyy better in Spider-Man 2), and, at worst, a clumsy, callous Sinister Six plug. Womp womp. 

And yet. I'm going to go out on a limb here and argue that, in many ways, Giamatti was more on the nose than most others involved. And here's why.

I enjoy this picture because a) he looks so happy and calm reading his comic, and b) I own that comic. NERD CRED.

Ahem. 

There is a moment in the midst of Giamatti's scene-masticating coda scene where he bellows "I am the Rhino!" slamming his mechanical fist into the pavement for emphasis. Or, as he would garble it, "Ayy hyam Rchyno!" This stood out to me. It stood out to me because villains boastfully articulating their own villainous surnames almost never happens in superhero movies, with the exception of Magneto and the whole subtext of re-naming one's self in a gay nightlife kind of way. Sure, Foxx's Dillon also brands himself Electro in ASM2, but he's a nerd and a wannabe Spider-Man, so that makes more narrative sense. But there was something about the way Giamatti brayed "I am the Rhino!" that struck me as a moment that was profoundly comic book-y, and fundamentally unlike your average contemporary superhero movie. Both of the film's Rhino sequences were bombastic, way over the top, extremely cartoonish, and: felt like they belonged in a 1960s comic book, and were all the more unabashedly fun for it. 

And here's where Sony and Columbia could (maybesortakinda) jot down a note or two. 

My crazy thought is this is how, tonally, Spider-Man could stand out amidst the slew of superhero competition these days. As much as his recent crop of cinematic offerings have been fairly shit, Spider-Man is so near and dear to me that I'll always keep seeing them, like a cheerfully obedient kicked spider-puppy. If you'd told me when I was growing up that a year would come that I'd enjoy a Guardians of the Galaxy movie more than a Spider-Man movie, I would have laughed you out of the room. Yet that seems almost inevitable now. And as much as I have a perpetual Marvel boner, that seems uncool. 

So, my thought is this: Spider-Man has always been a little bit campy, and a lot bit silly. He's tackled some pretty serious stuff - which the movies have tried, and largely failed, to convey - but is mostly known for either his intense, maudlin, melodramatic moping, and sense of humour. The secret to cinematically saving Spider-Man (say that five times fast), I contest, is not to cram him full of more darkness and supervillains, Sinister Six style. The secret is to tap into the 1960s style of fun, a-la Rhino. It would have to be consistent to fly, though. If ASM2 had picked a tone and stuck with it, it probably would have improved substantially as a film. Personally, I was most at the edge of my seat when Garfield's Spidey was firing off lame dad joke after lame dad joke, while Giamatti roared, spittle flying left and right, in the background. There may not have been much complexity at play, but these sequences were fun. And that kind of unchecked fun is - ironically - kind of rare in superhero films these days. 

So, what I'd love to see is an entire film pitched at levels of 1960s Spider-Man wackiness. We would need J.K. Simmons' J. Jonah Jameson - who is notably never depicted onscreen because no one could ever be as good as Simmons in that part - back, of course. Now there was a man who knew how to chew a scene with gleeful aplomb.   

But seriously. Think about it. A judicious and carefully handled return to the silliness and sheer fun of old superhero movies. It seems like the only natural way for the genre to come full circle, and they'd actually corner the market on it at this rate. Anyway, this may be nuts, but it's an idea that's got me all excited at this point, so I found it to be worth sharing, gosh darn it! 

And look! I even found a thematically consistent fact AGAIN! Lookee me go!

#61: Rhinoceroses make their own sunscreen out of mud. 

Lots of animals - pigs among others - are notorious for rolling in the mud to cool them down, but the rhino is somewhat unique in that it rolls in the mud to create a protective covering that staves insects away and stops it from getting sunburnt, as I learned here. So that's pretty groovy! Good ol' rhinos. 

Anyway, it is now officially insanely late, and time for me to lay these ramblings, and myself, to bed. So, for your concluding grace note (and mine)...

Goodnight, y'all. 

In the middle of the street

How one feels after a sixteen hour move - Exhibit A:

"Not bad."

Also, searching for that picture lent me to this one, which feels entirely adorably and 'May the Fourth' appropriate.

Did I mention I saw a Star Wars burlesque show called "The Empire Strips Back" on Sunday? Well, I did.

Anyway! "Sixteen hours?!" you query. "Surely that was a typo, and you meant 'Six hours.'"

Unfortunately not, true believers. You see, Kristy and I didn't get our moving van until 2:00pm, before which we spent four hours moving breakable items and food over... on our bikes. Afterwards, we went to go pick up our couch, move it down three flights of stairs, help the fellow we purchased our couch from move a dresser down three flights of stairs, then drive back to my place, move all of my stuff over, then unpack the van, then over to Kristy's place, move all of her stuff over, then back to both of our places to clean and pick up the remaining straggling bits. Phew!

At any rate, after the almost farcical proceedings that entailed trying to get out of my old place unscathed (including my batshit Greek landlady attempting to hold onto my damage deposit for a rather absurd reason that would be far too tangential to go into here... needless to say I finally got it back, thankfully - and fairly), Kristy and I finally landed in our beautiful new apartment together. And, after living here for almost  a week, we're not even surrounded by eye-high piles of boxes anymore! Indeed, our place is coming together rather marvelously. We have a clean and tidy bathroom and kitchen! We have a functioning couch, coffee table and TV! We even have a couple of pieces of art hung up! I have my own little man-cave *coughImeanstudycough* all set up!
 ...soon we won't even be still sleeping on a mattress on the floor! Hopefully.

But, considering all of the potential pitfalls and hiccoughs, things have, overall, gone rather swimmingly. I drove(!) a U-Haul(!!) for the first time in my life, and managed to do so without murdering anyone or destroying anything. Nothing broke in the movie, and - fingers crossed - we haven't even lost anything major. Everyone, while exhausted, stayed in good spirits throughout, and I really can't extend enough thanks to all who helped us on the day of.

And, throughout the flurry of subsequent unpacking, life has just kept on trucking along! I (finally!) finished and handed in the final chapter(!!!) of my thesis, which finally made me feel like I was digging into the meat of my argument! Yay! And, Kristy and I both got jobs(!!!!)... for which we were contacted for interviews for not only on the same day, but at the exact same time... and which we found out about - yes, you guessed it - within hours of each other. Boom. So, for the duration of July-August, call me a proud UBC Camps employee! Huzzah for temporarily staving off the horrors of unemployment!

So, with all this in mind, comes perhaps my most thematically consistent fact o' the day yet:

#60: You can purchase Tony Stark's house from the Iron Man trilogy... for $25 million.

Check it. Thankfully, thanks to the magic of movies, it wasn't actually destroyed in that sensational scene in Iron Man 3 (which is really worth watching again. It's not every day you get to see Iron Man shoot a piano at a helicopter. Oh wait - you could watch it every day. Drat)

At any rate, that's it for me! The girl has just awoken, and I am off to finish sorting out our cluttered bedroom with her. So, until(/if! Muhahahahaha!) you are fortunate enough to see our wonderful pad firsthand, wish us luck finishing setting 'er up!

And now, for your moment of zen, I give you: 12 classic love scenes improved by the addition of a chipotle burrito.

BAI.

Snap...

So, there I was feeling all accomplished because I'd kept myself animated through a thesis writing break by knocking off a blog post.

Then I notice Michelle has sent me this glorious video. And I realize that writing a blog post really isn't as cool as being able to snap the Mario theme.

I'll satisfy myself with being able to burp an eighth of the alphabet though. And being able to touch my nose with my tongue.

Maybe.

Needle drop, noodle drip

In my fourth year of my undergrad (can you believe that was THREE YEARS AGO? I... can, actually. Huh.), there was a period when I was really into the 1951 Gene Kelly musical, An American in Paris. I guess it stands to reason that I'm thinking about this now, considering I'm in the thick of working on my final(!!) thesis chapter (yes, apparently I'm taking a break from writing by... writing. H'okay, Kevin), and keep referring to Scott Bukatman, who famously aligned the exceptional, performative combat choreography of the superhero with dance numbers in the movie musical. Now I'm thinking about how much I'd love to see a superhero movie musical. Heh. Heh heh. Heh.

Anyway - An American in Paris. Good movie. A bit more indulgent than some of its contemporaries, but it had some genuinely beautiful and charming bits that resonate with me to this day. One of these is a line that I remember out of context, and think about from time to time: "I'm old enough to know what to do with my young feelings." Now, if memory serves, this line was said while scrutinizing a couple of attractive young women, so it takes a bit of a creepy turn. Sigh. Nonetheless, the wordplay stuck with me. And this is what was running through my head as I sat here, munching on Mr. Noodles (not dry anymore! I've been converted! Surely this is a sign of growing up...?) and carrots while nursing my third cup of coffee of the night, at 2:30 in the morning: "Am I too old to still be doing this?"

Ahh, yes: the mid-all-nighter existential crisis. I know it well.

"But seriously, Hatch -  focus. This kind of behaviour wouldn't be unbecoming of someone in their early 20s, or working on an eight-pager for a throwaway undergrad class. But here you are, 25 years old, and finishing your last thesis chapter the night before it's due, and you STILL haven't learned! This could have been a glorious opportunity to get your work done early - to chip away at it over several days, or weeks even(!), and be able to enjoy a good night's sleep before submitting it. Instead, here you are, same atrocious work habits as usual, and oddly blasé about it. Shouldn't you feel at least a bit ashamed of yourself?"

The part of my brain that likes to respond to all aggressive queries with Eminem lyrics responded, "Yeah, I probably got a couple of screws up in my head loose, but no worse than what's going on in your parents' bedrooms."

The rest of my brain giggled momentarily at that sick burn, then returned to its usual programming. And that's when the An American in Paris line floating through the dredges of my sleep-deprived brain. And I reflected. And then responded in kind.

"You know, brain - you're not wrong. Realistically, I know that this sleep-deprivation, though I may be getting awfully skilled at functioning amidst it, is pretty bad for me. As are Mr. Noodles, for that matter. And you're entirely right: one of my foremost New Years Resolutions this year was to finally teach myself to stick to a sensible work schedule when it came to thesis writing. Womp womp.

But you know what, brain? I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I feel old enough to know what to do with my young feelings - or, in this case, tendencies. Yeah, this isn't a super desirable situation. And I know I'd normally try to rationalize it away by pointing out how busy a week it's been - I had my 25th birthday party and am moving in two days, after all. But I won't. I know that I could have been working on the actual writing of this ages ago, and that I spent most of my work hours dicking around on point form notes, which, granted, are actually pretty helpful. But here I am - working away, and actually kind of enjoying it. And this is probably the second or third last time I can even foreseeably do this on thesis work before I finally defend this sucker. So, instead of lamenting my inability to move on past outdated work habits, why not just enjoy them while they're still around, and I'm still able to sustain them, even if just a bit?"

Brain is impressed. Brain is satisfied. Brain nods approvingly, and backs away. Mike drop.

So that was cool.  

Anyway, I will momentarily be putting this cursory late-night wisdom to practice. But, before I depart, I even managed to stumble across a lil' fact type dealio today amidst my writing, reading, and procrastipacking. I squeezed in a long overdue skype session with my friend Kate, and with it came this piece of previously unknown knowledge:

#59: Catnip is a plant. You can grow it in pots. In your house.

So there you have it. I must admit, I had never devoted too much thought to the ontological nature of catnip prior to our skype conversation, but I did assume it was some sort of dog food-esq mismash of various unsavoury crushed animal bits and chemicals, so this was news to me.

And that's all, folks! Back to writing about supervillains, violence, the military, and Iron Man! And - you guessed it - taking the chance to remind myself that I actually love what I'm writing about when it gets down to it. And that's pretty rare and special, and worth appreciating. So off I go!

Jarvis - drop my needle. 

Well, it's my birthday too. Yeah.

So. 

Yes. Hi. Remember me? 

I'm going to assume that, yes, you do, or you wouldn't be here in the first place. Unless you're one of those folk who meets people through their blogs. In which case... greetings. Earthling.

(Oh shut it - I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. It's been a long, long time, in case you hadn't noticed. You can oblige me a dad joke or two. Hopefully, because I'm bound to have a second one.)

At any rate, this bit of Jumanji-era glory is appropriate, not only because of my dearth of blog posts (so sue me. I did some stuff... I taught a class and wrote two thirds of a thesis, acted in one play, and directed another. About squids), but, as the particularly astute readers will know, because I am writing this on my 25th birthday. Yup. I just reached a quarter of a century (phrasing it that way always reminds me of the How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying song). And I suppose that's pretty noteworthy. 

For a while, I struggled with the idea of being 25 - mostly due to "oh gawwwwddd, what have I accomplished in all this time?!" moanings, which usually progress into my vindictive mental soundtrack, courtesy of Forgetting Sarah Marshall (and Kristy by proxy - that'll teach you to introduce me to things). But lately I've been pretty zen about solidifying my status as a 25-year old. I've been referring to myself as such for weeks to try to help wear it in, and I daresay it fits rather more comfortably now. Occasionally I still get pangs of "Eep, what are you doing with your life?" but for the most party I'm feeling pretty solid about where my life is right now. I'm on the cusp of finishing my Masters Thesis, I'm in the thick of job applications, and I'm moving in with someone rather special to me. I'm not sure if it quite matches up to where childhood Kevin imagined he'd be at 25 (especially since that version involved being an astonishingly successful Hollywood actor/director/writer/producer married to Emma Watson), but I like to think that he could still spare me a high five at least. 

So, taking example from my dear friend Sym, I thought I'd shake things up a bit for this 'welcome back/you're old, you slob' post. Instead of structuring these ramblings around a fact, I've challenged myself to document '25 significant (sort of) things'. Initially I was going to have a list of "25 important life lessons I've learned in my 25 years of life, but I could only think of about four, and it was embarrassing. Instead, I've structured them into five convenient, pocket-sized "Top Five" lists, High Fidelity style. Enjoy! 

Top five places I'd like to go:

1. Bali

2. Galápagos Islands 

3. Scotland (well, I'd be revisiting this one, but I'd really like to spend a longer chunk of time there - perhaps a bunch longer)

4. Hawaii

5. San Diego Comic Con

Top five favourite animals:

1. Manta ray

2. DOG

3. Rhino 

4. Chameleon

5. Humpback Whale (not so fun fact: you can see how the shittiness involving this pipeline controversy has ramifications for their survival here)

Top five cartoon ducks:

1. Darkwing Duck

2. Deadeye Duck 

3. Daffy Duck

4. The Mighty Ducks

5. Donald Duck

Bonus: Howard the Duck

And now, for your viewing pleasure, a quack-tacular photo gallery!

Ahem.

Top five fears I'm glad I got over:

1. That if I didn't see anyone in my friend group for over a week they'd all hate and exclude me when I came back (I'm particularly this one died out a while ago, or coming to Vancouver would have been particularly agonizing)

2. Butterflies

3. Slugs and snails

4. That if I got drunk I'd just be a belligerent mess who just tried to horn on everyone and pick fights all the time (this, thankfully, could hardly be further from the truth) 

5. Claustrophobia in crowds (it's not really gone, but it has died down substantially in the past year or so, which I'm very thankful for)

Top five things I'm looking forward to doing at age 25 (Kristy's suggestion - she's better at this sort of thing than I am):

1. Moving in with Kristy (perhaps a bit of a "duh" entry, but it's significant enough that I don't think it's a cheap inclusion at all)

2. Defending my thesis and graduating my Masters (ditto. I'm at the point where I'm actually really enjoying my writing now, which can only mean it's about to end)

3. Going paintballing. Yes finally. Shut up Becky...

4. Doing a century club. Maybe on a beach with MIKE AND GRANT once they VISIT VANCOUVER in August (I'm a little bit excited - can you tell?)

5. Occasionally feeling, and even acting, my age, and being titillated by the prospect. Maybe I'll throw an adult-style dinner party! Perhaps even buy a couple of button-up shirts not just for fancy occasions! Maybe even go to bed at a reasonable time!

...whoa, okay. Let's not get too ambitious here. 

But that's not all! I even have a fact, courtesy of my fabulous, Cephalopodian friend Michelle! Check it out!

#58: 'Hysteria' in women, in the days of yore, was believed to have been caused by a floating uterus. 

That's right! In the astoundingly patriarchal days of humours and leech blood-letting, the concept of feminine hysteria was so linked because of the overwhelming feeling of floating many patients would describe. As such, it was believed that getting knocked up was a good medicinal(!) solution, because those helpfully heavy ol' sperm would help weigh down that troublesomely suffragettin' uterus(!!). If you ever wanted a prime example of ideology at its finest... 

So there you have it! I'm old, I like to ramble, occasionally pictures of cartoon ducks crop up in my writing, and... uh... welcome back, I suppose! I'll see you in another four months!*

(*Hopefully not that long a gap this time, but I promise nothing.) 

And now, in conclusion, here's a picture of Jeff Goldblum with a monkey. Don't say I never did nothin' for ya.