Review: "Pan's Labyrinth"

Fairy tales evoke a pure sense of wonder that few other mediums can. I've found them to be immensely interesting: the creatures, setting, and overall imagination show few bounds, but systems of morality and restrictions run through them, usually to teach the protagonist a lesson or prove some allegorical point. Pan's Labyrinth manages to keep a steady sense of the marvels of childhood, while also maintaining a constant horror that comes both through its fantastical elements and its post-Spanish Civil War setting. As the stories merge together, the cohesion of reality with fantasy create a beautiful story that doesn't shy away from the terrors of war, in actual and fantastical terms. Ofelia, a young girl obsessed with cuentos de hada (I watched without subtitles) and her mother retreat to a forest camp to live with Ofelia's stepfather. El Capitán is a harsh and brutal man. He represents the Franco regime as they smoke out the rebels in the surrounding woods. Ofelia's mother struggles with a difficult pregnancy. In the midst of transition, Ofelia searches for solace in stories, and is quickly discovered by a faun, who tells her that she is the princess of a long-lost kingdom, and that she must pass three trials to claim her throne. It's a well-run trope, but the scary imagery and sense of intimate wonder allow for these trials to be among the most captivating moments of the film. As the violence of the fairy tale parallels that of the war, the film hits heavily emotional veins as families are separated and the horror of authoritarian idealism brutalizes anything that deviates. The reality of Ofelia's experiences is presented in a way that allows for multiple interpretations, and the different personalities of the adults are refined as they interact more and more with Ofelia's world.

Guillermo Del Toro gives terrifying imagination to a fantasy world that's lost all innocence. The faun that acts as a gateway for Ofelia is at turns avuncular and menacing. In the film's most chilling sequence, The Pale Man sits, eyes on a plate, waiting. The paintings of him eating children that adorn the walls, the meticulous banquet, the panicked fairies-- it's easily one of the most tense scenes I've seen in a film. The movie meanders for its first hour, allowing the pieces to fall into place. It relies on the personalities of the characters to drive the story, and it excels. The relationship between Ofelia and her mother is tender and tense, and the addition of Captain Vidal to the family dynamic allows for the horrors of the unbending idealist to be manifest in a quieter way.

The relationship between Mercedes and her rebel brother adds to the immersion of the film. The Spanish Civil War was ideology vs. ideology. As an American with some knowledge of my country's own civil war, the separation of so many families due to differences in political beliefs, the tearing apart of so many towns and cities, makes ours look calm, as only a geographical line divided the carnage there. The nebulous nature of security in the Nationalist camp adds to the need for escape. The rebels, although painted as the good guys retrospectively, are shown to be just as cruelly efficient as the army. Ofelia's world of escape grows more and more dark as the fighting and subterfuge progresses, and her loss of innocence is heartbreaking. Pan's Labyrinth finds the beauty in death, the horror in escape, the love in war. Its allegory and imagination culminate in a chilling movie that connects us to a childhood lost in war.

Final Grade: A

My brain is a scary place

I don’t normally remember my dreams. The ones that I do remember are usually pretty nonsensical, so I don’t put any importance in their content. Last night, however, was a dream that I’ll always remember.

The world was grey, monotone. It felt like a filter in a post-apocalyptic movie. Life seemed to move on as it always had, but there was no heart, no soul. Everything was robotic and joyless. I looked into people’s eyes and saw nothing. I was a voyeur, floating through crowds, looking for life and love, but I couldn’t find it. People were slaves to their jobs, the system that only wanted their hands and skills to augment the bourgeois wallet.

The saddest thing was that no one was speaking. I tried to engage with the people, to find out what the hell had happened, but they all seemed incapable or unwilling. I must have had some omniscient powers, because I found out that all artists had somehow been silenced. The ability to create, to speak out was gone. This world was hell, and there was no way to fix it. But, as I learned, there was one rebel. One voice of hope. A man who was not silent, who let his art, his craft defy the oppressors at every turn, a symbol of what it meant to be human, of what it meant to live, to love, to fight. In the monotone Hades, he was a Messiah, a hero, what we needed to retake our humanity.

This man was 2 Chainz.

I didn’t know how he had retained his voice in such oppressive times. He hadn’t faded, instead, he had somehow grown. In the dead quiet of the city streets, without warning, a primal yell would burst from the shadows. It was only his name, It sounded like this, and it was beautiful. He had retained his identity in a system that aimed to eliminate it. In a world where people were unable to pronounce their names, he yelled it through some unknown power, a pariah to the faceless oppressor, but to those suffering, a savior.

I don’t know what this means. Is 2 Chainz the hero I dreamt he was? In a world with NSA, IRS, and every kind of acronym-ridden scandals, with all types of hyperbole and machinations, something so complicated we can’t understand, he has said:

“She has a big booty, so I call her big booty.”

When the day comes that democracy fails, when all hope is lost, I hope that we have a hero, a 2 Chainz. This is what we need, what we want. All I want for my birthday is a hero.   

Film Review-- "The Master"

Family is something that's explored again and again in art. It's how we come into and experience the world, so it seems like it should be easy to understand, but it's not, and through all of our attempts to decipher what it means to be family, and as the definition of family expands, the concept gets less and less cut and dry. The myriad relationships are all fascinating, but there's something about the bond between a father and a son that spawns story upon story. The Master elevates this relationship into maddening greatness, a sprawling tale that refuses to offer easy resolution or sterile symbolism. The interactions between Joaquin Phoenix and Phillip Seymour Hoffman are some of the most tense I've ever seen, and the various role reversals and psychological manipulation add to the overwhelming uncertainty of the film. Predictability in a movie is by no means a bad thing, but post WWII America was high-stakes, and even though its day has run its course, it doesn't deserve the standard whitewashing of Hollywood. Leave it to Paul Thomas Anderson to descend into its darkness and pull out The Master.

The Master is a difficult film. It refuses to compromise its vision of a post-war America that searches for healing in the charismatic vacant places of its infrastructure. It's unsettling to watch the characters come apart at its seams, set to the brilliant score of Johnny Greenwood. Doubt, resurgence and trust lather the film with complex emotion that gives The Master a dark undercurrent. Freddie (Joaquin Phoenix) is a former sailor who is obsessed with sex and liquor. After various troubles with employment and self-control, he serendipitously boards a boat helmed by Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), leader of the quasi-science cult The Cause. Dodd is charismatic, self-doubting, outright hostile towards anyone who questions him, and Freddie is his muse. Freddie finds fulfillment as an acolyte/brewmaster, and his devotion seemingly grows as he submits to psychological tests designed to find the root of his trauma. These scenes of pseudoscience are some of the best of the film-- the tests have to be garbage, none of them make an iota of sense, but they seem to help Freddie, at least until he attacks someone for questioning The Cause. It would have been easy to write off Dodd and his wife (the wonderful Amy Adams) as lunatics or moneylauderers, leaders of a scam, but the complexity and self-doubt the two give their roles makes it seem as if we really are eternal spirits, and that Dodd and Freddie have known each other for trillions of years. The movie has several dreamlike sequences to unearth the traumas of the past, and instead of turning the movie into a cheap metaphor, they add to the feel that all of this really could be eternal. It's a fine line between insanity and clairvoyance, but The Master takes all the right steps without playing it safe.

As mentioned before, The Master isn't a pretty Hollywood movie made to satisfy or enthrall. It's dark, challenging, and the character's motivations aren't always clear. That isn't to say that there isn't hope-- sometimes, in their quiet moments, the characters find reassurance that what they're doing is right. They're few and far between, but they add diversity to an already sprawling film. It adds to an anachronistic American dream that isn't a cheery advertisement, but what it must have been like to find the silence after a storm, even as it continues rampant in your head. America has long been trying to convince itself that it's something apart from itself, an idealized version of a deeply flawed country. In a sense, The Master reminded me of a video game held in equally high regard: Bioshock Infinite. Both rage with the conflict of reality versus a fantasy, with neither looking ideal. However, the choice must be made, and both stories flash back to reveal how the characters arrived to the choice. Where Bioshock Infinite uses violence and racism to accentuate its motifs, The Master delves into the mind of a depraved man and the incorrigible desire to reform him of a cult leader grasping at straws. Neither shy away from the darkest places America reaches. Dodd is a scary synecdote of  America: he has an easy charm and dogged determination to fix the most unfixable, but his methods are dubious, and he reacts violently to any perceived slight. Metaphor runs deep throughout The Master, but it never distracts from telling its story.

Paul Thomas Anderson shocked and unsettled us with his vision in There Will Be Blood, with its volcanic violence and greed. He adds another brushstroke to his portrait of America with The Master, a terrifying place, scattered with hope. This is not a film for the impatient, but it rewards those who dive into its world with stark portrayals of what we are.

Final Grade: A+

Deadwood is Coming

On a related note, I will start reviewing Deadwood. I've never seen it, so this'll be interesting.

The Great Undertaking of 2013

Postmodern literature is my favorite literature. It's difficult, frustrating, demeaning, and I feel like a masochist for reading it. I read both Ulysses and Gravity's Rainbow in high school. I got two of the big three. I had heard of Infinite Jest, but it really hadn't registered that I should read it.

Now that I'm working on my own novel, I want to have the three under my belt in order to make the book as good as it can be. I'll post periodic updates on my reading of Infinite Jest, and there will be a lengthy review/essay at the end. This should be fun!

Review-- "Children of Men"

I watch movies to feel things. I'd like to imagine that most people do, too. Whether it be laughter, vindication, empathy, it's all catharsis. Sure, movies can have grandiose schemes of philosophical concepts that chalk up victory points with whatever the creator's point was. I like to be intellectually stimulated by film. But when it comes down to it, there's a certain magic to seeing people live out a story, and especially one where we see parts of ourselves. It's a distinctly human form of storytelling. We react to what we see, and emotions pour out, visceral and beautiful and haunting and whatever else they need to be.

This visual intimacy is why Children of Men is the astounding piece of art that it is. Alfonso Cuarón lets the camera linger. It follows, almost seeks, the action in a devastating plunge into hope and despair. It's a fairly complex film, with themes of xenophobia, authoritarianism, and moral relativity, and it sounds cliche, but the characters and their motivations are the driving force of the film. Cuarón misses none of this. His camera sits and stays and absorbs all the drama the film has to offer. It's a simple premise-- in a dystopian future, society in almost all the world has collapsed due to infertility. The opening scene shows the film will pull no punches. It's brutal and unforgiving in its depiction of human suffering and cruelty, but it's not cynical-- characters do good, help each other. In a memorable soliloquy by Jasper (the never-better Michael Caine), fate and chance bring us together and tear us apart, but we can't know exactly what or why, but dammit, why not just enjoy those fleeting moments? Theo (Clive Owen) has had that hope ripped away from him, and the realism of the film and his character add an onerous pathos that can't be ignored. The camera settles on him more often than not, and he delivers on every note.

The film feels real. I've seen more apocalyptic films than I care to admit, and I didn't know how Children of Men was going to shiny up the tired formula. It didn't go for the bombastic or overly gritty. It made it real, almost a mirror, and that's the most terrifying part of the film. We could someday ban all immigrants. It seems far-fetched for many nations at this point, but if some catastrophic event happens? What then? The various religious and political groups, in their uncompromising ideologies, feel extreme, but that's what they've been pushed to. This is life pushed to hysteria, the breaking point. It feels barren, but never loses the edge of rebellion and hope. I had no idea what resolution would be reached, if any, but the balance of faith and despair drives the film, and I couldn't help but follow it as it delves into the worlds of ghettos, the fanciful rich, and every other abscess of humanity.

Art compromises to please the viewer. It happens, and with varying levels of sycophancy, it detracts. I'm not saying that an action romp or a raunchy comedy are worse than arthouse-- if a script has a vision, it should stick to that vision, and the audience should take it as is. Children of Men is as uncompromising a film as I've seen. It's alternatively dark and hopeful, but the one doesn't act as a salve to the other. It's startlingly natural in a world that isn't. This is a film that deserves a 2nd and 3rd and 4th viewing. I haven't said nearly as much as I would like to say, and I'm sure that I'll say more. This film is a masterpiece, and from the 2000s, only No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood best it. A wonder of a film.

Final Grade: A+

Wake up Mr. West-- Why modern music (and art) desperately need Kanye

When it comes to divisiveness, no one does it better than Ye. Myriad events have cemented him as one of the most controversial figures in pop culture-- dressing up as Jesus for Rolling Stone didn't do it for him, so he had to malign the speech of a universally loved pop princess, say the POTUS is racist, and generally let his ego get the best of him. The mainstream media dismisses him as an egomaniac who's talking to a fanbase that isn't there, the general public mocks him, and South Park calls him a gay fish (I haven't seen the episode, so this makes no sense to me, other than showing how puerile and homophobic South Park can be). Why hasn't Ye been discarded, relegated to playing in casinos and dive bars?

Listen to his music. Really listen to it. Go deeper than "Gold Digger" and "Stronger" (even though both are fantastic songs). Listen to his albums in chronological order. Read and watch some interviews of him. Let the man speak for himself, let him explain his flaws and shortcomings. Think he's not aware of who he is? Listen to "Runaway" or "Family Business", and why Ye is Ye will explain itself. At this point in his career, he's looking to be the greatest artist of his generation, and he's only 36. That's to say nothing of his producing some of the best hip hop albums and songs ever. He's committed, and if that makes him an asshole, he's an ingenious, necessary, bombastically incredible asshole.

Through his long and fruitful career, that's been his savior and demon-- he's committed, dammit, and it gets him in trouble, but his immersion in his craft has created the best music that the 21st Century has to offer. In this interview with the New York Times, Ye explains that his mentality is that of greatness-- he doesn't have time to waste believing that he's anything else than the apex of the rap game, and culture, and fashion, and whatever he puts his mind to. That integrity eschews marketability, lowest common denominator content, or any other obstacle in his single-minded quest for the best music he can make. The fashion questions and answers of the interview particularly intrigued me--artists, particularly those in pop music, work to cultivate an image through what they wear, but the dedication that Kanye puts towards his look transcends mere aesthetics-- it goes to a lump sum of x's and y's that add up to an icon. He spares no detail, no minutiae that walk the line between greatness and near religious experiences for the listener. He talks about being inspired by a lamp. If any other musical artist said that, I would scoff. How the hell can they be inspired by a lamp? But said by Kanye, it somehow works. Everything is pushed through a filter that results in things like "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy." I remember when Kanye got a Twitter account, and the tweets he sent out were mostly about the troubles of finding rare luxury items. People laughed and mocked. Here's the thing, though-- they were paying attention. Newspapers were writing articles about his tweets. Now there's room to criticize the media, but there's not room for that here. Why would Kanye make such outrageous statements? Even as a fan, some of them were out there. He sent them out while making MBDTF, an album that deals heavily with the nature of fame. It starts off lauding what he's done, before everything falls apart, and he's left with nothing but his ego. He had to get in the zone, and if being humiliated by internet lowlifes was the price, he was more than willing to pay.

It's clear that Kanye doesn't have a comfort zone. I've listened to other artists (it's not my place to criticize here, so no names) who get lazy after some time in the game. They put out records that aren't necessarily bad, and I've enjoyed them, they just play it safe. They have a formula to success, and they stick with it. I don't see this as a negative, as I often enjoy these albums. There's always a nag, though. They could be doing more with their talent, they could be growing, but they're not, and it frustrates me (whether or not it should, once again, is another question for a different day). Kanye lives on the edge of the knife in this regard. All 5 of his solo albums differ greatly. People thought he had taken a serious misstep with 808's and Heartbreak. It was so different from the rest of his music. And he was singing! He wasn't very good at it! I had been a fan of him at that point, and this baffled me. I liked the album, but it didn't connect with me the same way his previous work had done. However, looking back in a non-Autotune dominated era, I see how important the album is. It allowed for hip hop to be more introspective and moody than it ever had been before. It's difficult to see Drake or Frank Ocean come to such prominence without the stepping stone of 808s. In a lot of ways, this album did for hip hop what Bob Dylan did for pop music-- it allowed for new subject matter to be explored in existing formulas.

This is why Kanye matters. He's the first one to put his foot in the water and see if it'll work or not. He's dedicated himself to his art, and to being the best, and even when he suffers, he allows it to create beautiful things. There are great artists who play by the rules, and they succeed. Then comes a Picasso, a Dylan, a Kanye, who knows the rules so well, and can play by them just as well, and decides to deconstruct it all. This isn't a 9 to 5 arrangement, this is jumping off the cliff. Kanye does what's needed for his art. He's an ideologue, not a pragmatist, and when people hate him for it, he makes their catcalls his theme song. It's so much more than "fuck what the world thinks", though, he's too self aware for that to be the case. he accepts what he is at the moment, makes what he needs, and moves on. He's transcended being a pop star. He's an icon, despised, adored, idolized, and we need that. There seems to be a camaraderie between artists today, patting each other on the back, saying "damn, we're special, aren't we?" They make good, not overly challenging music, then Kanye comes along and switches up the formula while cranking it to eleven. While he doesn't always succeed (and even he'll admit that he's fallible), he's a catalyst for a whole genre of music. Who else can get away with broadcasting his new song on the sides of billboards? Who else can say "I'm not playing my music on the radio anymore" and have it work? Only Ye. He's shooting us into the unknown, and we can't help but enjoy the ride.

And when it comes to his ego, well, the man says it best: "it's hard to be humble when you're stunting on a Jumbotron."

Here's to the 18th, Kanye. Amaze us once again.    

TV Time-- "Marriage of Figaro"

The first season of Mad Men strikes me as being an artificial creation. This isn't a detriment to the series-- if anything, it enhances it. The characters seldom say what's on their mind, and when they do, they do so in an intimate setting without any real implications or consequences. "Marriage of Figaro" is an episode of dichotomy. It's almost equally split between the office and Don's home. In both scenarios, people repress what they want for what's expected of them, but their desires can't help but slip out, and when they're honest, the architecture of their lives collapses bit by bit.

A clever Voltswagen campaign has the office spinning. Is it simply a good ad, or will it sell cars? The debate on how to sell a laxative results in terrible puns and an angry Don. He's pissed about something, and the meeting comes to a standstill. Any jokes are shot down with a vengeance-- this is Don's world, and anything that he doesn't approve of is not welcome. The tone shifts as Don meets with Rachel Menken. He's charming beyond belief, and even Pete Campbell is surprised at his charisma (despite his sycophancy, he still knows nothing about Don). Don's fury is probably incited by an enigmatic encounter on the train. Why the hell does he say that he's Dick Whitman? Was Don in the war under a different name? Don lost his cool on the train, and it takes him a while to gain his composure again. His idyllic life has honest moments that reveal that he's not the paradigm of a perfect man that he pretends to be. As he said to Rachel after kissing her, "I knew what I wanted." The conflict between what he wants and what he needs to do is so quiet that it's sometimes invisible, but when his moral conundrum affects him (as it does at the birthday party), Mad Men reaches its most subtle and devastating.

Rachel is by far the most interesting woman character besides Peggy at this point. She's determined to the point where societal barriers almost don't exist for her. She's one of the few people who can go toe to toe with Don and still come out fighting. In the vicious system of 1960's business, however, she never loses a beautiful feminine grace that plays out wonderfully in a rooftop scene in which she shows how she's always been motivated, even as a child. The mutual lust between Don and Rachel is tragic, but the baser part of ourselves wants romance to play out between them. Don clearly isn't challenged or equaled in his marriage (from what we've seen up until now) and Rachel has one gaping hole in her life: a fulfilling relationship. They'd be perfect together, we think. Why is Don already tied down in a relationship that hasn't shown that it's fulfilling for him or his wife?

Sally's birthday party lets the domestic aspect of Don's life play out, and it's not pretty. Betty invites Helen Bishop, a divorcee, and the other housewives are not happy about it. Helen is an intelligent woman who says what's on her mind while conforming ever so lightly to the norms of the times, and it's a joy to watch her subvert the passive-aggressive criticism of the other women. The husbands are everything that Don doesn't want to be: crude, loud, and self-indulged. The regret of his actions comes upon him, and he feels the need to capture all of the innocence of the party through a video camera. It's only through that filter that the truth comes out: couples fighting and flirting, kids being kids, and adults not acting all that differently. When another one of the attendees says "We got it all!" Don's hesitation is more palpable than anything else there. He doesn't know what any of this is. It's fulfilling for a minute, but it can't last. When he goes to pick up the cake, the falsity of the situation overcomes him, and he goes to stare at trains in a scene that's as beautiful and haunting as anything as I've seen. He brings home a dog, and while Betty stares with disdain, the birthday girl is happy, and in that moment, that's all he wants.

This is where the casual viewer isn't rewarded. Nothing wraps up in one episode. Stories start in one episode and continue for episodes, disappear, and reappear without warning. Mad Men is more a collection of short stories than a novel, and the almost two-part feel of this episode encapsulates this perfectly. Every episode is an embarrassment of riches: I could talk about Peggy's failure to attract Pete, or the images scattered throughout that seem to be important, or the Junior Account Boys acting as Don's foil, but at its core, Mad Men is a mystery, and in this episode, unraveling it is as satisfying as it's ever been.

Final Grade: A

People read?! Review-- "A Game of Thrones"

I've long loved fantasy as a story medium. The first books that I can actively remember reading were The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. Even though I didn't comprehend the religious and socioeconomic themes at hand, I was immersed in their worlds-- the Riders of Rohan, the various animal factions, and the vast geographical locations were enthralling to a kid. I've recently revisited LOTR, and I still find myself getting lost in the mythology that Tolkien created. It seldom feels antiquated, and as I've grown older, I see more and more of our world trapped in his creation. One of the virtues of fantasy and science fiction is that they can detach the societal constraints that limit "literary" fiction to allow for pure philosophical theories to grow. While this can be exhaustively obvious (and in many occasions, is), when done correctly, allegory and symbols shine and connect with the reader in a much less convoluted way than, say, Dickens or Steinbeck.

A Game of Thrones deals with heavy themes such as the nature of power and honor, and it also develops a rich world of myth and intrigue, but at its core, its successes lie in its characters. In many fantasy books I've read, characters feel wooden, with inane motivations. Desire drives A Game of Thrones, and its characters all succumb to baser natures in varying degrees. Why people do what they do fascinates me, and it's evident that George RR Martin takes care to ensure that his characters act according to what they want, whether it be what they want for themselves, the kingdom, their family, or a myriad of other darker things.

The primary plot of A Game of Thrones is fairly streamlined: The Hand of the King dies, and King Robert Baratheon comes to the northern stronghold of Winterfell to recruit his longtime friend Eddard Stark to rule as Robert indulges in all kinds of revelry. The plot accelerates when Brandon, Eddard's son, takes a mysterious fall. Along with an ominous letter from his wife's sister, the Starks become suspicious of the Lannisters, the family of Queen Cersei. The book excels at creating a cultural divide between the cold, honorable Starks and the devious Southerners at King's Landing. In fantasy books I had previously read, the honorable, just characters came out on top. In A Game of Thrones, the Starks struggle to find a balance between what is right and what will get them ahead in the world. They share a complicated history with the royal houses of the south, and Martin summarizes through flashbacks and conversations. It's explained with a great deal of economy, and it never detracts from the present story. It's somewhat easy to follow for the attentive reader, and the relative challenge rewards those who invest themselves in the story.

A Game of Thrones also succeeds at something I haven't seen a lot of: creating a story that's almost completely disconnected from the main plot: the rightful heir to the throne, Viserys Targareyn and his younger sister Daenerys. Their goal is simple: retake the throne that is theirs by birthright. Throughout A Game of Thrones, the question of who should rule is asked and asked again, without a clear resolution. This is clearly intended to be a long series, and while the various plots running through the book don't ever fully intertwine, the developments and twists that the story takes provide enough catharsis for the reader to see their way to the end. Daenerys is one of my favorite characters of the series, and her glimpse into a culture that's so different from that of the main plot makes a richer world. As the book hints more and more at an intersection of the two continents, one of its themes betters itself: the clash of people's motivations. The interactions between the characters is always fantastic, and previous grudges play out as new rivalries develop. A Game of Thrones quickly draws you into its world and keeps you there as the plot goes everywhere you expect that it won't.

As nearly everything that's so complex, A Game of Thrones runs into hiccups. The Wall, a gargantuan blockade for the horrors of the wild north, runs around in tired fantasy tropes. Some characters are intrinsically more interesting than others. Martin is a better storyteller than writer, and his descriptions go on for too long at times. I felt myself having to drive through at certain parts, but the highs of the surprises and heavy themes outweigh the occasional black hole. Martin manages to beat down tired cliches and create a world that's comparable to a Machiavellian Middle-Earth, a place where the good guys don't always win. It's a bear of a novel, and it rewards those who thrust themselves into it with an experience that's hard-pressed to be replicated.

Final Grade: A-

An Open Letter

As I'm sure many of you are, I've been worried by the recent revelations about what our government is doing. I wrote this letter to my Senator, and I hope that you can use it (or a variation of) to communicate to our government that this is not okay.

As many Americans, I'm disturbed and worried by the recent news of PRISM. While our beliefs on economic issues differ, I've been impressed by your dedication to maintaining the individual rights of Americans and keeping government accountable for its actions. PRISM, in my eyes, is an egregious violation of the rights of Americans and non-Americans who have been victims of this program. In writing this letter, I reviewed the Bill of Rights, which I consider to be the most concise, pure statement of what we are guaranteed as Americans. PRISM stands to tear this document apart. President Obama has said that we must make choices as a society in regard to liberty and safety. To that, I say I choose liberty. Terrorism can be combated without the relinquishment of our natural rights. We refuse to lay our lives bare to a government that refuses to show itself to us. I urge you to make fighting these intrusive policies a priority, and I ask your counsel on what we, the American people, can do to show that we will not submit to such violation of our rights. I may only have one voice, but I can make it heard on the same mediums that the government patrols now, and that is why I want it to remain free.

Netflix Purge-- "Raising Arizona"

I've long been an admirer of the Coen Brothers. I'm sure that you've heard the reasons for their praise-- idiosyncratic humor, biblical imagery that doesn't impugn or glorify the source material, colorful characters, and a thousand other things. I haven't seen as many of their films as I'd like, and when various of their films appeared on Netflix instant, I jumped at the opportunity. I'm not sure why I chose to watch Raising Arizona first. The main reason is stupid and nostalgic-- I grew up in Arizona. This was the first plus of the films for me-- this movie really feels like Arizona. The beauty of the desert is encapsulated in a way I haven't seen in contemporary films. I felt like I've driven past Hi's trailer umpteen times. People have weird accents that don't feel totally authentic. Arizona has a bit of an identity crisis, and the overall wackiness of characters such as Nathan Arizona and Gale fit right in to the Arizona I knew, once you got out of the suburban sprawl.

Raising Arizona works for two reasons: it's weird, and it's funny. Nicholas Cage soars as Hi, a recidivism--addled man in love with Ed, the cop who takes his mug shots. After he gets out and cleans up his act, they get married and try to have a kid. As they discover, Ed can't conceive, but that's no issue, as Nathan Arizona, the furniture magnate of the state, has just had quintuplets. They won't miss just one, right? In typical Coen fashion, things go to pot after their master plan is executed. Gale and Evelle, two of Hi's prison buddies, tunnel out of jail and take residence with Hi and Ed. Hi's supervisor creates problems when he comes to visit. And one of the horsemen of the apocalypse (albeit on a motorcycle) pursues them with a greasy motivation that would be enough to alarm even the most hardened criminal. The movie is as far out of reality as possible without it being totally distracting. The Coens are masters at walking along this edge, and the absurdity of the film allows for it to be iconic and hilarious.

Raising Arizona works as well as it does because it's rooted deeply in sentimentality and heartbreak. The shortcomings of Hi as a husband and person allow for tethers that let the film explore its sheer absurdity. He's instantly sympathetic whenever his charisma runs out, and his longings for a peaceful life are ever the more poignant when his darker desires come out. The film runs a basic trope: repented man runs into old hoodlum friends and has to make a choice between his old life and his new responsibilities, but Raising Arizona runs it very well through the strength of performance and pathos. John Goodman and William Forsythe excel as the cons, and their scenes bring some of the strongest laughs of the film. A particular car chase, masterfully filmed and edited, had me rolling on the floor.

The strength of the film is its characters. I was amazed at how emotionally invested I was in the film, even with all its quirks and absurdity. Along with wondrous cinematography and iconic dialogue, Raising Arizona cements the Coens as some of the strongest filmmakers of the past 25 years.

Final Grade: A

TV Time-- "Pilot" Arrested Development

Arrested Development is unlike anything else I've ever seen on TV. Its endless in-jokes, ridiculous story lines, and bizarre satire of the wealthy morph into a smorgasbord of riches for TV nerds. With shows with such complexity, the pilot is a beast: how do you set so many moving parts up while maintaining interest? Arrested Development's answer is to be really damn funny.

The pilot of AD is nowhere near one of its strongest episodes. It's merely funny instead of uproarious. The plots aren't as absurd, and the characters are a bit too broad in order for subtle jokes to work. That's not to say that it's not enjoyable. The dialogue is clever, the editing is sharp and timed to maximize the value of every joke, and the unique musical cues are always opportune (the one when George Michael finds out he'll be rooming with Maeby is particularly apt).

The episode accomplishes what it needs to: it introduces the lunacy that is the Bluth family. The obvious protagonist is Michael, the beleaguered son. It's clear why he wants to leave: his family is self-obsessed and crazy. Jason Bateman exudes quiet frustration. He's the straight man to the craziness around him. The pilot doesn't really head-dive into how completely insane the Bluths are, but their misguided antics get laughs, especially Buster's various forays into academia. I particularly enjoyed Tobias auditioning for a musical immediately after listing his medical credentials. The characterization is split fairly equally between the rest of the Bluths, and it works well. Arrested Development is a complicated show, and it's at its best and funniest when as many Bluths as possible are involved.

This episode feels like the pilot of AD's dramatic counterpart as the greatest show of all time: The Wire. It's a very good episode of television, but it's only a shadow of what's to come. The tracks are laid for inside jokes and ludicrous plotting. It's a necessary evil, but the pilot has enough humor and exposition to trick (err... illusion?) people into watching more.

Final Grade: B+

TV Time: "The Ladies' Room"

Betty Draper is one of my favorite characters on Mad Men. She's icy, superficial, probably a bad mother. She's also parts responsible and not responsible for her fate. These proportions shift every time a new revelation or plot development moves forward on Mad Men. This is what I love about the show-- conceptions of characters can change drastically, and it never feels forced. The show has evolved with few hiccups over its run-- but let's stick with this episode.

Betty is fleshed out as a character here. It starts out at dinner-- one of the ubiquitous restaurants where Don Draper is expected to be. It's glamourous, but Roger still gets his fried chicken. This is another area where Mad Men shines: every little thing can be thrown against the wall of symbolism, and somehow it sticks. Can you imagine how heavy handed and obnoxious this would be if it didn't work? It would be the ultimate pariah of "intelligent" television, a shining example of how literary profundity cannot be fabricated and assembled. But dammit, somehow it works. Mad Men is LOST for English majors, and we can't help but get sucked in.

I just got a paragraph out of a nice set design and a food order. Of course, it may be a load of drivel, but for every crackpot observation there is out there, there's one that works.

Moving on to the plot of the episode, Betty has a crisis. Who would have thought that housewifes in the 60's had psychological issues? Betty is a mirror of all the flawed values and standards for women. She is perfection, and it cripples her. The seams unravel as she loses control of her hands-- the most important part of being a housewife. No errands, no lipstick application, no control. Betty is given control, but over a small world of her house and social life, and even that goes to hell in a very oddly edited car crash scene. Up to this point, none of her ambitions have been revealed. She's perfectly happy to stay at home and watch the kids, or at least that's what she thinks until her body betrays her.

This episode focuses in on what makes people happy. It's a tough question, and one that's been asked umpteen times. Mad Men makes it work through its setting. It was America in 1960-- as Roger says, "how can anyone not be happy with all of this?" Roger isn't quite figured out in the first episodes, but this was a strong scene that contrasted him with Don. Don isn't sure that material wealth or psychiatry is the answer. Mental health is touched on in this episode-- Roger considers psychiatry a passing fad, and if it makes his wife happy, fantastic. Don thinks that it's a scam. Why can't people manufacture happiness? That's what he does for a living. One of Don's worst qualities is brought out here-- he has no idea what it's like to not be him. For a man who could sell anything, he doesn't bring that charisma to personal understanding. Sure, he's charismatic and a good lover, but he belittles any potential problem and only relents when Betty shows real desperation. He's the perfect man to Betty's perfect woman. (I felt a little dirty writing that, even with the irony).

The other major story is about Peggy and the Junior Account Boys. They are sexist and crude and they make her uncomfortable. The show still didn't have the correct level of subtlety. It was absolutely necessary to show that men did not treat women in an acceptable manner, but the first few episodes crank it so much that it's almost farcical. Peggy is more astute here than in the pilot, deftly maneuvering away from unwanted advances and refusing to be broken down by the office's wiles. It was weirdly heartbreaking to see her friendship with Paul dissipate as her novelty overcame amicability. Her position as the new girl contributed to the overarching theme of happiness-- do we only love things that we don't know? Don certainly follows this ideology, even if he doesn't want to admit it. His fling with Midge shows fizzles as she settles down with a television. You can see the wonder leave his eyes as she describes the banal shows she loves. Don isn't a materialist, but he understands the system that has relegated him so much happiness, and he's stuck in between two worlds. As the divide starts to increase, so does his insecurity.


Final Grade: A-

The Great Netflix Purge of 2013-- Primer

Over the past few months, I've accrued a large list in my Netflix Instant Queue. I really dislike clutter (and I really like watching movies), so I'll be making the effort to clean it out and watch what's in there. It's an eclectic group, so I hope to have fun with it, and improve my writing and criticism in the process. Except for one exception, I have not seen any of these movies, so this should prove to be an adventure.

The first movie I picked was Primer, a 2004 independent movie produced, directed and written by Shane Carruth. The movie had a budget of $7,000. It is also the most confused I have ever been in a movie.

The movie is about time travel. Now, with time travel being so prominent in science fiction, I felt confident that I would be able to grasp this film pretty easily. I've watched all the seasons of LOST (I've watched season 5 twice, which is the time travel-heavy one), I loved Looper, and I've rolled my eyes at the Time-Turner in Harry Potter. Hell, I've even read 3/4's of From Eternity to Here, a fantastic book about the nature of time by Sean Carroll, a physics professor at Cal Tech.

I had no idea what happened in this movie.

That's a lie. I drifted in and out of the various timelines that are set up. The pieces are accessible. It's the assembly that is complicated. The premise of the plot is this: two scientists discover that they can make close looped timelines through which they can manipulate events in time. They can store "doubles" of themselves in the box (the time machine) which move forward, then backward in time at a much more rapid rate than they do. As can be imagined, this gets convoluted. The doubles interact with the originals in fascinating, bewildering ways.

The film, due to its low budget, sinks down into a common-man's science that adds to its integrity-- two stressed-out scientists accidentally discovering time travel in a garage is not a bad guess to how this will happen in real life. The characters speak like scientists speak-- meaning that I didn't understand what was going on 80% of the time they were speaking. If anything, this is the film's flaw-- it doesn't provide any handrail. I felt like I did in Calculus at about minute 40 when the professor had lost me at minute 15. This would derail any interest I had in the movie if the premise wasn't so intriguing. I had never seen time travel tackled in this way before-- the creation of the double is something that I still don't fully understand, but it was totally novel to me, and it may actually inspire me to read some scientific articles.

This is why the film works: it presents its material in a manner that, even though you don't understand, you desperately want to. Time is something that's just there for most of us. I had never really thought all that much about what it meant to be moving through time before reading Carroll's book. Even thought I understood very little of what he said, it shifted my views of the universe. This film does that. It's an immense challenge, but I will definitely revisit it with the help of charts and timelines to dissect the 4 other movies enclosed within.

The movie also presents some weighty themes of obsession and human daring. I won't go too much into detail in order to avoid spoilers in any timeline, but the philosophical points of the film are just as strong as its scientific ones.

I don't know how to review this film. It's a textbook, shoestring indie masterpiece, and mindwarp all in one. Its strong story pulls the viewer along while the time travel blindfolds it and beats it over the head with a baseball bat.

Final Grade: A-

Next on GNP2013 (there's a terrible acronym for you): Raising Arizona. Considering that I am from Arizona, I will be overly critical about this film. Just kidding, it's the Coens.