April 22, 2013
April 20, 2013
Omphaloskeptical Odyssey
In the beginning, there was a mind
or perhaps it was a body
or perhaps a summation of the two intertwined.
The point is:
there was a body and it had a mind
or there was a mind and it had a body
And, oh gods, it was self-aware.
And awareness was a delicious smorgasbord of knowledge, intent and curiosity.
And the so the body gloried in dew-dripped fields,
and the mind reveled in new information yields.
Until, one day, out of nowhere, a mind/body died,
ceased to be,
gloried no more in fields of any sort.
And the body/mind's eyes bulged.
And the mind/body's breath quickened.
And it understood that it too would, one day,
Cease to be and know no more.
While the body/mind ticked quietly towards its doom,
the mind/body went quietly insane,
reluctant to reveal the depths of its pain.
"What a tragedy, this inevitable end of me!
I must exist, I want to BE."
And the mind/body despaired.
For the mind, while aware that it had not been aware,
before it was aware.
and aware that it was not aware for most of the night,
did not, in fact, want to be aware that the glorious confusion
and profusion of experience would not, in fact, go on forever.
Unless, maybe it could?
And so the mind gathered its body, and set off to cheat doom.
In the passing of time and space,
the mind body discovered other body/minds,
who were willing to sacrifice more of their kind,
because they believed that would stay their own end.
So they would draw on their charts
and cut out some hearts
and offer them up the sky.
Because someone once said
in this book they once read
that it is water, wind, fire and stone
that turns a body/mind into some bones.
"Maybe if you proffer
some gore in a coffer
the elements will leave you alone."
So hearts they uplifted
and entrails they gifted
but never their friends or their own.
But no matter the bodies offered in death
no other bodies were given more breath
and the mind/body cried
as innocents died.
So, cloaked in shame and darkness, the body/mind left.
And the mind/body wandered.
And soon enough it found
bodies prostrate on the ground
in front of statues of marble and clay.
"What you've stumbled upon
is our august pantheon!"
a believer sidled closer to say.
"We worship mind/bodies of terrible powers!
Certainly powers greater than ours
and, in return, they keep death at bay."
So the mind/body stayed
and every noontime it prayed
to the gods of hunting and sunshine and rain.
And it looked for signs
from the mighty god minds
and found them in the storms and the seasons
and the stars and the seas.
And sometimes the signs,
with respect to other minds,
said to enslave or to kill or repress other kinds.
And sometimes the signs said to dance in this way
and to sing in the spring
and to speak words aloud
in sync with a crowd.
But the bodies of believers continued to die.
And sometimes the signs said you have to believe
or go to war with all Steves.
but still bodies died and no boon as received.
And sometimes the signs said give gods your wines
and perhaps tasty food
and make more marble statues
of us in the nude.
But despite all the signs
and the gifts and the rest,
their bodies still ended in perpetual rest.
The statues would not speak
and the strong still killed the weak
So the mind packed up its body and moved on.
After a time, it met a new mind
different, but not, from the last.
"The problem," they said, "is all gods are false,
except for THIS one,
who is terrifying, all-powerful and kind.
and while we must still look for signs
we must be resigned
and submit to the one true god mind today."
"For if we repent of our past
and surrender at last,
the God mind above,
stuffed chock-full of love,
will give us the immortality we ask."
"And woe and beware
to any mind who would dare
to refuse such a generous gift.
For they will suffer and die
and eternally fry
in a burning subterranean rift."
This was confusing
this loving abusing
but the mind decided to try.
So the mind, for a while,
went along in this style
and practiced submission and faith.
But through all of the love and the guilt
and the churches they built
the bodies of minds continued to die.
And it wasn't enough
the believing and stuff
and an afterlife up in the sky.
The believers and such
were not happy that much.
And with no visible gain
from this strictness and pain
the mind's faith faltered,
and the body moved on.
A ways down the line
it met a new mind:
quiet, at peace and serene.
This mind wouldn't say much
about religion and such
except that it thought it was kind of a crutch.
"The trick," said this mind, "Is to try to accept
that at living forever, we're kind of inept."
It bad the mind's body to sit
and to draw some deep breaths
and to contemplate the concept of inevitable death.
So the mind's body sat
on a simple reed mat
and reluctantly admitted that the body would die.
Breathing through fear
it was eventually clear
that thought the body would die
it hadn't quite yet.
"Perhaps," thought the mind,
"It is the goal of our time
to be conscious and kind
and to give a leg up to those coming behind."
And while there was peace
in this conscious release
the bright world outside
would not be denied.
So, in time, the mind's body walked on.
The mind travels still
its body goes where it will
to explore with the time it has left.
And all that it knows
is the body will go
and the fate of the mind can't be guessed.
And while it hopes there is more
beyond that black door
it's okay not to know what, just yet.
All it can do
is to mind's self be true
and hope in the meantime,
before it meets death
that the body it loves
is not wasting its breath.
or perhaps it was a body
or perhaps a summation of the two intertwined.
The point is:
there was a body and it had a mind
or there was a mind and it had a body
And, oh gods, it was self-aware.
And awareness was a delicious smorgasbord of knowledge, intent and curiosity.
And the so the body gloried in dew-dripped fields,
and the mind reveled in new information yields.
Until, one day, out of nowhere, a mind/body died,
ceased to be,
gloried no more in fields of any sort.
And the body/mind's eyes bulged.
And the mind/body's breath quickened.
And it understood that it too would, one day,
Cease to be and know no more.
While the body/mind ticked quietly towards its doom,
the mind/body went quietly insane,
reluctant to reveal the depths of its pain.
"What a tragedy, this inevitable end of me!
I must exist, I want to BE."
And the mind/body despaired.
For the mind, while aware that it had not been aware,
before it was aware.
and aware that it was not aware for most of the night,
did not, in fact, want to be aware that the glorious confusion
and profusion of experience would not, in fact, go on forever.
Unless, maybe it could?
And so the mind gathered its body, and set off to cheat doom.
In the passing of time and space,
the mind body discovered other body/minds,
who were willing to sacrifice more of their kind,
because they believed that would stay their own end.
So they would draw on their charts
and cut out some hearts
and offer them up the sky.
Because someone once said
in this book they once read
that it is water, wind, fire and stone
that turns a body/mind into some bones.
"Maybe if you proffer
some gore in a coffer
the elements will leave you alone."
So hearts they uplifted
and entrails they gifted
but never their friends or their own.
But no matter the bodies offered in death
no other bodies were given more breath
and the mind/body cried
as innocents died.
So, cloaked in shame and darkness, the body/mind left.
And the mind/body wandered.
And soon enough it found
bodies prostrate on the ground
in front of statues of marble and clay.
"What you've stumbled upon
is our august pantheon!"
a believer sidled closer to say.
"We worship mind/bodies of terrible powers!
Certainly powers greater than ours
and, in return, they keep death at bay."
So the mind/body stayed
and every noontime it prayed
to the gods of hunting and sunshine and rain.
And it looked for signs
from the mighty god minds
and found them in the storms and the seasons
and the stars and the seas.
And sometimes the signs,
with respect to other minds,
said to enslave or to kill or repress other kinds.
And sometimes the signs said to dance in this way
and to sing in the spring
and to speak words aloud
in sync with a crowd.
But the bodies of believers continued to die.
And sometimes the signs said you have to believe
or go to war with all Steves.
but still bodies died and no boon as received.
And sometimes the signs said give gods your wines
and perhaps tasty food
and make more marble statues
of us in the nude.
But despite all the signs
and the gifts and the rest,
their bodies still ended in perpetual rest.
The statues would not speak
and the strong still killed the weak
So the mind packed up its body and moved on.
After a time, it met a new mind
different, but not, from the last.
"The problem," they said, "is all gods are false,
except for THIS one,
who is terrifying, all-powerful and kind.
and while we must still look for signs
we must be resigned
and submit to the one true god mind today."
"For if we repent of our past
and surrender at last,
the God mind above,
stuffed chock-full of love,
will give us the immortality we ask."
"And woe and beware
to any mind who would dare
to refuse such a generous gift.
For they will suffer and die
and eternally fry
in a burning subterranean rift."
This was confusing
this loving abusing
but the mind decided to try.
So the mind, for a while,
went along in this style
and practiced submission and faith.
But through all of the love and the guilt
and the churches they built
the bodies of minds continued to die.
And it wasn't enough
the believing and stuff
and an afterlife up in the sky.
The believers and such
were not happy that much.
And with no visible gain
from this strictness and pain
the mind's faith faltered,
and the body moved on.
A ways down the line
it met a new mind:
quiet, at peace and serene.
This mind wouldn't say much
about religion and such
except that it thought it was kind of a crutch.
"The trick," said this mind, "Is to try to accept
that at living forever, we're kind of inept."
It bad the mind's body to sit
and to draw some deep breaths
and to contemplate the concept of inevitable death.
So the mind's body sat
on a simple reed mat
and reluctantly admitted that the body would die.
Breathing through fear
it was eventually clear
that thought the body would die
it hadn't quite yet.
"Perhaps," thought the mind,
"It is the goal of our time
to be conscious and kind
and to give a leg up to those coming behind."
And while there was peace
in this conscious release
the bright world outside
would not be denied.
So, in time, the mind's body walked on.
The mind travels still
its body goes where it will
to explore with the time it has left.
And all that it knows
is the body will go
and the fate of the mind can't be guessed.
And while it hopes there is more
beyond that black door
it's okay not to know what, just yet.
All it can do
is to mind's self be true
and hope in the meantime,
before it meets death
that the body it loves
is not wasting its breath.
February 12, 2013
Extra Special
"It's a funny thing about birthdays." he said without preamble.
I was on the red line to the airport on my way to a red-eye flight to a meeting that everyone thought was a waste of time when he made his way up the car and sat down next to me. The one thing I hate about mass transit is random weirdos who want to talk to me. So of course, he chose me.
But I was bored and he seemed harmless. "How so?" I asked, feigning interest.
"Well, it's funny how not everyone has one," he said, looking at me expectantly, as if to gauge my reaction.
I chuckled. Oh lord, the people you meet on the proletariat chariot. "Well that can't be true. They exist don't they? They have to have a birthday."
"Well, you would think," he said, "but things can get complicated when you're dealing with irrational math." He was still staring at me a little too intently.
"Oh, of course, math ruins everything," I said good-naturedly. There was no reason not to humor him and by god that was tweet-worthy. "It's just that I've never met anyone without a birthday before, so I haven't thought much about it." I grinned, "And I certainly haven't done the math."
"Ah, you jest," he said, grinning widely, "but you would be surprised. You strike me as someone who doesn't think of birthdays much anyway, would you say that is true?"
I paused. "I suppose?" I admit, I was a bit taken aback.
"Well," he said cautiously, watching me, "that's because you don't have one."
I sat there for a few seconds, processing that statement, and then laughed. "Oh don't I? Of course I do. You know, I think I might have misheard you earlier, did you say you were good at math or meth?"
"Meth?" He held up a finger, "One second, please," and fished a curiously shiny smartphone out of his pocket and typed rapidly with his thumbs. He squinted at the display and then looked at me, "Ha, no not meth." he squinted at the display again, "You can tell by how good my teeth are." He gave me a big, toothy grin to demonstrate.
"Ah, well that proves it!" I affirmed, glancing at the arrival time. We were 2 minutes away from the airport. Saints be praised.
He noticed my glance. "Look, I know you think I'm crazy. And I promise I'll leave you alone if you just answer this question: What did you do for your last birthday?"
Finally, a chance to exit this conversation gracefully. "Well, that's easy, I . . . " I trailed off. What had I done? Was it drinks with Steve and Emily? Or had my sister made me a cake? Wait, maybe I had gone to see my parents? I honestly didn't know. I never thought about birthdays much.
"You can't remember, right?" He cut off my objection, as if reading my mind, "And I can tell you, it's not just because you're not the kind of person who remembers birthdays. Can you even tell me when it is?"
I sat there thinking, and realized with some consternation that I could not. The MAX had pulled into the airport station, and I started rustling around getting myself ready to leave, avoiding his eyes, trying my damnedest to remember my birthday.
"You can't, can you?" he said, not unkindly. "Look, I know you have a few minutes before your flight leaves, and I know you think I'm strange, but can I buy you a drink at the bar to explain?"
"Well . . . " I hemmed, I was pretty sure I just wanted this conversation to end, strange gaps in memory notwithstanding.
"I get it: this is weird, and you're upset that you can't remember your birthday. But aren't you curious why you never think about your own birthday? Have you ever wondered why no one else ever asks when yours is? Have you ever really looked at the birth date on your driver's license?"
Ah, of course, this would settle it. We left the train car, and stopped on the side of the platform. I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, pulling out my license with impatience. "You see? It's . . ." I trailed off again. It was blank. The part labeled "Birth Date" was just empty.
The strange man who was ruining my evening let it sink in and then quietly asked, "Do you want to know why?"
I was on the red line to the airport on my way to a red-eye flight to a meeting that everyone thought was a waste of time when he made his way up the car and sat down next to me. The one thing I hate about mass transit is random weirdos who want to talk to me. So of course, he chose me.
But I was bored and he seemed harmless. "How so?" I asked, feigning interest.
"Well, it's funny how not everyone has one," he said, looking at me expectantly, as if to gauge my reaction.
I chuckled. Oh lord, the people you meet on the proletariat chariot. "Well that can't be true. They exist don't they? They have to have a birthday."
"Well, you would think," he said, "but things can get complicated when you're dealing with irrational math." He was still staring at me a little too intently.
"Oh, of course, math ruins everything," I said good-naturedly. There was no reason not to humor him and by god that was tweet-worthy. "It's just that I've never met anyone without a birthday before, so I haven't thought much about it." I grinned, "And I certainly haven't done the math."
"Ah, you jest," he said, grinning widely, "but you would be surprised. You strike me as someone who doesn't think of birthdays much anyway, would you say that is true?"
I paused. "I suppose?" I admit, I was a bit taken aback.
"Well," he said cautiously, watching me, "that's because you don't have one."
I sat there for a few seconds, processing that statement, and then laughed. "Oh don't I? Of course I do. You know, I think I might have misheard you earlier, did you say you were good at math or meth?"
"Meth?" He held up a finger, "One second, please," and fished a curiously shiny smartphone out of his pocket and typed rapidly with his thumbs. He squinted at the display and then looked at me, "Ha, no not meth." he squinted at the display again, "You can tell by how good my teeth are." He gave me a big, toothy grin to demonstrate.
"Ah, well that proves it!" I affirmed, glancing at the arrival time. We were 2 minutes away from the airport. Saints be praised.
He noticed my glance. "Look, I know you think I'm crazy. And I promise I'll leave you alone if you just answer this question: What did you do for your last birthday?"
Finally, a chance to exit this conversation gracefully. "Well, that's easy, I . . . " I trailed off. What had I done? Was it drinks with Steve and Emily? Or had my sister made me a cake? Wait, maybe I had gone to see my parents? I honestly didn't know. I never thought about birthdays much.
"You can't remember, right?" He cut off my objection, as if reading my mind, "And I can tell you, it's not just because you're not the kind of person who remembers birthdays. Can you even tell me when it is?"
I sat there thinking, and realized with some consternation that I could not. The MAX had pulled into the airport station, and I started rustling around getting myself ready to leave, avoiding his eyes, trying my damnedest to remember my birthday.
"You can't, can you?" he said, not unkindly. "Look, I know you have a few minutes before your flight leaves, and I know you think I'm strange, but can I buy you a drink at the bar to explain?"
"Well . . . " I hemmed, I was pretty sure I just wanted this conversation to end, strange gaps in memory notwithstanding.
"I get it: this is weird, and you're upset that you can't remember your birthday. But aren't you curious why you never think about your own birthday? Have you ever wondered why no one else ever asks when yours is? Have you ever really looked at the birth date on your driver's license?"
Ah, of course, this would settle it. We left the train car, and stopped on the side of the platform. I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, pulling out my license with impatience. "You see? It's . . ." I trailed off again. It was blank. The part labeled "Birth Date" was just empty.
The strange man who was ruining my evening let it sink in and then quietly asked, "Do you want to know why?"
January 9, 2013
To Live and Blank in L.A.
Mr. Blank
by Justin Robinson
It's the end of the world. Again. Maybe. In any case, it's quite possibly the end for Mr. Blank, the nameless agent who moonlights as a henchman for every secret group in L.A.. Why? Because they put ads in the paper and he has to pay the bills. Which is problematic, when half of them are at war with the other over arcane artifacts, alien technology and ancient grudges. Somewhere around the time a manchurian candidate tries to smash his brains in with a curious home-made meteor hammer on a routine delivery, it seems the jig is up. From there, the chase is on as Mr. Blank follows the trail of the one conspiracy aimed at removing his head in a sea of routine and malevolent L.A. conspiracies already in progress. Have the servants of Shub-internet, V.E.N.U.S., the Masons, the Templars, the Clone Wolves, the russian mafia and, of course, the Little Green Men finally caught on to his game? Or are they patsies in some larger conspiracy that only he has the perspective to untangle? Mr. Blank uses all his henching, fast-talking, cryptid-taming and dame-rescuing skills to keep his bosses at cross purposes, off balance and disinclined to kill him while he desperately sorts fact from fiction in order to put it all together. Who is Mr. Blank? Which conspiracy wants him dead? The only thing we know for sure, is it isn't the vampires. Because, as everyone should already know, vampires are bullshit.
- - -
Mr. Blank was a whole lot of fun. The conspiracies were clever, both in name and description, and the action relentless. One of my favorite things about Justin Robinson's writing is his focus on keeping the plot moving, taking time only to snark when appropriate. And considering this is a story about a sardonic, skeptical henchman on the run from the fantastic, the snark is fast and facetious. And I loved the end, the who in the "who done it" which I won't spoil.
The dark, secret side of L.A. is considerably stranger, more dangerous and more incompetent than you might imagine. Buy this book today and find the secrets that only a conspiracy insider would know. But maybe use cash. You never know who's watching and the truth can be a dangerous thing.
by Justin Robinson
It's the end of the world. Again. Maybe. In any case, it's quite possibly the end for Mr. Blank, the nameless agent who moonlights as a henchman for every secret group in L.A.. Why? Because they put ads in the paper and he has to pay the bills. Which is problematic, when half of them are at war with the other over arcane artifacts, alien technology and ancient grudges. Somewhere around the time a manchurian candidate tries to smash his brains in with a curious home-made meteor hammer on a routine delivery, it seems the jig is up. From there, the chase is on as Mr. Blank follows the trail of the one conspiracy aimed at removing his head in a sea of routine and malevolent L.A. conspiracies already in progress. Have the servants of Shub-internet, V.E.N.U.S., the Masons, the Templars, the Clone Wolves, the russian mafia and, of course, the Little Green Men finally caught on to his game? Or are they patsies in some larger conspiracy that only he has the perspective to untangle? Mr. Blank uses all his henching, fast-talking, cryptid-taming and dame-rescuing skills to keep his bosses at cross purposes, off balance and disinclined to kill him while he desperately sorts fact from fiction in order to put it all together. Who is Mr. Blank? Which conspiracy wants him dead? The only thing we know for sure, is it isn't the vampires. Because, as everyone should already know, vampires are bullshit.
- - -
Mr. Blank was a whole lot of fun. The conspiracies were clever, both in name and description, and the action relentless. One of my favorite things about Justin Robinson's writing is his focus on keeping the plot moving, taking time only to snark when appropriate. And considering this is a story about a sardonic, skeptical henchman on the run from the fantastic, the snark is fast and facetious. And I loved the end, the who in the "who done it" which I won't spoil.
The dark, secret side of L.A. is considerably stranger, more dangerous and more incompetent than you might imagine. Buy this book today and find the secrets that only a conspiracy insider would know. But maybe use cash. You never know who's watching and the truth can be a dangerous thing.
December 29, 2012
Dancer in the Dark
Dollmaker
By Justin Robinson
I wasn't sure what to make of this book initially. All I had heard was it was about a guy who made some life-sized dolls he had a disturbing relationship with. Having read it, I can affirm it is definitely a disturbing story about some life-size dolls. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and tell you that if you don't have a relatively strong stomach for disturbing concepts and gore, you probably won't make it past the first 10 pages. Although, if that's the case, I'm not sure why you would come waltzing into the horror aisle looking for some reading. Your tolerance for disturbing must be THIS high to go on this ride.
It's not all gore though, of course. The truly disturbing scenes (either in concept or graphic detail) really just exist to punctuate a truly great story about losing oneself to obsession, unrequited love, being different and the dangers of bringing golems to life with perverse Hebrew sex magic. I'm not sure how to describe my favorite parts of the book without completely spoiling the plot, but I will say I found the dolls enjoyably imaginative, creepy and alien. And I enjoyed the overall structure and character development of the story. It starts with an introduction to the protagonist, which will give you the unsettling feeling that it is not likely to work out well for him. And after the main characters and their flaws are introduced and set in motion you'll be mumbling, "well, that can't be good." as you keep flipping the pages forward, wondering which weak link will be the first to snap. The finale, when it arrives, is strange, oddly beautiful and terrifying. There's a peculiar kind of fascination in watching Stephen, the dollmaker, lose bits of himself to The Work out of an unquestioned compulsion to create, even as it spirals out of control all around him.
Justin, much like Stephen, has carved a body of words for you, splattered it with blood and gore and brought it to life. Do yourself a favor and dance with it for a while.
November 21, 2012
Total Recall of the Heart
I have a serious problem, in that I am compelled to watch every terrible translation of a Philip K. Dick story to the big screen. I am a huge fan of Dick, Philip K., I've read most of his work, and it's always exciting to watch a new director tear a quirky, paranoid story into bland strips of Action! with mass market appeal. To be fair, some of movies most true to the story have flopped terribly (*cough* Imposter *cough*), an others have turned out pretty decent despite broad liberties taken in translation. My favorite example of the latter for a long time was Total Recall. The movie starts roughly similar to the short story, and then flies away madly with Arnold Schwarzenegger bouncing a bloody path through typical 80s SF goons like a inflatable, musclebound clown, culminating an amazingly ridiculous scene where his eyes are bulging oh-so-believably out of his head (oh no, inflatable Arnold is going to pop!), before being saved by a gust of wind from a terraforming machine and a brief departure from the laws of physics. So, when I saw they were remaking Total Recall, and it was being helmed by Colin Farrell, I just kind of sighed, because of course I was going to watch it.
The setting is, unsurprisingly, completely different from either the first movie or the original story, although that's not a huge problem. In order to make writing the rest of the script easier, the world of the future has been demolished by some chemicals or something, rendering most of the planet uninhabitable (unless you're wearing army surplus gas masks), except for England and Australia, which have been given futuristic names clearly not worth remembering. England uses the Australians for cheap labor and resources, and transports goods and people between the two nations using a system called "the Fall", which is a train that runs through the center of the earth between the two nations. This is an idea that appeals to the nerd in me, but digging a hole down to the earth's core and then up the other side seems like an odd investment of resources in a post-apocalyptic hellscape.
The beginning of the story, again, is the only part that remains true to the original Dickian tale. A guy walks into a memory store (and asks, "do you know why I'm here?" Wakka, Wakka!), ahem, and asks for a fake memories of a vacation as a spy, which may or may not be what the viewer watches for the rest of the movie. This is not much of a spoiler, as the central conceit is not really important to how the movie plays out. It is more of a casual nod to the source material, after which the narrative again flies away madly with Colin Farrell parkouring a relatively bloodless path through the leftover robots from I-robot and some dollar-store stormtroopers like an expressionless, magically animated mannequin discovered shortly before shooting began, culminating in the same generic running, gunning, punching and jumping sequence that we've all seen several times over every summer for the last 15 years (give or take).
The core of the story is Farrell's Douglas Quaid running and gunning from his slim, pretty, brunette wife (Kate Beckinsdale) to his slim, pretty, brunette co-conspirator/lover (Jessica Biel), both of whom I have a hard time telling apart and spend the rest of the movie fighting over him in scenes that confused me greatly. The action sequences are okay. There are robots, and cool shark helicopters and hot wheels race tracks for grown ups that go upside down and a bomb throwing contest in a completely impractical elevator maze in the least space efficient hotel in the known universe and the oh-so-subtley foreshadowed zero-g shooting sequence in the Fall elevator as it passes through the earth's core. It's the same stuff you've been seeing for a while now, but at least the props are fun. Farrell does a passable job as handsome action actor, but fails to deliver any emotional resonance or even facial expressions that might give the audience a reason to care about the character. Bryan Cranston was okay as the villain, and I was pleased to see him here, but wish he'd been given more to work with.
Have you ever listened to an album so much, that it becomes hard to focus on the music/words at all, because you've heard it so much your brain wants to classify it as white noise and ignore it? That's what this movie felt like to watch, from shortly after the beginning, all the way up until Cranston's character pays for the sins of his TV counter-part in the same fiery explosion we've all seen hundreds of times before. It's the same explosions, same sequences, same CGI and same actors that you've seen jump, hump, fight and pose in a summer movie, remixed slightly for your amusement, excitement or, failing all those things, distraction and mild titillation. Which, surprisingly, isn't to say I hated it, there were some neat ideas in the props department and world imagining, but this one's really only for the die-hard SF, action and parkour enthusiasts. It's mostly just a generic mash-up of I-robot, Mass Effect and Tron. I give it a two sigh rating. In the end, I think I was just hoping for a lot more Dick, Philip K..
The setting is, unsurprisingly, completely different from either the first movie or the original story, although that's not a huge problem. In order to make writing the rest of the script easier, the world of the future has been demolished by some chemicals or something, rendering most of the planet uninhabitable (unless you're wearing army surplus gas masks), except for England and Australia, which have been given futuristic names clearly not worth remembering. England uses the Australians for cheap labor and resources, and transports goods and people between the two nations using a system called "the Fall", which is a train that runs through the center of the earth between the two nations. This is an idea that appeals to the nerd in me, but digging a hole down to the earth's core and then up the other side seems like an odd investment of resources in a post-apocalyptic hellscape.
The beginning of the story, again, is the only part that remains true to the original Dickian tale. A guy walks into a memory store (and asks, "do you know why I'm here?" Wakka, Wakka!), ahem, and asks for a fake memories of a vacation as a spy, which may or may not be what the viewer watches for the rest of the movie. This is not much of a spoiler, as the central conceit is not really important to how the movie plays out. It is more of a casual nod to the source material, after which the narrative again flies away madly with Colin Farrell parkouring a relatively bloodless path through the leftover robots from I-robot and some dollar-store stormtroopers like an expressionless, magically animated mannequin discovered shortly before shooting began, culminating in the same generic running, gunning, punching and jumping sequence that we've all seen several times over every summer for the last 15 years (give or take).
The core of the story is Farrell's Douglas Quaid running and gunning from his slim, pretty, brunette wife (Kate Beckinsdale) to his slim, pretty, brunette co-conspirator/lover (Jessica Biel), both of whom I have a hard time telling apart and spend the rest of the movie fighting over him in scenes that confused me greatly. The action sequences are okay. There are robots, and cool shark helicopters and hot wheels race tracks for grown ups that go upside down and a bomb throwing contest in a completely impractical elevator maze in the least space efficient hotel in the known universe and the oh-so-subtley foreshadowed zero-g shooting sequence in the Fall elevator as it passes through the earth's core. It's the same stuff you've been seeing for a while now, but at least the props are fun. Farrell does a passable job as handsome action actor, but fails to deliver any emotional resonance or even facial expressions that might give the audience a reason to care about the character. Bryan Cranston was okay as the villain, and I was pleased to see him here, but wish he'd been given more to work with.
Have you ever listened to an album so much, that it becomes hard to focus on the music/words at all, because you've heard it so much your brain wants to classify it as white noise and ignore it? That's what this movie felt like to watch, from shortly after the beginning, all the way up until Cranston's character pays for the sins of his TV counter-part in the same fiery explosion we've all seen hundreds of times before. It's the same explosions, same sequences, same CGI and same actors that you've seen jump, hump, fight and pose in a summer movie, remixed slightly for your amusement, excitement or, failing all those things, distraction and mild titillation. Which, surprisingly, isn't to say I hated it, there were some neat ideas in the props department and world imagining, but this one's really only for the die-hard SF, action and parkour enthusiasts. It's mostly just a generic mash-up of I-robot, Mass Effect and Tron. I give it a two sigh rating. In the end, I think I was just hoping for a lot more Dick, Philip K..
October 1, 2012
Programming note
You might notice the reviews fluctuate a bit in form and content. I am experimenting with styles, length and intent in some of them. I think I am more and more realizing that I'm not much interested in a "quick review so you know whether to buy the story" kind of site, because there are millions of those already littering the internet. I think I'm more interested in simply writing essays about the stories to pick apart the themes, form and plot and glean what I can from it and maybe give it an overall thumbs up or thumbs down. And, as always, to practice my writing. Although, having said that, I have an idea for a multi-part review/synopsis of one of the career of one of the most influential TV creators of my youth: Glen Larson, of Battlestar Galactica and Buck Rogers fame (among many others). So that might happen.
All of which is to say, still sorting some format issues out. Contents may continue to settle.
All of which is to say, still sorting some format issues out. Contents may continue to settle.
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