TV Series #1: The Leftovers (2014- )

Jesus Christ, this goddamn show. Every episode, there's a moment that brings me to the verge of tears. The haunting piano theme is funeral-esque, with a non-stop sturm und drang tone and all the characters are depressed/suffering from PTSD/going insane. It'll literally put me in a bad mood after watching and yet I cannot get enough of this fantastic series.

The above is a screen capture from season one's "Guest", because it's hard to find any pictures of the characters smiling on Google Images. Yet this is the moment that always get me, the first time we really see Nora Durst smile, a character who lost her husband and two children to the Sudden Departure (a supernatural event where 140 million people vanish into thin air). The episode opens with her warped routine of buying her kid's favorite snacks, stalking the pre-school teacher who had an affair with Mr. Durst, and hiring a prostitute to shoot her in the chest while wearing Kevlar. After going down a rabbit hole at a work conference (involving an identity crisis and having her pain hugged away by a guru) she resurfaces a changed woman. As the supermarket cashier rings up yogurt and non-children food, we see her beaming face and enraptured eyes, an anthropomorphic symbol of hope in a world full of despair and existential angst.

This one caught me by surprise, a series filled with religious overtones, themes and messages. The angry nihilist atheist of my youth would call Future Me a sucker for even giving this series the time of day, before dropping the boilerplate Karl Marx quote. My parents never imposed any type of faith, raising my sister and I with Buddhist/vegetarian values, flipping a coin between Christmas or Hanukkah and the house frequently stunk of incense from my dad's meditation space. The first exposure to Christianity was when a kid in elementary school wore a cross chain and I told my mom I wanted one just because it looked bad-ass. I saw no place for it in my life, deeming it only worthy of rubes easily tricked into following an out-dated self-help book word-for-word.

But then my sister converted to Orthodox Judaism. At her wedding, the bride and groom are separated by literal dividers at the reception, until the men escort the groom through a frenetic dance to where the bride awaits. It was through that surreal tradition that I finally got the appeal of religion. So what if the stories are improbable or the customs slightly incompatible with modern life? They're doing it for the community of family and friends. As I'm approaching 30, I find that the number of people I see on a daily and weekly basis has dwindled, a consequence of freelancing and introversion. Barring major holidays or birthdays, there's no urgency to see each other in person and Facebook/Twitter/Vinetumblagram has tricked our brains into feeling socially fulfilled. By subscribing to a faith, all that logistical nonsense of planning parties or waiting for a friend to call you first falls to the wayside. Fridays at mosque, Saturdays at temple, Sundays at church, see you then, don't even have to think about it. 

All these forms of visual media are essentially a new religion, the movie theater being the closest example. We sit in the nave to learn new truths about ourselves and the world from a person or a fifty-foot screen. That's why I struggle with my love of television, as it encourages in-home viewing, being away from the community. Yet the stories on TV today are more mature and poignant, exploring themes that aren't universally desired nor easily translatable to international markets. So as the season two finale airs tonight, be the Nora Durst you want to see in the world.

Movie #4: "Re-Animator" (1985)

There's binge watching and there's what I'll call "bender watching". You gulp down half a season of "Master of None" in a day, that's binge watching, and people have already stopped chuckling or expressing a "what a ridiculous thing to say" face when talking about it. Bender watching goes past staring at the screen. It's a obsession that takes over, not just consuming the media in question, but seeking out any tangential media that's related to the object of your bender. And it can last months or even years. I did this with "The Sopranos"; besides the DVDs, I collected mountains of books, posters, custom mix CDs full of main songs and background music from the episodes and even that godawful video game. Between the fourth and fifth seasons, my bedroom wall had a collage of New York Post Page Six photos of the set and as the show was ending, a college friend and I briefly worked for a paparazzi we met online, selling him photos and video of Phil Leotardo getting whacked. We later met the creator, David Chase. Premiere & finale baked ziti parties, online message board discussions, creating an interactive website for a class in high school that detailed the circumstances of each whacking. But worse, any mention of media through dialogue on the show was fair game. After Tony makes a dumb joke by quoting the film "Blackboard Jungle", I bought the DVD and it sat on my shelf for years, never watched, almost shameful to acknowledge the reason for purchase. In the depths of that six year bender, I was so high off the effects of a television show that I tried to mimic it's presence during the time it wasn't on my screen. Life was Sunday night at 9 on HBO and everything else was the distraction.

I had a dalliance with the film "American Beauty" in middle school. It might've lasted a month or two. My buddies and I would have sleep-overs at each other's houses, mainly staying up late for repeats of "Real Sex" (sleep be damned when there's nipple potential!). One night, we stumbled upon the last half of "American Beauty" where Mena Suvari ends up topless. Being the one with the HBO subscription, I swore to keep an eye on the TV guide and tape the next screening, so we could thoroughly investigate further instances of tits. When that time came, I watched the film in full and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it (or maybe in my quest to cement my identity as a "movie guy", I convinced myself it was good). Something about it clicked and I explored further, eventually picking up the DVD and the screenplay in book form. The existential nightmare of suburbia went over my head but I liked Kevin Spacey's performance, Ricky's videotape collection and the desire to self-improve never goes away. It was a light affair, nothing too serious or expensive, and I haven't seen it in years.

So what the hell does this have to do with "Re-Animator"? It brings me back to the habits of bender watching, as there's two brief references to the film, where Lester and Ricky laugh about a severed head going down on a woman. I never sought out the film back then but the title has always stuck in my mind, as well as the scene in question. And in trying to expand my scope of the genre of films I review here, I gave it a go.

After a few minutes, I knew this was going to be the distraction while I tried to live my life. Kept it on in the background as I did laundry, cooked and cleaned my place. Saw the scene referenced in "American Beauty", admired the schlocky independent nature of it all yet realized it was one of those movies you had to see it in theater with a crowd who's on the same wave length. Was this worth the time tethered inside so I'd finally "get" a reference in full, one that has no bearing on the plot and was probably just one of a hundred options the screenwriter could've put in that scene? Or have I finally cracked the code of "American Beauty", as "Re-Animator" deals with the perils of bringing dead people back to life, a clear parallel to Lester Burnham's journey from depression to self-actualization that ends in bloodshed, holy Christ the foreshadowing, where's that DVD, this changes everything --

Wait, "American Beauty" beat Michael Mann's "The Insider" for Best Picture? Fuck that plastic bag.

Narrative Shortcomings in Video Games

The narrative aspects of video games have always been immensely more fascinating than the gameplay itself. All the gamer obsessions with achievements, level ups, your frag count? Who gives a crap? It's the moments in between the car chases or fire fights that always stuck out. For example, in "Grant Theft Auto V", there's a mission where the three protagonists tell stories about past robberies they've pulled, giving each other shit and reflecting on regrets. It's timed for a long drive (five minutes) from one end of the continent to the other, and as I approached the destination, I realized I didn't want to arrive, but to stay in the car and listen to more of these tales. But in order to get more of my fix (hits of narrative and character), I'd have to button-mash my way through a heist that's bound to go wrong (and they always go wrong - just once I'd like to sell cocaine to the Diablos without someone pulling a gun). So if I'm not enjoying the gameplay, why am I playing games?

Video games are finally living up to the narratives they've always aspired to be, ever since NES box art portrayed heroic action shots that never matched what ended up on your screen. Now, cutscenes or in-game cinematics have begun utilizing composition and dialogue not out of place in a Hollywood blockbuster. Characters are given a voice and fleshed-out backstories. Original and licensed music, voice actor caliber, marketing campaigns, everything's stepped up in a big way. The line between game and interactive movie has become thinner than ever. Yet something's always kept me from becoming a serious gamer.

The signs were always there. I spent more time reading "Sonic the Hedgehog" comic books than playing the games. The "Myst" prequel novels warped my brain as a kid, detailing the dysfunctional father/son relationship as Atrus and Gehn attempt to revive the D'ni civilization, showing us the consequences of playing gods (which was barely hinted at in the games). In my early attempts at screenwriting, I wrote thirty pages of a "Half-Life" movie adaptation, devoting way too much time into researching quantum physics and none into the loud action set-pieces that it required.

"Fallout 4" is the first title for my new PS4, which I got through a deal at Gamestop after trading in the old PS3 and games, bringing the price down substantially. What a strange moment to see the life experiences I had with these games reduced to a dollar amount, as the clerk scanned them into the computer:

"Grand Theft Auto IV -- bought at midnight release while living in Los Angeles -- $2.00"

"LA Noire -- played during the transition of a new job and first apartment -- 50 cents"

"Skyrim -- a girl you liked from high school texted you to get a drink but you were already high because it made the game more immersive so you said you were busy and regretted it so much you never finished the game -- $10.00"

"Grand Theft Auto V -- didn't leave your apartment for three days -- $8.00"

I played "Fallout 3" on my old Xbox 360 because open-world games have always scratched a certain itch in my existential views on life itself. As the open-world games get more detailed and life-like, as NPCs become less predictable and realistic, you begin to see how everything in our reality can be distilled into programmable information. And then you look around and the theories about our world being a computer simulation suddenly click into place. We could all be background players for someone's open-world video game experience and wouldn't even know it....

After work, I played ninety minutes worth of "Fallout 4". Close to the end, I hooked up with the Institute (because when you see the plot twist, how can you not?) and spent the time doing miscellaneous detective missions for a hard-boiled robot detective in Diamond City. Not being part of the main storyline, I hoped these would, in the limited capacity offered by the game, allow me to solve cases through hunting for clues and interrogating suspects. Instead, a missing persons case sent my character through an abandoned church full of super mutants and zombies to find some money to spend on ammo or armor to kill more super mutants and zombies in the infinite list of shaggy dog missions. Why can't I just enjoy it for what it is?

The developers have created a gorgeous yet sad world, a post-apocalyptic Boston (but c'mon, after 200 years you think there'd be an effort to begin a clean-up process. Broken Windows theory, people!). But despite a solid 25 hours of gameplay invested, I feel like I don't know the land like I did in "Grand Theft Auto" or even the American West in "Red Dead Redemption". Hell, I could draw you a map of the Facility in "Goldeneye" with a golden gun to my head. Part of that's because there's no vehicles to cover more ground in a shorter amount of time and somehow a focus on first-person perspective is incredible limiting. Really, it's the fast-travel option that makes moving around much more appealing and lowers the odds of being ambushed while walking from settlement to settlement while listening to classical music. And that boils down my problem with it: I've spent more time in menus and loading screens than exploring the world. That's not a game, it's work.

And the best games are played with other people. When playing "Goldeneye" or "Starfox" on the N64 in middle school, the multiplayer function required you to be in the same room as your opponents. For a summer in middle school, my friends from the block and I would eat junk food and waste the days away killing each other's virtual avatars on the same TV, each given a quadrant of the screen. After a game round ends, each player has to hit the Start button to get back to the main menu, where you can pick variables in how to kill each other again. Our friend Todd was so wrapped up in the real-life hijinks, thrilled he was horsing around with his best friends in his dad's basement, that he sometimes forgot to hit the Start button, keeping us all from continuing, so we'd yell "Press Start, Todd!" It became a running inside joke that continues to this very day, any of us busting out a "Press Start, Todd!" (even at his wedding) that brings us all back to that moment.

You can't get a "Press Start, Todd" playing against online strangers. You can't even get a "Press Start, Todd" playing against Todd because he has to be home, using his own system, in front of a separate television and the game probably got rid of that function anyway. And that's why violent video games have run the course for me. The humanistic aspects are simply a delivery device for simulated combat and success porn. It's a bug, not a feature. But there is one type of game, one that never drained my eyes raw or make me hate myself with regret. And it's the type that will ease the medium towards it's potential as true art.

Next time: adventure games.

Movie #3: Half Baked (1998)

Deciding to smoke weed was one of the worst decisions I ever made in my life. Starting freshman year at Ithaca, it annihilated my motivation to take full advantage of college. Making movies and seeking out new experiences became less of a priority than smoking blunts in dorm bathrooms. And like a Xenomorph facehugger, it soon attached itself to all activities, impossible to separate the two: Watching something? Gotta get high first. Making dinner? Smoke a bowl so it tastes better. Going to sleep or waking up in the morning? That tough, man, take the edge off! While I never got busted by the cops or got ripped off by dealers, I just got tired of the lost weekends, gained pounds and disappearing social life after gaining a reputation as a stoner.

Anyway, I had a moment of clarity after hitting a version of rock bottom and haven't touched the stuff since December 28, 2014. Story for another day, maybe.

So why did I chose "Half Baked" today? Mainly because I wanted to watch a comedy after the events of the past 24-hours/week/month/fucking year. In the honeymoon period, I would hear from smoking buddies about how funny this film is, "but yuh gotta watch it high, maaaaan!". Seeing it on Comedy Central never appealed to me, with the commercials and pain-staking edits that go into making an R-rated film appropriate for all ages. Cause when I used to watch media stoned, my ritual required not wasting a minute of my high on anything non-essential; much like how heroin users start injecting intravenously so they don't waste a grain of powder from smoking or snorting - it's being conservative!

After pregaming with some decaf tea and raisins (good shit, yo), I fired it up on Netflix and was surprised at the underlying anti-weed message throughout the film. Chappelle's character gives up the drug to live happily ever after with the love interest (aptly named Mary Jane) and it's treated as a victory. They nailed the Different Types of Users Montage (I identified with Janeane Garafalo's "I can only be creative while stoned" a little too much) and the much-hyped Jon Steward and Bob Saget cameos did not disappoint. Despite the guys living in the most brightly-lit apartment you can shake a Billy Bong Thorton at, there were some solid comedy beats that prompted a few hearty guffaws. It's dumb in the logic department, but it's supposed to be. I would never watch this movie ever again.

While I never knew anyone as weed-retarded like Jim Breuer's character (only guy who came close always insisted on calling joints "doobies" without a hint of irony), I turned it off wondering why this was so heavily praised. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just on TV a lot. Maybe when you're in the depths of a marijuana binge, anything that in the slightest assures you that smoking is all laughs and munchies is like a beacon in a storm. But when the rain clears and the waves calm, you'll find yourself on the boat in the middle of the ocean. And one more hit or just another dimebag isn't going to get you to shore. 

Movie #2: John Wick (2014)

Join me as I use an acronym to sum up my thoughts on this taut action film!

Opening in media res followed by our hero waking up to an alarm clock gave me PTSD-laden flashbacks to student film screenings in college.

How much I would've loved to see a scene where John hires a concrete guy to properly hide his weapon cache. Then again, if all the cops don't want nothing to do with him, was it necessary beyond a bad-ass sledgehammer scene?

Nice touch on the subtitles with their varying placement and fonts, artistic brushstrokes that communicate a sense of whimsy and properly set up the storybook-aspect re: John as the one you send to kill the Boogeyman.

World building was this film's strongest suit, the entire underground criminal world was unlike I've ever seen in a movie before. Not realistic but incredibly entertaining, with very little expository hand-holding. A bad version of this movie would've featured John voiceovering about the gold coins, the rules of the hotel, histories of the various players.

I was That Guy who Proselytized "The Wire" in College so something awakened inside once I realized Lt. Daniels and Cool Lester Smooth were at the Continental, even if they didn't share a scene together. Which reminds me, if you want to borrow my DVDs of the best show ever -- snap out of it, Peck!

Can movies stop ignoring that you can't legally pump your own gas in New Jersey? I get that you need the inciting incident of the Russian punks seeing and wanting John's car but there had to be a better location/situation for that to happen.

Kill count: 77! According to Wikipedia, that number is associated with Jesus Christ, where C=3, H=8, R=18, I=9, S=19, T=20 which add up to 77. See, this overwrought device to sum up my thoughts was planned from that start!

Movie #1: Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975)

Ever since I found out about "Salò" being called one of the most disturbing films in existence, it became my white whale, a 24fps car accident I couldn't look away from. The Criterion Collection offered it very early in their run, but after the rights expired it went out of print. Copies on ebay and Amazon ran into the hundreds and my interest skyrocketed. Thankfully (?), it's been re-issued on Blu-Ray and thanks to some joker in Barnes & Noble corporate, it was prominently displayed in the New Releases section years after it's re-release. But it sat on my shelf unwatched, never finding the right time to screen it. I told myself I'd have to get wasted first, in order to "get through it".
Having watched it sober, that wouldn't have helped one iota.

The film depicts four months of a graphic, gag-inducing death orgy, set up by four powerful Italian fascists in 1943, structured through four distinct segments (perhaps a reference to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse). They round up the best-looking teenagers in town, hold them up in a well-staffed and armed mansion and lay out the rules: they are "beyond any reach of legality" and begin to...well, this is where some would put a spoiler warning. But there's no real plot to spoil. Pretty much every twisted urge and whim these sick bastards think of are met without real conflict. Each segment begins with a woman spinning tales of sexual fantasies scored to live piano (and later accordion) music. Then the Four Fascists force their hostages into torture, sodomy and the most elegant depiction of coprophagia you'll ever see. Those who resist and break the rules have their names written down in "the punishment book". The lucky ones are shot.

It's a disgusting movie but one has to admire the craft that went into making it. From the fearless actors who frequently appear naked to the filmmaker's devotion to the subject matter, not hiding the horrors through long shots but forcing you to be an observer in the nightmare. In a scene after the "Circle of Shit" title card (after which I jotted "oh fuck" into my notes), the camera frames the main course with the composition and lighting of an Applebee's commercial. When the final scene does choose to depict the apex of violence and torture through binocular lenses, finally giving us some distance from the action, it's a relief but not without cost. We now see the world through the villain's perspective, having completed our evolution from observer into willing participant. As one of ringleaders comments during a break, "nothing is more contagious than evil."

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch reruns of "Parks & Rec" in hopes of tricking my brain into never thinking of dough-balls with nails inside ever again...