Tagged: reviews
Forest, Forrest Gump, A Joint Review of The Overstory by Richard Powers and Forrest Gump by Robert Zemeckis
The film Forrest Gump is simply a classic. I know it. You know it. And that’s all I have to say about it.
The Overstory, by Richard Powers, while provocative, was written with enough smugness to need this direct accusation of thematic plagiarism to ground it. Here is my accusation in full: In the end, Richard Powers’ The Overstory offers its readers little more than they already experienced in the film Forrest Gump—that is, a nostalgia-filled game of “memory”, though this new version is chemically-boosted by a fun combination of fabulist storytelling and apparently un-simpleton plants (or more accurately plantae or vegetation) as lens.
With that out of the way, let’s get to some detailed analysis. First up, I feel that I owe you, dear reader, an explanation of how I ended up reading this book. I owe this to you, faithful follower, because you know that I have stated many, many times that I have nearly vowed to never read anything newer than 100 years old, because the classics are the classics for a reason—they are better! Why waste time?
Life threw a curveball, however. I recently moved back to Colorado (mental note: never ever leave again) and this event saw me box up my nice library of classic books that I am diligently working through. As a reader and planner, I kept a couple books out, of course. But not enough, it turned out.
On one trip between Minnesota and Heaven, I stayed with my rich brother and his wife and planned to borrow the first of what I recall was a trilogy of fantasy books I had randomly given them at Christmas a few years back. I was jones’n for easy-to-read, escapist fiction. Unfortunately, and tellingly, they couldn’t recall the location of that box set.
None taken.
Genuinely wanting to rectify the situation, my brother looked over a tiny bookshelf—so small—and, like Belle in the bookstore, chose, The Overstory.
“Here. You might like this one. It’s about-”
“-No need, S-,” I cut in. “As long as it’s fiction, I’ll figure it out.
“Oh. And thanks.”
I set off on the second half of my drive and later that week began to read.
It was miserable. Pulitzer Prize? I thought. This is garbage. I think it’s woke, too. Something is off about it. It feels a little too Greta and not enough William.
A few more pages in, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to read some of the critical acclaim and the previously forgone description from the back. I had to get some sort of context.
Eco-fiction? I knew it. This is garbage. It’s not even a novel. It’s propaganda. I feel like a card-carrying Nazi.
However, if there’s anything I hate more than eco-fiction antifa propoganda, it’s quitting on a book.
“S-. Did you actually read this? I’m finding it very hard to read.”
“Na. I only made it about 50 pages, if that.”
“Oh. Oh, oh, oh. I see. I’ll relax then. I was getting worried that you thought I needed to read it. Gotcha. Might still be propaganda, but at least it isn’t brother-on-brother crime.”
So I kept reading. Slowly it grew on me. Like most books tend to do.
Then something miraculous happened.
“But one day she’s reading Abbott’s Flatland…” Powers writes.
“No way!” I said to myself.
You see, on a previous work trip for the new job, I encountered the same problem of no easy fiction. So I found a sweet used bookstore in Denton, TX, of all places, and boldly asked the college dude behind the counter for recommendations in fantasy/sci-fi short stories. After he brought me to the appropriate section of the shelves, he lit up as he pulled down Flatland.
“This is a must read!” he explained.
I fully agree.
But how in the world can you explain my having just read Flatland after a random recommendation from a random bookstore I had no business stopping in, and then stumbling onto a second non-classic book which refers back to the previous one as if everyone would obviously have been aware of the merely cult favorite? It defies explanation. But it was all I needed to keep reading Powers.
And I am glad I did.
The Overstory is not poetry in the sense that Shelley meant. It is far too technical and, as mentioned, smug. Too naive. Too progressive. Too dry, at times. But the story is compelling, and buyer beware, if true, the stuff about vegetation’s intelligence and ability (not to mention old, old age) and the detailed accounts of eco-terrorists and their deluded—yet unshakable—belief that we’re all missing something feels authentic.
Onto the terrible. One example of the smug faults of the book must be offered. And it relates back to that used bookstore in Denton. Besides Flatland, the kid also handed me Fragile Things, by Neil Gaiman, accompanied by his opinion that Gaiman is the “greatest living writer”. Wow.
Juxtaposed against the author’s of the “classics”, I quickly noticed how this Gaiman would attempt to show-off his mental powers by summarizing enormous works of classic literature in a word, or worse, one emotion. Smug.
And Powers does the same. A sign of the times, I guess.
But what I am talking about, the one drop of oil that ruins the entire ships water supply, has to do with more than fancy-pants pith. My children are old enough to pick up The Overstory offy shelf. They would not know the references to literary greats. No harm, no foul. But what about this line,
She has told him about the Judean date palm seed, two thousand years old, found in Herod the Great’s palace on Masada—a date pit from a tree-
…wait for it…
–that Jesus himself might have sampled-
…not yet…
–the kind of tree that Muhammad said was made of the same stuff as Adam.
BOOM!
Are you kidding me?
Do you seriously want me to believe that you believe this?
Only a moron in the 21st century would equate Muhammad and Jesus—themselves separated by six centuries of time, not to mention the plane between heaven and hell. And more to the point, illiterate Muhammad most certainly did not offer any commentary—nor could he have—on some particular species of tree that most certainly was not distinguishable from any other tree to this ignorant man who couldn’t distinguish the biblical Trinity—Father, Son, Spirit—from whatever bastardized version he heard about and further twisted in his undiscerning, savage head into “father, son, Mary”. Give me a fucking break, Dick. You go too far.
Excuse me. Something comes out of me when it comes to the name of our Lord and Savior.
Want me to consider your point about deforestation? Okay.
Want me to overlook your hubristic take on religion while doing so? No can do.
But not every book can be a classic. So it’s forgivable. I forgive you, Mr. Powers. Both for the Muhammad thing and for the Forrest Gump thing.
Maybe next time.
As for me, back to the classics.
Tragic, Mostly True, and Wildly Naive (Even for Minnesotans), A Review of “In The Dark S1”, by Madeleine Baran
Despite the war in Israel, we all still have to work. And my new job happened to require my taking a heroic 12-hour road trip across this great land. For obvious reasons, I asked my family and friends for podcast recommendations.
The only one that came in was, “In The Dark”, by the New Yorker. It is a “True Crime” podcast. In other words, it is very similar to the, “The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill,” podcast that captured our attention a few years ago. If you’re uninitiated, then just think “long form journalism”. These types of podcasts are probably more easy to listen to at length than audiobooks, but that likely depends on the genre. In a word, they are binge-able.
This particular season, as it turned out, was all about a crime that occurred in Minnesota, the state I have been living and working in for the last four years. I immediately had a visceral reaction. It almost made me sick to my stomach. I felt like I knew exactly what this young, passionate, and indignant female investigator was about to bring to light.
For context, in case you live under a rock, there is a thing called “Minnesota Nice” up there. It’s surely unique and deserving of a unique name, but mostly it is similar to passive-aggressive behavior—nice-to-your-face-but-will-not-hesitate-to-viciously-cut-you-down-behind-your-back. (Naturally this is not limited to political boundaries of Minnesota, but the folks up there have perfected the art.)
The real “Minnesota Nice”, however, is far more annoying. The singular “Minnesota Nice” manifests itself most plainly when the Minnesotans play the part of perfect victim. They portend to not want attention or any ruffled feathers, but they will meticulously lay out all the perfect steps they took and “don’ cha know?” it didn’t stop the tragedy that those steps should’ve stopped. It’s like they’re seeking to be known as simultaneously the smartest and most unfortunate people on the Earth.
Remember, though! They did everything perfectly the way the system is designed to work, but “darn it”, they just couldn’t see the future after all! Who can?!
Like I said, it’s annoying.
(If you need a contemporary example that far outweighs the paltry example of this podcast, just consider the Minnesota Lutherans who specifically invited the Somalis. It’s a nightmare—but “we just were trying to help those who needed it most”.)
Back to the podcast. It clearly passed the time. I was cruising through episode after episode without even noticing the mile markers or the minute hand. So good work Miss Baran.
But my overall critique is that it was unduly unfocused.
In a long form magazine writing class I took several years ago, the professor taught us that when writing and reading long form pieces, we should be able to answer, “What is it about about?” For example, a long form article about the process of making french fries is not just a detailed recipe, but about a community that is dying or some terrible working conditions or climate change.
This doesn’t mean it isn’t about french fries. It just means that it is truly—if written well—about the other thing.
The trick, to be sure, is to just have only one about about.
And that’s the biggest criticism I have of this podcast. It’s about a notable missing child case that went unsolved for twenty plus years. But the about(s) about is a myriad of things to include a. the morality and effectiveness of publicly accessible national sex offender databases, b. revenge, c. punishment, d. role of law enforcement, e. grief, f. illusions of safety in small towns, and easily a few others.
The most pointed line which I believe she would agree summarizes her about about (for my thinking) was, “…and there is no government program responsible for making sure Sheriffs do their job!!” (Paraphrased.) Miss Baran more than once suggests that peer review and/or boards like other professions have are long overdue for law enforcement.
For my thinking, however, the most compelling storyline (and she did spend so much time on this that I thought it was her about about for a while) was how this one case was so pivotal in creating the sex offender database, and that by all accounts and measures, those databases are meaningless and ineffective—not to mention overly mean-spirited.
Then there was a possible about about regarding the fantastic incongruence that the kidnapping in question—which spawned the public databases—wouldn’t have been prevented by the database because the kidnapper wasn’t a known sex offender. That’s a doozy to contemplate.
And there were others.
And that’s my point. There were too many. So many, in fact, that the podcast fails.
Where the podcast fails, where it falls flat on its face and reveals that it is a far cry from real-deal quality reporting, is in its basic, and naive, presumption that the terrifically inept small town law enforcement departments have something to so with deterring criminal behavior.
The boy was murdered within the same night that he was kidnapped. No amount of police work can prevent a crime like that. And the experts on child kidnapping which ends in murder (whom she interviewed) said as much.
The sequence that would’ve had to happen to prevent the boy’s death is as follows:
1. Boy reported kidnapped by friends.
2. The “government” workers who were tasked to help then know to disregard all answers to their questions except the one neighbor who claimed to see a blue car turn around in his driveway.
3. The “government” workers somehow think to call nearby towns in ever expanding concentric circles to see if any weirdos have blue cars.
4. The “government” workers who answer their phone that night in a town 20 miles away happen to recall there is a man in his town that never breaks the law but is weird and drives a blue car.
5. Now that “government” worker tasks others in his town to go to the weirdos home and ask anyone there or nearby where he is.
6. When no one knows, they ask, “Is there anyone who knows where he liked to take boys to molest them?”
7. Then the “government” workers orchestrate a plan to travel to every single location listed—but especially the correct one.
8. As they approach, the “government” workers in their “government” cars keep their sirens and lights off. (The killer confessed that he decided to kill the boy when some cop car spooked him.)
9. Then the “government” worker who happens to pull up to the killer and boy somehow doesn’t themself break the law (can’t just shoot him) but prevents the killer from killing the boy (which he did—so he says—because he got spooked by a nearby “government” vehicle).
10. And all this before cell phones and within a couple hours of step 1.
Ten easy steps. And, had they been followed, Madeleine Baran would have nothing to do.
In case you missed it, this lengthier than normal blog post of mine is supposed to be a mimic of long form journalism. And my about about is the illogical, though trending for most of the Anthropocene, position of suggesting government problems can be fixed by more government.
Metallica Is A Worthy Teacher
The most common reason I have given to any who will listen, as to why I don’t feel the need to attend church or really believe in church attendance since attending seminary is, “I need to either be learning or teaching, if I am involved with a group.”
Learning or teaching.
Listening to Metallica’s new album is learning from the experts. Learning proportion, learning dedication, learning timing, learning discernment, learning rock \m/, and learning love. There is also something subtle to note in their interviews. Metallica is probably the most qualified teacher on the topic of instinct. So add learning instinct to the list.
For this reason, listening to 72 Seasons is unlike listening to any other living band. Their catalog will be studied for eternity, like Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven. Their behind the scenes footage (of which there is no end) will also be scrutinized without end. And these studies will satisfy.
Want to hate Metallica? Easy. Just dig a hole, put your head in, and have a friend fill it.
Pay any other amount of attention to this musical sun and the result is adoration.
Metallica is a worthy teacher.
Black “Sleepers”, A Review of Creed 3 by Michael B. Jordan
In “Sleepers” a few men who had been abused as boys in a group home years earlier get revenge in a skillful, tactful, and above board way.
In “Creed 3” two men who had been beat on as boys in a group home years earlier box each other, one of the men being Apollo Creed’s son.
“Creed 3” is not a Rocky movie.
As if that assertion isn’t damning enough, I will go one step further to make my point.
“Creed 3” is heartless. It is a body without soul. It fails Mark Twain’s marvelous rule for Romantic Literature that essentially requires, “that a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.” “Creed 3” accomplishes nothing and goes nowhere.
It should be clear now that I have essentially worshipped Rocky Balboa as a second-order deity since first viewing Rocky 3 as an impressionable, skinny boy who was good at pushups. More recently, my devotion manifest itself in the following remark I made to a new friend on the topic. I said that if I ever got a tattoo, I would get the sound of Clubber Lang’s grunts.
I’m not desiring to be a hater here. There are many powerful moments and good decisions in Michael B. Jordan’s film. To name two, the inclusion of Mexican boxing is notable and probably financially sound. And the presentation of fantasy black life is almost realistic.
But Mr. Jordan hijacked the Rocky franchise with his directorial debut.
And that’s disappointing. I really did like the first two spinoffs.
Vomit, A Joint Review of Triangle of Sadness and Ticket to Paradise
As I resumed Triangle last night, it happened to be at a scene when the seas were angry, dinner was served, and the passengers were beginning to vomit all over the place.
Apparently, my wife had said she was, in fact, not working last night, and next thing I know she is awkwardly standing in the room wondering what in the world I’m watching and why I am suppressing glee.
This holiday season has to be one of the worst of my life. Other’s have likely had worse moments, but on the whole, this one has been the worst. Stuff is just going poorly.
So I say, “Oh. Well, I don’t have to finish this. We can pick something else.”
She sits down and we begin the chore of scrolling.
I had in mind the new George Clooney rom-com, but said nothing.
After a good fifteen minutes and one false-start, she said, “There’s a new Julia Roberts-”
“-I was actually thinking the same thing.”
So I finally find it and we press play.
(Keep in mind, our relationship is at a low, and the film is about a divorced couple about to fall back in love.)
Within minutes, the law-degreed-college-graduate daughter—on a trip prior to starting a career as a lawyer—is lamenting to a random pool boy in some shit-hole country that she has to continue on the law path otherwise she’ll disappoint her…her…her parents.
That’s when I vomited. In my mind. And went to bed. Alone.
Goodnight, 2022.
Good Writing Compels Writing
Earlier today, while on shift on this day of unflyable weather, I began trudging through the Gateway to the Great Books essay by Friedrich Schiller. I began it back on November 14th. He calls it, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry.
It is a far longer entry than all others in this volume, Volume 5, “Critical Essays.” And it is rather boring. His vocabulary is far broader than mine and he employs it from on high, without looking down, without slowing down. But I wanted to finish the article, so I reread the introduction, re-caged my gyros, and plodded on.
Finally, the relationship blossomed. Check out this criticism of a man (hitherto unknown to me), Klopstock.
His muse is chaste.
Wow. Stops you in your tracks, no?
Got me to smile and want to share the sentence with you all. Hope it was worth it.
Onward and upward.
Stunted?, A Review of Elvis by Baz Luhrmann
Mr. Luhrmann’s biopic finally made it to streaming and, therefore, ahem, “undocumented” streaming, which means, finally made it to my laptop. I’d been waiting for months—so long in fact that I nearly watched a cam version. In short, I’m glad I waited. There was nothing that I missed by not being part of the initial watch party, and there was plenty that I’m glad I saw in decent quality, both picture and sound.
Skipping to the end, though, unlike Elvis’ at least momentary ability to gain satisfaction on the “love” front, I was left unsatisfied.
The chosen vehicle to deliver Elvis to us is the “unparalleled talent held back by abusing manager”. Despite this choice, the movie and the man seem to cry out that there must’ve been more to Elvis Aaron Presley. He couldn’t have just been “Elvis” because he constantly broke his manager’s barriers. And we all know, or those of us who read lyrics all know, that every artist views themselves as restricted, even in their most untamed seeming creations.
I call your attention to Exhibit A: Tool has a song in which he describes how a fan calls him a “sell out” and then he, MJK, responds, “All you know about me’s what I sold ya, dumbf*^%/I sold out long before you ever even heard my name…” among other fairly harsh truths on topic.
Over here is Exhibit B: Metallica released a collaboration with Lou Reed that was widely and thoroughly panned by critics. I think it’s the last CD I bought at Best Buy. Or second to last. When someone told the drummer that it was very hard to listen to, he replied, “You should try performing it!”
The nicest review I found at the time was written by, if memory serves, someone from Mastodon. He essentially argued, “Good for Metallica.” He said that Metallica is so big that they actually had a chance to release something that they wanted to release, no input from anyone. Sure, he went on, it’s no good. But none of us have achieved or probably will achieve the ability to make truly pure art like they did. (My paraphrase.)
In short, Mr. Luhrmann’s Elvis comes across as merely trope (rare adjectival use) and yet, after what I just saw, Elvis Aaron Presley couldn’t have been so one-sided. The most important thing about him couldn’t have been that his manager held him back if it’s common knowledge to a mid-western kid like me that no musicians are free from stunting managerial oversight (excepting all-mighty ‘tallica, of course).
In the end, it was a decent film, had stirring sequences and the ending was unavoidably emotional. But it didn’t quite do justice to the wiggly flesh exterior, the blood-pumping heart that lay beneath, or the invisible soul that would not be told who to be that I have to believe filled Elvis Aaron Presley—the man I’d want to have met.
On that front, Mr. Luhrmann succeeded. I’d never had that thought before the film. I’d always pictured a Vegas has-been. While I still think there was a sharper image to be portrayed by a film, I definitely had my perception changed. And that is rare these days. So while it’s true that Elvis has left the building, I say, long live the king.
[SPOILER] A Pilot Weeping, A Review of Top Gun: Maverick
As the Memorial Day themed church service began this morning, I just knew I was going to be in the right mood to cry during the movie in the afternoon. Some days ya’ just know.
The opening sequence confirmed what I suspected—but the dam held.
Oceans, forests, hills, deserts, mountains, jungles, and, oh yes, skies are the appropriate natural descriptors for how much emotional size was packed into each and every scene. Skies and skies of feeling, packed onto a smaller and smaller IMAX screen.
Still, squinted eyes were able to hold back the waters.
Somewhere in the training sequences I consciously decided that I was going to just let it happen, no matter who might look over and see.
When Phoenix has the birdstrike, her quick identification of the malfunction and even quicker reaction to save the aircraft struck a chord and finally a few tears came out. It felt amazing.
Then when Maverick surprisingly appears to run the course in 2:15, there was no holding back. No sobbing, mind you. But definitely communication from my soul in the form of slow building tear bombs dropping down my cheeks.
I wanted Maverick to succeed. He’d been talking like a boss the whole movie, and finally he was going to show the world that he could back up his words with action.
****
My life looks very, very different than it did leading up to and during my time in US Air Force pilot training. It’s astonishing to me to even consider who I was then and who I am today. But more astonishing is how this movie affected me. It brought to the surface something long buried deep within.
That something is the following fact: Pilot training was the last time in my life where I wasn’t embarrassed to do my best.
We all did our best.
Not anymore. That’s not allowed.
I’m up to fifty pushups five times during the walks with my toddler, these days. Right out in public. Fifty. Cars driving by. Same spots. Neighbors able to see. Fifty. All the way down and up. Fifty. I’m forty years old and struggle to do fifty pushups, but I also know that not one person who may happen to see the struggle can do more than me.
That’s the closest event (maybe these blogs when I’m in the mood) I can consider as one in which I give my best anymore. Even my best friend from college doesn’t want to play when I really put effort in.
But my pilot training class of ‘05? We did our best.
What’s changed? Now that’s a weeping good question.
The End of Dreams Is Bittersweet
Showtime is 5pm. I’ve dreamed of seeing Top Gun: Maverick for probably 32 years. As the hours count down, I’m not sure that I want to wake up anymore.
I saw Top Gun for the first time at a friend’s house in 3rd grade, shortly after moving to a new city. It would’ve been early 1990. Soon after, I then sat in a tv/video store in the mall where they had a laser disc of Top Gun playing just the first half, basically until Goose died on repeat. My mom was off shopping and was perfectly content to leave me perfectly content as she did. Then, somewhere along the way I got the soundtrack on cassette tape and listened endlessly.
That opening. It’s like the reason surround sound was invented for home theaters. A laser disc copy was at another friend’s house and we fired it up too, mostly for the bass of the opening scene.
Top Gun. It has been the movie that never was going to have a sequel, and yet was so beloved that everyone wanted a sequel—assuming it could be done right.
I told the squadron commander at my first unit post-pilot training, “I am the guy who saw Top Gun and said, ‘I have to at least try to do that.’ That’s about all I know.”
He respected my honesty, even as he probably wished I knew a little bit more about what I had gotten myself into.
So many memories of that movie are woven into the memories of my actual life. There’s no separating the two. Art influencing life, life influencing art.
It all ends in a few hours. Above all, one dream has been searchingly saturating my life for three decades: Top Gun 2.
When the credits roll, I will still be a pilot. But when the credits roll, there will not be a boy’s dream of becoming a pilot; there will not be a boy’s dream of Top Gun 3.
So this is it.
The end of dreams is bittersweet.
Review of Matrix Resurrections, By Lana Wachowski
When it comes to any Matrix movie, the only question that needs to be answered is, “Was it right?”
Before the release of Matrix Resurrections, the answers would’ve been, in order, “Yes”, “Yes”, and “Yes”. With the release of the latest installment, the first three films are now treated as one (Trilogy), and Matrix Resurrections is the sequel.
So is Matrix Resurrections right? In other words, can anyone be the savior? Put another way, can a cat? Can A.I.? Can a woman? Can a couple? Can the planet? Can an idea? (Or does it have to be a man, bloody man?)
Let’s be clear about this. In the Trilogy, the hero was still a man. Or “man” in the mankind sense of the word, but bounded by individual-ness. In Resurrections, we’ve added to the options. Like the Trilogy, the fight isn’t mano y mano. But unlike the Trilogy, Resurrection’s fight removes the requirement that is be one against many.
The fight, the conflict, according to Lana Wachowski, is against boundaries themselves.
Oooh. Sounds sexy.
In short, however, the answer to the question must be “no”. Matrix Resurrections is not right. Boundaries exist. Consequences occur.
Single sentence Wrap-Up: While visually pleasing, curiosity satisfying, and fun like an age-old game of “tag”—but we’re chasing and being chased by ideas—for all that, there was no new “bullet time”, and the avant-garde idea is so idiotic that it could only be suggested by an emperor in new clothes, that is, Larry Wachowski.
Captain’s Log 