This Time For Real: Is Superman Jesus Christ?

On my last post, I received a personal note, not posted, asking if I was ever going to approach the actual question: Is Superman Jesus Christ?

In the last post, I attempted to compare Man Of Steel with the film The Passion Of The Christ, thinking that was sufficient. Apparently not, and here I am trying to make sense of that which was previously ranted. I am fine with that, if I am not clear that is on me, the writer, not you, the reader.

For the record, though, that only goes so far. If I make every effort to be clear and fail, well… maybe it is me, maybe it is not.  So be it, world without end, selah.

Short answer: no. From this point on, “tl:dr” may apply. I have no intention of backing down, but some are pressed for time, the web is full of all manner of entertainment anomalies and this is but one of many. There is a finite amount of time in human existence, and frankly, yes, I understand that there are more important things to do; at least, in the lives of others. Film is my mad passion, and I am a total pop culture junky. So, as Heath said: Here we go…

Cultural icons, regardless of their initial intent and origin, have a subconscious impact. This is the point in which a character (we are all characters in our own story) becomes an archetype. I won’t go on about the archetype, see Jung and his acolyte Joseph Campbell. Be that as it may, these certain icons resonate; they have a lasting impact on the social mindset, the cultural subconscious. The Hero does indeed have a thousand faces. The point is to recall that the faces are similar but not the same.

The Hero Christ, then, aka Jesus of Nazareth, has a massive impact, the One True God brought to physical existence, the Word made flesh. That statement, even should one prefer to not agree with it for whatever personal religious or psychological reasons, is so loaded with memes and subtexts that there is literally no way to eliminate it from the discourse of the planet. Yes, there are others that are similar… and those echoes remain, too.

The Hero Kal-El, aka Clark Kent but known as Superman, has his own rather remarkable impact. A strange being from another planet lands here, on Earth, but more importantly, in the United States, a land made from immigrant influxes over the decades prior to his appearance in 1938. Similar to the Hero Christ, he is with us, among us but no matter how many differing ways we approach them, they are (quoting Peter Gabriel) Not One OF Us.

They are different. As such, they are often misunderstood (cf: their individual stories) and sometimes feared for a variety of reasons.

Christ is The Savior, the Way that is not the way (Tao Te Ching), the only hope of avoiding eternal damnation. Kal-El can act as a savior, but more in terms of a fireman or policeman; Just doing my job, folks. These things may appear to be the same, but are not: Christ is the Metaphysical Savior, the one on the other side of the current physical existence, the one that will intercede during the Final Judgment. Kal-El zooms in, saves your ass and zooms out. There is no Judgment, Final or otherwise, within the realm of the actions of Kal-El.

Both are, to be sure, possessed of remarkable talents, gifts and/or abilities that allow them to move within the mob and do some pretty cool things: water into wine, crush coal into a diamond, walk on water and fly unaided. These things, again, appear to be the same, but are not. The Hero Christ does these things to prepare for his Message, to underscore the circumstance of His existence. Kal-El is, frankly, just able to do things the rest of us cannot, and does them to help us, save us and sometimes just to show off (albeit usually for a charitable event of some kind). Both are without preening self-aggrandizement, but there is nothing showy about the Hero Christ; Everything is laden with meaning, rich in metaphor and worthy of contemplation for them that are so inclined. Kal-El… not so much, but interesting nonetheless; He is the Ultimate Boy Scout, after all, and doing good is its own reward.

Close, but not exact.

The Hero Christ is the Messiah, predicted from Ages Old and is to lead his followers, even unto Him becoming King Of Kings on a real, return to Earth after the End Days manner. The Hero Kal-El has had a number of interesting mutations/evolutions over the last 75 years, though, and in the last couple of decades his accident of birth and relocation has started to carry the notion of Kal-El serving as a form of leader. At this writing, the term “leader” would have to be adjusted, more to the understanding of the present author: He is a Guide.

Of all of the permutations of the character Kal-El, it is the notion of him being a “leader” that is most interesting. He is not a leader of any way, shape or form, at least not in the sense that, say, another Hero, Captain America, is a leader. The Hero Captain America is an actual military leader (his name is also his rank in the United States Army). He has seen combat, lead others into combat and has no problem in calling out orders. In some ways, Kal-El appears to be that way, but if a closer inspection is done on the stories in which he is part of a team/group effort, he will take point and take charge if no one else is willing to do so, but usually, in the overall scheme of things, he tends to be the moral center rather than the locus of strategic thought. The position of authority is often held by others, but as he is such a moral center his statements of blunt fact are often misunderstood as being commands.

Kal-El is an example, and he is aware of that. He has to live up to a standard that is virtually impossible to meet, but it is his unstated goal. He is to guide us, not lead us, a man who is not one of us, but invites us into his life, special and powerful, he accepts us and merely asks the same. Being a true Man’s Man (regardless of his odd accoutrements, bounding about in his jimmies), he is a form of the Hero John Wayne. Respect is given freely, a steadfast course is held regardless of circumstance but understanding that a course change may need to be made. Unlike the Hero John Wayne, Kal-El, like the Hero Christ, makes a permanent habit of turning the other cheek. Disrespect can be ignored… to a point. The Hero Christ becomes enraged and chases the lenders from the temple, Kal-El will stop those that harm others at almost any cost.

In Man Of Steel, Kal-El is forced, at the end, to make a moral choice. If he lives by his normal, high code, the story has to end one way, but the results are going to be catastrophic to every living creature and being on his adopted home planet. If he crosses an impossible line, one that cannot be forgotten or self-forgiven, the planet itself is no longer under threat, but the cost to him, the Hero Kal-El, would be catastrophic.

What does a Hero do when they are forced with the possibility of breaking their own moral code? This question is at the core of Man Of Steel, it is the foundation and basis of the need for the film, why we, as a viewing audience, need this film and need it now.

We live in a world that is, while we watch, literally and figuratively, collapsing. While it is true that current events are nothing with which we as a global community would be unfamiliar, there is, indeed, nothing new under the sun, but are seeing, possibly, for the first time in human history, as a global community, that which is at the end of every fork. The social structures from one area to another seem to be toppling, or at the best rotting from within. The religious upheaval, regardless of name, that is currently boiling over is unprecedented. (Pope Francis aka Pope Frank is becoming the Hero Peter, for example. I am shocked that at this point he has not come out doing a full on Michael Douglas impression: Greed, for lack of a better word, is STILL A MORTAL SIN! KNOCK IT OFF!!)

The Hero Kal-El, by the end of Man Of Steel has not become the Savior of all mankind. He did his job, and wants to go home, now, thank you, to do his other job, live a life and be ready if ever needed again. It is here that the differences between the Hero Kal-El and the Hero Bruce Wayne, known as Batman, are the most striking. Batman does patrols, occasionally works himself so hard that his loved ones worry about his health, mental and physical. Kal-El wants to live among us, be one of us and play his other, more mundane role of Average Human. He is not, and he knows it, but it is the part, the archetype that he wants most.

So, if you skipped to this point after seeing “tl:dr” then, no, Superman is NOT Jesus Christ. They just look similar enough to cause confusion between one and the other, because everything Superman lacks, Jesus Christ has in abundance.

Jesus Christ and Superman: The Passion Of The Man Of Steel

Music is my passion; film is that maddening dominatrix that haunts my subconscious, tormenting unto yea the very end of days.

Reasons: Told at early age that the sounds emitted in vain attempts to join into a chorus that the action I performed could not be referred to as "singing" by rule of law in a five state area. Either I never told my parents, they weren't listening or maybe it was they that advised me of this, merely the first among many. (Literally: there was a posted ordinance for about a week. I was shunned.) Instruments were chosen but frankly that takes a lot of focus, which I had in abundance (if not totally useless because the filters eliminating useless effluvia of the mass psyche transmission devices), they were expensive, people expected results, dammit and there were none forthcoming.

I could play a radio. Parents got me an AM/FM transistor job, about nine inches square and two inches deep, bright blue it was, and made of the same heavy grade plastic used in a lot of cars. Could (and did) sustain high impacts without noticeable damage and continued with its basic function, infecting my mind on an hourly basis for several days at a time with every conceivable piece of music in the pop music ether. One hit wonders, massive operatic pieces, movie and Broadway hits, country and TV and novelty, sometimes even spoken word, and that not merely comedy.

The two most memorable of these spoken word recordings for me was, first,  The Americans by Canadian newsman Byron MacGregor, a smooth velvet voice reasonable as a quiet demand but powerful enough to bear some emotional impact. Hear my words, his voice said, feel the meaning. The words themselves were a Godsend to anyone that lived within the three county area of Wayne/Oakland/Macomb. It never approached pity, neither sent nor received, but a damned fine Thanks, Neighbor. Ranters of this era would do well to pay heed.

The second is often mislabeled as comedy, mostly due to the performer and, well, he was an inherently funny guy, this being Red Skelton's Pledge Of Allegiance by one Mr. Red Skelton, Hoosier state native and a huge childhood hero. (Many nights my Grandma McDonald and I would watch TV. Red was a never miss, we both loved him.)

Having said that..

Headline: Are Jesus Christ And Superman The Same Person?

No, seriously. This madness is so far beyond merely entertaining as to merit attention. Look, ma; the critics are frothing!

I would like, first, to address the three main argument within existing criticism of the film Man Of Steel.

The very first thing that immediately leapt out to me while reading the critical communities' reviews (professional and fan), was the first criticism with which I must strenuously take issue. There are critics and fanboys who gave the film an overall negative response, and the basis seemed to be consistently the same. Sadly, then, with so many of this mindset, if you believe, wrote or so mush as thought this, you and I have no to discuss. Ever.

"It sucks because, you know, Zack Snyder."

The above is in quotation marks as it is a direct quote. As this comment, and several alternate statements that match the above in one form or another, became a meme unto itself ([Whatever thing attached to topic of derision] + plus [derogatory] because you know [topic of derision]) and I am utterly offended at the inclusion of Mr. Snyder in such territory.

Seriously? Sadly, yes: some commenters have gone so far and stooped so low as to saying there is not one single work in Snyder's overall filmography that is worthy of positive attention. Emphasis added, or not, and here I have no intent to cite sources, the internet is itself common knowledge and connection enough for a simple copy and paste and search on Man Of Steel Zack Snyder reviews. Have at it, if you wish: go ahead, wander far and wee from these words before you, seek and search, then return and call me out should there be verifiable evidence somewhere in the universe that proves me wrong. I will wait.

(These words may not be here by the time you get back. The internet is a ticking clock waiting for its own alarm, then silence shall reign. Men will go mad, women panicked and children sacrificed, blood omens all.)

This mindless lock step comment/willful spreading of the meme has been applied to any artist of any value. It is, as mentioned, a meme. The problem is the long term effects of this meme, this mental infection from a word, notion or image. Once this foul slogan is attached to any artist, the artist can be reduced to a footnote in less than a decade, cf: career of Brendan Fraser, a superbly talented actor in drama and comedy, has a powerful presence and has had every film he has been in virtually reduced to nothingness.

Film, you see, is more than an mere art form. It is, indeed, communicating with lightning. The earliest incarnations of film (as it is called), was the Zoetrope, a spinning circular device, with a series of images drawn on the interior, with slotted holes equidistant one from the other. The device would be pushed and it would spin; at the exact correct speed, the images appeared to come to life. Inherent in the every iteration of every filmic art is the Flicker. The Flicker is the foundation, the great I AM of film editing. Now you see it, now, you don't. It is the Darkness we see but do not perceive that unites us.

Films are audience driven. As an art form, the best means of experiencing this form is in an acoustically perfect chamber on the largest possible screen and with a few hundred similarly minded people, all under the hope that this entertainment will be worthy.

The meme, then, suggests that the gathering will, prior to first viewing, be ready and willing to pan it unseen as garbage, because, you know, [whatever] sucks. The critical community as a whole has gone soft, soft in the belief in Film, out of touch with the Flicker In The Dark Chamber and terrified of the collective limited use of the written media in regards to self-expression. We are all, as once said, merely chained and can only see dancing shadows on the wall.

The current filmography of Zack Snyder is as follows:

The Dawn Of The Dead
"300"
Watchmen
Legend Of The Guardians: The Owls Of Ga'Hoole
Sucker Punch
Man Of Steel

Prior to the above, he did release a documentary short Playground and a video of Morrissey Oye Esteban!

His first feature length film, the remake of George A. Romero's The Dawn Of The Dead. That film was released in 2004.

Now: Picture it. You want to make movies for a living. You have a short documentary and a video out there. The studio says, hey, we want to hire you to make a movie... and here lies a momentary supposition. I have always suspected that the studio representative said something like the following:


:fade in:
Studio Executive: So, Mr. Zack Snyder. Right? Didn't mispronounce anything, right? (Grins and cocks head, waiting for the laugh and then) Good, may I call you Zack? Okay, Zack, let's get to brass tacks, the bottom line. The studio has taken an interest in you, and we'd like to try you out, doing a low budget remake of a low budget horror film. Think you would like to do that? No, wait: Sorry, whole deal is this, you shoot it on time and on budget, better if below budgets, and we'll sign you on for other projects, okay? Oh, and before you answer, the movie? The one we want from you?  Something called The Dawn Of The Dead, some kind of horror film from about 20-30 years ago, we have the rights cheap, the original director was some kind of Pennsylvania recluse name Romero? Name mean anything to you?

(The Studio Executive stops and stares unwaveringly, as if the coke spoon hit him in both eyes simultaneously, he does not blink, he does not move, he is actually looking for a response.)
:fade out:

Anyway, that is how I prefer to imagine it. His first film was a studio backed remake of one of the horror communities most sacred of cows, a massive dynamic nightmare that rocked our little world that carried echoes lo! even unto the next generation. One of the most revered directors that focused on the horror genre and made all of his films as low budget and local as possible.  Then, about at that time, the meme made its first ugly appearance in my life...

"The remake sucks because, you know, Romero hasn't made a good movie since the second living dead." The "second living dead" film being the one Snyder was to remake.

Now, no one as I recall made any serious effort to say that Romero's entire filmography sucked because, you know, Romero, but I always ignored that as I had the certain knowledge that there are enough die hard Romero fans as to cause a widespread Ethernet lynching should someone attempt to suggest such a thing. Flame attempts met handily with a tsunami of response: Oh, say thee, sirrah, nay. Nay. Back thine words with thine fists, arise! Damn You! Arise!!

But there was splash effect onto Snyder. Enough in the horror community came out with overly harsh terminology (because everyone reads Hate Criticism: I hated your movie. Hated it. Hated it. Hated it.) that some twinges were made via cerebellum tattoos and earworms. Now, again, for the record, hating a film on its own merits, fine. Discussing those merits or lack of same, fine.

Slamming it in advance of screening? Sad, lazy and frankly, a form of ignorance that is matched only by the arrogance of those attacking.

Snyder's career, which should have flourished from the start was hindered by a preconceptive meme. Seeds in the collective lawn, social crabgrass.

Leave the rest of his work aside for the moment, though. Is Superman Jesus Christ in this film, or not? 

See, that is the point of my review. The pairing of topics with which I am comfortable discussing at length, overall experience, understanding... you know: a review of a film.

WHICH IS WHY, NOT NOW, NOT EVER, WILL THE MAKER OF THE FILM EVER BE THE PRIMARY FOCUS OF THE WORK ITSELF.

No exceptions. The work must be examined for its own merits.

Having said that, then, the second point of contention that I have to respond, and these reviews are readily available on many good film review sites, both professional and fan base. That criticism?

There is a notable lack of content in all of his films and the characters are always too weak.

For Man Of Steel, then, as a film (while I feel a massive embolism a-borning), should first and foremost be openly compared to the last depiction of the life of Christ that was intended for a mass market was Mel Gibson's The Passion Of The Christ.

To be most open minded, liberal if you must, let us look to the films, as film, each as to its most overriding story arc, character, images and sound. Content is not important here. Do these films compare?

Yes, and most favorably.

Gibson (see tirade above) did not get to see his intended work on the screen. His original intention was to release The Passion Of The Christ, using the original languages, Hebrew, Greek, Aramaic and Latin, and no subtitles.

None. Ever, anywhere: no subtitles.

The film was intended to be a calling out. Is there anyone here who has no familiarity with this story? Anyone? Anyone?

How does Man Of Steel compare?

Having seen both films, I feel it safe to say that if all of the dialogue in Man Of Steel be removed and replaced by a language not of this Earth, the two films have the same most basic impact. The structure is sound enough to tell the tale with no dialogue at all. We as a global human entity knew this story, Superman being one of the three most recognizable fictional characters on the planet; the film was released to mark Superman's 75th Anniversary. Born in 1938, just like my dad (he used to remind me of that, and now, I tell my kids), and Action #1 has a Jun-Jul on the cover, dad was born on Flag Day, June 14th....

...the same day Man Of Steel was released 75 years later. That leads to the annoying sidebar that follows.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! Okay, that was late, but I hope you recall that I did call you on your birthday. You weren't too steady on your feet after having been toasted, from the sounds of it, during The Epic Pub Crawl Of The Retired. Your exact words, as I recall, were something along the lines of everyone seemed to think you needed a toast, and you had been pretty well toasted before we spoke.

Love it. No, I am not being mean: LOVE IT! That's me da, see: off on an Epic Pub Crawl at 75 by God years, Hope I can do that... eventually. Pub crawl, that is: never did one. Would love it if it could be timed with a bunch of local acts in various places and we cab everywhere. Video everything. Vegas be damned, This Is My Life And Hang On. We write our own mythology in this family, and ours is mostly Comedy. End sidebar.

Back to the point at hand, though: the characters are ... not strong enough? Right, okay, we know them all, we all have points of admiration and points of eye rolling cringe induction. Not here, though. Each character is fleshed out and reduced in the script to the point of immediate recognition, then brought to breathing life by one of the best casts assembled for this kind of film. Seriously, is there a wrong moment in any of the performances? AND WHAT PERFORMANCES!! It is a "given" that a super hero/comic book movie is only as good as the villain, and somewhere God is smiling, the villain was Michael Shannon doing that intense Michael Shannon thing, bringing a life to Zod that has not been seen since Terrance Stamp in Superman II. Which, btw, is a massive amount of praise IMHO, I loved Stamp and I loved Shannon.

The response then, is: how much character development do we need for characters that have existed in the global collective sub and not so subconscious for three fourths of a century? Yes, there was a form of shorthand used, but seriously, again: did you not know these people? Were you not shocked and pleased to see that a Pulitizer Prize winning reporter behave like, you know, a reporter? Parents acting like parents on Earth, and like hard core political warriors on Krypton?

Third, and least of the three responses here, is the sense that there is something visually dull about the film, something intangible but very present that prevents the full emersion into the work itself.

This quibble on my part is a matter of taste, and would dearly love to hear an extended discussion from folks that knew the nuts and bolts mechanics, the Pay No Attention To Us Behind The Curtain folks that really know the actual physical process.

The print I saw was apparently fine, but hard to determine as a late coming group required my Scout Law training that I offer my seat to a lady (present), child or the infirmed (present). So, I was in the second row center, about 20 feet away from the screen (what is that? 6 metres?) making Laurence Fishburn (one of many, many reasons for me to see anything, period) appear to have a chin that stretched, according to my depth lack of perception, over most of the North American continent. Egad. Neck pain, cold... but still...

The closeness showed off a lot of grain. Some would find this distracting, thinking it something wrong with the actual visual image, when it is a matter of the film being shot via a chemical process involving light, silver and alchemy or a box that reported every existing 1 and 0 in the known universe. It was a film, not a digitally shot film, a film shot on film. Interesting choice for a story that frankly demands a certain largesse in terms of special effects. Snyder has no problem using digital camerawork, and that technology has served him well. The producer, Christopher Nolan, has a long public history of deriding the digital camera, refusing to make movies unless there is the alchemy present, the attempt to speak in lightning and keeping the Old Ways intact.

The effects, so often the most over and under praised focus of film as art, are in Man Of Steel special in the most awe inspiring meaning of the term "special." There are many visual moments in this film that are extensively and excessively massive that appear to actually be happening. You'll believe that a man can fly. You'll believe that a man can bend steel in his bare hands. This is, after all, bitch whine moan or complain, the story of a "strange being from another planet." At its core, at is very center, thematically and visually, this man is Not One Of Us. He is loved and reared among us. His planet was all dead, planet crumbled and Superman just kept moving on, forget Krypton and keep going."  (Crash Test Dummies, from "Spuerman's Song" on the album The Ghosts That Haunt Me.)

The main difference between The Passion Of The Christ and Man Of Steel is the answer to the question: What makes a Hero heroic? Both films have the same answer: nothing, for they are but men, if exceptional men, but men all the same. We can aspire to the greatness within, we can expect the scourge and the heroes among us will rise and lead the way. We can follow, get out of their way or make our own path.

Is Superman Jesus? Are they the same man? Regardless of the deliberate attempt by some to willfully have us think that, no they are not. They are two separate things, but they resonate, create a harmony. Does Superman kill, does Jesus stand as our Advocate during Judgment? These are two separate myths, the myths that give our lives emotional depth and satisfaction. We write our own myths in my family, and ours are mostly funny. Heroes can laugh, and can make us laugh, but their primary purpose is to inspire thought and excite to action.

The Ultimate Film Trio at this time, then, Comic Book Movie Genre, is, in order of viewing, as follows:

Unbreakable
Captain America
Man Of Steel

Just reading those titles, you can feel the vibration: Superhero: The Movie Part I Unbreakable Part II Captain America Part III Man Of Steel.

Some things are right just because they are. This film is one of those things.

Dark night, open road, Mellon Collie And The Infite Sadness: Or the night we met Lester Bangs

Picture it: Christmas; homestead, high school daughter, middle school son and elementary school son, the three and three only, apples of my eyes and lights of my heart. Gifts passed on, usually forgotten for the most part but many remain as Ultimate Bonding Moments. Bonding moments: the ever lasting effect of parent and child on both parties simultaneously; everybody grows in this moment.

My eldest was a bit of a Pumpkinhead. I guess that is what the Terminal Overload Fanatic Baseline would call themselves, like Deadheads to The Dead. Not a total over the cliff dive into Jonestown Kool-Aid level, but at least someone that picked up on something ephemeral, some vibrations that resonated deeper than others. I had that moment with the same band, the track Disarm from Siamese Dream. So, I was aware of them, but not as much as she was, but she was reared to understand that Goodness Abound Over Here, the passing of the sacred whisper amongst The Chosen Few, the Insiders With Backstage News, and mentioned them on occasions, with attention to some form of Allard Shorthand English that meant, high marks, interesting and you may find something you like.

ASH is the language we speak. All families have their own shorthand, brief comments that speak volumes about a shared experience allowing for a quantum leap in conversational logic and performance.

There was a rumble from the Pumpkinhead Underground of the soon to be leased follow up album Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness. I was aware of this. ASH speak daughter, "dad somethings coming." ASH speak father, "understood."

At the time, I was working for a small company involved in the design, production, manufacture and distribution for a series of products, of the primary components to make the stuff meant we worked in a warehouse full of nothing but chemicals. Wee tiny bottles for a literal pinch of this or fifty-five gallon drums for a metric fuckton of that. I did the shipping and receiving department, which being the sole employee guaranteed me with little to do and all day to do it during any slow down. So, being paid to be bored is not my style so I obsessively and compulsively made certain that it was spotless (easy than you'd think, mostly a sweep a week was enough) and as close to a huge Skinner Box Maze as possible. When three industrial strength shiny shelving arrived I was told to assemble it to be used exclusively for certain products. I got the dimensions and plotted out a place accessible, safe and simple that also fit into the Maze already in progress.

One never finishes building a maze, I found. Logistically it can be a nightmare unless you are of the mindset that then next factor must be in the original plans based on choices made. Something I learned in about a week: I was actually forced to sit down and re-read The Dramatic Imagination by Robert Edmond Jones.

About that book: it is the only book one needs to understand interior design.

Traffic patterns were the key. All I needed to redesign the maze was total of staff at maximum, and basic job title on occasion to fine tune something. Many of the staff used the company shipping for their own personal bulk mail; management knew about it, and for the most part made it understood it could be used for personal reasons by the staff with approval, which I never heard denied. Regardless: a shipment that needed to be in Chicago by 3:00 PM that day, and no one could make that same day delivery date, so off I went in the boss' Bronco, yippee ki yay, off to the south side of Chicago I went.

Radio. Heading into Chi, reading the signs, found a Rock 'n' Roll station, tuned in and added a soundtrack to a long drive DJ'd by a faceless voice somewhere out in the ether. Different era, different times: the DJ announced that while the Pumpkins next album was being prepared little or nothing was being discussed (including the title). There was, though, a single from that album, which I heard that moment and at least five more times before the end of the day.

Review: Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins.

I-80/90 east bound, into the sun I drove, the hour difference in time making a suicidal Gumball Rally race scene into a more comfortable into and out of the City Second To None. DJ announced, new single. ASH: daughter comment. Yeah, okay: does this thing go to 11? Check bass and treble levels during DJ babble, all okay, traffic low, crank this mutha up and do it like we did it back in the Motor City: Kick out the jams, muthafuggahs!!!

And nearly drove off the road.

Billy Corgan, vocalist, performer and bass player; pretty much front man. "The world is a vampire." Just naked, out there. Then, before the heart and mind can connect, entire the thunder of a thousand souls stomping in rhythm because Kiss My Big White Irish Ass, there is no reason, there is no issue or event; just naked. Imagine if someone were to use the useless Great Boondoggle Of South Bend for a performance of the best marching bands in the area to choreograph this piece, a military dance moment that will bring Glee and be Pitch Perfect.

Then Billy, after "The world is a vampire" then "set to drain. Secret destroyers hold you up to the flames." The band and Billy are entering the center stage of my brain here. The production is freaking genius. Here, the term "freaking" is meant in the 60's vein, as in freaking out, or Freak Out! which was an LP by Frank Zappa & The Mothers Of Invention. Over here this band is saying got a message for you. Might want to pay attention. ASH daughter, here I am, paying attention.

"And what do I get, for my pain? Betrayed desires *Billy sneaking in a sneer, then back to the Mister Serious artist voice* and a piece of the game. " The band, not in the background, but behind, standing (from the sounds of it) as if they were tired of that guy out there and wanted a good hearty Here I Rock moment of their own... except this is not any moment of contention within the band (like Fleetwood Mac during Rumours), this was a collection of musicians that wanted to play their instruments as if failing to due so would cause (or maybe prevent) Armageddon. Then Billy doing the nasal thing he does to annoy my generation (seriously, Dude? Have a couple of your own!) but not annoying; no, no, this sounded like... could it be, could it be happening as I am listening??

Yep. Kiss My Big White Irish, by Jesus and Glory Halleluiah, it is the Second Coming Of Iggy And The Stooges. Chi is not Detroit, but never did we question the music from there. They knew us and we knew them and during the decade of the sixties, no other region inspired more people to pick up an instrument and just blast it out. I was all over in Detroit tri-county megalopolis, and we all knew that yeah, we created Punk, shipped it out as rock 'n' roll singles and then waited for the explosion. John Sinclair, where are you? I got questions, dammit!

Then: "Even though I know - I suppose I'll show
All my cool and cold - like old Job."

Holy Crap, he brought out the Old Testament! Seriously? I heard that Bible reference and sat the hell up all "YES SIR! NO MA'AM!" Throughout, the band is Right There, approaching full boil, maximum r 'n' b, is that ... is that The WHO? No, ah... but yes. Yes! YES! YES!!!!"

The Who instead of The Stooges with Iggy instead of Pete or Roger. Then they howled. At once, unison harmonic imbalance The Watusi The Twist and sonuvabitch, someone from my daughter's generation (if only via the media as collective soundtrack) the entire band decided to grab my balls and hammer crush while demanding that I listen and if I dare, join in.

"Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage."

Holy Mary Mother Of Jesus, tap the Elixir Keg and get out the Fatted Ambrosia, it is social orgasm time, the happy ecstatic release of collective instantaneous joy and rage and hate and pain and God Damn You Listen To Me I Am Pissed And I'm Mad As Hell And I'm Not Gonna Take It Anymore and fists in the arm and jumping.

Overall response for the TLDR pinheads: Wuz gud.

Flash forward. CD comes out, I buy it for my daughter. We go to Battle Creek for the Christensen (and other, unimportant social unworthies) Christmas Orgy.  This n that n tother thing, nothing film worthy for entertainment and torture. Wife gave me a wee CD player, two speakers and cigarette lighter plug. Cool, I like it, retro and current at the same time. Perfect to the vehicle, 1978 Dodge Aspen four door, maroon in color, standard 6 cylinder, dependable mostly as a reference for timelines. Barb got a present from her uncle Ralph, Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness, her second copy of the day. She glanced at me, we locked eyes, I made a bright smile and a nod. Non-verbal ASH; daughter smiled like she meant it and did, and thanked them because the album was on her wishlist for that year. She expressed what I perceived as an honest reenactment of her initial response. We both had to leave early, hopped into the Aspen and drove home. While I was plugging in the CD player for the first time, virgin use, she was getting out the CD. Asked: What do I do with the other copy? Answered: Keep it or this one, I'll take the other and I will buy you something else as well.

We played the discs.

When we got home, the second disc had finished. We were rather stunned at first, this was a massive, sprawling monster mess, gutbucket but slick production, no piece of the human condition unexamined in one form or another, a massive massive Grand Opus that vaulted past Masterpiece (conveying here the original sense, look, I am one of you... Yep, the kid fits!") into Moment Defining Entire Work Of An Album That Would Survive A Plane Crash! If the band had collectively died in a group masturbatory action that required the potential and eventual of death by asphyxiation, their place was secure. Here is one for the vaults, the Must Have, Must Share album that really needs more attention.

Oh. And the CD player just died. Stopped, shorted out, the magic grasshoppers chasing each other on a tiny wheel or however the hell these things work (a lot of the laser technology physics confused the hell of me!) but the damned thing just ceased to function. Blah. I said, as I recall, something like, Great, what do I tell your mom? It played a pair of discs one time and then failed.

Then my daughter said, "Rather poetic, though. Right?"

This is where we met Lester Bangs. Played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, Almost Famous, some of the old legends returned to me. I read Circus because it was a studio rag promoting whoever was The Next Big Thing or the latest from The Reigning Kings. Bangs wrote for Creem: America's Only Rock 'n' Roll Magazine.

Boy Howdy. Okay? Boy Freaking HOWDY!

Bangs wrote with the mad passion of the lover possessed by a succubus, sweating and heaving in throes of ecstatic memory implant and forcing himself onward, ever onward, faster, harder, louder: "Detroit Michigan is the place to be!" Uncle Ted said that.

Bangs breathed fire, he ejaculated and he redefined the extant of how far someone can push their own boundaries, full on Man On A Soapbox Howling Into A Hurricane Holy Man, praise Jesus, glory, glory hallelujah.

*******

Follow your bliss, if you seek balance. Move with gentle goodness, bring in all possible sources, never stopping for there is no end in this road if done properly.

If you are tired, weary and brokenhearted, though, broke down and heavy laden, well, that bliss is going to look different. That bliss has a requirement, to go, to seek and do, active in all ways, bringing forward the moment when all hearts beat as one, and the room is full of wild and happy souls, jumping and rejoicing in unison and harmony. And when you find this, this rock 'n' roll fantasy, and it removes the pain and brings its own gain then you must bring it to the table. Let everyone in on it, 'cuz when it is good it moves mountains!

March, if you feel the need. Gather and weep, laugh and heal. Whatever. Burst forth into song, find a way to make someone smile or laugh. Push aside the bounds enforced upon us all in the Global Skinner Box Corporation. Let it out, bring it out, and let the chips fall where they may.

This, then, is the future

Greetings and hallucinations,

Please allow me to introduce myself: I am a man as any other, of no special talent or gift. I have but words, and words, especially in English, are often appropriated for desires not in the original intent.

Cosmic, for example; groovy, for another.

Be that as it may, please enter herein, and reply to the results of your own experiences.

The Movie Microfest

In a world wildly chasing its own hyperkinetic backside, information overload and an internet tsunami, the notion of tuning out and cocooning has its own long-term positive results.

The movies: no less than two, no more than three. There must be a reason for the films shown and their starting times.

The audience must always be taken into account. The more the merrier, so if Aunt Quimsbreath should arrive ever so fashionably unannounced or invited along with Father Bumgardner and the angelic Downs soul all at the same time, maybe not a good time for a horror fest.

At the very least, hold the chainsaws and Sheri Moon.

Make of that comment what you will, and I mean it in the sense of great respect and low intention of dealing with crazy angry people.

Anyway.... The time honored tradition of the Film Festival is near its end, I'm afraid. The only ones now are people trying to get them made, and the cost of attendance for optimum pleasure ruling out the majority of the populace of the United States. Once, though, there was The Film Festival. Several works would be pulled together for a public showing. Often, big blockbusters with a proven financial track record would be re-released, a habit made into a monetary addiction as if cash was heroin and meth combined could be instantly granted with just pulling out previous movies and tossing them out as perfected by W. Elias D.

Gone With The Wind and The Ten Commandments were very popular when they were first released, and at a certain time, they would be re-released. Best and fastest investments were on sure thing by the sure thing artist, with a company that did its own marketing and had its own distribution line.

Recently, the Cinemark chain is moving in this direction. I have had the unique pleasure of seeing Chinatown and Lawrence Of Arabia on grand, wide screen, digitally cleaned and sound checked. 

The real gripe I have is that there is desperate need for a large gathering of humans to be in the dark and entranced by the illusion of motion on screen before them.

This leads to something very similar to the mixtape community. Various folks from a wide/wildly interesting collections of backgrounds will go to a place and say, in essence or in simple exact words: Here is a list of songs I like in the order I like and I can explain it or not pending your personal level of tolerance for the Fanboy Tirade, similar to a Fillibuster and easier to stop.

Baseball bats work fine, I'm told. All I know is that something smacked me upside the head and morning came suddenly with a blinding headache.

Film festivals were ways for colleges and their students to make a little extra money and have some fun as well. Important Films Of Great Societal Import were shown (usually by the university film, theater or TV students) alongside works that were made to go BOO and move on.

The Microfest should be local. You, two other people, but only people that, at first, you know well. No less than two movies to be seen, no more than three. Must be cool, great, amazing, hip, hep, hot, chill, evil mean wicked bad and nasty. The good ones: The Good Shit. The OH HELL YEAH films.

Tonight, I sat up a Microfest. I will be in attendance, obviously, but none other. Maybe later...

Regardless, here are the first three films I will be showing at my wee fest:

The Conversation, the film Francis Ford Coppola made between the first two Godfather films. It stars Gene Hackman, John Cazale, Harrison Ford and Cindy Williams. Sheer brilliance, showing that FFC did indeed know his stuff. Literally, a masterpiece that inspired a second masterpiece bookending a third, totally different masterpiece. Tone, performances, story: this is not the Corleone Saga, it is stand alone and brilliant. (If the next film is a NO for you, then I would here suggest as an alternate film Enemy Of The State, which has an almost perfect storyline that suggests that it is an actual sequel to The Conversation, but isn't. Will Smith is really rather good, and Hackman shows up as Not The Same Character At All, Oh No Really.)

THX1138 by some guy named George Lucas. Fella showed a lot of promise, whatever became of him? And yes, for the record, I mean it. As a director, IMHO, Lucas directed two, and two only at this time, films that are even remotely worth a damn. THX1138, obviously, is one of those. This particular film, however, came in a gaudy dual disc packaging scheme, thinking that any Fan Of Old Lucas (or FOOLs) would have some kind of spasm, rush out in a mad panic suggesting personal best getting on Darwin's list. Which did not happen with me. Nope. When I walked into a shop that was selling off donated goods, finding it in near mint condition? Okay, then, I am as bad as any Star Wars Franchise Sorry Sell Outs, maybe worse because I am a snob besides.

Watching the original two picks, as indicated, allows for a coffee klatsch, wine tasting, whatever I just know I am sleeping on the floor here tonight kind of bull session. It is the use of sound, by the way, more than anything else, that makes me want to see them back-to-back. Also, early films by directors who apparently have lost their way and need to call their muses back. Miss you guys! (Oh, the only other watchable Lucas film? American Graffiti. What else?) Watching the alternate film, the theme is so perfectly interlaced between the films that it does look for all the world as a sequel, but with Will Smith as the lead, and Gene Hackman playing Harry Not Caul.

Falling Down. After THX1138. This combination allows for a totally different interpretation of THX and makes one of the rare Grand Slam films of Joel Schumacher. (8mm is my favorite.) Dehumanization, alienation and the worlds polar shift to 33 1/3º off kilter, these two are warped, strange visions from a land far far away and in a reality most people have never considered.

The Cabin In The Woods, Stanley Kubrick and the greatest horror film ever made

To begin: a critic writes reviews. To review, one must begin by being a purist; the word itself is based on "view" meaning "to look," and is modified by the prefix "re-" which indicates a repetition, in this case the word means "to look again." The critic is the one that looks again, and the greatest are looking again, more closely, rather than the vast majority of merely clever satirists telling the tale on the screen in print form. Often this sin is combined with operating a language under false pretenses, suggesting that the charming, sardonic and oh so clever writer could have made a better film.

The critic tells about how the work functions, delving into the nuts and bolts, the craftsman being separated from the master, and masters into artists.

On the strangest of occasion, popular taste somehow collides with art and the critics, aware that there is more than just another product onscreen, often are so disconnected with their higher calling that they forget to approach the work in the manner that it both deserves and, but more, important needs. To herald a work of art that just happens to be wildly entertaining and is digging its own place in the collective subconscious is a rare privilege. It is the reason that the critic is so vital, so important to the artist community that the casual indifference to the art of film as an art form that is still vital, still growing.

This brings us to The Cabin In The Woods.

This remarkable film has made a huge impact, but only in the specific genre community that exists to support the best the genre has to offer. It is the fan base that keeps this genre alive. The allegedly "critical community" has time and again failed to understand the great value of the societal underpinning for the need of Story and the place of Story in the greater community as a whole.

Deconstructing Cabin will be done later. What is of vital importance, the most important thing of all, is that it is not only a technical masterpiece but a powerful work of dramatic art that is so rich in text, subtext and context that it really should be called that which it is: The Best Film Of That Year. Bar none. Everything else needed to be compared to it, what it did, how it did it and why its importance is infinitely beyond the mere return on an investment.

The Cabin In The Woods is often mistaken for being a comedy. Truth will out, of course that mistake is easy to understand, but mostly because The Best Script Of That Year. Period. The dialog snaps, machine-gunning the plot forward so fast that any holes are considered mere collateral damage. The plot is structured so tightly it threatens to burst at every scene change yet manages to cling to a roller coaster swerve and proceed forward. The pacing is brilliant.

The Best Editing Of That Year is so evident in that, for the most part, it is subtle, almost invisible. When the story dictates a shift in motion and pace, the editing does not hammer at the eye, but acts as an immediate assist to the overall story.

The Best Sound Editing Of That Year is one to which most genre fans will not catch. Because the film takes place in several different places, but only really focuses on two separate scenes, shown in The Best Set Design Of That Year (or is that best visual design?). A granite bunker that holds a sense of Dr. Strangelove on one hand and 2001: A Space Odyssey on the other... and this is where Stanley Kubrick pops up for the first time.

At its core, at its most basic, The Cabin In The Woods is not only a grand good time for genre fans, but a deeper underpinning exists of a future technology that is for the most part current, only one notable exception. There is a sense of the supernatural, of course, and the film's title indicates a knowledge of other Urban vs. Rural mindset as well as a direct and open nod to The Evil Dead. This heavy plot lifting from Evil Dead is not a mere copy, but shows a deeper, Jungian understanding of what the genre is and does. This, and the previously mentioned Kubrick references, is a stronger, deeper occult (hidden) subtext.

The Cabin In The Woods, it is saying, is not the greatest horror film ever made. It is a loving tribute to the genre and its masters and mistresses, touching base if only for a brief moment on as manner of the great films by the greatest filmmakers ever.

It does not shy away from cultures other than its county of origin. In fact, it touches on as many different cultures and their greatest moments in the genre as possible.

This does take us back to Kubrick, because any film that pretended to focus on the great works by the greatest craftsman could not possibly exist in any way, shape or form without at least a nod to Kubrick.

It just isn't done, old boy. Never. Sorry.

So, seeing several nods to the two films mentioned before, that was interesting. After all, it is a horror film, in the genre and being a nod to the greatest ever, why pick a non-horror Kubrick? The Shining is the greatest horror film ever....

Right?

Maybe: I think not. But maybe.

In The Cabin, there is the brief scene of the technology that does not exist. Strangely, this has shown up in many other genres, the Wonka Glass Elevator and the Slatafartabarst underground tunnel. Here, though, we see the Magic Elevator, and each stop is like a station of the Unholy Cross. Even the cause of the story, where it veers off from its obvious choices, shows a mangled character holding a ball puzzle. (Nice shout out to Clive Barker and co.) From this brief moment, the hidden is revealed. (Mystery = that which is revealed. Let us now declare the Mystery (the revealed truth) of our Faith.) Mystery solved... and then a series of wild and inescapable events transpires... ending in a blood bath in the Kubrick clean halls....

Which is loaded with elevator doors... seeing the aftermath is like being in Kubrick's Overlook hotel, after the elevator doors flooded the halls with blood.

Okay. Major nod to Stanley. Cudos, again and again...

At 1:16:19, the last gory Kubrick elevator door opens. The bloodied (and congealing bloodied) doors part, and there is darkness. Slowly, from the darkness comes a trio of figures, one male and two female. They are well dressed, and all have a kind of Kabuki mask.

So... are we seeing The Shining being offered as the greatest horror ever made? Or is it more to the notion that a Satanic Ritual is afoot, which is what the basis of the story is, after all? Young Playthings is not really a horror film, and that was the first visual reference that came to mind, but as they slowly move from dark to light, into and out of focus, slowly... after the explosion of gore and violence, it is languid, sensual...

It is here, then that the point must be made: the reason we as a movie going populace often miss out on a Kubrick film, or one attempting to truly follow that master's path, is that we no longer know how to go back, to look again, to see past hype and generational enforcement of context.

Eyes Wide Shut is the greatest horror film ever made. If it had not been for the brilliant work of The Cabin In The Woods I would have missed that interpretation entirely and forever.

One last serious praise for The Best Film Of That Year The Cabin In The Woods. It appears to be comedic on the surface. The dialog, as mentioned, crackles with a vibrancy that belongs more in a screwball comedy, and the sharp retorts are indeed witty. Wit and humor are compensation means, and the more pronounced the paranoia and/or mental instability of the Joker, the more ill at ease the Joker actually is.

Seeing the Joker, the Stoner, The Midnight Toker facing down the living dead and hacking it to pieces while under the influence of Thompson Legend Levels Of Drugs would have defeated the purpose of the film. Watching the reaction of The Final Girl, her shock and repulsion, only to have the Joker, wide eyed and staring, quip, "Yeah I had to kill him with a trowel..." suggests that the funny isn't; the deeper distress and horror are still there. The difference is if one sees it with an audience, merely imagines one or is totally shut off from all others distractions and become immersed into The Best Screenplay Of That Year. Then the comedy is more harsh, a little too sharp to be just a throw away gag.

Stay tuned for the eventual review of Eyes Wide Shut.

Roger And Gene, together again

My love/hate relationship with the critic Roger Ebert is now at an end. He is finally free of the pain, free of the suffering. For that freedom, and nothing more, I am glad his life is over. None should have to deal with that for a moment, let alone struggle against it for as long as he did.

Be that as it may, my love of film has always been paramount. ( * oh... pun ... sorry *) Watching Gene and Roger commit acts of television and attempts at criticism was always entertaining, but Gene was My Boy, the One That Understood. Roger was the blustery one, the one that caused my eyes to roll so often that the mention of his name made the vision blur, a trained response, B. F. Skinner proven right. Again.

My first encounter with Roger was the printing of his criticism of Night Of The Living Dead, reprinted in Reader's Digest. Then, as now, that piece is totally misunderstood: Roger, disliking horror, leaned toward a slam, but not so much as the notion that parents would drop off the kids at a film that is, without debate, too adult for pre-teens, possibly too adult for most adults.

His review looked beyond the screen into the audience. He noted the absence of adults, the plethora of children and the grue and gore supplied 24 frames per second. I have often wondered if it was more the children being brutalized than the film itself that so turned him against my genre of preference. He really could not write anything positive about horror from that point on.

So be it: selah.

I did not encounter his writing again for several decades, but did see him on TV with Gene. There, on the PBS version (aka The Only One I Really Liked), the two did a special program on Films You Missed But Should Seek Out. During the course of that particular show the two went on at some length about a little film called Miracle Mile. As relentless a thriller as possible, the performances are sheer joy, the writing is taut, the imagery brilliant.

Already a fan of the show, it then became an institution at Chez Allard. Never to be missed.

When first I began to purchase DVD's, making the slow turn from tape to digital medium, one of the first three DVD's to make their way into my home was the brilliant Dark City. I had read nothing of the film, there seemed to be a media blackout, but the images in the trailer were stunning, and the director, Alex Proyas, had made The Crow, which I rather enjoyed.

On that disc, in the extras, was the original Ebert review. It was in the reading of that review that I developed a massive respect for the man and his talents, not merely because ( * ahem * ) I agreed with every word, which I did, but more, much more, was the constant echoing inside me... "Wish I had written that."

When he was good, he was the best we had. He now is gone, and our contradictory views of much that makes film an art is now no longer important.

Roger Ebert, R.I.P.

Note in a bottle

Bouncing thoughts

James Allard	8:13 AM (0 minutes ago)
to Scot, Rick, Pete, Nancy, Jennifer, Dean, Doowad, Elijah, Al, Craig, Eliot, Funky, Todd, Ken, Texas, DJ, Kyle, RetroJoe, Susan, Starkiller

So...

Of late, the man Kubrick has been nudging at my inner place.

"I hear you knocking..." "Can't you hear me knocking?" (Song lyrics, second from The Rolling Stones' song of the same title, my favorite of theirs in that it has a bizarre time signature shift half way through: the first from ... Nick Lowe? Maybe? "I hear you knocking..." is followed by "... but you can't come in."

I have often said that the paranoia of other humans is infinitely entertaining to me. Rabble babble madness creeps under the skin, however: paranoia is viral, very contagious and possibly lethal to the healthy working of the rational mind.

While an undergraduate, Timothy Leary was doing his internship in a psychiatric hospital, a repository for the truly mad, mad by the Romantic standards. Visions grand and hallowed invisible choirs were the marked signs. These 20th Century afflicted came bound, normally accompanied by their beloved family. While studying the Mad Jung, Leary encountered the Followers Of The Box, the interns worshiping at the altar of B. F. Skinner.

Skinner's Control Method, btw, was a required incoming freshman course, complete with laboratory torment of rodentia, at Western Michigan University. I had that course. I know Skinner, and the evil he brought from the depths of Hell itself. Subliminal seduction, when institutionalized, creates a populace fully prepared to surrender any liberty, any freedom simply for the everlasting quest for The Reward.

Back to the American Asylum in which we've left the soon to be (then defrocked) Good Doctor Tim, then...

Leary via Jung felt that the soul of man was expressed in the mind. The broken mind can, indeed, cause irreparable damage to the body, but first one had to make certain that the soul was not damaged. If the psyche (Greek for soul, not mind) was made right, then the patient can see how their mind has been broken and can apply that to a happy, healthy life. One day, as the tale is unwound 'round many a Lodge Fire, Doctor Tim overheard a Skinnerist discussing a certain amount of improvement in the most difficult cases. The Skinner Method was to withhold a certain quantity of food when the patient mentioned the Sights And Sounds Of The Ether Spheres, and eventually the Event Unseen became mentioned less and less. The Skinnerist is alleged to have said aloud in public, "If they let me cut off their rationals completely, I'd be able to reduce the number to zero." He was referring to the reduction of mentions of Unseen Events. Leary overheard this statement, and is said to have spoken thus:

"There is one time that was used as treatment, and that was by the Nazis."

Maybe. Maybe not. I prefer to not answer, as the answer may unintentionally incriminate myself.

Make of that as you will...

There is more to your philosophy, Horatio, than Heaven and Hell." -- WS (or someone else, it matters not)

So, have seen several documentaries about Kubrick of late, most from the extras on the DVD/Blu-ray. From there, thought, I caught wind of a project called Room 237, a collection of theories about the Actual True For Real Unquestioned Because I Posted It On The Internet And It Must Therefore Be True Deeper Philosophical Meaning And Making Of The Film The Shining.

That primed the pump.

2001: The Alchemy, a tale in four parts that explains it all for you!

Part the first: Birth Of Consciousness

Part the second: Chaos, Order, Control

Part the third: Loss

Part the Fourth: Awareness At Birth

I suspect that a properly made film of The Celestine Prophecy, a grand hoot of an adventure novel buried eyeball deep in all manner of esoteric philosophic and religious studies, would be better if it followed this indicated pattern. Mostly due to the fact that the book, in terms of its storyline, structure and meaning are in that four part pattern, and for lack of a better description, mirrors the themes as I identified them this fine, fine morning.

R.S.V.P.  Anything... thoughts? Songs? Stories?

For the love of Christ, somebody talk to me! I need the intellectual and spiritual stimulation each of you provide in your own unique manner.

Thank you.

Lincoln (2012) - film review

Public release date 11/17/12, seen by my first available matinee 11/18/12. In attendance, eldest son, recently in the United States Marine Corps. Directed by Stephen Spielberg.

First about Mr. Spielberg. Here, the plane can go down, his spirit to slip to this mortal coil, and upon his tombstone inscribe, Here lies Stephen Spielberg, good and faithful servant to the Muse Of Cinema, master of the art and craft from the beginning, and father of 21st Century Cinema style and substance with his greatest work Lincoln. This film enters the new phase of American filmmaking, possibly the first true work of film, a master craftsman rising above his earlier work to create a masterpiece.

Starring Daniel Day Lewis as the title role, and Ms. Sally Fields as the tormented soul Mary Todd Lincoln.

Yes, Ms. Fields, we still really, really like you please remember that the night your name follows, once again the phrase: "And the Oscar goes to.... " Flawless, brilliant,  Fields has the courage of her miles, showing the heart and soul of a woman in a man's world, a heartbroken mother and possibly quite mad. The First Lady as Lady McBeth, treachery and treason unneeded and unheeded, the torment of her soul is on every frame.

The President is shown as a leader of men and a stalwart captain while the ship of state hurtles about in a bloodied tempest, and it is his scenes as husband and father that are the most captivating. Human is as human does, and human is the Icon. For a film so centered around a single character, he is not shown as often as one might expect (even his murder is done off-screen) but his presence is imprinted on every frame. He is the President, father, husband, man and shrewd politician and he is a man of his times that imprinted his time and the times afterwards. Again: "And the Oscar goes to..."

The screenplay is staggering in its enormity. In the chambers of the House Of Representatives there reside men of power and authority, and they will rise, and they will be heard. Verbal blow after blow is issued, a political Fight Club, but one that must needs be spoken. Notions, ideas, ramifications are bandied out, verbal cudgels, sonic assaults.... but in the most rarefied of all languages, American English. The dialog is exactly what would have been written had a certain Elizabethan Bard been alive and commissioned to write it as one of his histories. And a history it is, fellow citizens, we cannot escape history.

Lincoln said that: Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history.

The film allows us that most magnificent of treasures, a story written in lightning and told in light. While there are many, many reminders of other masters, Spielberg reaches to the earliest days of cinema. The film does not necessarily need sound. Everything is there. The sound pulls the language, soaring oratory and barely hidden rage, into a symphony, a rhythm that grows, swells, slips aside and washes away, a flawless conduction of the strange music of America, a series of sharp shocks that build and build.

Tears were shed, yes, they were. Many, from what I could intimate from the sounds around me. The desire, several times, to lurch to one's feet cheering and applauding, made a rare appearance... several times. Sometimes, it was simply a gesture, a moment of some sublime intimacy of the human condition while the madness of war rages, others after an oratory or a defense. Great moments upon great moments do not make a good film, but a great film is loaded with them.

Spielberg may just with to retire. His overall handling of the subject, the story, the orchestration of light and shadow, thunder and cats paw silences...

And the Lifetime Achievement goes to...

Congratulations to all on a finely honed and superb performance.

Film Review - We Were Soldiers (2002)

Written and directed by Randall Wallace, starring Mel Gibson, featuring Greg Kinnear, Sam Elliot, Madeline Stowe and Barry Pepper.

Based on the book We Were Soldiers Once ... And Young by Lieutenant General (Ret.) Hal Moore and reporter Joseph L. Galloway, both of whom were at the battle.

Mel Gibson has become a punchline due to his out of control ravings while drunk. So be it, selah. That outrageous activity bears no reflection on this, possibly his single greatest effort as an actor. In fact, this film is a "plane gone down" effort: had the entire cast and crew died after its release, every man and woman involved should have its title engraved on their headstones.

As per the DVD extra Getting It Right: behind the scenes of the making of We Were Soldiers, the director stated that while reading the original source work, the line "... Hollywood has never gotten it right..." was the impetus for the creation of the film. Moore and Galloway were present during the filming and Wallace referred to them again and again to be certain of the highest degree of accuracy. The result: a gut wrenching work that induces uncontrollable sobbing, bursts of roaring laughter and flat out heart stopping moments of the purest form of drama.

The war in Vietnam has never been shown so perfectly in all of its horrific, nightmarish glory, if glory can be used to describe any arena in which two competing groups of human beings gather for no other purpose than the wholesale slaughter of one another. This is not only the best depiction of that "rancid picnic" (as Stephen King called it) but possibly the single best film about war ever made.

The training is there. The real people are shown. The combat is there, not as a flag waving idiot my country right or wrong but in its visceral ugliness. The families and the shock waves of Hell (literally) brought to their door is there. Tactics and logistics are there.

There are some films that do a little of some, to great effect. The human cost is a matter of record in so many other films that one more would seem to be pointless, but here the cost is shown on the men in the field as well as the impact on wives and families left behind. Often, though, a film that turns its eye to this and this alone tends to forget the rest. Those that look at tactics and logistics forget the family at home.

It is all here. All of it, in its horror, its honor and its agony.

The soundtrack is flawless, a few moments of pop culture infused prior to the men being shipped out, but mostly a brilliant score. The fine art of the film score is all but ignored, but this film is a great return to classic form, as well as pushing the envelope as to what is played, and when. Often, there is nothing, just the sounds of hellfire combat and broken hearts. When the music is used, it is to underscore a moment, not to overwhelm or coerce the audience into a mindset. The music meets the sadness.

Each performance is carved in bittersweet moments, and the simple life pleasures are given as they are lived, no treacle or maudlin sniffle-sniffle-oh-how-sad, just... it is what it is. That direct approach is common of every moment in the film overall.

A film with no humor, regardless of how bleak the moment, is unworthy of consideration, and during a massive firefight the commanding officer demands to know why the mortars have stopped. One of the enlisted men explains that the tubes are so hot the men cannot use them again for fear of the shells exploding in the tube from the heat. Brief pause: commander walks over to one, and as we look between his legs, we see a stream of urine from him, cooling the tube, then, after a brief pause: "Well?!?" The men then stand in a circle around each mortar tube and follow their leaders example.

A superior effort for all involved and a grand way to remember them as have served, regardless of politics, for the reminder of Armistice Day.

1 Mystery, 2 Houses and lots o' Wax

So, I blew the dust off of the covers of a couple of flicks and decided on a pre-Halloween mini-marthon.

When the remake House Of Wax was released to disc, I was a little in doubt as I normally am with anything that has "Paris Hilton" on it anywhere, porn included. However, on the massive plus side was a re-release of the Price version, and much to my shock and joy was finding it was a dual sided disc, with, almost a footnote, the flip side being the Lionel Atwell/Fay Wray Mystery Of The Wax Museum.

What the hell, right? So, off I went, starting with the middle piece, a dreamscape with which I am most familiar.

Watching it now, it is a little worse for the wear, Carolyn Jones' character giving a giggle that sounds as if it were stolen from The Music Man (missing only "Ye gods!"), and she along with Price are really the only two worthy of being on screen as often as they are. Not to slight the rest, but for the most part the remainder of the cast is phoning in a quick check, very common for the B list.

Two things immediately leap off the screen, however. The first is that the film was attempting to cash in on the Can't See This On Your TV empty headed crap Hollywood was grinding out in the then latest innovation Jump Off The Screen O Rama! aka 3-D. Like the current embarrassments, there is one scene in particular that makes the eyes roll and the hand to lurch towards the eject button. A hawker is sent out to drum up business, and in doing so is using a paddle and ball bouncing the ball into the camera, going so far as to cry out "oh, there is a man with some popcorn! Don't move, sir!"

Egad.

However, on the much more interesting side is that being shot in 3-D lead to a more close inspection of creating the illusion of depth via camera angle and focus, which when viewed in 2-D gives the film a certain beauty. Deep focus, when used correctly, does not need 3-D, film itself is an illusion and this is rather magical... or magickal, if you prefer.

The real reason to sit through this again is, of course, Price. His performance here may well be the one capping moment of his career, other and greater to come, some outstanding prior, but it is here that one sees the Iconic Price take center stage. His man is bitter to literal insanity, but there is a wild black humor dished with every syllable and facial motion. He is hysterically funny, the Clown Prince Of Horror that his fans know and adore, but here it is "funny." The lines are comedic and played to full comic effect, but his delivery makes for a nervous laughter: this character is fully insane, tormented at his deepest portion of his id.

More important, if that can be possible, is that Price often thought of himself as something other than an Actor, thinking himself more workmanlike. This was neither false nor mere humility, and the man turned down many "legit" stage options, not thinking himself capable, which fortunately lead to his accepting Dr. Phibes Part 3 (or as it is known, Theater Of Blood) and the entire supporting cast rushing over from The Royal Shakespeare Company just to have the chance to perform The Bard with Price... if you have never seen it, love Price or really enjoy well done Shakespeare, you owe it to yourself.

Price here is shown as a remarkably physical actor. Here, he uses his body in a manner that is more in keeping with Brando, Dean or Clift. Not a series of twitchy movements or mumbling, though: body motions of surgical precision. Watching him without his mask, he is contorted, one foot twisted, and I did go back and check. He never missed a cue. Total character immersion. Flawless.

The issue was the dialog. This is where the film nearly jumps the shark. My eldest son, 28, was watching it with me, and the groans lead to his excusing himself. A workmanlike performance is no loss, but the actors have to have something to use, and Price alone makes every syllable count.

Flipping it over, and watching Mystery Of The Wax Museum lead to a series of shocks.

Filmed 20 years prior to the first House, color was a new thing, and sound was still in and of itself rather new to the scene. Needing the Criterion Clean Up (as we call it here at our house), the weird washed out color actually adds to the overall effect of the film. It looks like a bad, bad dream.

The story is the same, but it is presented in such a manner as to be far different, and it is here that my personal film theory is underscored... that the times and era are captured, warped and reflected back onto the audience, zeitgeist as auteur.

This film, released in 1933, would have come out during the Depression, and after WWI. The sense that the world was a violent, disturbing place and one of debatable future was a precursor to the aftermath of WWII and the existentialist movement. Atwill's performance is based almost word-for-word the same as Price's, but the differences are shocking when seen back-to-back.

Atwill is also a bitter man driven to madness from his loss and disfigurement, but his rage is not hidden beneath a thin veneer of black humor, but instead is barely controlled rage, lashing out at everyone and everything that does not attach itself to the obsessive pursuit of his art.

Price is more of a serial killer, or signature killer may be more appropriate, putting his "art" on display, and in doing so mocks the world around him. In comparison, then, the "lesser" performances suddenly take on a different weight. Price's film, released in 1953, seems more a slam on the times, Price as hep cat beat artist, similar to Dick Miller in A Bucket Of Blood than anything else, and really, in essence, that is both the Phibes/Lionheart characters in a nutshell (forgive the wanton pun...).

Atwill is mad in a 1933 sense, mad meaning both insane and enraged.

In Mystery, too, the remaining performances take on a wholly different meaning and depth. The dialog is machine gun fast, crackling like a screwball comedy, razor sharp delivery. That heightened sense of verbal daring is the source of comedy then, and it is important because the humor and its source shifts from the Greek Chorus of the supporting players and onto the star. Thirty years made the difference.

The Zeitgeist as auteur has been in the back of my mind for a couple of decades, but watching these three films so close to one another really carved it in stone. Films are produced as art, of course, but in some cases art comes from merely the correct grasp of the mindset of the audience. The film is made in the hope of gathering enough of an audience to recover the cost of its production, and those films that act as our collective id, horror, reflect back to us more of where we were and are than other genres. It is there in our darkest recesses that we see the most clearly defined shadows.

Mystery was released 1933. Price's House was released in 1953. Consider the social changes, the era, and how much things had changed in that 20 year period. The essence of the actual story remains for the most part unchanged: the focal villain is a genius sculptor, albeit odd, who has chosen wax rather than stone as it is more real, more fleshlike. Both have focused on creating Art, capital A included via intonation, and both are poor. At open, both have been approached by a Dickensian Rich Man who will make all financial worries end. Both have a commercial partner, but the partner has been pushing the Artist to give the audience what they want: Blood, death and torment.

Because in Horror there is cash.

The Artist refuses, tells of the Rich Man bail out approaching, but it is too little, too late for the partner, and in both films the fire insurance scam is enacted. This leads to violence and mayhem, the fire begun, and both capture what must be said are still, even now, rather disturbing images of melting human faces. From this moment, both occurring in the first 10 minutes of screen time, all else follows. Disfigurement and loss of fine motor skills to the Artist feeds bitterness at the injustice, which feeds an internal "fire" of rage, and that way leads to madness.

Flash forward, then, to 2005, and the film that has been so wrongly discussed as the "Paris Hilton" House Of Wax.

The title is the same as the Price film. There is murder, and public placement of victims as a form of art.

The times, though, have changed, and changed so drastically as to render the earlier films to nothing more than a mere nod.

This is the post Viet Nam audience, butt more than that, an audience that has little frame of reference to that conflict other than the notion of madmen walk among us. This is the post 9/11 era, and from that comes the notion of a world that resembles nothing so much as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a world that allows for no rhythm to destruction, no sense of Art that would allow for a pattern, any one can die at any moment with no warning whatsoever.

It is also an era that has grown weary of irony, tired of clever for the sake of clever that even the most inspired of clowns would face groans. It is impossible to see Price in this world; he would be groaned off the screen. Instead, we have the visual pun, the crude innuendo and, of course gore. Lots of gore. Implied sex combines with violent, painful death.

The film takes more than one viewing to see its value, and in watching it in context with its two older, somewhat peculiar siblings, the film takes a rather remarkable twist. Rather than one central villain, it has two, formerly conjoined brothers. Is this a comment on the two, earlier films? If yes, I doubt if it was intended to be so, but it does serve the third film well.... think of the bottled hatred and rage that drips off of Atwill, and that defines one of the brothers perfectly. His rage and madness is all-encompassing. He commits acts of brutal ferocity to release that rage.

The other brother is shown as the Artist. His genius is unmistakable, and it is his face that is mangled, but not due to a fire set for insurance fraud, but in the surgical disconnect to the Mad brother, and this sets an entirely different mindset.

It is the Mad brother that controls the entire community, creating it in his twisted image, an entire town that could have come from the mind of Ed Gein, taxidermy and wax statues combine to fill a small town. The Artist brother is, interesting, without speech. His work speaks for him, a fetishistic approach that perfectly combines with the Atwill/Price characters. Atwill/Price were both mad, but they also had a passion for the figures they created, openly speaking with the inanimate objects as if they lived, and did so openly, repeatedly. Here, the Artist appears mentally challenged, and just as importantly, the "weaker" of the two brothers, more inclined to follow the Mad instructions and simply pleased to continue the Work.

What does this say of our era? What can we discern from this?

More important than that, however, is the notion of taking the title and turning it into a reality: instead of a Wax Museum that is called a House of Wax, the entire building is made of wax.

What madness is this? Surely not: a home built entirely of wax would collapse... but then... this is the post 9/11 world, the world of a morality that shifts from one discussion to another. By 2005, the world around the audience is so completely alien to both worlds of 1933 and 1953 as to have almost no basis of comparison at all.

It is also a world in which a person famous for naught but fame can affect our perception of a work in and of itself: the "Paris Hilton" effect, if you will.

So much discussion of the 2005 House is based on her appearance in the film that the film itself becomes a punch line, a joke: Fame is now a virus, a destructive disease that corrupts the perceptive capacity.

Thus, we now turn back to the 1933 and 1953 versions, and compare them to the 2005 version, considering the passage of time and perception of our own era and place.

Carol Clover must now enter into the discussion. Frankly, there is no true critical discussion of the genre without her. It would be less than rude, but disingenuous. Ms. Clover is the one that brought out the understanding of gender in horror film, and identification, and in so doing, coined the most important critical analysis term in regards to the genre: The Last Girl.

Watching the earlier versions, prior to Ms. Clover's Last Girl, the creakiest part of both films becomes apparent primarily because there IS NO Last Girl. There is no central character to identify with other than the villain, and to the 21st century mind that is incompatible with the way we view the genre as a whole.

In the 2005 House, however, as the film struggles to make its point (one... more... rewrite... just one, that was all that was needed), which is that at the core is: The Last Girl and The Bad Boy.

The mirroring used here is the two brothers, the Mad Killer and The Weak Artist on the one side and The Last Girl with The Bad Boy on the other.

Normally, any current horror film that would have at its core a both female and male characters would have to generate some kind of romantic/sexual tension, but here, siblings, also twins. The Bad Boy has a hidden heart of gold (should have shown some of that earlier in the film, would have made him stronger), but his devotion to his sibling is based on a caste and pure love.... just tempered by the fin de siecle pomo dysfunctional family. Comedy replaced by pathos.

It is significant, then, in looking at this film and pay attention to the idea that the dysfunction but murderous brothers reside in a house built of wax, a house that is not a home, and is not purified by fire, but instead is distorted into a melting stream.

The major weakness come at the end of the film, and that too is indicative of the 21st Century horror genre. With a wave of a hand, the ending becomes nothing more than a grab for "Hey, if this makes enough money, we can grind out a sequel!"

Sadly, although so much of the culture of the 70's is rejected, and rightly so, it was in the media of film that such great strides were made, endings in films did not have to be a closing of a book but allowed for the notion of "there are no third acts in America," a feeling that there is something more, however elusive.

That allowed the film makers to create a work that stood alone, said its piece but opened the door for discussion, for contemplation of the work just presented.

It was the horror genre, more than any other, that crushed that invitation to the audience to do more than passively be entertained, but to actually participate in the critical discussion. It is here that again we must acknowledge Ms. Clover, and we as fans must restart that fire, that driving need to look deeper into a film and no longer be content with merely sitting in the dark watching others die.

The Final Statement Of A Dead Man

The Black Iron Prison never ended...

After the Collapse and the after the Riots, the Plague and the creation of the Control Government, there was the moment called the Naked Lunch, in which a social order that was broken into levels, each level consuming those beneath and being consumed by those above, and that which was thought was the bottom was in reality feeding on the top... and everyone, everywhere simply stopped. The Naked Lunch was the awful, frozen moment when everyone saw what was really at the end of every fork.

The Control Government as was run in Mishawaka, Indiana had taken over certain existing buildings and structures to be used in a manner not originally intended.

The old Methodist Church which had been specifically designed to replicate the cathedral of Notre Dame du Paris had become the Hall Of Justice. A building that was nearly completed before the Collapse and had stood empty was made into the Clear Central, publicly a mental institution but actually a place of torment and pain.

A gazebo built upon a hill was transformed into a gun turret. An empty high price condominium was a prison, the House Of Correction.

Those found to be Enemies Of The State were brought to the Hall Of Justice. Under the Control Government law, any lawyer who allowed the accused to plead innocent and later found to be guilty would suffer the same fate as their client. The plea of innocent never ceased to exist but it did cease to be heard.

The accused could do so, but in doing so, the lawyer would ask to be recused, often revealing into the public record information that was still thought to be covered under the Client/Attorney privilege but under Control Government law that was considered an act of patriotic virtue and was protected. The accused would then stand trial as guilty with innocence needing to be proved, and without representation.

Thus, the only two pleas heard in court were the rare guilty, but the most common, insane.

Insanity as a defense was accepted, as any questionable behavior would then be considered through the lens of sanity, sanity defined as the rule of law, and the law was of the Control Government.

If found insane, the accused was then remanded to the custody of the Clear Central for treatment. Here the accused was tormented flesh and spirit until the replies given to questions were completely in order with the world view of the Control Government. It was also here that the place of pain, Room 101, was used to take that one terror, that deepest id secret would be brought forth, the greatest fear held by the accused would be turned against them, making all prior agonies become happy memories.

Once the accused was cured, it was the province of the Control Government to determine if the accused was at core a threat to the state. Should one be found to be such a threat, the torments of the damned were visited upon them, day into night, night into day, world without end. Once the clarity was finally achieved, the accused became the guilty, and from there they would be sent to the House Of Correction, to await the time that would come, the call to the Great Owl Bridge.

Upon their final hours, the guilty would be lead into the open air, would be allowed a last statement, and then be summarily hanged. Not in the traditional means of hanging, it must be said, but via the placing of the noose about the neck and then raising the accused into the air. Death was always slow, and the soon to be corpses would kick and thrash, much to the delight of the gathered crowd.

There was always a gathered crowd. This was law. All executions were mandatory in attendance. Gathered also would be the wide variety of media. On that day, the usually weeping prisoner would beg forgiveness, and bless the state for their coming demise.

As was the tradition of the Control Government, those awaiting execution would be also required to watch the executions from their House Of Correction. Tradition also held that within the last week prior to their own death, the prisoner would be allowed to walk outside again, to record their last thoughts in the event of a lack of coherent thought or speech at the penultimate moment.

They would be heavily sedated prior. Their freedom was an illusion, a thought that was planted and replanted again and again under chemical hypnotherapy.

These final videos were more often than not discarded, as the spectacle of the crowd and media often inspired the most entertaining speeches, and always drew the highest ratings.

The video that became known as The Final Statement Of A Dead Man was kept after the speech given by that Hero of freedom that day, to be examined fully for hints and clues as to how the method had failed. The ending of his speech is still not on the tape, which he recorded as a rehearsal of sorts (although this has never been confirmed). That day, as is known, he began to speak, and sounded at first precisely as the Central Government had hoped.

As is well known, all recording by the media had been cut off at what had later become the rallying cry of the Truth Movement, all cell phone coverage was severed. What came out later, and the moment of the Naked Lunch, was when the aftermath had been discovered. The entire community was executed shortly afterwards, the turret in the gazebo became the burning lead rain of the wrath of the Control Government. The entire city was burned to the ground, bulldozed over, and offically was removed from all maps of that time.

The shrine of The Dead Man stands there now, a gigantic statue of his face in the final visual image seen by all the world, and beneath his legacy, carved in marble six feet in height:

You have been lied to.

The Final Destination series

Currently the series appears to be over and this is in the face of the 4th film in the series, which was wrongly titled The Final Destination, suggesting it was going to be the series finale. The main problem I have is that, with the release of Final Destination 5, that was a fools' errand at best.

This series has been maligned and misunderstood by just about everyone, and while not maligned usually misunderstood by its fans, of which I am one.

Each film runs the exact same pattern: a collection of characters are shown, mostly young, gathering together such that all parties involved will be in one place at one time. Something goes disastrously wrong, everyone dies a horrific death and then Zip! Into the eyeball of the character whose path we will then follow to the end we fall, and that person comes to the sharp, sudden understanding that they have just had a premonition, panics, and in their panic saves the lives of the rest of the cast members. Throughout the film to the end, each of these characters will die in a manner that has not been seen outside of a Rube Goldberg cartoon: extravagant circumstances lead to a sudden (and often literally) splashy demise. At the end, we are given usually one last Big Splashy Death, and the credits roll.

Those who do not comprehend the genre of horror at all, or possess the slightest understanding with no respect for the genre, are befuddled about this series. It has been called The Dead Teenager Movie, a bit of flick that exists for nothing other than the depiction of gruesome human demolition.

One non-word explains it all: Duh. If I must elaborate, then: Ya think?

Dumbass....

All horror films do this. All. Barring none. Some are captives to the era in which they were created, those times in which the open depiction of body parts and blood had to be kept to a minimum, or in the dark, all agonies in shadow.

Consider then the film Theater Of Blood, starring Vincent Price and featuring a goodly portion of the Royal Shakespeare company. The entire film is based on the works of Shakespeare and death upon gruesome death stacks up along with a rather impressive body count. Both Price films in which he played Dr. Phibes do the same.

What makes the Final Destination films worthy of attention is this: the essence of tragedy is placed throughout each of the (currently) five films. By using the term "tragedy" I think the actual nature of the original term as used by the ancient Greeks must needs be re-examined and removed from its current incorrect usage and for that we need return to Aristotle, The Poetics and the myth of Oedipus.

When Aristotle wrote that the play Oedipus Rex was the greatest tragic play written, what was used as a yardstick for that assessment were the six basic elements in all true tragedy. The first element, and it is first because it is the most important, is plot. This term, "plot," is the basic format, the tale told, the story. In the L. J. Potts translation, published by Cambridge University Press, the term "plot" is replaced with "fable."

Now plot and fable mean two separate things, and in reading Potts' footnote, the original Greek term was mythos. This is of interest here, as the term "mythos" (from which the term myth is derived) has begun to mean That Which Is Not True, a silly little thing with which to entertain children. This level of disrespect is the actual cause of this article.

The myth of Oedipus is currently misunderstood, and once that is clarified, the Final Destination series becomes much, much more interesting.

Oedipus has been reduced, by Freud, as the story of the man who loved his mother and killed his father. While that is indeed the truth, and is the focus of Oedipus Rex, there are layers of importance that the ancient Greek society would have understood that lends a deeper and more powerful impact to the play.

Oedipus was born to the king of Thebes, and as tradition held at the time, the newborn was taken to the Oracle to have the future of the child be foretold. There, the Oracle advised that the Fates had decreed the following: that the boy would grow to kill his father and marry his own mother.

The issue is not the action, but the source: the Fates. In Greek mythology, the Gods themselves bowed to the Fates. Once the Fates had unveiled (however cryptic it may be) what destiny awaited, it was so. There was no argument, no debate.

What makes Oedipus Rex a tragedy of the highest value is that from prior to the opening curtain of the play, the audience knew the story. Aristophanes just did a "cut to the chase," opening the story as close to the action as possible.

The parts of the myth NOT in the play though, continue after the king hears of the destiny of his child, and performs an action that pushes the rest of the play deeper into tragedy with every line and event. The king decides to defy Fate: he has both of the child's Achilles tendons cut, writes out the warning of the Oracle, puts the scroll and the child into a box and throws the babe into the ocean. From there, the box washes ashore, and a childless couple finds the baby, reads the scroll and decides to raise the child as their own. When the boy becomes a man, the adoptive parents decide he needs to know his Fate, and tell him that he can stay with them. Before they can do so, Oedipus finds the scroll, reads it, and decides to flee, so that he can avoid his Fate, not knowing that the man he thought of as his father was not. In his travels, he comes to a crossroad, there meeting a wealthy man who decides to demand the right of way, there is a struggle, and Oedipus kills the wealthy man. Going onwards towards Thebes, Oedipus finds the Sphinx has taken control of Thebes due to the death of their king and presents a riddle, which Oedipus solves. He is shortly thereafter made king of Thebes and marries the widow of the king, the beautiful Jocasta.

It is here that the play begins. A plague has spread throughout Thebes, a curse brought from the gods as a man has slain his father and married/lay with his own mother.

Everything that happened prior to the beginning of the play would have been as familiar to the ancient Greeks as the story of Christ prior to His crucifixion to current Christians.

The tragedy is not the murder of the father and marrying the mother: the tragedy comes from the hubris of man in attempting to thwart the decree of the Fates.

And that takes us back to Final Destination.

Fate decrees that a plane will explode, that there will be an horrific multi-vehicle accident, that a roller coaster will come off its tracks, that a series of collisions at a raceway will enter the stands and that a bridge will collapse. People will die: so the Fates have decreed. One person will have a premonition of each event and will attempt to thwart Fate. They will fail, over and again.

Each of the five films in the series does this, and does it fairly well with a certain consistency. The sneering comment that these films are "Dead Teenager Films" is not only wrong, but dismissive. Granted, they are not high Art, but the films approach an understanding of Fate that has been long absent from film.

The major failing in the series is not the gore but rather the notion of using the tragic element of Fate for nothing more than mere suspense.

The major success in the series is that the suspense works.