Bong Joon-ho, goes Criterion in this sweet clip

CINEBASEMENT MERGES WITH THE CREATURE

Just your week-plus advance notice that Glendale's coolest little secret has made the leap to Wandercreature!

That’s right, from today on everything CineBasement, our humble film, food, and spirited gathering of cineastes will take place here. This includes future polls, announcements, and bonus goodies. It’s almost habit forming.

Our first ,and next screening event will take place Saturday, November 23rd celebrating the works of South Korea’s own Bong Joon-ho with his unforgettable monster satire, THE HOST(2006).

The classic format continues:

Arrival and prep begins 6pm.

Film screens at 7pm!

Chat at approximately 9!

Goodies encouraged!

More soon,

M.

PARASITE (2019) Film Thoughts

I’d like to go ahead and declare the old saying, “You could never go home again” moribund and desiccated when discussing the feat just accomplished by South Korean film radical, Bong Joon-ho. The very gall that an internationally revered and lauded filmmaker, not only returned from churning out his own exercises in political bombast (The Host, Snowpiercer, Okja), but has also found within him and his merry band the ability to stun the world with this smaller scale, yet no less gutting exploration into class strife, and what it gestates between generations. Not only has director Bong found within him the ability to maintain his often clear voiced antipathy for the market that enables him, PARASITE works like a well-tuned, diabolical mousetrap that plays like it has a straight up axe to grind with the nature of popular film narrative itself.

It’s a sure handed, yet vengefully comic summation of capitalism, and its empty promise of separatism. All told with the trustworthiness of a Loki-figure by a cave fire.

I implore anyone who has yet to experience PARASITE, to go in knowing as little as possible.

Can’t wait to watch more friends and family view this for the first time.

A Note

Just So You Remain Aware..

Wandercreature, remains very much wriggling and vibrant. More posts, and reflections to come.

Life is an occasional storm, and it only makes sense to log as many turns as possible.

A good navigator, should always keep a record of every previously charted course, and ensuing challenge.

Accumulation of experience and survival, such welcome friends.

Alita: Battle Angel (2019) Reflections

Several years ago in my Blogspot days, I embarked upon a rocky voyage exploring the realm of live action manga adaptation. The Live Action Manga Blues, was something of a refrain that kept cycling through my mind in those days as so many attempts found themselves either at odds with budget, or with the very iconographic nature of manga/anime. A divide between the illustrated and the live cinema medium persisted as tech and production found itself just outside of arm’s reach. And for years the best we could hope for regarding Yukito Kishiro’s science fiction fairy tale we could even remotely hope for, was the middling two-part 1993 OVA, where even animation proved itself too complex to properly capture GUNNM’s singular vision.

That is, until 2019.

And in the decade-plus of hoping and waiting, so much has changed in the popcorn cinema landscape, that even now, it is miraculous that an adaptation as earnestly oddball and authentic as ALITA: Battle Angel can so easily co-exist with the Marvel films of the world. Robert Rodriguez, under the auspices of longtime fan, James Cameron, help deliver a rarity; a live action manga that delicately balances technique and heart in ways so many have failed. Beyond the original comic’s splatter-laden cybermyth, Rodriguez’s take openly embraces the source material’s operatic elements, and somehow finds surprising pools of humanity hidden within.

Set 300 years after “The Fall”, where humanity has gathered in Iron City, a place where the barely hanging together remains co-exist in almost predators versus prey existence beneath the last remaining hovering city, Zalem; a mythological place where only unseen, enigmatically wealthy and powerful reside, often dropping their refuse upon the the poor below. And within this ever growing scrapyard, cybernetic doctor, Dyson Ido (Cristoph Waltz), on a regular scrap run, discovers a mostly intact upper torso and head of a young female cyborg complete with intact brain. Upon bringing her home, and granting her a humanoid doll body, she awakens with endless questions regarding her identity and past. Ido, in hopes of perhaps undertaking the opportunity to live as father figure, restricts her from delving too far from home. But the questions come too fast and too passionate as she makes new friends, is eyed by prospective adversaries, as she comes to realize that her past self was made and trained for combat. All of this while she soon discovers that in order to make ends meet, Ido has been undertaking bounty hunting at night.

Now without going too much further, I need to make an admission here. As a longtime fan of the original manga, my view of what unfolds here does affect my own view of the film and its execution. There are many changes that often feel necessary, and some that feel like concessions to a more mainstream audience. Which isn’t always a negative. Especially when you’re dealing with a wholly unique piece of worldbuilding that only illustration could provide. That, and the original work’s more extreme violence, which was part and parcel with manga of the late 1980s-early 1990s. The changes here to Alita’s world are mostly cosmetic. And if there are any real disadvantages to what the production team have fashioned here, we’ll address shortly.

Before that, let’s make sure to make note of the technical accomplishment of WETA, and all involved for creating a vibrant, often idiosyncratic Iron City and its often machine-hybrid characters. While not as rubble covered and dusty as the comic, this Panama inspired take on Alita’s home is at once unlike so many dystopian nightmares, yet frozen in almost 1990s fashion amber. With alleyways, corners, and churches that almost echo Mexico City, there is a distinctly southern Americas vibe to the world. And nearly everything in it revolves around Motorball, a popular sport that takes roller derby, and melds it with machine mayhem, and detached limbs. A personal favorite concept from the manga, made manifest in sequences that live up to the promise of Kishiro’s panels. Gladiatorial, yet pulsating with static shock.

But Alita’s greatest special effect, is the winning performance of one Rosa Salazar, who grants the title character with the innocence, and unfettered seriousness necessary to make the whole thing work. Early teaser audiences found themselves unsure of how to react to her presentation, but Salazar leans into the protagonist with such an assured hand, that the brain simply accepts it within mere seconds. So many have spent sentences discussing the technical prowess it takes to create such a unique character without going back to what matters, that it works. Almost instantaneously, we believe in her, her questions, her wish to define herself, and the revelations that coalesce. The most amazing achievement of all, is when the magic makers become invisible, and all we are left with are our emotions. And Salazar, makes me a believer with a performance that is top to bottom seamless.

Also worthy of note, is Waltz who despite reservations provides just enough paternal warmth to Ido, who makes a case for comfort versus destiny. He has his reasons for being protective of his young discovery, but can only hold her back for so long. He also provides a bit of vulnerability to the role that goes a long way as his would-be daughter figure ventures further and further into peril. He is only given so much room in what is a pretty large story, that his past with Chiren (Jennifer Connelly)., just grants us enough to justify his arc. Despite this, it largely works. Especially once he begins to come to grips with the reality of his would-be family.

Also game, are Connelly, Mahershala Ali, Idara Victor, and Keean Johnson, who largely provide genre serviceable work surrounded by what must have been quite the complex working environment. And given that much of what they are provided by the screenplay by Cameron and Laeta Kalogridis, is expository, there is only so much to expect from such roles, which plays into my silly side, feeling that a lot of this film feels strangely like a 1990s throwback. There is an aura of that particularly awkward period in fantasy film where the seriousness level can only have so much gravitational sway. Which may explain many early reviews of the film. Mileage may vary here, not unlike Pacific Rim. There’s a tone here that is aware enough of its own sense of the screaming drama, that it consistently dares viewers to succumb to its charms. There are even the occasional Rodriguez spoken-with-an-underline gags that crash with a thud that feel unfurled from another filmic era entirely. This is a gargantuan cult film at heart based upon an often happily strange comic, so anticipate the quirk.

And if anything here hobbles the film for me, it is easily the choice to render the film’s central conceit of economic disparity. While the film gets a great deal right in terms of tone , performance, and astonishing action, the drama pulls back from the manga’s far more dire circumstances which push even moral characters into murky places. A big part of what drives the original work, is the myth of Zalem, what it provides as an alternative to the life in the city below. As vivid and alive as Iron City is, the ability to purchase chocolate on a street corner and ease it is to walk the streets that remain covered in concrete, seems at odds with certain characters’ deep need to ascend. The argument for leaving ground never reaches beyond middling as those who would lie, cheat, and steal to get ahead grow more desperate. The source material’s landscape is so harsh in daylight, that it’s easy to believe that some characters would do anything to escape. Here, it’s simply unsafe to wander at night. It’s a toothless choice that could be contested by many in the real world who see disparity amidst abundance - but it is something that feels a need for greater emphasis. Especially when the final act reaches its emotional apex.

But where it bounces back from this? My goddess, the film is packed to the gills with just enough unfettered imagination, energy, and ultimately heart by way of the father-daughter dynamic between Alita, and Ido, that somehow it becomes this funhouse mirror rendition of a classic family adventure. The choice to pull away from some of the manga’s more horrific elements ends up working in the film’s favor as our leads begin to bond over what seems to be more than a mere daughter, more than a girlfriend, more than a challenge against Iron City’s current status quo. The “order of things” is being shaken up by a nobody, who has nothing but questions about who she is, and what her past was all about. She wasn’t asked to be put in this situation, and isn’t going to take any of this at face value. Which brings us right back to Salazar, and the choice to grant her such an unusual, not quite human look. They agreed early on, that the eyes were everything, and it turns out to be a winning choice. It doesn’t hurt that the action is incredibly imagined and executed. Like an intricate dance performance, where we are invited to witness angles and configurations long thought impossible in film let alone live performance.

And even then, it remains astonishing just how much does work in Alita: Battle Angel. There is so much here that truly does feel like a labor of love. Not unlike another misunderstood child, Speed Racer(2008), Alita, feels like a tribute made with immense reverence and enthusiasm for a work that while wasn’t terribly big in its home of Japan, made an impact with many of us two decades ago as it regaled many with its tale of heroes found in unexpected places and packages. World’s where ruptured metal and jets of plasma were mere analogues for struggles many of us face regularly. While in no way your typical superhero tale, and in no way a perfect film, Alita remains a welcome, effective respite from a genre landscape in dire need of heartfelt weird. It’s a visually, occasionally spiritually jaw-dropping reminder of manga’s power over western comics. Cameron and Rodriguez, have taken nearly twenty years of anticipation and have delivered a fantastical universe with characters who can offer boundless possibilities if the public were so inclined. All this time, my hope was simple; to experience a work that satisfies both my love of the manga medium, and my love of cinema.

Happy to report that despite all odds, Alita largely succeeds.

Suspiria (2018) Film Thoughts

In 1977, former film critic and burgeoning darling of the recently dubbed “gialli” movement of mystery cinema took his deep departure into pure pop horror with what would become his most revered work. SUSPIRIA(1977) spins the tale of one Susie Bannion(Jessica Harper), who’s journey across the Atlantic not only lands her in a strange place, but in a prestigious dance academy possibly run by a coven of malevolent witches. A bold sense of amplified visual and sonic aesthetics, coupled with director, Dario Argento’s lessened emphasis on grounded logic, grants the original film a deeply unsettling aura only matched by the over the top architecture, costume designs, not to mention over the top murder scenes. Part Snow White, part exploration of the terrors of womanhood, the 1977 SUSPIRIA for all its nerve-wracking brilliance, is indicative of an era uncertain as to where the conversation regarding early feminism was indeed going. Like it’s contemporary, CARRIE(1976) it’s a story loaded in its fear of the vaginal, and of what it will mean when such power is unleashed upon the world in time.

Which allows for Luca Guadignino’s 2018 interpretation to use the questions that Argento’s masterpiece posited, and respond with often astute confidence. And all it takes is considering what was occurring around Germany at the time as the post-war government had its hands full against the far left Red Army Faction, and the Lufthansa Flight 181 hijacking that took place over the imprisonment of several of its founders. A moment when the young found themselves fueled by a contempt for the atrocities often perpetrated by their fathers and grandfathers, many of whom were still in government after the fall of the Third Reich. All of this is sprinkled heavily throughout the outside of the Markos Dance Academy, which faces the glowering wall in West Berlin.

We begin as erstwhile runaway student, Patrizia Hingle arrives at the office of psychotherapist Joseph Klemperer continuing what seems to be the culmination of numerous visits. Dazed, a fearful, Patrizia struggles to convey what she has seemingly long suspected; that the famed school is indeed a cover for supernatural evil. She does this before again darting out, and into the troubled air of rebellion that lies in the snowy gray of the city.

Enter American, and former Mennonite, Susie (Dakota Johnson) who seems to have arrived at the academy at a bad time considering Pat’s disappearance. Her abilities immediately impress the school’s staff, including celebrated dance director Madame Blanc (A startling, almost Meredith Monk-turn by Tilda Swinton, who also plays two other surprising roles here.). Her elevation to the lead protagonist of the academy’s celebrated WWII era piece, Volk. Bannion’s evident enthusiasm allows her to gain ground with an almost preternatural ease as the final performance for this show approaches. And even as Susie’s story unfolds, Dr. Klemperer’s suspicions regarding the school and the disappearance of Pat inch ever closer to a merging. And unlike the original, we are almost immediately privy to the existence of the long standing reality of witches running the school, now reaching elder status, operating under the guise of a democracy. contrasted with flashes of Susie’s life in Ohio, possibly seen as something other even amongst her family.

Her arrival to the school marks more than the occasion of a potential sea change, but of something not seen in this burgeoning movement in over thirty years. “Women were much stronger before the war” one supporting character muses early in the film. Implying that the movement didn’t necessarily die, but rather went underground. Everyone making their choice within unequal times, not realizing that they too may find themselves unable to free themselves from the shackles they once lived within.

Via the script by David Kajganich we begin meta-peeling away at the fruit of the 1977 film from frame one, complete with a tearing away of the artifice and color that had long been that piece’s greatest claim to fame. This Suspiria, isn’t here to play cinematic karaoke with us so much as dig deeper into what the surface fears were back then. Granting a far more layered, painful, and occasionally tangential take on the story. Not unlike Christopher Nolan’s attempts at mythological deconstruction, Guadagnino’s take is a grim, gray, mostly analog affair that embraces the nature of the stage, of dance, and in turn of what can turn rebellion into its own self-serving autocracy. Pangs of post-WWII guilt bubble to the surface as the coven itself is experiencing splinter factions, plots to undermine, and perhaps a means to conquer far beyond liberation. Almost as if to comment on the nature of liberation politics in and of itself. Just as the RAF sought so desperately to challenge the perpetuated wrongs of a not-so-distant past, there is a danger in becoming that which we fear the most.

One could almost argue that the finished film eschews the very meaning of subtext, and chooses to bring this concern to grotesque center in a final act that must be seen to be believed. For a moment, I admittedly harbored the anxiety that the film was going to lean hard in Argento/Nicolodi’s direction by perpetuating the fear of a matriarchy. But was happily swerved by an epilogue that clarifies that what we just witnessed was not so much a scare piece involving generations of internalized misogyny, but rather a warning of what we could become should we fail to remain introspective in times of struggle. The film as it is, wants to have the cake and all that, but also makes a cogent, albeit occasionally overdrawn hand in portraying a world at odds with its own ideals.

We can mean well all we want.

But what we do to each other speaks throughout history.

What a joy it is, to have enjoyed this unique renaissance of almost retrograde, borderline art house horror for nearly ten years. I say that because I cannot imagine SUSPIRIA(2018) happening without the last decade of independent scare tales. Guadagnino’s drive to create something on par with, and possibly beyond one of my personal favorites is a grim joy to behold. From the stunning costume, Yorke score, art direction, lighting, editing and sound design, there is a bounty of treasure to behold for those open to it. To be able to sit in a darkened theater in Hollywood to enjoy two and a half hours of sumptuous, thoughtful, and occasionally unsettling sights and sounds the likes we probably haven’t seen on this scale in nearly forty years, feels like a gift from the past, perhaps as an important lesson for what we in 2018 are all experiencing.

In Plain Language..

Over the past two years, it has grown ever more obvious that despite the many strides, leaps, and bounds made by our collective society, there are these elements that have long festered beneath assumptions that all would mend over itself, and that would better foster a more equity, and justice laden world.

And then, a certain president was “elected”.

And like a UV light, it has become more evident that these long supposed vanquished specters have been gestating in plain sight, often using the assistance of various corners of long held power to maintain male dominator norms in the name of “staying on top”. And never has it been more flagrantly obvious than the Brett Kavanaugh controversy, and ensuing ammo-less fight by the GOP to place him upon the Supreme Court. And apparently, simple process is beneath them in order to get this through. As if it never mattered that more people are visible, that women have made significant progress over the years. The rule of entitled white men, appears to be a non-negotiable fact to the people of the Republican Party. Which is why history has not been, nor will be kind to a party largely run by octogenarian males with pasty skin. They may have every branch of office at this very moment, but they do not represent the demographic reality beyond their halls.

And as the week ahead seems primed for either a painful farce, or something far more catastrophic for one side, it becomes blindingly clear that in order for us to create a world beyond this culture of disrespect and antipathy toward women, and people of color, everyone will be tasked with making their wishes known in the form of sincere effort.

In short, in the social world, everyone should be granted respect, unless given plenty adequate reason not to.

And when it comes to the realms of the physical, we need to nurture the ideal that to have this innate desire, is natural, but does not override our need to be cordial, understanding, empathetic, and cognizant of others own unique agency. The other person always has the last call.

If they are uncomfortable, back off.

If they don't jibe, move on.

If they aren't interested, they aren't interested.

Mutuality, should be everything.

After all, isn't this about the enjoyment of reaching out together?

Feeling like we need to make that clear, every chance we get. Not be sheepish about it.

Mutuality, should be all-encompassing, all consuming, all very real.

If it isn't, someone doesn't need to be where they are. And need to do some serious soul searching. They simply aren't ready.

HEREDITARY(2018) Film Thoughts

It has been roughly twenty-four hours, and even now I still feel psychically dizzy from yesterday’s viewing. What I witnessed in that darkened theater simply should not work. Even when a part of me resists the earnest magic trick that first time director, Ari Aster has just pulled on audiences like me, it cannot be understated that HEREDITARY, is indeed the goods critics have praised it to be. Not merely content with playing the now-expected A24 affinity for then-contested films like THE SHINING, this exploration into the often unspoken rot at the core of the well-to-do American family, is a deep burn-making harrow machine with a clear-headed reverence to the classics of the genre.

It opens with the local obituary of one Ellen Graham, 78. Having been mostly bedridden in hospice with her relatively famous minitaturist daughter Annie(Toni Colette, in one rollercoaster performance), her husband, David(Gabriel Byrne), teenage son, Peter(Alex Wolff), and 13 year old daughter, Charlie(Milly Shapiro). Her passing due to cancer, has left the family with a basket of complicated feelings, particularly with Annie, who’s relationship with her mother was clearly both mysterious and contentious. And it is the divide between her roles of both daughter and mother, that we begin to take in just how much living with such a difficult matriarch in their house over Ellen’s final days, led to some simmering doubts and resentment that has quietly infected the entire family. Like a scab that has been removed, the mess is evident, and without proper addressing, could infect everything.

As mentioned, the Graham family seems to have been harboring some unspoken troubles prior to the eldest’s passing whilst living in an idyllic house in the Utah mountains. Annie’s life as a figure in the fine art world, tends to have her tending to her projects; specifically almost one-to-one miniature recreations of reflections from her life. And what we see over the film tends to serve as both exposition, and window into her thoughts and memories. Again, it is pretty clear in these that plenty remains unresolved until she sneaks into town to attend a grief counseling group where she admits to a legacy of mental illness that has long affected her bloodline. Incapable of reconciling with this, plus a creeping feeling of guilt without clear pinpoint comes bubbling to the surface. Her husband, David’s patience and understanding being perhaps the one element of solid anchoring she has. And then come the children, beginning with high schooler son, Peter who longs for his independence, but is evidently in a strained place with his mom. Lastly, is the delicate, quietly strange Charlie, who spends her time making sculptures out of random objects, draws, and lacks social grace. Annie’s mothers favorite, who’s world has been entirely upended by her grandmother’s death. The problems have clearly been unaddressed for some time, and now that a protective layer is gone, HEREDITARY is about that scramble for normalcy, when in fact nothing in most families is normal.   

And now this is the part where I have to stop and say that from here on, the review has to change gears. Even the above paragraphs I have shared might prove too much. What Aster and his crew have done, is both taken the age-old family drama dynamic, and somehow melded it with classic slow burn horror mechanics with a post-horror sheen and ambiguity. And while it may not play the same way with those familiar with the genre’s history, there is indeed something at play here that hasn’t really been done since possibly Peter Medak’s 1980 paranormal horror, The Changeling. And while even this isn’t a good enough hint as to what is happening, starting here and considering A24’s penchant for the quietly unsettling has probably always been headed in this direction. HEREDITARY, feels both very new, and yet remarkably knowing of its place as post-modern spook fest. It’s the kind of unique moviegoing experience you want to go in ice cold on.  

“Why was I born?”

The real, potentially lasting impact of HEREDITARY, is most likely going to be its almost unearthly caliber of performances, and memorable imagery. There is some indelible work here by the two children who perhaps bear the greatest burden in what is happening in the Graham home. Shapiro’s natural strangeness and grit, make her an instantly memorable presence throughout the entire piece. And this is via such sparse amounts of dialogue, one would swear we’ve all known her at some point in our lives. But the real revelation, is Wolff who’s youthful will to defy is mere dressing for something that inevitably leads to one of the most wrenching explorations of unchecked trauma I have probably ever seen. Byrne, grants the film a warmth and gravity to the proceedings as a man, simply doing the best he can to help everyone find equilibrium. And yet, this is truly Collette’s show as a mostly reluctant mom who’s world largely seems haunted by family on all sides. The film becoming a prism of these once dormant feelings, now allowed to run rampant. With the Graham house as a meticulously designed and lit reminder of the power of staging. Probably not since Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s super dated, yet brilliant PULSE, has a film so assuredly utilized silent film techniques to sell dread in such sumptuous heaps. The combined talents of Grace Yun, and Pawel Pogorzelski, are a haunting powerhouse.

Grief and trauma, two cornerstones of the horror experience, find themselves cleverly used here to sharp effect. Exploring what they are, and can be for both families and society, seems to lie at the heart of this film. If there are screenplay cheats regarding theme, they lie in a number of classroom scenes that evoke greek gods, civilizations and families long gone, often undone by a feeling of living within an inescapable game. Like a family with an abusive past, we too can find ourselves at the behest of forces bent on manipulating our fates for some selfish end. We may wish to rise and do our part to undo these chains, but the cost may at times be too frightening to consider. HEREDITARY delves into the possibilities of why we sometimes never bother addressing the the reality of our situations.

Possibly the scariest thing imaginable, reality.

FLCL Progressive's debut episode, RE-STA: Inverted Dreams

Opening on what seems to be a desolate planet awash in mostly monochromatic colors, we follow what looks to be our headphones-sporting new central character, Hidomi not looking terribly well. Surrounded by destruction and detritus from what looks to have been a cataclysmic event that has left her equally as tattered. With each step, her form seems to also be exhibiting signs of damage. To the point where she loses both hands as the landscape is soon humming with the familiar incoming of a row of giant steam irons. No means of taking control when she stares into the eye of an alien giant. Only a moment later, the horn protruding from her forehead overtakes, leading to the emergence of an entirely new humanoid robot ready to take on the domestic hordes of normalcy. The buzz of an alarm goes off. Another vivid dream for a girl seemingly gone numb in a world so weaned on her particular brand of disconnect. Her headphones to block out the world, and "tsundere" demeanor, now an accepted part of the daily mosaic that it's only a matter of time before either she disappears, or is confronted head on with these nagging dreams of robots, irons, & guitars. Well, whaddaya know? It's a spiritual sequel!

So here we are at last, catching up with a proper introduction after Toonami's April Fool's event, which was passable at best. And my impressions here are largely no different, save for what scribe Hideto Iwai, and the FLCL team hint drop for us in regards to what happened to our favorite Space Fraternity misfit, and the children she pesters in the name of her own plans. In a town that in many ways resembles that of the original Mabase, we are introduced to a world that has seemingly embraced many corners of questionable maturity in the name of a new status quo. Hidomi's mom is hopelessly chipper, and wildly accepting of her daughter's disinterest to the point of systematic expectation. It has become such an expectation that even Hidomi's part-time diner job is strewn with patrons who praise and fawn over her apathy. These regulars, now an aged version of the generation of fans I have grown up around. It's to the point where upon introducing the franchise's (Wow. I actually said the F word regarding FLCL) latest Spacecop, the more focused and steadfast Cadillac riding, Jinyu, reflects a potentially startling reveal that the battle between factions over the youth of the Earth indeed continues on, and that the intergalactic troublemaker, Rahau Haruhara, is indeed on the prowl again for fresh potential.

We also get to know Hidomi's class, in particular her classmate, Ide who not only has a penchant for stories, but is sporting both glasses and a familiar head bandage. Potential does indeed attend this class, and that teacher's voice should ring a few fan bells. Also worth making a note of, is Hidomi's mother who may have dropped a huge hint regarding the whereabouts of an important character from the original series. Considering Hidomi's current predicament, it makes all the sense in the world.

Now, the episode does finally reveal its hand in regards to where she is and what she has been up to all this time. But the implications of it, made a deeper impression on me than anything else in the episode. Production value vacillates between on par with the original 1999-2000 OVA, and standard television work. But the notion that Haruhara, has indeed been secretly infiltrating the youth in the town, helping engender a population of overgrown infants, is a sobering one. Growing up under the auspices of more conservative leaderships, one of the most popular colloquialisms regarding playing the role, and "overtaking from the inside", has now taken on a borderline malevolent tone. Considering the Japan and the West of today, our dreams may indeed have found themselves corrupted by those eager to exploit for their own gain. Indeed, its seems that FLCL's needle might have indeed shifted, by presenting what could go wrong when unchained youthful exuberance finds itself subverted. It's an interesting turn in what largely felt like already well-treaded ground. So until the next installment, I remain a little ambivalent about the existence of this return, save for some lush animation, and the ever reliable soundtrack by The Pillows.

There is potential for a serious upending of the past, but like the sneak peek from April, all I'm getting here is a nice smell from the kitchen, and no dish in sight.

April Fool's Surprise! FLCL: Alternative, Episode One Impressions

Toonami, never a network to shy away from bold gestures on April Fool's may have outdone themselves last night as the regularly scheduled block was interrupted. Interrupted by the splashy colors, and familiar sounds of small city Japan, punctuated by a favorite pink haired rogue with a bass guitar. Production I.G.'s proposed to be released sequel series to the late 1990s OVA classic, FLCL, graced screens nationwide, and in subbed form!

Now it is important to note here that the episode in question, is the premiere to the THIRD season, which is slated for full unveiling in September. Which means we have no context for a lot of what is happening here. The second season, FLCL: Progressive, is set to air in June. So what we have here is a taster for the tone, pace, and feel of these new episodes as largely funded by America's own Ghost House Pro. So this, as suggested is something that should be wholly taken with a grain of salt. There really was nothing left to be said at the end of the OVA, so these new stories should be something that both resembles a bit of the past, but wholly their own animals.

And as such, the episode that aired is something a little closer in tone to the first two original video installments. Both equally grounded, punctuated by moments of unabashed weird. Introducing 17 year old high school student, Kana. An ordinary girl with her own brand of boredom about her hometown, as humanity seems to be more primed than before for space travel. This, naturally only bolsters her sense of disaffectedness as the endeavor seems wholly relegated to the rich and powerful. Space is indeed no place for ordinary dreamers like Kana, and her friends. But instead of wallowing, DIY defiance is in order as the quartet opt to create their own homemade bottle rocket complete with sequins, and gaudy adornments. Of course, this finds itself undone when a certain Raharu comes to town, seemingly back in town seeking a new N.O. channel, possibly within Kana's own noggin! 

Gone, is a lot of the snowballing references. Miles away, is the niggling creepiness of the original series' gaze. Taking a stand from a more feminine POV, is something that renders the whole episode a little more sweet and sentimental than the Enokido-penned original, and it sports an ideal mix of personalities in Kana's friends together with a sense of the driven which is in many ways the spiritual opposite of the perpetually trapped nature of Naota and friends last time around. 

And speaking of Naota..

Has he become the new Amarao-san? It certainly looks it.

In short, the episode is charming enough. And it is incredibly hard to even think we could ever recapture the literal spirit of a time when the internet was quite young, indie analog press was a thing, and a more isolated view of the world was more palpable. Raharu (aka Haruko Haruhara, seems to be the only real element that hasn't changed. She's both as wise, and as self-serving as she has always been.), appears not only to save the day, but to urge Kana and friends on as they seem to be on a pretty good track without her. It's an interesting contrast to a vision of post-Evangelion desperation to define onesself with a girlfriend or mother figure. Now, Kana does seem to carry something of a latent crush, but it doesn't factor specifically in this one. I'm guessing we have a basketball-centric episode in the wings. At any rate, what disarmed me most about this return noone asked for, was Kana, her buddy Pets, imposing, yet handy, Mossan, and teen gyaru mag idol wannabe, Hijiri. Their moments of bonding and creating, offer up a hopeful retort to the often trapped in ennui amber of Naota and crew. And while that could very well be seen as a negative, I'm willing to venture that there are new challenges to arise from this alternate setup. 

Yeah, I was undoubtedly worried. The original OVA, remains one of the last of its kind to truly move me back between 2000-2001. Tsurumaki and company helped fashion an appropriate closer to anime in the twentieth century with a crazy story about the value of nonsense in a world of often overwhelming sense. Again, one episode here isn't really enough to formulate a concrete opinion. But I will say here that Toonami's play was a bold, welcome one.

And hey, any new animation featuring The Pillows, is welcome to me.

Pacific Rim: Uprising - Film Thoughts

There's just something about reheated leftovers that satisfy in spite of everything. Sure, it's not the fresh, delicious experience it might have been the night before. But with a hangover the morning after, and a beer at your side, the sensation of something reliable in the stead of rummaging potentially miles away while your head continues to pound, is unmistakable. Which is precisely what comes to mind when thinking of Steven E. DeKnight's return to the Drift, Kaiju, and Jaegers with Pacific Rim: Uprising. A sequel noone really needed, and yet hits the spot despite the possible damage in store for your insides. If Guillermo Del Toro's initial foray into the world of tokusatsu action is the filet mignon of eastern pop culture hybrids, then Uprising is that magnificent slice of 7am pizza.

2030: It's been a decade since the combined forces of Earth triumphed over a devastating invasion of giant monsters under the control of an unseen enemy beneath the planet's surface. Those who have lived in the years of peace that ensued, have continued to rebuild, and occasionally benefit from the riches inherent in this newly reconfigured world. Among these reaping the benefits of this newfound hidden market, is Jake Pentecost(John Boyega), the long adrift son of kaiju war legend, Stacker Pentecost. Once seen as a more than capable legacy, his life has found itself living from scrapyard to scrapyard, occasionally scamming other nefarious characters with his innate knowledge of Jaeger tech. It is on one of these runs that he is outfoxed by a young and capable scrapper, Amara(Cailee Spaeni) who has long been doing similar in the name of creating her own pilot-capable robot in hopes of anticipating future kaiju conflict. Naturally, the pair are caught by the government during a squabble, where we catch up with Jake's troubled relationship with his former life while big sister, Mako Mori(A more than welcome Rinko Kikuchi) urges him to return to the forces in the name of training a group of young recruits. Figuring this option is better than prison, Jake accepts.

This is while Shao Industries, a chinese megacorp, unveils designs for a newly configured drone program which threatens to render classic Jaeger pilots obsolete. Working alongside Shao CEO Liwen Shao(Jing Tian), we have a now "rock star" Newt Geisler(Charlie Day returns!), who while struggling with his mandarin, seems ready to ignore lessons of the past in the name of his newfound status. And with the upcoming public unveiling of this new program, the world is blindsided by the appearance of a rogue Jaeger. An event that not only brings about untold devastation, but solidifies the resolve of Jake and crew to both solve the mystery of this new threat, and possibly come face to face with an old adversary. 

On its face, Uprising offers very little in the way of newness to the proceedings. We do have a more scrappy, on the ground, handheld quality to the visuals that double down on the lived-in aspect of the universe. It's a more meat and potatoes approach to something that was once quite studied and sensually articulate. It's certainly not a novel approach. One could say that this is the stylistic gulf between ALIEN and ALIENS, and yet both work respectively. As to whether or not this works in a similar fashion, I leave it to history. But the proceedings here are much more street level and less staged than the last go-round. Which at times works. But what is missed in the maelstrom(Original title- had to do it), is the sense of sheer weight, and emotional stakes that the first carried with a disarming amount of sincerity. DeKnight, and company do their level best, but it often finds itself far too often in a rush to get to the next skirmish. By the time we're at the Battle For Fujisan, I found myself almost completely tapped out. Like a good race, there's value to be found in a good sequence of pauses. Something the producers of Pacific Rim: Uprising see little value in apparently.

Again, there are enchantments to be had in this grand scale Saturday Morning cartoon. Many of them humming beneath the surface. And while it isn't as articulate as it could be, the first film's themes of empathy and ecological consciousness, have been traded in for an on point tribute to the pluralistic youth that stands in the way of an encroaching invasion from within. From the ashes of an old enemy now infecting the increasingly digitized present, the film posits that hope resides in the children who have grown up in the shadow of war and corruption. They are familiar with the failings of their elders, and are more comfortable with the terrain. So when it's revealed that even our trusted friends come with blind spots that render them ripe for the weaponizing, it's up to an unusual set of alliances to alter course. There's also the presence of Scott Eastwood, as Jake's former Jaeger partner, Nate, who frighteningly resembles his dad in his 1960s heyday. - It is utterly uncanny. But it's really about Boyega, who continues to shine as a hopelessly likeable underdog.

The production and beyond, remains as solid as the original, but in no way as elegant. And I suppose this is to be expected. More battles in broad daylight, not to mention an at times galling amount of collateral damage may make or break some. DeKnight's previous work includes season one of Marvel's DAREDEVIL, which shows in his penchant for loose camera work, and occasionally diffuse lighting. The impetus here, is that we've already been well introduced to this world. The garden, and expo center part of the fair is over, it's time for the carnival midway. And this is where Pacific Rim: Uprising may or may not work for some. But damn, if that morning pizza isn't delicious in the moment. It may not be good for you, but since when was most anime ever good for you?

Annhilation(2018) Film Thoughts

Two thirds into Alex Garland's large studio debut features the conspicuous appearance of Rebecca Skloot's novel, The Immortal Life Of Henrietta Lacks. A remarkable document of how one's genetics helped provide the impetus for developments beyond what was thought possible with oncological research. A dive into how diversity serves to better alter the genetic landscape. Not unlike race politics in America, the story of genetics and medical science's role in understanding manners of societal change, remain an integral part of the nation's grander story. And in utilizing the initial book in Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach trilogy, it isn't too far a reach to consider the role of America's story in the telling of modern America, and it's reckoning with the natural changes only humans seem primed to ignore. 

Debriefed behind glass by a number of men in hazmat suits, cellular biologist and professor, Lena(Natalie Portman), finds herself unable to properly account for a great deal of lost time after being retrieved. Only certain details remain, but a sense of missing time persists as she is asked to recall what she knows prior to being found. She is also asked about a party of people she has been in the company of, but can offer very little as to what happened.

Prior to all of this, Lena had long been living quietly in the shadow of deep loss due to the disappearance of her husband. Relegating weekends toward repainting her bedroom aimlessly, as if one year since her military life and love prior to her educator one continues to exist within an inert cycle. Cohorts, cannot seem to reach her. The loss of Kane, a soldier last assigned to a classified post so secret, that even he could't grant much of a hint to her beyond hemisphere. Still haunted by these memories, matters suddenly take a jarring turn when he seemingly returns, and doesn't seem to be quite alright.

It isn't long before Lena and Kane are brought into a top secret military installation, where the husband is now in an unstable condition due to organ failure. Lena, desperate for answers meets the secretive Dr. Ventress (Jennifer Jason Leigh), who explains to her that what has happened to her husband is something just outside the compound that defies scientific explanation. A few few hundred yards from the Southern Reach, lies The Shimmer. An environmental anomaly that seems to contain all that is within the southern swamp and coastal area, and it is continuing to expand. Having sent in several military missions into the almost bioluminescent dome, and Kane being the only "survivor", Ventress soon reveals that she intends to send in a small team of women scientists deeper into the territory, to figure out what exactly happened to these groups. Lena, feeling a need to do this for Kane, volunteers to join, without letting anyone else from her group know of her connection to the Shimmer's only living survivor.

And it isn't very long before the nature of the phenomenon reveals itself in increasingly gorgeous, yet deeply unsettling ways.

Garland, working from the first manuscript by VanDerMeer expands upon his now familiar brand of sneaky, slow burn, character-centric science fiction, and fashions something that borders on overload, but offers up enough thematic roughage to make up for it. Not satisfied at all with an abundance of cheap scares, the film attempts to hew in tone to Garland's stellar Ex-Machina. And even when it attempts to maintain that piece's more intimate nature, the execution at times feels a might looser, most likely due to the source material's more unwieldy elements. We are rarely given a great deal about the team Lena and Ventress join, save for hints that every member is a survivor of sorts. There is compelling support work here via teammates, Tessa Thompson, Gina Rodriguez, and Tuva Novotny, but it does feel like a classic need to streamline for pacing. And if anything, this is where the whole falters. Considering pre-release news about casting controveries, and Netflix deals, Annhilation at times feels like a work hindered by a lack of faith outside the director and crew. Because everyone here, brings their best possible game regardless of these obstacles.

Even so, Annhilation's canvas remains full of some of the most arresting, and eerie painterly images in a large scale creepfest in a great, long while. Cinematographer, Rob Hardy's work here is a quantum leap forward for the Ex-Machina DP, offering up a startling mix of natural light, intense greens, and a prism theme within the Shimmer, that operates like an ever present Lisa Frank nightmare. The design of what lies within, feels like an amalgamation of decades' worth of alien and biological horrors. Every time one wants to cry Giger, the film goes out of its way to create a signature, almost fungal feel. The very notion of life out of control permeates every moment within the Shimmer. And what may actually be happening inside, is both viscerally frightening, yet thematically beautiful.

Performances across the board are magnetic while Portman and Isaacs present a credible emotional anchor. Most impressive being Tessa Thompson, who's Josie not only grants us meaty exposition, but becomes an avatar of sorts for the mysterious environment that surrounds the cast. And Tuva Novotny, who effortlessly embodies empathy in a uniquely understated piece of acting work. And then there's an even more enigmatic than usual Leigh, who takes Ventress, beyond the archetypical "lead scientist with a secret" role, turning her from merely a foil, and into a potential martyr to science while our understanding of it is endlessly turned asunder.

Which plays perfectly into what seems to be Garland's greater, seething, and unflattering thesis within ANNHILATION. That for all our collective knowing, there are means that remain elusive. Means which could themselves be changing the world around us, unnoticed, unabated. Combine this with the tale of Lacks, which finds itself at the nexus of generations of both scientific understanding and racial relations. Whether we are cognizant of it or not, the universe, the world, nature, people - these are eternally changing constants while humanity finds itself eternally at odds with what it understands itself to be. Fear, and resistance being that necessity to fight off an encroaching threat. But what if not every threat was not malevolent? What if what we're actually fighting, is the inevitable? Fear of disease? Mortality? Decay? Then ally such fear to the daily lives we lead, and how we as a species, very often intentionally trip up ourselves in the name of something new to come in. What we often determine to be self-destruction, may in fact be a reaction to an inevitability within us as part of the natural world. A response to a denial we have long sought desperately to ignore. The noise of a deeper calling, but one we fear for what it means to the lives we at times believe we are dealt. 

One only need take in the final choices of the film to consider the whys for ourselves. What do we sacrifice of ourselves to co-exist? Do we even have to? If so, what are we losing?

ANNHILATION, invites us to ponder.

For Those That Follow, a song by Ben Salisbury, Geoff Barrow on Spotify

Roundabout Tours Of Hell: Death Valley In A Day

How often do you find yourself compelled to break free? To untether the bounds between yourself and the threads of civilization, if only for a short while.  This deep wish, was something that had been repeatedly refrained to me via E, as she grew more and more busy with her new responsibilities at work, alongside endless tasks maintaining a home almost three years in the tending. Even when besieged by an intense bout with the flu, there she was, peering at photographs of her intended destination. A place of often deep isolation, and desolation. A realm often seen as far too inhospitable for life to properly survive. A place who’s very name implies the end of everything we know and hold dear. And yet this place, is in many ways not far at all for both of us; Death Valley National Park.

                    After a few dozen conversations regarding this hypothetical trip to the badlands, it was quickly becoming apparent that this was to be the single most ambitious trek for some reliable old wheels. Enter E’s 1995 Honda CR-V. Often taking refuge in her garage, and only really used for particular tasks in lieu of Metro and a bicycle, this little four wheeler has granted my buddy over twenty years of dependable transport. A beautiful tin can on wheels, at last called upon for an epic journey. And with only a few precautions taken, there was always a mild curiosity as to how she would handle the four hour journey into the fringe. As it turns out, she was more than up to the task with a full tank, some well filled tires, and a pat of promise. We were rocketing toward our destination with all the resolve of your classic Yesh Productions call of c'est la vie, making it through a few miles of freeway under repair complete with traffic crawl.

We also encountered a number of oddball stops including Barstow, where their visitor’s center is smack in the center of a largely quiet but significant outlet store mall. Further into the desert, we also gazed in bemused, and occasionally melancholic manners at remnants of California’s promise and betrayal with stops such as Baker, which still simmered with an air of real estate gone sour. Many vintage motels, covered in dust as reminders of a time when small business owners saw potential riches as a rest stop, only to become casualties to the advent of freeways and strip malls. Scattered along the path were signs to even more ghost towns. Promise of more of the state’s checkered history along what is among some of the most unforgiving desert land this side of the Mojave. From real estate swindlers to religious charlatans claiming the term ZzyzX, was the last word in the english dictionary miles of abandoned structures, and abandoned mining establishments litter the path toward oblivion. Echoes of lives and loves lost on the boulevard of dreams.

Upon passing Death Valley junction, which in itself featured an aged opera house, and a dozen of other beautifully weathered establishments, functioned as something of a warm reminder of what we would be leaving within a few short miles. Sure, there were some expected sights such as the visitor’s center, I found myself taken aback by what looked to be a resort under construction as well as a mobile home community within the park! Not something I envisioned for sure. These were sights that implied to me a resilience, and in some manners denial of the present surroundings. Having grown up in places where temperatures of 120 tend to happen in the dead of summer, this seemed to be flirting with sun exposed overkill.

And yet, the people still come.

       We soon reach the fabled Zabriskie Point, and almost instantly, we are hit by a lingering aura of cultures lost. Amongst almost punishing 70-plus mile per hour winds, the once thriving mining colony now felt like a place where ghosts of the past continued to commiserate about the future they yearned for. Be it money to move their families to America, or to help reshape America by way of countercultural revolution. The winding ascension alone grants an almost monastic majesty to a simple view of endless rock formations into near infinity. In fact, we initially eschewed the well-paved walk upward for a more natural looking rock laden trailhead, which led us into a seemingly endless maze of canyons. At once foreboding, yet strangely inviting, the both of us denied ourselves the expedition as clouds began to rapidly cover the sun. Moments later, we chose to at last venture up the snake path to get a better glimpse of what must have been awe inspiring to Italian auteur, Michael Antonioni.

Courtesy of E.

Spurred on by the realization of diminishing daylight, we soon leapt back into the vehicle, and darted toward Artist’s Palette, where our journey took a turn into the magically surreal. A rocky range composed of colorful giant rock formations borne from great volcanic activity roughly 5 million years ago. A grand rabble of cemented gravel, debris, and playa, the strangely toned array looks not unlike a rocky sculpture attempting to recapture the disorienting funhouse hue scheme of spumoni. Signs nearby let us in on lingering while viewing the formation as the sun continued downward, which allows the eyes to capture new and even more unusual color patterns from the solidified mica. The peak from which we viewed this, in itself was a hard contrasting grey, and littered with smaller broken pieces of volcanic rock, further evidence of a cataclysmic event long ago. I took a few shots of the surrounding area, and it never stopped feeling like a combination of a most violent natural event, and the most psychedelic landscapes this side of a vintage Disney attraction. An eye-befuddling gift from the Miocene era.

But again, we had to carry on with purpose as the clouds above guaranteed a troubling journey out of the park. And with no stars or moon to help guide us, it was time to venture deep into the legendary Badwater Basin; the other planet on Earth. Upon finding the parking spot for the almost mythical dried sea, we stepped out onto the wooden platform, heeded the signs reminding everyone to stay on the path (the basin is a long, mostly dried aquatic environment that is surrounded by tons upon tons of salted, partially watered pockets that must not be disturbed in the hopes of a return) while we wandered deeper and deeper into what would lead to the lowest elevation in North America. This was a void. A true, natural void welcomed us as we venture further and further into what felt like a hike into a netherworld realm where humans are simply never meant to journey lest they had a gift for the serpent that lay at the belly of the sea. Sure, we saw a few families ahead of us. And we even glimpsed a model and photographer, indignantly working off the path. Despite this, there was a wholly unearthly feel the entire near mile walk toward the center. Taking a quick turn back, I could see the parking lot looking like no more than a speck through my glasses. And above, the clouds had enveloped enough of the sunlight, as to be covered in a silken sheet of almost martian pink. We were within the gargantuan maw of a god, and without proper illumination.

For my impressions of this unique landscape in sound form, listen here..

Knowing we had but a few minutes left of sunlight, we made it to the center just in time to see teens and family members running past us, toward the parking lot. Even so, we began to stroll back at a slightly quicker pace than the way we had arrived. More kids running past us. Family members, aware of the situation, reminding me of a village ritual. It was a town that feared the coming of night, and we were walking, unsure whether or not we too should begin to sprint toward the car.

And this is where a pair of young Japanese men came our way, walking toward the sea despite the dying of the sky, “Excuse me. Do you know how to drive from here to Vegas?” We tried to explain that the best way was back the way they came. E, being the kind soul she is offered to show them our homemade paper map. But we had to return to the car to show them. One of the two men, seemed to be more eager to explore the basin than head back with us. And immediately, concern began to form via my face muscles. These two guys were about to go it alone in a deep dry sea, with no real flashlights apparent, and no map to get themselves out of the park. They politely declined our map, and chose to move on. We waved good luck after reminding them to head out the way they came, and continued to the CR-V. Mere yards from the array of cars, the lack of light was now so pronounced, that a simple break light from a departing vehicle, now resembled an intense flame. We were now leaving the lair of the old ones, wondering if anyone left ever made it to Vegas alive.

Needless to say, we took a bit longer than expected to hit the road home. And the ensuing drive out of Death Valley as winds began to pick up, was every bit as disconcerting as I had anticipated. It was so dark along those roads that it felt like being on the inside of a squash ball. Rarely did we ever encounter any other drivers along the way. And five feet beyond the car’s front or back felt like a void, simply waiting to swallow anyone up who dared walk beyond. But it ultimately wasn’t too long before we were welcomed by the lights of the earlier mentioned ghost stops. Strangely warm reminders of the civilization that was ready to welcome us back should we be willing to return.

And return we did.

But still, there is something to be said about stopping by the end of the world. Even if it were for a mere series of whistle stops. The other side certainly has plenty of room for souls who are willing to venture inward.

2017: Pop Cinema As People's Narrative

As we reach mere hours on the ticker for what was in no small way, a truly challenging and traumatic year for so many of us,  wanted to make sure there were some words regarding the year's largest film releases, and the truly clear thread that has arisen from them. Unlike so many years past, where the overruling echoes of individualism had been the primary message to take from mainstream blockbusters, 2017, even more than in the latter years if the Obama administration, espouse something far more concentrated, and occasionally radical than has ever been espoused this side of the more rambunctious 1970s. This is a year that started off with a debut so assured, frightening, and impactful, that everything that has come since hasn't been capable of silencing its runaway success. Soon after, major tentpole releases found themselves openly challenging the fandoms that made them possible, leading to not only push back with greater force than imaginable, but highlight a strong sense of awareness never before considered. A film landscape seemingly ready to not only speak truth to power, but to even challenge some of the industry's own dominant philosophies.

I could spend more time on Watiti's often terrific Thor: Ragnarok, and its built-in subversive kick against colonialist rule, but I really wish to concentrate on this small handful of "soft reboots" or latter day sequels, as they have largely embraced what I speak of in no small way.

And what makes them especially surprising, is how they mostly come from voices who have been with us for years. This isn't some case of one generation out to usurp the other, no matter what pundits and reactionaries would have one believe. These are voices from generations who could very easily have treated the year with a sense of philosophical one-upmanship, or a belief that the world is to be taken back to a mythologized past in order to save it. Most of these harken to a world that has been long in need of some true, and often difficult self-examination while the damage continues to pile up around us all.

Not unlike Capra's It's A Wonderful Life, we are ever firmly placed precariously between the worlds of individualism versus community. America, has throughout its history been a living, breathing, growing manifestation of this debate. But rarely has grand scale commercial cinema been so willing to become a part of the narrative where we are at last willing to talk about the toll of personal glory, and what it means for future generations. And while these films certainly do not break matters down into simple Bedford Falls/Pottersville platitudes, they do offer up some long delayed challenges to many common perceptions of the powerful and the communities around them.

5) Guardians Of The Galaxy Vol. 2

Dir. James Gunn

Now this one came like a freight train to the sternum. Not content with merely echoing the runaway success of Perlman & Gunn's brilliant retooling of a lesser known Marvel property, the second adventure sees our heroes, still very much as outsiders. But as outsiders who are themselves so as products of abuse. The film delivers the same comedy action goods, but this time is more than ready to delve deep into what makes this motley crew of lovable losers so relatable and compelling. And what comes out, is a shockingly frank examination of toxic masculinity, its effects on children, and what it means to confront your ego in the name of family. It's an unexpected voyage into the nature of what makes such character types so appealing, and yet so repellent at times in an era where such behavior finds itself widely embraced online, where so few people are capable of saying such things into the faces of others. And that's the most astonishing part. This is a film franchise with its own borderline regressive baggage (consider Drax at times), and yet it does take the time to make clear that these guys are likeable, because quite frankly, we've all known them at one time or another. Even so, the story unfolds allowing us to consider the whys, and what could be possible once we consider some introspection. Now imagine fantastical ones who are forced to air it all out, even when it renders them more ordinary than we once thought. More than just a funny, exciting victory lap featuring a scene stealing Michael Rooker.

4) Blade Runner 2049

dir. Denis Villaneuve

   Now this one is a little trickier to explain as the original classic's backdrop in itself contains its own mildly right-wing reactionism in regards to its still jaw dropping future hellscape vision, complete with fears of eastern influences, and population shift. But what comes out of Villaneuve's assured, potent follow-up, is a continuation where these individualist aims have come at ultimate cost to the remaining people and machines of Earth. No longer simply hunting humanoid replicants, but now seeking to actively destroy any evidence of the possibility of a new species in a post-manmade world, is a terrifying place to start. The questions regarding what defines human remain, but have exponentially increased in complexity, now that we are largely following machine protagonists. The second film at last displays the sheer breadth of destruction male dominator culture has wroth upon the world, with only the sickly, the dying, and the programmed to play along with their landscape, as if this is what it has always been. Through the eyes of detective Constant K(Ryan Gosling, in a brilliantly low key performance), and those he meets through his journey into a forest of corruption and danger, we are also given a glimpse into a culture's obsession with being a "chosen one", and a deep dive into what constitutes life. Not to mention some carefully considered poetic allusions to self-definition in a world that has long been on auto-pilot. There are no ideal humans, because they are either gone, or are "little people". He is countered by "villanous" replicant, Luv, who herself sees no way out of the individualist cage. She may be dangerous, but consider the distant, isolated towers she comes from, and the abusive father she has grown to represent. She becomes something of a tragic remnant of a world that seems destined to eat itself alive. (No wonder Off-World seemed so ideal) Virtue and selflessness remain rare commodities, when all one has is a hope that the world won't collapse upon us all one day. 2049, is a vision of a world where the Trumps of the world have long since won, and the very act of giving beyond yourself, is a revolutionary act. A place where even the smallest hint of light, is liberation.

3) Wonder Woman

dir. Patty Jenkins

You know, my feelings about some of the story notwithstanding, there is absolutely no denying the seismic intensity Jenkins' first leap into the majors has left upon the cinema and cultural landscape. Even when the film follows what is pretty much a mostly familiar origin tale, the initial battle on Themiscyra, her first days into the world, and her walk into No Man's Land, remain some of the most painterly examples of their type. On top of this, the very nature of Diana's interplay with the world of men, and the creeping realization that the nature of evil isn't something to easily label and destroy, are powerful counterpoints to so much of superhero cinema, let alone the action film. There is also a grand respect for those who wish to protect others regardless of skill or power that flows through much of the piece. It's as if for a brief moment, the now deathly limping DC Cinematic Universe was asleep for a moment, and suddenly remembered what made such iconic characters so enduring. That it wasn't so much a matter of might making right, but of considering the cost of war, and the value of self sacrifice. While in no way a slam dunk in terms of story, Wonder Woman has its heart largely in the right place. And a lot of this is due to having picked a cast and crew that truly cared, and were up to the task in making sure we witnessed it.

2) Star Wars The Last Jedi

dir. Rian Johnson

It's been two solid weeks, and it's impossible to overstate just how important this one was to me. Both a shattering reconfiguration of the ongoing updated Star Wars saga, and an ode to the more humble fantasy serials of the past, it's a reckoning with years of identity confusion backed by a script, cast, and story that rivals the very best the franchise ever had to offer. Being the third of these films, the initial two of which while decent in their own right, gave me no clue as to how well this one would pan out. Even while singing praises of Lucasfilm choosing Rian Johnson for directorial duties, the expectation still wasn't apparent. And now, more than ever, the gamble could not have been a better one. Few franchises have yet to call to question their own fandoms, but if there was ever a gauntlet to be thrown with some of the best turns against one's own worst tendencies, I would never have imagined it would be this one. At last granting focus upon the very reasons for seemingly endless "star wars", and the dreams of the young, longing to change the world for the better despite the shortcomings of their legends, and even "legends", The Last Jedi, is bursting at the seams with reckoning. It's almost whiplash inducing just how easily its seems to juggle failure with optimism, sobriety with hope. And yet it all works to largely satisfying results as the young remnants of my own youth, begin to find definition in more complex, messy fashions than we ever did. And there's so much hope to mine from this alone. When we acknowledge our failures, understand that the souls of many are far more important than one, and sum up the courage to save others despite them, that is an ideal worth giving for. And that is why for me, TLJ is the Star Wars climax I never knew I needed. 

1) Twin Peaks The Return

I could go on about this one for days, but we won't. 

At the marrow, the very notion of returning to a beloved story is often a cynical, capital driven enterprise. Let's be honest about it. More often than not, there is absolutely no good reason for a sequel to exist, save for a few more dollars from the public ATM. Which is why David Lynch's announcement via tweet of a return to his and Mark Frost's television landmark, felt like a bit of a hard record scratch from an artist who would never do anything unless it came from a personal place. So when the production began, and the secrecy machine began in earnest, my attention was at full alert not unlike so many longtime diehards. What it turned out to be, was an eighteen hour event that will likely go down in history with the greatest of the medium. An unrepentant, atmospheric, frightening, hilarious, and frustrating voyage across an American landscape so alien, it could only reflect the one I see a small portion of every day. With the mystery of "Who Killed Laura Palmer?" now converted to "Where's Special Agent Dale Cooper?", the cinematic event of the year is less a continuation of the ABC network groundbreaker, and more an epic expansion of Lynch's entire output in the wake of his Peaks feature film, Fire Walk With Me(1992). And as such, the dreamscapes of this vision, both quirky and nightmarish are in full bloom, featuring much of the original cast, and a huge cadre of new faces representing what has happened in the two decades since that fateful final episode in June of 1991. Greater still, is The Return's bullish willingness to illustrate an America that has fallen in that time to forces that were long in motion before the little northwestern town's beloved homecoming queen was found dead, wrapped in plastic. And what emerges through every sumptuous, enigmatic moment of this saga, is the reveal that America has indeed been pulled apart by too much self, too much want, too much dearth of what made this simple town so easy to love in the first place.

But the tragedy goes deeper, implying that Peaks' plight, is America's. And that no amount of wishful notions will bring it back. To 2017 David Lynch, nostalgia (even the nostalgia he himself tends to thrive on creatively.) has become something of a toxic presence. A gateway to something safe on the surface, but only functions as a balm as entropy remains ever at our doorstep, always itching to come in. We as viewers could only wish for a return to that which grants us peace and familiarity, but even this over time renders itself an impossibility. Time is ever on the move, allowing us more to reflect and act, but as long as we continue to wish for our heroes to return, it's almost a guarantee that they will never be the same people we once looked up to, or projected ourselves onto. And what Lynch & Frost seem to suggest here, is that the future is not to be in the hands of the chosen, but in the hands of those most willing to meet it every chance they can. Not people with special abilities, or skills, or designations, but all of us.

Our homes ever being only as clean or as safe as we make them. Ensuring it for others over time. Because we are but visitors, and nothing is forever.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi - Everything In Its Earnest Place

There’s really no good reason to treat this coming onslaught of words in the manner of any traditional review. But let’s just get this out of the way before anything else; I absolutely adore Rian Johnson’s initial foray into the world of Star Wars. Meaning, since the moment the announcement of his directorial duties for the follow up to JJ Abrams’ 2015 revival, instantly I began to glow with anticipation. A cinema classicist with a penchant for novel twists, and unexpected human drama seemed an inspired fit for everyone’s favorite galaxy far, far away. Thankfully, as I write these words out, there is a spring in my step and so much John Williams music in my heart as it has more than delivered for this one-time toddler of Star Wars.

Let’s be wholly clear;

Star Wars: The Last Jedi, is for me the first genuine, to the bones SW adventure in nearly thirty seven years, and is a perfect reclamation of the property after years of collective misunderstanding, and fetishization.

For once, it isn’t a film about SW’s place in pop culture. It isn’t merely two and a half hours of mindless service, or marketing for toys that will no doubt be strewn across the floor at your local Target. From start to finish, it is a film strictly about people and their choices, and what those choices mean for the future of their kind. Even more importantly, this is a story of one generation’s mishandling of history, and the future’s need to reconcile with that history in order to create a new one. (Even if it means acknowledging the mistakes made along the way) Gone, is the simple reliance upon lightsabers, abuse of Force power, and blood lineage to sell a story. When the film begins with the Resistance already in a dire escape situation as the First Order closes in with legions behind them, we are given a vision of the rebellion with greater focus on the small sacrifices that are made in order for General Leia Organa(Carrie Fisher), and friends could live to see another day. It is in these moments peppered with moments of simple mortal valor, that we are again reminded of both the stakes and costs of this ongoing struggle. More than sheer spectacle, we are made privy of what it took to get out by a hair. Best represented by a lone bombadier’s last act of bravery.

This thread of sacrifice over self-aggrandized power fantasy continues the moment we return to TFA’s final moment on the island, where Rey is seen handing an aged, hermitic Luke Skywalker his long lost lightsaber. What happens in response to Abrams’ in many ways bizarrely staged branch moment, is an appropriate one ending in Skywalker unwilling to help Rey as she pleads for the once legendary Jedi master’s help in turning the tide against the First Order. As the somewhat haggard look on Luke’s face indicates, this is the face of a man long haunted by things he could not avoid, nor properly stop. The young would-be student, in utter confusion, also finds herself inexplicably linked to a still recovering Kylo Ren(Adam Driver), which further tinkers with past ideas of destiny, as well as sets us up for some much needed course-correction for the saga.

And when I mean course-correction, let me again clarify. It is no real secret that Abrams’ entire filmography, no matter how in the moment entertaining it could be, often is so because there is little reason for a lot of what is happening. As much good mileage as he tends to get by casting amazing talent, and creating memorable moments of sensory panache, there is often an emptiness to a lot of it. And a lot of this tends to be by design. It’s a methodology largely popular with commercials. As long as there is a hook, there is the potential for drama. What, of course tends to happen when this is the only focus, we tend to be distracted to another complication before any of us have time to clock that nothing of any true consequence has truly happened. Not so with Johnson, who if anything believes wholeheartedly in setup and payoff.  Even the opening scene, with its resistance heroism and sacrifice, sets us up for both the coming leadership changes for the fleet, but in the introduction of maintenance crewmember, Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran), who’s fresh addition to the heroic ensemble again emphasizes the Resistance as an entity comprised of everyday beings without benefit of unreasonable amounts of power.

Through the adventure of Finn(John Boyega), and Rose, we are not only taken on what is some of the new saga’s more lighthearted adventure material, but we are also granted a window into the Star Wars saga’s truest unsung bastions of hope; the young and downtrodden on the ground, longing for a better life. Children whose only hope of change lie in stories of bravery and pluck. Much like those kids, I myself can thoroughly resonate with this illustration as a child of the late 1970s and early 80s, yearning for a life beyond a region most well known for Cesar Chavez, and the migrant movement. While conditions may not have been as severe as that of the kids we see here, there is such a clarity of understanding on Johnson’s part regarding the original generation who grew up on these films. What it meant to them, even as the parents at the time felt they were doing everything they could to help make things better for us. As such, Finn, and Rose, become something of a window into that world, while both grow into becoming players in a conflict that is so much larger than the two of them.  This window also extends to those just outside the conflict, which evokes our current era where divisions have become so sharp, that the pull to see onesself as above or beyond the conflict at your doorstep.

The film’s ultimate concerns with efficient expectations of the future versus the handmade rigor of those willing to grant their all to an uncertain one, are made explicit when Rey, is at last brought by Kylo to the First Order’s Supreme Leader Snoke(Andy Serkis). And it is where the audience is at last ready to face two years’ worth of internet riddling questions and debates, only to have it all handily obliterated in what is both a fun remix of the finale of ROTJ, and a powerful statement on the nature of fandom at its most dogmatic. As exciting as it may be to wield a laser sword to face down upon your enemies, it is far more engrossing when we face our fears and acknowledge places we’re eager to go, as well as won’t. Every exchange between the former Ben Solo, and unexpected element, Rey, has led to a moment where all that remains is fire, and a surprisingly satisfying reply to an occasionally unwelcome myriad of fan bait.threads. It doesn’t matter what those answers were. What matters, is what these two intend to do with what each other knows. What are they truly about?

And what most energizes me about these questions? The realization that so much of what goes haywire in the lives of these characters, is due to either flying off the handle without proper information. Or long enough hesitation, that someone else takes the shot for you. This is perhaps TLJ’s biggest secret weapon. Even characters we empathize or wish to win, find themselves making hasty decisions that often mean costly repercussions. This includes dashing Resistance ace pilot, Poe Dameron(Oscar Isaacs), who’s antics occasionally save the day, at times run headlong into unnecessary pain and sacrifice. Much like generations past, there is a spectre of guilt that hovers over the proceedings, as if to remind us that a good deal of such emotions is precisely what led to the rise of the First Order in the first place. Hindsight, at long last coming home to roost.

Most importantly on the topic of Luke’s one time teaching of a young Ben Solo. A boy with an innate gift, but nowhere near the necessary amount of guidance. It turns out that yet another case of not properly considering the situation is what led to Skywalker’s failure. It is only in confiding this to Rey, as well as a surprise meeting with an old friend long gone, that he at last begins to better understand the role of the elder in the face of such great change. Is he truly the last Jedi? Is this the end of the Resistance? Does it matter? What is capable of growing out from all this?

This is a film largely about the past coming to terms with its role in the fragmentation of their world, and what it means to help the future shoulder the struggles ahead. The Baby Boomers, have had their shot. And the Xers, have long been swerving in wayward directions. Generations afterward, are now assuming roles we once took for granted, and are now seeing possibilities we never imagined possible. And a great deal of The Last Jedi, is nothing if not about the reclamation of Star Wars from the oblivion of birthright myths, close gates, racial and gender bias.  If The Force Awakens, was a hint of what was now possible with a rebellion of all backgrounds and beliefs, The Last Jedi triples down, settling in no uncertain terms that this Star Wars, is the world’s Star Wars. And that we are stronger by way of our differences. And that The Force, is always within reach. Just as long as we breathe. Let it in. Trust that all is capable of balance. The Last Jedi, at last takes a longview of our struggles of the past, and posits that it takes more than legends to move galaxies. It takes plurality, action, and unwavering heart. Greater still, Johnson doesn't stop at pithy platitudes, and illustrates how none of this comes terribly easy for any of us. On top of all of this, it is the women of the piece who rise to the occasion with the reminder that brashness is far from enough.

This is the real deal. A Star Wars movie about finding peace and purpose with respect to the past, and a reverence for those out there yearning for a voice. An emotional culmination decades in the making, and one of the most satisfying pieces of franchise filmmaking ever constructed. And make no mistake, this is a film for 2017 as a whole. It is a call to attention while the world stands on a precipice of falling over a cliff due to a deep seated inability to let go. The Last Jedi, exists as a reminder that the future requires the ears, hearts, and hands of all in order to ensure that the far more colorful world we now see, becomes a beacon beyond the confines of our one galaxy.

It's now, or never.

A Hidden Place Beyond The Hills (Ojai 2.0)

With this post, I have invited E to join in as we share impressions of this hot springs journey we just recently returned from. This includes visualized memories as the place we visited made it very clear that no photos were to be taken, nor social media could be used as part of a waiver we both had to sign. Quite in tune with the grittiness of the land and the approach, what was experienced demanded that we grant our memories a more raw, shared form of documentation.

With this in mind, let's get into it!

E

After more than a couple years, Michael and I headed back to Ojai, and this time, to the {REDACTED}  hot springs.

As we drove up the undulating roads of the 150 towards Ojai and passed familiar landmarks, Michael longed to secure residence in those parts one day. I quipped that he was a Dry Hills Hobbit finding escape from too much civilization, a sanctuary nestled among dry-stack stone walls and overgrown chaparral brush. I could imagine him intently baking his loaves of fresh bread in an home-built outdoor oven. He agreed whole-heartedly.

We drove up and up and down and down sun-baking sinuous mountain roads. The intensifying smell of sulphur signaled that we were approaching the correct location. {REDACTED}’s first sign was one of a series of hand-painted letters with wispy ascenders on found wooden panels beckoning us to proceed to a small trailer that served multivariously as sentry, residence, and office. Those greeting us were lean, tan, and spry, true workers on the land.

The initial impressions of the place were that of an ongoing, ambitious botanical process.

The minimalism of infrastructure echoed across the tented common area, outdoor dining facilities of split wood trunks, and in the mobile bathroom facilities, embellished with potted succulent cuttings. All over, the hardiest of outdoor plants struggled against the ubiquitous sunrays: mammoth sunflowers, nasturtium, winter squash vines, fig, lavender, aloe vera, sages, firestick plants, and tomato vines. Planters were fashioned out of common construction scrap material and logs. A lot of work was done and more was in progress. Having a backyard myself, I could imagine the amount of work employed and how much left to go. This was an ambitious permaculture project.

The hot springs were an effective means of fundraising, at $20 per person for two hours of soaking. (It could still be considered a poor man’s spa, as the other day spas of Ojai cost upwards of $150 and in pools encased in ceramic or concrete.) Connected to the parking lot with carefully constructed river stone pathways, the sulphur hot springs were in a series of five. What they all shared in common was algae growth and fine black particles in the very warm water. The pools themselves were in a very natural state, though it was evident that the placement of large stones demarcated them more clearly than nature’s design. The pools cascaded into one another, with the last one being particularly slimey and characterized by feathery strands of white algae, that repulsed Michael. He took one look at the lower pools and the facial expression he bore may be equivalent to those that confronted E.Boli for the first time. There was no way he was going into, what he called White Mucous Springs. Afterwards, I found out on the interwebs that their presence in sulphur hot springs was quite normal and there was no mention of harmful effects.

These hot springs are supposed to be good for blood circulation and skin problems, like my eczema. Soaking in them restores minerals that strengthen these bodily systems. As we both sat in the shade of overhanging trees and leaned back on boulders in the water, we soaked and talked. The combined heat of the water and the day was a bit much but we took it like medicine.

There were other bathers before and after us. A clothing-optional couple seemed to have no qualms about the heat, opting to wade in a pool that was directly under the sun. A young couple felt hesitant and squeamish among the dark, slippery algae. A stalwart Russian man covered with tattoos and his buxom girlfriend with long, bleached blond hair tested each pool rapidly, with equally fast exchanges of comments.

Two young Armenian teenage girls followed us as we finally ventured towards Cold Creek. A steady flow of water studded with minnows was sheltered by a canopy of foliage. The touch of the water lived up to its name. Each person that got in released a squeal or yelp at the frigidity, particularly in contrast to the warmth of the baths.

When I got in, I could sense myself losing sensation in my legs, and I quickly raced towards a large boulder to climb onto for solace. In the meanwhile, Michael and the others gradually sat down into the water and even dunked their whole heads. I could not believe their endurance! Michael says he can take cold water over hot on any day. He is a true creature of the desert furnace.

Getting out of the chilled bath, our bodies felt significantly loosened and relaxed. Nearby outdoor showers, with smooth flattened rocks and feet beds, were the final phase of this bath therapy. It was wonderful! The views of the surrounds as water rained down from sunflower showerheads bestowed us with a sense of serenity.

Walking back towards the parking lot, we decided to explore the permaculture terraces some more. In observing its extent, we realized that {REDACTED} was not just a hot springs and a garden but a conscientious philosophical approach to a way of life in which human life thrives more symbiotically with nature.

I take its ideas back with me to downtown Los Angeles and to my own backyard. How can we recreate this at home? This is a big and fascinating feat, and one that is likely worth the effort.

Michael was not so sure!

As we drove the two hours back to LA, he was more keen on the LED sign that said, “30 Minutes To Downtown” and the proximity of Halloween. He was also keen on succumbing to the sleep that his loosened body craved.

But when I reached his home to drop him off, he looked sad. He said he was bummed out that our adventurous day arrived at its end so soon.

Fantastic moments pass too quickly. We relive them through our notes.

M

Time to clear throat for a moment. Yes. My throat comprised of pulsing blood through my arms, ultimately leading to my digits, allowing me to better type out my thoughts in a concise, and hopefully droll enough manner to best encapsulate my take on this shared experience. With Eileen at the helm of this unique return to the hills north of L.A., there was a part of me that remains utterly curious about the capabilities of the fringe, natural world just on the ragged edge of city life. Eileen, knows this about me quite well. Particularly my own anxieties about that edge, and what might cause me to better evolve. Yes, this involves forcing me out of comfort zones, leaving me to flail endlessly into the oblivion of potential metamorphosis. And since this is Halloween, it felt only right to take the plunge as it were, and see these hot springs for what they truly are, scary or not.

And her impressions are largely spot-on, as the venue is a remote, almost compound-like endeavor, complete with and in progress feel, uninstalled lights, improvised garden batch setups, open domes, and pots of to inevitably become residential greens, crops, and flowers. Dirt paths, and dusty all-terrain vehicles being the larger mode of transport for the work allowing for the proprietors to go about their business as visitors tend to their bodies with the rejuvenating waters nearby.

It’s true, there is and likely will always be a part of me that appreciates the counterculture, but considering a frame and body type that is more about mental capacity over that of a busybody, my role tends to be more of a supporting one. Permaculture, is certainly something to both be admired, and adopted. But a cubicle dweller like myself, is a lot more at ease delving into a more hybrid approach, as opposed to these incredibly dedicated souls, all granting their hands, skin, and drive toward what is an almost all-consuming lifestyle. Which is also a reflection of how nascent, and more community based much of today’s more conservation-centric culture truly is.

This is reflected in the venue’s overtures for helping hands, which will pay in free trips to the springs.

For the two of us paying visitors, we were allotted two hours to immerse into whatever of the several pools that were within, including the Cold Creek. Adopting the Goldilocks approach seemed best. Beginning with the initial pool, where we experienced our first instances of casual nudity. And to be honest, the revelation was perhaps something of a well-prepared one on my part, because my initial impressions were not unlike that of walking out into a public beach, and everyone is on towels, and in their bathing suit best, It was more remarkable thinking about just how ordinary it felt. And while neither of us were willing to go quite that far spring-side, it was a welcome feeling that such social restrictions simply did not exist this corner of the hills. And on such a sun drenched day, this was doubly so.

Looking back at the entire session, it was that initial dip into the first pool that left the most powerful dents into the layers of my mind. A sensation reaching toward every conceivable corner of one’s corporeal form. Every nerve attenuated to the feeling of an almost amniotic embrace. Not unlike William Hurt’s isolation chamber in Altered States, there for a moment, was this feeling like being straddled firmly between earth and deep space. And while it was the second to hottest pool of the bunch, a part of me laments leaving it to test the others as they progressively either grew hotter, cooler, and with varying levels of soot and bacteria. There’s just something alienating to be about immersing onesself in a hyper natural pool rife with not only algae, but rock clinging organisms undisturbed to the point where entirely new heat-dwelling microorganisms could thrive. Having been in an onsen a decade back where the rocks tend to be brushed regularly, the sight of white algae swaying in the current, unveiled to me certain personal limitations. And the cold creek, while a rush to experience alongside Eileen, and several young people, all daring each other to dive with more determination these shallow waters of possibly 35 degrees celsius, was also a hotbed of parasitic life that made me squirm just a smidge.

Needless to say, I might have panicked a little.

                                                                   E                                             

                                             Don't worry, Michael. It's natural.

                                                                   M

                                                        Ebola, is natural!

But those outdoor showers. What a treat.

We're hobbits!

Which is to bring us back to the beginning; yes, this little journey was not only about escape, health, or relaxation, it was equally another in an ever growing number of small voyages, centered on discovering as much about the natural world, as it is the self with confronted with the organic new. Like so many others, I have often lived life on a specially selected parameter of rails that allows for a sense of consistency and safety, knowing full well that this is in many ways the antithesis of life itself. Conversely, these little trips with E often represent that break free from these self-imposed confines. Not a vacation per se, but a means to challenge the more amoebic elements of body and mind. A week ago, i knew nothing of this place. Nothing of the lives that nurture it, and nothing of the unpredictable elements that surround it. The opportunity to share these moments is of peak value. And despite my tendency to jerk and evade, there will always be an invisible force, ever compelling me to experience. Much like the intense waters of these springs, may such journeys propose greater changes, and in turn, challenge the me that was days before the confrontation. And this go round, was as rewarding as ever.   

Thanks, E.

Blade Runner 2049: An Asymmetrical Favorite Returns With A Sobering Power

When being compelled to return to familiar springs, I am almost always reminded of words from screenwriting legend, William Goldman,

“People will come up with all kinds of bullshit for whoring. I remember telling people, Well, there was so much great stuff about Butch and Sundance I couldn’t fit in the first one. Wonderful, interesting material.

Bullshit. That’s a whore talking”

There are no real good reasons for sequels. No real reason for any follow-up, save for either vanity or money. If there is something of any artistic merit that is to be mined by such an enterprise, it is something between the producers and director. (We could only be so lucky/unlucky). This is something of a segue for something I hear every now and then regarding long delayed sequels, and the like. There are ultimately no real reason to invest in a name, save for that additional exploitation potential. It is a phenomenon only really embraced by bean counters, and the occasionally inspired.

Thankfully, just enough of the latter oozes through the laser fine chiseled artifice that is

Denis Villeneuve’s Blade Runner 2049. A title that continues to leave my lips with a credulity reserved for a half hearted quip. Set thirty years after the events of the 1982 cult classic, we are tossed deeper into the expansive, desolate hellscape that is Los Angeles near the center of the century, where humanity’s last gasps on Earth seems to be clinging to a thread in the wake of further commercial, industrial and ecological decay. Greater dimensions of post-Singularity life are explored as dutiful replicant hunter killer, Officer K(Ryan Gosling), is tasked with uncovering the truth behind what could mean a world shattering discovery regarding the future of Replicants as oppressed servant machines. Stumbling upon curious artifacts at the site of his last outing against a runaway Nexus 8, an avalanche of evidence begins to coalesce implying that our nameless protagonist, may very well be on a cusp of something devastating.

Now, before we get into the fine meat of the film, perhaps it is important to lay out some foundations. Particularly in regards to the original Blade Runner, and my lifelong relationship with it. Having no familiarity with the work of Philip K. Dick, nor Burroughs, and having zero concept of what the term Blade Runner actually meant, the visuals of the ad campaign, the striking poster, and a summer where Harrison Ford,was about to tackle grand scale fantasy again, my dad took me to the local movie house. Only, then did we discover that seven year old me was about to both be thrown Marianas Trench deep into realms of hard science fiction, and glacially paced art cinema. Both things, that were still pretty alien to my young mind. Some of the most indelible impressions left upon me were the jaw dropping visuals, the soundscape, and the crushingly powerful score by VANGELIS. When it was over, I had surely napped once or twice, but it stuck with me regardless. I bugged parents for any Blade Runner related merch I could get my hands on. Perplexed as they were, knowing full well that I very well couldn’t fully understand what I was so giddy about, they found the official Marvel Comics adaptation, and an official movie magazine. Both items stayed with me throughout much of the 1980s. That summer, was also the time of being inspired by synthpop with the sounds of Soft Cell, Gary Numan, and others. So culture in a sense, had been calling. Somehow, evoking imagery that remained hard to shake throughout the rest of that year.

Despite having nearly noone in town whom I could properly talk Blade Runner with, the film remained something of a personal companion. A fantasy world that was just foreboding and tactile enough to feel like something out of a Disneyland nightmare. Los Angeles, suddenly had this air of Pleasure Island, complete with a world’s worth of cultures, and lifestyles simply gasping for air as they went about their daily business beneath what seemed like entire bed sets of oppressive rain. Back then, I had no care for why Rick Deckard didn’t seem like such a good guy, nor that his targets seemed a great deal more relatable and worthy of empathy. The world simply felt like this forbidden tourist attraction where the only true price of admission, was innocence.

Flash forward ten years, and being familiar with what came clear as obvious structural and character issues in the film, talks of a new, more ideal cut would be released to the public soon. Immediately, I made sure to consider the event appointment viewing. And sure enough, that cut provided me with something far more mysterious and ethereal. Ridley Scott’s true intentions at last began to take shape, even as it remained clear that Deckard, was no different than the nazi SS agents, PKD studied as inspiration for Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep. That the reason so many stayed away in droves, was not merely the hacky Harrison Ford voice-over clusterhump, but that America’s latest cinema hero had taken a career hard left, and took on the role of an ineffectual cog in a horrendous oppression machine. A film that offered no real cathartic turn for our main character. Where the true hero in his last moments, saw the beauty in life, and allowed his spirit to flow free after exhibiting that which life never granted to him; mercy.Blade Runner, at age 18, was at last a vision of a desolate future where apathy, and exploitation had run the planet asunder, and with it, the human soul.

And yet the film’s legacy had a greater hold on me than I had ever initially assumed. So many angles, from the art, sound, fashion, and environmental also gave way toward interests that remain as important to me now as then. Everything from concerns regarding social justice, economic and health. Environmental and ecological. The world of Los Angeles, 2019 is that of our greatest vices at last paying us all back with interest. Pollution, poverty, and the revelation that a specialist is one act of insubordination away from becoming “little people”, suddenly became a touch point for my own thoughts of resistance and rebellion in everything from outsider art, to noisy, at times indecipherable electronic drones. From the serenity of deep ambient space music to desperate lullabies warding away yet more sleepless nights with noone to talk to. Blade Runner, remains a rich nucleus of what forms my art, sleeping and conscious life.

And yet, it is far from a perfect film. Like many beautiful things, the sprawling ambition of it often overwhelms, and often channels out any semblance of coherent narrative. We are given vague notions, and more worldbuilding than emotional texture. And even if it is clear that Deckard is in many ways the villain, his comeuppance, never feels complete to me. And yet, like many things in life, there is a beauty to certain forms of asymmetry. Some forms of art endure simply out of sheer personality. And this is no different. No matter the cut. Even Scott’s preferred 2007 Final Cut, leaves some things to be desired. It is a classic of sheer vision, and incomparable atmosphere, with just enough rough edges left behind to leave it feeling hopelessly human.

Which leads us to 2049, where decades of cinematic lessons has at last congealed into something both familiar, and refreshingly new in voice.  With thirty five years passing since that fateful viewing, our understanding of both science fiction, and the dystopian world we currently inhabit, have at last caught up with each other in ways neither we or the film could have anticipated. And in turn, Villeneuve’s final document works as both heartfelt homage, and as an often arresting affair, as it examines costs of the life post-singularity, and perhaps post-reality.

Officer K’s discoveries out on a remote farm, bring forth notions of the unthinkable; replicants capable of giving birth. Something that not only potentially serves as a possible time bomb for a civilization already rendered on a thread, but for life off-world, which has since already colonized several systems without faster than light travel. The lines between human and artifice, seeming long since blurred. You see, K is already widely accepted as replicant, discrimination included. His life as a Blade Runner, now something of routine, complemented by his baseline tests to check for stability, returning home to his holographic companion, Joi(played to perfection by Ana de Armas), and a love for “vintage” culture, and a longing for something more. And now, increasingly faced with an uncertainty about his own past, K’s journey is one that is meant to both serve as guide, and illustration of concerns that like its predecessor, are alarming concerns of our specific time, the current year of 2017. With information incessantly torrenting over our very own capacity to properly digest, we are rendered increasingly incapable of grasping to a shared reality to best reside within. Just as we find ourselves clinging and hoping to an end to many crises we have been through thus far, often retreating into fits of unreasoning fantasy to quell our anxieties, as are the many beings within Blade Runner 2049.

The mystery deepens, when the film reveals its hand late in the game, implying that the many seeming “gimmes” the plot had been handing to us were indeed worthy of suspicion. And yet, the apparent red herrings of the plot attempt to serve something in support of a more disturbing series of paradoxes very much in keeping with the original’s film’s tacked on question regarding a central character and his very own status as a human being. The key semiotic totem being that of eyes (like the original), and projection. The phenomenon of projected realities becomes one of the larger concerns of the film, which brings to the fore a more troubled vision of a populace at last having given up, and settling for imagined progress rather than real progress. Programmed love, rather than agency laden love. Idealized memories over the ability to step out, and experience them for one’s self. There is even a wonderfully executed lovemaking scene here that for all its problematic implications, rings true in regards to a person’s inability to consumate with their deepest wants. Our characters are perpetually restrained. From uncontrolled tear ducts, to so badly wanting to be the special figure our loved ones so badly wish for us to be. The world of Blade Runner, is now awash in raging inertness.

Also worthy of note are the roles of Lieutenant Joshi, K’s superior officer, played with troubled aplomb by Robin Wright. A less openly bigoted chief than Deckard’s Bryant from long ago, this time with this immense weight upon her shoulders. In her few scenes, we both see K’s plight, as well as her unwillingness to allow what little remains of calm in her city to crumble. Her reasons for wishing this new case to find itself buried is understandable. Meanwhile, we are also made privy of a growing replicant resistance that has survived in the shadows in the wake of the historic Blackout that allowed scores of renegade machines to escape their slavers. They too, wish for K to be the avatar of narrative erasure. His life, suddenly a chess piece in this game that noone wishes to play, is also distressingly under the careful watch of current replicant and farming technology  icon, Niander Wallace (Jared Leto). Having come to prominence in the ashes of the long gone Tyrell Corporation, Wallace’s claim to fame were hyper obedient servants with lifespans as long as customers will pay. But faced with greater needs off-world, and the need for increased yields of food, the reclusive genius with his icy cool assistant, Luv (Sylvia Hoeks) are now utterly relentless in the pursuit of those who would insure greater production of his “angels”. Leto's Wallace, is the utterly megalomaniacal end result of unchecked power, a severely dangerous counter to the well-meaning, yet doomed Eldon Tyrell. As iconic as the original supporting cast, these characters represent the world’s long fragmenting firmament, and make indelible impressions doing so.

And yet, the film does find itself in the latter half a little more clumsy than expected for a Villeneuve joint. The themes of nature vs. nurture remain, but several moments feel so smoothed out, so clean and commercially filtered, that one wonders why they’re even there. This is especially true when considering Harrison Ford’s much celebrated return as one-time Blade Runner, Rick Deckard. Which is to say he’s terrific here. But it hardly serves much of a purpose beyond the film’s own capability of being. While nice to see the old dog back, his sins remain sins. And much of his time on screen, seems to downplay the kind of role he had in the deaths of many replicants before he jumped ship with experimental model, Rachael in tow. To bring him back, seemed like an opportunity for redemption. A redemption that is never really addressed, implying that much of his actions in 2019 weren’t as bad as they were (hint: they were). And it isn’t long before he’s rendered something of a MacGuffin for the final act. Equally uneven are moments where K is let in on the resistance movement. A scene that remains visually stunning, feels culled from an entirely different, more popcorn film experience.

How fascinated I was by the notion that the film is an examination of life as a replication of our truest desires. There is a longing throughout for idealized forms, often projected over less desirable realities. The story, inevitably plays with this as even the film wants to paint a rosier picture over the bleak reality we explore for over 160 minutes. And even the lives of those we are told are artificial, find themselves seeking these elusive treasures in the form of closure, revolution, retribution, companionship. The end product is a russian doll of desire amongst a broadened, desolate landscape of our own making. And considering the mention of projectors, the phenomenon of projection itself, not to mention a key figure weaving memories with a device that looks like a series of camera lenses, what Blade Runner presents regarding our collective thirst for idealized universes to explore, doesn’t bode well for who we’ve become as consumers of information, memories, politics. It is a desperate plea for agency to kick in and kick in hard.

Which brings us back to the initial concern; no, we never needed another Blade Runner. But alas, not unlike another unwelcome kidney stone, it is being formed as we speak. Might as well hope for the best possible, least painful passing imaginable. And if we’re being wholly honest, this is as great a tribute & companion piece to an asymmetrical classic as one could ever hope for.

I cannot wait to explore it again.      

The Final Hours Of Twin Peaks The Return: A Singularly Blazing Black Out

I don’t believe in escapism.

This is something I have grown to understand, and accept with age.

That my own personal enthusiasm for culture, and in this case, film and narrative, come from a place where the real intersects with our dreams. The wishes we impose on the public. A way in which we can explore our relationship with daily realities, much less contradict them. And in that way, effective filmmaking, is a lot closer in presentation to a prism by which we perceive and digest the real world. So when I continue to hear others beat the drum that they read books, watch movies, and go to shows to escape reality, I cannot help but wince.

Because reality will always win.

And this isn’t because the rift between realities and our greatest dreams are at any true odds with one another. But rather that after a good session of dreams, we have the capability of being renewed, inspired, possibly even enhanced by them. Reality may win, but this is wholly due to how we allow the mind to breathe through our most difficult of times.

Which brings us to the final two hours of Twin Peaks The Return, which not only lives up to its authors’ intent of closing a book that originally began twenty-seven years ago, but seeks to endlessly dispel notions of safety, comfort, fan appeasement, common logic, and expectation. And despite this, and having survived such a situation before, it remains something to be cherished and mulled for years to come.

When we last left our friends, all points seemed to be razor fixed on what seemed to be a shared destiny between a great majority of them. Mr. C, was seen heading toward Peaks along a darkened highway. Cooper, along with the Mitchum Bros & Candee, Mandee, and Sandee, are on a flight to Spokane. Word following their harrowing altercation with “Diane”, ends with them at last being notified of the recent history of “Douglas Jones”, as well as his current run north. All while Naido, the blind woman, remains in a cell beneath the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Station with a shifty Chad, the Mocking Man, James & Freddie. Come the start of this hour, destiny intervenes, allowing Mr C. to enter the Sheriff’s station with poor Andy, believing that he is indeed our Cooper. And what follows could only be described as one of the most overwhelmingly suspenseful sequences in the entire history of the series.

But what comes in the wake of this inevitable confrontation, is where our greatest deliverance begins.

After what seems to almost resemble a climactic convergence, and Naido has indeed been revealed to have always been the true Diane, hidden away while her tulpa duplicate walked the Earth with the Blue Rose Society, we are granted an overlapped, real time close up of Cooper’s baffled stare. As if to suggest that what we have been seeing all along, was but one dream of several. Almost as in flashback. What happens in these moments, may be crucial toward deciphering everything that follows. Which is where I admit to all of this being too fresh to completely digest. But what follows throughout this stunning emotional reunion of old friends, and meeting between generations, is a suggestion that Cooper has something big in mind.

“Now, there are some things that will change.”

“The past dictates the future”

Speaking, as if to say goodbye, Cooper has also placed the ring on the finger of his fallen, darker self, sending him back to the Black Lodge. All things seemingly in their place.

Having retrieved the old Great Northern Hotel room key from Sheriff Truman, another plan seems to very well be under way. The superimposed image of Cooper’s face, a reminder that perhaps none of what has happened had to. Emboldened by these events, the moves he makes beyond this moment, perhaps serve as but another possibility. Potential outcomes, being the ultimate blood that flows through the veins of the entirety of the Twin Peaks phenomenon, at last have become the objective focus for what follows.

However, none of what follows will play toward more casual, ardent, and traditional fans of popular culture. And this was the precise same feeling that overcame fifteen year old me the evening of June 10th, 1991. An hour remained, and by the dramatic shift in tone, and distension of quiet, it came clear to me that this was at last Lynch, unbridled by network, fan, or even co-writer expectations. We were in uncharted territory, tethered merely by the hope that everything would turn out something resembling fine.

Only it didn’t.

Viewers, are already expressing their lack of belief that Lynch and company would take their favorite characters , character threads, and sense of goodwill into such a dark, melancholy, nightmarish place, yet these are some of the same viewers that either didn’t experience that night I did twenty-six summers ago, or truly believed that so many threads could truly be tied in eighteen hours. The first hints that this was an improbability, came about throughout much of the Las Vegas sequences. The very thing that caused some to billow about the slow nature of said moments,  failed to consider that all of this has been deliberate from green light. That this was the Lynch we were going to experience should have been emblazoned on every scene following. The very nature of Lynch’s entire involvement with Twin Peaks, has been that of misdirection, and misalignment. His interest, isn’t solely that these beloved characters earn their happy endings, which echoes a bit of our scene a few hours ago with Ed and Norma. Moments like these remain idyllic, but falter in the face of the daily struggles we must endure to even earn such moments of transcendent peace. A depressing thought? Sure. But not a thought without merit.

Back to Cooper. Who we have learned, has been gathering revelations from the start, and seems primed to do the unthinkable;

He wishes to undo history by way of saving Laura Palmer.

“We live inside a dream”

Like Orpheus attempting to take Eurydice through and out of the underworld, the forthcoming hour presents to us both a man revived, and yet disconnected from the reality that so many have grown to accept. That the power of undoing the fabric of time and space, may be no domain for any mere person, let alone a well-meaning, hopelessly good man like Cooper. He wishes no pain on those he cares for. Yet, like many of Americans in this fractured era, he lacks the hindsight that we persist. That we move forward despite the heartbreak. That none of what came in the loss of Laura, was wholly bad, let alone unhealthy for the universe. He gambled on a sort of invasive surgery into the lives of those he held dear, and has now possibly broken it beyond repair. And by undoing the world we knew, he may very well have opened it to something far, far worse.

Hour Eighteen of Twin Peaks (2017), is that voyage beyond the voyage. A journey into the outer worlds of not only what we had already experienced, but deeper into the wants of even its most inspiring protagonists. Even they have bouts with selfishness when confronted with the ability to do great good for the world. Universal balance, meaning that the threads that interconnect and help define our lives, often do so without us knowing that the best possible path is already under way. He tried to escape. He tried to undo the pain. He tried to save her. And in doing so, redemption might be further away now.

It’s a truly shattering notion to end a series on. Let alone a series that has gone on to inspire a feature film, several books, and a fandom that remains ardent despite the often frayed relationship some may continue to have with it. With a denouement which ends with a horrific scream, a startling blackout, and a slow-motion visual callback during the credits, this is a wholly intentional reminder that none of what we have today is to be taken lightly. That life persists, and that this means potential for change going ever forward.

We don’t have to escape.

But we can confront the future in whatever way seems fit for more of us.

Twin Peaks The Return Hour Sixteen: All Stars Aligned

Nearly a week later, and I'm still in a total daze.

Special Agent Dale Cooper is back.

I just find myself giddy saying that.

Special Agent Dale Cooper is back.

But before this, we must also soundly clock all the amazing moments that preceded, and followed this most anticipated event. First we catch up with Mr.C, and Richard Horne, driving deep past the woods, and into a clearing where a large rock watches over the several acres. Having been given three sets of coordinates throughout the series, and only two matching, C hands Richard a tracking app to home in on the source of a beep. This is all while the eternally lost Jerry Horne watches from a distance through inverted binoculars. C, seemingly unfazed by what happens next, once and for all eliminates Richard from this mortal plane, and seals it that Mr C, has absolutely no care in the world for the human shields he creates and unleashes into the world, even his own seed. They are all simply means to an end.

Next, we are shown that Cooper has been rendered into a coma in the wake of his antics last week with an electrical outlet and a fork. And this is strangely fortuitous as Chantal & Hutch, have at last arrived in a van waiting outside of the Jones' home. From the still searching feds, to a pesky Russian agency man, our oddly charming fast food duo at last meet a simultaneously blazing, and tragicomic end. All while the also just arrived Mitchum Bros. look on with jaws agape.

"What the fuck kind of neighborhood is this?"

Rest In Peace, Chantal & Hutch. Somehow, I never found myself capable of utterly disliking this pair. Even in the moments before it all blasted apart, their passion for greasy food, polyamory, and regret thinking about past debts, made them into somewhat likable marks. They too, game pieces working for a cold, calculating king in black leather.

Not only does the subtitle of this new season at last come to full clarity, it also defines the very arduous and challenging road it took to get here. And it doesn't skimp on allowing viewers to feel just how difficult it was to allow the stars to align in such a satisfying way. In an hour that now seems far more deliberate than previously wondered, we are at last capable of looking back at the Chaplin-esque adventures of a half-aware Cooper, living the life of a construct. The episode inevitably lets us in on that fact. Cooper, has always been here. He was here every step of the way, while inability hindered his body long enough for him to live the life of a seemingly simple man. The scene where he at last awakens as Janey and Sonny Jim are out, and he confirms the score with the One Armed Man, now back at 100%, so much emotion began wracking my body. The calm efficiency in which our favorite Fed gives out orders, and in such a soothing manner, reminds me of why so many of us wanted to follow him in the first place. As he gets Bushnell to help, and soon hops into a car with "Wife and Child" in a car, tearing through a sunny freeway as "Falling" plays loudly as emotional compliment, the show has at last fulfilled one of its great promises.

Now able to obtain help from the ever sweet Mitchum Boys, Cooper now has access to a flight to Spokane. But first, his goodbyes to the family he had for a time called his own, becomes one of Lynch's most classically human moments. When he still cannot properly explain what has happened, and what has happened to their Dougie. Sonny Jim's cries of him being his father hit like a brick to the chest. Still short on time, Coop has to reaffirm to them that one way or another, he will return. Aware that not everything is wholly clear, Janey's last kiss and passing words, "Whoever you are..Thank you." All while our hero races against time to put an end to everything, it is probably this moment that has hit me the hardest throughout this new series. Ordinary people, caught in a maelstrom of something beyond comprehension, being torn away by embers of truth that have at last come in from the edges, is a powerful story move if done with care. And Lynch completely sends it home.

This is where it must be said, I absolutely adore the work that both MacLachlan and Watts have done throughout this Twin Peaks experience. I'll admit to not being sure about Watts initially, but once it came clear to me what kind of person would be so tough, yet so vulnerable to such a lug as Dougie, she soon became one of my favorite Lynch characters. And the work MacLachlan displays here in various roles, and often within the same hour, between edits, the end result is nothing short of magic. There is no hyperbole when I say that their work must be recognized come awards season. Like everything else that works here in Twin Peaks, it all comes together because of this sense of family, something both these performers carry with them beyond their past roles for the director. They understand the world they are in, and have no compunctions about making these roles theirs.

But what comes immediately after this spat of euphoria, brings with it some new jolts of their own. Especially in the form of Diane, who's receipt of Mr. C's cryptic post Richard fry text of...

";-) ALL" With expressions that range from hypnotic to panicked, to resolute, she at last steps from the bar, seemingly ready to kill her Blue Rose comrades with a gun neatly packed away in her purse. But what follows, offers not only a stunning bit of performance on Dern’s part, but also grants us a window into our worst fears regarding Mr.C, and ultimately, who (or what) Diane truly has become. A climactic moment ensues, leaving us with naturally greater questions, but also deep implications as to what has happened to the real Diane. Could she be split into multiple tupla? Is she gone forever? And what’s her connection to Naido; the blind woman now at the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Station. If she wasn’t her, then what has happened?

And then, there’s the Roadhouse finale, serenaded by none other than Eddie Vedder, and an acoustic track that underlies one of the show’s great questions regarding one of Lynch’s greatest obsessions; identity.

I stare at my reflection to the bone

Blurred eyes look back at me

Full of blame and sympathy

So, so close

Right roads not taken, the future's forsaken

Dropped like a fossil or stone

All while Audrey and Charlie at last enter the venue. The very heart of the series, this location, and possibly the unheralded heart of the series itself. Still seeking Billy, the two reach the bar. And it isn’t long before the announcer follows up Eddie’s prophetic song by introducing a familiar musical interlude. Only, the jukebox of the RR is but a memory, and even the song, Audrey’s Dance, a truly meta moment among a project awash in meta ideas and crossovers, is met with applause as the jazz ensemble hits a familiar slinky rhythm. Spotlight dawns over Audrey, with her in an almost Pavlovian response, beginning her dazed movements as the song fills us with memories of a precocious teen we once knew. One might also not be blamed for expecting credits to roll at this moment, but we linger with Ms. Horne, until she overhears more drama from near the bar. And in a panic, she bolts over to Charlie, imploring that he gets her out of here-

FLASH. Light. Light, everywhere. And a less kempt, breathless version of her is seen gasping into a circular mirror.

We’ve all be taken for a ride. Not unlike last hour’s moment with Charline Yi, The Roadhouse is a conduit of sorts for so much of Peaks’ people and their individual pockets of distress, drama, and despair. A cross-section of people, still living in a Shadow of loss many current patrons have little to no care about. And yet, we’re here. Many truths on the cusp of being revealed. Something terrifying about the real that keeps us enraptured by the dream.

“But who is the dreamer?”

We may at last know who it is. But does this also mean the same for everyone? And what of the viewer? Lynch & Frost’s special alchemy, has long been that of being true to the notion that film is little more than a series of expressed dreams, with its viewers as paying dreamers. Where do we go, when we at last wake up? It’s something I often think about when watching, talking about, and writing about the film experience. That we ourselves are continuing the process by allowing these dreams to pass through us. And said process does not end the moment we leave the darkened theater, or favorite chair at home. The gift that Twin Peaks The Return offers to us, is the chance to delve further into why we watch the things we do, and consider what it is we are truly seeking, vicariously living through the lives of fictional characters, concepts, and environments. It has been a strange, beautiful, eerie, and funny ride being able to experience this. And something tells me that it will be years before we are ever granted anything quite like this again.

Not since Fury Road, have I felt such a cathartic connection with a filmed work. But unlike many, I do not lament its passing. Like all wonderful things, it is not meant to stay. And as such, I’m very grateful that we even had a chance.

Hour Fifteen Of Twin Peaks: A Symphony Of Triumph, Terror & Tragedy

Beginning the hour with what feels like a short dedicated to the series’ most distended, frustrating love triangle.

A bright, shiny morning in Twin Peaks.

At last inspired by the piss and vinegar speeches of none other than Dr. Amp, Nadine at last comes to clarity to tell Big Ed that he could at last move forward.

It’s a huge gimme to longtime fans, one that feels a bit on the easy side. But considering how long this triangle has suffered from day one of the original, it seems like Frost and Lynch, know that this is as bright a moment as we could possibly have before matters proceed. It’s vindication for sweet ol’ Ed Hurley, and a much needed wake up for Norma, as she seemed almost ready to waver on everything she has held dear with the RR. Sure, her arc lasted no longer than an episode, but her lack of confidence about going full franchise should have been a glaring hint.

That protracted shot of Ed at the counter, eyes closed, feels like something our creators had long envisioned. There’s true catharsis in clocking McGill’s age, and the use of Otis Redding in the background as a certain hand reaches out for him. It’s a moment many fans have waited for, and it is well-deserved.

The climax has begun.

Through the darkened highway, mere miles from Peaks, Evil Coop has at last come to Washington where he finally arrives off the path to the fabled Convenience Store. Heralded by several of the soot covered men we know and fear, his walk from his vehicle, deep through numerous stairs, doorways, and courtyards, we also see what seems to be the motel Leland Palmer once used to spend time with Teresa Banks. A darkened, dusty, nightmare world rendition of the place in easily what is one of the most unwelcoming in Lynch’s entire film history. Penderecki’s Threnody For The Victims Of Hiroshima, erupts again, signaling that we are at last reaching the belly of the beast.

Mr. C’s reason for stopping by is simple; he needs to meet with Philip Jeffries.

A meeting that I admittedly have been awaiting since the voice reveal of the character in lieu of the painful passing of one David Bowie.

But before that, the man at the switch..And the being in the red mask. Sarah Palmer? Again, imagery we have only seen in FWWM. At last, this is all coming together? The meeting itself between Mr C., and Jeffries plays out in what I can only describe is the last motel vacancy in hell. Their face off is comprised of questions that C can’t seem to gather any answers to, further frustrating our villain as his one time comrade seems to have taken on the guise of a giant coffee kettle, complete with steam billowing out, not to mention further puzzling statements. Power cuts in and out, electric humming switches from on to off, and a phone rings, further leaving Mr. C, and us to more fervently ask, “Who is Judy?” After all, Judy was someone Jeffries refused to talk about back in Philadelphia in 1989 with Gordon and Albert present. We were going to keep her out of this. But now, C has to see her himself. And has been granted some coordinates. (Similar to ones previously shared? Or..The Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Department?)It is hard to describe the utterly uncompromising nature of this entire sequence, as it is the epitome of one filmmaker’s ability to render an entire environment into an unsettling statement in atmosphere. When thinking of the influence Lynch has had on popular culture over the years, moments like these are why the Silent Hill game series at the start left such a deep impression. And even that franchise pales in comparison to what is presented here. Evil Coop’s return is something that sticks to the back of the mind days after we leave it. Just as soon as he leaves, and at last comes to meet possible son, Richard Horne, taking him along for the remaining ride, the Convenience Store, and all of its denizens, back into non-existence.

Then we’re whiplashed back to daylight, where a desperate, and horribly strung out Steven is ready to commit the unthinkable with almost as wired Gersten Hayward in tow. A misty morning suicide jag, isn’t what a lot of us expected, but here it is. So this, is what has become of Becky’s husband. Becky, daughter of Shelly and Bobby. It’s a wrenching scene considering how little screen time we actually had with him. It’s confirmation again that Peaks, in the wake of all that has happened, has become this desolate place where desperation consumes families, and leaves so much potential dead in a ditch. There was one witness to this seeming awful, pathetic ending(Hey, is that Mark Frost?), but what this means to the rest of our friends in town, remains to be seen.

Back at the Roadhouse, we get our first real look at the Hand Of Justice in action as silly James walks over to gawk at very married Renee, which only naturally ends in disaster. And Freddie, being the spry pal he is, unleashes the power of his White Lodge given new power a spin. And it is a scary wallop to witness. Yikes. Hope he didn’t kill anyone.

Meanwhile, in Vegas..

FBI continues to seek out Dougie Jones, but to little success while Chantal and Hutch begin to close up loose ends in killing Duncan Todd(Patrick Fischler), and his assistant. Apparently, they’re down to one last target? Dougie? Again, the hands seem to be reaching a clock’s ultimate toll with this accelerated narrative. There’s an almost Terminator-eque race to see who will reach our hapless golden boy in time-

And yet, nothing this amazing episode has already dished out, can compare with a pair of bombs designed to amp the emotional stakes to the highest possible plateau. I’m of course speaking of the passing of the one and only Margaret Lanterman, also known as The Log Lady. Her final words piercing numerous levels of reality, thereby proving that Peaks above all else is a direct, personal interaction between writer and director and performer and audience. With her words to Hawk that she is moments from death, and the warning that follows, her ascension is akin to the intense sunlight of the hour’s beginning being quietly snuffed out. The vigil in the sheriff’s station afterward, is a moment we are all invited in sharing. It’s a strong blurring of the lines between real and fiction, that finally sets the stage for a three-hour finale that could at last close a book twenty seven years in the reading. It’s an unbelievable amalgam of time, life, and creation regardless of the bumps, and pauses along the way.

The second? As recently hinted at in interviews, the final hour of half-present Cooper in Dougie’s shoes, may at last be at an end. Please. For the love of Pete, never do what he did. As basic a home safety tip as that has always been, few things are as nerve-rending as seeing a curious party approach a power outlet with such curiosity. It’s the scratching away at a most domestic of horrors, and yet perhaps the charmed life he had indeed been living was more than enough. Poor Janey. Poor Sonny Jim. Welcome to reality.

A stunner of an hour that feels a little late in the earning, but survives by way of sheer love for these characters, new and old. (Okay, maybe not Steven), and a deep need to remain an outlaw piece of surreal cinema. It's a gift that only has three hours left, and with that, I choose to enjoy every remaining second.