The other day, I saw Knowing, the new Nicolas Cage sci-fi thriller thing about the big list of numbers that can predict tragedies and natural disasters. For some reason, it's being sold as if it were a new and orginal idea, when really it's just a mish-mash of recycled ideas. Granted, I'm not much of a sci-fi fan in general, and there were a few massive holes that really bugged me. (And in case you're not good with nuance, this means that there are spoilers coming):
--Probably my biggest gripe with these kinds of movies in general is how stingy supernatural beings are with their information. So you're a ghost/alien/whatever with detailed information about the location and death toll of dozens of disasters over the next 50 years. You've managed to travel across the galaxy and communicate telepathically with people to warn them. And yet, the only way you will do so is to give them a random number puzzle to work out. You've conquered telepathic communication and intersteller travel, and yet you can't bring yourself to just come out and say, "Hey, the world's going to end on this day in this way." Fail, alien life forms. Massive fail.
--And while we're at it, why communicate this information to weird children? Why not try to talk to world leaders instead? You have the technology to evacuate people and a 50 year head start, and you waste the time passing your messages on through socially maladjusted kids.
--And if you do have the ability to alter your appearance so that you look human, why not choose a friendly maternal woman to deliver your message? Why go with the Swedish eurotrash look? That virtually guarantees that people will be creeped out. Or at least avoid you because they don't want to discuss Kraftwerk.
--Apparently, aliens have no respect for parental rights. Otherwise they wouldn't keep separating young children from their parents and sending them off alone on critical missions. If the little boy in this movie turns into a sith lord and terrorizes the galaxy, I hope the aliens realize that it's their fault.
--I'm not totally happy that the future of the human species is left to two little kids dumped on another planet. One of whom has a hearing problem. Is this really the best they could do? Couldn't they at least have repopulated us with a genetic combination of Brad Pitt and Cindy Crawford?
--Apparently, only children with trendy names are worthy of saving. So little Caleb and Abby get to live, but little Bob and Tara are SOL.
It's over!! It's finally over!!! Let children sing and dance, for our long national nightmare is over. I'm speaking, of course, of ER--which, technically speaking, I haven't watched in years. (Being an obscure hypochondriac, I tend to avoid medical shows that might give me new rare diseases to fear.) But I'm even sick of the commercials for it. No more having to listen to endless speculation of which characters are getting together, splitting, dying, and so on. Not to mention that I know of at least 2 women who were permanently put off of the concept of pregnancy after the notorious pre-eclampsia episode. And finally, until ER, George Clooney was just that guy from The Facts of Life. Now, he thinks we care about his opinions on world affairs. And I blame ER.
Strangely, it seems like medical shows in general are a bit on the decline at the moment. It's like the TV circle of life--the medical shows slowly die away and are replaced by lawyer shows. Then the lawyer shows thrive, overload their environment, and are slowly winnowed away, Darwin style, to be replaced by . . . new medical shows. I'm not saying that one genre is better than the other, though since I went to law school, I will say that it's pretty clear that we need more shows about bad-ass spies, dysfunctional rich families, and space pilots/smugglers harboring fugitives from an unjust one-world galactic government. Just a thought. Though I suppose I would be happy with anything that wasn't about doctors or lawyers. Or comedians in hapless shlubby father sitcoms. Or wealthy teenagers from Manhattan or California. Is it really so much to ask?
This is somewhat inspired by the latest Issues with Heroes, though the problem is not exclusive to that show. In short, it really, really annoys me when there's not a proper Hero/Villain power balance in fictional works--be they movies, TV shows, books, etc. In other words, to have proper dramatic tension, heroes and villains have to fairly matched. When one of them is dramatically more powerful than the other, the whole exercise becomes silly and illogical.
In Heroes, the problem is that they've created a super-villain in Sylar who has an almost unlimited range of powers gained by killing other people with powers and stealing their abilities. For awhile, he had an evenly matched nemesis, Peter Petrelli, who could also absorb powers from other superheroes, and without the messy requirement of sawing off the tops of their heads. Alas, Peter lost his ability, and now Sylar is essentially unchallenged on the show in terms of superhuman ability. This is a problem. Not only does it mean that any limitations to Sylar's actions and choices are completely contrived (as there is no credible threat to his power), but it also denies us the possibility of a kick-ass fight between superheroes, which is quite a downer.
The imbalance can work both ways too. Take Superman, for example. Superman versus Lex Luthor has to be one of the dumbest match-ups in hero/villain history. After all, Superman is . . . well, Superman. And Lex Luthor is . . . really smart. I mean, that's all he has going for him other than a few bumbling henchman types. Not to mention that most of Luthor's schemes seem to revolve around real estate for some reason. Lex Luthor has yet to have an evil plan that couldn't have been foiled by a detachment of Navy SEALs. So why is Superman wasting his time fighting Luthor rather than rounding up terrorists or something?
I will concede that the drama can still work when one party is vastly more powerful than the other (generally the villain, since we all like the underdog), so long as the more powerful one has a giant, glaring weakness that can be exploited. That's the essence of bringing down super-powerful villains like Sauron or Voldemort, who dwarf the good guys in abilities, but can be brought down by a regular hero who understands that weakness. (And is willing to undergo some serious suckitude first.) Theoretically, Superman has the giant weakness of kryptonite susceptibility, but exposing Superman to kryptonite has become little more than a cheap stunt, so it's hard to take it seriously as a flaw. Not to mention that it's a logically goofy weakness. He's really super-powerful, except when he stands next to a rock from his home planet, which not only makes him vulnerable, but also appears to give him a hell of a stomachache. Fortunately for Superman, kryptonite is exceedingly rare--though Luthor appears to have a kryptonite tree in his backyard, considering how often he manages to scrounge some up for his schemes. You'd think that Superman would make some effort to rid the world of kryptonite in his down time, but every time he encounters Luthor with some kryptonite, it's a complete surprise to him. Maybe Superman's more glaring weakness is the lack of a short-term memory.
I'm a little late to the game, but last night I finally saw King of Kong, the documentary about the battle over the world record high score in Donkey Kong. (If you've never heard of the movie, I'm not quite as behind as you might think, as this stirring drama all took place between about 2005 and 2007, and not--as you might have assumed given we're talking about Donkey Kong--in the Reagan era.)
What it's really about is the efforts of a nice guy named Steve Wiebe to beat (and then get recognized for beating) the record held by Billy Mitchell (whose high score stood for some 20 years or so). Wiebe is definitely the everyman in this drama--a regular guy and high school science teacher who took up the game during a bleak period of unemployment in an off-handed quest to beat Mitchell's score. Wiebe's problems begin when he tries to get recognition from the organization that passes for a regulating body in the world of near-antique video game scores, as it quickly becomes apparent that the group serves largely as a Billy Mitchell fan club.
If you've ever asked yourself what can be geekier than a World of Warcraft convention, the answer is clearly, "an old school arcade game competition." It will not surprise you to hear that there are very, very, very few women there. And yet, we hear at least 2 or 3 times about how Billy Mitchell is such a stud for having the Donkey Kong record that he can get virtually any woman he wants. This is one of a hundred moments in the film where you will shake your head slowly and wonder whether everyone they interview is on crack. (Point of clarification: Nowhere, at any point in history, has the line, "I have the highest score ever in Donkey Kong," been an effective way of getting women. Least of all when you look like Derek Smalls from Spinal Tap.)
By the end of the movie, you're sharing the bemusement and frustration of Steve Wiebe's friends and family at the insular club that surrounds the competition and the cult of Billy Mitchell that seems to have infected most of the participants. You're also praying that the guy who writes folk songs about video games will please, please not sing another one. Watching King of Kong is not a life-changing movie by any means, but it's definitely an interesting peek at the politics and drama of a subculture that most of us didn't even know existed.
In his blog about a week ago, film critic Roger Ebert wrote an excellent criticism of snark. Since this site indulges pretty heavily in snark at times, it may seem strange for me to applaud Ebert's diatribe against it. But, despite my enjoyment of a little snark (and Ebert himself has been a fairly masterful practitioner as well in the past), I think he does have a larger--and very valid--point.
First, a point of definition: when I say, "snark," I am thinking of a particular kind of criticism, the main purpose of which is nastiness in the service of ridicule. Ebert defines it as, "holding someone up to ridicule, not so much for what they actually did, but for having the presumption to be who they are." Either one works for me.
I actually enjoy a little snark from time to time, but I have to agree with Ebert that the internet age has made it ubiquitous. To the point where it often replaces intelligent commentary altogether. It's the main reason that I stopped visiting the Television Without Pity site, as relentless ridicule and nastiness--even when there was nothing really wrong with the show--became wearying.
Ebert's column is worth reading (if this is the kind of thing that interests you), and (like him) I'm not going to swear off of snark completely. But certain internet sites that exist purely for snark (like some political commentary and the vast majority of all celebrity news) seem to me to be substituting the glee of being nasty for responding to things with any thought. Not only does it drag down public discourse, but it suppresses individuality. To steal a few of Ebert's examples: Take Angelina Jolie's adoption/child-bearing habits. Reasonable people could have disagreements about third-world adoptions, fertility treatments, and so on, but the snarker only wants to ridicule her for the mere fact of her actions. Or take the gaffes that public figures occasionally make--who among us hasn't done this from time to time? But snark turns the occasional verbal slip-up into an indictment of character.
To be clear--I do think there is a difference between snark and funny criticism. Like pornography versus art, it's one of those things that you know when you see it. And I still plan to use it where called for. Or when I think of something particularly funny to say. Or when I'm being lazy and uncreative. It's not like I don't think there's a place for it in writing or criticism. But the relentless and almost exclusive reliance on it in some corners (especially on the internet) has (I think) gone too far. (I think this is related to the desire to seem cool through an excessive use of detached cynicism and irony, but that is a rant for another day.)
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