The Traveller Has Come

Imagine there is a portal that will send you anywhere--but it's a one way trip. Where would you go and why?

I wonder if perhaps this question, upon reflection, has an unintended air of solace to it.  There's such a finality to it--you leave, never to return (though, I'm sure, the fine print reads "never to return by way of the portal." If your trip is from the attic in your house to the basement in your house, you can still walk upstairs.).  This, of course, differs from so many "voyages" of fiction and fact alike: the moon, Oz, the Death Star, and the new world are all places in the middle of a round trip home, of which there's like, it's been said, no place.

There also the issue of where one goes traveling.  If the port of call is some place inferior to ours, such as the past or an under-developed fictional world, you've the temptation to rule it--just as Hank Morgan so easily found in medieval England.  Sure, there's the whole microbial issue (if the vast array of germs for which we 21st Century lads and lasses are unprepared didn't zap us, the sheer stink of, say,

Franklin's Philadelphia with chambermaids pouring earthen pots filled with urine and feces into the street would certain pose a problem).  And also... I worry that upon arriving at that inferior place, one would be taken as a madman, not a prophet.  A pessimistic view, perhaps, but could one really an American Revolution in 1750?  A successful light bulb before 1880? Landing on the moon before 1969?  Twain's Hank Morgan might have become "The Boss" in a handful of months, but I'd skip the past for my portal trip.

It's the future for me.  Now, there's been much banter about as to exactly how useful one of we quaint, stupid people of 2011 would be in that advanced, far-flung future.  (Indeed, many a reader will doubtless be thinking of the character of Harry Bernard in Star Trek: The Next Generation's "When the Bough Breaks;" Harry, of course, at age 10 protested the fact that every child his age learns calculus.)  That said, if it was today, July 21, 2011 (the anniversary of the moon landing and the endpoint of the shuttle program, a disappointing footnote in American--and indeed human--exploration) that I was preparing to go through the portal to another place, it would probably be that world of Star Trek: The Next Generation anyway.

Now let me admit right off the bat, that I probably wouldn't have been Enterprise material even if I was born in the 24th Century--my work ethic leans towards efficiency as defined as having other people do things while I drink tea, Earl Grey, hot.  Nonetheless, imagine what a place it would be to live in--the starry frontier always around the corner, fabulous technology,  and the air of adventure in the air.  Perhaps I'm affected by the recent addition of TNG to Netflix, which has allowed me to start one epic rewatch.  This, in turn, has transported (pun intended) me back to being 7 or 8 again, as I was when TNG started to air.

Still, stepping through that portal, I can't help but imagine how grand it would be: the chance to step onto some ship and fly through the stars to whatever strange, new destination awaits.  Sure, a relative luddite to the 24th Century, I'd probably end up on the ham sandwich brigade of the tug boat fleet, but it's not like I'd be making less money for it.  After all, the Federation is moneyless, and the creature comforts (food, drink, material possessions) are all one synthesizer request away.  A future imperfect, perhaps, but I'll take it.

Visions of a Dirty Future

Though a hotly contested point across many a far, far away galaxies, I like Star Wars: Episode II: The Attack of the Clones. I enjoy its wide-eyed development of the behind-the-scenes machinations by which one man (Palpatine) can turn his republic towards a war

whose only goal is to consolidate power under that very man. (In the early 2000s, this story seemed oddly prescient, of course.)

Yet there is one enduring memory from Attack of the Clones that I find to be endlessly irritating. (Sorry, it isn't the acting of Hayden Christensen.) I despise how darned clean it is on Kamino. You remember, of course, the stormy planet upon which is the base for secret cloning operations, inhabited by the long-necked aliens and Jango Fett. (Those who have seen the spaghetti western Django will doubtless be hearing the theme song in their heads right now. But I digress.) You may recall that Jango's quarters were spotlessly clean, as were the hallways, doorways, and walkways. This is, of course, because it's all computer generated, and Industrial Light and Magic has become a sloppy place, what with the best of the best drawn to work either for Peter Jackson's Weta Digital or John Lasseter's Pixar. Odd, isn't it, that the eye doesn't bicker with an 8 foot tall alien lady, but the absence of a dirty floor is an eyesore. On that note, let's look at three visions of a dirty future.

First, fittingly, must be Hill Valley 2015 as seen in Back to the Future, Part II. Think of that reveal of Courthouse Square as Marty first steps away from the Deorean. Posters extolling one to "Surf Vietman" are seen in the background; so too are large "compact disc"-like bundles of trash. The cars are appropriately slick enough, but one almost mows down

young Marty Jr. The Max Headroom-inspired automatic waiter at the Cafe 80s isn't dirt-laden, per se, but the (intentionally) glitchy nature of its Regan and battling Iotolah are a far cry from that perfect future found on Kamino. Heck, the Cafe 80s even has that clunky, forgotten, unplugged Wild Gunman video game--the one in which a future ring bearer, in his film debut, declares, "You mean you have to use your hands?" Throw in the later instances of the worn out scene-screen in the McFly home, as well as the imperfect "eventuality" of the Japanese owning everything, and the future isn't looking too bright.

So too is the case in Demolition Man, an overlooked minor sci-fi/action extravaganza.

Initially it does present us with a squeaky-clean vision of the future, one that is so pristine that even swear words have been scrubbed from normalcy just as remote-controlled graffiti applications are zapped away moments after being drawn. Yet let us not forget that "terrorist" Edgar Friendly is no terrorist indeed: the utopian San Angeles is made possible only by the subjugation of the least among us, who literally live in the filth and squalor of the sewers, stealing food to survive. Add to that a rather whimsical irony, that the architect of peace and prosperity in the future is also behind the violence and death which propels the plot, and one sees that the film's future is very unsavory indeed. For those still in doubt, Jesse Venture is in the film, thereby making it stink of elk hide and mat sweat.

Lastly, ironically, is George Lucas' own THX-1138. If you haven't seen this true

masterpiece in its special/restored/directors edition, then stop reading and go watch it on Netflix immediately (this is not some haphazard redoing that risks riling fans (Han should always shoot first), but rather the completion of a visionary young filmmaker who had far too little resources to suit his grand imagination). On the surface (for those who have seen the film, that's a pun), the world of the film seems similar to that of Kamino--lots of white walls and soft light. Yet clearly the edges of this world are dirty indeed. Explosions at the factory tearing through people, inherit sadness of those looking for ease from life via their medicine cabinets,lustless porn and sexless marriage: these all speak to an uncaring, dispassionate world. Indeed, one of the enduring images from the film is the robot police officer quietly, inexplicably walking back and forth into a wall. That scene has no bearing to the plot; indeed, it is presented as merely shading--commonplace shading in a world that similarly is quietly broken.

Thus we return to that pristine world of Kamino. Perhaps the storms which rage outside its perfect-white cities are a bit of a hint of imperfection. I nonetheless declare "bantha pudu" upon the House of George for having birthed such a clean baby.

Giving Thanks: Some Like It Hot

I tend to like my cinema dark and moody, complex and metaphorical.  It should challenge the viewer, stand up to multiple viewings and, in a very large sense, be About Something.

Yet today I give thanks for a movie that, while having a complex and metaphorical backbone in the background, I appreciate for curves in all the right places: Some Like It Hot and its leading lady, Marilyn Monroe.  Now, I know, you might be thinking that to lust after Marilyn Monroe is old hat, and I'm only the billionth person in line.  Let me share a bit of context.

I rather resist seeing most classic comedies.  I prefer film noir or war pictures... I'll even take a thematically black and white western over... yuck... Jerry Lewis.  Further, I had briefly studied Some LIke It Hot as part of a film course I took in college.  Without seeing it, I intellectually appreciated it for its deep message hiding behind silly farce (which you can read more about here).  Thus I was rather nonplussed when my wife insisted that we watch it together when it appeared on our beloved Netflix.

I thought I understood the mystique of Marilyn Monroe: sexy for time when belly buttons were something that you saw only on newborn babies and your wife--and for the latter, only when you pushed your twin beds together for marital relations and there was some light coming through the shades and curtains.  I thought she couldn't act--after all, I read Joe DiMaggio: A Hero's Life by Richard Ben Cramer, where she is described as a barely-functioning child-woman whose dog would wet on the white carpet, and she wouldn't know what to do.

Thus I was unprepared to discover that not only is her performance great, but Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot is, in fact, hot.  Bewilderingly hot. Stunningly, jaw-droppingly, I'd-like-to-watch-the-movie-without-my-wife-around hot.  Monroe effortlessly oozes sexuality, aided by a bevy of costumes designed to be near-pornographic to the mind, but tame enough to get past the 1950s Production Code (indeed, it won an Oscar for costume design).

Yes, it's also a funny movie (Tony Curtis riffing as Cary Grant stands out).  Yes, it helped topple the Production Code.  Yes, it's considered to be one of top comedies of all time--if not the best comedy of all time, as feted by the AFI. And yes, it is About Something.  But those are all but icy tips on large mountains compared to the shakes and shimmies of its female star.

On this day of thanks, where we marvel at soft breast and tender thigh... won't you compliment your turkey with Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot?

The Giacchino Challenge

Hey there, LOSTies! As listeners of my LOST rewatch podcast (also available on iTunes) know, I use different theme music every season--and for season 6 of the podcast, I need YOUR help to pick the music.

There are only three rules:

1) It must be written by LOST composer Michael Giacchino.

2) It must NOT be from LOST.

3) I haven't used the source movie/TV show before.

If there's a fourth, unwritten (until now) rule, it's that the track has to be on iTunes. It's only fair.  Besides, while I'm sure Michael Giacchino is a lovely guy, he's got an Oscar on his desk and I've got a microphone. We know who has the bigger lawyer.

Here are the tracks I've used so far.

Season 1 -- "Enterprising Young Men," Star Trek
Season 2 -- "Three Dog Dash, " Up
Season 3 -- "Give Her My Budapest," Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol
Season 4 -- "Grand Ol' Prix," Speed Racer
Season 5 -- "The Evacuation of Lilian," Super 8

The general idea is to have 10-20 seconds of lead-in (usually achieved by slowly crescendoing harmony, then about a 5 second melodic statement, then something with which to fade out.  The MI:GP track is a particularly good example.

Have any ideas?  Email me at LookingBackAtLOST@gmail.com or tweet me @LookingBackLost.  Namaste!

House of Cards: Chapter 1--Men and Women

Though I argued in my previous post that Netflix was wise to stay out of the creative/production end of House of Cards, this much is certain: the company has an incredible amount of data concerning how long someone will stick around to check out a program.  Just as my "recently viewed" section of the website tells me where I left off, so too does it tell Netflix that if I click away after, say, two minutes then I'm gone for good.

Thus "Chapter 1" has an incredible burden in its first scene: sell the whole damn thing.  Sell the idea of the Netflix Original Production, sell the concept of the series, and indeed sell the sale (it's not being made on charity, of course).  Some series spend too long in a pilot episode to set up the world before setting up the idea--not with House of Cards.  The neighbors' dog, a victim of a nameless, faceless (and arguably mostly insignificant) hit and run lies dying--and is wisely unseen.  Spacey's Frank Underwood is commanding and concerned... and then addresses the camera.  I know it's a dramatic conceit lifted from the BBC miniseries but it works, and wonderfully so.  Our being drawn into the show by his acknowledgment of his audience, in Iagoian style, is done while he kills the dog.  Or is he euthanizing the dog? Is he hurting an animal (the universal dramatic symbol for "this is a bad guy") or is he helping it?  Do the ends justify the means? 

The scene is the tension of the series in a nutshell--and, I suspect, the central question for the series.  On first viewing, the dog's death was harsh, forcing us to watch the villainous lead who will take us through the scum-filled town. On my second viewing, the "cruelty to animals" was less shocking, and the notion of making hard, dirty choices for the (possible?) greater good was more evident.  It's a fun dichotomy with which the show can play: asking if we are seeing how the sausage gets made, or seeing the brutality of the slaughterhouse.

From there, the show moves breezily through the necessary pilot episode exposition: the New Years Eve party, coupled with Underwood's direct narration, introduces the President-elect, Chief-of-Staff Linda Vasquez, and the seemingly-insignificant Vice President who, we are told, is happy to merely have the bigger chair (i.e. of that office).  Similarly, the show is expeditious with its introduction of "Zoe--Zoe Barns!" who must introduce herself accordingly to her editor as she is that low on the totem pole.  

The show quickly moves to fill out the cast, again deftly using exposition that matters.  For example, Congressman Peter Russo is sold on face value in one second: he's late for work.  He's clearly a bullshitter's bullshitter--and his attempt to wow the rube from back home with a call from the President-elect doubles as in introduction for his relationship with his secretary Christina.  Corey Stoll walks the line wonderfully, perfectly, between Russo's grown-up frat boy mentality and someone competent enough to be a congressman. (The reader may determine the baseline for congressional competence on his or her own.) As the puppet that Underwood needs, Russo will bear watching--can he operate seriously without the strings?

But beyond the opening strides of the show is its early dedication to certain themes. Sure, the ideas of power and corruption, goals and the road to get them, morals and ethics: it's all there, and the show wears them on its sleeve.  What caught my eye, however, was the episode's treatment of women.

Clearly we're meant to root for Kate Mara's Zoe. She's the underdog every(wo)man, she's being blocked implicitly by those at the Washington Herald, and she's the go-getter who--for better or worse--straps herself in with a (the?) real center of power in DC.  The show's treatment of her sexuality is curious, particularly from the lens of other networks (if we're to treat Netflix as a network). Her push-up-bra-and-v-neck-tee attempt with Frank probably wouldn't have flown at an 8 pm network drama--bosoms beware! I suspect a basic cable network (perhaps with the exception of AMC) would have read the scene and asked for someone more Maxim-ish than Mara. HBO would have had the scene rewritten to include both breasts made naked--of this I am sure.  Yet it's played with realism from a woman who is desperate to move up in the world, but not desperate enough to go the HBO route. As an appreciator of strong women, I'm a but unsure how I'm supposed to take Zoe's cleavage attempt: crass use of sexuality on her part? A smart opening move with little downside and little promise for more? Bottom line is that it worked and, if you'll pardon the male point of view, little female independence given up for it. The scene in which her editor commands that her 3,000 word article move quickly with a little help from Janine is one that gleefully and effectively plays to the audience, making us say, "She's our girl!"

Someone who isn't "our girl" is that pesky secretary Christina, though her worries of being used as a pretty... face, and being at risk of being passed up for a prettier face one day, does give her a wonderful depth. And speaking of depth, the creators are to be commended for their use of her nudity. It was, I think, a message that Netflix isn't opposed to such things in an original production, so long as they make sense. Actress Constance Zimmer's (splendid name!) nude scene is not the stuff of the afore-mentioned Maxim, but I appreciate the show all the better for it.  House of Cards is grounded in a very, very real reality, and Christina need not be post-plastic surgery to be an attractive, if not confident, woman.

Last, but certainly not least among the women, is Robin Wright's Claire Underwood. Others have noted her Lady Macbeth quality, particularly when Frank comes home, dejected at having lost a cabinet position; Claire revs her dejected husband up, reminding him essentially to be himself.  The line that he apologizes to no one, not even his wife, is equal parts masochistic and sexist and equal. She knows him--is she the power behind the throne? Claire is a curious character--another shade of gray who moves beyond the Lady Macbeth trope. Being the head of her charity, she both wants to help the world further, and is willing to cut jobs to do it. It's a sign that she is a strong woman in her own right... though after this episode, I'm left wanting to know more about the line between her operating in and out of her husband's world.

All told, "Chapter 1" is an engaging start to the series, and one that tells the viewer that this is no show to listen to while doing the dishes.  It's communicated in the final scene, in which the hit-and-run driver (guilty of a saddening but ultimately small fry crime, given his age), is visually boxed in by the police. For all the (dog) blood on Frank's hands, justice was served in this episode.

Will we continue to think that?

Chapter 2 awaits.

House of Cards: An Introduction

It's been said, perhaps in excess, that the premiere of the entire first season of House of Cards represents the television of the future.  

That Netflix has ponied up some serious (though not wildly serious) dough in paying $100 for 26 episodes of the series isn't the headline; it's that the company-turned-studio has done what most television fans want: put long-term money behind long-term talent.  (I almost wrote "long term tv talent," but with the hiring of David Fincher, Kevin Spacey, and Robin Wright, the only way they are tv is in the "it's-not-TV-it's-HBO" sense.)  

Add to that the stated desire of Netflix to stay out of the show's production.  I think that statement comes with the added caveat of "we'll see." When talent with Oscars and Oscar nominations shows up, Netflix is right to get out of the way.  As for their involvement with the other series in or to-be in production, or series yet undreamed... "we'll see."  Nonetheless, my focus is House of Cards, and as a television watcher I am grateful to hear that Netflix as a scrappy, new production studio is blissfully keeping the hell out.  On my ongoing podcast Looking Back At LOST, I chronicle the greatest drama of this century's first decade--a series both sparked by a soon-to-be-fired network head hoping to give an "F you" to ABC and conceived with declining network interest until it became a hit.  Similarly, I and two compatriots had a podcast about FOX's Alcatraz--a great, dreamy concept marred, terribly so, by over-involvement from the network and other suited folks.  

Lastly, the "future of television" has brought the "novel" approach of releasing the entire first season at once.  Those who think it's novel don't understand: it's already here.  Even prior to Netflix, studios would release the previous season of a show on DVD a few weeks before the new season started.  Why?  To encourage all-you-can-eat viewing, albeit ostensibly to cause a frenzy in traditional viewing. In more recent years, Netflix and its content partners have released prior seasons well in advance of the new season; for the content producers, the ostensible reason remained the same.  For Netflix, the realization was that people enjoy watching serial shows at a personal pace.  Perhaps too they've noticed people like me, people who are fed up with the network schedule.  I like Hell on Wheels so much that I skipped the entire second season on AMC, and I'll catch it on Netflix.  I like, even more so, the rather consumer-empowering notion that Netflix is putting their money where their collective mouth is and saying, "No really, watch when you want."  The HBO model is to put on great shows at different times of year, so most viewers keep the subscription year round.  While there is a bit of that with Netflix (it seems none of their new series are debuting at the same time), one could also spend $8 this month and get all of House of Cards, then return in May for Arrested Development.  Heck, the same person could just wait until May and pay the 8 bucks for both series.  Does Netflix care?  I'm sure their accountant says yes, but Netflix offers no block against that.

So what does money for talent, a hands-off network, and one season up front result in?  In my next entry, I'll cover the first episode, Chapter 1.

New Blog, New Buttons to Push

For the run of PhGeek.com, I blogged there both frequently and infrequently.  We felt like we were saving the world together, and it was lovely.  Now that's over with and you know what?  With it gone, I feel like blogging again.

Thus welcome to The Look Back, where I will blog, doubtless frequently and infrequently.  Maybe you've come by way of my LOST rewatch podcast Looking Back At LOST, or Twitter, or just the random universe.

What will go on here?  I'll start with TV and movies, I'm sure; then I'll likely throw in some tech world observations; and perhaps random ramblings along the way.  Add a few liveblogs around the way and this should be a fun place.

Welcome.