From a year ago:
Solo is on Netflix.
In many ways, it is the opposite of The Last Jedi. Where TLJ attempted to subvert expectations and wound up upsetting many fans, Solo is all fan service. Yet somehow it still manages to be mediocre as a Star Wars movie.
I've been using a new word to describe films I am not content with. "Inoffensive." When I call a film inoffensive, what I'm saying is not that it is particularly good or bad--not that I liked or disliked it. Mainly I am saying that the film took no real risks, didn't offer anything new, didn't make a good case for its own existence. (Unless it's a Transformers movie, for which "inoffensive" is the highest compliment I can give this Bay-tortured franchise.)
Solo was a Star Wars movie that I neither wanted nor asked for, especially from the fan fiction studios at Disney. But then, I didn't ask for Rogue One, and I wound up liking that hasty little movie (or at least liking some moments in it).
Star Wars needs to have memorable "Holy Shit" moments. It gets harder to include those moments in this era of advanced CGI. Frankly, audiences are harder to impress. That's why the story needs to be better now than ever before. (Our emotions. Our emotions.)
Today, Star Wars couldn't get away with a prequel trilogy. (Some might say that it didn't before.) Hell, today Star Wars couldn't get away with Return of the Jedi, which I now acknowledge was not good Star Wars--merely mediocre Star Wars with a few awesome moments.
And I'll admit it--I've grown to be something of a snob about this sort of thing. You know, geeky things. I am continually frustrated when things don't turn out to be the best possible versions of themselves. After all, life is full of disappointment. What's the point of escapism if it just brings further disappointment?
But I know that making a film is no small undertaking. So many things can go wrong. It's a miracle that anything likable makes it into the final product.
So when I express disappointment in a film, I try to keep it focused on the story--not on the people who made the film. Not the actors.
In the past, even Star Wars movies I disliked had one or two moments I liked to revisit. The Darth Maul fight. The Coruscant chase. Order 66.
The Force Awakens didn't have such a moment for me. There was nothing for me to revisit, because the entire movie was a "revisiting" of the original Star Wars. The Last Jedi, at least, had one such moment--the reappearance of Yoda. Rogue One had the Darth Vader moment at the end, and I liked the big battle on Scariff. Solo...
Solo had a bunch of references to things I liked, but not a whole lot of actual things I liked. But it wasn't bad. It had its charms. It was just... forgettable. Mediocre.
Inoffensive.
Sunday, January 12, 2020
Friday, January 10, 2020
The value of stories
Sometimes, I forget the value of stories. What I need from them.
Stories can be great. They can make me feel more in touch with humanity, with myself.
They can also be not-so-great. They can feel empty and shallow.
The most disappointing stories are the ones that promise me everything I want but fail to deliver. But even more disappointing than those are the ones that give me exactly what I think I want, only for me to realize that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
Sometimes it feels like a story exists for the sole purpose of selling me something. To strengthen a brand, for instance. (Capitalism and art can coexist, but there are low points.)
My favorite stories aren’t actually *my* stories. But they *feel* like they were written just for me. But because I connect with them—because I relate to them—so strongly, I take “ownership” of them, which leads to other problems.
I think it is wrongheaded for fans to think, “I need this story to be for *me*.” It doesn’t feel right to me for fans to shape and bend someone else’s story to their will.
When I was a more avid reader of comics (I’ve grown more selective in my old age), I couldn’t understand the people who kept talking about the books they hated. To me the answer was simple: “Stop reading those books. Read something else.”
But they had a different attitude. They considered themselves huge fans of those books, therefore the books were somehow obligated to give them the experience they desired. The fact that they didn’t—or couldn’t—was a show of “disrespect” to fans.
This strikes me as a kind of intellectual laziness. The fan is no longer putting in the work to search the world for the art that speaks to them. They expect the art to be handed to them on a silver platter.
No. We, the fans, need to do the work. We need to keep looking. Because it is very likely that we will grow dissatisfied with what we have. We will reach a point where our favorite thing has nothing left to give us. And we need to be okay with that. We cannot be resentful, because that leads to toxic behavior.
We found great art before, we can find it again.
And if we can’t find it, then we need to make it.
Stories can be great. They can make me feel more in touch with humanity, with myself.
They can also be not-so-great. They can feel empty and shallow.
The most disappointing stories are the ones that promise me everything I want but fail to deliver. But even more disappointing than those are the ones that give me exactly what I think I want, only for me to realize that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
Sometimes it feels like a story exists for the sole purpose of selling me something. To strengthen a brand, for instance. (Capitalism and art can coexist, but there are low points.)
My favorite stories aren’t actually *my* stories. But they *feel* like they were written just for me. But because I connect with them—because I relate to them—so strongly, I take “ownership” of them, which leads to other problems.
I think it is wrongheaded for fans to think, “I need this story to be for *me*.” It doesn’t feel right to me for fans to shape and bend someone else’s story to their will.
When I was a more avid reader of comics (I’ve grown more selective in my old age), I couldn’t understand the people who kept talking about the books they hated. To me the answer was simple: “Stop reading those books. Read something else.”
But they had a different attitude. They considered themselves huge fans of those books, therefore the books were somehow obligated to give them the experience they desired. The fact that they didn’t—or couldn’t—was a show of “disrespect” to fans.
This strikes me as a kind of intellectual laziness. The fan is no longer putting in the work to search the world for the art that speaks to them. They expect the art to be handed to them on a silver platter.
No. We, the fans, need to do the work. We need to keep looking. Because it is very likely that we will grow dissatisfied with what we have. We will reach a point where our favorite thing has nothing left to give us. And we need to be okay with that. We cannot be resentful, because that leads to toxic behavior.
We found great art before, we can find it again.
And if we can’t find it, then we need to make it.
Thursday, January 2, 2020
Gargoyles Fanfic: "Rose"
It felt like he had been asleep for ages. He was in the clock tower. Or was it the castle? He was asleep in bed. Or was he a statue? He was a man. Or was he a gargoyle?
Everything else seemed normal. The gargoyles shed their stone skin, roaring, eyes ablaze. Elisa was already there, telling them about the Pack, or Dr. Sevarius, or Thailog, or Xanatos. It all seemed so very far away now, like a dream.
“You’re starting to notice.”
He turned around. The man before him had blonde hair, glasses, and a stony demeanor to match his stone hand. But even disoriented, he could tell that the man did not belong here.
“What’s happening? Is this some kind of trick?”
The man adjusted his glasses. “That would be out of character. What do you remember?”
“I remember… running. Fighting. Pain.” His eyes darkened. “It was all I knew. I thought it would never end.”
“When did it end?”
“When I found them.” He turned to them. Goliath. Elisa. Hudson. Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela. “I felt safe with them. For a while. But I think some part of me never stopped running. Never stopped looking over my shoulder.”
“Despite your power?”
“Power?” he laughed. “What is power? Just another problem. Another complication. Another thing to be afraid of.” He stared at his hand. Once they had been sealed in metal to mask his true nature. He was meant to look human after all. Claws would have been a dead giveaway.
“That power saved your life on numerous occasions.”
“It did,” he conceded. “It was an advantage. But it was also a crutch. It made me a target. It made me dangerous. It made me an enemy. I never wanted to fight. I only ever wanted to be safe.”
“Maybe that was too much to hope for.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe I should have been grateful. I had strength. I was programmed to fight. I even had magic. But none of it felt like it was really mine. It felt like… like a layer of stone skin protecting the flesh underneath.” He stared at his hand, his talon. “Like it was given to me on a whim. I started to wonder. What was underneath all of that? What was so precious that it needed so many layers of protection?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
He looked at the man. He could sense no malice. “Perhaps. When I was… made… I was designed to be a tool. I was never meant to think for myself. All they cared about was making a weapon. They didn’t intend for anything to be underneath all those flashy abilities. I was actually kind of glad to be rid of my powers. Afraid. But kind of glad.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Like I was getting closer to finding the real me.”
He looked once again at the ones who took him in. They seemed farther away now, even though none of them had moved.
“But there never was a real me.” It was not a question, but he waited for the other to respond.
“No,” he said. “There never was.”
He stood silently with this revelation. And then he nodded. “So what was I, then? An illusion?”
“Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Will they remember?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “In dreams.”
“Was there a point to any of this?”
“I suspect someone was curious. They wanted to see what would happen. You were made to satisfy that curiosity. But this was never really your home. You were always just a visitor. Some part of you must have known this.”
He nodded. “It was a good dream. Strange but good.” He hesitated. “Can I… Can I say goodbye before I go?”
“I’m sorry. You are already gone. You have been gone for a while.”
He looked over his shoulder. They were far away now. Talking about patrolling. Saving the city from Demona. Reading Shakespeare. Fighting. Loving. Living.
It comforted him to know that they would go on, even without him.
“Are you ready?”
He laughed quietly. “How could anyone be ready?”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Wait,” he said. “There is another—one whose life is bound to mine. Will she be okay?”
The other man stared at him.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if none of it was real.”
“Yes, none of it was real.” The other man then did something rare for him. He smiled. “But I never said it didn’t matter.”
* * *
He had been given one final gift. It was just a dream, but somehow that made it more precious.
He was looking down at the city, passing by overhead. Goliath was there, Elisa in his arms. Hudson was there too. And Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela.
And her.
Her hand was in his. When everything else melted away, he could still feel her hand and see her smile. She was still there when the city faded. She was still there when his friends faded. She was still there when he had forgotten his own name.
But even that was okay. He didn’t need a name.
He was a gargoyle.
Everything else seemed normal. The gargoyles shed their stone skin, roaring, eyes ablaze. Elisa was already there, telling them about the Pack, or Dr. Sevarius, or Thailog, or Xanatos. It all seemed so very far away now, like a dream.
“You’re starting to notice.”
He turned around. The man before him had blonde hair, glasses, and a stony demeanor to match his stone hand. But even disoriented, he could tell that the man did not belong here.
“What’s happening? Is this some kind of trick?”
The man adjusted his glasses. “That would be out of character. What do you remember?”
“I remember… running. Fighting. Pain.” His eyes darkened. “It was all I knew. I thought it would never end.”
“When did it end?”
“When I found them.” He turned to them. Goliath. Elisa. Hudson. Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela. “I felt safe with them. For a while. But I think some part of me never stopped running. Never stopped looking over my shoulder.”
“Despite your power?”
“Power?” he laughed. “What is power? Just another problem. Another complication. Another thing to be afraid of.” He stared at his hand. Once they had been sealed in metal to mask his true nature. He was meant to look human after all. Claws would have been a dead giveaway.
“That power saved your life on numerous occasions.”
“It did,” he conceded. “It was an advantage. But it was also a crutch. It made me a target. It made me dangerous. It made me an enemy. I never wanted to fight. I only ever wanted to be safe.”
“Maybe that was too much to hope for.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe I should have been grateful. I had strength. I was programmed to fight. I even had magic. But none of it felt like it was really mine. It felt like… like a layer of stone skin protecting the flesh underneath.” He stared at his hand, his talon. “Like it was given to me on a whim. I started to wonder. What was underneath all of that? What was so precious that it needed so many layers of protection?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
He looked at the man. He could sense no malice. “Perhaps. When I was… made… I was designed to be a tool. I was never meant to think for myself. All they cared about was making a weapon. They didn’t intend for anything to be underneath all those flashy abilities. I was actually kind of glad to be rid of my powers. Afraid. But kind of glad.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Like I was getting closer to finding the real me.”
He looked once again at the ones who took him in. They seemed farther away now, even though none of them had moved.
“But there never was a real me.” It was not a question, but he waited for the other to respond.
“No,” he said. “There never was.”
He stood silently with this revelation. And then he nodded. “So what was I, then? An illusion?”
“Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Will they remember?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “In dreams.”
“Was there a point to any of this?”
“I suspect someone was curious. They wanted to see what would happen. You were made to satisfy that curiosity. But this was never really your home. You were always just a visitor. Some part of you must have known this.”
He nodded. “It was a good dream. Strange but good.” He hesitated. “Can I… Can I say goodbye before I go?”
“I’m sorry. You are already gone. You have been gone for a while.”
He looked over his shoulder. They were far away now. Talking about patrolling. Saving the city from Demona. Reading Shakespeare. Fighting. Loving. Living.
It comforted him to know that they would go on, even without him.
“Are you ready?”
He laughed quietly. “How could anyone be ready?”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Wait,” he said. “There is another—one whose life is bound to mine. Will she be okay?”
The other man stared at him.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if none of it was real.”
“Yes, none of it was real.” The other man then did something rare for him. He smiled. “But I never said it didn’t matter.”
* * *
He had been given one final gift. It was just a dream, but somehow that made it more precious.
He was looking down at the city, passing by overhead. Goliath was there, Elisa in his arms. Hudson was there too. And Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela.
And her.
Her hand was in his. When everything else melted away, he could still feel her hand and see her smile. She was still there when the city faded. She was still there when his friends faded. She was still there when he had forgotten his own name.
But even that was okay. He didn’t need a name.
He was a gargoyle.
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