J.J. Abrams needs to find a deep, dark cave. He needs to crawl inside that cave and when he has found the lowest chamber, a place as far as possible from a camera or script or Hollywood budget he must sit in the dark, alone, and think about what he has done. Maybe we'll slap him with a rolled-up newspaper or something first.
Star Trek, despite its many mistakes and inconsistencies, is a franchise that is literally awash with good ideas. It has exploration, war, intrigue, social and political commentary, ruminations not just on what it means to be human, or even humanoid, but on what it means to be alive -- even if you're a silicon-based rock-eating slug. It has a sense of wonder, hope for the future. It has bad episodes, bad movies, hell, it has bad series, but it has a brain. It has -- if you'll allow me to get metaphysical -- a soul.
Or at least it did until Abrams got his hands on it. Whether it was due to ham-handed idiocy or cold-hearted calculation, he stripped all the nuance and brains from Star Trek, flashed it up and made it just like every other boring sci-fi/action movie out there. Way to go.
You see, what Abrams doesn't get, and what District 9's Neill Blomkamp does is that sci-fi isn't just about lasers and spaceships.
To be clear, there ain't nothing wrong with lasers and spaceships.
However, good science fiction is about the society that uses the lasers and spaceships. You don't imagine technological and social advances because they look cool, you do it to create a unique lens through which to view human nature.
District 9's story is centered around two million alien refugees who become stranded on our planet when their mothership breaks down floating above Johannesburg, South Africa. Starving and desperate, they are brought to the surface and eventually forced into the apartheid-style slum for which the film is named.
Shuffled into the middle of this is our human protagonist, Wikus van der Merwe. He's a dorky bureaucrat who finds himself in a position of authority just when the shit hits the fan.
The film is structured beautifully. The documentary-style framing allows Blomkamp to give us the exposition in a coherent manner without wasting to much time on it. Lots of other movies would be so in love with themselves they'd feel the need to waste twenty or thirty minutes just watching the mothership appear. District 9 has no time for such trivialities, however, and assumes we get it after a tight expository montage.
One of the film's biggest strengths is this frugal approach -- likely due to the fact that District 9 is an expansion of Blomkamp's 2005 short film Alive in Joburg. There is a small central cast of characters, and few gratuitous action sequences.
Do not mistake that sentence to mean that this film is not a balls out, heavy metal, face-peelingly violent ride, because it absolutely is. What makes it so good is that all that action actually matters. You know the characters so well and you are so intimately aware of the stakes that the action sucks you in like you're a part of it. I'm having trouble remembering many sci-fi films that had me this invested in the action since Star Wars.
The setting is so compelling because of its willingness to make us uncomfortable. It revels in how petty, conniving, self-serving and short-sighted people can be while deftly avoiding -- save maybe one or two brief incidents -- James Bond villain-style evil. We're dragged screaming through a sequence of little atrocities that never seem far-fetched, and are all the more horrific as a result.
Most importantly, however, District 9 is fresh. It towers above the wasteland of shitty remakes, revamps, sequels and adaptations. It was made because an artist had a story to tell, not because name recognition sells tickets. For that reason alone, you ought to see this film. Just as I have begged you to cease giving money to those who merely exhume the past in the hopes of getting upwards of nine dollars out of you because you can't resist nostalgia, I must now entreat you to support honest and heartfelt artistic expression.
Go see District 9.
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label science fiction. Show all posts
Star Trek
I've decided not to review the upcoming latest -- and most likely final -- title in the Star Trek franchise. It wouldn't be difficult. I'm sure I'd start by making cheap jokes at J.J. Abrams's expense. After that, I'd move into some examples of how the film fails to appropriately acknowledge the themes that were so important to the series interspersed with bouts of misty-eyed nostalgia from my days as a young nerd. Finally, I'd look at the big picture, castigating Hollywood and the media in general for failing yet again to come up with anything new.
Thing is, I already wrote that, only it was about Watchmen.
So, in the spirit of that Watchmen review, I am going to eschew the obligatory evisceration of a film which will undoubtedly suck a big hairy one and instead attempt to be constructive. I shall ignore the fact that Star Trek is being put it in the hands of a talentless, self-important hack in a desperate attempt to squeeze a few more dollars out of it, and devote this week to eulogizing my beloved series by remembering the good times in a little essay I'd like to call
"Why Deep Space Nine was better than The Next Generation."
Do not take this as a condemnation of TNG. It was my introduction to the series, and I recall being mesmerized by its optimism and imagination. The thing is, Star Trek is a perfect example of just how much can be learned about a culture by observing the stories they tell. The Cold War-inspired Original Series was the adventures of a Federation at conflict with other major powers, trying to do the right thing but also fighting to survive. The Next Generation sees their transformation from a regional power to a sort of United Nations. They're the biggest kid on the block, full of good intentions and the will to spread their enlightened way of life to the rest of the galaxy.
The Berlin Wall fell before I could understand what that meant and I grew wary of the idealistic, hegemonic mentality of the post-Cold War United States as I got older. The Star Trek series from those eras shared the same attitudes, that anything was possible with a can-do spirit and the right mentality.
DS9, on the other hand, was aware that things are never that simple. It was a Star Trek show that didn't shy away from gray areas. It didn't set out to knock the Federation's high ideals, but it was willing to put them to the test. Not the aggressive rival test or the space monster test, but the moral ambiguity test.
Just look at the primary adversaries from TNG. You have the Romulans -- easily the most interesting -- they used to be Vulcans, but they rejected their logic-centered philosophy when it arose and left to start their own civilization. They have an interesting history, but they're constantly portrayed as scheming back-stabbers -- as a species. This attitude persists even into DS9, but they get somewhat more exposure there.
Then we have the Borg, an enemy with which you cannot negotiate, knows only conquest, and eradicates the free will of the vanquished. Do you see what I mean when I say TNG is afraid of moral ambiguity?
Finally, there is Q. I never liked Q. Q the omnipotent space-jerk who comes out of nowhere to pester the crew whenever the show's writers couldn't think of a good space-time anomaly that week.
While there's nothing inherently wrong with any of these individually, when you add them together and account for the one-shot monsters you've basically described the whole series.
Starfleet prevails, nothing changes, roll credits.
That's why DS9 is the more engaging story. The adversaries don't swarm out of Mordor. They are rational humanoid beings with recognizable emotions. TNG never really takes the time to explore the complex political and cultural terrain of the Star Trek universe, but Deep Space Nine is immersed in it. The characters find themselves in conflict with familiar faces, old allies, and even their own people.
Even the Dominion is characterized better than the major adversaries of the previous shows. The Founders are ancient and powerful, but paranoid and xenophobic, insulating themselves from the outside world with their followers. You get the impression that there exists some alien logic behind their evil.
I appreciate the work that went into adapting the Star Trek setting from TOS to TNG. The technology level increases such that we are invited to imagine a society that is no longer limited by the scarcity of resources -- a society that is forced to re-think such ingrained concepts as labor, ownership, and value. That's why it's such a shame that neither series gives us a very good impression of just what that society looks like. They tell us it's a paradise, but I always wanted to see more of it.
In TNG, confined to a single starship, it starts to feel boring and sterile. DS9, at least, has the good sense to take characters raised in the perfect world of the Federation and drop them on the edge of civilization, way out of their element. We don't get to see the society, but we do get to see its values clash with others in the cultural free-for-all of the station.
Star Trek has never been consistent, but I would like to mention that over five television series and ten films I don't think the series has fluctuated all that much -- given the expansive time frame, anyway. Look at Star Wars, that franchise shit in its own bed and slept there like it was goose down by the fourth film. Star Trek made mistakes, but they were usually creative enough to bounce back. Star Wars made mistakes and then rode that train all the way to stupid town.
So farewell, Star Trek. You will be missed. I promise to remember you the way you were when you were good, before Voyager, before the upcoming, certainly garbage film.
Captain Sisko punching Q, over and over, forever.
Thing is, I already wrote that, only it was about Watchmen.
So, in the spirit of that Watchmen review, I am going to eschew the obligatory evisceration of a film which will undoubtedly suck a big hairy one and instead attempt to be constructive. I shall ignore the fact that Star Trek is being put it in the hands of a talentless, self-important hack in a desperate attempt to squeeze a few more dollars out of it, and devote this week to eulogizing my beloved series by remembering the good times in a little essay I'd like to call
"Why Deep Space Nine was better than The Next Generation."
Do not take this as a condemnation of TNG. It was my introduction to the series, and I recall being mesmerized by its optimism and imagination. The thing is, Star Trek is a perfect example of just how much can be learned about a culture by observing the stories they tell. The Cold War-inspired Original Series was the adventures of a Federation at conflict with other major powers, trying to do the right thing but also fighting to survive. The Next Generation sees their transformation from a regional power to a sort of United Nations. They're the biggest kid on the block, full of good intentions and the will to spread their enlightened way of life to the rest of the galaxy.
The Berlin Wall fell before I could understand what that meant and I grew wary of the idealistic, hegemonic mentality of the post-Cold War United States as I got older. The Star Trek series from those eras shared the same attitudes, that anything was possible with a can-do spirit and the right mentality.
DS9, on the other hand, was aware that things are never that simple. It was a Star Trek show that didn't shy away from gray areas. It didn't set out to knock the Federation's high ideals, but it was willing to put them to the test. Not the aggressive rival test or the space monster test, but the moral ambiguity test.
Just look at the primary adversaries from TNG. You have the Romulans -- easily the most interesting -- they used to be Vulcans, but they rejected their logic-centered philosophy when it arose and left to start their own civilization. They have an interesting history, but they're constantly portrayed as scheming back-stabbers -- as a species. This attitude persists even into DS9, but they get somewhat more exposure there.
Then we have the Borg, an enemy with which you cannot negotiate, knows only conquest, and eradicates the free will of the vanquished. Do you see what I mean when I say TNG is afraid of moral ambiguity?
Finally, there is Q. I never liked Q. Q the omnipotent space-jerk who comes out of nowhere to pester the crew whenever the show's writers couldn't think of a good space-time anomaly that week.
While there's nothing inherently wrong with any of these individually, when you add them together and account for the one-shot monsters you've basically described the whole series.
Starfleet prevails, nothing changes, roll credits.
That's why DS9 is the more engaging story. The adversaries don't swarm out of Mordor. They are rational humanoid beings with recognizable emotions. TNG never really takes the time to explore the complex political and cultural terrain of the Star Trek universe, but Deep Space Nine is immersed in it. The characters find themselves in conflict with familiar faces, old allies, and even their own people.
Even the Dominion is characterized better than the major adversaries of the previous shows. The Founders are ancient and powerful, but paranoid and xenophobic, insulating themselves from the outside world with their followers. You get the impression that there exists some alien logic behind their evil.
I appreciate the work that went into adapting the Star Trek setting from TOS to TNG. The technology level increases such that we are invited to imagine a society that is no longer limited by the scarcity of resources -- a society that is forced to re-think such ingrained concepts as labor, ownership, and value. That's why it's such a shame that neither series gives us a very good impression of just what that society looks like. They tell us it's a paradise, but I always wanted to see more of it.
In TNG, confined to a single starship, it starts to feel boring and sterile. DS9, at least, has the good sense to take characters raised in the perfect world of the Federation and drop them on the edge of civilization, way out of their element. We don't get to see the society, but we do get to see its values clash with others in the cultural free-for-all of the station.
Star Trek has never been consistent, but I would like to mention that over five television series and ten films I don't think the series has fluctuated all that much -- given the expansive time frame, anyway. Look at Star Wars, that franchise shit in its own bed and slept there like it was goose down by the fourth film. Star Trek made mistakes, but they were usually creative enough to bounce back. Star Wars made mistakes and then rode that train all the way to stupid town.
So farewell, Star Trek. You will be missed. I promise to remember you the way you were when you were good, before Voyager, before the upcoming, certainly garbage film.
Captain Sisko punching Q, over and over, forever.
Dollhouse
I want to trust you again, Joss Whedon. I really do.
I'm no fan of serial fiction in general, and televised serial fiction in particular. I don't feel that the format is incapable of producing anything good, far from it. I see it as a high-risk venture. With a book or a film, the artist can present a coherent work, and say, "Here is my vision. Take it or leave it," Not so with a television show. You must please the viewers enough to keep them watching, feed the advertisers good ratings, and perform well enough to prevent the network dumping you for some dime-a-dozen reality show that might carry more market share.
Generally speaking, this is not an environment that is conducive to artistic expression. And you should know this better than anyone at this point, Joss.
I'm not saying that a shorter format is always better. I actually like the idea of taking your time with a story, slowly unraveling the mysteries while simultaneously just basking in the universe for a while. I think science fiction and fantasy are uniquely suited to the format, because if it's done right, there are hours of enjoyment to be had from just being there. When that feeling of wonder is supported by interesting characters and a compelling story, it's a beautiful thing indeed. Unfortunately, most shows just follow the same old recipe. Take a manageable number of young people, add a few apartments, sprinkle with sexual tension and boil... ad nauseam.
But that's not how you approach televised fiction, Joss. And that's why I've started Dollhouse against my better judgment.
Speaking of judgment, what the hell were you thinking going back to Fox? You already know that the average Fox viewer is an inbred, slack-jawed simpleton just looking for some titillation while NASCAR is on a commercial break, flipping back and forth compulsively, pausing only to wipe the crumbs of Cheetos and paint chips from his unkempt beard. You also know that the average Fox executive is a slimy weasel with too much hair product who has probably calculated the street value of his grandmother and wouldn't recognize a heartfelt attempt at artistic expression if it beat him to death with his own nine iron.
So what gives? You have amnesia? Are you toying with us? It is all part of an elaborate revenge scheme to get back inside their corporate headquarters so you can find the Fox exec who axed Firefly and beat him to death with his own nine iron?
Can I help?
Dollhouse is fun because it's not a wonderland based on magic or spaceships, but on the excesses of the rich and powerful. It's a cyberpunk TV show, and just typing those words in the same sentence makes me happy. I believe it's an under-utilized genre considering its potential.
For those who have not seen it, the show revolves around the titular organization, which is more or less a stable of young men and women who spend their days working out, eating right, and doing yoga in a childlike state of mind. Then, whenever one of the aforementioned rich and powerful clients needs their services, the dolls are implanted with a false personality for the duration of the job. They can be contracted for everything from a romantic encounter or a hostage situation, but they are given memories and skill set appropriate for the scenario. As soon as it's over, they return to the dollhouse, and their minds are erased.
Echo, played by Eliza Dushku, is the show's main character. She is the dollhouse's most sought-after agent, or "active" as they call them. Meanwhile, Tahmoh Penikett plays Paul Ballard, an FBI agent out to prove the dollhouse exists even though everyone thinks he's crazy. Of course, there's a big conspiracy and a mysterious and murderous "alpha doll" running around somewhere.
This is where the trouble usually starts. A series like Dollhouse needs to have a long-term plan that makes at least some sense. Unlike those shows that follow the "young people in an apartment" format, the setting is as important a feature as any character or four year long unrequited love plotline. The setting is going to evolve and change, and that's when things can go crazy.
This happens with your shows almost as a rule, Joss. Take Buffy the Vampire Slayer, for example. I liked the show, but when you look back on the major story arcs, they wouldn't fit together if it weren't for the common characters. I think the best shows have stories which rise organically out of the history, not the "monster of the season" stuff that happens in Buffy.
Do we need to sit down and re-watch season four?
Allow me to illustrate my point. Take The Wire. I think it's the best example of televised serial fiction ever and one of the reasons for this is that although each season has a different theme and an altered cast of central characters, nothing comes at you out of the blue. The events of one season lead into the events of the next. That change brings with it all new perspectives and new situations but there's a logic to the ebb and flow of the show's focus. Maybe you think that's unfair because HBO seems to give its series more leeway than the networks do. How about the much-maligned Star Trek Deep Space Nine? I set it above the rest of Trek because there is a strong sense of continuity over the course of the series that comes from the evolving political and cultural atmosphere in the galaxy. One thing leads to another, you see?
So far things do look good, Joss. As always, I find myself immediately absorbed in your world, because you set the scene so well. I also find the information dynamic fascinating. In most episodes, the key events are experienced by the dolls, while the other characters have a second-hand understanding of what has taken place. We the viewers get to keep that information, but the dolls' memories are erased (or blocked, at least) by the end. However, there are also characters with a deeper understanding of the history, and so the viewer is situated somewhere in between. It's a satisfying feeling and it can provide loads of storytelling options down the road.
It's not going to be easy, though. I'm rooting for you, but I'm not betting the farm. Even if Dollhouse does avoid problematic narrative detours, we both know it will have to survive the rigors of the major broadcast television gauntlet. Firefly is proof that you can do everything right and still fail. Lovable characters, unique concept, spaceships, gunfights, beautiful women, spaceships... Apparently the average viewer can't handle all that brainy junk. They'd rather watch insufferable people shriek at one another about their bullshit problems. I don't mean to sound too elitist, but I do have history on my side here. Your ideas deserve better than that.
I'm ready to give this another try, Joss, but remember I've had my heart broken before. We need to take it slow. I'll see you next Friday.
I'm no fan of serial fiction in general, and televised serial fiction in particular. I don't feel that the format is incapable of producing anything good, far from it. I see it as a high-risk venture. With a book or a film, the artist can present a coherent work, and say, "Here is my vision. Take it or leave it," Not so with a television show. You must please the viewers enough to keep them watching, feed the advertisers good ratings, and perform well enough to prevent the network dumping you for some dime-a-dozen reality show that might carry more market share.
Generally speaking, this is not an environment that is conducive to artistic expression. And you should know this better than anyone at this point, Joss.
I'm not saying that a shorter format is always better. I actually like the idea of taking your time with a story, slowly unraveling the mysteries while simultaneously just basking in the universe for a while. I think science fiction and fantasy are uniquely suited to the format, because if it's done right, there are hours of enjoyment to be had from just being there. When that feeling of wonder is supported by interesting characters and a compelling story, it's a beautiful thing indeed. Unfortunately, most shows just follow the same old recipe. Take a manageable number of young people, add a few apartments, sprinkle with sexual tension and boil... ad nauseam.
But that's not how you approach televised fiction, Joss. And that's why I've started Dollhouse against my better judgment.
Speaking of judgment, what the hell were you thinking going back to Fox? You already know that the average Fox viewer is an inbred, slack-jawed simpleton just looking for some titillation while NASCAR is on a commercial break, flipping back and forth compulsively, pausing only to wipe the crumbs of Cheetos and paint chips from his unkempt beard. You also know that the average Fox executive is a slimy weasel with too much hair product who has probably calculated the street value of his grandmother and wouldn't recognize a heartfelt attempt at artistic expression if it beat him to death with his own nine iron.
So what gives? You have amnesia? Are you toying with us? It is all part of an elaborate revenge scheme to get back inside their corporate headquarters so you can find the Fox exec who axed Firefly and beat him to death with his own nine iron?
Can I help?
Dollhouse is fun because it's not a wonderland based on magic or spaceships, but on the excesses of the rich and powerful. It's a cyberpunk TV show, and just typing those words in the same sentence makes me happy. I believe it's an under-utilized genre considering its potential.
For those who have not seen it, the show revolves around the titular organization, which is more or less a stable of young men and women who spend their days working out, eating right, and doing yoga in a childlike state of mind. Then, whenever one of the aforementioned rich and powerful clients needs their services, the dolls are implanted with a false personality for the duration of the job. They can be contracted for everything from a romantic encounter or a hostage situation, but they are given memories and skill set appropriate for the scenario. As soon as it's over, they return to the dollhouse, and their minds are erased.
Echo, played by Eliza Dushku, is the show's main character. She is the dollhouse's most sought-after agent, or "active" as they call them. Meanwhile, Tahmoh Penikett plays Paul Ballard, an FBI agent out to prove the dollhouse exists even though everyone thinks he's crazy. Of course, there's a big conspiracy and a mysterious and murderous "alpha doll" running around somewhere.
This is where the trouble usually starts. A series like Dollhouse needs to have a long-term plan that makes at least some sense. Unlike those shows that follow the "young people in an apartment" format, the setting is as important a feature as any character or four year long unrequited love plotline. The setting is going to evolve and change, and that's when things can go crazy.
This happens with your shows almost as a rule, Joss. Take Buffy the Vampire Slayer, for example. I liked the show, but when you look back on the major story arcs, they wouldn't fit together if it weren't for the common characters. I think the best shows have stories which rise organically out of the history, not the "monster of the season" stuff that happens in Buffy.
Do we need to sit down and re-watch season four?
Allow me to illustrate my point. Take The Wire. I think it's the best example of televised serial fiction ever and one of the reasons for this is that although each season has a different theme and an altered cast of central characters, nothing comes at you out of the blue. The events of one season lead into the events of the next. That change brings with it all new perspectives and new situations but there's a logic to the ebb and flow of the show's focus. Maybe you think that's unfair because HBO seems to give its series more leeway than the networks do. How about the much-maligned Star Trek Deep Space Nine? I set it above the rest of Trek because there is a strong sense of continuity over the course of the series that comes from the evolving political and cultural atmosphere in the galaxy. One thing leads to another, you see?
So far things do look good, Joss. As always, I find myself immediately absorbed in your world, because you set the scene so well. I also find the information dynamic fascinating. In most episodes, the key events are experienced by the dolls, while the other characters have a second-hand understanding of what has taken place. We the viewers get to keep that information, but the dolls' memories are erased (or blocked, at least) by the end. However, there are also characters with a deeper understanding of the history, and so the viewer is situated somewhere in between. It's a satisfying feeling and it can provide loads of storytelling options down the road.
It's not going to be easy, though. I'm rooting for you, but I'm not betting the farm. Even if Dollhouse does avoid problematic narrative detours, we both know it will have to survive the rigors of the major broadcast television gauntlet. Firefly is proof that you can do everything right and still fail. Lovable characters, unique concept, spaceships, gunfights, beautiful women, spaceships... Apparently the average viewer can't handle all that brainy junk. They'd rather watch insufferable people shriek at one another about their bullshit problems. I don't mean to sound too elitist, but I do have history on my side here. Your ideas deserve better than that.
I'm ready to give this another try, Joss, but remember I've had my heart broken before. We need to take it slow. I'll see you next Friday.
The Vader Project
I feel somewhat out of my element here. My only visual art credentials are my self-taught semi-proficiency with Adobe's Creative Suite and a single art history lecture class which was roughly equal parts napping and schooling. I recognize I am something of a pretender in such matters, but it's no worse than the city of Pittsburgh claiming Andy Warhol who got the hell out of here after college and created essentially all his work in New York. Although, it is understandable considering every other famous Pittsburgher was an industrialist shitbag.
I recently made my way to Pittsburgh's Andy Warhol Museum to view The Vader Project, which will be there until May 3. The gist is that replica props of Darth's helmet were given to a host of "some of today’s hottest underground and pop surrealist painters, artists and designers," In other words, the people you're not familiar with because you're not cool enough. I'm not sure how strict the guidelines were, but they seem to have been, "take this and do your thing with it."
Seeing as how I am a card-carrying member of the open-ended definition of art club (depending on what you mean by "card," of course), and a certified head above the exosphere science fiction nerd, I obviously wanted to make sure I had a look at this one. As would be expected, the results varied widely, but I was not disappointed.
If I may take a moment to perhaps unfairly pigeonhole the pieces in the exhibit, there seem to be two major schools of thought concerning the project: Some artists attempted to re-imagine or re-create the helmet using different materials, and replacing or adding components, while others used it as a weirdly-shaped canvas to paint on. Now I'm not coming down on the second school, because some of these were very good, but I feel like those from column A were more effective on the whole.
A lot of the blame for this falls on the gallery space itself. Almost all the helmets were perched atop black columns at about eye level. They were lined up in rows, all facing the same direction with a taped-off rectangle around the each row. Believe me when I say I understand the need to create a border between the art and the viewer in this case in particular. I wanted to wear some of these so badly I had to slap my own hand away. However, those helmets which displayed some sort of diorama or painted image could not be viewed in their entirety unless they were fortunate enough to occupy the end spots.
Most of them, however, must be viewed twice. You observe the front of twenty or so, and then walk along the next aisle to view the back of them. I haven't the slightest idea as to whether or not the artists were informed of how the pieces would be displayed, but I doubt it. Now, I understand that space can be at a premium in galleries, especially for a traveling exhibit like The Vader Project. I just felt an unfortunate disconnect between the art and the presentation. Someone dropped the ball when Flickr is outdoing The Andy Warhol Museum in some of these cases.
That's precisely why I felt the more effective helmets were those that attempted to transform the object or take it out of its recognized context. Not only do I find that to be a better approach to what is, essentially, a sculpture gallery, but they also suffered less from the unfortunate layout of the exhibit. In these cases, more of the item's overall effect is preserved while merely viewing the front.
Despite the formatting issues, I still enjoyed the exhibit. Sometimes, the most interesting art can result from imposing unusual boundaries. The Vader Project is, at its heart, an exploration of that concept. You could say there was a scatter shot mentality to the project, but that's not a drawback in this case, where each piece is less a magnum opus and more an immediate, visceral, gut-level reaction to the subject matter. Artist and icon colliding.
That's my opinion, anyway. I'm just a guy who photoshops robots.
I recently made my way to Pittsburgh's Andy Warhol Museum to view The Vader Project, which will be there until May 3. The gist is that replica props of Darth's helmet were given to a host of "some of today’s hottest underground and pop surrealist painters, artists and designers," In other words, the people you're not familiar with because you're not cool enough. I'm not sure how strict the guidelines were, but they seem to have been, "take this and do your thing with it."
Seeing as how I am a card-carrying member of the open-ended definition of art club (depending on what you mean by "card," of course), and a certified head above the exosphere science fiction nerd, I obviously wanted to make sure I had a look at this one. As would be expected, the results varied widely, but I was not disappointed.
If I may take a moment to perhaps unfairly pigeonhole the pieces in the exhibit, there seem to be two major schools of thought concerning the project: Some artists attempted to re-imagine or re-create the helmet using different materials, and replacing or adding components, while others used it as a weirdly-shaped canvas to paint on. Now I'm not coming down on the second school, because some of these were very good, but I feel like those from column A were more effective on the whole.
A lot of the blame for this falls on the gallery space itself. Almost all the helmets were perched atop black columns at about eye level. They were lined up in rows, all facing the same direction with a taped-off rectangle around the each row. Believe me when I say I understand the need to create a border between the art and the viewer in this case in particular. I wanted to wear some of these so badly I had to slap my own hand away. However, those helmets which displayed some sort of diorama or painted image could not be viewed in their entirety unless they were fortunate enough to occupy the end spots.
Most of them, however, must be viewed twice. You observe the front of twenty or so, and then walk along the next aisle to view the back of them. I haven't the slightest idea as to whether or not the artists were informed of how the pieces would be displayed, but I doubt it. Now, I understand that space can be at a premium in galleries, especially for a traveling exhibit like The Vader Project. I just felt an unfortunate disconnect between the art and the presentation. Someone dropped the ball when Flickr is outdoing The Andy Warhol Museum in some of these cases.
That's precisely why I felt the more effective helmets were those that attempted to transform the object or take it out of its recognized context. Not only do I find that to be a better approach to what is, essentially, a sculpture gallery, but they also suffered less from the unfortunate layout of the exhibit. In these cases, more of the item's overall effect is preserved while merely viewing the front.
Despite the formatting issues, I still enjoyed the exhibit. Sometimes, the most interesting art can result from imposing unusual boundaries. The Vader Project is, at its heart, an exploration of that concept. You could say there was a scatter shot mentality to the project, but that's not a drawback in this case, where each piece is less a magnum opus and more an immediate, visceral, gut-level reaction to the subject matter. Artist and icon colliding.
That's my opinion, anyway. I'm just a guy who photoshops robots.
Battlestar Galactica, Reimagined Series
It's easy to play the curmudgeonly critic who hates everything besides sitting in a dark room staring at a blank wall. It's a simple matter to fill these commentaries with pop culture jokes and the occasional scatological wisecrack when you have little respect for the subject material. Today, however, I have to play the optimist. I'm forced to contradict my own screeds against serialized fiction and repackaging existing stories. I also have to account for the many, many mistakes made during the series because despite all of that, I still loved Battlestar Galactica.
And I like to think I hold myself to a higher standard, so I can't just say, "Yeah, it had problems, but it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
I truly think Battlestar is the best science fiction television series of its generation. Now before you ask, I have not seen Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate Special Victims Unit or anything other than the original movie. I am aware that they are extremely popular among their devotees, but it's just not my flavor of Kool-Aid. And do we really need another story about humanity discovering the toys left behind by ancient, mysteriously vanished benevolent builder aliens?
Yes, yes. I was really into Firefly as well, but we can't just assume it would have continued to be great because it died so young. Come on, if it had lasted as many seasons as Angel or Buffy, that's more than enough time for it to spiral into Joss Whedon's trademark convoluted madness. They never should have trusted Fox, anyway.
Star Trek is not so cut and dry. However, the later series, which is to say, those that could more accurately be considered part of Battlestar's generation, are the weakest. Although it is tempting to take a rose-tinted look back since J. J. Abrams is poised to murder the franchise once and for all, that would not be honest.
In a way, I think Battlestar is as much a response to Star Trek as it is to its original incarnation. Star Trek attempts to imagine us at our best. Humanity is brought back from the brink of devastation by an outside force and actually learns from the experience. They try, even if they don't always succeed, to use technology and influence responsibly. They are the honorable and compassionate people we wish we could be. No matter how jaded I become as I get older, there will always be a part of me yearning for that future, impossibly bright and heartbreakingly distant.
Battlestar Galactica is about human nature as well, but it's nowhere near as confident. I'm inclined to agree that when and if we get spaceships and travel to other stars, we will still be the same violent, petty, conniving douchebags we are now.
It's part of what makes Battlestar so gripping, even when the plot has gone momentarily off the rails. The characters have emotions and motivations that we can recognize, even if their situation is extreme and unfamiliar. So often these grand space operas leave the human element behind as if only one-dimensional characters can break the speed of light. It's a spaceship than can wink out of existence and reappear light-years away, but inside it's gunmetal gray and manually operated doors that make a satisfying clank when they close. It's clear that a lot of thought went into this aspect of the show. Galactica initially escapes destruction because its systems are outdated. The characters communicate using handsets with coiled cords and garbled radio messages. They use bullets and missiles and flight suits. This aesthetic serves the show well, highlighting its unique approach. The alien and the familiar together.
In fact, when Battlestar Galactica gets it wrong, it's usually when things become a little too familiar. Science fiction is about imagining the future in order to make observations about the present, but the best SF does it with subtlety and style. Parts of the finale have this problem, but it was the New Caprica debacle that really made me cringe. They stretched and strained plotlines and characters in order to jump up and down and say, "Ooh, ooh! Look at us, We're topical!" I certainly would have advised against doing this at all, but they could have at least made their allegory a little more complex. These episodes were so bad, they had to be the result of either incompetence or contempt for their audience. Either way, they let CNN's coverage of the Iraq War write half of the scripts, and I was glad when it finally ended.
The whole exercise was pointless, anyway. They had more than enough time to address their pet theme of studying social structures in a states of extreme turmoil. This was the hook responsible for getting me on board at the outset. I found the relationship between the civilian government and the military chain of command the most compelling thing about the show. They had to gauge their commitment to their way of life next to their chances for survival. It's this kind of thinking that SF is all about. It's not just, "wouldn't it be cool if...?" but "what does this do to their society?"
It makes me wonder why the weird, not really explained, kind of tacked-on spiritual stuff needed to be there at all. They had a mostly believable "religion = science + a long time" sort of thing going on until the last season when everything went crazy and I don't think they got away with it. Characters have visions, characters disappear and reappear. Explanations were not given, but I think we all trusted that they were pending. Notoriously, the song All Along the Watchtower popped up as a plot device. It coincided with revelations about Earth and cylons and it seemed a little out there, but I assumed it would all make sense eventually. Instead, they hemmed and hawed and gave a couple of half-hearted attempts, but nothing felt convincing.
In the end, in lieu of an explanation for all that, we got a ridiculous and completely redundant scene in which some sort of higher power is mentioned by characters who may or may not exist and then... What? Roll credits? Are you kidding me?
It's clear the writers had their hands in too many pies, and I'll tell you why. The moment Laura Roslin wrote the number of survivors on the whiteboard in Colonial One, they were declaring loudly that the show was going to be about mortality. Indeed, this is a major theme throughout the show and is executed well. The few surviving humans cling to life in the black void fighting enemies who have the ability to resurrect. It was an emotional tool that I for one responded to, but it's hard to take it seriously with all the wishy-washy supernatural stuff going on as well. They tried to hedge their bets by tacking on a bunch of weird shit assuming at least some of it will end up being deep and moving.
It's a shame they felt the need to do that because all that death and danger creates some seriously tense action to go with the existentialism. Until they felt the need to undermine it in the later seasons, it was one of the show's biggest assets. There is an attack. Some escape, some stay and fight. Some lives are risked to try and save the species as a whole. When they're doing it right, it puts you on the edge of your seat because it's crystal clear just what is at stake every time they launch Vipers.
Speaking as the kind of mega-nerd who doodled space ships on his notebooks in school when he should have been paying attention, I like to think about Battlestar Galactica in terms of the titular vessel herself. She's solid, built with the understanding that she was going to get shot at. A lot. Her armor was pocked and scorched and falling off in places from all the damage she sustained, but by the end she was still intact, if just barely. The series was assaulted by ham-fisted and unnecessary allegory, a flippant and ultimately confusing approach to the supernatural, scheduling weirdness and a writer's strike, but I feel it was constructed well enough to survive.
I do not regret being on board.
And I like to think I hold myself to a higher standard, so I can't just say, "Yeah, it had problems, but it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
I truly think Battlestar is the best science fiction television series of its generation. Now before you ask, I have not seen Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate Special Victims Unit or anything other than the original movie. I am aware that they are extremely popular among their devotees, but it's just not my flavor of Kool-Aid. And do we really need another story about humanity discovering the toys left behind by ancient, mysteriously vanished benevolent builder aliens?
Yes, yes. I was really into Firefly as well, but we can't just assume it would have continued to be great because it died so young. Come on, if it had lasted as many seasons as Angel or Buffy, that's more than enough time for it to spiral into Joss Whedon's trademark convoluted madness. They never should have trusted Fox, anyway.
Star Trek is not so cut and dry. However, the later series, which is to say, those that could more accurately be considered part of Battlestar's generation, are the weakest. Although it is tempting to take a rose-tinted look back since J. J. Abrams is poised to murder the franchise once and for all, that would not be honest.
In a way, I think Battlestar is as much a response to Star Trek as it is to its original incarnation. Star Trek attempts to imagine us at our best. Humanity is brought back from the brink of devastation by an outside force and actually learns from the experience. They try, even if they don't always succeed, to use technology and influence responsibly. They are the honorable and compassionate people we wish we could be. No matter how jaded I become as I get older, there will always be a part of me yearning for that future, impossibly bright and heartbreakingly distant.
Battlestar Galactica is about human nature as well, but it's nowhere near as confident. I'm inclined to agree that when and if we get spaceships and travel to other stars, we will still be the same violent, petty, conniving douchebags we are now.
It's part of what makes Battlestar so gripping, even when the plot has gone momentarily off the rails. The characters have emotions and motivations that we can recognize, even if their situation is extreme and unfamiliar. So often these grand space operas leave the human element behind as if only one-dimensional characters can break the speed of light. It's a spaceship than can wink out of existence and reappear light-years away, but inside it's gunmetal gray and manually operated doors that make a satisfying clank when they close. It's clear that a lot of thought went into this aspect of the show. Galactica initially escapes destruction because its systems are outdated. The characters communicate using handsets with coiled cords and garbled radio messages. They use bullets and missiles and flight suits. This aesthetic serves the show well, highlighting its unique approach. The alien and the familiar together.
In fact, when Battlestar Galactica gets it wrong, it's usually when things become a little too familiar. Science fiction is about imagining the future in order to make observations about the present, but the best SF does it with subtlety and style. Parts of the finale have this problem, but it was the New Caprica debacle that really made me cringe. They stretched and strained plotlines and characters in order to jump up and down and say, "Ooh, ooh! Look at us, We're topical!" I certainly would have advised against doing this at all, but they could have at least made their allegory a little more complex. These episodes were so bad, they had to be the result of either incompetence or contempt for their audience. Either way, they let CNN's coverage of the Iraq War write half of the scripts, and I was glad when it finally ended.
The whole exercise was pointless, anyway. They had more than enough time to address their pet theme of studying social structures in a states of extreme turmoil. This was the hook responsible for getting me on board at the outset. I found the relationship between the civilian government and the military chain of command the most compelling thing about the show. They had to gauge their commitment to their way of life next to their chances for survival. It's this kind of thinking that SF is all about. It's not just, "wouldn't it be cool if...?" but "what does this do to their society?"
It makes me wonder why the weird, not really explained, kind of tacked-on spiritual stuff needed to be there at all. They had a mostly believable "religion = science + a long time" sort of thing going on until the last season when everything went crazy and I don't think they got away with it. Characters have visions, characters disappear and reappear. Explanations were not given, but I think we all trusted that they were pending. Notoriously, the song All Along the Watchtower popped up as a plot device. It coincided with revelations about Earth and cylons and it seemed a little out there, but I assumed it would all make sense eventually. Instead, they hemmed and hawed and gave a couple of half-hearted attempts, but nothing felt convincing.
In the end, in lieu of an explanation for all that, we got a ridiculous and completely redundant scene in which some sort of higher power is mentioned by characters who may or may not exist and then... What? Roll credits? Are you kidding me?
It's clear the writers had their hands in too many pies, and I'll tell you why. The moment Laura Roslin wrote the number of survivors on the whiteboard in Colonial One, they were declaring loudly that the show was going to be about mortality. Indeed, this is a major theme throughout the show and is executed well. The few surviving humans cling to life in the black void fighting enemies who have the ability to resurrect. It was an emotional tool that I for one responded to, but it's hard to take it seriously with all the wishy-washy supernatural stuff going on as well. They tried to hedge their bets by tacking on a bunch of weird shit assuming at least some of it will end up being deep and moving.
It's a shame they felt the need to do that because all that death and danger creates some seriously tense action to go with the existentialism. Until they felt the need to undermine it in the later seasons, it was one of the show's biggest assets. There is an attack. Some escape, some stay and fight. Some lives are risked to try and save the species as a whole. When they're doing it right, it puts you on the edge of your seat because it's crystal clear just what is at stake every time they launch Vipers.
Speaking as the kind of mega-nerd who doodled space ships on his notebooks in school when he should have been paying attention, I like to think about Battlestar Galactica in terms of the titular vessel herself. She's solid, built with the understanding that she was going to get shot at. A lot. Her armor was pocked and scorched and falling off in places from all the damage she sustained, but by the end she was still intact, if just barely. The series was assaulted by ham-fisted and unnecessary allegory, a flippant and ultimately confusing approach to the supernatural, scheduling weirdness and a writer's strike, but I feel it was constructed well enough to survive.
I do not regret being on board.
Star Wars
I grew up in a cultural vacuum. My family's home was situated among acres of corn fields outside one of those little towns that only exist because they lie at the intersection of a couple of highways and thus Wal-Mart can justify the construction of a superstore. I don't hold a grudge against my family for this, I just want to make it clear that during my formative years, I was exposed to very little media aside from pop country music and popcorn action movies.
Great way to kick off what is ostensibly a review blog.
So I missed out on a lot of cultural material that was available to other kids. This resulted in some hilarious misunderstandings later on. For example, I didn't know that extending only one's middle finger was considered a vulgar act until another student discovered this fact and took advantage of it. My first grade teacher was not amused.
I can't recall how old I was, which is good because I'm sure it's embarrassing, but I was eventually coaxed out of my tiny sphere of appreciation by a family friend two years my senior. He introduced me to Star Wars and The Ramones. This was good not only because I personally feel that science fiction and punk rock are better than the entertainment I had been exposed to previously, but also because it made me realize that there was even more out there, and not just media. Although now that I think about it I'm pretty sure the existence of Toby Keith makes pop country bad in an empirical sense. In any case, I think it's wise to openly discuss one's bias on a topic.
I was born the same month Return of the Jedi was released, but I know the story of Star Wars. Once upon a time (1977), an up-and-coming filmmaker named George Lucas managed to film and distribute a science fiction space opera inspired by Flash Gordon and Akira Kurosawa's samurai films even though it seemed silly and most people in the industry thought there was something wrong with him. As it turns out, there is something wrong with him, but that wasn't it, and I'm getting ahead of myself.
So began the most profitable franchise in movie history, especially when you consider everything that spun out of it. When I popped my cherry, I watched all three of them in order, getting up only to pee. I cried at the end of Jedi. There is nothing like the first time you watch Star Wars.
I can only imagine what it was like to watch it back then. When I was growing up, Star Wars was something of a bridge to geekdom. It was the nerdiest thing that was still socially acceptable. I like to think of it as gateway sci-fi. That's how it happened to me, and I'm sure I'm not alone. If it wasn't for Star Wars, I doubt I'd have ever discovered the various other forms of science fiction, weird fiction, speculative fiction, and fantasy that I love now. What did nerds have before that? Dungeons & Dragons? They certainly didn't have anything with the charisma and staying power of Star Wars. I don't know that he meant to, but George Lucas gerrymandered the border between dorky and mainstream.
If you buy into that sort of thing, Joseph Campbell would say that Star Wars' success has a lot to do with the fact that it is a superbly packaged edition of the primal hero's journey story. It's designed to tug at certain strings you never knew you had in your subconscious. I think many were enamored with the series' empowering message. A handful of people in the right place at the right time changed not just one world, but had a positive influence on a mind-bogglingly vast number of beings across an entire galaxy. Escapism it may be, but it was not afraid to do it to the hilt.
I can only assume there are people who genuinely enjoy the prequels. Otherwise, capitalism has failed in a big way (Har har! Helpful hint: People of the future, search "2008 financial crisis" if you're not too busy fighting robots or whatever).
There is little to say about the special editions and the prequels that hasn't already been said. It's as if everyone knew what made Star Wars great except for George Lucas. He said he was just "completing his vision" with the special editions, that the technology in the seventies was inadequate and he felt he never quite got it right. What he failed to grasp was that his creation came to mean something more to the rest of us in the intervening years and we might just take umbrage at his silly changes. I don't think it ever occurred to him that the fact that he made Star Wars within the considerable limitations of its time was part of what made it so charming.
I do genuinely enjoy some of the spin-offs, The Knights of the Old Republic video games and Genndy Tartakovsky's original Clone Wars shorts, for example. However, the franchise has been spread a bit thin for some time now. As I write this, a Star Wars television series is in the works, supposedly created by Lucas himself. I honestly don't know how to feel about that. When I first heard about it, I was suddenly the kid who read all those awful books just to keep the story going, who stood in line for hours to see the first special edition film the night it was released, who pretended to like The Phantom Menace for about five minutes. But then the older, jaded Star Wars fan takes over and reminds me that George Lucas isn't capable of creating three decent films anymore, much less a television series they rather optimistically plan to keep going for years.
Television is where good ideas go to die these days. While there are exceptions, science fiction and the other members of its weird family are particularly vulnerable. I don't think I can handle a situation in which a program that bears the Star Wars name has to jockey for market share with Dancing with the Stars.
I don't hate George Lucas that much, and I'm not necessarily saying Star Wars needs to be taken out behind the shed. No one can be innovative every second of every day, and I would definitely play Knights of the Old Republic 3 if Bioware isn't too busy with Mass Effect 2: Now With More Alien Buttocks. I think that's the point. Star Trek, for all its many faults, recognized the need to change over time. The series and films try to present different themes and perspectives that make fans feel like they really know the setting. You can really climb inside and live there. Star Wars gave me what I needed way back when I was a kid, but it never took that anywhere. It turned into a parody of itself to sell some toys. I shudder to think that there may be children out there who were first exposed to the prequels, but I have to face reality.
We had some good times, but in the end we had to go our separate ways.
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