Quick, quick, good hands!
Okay, because it’s the second time I’ve done it, I’m dedicating a whole post to this apology:
Jennie, I’m sorry I keep misspelling your name. Also I apparently goofed Jeff’s too. My bad. I basically live with these people, how can I not spell their names?
Won’t happen again!…I don’t think.
Sometimes periods of time go by wherein I’m not sure what I’m going to blog about. I’ve learned from hard experiene not to talk about my work, or the specifics of where I live, so daily events are out the window (and good riddance). At the end of these droughts, I inevitably do exactly what I’m doing now: start writing with no idea where it’s headed. Sometimes these entries are the most fruitful of all, sometimes they waste 4 or 5 hours of my day (not kidding) going nowhere. As a result, I treat them with the kind of hushed optimism one might put on during a trip to Vegas. Where on Earth is it all leading, Dear Reader?
I don’t know if I got a chance to tell you, Dear Reader, but I’ve managed to FINALLY find a version of “The Secret of Monkey Island” that works on a Mac. This game, in case you didn’t know, is one of my illustrious Top Three Videogames of All Time. Very few have entered these hallowed halls. Released around 1990, it’s a delightful pirate romp which finds you commanding lovable everyman Guybrush Threepwood, a slightly milquetoast wannabe-buckaneer wearing notoriously “fancy” pants. Setting out on your quest to become a revered scaliwag, you quickly become entangled with the beautiful Elaine Marley, Governor of Melee Island, and the horrifying ghost pirate LeChuck, who wants her for his own. For however long the games takes you to complete (and it can take some time), you are treated to all of the following: a wicked deadpan sense of humour (the best ever in a video game), wonderful adventures, and mind-crushingly difficult puzzles. These days, most adventure games of any kind have an “Objectives” screen that tells you where to go and who to talk to, but that’s sissy stuff for this game; “Monkey Island” will leave you for hours on end with no idea what you’re even supposed to be doing. Honestly, a lot of it borders on obtuse ridiculousness, some of the puzzles feel unfairly obscure, but the world created inside of it is so charming, so wonderfully imagined, that you can’t help but fall in love.
I played the game as a wee lad, introduced (I believe) by Caroline, or maybe Brady, either of whom would have beaten it long before me. I sat for days in our basement, clicking “Walk To” and “Open” on every imaginable object, trying to decode the impossible puzzles in front of me. Eventually, Caroline had mercy and provided me with a printed copy of a walkthrough she got her hands on somehow. I still remember how it looked, the type-writer style font, the faded ink on those old printer pages with tear-off holes punched on either side. This thing was my only solace, an oasis in the vast desert of punishing difficulty. When I re-acquired the game, I vowed to play through it without any assistance, and that’s exactly what I did, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t spend days at a time stuck on various stages, and I even had the benefit of remembering much of the game. Ouch.
Okay, okay, I did use a guide once, but it was only because I knew a certain puzzle was supposed to be solved a certain way, and it wasn’t working. I looked it up, said “That’s what I thought!” and kept trying. Eventually it worked, I don’t know why it didn’t before. And there was one other time I almost did it again, but I resisted before I read anything that would have helped me. You may chuckle at my failing will, Dear Reader, but I dare you to sit in front of that damned computer screen, those stupid monkeys laughing at you and eating bananas, for three days in a row. You tell me you can hold out against that humiliation.
In an interesting turn of events, I also managed to get “Monkey Island 2: LeChuck’s Revenge,” which I had hitherto never played. Unlike many of the regrettable sequels in this series that came later on, “Revenge” maintained the simple, 256-color graphics of the original, and in so doing became the only other “Monkey Island” game I have even the slightest interest in. As technology improved over the years, LucasArts kept pumping out fresh iterations, but the new graphical power was used to make the entire world look more or less like Looney Tunes. I disapprove. The reason “Secret” was so funny was everything felt so serious, the world of the game looked about as realistic as anyone was capable of making it in those days. A delicious deadpan quality therefore affixed itself to lines like “That’s the second biggest monkey head I’ve ever seen!” From what I’ve seen so far, “Revenge” maintains that wonderous spirit, and I’m already feeling as if this game’s quality could create one of those delicious “Godfather and Godfather Part II” situations where one can never decide which they truly prefer. Except the original “Godfather” is still better.
But oh have I used a guide. I won’t even deny it, Dear Reader. I have looked up answers to things twice. I’m swimming in the deep end here, man, there’s no vague memories calling from my childhood, nudging me along with a lassiez-fare tenderness. Just cold, brutal unfamiliarity. The worst part is, when you’re stuck in a “Monkey Island” game, it’s not like you’ve got a door and it won’t open, it’s like you don’t even know where you should be going. You just wander around town, vaguely aware that you’re supposed to rescue someone, trying to make a bucket pick up some spit off the floor…Yes, I was really doing that today. I told him to get it, but Guybrush kept repeating, “There’s not enough to put in the bucket” (which is the game’s sly way of saying “that’s not the answer”). It got to the point where I was shaking my iMac, screaming “We’ll wash the bucket out later, damn you, just put some in there! I know it can hold it! AAAGHGH!”
Ahem. Don’t ask why I needed the spit, it’s…a long story involving a voodoo doll and a rat that likes cheese.
So yeah, I’ve caved twice, but it’s early yet, and I’ve resolved never to cave again. Sadly, I have robbed myself of any bragging rights about “beating the game with no guide,” but at the time I rationalized it this way: who in the hell is going to be impressed? Touche, demon on my shouder, touche.
Holy crap do I love Aloe Vera gel. I love it. There are so few things in life as wonderful. Who discovered this stuff? Bring them to me, so I can kiss their feet. It was probably the Native Americans, wasn’t it? Of course it was, they were on the ball. If sun tan lotion felt even a quarter this good, no one would ever get sunburned.
Well it’s been an exhausting and wonderful 4th of July for us California Allens. We awoke bright and early and departed, along with Jefff and Jenny, at around 9:30 AM in order to secure a good spot on Dockweiler Beach, and secure we did. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived with the back-up caravan, the local parking lots were exhausted and I had to drop the Toyota about a half a mile down. Jeff sportingly met me with a bike and made the journey to our camp more manageable. Once we had made camp, and other compatriots had joined us, all of the following happened in this order: relaxing, drinking Rum and Coke (cleverly disguised as regular Coke, since there was a scarcely enforced “no alcohol” rule in effect), playing frisbee, swimming in the chilly but delicious Pacific (we saw a seal about ten feet from us, and knowing what eats seals instructed me to excuse myself from the ocean), Jeff and I biking a few miles north to have some local pizza, more frisbee, football, then a lot of football, grilling of hamburgers, consumption of hamburgers, more football (now with the girls, who can throw some passes let me tell you), and then fireworks. Oh, I’m sure you saw fireworks too, Dear Reader, but from our spot on the beach we saw six different sets of fireworks going off at the same time, up and down the coast, everywhere from Santa Monica to Playa del Ray. By the time we made it home at about 11 PM, sweaty and covered in sand, we could hardly move. Wouldn’t change a thing…except being forced to park half a mile out.
Of course, it is good and proper to remember on this day what a wonderful country we have, and how many people gave their lives to make it that way. I wish I had something clever to say, some fitting tribute mingled with gentle humor, but in the awe-inspiring brilliance of what this nation is, where it has come from, and what it has the potential to be, I find myself not talented enough to produce a fitting sonnet. I love the United States, I could never live anywhere else, and when I think about everything she has given to me, everything she has made possible, I am humbled. This is the land of the free, and God bless it. Happy 4th of July, Dear Reader. I hope you take a moment to remember how blessed you are.
There are two more movies on my horizon in the immediate future. One of them, I am hell-bent on loving; the other, I want nothing more than to despise. The former is “Public Enemies,” and I confess that all the word-of-mouth I have received so far agrees on a resounding “meh.” I don’t care, I want to see it, and I want to love it. This is exactly how I ended up approving of “Indiana Jones” and “Quantum of Solace,” so be warned that little I say on the subject is trustworthy.
Less so with the latter, which is “Bruno.” I’m going with a group of people who are excited for this thing beyond words, and my attitude is pretty serious ennui. I hate nothing so much as a piece of art straining to impress me, especially after the needless indulgence of “Transformers 2,” and the ad campaign for this thing (it reads: “Borat was SO 2006″) just screams defensive overcompensating. Before I sit down in that theater, I already know that they’re going to hammer me with male nudity, as much as they can, in the fearful hope that I’ll see so many penises that I will surrender to them and tell everyone it was great. I hate bludgeoning comedies, I can’t stand feeling like the movie is trying to force me to love it. “Bruno” should not exist, and it knows it. “Borat” was a flash in the pan, and now some studio executive wants lightning to hit twice, so I have to sit there while some moron director pulls a Spinal Tap and mindlessly cranks the volume to “11.” Blegh. Again, I wouldn’t trust me too much here, because I’m going into this thing ready to kill. But I’m still right, and we both know it, Dear Reader.
As long as I’ve got you here, I thought we’d chat about world events.
-North Korea. “Testing” missiles again, eh? These guys never change. I find a great deal about this situation comparable to the Soviets during the Cold War, and what I believe it amounts to is a psychopathic bluff. I’m not saying that regime isn’t nuts, but I would debate the degree of how nuts they are. Nuts enough to use nukes to get a bigger seat at the table? Yes. But to go to actual war, or start a real conflict where NATO or the UN has to get involved? I don’t buy it, I can’t foresee the endgame. You might say, “There is no endgame! They’re crazy,” but I think the appearance of insanity is a carefully staged ploy. The only way I think they’d do something really atrocious is if we implied that they wouldn’t, because of course no one likes to lose a game of chicken. The USSR played these kind of games back in the day, and the truth behind them is two-fold and almost contradictory: on the one hand, they really do have the means to make our worst nightmares come true, and they are not above doing it. On the other hand, they have no real intention to, what they want is the news coverage and attention they’re already getting.
But I’m still not sure we should take it. Believe me, there’s a reason I’m not in the White House making any decisions, but it gets to the point where I just want to go wipe that smirk off his stupid face. We are stronger, we are in the right, and you just keep begging for a problem. Careful what you wish for.
-Palin and Politics. She was forced to resign. Sigh. I’m not the biggest supporter of this woman in the world, but who else saw this coming? Who else knew that the swells of viciousness would follow her home and ruin her career? A spokesperson from her office claims that they found themselves so neck-deep in frivolous FOIA requests that they couldn’t effectively do their jobs anymore, and I have no doubt that is exactly what happened. I don’t think Palin’s a saint or anything, I’ve heard some horror stories from her own staff, but it’s annoying that we have to be like that. I still don’t understand the vitriolic hate she receives, I think her opponents project deep-seeded anger onto her and then vent it out. It’s kind of distasteful, if you ask me.
-Colin Powell’s concerns about Obama. He’s dead-on, right as usual. Obama’s campaign rhetoric had a pleasing “get ready to suck it up” aura about it, but unfortunately that ran in contradiction to the subliminal messaging on every t-shirt, bumper sticker and web site: Change. Hope. He knew what he was doing, the crass little bugger: he never promised us he’d fix it, but he let us believe he would. What I’m afraid we’re seeing now is a kind of mad dash to overcorrect problems, a lot of which seems to rest on even more taxation. Brady was also dead-on when he pointed out to me that the people who are going to get hammered by such policies are the not super-rich, because they have lobbyists and expensive accountants who surf loop holes, but instead the upper middle class. In other words, you’re punishing average people for being successful, talking a big game about “bearing the burden” and saddling up taxes that amount to class warfare. It doesn’t matter if they “can afford it,” there’s a line past which you’re being unreasonable.
The underlying message here is this: the New Deal did not fix the Great Depression, dude, World War II did (which is not to suggest we should go to war). I don’t think we can spend our way out of a hole we deserve to be in. I think we have to slowly minimize damage and crawl back out. In a lot of ways, Obama is doing great things which echo that sentiment: I love his credit card legislation, his schedule for withdrawal seems reasonable, and he’s moving in the right direction for health care, even if he hasn’t actually hit the destination yet. But sooner or later, the party that put him in the House are going to start grumbling for the flashy displays, the big rescue operations, the Messianic redemption stuff. The bailout was an insanely bad idea, I think we all kind of see that now, but I’m worried that we didn’t even learn from it.
Rating: 89%
I don’t really like writing reviews, the format is too formal and it squelches the joy of talking about movies. Still, I do it sometimes because A) I’m not sure what I think of something yet, B) I have something interesting to point out, or C) I think the movie needs an advocate. I am willing to bet that you have not heard of “The Hurt Locker,” Dear Reader, and the fact that you have heard of “Transformers 2″ instead only furthers my conviction that life is not a meritocracy. So I’m taking up this flick’s cause, and pumping whatever meager influence I have to get the word out about it.
“Locker” is a white-knuckle, (dare I say it) Hitchcockian thriller set in Iraq around 2004. It centers around members of an EOD, or “Explosive Ordnance Disposal” team (read: bomb squad). When someone leaves a car illegally parked and the trunk seems a little heavy, these are the guys who have to go deal with it. The screenwriter, a guy named Mark Boal, was an embedded journalist with a real-life EOD, and if this guy does not know his stuff then he definitely fooled me. The whole picture brims with that sensation of authenticity; it may be realistic (and I think it is, albeit heightened), it may not be, but it is without question convincing. The story picks up as three young men hike out into the sweltering heat day after day, dancing with death, counting down the days until they can go home. The plot is very wisely minimal, since the movie works best as a visceral experience and heavy-handed machinations would have been obnoxious, but its characters speak and think like real human beings. There are wonderful touches of humor throughout the film; often the audience I was with laughed not at some kind of “joke,” but because of the film’s perceptiveness in seeing the little absurdities of high-tension situations. We laughed because we were along for the ride.
“The Hurt Locker” is generally being touted as the first good film about the conflict in Iraq, and that is absolutely the truth. It accomplishes this where so many others, including venerable filmmakers like Robert Redford, have failed by doing two things. Firstly, it does not preach, or pander to any politics, because none of that matters in the situation these men are facing. Secondly, it takes great care to be entertaining. This is not a “feel-bad,” mopey picture, it’s a shot of adrenaline about bravery in the face of danger. “Locker” is the first Iraq movie that doesn’t seem to care about being an Iraq movie, and a lack of such pretentious self-awareness is exactly why it succeeds so admirably. Pleasantly for the filmmakers, they end up having their cake and eating it too: I did think about the big picture, about the pros and cons of the conflict, about the people involved on both sides, but I did so only because the movie never demanded it from me. On its own terms, it functions wonderfully as a “tick-tock” thrill ride, but in simply being accurate about the experiences of these soldiers, it also provides the first and only (so far) real discussion of what they are going through. Yes, the film addresses the nasty after effects of seeing your friends die in combat, but these elements are identical to those present in “Saving Private Ryan” or any other good war film, and their exclusion would have rendered the picture absurd.
The meat and potatoes of this bad boy are the bomb sequences, of which there are more than a few. The film throws our boys into harm’s way plenty of times, and each sequence is executed with absolute mastery. They are tense, they are sweaty, and they almost never play out in predictable ways (I called one or two things, but the average is still high). Good thrillers are exceptionally hard to make, because you can’t fall back on “boo” moments or gross-outs like horror so often will, you have to manipulate your audience. Director Kathryn Bigelow nails it here, she plays the game like she’s been practicing all morning. I am stunned when I peruse her resume: “Point Break,” K:19-the Widowmaker,” these are cheeseball Hollywood flicks, not barbed-wire indie powerhouses like the one we have here. I am pleasantly surprised by the rigorous urgency she creates, and of course it’s always a treat to get more women directors into the field (we have far too few).
Acting is also in fine order, everyone is naturalistic and convincing. Jeremy Renner doesn’t let his reckless character’s machismo get obnoxious, and that’s very good, because if he had it would have ruined the movie (like William Peterson did in “To Live and Die in LA”). Anthony Mackie does great work as Sergeant Sanborn, a wiser and more careful bomb expert who must grapple with the fact that he’s also less talented. Guy Pearce is almost unrecognizable in a quick cameo; not because he looks different, but because he just disappears in his role. David Morse and Ray Fiennes show up for a few minutes, both of them turn in professional performances like they always do. The distinguishing thing about everyone in this picture is how authentic their behavior is. Hollywood is normally pretty good at getting some former drill instructor to teach actors how to hold an M-16, but there’s an extra mile going on here. Everything just…feels military, even the little gestures are right on. Add in authentic shooting locations everywhere from Jordan to Kuwait and you get a flick that rumbles with believability.
A couple of quibbles, one of them significant. First, Brian Geraghty’s turn as Specialist Owen Elridge is a little flat, both because the actor pushes too far into “whiney” territory and the script allows him to. I never feel like soldiers who are really experiencing PTSD are given due respect by relegating them to a single, sniveling white guy who jitters while the rest of his team dives into harm’s way. Most of the running time, Elridge is kept from being annoying, but every now and then the script pushes his “trauma” a little too far without quite earning it. A bigger problem, and perhaps the film’s only substanial one, is Renner’s Staff Sergeant James. The character is great, we love him and he’s unpredictable, but the plot takes a couple of messy swings at psychoanalyzing him that don’t work. A weird, pointless scene occurs where he sneaks off base looking for vengeance, and finds…uh, nothing. James and Sanborn have a frustrating heart-to-heart near the end that is underwritten. He also sometimes gets frazzled and upset at kind of arbitrary times, and there’s a lurking sense that script is trying random things just to see if they work. I’m not sure the writer had this guy totally pinned down: the character is there, and Renner makes him real, but the movie seems too desperate to “shed light” on him, and the math doesn’t add up. Thankfully, the very end of the movie gets him dead-on with a slightly surprising plot turn, and it sort of washes the earlier stuff away.
Nonetheless, “The Hurt Locker” is still a fine piece of filmmaking, and practically a textbook for effective suspense. This is what happens when everyone on a movie is playing to win; there’s wall-to-wall quality in every department, and it all adds up to an experience you can’t possibly unglue your eyes from. There is a sea of sub-par big-budget thrills coming out this summer, but I predict that not one of them will get you even half as involved. A total winner.