Jurassic Park

It's been twenty years since Jurassic Park was first released to theaters, and I just thought it was high time I read the novel that inspired the iconic film. In short, I loved it. It played out a lot like the film did, but had a few more characters and a few more scenes. Those characters also had more depth, and the surviving group at the end of the book was slightly different from the one at the end of the movie. Because I'd seen the movie half a dozen times - and most recently less than a week ago - I had a good idea about the way the plot would unfold. That didn't prevent me from enjoying the suspense and the terror associated with the catastrophic breakdown of a dinosaur park. One scene in particular, left out of the movie, gave me goosebumps. Many scenes in tandem kept me awake late one night in bed, half afraid that velociraptors were silently watching me, or that a tyrannosaurus's head would smash through my window at any second. All things considered, a great modern-day Frankenstein tale about the follies of creating and attempting to control dangerous monsters. I look forward to reading more Michael Crichton books, and in particular The Lost World. But not yet. Not yet.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Have I missed something? This is a film that people everywhere seem to unanimously love. For me, it was... alright. 

The next stop on the Kubrick-kick I'm going on right now is the all too famous Dr. Strangelove. I did see this film once in high school, but I fell asleep while it was playing only remembering brief moments in the story. However, I can now say that I've seen this film from beginning to end and (like most of Kubrick's films) I can understand why this stands as a classic. Why it earned a spot in the National Film Registry at the Library of Congress. Still, I wasn't nuts about it. 

Now, each time I've walked away from a Kubrick film, I find myself liking it more and more over time. Perhaps this will happen with Dr. Strangelove. Perhaps not. The big thing I find fascinating about Kubrick films - the thing that only dawns on me days, even weeks, after I've finished watching it - is the sudden realization of amazing visuals, symbology, or metaphors that I missed in plain sight. Clearly, his work on The Shining is abundant with them (as explained in that fascinating documentary), but I feel like this film was somewhat dry on this hidden subtext. It's a brilliant satire focusing on Cold War, our heated relationship with Russia, and what amounts from mutually assured destruction. Was there anything else other than that, though? I'm serious here. I know there has to be. That I must, clearly, be missing something. People write dissertations analyzing this film and its take on war and global politics. 

Here are some elements of the film I'm lost on. Maybe someone can elaborate on them and explain if there's anything missing here.

- Although an iconic image, Major "King" Kong riding the bomb down like he's in a rodeo, what was necessary about this scene? I saw it kind of as a satirical method to demonstrate our love for war and destruction, but I could see there being something more that I'm missing.

- Was there point to that gag about breaking into the soda machine ("You'll have to answer to the Coca-Cola corporation") for coins to make the phone call to the president other than stating how big and powerful corporations are?

- What's the point of Stangelove's character? Why is he the title of the movie (other than it being an awesome name)? The US having their lead scientific advisor being a Nazi is interesting/fucked up, but is there anything else hidden to that character?

- What was the significance of Strangelove's final line: "Mein Fuerher! I can walk!"

- Are we left to conclude that the Russian ambassador blows up the war room in the very last scene?

- Are the credits (all the nukes going off) with the song "We'll meet again" suppose to express the irony that humans destroyed themselves with no possible way of returning?

- Why did Kubrick choose to shoot this in black in white when Spartacus which came out years earlier was in color (I think)? Could be a production issue with no hidden meaning. But, maybe not.

These are just some moments in the film that I thought brought up cool points, but couldn't find a way of unpacking them any deeper than from their surface level. This bothers me only because I imagine Kubrick as this filmmaker who's all about building a movie with layers on top of layers. I just don't see that here. 

On the other side of the fence - a less critically abrasive side - I want to commend the performances in the film. Obviously, Peter Sellers is fantastic. Playing up three characters (Strangelove, the US president, and Lionel Mandrake) who are a very, very different from one another; all outstanding, highly entertaining, deliveries. However, I was also blown away by George C. Scott's performance as General Buck Turgidson. Oh, man... he is amazing. His enthusiasm to go ahead with the bombing on Russia. His cavilere attitude when he guesses how that only millions of Americans would die when fighting a war with Russia. It's excellent. 

That's all I got on this guy for the time being. I would like to add a bit more on how this film felt much less stylized than his other ones, but maybe Kubrick hadn't hit that stride in his career yet - his next film to be made is 2001 which changes everything. I've yet to watch the majority of his films that predate this one (Lolita, Paths of Glory, even Spartacus deserves another watch), but I'll be getting on that soon enough.

Collision Course

Oh Leno-san when

will you learn to trust Pat and

solve the case as friends.

Superman: Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?

Another comic book down. This time, it's not Batman, it's Superman. 

Growing up, the only comic books I ever collected/read was for The Death of Superman story arc. In a nutshell, it sucked. It was suppose to be another end story for the man of steel, and with a name that bold it got kids in the 90's very excited... but it was all a sham. What do I mean, sham? I'll let Max Landis (a very successful screenwriter of our generation) give the low-down on how DC fucked with its readers with this particular Superman story arc.

Now before this end-tale of Superman, DC made the book I have here, Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow? Reading their introduction, in the mid-80's DC wanted to wrap up many of their superhero stories - they had introduced a plethora of similar heroes that existed in different dimensions and/or time periods. Shit was confusing. Heroes and villains would frequently cross over and interact, but all of this just made the entire DC universe immensely impossible to understand. So, the execs decided it was time to start with a clean slate, meaning we're going to end it all and reboot the franchise. To do that, they brought on one of the most famous writers of all time, Alan Moore (Watchmen, V for Vendetta, From Hell, The Killing Joke), and had him close this chapter on Superman.

It was OK. Nothing incredible, but interesting. (Frankly, from Moore I would have expected something better, but I take what I can get.) Basically, it's around a decade in the "future" since Superman was last seen. A reporter comes to the house of Lois Lane to do an interview on the disappearance of Superman all those years ago. The story arc occurs as one giant flashback. 

Now, what I like about this tale is that shit gets serious. People die, both villains and heroes, in rapid fire succession - and nobody comes back unlike what happens in the 90's with the DC's other attempt to end Superman. It's riveting. The big villain(s) - not unlike what I read in my previous post on Batman: The Dark Knight Strikes Again is the Luthor and Brainiac team-up. Only this time, Brainiac is a little machine that has mounted himself on Luthor's head and gets complete control over all his facilities. Them, along with a slew of other villains, attack Metropolis. Although Superman is able to a fair job at saving everyone, his alter-ego, Clark Kent, is revealed. With this out in the open, he takes everyone close to him (mostly people from his paper plus his Smallville high school crush, Lana Lang) to his Fortress of Solitude for protection. Next thing you know, Luthor/Brainiac sets up some forcefield that prevents the Justice League's interference as they mount an attack on the place. 

One thing. Let me just point out this one panel where the Justice League is trying to break down the forcefield. Would you look and Batman and Robin. They're whacking the barrier with fucking sticks! Seriously? One of comic's most brilliant hero's solution is to bang a stick against sophisticated, futuristic forcefield. Sorry. I know it's insignificant, but it's often the little shit that can really bother me. Plus it's Batman. He would know better. Anyways... Moving on!

Like I stated early. The story was alright. At least it ends with Superman's disappearance of which he'll never return from (at least not in this series). In this deluxe edition I got, there were two other Superman comics written by Moore that are independent from this story. One where Superman is poisoned by some alien life-form and is saved by Swamp Thing, and another where he's (sort-of) poisoned once again to be trapped in a mental stupor believing where Krypton was never destroyed allowing his villain to imprison him a perfect fantasy world. Both we're not that good. I'm honestly not even sure what they were included. Maybe because they're written by Moore. Seems like just page fillers though. 

In the end, even though parts were enjoyable, I'm going to say this is the worst thing I've read by Moore so far. To be fair, the bar is set high in comparison to his other work. The one thing that really creeped me out was the final panel.

Lois has finished her interview and is heading off to bed with her new husband. At first look I thought this guy is winking like he's about to boink her. SPOILER: They make it clear that he's suppose to be Superman in hiding. (They introduce their child who crushes a lump of coal into a diamond earlier in the page.) Still, it's creepy. Not the last image audiences want to see of Superman. Winking at them with a porn-style mustache. Yech...

Bastion

Now listen up kid;

Caelondia might be gone,

but you can save it.

House: Season 8

Time for the postmortem on House, a show that, paradoxically, I never once "loved" but also never once fell behind by more than a year and a half. If you've read the blog for a while, you'll know I'm typically not a fan of procedural dramas, and House is basically the one and only lone exception. Its characters were just interesting enough, and its week-to-week formula just variable enough, for me to grow as invested in it as I did. You can read my recaps of the fifth, sixth, and seventh seasons somewhere on this blog, about three, two, and one year ago, respectively. So, how did it all end?

Eh. There were things to like about this eighth and final season of House. Cuddy is gone, so Foreman, House's old employee, steps into the role of dean of medicine. This subversion of their power dynamic was at least interesting. Sadly this is basically all Foreman got to do all season. Amber Tamblyn's character is gone after one season, and she's been replaced by two more fairly meaningless female doctors in Charlyne Yi (the quirky Asian one!) and Odette Annable (who? exactly!) Chase and Taub return to round out House's crew, and Wilson - the show's only sympathetic character - is back for one more year of the involuntary burden of being House's only friend. But other than this slight casting tweak - the fourth in five seasons or so - is House any different? Nah. And neither is non-italicized House, its main character. Or anybody else. One of the show's most repeated sentiments over the years is that people never really change. By addressing this belief, the show managed to retain its tried and true formula for eight whole years with a few tweaks here and there. So, kudos. This lack of character development isn't necessarily a bad thing; The Sopranos had the same cynical opinion, and is one of my favorite shows of all time. But while that show was beautifully crafted and full of examples of people trying to change but slipping naturally back into their vices and bad tendencies, House attempts nothing of the sort. House has been to rehab and to prison, but he can't shake his Vicodin addiction and he can't hold down a relationship and he's a total asshole to his colleagues and patients alike. Hugh Laurie pulls the role off where it would have failed horribly in most other hands, with just enough charisma and humor to keep you from completely hating the smarmy and stubborn egomaniac.

Anyway, what else is there to say? The series' peak, for me, was the WGA strike-shortened fourth season, which played out like a reality TV show for ten episodes or so (House eliminates potential team members one by one until he's found three people he's satisfied with) and ended with the best pair of episodes the show has ever done. Other highlights include the first season's "Three Stories," in which the explanation for House's limp and most of his unhappiness is revealed, and the season finales of Seasons 5 and 6. The Season 7 finale? Potentially a series low point. The series finale? Over-the-top as hell, but adequate. I'm left in a good place with House now, satisfied by its closing montage and content to extrapolate future life stories for all of the characters I cared about.

So, farewell, House. You were never the greatest show on TV, but you were certainly worth your eight-year run.

God of War: Chains of Olympus

Thanks to Stan for letting me borrow the God of War Origins Collection, now I can finally play the God of War games that came out on the PSP without actually having to buy a whole new handheld. First up was Chains of Olympus, a prequel that sees Kratos back when he was a lackey of the gods, carrying out the tasks requested of him when the gods didn't feel like taking care of it themselves. In terms of gameplay, I didn't feel like anything was sacraficed except game length; this felt exactly like God of War always has, and being remastered in HD meant the game looked just as good as the first two God of War games to me. Kratos still solves giant puzzles, gains and upgrades awesome powers, and fights gods. The introduction had some pretty hilarious moments, including an achievement for walking across the only balance beam in the game, as well as a surprise enemy who beats down the first door you try to open. only to be immediately eaten by an even larger enemy who tears down the whole wall in front of you. Small moments like this had me thinking the rest of the game would cleverly subvert expectations, but the rest of the plot of the game didn't make much sense to me. First off, the world is plunged into darkness and sleep by some god of dreams named Morpheus, and as a former student of the classics I've never heard of this guy. But I was willing to suspend my disbelief! Morpheus has apparently caused Apollo to cause his sun-chariot to crash into Earth, and it's up to Kratos to find Apollo somewhere within his temple to defeat Morpheus. But wait, why did I get an achievement stating that I beat Morpheus before I even got to the temple? Was that weird fog I walked through actually somehow a god? Then when I ran through his temple/chariot, I never actually found Apollo or made reference to him, but instead brought his marble steeds to life. So what happened to Apollo then? Or Morpheus? Eventually the steeds get the chariot moving and dump Kratos off in Hell, a common setting in the God of War games. And then the final boss is... Persophone? Huh? I didn't even spoil it because, who cares? In a series where the plot usually boils down to "Kratos hates and is willing to kill everyone" why were there so many false-starts? At least the little subplot with Kratos trying to save his daughter was consistent. Anyway as I said before the gameplay itself is just as good as the rest of the God of War games, and I still give Chains of Olympus a high recommendation. It might not have made much sense, but I had a lot of fun with it.

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time 3D

There's still plenty of critically acclaimed games out there I have yet to play, but put me in the camp that considers The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time to be the best game ever made. I didn't get to play it as a kid (no N64!) but eventually got to play through a significant chunk of it when I was at school, only for the game to remain unfinished as schoolwork piled up. Finally at the ripe old age of 26 have I been able to experience the whole game, and I really loved every minute of it, thanks to Webber, who let me borrow his copy of the 3DS version. Where to start? The levels? They're fantastic. From the Great Deku Tree to Ganon's Castle, I wouldn't change a thing. The decision to make the levels fit into the world around them rather than be a random series of underground rooms made for some interesting objective-based temples- destroy the viruses plaguing Jabbu Jabbu's belly! Climb to the top of a hollowed-out mountain in search of the legendary hammer, then whack down the platform you needed at ground level! I also have to address one complaint Marissa had in her post- yes, just one. She hated this game almost entirely for the reasons I loved it, but one thing felt factually wrong. In the Shadow Temple (where Bongo Bongo is indeed a major pain to beat), you can totally make a shortcut by moving a block out of the way just before you get on the boat. It's not quite as big a time-saver as you'll find in other temples, but it's there, with easy access to fairies and everything. Webber also posted about the 3DS version of this game, and seemed to be a big fan, but Kyle made a bit of guest commentary in his comment and didn't seem too pleased with the game. What gives? This seems to be the go-to 'greatest game' for lots of people and hardly makes waves when it's addressed as such, yet here on the Back-Blog we've had two very positive reviews as well as two very negative ones. Marissa called it frustrating while Kyle called it boring and easy; to me, only the last complaint of its ease holds any water. But when you're backlogging, you're rarely looking for a challenge, merely a game that can keep you excited and interested throughout its run. Ocarina of Time 3D handled this perfectly for me. Before I finish off this post, I just have to address how iconic the music in this game is. I'm a person who barely pays attention to the background music in games and sometimes just mutes it to use my own instead, but it's striking how many memorable tunes there are in the game. It certainly helps that most of them can be played on the ocarina (Zelda's Lullaby? Saria's Song? Prelude of Light?) But the adventure music of running around Hyrule and Hyrule Field is very easy to recall. My personal favorite is the southwern-flavored Gerudo Desert music- who would have thought mariachi music could work so well in a basic fantasy setting? If anyone on the Blog hasn't played through Ocarina of Time yet, do so. It is awesome.

Radiant Historia

Two months ago, I put the fortieth and final hour into Final Fantasy IX, the oldest game in my backlog by a number of years. Not only was the game a blast, but the act of vanquishing a game I'd had for half of my lifetime was a true triumph, as far as the backlog's challenges go. Today, I've just completed another forty-hour JRPG that I had a lot of fun playing, and yet that same triumphant feeling is almost entirely lacking. This makes sense; while Final Fantasy IX had been in my backlog for well over a decade, Radiant Historia barely spent a hundred days there. So while in the case of the former I was thrilled to overcome a true milestone, the latter left me feeling little more than, "oh, great, back to where I was three months ago."

This is just an observation. It isn't meant to criticize the game itself or the accomplishment of beating it. (New or not, it was one of just three games in my backlog projected to take forty or more hours. Huge!) I first had interest in Radiant Historia after reading Brian's glowing review right here on Back-Blogged. In fact, he described the key components of the game - the parallel timelines, the time traveling, the grid-based combo-heavy combat system - so well that I'll link to his article right here in the interest of saving time and being lazy.

One area where I'd have to disagree with Brian is his claim that this Chrono Trigger clone challenges Chrono Trigger. While the similarities are abundant and obvious - seven playable characters, spatial relevance in combat, time travel - I can't go that far on the praise. Whether I simply liked this game less than he did, liked Chrono Trigger more than he did, or some combination of the two, I can't say. Frankly this game just didn't have nearly as many memorable scenes or characters or moments as that one did. The characters are diverse and endearing here, but they're all cut from a similar cloth compared to Chrono Trigger's gallant talking frog-man, futuristic fighting robot, dorky inventor, et al.

Of course, Chrono Trigger is an absurdly high bar to shoot for, and for all this game's comparable "shortcomings" I can't help but imagine the comparison is a disservice in some ways. After all, Radiant Historia is very much its own game with its own charms and shouldn't be thought of as an attempt to recreate Chrono Trigger on an Atlus budget. In short, if Chrono Trigger gets five stars, this game gets four. And that's something!

Room 237

In my previous post on Eyes Wide Shut I talked about this documentary focusing on Kubrick's possible hidden messages in The Shining. It's still not available on DVD yet, but you can rent it on iTunes. Regardless if this isn't actually in my back-log, it's so fucking intriguing I just have to post on this. 

This documentary breaks The Shining and its messages down into nine parts, and I really don't know where to start on this. I feel as though I could talk forever on these subject matters. Debate on them endlessly as I'm sure the commentators of this documentary do on a regular basis. I'll just focus on the most likely theory to be true, the least likely theory, and the one that's the most entertaining to me.

First is the idea that The Shining is a message about the genocide of the Native Americans as the colonists moved across this country. This seems completely believable to me and there are plenty of signs to indicate that Kubrick truly intended this message to connect to audiences. The hotel is filled with Native American artwork and paintings and tapestries. There's also a specific reference to Calumet Baking Power in the kitchen's pantry.

Calumet is a Native American peace pipe. In this scene, the Calumet symbolizes Danny's trust with the caretaker Dick. It's shown again when Jack Torrance gets locked in the pantry after going crazy and makes a pact with the demons to let him out only in that scene all of the Calumet canisters are off kilter indicating a flawed treaty. 

There's also some mention to the movie being a connection to WWII and the Holocaust. This one is a little harder for me to buy, but possible. The number 42 is thrown around a bit which is indicative to 1942 when (as the commentators in the documentary claim) the Holocaust began. Plus Jack uses a German typewriter - typewriter could indicate power having the ability to make lists, possibly making list for those entering concentration camps. This seems like a bit of a stretch, but there could be something to it. There's also this photo that ends the movie:

As the haunting photo that shows Jack immortalized in the hotels old 1920's party as it fades into a close-up of him. During the fade, if you freeze it, it's suppose to look like Jack Torrance is actually Hitler. Think this is grasping at straws. Cool theory, though, but I straddle on the fence at this Holocaust allegory.

The next theory that I really don't believe is that this movie was Kubrick's attempt to confess that he filmed the moon landing. Note: It's not that we never landed on the moon, just that the footage we have is faked. This theory mostly involves the room 237. In the novel it's 217. Kubrick claims they changed it because the hotel they filmed had a 217 and didn't want to scare people from staying in it. Commentators in the documentary say this is false. If you call the hotel, they'll explain no such room exists. So they claim 237 is the name of the soundstage the moon landing was filmed on, plus the distance from the Earth to the moon was 237,000 miles (the was the supposed number used at the time before more accurate lasers calculated it to be closer 239,000 miles). Then when Danny checks out the room, he's wearing an Apollo 11 sweater. And, the key to room 237 is spelled out as "ROOM No 237". The documentary speculates that "o" on number is meant to be ignored and and when rearranging the letters you can spell MOON ROOM. 

First, I don't buy that the moon landing footage is fake. So I'm looking to poke holes in these theories. All-in-all, it just seems people are reading too much into these clues. It's a really fascinating theory, but I just struggle to believe it.

Finally, the most fascinating point the documentary makes is that the film was designed to play forwards and backwards at the same time. You can actually overlay the film playing in both directions and see some fascinating imagery. First there's the opening/ending:

The title is that of the photo where Jack is frozen for all time, trapped with all the demons in the hotel. In this frame, it's almost like a postcard inviting the viewers to stay with the ghouls  and ghosts of the hotel. 

Then we have Dick warning Danny of the horrors of the hotel while you have Jack first going crazy as he chases Wendy up the staircase before she strikes him with the baseball bat. Cool imagery. Note: The knives placed to look like their about to strike Danny. 

The two store room scenes link up exactly. When Danny and Wendy are introduced to the room overlays when Jack becomes imprisoned there by Wendy after falling into complete madness. 

The scene where Jack is in the blood-red bathroom talking to Grady (the former caretaker who chopped up his family) when he converts him to kill his family, their mouths are perfectly  encapsulated in the TV that Wendy and Danny are watch. Note: What's on TV is called The Summer of '42. Another nod to the reoccurring numer of the Holocaust. 

Then there's the typewriter mixing with the labyrinth. Both scenes, either when Jacks working or when Wendy discovers that whole "No work and no play..." repetition is overlaid with the maze garden. Great symbolism of the typewriting being Jack's window as he gets lost in his madness.

They go on and on. This intrigues me so much I want to watch this whole overlaying thing for myself. Hopefully I can find this online somewhere.

To wrap up, I'm left with this one final thought: Could Stanley Kubrick really be that much of a genius to have intentionally planned all of these messages in his film? (Still plenty I haven't mentioned.) I think only partly. I don't disagree that he's a genius. A true master filmmaker. But I believe that this documentary more displays man's ability to find truth wherever they want. The room key symbolizing the MOON ROOM seems like a huge leap on logic to me. And to think that Kubrick intentionally planned for this movie to play forwards and backwards with one another... I mean, If he really sat down and tried to do that, I think it would make him literally go mad - not unlike Jack Torrance. I think he's a perfectionist with the camera. Always made sure shots lined up, so when played on top of one another, we'll see things fall in place in interesting positions. However, of all the myths buried in this film, I think there might be some truth to the allegories of the demise of the Native Americans. Maybe even the Holocaust. All the other imagery, the labyrinth, the power of the typewriter, the knives above Danny, various others, are intended to subconsciously invoke fear or confusion that play in concert with the haunting storyline.

One truly fascinating element that Kubrick achieved was filming the layout of the hotel. There's all these mistakes in its construction that makes it impossible for some rooms to exist. And Kubrick does all the long, continuous shots to help lead the audience around only to make them feel lost and confused. Trapped even. It's a brilliant technique that makes you feel uncomfortable that these characters are already in a world that lacks logic and normal physics. Reminiscence of the horror I felt reading House of Leaves and that strange corridor that constantly changed to the point that story's characters would spend days there lost in darkness. 

My only beef with Kubrick's genius in this film, and I know I've been rambling on for a bit here  so I'll wrap up, is that bear scene. If people remember, at the end when Wendy begins to see the hotel in all of its madness, she sees man in a bear suit giving oral to some other guy.

This makes sense in the book as King tells the story of Jack going crazy and dancing in a ballroom where all these demon are being depraved. Although it's been a while since I've read it, there might have been something directly related to a man in a bear suit. It's just weird that Kubrick would include this seeing as he departed greatly from King's novel to begin with. I mean, the labyrinth isn't even involved in the book. Plus Kubrick made many indications that he wanted nothing to do with King's original work. Even fought to keep him away from the script. So, no clue why this scene was included. And the documentary makes no mention of it.

Still, this documentary is fascinating and definitely makes me rethink my stance on Kubrick films. I may never love them in the sense of how I love Star Wars or Evil Dead, but I'm certainly going to give all of his movies another watch. Even if intentional or not, I'm excited to think I might find some new hidden messages in connection to some far off shit.