be right back

I'm pretty sure Be Right Back, the first episode of the second season of Black Mirror, is the best thing I've watched in a long, long while. When it finished, I felt as if I'd been through an emotional rollercoaster. 

Black Mirror is a UK anthology series which takes a modern spin on the Twilight Zone, concept, though I don't think that comparison really does it full justice. It explores the near future--a future maybe two, five, ten years away, maybe a bit more. The unexpected/unintended consequences of technology (particularly what we call social media) is the prime driver of all the episodes. But unlike most sci-fi, Black Mirror explores these concepts in a grounded way, with real humans and real relationships. The show feels astoundingly real. Thus far only seven episodes have been produced, of which I've now seen four. All four of have been of high quality, but Be Right Back is on a level all its own. 

Be Right Back is an exploration of grief, and of moving on. I'm pretty sure it's the saddest hour I've watched since...I don't know when, honestly. The acting is excellent, and the couple of points where the script flirts with cliche it gets away with it, because everything feels integral to the story. Everything is real. Throughout the episode, I found myself wondering what I would do in the protagonist's place--the sign of a great story, something that happens rarely. And I found I had no answers, something even more rare. The story could have taken the easy way out and did not. My admiration knows no bounds.

I realize I'm not saying much about the plot here, but that is easy enough to find if you need it (just click on the link above.) The whole point of this post is to not give anything away but to simply say: You need to watch this. Great storytelling--both emotional and full of intelligent, intriguing ideas--is not dead on the small screen. Go watch this now and thank me later.

Note: According to Wikipedia, the third episode of Black Mirror, The Entire History of You, has been optioned by Robert Downey, Jr. to be made into a feature film by Warner Bros. Let's hope this gets derailed before the Hollywood studio hacks take a great story and turn it into a piece of trash. Unfortunately, it also sounds as though there will be an American version of the series made as well, which will most assuredly suck. The problem with actually making something good is the endless pool of suck that is big budget America television/movie making inevitably notices. A remorseless, soulless monster, it devours everything in its path and leaves only a trail of slime. Go watch the original while you can. 

 

gratitude

The last few days I find myself full of gratitude. I would like to think I’m always full of gratitude, but I’m a normal human, which means I have more than my share of ungrateful days. I have many reasons to be full of gratitude: beautiful healthy children, good health for myself, enough financial security to keep the roof over my head and food on the table for the near future, a creative component to my life, music, books, and of course family and friends. But I’m most grateful for my lovely wife, without whom little of the above would be possible (or anywhere near as enjoyable.)

It’s Valentine’s Day, a holiday that represents the worst kind of commercialization and obligation. I normally pay virtually no attention to VD (great initials, eh?) and neither does my lovely wife. But today I did the very traditional thing: I got her roses and a card. Not because I was obligated to or because it was expected of me. Because I am so grateful for her. And I don’t tell her that often enough. Why is it so hard to tell people that you love them, that you are thankful for them? I can spew bile with the best of them but when it comes to demonstrating love and gratitude…yeah, I’m not so great.

20-plus years I’ve been with this wonderful person. Our love is the foundation of an amazing life, of which the most shining representation is our two beautiful daughters. Like any couple that are in it for the long haul, we’ve had our ups and downs, good days and bad days. That’s what life is. There is no one else I’d want to share mine with. I am deeply grateful.

On a cold fall day many years ago a co-worker invited me to her house to rake some leaves. Except it had snowed that morning so there were no leaves to rake. Instead she and I sat in front of the fire and according to legend, I talked a lot. I have no idea what about, but apparently she enjoyed it, because she didn’t kick me out of the house. Later that night we raced about Seattle with a couple of her friends looking for the latest issue of The Stranger (a free local underground—at least in those days—rag.) As the car went careening about town, I thought “I’m in the car with three beautiful, crazy women. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” I don’t remember if we ever did find a copy.

Shortly thereafter I was invited back to this co-worker’s house, and it was just the two of us. We were discussing PJ Harvey and she said “You haven’t heard Dry? You have to hear Dry!” Of course, the stereo was in her bedroom…and reader, the rest is the most wonderful of histories. I’ve been with that co-worker ever since, through life, death, babies, houses, apartments with fungi growing on the carpet…through scares and joys, through tension and sensual exploration, through miscommunication and overwhelming joy. There’s not a moment of it I would trade for anything. I am the luckiest guy around.

I am profoundly grateful to share my life with her.

boring writing stuff

In early January I mostly finished a story that is probably the best one I've ever written. (Admittedly, that's not saying much.) It still needs a bit of tweaking here and there but overall it is complete. Writing it was a rare case of having not only a story to tell but something I wanted to say. Having it all come together was a deeply satisfying experience. 

Since then, I haven't completed anything new. And yet...I am writing a lot. I rewrote a story that I initially wrote back in 2009; it was the first time I've ever gone back to something old and rewrote it. Usually I just plow ahead with something new, no matter how light on ideas or inspiration I am. But rewriting that story was also a rewarding experience--it had never left my mind, and to go back to it with skills that have hopefully grown some in that time felt good. At the least, I would hope I have a slightly different perspective that informed it. The subject matter was still difficult but I enjoyed the challenge. I wouldn't want to look back all the time but now I'm at least aware it can have benefits. 

Once that was finished, I began work on something new, something without a real definite shape or a known end goal. The only thing I know is that it will be in seven sections and I've currently got three completely written and two more partially completed. And it's already at some 10k words, so it's unwieldy for sure (by my standards, anyway.) Maybe it won't be, once I know what it is. Right now I sure don't.

At times, that worries me, coming on the heels of the two stories above where I knew exactly what I was after. But when I'm being honest, I know that's pretty rare. It's nice when you have that kind of inspiration but mostly writing is work, work and more work. Maybe this sprawling mess I'm doing now becomes something, or maybe it all gets abandoned. Or maybe chunks of it become something else entirely. You just never know unless you keep working. It's nice when inspiration lights the tunnel and you can see where you are going, but that is a rare thing. Most of the time you just feel about in the darkness. Sometimes your hand gets bit, sometimes it finds a switch. But if you just stand there and don't do anything, nothing will happen. So I just keep typing. And typing.

best (favorite) horror films of the millennium

A coworker today asked if I’d seen The Babadook, a recently released horror movie. I haven’t, as it’s yet to be available via Netflix and it’s going to have a very limited run here in Seattle—as in this weekend only-- which I will miss because life is nothing if not insanely busy these days. I commented to my fellow coworker that The Babadook looked like it had the potential to be very good, which would be welcome because there simply haven’t been very many good horror movies this millennium. Which inevitably led to the question: what are the best horror movies of the millennium? Ok, that sounds too grand and at the same time too vague, so: what are my favorite horror movies of the millennium?

If you’ve been unfortunate enough to endure one of my rants about “they just don’t make ‘em good anymore” you’ll know that I’m not, in general, a fan of what horror cinema has had to offer since 2000. Really, since the early 1990s, if I’m being honest. Some of this is simply a taste thing; I’m no fan of CGI, for instance, which has nearly destroyed the once proud art of movie special effects. CGI is fine for video games but should be used sparingly, if at all, in movies, especially horror films. I’m also more drawn to the organic unease of the cheap, low-budget exploitation/grindhouse cinema of the 70s/80s and the Italian horror cinema of the same period. I miss film stock and struggle with antiseptic cleanliness of even the cheapest digital film. I grew up in the 80s and naturally have a fondness for even the worst slashers of the period over what comes out today. Yada, yada.

But that isn’t to say that a good horror movie can’t be made today. In particular, the easy access of technology makes the entry point easier for the would-be auteur, much like anyone can create a one-man band in their bedroom and make some astounding music, if the vision and passion is there. And there have been some good ones. Actually, there have been more than I would have initially thought. (What? An initial knee-jerk reaction is proven wrong upon further examination? Say it ain’t so!) So here is my little spin through my personal favorites since January 1, 2000. Perhaps the oddest thing I discovered putting this list together is how the memory plays tricks on a person—as mentioned in the blurbs below, there were several of these I would have sworn came out in 90s. I guess that’s what happens when you become an old man. As always with these kind of lists, I’m sure I forgot at least a couple that will have me slapping my forehead at some point in the future.

Again, let me stress that these are my personal favorites, not necessarily the most important films to the genre as whole. There is no Hostel here, for instance, because while it’s clearly an important film to the genre and essential when discussing the arc of and context for horror cinema in the 2000s, I don’t think it’s a particularly good film. Regardless of what one feels about “torture porn” as a sub-genre (and it’s an understandably dicey area for many folks), Eli Roth’s movies have always felt leaden to me. They drag. He’s clearly a fan of much of the same stuff as I and an articulate spokesman for horror cinema. I just don’t care for his movies. Ditto for the Saw movies. Actually, the first two Saw movies are pretty well done but they never gave me that spark, that frisson, which the best of the genre provides and I can’t imagine sitting through the rest of the series. Your mileage may vary.

So here they are, in no particular order. Enjoy!

driving

I miss driving. It’s kind of a funny thing to say, given the sheer amount of time I spend in the car for my work commute, for running my kids to and fro, for any number of daily tasks. Such activity is a necessity of my daily life—it’s not driving.

This evening I had to make a quick trip through darkened streets to pick up my youngest. The streets were unusually quiet as everyone was presumably watching the Superbowl. Inside my car, The War on Drugs (horrible name but absolutely magical band) was on at full volume. The moon peaked out from behind the clouds and suddenly I wanted to just keep driving, on and on, no thought to destination. That is driving. This small moment of it was as raindrops are to one dying of thirst in the desert.

Growing up rural, I did a lot of driving with no actual destination. Especially on dirt roads throughout the mountains, but also on side roads that were lightly traveled. You could put in miles and not see another pair of headlights. My mind would quiet down and I would experience a very rare calm. Just me, cigarettes and whatever cassette I was playing. If it was a clear night, I’d stop somewhere random and look at the stars. Every single time I would think of the Huck Finn quote:

We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened.

If it was raining, I wouldn’t stop. I’d just keep driving, sometimes turning off the music so I could listen to the swish of the swipes, a soothing effect that suggested all storms could be washed away and one could begin anew. I was not yet so far from my Catholic upbringing to think that redemption was unimportant, even as my mind wrestled with my body. Such conflict is endless and repetitive and we are probably a long way from evolving past it. Maybe it makes us human. I was just grateful for the ability of the rain to wash it away.

Driving was mostly done alone, but on rare times there was company. The time I picked up my girlfriend and we ended up in the woods under the stars and for the first time I understood the magic of intimacy. The driving made it possible. The time my best friend and I drove into the woods, drinking down a six pack and chain smoking, while it began to snow. The way the snow looked in the headlights is a beautiful sight I will take with me to my grave. If you’ve been blessed with a friend like he is, and to share such a moment, you will never die bitter. Beauty is always possible.

So many drives then, so few now. Tonight I’m driving and a voice drifts out of the speakers. “I’m just a bit rundown here at the moment.” I am, and maybe driving would cure that, but I have responsibilities and so I return home. I wonder how one makes time to drive when they don’t know when they will need that time. Magic is intent, I like to say. But not all magic is intent; sometimes it is happenstance. Sometimes the doors open when you press the clutch down and shift up, sometimes when you shift down, and many times not at all.

I rarely, if ever, figure things out. Yet once in a while I’m graced with a moment, the hum of the engine and the churn of the tires on the pavement gifting the moment of beauty beneath stars that have no need to reveal whether they were made or just happened. Because it is one and the same.

river's edge

I have seen hundreds of films, and loved many. But very few have affected me as powerfully as seeing River’s Edge in 1987 did. An excellent article published Saturday in Salon has me thinking about the film again, but in truth it is never very far away, even though the last time I saw it was probably in 1991 or so. Certain works of art burn so deeply into one that they are always a part of you.

For those unfamiliar, a brief plot synopsis: based loosely on a true story, high school burnout John murders his girlfriend Jamie. He tells his friends, seemingly unconcerned about what he's done, even perhaps a bit proud. Leader of burnouts Layne (Crispin Glover in possibly the most powerful performance of the decade) attempts to rally the group of friends (which includes Matt, played a by pre-fame Keanu Reeves) to keep the murder a secret and protect John. Matt contemplates going to the police. Eventually Fenk (played by Dennis Hopper), the local weed dealer in love with his blow-up doll and a one-time murderer himself, gets involved. The teens, outside of Layne, are mostly unconcerned about the whole thing. It is a movie about emptiness.

I do not use the term burnout in derogatory fashion; these are people I know and that’s why this movie hit me so powerfully--I was just coming into high school when I first saw it. Burnout is the label given to those adult society would just as soon forget exist. In the context of the Reagan 80’s, being a burnout was an acknowledgment of the emptiness and felt like the only honest reaction to a society that was corrupt, hypocritical and interested primarily in the attainment of material wealth, which kids like me knew would never be within our reach.

River’s Edge is a cinematic work of art without peer. I have argued in the past that the two visual images that best capture what growing up in the 80s felt like are 1) Layne, exhausted beyond life, falling asleep at the wheel at an empty intersection while Slayer blares through the crappy stereo, not even the violence of the music enough to bridge across the exhaustion, and 2) the recurring motif of the changing traffic light in Twin Peaks (which, admittedly, was not made until 1990 but feels very much a product of the 1980s.) I often watched River’s Edge back-to-back or close to Blue Velvet, the only other movie that could challenge River’s Edge as far as capturing the small-town emptiness of decade. But whereas Blue Velvet is an abstract tone poem, poetic even as it is disturbing (and shot through with a misogyny I find deeply uncomfortable as an adult, even though I very much admire David Lynch), River’s Edge is stark, bleak, nihilistic. Like Requiem for a Dream (the book or the movie), you leave River’s Edge profoundly disturbed. You want to have a reaction, but you are too shell-shocked.

It may not be possible for River’s Edge to have that kind of impact on a viewer today. One reason is that Keanu Reeves is now quite famous, and I think it would be hard to forget you were watching him—that’s the problem with being an actor with a celebrity persona. It’s why Jack Nicholson and Robert DeNiro can only play the same notes in a movie—you never believe you are watching anyone but them. The character they play is irrelevant. (Hell for me is having to watch Jack Nicholson in any movie.) Keanu Reeves is forever seared in our brains as dopey Ted, the guy from Speed, the guy from The Matrix. The butt of thousand jokes about his (lack of) acting ability. Yet in this film, he is perfect for the character, who it might said has the closest thing to a conscience in the film. But should I revisit the film, something I’m thinking of doing now that it’s (finally!) out on DVD, I suspect I will struggle with forgetting the entirety of his career and seeing him simply as Matt.

River’s Edge is a movie about the void, and how confronting that void and finding your soul empty can drive you to desperate acts in an attempt to feel something, anything. This is, I think, some of the most fertile territory the horror field can explore when it gets away from its standard good vs. evil framework—but River’s Edge is not a horror movie, though I’d argue it’s far more terrifying than one. Because, suggests the film, even the act of murder is not enough to break through the emptiness. The void doesn’t react. The universe is not concerned with you or your actions, and nothing you do matters: one definition of nihilism. Yet in the final survey, I don’t think River’s Edge is a nihilistic movie, bleak as it is. Layne, no matter how wrong his motivations, is trying to shatter that boredom, push away the emptiness, and shows a measure of loyalty to a friend where most would recoil. Matt struggles with his conscience; he knows this is all wrong, somehow, even if he has trouble pushing himself to do anything about it. Feck really did love his ex that he murdered. The movie itself ends on a note that, if not hopeful, at least has a small measure of dignity. When your life has been broken beyond repair before it has actually begun, a small measure of dignity is the greatest of achievements.

Does it sound strange to say I feel close the characters of this movie, all of whom are unsympathetic to varying degrees? It hits close to home, as the saying goes. “There but for the grace of God…” But there is no grace, no God in this world. Just the void. I am fortunate to not have scraped this close to the emptiness; arguably the biggest issue in my life has been that I feel too much, not too little. But the exhaustion in Layne’s speeding eyes? I know that exhaustion. It’s an exhaustion beyond fear, out there where there aren’t any stars and you are completely alone. I can understand the actions (or lack thereof) of the characters in River’s Edge without condoning them. One of the biggest issues with virtually every “teen” movie ever made is that it reduces the complexities of life to a series of trite either/ors for both adults and teens. River’s Edge does not. Strip away the more salacious elements of the story (chiefly, the murder) and you find that these were the kids of the 80s, the kids America left behind. Alone, with no tools, no family in any tangible sense, not even sure how to reach out to each other. Ritual is but an empty gesture when there is no hope.

I am drawn to art that pushes me into uncomfortable places, that provides no easy answers. River’s Edge was one of my earliest and best teachers. On the screen, it reflected a world that I knew, and by doing so suggested that telling the story can itself be a dignified, life-affirming act. There may be no easy answers in this film, but for an hour and a half, it gives a voice to those who lost theirs in the void. And it never once insults my intelligence or takes a condescending, moralizing tone towards these lost souls. Of such difficult and unpleasant complexities powerful art can be forged, and in the process offer a note of growth, of hope. And that is no small thing.

This post was written while listening exclusively to Slayer.