5 Reasons to Love the Beatles

Some say they were simply in the right place at the right time.  I RESPECTFULLY disagree.

—

I didn't grow up with the Beatles.  I mean, I'd heard of them, sure—you can't really live on this planet anymore without some exposure to them.  But I only had this vague idea of them as "that band from the sixties," famous for being weird and doing drugs.  I'd heard "Yellow Submarine," and knew they made a song called "I Am the Walrus," so the image stuck.

I even have these funny memories of looking up at their posters in a restaurant.  They were very confusing.  Were they really supposed to be the same four guys in each poster?  What was the significance of crossing a crosswalk?  Rubber Soul was simpler, but I couldn't understand why all but one of them were looking so forlorn into the distance while the last one looked directly at the camera.  I mean, was he supposed to be smarter than the rest for figuring out there was a camera?  Or was he just too cool to look away with everyone else?

Or maybe he's their king.
. . . Yeah, that seems like a reasonable assessment.

Then there were all these little hints:  Any time I actually listened to a song by the Beatles—first "Eleanor Rigby," then "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "A Hard Day's Night," "Back in the USSR," etc.—I thought it was great.  But I didn't put any thought into it because I just assumed they were the "good" Beatles songs.  The highlights.

Then finally 2014 rolled around:  The 50th anniversary of the Beatles' arrival in America.  Rolling Stone magazine did a special nostalgia piece on the band, and it got my curiosity piqued.  So I finally looked them up on iTunes one night and started listening to samples from the box set.

. . . Now, here's the thing:  Normally when I say I like a band, what I really mean is that I like four or five of their songs.  I've never been one to follow bands or any musical group for that matter except maybe for classical stuff.  (I like opera.  Deal with it.)  And even then, listening to the other songs by a band, I'll say, "meh" and stick to the four I like.

So here I am, listening to the Beatles, and I reach four songs I'd like to buy.  It's actually kind of hard, since the other songs are not, in fact, "meh"—I'd even call them objectively good, but I don't want to spend all my money on—

And then I realize HOLY COW I'M ONLY ON THE FIRST ALBUM! HOW MANY CLASSICS DID THESE GUYS MAKE?!?!  (And I hadn't even made it to "I Am the Walrus.")

 By the second or third album I did something I'd never done before:  Google a band.  Normally I couldn't care less who's behind the music so long as the songs are good.  But I had to know who was serenading me.  These guys were amazing:  It was like they had completely captured the spirit of romance, but kept it genuine and masculine; what's more, they always sounded as though they could be speaking directly to the listener, not to an abstract woman.

So I looked them up.  Only to make another insane discovery.

"Holy cow, they're my age!!!"

I had assumed they were in their thirties, to write music the way they did.  Newp.  Early twenties.  Young and adorable.

. . . And thus, naturally, insane.

Ladies and Gentlemen:
The most successful songwriting duo of all time.

Long story short, I stayed up all night listening and met the dawn a diehard fan.  I love all their albums, I know way too much trivia about them than can possibly be good for me, and I cannot for the life of me decide which song, or even album, is my favorite.

Strangely enough, though, I don't blame other people for disliking them.  I mean, if someone comes up to me and says, "I totally don't get Sherlock" or "Yeah, the Lord of the Rings was okay," I can only stare and wonder how in the name of Jove's mighty grandchildren they could possibly come to such an offensive conclusion.  But when it comes to the Beatles, I believe there are three types of people in this world:  People who love them, people who don't love them, and people who can learn to love them.

I assume if anyone doesn't like the Beatles it's either because their music lacks the fullness of modern pop, or because it's simply hipster not to like them.  But it could also be because the Beatles simply don't speak everyone.  There's nothing right or wrong about that; it's just how it is.  And that's why I say there are some people who could learn to love the band, if given the time and space to do so on their own:  You simply cannot teach someone to like the Beatles.  If they don't get it, they don't get it.  Forcing the issue only makes things worse.  I probably wouldn't have liked them as much if I'd listened to them at a young age, but hey—life changes you.

Anyhow.  Now as I've been properly converted, here are my top five personal reasons for loving the Beatles.  Feel free to agree with me or dismiss me at your will—or, better yet, follow up on your own curiosity and look them up for yourself.

—

5.  First of all, as I said, they were adorable.  I mean, just look at this nonsense.

Not to mention ridiculously photogenic.

Because they were—on a slightly less shallow note—

4.  Hilarious.

They were all funny, together or apart.  As a group they could make fun of one another; on their own they each showed a distinct style and sense of humor that soon earned each of them their own title:  Ringo, the "sweet one," George the "quiet/stern one," Paul the "cute one," John the "smart one."

Heck, I could do a whole section just on John.  If Paul McCartney invented the selfie (seen here) then John Lennon invented trolling.  Their royal debut, for example . . .

The man had no mercy, especially for his press.  Part of the fun of watching old films of the Beatles is seeing how the media had to adjust to him over time.  Paul, ever polite and approachable, could be interviewed by pretty young female reporters, but you couldn't send just anyone to talk to John.  Not unless you wanted your staff to look like morons.

But that didn't diminish the other Beatles' appeal, either.  They were all natural and genuine, bouncing jokes off one another.  And that's part of what distinguished the group from the competition.  The pop world of the time wasn't used to witty, intelligent people making music—probably because it was so rare for performers to write their own songs.

Which brings me to my next point—

3.  They broke boundaries.

In a world where you could be named the King of Rock'n'Roll without penning one percent of your songs, they took it upon themselves to write their own music.  In a world that limited rock'n'roll to songs about romance, they produced "Nowhere Man," "Paperback Writer," and "Taxman."  And in a world where music was purely entertainment, they dared use it to talk about politics.

When the incessant screaming forced them to stop touring, the promotional videos they made to compensate became the first music videos.  Better still, the change inspired a crazy new idea to record sounds in-studio that couldn't be produced on stage.  Before there were computers to spiff everything up, the Beatles were already setting the stage for synth and dubstep and every other effect in the pop world.

"Learn the rules like a pro
so you can break them like an artist."—Pablo Picasso

And this is part of the reason I don't believe the Beatles were simply "in the right place at the right time."  Finding a good producer and a good manager was imperative to their success, of course; that's called getting a break.  There were probably dozens of other bands waiting in the wings who could have skyrocketed to fame in the Beatles' place had things happened differently.  The break itself only made them successful; it's what they did with it that made them icons.

They took every opportunity given them.  They explored every avenue, worked every idea to its fullest extent.  They didn't try to re-create past successes to foster their own popularity, they plowed ahead and tried new things.  The sky was the limit, and so they reached for the stars.  They were fearless.  They were . . .

2.  Passionate.

They were young, yes.  They were cute, yes.  They couldn't have been young and cute, though, to perform the way they did, without plenty of experience already behind them—thousands of hours, in fact.  Teenage John, Paul and George all spent a staggering amount of time playing in clubs—in Hamburg, sometimes even five shows a night, often while staying in a small, poorly heated room behind the stage.  Most kids—heck, most sane human beings—wouldn't have put up with it.  You have to be head-over-heels in love with your work to do that.  And it shows in their work.

There are no bad Beatles albums.  There are no bad Beatles songs.  I'm not saying that because every song is my favorite, but because I have to admit that the songs I like less are still good—are usually classics, in fact.  Even when touring cramped their schedule, they managed to devote themselves to each and every piece.  They were never so desperate to complete a record that they put in filler tracks—in fact, they wrote so many songs that they just gave away any they didn't like.  Not bad for a group of guys who didn't even have the patience to learn how to read music, let alone finish school.

They loved music.  That much can be said.  I wish I loved my craft half as much as they theirs.  But as inspiring as it is, there's still one last reason for loving the Beatles.  One that truly sets them apart from the competition. . .

1.  I have no idea.

Seriously.  I don't have a clue.  There is something there, something that makes the Beatles' sound so unique, I just don't know how to pinpoint it.

How can I describe it?  It's intangible, yet ever-present.  It radiates through all of their work, be it Lennon's, McCartney's, or Harrison's writing.  It's good feeling.  It's conviction.  It's sincerity.

. . . Or is it?  How do I know this isn't isolated to my own interpretations?  What if there are more bands like this, or there are different bands for different types of people?

Doubtless there are.  But I don't think it stops with being able to relate to the Beatles.  I relate to a lot of different types of music.  I relate to Sia Fuller's "Kill and Run."  I relate to head-banging hits by The Prodigy.  I relate to the Newsboys and "all God's people singing Glory, Glory."  I relate to Belle wanting "adventure in the great wide somewhere."  I relate to Marguerite crying "Anges purs, anges radieux."  (Yeah, you opera haters can sit at the back.)

But the Beatles are different.  Their songs don't invite audiences to commiserate over a situation.  It's more like they're trying to communicate something directly to you.  In the early days, while they were just writing romance, they knew how to sound as though they were speaking directly to any girl listening.  When they stopped touring, they produced "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band," which declared, "You're such a lovely audience, we'd like to take you home with us!" as though to say, "Yeah, we miss you, too."

So maybe that's it.  Maybe it's their ability to speak affection into people's lives.  To make people feel good even when times were bad.  Through John there is honesty, conviction, and a clear understanding of pain; through Paul there is lightness, optimism, and a sense of community.  Together they say, It's bad, but it'll be okay.  Hey Jude, don't make it bad, we can work it out; all you need is love.

I'm getting sappy now.  But it's so hard not to.  How cool is it to think that at least four people on this planet cared about communicating with the rest of the world?  Not just to express themselves, but to touch others?

Then again I could totally be kidding myself.  They were making so much money, what did they care how other people were affected?  Maybe they didn't.  Maybe they just said whatever was on their mind, put it to music, and counted the cash afterwards.  After all, it's silly to think that anyone could be that open and genuine simply to make the rest of the world a little happier.  Right?

. . . Right?

—

So yeah, that's why I love the Beatles—it's the short list, anyway.  I have no idea why it took me so long.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm in the mood for some Faust.

Oh, yeah, I have a blog . . .

It's come to my attention that I haven't posted anything in a while, so I thought I'd recap some of the little things that have happened to me:  I went to my first concert, got caught up in a new tv show, etc. and so forth, and I discovered this little boy band you might have heard of called The Beatles.  Not, however, in that order.

No, I found the Beatles first—a few months ago, actually—which makes it all the more interesting when you consider my first concert.  The one that featured Paul.

. . . Yeah, that Paul.




THAT PAUL.

I still can't completely believe I really saw him.  I mean, I remember the hype, the excitement, the heart-pounding drive down the highway, the waiting endlessly in lines and babbling giddily to any Beatles fans who would listen to me, but who am I kidding?  Who am I to be in the same five-hundred-foot radius of the guy who wrote "Yesterday," "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," and "Hey Jude," (not to mention "Band on the Run" or "Live and Let Die") and was essentially a legend by the time he was 22?  But ohmigosh I was really there and it was AWESOME!!!

I remember sitting in traffic, nervously tapping the wheel as I waited for the light to change; gazing across the bridge at the center where he was supposed to play, and noticing absently as a small caravan of black SUVs passed beside me to cross the bridge.  And I remember being totally clueless until I saw the crowds waving ecstatically at these SUVs, and realizing with a jolt just what I had missed.

I remember being on Cloud 9 the whole time I waited for doors, buzzing with wonder that I had actually made it to the concert and that NOTHING short of Paul not appearing was going to spoil it!!!

I remember finally getting inside and surrendering my things to security while I looked on nervously, then at last being set free to roam the center till I found my seat.  There I settled in; I told myself I could finally relax, but I still spent the next half-hour waiting anxiously for the seats to fill up.  I watched the stage in a fog, trying to discern the faces of the people who appeared there so I could tell myself I'd recognize Paul when he arrived.  (I had a funky view; I was in the partially obscured section to the right of the stage.)

I wondered if it would really register that the performer onstage was Paul when he appeared, or if my brain would refuse to believe it.  I remember worrying that Paul's age would slow him down.

. . . And I remember both of those fears being blown out of the water, because the moment the little figure bounded up the stage into the spotlight there was not a doubt in my mind that I was looking at THE PAUL McCARTNEY because he was EVERYTHING old films promise and more—DO NOT be fooled by recent interviews of him because APPARENTLY he reserves his timeless awesomeness for the stage!!!

—

He was . . . What can I say?  I can't say anything.  He kicked off by plunging straight into "Eight Days a Week" and the whole thing went north from there.  I couldn't believe how fit he was.  In fact I believe it was during "All My Loving" that I fell into despair watching him dance (ham) because I knew right then that no matter what I did, no one was going to believe me when I told them what great shape 72-year-old Paul McCartney was in.

But it wasn't just that he was fit.  He was just plain entertaining.  The guy knows how to please a crowd, I will give him that.  He was funny, yes—I wish I could write out all his gags and anecdotes, even if they do make a long post—but it was more than that.  I've never seen anyone so totally absorbed with their own audience—not their own image, but with engaging people.  It was the most heartwarming, exciting, truly wonderful time I've ever hard, and it was all because Paul totally gave himself to the crowd.  You cannot fake the kind of enthusiasm he exhibited that night.   Everything about him—the way he was so obviously burning to get on stage, the way he leaned forward towards the crowd, the way he danced and lit up at the cheers—everything about him said, "I belong to you tonight:  Let's have fun!!!"

And it's funny, because there are two different ways the concert could have gone.  Someone like Paul could sigh and say, "Well, I guess it's time to play Beatles songs—AGAIN," or he could play to the crowd and beg them to remember that one time he was really, REALLY famous.  But it didn't feel like he was doing either of those things.  He just seemed really, really, really happy to play Beatles music for Beatles fans—like it was his privilege.

That's what floored me.  I just wanted to shake my head and say, "No—No, you're Paul McCartney, you don't 'get' to play for us, we get to hear you play!"  But the fact that he was Paul McCartney didn't seem to matter to him.  He was too busy being Paul McCartney to consider it.

Which is why, even when I had to stop thinking about who Paul was and what his music meant to me (my brain was a little overwhelmed) I would still look at the person on stage and think to myself, "Wow—that guy is cool."

(And I should also mention that I loved the performance of the lead guitarist, Rusty Anderson.  I didn't get to see much of the other band members from where I sat, but this guy at least was awesome.  He had crazy energy and pretended to collapse at the end of "Live and Let Die".)

—

Now, he didn't JUST play Beatles' music.  He did "Maybe I'm Amazed" and "Band On the Run" and all the Wings greats (because Wings was AWESOME!!!) plus "Here Today" and some songs from his "New" album.  (Which, despite its frustratingly punny name, is in my opinion one of his best.  I think I might like it even more than "Tug of War".)  But he acknowledged the general demand for the classics:

"You know, with a concert like this, you wanna do some of your new stuff, you know? . . . But you can tell, when you do an oldie:  The stars come out. —'Oh! he's playing "She Loves You"—!'"  He wiggled his fingers out towards the hundreds of phone lights aimed at him.

And good grief, that man.  I admit I wasn't one to call young Paul cute—he just wasn't my type, I guess—but in concert, I have to hand it to him:  He is one twisted, brazenly adorable personality.  Obviously I'm not saying that like I found him attractive (he is 72, for pete's sake) but I'm not saying he fits the "cute old man" profile either.  He was just . . . shameless.

I think it was after "The Long and Winding Road" or "Maybe I'm Amazed" or one of the other grand piano songs:  The whole house was screaming and cheering; he stood up and leaned across the piano with his head in his hand, and he rolled his puppy dog eyes up at the stands with a sad little pout, glancing this way and then that amidst roars of laughter and ever increasing cheers because WHO DOES THAT???!!!!  . . . As I said:  Shameless.

And there were so many reasons to love the set list.  I have fond memories of almost every single song he did, all for different reasons.  For instance, "Paperback Writer" was particularly exciting for me.  No one around me seemed to be interested in dancing along, so at first I sort of awkwardly followed suit, but the moment I heard the riff I jumped to my feet.  It didn't matter how mellow the other people in my section were.  Paul wrote his first non-romantic single about a struggling wannabe novelist and by golly if he was going to play it for us tonight then I was going to DANCE to it!!!

"And I Love Her" is a little more difficult to describe.  It was just . . . exactly in the spirit of the original song, or at least the version from "A Hard Day's Night"; it was like you could feel the sixties in the air over the floor, in the pale stage lights, in the music . . . Like a spell of sweet nostalgia.

Then he got up on a rising platform to perform "Blackbird" for us—he started off by explaining "this thing in the sixties called the civil rights movement" that the Beatles heard about and thought they'd comment on.  But then after playing it (or was it before?) he said, "Y'know, ever since I wrote that song I've heard people say they tried to learn Blackbird on guitar.  So who here tried to learn Blackbird on guitar?" Hands went up all over the place.  Paul put his hand to his chest.  "Now, how good does that make me feel?  —And you're all doing it wrong."  Laughter.  He cocked his head innocently pinched the air in front of his face as though to say "just a little."

Then he did "Here Today," which of course was horribly sad.  I was too wound up to cry—the way I normally do when listening to that song—but I was too down to stand up again till two songs after it.  Interestingly enough, the only really Lennon-heavy song he did was "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite," but I thought it incredibly appropriate.  In fact, it was one of the most memorable numbers of the evening, the light show was so creative.  I kept thinking I wished Lennon could've seen it.

Naturally, though, the real light show was reserved for one particular number:  "Live and Let Die."

I mentioned before that I spent a lot of time talking to fans before the concert.  (This was especially fun because they were usually original-generation Beatles fans and I think they were kind of happily amused by my budding fanaticism.)  Well, one woman I talked to asked me what my favorite songs were.  When I admitted, blushing, to liking mainly Lennon songs ("Across the Universe," "All You Need is Love," etc.) she assured me that my favorites might change after the concert.  But I blew this off—how could listening to a song live change the way you listened to it?  When you went back to listen to it in iTunes, it would sound just the same.  "Live and Let Die," for instance—that would still be kind of so-so for me.  Right?

Boy, do I wish I could find her now and tell her just how right she was.  I don't know if it was the lasers, the pyrotechnics, the arena-acoustics, or maybe just the fact that you're sharing the song with thousands of other people, but it was like hearing the song for the first time.  Man, if anything was meant to be performed live, it's "Live and Let Die."

Then it was over, and Paul was sitting at the piano with his fingers at his ears mouthing "ow!" and shaking his head fretfully at the cheers.  He thinks he's so funny.

For the finale he chose "Hey Jude."  It was the one song I'd really, really been hoping he'd play, so it was a long time coming but obviously it was worth it.  The funny thing is, though, that when he and the band left the stage right after, I actually got mad—I mean, the whole crowd was calling for an encore, so I figured there'd be more music, I just didn't realize an encore could feature more than one song, so I still felt shorthanded.  Man, that was short!—When I get home, I'm gonna say, yeah, that was great, it was just SHORT!  I mean, what was that, ten songs?  Twelve?

I'm not kidding.  I literally thought he'd only played ten songs.  I even tried counting them in my head:  Well, there was "Benefit," and those three at the beginning, and "And I Love Her," and those four . . . If I'd had real time to count I might have gotten a shock when I realized that they had, in fact, done thirty-one songs, but fortunately Paul didn't make us wait that long till the encore, which consisted of eight more songs.

He kept teasing us every two songs or so: "More? . . . Well, okay . . ."; "I get the feeling, uh, you guys just wanna rock? . . . Alright, you asked for it" and so on.  Being a newbie, I kept thinking that maybe he was about to finish—when he played "Yesterday" I thought, okay, that makes a nice closer; but then I thought the same thing when he did "I Saw Her Standing There"—I mean, that really does wrap it up nicely, right?  But when he started on "Golden Slumbers," I knew it was about to end.  Sigh.

They bowed to the audience.

"Let me tell you guys, you've been fantastic.  It was really special."

We all cheered; Paul apologized to everyone for having to go home.  I and a thousand other people all shouted back at him:  "NOOOOO!!!"

He smiled.  "Yeah, but there's another side to this, y'know—YOU'VE all got to go home."

Awww.

He and the band exited the stage—only to return ten seconds later carrying flags before a stream of red-white-and-blue confetti.  The band held the union jack while Paul ran in front with the American flag.  "Thank you!  We'll see you next time!"  And then, at last, it really was over.

—

And I feel I should point out, while I'm writing this, that he actually pointed to me.

That feels so crazy to write, but wow.  It's true.  I went to go see Paul McCartney and Paul McCartney saw me.  I know it was me he pointed to:  When he rotated to greet each section I was afraid it was going to be my last chance to be seen, so I jumped up and threw my hand into the air three times like a maniac.  And just like that, he was pointing.

But initially I wasn't thrilled by the gesture—actually, I was a little confused.  Had he really just . . . was it me he pointed at?  Thing is, I was the only one in my section who seemed willing to show much enthusiasm, and his timing had just been so perfect . . .

But no! wait!  He misunderstood!  I hadn't come to receive more awesome feeling from Paul, I'd come to thank him for his music.  He wasn't supposed to make this even better!  My debt was just piling up!

But regardless of my immediate consternation, it still makes me happy.  The fact that Paul pointed at me says that he did see me.  I did my part in a million to say "Hey, your music is absolutely timeless and I will share it with my grandchildren if I get the chance."

—

So, sadly, I did not get to show my gratitude like I wanted to.  No, instead Paul had to make the concert such an incredible experience that now I owe him not only for happiness listening to some of the best music on the planet, but for the best two hours of my life.

Is that so weird, that I'd simply like to say "thank you"?  I mean, I've admired a few different celebrities, but up until now there's never been anyone outside my own social circle that I wish I could just thank.  I don't really care that he's gotten gazillions of accolades from billions of people for the past fifty years.  That's immaterial.  Well, I mean, my ego would like to be recognized, sure, but it's more than that.  I just want to say, one human being to another, thank you for touching me with your music.  I haven't felt this hopeful or optimistic since I was five, and I had no idea music could affect someone like that.

But how?  It's almost as though the songs were written with some sort of affectionate subtext for fans.  You feel as though they were written for you personally.  I don't know how or if it was even intentional, but the essence of Lennon-McCartney seems to make people feel loved.

And, in the end . . .

Self-Promotion: I Wrote A Story

So a little while ago I posted my first full story to the internet.  It's about 25, 000 words long, the size of a short novella, and it's got a beginning, an end, the whole shebang.  There's just one problem with it—it's technically fanfiction.

I didn't write it, or at least conceive of the plot, as a fanfic; but since I made the original protagonist in David Tennant's image, in the end it just flowed better as an episode of Doctor Who.

So if you feel like reading it, it's on fan fiction.net, entitled "The Poison Orchid."  (And please don't read the reviews:  Some of them have spoilers.)  If you don't watch Doctor Who, well . . . I had a non-Whovian friend read it, and she liked it, but there's still a lot of context and in-jokes you won't get.  If you're really interested, and have the time, I highly recommend you go to Netflix, or check out some series' from your local library.  (That's right, they're not called "seasons" in the UK, they're called "series.")  The best episodes to watch prior to reading my story are "The Girl in the Fireplace" from series two, "Blink" from series three, and "Partners in Crime" from series four.

But, if you don't have time for that, here's a crash course in Who Lore:

The Doctor is a 900-year-old alien, called a "Time Lord."  He lives in a TARDIS, a time-travelling spaceship disguised as a police box, and it's bigger on the inside.

TARDIS on the outside.

TARDIS on the inside. 

He has a special fondness for humans, so he usually travels with a human companion or companions, because he likes to show them the wonders of the universe.  But he usually winds up in adventures where he has to save people—humans particularly, but other species as well.

He has a "psychic paper," which is basically a blank pad of paper stuck inside a wallet so that when he flips it open he can make people think it says "Police Sergeant" or "Health Inspector" or whatever else he needs to get authorization into restricted areas.  (Since it's psychic, he can get messages on it from other people, too, but that doesn't happen as often.)  He also has a magic all-purpose gadget that he uses to probe things, unlock things, and hack things, and it's called a sonic screwdriver.

And it lights up, too, kids!

You may have noticed that there have been about a dozen actors who've played the Doctor, ever since the show started in the sixties.  That's because, being a Time Lord, whenever he's critically injured the Doctor will regenerate—so, basically, if he gets shot he'll lose his current form and he'll turn into a new man.  (The Doctor I wrote about is, as you may have already guessed, the Tenth, played by David Tennant, featured in the picture above.)

So, yeah, that's Doctor Who.  At least, the bare minimum you need to know.  Seriously, the show is good.  At least watch the three episodes I suggested, because they don't have any spoilers, they're just awesome.

Godzilla 2014 Eval

Okay, this is going to be very, very short because I don't want to give anything away.

I saw the new Godzilla movie.  I thought it was okay.

I loved Alexander Desplat's score, and I loved the special effects—there were plenty of moments where I jumped in my seat, or was in awe of how freaking amazing Godzilla was.  I liked the fact that a good portion of the movie was set in Japan and I liked Ken Watanabe's character a lot—I even liked his assistant.  They felt more real than typical hollywood scientists.

But I also liked Bryan Cranston's character a LOT, and I really wish he'd gotten more screen time.  Just as I wish Godzilla had gotten more screen time.  Like, seriously, I needed more Godzilla.  I feel like the movie started the kaiju hunt and never stopped to let me really wallow in how bad the situation was.  I also disliked the ending.  I will only forgive the ending if they make a sequel and have Godzilla lay waste to EVERYTHING.

Godzilla Pre-Movie Excitement

Godzilla is coming out soon—tomorrow, to be exact—so I figure I better roll this out quick!

Personally, I'm excited about it.  At first glance I thought this was just going to be another CGI-fest (seriously, just because you CAN show the whole monster doesn't mean you should) but since I saw the official trailer I've been a lot more optimistic.  This new Godzilla looks like it's going to be true to the original vision, both in form (check out that new design!!!) and in spirit.

One thing I love is Bryan Cranston's voice in the background:  "You are not fooling anyone when you say that what happened was a natural disaster!  You're lying!  It was not an earthquake, it wasn't a typhoon . . . because what's really happening, is you're hiding something out there!  And it's gonna send us back to the stone age!!!"  See, that is how people should sound when they're talking about Godzilla.  I don't care how educated or levelheaded they are.  If a skyscraping radiation-breathing behemoth surfaced on my planet, I'd be sweating buckets just thinking about it.

Also, it has Ken Watanabe.  Ken Watanabe makes everything better.

Seriously, this is all it takes and I'm sold.

—

I'm actually not all that familiar with Godzilla lore.  I mean, I watched a kaiju marathon on tv when I was, like, ten, but I don't remember anything worth mentioning.  My primary exposure to Godzilla (or at least to anything bearing the name of Godzilla) comes from the original film and from the 1998 Emerich movie.  The latter got a bad rap, which I'm beginning to understand, but hey, I enjoyed it.  (Well, at least I enjoyed it more than Emerich's other films.)  Here's my take:

The problem with the 1998 Godzilla was that its creators deconstructed the original story and used all of its face-value concepts to create a comparatively soulless film.  The original Godzilla was a result of atomic radiation, and so the 1998 Godzilla is a result of atomic radiation; the original Godzilla was amphibious, and so the 1998 Godzilla is amphibious; the original Godzilla did damage to a major city, and so the 1998 Godzilla does damage to a major city; and so on and so forth.

In the interest of making this modern Godzilla more realistic, though, the film centers on the lizard's disinterested, amoral, even vulnerable animal nature.  The movie uses the concept of the atomic bomb to illustrate man's capacity for destruction, and Godzilla is actually a foil for this:  A simple-minded animal pursuing the natural, innocent business of eating, nesting, and reproducing while the military attempts to destroy him, causing an absurd amount of damage along the way.  Which I guess isn't a bad idea in and of itself—it's just not Godzilla.

"So long, and thanks for all the fish!"

The original message wasn't about man's destructive capacity, it was about realizing man's helplessness.    (So . . . essentially the opposite.)  The japanese military in the story demonstrates innovation and resourcefulness in its quest to end Godzilla's reign, but to no avail:  Man, in all his technological might, is no match for him.  The people of Japan are all but doomed.

And Godzilla is a force of destruction inspired by the atomic bomb, yes, but he plays a part in a much different metaphor.  The really eery thing about his 1954 appearance is that he almost seems to be within his rights to terrorize Japan, as though its people somehow deserved his existence.  It's horrific.  But it's not like a typical monster movie where the people are guilty of an obvious indiscretion (like, say, covering up a shark attack before the fourth of july) so you don't spend any screen time hating the guy to blame—be it the director from King Kong or that jerk from Aliens; if anything you just feel incredible sympathy for the masses crushed beneath his feet.

The only crime is the lack of respect for nature.  As Watanabe says in the 2014 trailer, "The arrogance of man is thinking nature is under our control, and not the other way around."  (Another reason to be excited for the movie.)  Godzilla is nature aggravated by the products of war, the embodiment of wrath itself, come to claim respect from the puny humans.  There's no other explanation for him coming ashore—he's just there to make people suffer.

It's sort of like the Tower of Babel.
. . . Y'know, if instead of making the builders speak different
languages God decided to sic a giant reptile on the place instead.

It's possible, even, that Godzilla is meant as a consequence or retribution for Japanese Imperialism.  Not as american post-war propaganda, but because that's the sort of thing that would be in the hearts and minds of the populace at the time the movie came out.  Think about it:  Godzilla is like a blast from the old traditions of Japan, reminding them of natural power after their stint trying to claim world power for themselves.  I don't think american propaganda had a hand in it because I don't think americans at the time would have been able to develop the character of Godzilla: he's too much a product of Japanese culture.

This leads me to a weird little idea I've had about the whole Godzilla legend that ties in with the monster's gradual evolution to monster-movie hero.  It is weird, but maybe someone will find it interesting:

As it's often been said, Godzilla is a destructive force.  But according to traditional Japanese culture and religion, there is a bit of "the divine" in everything, so in his own way Godzilla could be called a god.  A god of wrath.  Now look at how he goes from being the destroyer to the defender.  It's like he does his work to punish the humans, but when other monsters want a piece of the action he's almost like a guardian, as though to mean that having learned their lesson, the humans do not deserve to suffer more.

. . . Yeah, I'm off my nut, aren't I?  . . . I thought so.

—

So, yeah, the 1954 movie was awesome.  It was moving, it was interesting, it was even scary.  I don't know about you, but something about the ol' black-and-white style, cheesy as it was, made everything seem so much creepier.  Monsters are just plain scarier when you can't see them properly.  Even the music was amazing.

So what about this new film?  I have high hopes.  Partly because it gives its own little homage to the original film—"In 1954, we awakened something . . ."—which begs the question, did the bombs used to try to destroy Godzilla just spread radiation and make him grow to the obscene size he is in the trailer?

Also, the CGI.  I get so tired of blockbusters trying to outdo each other with the latest, flashiest, most extravagant effects money can buy when all I want is something realistic.  I want to be convinced, not overwhelmed.  Remember all the crazy HD closeups of the alien mothership from District 9?  No, you don't, because Neil Blomkamp was a smart director and realized it would be more believable if it was treated like a part of the background.

"FINALLY!!!  THANK—oh, wait, it's just CGI, isn't it?"

But from the looks of the new Godzilla, the CGI has not been taken lightly.  From what we do see of him, he looks as real as the buildings around him.  And that makes me very, very happy.  Plus he's just overall designed well, so . . . yeah, I think it's gonna be good.  And I'm really, really looking forward to seeing some atomic breath . . .

"Duuuuck and cover, Duuuuck and cover . . ."

I do have some misgivings, though.  It's seems like there's going to be another kaiju in the film, possibly Rodan, the giant pterodactyl.  How is that going to work?  I don't want Godzilla to have to share the spotlight—he's the King of Monsters, for crying out loud—but I guess it could work.  This isn't a genre I've spent a lot of my creative process on, so what do I know?  I'll tell you what, though, if I were writing this movie and I had to put Rodan in, I'd introduce him first—show the military in the process of trying to work out a reasonable plan of attack against this monster only to have Godzilla appear and show everyone what a REAL threat looks like. . . Then maybe later the two could fight.  You know, for tradition's sake.

Review: "The Fifth Estate"

So I recently watched the Dreamworks production "The Fifth Estate", which is loosely based on the books WikiLeaks: Inside Julian Assange's War on Secrecy by the Guardian and Inside WikiLeaks by Daniel Domscheit-Berg:  I think I made my obsession interest with the website fairly clear back in October (if you haven't read the post, clear an hour of your time to do so); I think it's safe to say that I didn't go into this film flying blind.  And I feel pretty confident about what I liked and didn't like about it.

So, without further ado, I give you my critique:

The movie starts off on the right foot; it begins at the end, in the center of the chaos that is the publication of hundreds of thousands of classified documents, and it forces the audience to wonder "How did things ever get to this point?"

I can't think of a better way to begin such a movie, myself. It's sort of a no-brainer:  Being such recent history, the publication isn't a spoiler, and there's no way to get the audience excited about the movie to come without a lot of visible excitement.

Once the movie flashes back to 2007, though . . .

. . . it's all slush.

To begin with, the script was weak.  If you frequent WikiLeaks at all, you may be aware of a draft of the script that was leaked to the site and published there in full (along with plenty of commentary pointing out the film's inaccuracies).  Bill Condon, the director, addressed this in an interview prior to release, saying that the script bore little resemblance to the final draft that was used for filming.  Spoiler Alert:  He was lying.  The draft on WikiLeaks and the draft used in the movie are very, very similar.  I mean, some things were deleted, yes—the movie does not feature a scene with Assange idly sucking on a lemon—but nothing of significance.  If I'm perfectly honest, I have to say that Assange did moviegoers a favor leaking that script.

And, unfortunately, it's even worse in execution than in print.  The storytelling is messy, disorienting, and yet dull all at once.  It is genuinely hard to care about what's going on.  About forty minutes into the movie I found myself wondering, "Is it halfway through?" and then before the ninety minute mark had to restrain myself from skipping ahead.  The filmmakers took the story of WikiLeaks—WikiLeaks!!!—and made me not want to watch it.  That's not just embarrassing, that's criminal.

I think part of the problem is that no one in charge knew what they wanted the movie to be.  You watch it and wonder what it's really about.  Obviously it's not a documentary, and it's not supposed to be a judgment on Assange or his organization—so what is it?  Is it a thriller about whistleblowers versus big government?  Is it a bromance-gone-bad between Assange and Domscheit-Berg?  Is it a historical drama about political activism, freedom of speech, and/or the transparency movement?

No.  It's none of these things.  The movie is advertised as a thriller, but you can't really believe that—nor should you—given that the real action, up until the big finale, occurs in cyberspace.  And the story, more or less, is about two idealistic but very naïve computer nerds who go about exposing corruption till they bite off more than they can chew and the whole thing blows up in their faces—but that's okay because they've also unwittingly opened the door for a new era of journalism, a "fifth estate".

Right from the beginning you have a problem, and that's in the portrayal of the characters.  Assange and Domscheit-Berg (then Berg) are neither true to history nor believable on their own.  You see, the movie paints them as idealists—especially Berg—with little grasp of the repercussions their leaks could have.  It might work, and even be exciting, if they were in their early twenties.  But they're not, they're in their late thirties.  Grown men—the sort of men who ran WikiLeaks in real life—should understand the gravity of the situation.  It's an insult to the work of both Julian Assange and Daniel Domscheit-Berg to depict them as clueless romantics.  The men who went up against Julius Baer, the church of Scientology and Kaupthing knew the weight of the risks involved, but went ahead anyway; that's part of the reason the real thing is more exciting than the movie.  It's almost as though the director, or writer, or whomever responsible didn't appreciate the consideration or strategy that went into WikiLeaks.  Plenty of geeks can set up a website; it takes cunning to defend it against international attacks.

The character problems are also a big part of what makes the movie so hard to follow thematically.  Because the director, short of deciding what the movie should be, focuses almost exclusively on avoiding what it shouldn't:  Judging Assange.

It's a noble goal; if you're going to create a movie based on someone not only influential but still living, you should make some effort to portray them objectively.  What you should not do, however, is drive this idea into the ground till the character is inscrutable and inconsistent.

Certain things Assange does in the movie come straight from firsthand accounts, such as eating with his hands and then wiping them on his trousers, but other things are completely bogus.  Within a day of meeting Berg face to face, for example, he intimates an incredibly depressing anecdote in casual conversation.  The real Assange is known to share unnerving information about himself, often with the media, but it's almost always as a means of being funny or making himself sound more interesting, not to garner sympathy.  But the writer had to explain Assange's background somehow, and I guess flashbacks were just too difficult to work into the story.

But if the story is so important, why does it feel like so many scenes were written in with no other purpose but to put Assange in a sympathetic light?  And why do they have to be so inconsistent?  I mean, one minute he's telling Berg to buy a crypto phone, like he knows there's danger, and then the next he's horribly shocked that two of his associates are killed, as though it comes as a genuine surprise that there are risks involved.  And what was up with the whole dyeing-his-hair thing???

Is telling the real story of WikiLeaks so scary that it can't be done without leaving out anything that might spark a debate, or inventing things about the main character to keep him "balanced"?  A word of advice, then, to the filmmakers:  Next time you want to create a movie that won't upset anyone, DON'T BASE IT ON JULIAN ASSANGE.

"I know the film intends to depict me and my work in a negative light.
I believe it will distort events and subtract from public understanding."—Julian Assange

I can't fathom what the writer, or the director, were thinking.  I mean, do they have any storytelling talent?  Can't they tell when anything feels wrong??  Did they just not care???  Or did Assange somehow convince them to make a terrible movie just so he could talk smack about something?

. . . Actually, that sort of makes sense, considering how bored he must be right now.  (But I doubt he'd have the funds.)

Not all is terrible about the movie, though.  The visual analogies of the old WikiLeaks submission platform are interesting, and Carter Burwell's score is excellent—especially the piece played during the end scene.  And Benedict Cumberbatch is right to receive so much praise for playing Assange.

I still question the decision to cast him—his face is just so narrow—but if you can relax and watch the show without trying to reconcile Cumberbleach's profile to that of his character, the accuracy of the performance will sneak up on you.  Cumberbatch is already established as a master of body language, but the fact is especially clear portraying Assange.  And I'm not just referring to Assange's persistent blinking.  (If he couldn't duplicate that, the casting director would have to be shot.)  It's the walk, the poise, the shrug, the hand gestures, etc.  With little to no help from the script (or his own physicality), Cumberbatch captures the essence of his subject.

The best scene in the movie, by far, is the last one—and no, not just because it is the last.  The scene takes place in the Ecuadorian Embassy, where Assange reflects on his situation, and the "WikiLeaks movie" to a silent, off-screen interviewer.  It allows movie-Assange to give real-Assange's views on the movie, which is an interesting (if creepy) irony; the music is perfect, both heartbreaking and haunting; and Cumberbatch has the floor for the entirety of the scene, giving a monologue on the real-life topics that make the story of WikiLeaks so interesting.  So it's all the strengths and none of the weaknesses.  The finale of the movie might have been botched, but at least the conclusion was well done.  Meh.

Dynamic Duos

Today I feel like celebrating my favorite movie/tv couplings—you know, pairs of actors who for whatever reason work amazingly well onscreen.  They make magic just by feeding off each other's performance, making you believe that their separate character could, in reality, come together and behave just as the script demands.

Let's begin!

James Roday / Dulé Hill

I love these guys so much.  Shawn (Roday) is obviously the lead on the show, but Gus (Hill) cannot be taken for a mere sidekick.  They are, quite convincingly, best friends.  But not just best friends as grown ups, best friends from childhood.  They were learning to be stupid together before it even became cool (i.e., before middle school).  They're closer, and cooler, than brothers.

David Tennant / Catherine Tate

I know, I know! we're supposed to like Rose best—but I can't help it.  Catherine Tate absolutely killed it as Donna Noble, and after watching her with David Tennant I can't watch series 2 and 3 without feeling that the show just isn't . . . complete.

The fun part is that Donna and the Doctor are strictly, but easily, platonic.  There's no hint of sexual tension, they just make a great team as is:  She is the grounded to his geeky, the fire to his indignation and the sympathy to his solitude.  They both like to go places and they both care about people, but unlike his other companions, Donna is down-to-earth and straightforward.  When the Doctor tries to sound cool by getting technical, she's not afraid to roll her eyes and go, "Yeah, right."

Doctor:  "Hey, some of these books are from your future!  Don't wanna read ahead—spoilers."

Donna:  "Isn't traveling with you one big spoiler?"

(Silence in the Library)

(It's no surprise that the two actors didn't stop working together after Doctor Who.  He guest-starred in at least two sketches on the Catherine Tate show, and they co-starred in Much Ado About Nothing.)

Kate Winslet / Leonardo DiCaprio

I almost feel like I have to work hard to defend this choice because of the chick-flick stigma to Titanic, but you know what?  I'm not going to bother.  Even if you didn't enjoy the first hour of the film, you have to admit that Winslet and DiCaprio worked beautifully together.  Yeah, they're two stupid kids doing stupid things, but it's hard to believe that if his Jack and her Rose really were on the Titanic they'd be any smarter.

Clark Gable / Vivien Leigh

A match made in purgatory!  Passionate, angry, gunpowder-and-fireworks purgatory.  Scarlett O'Hara (Leigh) takes four hours' screen time to decide she has any romantic feeling for Rhett (Gable) and not, in fact, for that married guy she spends all her time running after, but it doesn't matter:  You still think of them as a couple.  They make every scene they share a memorable one.

Bill Cosby / Phylicia Rashad

Cliff and Claire were living proof that you don't need a thousand petty, dysfunctional drama clichés to make an entertaining sitcom relationship.  90% of the conflict in the marriage revolved around raising the kids responsibly and trying to find time to be alone together.  No cheating, no money mis-managing, no massive-and/or-childish-communication-failures that make it look like cheating.  Just toughing it out like mature adults.  Yes, they led believably stressful lives, and yes, they had their share of spats, but at the end of the day you could always count on the Huxtable parents to remain a team.  Mainly, as he puts it, because they're "afraid of the children."

But none of this would've been possible—and might've even seemed monotonous—without the chemistry of the stars involved.  So give a big hand to Bill Cosby and Phylicia Rashad.  Wherever he made the "Aren't I cute?" face she was always ready with the coy, but clearly won-over, look of "Hm, I haven't decided yet."

Kristy Swanson / Timothy Omundson

Casting really found a ringer with this one.  It's no surprise that, of all the couples on Psych, Lassiter and Marlowe were the first to go all the way.  Right from the get-go they were absolutely adorable together.

Lassiter:  "Did you find the girl I met last night???"

McNab:  "I might need a little bit more to go on, sir."

Lassiter:  "What do you mean?  What more do you need?  I told you, she's blond, and pale, and perfect, and beautiful, and perfect!—So get me a name and get me an address!!!"

Kristy Swanson's performance brings out in Omundson's a lovestruck side to Lassiter that we'd never seen before (and possibly never even imagined) yet it feels totally natural, not contrived at all.  All they have to do is smile at each other and you have a hard time remembering that they're just acting and not, in fact, madly in love.

Errol Flynn / Olivia DeHavilland

Lovers of old film will recognize these two.  Ever the swashbuckling hero and his feisty, drop-dead gorgeous beloved, they were Robin Hood and Maid Marion, Captain Blood and Arabelle Bishop, Wade Hatton and Abbie Irving, etc.  Oddly enough, only one of the eight movies in which the pair co-starred was actually tailored for the both of them, which was unusual treatment for well-known onscreen couples at the time (even more so than today).  In the other seven they were cast together simply because—well, because, let's face it, they worked brilliantly together.  They were just ridiculously, stupidly romantic.

Lara Pulver / Benedict Cumberbatch

 

Lara Pulver was, to be blunt, The Woman.  She was the perfect Irene Adler.  It's hard to tell where writing ends and acting begins, but I for one was ecstatic about the casting.  Cumberbatch and Pulver weren't the ideal romantic couple because there can be no such thing for Sherlock Holmes, but as dysfunctional intellectual flirts they take the cake.

Sherlock is already established as dry, imposing, omniscient, the very picture of intellectual invulnerability.  Enter Irene:  Devious, impish (a fact highlighted by Pulver's wonderfully childish voice) and blatantly sexual.  She is utterly convincing as the one person on earth who could pierce the Sherlockian ego and get under the detective's skin.

Martin Freeman / Amanda Abbington

Can't.  Even.

Anyone laboring under the dementia that nepotism spoils the show can leave now.  If it works, it works.  And in this case boy does it really work!!!  Amanda Abbington and Martin Freeman are the most convincing, most comfortable, most adorable Watsons one could ever imagine.  Anyone else playing Mary would feel forced or extravagant by comparison.

Though I had perfect faith in the writers to make Mary wonderful and was excited to see Freeman's real-life partner come to the show, I did wonder if it would be a bit strange for two people already romantically involved to play two different people also romantically involved—now I wonder what on earth I was worried about.  I might be imagining things, but there does seem to be a level of warmth and ease between two people who've been together for over ten years that two actors—no matter how brilliant—who are just doing a job simply cannot attain.  It's little things, subtle things, that you pick up on subconsciously; for example, if you watch closely, you might notice that Abbington and Freeman share a lot of the same facial expressions.  Simply put, you can't fake it.  This isn't just great chemistry for the sake of great chemistry, it's the real deal and it shows.

Martin Freeman / Benedict Cumberbatch

Fine.  I admit it.  This whole list may have just been an excuse to write about these two.

Both genius actors on their own (think:  The Hobbit, Star Trek Into Darkness) put them together and you have one of the best shows on television.

They seem an unlikely duo when you consider them separately.  Freeman usually stars in straightforward comedies as the "normal" guy (a description which doesn't nearly do him justice, but I promised myself I wouldn't turn this into an essay on Martin Freeman's sheer Awesomeness) while Cumberbatch tends to wind up in dark, thoughtful pieces like Wreckers, Parade's End, Stuart: A Life Backwards, Frankenstein, etc., playing . . . well, anyone and everyone, really.  And in real life (to all appearances, anyway) the two men are polar opposites, Freeman a man of mock angst and lightning wit, Cumberbatch an eternally polite (if occasionally very goofy) old soul.  Point being, you'd never expect to see them in the same show.

And yet here they are.  And ohmygosh it works so well.

Why does it work?  I dunno.  Maybe because Freeman is so studied in the art of observing the bizarre, and Cumberbatch so adept at capturing it.  Freeman's performance says, "That is so weird" and Cumberbatch answers, "You haven't seen anything yet!"  And they obviously both appreciate the weirdness; they're clearly having the time of their lives.