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God’s Country

Sometimes a film will just floor you, piercing the distance that lies between your comfort as a viewer and the intoxicating immersion of the film and forcing you to contend with it in a physical way.

God’s Country, starring Thandiwe Newton and directed by Julian Higgins, tells the story of a local professor somewhere in the Northwest attempting to deal with trespassers on her property. It is a relatively small tale, with a tightly woven web of characters and a straightforward narrative that descends into the murky depths of its conclusion. The closer one looks, of course, the louder this story rings in the ears, like an expansive echo across the film’s notable epic ultra-wide landscape shots. 

The film reads almost like a parable, with the trespassers standing in for white, Protestant colonizers abusing the land of Native Americans. Its symbology is instantly recognizable in the foreboding red truck, the innocence of the Doe and its baby deer, and parallel images of fire to bookend the film. And, like all good parables, the story is packed with lessons for the everyday. Almost each scene in the film can read on its own to teach of us something about family, non-violence, neighborly love, and seeing each others’ humanity despite differences bogged down by centuries of historical oppression and violence. 

And yet none of these beautiful moments of life-affirming connection can heal the bitter ground on which they walk - again mirrored by the frozen earth which Sandra tries to dig into it. Or perhaps better said, all of these life-affirming connections could heal that bitter ground, but the untempered choice toward the sick but undeniable pleasure of putting others beneath yourself puts the nail in the coffin (or bullet in the head) for this conflict. The frustrating impossibility of it all is expressed in the film’s very final seconds, as we sit alone with this woman who your heart cannot but break for, despite the violence to which she just succumbed. 

How do we read this ambiguous darkness? Surely there are countless ways, all of them imperfect next to each other. But as I am left mere minutes from the theater, I am thinking how somehow the brutality of its ending doesn’t stamp out the beauty of the little moments that came before. Yes, it may be impossible, now or ever, to truly heal from our history. But impossibility and practicality are not enemies, and the kind of compassion that Sandra displays throughout the story does genuinely reach people who would otherwise be (literally) faceless villains. The purpose of this compassion is not to provide empathy for the deeds of these men, but rather to highlight the impact of choosing humanity, even if in the end she does not. 

I am also reminded of this film’s title, aptly called God’s Country. The landscape is vital to the story, it is everything. It is the cause of conflict, it is peace, it is tragedy. It holds the ashes of those that came before and holds as yet unwritten possibilities for the future. And everyone believes it belongs to them. Midway through the film, an unlikely conversation about the non-existence of a god crops up between two adversaries. In conversation with the film’s title, if it is agreed that god does not exist, then the possessive of the country lies in question. It was Sandra’s peoples’ first, it was brutally, violently taken by the ancestors men who trespass upon her (an act of sin in Christianity btw), and now, no matter how it is looked at, the land is now shared between them and the rest of us. 

Again, the film is not asking us to find a balance - nor should it. There are violators and there are those who should be offered reparations, which the film rightfully takes for granted. But by asking us to contend with the humanity of all involved, and then descending into acts of brutality, the film refuses to give an answer to an impossible problem, while refusing to leave us to simply wallow either. It asks us to grab Sandra’s pickaxe and dig into the frozen dirt. It may feel overwhelming, or maybe not even possible, but it is essential.

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Los Angeles is Haunted

In my insignificant 27 years of life I’ve been privileged enough to live consciously in four places. 1) Suburbs outside Chicago (2) Pittsburgh, PA (3) New York City and (4) Los Angeles.

Each of these places is haunted in its own special way. The Suburbs are haunted in the obvious 70s-90s slasher kind of way, and if you’re curious check out the original Halloween, Scream, or any other film using blood and brutality to critique “white flight.” Pittsburgh has an enchanting, romantic kind of haunting - the deeper you look into that city, the more it feels that the old architecture is alive with ghosts of the past, telling horrific stories of early America that the history books would leave out. New York City is haunted in the way it never allows your guard to truly be down - at any moment violence and apocalypse is possible, and while truly horrifying (and certainly more-so for people who don’t have my level of privilege) it also serves to highlight the genuine magic that is possible in such a place.

And then, Los Angeles. Driving home from a film screening this evening saw me on a 30 minute stretch between Santa Monica and Hollywood, flitting about on empty streets with the occasional fluorescent light to guide the way. What felt so disturbing was not the mere empty, ghostly streets, but the way they seemed to reveal the core of the city’s character. It is a lulling place to be, as I am not the first to point out. It feels as though the combination of the cheap billboards and fancy modern castles built into the side of desert hills is communicating, nay, forcing a sense of okay-ness upon its population. And while this lull is effective in the moment, it breeds a kind of unease.

That unease feels potent for a certain psychological horror, a sedation that feels both like a magic spell and an inescapable trap. The result is a sense that the people who surround you may at any moment snap from that trap, sprung to violence by the frustration of the hypnosis. This feels like the ethos of David Lynch’s perennial masterpiece Mulholland Drive, and indeed many storytellers have seemed to try to contend with the city’s pernicious impact on those that dwell within.

I wish I had a more sensible place to go with this analysis, and I wish there was something original to say about it. Being here feels like it clashes with every version of myself that I’ve ever wanted to be. It feels like genuine disillusionment, which is a feeling I’m beginning to realize I had never properly felt until now. 

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NOPE

When trying to figure out my feelings on Nope, Jordan Peele's 2022 dive into the realm of supernatural horror, I am left with an array of questions - no doubt as intended. This is a film that strives to be more than easily understood, yet has a relatively simple premise and tight, condensed world: a human-eating alien threatens the lives of a western ranch and surrounding community, and a sister/brother duo (along with local electronic-conspiracy-theorist sidekick) have to stop it.

But the deeper you're willing to interrogate that, the harder it becomes to fit it into a tidy sci-fi metaphor for something plaguing our world today or the deep-seated reaches of our psyche. However, I believe that Peele is trying to do just that, and understands that a symbol that balances deeply specific parameters with a lack of concrete explanation has the capacity to transcend itself. Which this movie's central threat certainly does.

For one, the alien is at first glance all-too-familiar. It is the flying saucer of the American Southwest, citing a tradition that makes this story akin to alien tales of the latter half of the 20th century. It is primarily a predator, consuming human and animal lives, and seems to exist primarily on instinct. It is deeply territorial. It seems to have come from another world, though no element of this is ever confirmed - it's biology is more similar to an extravagant kite, it's image when turned inside out of itself seems similar to a jellyfish or a creature of the deep.

And then, the manner of interaction reveals more - it will not hunt something that will not look it in the eye, and it can be outwitted, arguably easily outwitted once you learn its rules. But, once it discovers this, it is angered more. And then, rather than just defeat it, the characters in the film are trying their absolute best to capture it on film, and the reason for this is understated at best. Given that the climactic finale sees it being captured at the moment of its destruction, we can interpret that the act of looking it square in the face is equivalent to an emotional and metaphorical defeat.

All of these elements are deeply specific attributes of a threat that initially feels challenging to pin down, though to suggest there is a correct interpretation would be missing the point. I have my own initial interpretation, and it revolves around how the relationship between Daniel Kaluuya and Keke Palmer's characters each respond to the threat, and what that communicates about how an individual or a culture can best confront a predator, be they physical or systemic. But there is much more to be unpacked here.

What about the monkey massacre? What about the woman with the torn-off face? What about the various words that mark act breaks throughout the film? I'm not suggesting I have strong interpretations to these questions, and I'm excited for the opportunity to explore them through the takes and opinions of others. And the fact of that excitement reflects something I adore about Jordan Peele's work - his integrity.

I trust there is deep intentionality to each of these questions. I trust the reasons behind his style. I trust the way this film is in conversation with our world and his past films, and oxymoronically, I trust that he also just wanted to make a great film. This film is more than the sum of its parts, and is asking questions reflecting the radical nuance necessary for our world and art-making to continue to flourish.

It's worth noting that I didn't love every second of this film. Its final act is jaw-dropping and feels well-earned in almost every aspect, its minor character moments trust the audience to connect the dots in a way that few films have the gall to do. But its first two-thirds feel long in a way that his past films don't necessarily. There is a slow, measured quality to it all, which at times feels like effective set-ups and payoffs, and at other times feels a little like working backward from his breathtaking finale. There are moments that I wish lingered longer, moments that I wished to have seen less-of to maintain my fright.

But again, Jordan Peele has so effectively won my trust as a viewer that I see much of that as cause to challenge myself to lean closer. That is the beauty of an artist who cultivates a meaningful relationship with their audience - when they want to take risks or try something that feels a little further from what you may be expecting, you go there with them and ask your brain to get on board.

I may not be returning to this film on a regular basis, and it may not be my absolute favorite of Peele's canon, but it will undeniably stick with me, and I am ready and waiting for truly anything this filmmaker wants to throw in our direction.

4/5 stars

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Marcel The Swell

When I first saw the trailer for Marcel the Shell, the brain/love-child of Jenny Slate and Dean Fleischer-Camp (in more ways than one, btw) it had me in tears. The promise of this sweet beacon of innocence going on a journey to reconnect with his lost family, the unbelievably evocative voice, the retro charm of stop motion, it all seemed to coalesce in what was sure to be a sobbing love-fest.

And it was all of those delightful things, plus some delightful surprises and minus a bit of the “journey” piece of that description. 

I’ll start by admitting that I let myself be far too influenced by the trailer, and so I was expecting a film that seemed to be about a long, unexpected journey for the shell, rather than the intimate, one v. one narrative inside the house between Marcel and Dean. This unfortunately impacted my viewing experience as I found myself constantly thinking that Marcel was about to go out on their adventure just before we returned back home, thus it took me a while to accept what this movie actually is.

Categorizing this movie is a difficult job, but where I found the most resonance was between the background conflict about Dean’s divorce - which itself is an issue with no solution packed with trauma that will take years to unpack - and Marcel’s journey to find his family - which, while not without its own emotional hurdles, is effectively a simple solution that solves itself instantly once it is achieved. What Marcel can and has to learn from Dean, and vice versa, is the true story of this film, and is one which is left joyfully understated in the film’s conclusion. 

Tied in with all of that is the invisible narrative of Jenny and Dean’s own divorce, and their long held collaboration on the idea of Marcel the Shell as a means for connecting with each other. This is a really sweet story that you should definitely dig deeper into, but if I’m being honest, I don’t really think it should have a bearing on the film’s success in its own right. 

Among the pinnacle reasons why nicecore films resonate, in my view, is due to their reminder that love, kindness, and a sense of community and validation are not virtues that have to be earned, they are basic human decencies that we can show to anyone. Marcel shines in this regard, as he is both a champion of compassion and community, while simultaneously refusing to compromise himself and his own beliefs in the process. He is a reminder that it is okay to return to a worldview of simple kindness, even if the endlessly complex world doesn’t seem to support that viewpoint. Marcel and Dean are a contradiction, yet do not cancel each other out. Through their contradictions they support the coexistence of two seemingly incompatible truths - life is exceedingly simple and impossibly complex. 

I would be remiss not to mention the film’s sense of wonder. Marcel’s world is enchanting, it turns an everyday living room into a place of play, it immediately shifts our perspective to the possibilities of looking at the world as a place of endless discovery, and a place that can be figured out, almost solved like a puzzle. Living through Marcel’s eyes is another of the film’s triumphs, it does so much for the audience with the simple placement and motion of the camera.

Absurdity comes in that wonder as well - the entire world accepting Marcel as real feels as bizarre as it feels surprisingly believable. To paraphrase comedian/nerd Brennan Lee Mulligan, profundity and absurdity are inextricably linked - a truth that this year’s EverythingEverywhereAllAtOnce also understood. 

For all of these reasons, Marcel the Shell with Shoes On is a triumph. However, I did not ever find myself fully, deeply immersed in it. I wasn’t profoundly moved by it in the way that I was expecting. Which is fine, I still got so much out of the experience, but I am curious as to why that would be. 

As I mentioned, I was fighting an expectations battle - thinking this would be a delightful, wholesome adventure story and instead having a more intimate, almost bottled friendship story. I love both genres wholeheartedly, but I definitely couldn’t manage to escape those expectations, which is no small part of my struggle to immerse.

But additionally, I do have questions about the film’s plotting. I love Marcel’s inner turmoil in the story’s focus on the onset of dementia, but the fact of that conflict didn’t necessarily have much to do with finding Marcel’s family. Marcel had to learn to choose himself in a deeply important emotional journey, but the facts on either side of that story didn’t have much to do with each other, which I think contributed to a missing piece in the story’s cohesion.

And then, well, the family is more or less just found and reunited. This moment is so sweet, and seeing the other shells and wider community did bring a tear to my eye, but it happened as a result of an admittedly hilarious plot focused on 60 Minutes, which Marcel I suppose had to work himself up to do, but ultimately didn’t have anything to do with the reuniting - the story just decided to give it to him. Thus, though all the individual parts of that construction are delightful and earnest, the whole didn’t feel as tightly woven as it could have been.

By no means did this ruin the film for me, and I can’t wait to watch it again with some more distance from its release. This film is clearly a love letter, written between two people who fell out of love, imbued with deep love for its own material, and gifted to the audience as an act of love, and a reminder to love. Maybe it isn’t perfectly sculpted, and maybe I just said love too many times, but Marcel The Shell With Shoes On is a purely delightful stream of goodness, flowing out into the world.

4/5 stars 

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Stranger Things 4 - The Fundamentals

On the spectrum of “Peak TV” and binge-watched streaming series, I have often put myself on the jaded side of things. I challenge the notion that series-based content is best watched in extraneously long sittings, and despise even moreso the choice by creatives and power-money studios who make content that is best consumed in hours-long chunks. It feels like a missed opportunity to transform the series format into essentially 10 hour films, losing thematic cohesion for a single installment and forgoing the potential impact of a moment in the middle in favor of “where it’s all leading to.” If you want to see a series that is making incredible use of the episodic installment while continuing to tell a powerful, serialized narrative, Succession is perhaps the greatest example in recent memory. 

But we’re not talking about Succession, we’re talking Stranger Things. For the above reasons, and for what at first glance appeared to be weaponized nostalgia, I had a sour taste in my mouth toward this fantasy, sci-fi, adventure series, and avoided watching it for a long time. Couple that with the public hype toward this series, especially at a time when the previous mega-hit series that shall not be named was beginning its nose-dive into failure, and I became about as cynical as one could be toward this celebration of nerd-culture. 

Now, after the release of its 4th season, I was compelled to give it a second shot. In so small part this was due to the knowledge that its newly revealed villain was inspired by DnD’s Vecna. I am at my absolute nerdiest when it comes to Dungeons and Dragons - it combines literally every favorite thing in my life into one activity (friends, imagined spaces, emergent storytelling, fantasy, and endless potential). It may be shallow to suggest that the mere presence of Vecna in the story was the reason for my compulsion, but it is almost fundamentally true. I saw pics, he looked awesome, I figured it was time to give it a second shot. That, and several trusted people in my life told me how great this last season was. 

Now, about three weeks later, I tearfully finished its finale episode. Was I wrong to be jaded? Possibly. It is clear to me now that the Duffer Brothers put a lot of care and love into their story, in particular its characters and construction, and there is so much to love in what they’ve done. I’ll try to break down some thoughts on it here. 

I have a few primary frustrations with Stranger Things over all. Some of the simplest ones can be tied to its pulpiness - characters are constantly wounded but function no problem (looking at the ridiculously concussed brain of Steve Harrington, amongst others), or getting themselves into ridiculous danger yet always seem to find a way out of it. These are issues with fantasy, sci-fi, and adventure series as a whole, so I can’t fault Stranger Things too much, but it certainly is just as ridiculous here as it is anywhere else. 

Deeper down the frustration ice-berg comes the weaponized nostalgia. Stranger Things’ aesthetic is clearly meant to hit at your delighted nerdy funny bone for an 80s that only looks this way in our minds. The irony that this nostalgia works on my generation and below is baffling, by the way. But that nostalgia also manifests in its trope-y choices. Just about any and every high-school movie trope can be found in its writing, including ridiculously vicious bullying, good girl/bad boy dynamics, popular kids vs. nerds, etc. etc. The way situations like these have been depicted in movies and then rehashed for movies inspired by those movies has constructed a reality that these kinds of high school tropes are a genuine reflection of the public’s experience. I would love data on this subject, but I would hypothesize that this is far from the truth, and is certainly not true anecdotally. Stranger Things so often traffics in this area in ways that are so explicitly derivative that it gets away with feeling like a constant homage. This is an issue that can be found in a plethora of other Netflix series, and makes me wonder who continues to greenlight projects with such a specific emphasis on played-out high school drama. But I digress. 

In fairness to Stranger Things, it does not always remain in this territory, but it does seem to use it as the “return home” part of its hero’s journey cycles. This and its more general-feeling of nostalgia and intertextual references can feel frustrating because they know exactly what they’re doing, and it works, it does feel engaging (hell, I watched because of my excitement for an intertextual reference). However, unlike other franchises (ahem, Marvel), Stranger Things does not solely rely on weaponized intertextuality to keep the audience engaged. It is an ever-present part of the show’s dopamine rush, but there is genuine character work happening, and a woven tapestry of compelling stories that have genuine meaning to the world. But I’m getting ahead of myself - a few more gripes first. 

Then there is the streaming problem. Seasons 1-3 of Stranger Things do genuinely play out like full 8-9 hour films spliced into digestible chunks but intended to be watched between 1-3 sittings. This is, fine. In season one it feels inoffensive, and the flow of the story felt well-suited to that format. For seasons 2 and 3, episodes with singularly thematic coherence and an emphasis on a particular storyline would have been helpful - particularly in the third outing. The sometimes maligned season 3 is the most “normal” that the world ever feels, and despite the frustrations in unbelievable plots on a notable frustrating character transformation in Hopper, does provide 4 with a reason to care. If the series was more willing to focus individual stories in particular episodes, I think that season’s function would be much closer to its execution. But again I digress. The frustration is primarily that the show is masquerading as one form while actually being another, and thus the many hours of watching really only feel emotionally impactful or thematically resonant by its ending. This is not helped by a consistent problem in its first three seasons (again, particularly 2&3) - the mystery is rarely ever a mystery. The audience is privy to far more information than the characters, giving us an omniscient viewpoint that detaches us from engagement in the plot journey. Thus the overwhelming feeling is a sense of wishing for everyone to get in the same room, share what they know, and then defeat the BG. Which, of course, they inevitably do, since the structure of every season sees small groups with complementary clues developing on their own until they converge. 

That is, until Season 4. There are still three pockets of stories going on, more split than ever between the A Team in Hawkins, B Team in Russia, and C Team in the southwestern desert. Oh, and Eleven, who is maybe S Team, but off on her own for the entirety of the primary story. And these teams do, eventually, converge, even if they remain in their respective locations. And Season 4 does still feel satisfying to watch in long sittings with episodes running into the next. But the episode structure is different. Gone are the end-episode stingers in favor of more clearly defined chapter beats. There is more focus on individual members of the team in particular episodes, especially with the foregrounding of Max’s trauma and Eleven’s past, and the subtle leadership arc for Nancy.

But more importantly, a genuine sense of mystery pervades season 4. From episode 1 we see Vecna in all his foul glory (and sometimes hammy dialogue), yet all questions around him are unanswered - how is he related to what came before? Why him? Why now? How is he spreading his curse? What does he want? And these questions are far more relevant because Vecna is, for the most part, a person who can be understood, which is new territory for this show’s eldritch horrors. However, this is balanced with his particular brand of psychological torture when he kills, which is focused on tapping into his victim’s guilt, shame and trauma, which still makes him feel at home in the show’s primal evil (despite sometimes feeling a little heavy-handed). 

Unlike past seasons, the mystery of the villain is not given to us prior to our characters’ discovery. In this case the mystery is revealed to us alongside Nancy and Eleven both discovering it for themselves, aligning audience with character and making for what is truly the most jaw-dropping revelation of the show’s 50+ hours of screen time. Additionally, this alignment continues with the thread of Hawkins’ search for Eddie amidst Satanic Panic, in which the general public is functioning under a false, though partially understandable perspective, to which only our heroes know the truth. And, without the help of their telekinetic super-friend or their gruff but teddy-bear police chief, they are more down-trodden, more desperate, and thus more heroic than ever. 

Season 4 is not perfect, of course. The story focused on Russia is ridiculous and implausible, it still traffics in annoying high-school tropes, and there are still moments where the danger briefly loses its bite. But in watching, these frustrations are easily forgiven because of the masterful treatments of character and the gut-wrenching humanity that underpins the events. Both of those fall into what might be the strongest lesson of Stranger Things - fundamentals. 

The Duffer Brothers excel in this series due to their commitment to the fundamentals - what defines a character, what do they need to confront in order to move forward, how can our antagonistic forces compel them to confront it, what consequences need to be paid in order for them to become their new self? Questions like these, and so many others, make up the core of grounded, character-based drama. Which, for all its psychic monsters, saccharine nostalgia, and pulpy action, is what truly shines about this series. This is maybe best exemplified in its hero, Eleven, a psionic warrior who is simultaneously wielding unbelievable power and is ridiculously vulnerable, who needs to return to her greatest trauma, both in the past and the present, in order to understand her opponent and attempt to defeat them. But just about every character has these fundamental defining traits which are inextricably tied to their function in the story, all of which emerges into a jugsaw puzzle before a final conclusion. 

This approach is undeniably a classic structure, used to great effect many, many times in the past. But, its recognizable attributes do not detract from its effectiveness, and there are many who have tried to engage it and failed due to a lack of understanding and appreciation for its fundamentals. Could Stranger Things be more experimental? Absolutely. Should audiences be seeking out stories that challenge them? Is Stranger Things one of those? Sometimes. Is it the greatest show ever made? No and who cares. But why it shines, why it resonates, is in its commitment to the fundamentals of character, grounded in relatable, human experience that sees the hero in absolutely anyone, regardless of their past mistakes.

If Scorsese’s words are gospel in evaluating sci-fi/superhero storytelling, I would absolutely argue that Stranger Things is the cinema of human beings trying to convey complex, psychological experiences to other human beings. If you’re into that conveyance being surrounded by a celebration of nerd-dom, a fuzzy feeling of nostalgia for childhood, and a host of spooky monsters, you will probably love it. I can honestly say that I did. 

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Total Forgiveness

There is nothing like a good title. The pitch for Total Forgiveness reads something like: two friends dare each other to do increasingly horrible shit to try and win prize money to pay off their crippling student loan debt. It is essentially a mashup of Jackass and a documentary about the student debt crisis. At first glance, the title stands as the promise of the prize is Grant and Ally are able to succeed on their journey. But by the end of this bafflingly brilliant story, the title takes on a new meeting - a testament to friendship and solidarity in the face of the brutal weight and humiliation of living with debt. 

The season of Total Forgiveness dropped back in 2019, (I’m coming late to the party on this one) can be broken up into three parts. Episode 1 serves to lay a foundation for the idea, Episodes 2-7 see the characters hit their stride, finding a playful joy and some of the funniest bits I’ve ever seen, and then episodes 8-10 become something totally different. The ending arc is a descent into genuine humiliation - particularly for Grant - and a fracturing of this glorious friendship that the show has done an incredible job making us fall in love with. 

Reality shows have never been particularly interesting to me, and I think the reason is ironically because of the reality that surrounds them. I can never get out of my head that these people are often rich, their environments and situations highly constructed, and giving my eyeballs to it feels like becoming hypnotized by, and validating the continuation of, corporate studio greed. All of those problems are gone when watching Total Forgiveness. Their situations are literally being imagined in front of us, these people are not rich, and are also not poor, and watching it is giving my eyeballs to something that is both endlessly entertaining and shedding genuine light on the student debt crisis. Indeed, the simple knowledge that these two people are putting themselves on the chopping block because they are being crushed by their loans (and the interest on TOP of their loans) underpins the entire series with actual tragedy, and launches the antics from a place of empathy. 

The series knows it has these thematic through-lines, so it doesn’t have to hammer them home, allowing them to run beneath all of the actions and make you genuinely root for both of them. On top of that, the series becomes not only an expression of what someone is willing to do to get out from under debt, but also an expression of what a friend is willing to put another friend through, despite wanting that friend to succeed. There are deeply human elements to that tension, and the fact that it is happening at all is an act of resistance toward the vicious, unforgiving nature of student debt.

The darkest that the show gets occurs somewhere between Grant needing to sell all of his possessions, and Grant needing to take a shit in front of a bunch of people at an art gallery. His quest for debt removal is so strong that he got rid of almost everything he owned while still not getting the money, and then, with money he borrowed to receive a degree in performance, is in a mock performance piece where his privacy is put on display for the enjoyment of others. 

This darkness again highlights the brutality and humiliation of student loan debt, since the face of that debt still outweighs Grant’s desire to quit. And, even when their relationship deteriorates, they both stay in the game, maybe out of desire to finish the story, but undeniably the promise of debt forgiveness cannot be severed from that decision. 

Their reconciliation and loving friendship’s conclusion speaks for itself in the story, and gives a surprisingly hopeful message about the priority of love over money. But also it doesn’t discount what came before, or put a band-aid over the darker parts of the experience. Ally and Grant’s experience with debt feels so universal for any generation below the age 40, whether or not you suffer from student debt to the extent that they do. We are in an age that heralds the death of capitalism with each recurring year, and a symptom of that disease caused two close friends to put each other through hell for the possibility of some relief, and the sake of the bit. It is some of the most brilliant commentary I’ve ever seen, it is the hardest I’ve laughed in a long time, and it is a shame that we needed it at all. 

[towardwhatend]

Crackles of Thunder

Why tell superhero stories? Among the many possible answers to this question, the one that I find easiest to stomach is that the medium is well suited to take a simple, universal idea and see it explored in broad strokes of opposing sides that results in a fable-esque conclusion. Thor: Love and Thunder takes its swing at this intention, swirling its space voyage shadowfell tale in ideas of love’s relationship to purpose, and brief flirtations with commentary - both in the form of New Asgard’s tourism industry and in Zeus’ isolationist, self-obsessed and uncaring policies as a stand-in for the conservative perspective on foreign affairs. I like all of these ideas, they are well worth providing a foundation for a wacky spectacle. Does the film genuinely explore them to ask compelling questions or provide emotional resonance? For the most part, no.

I don’t intend to rag on Taika Waititi and Jennifer Kaytin Robinson alone - most Marvel films suffer from a lack of genuine thematic exploration or a depth of emotional resonance. To their credit, the team behind this film packed the run-time with joy and originality - highlights include the ridiculous space-faring viking ship crashing its way through Zeus’ golden city, the cosmic asteroid shadowfell battle in black and white, and literally everything that Christian Bale brings to Gorr the God Butcher. 

Speaking of Gorr, I imagine this film will receive praise for a “nuanced” villain. And, in fairness to those people, their standards have been systematically lowered by decades of truly terrible villain writing. Gorr feels strong for delivering on the expectation, which is to give the villain a relatable motivation for their terrible deeds. Gorr’s cold open scene has a good if obvious point about class struggle, we feel for Gorr and his lost daughter, and we understand that these emotional seeds will probably grow into a nice hero-villain conversation about love and loss. All in all, well enough from a writing perspective.

Visually speaking, Gorr is possibly my favorite vision of a villain that Marvel has ever put out. He is the marriage of a broken man and a force of primal evil, which the combination of costuming, makeup, VFX, and Bale’s viscerally bone-chilling performance channel to near perfection. Watching him reminded me of what it felt like to see Ralph Fiennes for the first time in his iconic Harry Potter graveyard entrance - a vision of delicious evil. 

This, however, is not the same as nuance. I could go out on a limb and suggest that Waititi is not a director of nuance, but I think this would be unfair. He and Robinson wove a great deal of poeticism into their portrayal. Some notable touches include the nordic rune that appears on the iconic hammer, the image of the tree of Valhalla when Thor grants his powers to the captive children, the way that Gorr’s sword is feeding off of his life as a mirror to how Mjolnir is feeding off of Jane’s, and how the quests tied to both of these artifacts lead to their collective demise, or the nods to oral tradition in Korg’s narration (which on a meta-level is Taika speaking directly to the audience), or even how the classic rock song introduced in the trailer, Sweet Child O’Mine, once again teases the conclusion of the film (Immigrant Song foreshadowing the displaced people of Asgard in Ragnarok). 

All of these touches make Love and Thunder stand out amongst the Marvel Soup, particularly when placed next to Dr. Strange’s most recent failed outing. But ultimately the film is held back from reaching the genuine nuances of Black Panther or the culturally significant and awe-inspiring delivery of Endgame. Most of this is due to a general clunkiness in the film’s construction. At times, Waititi and Robinson seem afraid to lean into anything overly emotional, like the inconsistent friendship between Thor and Star Lord in the first act expressed perfectly in the hamfisted departure scene intended to set up Thor’s “arc.” And then from a plotting perspective, new major story threads come out of left field and are never properly given time to breathe, like the fact of a wish-granting center of the universe being that seemed far too easy to find, or even Omnipotent City, which seems like an odd first choice to gain reinforcements in a world where there are literally hundreds of superbeings to call upon. If we’re being honest, I found most of the “adventure” of the movie to feel like a rollercoaster thrill-ride meant to house moments where Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman’s inconsistent chemistry could try its hardest to sway our hearts.

None of these gripes ruined the experience for me, and I could not care less about a fleshed out “lore.” At several points I found myself smiling at Waititi’s visual splendor, or at the more open discussion of queer sexuality between Valkyrie and Korg (give us more of this, you cowards, and stop killing off the gay love interests). The team took a swing here, and this film is far closer to a meaningful emotional experience than Waititi’s beloved Ragnorak, so please, keep giving him the reigns and surround him with more folks who balance him out. 

Maybe the purpose of a superhero movie is just to provide laughs and a few gripping moments of adrenaline while watching beautiful moving pictures dance across the screen. If you believe that, then Love and Thunder will go above and beyond for you. If you’re a stick-in-the-mud like me, and want something that explores its ideas a bit deeper, you may find yourself annoyed that it doesn’t quite hit the mark, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth your time. 

3/5 stars. 

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Noticing: John Singer Sargent - Jelen Vincent, Vicountess D’Abernon

This article is part of an ongoing series based on visual art from the app DailyArt. The intention is to spend a bit of time each day with a new piece and practice observation. How do you improve your relationship with visual art? By bringing it into your daily life and noticing.

- There are two beacons of light in this image, one is her face, neck and upper chest, the other is the hint of the outside world from below the balcony in the bottom left

- The velvet curtains strung over the balcony confuse me from a realistic standpoint. They make me question whether we are inside or outside, but also provide a distinctly helpful darkness to contrast with her figure.

- her right hand is close to the opening to the outside, turned to face it, almost as if to catch something from it.

- her eyes feel deep and modern compared to how I think other eyes of this era tend to appear 

- The long (pearl?) necklace provides almost a second frame, an oval that keeps our focus. Also they encircle the breast, helping to accentuate traditionally feminine features.

- The choice of red holds a lot of meaning from a modern perspective, but what did it mean in 1901? The image does not feel seductive.

- She is turned away from the open outside, but her hand is still turned toward it. It is almost as if she could be standing in the corner of a crowded room. 

- From the blurb we know she was a significant intellectual of her time. Her eyes are almost daring you.

- Her hair seems to almost disappear into the curtains, a sharpe contrast to the rest of her self. 

- The poofy shoulders of the dress seem almost ridiculous against the rest of her realistically drawn figure. I don’t know if this was an intentional rejection of the clothing of the time, or just a fact of it.

- It is surprisingly easy to find modern feminist ideals within this painting

- her left hand has a ring on its ring finger. I can assume this is a wedding ring, and a very subtle detail to include.

- the necklace is even longer than it appears if you looks closely. It forms a triangle with her left hand.

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CODA

At risk of defining this film’s worth by its award status, I’ll refrain from much focus on the Academy Awards. Congratulations to all involved and it is truly great to have a film centering deaf characters be recognized for all of the good work in it. 

Who am I to take this film away from anyone who found meaning in it? No one. There’s nothing wrong with loving this movie, and your love belongs to you, I can’t take that away, and would never want to.

That said, I left this film feeling frustrated. I cried during the throat touching moment, I felt nostalgic during the cliff diving, I appreciated a take on a struggling family who have to deal with added pressures that the hearing community rarely considers. However, frustrated nonetheless.

Frustrated because the film’s coming-of-age centered plot felt so annoyingly ordinary. Contrivances like school bullies, awkward crushes, follow-your-dream-or-help-your-family as a central conflict, the one-dream-school for a young artist, all feel tired, played out, and it is abundantly clear that everyone working on this film were capable of moving beyond these tropes and crafting something with far more insight into the human soul. It also doesn’t help that, on a less generous read, these elements could seem like they are highlighting what is possible for a child who can hear vs. what is impossible for those who cannot, which seems to counter the film’s core premise. And, the film fails to answer one of its dramatic questions by providing no clear path forward for the family’s financial situation in the wake of Ruby’s leaving. 

I land somewhere in the middle on whether the film is actually contradicting itself in these ways, but the fact that it could be seen in that light adds to the frustrations.

And then visually the film is unfortunately bland. It seems to be combining the aesthetic of a gritty, by-the-docks, nautical flare with a saccharine, romantic teen overlay, but rather than striking a compelling concoction of these two ideas, the result feels like a stone that was rubbed too smooth. 

Performances are great across the board, with the older performers bringing much-needed gravitas. The way music is performed and represented throughout is also beautiful - a smaller reading of the film could be a love letter to the way music can help us find our voice and connection, in whatever way that means. These elements don’t, for me, extend the film beyond its cliches, but they are certainly worthy of praise.

My intention with these thoughts is not to pan the movie, or discourage anyone on the creative team from continuing to create, or telling stories that center deaf characters. Quite the opposite. Everyone who worked on this film is clearly capable of crafting fantastic characters, stories, moments and emotional resonance, and I genuinely look forward to their future work. However, in my view, it does not do much good to labor praise onto a film that simply could have been better, and I hope there are people around them willing to speak critically about where this film fell short, and dig into all of those questions on their next project. 

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Noticing: Ike Gyokuran - Autumnal Landscape with a Waterfall

This article is part of an ongoing series based on visual art from the app DailyArt. The intention is to spend a bit of time each day with a new piece and practice observation. How do you improve your relationship with visual art? By bringing it into your daily life and noticing. 

-the overlaying shape as a fan acts also as a window. What did a fan represent to Japanese culture in the 18th c.?

-I’m surrounded by melancholic chilliness this morning in the rain, and it is putting me at helpful distance from this landscape

-what might be mountains may also be waterfalls

-the further you try to discern the reality of the image, the more it becomes distorted. Relationship to surrealism?

-the tree are all spindly and connected, though they seem to have individual structures. 

-capturing a moment in early fall. Everything is still alive.

-on the bottom right, are we going beneath the earth. 

-It make so much more sense from far away. Relationship to impressionism too? 

-My impressions of this painting are from a heavily western perspective of modern art. 

-Realizing that thinking of the fan as a window may have betrayed the painting’s purpose. Use the canvas’ frame to place yourself at a distance from it.

-Her signature is the only isolated piece, everything else is connected, even if by small roots or horizons. 

Check out the app DailyArt! Such a wonderful way to spend a quick burst of time with visual pieces outside of your semi-annual museum trip. 

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I went hiking and found a lake

Beyond the window panes of my Brooklyn apartment lies the glorious vista of thousands of maroon bricks stacked on top of one another. If I allow my eyes to search, I am also struck by the austere crackly curvature of dead tree branches. Though looking from the warmth of my interior bedroom, I can still feel the wind’s sting upon my cheek.

Longing to embrace the frigid air, I find myself venturing to the rooftop (it is not a long journey and requires almost no physical effort). Upon arriving I am met with a cold, indifferent view of the New York skyline. Others who have lived in this glorious contradiction of a city can attest that the skyline (like most of us) has only a few good angles that truly capture the majesty you wish it would. This rooftop is not one of those angles, but the Q train is. Passing above ground along the bridge, a passenger upon a subway car, New York appears at perhaps its most romantic, with gleaming testaments to progress and a vision of densely, interconnected streets that seem to promise an unexpected journey to all who seek to explore them. 

Winter in New York is rough in every sense of the word. An often isolating city becomes even more-so. Snow is rare, and when it comes it rarely retains its beauty, more often transforming into a black sludge to leap over as you travel from haven to haven. Of course, there is a romantic quality to this bitterness, of fending off the frosty wind with the grit of your bare cheeks. But even this rosy-eyed notion is defined by the longing for comfort, warmth and escape. 

Adam Robinson-Yu crafted A Short Hike in 2019, before he or anyone knew the isolation that would follow one year later. A short hike is a game about a bird named Daisy spending the summer on an island with her aunt - another bird and park ranger. Daisy has been waiting for a call from her mom, but discovers that cell service is poor on the island, so she must climb to the peak in order to take the call. 

What ensues is a cute, nostalgia-tinged hike through the wilderness of the island - Daisy meets other animals, running enthusiasts, a painter trying to find their voice, and a helpful polar bear. She collect golden feathers to help her fly and little tools to dig and explore. Daisy’s journey is set to a dynamically flowing musical backdrop from Mark Sparling, providing a charming sense of wonder to each new locale that Daisy discovers. 

Among the feats accomplished by this little game is capturing a sense of community while maintaining a kinship between player and character by keeping Daisy an outsider. Everyone she meets is doing their thing, whether hiding from the park rangers or exploring the island’s stone ruins. She can talk to all of them, and they’re mostly friendly or charming, but it is clear she does not know them well. By providing this distance, the game never loses that brilliant feeling of solitude that comes from exploring a beautiful new place for the first time.

Other games-people might be thinking that this experience sounds quite similar, almost clone-like, to Animal Crossing. And indeed, the game is full of animal-people living in a ridiculously charming community set to music designed put a relaxed smile on your face, and fish swimming in pixelated ponds with a surprisingly similar animation. Folks familiar with the game might be saying that the game feels like a mashup of Animal Crossing and Zelda: Breath of the Wild. These folks also have a point - the game is an open-ended, self-paced experience with dynamic weather-effects that encourages and rewards exploration. I see neither of these comparisons as criticisms. 

When the grandfather of games Shigeru Miyamoto created the first Legend of Zelda game, he said he wanted to capture his experiences as a child of exploring the countryside near his home in Japan. “I went hiking and found a lake. It was quite a surprise to stumble upon it.” A Short Hike captures this quality as well as any virtual experience I’ve known, and by combining it with the safety and charm of something like Animal Crossing, the result is surprisingly emotional.

It is an annoying cliche to claim that every adorable indie game is Miyazaki-inspired. This label is most often granted because the visuals bear a small resemblance to the animated style of Studio Ghibli, though it often ignores whether or not those experiences actually thematically reflect the depth of a Ghibli film’s exploration, or the atmospheric resonance of one of those cinematic treasures. That said, A Short Hike does have a Kiki-esque quality to its charm, particularly thanks to Sparling’s score, and while I wouldn’t claim that it poses a plethora of fascinating thematic questions to its audience, I do think A Short Hike is primarily interested in celebrating the way that natural wonder can ignite and refresh the soul, which is something I believe Miyazaki would stand behind. The conversation Daisy has with her mother when she finally gains cell service contains a heart-opening quality only rendered possible thanks to the hike. 

A Short Hike could easily be described as escapism. Within its $7.99 package lies an island of joy and wonder that is incredibly easy to get lost in. But I’d fight against this label. Daisy’s pixel-filled journey never pretends to be more beautiful than the world we live in, it only seeks to remind us of how beautiful our world already is. When I play A Short Hike I am reinvigorated to find the beauty in the frosty isolation of winter in New York. I am reignited in the need to save whatever we can of our dying planet, and I am reminded that seeking out the impenetrable beauty of the natural world is vital to the soul.  

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Suite? Too Suite.

Almost exactly two years ago, the Broadway revival of Neil Simon’s Plaza Suite was about to bring its crisp, mid-century comic bits and star power in front of an audience for the first time. Then, like every theatrical production of the time, it was cut short in the wake of the first wave of the COVID pandemic, effectively frozen in time.

Watching the production now, I couldn’t help but think about this freezing and subsequent unfreezing. The production feels like a spitting image of what it was about to be two years ago, and everyone seemed ready to hit un-pause and restart the flow of time.

In some ways, this journey is fitting. John Benjamin Hickey’s directing debut is as faithful an approach to the original production’s vibe as could be possible in the 2020s. Thus, the production feels like its own kind of theatrical time capsule, with an overly realistic approach to design, a mid-century comedic rhythm, and a general adherence to theatrical tradition. 

If it is the job of a reviewer to evaluate the success of a piece based on how well it achieves its apparent intentions, Plaza Suite is undeniably hitting its mark. The space is used dynamically, nothing is poorly executed, the bits are appropriately funny and charming. From a performance standpoint, Sarah Jessica Parker approaches this style with incredible precision, while simultaneously bringing a heart and vulnerability that elevates and, in rare cases, makes the content more relevant to the modern era. Her counterpart (and real-life hubby) Matthew Broderick brings his raw talent and comedic experience, but lacks the underpinning of emotional resonance that SJP was able to muster. For this reason, the general appeal of watching two master performers duking it out onstage is somewhat lost, since she unfortunately acts circles around him. The other performers are fine, though I’d toss a particular shoutout to Eric Wiegand’s third act one-liner, providing a wonderful, unexpected punch line to the end of the show. 

So is this a good revival of Plaza Suite? Absolutely. Why are we reviving Plaza Suite? Apparently because its stars were either willing or wanted to, and its producers knew that those pretty faces plastered on glass doors were the only hope they had of making a quick buck. Okay, fair enough. There is little reason to needlessly rant about the cycle of disappointment that is watching commercial theater be produced in a 21st century capitalist America. 

Perhaps it is more interesting to ask what this production could offer us in 2022? Well, there is value in diving deep into a particular performance style. There is also value in laughing together with other people, which happened throughout the two-and-a-half-hour performance. There is also value in experiencing a well-executed rendition of a piece written over fifty years ago, sharing with the audience a piece of theatre history and a reflection of how far we have (or have not) come in the time since. For all these reasons, I can find some gratitude in this production.

Do those reasons outweigh the obvious issues (outdated themes, reinforcing sexism and traditional gender roles, cash-grabby star-studded Broadway)? In my opinion, they do not, though I have a hard time faulting those involved. They are existing in the same flawed system as everyone else, and while I wish the participants with influence were interested in putting their energy toward something more provocative, experimental, there’s nothing wrong with what they’ve done here (and others have done worse with far les elegance and earnestness). However the sparse collection of shows that have returned since theaters reopened only seek to highlight that money wins, and Plaza Suite is no exception.

I mentioned briefly the piece’s adherence to traditional gender roles, which is undeniably true in its staging, costuming, and portrayal by its stars. However, to give them some credit, there is clearly some attention paid to this throughout, particularly in the play’s second act. This act as written horrifyingly puts an upstate housewife in a hotel room with a Hollywood producer. In the original text, this scene depicts the producer wielding his status and power to coerce this woman into cheating and having sex with him, and it is mostly played for laughs. This production flips this script, somehow compelling her to be leading the encounter, while still remaining faithful to the comedic flow and rhythm of the text. This adjustment is obvious in a post-MeToo era, but I was surprised by the way it invited me to both consider the original intention and how the power dynamics slightly shift with the difference of approach. If I’m being generous, it added to a conversation about how sexual agency interacts with social power dynamics, especially when they seem to be at odds. I wouldn’t say that the piece particularly explored this question with much depth, but kudos to them for finding a way to ask it with such questionable source material.

Otherwise, thematically Plaza Suite is interested in heterosexual couples and marriages, and seems to want to probe at what makes them happy and successful or doomed to fail. I don’t find its take on these topics particularly revelatory or enlightening, but I also recognize it was published in 1969 and the conversation has grown substantially since then. 

For a play that probably shouldn’t have been revived in the first place, it is somewhat remarkable that Plaza Suite works so well. Perhaps there’s a lesson in the success of talented performers trusting the language and rhythm of a masterful playwright. Or, perhaps this is the play we all need and I’m just a cynical 20-something. Regardless, if you’re a fan of faithful renditions of mid-century “classics” or you’re over the age of 60, you’ll probably love Plaza Suite. 

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Your Nerdy Best Friends

The best thing The Legend of Vox Machina has going for it is the unique and creator-led process that led to it. For any who don’t know, Critical Role’s series is an adaptation of their wildly successful D&D livestream campaign, which tells the story of the band of adventurers known as Vox Machina as they save the continent of Tal’Dorei from the onslaught of evil. The project began as a kickstarter which had astronomical success, and provoked Amazon to pick the series up for a two-season run. Well, the first of those seasons is out, and between its successes and shortcomings there are tons of wonderful lessons about adaptation and creator-led content that can be learned. 

Full disclosure, I’m a fan of critical role, I watched the campaign about a year ago and am really excited about this whole project and story, so I’ll do my best to be as objective as possible, but those biases ran through my entire watching experience, so take this with a grain of salt, because I took my viewing like a handful of sugar. 

Despite being released in pockets of 3, the season can mostly be interpreted as 6 pairs of episodes. The first two provide an origin story for Vox Machina’s standing in the city of Emon, introduce all of us to the group’s heart and shortcomings, and provide a mostly self-contained story about uncovering the mystery behind a dragon attack. Most of the plot utility of this first story will serve to set up season 2, but this pair does a mostly successful job at letting you fall in love with these heroes. That is no simple feat when you consider that a typical fantasy show might have three main protagonists to focus on, where this one has seven. An obvious pitfall to having so many protagonists is trying to shove a major arc in for each of them in every episode, and funnily enough, LoVM does the opposite, immediately introducing a story with heavy focus on one character - Percival Frederickstein Von Mussel Kowalski DeRolo III. The byproduct of the D&D adaptation provides a fun lesson here, let your story focus on a single character at a time, and that person’s journey and challenges will ripple out, allowing everyone else to grow in relation to it before they are brought into the spotlight.

Anyways, episodes 3&4 introduce the season’s primary antagonists, Lord and Lady Briarwood, introduce the desire for revenge, and break our heroes out of Emon, episodes 5&6 see them travel and sneak into the gothic horror-ridden city of Whitestone and discover Percy’s sister. 7&8 take them from Rabble Rousers to Rebellion Leaders, 9&10 bring them into the castle proper and introduce Percy’s other nemesis, Anna Ripley, and 11 & 12 see them battling the Briarwoods, and, of course, their own inner demons. 

This structure is largely successful, and from a story perspective the show is almost too well-paced. It’s funny to imagine that any team of writers would ever have pitched this particular story for a first season of a show - mostly because it is largely focused on a single character and relies heavily on flashback. But that’s the odd joy of a story with this particular production history. When the emergent gameplay style of D&D is adapted for a traditional television medium, the result is something wholly unique. However, does that uniqueness elevate the series, or is it merely something the audience has to contend with to keep the integrity of the source material? 

Well, it’s complicated. On one hand, it creates these delightfully special nuggets of moments that another show would be hard pressed to think of - like being unable to break through the back door of the prison they’re trying to bust - and it let’s the world feel lived in, full of history and context that we intuitively understand yet are interested to know. However, one of the challenges, particularly in this case, comes with theme. With this kind of source material, theme is one of the trickiest bits to nail down. The world can express it in its design, characters can express it through their perspectives and backstories, adventures can express it in their setups, but the emergent gameplay means that themes are often at the whims of chance, and so an elegantly explored thematic question can often be replaced with a kind of human messiness. That particular alchemy is beautiful in a role-play perspective, because you’re experiencing them directly, and so the messiness feels reflective of reality. 

However, in the context of a show that wants to explore a particular thematic question with a bit more nuance, the results can be mixed. With Percy’s story, revenge is the motivating factor, but that revenge is also running in tandem with the desire to liberate an oppressed people and the desire to restore honor. The fact that these themes run parallel allow for wonderful situational setups, clear and key choices that define character. Legend of Vox Machina clearly understands this, as the first two times we see Percy don the mask and his smokey demonic patron begins to take hold are both seen through the eyes of other characters as a departure from their values and an embrace of cruelty. However, it never quite feels “at odds” with the mission. Extreme, perhaps, but rarely out of the question. More to the point, it’s a little hard to discern what the show wants to discuss about revenge - yes it’s corrupting Percy and personified by the demon Orthax as a force that will consume his soul - but that reading doesn’t quite reach beyond a simple “revenge will destroy you” statement that we’ve seen explored in hundreds of other stories before this one. And, on top of that, Percy gets to use the power Orthax gave him to successfully reclaim his ancestral home, and then rejects him afterward, able to move on to a happy life.

Okay, that reading is obviously obtuse and reductive. Percy will live with this trauma forever, and the show does an EXCELLENT job in its final episode personifying the internal struggle that he had to fend off. But, as far as we’re able to tell, there are few lasting consequences to his own problematic actions. His losses were all the actions of other evil-doers, and his revenge quest cost him almost nothing save for a nasty trip and some terrifying near-death experiences, so he easily nets positive from the whole experience. In many ways, this is the game’s system getting in the way of narrative poeticism. Everyone lived in the game because they were able to and the players were smart. Percy and the gang defeated Orthax by battling him and winning, and so he was gone. When the game, however narrative based, is still about succeeding on the mission, its adaptation will run the risk of this clunkiness.

Another place where this is exemplified is in Pike’s journey. Anyone familiar with the game will laugh at Ashley Johnson’s separation from the gang as a product of her Blindspot production schedule, and to the show’s credit they used that story to give Pike a journey of her own and to earn her astrally projected self in the end. But ultimately, this story also lacks a thematic resonance. In her discussion with The Everlight, it is suggested that Pike doesn’t know who she is and needs to confidently choose a path. Funnily enough, her story arc needed to do the same. There is some indication that she is awkward and unconfident as a holy person in the first couple episodes, but hardly a crisis of identity in my view. She gets zapped with some necrotic lightning and loses her connection in a way that feels kinda gamey, and then has to reconnect with The Everlight in order to get back on her feet.  It sounds fine enough, though in her Everlight journey, the only core action she takes is one of resilience: she won’t give up trying to forge her connection. This is a compelling trait, certainly worthy of a hero, but when she is sucked into the shadow of her astral communion, and subsequently drawn back out by the light, Pike is not doing anything to incite either of those actions. She is merely at the whims of two gods trying to prey on her emotions. Thus, the subsequent reaffirmation and astral projection, while awesome, does not hit home. 

Funnily enough, the show loosely tied this journey to a theme it perhaps could have more strongly gripped onto. Vox Machina in the first couple episodes are truly a pack of assholes (read in Liam’s British accent). In their first scene they escalate a fight that definitely got a couple people killed, they’re needlessly violent, jaded and focused on gold, and individually a mess (except Grog who is easily the most self-actualized of the bunch). They have heart, and we love them, but if Pike’s choice was more explicitly tied to this path, her role as the group’s moral center and the light they needed would have been as emotional as it was awe-inspiring.

In terms of the other characters, there is an undeniable charm to them, and their personalities and relationships feel so lived-in. Vex and Vax provide a really nice center-point and leadership to the group (Vex especially), Grog is just delightful and perfect and I really appreciate that they didn’t feel the need to pressure his character into an arc. There is absolute value in letting a character be a consistent, delightful expression of a few ideas and serve their function in the group. 

And then there’s Scanlan. From an adaptation perspective, Scanlan’s portrayal on the show is both spot-on and completely off-base. Yes, Scanlan was written to be a libertine, vulgar, show-off bard character, and boy did they lean into that. But, in the source material, Sam provides such silly, warm, generous energy as a player that Scanlan felt in many ways like the soul of the group (arguably even the soul of the entire streaming show). That element is, in my view, almost completely lost in the show. Scanlan’s vulgarity rarely hits it outta the park comedically, his sex-obsessed actions feel way over-the-top and like the show is flexing its ‘adult’ ratings, and generally speaking it doesn’t seem like he is really providing anyone with the inspiration and joy that Sam/Scanlan did in the original. There is some reason for this approach, which Critical Role fans will likely be anticipating in the next season, and it came a little closer to that feeling in the season’s last two episodes, but ultimately I felt like I was missing a reason to care about him. Admittedly, I may be colored by my love of Scanlan in the stream, but I do feel like this was perhaps the show’s weakest element. His songs, however, were a blast and I wanted WAY more of them. 

All that said, everything about the show’s execution DOES hit it out of the park. TitMouse are clearly masters of animation, and I can’t imagine the battles feeling more dynamic, the world feeling more atmospherically correct, or the magic feeling more grounded. The entirety of the show is stunning, the artwork is so well-crafted and everyone on that team and the directorial team deserves HUGE praise. Performances are mostly great, though objectivity here is hard, since I am so familiar with these characters as portrayed at the table. Watching it as a CritRole fan feels like watching an animated movie populated by A-List celebrities - the voices are just too iconic in the mind to separate from the person playing them. That said, they feel distinct, and it is no small feat to effectively rewind from where they left these characters to return and re-embrace them as their flawed past selves. Main cast aside, everyone else is mostly excellent, with particular shout-outs to Grey Griffin, Indira Varma, & David Tennant.

This particular kind of adaptation must pose a significant challenge to a team of creators, and one with very few (if any) past examples to learn from. The fact that the first outing was this successful leaves me incredibly optimistic about the future of this series (and, hopefully, adaptations of the next several campaigns as well). There are places to grow from in terms of the interweaving of theme and character, sure, but by and large The Legend of Vox Machina lives up to its title, gifting its audience a group of nerdy best-friends with whom they can save the world.

4/5 Stars.

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Hollow Knight: Seek Your Dreams

For at least the 6th time, I just watched an unnamed little ghost, conceived of the void, leap into the street-lamp lit darkness of Dirtmouth, and the well beyond. The little ghost is here to seek his dreams, both nightmarish and fanciful, one presumes. What is to come is a journey of reckoning, of confronting and accepting trauma, and of the choices one can make in the wake of that confrontation. 

Team Cherry’s masterpiece, Hollow Knight, begins with placing the player in the silent mindspace of its protagonist, The Knight. This mindspace is wracked with questions about who you are, why you’ve come to this strange land of Hallownest, and what compels you to dig deeper into the bowels of this seemingly endless abyss. Later on, the player and the Knight will learn of their own amnesia, of the brutal truth of their reason for existence, of the utter lack of love shone to them by the mysterious figure whose mystery they’ve been unraveling. They will not only learn of these truths, but in some instances be forced to relive these painful memories directly. 

If the tale of Hollow Knight were unraveled and retold, it would play out like a Shakespearean tragedy. A King whose unbridled ambition brought upon an enemy he did not understand, compelling him to do unspeakable things in order to save a kingdom whose very nature was at best unnatural, and ultimately failing to do so, leaving the kingdom to slowly descend into ruin. The King’s ultimate failure stems from his inability to see that every being, no matter how hollow, longs for love and acceptance. More specifically, we can say that any child longs for the love and acceptance of their parent. The Pale King’s ignorance of this longing in his child displays a tragic belief in the power of inhumanity.

Ironically, the hopeful savior of Hallownest, the Knight, returns to the kingdom with the very traits the Pale King sought to craft - purely hollow, no emotions, desires, or dreams that the corrupting Radiance could prey upon. And yet, the game’s structure requires the player to embark on a journey that, even at its barest bones, will cause the Knight to desire clarity on its identity. By this approach to structure, Team Cherry seems to be fundamentally rebuking the Pale King’s approach of embracing inhumanity, instead suggesting that it is only by embracing humanity that the Knight could even attempt to truly face the Radiance and free the bugs of their infection. 

This core thematic flourish, one which is supported by the primary action of the player - exploration - is but one of the layers of resonance that this lonely little game packs into its experience. The atmosphere crafted both by Christopher Larkin’s melancholic orchestra and the subtle vivacity of the world’s animation create the conditions for resonance in the player. The challenge of the game’s combat turns a mostly wistful, pensive experience into a fight to survive, forcing the player and the Knight to question why they’re even doing this in the first place. How the option to speak to a bug is actually posited as listen, expressing both the truth of the interaction, and providing an offering for a way to experience the game. And even on a replay, the experience feels intentional. The mystery and uncharted exploration that initially filled the world is slightly diminshed, sure, but in its place is dramatic irony, and the tragedy of knowing where this tale is headed. The shock of the game’s revelations grow into knowledge that this journey, however painful, has to happen.

I could certainly go on and break down every little touch of brilliance. But, at the risk of gushing any further, I’ll exercise restraint. Among the first bits of text you’re allowed to listen to suggests that you are indeed here to seek your dreams. The truth of this statement never waivers, despite the shifting architecture of what those dreams actually are. The slowly evolving journey that follows - of becoming a hero, of understanding yourself better, of facing the trauma of your past, of making meaningful friendships - subtly encourages anyone embarking on it to open themselves up to reflection of the world that surrounds them. Resonance through games, be they tabletop, video, or something else, is a fairly new experience for the world. They don’t have the centuries of legacy that carry each new novel or play or poem from conception to publication. Hollow Knight’s intentionally individualized experience is a moment in this young medium’s evolution, one that builds on the legacy of its predecessors, and uses just about every piece of its interactivity to transcend beyond the controller and screen, and craft a dream that echoes far beyond its final moments, be they tragic or triumphant. 

*****