#with him straddling both of these worlds- and thus being able to influence both of them

[novantinuum]

random post, but there's like... only a single point of SU canon that I outright ignore, and that's the tiny moment at the beginning of Monster Reunion where Steven somehow "mends" a plushie as their re-introduction to his healing powers.

i think this is very lame and personally ignore the idea that he can "mend" matter that isn't organic or gem in nature completely, because i just don't see how it makes sense. i would've far preferred him re-discovering his powers by healing a wilting flower or something

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Podcasting "Qualia"

This week on my podcast, I read “Qualia,” my May, 2021 Locus Magazine column about quantitative bias, epidemiology, antitrust and drug policy. It’s a timely piece, given the six historic antitrust laws that passed the House Judiciary Committee last week:

https://doctorow.medium.com/moral-hazard-and-monopoly-42e30eb159a8

The pandemic delivered some hard lessons about quantitative bias — that’s when you pay attention to the parts of a problem that you can do math on, not because they’re the most important, but because you know how to do math.

The most obvious lesson comes from the failure of exposure notification apps, which were supposed to take the place of “shoe-leather” contact tracing, wherein a public health workers establish personal rapport with infected people to help identify others who might be at risk.

Contact tracing is a human process, built on trust: trust enough to talk about the intimate details of your life, trust enough to take advice on how to get tested and whether you should self-isolate.

That’s not what apps do.

Exposure notification apps measure whether a Bluetooth device you registered was close to another Bluetooth device for a “clinically significant” period of time.

That’s it.

They don’t measure qualitative aspects, like whether you were close to an infected person because you were in the same traffic jam in adjacent, sealed automobiles — or whether you were both at the Ft Lauderdale eyeball-licking championship.

And they certainly don’t create the personal rapport that’s needed to understand each person’s idiosyncratic health circumstances and complications — whether they need child care, or are at risk of losing their under-the-table jobs if they self-isolate.

We didn’t want to commit the resources to do contact tracing at scale, we didn’t know how to automate it — but we did know how to automate exposure notification, so we incinerated the qualitative elements and declared the dubious quantitative residue to be sufficient.

It’s the quant’s version of searching for your car keys under the lamp-post because it’s too dark where you dropped them.

It’s not just foolish, it’s also deceptive — quantizing qualitative elements is a subjective exercise that produces numbers that seem objective.

This is where antitrust law comes in. Prior to the neoliberal revolution of the Reagan years, antitrust concerned itself with “harmful dominance,” with regulators asking whether mergers and commercial practices were bad for the world.

Obviously, “bad for the world” is hard to measure. Regulators evaluated claims from all corners: both political scientists worried about the outsized lobbying power of large companies and workers worried about monopolies’ outsized power over wages and conditions got a say.

So did environmentalists, urban planners, and yes, economists, too.

The Chicago School — hard-right conservative economists with cult-like status among Reagan and big business simps — insisted that all this qualitative stuff had to go.

They argued that consideration of qualitative elements left too much up to judges, so two similar companies engaged in similar conduct might get different verdicts out of the antitrust system. This, they said, make a mockery of the notion of “equal treatment before the law.”

Instead, the Chicago Boys — led by Robert Bork, a Nixonite criminal and a sort of court sorcerer to Reagan — demanded that qualitative measures be left behind in favor of a purely quantitative analysis of whether a monopoly hurt “consumer welfare.”

The way you’d measure “consumer welfare” was by checking to see whether a monopoly was making prices go up — if not, the monopoly was deemed “efficient” and thus socially beneficial. Prices are numbers, numbers can be measured.

But that’s not how it worked in practice. When two companies wanted to merge, they could hire a Chicago fixer to construct a mathematical model that “proved” that they resulting megafirm would not raise prices.

No one could argue with this, because Chicago School consultants had a monopoly over building and interpreting these models — the same way court magicians laid exclusive claim to the ability to slaughter an animal and read the future in its guts.

And if the prices did go up? Well, the same Chicago model-makers would be paid to produce a new model to prove that the price-rises were not the result of monopoly, but rather, rising energy costs or higher wages or the moon being in Venus.

Even by their own lights, “consumer welfare” was a failure. Monopolies drive prices up. Amazon Prime is a tool to drive up prices in every store, not just Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/01/you-are-here/#prime-facie

Apple’s App Store monopoly drives up app prices:

https://www.engadget.com/2019-05-13-supreme-court-apple-app-store-price-fixing-lawsuit.html

Luxxotica bought every eyewear brand and every eyewear retailer and the world’s largest optical lens manufacturer and drove prices up 1000%:

https://www.latimes.com/business/lazarus/la-fi-lazarus-glasses-lenscrafters-luxottica-monopoly-20190305-story.html

The highly concentrated pharma industry raises prices every single year:

https://patientsforaffordabledrugs.org/2021/01/14/2021-price-hikes-pr/

What’s more, there’s a straight line from “consumer welfare” to price-fixing.

Think about publishing. A decade ago, the Big Six publishers were embroiled in a bid to force Amazon to raise ebook prices, which led to fines and settlements for harming “consumer welfare.”

Today, the Big Six publishers are the Big Four, because Random House, the largest publisher in the world, gobbled up Penguin and Simon & Schuster. When RH, S&S and Penguin were three companies, it was illegal for them to collude on pricing.

But after their mergers, the three former CEOs — now presidents of divisions within an unimaginably giant company — can meet in a board room and plan exactly the same price-fixing strategy, and that isn’t illegal under “consumer welfare” antitrust — it’s “efficient.”

The Chicago School’s “consumer welfare” was only ever a front for “shareholder welfare,” the ability of large firms to avoid “wasteful competition” and extract an ever-larger share of the take for shareholders at the expense of customers, workers and the public.

The entire business of “consumer welfare” is a fraud, starting with Robert Bork’s insistence that a close reading of the US’s four major antitrust laws will reveal that they were never intended to be used for any purpose *other* than consumer welfare protections.

This is manifestly untrue, a Qanon-grade conspiracy that is refuted by the plain language of the statutes, the statements of their sponsors, and the record of the Congressional debates leading to their passage.

Despite the wealth of evidence that US antitrust is not a “consumer welfare” project, neoliberals have insisted that their project was not “reforming” antitrust, but rather, “restoring” it to its original purpose.

It’s a Big Lie, and they know it. That’s why GOP Senators Mike Lee (UT) and Chuck Grassley (IA) introduced “The TEAM Act to Reform Antitrust Law” — a bill intended to neutralize the muscular new antitrust bills that just passed the House committee.

https://washingtonmonthly.com/2021/06/25/the-plan-to-water-down-antitrust-reform/

The bill does two things:

It takes antitrust authority away from the FTC, sidelining the incredible Lina Khan, a once-in-a-generation antitrust scholar who now runs the agency; and

It codifies “consumer welfare” as the basis for US antitrust law.

That second part is the tell: after 40 years of insisting that any rational reading of US antitrust proved that “consumer welfare” was obviously its sole purpose, they’re now introducing a law to *change* its purpose to “consumer welfare.”

Like the Stolen Election lie, they never truly believed this one. The pose of objectivity that quantizing antitrust allowed was never about creating a truly objective standard for competition policy — it was only ever about neutering competition policy.

The thing is, there is a way to integrate both the objective and subjective into policy-making — as was demonstrated by David Nutt’s 2008 leadership of the UK’s Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs, which established the policy framework for a wide range of drugs.

Nutt’s panel of experts rated drugs based on how harmful they were to their users, the users’ families, and wider society. This allowed him to sort drugs into three categories:

Drugs that were dangerous irrespective of your public health priorities;

Drugs that were safe irrespective of your public health priorities; and

Drugs whose safety changed based on whether you prioritized the safety of users, families or society.

Those priorities are a political choice, not an empirical finding. Nutt told Parliament that it was their job to establish those subjective priorities, and once they did, he could objectively tell them how to embody them in the rules for each drug.

This is a beautiful example of how the objective and subjective fit together in policy — and the tale of what happened next is a terrible example of how “consumer welfare” hurts us all.

You see, booze is one of the most concentrated industries in the world. The “consumer welfare” standard let booze companies buy one another until just a handful remain — globe-straddling collosii with ample resources to influence policy-makers.

Nutt, an empiricist, reported just as rigorously on the harms of booze — one of the most dangerous drugs in the world — as he did on other drugs. He was fired for refusing to retract his true statement that tobacco and alcohol were more dangerous than many banned drugs.

Thanks to “consumer welfare” antitrust, the alcohol industry is able to choose who its regulators are, and use their political influence — purchased with the excessive profits of a monopolist — to rid themselves of pesky officials who actually pursue objective policy.

You can read the column here:

https://locusmag.com/2021/05/cory-doctorow-qualia/

And here’s the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2021/06/28/qualia/

As well a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the @InternetArchive; they’ll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_395/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_395_-_Qualia.mp3

And here’s a link to my podcast feed:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

Image: OpenStax Chemistry: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Figure_24_01_03.jpg

CC BY: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed.en

[itsclydebitches]

Enola Holmes: A Not So Elementary Adaptation

It's cliché and a bit unfair to say that the book was better than the film, but I'm afraid that's precisely where I need to start. Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes: The Case of the Missing Marquess is leagues better than Netflix's adaptation of it. They did her work dirty and to say that I'm shocked at the accolades other reviewers are heaping on the film is an understatement. Before I dive into any critiques though, it's worth acknowledging that not every minute of the two hour film was painful to get through. So what worked in Enola Holmes?

The film is carried by the talent of its cast, Millie Bobby Brown being the obvious heavy-hitter. She helps breathe life into a pretty terrible script and it's only a shame her talent is wasted on such a subpar character.

The idea to have Enola continually break the fourth wall, though edging into the realm of Dora the Explorer at times—"Do you have any ideas?"— was nevertheless a fun way to keep the audience looped into her thought process. Young viewers in particular might enjoy it as a way to make them feel like a part of the action and older viewers will note the Fleabag influence. 

The cinematography is, perhaps, where most of my praise lies. The rapid cuts between past and present, rewinding as Enola thinks back to some pertinent detail, visualizing the cyphers with close ups on the letter tiles—all of it gave the film an upbeat, entertaining flair that almost made up for how bloated and meandering the plot was.

We got an equally upbeat soundtrack that helped to sell the action. 

The overall experience was... fine. In the way a cobbled together, candy-coated, meant to be seen on a Friday night but we watched it Wednesday and then promptly forgot about it film is fine. I doubt Enola Holmes will be winning any awards, but it was a decently entertaining romp and really, does a Netflix film need to be anything more? If Enola was her own thing made entirely by Netflix's hands I wouldn't be writing this review. As it stands though, Enola is both an adaptation and the latest addition to one of the world’s most popular franchises. That's where the film fails: not as a fun diversion to take your mind off Covid-19, but as an adaptation of Springer's work and as a Sherlock Holmes story.

In short, Enola Holmes, though pretty to look at and entertaining in a predictable manner, still fails in five crucial areas: 

1. Mycroft is Now a Mustache-Twirling Villain and Sherlock is No Longer Sherlock Holmes

This aspect is the least egregious because admittedly the film didn't pull this version of Mycroft out of thin air. As the head of the household he is indeed Enola's primary antagonist (outside of some kidnappers) and though he insists that he's doing all this for Enola's own good, he does get downright cruel at times:

He rolled his eyes. “Just like her mother,” he declared to the ceiling, and then he fixed upon me a stare so martyred, so condescending, that I froze rigid. In tones of sweetest reason he told me, “Enola, legally I hold complete charge over both your mother and you. I can, if I wish, lock you in your room until you become sensible, or take whatever other measures are necessary in order to achieve that desired result... You will do as I say" (Springer 69).

Mycroft's part is clear. He's the white, rich, powerful, able-bodied man who benefits from society's structure and thus would never think to change it. He does legally have charge over both Enola and Eudoria. He can do whatever he pleases to make them "sensible"... and that right there is the horror of it. Mycroft is a law-abiding man whose antagonism stems from doing precisely what he's allowed to do in a broken world. There are certainly elements of this in the Netflix adaptation, but that antagonism becomes so exaggerated that it's nearly laughable. Enola's governess (appointed by Mycroft) slaps her across the face the moment she speaks up. Mycroft screams at her in a carriage until she's cowering against the window. He takes her and throws her into a boarding school where everything is bleak and all the women dutifully follow instructions like hypnotized dolls. Enola Holmes ensures that we've lost all of Springer's nuance, notably the criticism of otherwise decent people who fall into the trap of doing the "right" (read: expected) thing. Despite her desire for freedom, in the novel Enola quickly realizes that she is not immune to society's standards:

"I thought he was younger.” Much younger, in his curled tresses and storybook suit. Twelve! Why, the boy should be wearing a sturdy woollen jacket and knickers, an Eton collar with a tie, and a decent manly haircut—

Thoughts, I realised, all too similar to those of my brother Sherlock upon meeting me (113-14).

She is precisely like her brothers, judging a boy for not looking and acting enough like a man just as they judged her for not looking and acting enough like a lady. The difference is that Enola has chaffed enough against those expectations to realize when she's falling prey to them, but the sympathetic link to her brothers remains. In the film, however, the conflict is no longer driven by fallible people doing what they think is best. Rather, it's made clear (in no uncertain terms) that these are just objectively bad people. Only villains hit someone like that. Only villains will scream at the top of their lungs until a young girl cries. Only villains roll their eyes at women's rights (a subplot that never existed in the novel). Springer writes Mycroft as a person, Netflix writes him as a cartoon, and the result is the loss of a nuanced message about what it means to enact change in a complicated world.  

Which leaves us with Sherlock. Note that in the above passage he is the one who casts harsh judgement on Enola's outfit. Originally Mycroft took an interest in making Enola "sensible" and Sherlock— in true Holmes fashion—straddles a fine line between comfort and insult:

"Mycroft,” Sherlock intervened, “the girl's head, you'll observe, is rather small in proportion to her remarkably tall body. Let her alone. There is no use confusing and upsetting her when you'll find out for yourself soon enough'" (38).

***

"Could mean that she left impulsively and in haste, or it could reflect the innate untidiness of a woman's mind,” interrupted Sherlock. “Of what use is reason when it comes to the dealings of a woman, and very likely one in her dotage?" (43).

A large part of Enola's drive stems from proving to Sherlock, the world, and even herself that a small head does not mean lack of intelligence. His insults, couched in a misguided attempt to sooth, is what makes Sherlock a complex character and his broader sexism is what makes him a flawed character, not Superman in a tweed suit. Yet in the film Mycroft becomes the villain and Sherlock is his good brother foil. Rather than needing to acknowledge that Enola has a knack for deduction by reading the excellent questions she's asked about the case—because why give your characters any development?—he already adores and has complete faith in her, laughing that he too likes to draw caricatures to think. By the tree Sherlock remanences fondly about Enola's childhood where she demonstrated appropriately quirky preferences for a genius, things like not wearing trousers and keeping a pinecone for a pet. They have a clear connection that Mycroft could never understand, one based both in deduction and, it seems, being a halfway decent human being. We are told that Enola has Sherlock's wits, but poor Mycroft lucked out, despite the fact that up until this point the film has done nothing to demonstrate this supposed intelligence. (To say nothing of how canonically Mycroft's intellect rivals his brother's.) Enola falls to her knees and begs for Sherlock's help, saying that "For [Mycroft] I'm a nuisance, to you—" implying that they have a deep bond despite not having seen one another since Enola was a toddler. Indeed, at one point Enola challenges Lestrade to a Sherlock quiz filled with information presumably not found in the newspaper clippings she's saved of him, which begs the question of how she knows her brother so well when she hasn't seen him in a decade and he, in turn, walked right by her with no recognition. Truthfully, Lestrade should know Sherlock better. Through all this the sibling bond is used as a heavy-handed insistence that Enola is Sherlock's protégé, him leaving her with the advice that "Those kinds of mysteries are always the best to unpick” and straight up asking at one point if she’s solved the case. The plot has Enola gearing up to outwit her genius brother, which did not happen in the novel and is precisely why I loved it. Enola isn't out to be a master of deduction in her teens, she's a finder of lost people who uses a similar, but ultimately unique set of skills. She does things Sherlock can't because she is isn't Sherlock. They're not in competition, they're peers, yet the film fails to understand that, using Sherlock's good brother bonding to emphasize Enola's place as his protégé turned superior. He exists, peppered throughout the film, so that she can surpass him in the end. 

You know what happens in the novel? Sherlock walks away from her, dismissive, and that's that.

That's also Sherlock Holmes. I won't bore you with complaints about Cavill being too handsome and Claflin being too thin for their respective parts, but I will draw the line at complete character assassination. Part of Sherlock's charm is that he's far more compassionate than he first appears, but that doesn't mean he would, at the drop of a telegram, become a doting older brother to a sister of all things. Despite the absurdity of the Doyle Estate's lawsuit against Netflix for making Sherlock an emotional man who respects women... they're right that this isn't their character. Oh, Sherlock is emotive, but it's in the form of excited exclamations over clues, or the occasional warm word towards Watson—someone he has known and lived with for many years. Sherlock respects women, though it's through those societal expectations. He'll offer them a seat, an ear, a handkerchief if they need one, and always the promise of help, but he then dismisses them with, "The fairer sex is your department, Watson." Springer successfully wrote Sherlock Holmes with a little sister, a man who will bark out a laugh at her caricature but still leave her to Mycroft's whims because he has his own life to tend to. This is a man who insists that the mind of a woman is inscrutable and thus must grapple with his shock at Enola's ability to cover the "salient points" of the case (58). Cavill's Sherlock is no Sherlock at all and though there's nothing wrong with updating a character for a modern audience (see: Elementary), I do question why Netflix strayed so far from Springer's work. The novel is, after all, their blueprint. She already managed the difficult task of writing an in-character Sherlock Holmes who remains approachable to both a modern audience and Enola herself, yet for some reason Netflix tossed that work aside.  

2. Enola is "Special,” Not At All Like Other Girls 

Allow me to paint you a picture. Enola Holmes is an empathetic, fourteen-year-old girl who, while bright, does not possess an intelligence worthy of note. No one is gasping as she deduces seemingly impossible things from the age of four, or admiring her knowledge of some obscure, appropriately impressive topic. Rather, Enola is a fairly normal girl with an abnormal upbringing, characterized by her patience and willingness to work. Deciphering the many hiding places where her mother stashed cash takes her weeks, requiring that Enola work through the night in secrecy while maintaining appearances during the day. She manages to hatch a plan of escape that demonstrates the thought she's put into it without testing the reader's suspension of disbelief. More than that, she uses the feminine tools at her disposal to give herself an edge: hiding her face behind a widow's veil and storing luggage in the bustle of her dress. Upon achieving freedom, her understanding of another lonely boy leads her to try and help him, resulting in a dangerous kidnapping wherein Enola acts as most fourteen-year-olds would, scared out of her mind with a few moments of bravery born of pure survival instinct. She and Tewksbury escape together, as friends, before Enola sets out on becoming the first scientific perditorian, a finder of lost people.

Sadly, this new Enola shares little resemblance with her novel counterpart. What Netflix seemingly fails to understand is that giving a character flaws makes them relatable and that someone who looks more like us is someone we can connect with. This Enola, simply put, is extraordinary. She's read all the books in the library, knows science, tennis, painting, archery, and a deadly form of Jujitsu (more on that below). In the novel Enola bemoans that she was never particularly good at cyphers and now must improve if she has any hope of reading what her mother left her. In the film she simply knows the answers, near instantaneously. Enola masters her travels, her disguises, and her deductions, all with barely a hitch. Though Enola doesn't have impressive detective skills yet, her memory is apparently photographic, allowing her to look back on a single glance into a room, years ago, and untangle precisely what her mother was planning. It's a BBC Sherlock-esque form of 'deduction' wherein there's no real thought involved, just an innate ability to recall a newspaper across the room with perfect clarity. The one thing Enola can't do well is ride a bike which, considering that in the novel she quite enjoys the activity, feels like a tacked on "flaw" that the film never has to have her grapple with.

More than simply expanding upon her skillset—because let’s be real, it’s not like Sherlock himself doesn’t have an impressive list of accomplishments. Even if Enola’s feelings of inadequacy are part of the point Springer was working to make—the film changes the core of her personality. I cannot stress enough that Enola is a sheltered fourteen-year-old who is devastated by the disappearance of her mother and terrified by the new world she's entered. That fear, uncertainty, and the numerous mistakes that come out of it is what allowed me to connect with Enola and go, "Yeah. I can see myself in her." Meanwhile, this new Enola is overwhelmingly confident, to the point where I felt like I was watching a child's fantasy of a strong woman rather than one who actually demonstrates strength by overcoming challenges. For example, contrast her meeting with Sherlock and Mycroft on the train platform with what we got in the film:

"And to my annoyance, I found myself trembling as I hopped off my bicycle. A strip of lace from my pantalets, confounded flimsy things, caught on the chain, tore loose, and dangled over my left boot.

Trying to tuck it up, I dropped my shawl.

This would not do. Taking a deep breath, leaving my shawl on my bicycle and my bicycle leaning against the station wall, I straightened and approached the two Londoners, not quite succeeding in holding my head high" (31-32).

***

"Well, if they did not desire the pleasure of my conversation, it was a good thing, as I stood mute and stupid... 'I don't know where she's gone,' I said, and to my own surprise—for I had not wept until that moment—I burst into tears" (34).

I'd ask where this frightened, fumbling Enola has gone, but it's clear that she never existed in the script to begin with. The film is chock-full of her being, to be frank, a badass. She gleefully beats up the bad guys in perfect form, no, "I froze, cowering, like a rabbit in a thicket" (164). This Enola always gets the last word in and never falters in her confident demeanor, no, "I wish I could say I swept with cold dignity out of the room, but the truth is, I tripped over my skirt and stumbled up the stairs" (70). Enola is the one, special girl in an entire school who can see how rigid and horrible these social expectations are, straining against them while all her lesser peers roll their eyes. That's how she's characterized: as "special," right from the get-go, and that eliminates any growth she might have experienced over the course of the film. More than that, it feels like a slap in the face to Springer's otherwise likeable, well-rounded character.

3. A Focus on Hollywood Action and Those Strong Female Characters

It never fails to amaze me how often Sherlock Holmes adaptations fail to remember that he is, at his core, an intellectual. Sure, there's the occasional story where Sherlock puts his boxing or singlestick skills to good use, and he did survive his encounter with Moriarty thanks to his own martial arts, but these moments are rarities across the canon. Pick up any Sherlock Holmes story, open to a random page, and you will find him sitting fireside to mule over a case, donning a disguise to observe the suspects, or combing through his many papers to find that one, necessary scrap of information. Sherlock Holmes is about deduction, a series of observations and conclusions based on logic. He's not an action hero. Nor is Enola, yet Netflix seems to be under the impression that no audience can survive a two hour film without something exploding.

I'd like to present a concise list of things that happened in the film that were, in my opinion, unnecessary:

Enola and Tewksbury throw themselves out of a moving train to miraculously land unharmed on the grass below.

Enola uses the science knowledge her mother gave her to ignite a whole room of gunpowder and explosives, resulting in a spectacle that somehow doesn't kill her pursuer.

Enola engages in a long shootout with her attacker, Tewksbury takes a shot straight to the chest, but survives because of a breastplate he only had a few seconds to put on and hide beneath his shirt. Then Enola succeeds in killing Burn Gorman's slimy character.

Enola beats up her attackers many, many times.

This right here is the worst change to her character. Enola is, plainly put, a "strong woman." Literally. She was trained from a young age to kick ass and now that's precisely what she'll do. Gone is the unprepared but brave girl who heads out onto the dangerous London streets in the hope of helping her mother and a young boy. What does this Enola have to fear? There's only one martial arts move she hasn't mastered yet and, don't worry, she gets it by the end of the film. Enola suffers from the Hollywood belief that strong women are defined solely as physically capable women and though there's nothing wrong with that on the surface, the archetype has become so prevalent that any deviation is seen as too weak—too princess-y—to be considered feminist. If you're not kicking ass and taking names then you can only be passive, right? Stuck in a tower somewhere and awaiting your prince. But what about me? I have no ability to flip someone over my shoulder and throw them into a wall. What about pacifists? What about the disabled? By continually claiming that this is what a "strong" woman looks like you eliminate a huge number of women from this pool. The women we are meant to uphold in this film—Enola, her Mother, and her Mother's friend from the teahouse—are all fighters of the physical variety, whereas the bad women like Mrs. Harris and her pupils are too cultured for self-defense. They're too feminine to be feminist. But feminism isn't about your ability to throw a punch.  Enola's success now derives from being the most talented and the most violent in the room, rather than the most determined, smart, and empathetic. She threatens people and lunges at them, reminding others that she's perfectly capable of tying up a guy is she so chooses because "I know Jujitsu." Enola possesses a power that is just as fantastical as kissing a frog into a prince. In sixteen short years she has achieved what no real life woman ever will: the ability to go wherever she pleases and do whatever she wants without the threat of violence. Because Enola is the violence. While her attacker is attempting to drown her with somewhat horrific realism, Enola takes the time to wink at the audience before rearing back and bloodying his nose. After all, why would you think she was in any danger? Masters of Jujitsu with an uncanny ability to dodge bullets don't have anything to fear... unlike every woman watching this film.

It's certainly some kind of wish fulfillment, a fantasy to indulge in, but I personally preferred the original Enola who never had any Hollywood skills at her disposal yet still managed to come out on top. That's a character I can see myself in and want to see myself in given that the concept of non-violent strength is continually pushed to the wayside. Not to mention... that's a Sherlock Holmes story. Coming out on top through intellect and bravery alone is the entire point of the genre, so why Netflix felt the need to turn Enola into an action hero is beyond me.  

4. Aging Up the Protagonists (and Giving Them an Eye-Rolling Romance)

The choice to age up our heroes is, arguably, the worst decision here. In the original novel Enola has just turned fourteen and Tewksbury is a child, twelve-years-old, though he looks even younger. It's a story for a younger audience staring appropriately young heroes, with the protagonists' status as children crucial to one of the overarching themes of the story: what does it really mean to strike out on your own and when are you ready for it? Adding two years to Enola's age is something I'm perfectly fine with. After all, the difference between fourteen and sixteen isn't that great and Brown herself is sixteen until February of 2021, so why not aim for realism and make her character the same? That's all reasonable and this is, indeed, an adaptation. No need to adhere to every detail of the text. What puzzles me though is why in the world they would take a terrified, sassy, compassionate twelve-year-old and turn him into a bumbling seventeen-year-old instead?

Ah yes. The romance.

In the same way that I fail to understand the assumption that a film needs over-the-top action to be entertaining, I likewise fail to understand the assumption that it needs a romance—and a heterosexual one to boot. There's something incredibly discomforting in watching a film that so loudly proclaim itself as feminist, yet it takes the strong friendship between two children and turns it into an incredibly awkward, hetero True Love story. Remember when Enola loudly proclaims that she doesn't want a husband? The film didn't, because an hour later she's stroking her hand over Tewksbury's while twirling her hair. Which isn't to say that women can't fall in love, or change their minds, just that it's disheartening to see a supposedly feminist film so completely fall into one of the biggest expectations for women, even today. Forget Enola running up to men and paying them for their clothes as an expression of freedom, is anyone going to acknowledge that narratively she’s still stuck living the life the men around her want? Find yourself a husband, Enola. The heavy implication is she did, just with Jujitsu rather than embroidery. Different method, same message, and that’s incredibly frustrating when this didn’t exist in the original story. “It's about freedom!” the film insists. So why didn't you give Enola the freedom to have a platonic adventure? 

It's not even a good romance. Rather painful, really. When Tewksbury, after meeting her just once before, passionately says "I don't want to leave you, Enola" because her company is apparently more important than him staying alive, I literally laughed out loud. It's ridiculous and it's ridiculously precisely because it was shoe-horned into a story that didn't need it. More than simply saddling Enola with a bland love interest though, this leads to a number of unfortunate changes in the story's plot, both unnecessary additions and disappointing exclusions. Enola no longer meets Tewksbury after they've both been kidnapped (him for ransom and her for snooping into his case), but rather watches him cut himself out of a carpetbag on the train. I hope I don't have to explain which of these scenarios is more likely and, thus, more satisfying. Meeting Tewksbury on the train means that Enola gets to have a nighttime chat with him about precisely why he ran away. Thus, when she goes to his estate she no longer needs to deduce his hiding spot based on her own desires to have a place of her own, she just needs to recall that a very big branch nearly fell on him and behold, there that branch is. (The fact that the branch is a would-be murder weapon makes its convenient placement all the more eye-rolling.) Rather than involving herself in the case out of empathy for the family, Enola loudly proclaims that she wants nothing to do with Tewksbury and only reluctantly gets involved when it's clear his life is on the line. And that right there is another issue. In the novel there is no murderous plot in an attempt to keep reform bills from passing. Tewksbury is a child who, like Enola, ran away and quickly discovers that life with an overbearing mother isn't so bad when you've experienced London's dangerous streets. That's the emotional blow: Enola has no mother to go home to anymore and must press out onto those streets whether she's ready for it or not.

Perhaps the only redeeming change is giving Tewksbury an interest in flowers instead of ships. Regardless of how overly simplistic the feminist message is, it is a nice touch to give the guy a traditionally feminine hobby while Enola sharpens her knife. The fact that Enola learned that from her mother and Tewksbury learned botany from his father feels like a nudge at a far better film than Enola Holmes managed to be. For every shining moment of insight—the constraints of gendered hobbies, a black working class woman informing Sherlock that he can never understand what it means to lack power—the film gives us twenty minutes worth of frustrating stupidity. Such as how Enola doesn't seem to conceive of escaping from boarding school until Tewksbury appears to rescue her. She then proceeds to get carried around in a basket for a few minutes before going out the window... which she could have done on her own at any point, locked doors or no. But it seems that narrative consistency isn't worth more than Enola (somehow) leaving a caricature of Mrs. Harris and Mycroft behind. The film is clearly trying to promote a "Rah, rah, go, women, go!" message, but fails to understand that having Enola find a way out of the school herself would be more emotionally fulfilling than having her send a generic 'You're mean' message after the two men in her life—Sherlock and Tewksbury—remind her that she can, in fact, take action.

Which brings me to my biggest criticism and what I would argue is the film's greatest flaw. Reviewers and fans alike are hailing Enola Holmes as a feminist masterpiece and yes, to a certain extent it is. Feminist, that is, not a masterpiece. (5) But it's a hollow feminism. A fantasy feminism. A simple, exaggerated feminism that came out of a Feminism 101 PowerPoint. To quote Sherlock, let's review the salient points:

A woman cannot be the star of her own film without having a male love interest, even if this goes against everything the original novel stood for.

A feminist woman cannot also be selfish. Instead she must have a selfless drive to change the world with bombs. 

The best kind of women are those who reject femininity as much as they can. They will wear boy's clothes whenever possible and snub their nose at something as useless as embroidery. Any woman who enjoys such skills or desires to become lady-like just hasn't realized the sort of prison she's in yet.

The best women also embody other masculine traits, like being able to take down men twice their size. Passive women will titter behind their hands. Active women will kick you in the balls. If you really want to be a strong woman, learn how to throw a decent punch.

Women are, above all, superior to men.

Yes, yes, I joke about it just as much as the next woman, but seeing it played fairly straight was a bit of an uncomfortable experience, even more-so during a gender revolution where stories like this leave trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer viewers out of the ideological loop. Enola goes on and on about what a "useless boy" Tewksbury is (though of course she must still be attracted to him) and her mother's teachings are filled with lessons about not listening to men. As established, Mycroft—and Lestrade—are the simplistically evil men Enola must circumvent, whereas Sherlock exists for her to gain victory over: "How did your sister get there first?" Enola supposedly has a strength that Tewksbury lacks— he's just "foolish"—and she shouts out such cringe-worthy lines as, "You're a man when I tell you you're a man!"

I get the message, I really do. As a teenager I probably would have loved it, but now I have to ask: aren't we past the image of men-hating feminists? Granted, the film never goes quite that far, but it gets close. We’ve got one woman who is ready to start blowing things up to achieve equality and another who revels in looking down on the men in her life. That’s been the framing for years, that feminists are cruel, dangerous people and Tewksbury making heart-eyes at Enola doesn’t instantly fix the echoes of that. There's a certain amount of justification for both characterizations—we have reached points in history where peaceful protests are no longer enough and Tewksbury is indeed a fool at times—but that nuance is entirely lost among the film's overall message of "Women rule, men drool." It feels like there’s a smart film hidden somewhere between the grandmother murdering to keep the status quo and Enola’s mother bombing for change, that balance existing in Enola herself who does the most for women by protecting Tewkesbury... but Enola Holmes is too busy juggling all the different films it wants to be to really hit on that message. It certainly doesn’t have time to say anything worthwhile about the fight it’s using as a backdrop. Enola gasps that "Mycroft is right. You are dangerous" when she finds her mother's bombs, but does she ever grapple with whether she supports violence on a large scale in the name of creating a better world? Does she work through this sudden revelation that she agrees with Mycroft about something crucial? Of course not. Enola just hugs her mom, asks Sherlock not to go after her, and the film leaves it at that. 

The takeaway is less one of empowerment and more, ironically, of restriction. You can fight, but only via bombs and punches. It's okay to be a woman, provided you don't like too many feminine things. You can save the day, so long as there's a man at your side poised to marry you in the future. I felt like I was watching a pre-2000s script where "equality" means embracing the idea that you're "not like other girls" so that men will finally take you seriously. Because then you don't really feel like a woman to them anymore, do you? You're a martial arts loving, trouser-wearing, loud and brilliant individual who just happens to have long hair. You’re unique and, therefore, worthy of attention, unlike all those other girls.

That's some women's experiences, but far from all, and crucially I don't think this is the woman that Springer wrote in her novel. 

The Case of the Missing Marquess is a feminist book. It gives us a flawed, brave, intelligent woman who sets out to help people and achieves just that, mostly through her own strength, but also with some help from the young boy she befriends. Her brothers are privileged, misguided men who she nevertheless cares for deeply and her mother finally puts herself first, leaving Enola to go and live with the Romani people. Everyone in Springer's book feels human, the women especially. Enola gets to tremble her way through scary decisions while still remaining brave. Her mother gets to be selfish while still remaining loving. They're far more than just women blessed with extraordinary talents who will take what they want by force. Springer's women? They don't have that Hollywood glamour. They're pretty ordinary, actually, despite the surface quirks. They’re like us and thus they must make use of what tools they have in order to change their own situations as well as the world. The fact that they still succeed feels very feminist to me, far more-so than granting your character the ability to flip a man into the ground and calling it a day.  

Know that I watched Enola Holmes with a friend over Netflix Party and the repeated comment from us both was, "I'd rather be watching The Great Mouse Detective." Enola Holmes is by no means a horrible film. It has beauty, comedy, and a whole lot of heart, but it could have been leagues better given its source material and the talent of its cast. It’s a film that tries to do too much without having a firm grasp of its own message and, as a result, becomes a film mostly about missed potential. Which leads me right back to where I began: The book is better. Go read the book.

Images

Enola Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Enola and her Mother Doing Archery

Enola and her Mother Fighting

Tewkesbury and Enola

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

So, I just read it on Twitter and had to share it with you. “Climate change has fucked up seasons, does this mean Hades and Persephone’s deal has changed? Is she getting her cheeks smashed for longer now? Is Hades okay with random dick appointments rescheduling? Is Demeter going crazy? Is she going stupid?”

“Your mom must be going fucking nuts, huh?”

It’s 3:32 AM in the morning, the halls of the palace are fast asleep, and the only sound is the soft, muffled crackling of the eternal fires the burn just outside the large, arched window of their bedroom.

For millennia, Hades never really payed much mind to what humans were doing to the world. The wars, the bloodshed, the atrocities— it was always a part of mankind, for as long as he could remember. He’s aware that his mindset is probably do to the fact that he grew up during a time when all of these aspects were very common, so he was numb to them, to an extent.

But in all of his years of life, Harry had never witnessed humans actually be able to push the boundaries of their powers to the point where it was impacting the actual planet. 

Bombs are the obvious factor, as well as mass deforestation, oil wells, mines, and so much more. However, amidst all of these impacts humans lay upon the world, none of them had ever had a direct influence on Harry’s life. He’s sequestered so far down in the depths of the earth that humans can’t possibly reach him here without kicking it first.

That was until global warming became an issue.

Well, an issue for those who live above ground. For him, it was actually working out quite to his advantage.

He’s knows it’s a horrible thing to say but he’s already in Hell so he doesn’t really have much to lose. Actually, he has so much more to gain.

Since global warming is a direct line to climate change, all of the seasons have been thrown out of their natural order. Fall and Winter used to be strictly six months, which is when Persephone would be down in the Underworld with him. As soon as the first of the seventh month hit, it was time for her to go back to Olympus with her mother for their given time of Spring and Summer.

The end of the six month period was usually when the weather would start to warm up on the surface, resulting in Persephone having to go and take the reigns of her godly duty with Demeter. But increasing climate change has been tinkering with the technicalities for the last few years and most of the time, it’s in Hades’ favor.

It’s been two weeks into the seventh month, and with temperatures still near freezing in some areas of the world, Y/N has managed to use this as an excuse to extend her stay with Harry. And since the weather is too risky for crops to start growing, Demeter’s hands are tied in her own grape veins, much to Hades’ glee.

This brings them to where they are now, snuggling cozily under the charcoal black duvet of their humongous bed, legs intertwined as his wife cradles her head against his bare chest, the tips of his fingers tracing both of his names down the expanse of her spine.

The last two weeks had been a hell of a ride, literally and metaphorically.

It reminds Harry of how when they had first gotten married, they had been going at it like rabbits for the weeks that followed, as if the world could end any minute.

But now, it was The Weather Channel that could potentially throw a gear in their little extravaganza. They had been safe thus far into the month, so every day was a triumph, and triumphs obviously have to be celebrated.

The amount of fucking got so embarrassingly frequent, in some embarrassingly unequip places, to the point where one of the cleaning servants had walked in on them in a storage closet when Harry was supposedly at an emergency meeting on Olympus.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more mortified then when the servant handed him a freshly cleaned towel and said, “Here, you’ll need this for when you’re finished.” before closing the door behind her.

Harry looks down at Y/N, not being able to keep a gentle smile from tickling his lips as she presses her ear over his heart, comforted by the mellow thumping that had been harsh and fast-paced a few minutes prior. He ducks down and presses a caring kiss between her sweaty brows, her skin still hot and clammy from the exertion he’d just put her through.

His voice comes out as a raspy laugh and she can feel the edges of his mouth drawing up into a sly simper against her forehead.

“She must fucking hate me right now more than ever, too.”

Y/N pinches at his tummy in a cautionary manner, but she can’t fight the amused scuff that escapes her. “It’s not like you’re responsible for the weather, though.”

Hades shrugs one shoulder, his dark emerald eyes glistening in the buttery light of the fires below that stream in through the glass window. His tone is cocky and self-indulgent.

“But I am responsible for this.” He streams his fingertips down the dip of her back and onto her ass, moving the sheets down a tad to reveal a darkened outline of his handprint. “And that’s enough to cause her to plunge the world into another Ice Age.”

Persephone fully laughs now, her eyes squeezing shut as her whole face lights up like the Northern Lights and Harry can’t resist scattering a dozen kisses all over her cheeks and nose. She just looks so fucking cute when she smiles like that.

Hades cups the side of her jaw with his fingers, thumbing over the faint dimple on her chin as he rubs his nose over the tip of her’s. Even though his plump, wine-tinted lips carry a tender, sleepy grin, she can hear the sadness weighing his words. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Persephone sighs deeply, reaching up to push her husband’s damp, chestnut curls away from his forehead, combing them back from his softening eyes as he swallows heavily, thick eyebrows furrowing as he tries to keep his emotions from registering on his face. “I don’t want to either, but I have to eventually.”

Harry nods his head emptily, the tip of his cold nose running up and down the suppleness of her cheek. “I just don’t want this to end.”

Y/N snorts lightly, trying to lift the mood of the conversation. “Yeah, I get that. Then you won’t have anyone to ride you in the bathing pool.”

She thanks the gods that it works, heart fluttering in her chest as Harry breaks out into a fit of that high-pitched laughter he does when he can’t control himself. His entire face changes for a moment, his nose crinkling upwards as the corners of his eyes wrinkle in delight.

“Am I wrong?!” She teases, poking him in the stomach and sides until his hands are fumbling for her own, his giggling intensifying when she buries her head into his neck and starts blowing raspberries against his skin.

“Okay, okay!” Harry can barely breathe, his ribs aching but in the best way and he can’t seem to stop beaming. “You’re kinda right.”

Y/N halts her attack, mouth dropping open in fake appalled shock, eyebrows flying upwards outrage. “Are you serious?!”

She tries to yank her wrists free from her husband’s large hands, but his fingers only tighten to keep her from going at him again. Persephone lays there writhing from side to side, yelling out all types of vulgar language that is gradually dissolving into bundles of banter and giggles as Harry makes kissy-faces, warning her to calm down before he “gives her a taste of her own ambrosia.”

Y/N, in the spur of the moment, mounts herself on top of Harry in a whirlwind of messy sheets, straddling his hips with her thighs and trying to tug herself free that way, but his hold is beyond godly. She releases an exasperated groan, slamming their conjoined hands down against his stomach, satisfied at the pained grunt he chokes out. “You deserve it, you prick.”

They are both still grinning from ear to ear, Y/N’s hair a tangled mess of flyaways as she slumps down in defeat against Hades’ lap, pouting and fuming jokingly.

When Harry sees his wife has come down from her bloodthirsty rampage, he slowly unclamps his fingers from her wrists, shrugging his eyebrows warningly. “I’ll pin you, babe. Behave.”

Persephone raises her own eyebrows challengingly. “Oh, yeah?”

Before Hades can react, she has his wrists crossed above his head, pressed into the mound of elegant feathered pillows below him. “How’s that, then? Turned the tables.”

Harry cocks his head to the side with an arrogant air as his bare, tattooed chest heaves alluringly. He runs his bottom lip under his top teeth as the corners turn up into a presumptuously attractive smirk, voice holding faux surrender. “You’re absolutely right, darling. I completely, totally lost. I have you sitting in my lap, naked, with a perfect view of your tits, which is the most dreadful defeat I can possibly imagine.You won.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow. It’s all a game— just for shits and giggles— but the way he’s eyeing her with that amused, conceited smirk makes her want to slap him across the face.

“You’re an asshole.” She huffs, nails digging into his wrists.

A holographic green glint flashes across the whites of Harry’s eyes, irises glowing with a watery jade hue as he mopes at her tauntingly. “Oh, but I thought I was a ‘prick?’”

Now he’s really asking for it. Practically begging for her to do something to make him take it all back. As if reading her mind, Hades flicks up a single eyebrow, and she can read his expression clear as crystal.

What are you gonna do about it?

Y/N can feel her nostrils flaring ever so slightly at the dare, and what drives it forward it that even though she is the one who is supposed to have Harry pinned down at her disposable, it looks more like he has his hands crossed behind his head, waiting for her to bend to his will.

It’s infuriatingly hot.

Something glints out of the corner of Persephone’s eye, her gaze rising until it lands on Hades’ wedding ring as it hugs his finger, the giant emerald jewel glittering in the muted amber lighting. He follows her locked stare, jaw flexing as he tilts his head back against the mattress, trying to find the target of her distraction.

His ring.

He very seldom takes it off, to the point where he has a tan line around the area. It’s his most prized possession, accompanied by his crown, his emblem, and Cerberus.

Y/N quickly wraps her fingers around it, pulling it off swiftly and holding it up above his head, sticking her tongue out at him playfully. “Good luck getting it back.”

Her plan backfires almost immediately.

She tries to swing herself off her husband to get the prize as far away from him as possible, but she had forgotten that their bodies had been tangled together in the sheets. Instead of making a speedy escape, she topples off his sideways, landing face-first into the fluffy duvet.

Harry’s muddled snickering mocks her.

The next thing she knows, Persephone is being scooped up in a pair of strong, lean arms, her back hitting the pillowy mattress and bouncing lightly. Harry’s body collapses over her’s, his hips snug between her thighs as his palms press down against the bed on either side of her head.

He moves strands of her hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ears as his face hovers over her, grin plastered all over it. “That was cute, pet. Ten-out-of-ten for effort. Execution? I’ll give you a two-out-of-ten, only because I love you so much.”

Harry shifts into his forearms, holding his left hand up and wiggling his ring finger. “Now give it back.”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes in mild irritation. “Give it back before you drop it behind the bed, you dolt.”

Y/N rattles her head in defiance, fist tightening around the obsidian ring as it remains pressed against her husband’s chest.

Harry gives her a ominous look, tilting his head to the side with a cautionary tone. “Give me my ring back before I give the other side of your bum a matching handprint.”

Instead of just giving in and returning the jewelry, Y/N decides to take the more complicated (and irrationally ridiculous) route. She pops it into her mouth.

Harry is so surprised he doesn’t blink for a few seconds. Then, he breaks out into awed laughter.

“You’re such a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? S’fucking impressive.” He shakes his head in disbelief, ghosting his index finger along her Cupid’s Bow, licking at the corner of his mouth coyly when he feels her lips twitching beneath his touch. “Now be a good girl and spit it out.”

Her words are muffled over the object. “Make me.”

A dark aura falls over Hades’ face, his hand coasting down from playing with her lips to wrapping delicately around her throat in foreshadowing. His voice is low and assertive. “You know I fucking will.”

“That’s what I’m betting on.”

Harry’s mouth curls into an evilly delighted simper. “Alright. You asked for it.”

Hades grabs one of Persephone’s knees, spreading her legs open roughly and using his own knees to keep her parted wide open. The ring finger of the hand around her throat presses against the center of her lips, the other hand wandering down and cupping her bare crotch without any warning. The two middle fingers of his right hand press deeper against her slick folds until he can feel the bud of her clit, and that’s when he starts wiggling the digits back and forth.

It starts off softly, but is quickly molding into a faster, messier, more eager pace. He usually eases her into sex because he knows how sensitive she can be down there to the point where she’ll cum without much work, but since they’re pitted against each other rather than together, dirty war strategies are expected.

Y/N’s legs act on instinct, trying to clasp shut as she feels her entire body coursing with electric shocks of sudden euphoria. However, the knees he has against her’s keeps her open, allowing him to do whatever he deems fit.

Persephone’s hands desperately grab at her husband’s, trying to get him to stop; she’d clearly overestimated her confidence level. She’d assumed he would just bury himself inside her, a strategy she knows how to fight with the right amount of willpower. But her clit is way more sensitive than anything else on her body and he’d gone in without remorse.

“T-That’s not fair! H-Harry, you can’t just— fuck, oh my God!” Her back arches up from the bed, thighs quivering as she feels deep pulses of pleasure pounding at the pit of her stomach.

Harry’s lips are flushed against her throat, placing hot, sloppy pecks across her juglar as he feels her getting wetter and wetter over his fingers. “I fucking warned you, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you cum like this, without me inside you. It’s what you deserve for being such a brat.”

“P-Please—!”

“Ring.” He growls demandingly, his second middle finger pressing harder against the center of her colored lips, the rest of his digits gripping her jaw firmly. “Now.”

It’s as if Y/N’s brain is no longer in control of her actions, her body acting on sheer adrenaline. Her mouth drops open on command, and she can feel Harry’s triumphant grin stinging across her jaw.

“That’s what I thought.”

The digit dips in and the ring slips past a third of it before Harry pulls it out. He makes eye contact with his wife, ducking down to whisper his next words across the shell of her ear.

“You’re gonna be the one to put the ring back on me.”

With everything that is happening, Persephone has no time to unravel the riddle behind Hades’ words. One of her trembling hands reaches up for his hand, trying to obey him in her drunken state of shock.

But he stops her with a light shake of his head, wet curls bouncing. “Not like that, baby.”

Harry then shifts his body over smoothly, the hand that was between her thighs slamming down beside her head to hold himself up as the hand with the ring takes its place.

In one quick, expert move, he plunges his two middle fingers inside Y/N, and the experience is almost out-of-body.

She can feel the abrupt chill of the metal ring making contact with the skin around her entrance, and then he’s slipping his digits further inside her, the ring pushing against her tight hole and running down his finger until it is snug in its rightful place. Until Harry is knuckles deep and she feels like she’s going to pass out as her senses go into overdrive.

Y/N is bucking and writhing against Hades’ hand, whimpering and whining and pleading with him to stop toying with her. To just fuck her already.

“Oh, I will, love. I’m gonna fuck you with my fingers first. Play with that spot inside you that I know drives you fucking wild. And then, I’m gonna proper raw you until you can’t even stand.”

Harry’s fingers slip out completely, only to pound back inside her harder this time, her whole body jolting upwards against the bed sheets as her throat aches with a broken yelp.

“I’m gonna make you apologize for calling me a prick—” his fingers draw out and slam back in and she’s so wet he can fucking hear it— “and an asshole—’ the same motion again, but this time she feels his teeth staining her neck and jaw with bruises— “and I’m gonna make you scream so loud, they’ll hear you all the way up in Olympus.”

And with the way he rams his digits back inside her, she knows he’ll make good on that promise.

[recentanimenews]

IN-DEPTH: How The God of High School Revealed the True, Weird History of Taekwondo

  If, like me, you found yourself yearning for some physical activity and breaks from the tedium of schoolwork as a kid, you might have found yourself wanting to learn some martial arts. Watching action stars like Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, as well as anime, playing fighting games and more, left me with an interest in learning a martial art myself. I found myself at the door of a local Taekwondo school and was instantly hooked. Sadly, like many things, time and obligations got in the way and I had to give up my pursuit of martial arts, but I always found the subject interesting. When I started reading The God of High School, I was instantly hooked by the idea that Jin Mori used Taekwondo, but suddenly, I found myself questioning things: What did they mean, that there were multiple types of Taekwondo? Wasn’t all Taekwondo the same? What was “Renewal Taekwondo” and was it a real thing? The answer to that question is... sort of. Also: There are some light spoilers here! Be warned!

    In The God of High School, the revelation that Jin practices “Renewal Taekwondo” serves as a shock to the cast, particularly the Judges and Park Mujin, as it reveals the fact that Jin’s grandfather, Jin Taejin, was not only still alive, but that he had passed on the incredibly powerful skills of Renewal Taekwondo to someone else. At this point in the anime, the reveal has played out far differently, although there’s no telling whether this might change as the anime progresses. We do know that Jin uses Renewal Taekwondo, but we don’t get the same backstory and discussion revolving around Jin’s grandfather, and the past regarding Taekwondo itself. In the WEBTOON series, Park Mujin reveals that “Renewal Taekwondo” was created by South Korean leaders following a defeat at the hands of North Korean “ITF” Taekwondo. And, suddenly, my childhood came back to me: I had learned “WT” Taekwondo, so what was “ITF?” Was it just something the web comic made up, like “Renewal Taekwondo?” As it turns out, this particular rabbit hole went a whole lot deeper, and weirder, than I ever imagined. 

    Perhaps the first, and most shocking, fact regarding Taekwondo is that it is less than 100 years old. Many historians agree there is some fluidity to a solid date, but as 4th Dan David Lo notes, Taekwondo likely began formally in 1955, when General Choi Hong-Hi named it after developing the first basic forms of the martial art. While many other popular martial arts, such as Karate, Tai Chi, or Kung-Fu often discuss their proud, long lineages, Taekwondo is often mistakenly assumed to be ancient; in fact, it is only perhaps somewhat related to Taekkyeon, which was nearly wiped out during Japanese occupation. After World War II, the Japanese occupation of Korea came to an end. During the occupation, Japan was particularly cruel to Koreans, suppressing their language, culture, and identity — extending this treatment to martial arts practitioners were forced to quit or go into hiding while Japanese Karate was taught instead. Taekwondo would come from the confluence of various martial arts, having more in common with Karate, mostly due to the violent banning of Korean culture. 

  Combining their knowledge with new techniques in Shotokan karate, Kung-Fu, and others, would begin to create schools, or “Kwans,” which would give rise to what we today recognize as Taekwondo. Scott Shaw, one of the eminent English authors and students of Taekwondo, explains the genealogy of the first 5, and subsequent 4, Kwans; these Kwans were fairly diverse, with nine divergent approaches and teachers developing their own takes on martial arts. In many cases, historians consider Song Moo Kwan the Kwan most responsible for eventual Taekwondo, with Byung Jik Ro called by some as the “father” of “modern” Taekwondo (more on that later) the original five Kwans — Song Moo Kwan, Chung Do Kwan, Moo Duk Kwan, Ji Do Kwan, and Chang Moo Kwan — were the birthplace of Taekwondo, but it would take another war, and social and cultural upheaval for Taekwondo to really emerge.

    Song Moo Kwan and Chung Do Kwan were founded in 1944, with the other 5 founding Kwans appearing in the following 2 years. If we start Taekwondo’s timeline there, that means Taekwondo is only 76 years old (meaning there’s a good chance your grandparents might actually be older than Taekwondo!), but the “real” birth of Taekwondo would come a fair bit after these Kwans were founded. For that to happen, Korea would be forced into another protracted battle that would decide the course of its modern fate, and the dispersal of Taekwondo to the rest of the world: The Korean War. 

  Separating the country along the 38th parallel into what are today known as North Korea and South Korea, this civil war shaped Korea’s modern history in cataclysmic ways, separating family members, friends, and cultural identity. Like many aspects of Korean life, Taekwondo found itself straddling an uncomfortable and unclear line: The original Kwans were spread out across the Korean peninsula, with Song Moo Kwan being in what would now be North Korea. Following the Korean war, this would lead perhaps the most controversial figure in Taekwondo history to emerge: General Choi Hong Hi, the true “father” of Taekwondo.

    Alex Gillis' A Killing Art reveals the life, warts and all, of General Choi. Born in 1918 in Hwa Dae (located in now North Korea), General Choi Hong Hi was sent to Japan by his father to study, ending up in the tutelage of Han Il Dong, a master of Taekkyeon, one of Korea’s oldest martial arts. Forced into military service by the Japanese, Choi would eventually find himself continuing to serve in the Korean military following the end of World War II and Japanese occupation, earning the title of major general in 1954 (and thus earning him both his title and nickname, “The general”). 

  Choi’s mastery of Taekkyeon and Shotokan karate led him to develop what he titled “Taekwon-Do,” or “foot, fist, art.” Choi is, as far as historians can tell, the first person to use the word “Taekwondo,” and rightfully seems to deserve the title. The controversy, however, comes from the disagreements between Choi (who, some authors note, was somewhat disagreeable and even deceptive) and other Kwan leaders and Taekwondo practitioners. This would lead to the eventual creation, and split, of Taekwondo into ITF and WT schools, among many other offshoots.

    Whether Choi was or wasn’t a deceptive and deceitful person seems to be based on who you ask, and the most common perception of him was that he was complicated (as are we all). What authors and historians such as Lo, Gillis, Shaw, and others agree on is that without General Choi, there would be no Taekwondo, and the subsequent power struggle nearly destroyed, as Lo calls it, the “family” of Taekwondo. While it is perhaps more palatable to consider martial arts as monastic and scholarly, the reality is that they are practiced, created, and influenced by people, and Taekwondo’s somewhat ugly and public schism is a great reminder of this. Choi originally founded the ITF, or International Taekwon-Do Federation, in 1966; however, Choi’s attempts to control all aspects of Taekwon-Do, and the South Korean government’s insistence on “owning” Taekwondo, would create the split that saw Choi flee from Korea to Canada and South Korea creating the KTA (Korean Taekwondo Association), which would eventually give way to the World Taekwondo Federation (WTF, now known as WT), under the governing body of the Kukkiwon. 

  In the ITF version of this story, Choi simply decided to go “on tour” in 1959, before eventually creating the ITF in 1966. The WT version of the story is just as revisionist, claiming that Taekwondo has roots that supposedly go back 2000 years and that the WT was created in 1973 as the first governing body of Taekwondo. No mention of Choi or the ITF exists in the WT version of Taekwondo. Udo Moening, author of numerous papers about Taekwondo’s cultural and social significance, helps explain the disparity between these two stories by noting that Taekwondo is as much an object of political importance to the identity of Korea as it is a form of martial skill and discipline. Simply put, Moening argues, Taekwondo became a piece of the struggle for identity between South Korea and North Korea, and the eventual race to Olympic recognition would become a major victory in this battle for the WT and South Korea. 

    The schism in Taekwondo (or Taekwon-Do, in ITF’s usage) is perhaps even more interesting in the sense that one did not immediately replace the other; instead of the WT supplanting the ITF, the two schools of Taekwondo went about their own paths. Yet, Kukkiwon managed to obtain a significant victory over Choi and ITF Taekwondo: inclusion in the Olympics. In 1982, Kukkiwon was able to arrange a demonstration of Taekwondo for the IOC in 1988 and became an official event during the Asian Games in 1986. In 1994, Kukkiwon “won” the competition for Taekwondo legitimacy by being selected by the IOC as an official sport of the Olympics, joining Judo as the only other Asian martial art in the Olympic games, and debuting in the 2000 games in Australia. 

  Choi, however, had won in another way: his ITF Taekwondo spread across the world, and his somewhat ingenious method of sending Taekwondo “acolytes” to various places to form their own schools helped make Taekwondo popular and profitable. There are other forms of Taekwondo out there, including ATA (American Taekwondo Association), Jhoon Rhee Style, and the GTF (Global Taekwondo Federation), a split from ITF. Chuck Norris, during the height of his popularity in the '90s, even formed his own school that blended Tang Soo Do and Taekwondo called Chun Kuk Do!

    While Choi was successful in spreading Taekwondo around the globe, and South Korea was able to claim “ownership” of the sport through political engineering and historical revision, Taekwondo in the United States would owe much of its growth and popularity to a different individual: Jhoon Rhee. Rhee, learning Taekwondo at the Chung Do Kwan in his childhood, came to America in the '60s to study engineering. Needing some extra money, Rhee began teaching Taekwondo, and through luck and hard work, launched the popularity of the martial art in the United States via television and Hollywood. Like all good and weird success stories, Rhee gained fame from his “viral” '70s commercial jingle, written by Nils Lofgren, guitarist for Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band! 

  Rhee’s unconventional approach to success worked, taking his Taekwondo to both of America’s hearts: Hollywood and Washington DC. Rhee would go on to teach and demonstrate Taekwondo to various celebrities including Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee — even writing a book, Bruce Lee and I, in 2011. He also met with President Reagan and famously demonstrated Taekwondo to the United States Congress in 1965. There was even a sparring match between Republicans and Democrats! 

    But what do all of these different types of Taekwondo actually mean? When I was practicing, did I learn “the wrong” type? Well, the answer is… no! The major difference in schools seems to come down to forms, ranks, and some other small administrative differences — such as who can spar, and why, or what types of focus there is in learning Taekwondo in general. Perhaps due to the odd nature of Taekwondo’s spread outside of Korea, the sport is also highly “commercial;” the ATA and Jhoon Rhee schools, for example, were founded on the idea of both teaching the sport and also establishing chain schools that would funnel profits back to the original founders, essentially creating a business instead of the somewhat monastic idea of a martial art like the Kung-Fu or Karate that appear in movies and media. 

  As noted by Doug Cook, the forms, of Poomsae, are constantly changing, due in part to the various types and hybrids of Taekwondo, but also due to the somewhat infant nature of the sport compared to other forms. It would be hard, as many authors point out, to find a “true” strain of Taekwondo these days. Instead, the various approaches, forms, and inherent teachings all help create different, unique ideas of the original created by Choi in the '50s — itself a hybrid of various types of martial arts.

    It's fairly common in martial arts stories to hear epic tales of the history and longevity of a martial art, but Taekwondo provides us with the unique and interesting experience of seeing that historical mythology evolve in real time. From the controversial Choi to the roots of the Korean search for identity following Japanese occupation and later civil war, Taekwondo serves as a mirror for Korea’s own evolution. While Taekwondo may not be an “ancient” form of martial arts, it is a uniquely Korean one, and one that has a complex history and personality, and thanks to The God of High School, I found myself falling into the rabbit hole of its story. “Reclamation” Taekwondo may not actually exist, but in many ways, Taekwondo was a form of reclamation for Korea: an attempt to create something new and unique in the face of years of brutal occupational rule and civil strife. 

Did you know about the history of Taekwondo? What's your favorite style to practice? Let us know, and while you're at it, tell us your current fave WEBTOON series in the comments!  

➡️ Watch The God of High School today! ⬅️  

    Nicole is a frequent wordsmith for Crunchyroll. Known for punching dudes in Yakuza games on her Twitch channel while professing her love for Majima. She also has a blog, Figuratively Speaking. Follow her on Twitter: @ellyberries. Here's that serotonin you ordered.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[ginnyzero]

Books that Stand Out in my mind.

When you read a lot of books like I do, it takes quite a bit for something to stand out from the shelves and stick in your mind. A lot of books start to blur together after a while. Now, of course the books that influenced my writing stood out in my mind. If they hadn’t stood out to me, they wouldn’t be an influence now would they? But they aren’t the only books that have stayed in my head. While these books have stayed with me, they don’t necessarily correlate with what I like to write, but at the same time, taught me some extraordinary lessons about writing.

If I tried to summarize the Journey of the Catechist trilogy by Alan Dean Foster, you would probably think it is the most boring and most worn out story in existence. A noble savage is asked by a dying man to rescue a fair princess from the lair of a monster halfway across the world and bring her back to her family. Armed with his few weapons and gifts from his family and tribe, the noble savage sets out on a long and perilous journey to fulfill the man’s dying wish, with the certain knowledge that he shall die at the end of it.

Bah. How boring and tired is this plot?

See, it wasn’t the plot that had me go out and buy the rest of the books in the series. It wasn’t the plot that kept me reading. It was the world building and the adventures and what in the noble savages pack is going to get them out of their dire straits this time?  The book would have been utterly boring and predictable if the setting hadn’t been so engaging and inventive.

I can be very forgiving of a predictable plot, as long as the setting and characters are interesting and fresh along the way.

I can’t remember if I bought the Angelwalk trilogy by Roger Elwood or if it was given to me. It was the second book in the trilogy, Fallen Angel that stuck with me. Fallen Angel is the story of Observer, the Chronicler of Lucifer. Observer is obsessed with seeing everything and writing it down. Lucifer encourages this because it keeps Observer by his side. Throughout the book Observer questions the rightness and morality of what Lucifer and the others are doing, but as he doesn’t participate he doesn’t fully feel he can cast judgement. (Now, I say Observer doesn’t participate, however, this is Lucifer we’re talking about and yes, Observer is called upon to take part. He just doesn’t do so under the name of Observer.) Observer is given multiple chances to repent and return to the Angels. Each time, he refuses because of his writing and in the end shares the fate of the rest of the Fallen Angels. And it is brought home that even though he was simply observing and claiming not to take a side, by doing nothing, he had chosen a side, Lucifer’s side.

The imagery in this book is not for the faint of heart. Fallen Angel is the observation of the world through the eyes of a demon. There is a point in the book where Observer has a vision or a dream depending on whether or not you believe demons sleep, about where all the victims of abortion come to him across the plains and ask Observer why he didn’t help them. Why didn’t he stop the practice? If I remember correctly, an angel (Steadfast, I think) comes and tells Observer the possibilities behind each of the babies and takes them to Heaven after giving Observer another chance to return.

The imagery of this book was very compelling, sometimes horrifying, but always compelling. In the guise of Observer, Roger Elwood had a very simple way with description and imagery that kept me turning pages. The words were clear, simple and direct but always exactly the right words needed to paint the picture Observer was seeing and stuck in my head. (I wish I had that way with words.) Perhaps, there is some irony of a writer liking a book about a writer.

The next set of books that stayed with me were written by Timothy Zahn. Now, Timothy Zahn was actually one of the few writers that I trusted in the Star Wars EU. And when it came to going through my books and keeping and getting rid of them, he was one of the author’s I kept. However, I hadn’t and still haven’t read a lot of his writing outside of Star Wars. I picked up the first book of his Conqueror’s Trilogy second hand and had to spend some time to find copies of the second and third book. (And then on my last move, I accidentally left them behind, drat. Note to self: Never, ever, ever, assume a box is empty. Ever.)

Science fiction is one of those genres that can be really hard to get into. The Conqueror’s trilogy straddled the line between “soft” science fiction and “hard” science fiction in a way that was more approachable for the moderately educated reader. They didn’t require the reader to have a degree in physics or biology to understand what was going on.

A lot of science fiction assumes that most aliens have advanced technology far beyond human’s that is usually completely mechanical and relies upon computer interfaces with binary similar to the way our technology works. This is, of course, completely and utterly ridiculous, but everyone has run with it from Isaac Asimov on down because well, it seemed the thing to do? Timothy Zahn decided to toss this idea out the window and wrote a book speculating about what would happen in humans met an alien race that used technology so completely opposite to ours that our technology actually caused their technology pain. This inability to communicate whatsoever sparks a war of misunderstanding, while the scientists on both sides of the lines scramble to figure out what the hell is going on with the other side’s technology and are mutually horrified by what they are finding.

I’ll admit that this wasn’t an easy read. I had to work to finish these books. I am more of a ‘soft’ scifi reader. Star Wars is an excellent example of the scifi I prefer, Heinlein, Asimov in moderation, the very early Frank Herbert, the non-political portions of David Weber and the satirical Robert Asprin. A lot of scifi is either far too technical (which is fine if you enjoy that type of thing) or not character driven enough to be interesting to me. The only reason I finished these books was because the concept was intriguing and interesting enough that I wanted to see how it would all turn out and if the two species could figure out how to settle their differences (which were more along the lines of, ‘hey, your technology is killing our technology’) and come to a mutual peace. Plus, there were mind meld pilots in the mix too to keep me entertained.

That is the power of a good concept. The premise of those books captured my attention and made me remember them.

The last series I want to talk about is once again by Anne Bishop. She is coming up a lot when I talk about books. This time probably not for the reason that you think. No matter how you look at it, there is a certain set way of writing. When you write a book, you have a main character (or two, or three, or half a dozen) and usually the story is told through the viewpoint(s) of them. They are the most important character(s) in the story and the reader gets to intimately (depending on point of view) know their opinions, likes, dislikes and general thoughts about the world around them. Not so in the Black Jewels trilogy by Anne Bishop.

Throughout the entire series of books set in the Black Jewels universe, not once, are we treated to the viewpoint and thoughts of the main female character the entire story revolves around, Janelle D’Angelline. We see Janelle through the lens of her father figure, her brother figure and lover. We see her through her friends and through her parents, family and her enemies, but not once are we treated to the inside of Janelle’s mind and thoughts. A lot of these viewpoints are male, which may be something of a weakness with this trilogy, giving such a strong female figure as the lead and then never using her thoughts. It is a very interesting stylistic choice. One I feel there might be two reasons for, but these are my opinions and possibly hold no weight. Either, Bishop thought that Janelle being Witch, Dreams Made Flesh of all the different races in her universe, that Janelle’s thoughts would be too alien for the reader to be able to sympathize with or, Bishop in her wisdom felt that the topics she was addressing would be way too shocking coming from the victim and decided to add a layer of “insulation” if you will for the reader. Thus, the reader would be horrified and disgusted, but not have the immediacy of the events through Janelle’s eyes.

There are other very strong female characters that Anne Bishop uses later to tell stories through. However, in her first, and major trilogy, she declines. In her later books, Anne Bishop does use a more ‘traditional’ story method, where the main central character to the story is the character we get the primary point of view from. The Black Jewels trilogy stood out in my mind simply because she declined to do so. The books, in my opinion, do not suffer because of this choice! Though sometimes I am very interested in knowing what in hell is Janelle thinking to end up with the conclusion that this has to happen. Other times, I'm extremely grateful not to be in her mind.

So, what makes an outstanding book in my mind can be almost any part of the story making process. It can be an intricate and imaginative world. It can be clear and concise imagery in word choice that sticks in the mind rather than slipping through it. It can be a compelling concept that stands apart from others. Or it can be an interesting style choice on behalf of the writer. These books are clear example of each of these ideas. Now, if there were books that managed to combine these, then we’d be closer to genius I guess.

[svbjetarch]

👅 + reverse [ nayeon x kimoon ]

            .• ♕ ┊        LET THE MUSIC PLAY.

          HICKEY TROUBLES           Status   :   Accepting           @lilvcsxngs

            Kimoon ✗ Nayeon       The world was spinning and turning around her as she stumbled out of the bar, it was such irony, she was still confused about how to handle Kimoon currently when she had admitted to her feelings for him and thus drunk - but also it had been him to be called by her when she realized she wasn't stable enough on her feet anymore to take her home safely. The stupid irony of her mindset messed up with her desire to see him, able to lay her eyes upon him right in front of her as she had left the shop, a bright smile already forming on her face as she stumbled towards him. Her arms were wrapped around his neck immediately, body leaning against his and she didn't hesitate for a second when her lips met his, not minding that they were out in the open, that she did right now what both of them were so very aware of to be forbidden and maybe for exactly that reason she could feel how he was wrapping his arms around her and opening the door of his backseat already, shortly after being forced inside which made her break the kiss, feeling heated even with the outside air being icy but once she was inside, she was already taking off her jacket, pulling him in a well and it seemed like a miracle to manage so easily closing the door again and straddling his lap. She had held back for too long, had ignored her desires to just kiss him when feeling like it but with the alcohol having turned off all her safety modes she was giving in to her desires with no holding back, licking her lips that were tasting of alcohol and him, eyes focused on his plush petals that were making her cravings grow by the second.       His confused gaze was entirely ignored as she pulled open his jacket and revealed his neck, no control in planting her lips to his inviting skin and leaving her sucking marks, dark painted spots on his light skin and with her hips perfectly placed on his she could also feel what kind of effect her actions had on him but she ignored it. Ignored it until she was satisfied with her little piece of art and pulled back, a satisfied grin on her lips as she bit down onto the lower one. "Now you're all mine. Remember it well," she whispered lowly, entirely ignoring what kind of troubles she had currently gotten him into, his management would hate the fact of him dating again, even if it was not her, but those many marks now would make them suspicious on his being single - although he was, in fact, still single. The weren't dating, they weren't in a relationship again, because this was one last step she wasn't able to agree to yet, not while she hadn't sorted out her feelings yet. Yet it remained a fact that she enjoyed the sight of her marks on his skin declaring him as hers was making her feel so very content with herself, knowing that she was the only one right now who would have his permission to claim him like this, because - as much as she hated it - she was aware that she was able to influence him, influence him in the worst ways just like she was influenced with him, was aware of his eyes travelling across her frame every damn time, it was impossible for her to have merely a friendship with him because sooner or later, all her feelings would be crushing her beneath.

[xxionlinemovies-blog]

The Mummy (2017) Movie Review

Checkout The Mummy (2017) Movie Review on http://xxi.online/the-mummy-2017-movie-review/

The Mummy (2017) Movie Review

MOVIE REVIEW

Man, those ancient Egyptians sure make a big deal out of one teensy-weensy murder spree.

Some might say Ahmanet had every right to be peeved. (Well, Ahmanet would say so, at any rate.) She was next in line to be the queen of Egypt, after all. That’s right, queen—a gig that comes with perks, like servants to feed you grapes, statues that look like you and all the sand you could ever want.

But then the current Pharaoh fathered a son—a wholly inconsiderate act on his part—which left Ahmanet with just two options. One, to swallow the disappointment and content herself with being a well-fed, well-heeled member of Egyptian royalty; or two, make an unholy pact with ultimate evil and paint the palace red with her family’s blood.

Naturally, Ahmanet chooses the latter.

She kills the Pharaoh, his wife and their son. But she’s not done yet. To finalize her deal with Set, the Egyptian god of death, she has to kill her lover, too—freeing the guy’s body for Set to, um, set up shop in it. Then he and Ahmanet can partner up and plunge the world into darkness and death.

But before Ahmanet can strike that final blow, Egyptian guards capture her. Death, they decide, is too good for her. And given the fact that her deal with Set turned her into a tatted-up half-demon-thing, they figure some extra precautions are in order.

First, they mummify her alive. Then they throw her in a heavy metal sarcophagus and ship her to Mesopotamia a thousand miles away. They dig a huuuge hole for her, fill her tomb with mercury (said to weaken demonic power) and then cover the whole works in dirt, hoping no one will ever find it again.

Talk about overkill.

Well, clearly, Ahmanet’s in a pickle. It’s hard to plunge the world into darkness and death when you’re stuck in a—

Wait, wait just a minute. What’s that? Did Ahmanet just hear a huge explosion above her? Has it been 5,000 years already?

Hey, look: daylight. Oh, and wow: Three people are repelling into Ahmanet’s uber-creepy tomb?!

Surely, when they notice all the mercury, they’ll put on gas masks, right? No? Well, perhaps when the lone archeologist in the bunch reads all the warning signs—like, literally, signs posted everywhere warning people not to disturb this terrible, terrible tomb—these folks’ll take some additional precautions. Or maybe the legions of giant, biting spiders might deter them.

No? Well, at least they won’t dare to loose those ancient ropes and—oh, never mind. One of the explorers just loosed them.

They say that patience is a virtue. And it seems that Ahmanet’s 5,000 years of patience is just about to pay off. Great.

Great for her, that is. Everyone else … not so much.

POSITIVE ELEMENTS

Nick Morton is Ahmanet’s official rope-looser. The mummy appreciates the gesture so much that she selects Nick as her next “beloved”—that is, the guy she’s going to kill to introduce Set to the world. And because of Ahmanet’s ability to weasel into his mind, Nick sometimes seems just fine with that. He’s described as a perfect vessel for Set, given his lack of morals and his dearth of consideration for anyone but himself.

But Jenny, the archaeologist, believes that underneath his rough exterior, Nick’s an OK guy. “I knew there was more to you than money,” she says.

No, no, sorry. That’s Princess Leia in Star Wars. (Wrong notes.) No, Jennysays, “Somewhere, fighting to get out, is a good man.” And turns out, she’s right: Nick turns from a selfish treasure-hunter into a self-sacrificing do-gooder. And he eventually shows a willingness to sacrifice pretty much everything—body, soul and spirit—for Jenny when the Egyptian chips are down.

There are a few others who’d like to prevent the end of the world, too, if possible. Dr. Henry Jekyll is especially keen to do so, even though he knows it means making some uncomfortable sacrifices himself.

SPIRITUAL CONTENT

Take a load off and set a spell, while I talk about Set and spells.

Set, as mentioned, is the Egyptian god of death. (Or god of the desert, war, storms, chaos, wind, war, darkness, disorder, violence, etc., etc., depending on which source you look at.) Jekyll calls him out as evil and says that Christians call the very same guy Satan and Lucifer. But rather than follow the Christian idea that Satan and evil are already actively influencing our world, Jekyll characterizes evil as lurking just outside it, looking for a way to come in.

Set has found a way into this realm through Ahmanet, who prays to the god and performs rites in his honor, and is thus rewarded with supernatural power. Her body is magically riddled with black, unreadable glyphs, and she’s apparently granted immortality as well (though the years do take a toll on her eventually). Some animals (birds, rats, spiders) seem to do her bidding, and she has the ability to control certain minds (sometimes through spider bites). She’s also able to call on the sand itself—including, apparently, sand grains of it that have been melted into glass. But perhaps her most fearsome ability is her knack for raising folks from the dead, who subsequently serve her as her shambling, zombie-like minions.

We also learn that hundreds of years earlier, some Christian Crusaders found Ahmanet’s crypt and spirited away her magic dagger (given to her by Set), hiding the blade in the statue of an angel (called a reliquary by Jenny) and a magic gem from its pommel in a Crusader grave. We assume that the Crusaders did this because they understood Ahmenet’s nature and wanted to keep a critical source of her power away from her.

Elsewhere, presumably Islamic fighters shoot up and deface ancient artifacts, mimicking the destruction we’ve seen from ISIS fighters. We hear that pharaohs were worshiped as “living gods.” Some scenes take place in old Christian churches and tombs. There’s talk about “angering the gods.”

[Spoiler Warning] Nick eventually gets stabbed by Ahmanet’s magical dagger, which infects him with the spirit of Set. His human side seems to keep the Set side of him at bay while still allowing Nick to use Set’s powers, including resurrecting a couple of people close to him.

SEXUAL CONTENT

Back in ancient Egypt, Ahmanet prays to Set naked: We see her nude form from the back and side in a handful of flashbacks. Even when she wears clothes back then, the robes are fairly gauzy and revealing. A lot of her skin (and sometimes bone and muscle) is visible after she’s mummified, too: When she looks like her younger self, the bandages are wrapped tightly around her in strategic areas, accentuating her figure rather than hiding it. She sometimes straddles her lovers/victims, running her hands down their chests suggestively. She both kisses and licks men.

Nick wakes up in a morgue, naked. (We see him from the side, but his genitals are obscured either by his hands or strategically placed tables.) Nick and Jenny also have a history. They banter suggestively about a the details of a one-night-stand they had in Bagdad. When Jenny accidentally reveals her midriff, Nick ogles her.

VIOLENT CONTENT

Ahmanet wasn’t a gentle woman even when she was just a mortal woman. We see her skirmish with others in the Egyptian desert, knocking men down painfully with poles. She holds a knife to the Pharaoh’s throat (though we don’t see her make the cut that comes next). A baby dies by her hand, too: Again, we don’t see the deed itself, but dark blood sprays tellingly across her contorted face. She’s just about to plunge a dagger into her lover when she’s caught; several darts puncture her neck, and hooks connected to cords pierce her body (though not in a particularly bloody fashion).

Once freed from her coffin, Ahmanet rejuvenates by pressing her lips to the mouths of innocents and literally sucking the life out of them. Her victims morph into mummy-like husks, which then rise and follow her. These creatures—as well as other dead bodies that Ahmanet raises—battle Nick and others. They fling themselves through car windows and swim after folks in water. They’re stubborn opponents, and even dismembering them doesn’t stop their attack. Nick sometimes thwacks off arms or heads or most of their bodies, and they still come. Nick sometimes kicks through their bodies or crushes their heads into billowing dust.

Ahmanet still rumbles, too. Blessed (cursed?) with superhuman strength, she can literally throw people around and smash massive tree limbs into splinters. At one point, she practically breaks Nick’s leg, too. (Nick, perhaps through supernatural means, seems physically fine afterwards.)

A plane crashes. Several people are either sucked out or die in the crash, and we see their bodies in a morgue later. Someone’s stabbed to death. Another man gets shot three times. Still another character, perhaps in an hallucigenic state, is attacked by writhing hordes of rats that cover his body. Someone drowns. Nick has an extended melee with another character.

Dr. Jekyll imprisons Ahmanet for a time: She’s again darted with hooks attached to cords and chained in a large room, where workers apparently inject her body with freezing mercury. “It hurts!” she complains loudly.

Soldiers shoot Ahmanet without effect. Nick and his friend Chris get pinned down during a gunfight. A sandstorm sends cars and busses flying and people scurrying for safety. Explosions go boom. Birds crash through plane windows; one leaves a bloody mark.

CRUDE OR PROFANE LANGUAGE

One s-word and a few other profanities, including “a–,” “b–ch,” “b–tard,” “d–n,” “h—,” “p-ss” and the British profanity “bloody.” God’s name is misused seven times.

DRUG AND ALCOHOL CONTENT

Jenny and Nick spend time in a pub. Nick downs shots and chases them with beer. Other folks are shown drinking beer and other alcoholic beverages.

OTHER NEGATIVE ELEMENTS

Nick and Chris are not archaeologists, but treasure hunters who raid ancient tombs and sell what they find there on the black market. Nick learns about Ahmanet’s tomb, actually, only after stealing a letter from Jenny.

Ahmanet vomits mercury.

CONCLUSION

On one level, you could say that The Mummy is about Nick—a wayward, moral-free treasure hunter who finds, in the end, a certain level of compassion, humanity, love and redemption. He’s asked to make sacrifices. And in time, he develops a willingness to answer that call.

And that’s all great … as far as it goes.

On another level, though—and this is really the level that counts—The Mummy is a mindless exercise in CGI wonder and PG-13 horror. It delivers action sequences strung together with just the barest thread of a plot or even reason. While it presents itself as a standard summer blockbuster (and, indeed, Universal has planned The Mummy as the first of a new franchise of classic monster reboots), it’s both surprisingly sexual and surprisingly frightening. The movie’s muddy spirituality should give many families pause, as well.

Mostly, though, this movie just felt confused. Its internal logic is inconsistent. Scenes show up for really no real reason at all—feeling about as stuffed in there as a walrus in spandex.

There’s no compelling reason why The Mummy should exist at all, really, other than to line Universal’s pockets. Sure, the same could be said for lots of would-be blockbusters, but most still want to tell a reasonably good, or at least sensible, story. You’ll find precious little sense in this flick. Perhaps it should’ve been kept under wraps.