Fear and Self-Loathing on Isla Nublar: Thoughts on JURASSIC WORLD

"Why can't you just enjoy the film? Why do have to crap all over it?" 

That was one of the first (exasperated) things Elizabeth said to me after we left a screening of Colin Trevorrow's latest film and fourth entry in the Jurassic Park franchise. And it's something I've been thinking a lot about since she said it. I mean, like most things, the more knowledgeable you become about the art of filmmaking, the harder it becomes to just sit back and enjoy a movie. But why can I forgive some popcorn blockbusters and not others? I'm not really sure there's catch-all explanation for it, to be honest. 

She really enjoyed Jurassic World and I wasn't really sure how I felt about it. Really, I'm still waffling on how I feel about it. It's such a strange movie. On one scary dino claw, Jurassic World is essentially a film that hates itself. It's a film that is revolted by the fact that it even exists - a blockbuster reboot that finds the idea of blockbuster reboots offensive. It's full of this kind of meta-commentary and all of that stuff is pretty fascinating. But on the other scary dino claw, most of that gets overshadowed by the script being completely absent of nuanced, three dimensional characters and full of set pieces that often feel erratic and inexplicable. And then on the other other scary dino claw, there's the fact that Colin Trevorrow is clearly taking this stuff as unseriously as he possibly can and there's a certain amount of intrinsic fun in that. (I mean, at one point there's a dinosaur riding another dinosaur like some Power Ranger Megazord while fighting a third dinosaur.)

Besides all of the problems with the human characters - which I'll leave to someone else and only say that there are too many of them and all of their arcs are missing the entire middle bit making it basically impossible to be for or against any of them (there are only heroes and villains here because we're told "Look, these are the heroes and villains!") - I think what mostly ruins Jurassic World for me is the Indominus Rex. 

Basically when the film opens, Isla Nublar (the island from Jurassic Park) has been a tourist attraction/theme park for years. So many years, in fact, that dinosaurs have stopped being cool. As a result, the park's (sorry, World's) genetic engineers are forced to create a new hybrid that is bigger, scarier and more exciting than anything that has come before it. This, as you might expect, is a colossally terrible idea. And, of course, stuff goes horribly wrong, the creature gets loose, people die, stop me if you think that you've heard this one before. The film wants us to believe that this desire for more is bad. The problem is that Jurassic World just happens to be everything it's critiquing.

The Indominus Rex, a Frankensteinization of a T. Rex with a little bit of this and a little bit of that and a dash of plot twist, is definitely more. But it isn't just bigger, scarier and more menacing than its predecessors, it's more everything. Actually, it's not even more everything, it is everything. Any kind of ability or power it needs to continue to press forward is magically granted to it, a product of one of the endless creatures used to craft its genetic makeup (powers and abilities that are often used once then never mentioned or used again like the dino's perfect camouflage). It also happens to have a ridiculous level of intelligence that includes knowing that it has a tracking chip inside itself, knowing where and how deep inside it is and knowing what the chip is used for. 

There are no rules here. The Indominus Rex is the perfect killing machine that exists only as a gigantic McGuffin. It has no goals, it isn't trying to survive or escape anything, its sole purpose is to be an agent of chaos that does nothing but drive what little story there is forward. Yes, the I. Rex (brought to you by Apple) and Jurassic World are more everything than Jurassic Park. But all of that moreness rings hollow in comparison to the brilliant artistry of Spielberg's original. The Indominus Rex is the embodiment of the movie's themes, but it is also the embodiment of everything that's wrong with the movie.

But, like I said, Jurassic World is ridiculous. And to its credit, when it's not being stupid in bad way, it's pretty silly in a good way. I've already mentioned the amazing Megazord moment, but there's also the moment from trailers in which Chris Pratt (who plays the Cesar Millan of raptors) rides his motorcycle with a pack of raptors he's imprinted on and raised since they were born. We've also got soon-to-be classic lines like (these are from memory, I apologize if they're not spot on) "Look out, the raptors have a new alpha;" and "Depends on what kind of dinosaur they cooked up in that lab." Actually, so much of what Chris Pratt's character does is really incredibly silly (which is a relief because he doesn't get a chance to be his naturally charismatic self). But there's also creepy, sweaty, tight and beigey Vincent D'Onofrio. There are the criminally underused but consistently amazing Jake Johnson and Lauren Lapkus as two of the control room operators. There's the fact that Bryce Dallas Howard spends the entire film running (much of which is through rough terrain) in HIGH HEELS. And, of course, you've got great dino-on-dino action and some crunchie munchie human death scenes - one of which is so brutally cruel and undeserved that you can't help but laugh at how insane it is. 

And if Jurassic World was simply two hours of ridiculous fun, I would have liked it so much better. But it just isn't. It's trying to do something more and failing miserably. Apart from the Indominus Rex being totally without purpose other than moving people from point A to point B and all the boring, undeveloped characters, it feels like we're missing most of the story. A divorce plot is mentioned but nothing ever really comes of it; we see Bryce Dallas Howard's and Chris Pratt's characters be a part of a love story without any parts where they might bicker, bond and/or share aspects of who they are; Irffan Khan plays the billionaire owner of the park with absolutely zero character consistency - at one point he says money is no object and making people happy is what's important only to later say they can't kill the I. Rex because he has too much money invested in it. 

"Why can't you just enjoy the film? Why do have to crap all over it?" Elizabeth said to me when we left the theater. And I think that've I've finally come to the realization that whether you'll like Jurassic World or not depends on awe. For me, the saddest thing is how the movie presents the park itself. Too many people, too much commercialization, the lines are too long, you can't see the dinosaurs, Jurassic World the park sucks. For me, this is a film that told me over and over that I've lost my sense of awe, but that then proceeded to not give me anything really awe-inspiring. It argues that we're all too jaded and distracted, but then doesn't really give us any reason not to be (other than the mosasaurus, which was awesome). But some people will be inspired and awe-struck by this film. I'm sure millions already have been. And that's terrific! If it does strike you that way - if you see the final battle and the very last shot and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up then I think the film accomplished exactly what it set out to accomplish. 

But I was still chuckling about the one dinosaur riding the other dinosaur and wondering how B.D. Wong's character and his sinister, black turtleneck charmed their way into cooking up another dinosaur in that lab. There was a new alpha, alright. Just not the one we expected or deserved. Now that's meta.

Beautifully Subversive: Thoughts on Paul Feig's SPY

My first interaction with Spy, Paul Feig and Melissa McCarthy latest collaboration, was while waiting outside of the bathrooms at my local Cinemark. While doing my normal (totally not creepy) people watching, my eye was drawn to an enormous 3D standee depicting Jude Law, Jason Statham and Melissa McCarthy falling to the ground and firing a pistol while looking like someone's crazy aunt, complete with grey wig, enormous glasses and a pink t-shirt with a cat's face on it. I rolled my eyes. "Great," I thought, "another riff on her character in The Heat and Bridesmaids - a caricature given just enough emotional nuance by the end to make her seem like a real human being." (Okay, I don't really talk to myself like that, but just give me this one.) But after seeing the positivity pouring out from critics, I thought, "Well, I'd rather see this than Entourage." 

And to my surprise, not only does Spy subvert expectations and conventions of the spy genre, it also subverts expectations for Melissa McCarthy and the character she plays. Unlike the self-assured and super confident Officer Mullins and Megan Price, in the early goings of Spy, McCarthy's Susan Cooper is much more in step with her beloved character Sookie St. James from Gilmore Girls. I think Melissa McCarthy is one of the finest comedic actresses today and here Feig finally does exactly what I've been hoping someone would do with her. Finally, we get to see her start off as a humble and relatable figure who then progressively embraces her inner confidence and ability - becoming the super spy, international woman of mystery that she was always meant to be. 

Essentially, Susan Cooper is a meek, servile CIA analyst working in "the basement" as the voice in Bradley Fine's (Jude Law as Americanized James Bond) earpiece. When Fine is killed by crime lord Rayna Boyanov (Rose Byrne) whose father died at Fine's hand while trying to protect a stolen nuke, Boyanov informs the CIA that she knows the identities of all their top agents - including a bumbling Jason Statham who speaks only in hyperbole and a sleek and gorgeous Morena Baccarin - and intends to kill any of them who try to stop her from selling the nuke to the highest bigger. Racked with guilt about Fine's death, Susan volunteers to observe and report on Rayna in the field with the assistance of her fellow basement-dweller Nancy (the brilliant, scene-stealing Miranda Hart) which her boss (Allison Janney) reluctantly accepts. While initially filled with nervous excitement at the opportunity, Susan quickly discovers that her superiors do not see her as the skilled undercover agent she sees herself as, but as frumpy and incompetent, someone to be demeaned into obscurity and invisibility by humiliating wigs and spy gadgets disguised as fungal spray and medicated hemorrhoid wipes. 

Likewise, Spy's promotional campaign would have you believe that McCarthy spends the movies runtime playing into this image of a foolish, inept clown in over her head - it had me convinced. But, impressively, Feig's script shrewdly reveals Susan Cooper as an incredibly intelligent and capable spy who's clever, quick on her feet and physically artful in a way that lets McCarthy show off her unmatched physical comedy in a way that doesn't feel exploitative of her size a la something like Paul Blart: Mall Cop. She isn't polished or aloof in any stretch of the imagination, but her sheer aptitude and fervor make her one of the most charming and irresistible spies in quite some time - especially in comparison to Staham's hilariously ineffectual Rick Ford and Peter Serafinowicz's absurd and lecherous Italian agent. Susan isn't immune to criticism and jokes, but the indignities she suffers are parceled out smartly and are matched by jabs thrown out at the rest of the cast who are all completely game and strive to match the comedic prowess and willingness to look ludicrous of their co-star. 

Spy has ideas that suggest at a larger satirization of the genre and, more importantly, the stereotypes inherent in it - especially when it comes to gender and appearance - but really, this is a movie about having fun. One of the things I like best about Paul Feig as a director is that once he gets all of these talented people together, he kind of just steps back and lets them go. As such, Spy never lets its satirization get in the way of what it really wants to do. There's one terrific, intimate fight scene in a kitchen, but apart from that the action is pretty pat. This is a film that's all about the comedy. And, as a result, it's probably the funniest mainstream film so far this year. It's not easy for a film like this to be hilarious on such a large scale while also being admirably progressive. But Spy manages to pull it off. 

Don't be fooled by that gigantic standee you see while you're waiting outside of the bathrooms at your local Cinemark. It's only a disguise. And like Susan Cooper, what's underneath that disguise is hilarious, beautiful and endearing. 

8 out of 10

I Don't Know What This Is.

But it's something. 

I have been thinking about this weird phenomenon that happens to me all the time (and I'm sure happens to everyone to some degree). I had wanted to write something about it a while back but never got around to it until tonight when it happened again. Basically, there's this interesting thing that happens every now and again when everything I've been doing or reading or watching or whatever all connects in a strange, unrelated way. 

Occasionally, it's pretty mild. Like today for instance. I was looking for something to listen to while I washed dishes and because I am up to date on all of the podcasts I subscribe to, I decided to check out the back catalogue of The Joe Rogan Experience. And, for whatever reason, I was drawn to the episode where he talks to Marc Maron of the WTF Podcast. And it's a great episode! But what really stood out to me in the interview is Maron's stories about hanging out with late comedian Sam Kinison. 

Now, I don't know much about Kinison other than the standard stuff any fan of comedy knows. But hearing Maron talk about the wild escapades he had with Kinison just fascinated me. And so I was again drawn, this time to Reddit where, as is my go-to, I typed Sam Kinison into the search bar and sorted by top entries first. After reading a bunch of random articles and posts about Kinison, I came upon this article about the day he died. At the end of that story, there's this incredibly sad retelling of how Kinison spoke to an unseen presence in his final moments, asking why now and, after appearing to listen, accepting his fate and passing away. It was such a weird, depressing story and to cheer myself up I decided to search for Sam's name in the StandUpComedy subReddit in the hopes of finding some of his best material. But before I could even look anything up, there's the top post of the day.

"23 years ago today, the world lost Sam Kinison. RIP."

The day I happened to choose that particular episode of Joe Rogan's podcast. The day I happened to latch so firmly onto the stories Marc Maron was telling about Kinison. The day that I decided to go down the Reddit rabbit hole to find out more about this stand up comedy legend. The day I found an article about his death that depressed me so much that I needed to seek out the positives he created just happened to be the anniversary of that terrible day. 

And it's strange how that stuff works. There are strange connections like that that happen to me all the time and I'm still not sure why. I know there are weird perception phenomena like Baader-Meinhof, but this just doesn't feel like that. Why was I compelled to do the things that ended me up where they did? Why did I have the presence of mind at 15 before midnight to realize how weird it is that it happened? 

I don't know. But I know that it happens.

When I first wanted to write about this it was for a whole other reason. It all started with Stephen King's newest short story (it might not be now at the rate he writes) in the New Yorker called "A Death." The story has this fascinating structure where King manipulates you as the reader into believing that this guy who is being accused, convicted and ultimately hanged for the murder of this 10 year old girl is innocent. But it turns out he was guilty all along.

So, there's this weird theme about perception and how we view the justice system and the people on trial. It's kind of like this Schrodinger's Cat effect where Trusdale, the accused in the story, is simultaneously guilty and innocent and the only way to find out which one it truly is, is to open the box (i.e. kill him, which ultimately leads to the discovery of the little girl's coin that had been missing, seemingly proving that Trusdale did in fact murder her).

What I find intriguing about it is the idea that even someone who is convicted of a crime (and actually committed it), but who is convicted in an unlawful manner like is done in the story (biased jury, prosecutor acting as judge, etc.), even if the jury got it right, the act of conviction itself is still unjust.

Everything is about perception and the fact of the matter is that human beings can be unfair regardless of innocence or guilt. They can perform a witch hunt like the folks in the story who damned Trusdale to die the moment his hat was discovered at the crime scene. They can murder little girls without any conscience like Trusdale did. And they can sympathize with a man who murders little girls like the people that read King's story. None of it makes any sense, but we can all relate because of our perception.

Then, that same evening, I started reading about the O.J. case. Not because my interest was sparked from the ideas above, I didn't pick those up until all of this came into focus. I started reading about the O.J. case because Elizabeth mentioned a new show that I mistook for the upcoming American Crime Story about the O.J. trial. Regardless, I was off on another tangent and here we go again.

Here is another trial, eerily similar to the one in "A Death," I realized. Black man murders a white victim (allegedly), he is beloved to so many people but hated by so many others, pleads innocent and is ultimately freed (the only portion majorly deviating from Trusdale) and it's all based on perception. With the O.J. trial you had two very clearly disparate groups of people - One in which people rallied around O.J. immediately and steadfastly championed his innocence. One in which people damned O.J. as soon they saw his white Bronco speeding down that L.A. freeway. But then there were the people like the Sheriff in "A Death" who look at the evidence (or lack thereof) and are genuinely conflicted about whether or not this person is guilty or innocent. And regardless of what type of person you're dealing with, what they believe is all based on their own personal perception of what they're seeing and feeling in the moment.

But, like I said, I didn't put all these pieces together until I was reading the booklet that came with the Criterion Collection edition of David Lynch's film Eraserhead. And lo and behold as I read it what do I come across? An interview where Lynch is talking about the film and references, of all things, the O.J. trial. And what does Lynch happen to be talking about in relation to the trial? Perception, of course. 

In the interview, Lynch remarks about how like with movies, people watching and reading about the O.J. trial experienced all of the same things as everyone else watching and reading about it. They heard all the same words and testimonies. They saw all the same witnesses and expressions, all of the same anger and frustration, all of the same evidence and yet they all came away with completely different interpretations of O.J., of what happened and of the truth.

Like with Sam Kinison earlier, I find it extremely interesting and slightly creepy when this happens to me. But I believe it happens for a reason. There's a reason I read that short story that evening even though I knew about it for a week prior. There's a reason Elizabeth mentioned that show and I mistook it for another one and went for a trip down the O.J. rabbit hole. There's a reason why I didn't read that David Lynch interview the same night I watched the movie and saved it for the same evening that all of that other stuff happened. Just like there's a reason I was drawn to that particular podcast, that particular subject, that particular article and that particular subReddit about Sam Kinison on what happened to be the anniversary of his death. There's a strange, unknown, maybe even cosmic reason that these things happen like they do and I know that there's something to be gained from my realization of these connections. There's a reason for all of this.

But, you know, that is just my perception.

What's really following those kids in IT FOLLOWS?

Pretty much everyone and their grandmother (please make sure that actually is your grandmother walking towards you) has been talking about David Robert Mitchell's latest horror film, It Follows, and I've got no intentions breaking that cycle. If you haven't seen it and you have any interest at all, GO SEE IT! Then come back and read what I've written here if you care enough. And to those of you who aren't interested in the film at all but still read this: U da real MVPs.

I'm just going to go ahead and get this out of the way: I really enjoyed It Follows. Like a lot. Sure it has some problems and I can see why some people might not dig it as much as I do. But on the whole it's a beautifully shot and amazingly scored and acted film. It's also both one of the best films I've seen from this year and one of the most suspenseful films I've seen in a long, long time. But really, even given how viscerally tense the film was when I first watched it, I think what actually makes It Follows such a potential horror classic is what lingers with you long after the credits roll.

And no, by lingering I don't mean the STD metaphor that everyone has been touting the film as being. While you can read it that way, I think doing so is frankly selling the film way short and doing yourself a disservice by sticking to a surface reading and not digging a little deeper. (Just a disclaimer: any statement that is construed as a crude double entendre isn't my fault. That's on you, pal.) I'm not going to go into why I think it's a faulty interpretation, that's not why I'm writing this, but I will just say that if that's how you interpret it, you need to ask yourself whether or not sleeping with someone else gets rid of an STD.

Personally, I think if you're going to go that route then the monster as a representative of sexual abuse/trauma is much more plausible. Besides the obvious things such as the monster forcing itself on its victims and quite literally fucking them to death (with a particularly awful incestuous twist that it often takes the form of the people in your family) and Hugh chloroforming Jay and tying her up before explaining the situation, there are tons of things you can read into. There's the idea of Jay's father being absent from the household (and not in the sense that basically adults aren't in the world of the movie), with her saying she can't be in the house at one point and eventually with the monster taking the form of her father who at one point she sees naked on the roof of her home. 

There's also the idea that maybe all of the forms the monster takes are either those of victims of sexual abuse (the old woman in the hospital gown, the half naked women in the kitchen peeing on herself) or a perpetrator of some kind of sexual abuse (we see Greg going from girl to girl through the early parts of the movie, the way the monster presents itself as his mother, the voyeuristic little boy who kept trying to sneak peaks of Jay naked). While some forms the monster chooses make this somewhat of a stretch too, I think the idea of one act of sexual abuse perpetuating itself into a vicious chain of similar actions - where the abused becomes the abuser - is much more plausible and an overall more poignant, powerful statement than a simple metaphor for herpes. 

But, believe it or not (at this point I'm sure it's not hard at all), even THAT's not what I wanted to talk about going into this. Though admittedly I've spent a lot of time on it already. No, what I actually wanted to talk about is what It Follows has to say that really, truly terrifies me and I'm sure terrifies every man and woman at some point in their life. And how it maybe suggests to combat it. 

I think ultimately the reason why the monster in It Follows is so genuinely scary is because it represents one of the greatest universal fears of mankind. And it's not death necessarily. It's the inevitability of time running out.

While all the characters in the film differ in age, they all, especially Jay, are either about to or find themselves entering that strange post-high school world where you're not really a kid anymore but you're not quite ready for what's next. Jay herself is already in college and finds herself reminiscing about her girlhood dreams of being old enough to go on dates with boys without parental supervision. Her friends similarly often seek comfort in childhood memories of first kisses, sleepovers and finding secret stacks of Playboys by accident. In an early scene where Hugh takes Jay to a movie before passing the curse onto her, the pair play a game revolving around who in the crowd of strangers you'd most like to switch places with. To her surprise, Hugh chooses a little kid out with its parents. "Imagine," he says to her, "having your whole life still ahead of you." The characters in It Follows aren't just running from a mysterious, deadly shapeshifter. They're running from adulthood.

Take the use of technology for instance. Though it doesn't really play any major role in the plot, the presence of television and other media is almost constant. Nearly every time the characters are in a room together, there's a TV. And most of the time it's on and showing some kind of magical, escapist film from a bygone era. Then there's Yara's strange, clamshell e-reader. Anytime the gang isn't on the run, she's got it open and is reading from Dostoyevsky's The Idiot - unsurprisingly a book about a young person trying to adjust to the various tensions of life. Though perhaps not intentionally on their parts, the characters are constantly searching for forms of escape from the reality that is swiftly approaching them.

"But what about all the sex?!" you say. I'm getting to that! While I can see the above interpretation of it representing sexual abuse (and to a much lesser extent STDs), what I saw the portrayal of sex as was another form of escape. For me, it's a more positive representation of sex - the idea that sex has the power to make us forget about death, to free us of even our most deep-seated anxieties if only for its duration. Sure, literally the kids have sex in an attempt to pass the monster on to another person, but in those moments where it's simply two people sharing an unparalleled intimacy, every worry and fear about the future, about time running out is gone. For those few beautiful moments, what's happening is all there is and it feels like it might just last forever. 

But it can't. "Do you feel any different?" Paul asks Jay after the two finally have sex. "No, do you?" she replies. Despite how it seems in the moment, the reality of adulthood and of the future is inevitable. And so Jay ends up in a community pool surrounded by plugged-in appliances.

If I may get a little English major-y on you for a second, among the plethora of things water can symbolize, typically when there's a body of water playing a major role in a story, a character is going to face a great decision and/or engage in some major introspection. Though water often symbolizes life and generally cleanses a character, it inevitably becomes a symbol of a crossroad - a point where a character or group of characters have to deal with an extremely difficult life situation. How appropriate then, that the community pool is where It Follows decides to have its characters' final confrontation with the monster. And though it's unclear whether or not they actually defeat it, it seems very clear that it is where the characters - Jay and Paul in particular - make the difficult choice that leads to the end of the film.

It is here that they seem to decide, perhaps even unconsciously, to accept their fates and decide that no matter what happens in the future, they're going to enjoy their lives together for what it is and for however long it lasts. It is here that they decide to accept who they are, take life as it comes and try to not worry so much about adulthood, death and everything else that awaits them down the line.

It's that famous quote "find what you love and let it kill you" and it's all right there in the final shot - Jay and Paul holding hands as they walk together down the street mutually clad in white like a bride and groom walking down the aisle, a "marriage" signifying the pair's advancement into adulthood. In the beginning they were both nondescript college kids with no real lives or motivations, avoiding all thought of the end of the their childhoods. But now, here at the end, they are able to build identities for themselves, embrace the horror of the unknown, let go of their guilt and resolve to enjoy their lives for what they are now without fear of the inevitability of time running out that follows them and that follows us all.

Kenneth Branagh's CINDERELLA is Weird

For the past decade (longer really), the entertainment industry has been enamored with revisionism. Specifically, it had been enamored by revisionist takes on classic fairytales. Just last year Maleficent and Into the Woods nearly grossed a combined BILLION dollars. Later this year it'll be Joe Wright's Pan, a retelling of, you guessed it, J. M. Barrie's classic Peter Pan that takes to the screen. But for now, we have Kenneth Branagh's latest, Cinderella. 

And it's weird. 

My better half saw the trailer before I did, and immediately she commented on the colors and how the film looked and felt as if it were a throwback to a time where Technicolor ruled. And she was right. In a climate saturated with revisionist takes on just about everything ranging from fairy tales to your grandpa's casually racist stories, Cinderella is a throwback. Something critics and audiences alike are heralding as enchantingly sincere and a tribute to old-fashioned virtues - a reprieve, almost, from the barrage of retellings we've been assaulted with over recent years. But in being a reprieve for some, in being a throwback to classical fairytales and old-fashioned virtues, for others Cinderella also becomes this strange throwback to wrong-headed and outdated gender stereotypes and an argument for the idea that women shouldn't question their situations or trouble anyone with their opinions or feelings.

As we learn early on from Ella's (Lily James, she gets Cinder'd later) dying mother, the mantra here is "Have courage and be kind." On its face, there's nothing at all wrong with that. In fact, as a motto it doubles as something more people in the real world could afford to take to heart and as a reveal of two of the major weapons that characters of all fairytale and fable demographics use to survive - whether it's giving the crazy old beggar at your doorstep shelter in exchange for a rose or helping an injured man on the side of road simply because it's right. The list goes on. And Cinderella is no different. The unfortunate part, though, is that the story and the film use these principles to justify a wish-fulfillment fantasy about a young woman being rescued simply because she handles her miserable, abusive life with obedience and without protest. 

The biggest problem I have with Cinderella is how much her "be kind" mantra really means "be submissive." We're told via narration by Ella's fairy-godmother (Helena Bonham-Carter) that Ella is special because she "sees the world not as it is, but as it could be." And that's a wonderful statement except for the fact that Ella uses her imagination solely to both justify staying in her childhood home and to sustain enough willpower to be politely acquiescent to a step-mother and step-sisters (Cate Blanchett, Holliday Grainger, Sophie McShera) who blatantly despise her. When she is banished from her room to the dusty, cluttered attic, stripped of all her possessions and standing, she simply tells herself that it'll be nice to be somewhere out of the way and that everything's okay because she still gets to live in her parent's home and respect their memory. Through her interpretation of her mother's final wish, Ella teaches herself to accept daily physical and emotional abuse, to expect it as the norm because she believes as a result she is honoring her dead parents. And in doing so, she becomes this strange, almost martyr-like character rather than the hero of her own story. 

Cinderella is supposed to be a story about suffering injustice and then ultimately having that injustice rectified. But Cinderella herself never kicks against the pricks. Not even when she's by herself! Sure, she cries here and there, but most of her time is spent trying to pretend that none of this is happening or that it's okay that it is. But maybe the worst part of the whole thing is that  she won't even try to extend her mother's mantra to other people. She doesn't even considering suggesting her step-mother and step-sister act more kind. No, that would predicate itself on Ella putting herself out there, evaluating their attitudes and judging their actions and personalities. And that wouldn't be kind. It would be courageous, undoubtedly. But it wouldn't be kind. And that part of her mother's mantra is clearly what Ella focuses on. 

If I'm being honest, this overwhelming, celebrated submissiveness might, in some strange way, be more tolerable if it were equal across the board. The problem is that it totally isn't! While Ella is off making and serving breakfast with ash on her face (read: being "kind"), Prince Charming (Richard Madden who, in a bit of nuance, is given the name Kit) takes a similar mantra and decides to actually do something courageous. Unlike Cinderella, Kit refuses to accept his father's command to marry in a way that strengthens their kingdom and instead opens up the ball to everyone in the hopes of finding the intriguing, mysterious girl he met during a stag hunt. Like Ella's early moment with her dying mother, Kit's father too makes a request, reiterating who his son is to marry. But rather than simply accept his father's dying wish, he tells his father that though he loves him, he will not heed his request. And what happens? His father is proud of him! It's this courageous act that finally shows the king that his son will be the perfect heir to the throne. Meanwhile, Cinderella is letting her step-mother verbally tear her to shreds and lock her in the attic. 

We're told Cinderella is special because she sees the world not as it is, but as it could be. And yet, as soon as she is locked away in the dusty, dilapidated attic that she was happy to be in because even though she no longer had any of her possessions or standing in the house, at least she was out of the way, we're blatantly told that she will be happy simply with the memory of her brief time with the prince - that her memories will sustain her as she continues to live her depressing, abused, submissive life with three women who treat her worse than the mud under their expensive shoes. Cinderella is so passive, so utterly devoid of any kind of will or desire for a better life, that she can't even extend a hand to open the window as the prince and his entourage arrive at her home to test the sisters' feet with the glass slipper. No, like the rest of the story, she simply sings and nostalgically remembers the time she danced with the prince to a crowd of a hundred admirers until everything magically works out perfectly - in this case with her mice friends opening the window for her. 

Ella never does anything for herself and yet again and again she is saved. She's saved by her mice friends. She saved by her fairy-godmother. She's saved by the prince. She saved by her circumstances. She's simply saved and all because she's nice. Nice and sweet and passive and submissive and obedient. All while the film whole heartedly nods in approval. 

It's all just so weird.

I get that this film wants to be a throwback. But what it doesn't seem to realize is that without nuance, certain throwbacks come with a carriage full of wrong-headed, offensive luggage. Don't fight back, the film argues. Don't try to change your situation yourself if you're a woman. Because it just isn't want "nice" women do. "Nice" women simply do what they're told and take their abuse with compliance and a warm smile. But don't worry, gals, if you just do what you're told and take your abuse like good little girls and don't talk back, then eventually karma will reward you with a handsome prince to come rescue you and punish those who have wronged you (perhaps by having them confusingly leave forever as commanded by an all-knowing narrator).

In the end, I just don't understand what the point of this movie is. The only real nuance in the film other than Prince Charming having an actual name, is the brief hint at some deeper motivations behind the evil step-mother's actions and behaviors and maybe when Ella first meets the prince in the woods. Other than that, I guess one could point to the almost unbearably too-long ball scene, where Ella seems to come out of her shell and despite apparently not knowing that Kit is a prince, makes a grand entrance followed by immediately dancing with him in the middle of everyone while never questioning why he's wearing white, why everyone's looking or why he has a sword attached to his belt. I could almost see this as a clever nod to Ella knowing more than she lets on, perhaps scheming herself to win the heart of the prince to make it out of her current situation and punish those who have humiliated her. But then she immediately acts dumbfounded when they're alone saying, "Wait, you're the prince, aren't you?!" And there's the whole just being happy with her memories of the evening thing too. There are a plethora of interesting, subversive ways Branagh and company could have gone to make this both an interesting film and an interesting commentary on throwbacks and their often inimical tropes and themes. 

But that just isn't what Cinderella is. It's just a throwback. And in being just a throwback, having no real message turns into a message itself. It's a weird message. An ugly message. A harmful message. Everyone in one form or another has experienced nostalgia. At one point or another, everyone has fondly remembered their past and the way things used to be. As such, it's only natural to want to create throwbacks to properties we loved as children. And often, those throwbacks can be very nice. But unlike what Cinderella would have you believe, sometimes nice isn't something you want to be. 

JUSTIFIED Plays With Our "Trust"

This final season of FX's Justified is, in a few words, pretty freaking incredible. If you haven't caught up with this show, you really need to do yourself a favor. All of the 5 previous seasons are available through Amazon Prime (as well as "methods") and you can catch every episode of Season 6 on FX Networks if you have a cable package with FX included. 

Honestly, besides Season 2, Season 6 maybe end up being, front to back, perhaps the best season of what I believe will be remembered as a classic television series. The way the writers have managed to wrangle everything back in to revolving around the core characters while introducing a few new faces in a way that feels organic and logical, is spectacular. It's back to basics for the final season, and that's exactly what we all wanted and needed to say goodbye to this amazing show. But while this entire season has been amazing and full of unpredictable moments, this past week's episode did something so unexpected that it has thrown everything into question and set up the possibility for almost any outcome, no matter how insane. And despite how shocking what happened was, the way the show did it is almost more exciting and than the act itself.

*SPOILERS FOR SEASON 6 OF "JUSTIFIED" INCOMING! YOU'VE BEEN WARNED! IN BOLD! IN ITALICS! IN CAPITAL LETTERS! AND WITH ASTERISKS!*

Oh, my god, guys! Ava totally shot Boyd in the chest and ran off with that 10 millions dollars! Say whaaaaaaaaaaaat?! Needless to say, the final moments of Season 6's "Trust" were absolutely, shockingly crazy bonkers. But here's the thing. It wouldn't have been really that surprising if Ava had simply pulled the gun on Boyd or even struggled with him and shot him by accident. Clearly in the last few seasons the rift between the two has been forming despite a few patches here and there. It's the fact that she actually pulls the trigger and that she does it without hesitation - as if she had premeditated the entire thing - that makes it so shocking. 

It's shocking because we have faith in what we know about TV tropes. We trust them. We know there's an unspoken code in television, especially television with disproportionately large body counts, that says there is a hierarchy that governs what characters can and cannot do to each other. Simply put, in the world of Justified, Raylan and Boyd can kill each other. And they can kill characters of a lower standing than them. But those characters of lower standing cannot kill Boyd and Raylan. They're sacred. One only meant for the other. And then Ava puts a bullet in Boyd's chest to match the one she put in Bowman's and everything goes flying out the window. 

But it's trust that messes everyone up. Look at Boyd, for instance. He's as confident and as trusting in the hierarchy of Justified as we are! With this episode, it seems Boyd himself has realized that he's the main villain of a popular drama on FX and that none of the people around him really matter. That's why he's so blasé about feeding two of his most loyal henchman to the marshals so that he can head the other way and steal Avery Markham's money. When Ava asks why on Earth he would do such a thing, he simply explains it away - those loyal nincompoops are just the price of going to war with his arch nemesis Raylan Givens. But it's not just that. It's all the little things he does. The way he won't even pretend to be interested in some friendly back and forth with Limehouse. The way he yells at Ava when she won't stop asking questions. Boyd Crowder trusts so much in his status as the Angel Eyes to Raylan's the Man with No Name that everyone else is basically off his radar. And that trust is exactly what brings him down. But Boyd isn't the only one in the episode afflicted with illusions of trusteur. 

Take Wynn Duffy and poor, stupid Mikey. Jonathan Kowalsky has done a great job at slowly seeding in Mikey's anguish after finding out his boss is a rat. But Mikey's not going to do anything. We know how TV works. Wynn Duffy is one of the immortal ones. He's one of those characters that no matter what situation he's confronted with, he finds a way to slither and slink his way out of it. And Duffy knows it too! That's why he's so nonchalant and dismissive in the face of Mikey's threats. He knows he's safe. He knows that affably dumb Mikey isn't going to do anything. Like us, he trusts that everything is going to work out like it always does. And then Mikey knocks him out, handcuffs him to his RV table and puts a call into Katherine Hale. By trusting what he had always seen to be true, Duffy never even considered his henchman's feelings or motivations. He simply trusted things to work out like they always have and like us, it left him shocked (and unlike us, unconscious and handcuffed to a table).

And then there's Boon - Avery Markham's replacement for his corpsified commandos, a pale, wild-eyed gunslinger who fancies himself the fastest gun around and who looks like he cuts his own hair and glues on his mustache every morning. In the fourth to last episode of a series' final season, there are a few things seasoned viewers trust not to happen. And of those things is devoting a large chunk of screen time to a character we only met a few weeks prior. And yet there we found ourselves, watching as Boon cryptically threatened that unsuspecting hipster diner employee and lamented that his girl Loretta might not like him anymore after he, you know, shot her great-aunt to death in her own living room. It's an extremely weird scene to plop down in the middle of one of the final episodes of Justified ever, one that undoubtedly left a lot of viewers wondering what the h was going on. That is until we look at it in light of Ava shooting Boyd. 

Now everything's up for grabs. Now anyone of any character standing can be taken out by anyone else. Could Boon actually be the Jack McCall to take out Raylan's Wild Bill? Because this episode so blatantly violates all of the rules and restrictions Justified has established over the years, because this episode so blatantly violates our trust, anything is now possible. We're the true victims of trust in this episode. Or are we winners?

One of my favorite things in movies and in television is when the writers use their most knowledgable fans' intelligence against them. You most often see it in horror movies, but occasionally there will be a lucky moment when it happens in television - the most tropey entertainment there is - and any time it happens like it did this past week on Justified it's amazing. 

There's this episode of a show Penn & Teller did where a magician uses performers the cups and balls trick for Teller. The magician knows that Teller knows the trick. Three balls and three cups, one ball under each cup. There's some shuffling some magic then he asks how many balls in each cup. And the magician knows that Teller will say the opposite of what he should say to make the magician look good - Teller knows there are three balls under the middle cup because that's the trick, but a layman would say there's still one under each cup just like there were at the start. And what happens? Teller says what a layman would say and as the magician pulls back the cups... one ball under each. The magician used all of Teller's knowledge as a magician himself to completely take him in. That's what Justfied is doing for it's fans. It's taking our knowledge of television, our faith and trust in the medium and using it to shock us, surprise us and completely take us in. 

In a clip after the cups and balls trick, Teller explains that to use someone's knowledge of something to completely fool them like that is the greatest thing one magician can do for another. And, as Justified showed up with "Trust," it also just happens to be the greatest thing a TV show can do for its audience. 

Raising the Dead: Review of WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS

Between Only Lovers Left Alive, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night and now Taika Waititi and Jemaine Clement's What We Do in the Shadows, the vampire genre, having been slowly drained of vitality throughout the past decade and seemingly staked once and for all by the Twilight series, seems to have risen from the dead (along with some long ass titles.) 

However, unlike its brothers in arms (or fangs, teehee), What We Do in the Shadows thrives on the fact that the genre has been done to death - a fact that should appeal to hardcore horror fans. What We Do in the Shadows, a Christopher Guest meets The Real World mockumentary about a group of vampires sharing a flat in Wellington, New Zealand, realizes just how exhausted the genre is and doesn't feel the need to spice things up with sparkles or synthetic blood or parasitic worms or some other insane twist. There's no reinvention here. It's all back to basics. An affectionate spoof of the entire vampire mythology that works not only as a terrific comedy, but as a pretty great vampire movie too. 

It's easy to see what the film is doing and what notes it's hitting - there's Viago (Waititi), the rich dandy vampire ala Interview with the Vampire, there's Vladislav (Clement), a sex-obsessed Romanian warrior type ala Vlad the Impaler/Bram Stoker's Dracula, and the 8000 year old Petyr (Ben Fransham), a Count Orlok lookalike ala Nosferatu, among others. But unlike the lazy, unfunny vampire parodies of recent memory, What We Do in the Shadows is not simply doing reference jokes. It's abundantly clear that Waititi and Clement have immense love and respect for horror and the vampire genre and are simply getting back to all the things they love about it. 

What is truly brilliant about What We Do in the Shadows is how it juxtaposes the extraordinary with the mundane. Here you have these centuries old beings of immense supernatural power who have flat meetings, a chore wheel, and complain about how one of them hasn't done the bloody dishes in five years. There's so much to love here and so much comedic gold gets mined out of simply placing these lavish, extravagant bloodsuckers in a boring, run-down, nowhere part of town. What they're doing is nefarious, but it's also pretty monotonous. 

What We Do in the Shadows is funny from beginning to end. But what's also so amazing about it is just how layered it is. It's jokes are lighthearted and charming on the surface, but they stick with you. The characters are silly caricatures, but they're also deeply compelling and richly complex the more you think about them. And then there's what may be the film's greatest strength, it's lore, which intermingles centuries upon centuries of vampire history (and decades upon decade of vampire movies) in a way that feels unique, creating jokes organically out of this intermingling rather than at its expense. 

It's doesn't hurt that the casting is completely inspired, using a plethora of insanely talented actors to create a world and mythos that feels natural and lived in. Besides the four main flat-mates, there's the recently turned Nick (Cori Gonzalez-Macuer), a scuzzy, frat-boy type who goes around parading his newly minted vampire status and brooding about his inability to eat french fries anymore; there's Jackie (Jackie Van Beek), one of the vampires' worn-down, hilariously mistreated familiar who spends her time finding victims and performing menial chores in the hopes of being turned; and there's Anton (Rhys Darby), who heads a rival pack of werewolves and is obsessed with appearances above all else. Just casting the terrifically pale and timid Darby as the pack's alpha male is funny enough, but his constant reminder to his pack that "We're werewolves, not swearwolves" is easily one of the funniest recurring gags I've seen in quite some time. 

Many people will probably criticize What We Do in the Shadows for not having more bite than it does (figuratively speaking). However, it is the film's uncompromising geniality (even during the most intense and heartbreaking scenes)that makes it so wonderful. Waitiki's undeniable sweetness and the film's deadpan nature (reminiscent of the pair's work on Flight of the Conchords) is what anchors the film. And their love for the genre makes What We Do in the Shadows infinitely rewatchable, with characters, jokes, and scenes worth revisiting again and again to see how they grow and to try and spot all of the tiny, hilarious details you might have missed. 

8 out of 10