I have a bit of a problem with Todd VanDerWerff. He brings to mind one or two people in my life that I love dearly, but want to strangle on occasion. I like to think that if he and I were to meet, we'd hit it off immediately, and almost as immediately dissolve into an argument on why or why not The Hulk is the most important character in the Marvel Universe (i.e. because his power is limited only by his rage and how well he can control it, which in theory makes his power unlimited--something Todd VanDerWerff can NEVER UNDERSTAND). Basically we agree on a lot of things, but disagree on a lot of nitpicky details. This actually makes it a little infuriating that he seems to review all of my favorite shows at The AV Club's TV Club. Which brings us to this episode of Mad Men I just watched...
"Dark Shadows" follows an incredible stretch of Mad Men episodes (something which Mr. VDW and I wholeheartedly agree on), episodes that weave a theme through their storylines almost effortlessly. But according to his article from The AV Club, something seems to have been lost in this episode, as if Matthew Weiner, In His Infinite wisdome and God Bless His Name and Talents, forgot what he was doing for a moment and decided to plop out a mediocre episode that failed to achieve the stratospheric highs of the preterite 8 episodes. Okay, a "B" grade isn't that bad, but I think some crucial thematic points may have been overlooked.
I won't disagree that this episode is in fact "the most scattered episode yet." But in a season so single minded (thus far, anyway), any deviance from the norm could be misinterpreted as a misstep. Each episode has had it's own theme, and chooses a variety of topics to explore that theme, like an anachronistic "This American Life." So far, it's been about the Us v. Them topic of Young v. Old, the oddball 60s shouldering their way into Don Draper's (and others') periphery, forcing our leads to adapt or die; and as I've mentioned, the season has been quite single minded about that theme. What I believe is overlooked in this review of this episode is that while things may not be so black and white as Young v. Old, things are still very much Us v. Them as they ever were, and that strikes out the notion that Matthew Weiner could ever be so simple-minded as to commit to a single thematic element and stick solely to it without expanding on it in the slightest. Praise His Name.
Obviously, I'm behind here. I'm watching however many weeks past the water-cooler's "View By" date, but I'm responding as I witness it, which (somehow) keeps my opinion fresh. Again, though, I will agree that "Dark Shadows" doesn't seem quite as cohesive as former episodes, if only because the storylines are so seemingly disparate. But the thematic cohesion is just as present as it has been all season. When Don picks his own copy over the recently-realized threat Ginsberg's, it's not a Young v. Old move, it's a Me v. You move. When Betty bitchily drops the "Oh your father had a wife before me, ask his NEW wife about it, see what she tells you" bomb, it's the same thing. I suppose where the episode fails is in the dregs of detail that sift to the bottom: Pete's little daydream, Roger and Jane's post-divorce break-up sex, and Sally's continuing "I'm a big girl now" storyline all take the Us v. Them theme and dumb it down to boilerplate filler. See the bargaining between Roger and Jane for a new apartment, Sally's lashing out at Megan for being able to fake-cry and, by extension, lie (or "act" as Megan might call it), and Pete's... well, Pete just needed something to do this week. So he got a sexy scene with some side-boob. Good for Pete. All the runner stories are simply superficial plot development, but the competition element is ever-present.
It may be the simple fact that the characters have finally, for a moment, fallen out of sync with each other. Roger and Pete both had major, game-changing events occur to them recently, and their respective lives have to catch up to that this week. Don, Megan, and Betty's individual conflicts have yet to boil over (or have boiled over many times ["Yeah, you clean that carpet in your underwear while I feed you orange sherbet. Yeah."] and are still simmering dangerously hotter), and so the thematic importance of their actions this week are heightened. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that where the episode seems scattered in theme is really where the episode is scattered in level of emotion. The episode serves its function, but the highs and lows are more disparate than the harmonious resonance of the previous few weeks.
The beauty of Mad Men is that any analysis could be considered "correct." These are complex people we're dealing with, even when they act with simple pettiness and petulance. But it has always been a show defined by the episodic structure, and achieves beautiful results by treating each episode, as VDW suggests, as a short story that contributes to a larger thematic whole. I just don't think this episode is as large a thematic misstep as might be perceived. Maybe I'm being similarly petty and petulant calling out Todd VanDerWerff for being "wrong." I know you're not wrong Todd. I just have a differing opinion. Wanna fight about it? Me v. You. Sundown. Be there.
6.24.2012
Watch Me Watch: The Sopranos 1.5 -- "College"
It seems fitting that the episode I return to after an unspeakably long hiatus is titled "College." Without turning this into a diary entry, I've been struggling with the fact that without college to force me to think critically about the entertainments that I love, I may be losing the ability to do so. Of course, due to that unspeakably long hiatus, I'm probably just out of practice.
So here I am. Living in Thailand and watching copious amounts of television to pass the time in a small town. It's almost... American. But for whatever reason, I chose to watch a number of series I'd already seen before delving into the one I've put off the longest. After Breaking Bad, Mad Men, Game of Thrones, and various others, I find myself here, at the series that (arguably) made each and every one of those possible. (See, to follow my assertions with quotes [as I was taught to do in high school, and perfected in... wait for it... college], these quotes from a primary source here and here.)
----
Any time a visual medium asks you to read something on-screen, it better be for a good reason. If it's something as relatively trivial as a plot point, then just have the character read it breathily to themselves, as we have all done when pretending we're in a movie and receiving important news via post. If it's thematically related, then you'd be wise to have the characters reading your carefully chosen text talk about it in a way obliquely referencing their personal demons or dilemma. But if you're The Sopranos, you take thematically related text (in this case, a quote from Nathaniel Hawthorne) and trust the audience to read it, get it, and apply it to characters as necessary, like a salve.
First, the plot points (to be read mentally, but breathily, if you're able): Tony and Meadow are scouting colleges, cause Tony is a good pater familias. While filling up the gas tank and puttering around Maine, Tony spots what he thinks might be a former associate-cum-narc, long ago swept away and sheltered by witness protection. Papa Soprano gives chase, all while trying to gently ease his rapidly maturing daughter into the unspoken knowledge that he is a mafioso. Simple, right?
The quote we're asked to read (along with Tony, sitting in a marble-tiled hall of an East Coast University waiting for Meadow) "No man... can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which one may be true." All we're given to chew on after reading is a dopey ADR-line--"Our most famous alumni!"--from some extra who can now say he had a line on The Sopranos despite the fact that he was only in the wide shot and we never see his face. We and Tony both are left with the (fairly obvious) implications of the line.
The central drama of this show has never really been much of a secret. But by emphasizing again and again and again--with ducks and dreams of detachable penises and therapy and lies and Hawthorne quotes--we are all but guaranteed to see a spectacular explosion. Or at least witness the giggle-inducing fun of a balloon plopping around the room as it rapidly deflates. Tony Soprano has some 'splaining to do. You can't be a family man and a Family man and keep the two mutually exclusive.
----
While these write-ups have thus far been written without any hint of foreknowledge of what comes next, the allure of serialized TV sometimes cannot be ignored, and thus I've sped ahead, all the way through into season 2 (so far). I'm not sure what voice to take as I proceed, or if I'll stick to individual episodes or more of a "this is the last chunk of story that I watched, and here's what I saw" approach. And while I wouldn't say that the last half of season 1 is boring, I will admit that the simple advent of letterboxed presentation makes me all the more excited to fast-forward to season 2 and the more polished storytelling it has thus-far provided. Of course, there's always the risk that I won't ever come back, and you'll be left here alone, abandoned, waiting to find out to which college Meadow is admitted. I'll try not to leave you out in the cold. But we might be time-traveling a bit when I get back.
So here I am. Living in Thailand and watching copious amounts of television to pass the time in a small town. It's almost... American. But for whatever reason, I chose to watch a number of series I'd already seen before delving into the one I've put off the longest. After Breaking Bad, Mad Men, Game of Thrones, and various others, I find myself here, at the series that (arguably) made each and every one of those possible. (See, to follow my assertions with quotes [as I was taught to do in high school, and perfected in... wait for it... college], these quotes from a primary source here and here.)
----
Any time a visual medium asks you to read something on-screen, it better be for a good reason. If it's something as relatively trivial as a plot point, then just have the character read it breathily to themselves, as we have all done when pretending we're in a movie and receiving important news via post. If it's thematically related, then you'd be wise to have the characters reading your carefully chosen text talk about it in a way obliquely referencing their personal demons or dilemma. But if you're The Sopranos, you take thematically related text (in this case, a quote from Nathaniel Hawthorne) and trust the audience to read it, get it, and apply it to characters as necessary, like a salve.
First, the plot points (to be read mentally, but breathily, if you're able): Tony and Meadow are scouting colleges, cause Tony is a good pater familias. While filling up the gas tank and puttering around Maine, Tony spots what he thinks might be a former associate-cum-narc, long ago swept away and sheltered by witness protection. Papa Soprano gives chase, all while trying to gently ease his rapidly maturing daughter into the unspoken knowledge that he is a mafioso. Simple, right?
The quote we're asked to read (along with Tony, sitting in a marble-tiled hall of an East Coast University waiting for Meadow) "No man... can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which one may be true." All we're given to chew on after reading is a dopey ADR-line--"Our most famous alumni!"--from some extra who can now say he had a line on The Sopranos despite the fact that he was only in the wide shot and we never see his face. We and Tony both are left with the (fairly obvious) implications of the line.
The central drama of this show has never really been much of a secret. But by emphasizing again and again and again--with ducks and dreams of detachable penises and therapy and lies and Hawthorne quotes--we are all but guaranteed to see a spectacular explosion. Or at least witness the giggle-inducing fun of a balloon plopping around the room as it rapidly deflates. Tony Soprano has some 'splaining to do. You can't be a family man and a Family man and keep the two mutually exclusive.
----
While these write-ups have thus far been written without any hint of foreknowledge of what comes next, the allure of serialized TV sometimes cannot be ignored, and thus I've sped ahead, all the way through into season 2 (so far). I'm not sure what voice to take as I proceed, or if I'll stick to individual episodes or more of a "this is the last chunk of story that I watched, and here's what I saw" approach. And while I wouldn't say that the last half of season 1 is boring, I will admit that the simple advent of letterboxed presentation makes me all the more excited to fast-forward to season 2 and the more polished storytelling it has thus-far provided. Of course, there's always the risk that I won't ever come back, and you'll be left here alone, abandoned, waiting to find out to which college Meadow is admitted. I'll try not to leave you out in the cold. But we might be time-traveling a bit when I get back.
2.22.2012
Life and Death and Television, For Real This Time
I've been known to watch Bravo from time to time, mostly against my will, but sometimes if there's really nothing else on. The Real Housewives of [BLANK] series is a year-long revolving door of various "urban" (but really usually suburbs of the urbs, except maybe in the case of NYC) settings, most with fruit-related imagery/graphics involved. While I was never a fan of the characters, plots, setups or scenarios, I could appreciate what the series as a whole tried to do most of the time--give a maybe-slightly enhanced/exaggerated (like the housewives themselves usually) peek into wealth; explore how power and prestige can ultimately corrupt, or at least make a little bit crazy/delusional; ask the audience to either judge, laugh, both, or GTFO. These shows are pretty unapologetic, and despite the content, that can be admirable.
This article over on the AV Club highlights an extremely dark, tragic situation that arose in front of television cameras for The Real Housewives of Orange County (see? Oranges). Shows like these can be all fluff and no substance, and sometimes that's what we're looking for, no more. But when you constantly point your cameras at something, you're going to catch more than the faked, contrived, preconceived storylines that you're expecting to catch. Completely by accident, you might see something real and human and utterly devastating. I don't necessarily recommend checking out the series, but the article is worth reading if only to defend the existence of reality television and remind us that for all of our snark, reality TV personalities are people too.
This article over on the AV Club highlights an extremely dark, tragic situation that arose in front of television cameras for The Real Housewives of Orange County (see? Oranges). Shows like these can be all fluff and no substance, and sometimes that's what we're looking for, no more. But when you constantly point your cameras at something, you're going to catch more than the faked, contrived, preconceived storylines that you're expecting to catch. Completely by accident, you might see something real and human and utterly devastating. I don't necessarily recommend checking out the series, but the article is worth reading if only to defend the existence of reality television and remind us that for all of our snark, reality TV personalities are people too.
2.08.2012
Life and Death and Television
Once again proving my eerie prescience in the world of television criticism, the term I coined just a week ago--"Post-LOST America"--makes an appearance (more or less; they say "post-LOST world." I guess journalism at large is just that much more global than I am) in an actual, genuine, real-internet-world article.
I haven't seen The River. I don't expect I will ever see The River, because I imagine it will get canceled before I even have a chance to see it. That's the state of the world we live in: Every new pilot comes with a death sentence. If not after a few episodes, then most likely after the first season. Not that this is new or anything, mind you. Series that survive beyond a year are, and always have been, rarities, but it's at least a credit to the powers that be that more and more of them are getting at least a year to try something outside of the box.
Good luck, The River, and godspeed.
I haven't seen The River. I don't expect I will ever see The River, because I imagine it will get canceled before I even have a chance to see it. That's the state of the world we live in: Every new pilot comes with a death sentence. If not after a few episodes, then most likely after the first season. Not that this is new or anything, mind you. Series that survive beyond a year are, and always have been, rarities, but it's at least a credit to the powers that be that more and more of them are getting at least a year to try something outside of the box.
Good luck, The River, and godspeed.
1.24.2012
Post-LOST America
New Year's resolutions are doomed to fail. But, like any bad decision, we make them anyway only to regret it later when our head is in the toilet/gutter/slammer. I regret letting this blog go to seed almost as much as I regret starting it. Put your name on something, "hype" it (to the extent that linking to it on a by-no-means-web-celeb-status facebook and twitter feed entails "hype") and all of sudden you have to follow up. People are depending on you. Or at least hoping to hear what you have to say about the latest episode of The Real World, or that maybe if you finally write a crappy blog post about the stupid fucking LOST finale you'll stop drunkenly ranting about/crying over/apologizing for the stupid fucking LOST finale out in the real, physical world. I got fewer comments on this blog than I have digits, but those few comments matter, dammit, and I still love TV even if writing about it on a consistent basis is actually impossible now that I live abroad where their idea of quality television is about equal to that of Mexican telenovela.
I think it's fair to say that I, like many Americans with regard to 9/11, never really "processed" the finale of LOST. I haven't read about it, revisited it, or thought about it too hard since it aired, partially out of fear that it wasn't as great as I had hoped and partially because eh, it was alright, why spend too much time thinking on it. But if I did go back to it, I can imagine that I would feel that familiar surge of potential intellectualism that used to burn within me. After that show went dark, so did my passion, for a time. I still consumed TV like a fiend, but it was somehow soulless--searching for a substitute to fill the smoke-monster shaped hole in my brain/heart/ever-lovin'-soul. I haven't found it. But that doesn't mean I'm not healing.
There were a few reasons my blog thrived for a short period of time. First, and most importantly was time. I had time to watch TV, and additionally had time to write about TV, which if you didn't know is surprisingly time consuming, what with all that mental effort spent on something rather silly if you think about it. But I soon succumbed to the darker side of the tube, the side that sucks you in, drains your life-force, and leaves you husked and searching for a fix. Consuming for the sake of consumption was the norm, and eventually you get to a point where you spend so much time watching TV you run out of time to think about what you're watching. And look at the name of this thing. You're here, conceivably, to hear me think about the crap we shove into our eyeballs and earholes. So not thinking is not an option. A second reason for said thriving is the aforementioned LOST/passion factor. Television was clipping along at a fever pitch, with (refer to my very first post here, over 2 years ago) countless masterpieces of the form airing all at the same time, live and uncut so to speak. It was enough to send me spiraling out of control, unable to tell which way was up in a tide of entertainment. For a time, the same tidal wave sustained me, but I've never been a great surfer.
So here I am, two years later, sober (metaphorically, anyway) and sorry--ready for another reboot. I'm all the way in Thailand, and there's a surprising amount of free time to be had over here. And in the spirit of the New Year, I've convinced myself of what a piece of shit I am, why don't you write more you lazy asshole, and do some push-ups while you're at it! I'm watching Carnivale again, slowly and with more careful steps than my past junkie-self, and with a little luck and determination and help from that 12-Step Higher Power I might be able to... think. But first, if you'll excuse me, I should go do some push-ups.
I think it's fair to say that I, like many Americans with regard to 9/11, never really "processed" the finale of LOST. I haven't read about it, revisited it, or thought about it too hard since it aired, partially out of fear that it wasn't as great as I had hoped and partially because eh, it was alright, why spend too much time thinking on it. But if I did go back to it, I can imagine that I would feel that familiar surge of potential intellectualism that used to burn within me. After that show went dark, so did my passion, for a time. I still consumed TV like a fiend, but it was somehow soulless--searching for a substitute to fill the smoke-monster shaped hole in my brain/heart/ever-lovin'-soul. I haven't found it. But that doesn't mean I'm not healing.
There were a few reasons my blog thrived for a short period of time. First, and most importantly was time. I had time to watch TV, and additionally had time to write about TV, which if you didn't know is surprisingly time consuming, what with all that mental effort spent on something rather silly if you think about it. But I soon succumbed to the darker side of the tube, the side that sucks you in, drains your life-force, and leaves you husked and searching for a fix. Consuming for the sake of consumption was the norm, and eventually you get to a point where you spend so much time watching TV you run out of time to think about what you're watching. And look at the name of this thing. You're here, conceivably, to hear me think about the crap we shove into our eyeballs and earholes. So not thinking is not an option. A second reason for said thriving is the aforementioned LOST/passion factor. Television was clipping along at a fever pitch, with (refer to my very first post here, over 2 years ago) countless masterpieces of the form airing all at the same time, live and uncut so to speak. It was enough to send me spiraling out of control, unable to tell which way was up in a tide of entertainment. For a time, the same tidal wave sustained me, but I've never been a great surfer.
So here I am, two years later, sober (metaphorically, anyway) and sorry--ready for another reboot. I'm all the way in Thailand, and there's a surprising amount of free time to be had over here. And in the spirit of the New Year, I've convinced myself of what a piece of shit I am, why don't you write more you lazy asshole, and do some push-ups while you're at it! I'm watching Carnivale again, slowly and with more careful steps than my past junkie-self, and with a little luck and determination and help from that 12-Step Higher Power I might be able to... think. But first, if you'll excuse me, I should go do some push-ups.
3.16.2011
The Real World Las Vegas: Life Ain't A Game, Son
But in fact, the game is inescapable, the pieces are in place, and the board is set. Let's review our game pieces:
Dustin as The White Queen and Heather as The Black Queen--These two game pieces are destined to circle each other as rams in the wild, vying for the high ground until the opportune moment to collide. Their tête à-tête is not quite adversarial, but rather one of mutual admiration--a game in the truest sense of the word. The Queens feel each other out, observe patterns of behavior, and use their unmatched mobility to test all avenues of approach as well as avoid a premature engagement. As The Black Queen said: "Dustin's got swagger for a white boy." These two will sweep across the board, ignoring all other pieces (that is, unless one stands in the way of their final showdown; see Mike Mike the Knight Knight) in a graceful dance of deception and intrigue, until finally they will ram their parts against each other, sexually.
Nany as The Black Bishop--Her zig-zagging motion between relationship and singlehood is both limiting and liberating as the indecision she's caught in enables her to blindside those around her. Sadly though, her shifting course makes her an easy target for the more transitive pieces, namely...
Adam as The Faux Pawn--Adam is the all-seeing Player posing as pawn. His game might seem obvious, but there are larger machinations at work in his scheme. In a brilliant defensive move, he yet again deceives his fellow (but really, inferior) gamepieces by stripping himself of mystique and revealing a supposed vulnerability. His prey falls for the feint of the sad story of loserdom and his cover is yet again saved. He even convinces the gameboard itself (in the form of the security officer of the Hard Rock Casino) that his actions are innocent, his playing style on the up and up, when in fact he's cheating them all. He is controlling both sides of the board, playing against himself.
Leroy and Naomi as The Rooks--Their paths, as of now, are straight lines, bouncing blindly off of borders unseen to them, as they are as yet unaware that they are playing the game. Enlightenment may eventually broaden the scope of their movement, but for now they are simply lateral. Yes, toe-sucking in a game of truth or dare is considered "lateral movement," that's just how messed up this game is.
Which brings us to Mike Mike the Knight Knight. He's physically incapable of making a straightforward move on this board. For every line he tries to make, something blocks his path and forces a jarring "L." Case in point, the game within the game, wherein the pieces gather on the battleground of Rows 3 through 6 to commence a game of chance and will, that ever-fearsome equalizer, Truth or Dare. And here is where our valiant knight makes a crucial misstep. Like stepping between a mother bear and her cub, MM the KK inadvertently puts The Black Queen into a threatened position (with his lips). The Black Queen could squash this lowly knight, easily, and both pieces know it, but The White Queen (still resting peacefully at D1, also known as the couch next to the phone) learns of the aggressive check from a passing rook (Leroy and his big mouth). The possibility of another capturing his counterpart sends him into an 8-directional rage, zagging, zigging, streaking across the board, puffing out his chest and generally acting like a silverback gorilla being challenged for the rights of the troop. Yet his perception of "disrespect" entirely negates the purpose of the game. In his own obsession The Black Queen's words, "It's a game, we're all playing, and we're all playing a little dirty." The game is meant to be played, and this perceived threat to his dominance of the board (and supposed right to the capturing of the opposing Queen) is nonexistent at best. The Black Queen takes the advantage, and moves into attack position, no longer toying around, but ready to kill (emotionally) her adversary. It'll take a lot of retracing of the game log for The White Queen Dustin to regain even footing. At this moment, he faces certain doom and potential removal from the gameboard entirely, through sheer ego-destruction.
But all pales in comparison to the string-pulling of the Player-Pawn Adam. His innocuous position as a pawn is betrayed to us, the observers, but the pieces themselves remain oblivious. Their eyes firmly affixed on the gameboard, they cannot raise their gaze to see the big round head of Adam grinning stupidly down at them, manipulating their every move. Nany may be Bishop in theory, but she is The White King in practice, since it is very obviously her fate that will decide the outcome of the game known as The motherfucking Real World. Adam may be playing both sides of the board, but his allegiance lies firmly in the blackness of his soul. His lies and misdirections may be directed at only one piece, but all on the board are affected by them. There are only so many spaces to occupy, after all.
Dustin as The White Queen and Heather as The Black Queen--These two game pieces are destined to circle each other as rams in the wild, vying for the high ground until the opportune moment to collide. Their tête à-tête is not quite adversarial, but rather one of mutual admiration--a game in the truest sense of the word. The Queens feel each other out, observe patterns of behavior, and use their unmatched mobility to test all avenues of approach as well as avoid a premature engagement. As The Black Queen said: "Dustin's got swagger for a white boy." These two will sweep across the board, ignoring all other pieces (that is, unless one stands in the way of their final showdown; see Mike Mike the Knight Knight) in a graceful dance of deception and intrigue, until finally they will ram their parts against each other, sexually.
Nany as The Black Bishop--Her zig-zagging motion between relationship and singlehood is both limiting and liberating as the indecision she's caught in enables her to blindside those around her. Sadly though, her shifting course makes her an easy target for the more transitive pieces, namely...
Adam as The Faux Pawn--Adam is the all-seeing Player posing as pawn. His game might seem obvious, but there are larger machinations at work in his scheme. In a brilliant defensive move, he yet again deceives his fellow (but really, inferior) gamepieces by stripping himself of mystique and revealing a supposed vulnerability. His prey falls for the feint of the sad story of loserdom and his cover is yet again saved. He even convinces the gameboard itself (in the form of the security officer of the Hard Rock Casino) that his actions are innocent, his playing style on the up and up, when in fact he's cheating them all. He is controlling both sides of the board, playing against himself.
Leroy and Naomi as The Rooks--Their paths, as of now, are straight lines, bouncing blindly off of borders unseen to them, as they are as yet unaware that they are playing the game. Enlightenment may eventually broaden the scope of their movement, but for now they are simply lateral. Yes, toe-sucking in a game of truth or dare is considered "lateral movement," that's just how messed up this game is.
Which brings us to Mike Mike the Knight Knight. He's physically incapable of making a straightforward move on this board. For every line he tries to make, something blocks his path and forces a jarring "L." Case in point, the game within the game, wherein the pieces gather on the battleground of Rows 3 through 6 to commence a game of chance and will, that ever-fearsome equalizer, Truth or Dare. And here is where our valiant knight makes a crucial misstep. Like stepping between a mother bear and her cub, MM the KK inadvertently puts The Black Queen into a threatened position (with his lips). The Black Queen could squash this lowly knight, easily, and both pieces know it, but The White Queen (still resting peacefully at D1, also known as the couch next to the phone) learns of the aggressive check from a passing rook (Leroy and his big mouth). The possibility of another capturing his counterpart sends him into an 8-directional rage, zagging, zigging, streaking across the board, puffing out his chest and generally acting like a silverback gorilla being challenged for the rights of the troop. Yet his perception of "disrespect" entirely negates the purpose of the game. In his own obsession The Black Queen's words, "It's a game, we're all playing, and we're all playing a little dirty." The game is meant to be played, and this perceived threat to his dominance of the board (and supposed right to the capturing of the opposing Queen) is nonexistent at best. The Black Queen takes the advantage, and moves into attack position, no longer toying around, but ready to kill (emotionally) her adversary. It'll take a lot of retracing of the game log for The White Queen Dustin to regain even footing. At this moment, he faces certain doom and potential removal from the gameboard entirely, through sheer ego-destruction.
But all pales in comparison to the string-pulling of the Player-Pawn Adam. His innocuous position as a pawn is betrayed to us, the observers, but the pieces themselves remain oblivious. Their eyes firmly affixed on the gameboard, they cannot raise their gaze to see the big round head of Adam grinning stupidly down at them, manipulating their every move. Nany may be Bishop in theory, but she is The White King in practice, since it is very obviously her fate that will decide the outcome of the game known as The motherfucking Real World. Adam may be playing both sides of the board, but his allegiance lies firmly in the blackness of his soul. His lies and misdirections may be directed at only one piece, but all on the board are affected by them. There are only so many spaces to occupy, after all.
3.09.2011
The Real World Las Vegas: The Dirty Boy Rules
Damn near a year since all TV across the nation went dark, plunging American denizens into a pop culture black hole that nearly sucked our blogging creativity beyond the event horizon, but thank GOD the MOTHERFUCKING REAL WORLD is back! Okay, so maybe I slacked off, maybe the loss of Lost cracked my crusty shell of television thoughts, maybe I just got a job--any of these might be a real reason that I've been absent, but here I am, hopefully permanently, or at least while The Real World Las Vegas is airing. But in the tradition of promising things that never come to fruition, I've recently watched the entirety of Dexter, of which I may have some thoughts on eventually, as well as delving into some rather good televised nature documentaries, and the place of documentary television in the cultural landscape in general (outside the rather repugnant realm of regular old "reality" TV, which is the methadone equivalent to the nice black tar heroin of actual documentary). Anyway, here we are, in Las Vegas, let's take some bets on how long my reinvigorated blogging continues.
--
The Real World of Plato consists of seven archetypes. Seven archangels if you will. At the end of all things, these Seven will persist, planting the seeds of disparity and redemption, conflict and resolution, chaos and society that feed the entire human race and build our world anew. So says Plato. These seven archetypes were once intruded upon by an eighth, an expendable--a sacrificial lamb maybe--that while adding to the overall equation, created a mathematical anomaly known as "Not Everyone Can Hook Up With Everyone." The oddity of seven is a necessity to the evolution of humanity in that the group is forced to choose uneven sides. This will become apparent. But first, The Seven, in their current incarnation:
Cool Dad--Of The Seven, one might be tempted to choose the Cool Dad as the one that will stand out from the pack, the one that will never find peace and thus spur the others to change, but one might be wrong. The one thing about this equation is that somehow it never turns out quite the same. The Cool Dad often wears khaki shorts, reads prayers aloud to the discomfort of others, and thinks always of the Grandmother of us all: Fate. Or just Grandma. Either one. The tortured psyche of the Cool Dad lies dormant, flashing only in moments of deep contemplation, severe drunkenness, or in a crucial moment of decision with a lady. His guilt is deep, catholic (in the lower-case "c" sense, i.e. universal, and also in the upper-case "c" sense, i.e. Catholic), and persistent. Grandma is the Pope!
Dustard--Dustin + Mustard = Dustard. Just to clarify that there is no slag to any mental acuity here. Though I admit, that may come to light soon enough. The Dustard is the rhythmic bouncing of arms and chest, the generic ideal of a certain type of male, identifiable only by the constant fact of toned flesh, stubble, and a Southern accent. Dustard is monogamy personified, though never initially identified as such. But where there is monogamy, there are secrets, and Dustard more likely than not will have a bomb to drop at about the half-life of The Real World (The Real World being a rapidly disintegrating element by its very nature). This particular incarnation contains a rare and unique isotope of secrecy in that deep down he betrays his mold of the male ideal by partaking in a ritual of virile nudity, disseminated to the masses. Yeah, he was naked on the Internet. Big whoop. But Dustard's secret must be kept, because the revelation will trigger the leap to next plateau of human relation for the group. But seriously, he put an ASSLOAD of mustard on that sandwich he was making. Am I the only one concerned here?
Ree Loy--Ree Loy plays an important but isolated role in The Seven known as the Single-Minded. He is obsessed with the opposite sex, and ONLY the opposite sex, for if swords were crossed, then that X would be stamped on the base of his soul, marking him for eternity. His single-mindedness will prevent him from accepting the others as his kindred, and his judgmentality will only serve to splinter the group closer to the point of no return, only to realize his misgivings and reel The Seven in more tightly than ever before. In astrological terms, he is the Aries and will identify most with the most masculine of The Seven, namely Dustard and Shy Guy, though an uncommon and unlikely relationship may form between Ree Loy and the Cool Dad, depending on the Las Vegasian circumstances.
Shy Guy--Loki. The Trickster. Even his name is a pawn on his board. The misnomer is intentional, as Shy Guy will defend to his last breath that his intentions are innocent, when in fact they are the most dastardly of the group. He seeks to bend, break, destroy what is already built. He is Mars, the God of War, the Shiva that will always be looked upon unfavorably at the end of all things despite the fact that from all destruction comes creation. He is the last wall between The Seven and their true selves. Once he is revealed for what he truly is, the others will be free to transform, transcend to their idealized selves. In his Platonic state, he finds it ironic that his current manifestation is named Adam. The Biblical irony is not lost on the Morning Star.
Julia Roberts--Sadly, Julia Roberts must be the first to be destroyed. From there all walls will crumble. She is inextricable from Shy Guy, as they were the first and only to meet, travel, and arrive together. The streets of Las Vegas have bound them. Julia Roberts hides behind a wall of exotic skin and porcelain white teeth, and what a brittle shell it will prove to be. But in reality, in The Real World, the shell was already cracked to begin with. The painful transformation in front of her was already in progress before The Seven were brought together, and her journey will be the most difficult to experience. Her aggressive significant other will prove no match for these archetypes of humanity, nor for the powers of those almighty Powers That Be, the producers.
Ri-Ri--The wild card of the group, the Joker. Her otherworldly qualities will be irresistible to many outside of The Seven, although her charms won't quite penetrate within the circle. This archangel has nothing to offer but the wonders of variance, of the happenstance of life that can be found beyond The Seven, beyond the chains of the paradigm. After the fire of Shy Guy, she will show us what it means to be truly human.
Blonde--While her role may seem simplistic, it is in fact what drives the society of mankind in every meaningful form of literature, politics, or adventure: she is The Woman. Seemingly passive, she can bend Dustard (the ideal of masculinity)'s will with a wink of an eye or bend of a knee. She is a newly awoken Sleeping Beauty, attempting to be the free spirit she so desperately wants to be, only to find that her fate has already been written. She may stray from her path at times, but there will always be something to bring her back to the fold of Seven. The generic ideal of woman, Blonde will both fulfill and surpass her epithet by showing the power of true love, the power of sheer will to survive and grow in a new world unfamiliar, and her subsequent ruination and rebirth will be glorious.
And so, welcome to the motherfucking real world. This is how it is, this is how it will always be, even long after we are gone. The plight and triumph of humanity is right in front of us.
--
So I hope that some of that either made sense up front or will make more sense as this season of The Real World forges on. The setting of which is not coincidental. The City of Sin is a perfect backdrop for these archangels to battle both outside forces and their own demons, to test themselves against themselves and stand tall as The Seven, reformed and resplendent, yet another form of the same old shit we've seen twenty-four times before. It never changes, but somehow it's always interesting. It really is the apex of humanity, now premiering on MTV!
--
The Real World of Plato consists of seven archetypes. Seven archangels if you will. At the end of all things, these Seven will persist, planting the seeds of disparity and redemption, conflict and resolution, chaos and society that feed the entire human race and build our world anew. So says Plato. These seven archetypes were once intruded upon by an eighth, an expendable--a sacrificial lamb maybe--that while adding to the overall equation, created a mathematical anomaly known as "Not Everyone Can Hook Up With Everyone." The oddity of seven is a necessity to the evolution of humanity in that the group is forced to choose uneven sides. This will become apparent. But first, The Seven, in their current incarnation:
Cool Dad--Of The Seven, one might be tempted to choose the Cool Dad as the one that will stand out from the pack, the one that will never find peace and thus spur the others to change, but one might be wrong. The one thing about this equation is that somehow it never turns out quite the same. The Cool Dad often wears khaki shorts, reads prayers aloud to the discomfort of others, and thinks always of the Grandmother of us all: Fate. Or just Grandma. Either one. The tortured psyche of the Cool Dad lies dormant, flashing only in moments of deep contemplation, severe drunkenness, or in a crucial moment of decision with a lady. His guilt is deep, catholic (in the lower-case "c" sense, i.e. universal, and also in the upper-case "c" sense, i.e. Catholic), and persistent. Grandma is the Pope!
Dustard--Dustin + Mustard = Dustard. Just to clarify that there is no slag to any mental acuity here. Though I admit, that may come to light soon enough. The Dustard is the rhythmic bouncing of arms and chest, the generic ideal of a certain type of male, identifiable only by the constant fact of toned flesh, stubble, and a Southern accent. Dustard is monogamy personified, though never initially identified as such. But where there is monogamy, there are secrets, and Dustard more likely than not will have a bomb to drop at about the half-life of The Real World (The Real World being a rapidly disintegrating element by its very nature). This particular incarnation contains a rare and unique isotope of secrecy in that deep down he betrays his mold of the male ideal by partaking in a ritual of virile nudity, disseminated to the masses. Yeah, he was naked on the Internet. Big whoop. But Dustard's secret must be kept, because the revelation will trigger the leap to next plateau of human relation for the group. But seriously, he put an ASSLOAD of mustard on that sandwich he was making. Am I the only one concerned here?
Ree Loy--Ree Loy plays an important but isolated role in The Seven known as the Single-Minded. He is obsessed with the opposite sex, and ONLY the opposite sex, for if swords were crossed, then that X would be stamped on the base of his soul, marking him for eternity. His single-mindedness will prevent him from accepting the others as his kindred, and his judgmentality will only serve to splinter the group closer to the point of no return, only to realize his misgivings and reel The Seven in more tightly than ever before. In astrological terms, he is the Aries and will identify most with the most masculine of The Seven, namely Dustard and Shy Guy, though an uncommon and unlikely relationship may form between Ree Loy and the Cool Dad, depending on the Las Vegasian circumstances.
Shy Guy--Loki. The Trickster. Even his name is a pawn on his board. The misnomer is intentional, as Shy Guy will defend to his last breath that his intentions are innocent, when in fact they are the most dastardly of the group. He seeks to bend, break, destroy what is already built. He is Mars, the God of War, the Shiva that will always be looked upon unfavorably at the end of all things despite the fact that from all destruction comes creation. He is the last wall between The Seven and their true selves. Once he is revealed for what he truly is, the others will be free to transform, transcend to their idealized selves. In his Platonic state, he finds it ironic that his current manifestation is named Adam. The Biblical irony is not lost on the Morning Star.
Julia Roberts--Sadly, Julia Roberts must be the first to be destroyed. From there all walls will crumble. She is inextricable from Shy Guy, as they were the first and only to meet, travel, and arrive together. The streets of Las Vegas have bound them. Julia Roberts hides behind a wall of exotic skin and porcelain white teeth, and what a brittle shell it will prove to be. But in reality, in The Real World, the shell was already cracked to begin with. The painful transformation in front of her was already in progress before The Seven were brought together, and her journey will be the most difficult to experience. Her aggressive significant other will prove no match for these archetypes of humanity, nor for the powers of those almighty Powers That Be, the producers.
Ri-Ri--The wild card of the group, the Joker. Her otherworldly qualities will be irresistible to many outside of The Seven, although her charms won't quite penetrate within the circle. This archangel has nothing to offer but the wonders of variance, of the happenstance of life that can be found beyond The Seven, beyond the chains of the paradigm. After the fire of Shy Guy, she will show us what it means to be truly human.
Blonde--While her role may seem simplistic, it is in fact what drives the society of mankind in every meaningful form of literature, politics, or adventure: she is The Woman. Seemingly passive, she can bend Dustard (the ideal of masculinity)'s will with a wink of an eye or bend of a knee. She is a newly awoken Sleeping Beauty, attempting to be the free spirit she so desperately wants to be, only to find that her fate has already been written. She may stray from her path at times, but there will always be something to bring her back to the fold of Seven. The generic ideal of woman, Blonde will both fulfill and surpass her epithet by showing the power of true love, the power of sheer will to survive and grow in a new world unfamiliar, and her subsequent ruination and rebirth will be glorious.
And so, welcome to the motherfucking real world. This is how it is, this is how it will always be, even long after we are gone. The plight and triumph of humanity is right in front of us.
--
So I hope that some of that either made sense up front or will make more sense as this season of The Real World forges on. The setting of which is not coincidental. The City of Sin is a perfect backdrop for these archangels to battle both outside forces and their own demons, to test themselves against themselves and stand tall as The Seven, reformed and resplendent, yet another form of the same old shit we've seen twenty-four times before. It never changes, but somehow it's always interesting. It really is the apex of humanity, now premiering on MTV!
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