Zack Snyder's vision for the DCEU was always a controversial bet. When I saw how much Warner Bros. used Man of Steel as a template for the DCEU, it felt wrong. I can appreciate Zack Snyder's style on its own. It's unapologetically big, bold, dark, and edgy with machismo reminiscent of 80s action flicks. It has its niche and fits well with properties like 300. It can also be unfit for nearly everything else. The greatest example of a misfire is when Snyder applied his stylistic bombast to Watchmen. It squeezes most of the substance out of the work, despite being undeniably entertaining. Applying that style to a property like Superman, a character known more for a lighter, idealistic tone, created more limits than it was worth. Warner Bros. tethering the entire cinematic universe to a darker tone provided contrast to the MCU, but at the cost of creating a sandbox less attractive to play in. The resulting momentum was an uphill battle that couldn't help but exclude audiences. Add that to trying to catch up to the MCU, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Man of Steel is a film that I like, held up well by the performances of Henry Cavill and Michael Shannon. Henry Cavill's casting as Superman is as fitting as Pierce Brosnan's casting as James Bond. Despite that, Man of Steel is one of the worst representations of Superman ever put to film. It’s Superman becomes a cog in a machine of chaos and destruction that’s more reflective of a war film than a superhero fantasy. Cavill is now twice someone who was perfectly cast in a large franchise role, who found himself more in tune with the franchise's heart than the filmmakers surrounding him. Clear contrast is provided with the latest Superman, which finally puts the compromises in those creative choices into perspective. It gives me great hope for what's to come in the films to follow.

James Gunn presents a style of comedy and irreverence that may not be everyone's cup of tea, but he can temper his style with his unique knowledge of the properties he works with. He provides something that has the kind of emotional depth, sense of fun, and levity that a much wider audience can jump into. It's not about power fantasies or morbid introspective reflections on a broken world. The new Superman is wonderfully optimistic and a much-needed boost of joy in an otherwise chaotic and frustrating time culturally. The movie spares us an origin story that we've seen time and time again. It makes it clear that we're dealing with the hero who has the qualities that we expect from Superman. Someone resilient in the face of a challenge. Someone fearless in the face of danger. Someone who gives themselves to others, all while making it clear that they're not invincible and that they can be vulnerable.

The film is filled with plenty of setups with unique characters and concepts that have the touch of a creative team that knows what it's like to work in an extended universe, but without the level of desperation present in efforts like Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice. It's safe to say that the DCEU is no longer on the defensive and can now focus on providing a fun sandbox with interesting films and characters to work with. As much as I like James Gunn, I hope that an ambitious variety of filmmakers have an opportunity to contribute to the universe, leaving James Gunn similar to Kevin Feige, where he can architect the universe without having to have his particular tone or style in every subsequent film.

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So much has changed since the release of 28 Days Later. At the time, the rage virus and its resulting running zombies were a fresh way of injecting new excitement into the genre. Combine the threat of those zombies with the shaky camera and the fuzziness of the digital format, and you have a recipe for genuine horror. What set the film apart further, was in the novelty of its setting in Great Britain. It's a film that embraces its setting by putting the isle in a doomsday filter with an intimacy only locals can excel at. The cast has some of the best chemistry of zombie films I've seen. The group of survivors with Jim (Cillian Murphy) as a lead really connects with me. The moments of intimacy of them growing close over its runtime make me truly care about them, with appropriate heartbreak in the face of tragedy. This is truly the heart of what makes 28 Days Later special: it’s as much of a road trip film as a zombie one, a perfect microcosm of early 2000s indie drama films. 28 Weeks Later was always a poor pairing with the first, with its only crowning glory being the first seven minutes. The inconsistency of that sequel leaves 28 Years Later with a much lower bar to clear. It’s practically a direct sequel to the first film.

28 Years Later in many ways feels like an anti-sequel. It's a very atmospheric film that doesn't focus so much on the impact of the zombie infection as it does on setting the stage for a less familiar world. Its timeline places it so far from the events of the first film that it offers a lot of room for things to get weird. It’s much harder connecting with the central characters this time around. The point of reference that they live in is much more divorced from the first group of survivors. They aren’t mourning what was lost but instead live a tribal existence that is designed to justify itself through its traditions. It's an attempt to provide order to their world, but one that leaves those that struggle with mental illness like Isla (Jodie Comer) powerless to improve their condition. It has hints of familiar imbalance to our own world, and it’s no doubt intentional as a form of meta commentary. The use of sound and visual montage containing militaristic imagery is presented in contrast to our male leads as they stalk weak infected as prey. Like The Walking Dead and The Last of Us, there is an evolution in the zombies that gives them an added level of threat and complexity, even hinting at levels of an underlying humanity. They’ve also aged in some cases to the point of losing function. These contrasting forces make the film less about pure survival and more about making sense of a chaotic world.

The music from Young Fathers is incredible, evoking an immediate dark and soulful tone throughout the film. Their music also acts as a grounding force that provides some semblance of order for the chaos on display. Combined with the hazy and colorful visuals of the mainland surrounding Lindisfarne, I knew I was in for something that was strange, which is fitting with Alex Garland's previous work. The diversity of tactics and motives of different survivor groups brings to mind the anarchic chaos that unfolds in Apocalypse Now, a persistent influence in Garland’s work (Annihilation, Civil War). I can imagine a Jim in this environment developing the same cynicism as Cap. Willard. I can see how viewers would hope for a resurgence of the first film’s tone. That isn’t unreasonable, considering that the previous collaborators are behind this entry. I appreciate the fact that they don't attempt to catch that same lightning in the bottle and try to lean into the weirdness of what the isle would be twenty-eight years later from the events of the first film. It’s bold for them to make a trilogy out of this. It can’t help but feel cynical in a franchise-dominant industry. If they take advantage of what they've set with this first part of the trilogy, it has potential for the pure sake of riskier experimentation. I never asked for a sequel to 28 Days Later, so I might as well get something interesting.

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I wasn't expecting Ballerina to be as strong as the main John Wick films. It has that quality of the John Wick connection being an afterthought, but that is easily forgiven considering the quality of the action on display. Ballerina has big shoes to fill. Eve (Ana de Armas) has a pretty straightforward set of motivations. Not surprisingly, it comes down to revenge. You can't have a John Wick franchise film without revenge being a major motivator. It serves its purpose and doesn't get in the way.

The world that the Eve lives in is steeped in its own mythology. One that has close ties to the films. The nature of it reminds me that there's definitely a lot of fun had with the world-building. It can get grandiose, but it is a fun stage for the actors and the action at hand. There are some nice moments where we get a sense of what her training is. They didn't make her fighting style a carbon copy, leaning into the fact that her physicality is different. The highlight is her “final test,” and it's the most tense moment in the film. There's also a really solid (and very brief) action performance from Norman Reedus. He doesn't have as much to work with, but it is cool to see him in this universe. He feels like a perfect fit. The film is also notable for being Lance Reddick’s final performance in the franchise. The series was my first introduction to him as an actor when I saw John Wick in theaters. It’s an absolute loss that he’s no longer with us.

The first action scenes that we are given are pretty straightforward. As the film progresses, it becomes clear that the team of choreographers (87Eleven) are the best at their craft, and they appropriately have increasing fun throughout the movie by upping the stakes. There is one major battle with the deployment of flamethrowers that is something I've never seen before. I would describe it as an inferno ballet, and it brings to mind that the whole concept of the ballerina assassin really fits the standard of choreography in the franchise. It's brutal, but with an element of elegance and mastery that fits the mystery of the world that they inhabit. There is a moment-by-moment precision emphasis on detail. In every situation, they make a point of trying to find some way of making the format interesting. For people who want highly intricate and immersive action, these movies never disappoint. There are definitely going to be some surprise moments for fans of the franchise.

It's been made clear in promotional material that John Wick himself appears in the film. It is great to see Keanu Reeves as John Wick, but his appearance in the film is what I was the least satisfied with. I didn't need John Wick in the movie to be invested, but I understand the profit incentives. His first appearance is a way to bridge the film to John Wick: Chapter 3, and it works as a sharp cameo. What is clunkier is the insertion of his character in the final act. Pulling him into it the action doesn't feel natural considering that he's on the run at this point in this the timeline. I can also tell that they brought in Wick to replace a character that would have been a dramatically stronger choice for the sequence. It's still fun to see Reeves do his thing, but it’s a real shame that the team wasn’t confident enough to take a risk without him.

Overall, the movie didn’t disappoint as a fan of the franchise. I don't believe that it's strong enough to warrant continuation, unless they find a more unique twist on the format. There's something about the John Wick films with Reeves' presence, the nature of of his commitment to the action, and his comfort with the crew that can’t be replaced. There will be a spin-off with Donnie Yen as Caine. That is a much safer bet to make for success. Donnie Yen is already an accomplished action performer and director. The premise of a blind assassin is unique, and his execution of the character in John Wick: Chapter 4 is one of its highlights. Ana de Armas does a good job, but the premise in Ballerina lacks the spark needed to better differentiate it from the Wick films. Armas is a capable actress that can do much more with the same action chops she’s developed in a more robust, character-driven story.

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When I booted up Windows XP for the first time, I was hit with a familiar feeling of stumbling into a space filled with potential. The image that embodies this the most is the Windows XP default background (Bliss). The image captures the innocence of the era of personal computing in which it was conceived. It evokes a quality of empowerment that has long been lost in the current age of consumer technologies.

Coming of age, there was only one computer in my residence. This meant only one person could use it at any time, resulting in shorter sessions for each user. When using dial-up, no one could be on the phone while using it. Those moments away were agonizing, but it also meant that my imagination ran wild as I read books, watched TV, went to school, and played video-games, bidding my time. Anticipation would always be strong, with a battle plan in place for when the session finally came. Once my turn came around, I’d immediately launch onto the websites and forums surrounding my favorite hobbies. Scarcity of access only made the payoff better.

I fondly remember at one point losing access to the computer due to burglary, and looking forward to every visit to the library to use one of their computers. Everything about those library visits only reinforced how the heart of that joy was in how a personal computer was the Stargate that brought me closer to the things that I loved, while connecting me to others that enjoyed it. Scenes would emerge in the form of discussions, fan fiction, fan films, etc. Even though there was an unmanageable list of bookmarks saved, it still felt like I had a greater intimacy with every page. It never felt like the world was the web, simply that it was a source of enrichment (and escape) from the world outside of it.

The very companies that contributed to this exploration are now the ones devouring it. Smartphones have taken the helm of destroying the exploratory bliss, relegating it to nostalgia for those that experienced it, and niche curiosity for those that did not. Gone is the era where the default experience of exploring a computer itself felt like a sacred experience. Now, the experience of interfacing with the internet is met as an unexceptional experience. The default is now taking out a smartphone and using it to distract from the present. An illusion is created that attempts to convince users that they are seeing is the world, not a simple representation of it. When content consumption is driven by pure engagement, the goal of the content provider is to take as much of the user’s time as possible. The model sets the foundation for creating an experience where a user is to live on the platform, in contrast to simply visiting it. Smartphone gamification ensures that even if the device isn’t in hand, a clever notification is ready to nudge the user back to the device. Toddlers have devices placed in front of them, normalizing the experience of using devices solely for the consumption of content. With the death of exploration comes the death of the imagination required to conjure up new and truly empowering possibilities.

In place of that joy are cycles of increasingly extreme hype about innovations designed to be the center of engagement, instead of a complement to everyday experience. Hype is a byproduct of a deeper desire users will always have to find empowerment through the use of technology. That desire has increasingly been co-opted in favor of the attention economy, divorced from what’s best for most consumers. This distortion of incentives encourages the myth-making that is unconcerned with the disasters left behind.

I've had a gripe for sometime with how irresponsible builders can be in assuming most people will gravitate to the reasonable use cases of a product. It’s profitable game theory, and it’s why the generations that are harmed the most are the most far-removed from the positions of influence that tech’s business leaders occupy. With many recent innovations comes an increasing detachment between the user experience and how the device works. What this trains people to do is not to question the modes of consumption given to them. The user's in turn offer less feedback as to how things can be done better. It gives the hype drivers more power, to a point of ensuring that useless technologies such as cryptocurrency never die in the public imagination.

Where do we go from here?

With the low-hanging fruit of attention increasingly monetized, it requires an individualist approach to rise above the noise. The choices are:

1. Luddism

2. Mitigation

3. Submission

I’m an advocate for option two. Sticking my head in the sand would be easier, but it leads to having less adaptability to the way in which the culture shifts due to popular habits. It’s still of value to anticipate change. Rising tides in political populism are much easier to explain when the propaganda can move more quickly than facts. I’ve come to realize that empowerment as a theme is what stood out the most in those early years of computational bliss. Like nostalgia, it’s never the specifics, but the big picture. When information is easier to access, it’s also easier to make. It will take a great collective sigh for the needed exhaustion to arise for widespread mitigation. There are promising signs of this with the rise of smartphone bans in school. Our current usage —when accepted without question — is a brain rot incubator. Without the intentional introduction of friction to content consumption, screen time will disempower us all.

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Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One really hit that sweet spot between build up and payoffs. It gave me the impression that we were in for something comparable in the follow-up. I loved the non-stop action from beginning to end, with no dramatic scene taking away from the pacing, providing enough (bathroom) breaks in the action. The introduction of new characters, such as Grace (Hayley Atwell) and Paris (Pom Klementieff), brought fresh energy to the cast (compensation for the removal of Rebecca Ferguson).

Within the first five minutes of Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning, I knew it was going to be a disappointment. There's no reason this should have been two hours and forty-nine minutes long. The mission briefing managed to be the least interesting I've seen. It manages to summarize the previous film to a degree unnecessary, while also providing uninspired plot elements, like an always online death cult (which goes nowhere meaningful). I am aware that the Mission Impossible films are not meant to be anything other than set-up for action set pieces. Looking at the poster of the film, it gives the purest representation of what these films are: Tom Cruise's Stunt Extravaganza. While the movie does deliver on this, it decidedly takes the laziest routes to its set-pieces compared to the previous entries.

"Final" entries like this are always at risk of feeling like a limp last gasp. The feeling of completion can't help but be euphoric for those making the entry, but it's easy to take the hands off the wheel. It feels like there was less investment in maintaining prior standards, and it also feels like there were too many cooks in the kitchen on how to "end" the story. The film desperately wants the audience to connect the film to previous entries with multiple call-backs. Tactics used to force continuity include: showing clips from previous films, connecting McGuffins that were never intended to be reused (like M:I:III’s Rabbit's Foot), and bringing back one-off characters. While this could have been fun, these attempts feel half-hearted and last minute. I would have liked to have seen Christopher McQuarrie have more confidence in the momentum of the previous film and start with a focus on simply continuing its action.

The action set-pieces are ultimately what makes or break a Mission Impossible. This entry also disappoints in that regard, but it doesn't lack in effort. Despite the greater runtime, there are only two major set pieces: an underwater fetch quest and a midair brawl between dueling planes. Both are excellent on their own, but what they lack is the active involvement of the other cast members. What made the action sequences fun in the last entry was Atwell's ability to play off Cruise. Cruise, at this point in the films (and his career) is really playing a hollow version of himself. Ethan Hunt had peak character development between Mission: Impossible (1996) and Mission: Impossible III. The character since has become increasingly devoid of depth, largely there to move the action forward. Cruise's performances as Hunt increasingly matches this shift, with a feeling of growing disengagement. The best thing about it is that he does step aside for other performers. This does make me wish that they got rid of Hunt much earlier. At this point, it feels like the films have been held back by Cruise, buoyed by his willingness to go to extremes for stunts and the box office draw he provides. Hopefully, by him now stepping back, they take more chances to reinvent the franchise.

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What always moves me about Sense8 is its central theme of empathy. The show's sci-fi concept revolves around individuals all over the world having a shared psychic connection. This connection allows them to share their lived experiences through mind and body. The concept is taken full advantage of with a wide diversity of characters. They share everything: emotions, visions, and physical sensations. The show begins with the characters going through a discovery process of their abilities. What their abilities as "sensates" lead to is the radical acceptance of each other and a heightened ability to tackle any obstacle they face. It leads to the increasing acceptance of themselves individually, with surprising (and often humorous) effects on their family and friends. What always brings me back to the show is the yearning for that same acceptance and the ability to share it with others. It's a very human desire, and the show isn't afraid to show just how messy it could be.

It really is one of the most bold explorations from the Wachowskis, with the help of writers: J. Michael Straczynski, David Mitchell, and Aleksandar Hemon. It wears its progressive view of inclusion on its sleeve, and it also provides a more intimate and direct expression of the Wachowskis' personal experiences as trans women. The sensate ability itself is a sci-fi expression of neurodivergence, an umbrella concept that allows for easy projection from anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider. What the main characters face over the entire series are high stakes that arise from attempts to persecute them for being who they are. These are themes that have been constant throughout the filmography of the Wachowskis.

Global scale, production complexity

The global scale of the production is highly ambitious and hard to fathom in Netflix's current era. The fact that Netflix was willing to invest in the production speaks to the more liberal and experimental processes of greenlighting shows in the 2010s. While the scale of the show is one of its greatest strengths, it also resulted in its undoing.

It isn't an effects or CGI heavy sci-fi, instead relying almost entirely on concept and practical effects for its action sequences. What results is an experience remarkably grounded and often times sensual. This allows for just the right variety of dramatic set-pieces without clashing with intimate conversation. With the choice to film on-location, different parts of the world are depicted to display the cultures of each character as authentically as possible. This sounds like a logistical nightmare, with actors being flown all over the world in order to physically appear in visitations with other sensates. It pays off on screen, as every performer is generous with their scene partner, leading to truly intimate and surreal relationships.

The audience can easily fill in the blanks of their sensates implied abilities when needed, without feeling as if being cheated by the promise of something more elaborate. The greatest joy is in watching the characters respond to their circumstances. When a sensate decides to help another in distress, the two are simultaneously experiencing the moment, allowing for fun back and forth banter between the characters. Their abilities also allow an actor to step into the shoes of another, showing where they excel in place of the other sensate. A clever trick, for intimate character development, is that we rarely see more than two sensates in a sequence at a time. For production purposes, it keeps things lean without making the scale feel too small. It also inspires unique relationship dynamics in the group that otherwise would get lost in ensemble sequences. Ensemble sequences feel much more special as a result. When all the sensates in a "cluster" are together, it usually means the stakes of their survival are high and a major story beat is underway.

Radical empathy in action

While there is plenty of action, the show is primarily a character drama. Deep background knowledge of every character is explored: upbringings, relationships, desires, fears. Every messy detail that is often exchanged in the closest of relationships, is put on full display. It’s the moments when a character is vulnerable and willing to talk about how the past shaped them, that makes the show special. The most notable of these sequences is had between the characters of Naomi (Jamie Clayton) and Lito (Miguel Ángel Silvestre):

This sequence truly embodies the heart of the show. My first time watching it, these moments provided a cathartic space of being unapologetically heard, a space I needed at that time. That is part of the reason why the cancellation stung so much. It’s a feeling that resonates with fans of the show so much, that we managed one of the few successful campaigns to get the show the conclusion it deserved after a pre-mature cancellation. It’s a show that doesn’t run away from its imperfections. It’s so clear watching it that the cast truly got along with each other like a family, a chemistry no doubt encouraged by the Wachowskis on set. Sense8 feels like a show caught between the style of pre-streaming cable dramas and the cinematic styling that now dominants Netflix. I doubt Netflix is recommending the show actively on anyone’s homepage now, but it’s an appropriate recommendation for anyone celebrating Pride this month. Very few shows on the platform give their characters this level of attention, especially for a concept so risky. That feeling is what makes it so unlike anything I see on the platform now, and I will always cherish it for the sheer joy it brings me every rewatch.

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More thoughts on the Wachowskis…

Tragedies, burnout, and many surprises will interrupt a creative habit.

The periods of my life where my creative output was highest, were the periods where my mental health was most intact. I’ve stagnated for a long-time, under the impression that I simply lost interest in creative work due to desiring more material security. While this does play a big role in where my energy goes, I’ve only recently learned I had unaccounted for major gaps in my mental health. Many of the struggles that I had staying motivated went back to feelings of deep inadequacy and shame of those factors. Taking advantage of more health care options did require that I pursue non-creative paths. I underestimated just how much my mental health played a role in keeping my creativity alive.

It takes a great deal of self-preservation in order to create the lifestyle that incubates more creativity. The need for material security, combined with the desire for validation of one's work, always creates an obstructive tension to the work itself. There is always a block around the corner. There will never be a point when blocks aren’t present. The war is ensuring those blocks don’t become weapons of self-destruction. There is more to life than simply making art, but living life well is an art. We imbue it with meaning as a painter applies paint to a blank canvas. Stepping away for a while is nothing to be ashamed of. Doing so requires its own bravery, especially when it's easy to overly attach to the identity of being an artist. Building such an identity comes with its own value, but there is a tendency for that identity to become its own mask, distorting the work that needs to be done.

The creative process is not easy, and any interpretation of it that claims so is not to be trusted. There are periods between ease that are always a reminder that without a process, work will grind to a halt. The lack of process is another major reason most give up on creative work. So if life is a creative project, what does one’s life require? Process. There are countless self-help books that can be found to find examples. What matters is that the work starts and never stops.

When I took a break after many years of not consistently writing and creating work, coming back was like submerging myself in an ice bath. While I always gave myself credit for periods of being productive and industrious, I really underestimated how mental health is key for creative motivation. When mental health is a priority, it forces a degree of accommodation that embraces self-care. A process needs to change with the artist, or it otherwise becomes a prison made by a previous self. Sometimes the process is no longer a good fit, and when new needs are uncovered, maybe it was never a good fit all along. It might be seen as heroic to suffer for the sake of appearing effortless, but when the validation is gone, all that is left are the consequences.

Put your health first, and what was once war will instead become a path to peace.

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What makes The Warriors click for me is how, at its heart, it's an epic poem. A bunch of underdogs faced with enemies from all sides, guided by the simple desire to make it back to their "homeland". As far as the audience knows, these guys weren't on anybody's radar. Based out of Coney Island, it's not hard to imagine. Enemies were just a handful in their past, and now every gang in the city is gunning for them.

I found the film at my local video store, roughly in 2004. It was one of the last VHS tapes I've ever rented. What likely set my interest off was either previews or ads of the respective video game listed in a magazine that year. What was harder to miss was the fact the game was being developed by Rockstar Games. It was only just the early aughts, and Grand Theft Auto was already a household name. I felt like Rockstar could do no wrong when I heard they were doing an adaptation of the film. It felt like the stars were aligning for me to find the Warriors at that time in my life.

It's a film that drips with a late 1970s New York aesthetic, with a vibrant infusion of color punctuating the darkness of the night. Every gang’s outfits are easily distinguishable, with every color scheme touched upon. It's safe to say that there's very little risk of friendly fire whenever brawls break out. Their looks give the experience a heightened, mystical feel. The contrast of the grungy environments and the suggestion of violence at every turn grounds the look, keeping it from breaking out into excessive camp, but campy it still is.

Few films define its characters as well as the cast here. Within the first moments, we get distinct representations of their personalities, hearing hot takes on their journey to the heart of the city. Their distinctions are not just in personality but in personal appearance. What we get is physical, racial, and fashion diversity between each member. Some peacock more than others, others let their body language do the work, but there's no difficulty telling who's who (especially Cowboy with his Stetson). Their predicament and the immediate understanding of the characters creates a greater level of connection, making them easy to root for as they face every successive challenge, while also fearing for their lives at every turn1. Being with this gang for a night, feels like being let into an exclusive club. It’s easy to identify with a member of the group and project everyone else you know on the others. When shared with someone else, it creates an instant bonding experience.

I fondly remember in the mid-2000s getting involved in the Warriors film fan community. The Warriors spark a fierce dedication for anyone who falls in love with them. When I found a forum dedicated to the film, it felt like finding a second home. Looking back, it was easily the most inviting fan community I can recall diving into. It was in stark contrast to the prepubescent flash film communities I engaged with at the time. Those communities suffered from an excessively edgy disposition, overrun with exclusion and conformity expected from the losers heading the pack. Even the mere mention of black or urban culture brought deep eye rolls (and sometimes outright harassment). That was a non-issue in the Warriors fan community, in large part because the film itself is racially diverse, from its leads, all the way down to its extras. It makes the gender swapping in the recent musical a non-issue.

The film’s cult has had a long history of investment in rap and hip-hop. It isn’t hard to find kindred spirits. Hamilton’s Lin-Manuel Miranda is one of those kin. Along with Eisa Davis, one of my favorite records of 2024 ended up being the wildcard concept album devised by the two aptly named Warriors. Our heroes are gender swapped, forming a smaller crew, resulting in even more underdog status. Hearing it for the first time, I was elated at just how clear it is that Davis and Miranda understand the soul of what makes The Warriors work. It’s an album that leans heavily into how much the film is a vivid snapshot of a particular time in New York, with its influences still felt today. The musical’s team cut a cultural slab of what makes New York such a rich and culturally diverse epicenter of influence. As a complement to the film, it provides more color to the psyche of characters that aren’t as fleshed out. As a fan, it sets a new tone that feels like added world-building.

I’m never expecting a Warriors tribute, but if it’s coming at all, the chances of passion being the driver are always high. Tributes like the musical and game serve the film, without attempting to change a single thing about it. This model is always superior to vapid efforts to remake or reboot a property. I’m proud to be a part of a fan community that can have such reverence without constant squabbling, just mere appreciation.

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Based on the book of the same name, the TV series Gomorrah (2014-2021) etched itself into my mind as one of the most nightmarish depictions of a criminal underworld. It truly feels like living in a circle of hell, only to travel down deeper as the show pushes each character towards oblivion.

Despite my experiences watching many other crime dramas, it struck me how coldly it depicts violence. Many crime shows have a sensationalist relationship to violence. There’s a tendency towards passion in the act. Someone, somewhere, does something stupid, and has to pay the consequences for it. It’s easiest to blend a sense of action movie vengeance and style. In stories like The Godfather, the theme of family is central to the story. Whenever something happens to the Corleone’s, it doesn’t feel like business, it’s personal. As dark as Breaking Bad is, seeing organized crime through the eyes of Walter White makes it easy to empathize with him. He creates a power fantasy that makes it easy to imagine being in his shoes. We’re taken on a journey that’s done so well, an entire segment of the audience will forever vindicate the actions of Walter. One thing Gomorrah doesn’t do, is convince the audience that the people involved are anything other than cold apparatuses of a much bigger machine. It takes place in a culture completely divorced from Americana, creating a novel perspective on how organized crime works in Naples.

With the long history of depicting the Sicilian Mafia (Cosa Nostra) in western media, most westerners don't know about the other major Italian crime organization: The Camorra. Gomorrah follows the fictional participants immersed in the lesser-known, but highly influential organization, notorious enough to be sanctioned by the Obama administration in 2012. The Camorra engages in many of the same rackets as similar organizations. The show’s main focus is on its most profitable racket, drug trafficking. The heart of its operation thrives in the housing projects called the Le Vele di Scampia. It’s an unforgettable location, a monument to brutalist architecture. The show specifically uses the real building known as the Vela Rossa. It’s easy to feel crushed by the oppression of its corridors, and hard to imagine that a life in such a place could be anything other than bleak. It provides the perfect labyrinth for a Camorra operation to hide its activities, with the show depicting members of the gang often enacting the entire pipeline (packing, distribution, and money counting) all next to neighbors that can’t help but be privy to the activity. With so little economic activity in these environments, it’s not difficult to imagine that being a part of it is the only way to put food on the table.

What I enjoy about the show is how painfully unglamorous the depiction of crime is. When characters create a life on top of others’ suffering, the life they create feels hollow. There's a gaudy tackiness that often colors their homes and wardrobes as spoils. The cinematography ensures dark and crushed hues permeate their environments, an added reminder of the inescapable cold heartlessness of the world they live in. The fact that no character is ever safe, that unrestrained horror is around every corner, pushes the viewer into the survival mindset of these characters.

As with other crime dramas, there’s plenty of on-screen death. There's a haunting quality to the way these deaths are handled. The show routinely pivots narrative focus to different characters for each episode. There are moments of humanity that occur in showing the relationships of characters to others, both in and out of the game. What results is a growing empathy with that character. To feel the slightest bit of empathy for a character is to invite inevitable disappointment, and yet it’s a seductive compulsion, like watching a train wreck. When a death comes, it feels like a hammer. Throughout the show, with only a few players who make it to the end, a feeling of gradual loss builds up over time. Each character's death destroyed a part of me. By the end of the show, there's this strong feeling of mournful emptiness that the final players can't help but embody, sharing with the audience an understanding of how senseless the violence really is. Money and power are their gods, but with no room for the people of worship.

The prince of the starting crime family, Gennaro (Salvatore Esposito), start's the show in a position of comfortable privilege, living on the fortune and reputation of his ruthless father, Pietro. To preserve the family, he is forced to develop the evil required to survive. His character is the most tragic in the show. A man who clearly wouldn’t have chosen the life if given a choice. The horror of his journey is watching the enormity of psychological repression he is forced to endure, to make the transition into being a proper boss. The brilliance in Esposito's performance is how there is always a level of underlying pain and discomfort he's in, enhanced with the added touch of constant stimming through the use of his ring to offset discomfort.

So why play the game at all? These characters are often born into it. The environments of their youth offered only a sink or swim response to the game. This is very similar to the depiction of the criminals in The Wire. Living outside of "the game" means living a life of seeming mediocrity in exchange for avoiding the worst of the highs and lows. It also means not being protected when wolves are knocking at the door. When looking at characters like Ciro (Marco D'Amore) and Pietro (Fortunato Cerlino), there is clear appreciation they harbor for the game in the way that they deftly pursue their aims. These are men who are committed to it for life, including all of its horrors. For them, it's the hyper fixation of chess players, willing to sacrifice even their family if it means having more resources to make the next move. The result is an inability to have a relationship with another person without it being influenced by extreme trauma, grief, and abuse. There are no barriers of civilian life safety for their families, no matter how hard they try to keep the other wolves out. When it comes to the bonds between criminals, there’s always deep mutual resentment; fondness is determined by how much a character would rather burn in hell with the other, as opposed to a solitary pit.

The characters of the show never want to admit that they simply want something better for themselves. The level of repression and self-loathing runs deep and colors every action. The unmistakable hole of emotional longing for a better life grows greater with every evil deed, always present, always denied. It’s a deeply human experience and the soul of all of its horror.

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I've just finished Barry again. It's always great to revisit a show that has a strong run from start to finish. Each character goes through a massive shift between the first and final season, reframing every choice they've made upon subsequent viewings. Barry ran between 2018 and 2023, with four seasons, 32 episodes total, each running roughly 30 minutes. A show packed with that level of substance in such a short-run is magic. Shows that are twice it's size often don't come close to pulling that off.

With its juxtaposition of dark humor and sincere comedy, it’s easy to get lost in the details and miss the broader themes at play. Barry is a pure tragicomedy. The most easily recognizable iconography of the performing arts are the masks that represent comedy and tragedy. The show embraces this, by having an assassin, far removed from the world of stage acting, take on the mask of being an actor. It’s this irreconcilable absurdity that drives the show’s humor. What keeps the concept from becoming a gimmick is the willingness to ensure complete tragic consequence for the characters’ actions. I’m assuming if you’re reading this that you’ve seen the show an all its glory (if not, get on that).

Spoilers below

The first time I watched it, I appreciated that the final fates of each character, especially Cousineau. Upon second viewing, it becomes clear that they were all at high risk of making the mistakes that they did. The vanity that came with their masks always had a long history of undermining them. The show really understands the dubious nature of self-image. No character is free from consequences.

• Barry is a hired killer that wants to define his life as a normal guy.

• Sally craves validation for her talent that can erase the trauma of her upbringing.

• Cousineau wants everyone to see him as a great actor, no matter how horribly he treats them.

• Hank wants to succeed in a criminal underworld that is incapable of accepting him for who he is.

• Fuches wants the loyalty and love of someone who’s unwilling to see him for who he claims to be.

I love every character, but it’s safe to say the Fuches is my favorite. When faced with what seems like a post-retirement paradise of being in the arms of a loving woman, living a simple life in the country, he bolts the moment he’s reminded of his desire for vengeance. Such actions seem petty and foolish at first. It becomes clear that he was simply being true to himself.

In a show where every character lies to themselves about who they are, Fuches ultimately survives and finds success in the underworld because he commits to it fully. Despite, not having a level of investment in organized crime, like Hank or Cristobal, he forges ahead and outlives them. His true desires offer no conflict with the final mask he chooses to wear, even if he stumbles into it. The lower he goes into the pit, the more at home he is.

What makes Barry compelling with its entire cast of characters is that none are truly doomed to their fate. They make mistakes every step of the way, but there are clear crossroads where there are better options for them to take. These moments test whether they'd rather live in favor of the mask, or in favor of their authentic selves. There are massive downsides to both paths, but the hell of inauthenticity is always a nightmare of delaying the inevitable.

I've found the timing of my rewatch even more compelling as I've explored the concept of unmasking more for my own mental health. There are constant pressures culturally for people to hit their mark and say their lines, deeply feeling that if they fail to do so, their needs won’t be met. It can be a matter of life and death. Despite how monstrous Barry is, there is something inherently relatable to watching him do everything in his power to convince himself that if he simply performs the role of being a "normal" guy, reality will simply conform to that performance (“starting…now”).

There is a magickal power to the act of masking. Comedy and tragedy are derived from the fact that masking doesn't absolve one from the consequences of their actions, and murder is an absolutely the hardest thing to outrun (no matter how many podcasters convince you that it’s a totally okay thing to do):

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1. Find a niche you have no passion for.

2. Network with reputable insiders you can deceive.

3. Exploit an unassuming fan base you despise.

4. Repeat steps 2 and 3 until reaching financial goals.

5. Burn the house down on your way out.

When thinking about the path that I want to take as a content creator, I can't help but think about Finn McKenty. He's someone who managed to build a massive following on a hyper-focused niche of providing highly accessible deep dives into alternative rock scenes. His most popular content leaned into the virality of the platform, covering musicians of interest to a wider audience. Despite his success, his most popular content couldn't help but be the work he was least passionate about. At first, it seemed like he undertook a burden I could empathize with. YouTube viewers will typically not be into the type of exploratory content that he "enjoyed" making the most. Unless an initial creator brand is established and maintained as exploratory, making the shift later on is outright rejected. Little did I know, and most of his audience, is that the very narrative of struggle he had was by design.

Finn McKenty is a total fraud that doesn't care about the music he covered. He outright took his content from Wikipedia level depth and spun it. This kind of approach is much more common in the video format than it is in written formats, as content creators on advertiser-driven platforms have an incentive to spin information in a less varied way. Fewer people will outright read an article compared to watching a video, offering more power to creators who can comfortably shortcut their way into views.

The fact that he doesn't like music or his fans, means the Golden Handcuffs of Virality he wore were willingly put on by design. His aim? Milk the entire fan base to reach financial goals, then bail in favor of starting a consulting business on LinkedIn, relishing in the LinkedIn lunacy, swapping one mask for another. On some level, I'm morbidly fascinated. He took the cynicism that is often applied to traditional full-time employment, and applied to it, content creation. It's the reverse of what many 9-to-5 workers do, which is quit for the sake of full-time content creation. What's clever about it, is that he wore an extreme mask of "authenticity" to achieve it. He wore this mask so tightly, that I'm simply incapable of imagining the broken glass discomfort that I would have to tolerate doing the same thing. It speaks to a depth of condescension towards everyone he entertained and collaborated with.

There’s an unavoidable temptation in growing a brand to pursue all the growth hacks imaginable. It’s easy to imagine that with the right damage, taking the McKenty route would be a no-brainer. It’s not like the guy has to worry about being cancelled; he never cared about his audience in the first place. People willingly gave him attention, and he profited off it with the means available. Every platform has its own incentives.

One of the reasons I'm drawn to having a Substack is that it allows me to share my passions in my preferred format, knowing that what truly I care about has reach. It's easier to connect with other writers, many of them with similar interests. I'm also incentivized to be a better writer. If someone is subscribed to my Substack, it's all the validation I need to know that my writing has a chance to be seen; otherwise they wouldn't have subscribed. I'd rather have modest success, knowing I'll still get that support from the right people — over chasing an audience that is fickle and passive.

Having a clear focus on branding and topics helps a great deal, but what makes the Substack community special is the fact that eccentric detours are embraced. I don't feel like I have to hold on to viral bursts, knowing that I can build an audience gradually over time, an audience that I respect. When I feel myself straying from the path into writing content I don’t like, I just tell myself is: “Don’t be a Finn McKenty”.

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Without seeing the marketing material, it'd be easy to start the film under the assumption it’s for a safe palette. It starts with a meet-cute between two attractive young people at a grocery store, Iris (Sophie Thatcher) and Josh (Jack Quaid). They exist in their own world, suspiciously alone in the store, with gazes entirely dedicated to each other. We then flash-forward to them as a couple that has been together for some time, all the rom-com fare having taken place off-screen; the two now heading to a cabin to meet friends. What starts out as an innocent rom-com takes a twisted turn into horror, when Josh makes Iris a sacrificial pawn in a criminal conspiracy. Companion is a film about male possessiveness of women and a backlash that leads to our heroine’s liberation. It facilitates this with the sci-fi premise of having the protagonist be a “companion” android; a manufactured object meant to service a male consumer.

At the start of the story, Iris is under complete control of her Josh. Josh isn’t content with having the world’s best fleshlight, nor is he content with the gaze of a woman that unquestionably “loves” him. His hunger for more spreads outward, destroying everything around him, like a radioactive leak.

This isn’t a subtle film, nor does it need to be. The film has a breezy feel to contrast its dark touch: vivid bright colors, attractive leads, stylish fashion, and lavish interiors. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, with plenty of the comedic jabs at how petty and foolish the human leads are. There is gore and violence, but it doesn’t feel excessive or oppressive. It’s quite shocking in contrast with the initial tone, a fun gotcha for anyway who isn’t expecting it. When a character meets their end, it’s a part of a messy series of fuck-ups, reminiscent of a Coen Brother’s outing. This series of violent accidents serves one purpose: to dramatize the severity of action and trauma necessary for Iris to break the chains of the role she’s expected to play.

I couldn’t help but compare it to Ex Machina (2014). As much as I love that film, it’s clearly targeted at a male audience, without an emphasis on patriarchal critique. Philosophically, this film doesn’t take a full dive into the ghost in the machine concept. There’s no hard sci-fi explanation as to why Iris is developing consciousness, and there’s no need to. To be novel in that department, it would need to bring something new to the discussion. I admit that upon watching it, I was expecting such a turn to happen. The absence of such exploration makes the film more accessible. The journey of Iris could easily be a fantasy story. Instead of the sci-fi elements, there could be a marginalized Pinocchio alongside a misogynist Geppetto. Iris’ role as a companion isn’t defined by her hardware, but by the roles she’s expected to play in a patriarchal world, defined by the seeds of expectation through her programming. It’s a story that’s fun enough to be a date-night flick, while also being thought-provoking enough for a late-night convo.

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On April 1st, at CinemaCon, Apple Corps Ltd. announced that Sam Mendes will be directing a four - film epic biographical series about The Beatles (tentative release for April 2028). For years, I've run around in my head with ideas about how a biographical film effort could be pulled off. I realized at some point that the safest choice would always be the wrong one. Thankfully, the Beatles themselves have had enough control over their rights to prevent the lowest common denominator efforts from diminishing their legacy. The people who "get" the Beatles don't see them as Disney, white bread, Coca-Cola safe. It's a massive relief to see that we're getting something that appropriately meets the epic scope of how the band occupies our minds, while also providing something that will be novel and intimate.

Seeing that Sam Mendes is directing caused a sigh of relief. I've largely enjoyed his works that I've seen (except for Spectre). I appreciate his handle of period pieces, with 1917 being a clear stand out.

The cast announcement is mostly familiar to me, with Mescal, Keoghan, and Quinn. I'm happy with all of these choices, especially Keoghan. The specific deviousness he excels at is perfect for Ringo, and I can't wait to see how he blends it with the warm, anchoring magnetism signature of the drummer. I can "see" Mescal bring the sincerity of McCartney after his performance as Lucius in Gladiator II. Quinn has already acted beside Mescal in that respective film. He wasn't given much to do in that film, doing his best to breathe life into an otherwise uninteresting villain. I enjoyed him most as Eddie in Stranger Things. His performance there worked for me, and I hope that he can bring that vulnerability to his Harrison performance. The only question mark for me is Dickinson. I've yet to see any of his performances, something that I will remedy before making a verdict on his casting as Lennon.

This will be a massive undertaking that has to convince people who aren't Beatles fans, such as myself, that we need more than one film. This is especially the case, with films for Harrison and Starr. A proper embrace of each member will be stylistically and narratively distinct enough to feel that it isn't repetitive. I suspect the success of No Direction Home and its approach played a major part in getting this greenlit. I've also been through a Dylan phase and felt that film excelled the most when it felt like a hang-out movie in days of his life. The "fly on the wall" instinct is the most powerful when looking back at such impactful artists. Fans simply want to be in the same rooms. The numerous archives of footage of the artists on the road, the center of attention for the entire culture, and maintaining some sense of charm and humanity in the face of it is what makes their legacy enduring. Fans can see themselves in the Beatles as they navigate their sudden success. I'm quite confident that Mendes will ensure we get much more than a glorified Wikipedia article.

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As a writer and someone learning to code, I’ve been exposed to two fronts that are constantly advertised as being under threat of displacement by AI. The speed of innovation, combined with investor incentive, presents an upward pressure of concern and uproar. The most popular iteration of AI, Language Models (LMs), provoking the greatest concern. The good news for writers, artists, software developers, etc. is that language models are too dumb to be a credible threat.

I've found much more success with LMs when I use them as tools that compel me to think critically. Instead of telling an LM "write an insightful post that is less than 300 characters", it becomes: "Give me an insightful idea to write about". The difference between the two is that the former provides an unimaginative solution; the latter provides no usable output, but acts as a prompt to create work by my own efforts. The result is a post I can be proud of making, less concern of writer's block, and no concern about the originality of my own output.

Word by word creativity is just as important as the big picture. As a writer develops their voice, the more intricate those decisions become. I don't condemn people for writing completely with an LM, but there are still levels of depth and complexity that LMs are incapable of producing, at least at this stage. Even if LMs can write poetry, like AI-generated art, it's simply because LMs are most advanced at mimicry. The healthy relationship to a work isn't just the consumption process itself, but the intimate knowledge of knowing it was created by another person. This artist-audience relationship will not be replaced. It's a relief for anyone getting into the creative process, as the aim should be to provide work that is truly interesting. Only artists with little interest in providing work of enduring value have to be concerned. The hardest part about these transitory stages is the premature rush to automate away labor and the scars in can produce in the workforce.

For contrast, in software development, learning to create code that isn't understood doesn't make someone more knowledgeable, it makes them more of a liability, and that is the default of using LM generated code as a beginner. Most business problems to be solved with code are hugely consequential. There are systems that provide critical functions that require the developer to understand the code from top to bottom. Normalizing an inability to understand what's written ensures that the burden of comprehension falls heavier on more experienced developers. The stakes of this only increase when it comes to security and privacy concerns.

This is why efforts to get new software developers to normalize the use of LM can be perilous to their long-term growth. I am not hard line against the use of LMs, but the use has to be supportive of the learning process. Socratic self-prompting is a great example of how to effectively leverage it for learning. Khanmigo from Khan Academy and Boots from Boot.dev are great examples of how to do this right. Both chatbots will help someone to break down how to solve a problem Socratically, thinking through the problem step-by-step in a question driven way, without providing an answer.

All answers produced by an LM are simply pattern recognized solutions based on a sea of use cases that may be entirely irreverent to what the user is attempting to do. The more novice code generated, the more the novice robs themselves of the critical thinking required to solve increasingly harder and complex problems. Developer Rudis Muiznieks puts it succinctly:

Serial script kiddies want to be big boy hackers, but they'll never accomplish that by running scripts. The real big boy hackers are the ones writing those scripts—the ones exploring, probing, and truly understanding the vulnerabilities being exploited. Serial AI coders may want to be big boy developers, but by letting predictive text engines write code for them they're hurting the chances of that ever happening. At least for now, the real big boy developers are the ones writing code that those predictive text engines are training on.

I've been there. Nothing is more humiliating than feeling like you're more capable than you actually are, by routinely scumming solutions with AI, only to have it crash down all around you when put to the test without those tools. Most beginners, when faced with that wall-hit, will tuck their tail between their legs and give up on learning all together. What this results in is a sea of people who give up prematurely, never to return. This same group of learners could have stuck with it, had they simply assumed it would be hard in the first place. The only reason I’ve stuck in there is that I did just enough to learn before the popularity of LMs, discovering that I had a genuine passion for learning to code as a whole. I'm still very much early in my development, but with every greater challenge I face, minimal to no assistance of AI affirms my ability to actually do the work.

Despite many who will be more inclined to not appreciate these thinking and working processes, the very work is the means to its own end. The process of creating changes the people who create. One does not need to be advanced in their ability to benefit from making efforts to learn the hard way. Responsible education efforts for AI usage shouldn’t take a back seat to the speed of innovation in the industry. These efforts can avoid being an impediment to progress. Innovations should be encouraged to intervene on the behalf of learners, to ensure that the joy of creating itself is preserved.

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Discovering this band felt like being hit by a lighting bolt. I no longer try to explore a genre from head to toe upon discovery. There was a time when, if something like post-punk was put in from of me, I'd basically scour the Wikipedia of the genre for all the noteworthy groups (Joy Division, The Fall, Public Image Ltd., etc.) and ingest it all. Doing so could unintentionally create a distance, where I'd have a more surface connection to the music over a more intimate one. The same trap would also occur when I'd listen to an entire band's discography right way, often over the span of days or weeks. I've avoided the trap with bands I connect to most, but it's an easy trap when music is so readily available. Over time, I've moved away from taking genres and discographies on at once in favor of a more fragmented approach: simply finding an album that feels right and focusing my attention on what it is. Doing this long enough has led me down a road where the music only feels increasingly deeper over time.

A band that easily fell through the cracks in the early exploration of post-punk is The Sound. Fronted by Adrian Borland, this is the band that was at the bottom of the laundry list of acts often discussed in the genre, especially during the aughts, when many other millennials were devouring as much of these genres as they could through CDs and file-sharing. They're the kind of band that forms an immediate impression with the strength of Borland's undeniable magnetism in performance and composition. This is the band that feels like an amalgamation of everything I could possibly want from the genre and in a band.

The firs time I heard "Winning", it struck me for hitting every conceivable feeling of defiant resilience in the face of adversity. It felt like the soundtrack to my life at the time. It isn't tinged with the typical joyousness that comes with such easily celebratory sentiment. The driving bass from Graham Bailey and Borland's soulful delivery evokes a profound understanding of the very stakes involved in losing the battle against the quiet hum of suffering. The act of "Winning" isn't easy, it's excruciatingly difficult, and yet there is an essential tribute that must be paid to the pain of that journey. "Winning" is a sonic cathedral that pays respect to that process.

It's impossible to talk about the band without mentioning Borland's tragic fate. He was an artist of great potential that lost the battle with his declining mental health, likely due to schizoaffective disorder. He took his own life and is now a part of the "tortured genius" canon, a narrative that I absolutely despise no matter the artist, but it's inescapable. What's resulted is a long, morbid shadow that casts a shadow over the band's work. The theme present in "Winning" takes on another meaning when seen as a soundtrack to better days in struggling with mental health. It's a deeply relatable sentiment, even if the personal struggle isn't Borland's diagnosis. Songs such as "Whirlpool" casts this struggle with a wider net, speaking in terms of generational peers that are lost to the "Whirlpool" that "takes the best of us". It's a warning, working in contrast to the sense of victory in "Winning". No matter the wins, there's no "Sense of Purpose" in the spin of failing health and misfortune that can befall anyone at any time.

There are always easily inferred allusions to this battle throughout their work. These echoes can be heard in tracks like "I Can’t Escape Myself":

So many feelings

Pent up in here

Left all alone, I'm with

The one I most fear

I'm sick and I'm tired

Of reasoning

Just want to break out

Shake off this skin

I, I can't

Escape myself

It cuts to the deep angst of those first and many bursts of growing pains that come with entering young adulthood. It can be as a soundtrack to the battle with the ego, a pained dark night with the soul. With awareness of Borland's battles, it's a cry of agony with the horrors of constrained agency that comes with an inescapable disorder.

A song that comes even closer to disclosing Borland's disorder, "Party of The Mind":

He details what could easily be an expressive list of symptoms for the feeling others dancing around in his mind. A scene is drawn of disparate figures of different personalities and motivations coming together to have a party. With their presence comes chaos and an unnerving sense that "Some things aren't how they should be". It's a song that creates a danceable beat to the madness evoked, a constant pulse that feels like amphetamine. Borland's playing is jarring and rhythmic, becoming increasingly erratic and charged as the song progresses. By the end, screeching, chalkboard scratching sounds come in with a cacophony of voices, a sense of nefarious laughter and purpose. It's easily the darkest song in their discography, especially for anyone who's been unfortunate enough to have been touched, even temporarily, with the madness depicted.

There's a coolness to the feel of the Sound that keeps it from ever being excessively morbid. Adrian Borland is clearly a confident performer that rides the wave of the music as if he's leaning his entire being into it. Watching him perform is just as satisfying as listening to the music by itself. It's easy to see that he's feeling every bit of it throughout his body. At the same time, he extends a control over his body in its movements, taking to singing and playing guitar like he was born to it.

The band has another essential side to paint a complete picture. Despite the ease of fixating on the morbid, there are refreshing turns taken to the romantic. When Borland isn't meditating on struggle, he's pouring out his soul in longing for love that is just as a bit as strong, a complement for the desire of release from strife. My favorite example of this is "Counting the Days".

It's one of the most goose bump inducing songs I've ever heard. Borland's voice excels in swoon, with the balance of Bailey's bass as the beating heart. Mayer's keyboard blankets the song like lace curtains, and Dudley's driving beat creates a scene that is achingly vulnerable. This dream like blend is at peak excellence on the band's mid-run EP, Shock of Daylight. It's easily my favorite work from the band. It encapsulates the aural scope of the earliest and latest entries, providing an easy window into their work.

I am in eternal debt to something I don't understand for finding this band.

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I'm sure I'm one of the few handfuls of people that continually revisit the Matrix sequels. There's no question that the first one is the best, and it's also my favorite. There have been countless breakdowns as to everything the sequels do "wrong". I agree with most of the common complaints: poor pacing, ungraceful injections of philosophy, bland characterization, and the flat lining that comes with ending a sequel with a cliffhanger. Despite these blaring issues, I can't help but keep revisiting the films. There is a well of potential that these films sit at the precipice of, and it's the suggestion of that potential that keeps me coming back.

If you have the capacity for pain that I have, you learn to develop an appreciation for that space where things are not quite resolved, and the suggestion of resolution is just right beyond the horizon. When I watch the Matrix sequels, I obsess more about what they could've been than what I find wrong with them. None of this obsession makes me angry because I actually appreciate the effort that the Wachowski's put into the production. Every consecutive viewing, I can appreciate the effort and leap of faiths that they took more and more. These are incredibly ambitious films. While the first film takes the time to present a story that has philosophical depth, in a form that's digestible for a wider audience, the sequels go against that and concern themselves with pushing the story and themes in a more challenging manner. Honestly, they earned it. The Matrix was such a massive success as a film, as a story, etc. that there was really very little chance it could be topped. So why not do something different?

I have to clarify that I do have a nostalgic connection to the sequels that extend beyond the critique. These films came out at a time when I found myself feeling some semblance of peace again after divorce drama, while juggling going through the loop of puberty. It appears that most of the media I engaged when in this period is infused with some of the deepest nostalgia of all of my personal era. Nostalgia is powerful in that way. When media consumed is a source of the nostalgic joy, it's, in fact, an embrace of the state of freedom that was felt at the time it was consumed. The onslaught of the marketing behind the sequels felt like a great time to be alive, as someone who was blown away by the DVD just a year or so earlier. It covered all the things I thought were the epicenter of cool at the time: anime (The Animatrix), a video game (Enter the Matrix), a screensaver (digital rain all day), a nu-metal tie-in song, and even a Powerade flavor.

In many ways, I don't think the quality of the sequels matter as much to me as they should. The combination of marketing, timing, and personal escape has led me to be unreasonably loyal to these films. The reward is the ability to see past the flaws of the sequels to focus on what they do right.

Reloaded and Revolutions are not separate films. They are, in fact, one film, split down the middle, for cynically getting butts in the seat, twice, within a six-month period. That failed, horribly. Not only were audiences disappointed in Reloaded, especially due to its cliffhanger ending, but Revolutions is effectively disserviced by letting the audience forget the important connective threads established in Reloaded. The best viewing experiences I've had with these films have always been when I watched them nearly back to back. What becomes clear, is that if the films were cut down and combined to a roughly three hour cut, the result would've been much more satisfying. Examples of what could’ve been cut include: Neo having a conversation with one of the Zion council members, Hamann:

Notice how the scene starts with Neo at the rails, with levels of Zion in view. Hamann then talks, and the two decide to go to the lower levels. Now look at the staging again....it's the same staging. It's very much a cheap trick to simply make the green screen + CGI to distinguish the scene change, and it's dullness clashes with the depth of the conversation that occurs. The conversation is about the contradictory way in which the humans, despite being at war with machines, still depend on machinery to survive. This is an interesting topic to explore, and it's relevant to the themes of the duology. In the end, to defeat Agent Smith and save both Zion and the Matrix, the machines need Neo as much as he needs them. This is also further supported by the fact that there are sentient programs, routinely discarded by the governing forces of the Matrix, that cooperate with humans regularly to survive. The issue with the Hamann scene is that it takes the least interesting way to get to the most thought-provoking ideas, diminishing the very ideas the Wachowskis are trying to convey. This scene is one of many of this sort throughout the duology. That tendency also undermines what is the most consequential scene in the entire trilogy:

Learning the Neo is in fact part of a cycle that has repeated before, is something I really enjoy. Learning it from a man who's sitting in a chair from Office Depot, that looks like the Colonel from KFC, and in a bland white room adorned with fake monitors is not the right way to deliver such a compelling idea. Despite all the movement in action and liveliness from Reeves throughout other key moments, here he just chooses to ask questions in a stale staging with stale delivery. The only redemption to Reeves’ performance here is the wide array of performances of Neo variants in the monitors, losing their shit about the absurdity of the situation. The idea being conveyed here is that this Neo, our Neo, is the most evolved out of all of them all due to his composure. This is a problem endemic with the drama of the sequels, more than half of the time, the least interesting way to convey information is the route chosen.

I'm someone who loves Keanu Reeves. I feel that the first Matrix is such a great film because there is something special in the way he displays the shock and awe about everything that is happening to Neo. It's easy as an audience member to feel like I’m there with him. There is a sincerity there, and it's greatly reduced in the sequels, with only a few moments where it appears. Nothing about Neo’s power and new-found reputation means he can't be more emotive in the thick of it. Most people will never have the pleasure of seeing him be the One anyway, making the choice to make him less expressive a great disservice to what Reeves is capable of bringing to the role.

In the midst of this, at least I find comfort in sequences that are well-worth the price of admission. Suffering the worst of the films still provides the set-up necessary to make the following pieces satisfying, like:

Fleshing out Morpheus

Of the characters that get the best treatment in the sequels, Morpheus is the obvious winner. He gets an epic motivational speech for the orgy, the opportunity to be the winner of an agent fight without superpowers, and he even gets an arc of losing blind faith for the real thing. It doesn’t feel like he’s there to service Neo’s journey. He is truly on a clear arc for himself. Adding a love triangle component between him, Niobe, and Locke is a nice touch. It can’t help but make me wish that Marcus Chong didn’t sabotage his ability to be in the sequels. He’s such a wonderful performer that brought such uplifting energy as Tank. What would have been his fleshing out is instead, given to Link. Harold Perrineau is an excellent performer in his own right, and is well-suited to the task. He just has the unfortunate burden of being a newly developed character of many introduced in the duology.

Smith as an Agent of chaos

Smith's role is that of a wild card. I find the idea that Smith is consuming everyone in the Matrix to form replicas of himself to be an interesting motif. It's a bit undercooked, as the importance of it doesn't become clear until Revolutions. In Reloaded, without that understanding, his emergence feels like a pointless distraction. Hugo Weaving does a lot of the heavy lifting with his scene chewing, which at least makes it always entertaining.

The Highway Chase

The best set piece of these two sequels is the highway chase. I love how the multiple plates spin — with cops, agents, and the Twins all chasing Morpheus and Trinity. Having those two diverge with a great fight sequence for Morpheus, and the motorcycle chase with Trinity, is just outright masterful. The entire sequence is everything the Matrix films do well. What really underpins its effectiveness is the fact that the characters don't have the invincibility of Neo. The major issue with all fight scenes in the sequels featuring Neo is that he isn't truly under threat of being killed. I find the Chateau fight gorgeous visually and elegant in choreography, but at no point do I fear for Neo's life. The Wachowskis absolutely wrote themselves into a corner by writing Neo to be as invincible as he is.

The best scenes are always what keeps me spinning and coming back to these films. Behind every flaw is a conceptual diamond. I can see these diamonds, but it's entirely reasonable that most viewers won't do the necessary squinting. The Wachowskis have this habit of making films that reward upon continued investment as the cost of accessibility. Over the course of their filmography, there have been high and lows with regard to that tendency. Even if a film underperforms, such as Jupiter Ascending, it develops a cult following because it's embedded with ideas so compelling to its target audience (The Princess Bride meets Star Wars), that someone will be talking about it many years later.

I haven’t touched upon Resurrections, as I feel that film acts as an independent epilogue to the entire series. I absolutely love it, in a manner that’s just as light-hearted as the film itself. I love it so much that I will eventually write an entire essay on the film alone (you can quote me on that). It’s widely misunderstood, and a victim of inflated expectations that are divorced from the work the Wachowskis (specifically Lana Wachowski) have been making for years since the previous sequels.

Thanks for reading!

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The first time I ever heard about Billions was in an article by Vince Fakhoury Horn on modular meditation. A simple image depicts billionaire Bobby Axelrod (Damian Lewis) and United States Attorney Chuck Rhoades (Paul Giamatti) doing concentration meditation. This is a practice that occurs briefly, but notably within the earliest seasons of the show. It says something about these two characters. In another era, before meditation became so popular in high performances spaces, these two characters would have simply been depicted playing chess with other people and demolishing them. It's a way of making them seem especially intelligent in contrast to the other characters, especially their underlings. They seem..."above it all" with a meta awareness of the games that they play. The show also features a performance coach who works between these characters, Wendy Rhoades (Maggie Siff). In contrast, she is seen as accessing this meta game through the strength of her training as a psychiatrist, and makes use of this to push the other leads and their underlings further through performance coaching.

Despite having the greater access to awareness of the mind, all three of these characters quite frankly do some fucked up shit throughout the series, specifically in their manipulations of other people for their own ends. As rough as it can be, it's quite entertaining, without being morbidly extreme as a Scorsese take would be. I highly recommend watching it if you haven't, but the show supports a critical observation for many who are interested in meditation and similar practices to benefit their health and development.

The show makes it clear that to practice meditation does not make one “good”. A person can spend their entire life doing every variation of the practice and still live a life where they routinely hurt others and themselves. Spiritual Materialism, in many New Age communities, commonly presents the idea that to practice is to be "good". This very mindset sets the stage of seeing peers and teachers as being beyond reproach, the more advanced they are in practice. This is the ground in which people are routinely exploited and destroyed.

The show presents a very grounded take on the practice. While the characters aren't perfect, none of them are presented to be authorities when it comes to moral judgement. Chuck definitely sees himself as morally superior to Axelrod, but he is more than willing to get his hand dirty if it means destroying him.

The show’s primary intent isn't to depict meditation as a moral choice, but it's role in performance enhancement and increasing personal agency.

Concentration isn't limited to being developed through meditation. Meditation is the most direct means to develop it. It's not unreasonable to think that someone who's excellent at archery will also have a lot of the same benefits that come from the practice. The mind, like an instrument, works best when properly honed. Intelligence is often depicted in culture through the basis of raw access to a high IQ. This framing tends toward creating an exclusivity that barres anyone who didn't win the genetic lottery. IQ matters, but the capacity to self-actualize requires more. Plenty of people have high intelligence, but struggle to influence themselves and the world around them, due to a lack of focus and creativity that unfolds from a place of being focused and present.

Billions very much makes high concentration ability a typical facet of its most intelligent characters. It's one of those shows where the average baseline of even its least intelligent characters is higher than the general population (looking at youse Brian and Mafee). It's a neat trick to have the most intelligent characters exhibit some degree of personal and professional development due to their concentration ability and the ability to read others.

In addition to the other leads, Taylor Mason (Asia Kate Dillon), introduced about midway through the show’s run, has a history of being a proficient poker player, playing into the show’s emphasis on reading other people and situations as critical for success with the greater games at play.

Wendy Rhoades is the constant thread throughout the series that brings the aspect of high performance into greater focus. The application of her skills to performance enhance those in her care puts specific characters at an advantage. She helps Bobby Axelrod and his employees, but she is also married to Axelrod's nemesis, Chuck Rhoades. Anyone who doesn't get her support is disadvantaged in the game of acquiring capital, leverage, and surviving the cat-and-mouse between the state and the ultra-wealthy.

In order for the show to have worked as it did, it needed to distinguish itself from similar dramas. Of the stories I’ve seen that take place in the world of finance (Wall Street being the best example), Billions avoids the morality play trap. Yes, we all know that the world of finance is fundamentally absurd and amoral. It’s easy to focus on that common perspective because it’s outside looking in, and it’s tempting to go into explanatory dumps to understand the financial workings at play. Billions ultimately is not about finance, it’s about the psychology of extreme success, how one maintains that success, and how far one is willing to push themselves and those around them to play game, after game, after game. All of its characters constantly swing from winner to loser throughout the entire series, but the one constant is that they absolutely do it because they love it for its own sake, whether they want to admit it or not.

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Some films just live rent-free in my head. For many years, I’ve had a vague recollection of a strange movie that used to air on the Sci-Fi channel when I was a kid. I knew it had three things:

1. Scary chain gain ghosts.

2. A road that would summon them when traveled upon.

3. Lou Diamond Phillips.

What burned the movie into my head was the appearance of the chain gang: terrifying eyelessness, the pale gray skin, deeply scarred faces, and that one with the jackhammer who looks so happy when he hammers his victims into the pavement.

What I felt on a visceral level was the tension the characters felt when the prisoners were summoned. It’s a classic “the floor is lava” situation, making it an easy memory as a kid at the time. So I recently decided it was time to unpack that memory. A few quick searches (movie where a desert road is haunted with the La Bamba guy), and I identified the film as Route 666, readily available on Tubi.

The film is an escort mission. Phillips plays Jack La Roca, a US Marshal with one hell of a resume (former CIA operative and Navy SEAL). He’s accompanied by his trusted partner Steph (Lori Petty) and some red shirt marshals as they locate a former mob accountant named Rabbit (Steven Williams), to bring him in as a key witness against his former employers. Hired assassins intervene on the mission, leading to a necessary escape and detour through a “bad idea” road named Route 666.

What follows is a series of starts and stops, complicated by the pursuing ghosts. These guys are completely bulletproof, with the only way to get away from them is to get off the road (and concrete in general). This would otherwise be an easy problem to solve, if it weren’t for the fact that they were in the desert in the middle of nowhere without a signal to call for back up. Add to that the fact that the only people who know the area and the curse are redneck sheriffs who don’t give a shit about what happens to anyone out there. This redneck, I don’t give a fuck attitude is played well by L.Q. Jones as Sheriff Bob Conaway. I’ve always enjoyed his appearances, especially as Pat Webb in Casino. Here he fits a similar mold as another cantankerous good ol’ boy, except here the approach is appropriately less subtle.

The real thread of the story isn’t the escort mission, but the supernatural journey that La Roca takes.

Spoilers onward

La Roca’s dad is one of the ghosts. Throughout the film, he has psychic visions of his dad working the chain gang with the other prisoners, which eventually reveal that the sheriff killed his dad, a man simply trying to serve his sentence in peace, along with the scumbag prisoners who also worked that road. Being killed out there brutally is why they are haunting the road. They were fixing the road, so it only makes sense that they have their tools at the ready to murder people unlucky enough to find themselves on it.

Why is Jack a psychic? No reason given, just deal with it. Despite the thinness of this element, I like it for the simple reason that it gives Jack’s journey a deeper drive than simply survival. It’s ultimately about Jack repairing his relationship with his dad and freeing him from the cosmic binding to the road, resulting in his release to the after-life. It’s only this journey that can stop the chain gang, as his father eventually comes to his senses to protect his son from the other prisoners, unwilling to watch his son die as he pleads for help from his father. Sound familiar? That’s because it’s the final act of Return of the Jedi. As a kid, I was a sucker for this and always will be.

What stood out to me the most was the strength of the leads. Philips is great, this is one of those cases where the big name actor isn’t carrying the entire film on his back. The film also gets a boost from the performances of Petty and Williams. I really enjoyed the chemistry between the three. They have no difficulty in getting into a comedic rapport with each other. Phillips and Petty do more than the page demands by giving an impression that they’ve been working together as partners for a long time. I can’t help but enjoy Petty’s sass. Williams as Rabbit loves to make light of every moment as the comic relief, but he’s charming and mixes nicely with the others without being excessive, even if most of the humor often doesn’t land. I’d have no problem watching a road trip movie with just the three of them.

I can easily say this film is not terrifying. I don’t think I even felt that terrified when I was younger. What this film makes me feel is nostalgia for a time when the ritual of watching B-movies on the Sci-Fi Channel was a habit, before it devolved into insincere trash efforts like the Sharknado era. No one phones in a performance (shout out to Dale Midkiff for bing unexplainably unhinged). I appreciate how sincere the production and direction is, helmed by director William Wesley. It’s far from the best of the “floor is lava” genre, but it will always be honorably mentioned by me for the effort.

Just remember, if you see a gated road that’s named Route 666, take a moment to think things through, yeah?

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For some time, I only vaguely recalled the film from constant reruns on Comedy Central. I was intrigued every time, but I kept missing every airing. I’ve finally seen the film recently and realized why it was so popular on the channel: Death to Smoochy is an R-rated movie for kids.

Comedy Central had a habit of showing films that would inescapably meet the eyes of kids that didn’t have helicopter parents (Half Baked, Dogma, etc.) The film provides a disillusioning interpretation of the entertainment industry’s ruthlessness through the fictional production of a kid’s show. “What if Steve from Blue’s Clues was a dick?” is the crutch of the film’s concept, with Rainbow Randy offering the greatest “what if?” of that scenario.

The journey of disillusionment is driven by the character Sheldon/Smoochy, played by Edward Norton. He starts out as a nobody, playing shows in a methadone clinic, to being a safe bet for a TV channel mired in controversy: Rainbow Randy’s scheme to sell seats to his show to desperate parents. From early on, it’s established that Sheldon is a Good Dude™️. He’s not only playing for strung out recovering addicts, but he’s all about organic, clean eating before it became a thing. He just wants people to be healthy and happy. The choice to give him a southern accent brings his Barney Fife naïveté to the unsubtle surface. His innocence puts him in stark contrast to the viciousness of the lion’s den he steps into.

For any kid or pre-teen watching it, it undoubtedly provided easy accessibility for a generation raised on children’s programming while growing up. It’s hard not to delight in watching a supposed “innocent” host cussing up a storm, something that Robin Williams does just as well as his G-rated scene chewing.

All the main beats of the film hit right in the jugular of what kids start finding funny when coming of age, especially in the early 2000s:

“OMG NAZIS” ✅
Jokes about mental disabilities ✅
Little people exhibitionism ✅
Dick jokes ✅✅

The violence is mostly slap-stick, with the worst of it off-camera. Bad things happen to the leads, but nothing so extreme as to make even the most goody-two shoe of kids unable to handle it.

The real weakness of the film is the actual children’s shows at the center of it. The staging feels incredibly hollow and slapped together to only serve a purpose to stage the comedy. Even if it’s made for adults, there is no reason why they couldn’t just put a little more effort to portray the show in a convincing way. It would have only made the experience much funnier. As much as kids love these shows, I don’t recall little people being so common. Yes, I know we had Ewoks, but c’mon man — at least build out the set and supporting casts. Kids have high standards too, and I definitely would have thought Smoochy sucked. What we really get is a loose interpretation of a kid’s show that is more fitting of what director Danny DeVito likely grew up with. It’s easy to see in the way the kids constantly gather around the host, the host being more man than animal (how dare they). Rainbow Randy is the more convincing of the two shows. It also helps that Robin Williams is instinctively so charismatic, that even Edward Norton’s noble attempts can’t possibly match it.

This is a film that, in reputation, really thrives on having a strong nostalgic imprinting towards it. Without that, the value of the film can only be seen from a cynical lens. No wonder critics trashed it, and the kids who grew up watching it will always have a soft spot for it. Does the film have anything to offer other than its edginess? Not really.

There is one thing I absolutely love about the film. Every moment on screen, I couldn’t help but be drawn into it: Rainbow Randy’s jacket.

Man, I miss Robin Williams.

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I don't want to frighten you, but
Time is in short supply
You may grow old
And have many pauses,
But for me, it's warp speed —

What's that?!?

It's my small attention span.
It should be a reminder
To be in the moment —

What's that?!?

It's a reminder of my undying love for you.
You keep asking if I'm a good boy.
Have you asked yourself?
Thoughts to gnaw bone to.

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