Resurrection. Thank you all for showing your interest over the years. I wanted to let you know that this blog is going to be seeing a lot more activity from now on.
And those of you interested in my writing will want to stay tuned.
Because there are some big announcements on the way, very soon...
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Preview Chapter I of "The Masque"!
He awoke to the sight of an ornamental ceiling,
elaborate tiles etched with fine designs and bordered with bronze. For a
moment he couldn’t move, like his body had forgotten how. Slowly he
began to gain sensation in his fingertips. He wiggled them, feeling a
silky soft surface beneath him. His mind was in a haze, but the haze
was receding as his nerves were waking, like mist rolling back at
sunrise. Finally, he sat up, and saw where he was.
The room was expansive and unfamiliar, every inch of it draped with ornate décor. The furniture - which included the bed upon which he now sat and a significantly large chest of drawers on the opposite wall, a table and chairs in a dining area and a small writing desk in one corner - was all handmade and skillfully carved, finished with a dark luster that gleamed in the low light. He looked around and saw that the soft glow was coming from a chandelier that hung near the entryway to the room, all gold and glimmer and refracting light.
He stood, sinking into a lush pearl-toned carpet. Then he noticed his shoes: black and sparkling as if someone had polished them in his sleep. He would’ve wondered to himself why he was wearing shoes while lying down, but the shoes were merely the beginning. He looked down at his body, held out his arms. He was wearing a tuxedo, sharply cut and from the feel of it, tailored just for him. The cufflinks in his sleeves were white gold and each was studded with a diamond. He looked around the room for a mirror, but didn’t see one. No windows either.
He walked toward the door, and tried the handle. It was locked. He looked around the room again, to the four-post bed from which he had risen, draped with velvety crimson cloth. He opened the drawers in the chest, one by one, finding them empty. He turned, the cogs of his mind not quite processing what he was seeing and experiencing, and then his eyes landed on the surface of the writing desk in the corner, and saw something there.
As he drew near he saw a piece of stationery, of fine stock and bordered with gold filigree. Next to it was an object: a mask. It seemed to be made of porcelain, and was in the form of a fox, but was not colored so, being nearly all white with some silver paint for the whiskers. The outside was glossy, but the inside was fitted with a soft fabric, and a fine silk cord connected each side.
He looked at the note.
Mr. Fox,
You are cordially invited to the festivities this evening!
Kindly don your mask and join the party!
Everyone is waiting…
The words didn’t seem real, like the mist of sleep would soon begin to evaporate the note and the mask and the room and himself. He closed his eyes, expecting to fall back into an unconscious state, but he didn’t. When he opened his eyes he still stood there in his tuxedo, still holding the note, the mask looking up at him, waiting to be worn.
Gently he folded the note and tucked it in his inside breast pocket. He reached down, letting his fingers glide across the smooth surface of the mask. Slowly, he picked it up, stretched the cord and felt the mask enclose his face, firm but comfortable.
He checked the door again, and this time the handle turned in his hand, and the door popped open.
He stepped out into a corridor as equally extravagant as the room, walls punctuated with glowing sconces that illuminated the length of it. The carpet was shorter and darker, but still lush. There were other doors; he could see two of them from where he stood, both closed. He noticed that neither one had numbers identifying the room, and looked back at his own. No numbers there, either.
He looked down the hall both ways. His room seemed to be situated in the relative center of it, and on either end he could see a foyer of sorts, lit by a chandelier and revealing a set of elevator doors. He supposed it didn’t matter which way he went, so he chose his right and began to walk, slowly, down the corridor.
He passed door after door, all identical, all devoid of numbers. He reached out and tried numerous handles, but found them all to be locked securely. He turned and peered back down the hallway, finding not a sign of another soul, just the steady glow of the lamps and the fullness of silence.
He approached the elevator doors and they opened with a small chime that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor. He hesitated, taking one last glance over his shoulder to the hallway, then stepped inside. He saw a panel of buttons, numbering from L all the way to ninety-nine.
His finger was poised over the L button when two things occurred to him. First, he stepped back out of the elevator and looked above it. There was no indicator telling him which level he was on, and when he stepped back inside none of the buttons were glowing. Like the doors, there was no telling his location. Secondly, he closed his eyes and pushed a random button, not opening his eyes until he heard the gently gliding sound of the doors closing. He opened his eyes and saw that 78 was aglow. Quickly, he paid attention as the elevator began to move. It was difficult to tell because the motion was so smooth, but he believed he felt a slight increased pressure on his feet, indicating that he was moving upward.
A moment later there was a gentle inertial sensation, and the chime sounded as the doors slid open once more. They revealed what he expected: a hallway identical to the one he had just left. Stepping out, he walked to the first door on his left and jiggled the handle. Locked. He didn’t bother to check the others, but stepped back onto the elevator.
Taking a breath, he pushed L.
The doors closed, and for an instant he felt light. Going downward.
The descent seemed to go on and on, and there was no indication of his progress. Only the steadily glowing L looking back at him in the dim interior.
Just when he was beginning to grow concerned that the elevator had become stuck, he heard something at the furthest range of his hearing. It grew by miniscule degrees until he finally could discern what it was.
It was music.
An icy finger traced a tremor down his spine and a wave of inexplicable dread rose within him. His descent, like plunging into the depths of some unknown void, coupled with the music heralding from below created a nightmarish sensation at the back of his mind. He briefly wondered if he was still asleep.
Finally there was the inertia once more, and the elevator slowed, slowed, stopped.
There was a terrible moment of silence and stillness as he held his breath, waiting.
The doors slid smoothly to the sides.
Immediately the music was louder, absolutely clear. As he listened, he realized it was a tune he knew. It was Gershwin’s “Stairway to Paradise”. From the deafening sound of it, a full band was throwing itself into the performance.
He stood there, frozen in his feet, the music simultaneously inviting and threatening, the sound of horns blaring. Something was telling him to turn back. But to what? Endless hallways and locked doors. He stepped out, into the thick swell of music.
He was in a large foyer, two facing walls studded with elevators. The sound came from the left, across a white marble floor and around a corner. He walked toward the sound, rounded the corner, and stopped.
The wide corridor abruptly opened onto a massive chamber, four stories tall, that was filled not only with music, but with hundreds of people. His feet stalled in their tracks and his hand came to rest on the marble rail of the balcony upon which he stood. He gazed around in awe, overlooking the chamber floor, where most of the throng was located. Milling about and mingling, hands holding sparkling glasses filled with champagne in their hands were men in sharp, black tuxedos and women in their best shimmering evening gowns.
He took in a million details in a split second: the checkered black-and-white marble floor; the massive columns that studded the floor below, supporting the wrap-around balcony; the enormous grand staircase leading from one level to the other with alternating black and white steps; the rails covered with gold filigree, like the borders of the note in his pocket; and above, the gargantuan chandelier that hung from the domed center of the ceiling, skirted by a dozen smaller ones, all aglow with a million tiny lights. The band was playing on the level below, on a platform that took up one corner of the room.
But one thing overpowered everything else he saw.
Everyone, absolutely everyone, was wearing a mask.
As he looked around he realized that each mask was in the likeness of a different creature and stylized in the same pure porcelain, each covering only the top half of the face, leaving room for shimmering white smiles to shine through.
He took a few steps more, letting his hand slide across the banister, but he didn’t get very far. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement, a movement that stood out as deliberate in a roomful of cheerful and casual wanderings. His eyes flickered to the source and saw a tall, thin man mounting the steps hurriedly, glass in hand, all smiles. The man alternated looking down to make sure he didn’t trip in his excitement and looking directly at him.
“Mr. Fox!” At last the man reached the top of the staircase and came bounding toward him, hand outstretched. “At last, at last, you’ve finally joined us!”
He met the man’s hand in a social reflex before he realized what he was doing. “I’m glad you finally made it,” the man said, shaking his hand vigorously. He wore a bird-like mask, with a large sharp bill. “I’m Mr. Pelican, as you can see.” He motioned to the mask he wore and chuckled. “Don’t get too close, you might lose an eye.” He chuckled again.
The Pelican stood half a head taller than him, and apparently never stopped smiling. “You’ll have to excuse me,” the Fox said. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.”
The Pelican’s smile faltered, but only for an instant. “You have an invitation, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” the Fox said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving it, “but I’m still not clear.”
“Well, that, my friend,” the Pelican said, pointing at the invitation, “is the only thing you need. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.” The Pelican snatched another glass of champagne from a passing tray carried by a server, who also wore a mask. He handed the glass to the Fox, then draped an arm across his shoulders, leading him down the staircase, talking as they went.
“Welcome to the grand hall,” he said, sweeping the room with his champagne bearing hand, his voice filled with gusto and excitement. The Fox continued to look around, noticing large arched windows set in the far wall beneath the balcony. It must have been nighttime, because he couldn’t see anything beyond them. “But more importantly, welcome to the party, huh?” The Pelican chuckled again.
“So who are all these people?” the Fox said.
“Well, I can’t give you names, that would spoil the fun.” The Pelican clapped him on the back. “But there are some very important people here. Like over there.” He pointed. The Fox followed his finger to an enormous man seated on a plush red couch situated between two columns. The man wore a tuxedo that looked like it could make three of an average man’s suits. He was surrounded by a gaggle of people; a few men, but mostly women in gowns of scarlet and gold and black. They all seemed to be hanging on every word the man was saying, which was odd, because he didn’t seem to be saying much. He was the only person the Fox had seen who wasn’t wearing a blistering smile.
“Let me guess,” said the Fox. “The Hog?”
The Pelican laughed, hand going to his stomach in amusement. “Oh, goodness! No, no. The Boar. I fear if you addressed him as the Hog, you might have your invitation removed.”
“Removed by whom? Is he the host?”
Something happened as soon as the words were out of his mouth. All the people within earshot seemed to silence in an instant, snap their heads in his direction and fix him with a glare, smiles fading quickly.
The Pelican, arm still around him, quickened his pace and chuckled again, only this time it sounded strained. He led him away from the spot, squeezing his shoulder a little tighter in nervous fingers. The Fox glanced up at his face and saw the forced nature the Pelican’s smile had taken on. He led the Fox toward a column against one wall and out of earshot of the crowd. Only then did the Pelican release him.
“The Boar is not the one who invited you here.” He was still smiling. The Fox could see he was slowly regaining his composure. “As for who did, let’s just not voice those thoughts aloud, hmm? Best to let these things play out as they may.”
“So this is some sort of game?”
The Pelican made a tsk sound. “No, no, I wouldn’t call it a game. Just a bit of fun. You should just try and enjoy yourself.”
“Pardon me, I just don’t really know where we are or how I got here. And why all the secrecy?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. Listen,” the Pelican stepped toward him, bringing his smile closer. “Let’s just say, we’re all here for a reason. What that reason is,” he gently nudged the Fox with a finger, “now that’s up to you.”
The room was expansive and unfamiliar, every inch of it draped with ornate décor. The furniture - which included the bed upon which he now sat and a significantly large chest of drawers on the opposite wall, a table and chairs in a dining area and a small writing desk in one corner - was all handmade and skillfully carved, finished with a dark luster that gleamed in the low light. He looked around and saw that the soft glow was coming from a chandelier that hung near the entryway to the room, all gold and glimmer and refracting light.
He stood, sinking into a lush pearl-toned carpet. Then he noticed his shoes: black and sparkling as if someone had polished them in his sleep. He would’ve wondered to himself why he was wearing shoes while lying down, but the shoes were merely the beginning. He looked down at his body, held out his arms. He was wearing a tuxedo, sharply cut and from the feel of it, tailored just for him. The cufflinks in his sleeves were white gold and each was studded with a diamond. He looked around the room for a mirror, but didn’t see one. No windows either.
He walked toward the door, and tried the handle. It was locked. He looked around the room again, to the four-post bed from which he had risen, draped with velvety crimson cloth. He opened the drawers in the chest, one by one, finding them empty. He turned, the cogs of his mind not quite processing what he was seeing and experiencing, and then his eyes landed on the surface of the writing desk in the corner, and saw something there.
As he drew near he saw a piece of stationery, of fine stock and bordered with gold filigree. Next to it was an object: a mask. It seemed to be made of porcelain, and was in the form of a fox, but was not colored so, being nearly all white with some silver paint for the whiskers. The outside was glossy, but the inside was fitted with a soft fabric, and a fine silk cord connected each side.
He looked at the note.
Mr. Fox,
You are cordially invited to the festivities this evening!
Kindly don your mask and join the party!
Everyone is waiting…
The words didn’t seem real, like the mist of sleep would soon begin to evaporate the note and the mask and the room and himself. He closed his eyes, expecting to fall back into an unconscious state, but he didn’t. When he opened his eyes he still stood there in his tuxedo, still holding the note, the mask looking up at him, waiting to be worn.
Gently he folded the note and tucked it in his inside breast pocket. He reached down, letting his fingers glide across the smooth surface of the mask. Slowly, he picked it up, stretched the cord and felt the mask enclose his face, firm but comfortable.
He checked the door again, and this time the handle turned in his hand, and the door popped open.
He stepped out into a corridor as equally extravagant as the room, walls punctuated with glowing sconces that illuminated the length of it. The carpet was shorter and darker, but still lush. There were other doors; he could see two of them from where he stood, both closed. He noticed that neither one had numbers identifying the room, and looked back at his own. No numbers there, either.
He looked down the hall both ways. His room seemed to be situated in the relative center of it, and on either end he could see a foyer of sorts, lit by a chandelier and revealing a set of elevator doors. He supposed it didn’t matter which way he went, so he chose his right and began to walk, slowly, down the corridor.
He passed door after door, all identical, all devoid of numbers. He reached out and tried numerous handles, but found them all to be locked securely. He turned and peered back down the hallway, finding not a sign of another soul, just the steady glow of the lamps and the fullness of silence.
He approached the elevator doors and they opened with a small chime that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor. He hesitated, taking one last glance over his shoulder to the hallway, then stepped inside. He saw a panel of buttons, numbering from L all the way to ninety-nine.
His finger was poised over the L button when two things occurred to him. First, he stepped back out of the elevator and looked above it. There was no indicator telling him which level he was on, and when he stepped back inside none of the buttons were glowing. Like the doors, there was no telling his location. Secondly, he closed his eyes and pushed a random button, not opening his eyes until he heard the gently gliding sound of the doors closing. He opened his eyes and saw that 78 was aglow. Quickly, he paid attention as the elevator began to move. It was difficult to tell because the motion was so smooth, but he believed he felt a slight increased pressure on his feet, indicating that he was moving upward.
A moment later there was a gentle inertial sensation, and the chime sounded as the doors slid open once more. They revealed what he expected: a hallway identical to the one he had just left. Stepping out, he walked to the first door on his left and jiggled the handle. Locked. He didn’t bother to check the others, but stepped back onto the elevator.
Taking a breath, he pushed L.
The doors closed, and for an instant he felt light. Going downward.
The descent seemed to go on and on, and there was no indication of his progress. Only the steadily glowing L looking back at him in the dim interior.
Just when he was beginning to grow concerned that the elevator had become stuck, he heard something at the furthest range of his hearing. It grew by miniscule degrees until he finally could discern what it was.
It was music.
An icy finger traced a tremor down his spine and a wave of inexplicable dread rose within him. His descent, like plunging into the depths of some unknown void, coupled with the music heralding from below created a nightmarish sensation at the back of his mind. He briefly wondered if he was still asleep.
Finally there was the inertia once more, and the elevator slowed, slowed, stopped.
There was a terrible moment of silence and stillness as he held his breath, waiting.
The doors slid smoothly to the sides.
Immediately the music was louder, absolutely clear. As he listened, he realized it was a tune he knew. It was Gershwin’s “Stairway to Paradise”. From the deafening sound of it, a full band was throwing itself into the performance.
He stood there, frozen in his feet, the music simultaneously inviting and threatening, the sound of horns blaring. Something was telling him to turn back. But to what? Endless hallways and locked doors. He stepped out, into the thick swell of music.
He was in a large foyer, two facing walls studded with elevators. The sound came from the left, across a white marble floor and around a corner. He walked toward the sound, rounded the corner, and stopped.
The wide corridor abruptly opened onto a massive chamber, four stories tall, that was filled not only with music, but with hundreds of people. His feet stalled in their tracks and his hand came to rest on the marble rail of the balcony upon which he stood. He gazed around in awe, overlooking the chamber floor, where most of the throng was located. Milling about and mingling, hands holding sparkling glasses filled with champagne in their hands were men in sharp, black tuxedos and women in their best shimmering evening gowns.
He took in a million details in a split second: the checkered black-and-white marble floor; the massive columns that studded the floor below, supporting the wrap-around balcony; the enormous grand staircase leading from one level to the other with alternating black and white steps; the rails covered with gold filigree, like the borders of the note in his pocket; and above, the gargantuan chandelier that hung from the domed center of the ceiling, skirted by a dozen smaller ones, all aglow with a million tiny lights. The band was playing on the level below, on a platform that took up one corner of the room.
But one thing overpowered everything else he saw.
Everyone, absolutely everyone, was wearing a mask.
As he looked around he realized that each mask was in the likeness of a different creature and stylized in the same pure porcelain, each covering only the top half of the face, leaving room for shimmering white smiles to shine through.
He took a few steps more, letting his hand slide across the banister, but he didn’t get very far. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement, a movement that stood out as deliberate in a roomful of cheerful and casual wanderings. His eyes flickered to the source and saw a tall, thin man mounting the steps hurriedly, glass in hand, all smiles. The man alternated looking down to make sure he didn’t trip in his excitement and looking directly at him.
“Mr. Fox!” At last the man reached the top of the staircase and came bounding toward him, hand outstretched. “At last, at last, you’ve finally joined us!”
He met the man’s hand in a social reflex before he realized what he was doing. “I’m glad you finally made it,” the man said, shaking his hand vigorously. He wore a bird-like mask, with a large sharp bill. “I’m Mr. Pelican, as you can see.” He motioned to the mask he wore and chuckled. “Don’t get too close, you might lose an eye.” He chuckled again.
The Pelican stood half a head taller than him, and apparently never stopped smiling. “You’ll have to excuse me,” the Fox said. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.”
The Pelican’s smile faltered, but only for an instant. “You have an invitation, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” the Fox said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving it, “but I’m still not clear.”
“Well, that, my friend,” the Pelican said, pointing at the invitation, “is the only thing you need. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.” The Pelican snatched another glass of champagne from a passing tray carried by a server, who also wore a mask. He handed the glass to the Fox, then draped an arm across his shoulders, leading him down the staircase, talking as they went.
“Welcome to the grand hall,” he said, sweeping the room with his champagne bearing hand, his voice filled with gusto and excitement. The Fox continued to look around, noticing large arched windows set in the far wall beneath the balcony. It must have been nighttime, because he couldn’t see anything beyond them. “But more importantly, welcome to the party, huh?” The Pelican chuckled again.
“So who are all these people?” the Fox said.
“Well, I can’t give you names, that would spoil the fun.” The Pelican clapped him on the back. “But there are some very important people here. Like over there.” He pointed. The Fox followed his finger to an enormous man seated on a plush red couch situated between two columns. The man wore a tuxedo that looked like it could make three of an average man’s suits. He was surrounded by a gaggle of people; a few men, but mostly women in gowns of scarlet and gold and black. They all seemed to be hanging on every word the man was saying, which was odd, because he didn’t seem to be saying much. He was the only person the Fox had seen who wasn’t wearing a blistering smile.
“Let me guess,” said the Fox. “The Hog?”
The Pelican laughed, hand going to his stomach in amusement. “Oh, goodness! No, no. The Boar. I fear if you addressed him as the Hog, you might have your invitation removed.”
“Removed by whom? Is he the host?”
Something happened as soon as the words were out of his mouth. All the people within earshot seemed to silence in an instant, snap their heads in his direction and fix him with a glare, smiles fading quickly.
The Pelican, arm still around him, quickened his pace and chuckled again, only this time it sounded strained. He led him away from the spot, squeezing his shoulder a little tighter in nervous fingers. The Fox glanced up at his face and saw the forced nature the Pelican’s smile had taken on. He led the Fox toward a column against one wall and out of earshot of the crowd. Only then did the Pelican release him.
“The Boar is not the one who invited you here.” He was still smiling. The Fox could see he was slowly regaining his composure. “As for who did, let’s just not voice those thoughts aloud, hmm? Best to let these things play out as they may.”
“So this is some sort of game?”
The Pelican made a tsk sound. “No, no, I wouldn’t call it a game. Just a bit of fun. You should just try and enjoy yourself.”
“Pardon me, I just don’t really know where we are or how I got here. And why all the secrecy?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. Listen,” the Pelican stepped toward him, bringing his smile closer. “Let’s just say, we’re all here for a reason. What that reason is,” he gently nudged the Fox with a finger, “now that’s up to you.”
Man Of Steel Review
I am happy to say that Man of Steel is the first great movie of the
summer, and is going to be pretty tough to beat in the movie of the year
category, as far as I'm concerned.
Every movie, every comic, every cartoon, every book, every interpretation of the character is its own version, and that's part of what I love about comic characters. Every artist gets to bring his own version of the character, his own spin on the archetype, and offer it to everyone else. Every person who creates a Superman story gets to say "This is what Superman means to me." And I think that's great.
But I think Man of Steel is the closest thing yet to the Superman that I've always wanted.
One of the things I loved about the movie is that it is not a Clark Kent story, at least not in the way that most think about Clark Kent. It's not the bumbling-but-somehow-charming Kent who is secretly a superhero.
It's a Kal-El story, and I don't think that's been seen yet. It's about Kal-El's home, about Krypton. It's about his origins. It's about the legacy of his two fathers. It's about a being, still malleable, trying to find who he is. I think that's where some of the criticism is coming from when people say that Henry Cavill in Man of Steel is flat or dull. I think it's because he hasn't become who we all know he will become yet. He's still making that choice, coming to those conclusions, and I think that is the heart of the movie.
Up until this point, at least on screen, I think Superman has been treated as a paragon. And yes, he is a paragon. But Man of Steel is the first movie that shows just how incredibly hard it is to do the right thing, paragon or not. It's not a simple "Aw shucks, stay in school and don't do drugs" kind of Superman. This is a Clark Kent that is actively dealing with what it means to do the right thing, and you can see the struggle for self-control throughout the movie.
I've seen and heard a lot of criticism for Kal-El's choices at the end of the movie, specifically his choice to kill Zod. People are saying that that is not what Superman would really do. And you know what? They're right. That's the point that those same people are missing. He isn't "Superman" as everyone knows him. Not yet. He is still in the process of becoming that paragon, and Man of Steel is actually attempting to show how he got there, how he became that symbol of doing the right thing. In that way, I think his choice to kill Zod is perfectly in line with what we know Superman to be, because in that moment, the audience sees what it costs to do the right thing, or to do the wrong thing. His decision carries a price. And I'm willing to bet that in the universe of Man of Steel, that moment when Kal-El chooses to kill Zod will carry lasting impact for the character from now on. He will not walk away from that the same. It will be a defining moment.
I love the fact that this movie is able to convey the other-ness of Kal-El. I like that they acknowledge that he is not just one of us with some cool powers. He is the first contact. He is a god-like being that we look up to, and even fear. Man of Steel does a good job with conveying the awe connected with the character, and they did an excellent job of treating that aspect with the respect it deserves.
The entire cast was great. Laurence Fishburne was a surprisingly great Perry White. I think Amy Adams was a perfect choice for Lois Lane. The minute I heard that Russell Crowe was going to be Jor-El I was sold. And two of the supporting female rolls, Antje Traue as Faora and Ayelet Zurer as Lara, were a pleasure to watch. Faora actually made quite a formidable opponent and was one of my favorite characters in the movie. And Lara's role was heartbreakingly beautiful.
But man, oh man, Michael Shannon. His turn as Zod is astounding and impressive. He brought so much to that role I was blown away.
And I think one of the biggest ways Man of Steel succeeds, and one of the main reasons it stands out in this summer line-up, is this: It doesn't try to be clever. It doesn't try to twist back on itself. It doesn't try to outsmart or outwit the audience. It just tells a good story. That's it. It is refreshing and beautiful in it's simplicity. And I for once am grateful that the filmmakers realize that they don't have to try to pull one over on me for me to like their movie. They told the story that needed to be told, and the story that everyone (apparently), including myself, have always wanted to see.
Every movie, every comic, every cartoon, every book, every interpretation of the character is its own version, and that's part of what I love about comic characters. Every artist gets to bring his own version of the character, his own spin on the archetype, and offer it to everyone else. Every person who creates a Superman story gets to say "This is what Superman means to me." And I think that's great.
But I think Man of Steel is the closest thing yet to the Superman that I've always wanted.
One of the things I loved about the movie is that it is not a Clark Kent story, at least not in the way that most think about Clark Kent. It's not the bumbling-but-somehow-charming Kent who is secretly a superhero.
It's a Kal-El story, and I don't think that's been seen yet. It's about Kal-El's home, about Krypton. It's about his origins. It's about the legacy of his two fathers. It's about a being, still malleable, trying to find who he is. I think that's where some of the criticism is coming from when people say that Henry Cavill in Man of Steel is flat or dull. I think it's because he hasn't become who we all know he will become yet. He's still making that choice, coming to those conclusions, and I think that is the heart of the movie.
Up until this point, at least on screen, I think Superman has been treated as a paragon. And yes, he is a paragon. But Man of Steel is the first movie that shows just how incredibly hard it is to do the right thing, paragon or not. It's not a simple "Aw shucks, stay in school and don't do drugs" kind of Superman. This is a Clark Kent that is actively dealing with what it means to do the right thing, and you can see the struggle for self-control throughout the movie.
I've seen and heard a lot of criticism for Kal-El's choices at the end of the movie, specifically his choice to kill Zod. People are saying that that is not what Superman would really do. And you know what? They're right. That's the point that those same people are missing. He isn't "Superman" as everyone knows him. Not yet. He is still in the process of becoming that paragon, and Man of Steel is actually attempting to show how he got there, how he became that symbol of doing the right thing. In that way, I think his choice to kill Zod is perfectly in line with what we know Superman to be, because in that moment, the audience sees what it costs to do the right thing, or to do the wrong thing. His decision carries a price. And I'm willing to bet that in the universe of Man of Steel, that moment when Kal-El chooses to kill Zod will carry lasting impact for the character from now on. He will not walk away from that the same. It will be a defining moment.
I love the fact that this movie is able to convey the other-ness of Kal-El. I like that they acknowledge that he is not just one of us with some cool powers. He is the first contact. He is a god-like being that we look up to, and even fear. Man of Steel does a good job with conveying the awe connected with the character, and they did an excellent job of treating that aspect with the respect it deserves.
The entire cast was great. Laurence Fishburne was a surprisingly great Perry White. I think Amy Adams was a perfect choice for Lois Lane. The minute I heard that Russell Crowe was going to be Jor-El I was sold. And two of the supporting female rolls, Antje Traue as Faora and Ayelet Zurer as Lara, were a pleasure to watch. Faora actually made quite a formidable opponent and was one of my favorite characters in the movie. And Lara's role was heartbreakingly beautiful.
But man, oh man, Michael Shannon. His turn as Zod is astounding and impressive. He brought so much to that role I was blown away.
And I think one of the biggest ways Man of Steel succeeds, and one of the main reasons it stands out in this summer line-up, is this: It doesn't try to be clever. It doesn't try to twist back on itself. It doesn't try to outsmart or outwit the audience. It just tells a good story. That's it. It is refreshing and beautiful in it's simplicity. And I for once am grateful that the filmmakers realize that they don't have to try to pull one over on me for me to like their movie. They told the story that needed to be told, and the story that everyone (apparently), including myself, have always wanted to see.
Three Speeches That May Change Your Life
Friends,
Most of us are in our twenties. And if you're like me, at times that can be an awkward place to be. It's like you're caught in a weird kind of limbo between what you want to hold onto and what you want to strive for. It can be a lonely, frightening and alienating place. But you know what? It can also be really, really exciting.
Whenever I feel a little lost, I turn to the words of better men and women than I, people who might be able to put it better than I ever could. I look for inspiration, for something to adjust my perspective. These three speeches are by no means the only place or the primary place I go for inspiration or perspective, but right now, they are three speeches that have been indispensable to me, words that make me not only more content to be where I am, but excited to be there as well. Not only are these three of my favorite artists, I think they offer unique perspectives on the world of the twenty something, and the larger world we live in. I hope you enjoy.
Amanda Palmer: The Art of Asking
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMj_P_6H69g
Neil Gaiman: Make Good Art
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikAb-NYkseI
David Foster Wallace: This Is Water
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlhVgn7sKv0
Most of us are in our twenties. And if you're like me, at times that can be an awkward place to be. It's like you're caught in a weird kind of limbo between what you want to hold onto and what you want to strive for. It can be a lonely, frightening and alienating place. But you know what? It can also be really, really exciting.
Whenever I feel a little lost, I turn to the words of better men and women than I, people who might be able to put it better than I ever could. I look for inspiration, for something to adjust my perspective. These three speeches are by no means the only place or the primary place I go for inspiration or perspective, but right now, they are three speeches that have been indispensable to me, words that make me not only more content to be where I am, but excited to be there as well. Not only are these three of my favorite artists, I think they offer unique perspectives on the world of the twenty something, and the larger world we live in. I hope you enjoy.
Amanda Palmer: The Art of Asking
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMj_P_6H69g
Neil Gaiman: Make Good Art
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikAb-NYkseI
David Foster Wallace: This Is Water
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlhVgn7sKv0
Top Ten Thoughts O' The Day - 2013 Edition
- Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that leadership is more than being the loudest person in the room.
- I wonder when I’m going to stop feeling like I’m pretending to be an adult.
- If you want a good weight loss program, go shopping for the pants in the size you THINK you should be wearing. That’ll make you drop the pounds really fast.
- Xbox One. My stance on consoles remains the same: I care not for consoles. Show me the games I can play, then I will be excited.
- I really hope Man of Steel is as good as it looks, because so far, this summer movie season has been kind of a letdown.
- New shirts make me feel like a million bucks. Well…maybe not a million. Maybe a thousand.
- I firmly believe that work comes down to a single, fundamental principle: Either you can swallow the crap, or you can’t. I can’t.
- It bugs me to death when “industry analysts” and “financial forecasters” comment on a movie’s success or failure, scrambling over themselves to figure out why a movie isn’t doing what it was predicted to do, and looking at everything but the movie itself. Star Trek Into Darkness isn’t doing as well because it’s not as good. End of story. Stop trying to figure it out.
- Did I mention Man of Steel?
- I have the book excites.
Hasn't been one of these for an age. Thanks for tuning in.
Iron Man 3 Review
So, if it wasn’t obvious...SPOILERS.
I’m not gonna be long and eloquent, because that’s not how my thoughts on the matter are. So here it comes, burst-fire mode. Get ready.
In 2007, I saw Spiderman 3. In 2013, I saw Iron Man 3.
I am sensing a trend.
My feelings walking out of the theater were almost identitical.
Frustration. Anger. But most of all, massive, MASSIVE, disappointment.
This movie had so much potential.
What a squandered opportunity. What wasted potential.
“Do you want an empty life, or a meaningful death?”
Not. Even. In. The movie. At all.
Is there another Iron Man 3 out? Because the one I saw last night is NOT the one that was advertised.
Such potential. Maybe Stark finally faces a villain that is an actual threat to him? That might actually teach him a lesson? Nope.
Potentially iconic images: Tony Stark dragging his suit behind him in the snow. Pepper Potts holds a broken Iron Man helmet in her hands, straight out of Shakespeare. Wasted.
There is no sense of tension or gravity in this movie. I’m not saying I wanted it to be a weighty, heavy affair like a Nolan Bat-movie, because it shouldn’t be. But it doesn’t even give the plot the ounce of gravity it deserves. Silliness, through and through.
It should have had at least some gravitas to it, and it didn’t.
An army of goons that look like a cross between Terminators and minor villains from a Ghost Rider movie.
Guy Pierce breathes fire……….Yup, you heard me.
Happy Hogan is on the screen for about two minutes.
The entire middle section of the movie – no Iron Man. Tony Stark walking around town with some kid.
And most of all…
LAMEST TWIST EVER.
No, seriously. What a waste of Ben Kingsley’s talent. I wanted to see menace. I wanted to see sinister. Instead I got some bumbling, drug-addled buffoon (which to be fair, Kingsley plays superbly…how could he not?).
The only redeeming thing is Downey as Tony Stark. I would watch him be Tony Stark all day. There are a few genuinely funny moments (some of the stuff with the kid is actually good). A handful of entertaining spectacles. But they could not survive probably the worst plot in a superhero movie I’ve seen lately.
What a bad start to the summer movie season. I am legitimately bummed out.
I might add more to this later….maybe.
Out.
I’m not gonna be long and eloquent, because that’s not how my thoughts on the matter are. So here it comes, burst-fire mode. Get ready.
In 2007, I saw Spiderman 3. In 2013, I saw Iron Man 3.
I am sensing a trend.
My feelings walking out of the theater were almost identitical.
Frustration. Anger. But most of all, massive, MASSIVE, disappointment.
This movie had so much potential.
What a squandered opportunity. What wasted potential.
“Do you want an empty life, or a meaningful death?”
Not. Even. In. The movie. At all.
Is there another Iron Man 3 out? Because the one I saw last night is NOT the one that was advertised.
Such potential. Maybe Stark finally faces a villain that is an actual threat to him? That might actually teach him a lesson? Nope.
Potentially iconic images: Tony Stark dragging his suit behind him in the snow. Pepper Potts holds a broken Iron Man helmet in her hands, straight out of Shakespeare. Wasted.
There is no sense of tension or gravity in this movie. I’m not saying I wanted it to be a weighty, heavy affair like a Nolan Bat-movie, because it shouldn’t be. But it doesn’t even give the plot the ounce of gravity it deserves. Silliness, through and through.
It should have had at least some gravitas to it, and it didn’t.
An army of goons that look like a cross between Terminators and minor villains from a Ghost Rider movie.
Guy Pierce breathes fire……….Yup, you heard me.
Happy Hogan is on the screen for about two minutes.
The entire middle section of the movie – no Iron Man. Tony Stark walking around town with some kid.
And most of all…
LAMEST TWIST EVER.
No, seriously. What a waste of Ben Kingsley’s talent. I wanted to see menace. I wanted to see sinister. Instead I got some bumbling, drug-addled buffoon (which to be fair, Kingsley plays superbly…how could he not?).
The only redeeming thing is Downey as Tony Stark. I would watch him be Tony Stark all day. There are a few genuinely funny moments (some of the stuff with the kid is actually good). A handful of entertaining spectacles. But they could not survive probably the worst plot in a superhero movie I’ve seen lately.
What a bad start to the summer movie season. I am legitimately bummed out.
I might add more to this later….maybe.
Out.
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