Let's Rock! Decoding David Lynch, One Film at a Time: Episode 2 - The Elephant Man

 Programme:

Music video: River of Dreams - Billy Joel

Short subject: Radar Men on the Moon - Chapter 8 The Enemy Planet

Cartoon: Looney Tunes - Feed the Kitty

Trailers: Heavy Metal (1981), Looker (1981), Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

Note: For this entry, I am including the program of shorts I viewed prior to the film. I love the old-school cinema experience, and whenever possible I try to recreate that in my own home by watching a music video, a short subject, a cartoon, and trailers preceding the Feature Presentation. Moving forward, when I have included a program with my viewing of the film being discussed I will include the information, if for nothing other than posterity (but also to establish my film knowledge cred).

Soon after viewing the landmark experimental film Eraserhead, Mel Brooks sought out David Lynch to helm his next project - a biopic about Joseph Merrick, an artist who spent a significant portion of his life as a carnival side-show performer before being taken in by a hospital. Merrick’s rise to prominence is one that in many ways mirrors Lynch’s own career. Merrick was looked down upon due to his deformities, a condition he had absolutely no control over. His introduction into Victorian life, particularly among those of the upper segment of society, was due more to curiosity and the contributions to science and medicine that studying him could bring.

Certainly, there were more than a few who met him that were touched by his gentle, charming manner, even as they were repulsed by his features. The film illustrates that some among the upper class were just as interested in exploiting Merrick as those of the working spectrum. Whether it be to add to medical knowledge, or just to reinforce their commitment to being “Good Christians” by taking tea with Merrick despite their inherent disgust of him. Indeed, the surgeon Frederick Treves who discovered Joseph and invited him to be examined at some points questions his own motives for bringing the man out of his pit of despair, only to be ogled and admired by rich onlookers rather than poor ones.

Similarly, David Lynch was given a chance by the AFI Conservatory and by doing so was set upon a path from obscurity to eminence. He presented his short film, The Grandmother, along with a grant proposal to begin work on a more involved short film. He was sure that his artistic ideals would not be recognized and that others would receive the grant. But to his surprise, The Grandmother was praised, and he received a sum sufficient to begin filming Eraserhead, a project which would take five years to complete, growing from the proposed short film to the feature-length masterpiece it became.

Lynch’s work was a curiosity among both critics and audiences. His seminal work was not immediately praised by critics but slowly gained traction and notoriety as a midnight movie. Those privy to his vision must have felt somewhat like those who gazed upon Merrick during the Victorian era, a moment in time that prized conformity and stability. Joseph Merrick threw that stability off-kilter with his deformed features and rough skin and lesions, just as Lynch’s work was a major departure from the firmly structured process of filmmaking prized during the 70s. Even though a “New School” had emerged, which was eschewing the classic Hollywood mold, the narrative skeleton remained nonetheless intact. For that reason the film must have been more a curiosity to some, rather than seen as a genuine artistic effort worthy of serious criticism and praise.

In many of Lynch’s efforts, there is much of the self imbued in the work. David Lynch is a staunch supporter of artistic freedom, insisting that all artists should be free to express themselves rather than conform to pre-conceived expectations or norms. In this way, although Eraserhead is an important and seminal work (particularly of utmost importance to his late period), I believe it is The Elephant Man which is the true thesis statement of Lynch’s ouvre.

While The Elephant Man is one of David Lynch’s most direct and structured films, it nevertheless carries many of his trademarks. The Victorian industrial landscape is captured with the same energy as the mechanical backdrop of Eraserhead. He works to visually tie the backstreets and pubs of the working class to the hospital, which is then connected to the upper class by the board of directors and other factors above Treves’ head, which he needs to face off with in order to provide a safe space for Joseph Merrick. He is reminded time and again that the sole purpose of the hospital is to treat only those for whom there is a cure for their condition, yet when the chief medical officer witnesses the abuse Merrick receives from the man who put him on display in the side-show, he works to aid Treves in properly treating and caring for Merrick.

The hospital, in this allegory, becomes the thread of commonality wherein the abuses of both sides of the social spectrum end up assaulting Merrick: His is placed in a room at the top of the building which is hardly ever used to begin with, yet authorities tell Treves he can only keep Merrick there for a limited time. The matron and nurses at first recoil in disgust at his appearance (as well as commenting on the odor due to lack of bathing and cleaning) but later come to accept him as he is and have a meaningful and pleasant relationship with him. An orderly brings groups of people to gawk and gaze, cajole and further abuse Merrick. In his first demonstration to the board of Merricks’ numerous issues Treves presents him fully naked to the gathering of doctors and scholars. Several members of the board of directors protest keeping Merrick in a disused room indefinitely because it offends their sensibilities and are only fully rebuked when royalty takes interest in Merrick’s case by threatening to cut off funding and pointing out that caring for Joseph is “The Christian thing to do.”

It is worth noting here that the scene about funding Merrick’s continued stay in the hospital mirrors the real-life rows that Brooks would have with producers (and which Lynch would have with De Laurentis during his next two films). But in a broader sense go back to Lynch’s ideal of artistic freedom and the filmmaking process.

As with many things, the safe space for Merrick ends up being a gilded cage, but where is he to go? He cannot be employed by standard means and thus support himself. He cannot go back to the side-show. He will be a figure of interest and curiosity among the upper crust for only so long, until they move on to their next social project. Thus the irony becomes that the space intended to be safe for Merrick still holds elements of his past abuse. As noted above, Treves even comes to question whether he has just traded one set of gawkers for another group, just with deeper pockets and the ability to surround him with comforts. When Treves asks if he is a good man or not, we do not hear his wife's answer. In a typical Hollywood effort, the wife would embrace the husband, assure him that he has always done the right thing. Instead, we cut away after the question is asked and hangs pregnant in the air for several beats. As in all things the good director has seen fit to allow the viewer decide that answer.

I have always felt an affinity for Lynch's ideals of finding the beauty in things many would call ugly. Returning to the subject of the mechanical, industrial landscapes of his first two films, London during the Victorian era was a place of both great beauty and ugliness. Even while grand structures were being erected, also were metallic, grey, dull, mechanical monstrosities created which consumed coal, belched flame and smoke and smog into the air, and brought a plight upon the land. The Victorian era was a tangle of contradictions, just as the hospital where Merrick stayed was a source of both comfort and trauma to him. Several times we see the hallways have a thin film of standing water upon them. Something that perhaps would not be out of place in the era, but which now we see as a harbinger of mold and bacteria.

This duality would go on to play a major role in many Lynch stories moving forward, including Twin Peaks. I initially began this series with the intent to compare or tie the individual works of Lynch to his magnum opus. There are certainly a number of themes and ideas that appear across the spectrum of Lynch’s films which would be utilized magnificently in The Return (and trust me, we will get there). My operating theory is that many of Lynch’s works are all part of the same cinematic universe. I realize this idea goes against what Lynch himself has stated in interviews, but many of not just the filmmaking techniques, but the application of special effects, are similar. I could envision a world in which Laura Palmer and Henry Spencer might exist together. And Blue Velvet’s Jeffrey Beaumont, aside from being an early prototype of Agent Cooper (not to mention the town where the action takes place)...but I’m getting ahead of myself. However, works like The Elephant Man and Dune are based upon pre-existing properties which precludes the idea of a shared, inherent universe.

All the same, there are a number of moments within The Elephant Man which exude significant Lynch tropes. In addition to the stark angles and capturing the duality of mechanics and beauty, there are several notable dream sequences which veer sharply into the same territory as the Lady in the Raditor segments of Eraserhead. Here we have dream logic that strikes a distinctly Lynchian tone. It's still in the early phases, but his style has been indelible since the very beginning. Dream space is filled with the sounds of suffering, particularly when Merrick is abused by the hospital orderly who brings crowds to gawk at him, sending him into a spiral of reliving past traumas. He sees his mother, writhing in agony, hears strange, distorted cries. Elephants lumber before him, almost in a parody of the “pink elephant” dream sequences of Dumbo. Slow-motion instills terror and dread. And here we see one of the great strengths of Lynch as a director: His ability to infuse moments with several different moods or meanings. He can take a scene that is all just dialogue and upbeat and put in a moment of chilling terror. He can take a horrifying subject and infuse comedic moments to break the tension. The answer to all this comes in the human apparatus and how it deals with trauma.

Trauma and abuse emerge as common themes in Lynch’s early period. While it will become a centerpiece of his structure in later films, it is used here as an underlying element that is nevertheless an influence on John Merrick. His abuse at the hands of the orderly goes unreported because he assumes this as a fact of life, and it isn’t until Treves witnesses the treatment firsthand that the orderly is made obsolete. Even then, the orderly and side-show barker come to him at night, when there is less protection. Even safe spaces can be assaulted.

The thesis statement being made here is that adversity should not bring one down. We all will face adversity in our endeavors. Mel Brooks went to the mats with studio executives to retain the vision for The Elephant Man; and Lynch would go on to have numerous contentious relationships with those funding his films. Therefore Merrick’s story stands as a parallel for his own: A man who would not give up and chose to be true to himself rather than allow negative people in his life to bring him down. A man who chose the time and manner even of the ending of his life. Just as David Lynch aspired to be like figures such as Merrick, everyone should aspire to be like Lynch. Follow your dreams, paint the pictures or play the music of your own soul. The world would be a much better place if we could all learn to live for our dreams and not for a paycheck.

Let's Rock! Decoding David Lynch, One Film at a Time: Episode 1, Eraserhead

It's been a few weeks since David Lynch passed, and this is the first time I have been able to bring myself to watch one of his films. I mulled it over for a long while, trying to figure out the best way to approach his ouvre. Which to watch first?

I wanted to dive into films like Mulholland Drive or Lost Highway (my favorites), which represent his late period and have an amalgam of tropes that were applied more intermittently in earlier pieces. But that didn't feel right because I also wanted to go over mid-era pieces like Wild at Heart. It's also February and time for my yearly Twin Peaks re-watch.

I finally decided that, although I have done it before, going in order of release will provide not only context but will also detail a creative road map from this film to Twin Peaks The Return (which I see as not only a culmination of all of Lynch's ideas and bromides, but also as the ideal swan song for an amazing career). As a tribute to the art life lived by this beautiful soul, I felt it only right to not only watch his films in order, but to also try to decode the tropes and ideas at play in the majority of his work, and attempt to understand their meaning.

Lynch has long been tight-lipped about what things mean in his works, but it is also no secret that for him there are definite answers and specific reasons for all the seemingly weird happenings in his movies. Many of these concepts are used and re-used across multiple films, and one can see their refinement as you go through chronologically. I noticed a significant amount of imagery that would appear in later films when viewing Eraserhead. The idea of small things spouting impossible amounts of fluids, imagery suffused with tension and terror, moments of seeming weirdness which nevertheless have their own internal and consistent logic.

The visual language of David Lynch is vast and myriad, filled with commonalities and intricacies, such that one can approach each work from a different perspective, and find an endless variety of interpretations and reactions to the material. Viewing Eraserhead for the first time in a couple of years, I found that certain scenes which had previously evoked a sense of disgust or revulsion, now gave a feeling of elation.

I noted how a number of elements in this film correlate with the Black Lodge mythology of Twin Peaks, and an idea started to form. It was nothing new, I have often supposed that many, if not all, of Lynch's films are connected. If not part of the same universe, per se (see: Dune, The Elephant Man) then at least elementally and thematically aligned.

Of course, they would be, since Lynch directed them all! On a deeper, more subconscious level, patterns begin to emerge. Just as Lynch states that while he does have a specific meaning for why and how things happen in his films, he leaves it up to the viewer to provide their own answers and famously refuses to elaborate. It is interesting to note that he is willing to discuss where ideas (or sometimes just the seeds of ideas) come from, which does allow audiences to connect them with the intended meaning in his work. Lynch has also indicated when an interpretation is incorrect, as for Eraserhead he flatly denies that it's about fatherhood and fears of such.

But we do also know that often what a person says is the opposite of what they think or believe. So who is to say? I, personally, view this film as a commentary on fatherhood. But it goes beyond that. It also seems to give a view into the idea that, no matter what a parent tries to do, there is a world outside full of forces (often oppressive) that will shape a child outside of their control. There may also be innate forces beyond the parent's comprehension.

Several scenes in Eraserhead deal with forces similar to those in The Return. The film opens with a sequence where we hover over a planetoid, upon which sits a figure who looks out a window. He pulls a lever and a sperm-like object is hurtled through a void, landing in what appears to be a small puddle of water. Perhaps this is a visualization of the psychological issues Henry faces when engaging in intercourse with Mary X. Theirs does not appear to be an emotionally stable pairing, but considering her parents Henry is probably her best option.

In The Return we see several sequences where people in industrial settings pull a lever or turn a dial, and something or someone is hurtled through a void and lands on Earth. Aside from being repeated motifs, I get a sense that these things are connected in some way. In particular, the sequences where Laura Palmer is created by The Fireman as a counter to the negative entities sent by Judy is very reminiscent of the ideas at play in the first several minutes of Eraserhead.

Repeated imagery in Eraserhead is consistent with what will become the Black Lodge in Twin Peaks: red curtains (the stage The Lady In The Radiator may have red curtains despite being in black and white given their gradation); the black and white chevron floor pattern; an appearance of a sculpture which looks quite a bit like The Evolution of The Arm (which itself is topped with a head that looks quite a bit like The Baby).

The Lady in the Radiator dances while a number of sperm-like things drop from above. She steps on them, squirting out various fluids, and smiles. In the end, after The Baby has ascended and Henry is encompassed by bright white light, The Lady comes to him and they embrace. Could this be Henry giving in and releasing his garmonbozia for her to consume? Could The Lady in the Radiator be Judy?

If we break down the sequence of events, this can make sense: After The Baby is born there is an altercation with Mary in which she storms out and goes home. Henry has an affair with the woman across the hall, who is horrified by the appearance of The Baby. Later, Mary has returned, and is seen in bed, sweating, digging into her eyes, and Henry pulls out one sperm-like construct after another from beneath the sheets, dashing them against the wall. After this, Mary is absent and Henry sees the woman across the hall taking home a gentleman suitor (also implied is that she is a prostitute taking home a john).

The dream sequence in which Henry's head is used to make literal erasers is perhaps the most visceral moment in the work and leads directly into the final sequence. It appears Mary has either died due to illness, or possibly was killed by Henry. If she was killed by him, the apparent filicide of the final moments, where Henry cuts into The Baby's body wrap, then stabs at the internal organs, would be a logical conclusion. In this case, the Lady In The Radiator would have plenty of garmonbozia to consume due to the suffering and horror he has caused.

It is also worth noting that the editing of many of the more horrific sequences, particularly once Mary and The Baby move in with Henry, is done with the timing of a comedy. Which pushes against the horrific and dramatic arc of the imagery and narrative being presented. It seems that Lynch wants to do many things at once, including instilling the audience with both a sense of dread and making them laugh (or at least disarm them with humorous trappings while setting up a terrifying premise).

Whatever the case may be, the final moments of Eraserhead are confounding, confusing, and ultimately lead this reviewer to different conclusions with each viewing. Which is exactly what David Lynch prefers when crafting his denser material.

These are just a handful of possible connections I noticed, and as I work through Mr. Lynch's body of work, I will look to find others. Next up will be The Elephant Man, in which Lynch gets backing from Mel Brooks and is given free reign to present the life of John Merrick as he envisioned it. Stay tuned, kiddies!

How to Start a Fight: The Masculine Mystique in FIGHT CLUB

"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

There will be some spoilers here and I honestly would not want any of this movie to be ruined for one who has not seen it so I urge you to see this first before you read on.

Have you heard of Tyler Durden?

Duality establishes itself early on as one of the primary themes of Fight Club. Edward Norton's Narrator is living a double life. He can't sleep, so he finds that going to group therapy, posing as a cancer survivor or a blood parasite victim, is the only way he can get some rest. Or so it seems..

Then Marla Singer comes along. She's a tourist like him, only more obviously so. And Narrator must find other ways to deal with his sleeping disorder: Such as sabotaging his dreary middle-class existence, forming an underground boxing club, and starting a revolution. All with his new best friend, Tyler Durden.

There are two sides to everything in this film. Tyler makes you promise things 2 times (three, technically, but stick with me here), there are two phases of Project Mayhem once it gets going; Fight Club occurs in a basement, i.e. a secondary room hidden underneath the public bar; when Tyler Durden gives the rules of Fight Club, the first rule is given twice (and yes I realize I am breaking the first two rules by talking about it). There are also a number of dualities behind the scenes, such as the fact that they had a bunch of corporate tie-ins, yet the script is decidedly anti-corporate.

The really fantastic thing about this movie is the editing and sound design, both of which are top-flight, especially when played on a proper surround sound speaker system. Fight Club is one of my favorite movies of all time. I put it up there with the likes of The Godfather and Casablanca. It shaped my cinematic outlook and sensibilities just as it shaped some of my personal ideals and sensibilities.

True, an examination of Tyler Durden's modus operandi is to find the narcissistic, manipulative, and emotionally and physically abusive qualities of the character. But the thing is, he is doing this all in order to change people for the positive.

Yes, he destroys property. Yes, he may push the Space Monkeys of Project Mayhem far beyond the bounds of human decency. Yes, he may be out to destroy several city blocks in order to reset the populace's credit history and give us all a clean slate.

But Tyler Durden is doing it all for us, man!

There is a scene about halfway into the film where Tyler Durden enters a bodega and takes the clerk out back at gunpoint. He then instructs this clerk to go back to school and become a veterinarian, and lets him go. In other words, he just mugged a guy into following his life's dream.

And that is Tyler Durden in a nutshell: mugging people and threatening them into changing their lives for the better. In 1999 (that vaunted year of great filmmaking to which I keep returning), this was a refreshing outlook, somehow filtering all the feel-good pseudo-psychological catch-phrases and homogenized pop culture of the '90s through a testosterone wash to try and help men stay masculine and strong in the face of the seeming feminization of the world.

Obviously, by now, we see where that path has led with the rise of Trumper-ism and the American way of embracing a right to be wrong and have alternative facts.

Even Tyler Durden's creator, Chuck Palahniuk never intended Tyler to be a cultural icon. Though his ultimate goal was to positively better the people within his sphere of influence, he was conceived as a metaphor for fascistic systems and how they can seem to have a positive effect even when doing negative things. Which is why our Narrator character is so desperate to stop Tyler's plans when he learns that he is himself Tyler Durden.

For a brief, shining moment, before 9/11, before Bush, before Trump and all the insanity to which the first two and a half decades of the new millennium have borne witness, there was a time when it seemed like Tyler's way was the good way forward.

Like so many things that were once thought good or acceptable, his philosophies have been soured by the realization that they may actually be harmful to society at large, if not individual participants. But we will always have the memories. And the soap.

Seven Years Ago, Abrams and Co. Did the Impossible and Revived a Franchise

It is rare in these times to find a trilogy of films that hit the 5-star mark, that so exemplify the best their genre, series, IP, or whatever cultural grouping and cataloging system you prefer, can attain.

When I give a film five stars, it is not always because it is a "perfect" film. It's because that film is an example of the best any particular style, genre, etc can be. So when I dole out five stars to films in the Star Wars series, it does not mean I think them to be Great Films as compared to, say, LAWRENCE OF ARABIA or 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY. It's because I feel they represent all the best a Star Wars film can or should be.

In THE FORCE AWAKENS, then, we catch up with characters once familiar but now shadows of their former selves, a new crop of players soon to join the fray, and a galaxy of boundless possibilities.

In spite of all these possibilities, we also find that - even in a galaxy far, far away - time is unkind and the plans of mice, men, Heroes, and Jedi often go awry. Despite all Leiah Organa has done to shepherd in a new Senate, the cancerous growth borne of the ashes of the Empire, a sect called The First Order, has arisen.

Is this perhaps also a commentary that all systems tend towards chaos and disorder? I can spend my time deconstructing the arguments against this film (and the Sequel Trilogy in general) but doing so would give the butthurt crybaby fanboi incels free rent in my head. Instead I choose to focus on the positives.

Except to point out that Rey is anything but a "Mary Sue". For those that don't know, a Mary Sue is a type of character prevalent in fan-fiction who typically exists as an avatar, a self-insert fantasy fulfillment trope/stand-in for the author, who is instantly loved by all the characters they encounter, are perfect in all they do, and have mastery of their new-found abilities almost instantly.

While it is true that Rey is a Force-sensitive who has an uncanny grasp of Force abilities without training, and yeah Han Solo and Chewie like her almost immediately, she is anything but perfect.

She routinely fucks up, whether it's dragging the hull of the Millennium Falcon across the desert sands of Jakku, or releasing a bunch of rathtars (nasty creatures all tentacles and teeth) on Han's freighter. She isn't immediately able to fly the Falcon, there is a learning curve to it and she is good at electronics but more often than not ends up tripping the wrong fuse.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. What I would like to do is praise this film as not only a great start to a grandly entertaining trilogy, but the reflection of those that came before it, rivaling its forebears in cinematic acumen. There is just enough similarity to the original STAR WARS to feel firmly entrenched in its universe, but enough originality to set it apart. Director JJ Abrams constructs some powerhouse set pieces here, which have the look and feel of a Spielberg or Lucas joint.

Even so, the mark of the maker is upon it and a number of elements - sure to perturb OG SW fans to no end - are never explained such as who made the map which serves as the film's Maguffin, or how was the Skywalker Light Saber retrieved from the bowels of the Cloud City Bespin after Vader relieved Luke of both hand and weapon?

The short response is, the answers to these questions simply don't matter. Not every mystery needs to be explained, not every riddle needs to be solved. The most important part of this movie is that Mr. Abrams provided a wild ride that somehow becomes more exhilarating (especially that opening sequence!) the more I see it.

Christopher Nolan and the Art of the Ever-Rising Narrative

THE DARK KNIGHT RISES film has got to be my favorite of the acclaimed Nolan Trilogy, blemishes and all.

In his interview series with French director Francois Truffaut, legendary British director Alfred Hitchcock stated that critics are far too concerned with concepts like plausibility and realism. It does not matter if the series of events is plausible, he argues, or that the authorities might not act in a realistic way. What is of utmost importance in crafting a narrative is not filling in plot holes, but entertaining the audience. If you can thrill the people enough, they won't worry about plausibility or plot holes, all they will remember is the experience.

Many great films are built on foundations of implausibility, from THE THIN MAN to INDIANA JONES. The discourse revolving around this drive for films to always make sense or not have plot holes has surged exponentially since Hitchcock's time, and really started to come to a head when THE MATRIX REVOLUTIONS came out in the early 2000's.

Many have derided THE DARK KNIGHT RISES since its release in 2012, lamenting that it's not as good as 2008's THE DARK KNIGHT, that the writing falls short, that Batman acts out of character.

Perhaps its worst offense, according to Bat-fans, is the fact that Batman does not appear until about the 50-minute mark (in a nearly three-hour-long movie), and that after that re-emergence, he spends another 30 minutes or so entrapped by Bane in an underground prison.

As is so often the case, the very thing that critics see as the film's weakness, is the thing I see as it's greatest strength.

This goes along with my love for IRON MAN 3 as the greatest Marvel film: Both narratives represent the perfect culmination of a trilogy, one where the main character who has been having an identity crisis throughout the preceding films finally attains a balance, a synthesis between the dueling personas, where they realize that the raiment they wear is meaningless without the man inside.

Throughout the first two films, there is an ongoing discussion between Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, his steadfast butler and father-figure, that The Batman is a symbol. A man can be corrupted but a symbol, an icon, remains regardless of the man inside. There is the idea brought up that others may take on the mantle with the proper training and ideological drive.

And although at the end of RISES, Batman does pass the torch in a sense, it comes only after Wayne's realization that no one can do it quite like him, that he is the only one who could save a city in crisis.

The threat level in this film is also off the charts compared to just about any other Batman film before it (and indeed 2022's THE BATMAN, which is essentially a year-two tale where the character experiences growing pains and wrestles with his shortcomings and inner demons, is one of the few films in this cycle that even comes close).

THE DARK KNIGHT RISES has some of the best action sequences out of the Nolan trilogy, and although there is a messier narrative with myriad disparate elements, it is edited and presented in almost a constant montage, cross-cutting between about four or five different threads which culminate in a blowout finale.

It's often said that one should not have more than three separate storylines or events occurring in a film narrative, because most audiences lose track of what is going on. But this one is made in the editing. Nolan cross-cuts and time-jumps the narrative with ease and grace, making the entire story (even with some disjointed aspects) thrive and build in momentum, sustaining the rising tension throughout the entire film.

Like Bruce Wayne as The Batman, no other director could have done it quite this way.

Who Watches the Watcher: Media and Violence in THE WATCHMEN and Beyond

It is often seen as a negative for films to use TV programs to fill in exposition. It's thought of as lazy and not very creative. But WATCHMEN (and DC movies in general) utilizes this trope effectively. It is a device often used in the comic books these pictures are based on, and a visual one that carries over well between mediums.

Part of the reason it works so well is that - whether intended or not when employed - there is a subtextual commentary regarding mass media's role in communication and how we learn and share information. In a way this is a commentary on the human condition and a consistent thread throughout DC movies (one of the few consistencies they share).

Both THE BATMAN and WATCHMEN open with a scene wherein a character watches a news program for an extended length. It is fantastic world-building that draws you in and establishes a status quo, but is made even more effective when the scene performs several functions at once. For in both sequences the person watching television is the one whose death also incites the events about to commence.

Perhaps there is a subtle suggestion here that being passive and simply watching TV is dangerous to one' s health...?

In the case of WATCHMEN, it is an almost panel-for-panel recreation of the graphic novel. Using Dave Gibbons' art as a storyboard is kind of brilliant. The story is already there but there is still room for Zack Snyder to expand a bit and infuse his own visual flair, an opportunity never missed by the director.

In regards to violence, I feel that the nature of the media commentary runs parallel to the commentary on violence. The film opens with a brutal, desperate fist-fight, yet climaxes with a self-sacrifice (of sorts) instead of a bombastic finale. Media plays a significant role in all of this, from a TV program playing in the background during the prologue's fisticuffs, to a comic book being read throughout the movie's run by a kid hanging out at a newsstand the main characters frequent, to the bank of televisions Ozymandias has in his Antarctic hideaway.

When watching or reading media, we are voyeurs, in a sense. We are glancing into the lives of others and seeing how their struggles and conflicts affect one another. In the world of WATCHMEN, violence is almost always seen as an acceptable response, whether it is The Comedian blasting American protestors with gas grenades or Dr. Manhattan exploding perpetrators from within during a routine bust.

And why should they worry about repercussions when war is so frequently and easily used by the power structure in this alternate reality where Nixon was elected for four terms instead of caught at Watergate?

I have said before that I feel Snyder's use of violence is not to be cool and dynamic (although it is often seen as such). Instead there is a meta level at play in how Snyder presents violent images, whether it's the uber-pumped action of a young girl's fantasy life in SUCKER PUNCH or the world-shaking powers on display in MAN OF STEEL and BATMAN V SUPERMAN.

The action and violence in these films is almost always accompanied by an unsettling, gut-churning feeling, as well it should be.

Sure, it's cool as fuck to see Night Owl hit a man's arm so hard that splinters of bone poke through the skin, bringing with it a spray of blood. Or for a thug to cut through his compatriot's arms with an electric handsaw in order to get to Rorschach during a prison riot.

But what does it really mean when we cheer these things on? Have we really progressed that far since early man first struck an enemy down using a bone as an improvised weapon? Or do we use violent images in movies and video games to sublimate those primitave urges and thus keep up a veneer that society deems we must?

In interviews Zack Snyder often appears to be exuberant about the action and violence of his films, insisting that it's part of what the audience comes to see. But when you look at these sequences in any of his movies, there is quite often a balance of long, quiet stretches preceding the moment of action. Characters interact, discuss, learn and share things about and with each other.

As we should do with each other. Violence erupts in Snyder movies when there is a lack of communication and understanding, or as a ruse to obscure the truth. Media is supposedly a tool that can be used to bring the world together and help us understand and communicate with each other. Quite frequently, mass media only makes the message muddier, obscures the truth behind what they think the audience wants to hear, or what the purveyors of said media think is good for the masses.

The main characters of WATCHMEN use media in a variety of ways to promote their "version" of the truth or to convince people what is right.

And, in the end, the masses become reliant on the media to show them what to think, how to feel, and when to become violent and outraged.

WATCHMEN was written in 1985, and the film made in 2009 years before Trump, "fake news," and Covid. In 1985 it predicted a 9/11-type situation and in 2009 warned about the surveillance state we were becoming. And just like the question of, "Who watches The Watchmen" is one that looms over both the comic book and celluloid-bound stories, "Who controls the media?" is one we should be asking every day.

Straight Outta Context: The Art of Building a Hip-Hop Empire

STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON is a fine example of how experiencing art can be deepened and expanded with context.

When songs like "Fuck the Police" and "Cop Killer" stoked media controversy in the late 80s and early 90s, much of America was unfamiliar with the harassment young men from areas like LA/Compton, or Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York et. al. truly faced on a regular basis.

With the recent and ongoing increase in (reported) incidents of police brutality and overreach of authority in recent years, it becomes increasingly understandable, from events leading up to the Rodney King riots to the lyrics of said songs to see why these artists felt the way they did at that time and in that place.

In the last seven+ years living with my girlfriend, who grew up in a small Midwestern town and who has told me about some very traumatic events in her youth which are quite similar to a number of run-ins with the police depicted in this film, it becomes clear that whether it's a big city or a small, semi-rural town, there is a thread of systemic racism skewed against black people across many levels in American institutions.

I say this not to stoke an argument or to bring politics into an artistic discussion (although the socio-political landscape is a necessary element of this biopic). I don't think racial relations in America is something that should be political. I don't even like to think of people as being separated by race. We're all humans, all of one race. Yes, there are ethnic groups that have important traditions and history. It is indeed vital that we celebrate all those differences, just as it is important to come together in the realization that we all share this world and we all want to live free.

There is a saying, "Universal law is for lackeys, context is for kings." It basically means that those who serve only need to be given and subsequently follow directions, while only those who lead need to know the reasons for those directions. It is a principle that much of society appears to be based upon. For instance, when the police are executing a traffic stop, it is socially expected that one complies with all directions - even those that are illegal or contradictory. That if there is an illegal act on the part of the police, one will report it and prosecute later.

The problem with this is, it flies in the face of principles the country was built upon, as well as the lessons of the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. As Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote in his Letter from an Alabama Jail, explaining the ideology behind the civil disobedience campaign, "One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws."

When the masses begin to gain context, there is a distinct possibility that civil unrest will follow and that the "lackeys" will try to rise up against the king(s).

This is why music like the hip-hop songs and albums of the N.W.A. are relevant, even today. N.W.A. received threats from the FBI that songs like "Fuck the Police" might spark discontent and violence against law enforcement. From the beginning, the media (comprised of older white men - respected in their field though they may be - who either didn't have proper context or purposely withheld it to spin the story to middle-American sensibilities) was against them, selling a disingenuous narrative that the music was violent and dangerous.

Are the words of Easy-E and Ice Cube any more dangerous than the writings of Thomas Jefferson which sparked the American Revolution, or the plethora of folk, Soul, R&B, and rock bands of the 1960s whose music was the backdrop of and context for the Civil Rights and Viet Nam war protests?

I came of age in the 1990s and from my perspective in a small-town predominantly white American community I felt that things were getting better from economics to politics, to so-called "race relations" in America. From what my girlfriend tells me, it was a much different story in her part of the world. Context matters.

When one gets past the title, the lyrics of the song "Fuck the Police" tell a story of a youth beset by institutional racism, where they can't stand on the corner outside their recording studio in Torrance without being harassed (by a black police officer, no less) because they look like gangsters: 

Fuck the police comin' straight from the underground

A Young nigga got it bad 'cause I'm brown

And not the other color so police think

They have the authority to kill a minority

Fuck that shit, 'cause I ain't the one

For a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun

To be beatin' on, and thrown in jail

We can go toe-to-toe in the middle of a cell

Fuckin with me 'cause I'm a teenager

With a little bit of gold and a pager

Searchin' my car, lookin' for the product

Thinkin' every nigga is sellin' narcotics

You'd rather see me in the pen

Than me and Lorenzo rollin' in the Benzo

This part is the set-up, like in a movie where you have the first act which provides context for the character and a situation where their everyday life is interrupted by the circumstances conflict being introduced into the story. Another section, which I'm guessing is what the law enforcement community took umbrage to, reads:

Beat a police outta shape

And when I'm finished, bring the yellow tape

To tape off the scene of the slaughter

Still getting swole off bread and water

This is artistic expression, pure and simple. It is a fantasy of tearing down the system which they see as keeping them down. It is not advocating for people to kill police officers, because even the last line warns of the consequences for following through with that desire, as "getting swole off bread and water" is a reference to the jail time you get. These are the words they use but the subtext is a yearning for change and acceptance. Change can be a scary concept to those for whom the status quo works. But the status quo should not leave a segment of society behind and what they want is a new system that works for all, not just for some.

It is a common principle of criticism to base one's opinion on the piece of work as-is, without explanation or contextualization, that a work of art should speak for itself. I, too, believe that art should stand on its own and that the first mistake any artist makes is to explain their work.

That being said, I often find that when I see a director lay out their vision or goal for a movie in an interview, that deepens my appreciation of that work.

There is a lot going on in this movie. There are a lot of little personal dramas and the film forms a picture of a group of friends who fall apart because "business" got in the way.

But at the heart of it all is the creation of art. Each main character is developed well as they split off into three factions and spin off new worlds in the burgeoning hip-hop era, giving voice to such talents as Snoop Dogg, Tupac, and beyond. Each of them remain in the game, able to create their art despite the interpersonal troubles and hardships. Such that a theme of the film can be seen as persevering in the face of adversity.

Many will say hardcore rap isn't art. That it's not really music. I once felt that beats were just created on a computer for the rapper to spit lyrics. This picture has opened my eyes, showing the true artistry present in the process of producing a hip-hop record. It's given me context.

Context is important for many things in this life. It allows us to reach an understanding between friends even when they stand on opposite sides of an issue. It allows us to understand why large segments of the black community still feel held back within society even today. It enhances one's experience of and interaction with art when one knows what went on behind the scenes, and STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON is all about context.