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Wednesday, 30 June 2021

‘Leverage: Redemption’ is a Satisfying Second Act

Before the recession of 2020, the last worst Great Recession this country had ever experienced was the 2008 financial crisis. Amidst that backdrop — the exposure of reckless banking practices that introduced the world to the phrase “subprime mortgages” — a show called Leverage premiered on TNT. Its premise was simple: a caper drama with a bulls-eye on corporate America. Public sentiment toward Wall Street had soured. Given how loathe television at the time was to talk about economic inequality, a show centered on the good fight against corporate greed stood out. Sure, it helped to have an attractive and comedically gifted cast pulling off the heists together, but the real allure of a show like Leverage is who it aimed at (The Man) and who it stood up for (the little guy).

Leverage managed to mine the inequality gap for five seasons worth of heists from 2008-2012, ending with a series finale in which partners-in-crime-turned-partners-in-life Nate Ford (Timothy Hutton) and Sophie Devereaux (Gina Bellman) passed the torch to the younger remaining members of their heist team (publicly known as Leverage Consulting & Associates); Alec Hardison (Aldis Hodge), Parker (Beth Riesgraf), and Eliot Spencer (Christian Kane). It was intended to be the end of the road, but now, nearly a decade later, the show has been reborn as Leverage: Redemption. The first eight episodes of the revival air on July 9 on IMDb TV, with the second half slated for the fall. Nearly all members of the core acting ensemble returned — Hutton, who faced sexual misconduct allegations in 2020, did not. His absence was the first test for the revival as Nate is the person who first assembled the team and, as the so-called “mastermind,” the presumed heart and mind of their operation. 

So, what to do with the mastermind-shaped hole in the show? Kill him off and promote Sophie to the role of elder stateswoman. In the first episode of the revival, the other team members gather for the one-year anniversary of Nate’s death and realize that Sophie is grieving, listless, and in need of distraction. Distracting Sophie becomes the reason to reassemble the old gang and return to heisting. And just like that, the revival rationalizes its existence. It’s a natural fit for Sophie to take over as mastermind, not because she is Nate’s late wife but because Sophie was always second in command anyway. She’s a career con artist with a vast knowledge of grifts, a knack for big-picture thinking, and season after season, it was her emotional intelligence that kept the team together when petty infighting or loner tendencies threatened to break them up. Also, as the success of the John Wick franchise proves, the “badass coming out of retirement” concept is a crowd-pleaser.

Leverage: Redemption isn’t afraid to acknowledge time. We aren’t picking up right where we left off. Parker has matured (she’s in therapy) but not much (she’s seeing a child psychologist because she likes the puppets), Hardison leads his own company (Leverage International), and Eliot knows he’s more than a hitter. This natural maturation and reworked group structure are one of a few things that have changed on a show that largely sticks to what it’s good at in its second act. 

Other changes include moving the base of operations from Boston to New Orleans and adopting two new crew members. While Hodge isn’t there for all the fun (“Dammit Hardison!”), Hardison is there in spirit as the connective tissue between new cast member Aleyse Shannon — who plays his foster sister and gifted hacker Breanna Casey  — and the OG crew. Breanna is the youngest team member, and her perspective helps revitalize the team by confirming a suspicion: the world has gotten even worse since they hung up their (off-)white hats. “I’ve lived through endless war, two economic collapses, and the return of actual Nazis,” Breanna explains to Parker. “I’m kind of ready to kick [the world] in the junk.” Noah Wyle also stars as corporate fixer Harry Wilson, a man seeking redemption for a life spent on the wrong side of the law. It’s a testament to their chemistry that after so long apart and with two new additions, the Leverage crew fits back together seamlessly.  

Chris Downey, a co-creator of the original series and consulting producer on this one, was aware of the limitations of a heist show during Leverage’s original run. In an interview with Film Review Online, he explained, “If we had an actual con man sitting here, he would tell you there are really only four cons, so the challenge of the show is finding ways to put those cons in the context of a setting where it seems fresh.” The original series managed this by keeping to a breakneck speed, building an ensemble that bounced off each other naturally, and getting very creative (“Let’s go steal a mountain”) and often very silly (“Let’s go steal a country”) with the cons. 

Thankfully, the revival knows exactly what we want out of it: cooperation between a crew of disparate but somehow harmonious personalities, a Robin Hood ethos, and the heist-of-the-week format from the original series, which was playfully acknowledged by the series’ episode title format “The [Blank] Job” (episode one of the revival is “The Too Many Rembrandts Job”). In its previous incarnation, the show’s heists went after the unethical business practices of a big-box store, a hedge fund manager who gets let off too easily for stealing money from his clients, child kidnappers, and the VP of a food company who decides a lawsuit would cost less than recalling the contaminated food he’s selling to the public. The revival continues this tradition of landing comeuppances on those who prey on the vulnerable with new targets like an old-money billionaire with ties to Big Pharma who made a mint off of an opioid crisis not unlike (but for legal reasons not like) the infamous Sackler family. Executive producer Dean Devlin has stated the premise of the revival differs from the original series. “Leverage centered on a crusade to avenge the death of a child,” he said to Deadline, “this series is propelled forward as a redemption story of misdeeds that need amends.” While the first eight episodes certainly confirm this agenda, the original show and this new imagining are fundamentally about the same thing: righting wrongs. 

The most satisfying part of the new series is the return of the nonsensically high-level skill display of each specialist on the team; the hacker, the hitter, the thief, and the grifter. Leverage’s other co-creator John Rogers is credited with coining the term “competence porn,” a phrase that describes the unique rush of watching highly skilled people do what they are skilled at. Rarely do viewers worry that the Leverage team won’t pull off a con. The thrill comes from seeing it in action. Watching Parker crack an uncrackable safe, or Eliot spar with and defeat five hired guns, or Sophie use her acting skills to grift people out of oodles of money. The Leverage team is so in sync it can regroup mid-con when unforeseen complications arise (there’s always a plan B or M), and the delight comes from watching what they can achieve together. After five years and another almost decade off-screen in the show’s canon, the crew is at the top of their game. 

As a revival, Leverage: Redemption has the opportunity to essentially re-pilot: introduce and train new members, set up new problems, etc., while also re-establishing the familiar and beloved tone of the show. There are a few surprises, but for fans of the original series, this will feel like hitting the refresh button on a page they already know and love. We see the newly expanded team work through the growing pains of building and shifting relationships and are reminded why the found family dynamic of the series works so well. The team’s newest members have awe in their eyes while watching the OG crew work, like children watching someone pulling off a successful magic trick. Because that’s what the heists on this show are, a visual card trick. They deal in misdirection and sleight-of-hand. You never want to know how they did it. You just like to watch. The cons are as theatrical as ever, but they, and the show, go down so easy thanks to the signature planning montages and bouncy but non-descript jazz music. Sprinkling in new players and set pieces while maintaining the structural integrity of the original series allows this revival to keep a pace that is somehow both thrilling and comfortable. 

Capers can be many things, sexy (The Thomas Crown Affair), tense (Inside Man), fun (Ocean’s Eleven). Leverage: Redemption proves they can be all those things in one while also being righteous. The revival is undoubtedly targeting the avid fan base from the original series, but it is also well-attuned to the zeitgeist. The fiendish reaction to NBC’s Good Girls and Netflix’s Lupin shows that audiences still crave capers, especially when they punch up. And this show is very aware of that. “We’re not heroes,” Sophie explains, “we’re just…necessary.”

‘Fear Street: Part 1 – 1994’ Offers Up a Bloody Love Letter to 90s Slashers

While the 70s and 80s remain the golden era for slasher films, you’d be a fool to dismiss the output from the 90s. Franchises like Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th were on their way out, and more savvy fare like Scream (1996) and I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997) were slicing and dicing their way into the pop culture lexicon. Cool young casts, copious needle drops, and stylish stalk ‘n slash sequences became the new genre norm, and it was pretty damn glorious. While those films dominated theaters, R.L. Stine’s Fear Street horror novels for teen readers were topping bestseller lists. Now two decades after the 90s were officially laid to rest, it’s like they never ended as Netflix’s Fear Street: 1994 has arrived — and it might just be one of the best 90s slashers made in the 21st century.

The town of Shadyside has something of a reputation. Not only is it on the wrong side of the proverbial tracks, but the town has also been home to numerous mass murders over the years committed by otherwise upstanding citizens. Another one joins the list when a young man kills seven people at the local mall before being shot dead by police, but his death doesn’t end this latest nightmare. A killer in a skull mask slashes his way through a hospital, a masked man arrives swinging a bloody ax, a razor-wielding young woman attacks a teen in the street — and depending on who you ask, they might all be here at the bidding of a long dead witch named Sarah Fier.

Deena (Kiana Madeira) already has a lot on her mind after a recent breakup with Samantha (Olivia Scott Welch), but she’s soon drawn into the bloody mayhem when Sam finds herself targeted by the killers. They’re joined by Deena’s brother Josh (Benjamin Flores Jr.) and their friends Kate (Julia Rehwald) and Simon (Fred Hechinger), and the five find themselves in a fight for their lives as they try to understand what’s happening and how to stop it.

Fear Street: 1994 is part one in a new trilogy — parts two and three, 1978 and 1666, premiere over the next two weeks — and it is a fantastic time. Whether you’re a fan of Stine’s books, 90s slashers, or just love well-crafted, energetic horror movies, director/co-writer Leigh Janiak (Honeymoon, 2014) delivers a neon and blood-drenched ride populated by likable characters, grisly kills, and more 90s music than a Sam Goody going out of business in the early 2000s.

While Stine’s Fear Street books are the main inspiration here, it’s abundantly clear that Janiak and friends share an equal love for Wes Craven’s Scream. From an opening sequence that introduces a recognizable face in Stranger ThingsMaya Hawke only to brutally kill her, to teens being alternately entertained and terrified by the prospect of a killer at large, the vibe is familiar but welcome. That extends to the killers as well who feel very human in their aggression and movement, but the film takes a sharp right turn with its supernatural elements. Shadyside has a past, one that earned it the nickname Killer Capital USA, meaning the revelations here involve far more than just a whiny mama’s boy seeking a sociopathic revenge.

Janiak and cinematographer Caleb Heymann give Fear Street: 1994 an attractive look and feel as the camera peers through windows, moves across locations drenched in neon and shadow, and captures the varied emotions racing across the characters’ faces. They never shy away from the bloodletting either, and while stabbings and slicings are the go to kills, viewers are also treated to a couple more elaborate beats including a third-act kill that’s as gloriously gory as it is shocking.

The young cast is every bit as responsible for the film’s success as their talent ensures viewers will give a damn. They’re a charismatic bunch, and they bring to life likable characters who we want to see survive the night. Hechinger lands much of the film’s humor with a character who could have easily come across as annoying but is instead oddly endearing, and you can’t help but respect his pride at having gone to “pound town” with himself while the others hooked up. There’s a sweetness, too, in the relationship between Deena and Sam, and both Madeira and Welch balance their awkward teen affection well.

It’s no exaggeration to suggestion that a healthy portion of Fear Street: 1994‘s budget went to music rights as the needle drops are ridiculously frequent with familiar songs from Nine Inch Nails, Garbage, Cypress Hill, Portishead, Bush, Radiohead, and many, many more. One sequence sees at least five drop in the span of two minutes! It’s guaranteed to turn some viewers off, especially as the sound mix favors the music over character dialogue at times (at least via the Netflix screener), and it takes away time from Marco Beltrami‘s score, but the rest of us will most likely be heading to Spotify after the credits end to keep the tunes flowing.

Fear Street: 1994 is a bloody blast that both knows and respects the genre and period it’s bringing to life here. The story is engaging, the characters are compelling, and Janiak keeps it all moving with style, energy, and an appreciation for the red stuff. It’s unclear yet how the story will move forward while the films move backward, but regardless of where the next two films go this works damn well as a standalone nod to 90s horrors.

Everything We Knew About ‘Loki’ Was Wrong

Marvel Explained is our new ongoing series where we delve into the latest Marvel shows, movies, trailers, and news stories to divine the franchise’s future. In this entry, we explore Loki Episode 4 (“The Nexus Event”) and its end credits scene and unravel the many revelations found within. Yes, prepare for SPOILERS.


Well, that sure as Hel wasn’t any filler episode. Yikes.

After Loki (Tom Hiddleston) gets a little too touchy with Sylvie (Sophia Di Martino) on Lamentis, their emotional bond sparks a Nexus Event so powerful that the Time Variance Authority is immediately alerted of their presence on the exploding celestial body. They’re once again shackled and brought back to the offices to face interrogation and temporal punishment. It’s all very much business as expected until the two variants are brought before the Time-Keepers.

Loki Episode 4 (“The Nexus Event“) shatters everything we knew about the one-true timeline and those that protect it. Last week, we learned from Sylvie that the TVA agents are variants themselves. When they strayed from their pre-determined course, the TVA snatched them up, wiped their brains, and put them to work. But the mess they’re tidying is far more tangled than previously imagined. In fact, the mess may not even be the multiverse madness originally suggested in the premiere.

We can no longer trust any information delivered to us by the TVA. The Time-Keepers are nothing more than smoke and mirrors — or, as it turns out, sprockets and wires. They’re three androids propped on pedestals to instill fear and order in their subjects. If not for a curious Mobius (Owen Wilson) and a mind-expanded Hunter B-15 (Wunmi Mosaku), our intrepid variants would have been pruned like so many other cosmically deviating rascals.

Instead, they have their collars unlocked, and their Asgardian ass-kicking skills make quick work of their jailers. Sylvie lobs her blade at the middle-seated Time-Keeper, and their head pops from their shoulders. The space lizards are no such thing. Will the great and powerful Oz please reveal themselves?

But Sylvie and Loki don’t get their peek behind the curtain. Judge Renslayer (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) springs forth just as Loki is in the midst of professing his romantically complicated feelings for his variant, and with a back-stabbing from her baton, she obliterates him and that awkward moment from existence. Sylvie, once again, gets the upper hand on the judge, and Loki Episode 4 cuts to black as she demands answers.


The Loki Episode 4 End Credit Scene

Thankfully, our Loki is not dead, let alone erased. In the first Loki post-credit scene, at the end of Loki Episode 4, the series’ main character awakens not in Hel but inside another apocalypse. Standing amongst a cityscape of crumbling skyscrapers are four other Lokis credited as Classic Loki (Richard E. Grant), Kid Loki (Jack Veal), Boastful Loki (Deobia Oparei), and…well, the fourth member doesn’t have a name yet, but let’s call the little critter Alligator Loki.

The Loki Council

Sylvie may not squeeze much info from Renslayer, but this diabolical council certainly knows a bit more about what’s actually going on with the one-true timeline. Firstly, there’s probably nothing “true” about it. With the Time-Keepers exposed, the TVA’s propaganda regarding a dangerous multiversal war sounds like hokum. Resetting and pruning are not acts of protection but enslavement.

Whoever created the TVA and is pulling its strings is restricting all realities to one, robbing sentient life of free will. The universe naturally rebels, giving birth to Syvies and Gator Lokis. The events of Loki Episode 4 suggest that the villain is forcefully steering space and time to meet their desires. There’s nothing “true” or “destined” about it.

In Loki Episode 2, we were told that Loki variants are like cockroaches to the TVA. There are more of them than any other troublesome variant. Agents like Mobius have spent centuries chasing them down, pruning them into nothingness. But a few have slipped through the cracks.


Who are the Loki variants at the end of Loki Episode 4?

The council of Lokis has probably banded together to counter whatever Renslayer’s boss is committing. Two of their members are immediately recognizable. Classic Loki’s origins are right there in his name and costume. He’s dressed in his traditional comic book spandex attire, as first seen in The Avengers #1 published by Marvel Comics in 1963. He is the villain, the big bad who brought Earth’s Mightiest together after he poisoned the Hulk’s mind. Classic Loki will definitely incite the most annoyance from our Loki, and neither will have much patience for the other.

Down in front is Kid Loki. We’ve been anticipating his appearance since the series launched. He initially came into fruition in the comics after Ragnarök. When the gods died, Loki returned in the body of a child. He spent a good amount of time hanging with the Young Avengers, attempting to make amends for the horrible deeds he committed as Classic Loki. Kid Loki eventually discovered his Classic, evil self still living in his mind’s deep recesses, and the two had to square off against each other. Based on their posing here, they seemed to have worked things out in this reality.

The variant called Boastful Loki has no comic book origins, but based on his dress and the traditional Mjölnir he’s carrying, his roots are firmly planted in Norse mythology. According to some legends, Loki convinced the dwarves Brokkr and Eitri to build Mjölnir as a gift for Thor, and it was Loki who delivered the mighty hammer to his brother. So, if he delivered it, that meant he had to carry it in some fashion, right? Loki was, is, or could be worthy. That’s the point.

Whatever the case, this Boastful Loki appears absolutely worthy, and lifting Mjölnir goes a long way in explaining his namesake. Anyone who can wield such noble magic has got to feel good about themselves. He certainly stands the straightest amongst the Loki variants seen at the end of Loki Episode 4.

The Alligator Loki variant also has zero links to the Marvel comic books. But Loki has taken on many animal forms, such as snakes, eagles, mice, cats, and bees. In the Norse tales, Loki is most famous for transforming into a horse and mating with the stallion Svaðilfari, and their coupling produced the eight-legged horse Sleipnir. So, taking on the form of an alligator is not that strange for our trickster friend.


Who created the TVA?

Knowing that we can’t trust whatever the TVA previously decreed, the variants themselves could be much more complicated than individuals straying from a singular timeline. If Sylvie could be born a girl, Alligator Loki could be born an alligator. Or, their reality could be comprised of nothing but intelligent alligators.

This implies that the multiverse is much more than just people making alternate decisions. Sylvie did not create a Nexus Event by deciding to be a girl when she was meant to be a boy. Her backstory, depicted at the start of Loki Episode 4, reveals her to have been born a girl, and she lived for a good decade or so before the TVA came for her.

Why did the TVA wait so long to reset her reality? Sylvie’s arrest by a young Minutemen Renslayer occurred eons ago, possibly early in the TVA’s formation. It’s a multiversal attack. They’re pruning the universes they don’t want so they can maintain total control of one particular timeline, one particular reality. Whoever made the Time-Keeper androids is enforcing their will on all creation by restricting creation into something singular and easily manageable.

Once again, we’re back to considering Kang the Conqueror. We know the classic Avengers villain will torment our size-changing friends in AntMan and the Wasp: Quantumania. We know Jonathan Majors will play him. We know that his comic book character has deep ties to Renslayer. And we know he’s a baddie who gets his way through treacherous time travel. Kang is an easy prime suspect for the TVA’s mastermind.

Of course, with a council of Lokis galivanting across dimensions to protect their interests, we must also consider the probability that another Loki is the final boss. When we met our Loki, he was seeking a glorious purpose: to rule over everything. Our Loki once sought to command Midgard, but as Mobius pointed out in the first episode of Loki, the God of Mischief would not stop there. Our Loki fancied himself the King of Space.

Where do you go after you conquer space? Well, you conquer time and space. If we don’t meet Kang the Conqueror by the end of Loki, we’re definitely going to meet the evilest version of Loki possible. Witnessing himself as a demonic, hateful creature who achieved everything he once lusted after will force our Loki to reevaluate his own dreams and desires. It will also speed our Loki along in his emotional arc, to the point where he was when he had his neck snapped by Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War.

Loki, the Odinson, will return.


Loki Episode 4 is now streaming on Disney+.

From Agitprop to Artistic Rebellion: A Brief History of Soviet Animation

Welcome to The Queue — your daily distraction of curated video content sourced from across the web. Today, we’re watching a video essay on the history of the animation output of the Soviet Union.


Animation created under Soviet rule is a little bit like porn: you know it when you see it. Even if you aren’t a history buff or an animation nerd, I do believe (let me adjust my tinfoil hat) that you can kind of tell when you’re watching Soviet animation. M. Night Shyamalan was wrong. The sixth sense is actually the unfounded ability to tell when something was animated behind the Iron Curtain.

Okay, so maybe all the overt agitprop (a fun and definitely not scary portmanteau of “agitation” and “propaganda”) gives early Soviet animation away. And maybe Soyuzmultfilm’s slightly-off but unmissable parroting of “the Disney style” is a tell. And, hey, maybe the bleak, rebellious uptake of Czech puppetry as a means of rebelling against an oppressive occupation is also a clue. Suffice to say: Soviet animation is distinct and endlessly fascinating. Like all art, it’s political. And because it’s Soviet Art, it’s doubly so.

As the video essay below teases out, it’s fascinating to see the medium transform and flourish in response to political change. The essay is by no means a complete history. But if you’re a fan of animation techniques, production, and Soviet heavy hitters, it’s a marvelous place to start.

Watch “History of Soviet Animation”:

Who made this?

This video on the history of Soviet animation is by Mountains of Media, a channel dedicated to exploring and analyzing, well, media! As of the writing of this article, they are relatively new on the video essay scene. So if you like what you see, give ’em a follow over on YouTube.

More videos like this

    Tuesday, 29 June 2021

    The Ending of ‘Mad Men’ Explained

    Ending Explained is a recurring series in which we explore the finales, secrets, and themes of interesting movies and shows, both new and old. This time, we consider two ways of looking at the ending of the TV series Mad Men. Yes, prepare for spoilers.


    Ending a beloved television series is no easy feat. Some finales are critiqued for being too vague (see the ending of The Sopranos). Some are disappointingly cliched and predictable. And some are deemed too ridiculous, disappointing fans who have spent months or even years of their lives devouring a show (lumberjack Dexter, you know we’re looking at you!). But the ending of Mad Men manages to be wholly satisfactory and doesn’t leave any pesky loose ends. It is also entirely unexpected. 

    The Mad Men series finale, entitled “Person to Person,” finds Don Draper (Jon Hamm) totally out of his element in an oceanside retreat on the coast of California. Early in the episode, he pulls another one of his typical stunts of leaving a company meeting and not coming back. But this time, he goes too far, literally, driving to the other side of the country. Upon his arrival out west, his niece, Stephanie (Caity Lotz), brings him to the retreat but unexpectedly abandons him with no way to get home.

    Don has hit rock bottom harder than ever before. Yes, even harder than when he painted Roger’s mom’s funeral with his lunch, or even that time he told the executives from Hershey that he was raised in a brothel. Surprisingly, Don calls Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) in a rare moment of vulnerability. He confesses that he stole another man’s name, broke his marriage vows, and scandalized his own daughter, and then he tells her that he just wants to say goodbye. Peggy says he can still come home and take back his old job at McCann Erickson, but he seems uninterested and hangs up.

    In the penultimate scene of the Mad Men series finale, Don sits in on a therapy session at the retreat. One of the group members, Leonard (Evan Arnold), explains that he feels like a piece of food in the refrigerator that everyone ignores. Listening to this, something finally clicks for Don. He breaks down and cries, and he hugs Leonard. In the final moment of the episode, Don no longer appears to be a broken man. His demeanor is changed. He sits in a lotus position in front of the beautiful backdrop of the placid California beach. He meditates with other members of the retreat and then flashes a subtle smile.

    What is he smiling about? An idea for an ad, of course! Specifically, the famous “Hilltop” TV spot for Coca-Cola. But why this ad? And why this ending for Mad Men

    The “Hilltop” commercial is one of the most influential advertisements in the history of the medium. After its debut in the summer of 1971, the ad immediately became a staple of popular culture. People started calling radio stations asking them to play the “Buy the World a Coke” jingle from the commercial. That tune was then re-recorded without references to the soda and retitled “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony).” It quickly climbed up the charts in the US and the UK.

    Not only was the ad an enormous success in its time, but today it’s an important relic of that era. In the early 1970s, Americans were still reeling from the ongoing conflict in Vietnam, and things looked to be only getting worse. The counterculture hippie movement, initially predicated on peace and love in response to Vietnam and the general proliferation of nuclear weapons, as well as, more positively, the sexual revolution, had experienced some very dark moments at the end of the previous decade.

    The once seemingly harmless hippies were now also associated with more radical political groups, rampant drug use, and worst of all, the Manson Family murders and the deadly Altamont Free Concert. And by 1971, anti-war demonstrations on university campuses were resulting in violence and tragedy, while large-scale efforts such as the May Day protests in Washington, DC, were less peaceful than those of the past.   

    The fact that what would become one of the most famous ads in history takes place in a traditional hippie setting, then, is significant. California waves roll in the background. Smiling, carefree girls wear flowing braids. The crowd is effortlessly diverse. The lyrics chime the flower-power “peace and love” mantra as the carefree youngins sing of “perfect harmony” and furnishing homes with love. “Hilltop” is ultimately a deep and thoughtful reflection of the hippie spirit of the late 1960s while boldly attempting to reclaim — and obviously further mainstream — the movement’s pure and simple focus on peace and love. 

    So, what does it mean that Don, of all people, was the one to think up this real ad? Especially when the strait-laced, old-fashioned, suit-and-tie company man has vocally criticized hippies many times throughout the series?

    Well, for starters, it’s a great commercial. Coca-Cola had been regularly discussed as the advertising “white whale,” with ad men being bribed with the mere prospect of the chance of writing copy for that sugary drink. It is used as a motivator, a reminder that this is what they’re working towards. And so, in many ways, it is the perfect victorious ending for Don. After throwing a grenade into most of his relationships, drinking himself almost to death, and essentially demolishing his flourishing career, he finally rises from the ashes stronger than ever before, like a devilishly handsome, smooth-talking, impossibly well-dressed phoenix.

    At least, that’s one way to look at it. From another perspective, Mad Men has one of the most cynical TV show endings out there. On a personal level, Don has finally admitted that he has major shortcomings as a father, a husband, a friend, a person even. And presumably, he is now intent on becoming a better man. On a cultural level, Don has finally really digested all of the 1960s. He finally understands the counterculture movement that is so appealing to his children and his second ex-wife, Megan – a movement that caused a great deal of conflict in his relationships.

    So, he seemingly decides to embrace peace and love and all of the things that are pretty much antithetical to the capitalist machine of advertising. A movement that he vehemently fought against as an ad man — he was often criticized by so-called hippies for perpetuating capitalism, and then he, in turn, criticized them right back for being lazy and unpatriotic. But on that hill by the ocean, Don has reached nirvana.

    And what does he do with that newfound state of mind and knowledge? He exploits it to sell people Coke. 

    However you interpret the ending of Mad Men, one thing is for sure: Don Draper is always one step ahead of the ad game. And, who knows, maybe he’s right to exploit happiness. All happiness is, after all, in his own words, is “a moment before you need more happiness.”

    The Secret Behind Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka

    Acting is an art form, and behind every iconic character is an artist expressing themselves. Welcome to The Great Performances, a bi-weekly column exploring the art behind some of cinema’s best roles. In this entry, we examine Gene Wilder’s Golden Globe-nominated performance in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.


    As a horror movie fan, I have a deep appreciation for the infamously spooky tunnel sequence in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971). After Willy Wonka opens his factory to the winners of his global “Golden Ticket” contest, the group watches in horror as the gluttonous Augustus Gloop gets swallowed by a chocolate river. Wonka quickly ferries them onto a paddleboat to their next stop on the tour, but the quaint ride quickly turns into a nightmare. A garish light show bathes the tunnel in trippy colors, and the guests are pummeled with shocking images projected on the walls. As the group demands to be let off, Wonka–almost in a meditative state–intones a surprisingly creepy poem, “Are the fires of hell a glowing? Is the grisly reaper mowing?”

    This moment of kindertrauma is one of the many reasons why Willy Wonka has become such an iconic character, especially among horror hounds. He’s a diabolical figure existing in a children’s wonderland which, on paper, is an incredible set-up to a horror movie. The sinister undercurrent in Gene Wilder’s performance as Wonka sets the character apart in the pantheon of beloved family films. He isn’t some grandfatherly figure, opening his heart to the children of the world. Wilder’s Wonka has a noticeable distaste for the kids he invites into his candy utopia. He’s indifferent to their safety and seems to actively relish in placing these exhaustingly entitled children in dangerous situations, like the aforementioned tunnel to hell. It’s an unusual, if relatable, spin on a character from a children’s book. Who among us hasn’t wanted to see a spoiled brat get their comeuppance?

    This ominous quality that Wilder’s Wonka outwardly expresses is our clue as to why his performance continues to fascinate us decades later. This tunnel sequence arguably gives audiences a glimpse at the character’s true colors–a madman taking pleasure in others’ pain–but it’s only the image Wilder’s Wonka wants the children to see. Because Wonka isn’t the scary, bedeviling character pop culture history has turned him into. The menace he exudes was always part of his plan to test the moral merit of Charlie, the impoverished audience surrogate who eventually inherits his chocolate factory. The reason why we love Wilder’s performance as Willy Wonka isn’t that he is this strange, dark presence looming over a children’s film. It’s that throughout Willy Wonka, Wilder keeps a secret from the audience that makes us question his character’s true intentions from scene to scene.

    We can intellectualize his actorly decisions, but Gene Wilder has a more blunt way of describing his method: good lying. As he told Roger Ebert in 1971 ahead of Willy Wonka’s release, “Here’s what I mean by lying. We all grew up on movies with scenes where the actor is lying, and you know he’s lying, but he wants to make sure you know it’s a lie, and so he overacts and all but winks at you, and everybody in the world except for the girl he’s talking to knows he’s lying…I want to do the opposite. To really lie, and fool the audience.”

    This secret that Wilder holds–that his quiet nefariousness is a lie–creates a duality in his performance as Willy Wonka. On the surface, he appears to be this eccentric confectioner doling out harsh lessons on good manners, but it’s only to mask his character’s actual motivation: to find someone with a golden heart to match his highly sought-after golden tickets.

    Ebert would later elaborate on Wilder’s acting methods in an interview for his 1979 film The Frisco Kid, “He didn’t mean “pretending” in the first dictionary sense. He meant projecting the feeling that you were pretending. Letting the audience suspect that there was something else, something wonderful and mysterious, beneath the surface that the character was pretending to exhibit.”

    Gene Wilder Willy Wonka Candy

    Nothing personifies Wonka’s duality and Wilder’s propensity for pretending than his character’s famously grand entrance. After much fanfare leading up to Wonka opening his factory doors, a crowd gathers outside to get their first glimpse of the candyman after years out of the public limelight. As the contest winners look on, Wonka appears, but he seems tired, weather-worn. With a cane in hand, he hobbles towards the front gates. As his gait slows, his cane catches in the cobblestone, propelling him forward. He begins to fall, but at the last moment, tucks and rolls into a graceful somersault, popping up with hands raised as the crowd goes wild. This decision, to trick the audience in their first meeting of his character, was the reason Wilder chose to do the film in the first place. It was also a gimmick of his own making. As Wilder wrote in his memoir Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search For Love And Art, when asked by director Mel Stuart why he wanted to do this, Wilder told him, “Because from that time on, no one will know if I’m lying or telling the truth.”

    This introduction delightfully surprises the crowd, especially the children, but it also leaves them on guard. Children often have blind trust in adults, but here they are given a reason not to trust Wonka at all. If he could make them believe that he is frail, could he also make them believe that he is a monster? This duality creates an exciting energy in Wilder’s character because as Charlie and Grandpa Joe grow increasingly wary of Wonka, the audience also senses that there are ulterior motives for his erratic actions. It’s what helps give the film–and the character–an air of mystery, and danger. And that Wilder is able to perform it in a way that inspires both fear and awe is why audiences keep returning to Willy Wonka decades after it flopped at the box office.

    And boy did it flop. As Gene Siskel wrote in his review, “Compared to other films for young children, Willy Wonka rates barely acceptable. Adults will receive more entertainment by dropping their children off at the theater and driving around the block.” The movie would barely turn a profit, making $4 million on a budget of $3 million, but it wasn’t without its fan, with Siskel’s critical contemporary Roger Ebert awarding Wonka four stars, calling it “everything that family movies usually claim to be, but aren’t: Delightful, funny, scary, exciting, and, most of all, a genuine work of imagination. Willy Wonka is such a surely and wonderfully spun fantasy that it works on all kinds of minds, and it is fascinating because, like all classic fantasy, it is fascinated with itself.”

    The movie would eventually find a cult following through holiday television broadcasts and on home video, but if there was someone not too thrilled about Wonka’s second life, it was Gene Wilder. He felt that the role’s popularity would cast a shadow over the rest of his career. As Wilder biographer Brian Scott Mednick said, “He gave an interview once where he said he did not want his gravestone to say, ‘Here lies Willy Wonka,’ yet ironically he did not have much choice about his legacy. When he died, all the news outlets highlighted his role as Willy Wonka above everything else. Gene wanted to be most remembered for Young Frankenstein.

    His career has some epic highs (The Producers) and unsavory lows (The World’s Greatest Lover), but Gene Wilder was an actor who–in whatever project he was on–found unique angles to approach his characters from, and Willy Wonka is no different. He could have easily played it safe, making Wonka the stuff of childhood fantasies, like some psychedelic Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy. But he smartly chose to askew the expectations of a children’s book character by giving Wonka far more teeth than another actor may have. 

    Gene Wilder does deserve to be remembered for his hilarious work in Young Frankenstein, but Willy Wonka shows that regardless of the material, he had a preternatural way of making every character he played unique, subversive, and endlessly memorable.

    ‘Black Widow’ Kicks Off Marvel’s Phase Four with Action and Heart Aplenty

    Movies get delayed for all manner of reasons, but few feel as overdue as Black Widow. Not only was its release held back more than a year because of the pandemic, but its actual production was delayed far longer. Talks began more than a decade ago about giving the character a solo adventure, but Marvel head Kevin Feige always found reasons to hold off — until the character was killed off in 2019’s Avengers: Endgame. What should have been purely celebratory is now somewhat bittersweet, but happily, Black Widow is also a terrifically entertaining good time.

    Sisters Natasha and Yelena look like normal American kids in 1995 Ohio, but looks can be deceiving. Their “parents,” Melina (Rachel Weisz) and Alexei (David Harbour), are actually Russian spies, and after being forced to flee back to the motherland the artificial family is broken up and sent their separate ways. Twenty-one years later, and the now-adult sisters are on the run again. Natasha (Scarlett Johansson) is being pursued by government officials for her role in the disruption of the Sokovia Accords and suspicion of involvement in the killing of Wakanda’s king. Yelena (Florence Pugh), meanwhile, is still part of the top-secret Widow program that Natasha escaped years prior, but she too heads into hiding after breaking free of the mind control used to ensure obedient assassins. The long-estranged siblings reunite and join forces to end both the program and the villainous man behind it.

    Black Widow is being billed as a standalone movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but while that’s something of an oxymoron it’s also something worth celebrating even as it kicks off Phase Four. Add to that checklist the fact that it’s only the second MCU movie focused on a female hero and the first to be solo-directed by a woman — more long overdue stats for a franchise that’s twenty-four movies deep — and it’s easy to see the importance of what it represents. All of that aside, though, it’s also a highly entertaining ride and a somewhat poignant goodbye to one of the MCU’s more beloved characters.

    Director Cate Shortland brings Natasha’s time between Captain America: Civil War (2016) and Avengers: Infinity War (2018) to the screen with an eye for human beats both humorous and heartbreaking. And along with Marvel’s in-house second unit, she also helps deliver some solid action sequences. Much of the latter feels more grounded than many MCU entries (at least until the third-act set-piece) — think more Captain America than Iron Man — and that makes sense for the character. Natasha is a stylish brawler who relies more on her skills than on gadgets, and while we still get some comic book antics showing the expected disregard for physics we also see the physical toll that all that fighting takes on a human body.

    Just because the Avengers are out of the picture doesn’t mean she’s fighting alone, though, as in addition to Yelena she also has the only parents she’s ever known right there by her side. The four make for a rather eccentric family, and while action is on their doorstep, the movie wisely makes time for the characters to reconnect, lick old emotional wounds, and find new bonds along the way. Harbour’s Alexei offers a comic relief of sorts as an out-of-shape has been talking up his glory days of battling Captain America while Weisz’s Melina takes a slightly more serious approach.

    The standout, however, is Pugh, who not only steals every scene but who also makes it clear she’ll be a charismatic and punchy force to be reckoned with in the MCU going forward. Pugh and Johansson have fantastic chemistry, and she shares much of Natasha’s fighting style while displaying even more sass. Yelena’s riffing on her sister’s “hero pose” is funny stuff, but she’s equally affecting at times including a sequence where she describes how all of the widows received forced hysterectomies while under the control of Dreykov (Ray Winstone) and his Red Room.

    It starts as a mildly humorous beat but finds weight in Pugh’s delivery, and it’s one of many script elements that speak to the movie’s female focus. “The only natural resource that the world has too much of — girls,” says Dreykov, and it’s as political a statement as the MCU has ever uttered. From the La Femme Nikita-like training that the widows endure to the sad truth of women being prevented from choosing their own paths in life, Black Widow puts female issues front and center without ever making it feel forced or preachy. The plot accompanying those themes feels small by MCU standards, but that simplicity is a refreshing change of pace for a franchise that’s too often about saving the world.

    Black Widow will have fans grieving Natasha (and Johansson’s performance) all over again, and while her solo feature should have arrived years ago it’s a case of better late than never as the movie delivers one last hurrah for our favorite Russian ex-assassin. It’s a fun, warm, and thrilling goodbye and the most sincere blockbuster about the importance of family you’ll see all year.

    Black Widow releases in theaters and on Disney+ (with Premier Access) on July 9th.

    How They Shot the No Parachute Skydiving Scene in ‘Point Break’

    Welcome to How’d They Do That? — a monthly column that unpacks moments of movie magic and celebrates the technical wizards who pulled them off. This entry explains how they shot the parachute-less skydiving scene in Kathryn Bigelow’s Point Break.


    What’s better than this, guys being dudes who rob banks wearing rubber masks of ex-presidents to fund surfing adventures?

    Indeed, there are few things better than Point Break. The 1991 cult hit enthusiastically melds cops-and-robbers action with reverential depictions of extreme sports and male bonding. It’s a “wet Western” and one of the greatest female-gaze action movies ever made. Do try and refrain from high-fiving your nearest bro as I recount the plot:

    The film follows Johnny Utah (Keanu Reeves), a newly-minted FBI agent assigned to infiltrate an outlaw surfer gang led by the guru-like Bodhi (Patrick Swayze). Utah’s straightlaced ethics fray as Bodhi sways him with the adrenaline-seeking lifestyle, a spiritual pursuit that opens Utah’s eyes to the possibility that there might be more to life than following orders. Utah is pulled into a world and lifestyle in diametric opposition to his own, just as the film’s presumed cops-and-robbers plot is forced to contend with the contagious good vibes of the surf and the sky. As director Kathryn Bigelow relays in a 1991 interview with The Guardian’s Mark Salisbury, Point Break’s power (narrative and otherwise) rests on the ideological tension between its two leads: “when your good guy—your hero—is seduced by the darkness inside him and your villain is no villain whatsoever.”

    While Utah wrestles with his double life, we are treated to some of the most engaging extreme sports sequences to grace the silver screen. There are not one but two skydiving scenes in Point Break. In the first, Utah (who rightfully suspects his cover is blown) is whisked away on an early morning jump with the boys. His paranoia quickly shifts to joining hands in the middle of the sky, setting aside all differences to enjoy the rush of freefall.

    The second skydiving sequence takes place under less harmonious circumstances. After the FBI arrests Utah for his apparent involvement in a bank robbery, he is released by his partner (Gary Busey) and dropped off at an airport to catch Bodhi. A shootout ensues, and Utah follows Bodhi aboard a plane bound for Mexico. At the appointed time,  Bodhi and his last remaining (and barely alive) henchman hop out of the plane in parachutes, leaving Utah with nothing but a gun and a tough choice: to jump or not to jump?

    Point Break Keanu Jump

    To jump. Utah hurtles out of the plane without a parachute. He catches up and latches onto Bodhi, who is bemused at this absolutely radical turn of events. In freefall, the pair enter into a standoff: Bodhi refuses to release their now shared parachute, but to pull the cord himself, Utah will have to drop his gun. With seconds to spare, Utah drops his firearm and releases the parachute. The impact is hard, but busted knee be damned, Utah is lucky to be alive.

    I’ll freely admit to letting loose an “oh, shit” the first time I saw Utah jump. And if you, too, were fully in the moment, free from intrusive thoughts about what the laws of physics have to say about all of this, you may very well have done the same. But how on earth did they film this? How could they do something like that and keep insurance rates within the realm of reason? What’s real, what’s fake, and how did Bigelow and company martial movie magic to make it look like two of the biggest stars in Hollywood were plummeting through the sky?


    How’d they do that?

    Long story short:

    This sequence in Point Break combines an actual skydiving jump by Patrick Swayze, stunt doubles, and close-up insert shots of Swayze and Keanu Reeves filmed on a skydiving simulation rig.

    Long story long:

    The best way to appreciate Point Break’s sans-parachute skydiving scene is to move through it (relatively) shot-by-shot.

    The sequence begins in earnest when Bodhi salutes Utah and, looking straight down the camera, signs off with an “adios amigo” and jumps backward out of the plane. The unbroken take lasts almost ten whole seconds. And the whole point of doing the jump backward is to show you, the audience, that movie star Patrick Swayze really did just jump out of a plane.

    Accounts from skydiving forms suggest that Swayze learned how to skydive over the course of the shoot. This must have delighted Swayze’s younger brother, Don, a regular at Perris Valley Skydiving with well over 500 jumps to his name. According to folks like USA Today’s Karen Thomas, Swayze made around 50 jumps total over the course of the production. It’s unclear if this number refers to his recreational jumps or the jumps he performed that wound up in the final film.

    Speaking of Swayze’s recreational skydiving, the studio was not super pleased about their big star’s newfound hobby, which they saw as an insurance liability. After being told off for jumping in his spare time (supposedly dragging Busey along with him at one point), a deal was struck: if Swayze stopped skydiving recreationally, he’d be allowed to do a big jump for the movie. It’s unclear if Swayze made good on his half of the bargain. But if he did sneak around behind the producers’ backs, you can kind of see why. “I had to battle insurance companies to get to do the skydiving in the movie and never came close to dying once,” the actor remembers in “It’s Make Or Break,” the film’s behind-the-scenes featurette. “But they never said one word about me getting my brains pounded in by the biggest surf on this planet.”

    Point Break Swayze Jump

    After Swayze plummets (for real) to earth, we cut back to Utah inside the plane. If I had to venture a guess, I’d imagine these shots were filmed while grounded, given the camera placement and the suspiciously obfuscating exposure outside of the cabin. Reeves is likely swan diving onto a crash mat.

    Next, we cut to Reeves’ stunt double (possibly Pat Banta) diving through the air, apparently without a parachute. However, as professional skydiver Jeb Corliss points out in this video for GQ, if you look closely, you can see that the stuntman has a hidden rig under his shirt, which will break off and open up to allow the parachute to do its thing.

    Shots of Reeves’ stunt double doing a real jump are intercut with closeups of Reeves himself seemingly plummeting through the air. To achieve close-ups of the core actors during both skydiving sequences, the production built a special crane rig that held the actors in the air, approximately 10 feet off the ground. As Swayze explains on the DVD featurette,  the rig featured a telescoping arm for each actor in the shot, allowing them to move independently of each other, in and out of frame. “They built a body thing with a post coming out of the center of it. We laid in that and you strapped yourself in and put your clothes on over it.”

    The illusion was tied together with a lot of high-powered fans to simulate wind. And as second unit director/stunt coordinator Glenn R. Wilder puts it in “It’s Make or Break”: “the secret was to also float the camera…we had it so that we could turn and oscillate, and it worked out very well.” The rig enabled the actors to say their lines while the camera shot them from below and to the side to give the illusion of floating while skydiving.

    Speaking of…well…speaking, after a couple of cuts between the rig closeups and the real jump footage, Utah finally catches up to Bodhi and latches on. If you’re a fan of “hey, that’s a stunt double” freeze-framing, you’ll get a real kick out of this shot sequence. Also, for those wondering, this beat in the stunt is, in fact, physically doable. On an airplane-themed episode of MythBusters, it was determined that it is, in fact, possible to catch up to someone with a 15-second head start by streamlining your body. Meanwhile, free falling for 90 seconds from 4,000 feet is, sadly, busted.

    Point Break Skydiving Close Up

    In any case, once our duo is koala-ing in the sky, all realism evaporates. In a close-up (shot on the rig), Utah and Bodhi have a heated debate about who will pull the parachute cord (“the ultimate game of chicken,” as Reeves put it during a 1991 interview with Good Morning America). As Swayze himself puts it in the featurette: “you can’t talk in free fall. You’ve got 120 to 200 mile an hour winds which is nothing but a giant roar. So there is a little bit of poetic license taken with us having conversations.” During the “ultimate game of chicken,” the camera cuts sporadically to wide shots of the two stunt jumpers locked together. This is a good opportunity to point out that stunt Utah and Bodhi are almost certainly strapped into each other’s rigs. As Corliss notes in the aforementioned GQ video, it’s physically impossible (though he has tried) to hold onto someone “manually” in this scenario. This could explain why the pair drift out of frame when Utah ultimately pulls the cord; to disguise what would be an obvious lurch resulting from the two interlocked parachute rigs.

    Point Break Jump Parachute Stunt

    I spy with my little eye two interlocked parachute clips.

    The vast majority of the film’s aerial photography was captured by Tom Sanders and his mentor Ray Cottingham under the direction of second unit director/accomplished skydiver Kevin Donnelly. In an interview with Skydive Perris, Sanders recalls that while Swayze had two stunt doubles for the jumps, “he definitely did some of the jumping that is in the final cut.” Much of this, I would imagine, is included in the first skydive sequence, including footage Swayze and Sanders shot on their own after the skydiving scenes had wrapped “to make the scene better.”

    Dave Donnelly (son of Kevin) was only 16 years old skydiving virgin when he worked on Point Break as a parachute packer and gopher (as in: go f’er coffee). As Donnelly relays in an interview with Skydive Perris, the Mexico-set sequence was actually shot at the Cal City Parachute Center in the Mojave desert. It was early August and well over 100°F (38°C). “For the shot we were working on, the stunt doubles would exit the aircraft with a helicopter flying left trail. A Twin Otter [a kind of plane] had a camera crew shooting out of the side door and zooming in [on] the doubles [as] they fell away from the camera.” Donnelly goes on to describe how on the third day of shooting, an accident took place where the helicopter hit the plane, forcing everyone (including crewmembers who just wanted to cool off in the sky who had no skydiving experience) to jump out. The damaged plane landed without incident, but “the helicopter was in much worse shape…I was happy to eventually learn that everyone survived.”

    The sequence wraps up with Bodhi and Utah miraculously surviving. I say “miraculously” because, as Katherine Davies points out in a journal article for the University of Leicester, for the pair to land safely after only pulling their parachute 8 seconds before landing, the cross-sectional area would have to be 641.7 square feet, a.k.a. four times larger than a normal skydiving parachute. In actuality, the pair’s crash landing was likely achieved with a simple out-of-frame drop and some very hardy stunt performers.

    What’s the precedent?

    I’d be remiss not to mention 1969’s The Gypsy Moths, a film by John Frankenheimer (yes, that John Frankenheimer) about a skydiving team who become embroiled in the interpersonal shenanigans of a small Kansas town during the Fourth of July.

    The Gypsy Moths isn’t just a cinematic precedent for Point Break, but a visual artifact of the precedent for skydiving, full stop. The film highlights the sport’s infancy, long before it became commercialized, and even features the earliest blueprints for what would become the wingsuit. Carl Boenish and Jay Gifford captured the film’s aerial photography, a task that included filming the jumps with a 35 mm camera mounted on their helmets.

    But really, when it comes to cinematic skydiving scenes where someone jumps out of a plane without a parachute, Point Break owes a massive amount of credit is due to 1979’s Moonraker. In the film’s opening scene, 007 (Roger Moore) is shoved out the door of a plane by the towering, metal-mouthed henchman Jaws (Richard Kiel) without a parachute. Thinking fast, Bond streamlines his way to a different henchman, skydiving below him. A mid-air scuffle ensues, and Bond steals the poor man’s parachute for himself. Jaws follows and tries to bite Bond’s ankles (no really), only for Bond to pull his cord, pulling him upwards and out of reach.

    Shot in California and coordinated by Don Calvedt under the supervision of second unit director/editor John Glen, the sequence took an intense amount of planning and collaboration with skydivers and stuntmen like B.J. Worth (who played the treacherous pilot whose parachute Bond steals) and Jake Lombard (Moore’s aerial stunt double). Ron Luginbill stood in (or is that jumped in?) for Jaws. The planning process included developing a 1 inch-thick parachute pack that could be concealed within Lombard’s suit and velcro-tear away costumes that allowed the hidden parachutes to open. The scene took a total of 88 jumps to capture, with in-studio closeups from Moore and Kiel made possible by our good old friend: rear projection.

    Hey, does anyone else really want to go skydiving now?

    ‘A.I. Artificial Intelligence’ and the Question of Robotic Love

    What does it mean to be human? You’re probably rolling your eyes at that ridiculously abstract and oversimplified question, which is asked way too often. And it’s not really worth entertaining with a response, anyway, because how can you possibly get to the heart of something as vague as that? More interesting are the ways in which people approach the answer to such a grandiose and all-encompassing question. Some try to answer it through psychology. Some use biology. Some look to history. And Steven Spielberg, with his 2001 movie A.I. Artificial Intelligence, uses robots.

    The plot entails a couple, Monica and Henry Swinton (Frances O’Connor and Sam Robards), adopting David (Haley Joel Osment), a human-like robot with the capability to love. Monica eventually programs David to love her, but then their biological son, Martin (Jake Thomas), tricks them into thinking David is a killing machine. Monica can’t bring herself to send David back to the lab, where he will be destroyed, so she abandons him in the woods to fend for himself. David then recalls Monica reading Pinnochio to him, and he subsequently embarks on an arduous journey to become a real boy in the hope that she will love him. 

    At the core of A.I. are questions that are essentially more palatable versions of the one regarding what it means to be human. First, what is it exactly that stands between David and humanness? And if he spends the second half of A.I. attempting to attain humanness, what exactly is he hoping to find? In order to understand these questions of humanity, though, it is important to first understand what it means to be a robot. 

    The principle of “artificial intelligence” is to program computers to do things that typically require human intelligence. While regular programming tends to “act” based on a specific array of pre-established data, artificial intelligence, or AI, has the ability to learn and evolve over time, and to make its own assessments of a situation. 

    But AI isn’t really “intelligent” — at least, not in the same way that humans are. Their “reactions” to things aren’t really reactions based on any kind of emotion or introspection, but rather on coding and information that is hard-wired into their systems. So if you are chatting with a customer service bot, for example, the response you get from it will not be an emotional one; it’s a programmed attempt to resemble emotions but, in reality, does not look anything like them.

    Such is the case with David. When Monica programs him to love her, what is first required of her is a sequence of words, like the coding sequence needed to create a command for any AI computer.

    As robots become more and more advanced, people often wonder how close we are to creating machines that are essentially just… humans. The subject has burrowed its way into popular culture with movies such as 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Her (2013), and Ex-Machina (2014) exploring the nuances and the pleasures, perils, and possibilities of highly intelligent computers and robots mimicking us and taking part in our society. But as far as roboticists are concerned, robots will likely never be able to actually feel emotion. 

    Angelica Lim discusses the possibility of robots experiencing love in a 2017 article for Greater Good Magazine:

    “Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio defines emotion as ‘the expression of human flourishing or human distress, as they occur in the mind and the body.’ I have proposed that we define flourishing for a robot as a state of ‘all systems go’ or homeostasis, where the battery, motors, and other parts are in working order and the core temperature is normal.”

    By Lim’s standards, it is impossible for robots to achieve so-called emotional flourishing, and it most likely always will be. The closest resemblance possible is a symbiosis of machine parts — in other words, a mere impersonation. So, according to science, David cannot truly feel love. What purpose, then, does an AI that can feign the emotion serve? By today’s measure, he is the holy grail of robotics, a machine that is indistinguishable from a human. Perhaps this type of robot can tell us more about what is important to us than about the particular qualities of the makeup of a human. 

    The relationship between a human and a computer is, by definition, one-sided. In the past, philosophers have posited that all relationships are inherently selfish because what draws us to others is the way they see us, not a selfless love for that person. In his 1943 book Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology, Jean-Paul Sartre coined the relevant term of “the look,” which essentially forces us to consider ourselves not as beings looking out into the world but rather as beings looked at by others. This bases the human experience purely on the existence of others. 

    Understanding Sartre’s “look” might hold the key to understanding what it was that brought David into the world in the first place. Perhaps A.I. is not just a movie about a humanoid artificial intelligence yearning to be a real boy but is also about a look that Monica yearns for. She is introduced looking sorrowfully as her real child lies in suspended animation. Martin is sick and is not expected to get better. He is Monica’s only child, and so the potential loss of him is jarring. Indeed, nothing can quite replace a child’s totally dependent and unconditional love.

    When David first comes to live with Monica and Henry, she feels ambivalent toward him, maybe even afraid and disconcerted by his uncanny presence. But there is one clear, definable moment at which Monica begins to accept and even have a sense of love for David, and that is when she programs him to “love” her, and he calls her “Mommy” for the first time. Notably, Monica comes to love David, not because he has done something kind, or smart, or silly, but because of the way he feels about her. 

    What Monica experiences at that moment is the same force that drives our need for AI to resemble humans, even when they exist purely for purposes of education or labor. There is no imperative reason Amazon’s Alexa or Apple’s Siri should resemble nuanced, female voices that enjoy speaking with us. And yet, they do, because this “look” that we desire locks us into buying products with such human-like attributes. 

    Perhaps more telling, though, is the fact that Monica’s approval is what drives David through the second half of the film. He strives to find something that will turn him into a “real boy,” because loving her is not enough. He also needs that love to be returned. 

    So, what does it mean to be human? It is very likely that that question will never be answered. But coding a robot to resemble love might very well teach us that our scientific conception of love isn’t quite as straightforward and selfless as our societal conception of it.

    A Brief History of Mel Brooks, David Lynch and ‘The Elephant Man’

    Brief History is a column that tells you all you need to know about your favorite — and not-so-favorite — pop culture topics. This entry tells the story of how Mel Brooks hired David Lynch to direct The Elephant Man. 


    His shirt was buttoned — always buttoned — at the top. His look was “kind of weird.” The man didn’t wear a tie. He said “a lot of ‘R’s, like a Midwestern kid.” He looked just like a young Charles Lindbergh. “I said to him, ‘You’re hired.’ I hired him right there.”

    That is how Mel Brooks remembers meeting David Lynch before hiring him to direct The Elephant Man. It’s one of those dissimilar duos that might cause one to do a double-take, or, as Brooks himself once put it: “How does a guy who is known for the best fart jokes in cinema go on to make The Elephant Man?” But if you really think about it for a moment, art is art, and it is not so crazy that one great filmmaker would be able to so easily recognize the genius of another.

    How did this meeting happen? How did the guy behind Blazing Saddles and Spaceballs end up producing a serious, black-and-white historical drama about the life of a severely deformed man (played by John Hurt) set in 19th-century London? Here is a brief history of Mel Brooks, David Lynch, and The Elephant Man: 

    An Odd Little Picture Called Eraserhead

    The script for The Elephant Man was first brought to Mel Brooks by Jonathan Sanger, who at that time was working as the first assistant director on High Anxiety, Brooks’ brilliant Alfred Hitchcock parody. Despite its different style and tone, Brooks felt immediately drawn to The Elephant Man and decided to make it with his production company, Brooksfilms

    “My films, even if they’re comic, they’re about: ‘Let’s accept the bizarre. Let’s learn more about these creatures — or these Jews,’” Brooks told The Guardian in 2008. “I know the Elephant Man wasn’t Jewish, but to me, the story had all the aspects of anti-semitism, and [Joseph] Merrick had all the traits of the classic wandering Jew.”

    Sanger and Brooks were moved by the film and believed it should be funded by an entity beyond the giants of the Hollywood system. “We quickly make judgments about people, often by what we see, without understanding what really goes behind it,” he told the British newspaper the last year. “I think a good part of the movie’s strength is that you’re getting to understand the thing that you’re frightened of because of its appearance. What you think of as horrific becomes beautiful.”

    As they set out to find a director for the film, a producer friend of Brooks’ suggested he see “an odd little picture called Eraserhead,” which was David Lynch’s debut feature. Lynch later said that he did not want Brooks to see the film as he was “afraid that if Mel Brooks saw Eraserhead, [he] would never get the job directing The Elephant Man.

    But, of course, Brooks loved it and agreed to meet with Lynch.


    Burgers and Bancroft

    The two met in the Valley at a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant, where according to Brooks, they were served hamburgers and malt shakes. It was there that Brooks was so impressed with Lynch that he hired him on the spot to direct The Elephant Man.

    “All I had done was Eraserhead,”  Lynch later remembered. “Unbelievable that Mel Brooks loved Eraserhead! And he backed me in ways you can’t imagine.”

    The Elephant Man was filmed in London, where Brooks was on set every day. It was October 1979, it was cold, and Lynch didn’t have a winter coat. “So I bought him a nice blue overcoat that he wore every day,” Brooks told The Guardian.

    But the cold wasn’t the most pressing issue. “He moaned about not having Bob’s Big Boy burgers,” Brooks said. “He’s very obsessive-compulsive that way. But, you know, he did find a burger joint in London, and he ate there every day, too.”

    If the project was not already personal enough for Brooks, the cast also included the brilliant Anne Bancroft, who was married to Brooks. “She was so good in that film,” Brooks told The Guardian when asked about her performance. “She had already won the Oscar for The Miracle Worker, and she was the producer’s wife, so, no, she didn’t have to audition. Are you crazy?”


    Defending Against Raging Primitives

    If all producers were like Mel Brooks, Hollywood might be a very different place.

    After The Elephant Man was finished, Brooks and Lynch screened it for the film’s distributor, Paramount Pictures. The story goes that the studio wanted to cut “the more surreal sequences.” Brooks had none of that. “We screened the film for you to bring you up to date as to the status of that venture,” he responded. “Do not misconstrue this as our soliciting the input of raging primitives.”

    A mic drop moment if there ever was one.

    “People wanted to change this, do this, give me all kinds of hell,” Lynch later said. “Never would Mel let it happen. Protected me all the way.”

    And just when you thought it was impossible to love Mel Brooks even more: not only did he defend Lynch’s masterpiece, but he even declined to take a production credit so that audiences would not mistake the film for a comedy. Pure class.

    The Elephant Man would go on to be nominated for eight Academy Awards and win zero. But its impact on Lynch’s career — and thus cinema itself — was here to stay.

    “Mel Brooks took a chance on me,” Lynch said years later. “It put me on the map.”

    Monday, 28 June 2021

    ‘F9: The Fast Saga’ Continues Running On and Inhaling Its Own Empty Fumes

    The term “too big to fail” is typically reserved for corporations that reap enormous profits, pay their executives exorbitant bonuses, and then come running for a taxpayer-funded bailout when times get tough, but modern day Hollywood has claimed the term in their own way. A handful of franchises have become pop culture juggernauts guaranteeing success with every entry — the Star Wars empire and the Marvel Cinematic Universe are the two obvious ones, with nary a commercial misfire across film and television, but both are backed by the Disney monolith. The Fast & Furious films are newer to the scene, but they’ve quickly joined the conversation with their latest entry, F9, blasting into theaters with as close to a sure thing at the box-office as you’ll ever see. If only quality entertainment was equally ensured.

    The series has always been about two things — action and a loose concept of family — and both have grown increasingly ridiculous over the years. That trend continues with F9 as Dom (Vin Diesel) and Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) see their idyllic country life interrupted with news that Mr. Nobody (Kurt Russell) needs their help recovering an Infinity Sto–sorry, a three-part device that can hack anything powered by zeroes and ones, and just like that the pair drop their kid at Brian’s and head to South America.

    The usual crew is along for the ride in F9 including Roman (Tyrese Gibson), Tej (Ludacris), and Ramsey (Nathalie Emmanuel), while past stragglers like Sean (Lucas Black), Twinkie (Shad Moss), Mia (Jordana Brewster), and Queenie (Helen Mirren) join briefly as well. Also returning? Han (Sung Kang)! Don’t worry, his previous death is explained away with some incomplete nonsense. They’re up against baddies new and old this time with Cipher (Charlize Theron) doing her best Hannibal Lecter alongside a spoiled millionaire (Thue Ersted Rasmussen) and a mystery man named Jakob (John Cena) who it turns out is Dom’s younger brother…

    Exploring more of the plot is a fool’s errand as neither the film nor the filmmakers seem to care all that much. Instead, they’re intent on delivering exactly what fans have come to love over the franchise’s back half — more nonsense in the dueling forms of action set-pieces and “family” interactions, the latter of which this time around involves endless flashbacks with younger actors playing Dom (Vinnie Bennett) and Jakob (Finn Cole). The formula arguably peaked with 2011’s Fast Five which managed to pair fun character beats with some truly exhilarating action spectacles, but since then both have seen their entertainment value lessen with each subsequent installment. The action has become overly reliant on CG and cartoonish logic making it less impressive and more stupid, and the cherished themes of family? They’ve become so convoluted and Dom-centric that the next backyard barbecue is likely to be held up Diesel’s ass.

    The late Paul Walker was an undeniably balance for Diesel, both in character and personality, and his absence continues to be felt throughout F9. “Worst thing you can do to a Toretto is take away his family,” says one character, and it rings far truer than it was probably intended. Without Walker’s charm and charisma as one of the leads, returning director/co-writer Justin Lin and co-writer Daniel Casey continue to succumb to Diesel’s ego and shift the bulk of the “drama” onto his big baby shoulders in the form of weak back story and new revelations. Diesel’s limitations as an actor make it all an exercise in futility, though, as his struggle to demonstrate emotion in his troubled relationship with Jakob leaves that whole storyline falling endlessly flat. Cena, while an entertaining comic actor, is equally at a loss here leaving the two to trade grimaces and chest thumps.

    The character moments instead fall to the casual and mostly unfunny banter between Tej and Roman and to the return of Han. The former find themselves cracking wise throughout, per usual, with Tej even mentioning while the duo head to space — yes, Lin and friends succumbed to fan pressure and brought the franchise into orbit (meaning F10 might just see the arrival of dinosaurs…) — that they’ll be okay “as long as we obey the laws of physics.” It’s a meta joke of sorts as the films gave up anything resembling realism a long time ago, and Roman’s insistence that the group is “invincible” only adds to the self-aware silliness for better or worse. The film’s action is grounded only in the sense that it mostly occurs back on Earth with an overused, super-powered magnet wreaking nonsensically convenient, CG-heavy havoc.

    Thankfully, Han’s return brings F9‘s only real highlight as he and newcomer Elle (Anna Sawai) inject the first true feeling of family into the franchise in quite a while. Lin, who first brought the character of Han into the series, brings him back and gives the character room to breathe via both flashbacks and present-day interactions. Kang’s presence lands the only real emotion in the film, and seeing Han and Ella in action leaves you with the hope that they’ll soon earn a spin-off of their own.

    Fans of the franchise’s later installments will enjoy F9 as more of the same blending silly, cartoon action with soapy dialogue about family and respect. Some, though, are bound to be let down by the “dramatic” filler and underwhelming set-pieces that rely far more on digital trickery than on actual, impactful, and impressive action/stunts. Of course, none of that ultimately matters as the franchise — one that’s also done amazing, respectable things in its longevity, evolving style, and multi-ethnic ensembles — is guaranteed to succeed because it’s now way too big to fail.

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