Purely Positive Film Review: Waltz With Bashir

I can think of few feats more astonishing for a modern motion picture than consistent apathy felt towards all of the main characters throughout the entirety of the movie only to end with a contradictory single-tear streaming down my gritty, unshaven face, yet Waltz with Bashir masterfully achieved this very goal. The movie follows Ari Follman's journey into his own shell-shock ridden psyche as he pieces together the horrid past that he had so effectively walled off from the forefront of his mind. The format is a sort of stylish animation set over real people that allows the author to float in and out of dream sequences and memories in a seemless pattern that would otherwise be impossible without Michael Bay level funding. Being, as a good american, that I am totally ignorant about the wars that he was depicting, I had little context for the conflicts and didn't really care for Ari and yet, the violence mixed with the veracity of the film struck me like running through a thick layer of fog at full speed only to quickly find a brick wall with your nose. The traumatic finish of the film left me feeling like I too was now suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, which is not exactly what one hopes for in an entertainment experience. That being said, I vowed to read not only websites but whole books on the conflict upon my finishing the movie. Hardened in my resolve, I immediately did nothing and forgot about the movie altogether until I saw that I was intending to write this review. That particular goal of the film having failed, at least I did come away from the movie, and still feel, traumatized by the event of the movie much in the same way that the director must have felt traumatized by the events he so desparately wanted to remember. That kind of empathy is rarely seen, and although not enjoyable for me, at least I now share Ari's pain--jerk.

Parting Ways

"Oh Honey," Jennie said as she tried, futilely, to de-poof my already far too inflated hair.

"Come on, it's fine. I am just parting it now." I replied, confident that my answer was enough to inspire her confidence as I'd been using my hand to sway my hair to the left for all of a few hours already.

"I know. Well, I will say this, once you get a haircut you will look very distinguished."

"uhh.....Thanks." I couldn't help but reply with my sails efficiently deflated. I thought I already looked distinguished, yet apparently, I need to look like I have my shit together to look distinguished yet I could've sworn I am easily distinguishable and a large part of that is because of my ridiculous hair but that's beside the point.

I have something of a fetish for puns. I am also planning on moving out of the state within the next month and a half or so. Given those two facts, there is nothing more appropriate I could think of than parting (as I am parting the state) my hair to the left (as I will soon have left). This pun seems to have been lost on most...well everyone.

I suppose that, were I to be honest with myself, which I try to do sparingly, I would also have to admit that the whole parting my hair thing is just a commitment that I have finally decided to cave to. Barbers always ask me when I'm getting my haircut, "so which way do you part your hair?" to which I respond, "I don't," and that's followed by a long silence and they just say out loud without allowing me to refute them, not that I would, "oh, you must comb it straight." As if the mere thought of not ever doing anything to your hair was just ridiculous.

Anyways, I realized recently that not committing to a part in my hair doesn't make me cool or outside the system, it just makes my hair really messy. The bigger point being that the barber's are correct, not parting your hair doesn't mean that you aren't parting your hair, you're just not participating in that decision. I feel like this metaphor has unfortunately extended to a great deal of my life and, for once, I am finally ready to change things. For that, my girlfriend Jennie deserves a great deal of credit, as only a woman can verify for you exactly how foolish your self-delusions have become like they're just walking talking versions of those mirrors in dressing rooms that make everyone look horrible and start a diet.

Today, while walking home from work a homeless man that was perched in an abandoned doorway to a storefront that's long been vacant remarked to me in passing, "you're exactly on time," which obviously startled me and I had to redouble for a moment to hear what he had to say. He continued, "you know how I can tell--you're gait." I realized after this comment that I had been swinging my arms with the carefree-ness of a school-boy free for the summer and walking with the speed of someone who knows all the answers to the test their anxiously about to begin. My future's very wide open and this change is presenting opportunities for me to pounce on that future like a sumo on a hot dog. Apparently, I am showing that optimism in my very gait.

My love for Boston will always draw me back here with an infinite irrational affinity like a hospital bedfellow feels for the man who’s shared his pain for months on end or a brother in arms who traded bullet-dodging duties in the trenches of a hell I hope I’ll never know. I have felt so much pain and done so much growth in New England, Boston in particular, that the scars I carry in the deep parts of my psyche, the scars that shape my mind like the hammered punctures to a grand sculpture, will always point my origins to here.

Now, I hope to carry those lessons with me to broaden my horizons in an effort to become a true cosmopolitan citizen of the entire country if not the entire world. The part in my hair is a symbol of my willingness to accept the idea that I am a part of the system of capitalism in this country no matter how much I may dislike it. I am a part of this society as much as I may be critical of it. To think that one could do nothing to work within this system is like standing at bat in a baseball game and choosing to never swing in protest of the faults in the game, but that just means you're guaranteed to strike out. If I must be a part of this fault-ridden, possibly innately evil, game then the least I can do is play it to the best of my ability, and fucking play it to win: perhaps in the hope that I'll get good enough at it that I can change it, or if nothing else, good enough at it that I can find a way not to have to play it any more.

Boston gave me the gift of that realization. Now, I have chosen to part ways for a more friction-free lifestyle in a climate that actually has four seasons rather than two seasons: winter and baseball season. Boston will always play an integral part in my memories and now I have the rest of my life to figure out what parts I have left.

Empathy for the Devil

The easiest practice of the human being is to prove his difference from other human beings. Ask anybody on the street, "hey, can you think of a way that you could hurt yourself, like physically?" and I am positive that everyone has an answer. Now ask them the opposite, "hey, can you think of a single way you could help yourself? physically or otherwise?" At that, people are more apprehensive. The risk of failure exists when one extends themselves in that way. As if to say that one's effort to help someone else is only effective if it's a sensationalized warning to caution one from some danger, but few people have any advice on how to achieve a happy life.
For me, this essential weakness drove a wedge into my skull from a very young age. It's part of what made me rebel from all of the catholic guilt I initially felt with religion. I don't need to be told how I could hurt myself, I have that part down. I need to know how to get above zero, how to actually improve on myself, how to be happy, rather than how to avoid sadness. This pursuit led me to one final arena in which few people can refute the following necessary action: to relate to other human beings in an effort to prove their belonging. Loneliness is the true culprit of most depression and horrible feelings. So, how does one combat loneliness? Make friends? No. Friends are cool, and they help, but there's a whole lot more people out there then you can ever be friends with. So, how can one find a way to relate to everyone simultaneously? Extend the branch of yourself and it's non-judgmental shade to all of the people that exist in this world as best you can. Meaning, more specifically, stop judging people.
Those who hate you, those who you hate, those who you can't stand to even look at...are you. Essentially, you bear the same human burden of existing until you die. You bear the burden of requiring food and nourishment, both of the soul, mind and body, to continue that existence. The best interest of the individual is the unique pursuit of each of us and I feel confident that we're all acting in what we believe to be our best interest, no matter how much I may need to remind myself of that on a regular basis. The disregard of a pedestrian as he lackadaisically meanders into oncoming traffic on his cell phone has to do with his own self-involvement and callousness: a trait that is sadly revered in the capitalist democracy. Other first-world countries, primarily lead by the cynical french, tend to criticize this trait of americans with all of our sue-proof redundant warnings like, "careful, this escalator will escalate at a manageable speed," or "this hot coffee is extremely hot and may hurt your mouth as hot coffee is hotter than you can comfortably contend with," but these warnings are merely a semblance of the freedom that is engendered by the american spirit. We don't want people to not have the ability to burn the shit out of their mouths, we just want to give them a heads up. Most singular traits can be explained in a similar manner such as the french propensity for smoking, which really is just plain cool and you're denying it if you think otherwise.
My brother was severely hurt this evening by a young lady who had no intention of doing so. He felt unsure and didn't pursue his own goals to the extent that he felt most comfortable and was burned for allowing her the comfort of pursuing his goals for him. He was severely hurt in much the same way that I'd let myself be hurt for years on end, and still occassionally allow myself to get hurt. He got hurt by trying to being too sensitive in a callous world, feeling misplaced and alone as the only injured soul by this callous facade that we all create. The pain's real though, the pain is more real than I'd like to admit and that's precisely the point.
Nobody admits that their in pain any more. Nobody admits that they can't do something. Nobody admits that they don't want to do anything. Nobody admits that they are merely human when it is the most obvious truth that we all share. As much as I am assured of my inability to percieve the greater universe or understand the theory of relativity or any other incapacity that I am mostly unwilling but probably just unable to wrap my brain around, that incapacity is what links me to all of the world. There are six billion people that are unable to wrap their minds around it all. This is the fault of the human condition--its finite nature. Sherlock Holmes once told a man that he couldn't remember his name because he may forget one of the thirty eight varieties of cigar ash that allow him to solve a case and the warehouse of his mind is just too full. The warehouses of our souls are overflowing by nature, spilling the wreckage onto our hearts in a moment of vulnerable fulfillment or raw unadulterated failure. Those should be the most treasured moments of our lives. Those are the moments that prove we're not alone. Those moments mean you are alive in a way that only god could prove for you. Those moments don't make you like me, you don't waste your time with sympathy in those futile seconds, you are me in those moments, as you have been all along.

Purely Positive Film Review-Star Trek

The opportunities for excellence in film are rare. Star Trek took nearly all of the opportunities available. The cliche background story that is world renowned for drawing legions of nerdy cave-dwelling fans into the open in their most ornate garb would not initially lead one to believe that coolness would ever be related to Star Trek. Frankly, coollness sounds like the opposite of Star Trek. Yet, there I was, kinda thinking that I wanted to be Captain Kirk and/or Spock. Only a powerful summer blockbuster film can manipulate a cliche like that. I even dare to say that this movie ranks in the echelons of other summer blockbuster greats as Independence Day and Jurassic Park. Really. Start to finish, constant action, and action I actually give a shit about. Not like so many modern movies where they skip that whole part where you actually grow to like the characters before tossing them towards the perilous brink of disaster, this movie manages to do both simultaneously. Now, I am not, by any means, attempting to indicate that this movie had the heavy cannon fodder for deep intellectual stimulus nor did I really want it to. On the other hand, movies are our culture's most effective means of escape without using drugs and for the time the lights were down in that theater, I was on romulon and concerned solely with the status of Kirk's ranking on the Enterprise--meanwhile my bills, career, and all else was beamed to a distant galaxy. When the lights arose, I felt as satisfied on unhealthy smut as at the end of a chinese food buffet, except, unlike the buffet, I couldn't wait for next time.