I'm a believer that you can tell if a movie is going to be good in the first five minutes. Sometimes less. You just get a sense that either the filmmakers have this thing under control and going somewhere or they don't. — Read the rest
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Outrageous: A History of Showbiz and the Culture Wars, by Kliph Nesteroff, Abrams, 312 pages, $30
The first paragraph of the book jacket lays it out: "There is a common belief that we live in unprecedented times, that people are too sensitive today, that nobody objected to the actions of actors, comedians, and filmmakers in the past. Modern pundits would have us believe that Americans of a previous generation had tougher skin and seldom complained. But does this argument hold up to scrutiny?"
There's a good point underneath the hyperbole. People tend to believe—and pundits, politicians, and activists tend to claim—that whatever issues trouble them are worse than ever. Why? Because these things are happening now. To us. Problems in the past weren't as urgent or significant because they happened to others, and anyway things turned out OK (or if they didn't, at least those problems are over).
So Kliph Nesteroff's Outrageous has a decent premise. Alas, it also has significant flaws.
The book's subtitle is A History of Showbiz and the Culture Wars, and Nesteroff has some expertise—at least regarding the former. He previously wrote The Comedians, a lively and informative work that, admittedly, bit off more than it could chew, trying to cram the history of American comedy into a few hundred pages.
A history of public opposition to American entertainment is a more manageable subject, though still a big one. While Nesteroff starts with complaints about blackface and minstrel shows in the 1800s, most of the book deals with post–World War II controversies. And he has some fascinating stories to tell about the many attempts to cancel movies, music, TV shows, and just about anything that was new and different.
Some of these stories may be familiar. Many people know about the resistance All in the Family faced when it first aired in the 1970s, with its vulgarity and ethnic slurs; CBS stuck by it, and the sitcom went on to become one of the biggest TV shows ever. But how many people remember Bridget Loves Bernie, a sitcom that followed All in the Family for one season? Vaguely based on the 1920s Broadway blockbuster Abie's Irish Rose, it was a show about a marriage between a Jewish man and a Catholic woman. It received so much pushback—including bomb threats—that CBS canceled it, despite its high ratings.
Interesting though these tales are, the book's overall narrative is shaky. It tends to move from one anecdote to the next without sufficient transition. Outrageous often comes across as less a history of a phenomenon than a chronological data dump.
There are some lapses in the research too. For instance, Nesteroff claims Cole Porter wrote "Do It Again" (I assume he's referring to the George Gershwin tune) while attributing Porter's song "Love For Sale" to Irving Berlin. And he mistakenly asserts that David Letterman wrote an episode of the sitcom Good Times. (The episode in question features Jay Leno in a small role. Perhaps that's where the confusion arose.)
But the biggest problem is that Nesteroff has an ax to grind—one so large it ends up taking over the book and turning it into a screed.
It's true that any conservatives who claim that censorship today is worse than ever lack historical perspective. Still, that doesn't mean there's nothing worth complaining about, or that we should simply dismiss what they say. Nesteroff writes as though we should.
Nesteroff notes how the John Birch Society saw Communist conspiracies everywhere in the 1960s. Far from disappearing, he argues, their discredited philosophy has been rebranded; recent culture wars, funded by partisan foundations, have used fear tactics to fool people into supporting otherwise unpopular policies. (Funny, my Republican friends say the same thing about the left.)
According to Nesteroff (and the partisan experts he quotes), right-wing think tanks tell their talking heads in the media what to say, often gaining consensus through payment of large sums. (It's not clear what he believes the left is doing in the meantime. I guess they're just telling the truth and being ignored.) Further, under the guise of supporting free speech, right-wing plotters send "provocateurs to speak on college campuses for the purpose of incitement. When protests erupt, such objection is used as proof that the campus is opposed to free speech. Demonized in the body politic, funding is threatened—and legal action undertaken—until the campus is made hospitable to think tank interests."
Wow. A conspiracy theory almost worthy of the Birchers.
Let me suggest a different narrative. Nesteroff seems to believe the right has, if anything, gotten worse in recent decades. Worse or not, it's true that it has changed. But hasn't the left changed as well?
A few decades ago, many would say, the movement for greater civil liberties was spearheaded by the left. (Some of the most famous student protests of the '60s were centered around Berkeley's Free Speech Movement.) Courts responded with interpretations of the First Amendment guaranteeing greater freedom to express oneself. Outside the legal realm, much of the country—and much of the left—adopted a cultural ethos that it's a good thing people are allowed to say what's on their mind, even if some find it offensive or dangerous.
But over time, much of the left reversed its position, becoming suspicious of such freedom—at least for groups it opposes. Thus, the "provocateurs" Nesteroff warns of aren't just protested at colleges: They're disinvited, or shouted down, or physically attacked. Meanwhile, students are disciplined and professors fired for expressing views that, while not outside the larger social mainstream, are considered objectionable on campus.
What's more, this culture has spread into the world off campus. Newspaper editors are fired for running editorials that trouble their staff. Workers in large corporations fear that expressing unorthodox political opinions can get them cashiered. People are deplatformed on social media for questionable reasons. And, of course, there are the showbiz culture wars—the putative subject of Outrageous—where people feel they have to make public expressions of regret for something they said or did in the past, or risk not working again.
This isn't just based on anecdotes. A number of polls—for example, a recent College Pulse/Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression survey of undergraduates—show that today's young liberals are more willing than previous generations to shut down speech they find offensive. According to the American College Student Freedom, Progress and Flourishing Survey, conducted annually by researchers at North Dakota State University, about four out of five liberal or liberal-leaning students think it appropriate to snitch on a professor for stating fairly common (but "wrong") opinions on hot-button issues. It's one thing to debate or protest ideas you don't like. It's quite another to try to stop anyone from even hearing them.
When you don't listen to the other side…well, it's hard to put it better than John Stuart Mill: "He who knows only his own side of the case, knows little of that." Unfortunately, today's left seems to lean more toward Oscar Wilde's Lady Bracknell: "I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing."
So yes, there's good reason to be concerned about the cancellations and related issues that upset the right, even if repression was sometimes worse in the past. And if you wish to engage in serious debate, it's not enough to be satisfied with your own arguments. You've got to refute the other side, not brush them off as dishonest or evil or brainwashed.
Outrageous starts with a "Note to the Reader": "Please be aware that some of the material quoted within this book includes archaic terminology that might be considered wildly offensive by modern standards." I would hope that anyone reading this book, or any book dealing with history, already knows that people thought and spoke differently in the past. A better warning would state that Nesteroff's work may claim to be an objective look at cultural history but that lurking inside is a polemic.
Too bad. There's a lot of good material in Outrageous. With a slightly different presentation, it could have been a more useful addition to today's debate.
The post A Brief, Biased History of the Culture Wars appeared first on Reason.com.
Pixar's Inside Out, released in 2015, was a delightful—if tear-jerking—journey through the mind of a precocious 11-year-old girl named Riley and the five emotions (Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust) that attempted to pilot her subconscious through a disruptive cross-country move.
The first Inside Out arrived on the precipice of a major change in how American culture treats mental health. While the first film's handling of Riley's slump into depression felt boundary pushing, its sequel comes at a time when the risks of talking too much about mental health are starting to be examined.
In Inside Out 2, Riley faces another mental health catastrophe. Two years have passed, and Joy—voiced by an energetic Amy Poehler—is still leading Riley's team of emotions. The now-teenage Riley has just graduated middle school with top marks, two best friends, and a solid self-concept lovingly curated by Joy.
However, peace doesn't last for long. The night before Riley is set to attend a sleepaway hockey camp, puberty—coming in the form of a literal wrecking ball—blasts into her subconscious. As part of Riley's mental overhaul, she gets four new emotions: the bright orange, Animal-esque Anxiety (voiced by a jittery Maya Hawke), Ennui, Embarrassment, and Envy.
Riley's new emotions quickly take over, insisting that she needs more complex, sophisticated emotions to guide her, leaving the old crew literally bottled up, trapped in a dark vault in the back of Riley's brain.
Ruled by Anxiety, things quickly go south for Riley, who becomes convinced that the only way to ensure that she isn't lonely in high school is to get on her new school's competitive, championship-winning hockey team. As a result, she becomes crippled by self-doubt—and ends up alienating the friends she already has.
In order to save her from completely spiraling out of control, the old team of emotions must journey through the labyrinth of Riley's mind, back to her mental control panel before it's too late.
For those familiar with the first film, Inside Out 2 hits many of the same beats as its predecessor. Riley faces a big life change, and to weather it, Joy has to learn to relinquish some control over Riley's mind. In the first film, that meant letting Riley feel sadness. In the sequel, the lesson is a bit more complicated: Joy learns that she needs to let Riley develop a multifaceted self-concept—one that includes acknowledgment of both her strengths and her flaws.
At a time when concern about skyrocketing rates of depression and anxiety among teenagers is at a high, Inside Out 2 ultimately presents a solution that wouldn't be amiss coming from Jonathan Haidt or Lenore Skenazy.
In the film, Riley's emotions—especially Joy and Anxiety—ultimately serve a parental role, attempting to protect her and lead her to make good choices, while also having limited ability to control her actions. Riley can only become well-adjusted when her most active emotions learn to relinquish some control.
In Inside Out 2, it's not hard to see Anxiety as a stand-in for an ever-hovering helicopter parent. Anxiety is motivated by an earnest desire to secure Riley's future, but her relentless planning and prodding ultimately make Riley miserable. As in the first film, Joy too has to learn to let go—though that particular beat is slightly less straightforward than in the first Inside Out.
While Inside Out 2 still has plenty of tear-jerking moments, the—ahem—emotional core of the film is less solid. The new emotions aren't as fully developed as their predecessors, and some of the old emotions end up getting lost in the shuffle. The climax of the film, too, doesn't have the same gut-punching impact as the first film's. However, while Inside Out 2 doesn't quite reach the heights of its predecessor, I found it hard to leave the theater with any hard feelings.
The post Is <i>Inside Out 2</i> Secretly About Helicopter Parenting? appeared first on Reason.com.
If you're looking for a political message in Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes, consider the following: The story begins "many generations" after the death of the previous reboot trilogy's hero, Caesar. Caesar was the first ape to speak, following the spread of a strange virus. Eventually, he became the leader of the apes in a war against the remnants of humanity. Caesar's teachings—apes should not kill each other, and apes are stronger together—have become quasi-religious dogma (ape-ma?) amongst the apes who live on in the post-apocalyptic world.
But those beliefs have been perverted by an authoritarian sect run by Proximus, a strutting, vainglorious bonobo bent on unifying and dominating the fragmented ape clans into something greater. Proximus preaches strength and glory; it turns out the bonobos, like all men, are obsessed with Rome. But his footsoldiers massacre peaceful ape clans, and his murderous forces wear face coverings and are known as "masks." His whole kingdom appears to be built on personal whim and something resembling slavery. Talk about a banana republic.
Masks, mad dictators, post-pandemic chaos, power fantasies of restoring Rome? Perhaps this is a story about Trump? About antifa? About revolution and empire? But no, not really. It's just a story about a bunch of animated monkeys fighting.
The sociopolitical notions about an ape society built atop the ashes of human civilization are the most interesting concepts in Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes—and the least well-explored. Rather than dig in and engage with the story's fundamentally political underpinnings, the story is, instead, content to nod in their direction while pursuing a notably less thoughtful action-adventure story.
The end result isn't bad: Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes is a solid enough summer blockbuster, with top-notch special effects and a family-friendly emotional core that most movies of this class lack. But what's frustrating is that the movie gestures at something much more interesting than what ends up on screen.
The story starts with a trio of young chimpanzees who belong to a peaceful, idyllic clan devoted to the raising of eagles. But soon their village is attacked by masked-wearing outsiders, including a silverback brute named Sylva. Truly, it's gorilla warfare.
Noa, the son of the eagle clan's leader, manages to escape. The movie then becomes a sort of road movie in which Noa must return to his tribe and free them from Proximus' authoritarian rule. Easy rider, raging apes.
Noa is no Caesar, but he's a chimp off the old block: thoughtful, full of moral conviction, yearning to grow into something more. After the attack on his village, he runs into Raka, a wise old Orangutan who has studied Caesar's teachings, and who steals every scene he's in. The pair are soon joined by Mae, a human woman who initially appears to be a mute scavenger but turns out to be something more. All of this comes to a head when Mae and Noa reach Proximus' kingdom, which consists of a gigantic, rusted-out ship that's been beached near a massive, locked bunker that he believes holds tools that will make him more powerful. There's a sort of Mad Max parallel here, but with inquisitive monkeys instead of leather-clad car fiends; perhaps this picture should have been called Furious George.
Proximus has been studying ancient Rome, with the help of Trevathan, an older human man (William H. Macy) who has accepted the notion that apes will rule the earth. Some of the movie's most interesting scenes involve Trevathan arguing with Mae about whether to accept ape dominion. But until the movie's final moments, it's not at all clear what Mae's alternative is, or why she even thinks there is an alternative. What is Mae even fighting for? Too much of the movie's worldbuilding is shuffled into what are effectively footnotes.
What's left is a relatively simple narrative about a young ape struggling to free his clan and finding himself in the process. It's competently told, and the computer character animation is consistently excellent, with everything from wet fur to minor skin blemishes convincingly rendered. Yet that impressive level of detail doesn't extend to the story, which at two and a half hours long threatens to turn this into Kingdom of the Planet of Bored Apes.
In many ways, it's a relief that the movie doesn't really attempt to be a Trump-era political tract. (Remember the Gorilla Channel?) But I do wish the story had taken its own ideas about politics and civilizational conflict a little more seriously. The movie is fine, but simian swagger aside, it doesn't have much thematic heft; Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes amounts to little more than a couple hours of monkeying around.
The post <i>Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes</i> Is Just a Lot of Monkeying Around appeared first on Reason.com.
Today's guest is comedy writer Rob Long, who served as a writer for and producer of the great sitcom Cheers for years, writes the weekly Martini Shot commentary, and cohosts the GLoP Culture podcast with Jonah Goldberg and John Podhoretz. He is a columnist for Commentary and a cofounder of Ricochet, the online community and podcast platform. At a live event in New York City, Reason's Nick Gillespie spoke with Long about whether Hollywood is out of ideas, what it's like being a libertarian-leaning conservative in a very progressive industry, and the role that psychedelics have played in his creative process.
Chapters:
0:00- Blockchain, Machine Learning, and Jesus
3:22- What's Scarier; God Or Guns?
8:59- Road To Damascus, Hollywood
13:45- Jesus: A Weird But Groovy Dude
17:30- A Hollywood Solution To Hell
22:50- A Psychedelic Life Lesson
29:48- Comedy As Aggression
32:09- MDMA: A Non-Specific Amplifier
34:25- O Hollywood Mega-Hit, Where Art Thou? 43:35- The Comedies That Made Rob Long
45:39- Q&A
Previous appearances:
Today's sponsor:
The post Rob Long: God is Good, Drugs Are Better appeared first on Reason.com.
© Illustration: Lex Villena; Midjourney
There's a well-known saying about finding connection in the nation's capital city: If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.
Robot Dreams, a new animated film that is up for this year's Academy Award for best animated feature, proposes a sort of twist on that idea. What if you are a dog? And you live in New York City? But you still want a friend.
Well then. Maybe the answer is to get a robot.
Robot Dreams is a whimsical, wordless story set in a fantasy version of early 1980s New York in which every person is an animal. It follows Dog, a lonely apartment dweller in the East Village who spends his days playing Pong and watching television, as he purchases a mail-order robot who quickly becomes his best and closest friend. But after a swim on a day trip to the beach, Robot becomes inoperable. Dog is forced to leave Robot on the beach for the long winter, when the beach is closed. What will he do without his best friend?
The answer, it turns out, is that he'll have to find a new friend—perhaps in the form of Duck, a pretty, sporty pal he meets flying kites in Central Park, or perhaps in the form of a new Palbot, one who isn't the same as his old Robot, but who offers a different form of companionship. Robot, meanwhile, spends the winter on the beach, dreaming of Dog, and hoping for a way to escape his strange entrapment.
Robot Dreams is a tale of love and friendship, and it is decidedly sweet-natured without being sentimental. The story's indie comic roots—it was adapted from a 2007 comic of the same name—are obvious: More than most animated films, it captures the distinctive, quirky sensibility of hand-drawn, indie comic line work.
That gives the central story an affable, fablelike quality. It also allows for a level of environmental and period specificity that is rare in any sort of film, animated or otherwise. The movie's early 1980s NYC setting is rendered in pointillistic detail, with intricate sign work and gritty city blocks populated by animal versions of New York street characters.
That includes the city's difficult, impersonal bureaucracy: One reason Dog can't rescue Robot from the beach is that there's a grumpy NYPD officer who refuses to let him through the locked gate onto the sand. Dog visits the city courthouse to plead his case, but his application for a special winter visit to the beach is quickly denied. There's a layered, lived-in quality that even the busiest Pixar movies and the most precisely recreated historical live-action films lack.
The contrast between the ordinariness of the scenario, the unconventional intricacy of the animation, and the fantastical animal characters gives the movie a peculiarity and a particularity that keeps the low-key sweetness afloat. There's magic in the mundanity of it all, which, come to think of it, is how love and friendship work too.
The post Oscar-Nominated <i>Robot Dreams</i> Is a Gentle Animated Love Story About Dogs, Robots, and 1980s New York appeared first on Reason.com.
This story is part of our new Future of Gaming series, a three-site look at gaming’s most pioneering technologies, players, and makers.
As I watched the gigantic, awesome, triumphant, overwhelming, punishingly large and loud Dune: Part Two in IMAX earlier this week, I couldn't help but think of an old meme.
Sometime before the 2021 release of Dune: Part One, a clever anonymous poster mocked up a "know your candidates" page featuring Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders. Only the "issue" they were discussing wasn't health care or foreign policy. It was, "What is Dune about?"
In the meme, Sanders' answer was typically long-winded and discursive: "Well, it's hard to say Dune is about any one thing, because Dune is rich with themes. The first book, for example, is about ecology, and the hero's journey, and as a criticism of the Foundation series' take on declining empires, among other things. The second book subverts the hero's journey told in the first book, and the later books follow in…" and then the fake Sanders answer trails off the page.
The meme version of Biden simply responds: "Dune is about worms."
The magic of director Denis Villeneuve's two-part adaptation of Frank Herbert's 1965 sci-fi novel is that it captures both of the fake candidate answers from the meme. It's an intricate desert epic about ecological balance, the harshness of nature, the economics of resource extraction, imperialism, tribal politics, corporate intrigue, groovy psychedelic drugs, culture clash, and Golden Age science fiction missing the point, among other things.
But it's also about, you know, worms.
Specifically: very, very big worms.
Even more than the first film, which covered a little more than half of Herbert's novel, Dune: Part Two is a showcase for cinematic grandiosity, for movies as conveyors of sheer, terrifying enormity. The movie is the tale of young Paul Atreides, a young duke whose family was killed by their rivals the Harkonnens after a distant emperor granted the Atreides charge of the planet Arrakis.
Arrakis isn't just any planet: It's the home to spice, a psychedelic drug that also happens to power interstellar travel, which is made by the planet's native giant sandworms. Imagine if oil was also LSD, and it was produced by roving, murderous whales who lived deep in the desert sands.
The first installment was the story of Atreides' journey to Dune and the defeat of his family. The second is the story of his triumphant revenge, as he unites the local people, the Fremen, in defiance of the Harkonnen overlords.
Herbert's novel is replete with descriptions of corporate structures and what amount to company strategy discussions about economic fundamentals and resource extraction metrics, all mixed with complex political machinations and semi-inscrutable hallucinogenic dream logic featuring religious prophecies and drug-addled visions, plus a lot of asides about the elegant sustainable eco-technology of life on a barren sand planet. At times, reading Dune resembles reading minutes from a corporate board meeting while tripping balls with green-tech climate activists in the desert.
Anyway, you can probably see what meme-Bernie was talking about.
The movie, however, captures all of this clunky complexity quite well, capturing desert life among the Fremen and gesturing at their political structures and religious beliefs without subjecting viewers to drawn-out exposition. Villeneuve and co-screenwriter Jon Spaihts understand that a thoughtfully imagined fictional world doesn't need to constantly stop to explain itself; it can just go about its business.
But then, in the midst of all this, there are the worms. In contrast to Dune: Part One, which closed with a hint of the possibility, this time Paul Atreides gets to ride them. And it is awesome.
In Dune: Part Two, Villeneuve delivers a handful of truly gargantuan set pieces featuring Arrakis' skyscraper-sized sandworms as they plow through the desert of the film's alien planet. Along with his work on the first-contact film Arrival, they mark Villeneuve as Hollywood's most successful purveyor of colossal mystery.
As with that movie's obelisk and its tentacled alien inhabitants, there's something truly alien about the sandworms of Arrakis, and also a sense of scale and vastness that few other filmmakers convey. Watching a sandworm plunge through desert valleys, blasting tidal waves of sand in its wake, on an oversized IMAX screen in kneecap-rattling surround sound is the sort of audiovisual experience that big-budget, big-screen movies were made for. Dune: Part Two is a glorious, overwhelming sensory smorgasbord.
In recent years, far too many blockbusters have served up weightless, ugly, computer-generated, mediocre-at-best set pieces. Villeneuve's Dune films are reminders of what real cinematic spectacle looks like. They are movies about worms—really big worms. Hell yeah, they are.
The post <i>Dune: Part Two</i> Is a Glorious Sci-Fi Spectacle appeared first on Reason.com.
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