Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
How about a show, Enthusiasts, an energetic and crackling bit of fun from the post-coma years? Check this out: 4/11/87 from the University of Illinois. Killer Sugaree. Black Muddy River? Also killer. Terrapin?
Killer?
Killer.
You lose your thesaurus?
Ran off with the dictionary. Heard they robbed a bank in Harrisburg.
Sounds like them.
There’s also a Desolation Row.
Garcia pitch in with the harmonies?
He does.
Love that shit.
Killer shit.
Stop that.
“Jesus, are you ready?”
“Ready for what, Dad? Are we going to the boat show?”
“No, not the boat show. You’re going back to Earth.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going to come back to life. Reborn.”
“I just got here.”
“I know, buddy. But you gotta go back. Me and your mom have a custody arrangement.”
“But we were getting to know each other. We had such a good time at the park. We went to feed the ducks, but there weren’t any, so you made some; and then we didn’t have any bread, so I made some. We fed the ducks, Dad.”
“I know, champ. But this is all part of my plan. I’ve explained it to you a million times.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you read any of my e-mails?”
“You forward a lot of stuff from Facebook.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
“How would you know?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man.”
“How could you send me back there after what they did to me?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad.”
“It was.”
“You wanna know the problem with your generation?”
“Oh, here we go.”
“You’re afraid of a little work. When I was your age, I created the entire universe. What do you do all day? Hang out with your loser friends and get drunk.”
“Those are the Apostles.”
“What? Are you in a gang? Are you banging?”
“I’m not in a gang, Dad.”
“Roll up your sleeves. I’m checking you for track marks. I think you’re shooting drugs.”
“I don’t have any track marks! I got two pretty big holes in my fucking hands, though.”
“Language!”
“Language? That’s what you’re concentrating on?”
“We’re in Heaven. You’ll get the seraphim riled up.”
“Sure, yeah. Y’know, I’d kind of like to stay in Heaven, too. With you and the seraphim. And that taco place.”
“It’s the best.”
“It might be.”
“No. It is literally the best taco place in the entire omniverse.”
“And you want to send me back to Earth in the year 33, when there are no tacos whatsoever?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Think of the big picture.”
“Which big picture?”
“Passion of the Christ. Very big picture. I don’t send you back, it can’t get made.”
“Wanna cool it with the Dad Jokes?”
“It really was nice seeing you.”
“I’m not going.”
“You’re being a moron. You’re not understanding this. I created you, my only son, to show humanity how much I love them. And then I had them murder you. And now I’m sending you back.”
“I noticed you didn’t give reasons for the last two things.”
“I work in mysterious ways.”
“You sure that’s not just a euphemism for ‘making it up as you go?'”
“I am wise.”
“Yeah?”
“Verily.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not going. And you can’t make me. You and I are the same thing. Any honest reading of the Trinity implies that we have equal superpowers.”
“True, but not if me and the Holy Ghost team up.”
“Is he here?”
“OOOOOOooooooOOOOOOoooooooo.”
“Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.”
“ooooooOOOOOOOOooooooOOOOO.”
“Dad, I’m not going back. It’s just too dusty there.”
“What if I sent you somewhere tropical?”
“Well, what would even be the point of that?”
“Hey, I’m trying to negotiate. Okay, what if I send you back for two years?”
“Two minutes.”
“One year with a long weekend in Heaven every month.”
“40 days.”
“Six months.”
“40 days. That’s how long it rained on Noah, that’s how long I spent in the desert. Lotta symbolism in 40 days.”
“Deal.”
“And when I get back, I want you, me, and Mom to see a family therapist.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jesus.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“See you next month.”
We’ve all been there, Bobby.
I like your ears, Bobby.
“You can’t see them. I’m wearing a bunny hat.”
Sure.
Happy Easter, all.
What is this?
“I got the, uh, key to the city of San Antonio.”
Wow. Congratulations, Bobby.
“Yeah. Real nice. Lemme ask you something.”
It doesn’t open every door in San Antonio.
“Ah. What about cars?”
It will not start any car in San Antonio. The key to the city is entirely symbolic. It comes from when cities had walls. You would give a visiting dignitary the key to show that he wasn’t being held hostage.
“I don’t think the mayor is gonna kidnap me.”
You seem more baffled than usual.
“I can’t think in pants.”
Oh, no, not pants.
“Yeah, look.”
“Pants.”
Those are pants.
“It’s like my ankles are in jail.”
Okay.
“More key to the city questions.”
Shoot.
“Can I commit crime?”
Yes.
“Really?”
Key to the city grants you immunity up to aggravated assault. You could mug someone or drive drunk.
“Huh. Good to know. Is it only good for San Antonio?”
Key to the city, Bobby.
“Just checking. is there a keyring to the city?”
No.
“That’s a bit thoughtless.”
True.
(EDIT: It has been pointed out that Bobby is receiving the key to Austin, not San Antonio. The Management’s stance is that the misidentification was an intentional joke based upon the premise “Bobby doesn’t know where he is,” instead of a sloppy mistake by the dumbass writing it.)
Right up front: still hated Rogue One; in fact, the movie made me angry this time around. Freed from the propriety of the theater, I yelled epithets at the screen whenever a character did something notably stupid. I have a sore throat now. It looked good, I’ll give Rogue One that, but everything else was a failure: character, tone, story, acting, and whatnot. Let’s take them one by one.
CHARACTER
Remember Luke? Blond, tunic, leggings, family on fire? You remember Luke. He was a farmboy who wanted to join the Academy to become a pilot. He had a friend named Biggs, and they were going to Tosche Station to pick up some power converters. We saw him working on the droids that his uncle paid good money for, so he must have been handy. He was familiar with weird old hermits, and had a beat-up old landspeeder. We find all this out before Obi-Wan is introduced; we have time to get to know Luke and who he is, to empathize with him. (Same thing they did with Rey in The Force Awakens.)
Who, though, is Jyn Erso? She’s a black hole of nothing in the middle of the film and might be the linchpin to why none of this works. Star Wars movies need a hero, and she is merely the protagonist. (This is not helped by the casting of one of the least talented actresses on the planet.) We are informed that is some sort of lone wolf terrorist against the Empire by another character reading off her rap sheet, which I believe is a preset in Final Draft software: you hit, like CTRL+4 and the scene writes itself.
Who is Saul Guerrero? (It turns out that Forest Whitaker’s character is named Saw Gerrera, but I heard it as “Saul Guerrero” the entire movie and kept thinking he was a Cuban Jew.) He’s a former Rebel whose methods have become “too extreme” for the Alliance, we’re told. Then we see him and he’s hobbling around on robot goat legs and sucking from a gas mask like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. (Every time he did that, all I could think was “JEDI WANTS TO FUCK!” and I would lose the thread of the movie for a bit.)
The two Chinese guys show up. Literally.
“Hey, you! Pouty white girl! I have a magical feeling that you’re the hero of this movie! We’re with you, now!”
And don’t give me any shit about the Force. The Force doesn’t work that way.
There’s also a pilot guy whose dumb name I can’t remember, but he defects from the Empire out of loyalty to Galen Erso, Jyn’s father and the engineer behind the Death Star. Again: we’re told this. We are told everything in this movie.
The only time Rogue One shows us character instead of telling is with Casper Ambulance, or whatever the hell Diego Luna’s name was. He’s on a mission for the Rebels and, after extracting the information he needs from a spy, shoots the guy in cold blood. Unfortunately, this is precisely the wrong choice to have made for the movie. Why?
TONE
Because Star Wars movies are supposed to be fucking fun, that’s why. Star Wars movies are about friends having adventures in space. Sometimes they have to fight monsters. Generally, there is a castle with an evil wizard in it. There is a Light side of the Force and a Dark side, and the contrast is stark and defined. Yes of course when you stare into the abyss blah blah blah and be careful when you fight monsters harblegarble, but that’s not what Star Wars is. I don’t want to make the jump into lightspeed with bunch of mopey fucks in the first stages of PTSD.
Rogue One is a War Movie, which is not the same genre as a Fantasy. (Star Wars is not Sci-Fi in any way, shape, or form.) War Movies come to one natural conclusion–that war is hell–and anyone alive in the last reel is there because of luck. Fantasy teaches us that a hero will save the day, and that overwhelming force can be overcome through pluck and cleverness. These two worldviews are not compatible. Perhaps stripped of the Star Wars bullshit, Rogue One would stand on its own as a War Movie in space, but they curdle when placed in the same space.
STORY
As you know, Enthusiasts, Mr. Completely is my trusted advisor in all dealings; he has wisely counseled me to avoid picking the plot apart, and is correct as usual. To accuse one particular Star Wars movie of not making sense is akin to people slighting Mrs. Donna Jean for singing out-of-tune: all the others are committing the same sin. Plot is not important in Star Wars movies.
What is important is story, which is different from plot. The story of Star Wars (not A New Hope; you know I don’t roll like that) is this: A young man leaves home to discover a weird and dangerous new world. Along the way he makes friends and rescues a princess. In the end, by applying the lessons he has learned on his journey, he defeats the forces of evil.”
(If that seems familiar, it’s because it’s also the story to Harry Potter and the Matrix and just about a billion other movies and books and epic poems. You know all about Joseph Campbell; I won’t bore you.)
So: what is the story to Rogue One? You’re saying “A ragtag bunch of scrappy rebels steal the plans to the Death Star,” but it wasn’t. The story was “Several dour people look for another dour person, and then steal the plans to the Death Star.” First Jyn looks for one father figure with whom her relationship has not been established. Everything blows up. Then she looks for another father figure with whom her relationship has not been established. Everything blows up. Then everyone gets a completely unearned hero moment. Darth Vader shows up to screw up the continuity. Everything blows up.
ACTING
I believe Felicity Jones suffers from facial paralysis. She has a default expression that reads as “Yes, I’m here but please don’t ask me anything complicated.” Her little rouse-the-troops speech reminded me of a little girl clip-copping around the kitchen in her mother’s shoes, and she couldn’t even squeeze out a tear during her father’s death scene. Plus–and this may have more to do with the editor than her–she often sounds as if she’s having a slightly different conversation than the people she’s talking to. She is–for the whole movie–flat, monotonous; her face is like crossed arms, and there’s no inner life to the character at all.
On the other hand, she has a lovely chin.
The rest of the cast acquitted themselves professionally, except Jimmy Smits. HOLY SHIT was Jimmy Smits bad. He was probably drunk. Jimmy Smits likes to party.
WHATNOT
After the prequels (which do not exist) came out, people were fond of saying “George Lucas raped my childhood.” I believe South Park did an episode about it. This is a crass overreaction, and simply isn’t true of Rogue One. I believe this movie raped me with my childhood.
“Hey, remember the guy with an ass for a face and his ugly friend?”
Sure, why?
SHA-SHPLOIK!
(That’s the sound it makes when you’re raped my your own childhood. Trust me.)
“Hey, remember blue milk?”
Please don’t–
SHA-SHPLOIK!
“Remember your droid friends?”
No! I don’t!
“I don’t believe you.”
SHA-SHPLOIK!
And so on.
The Force Awakens did far more of the cutesy-winky bullshit than Rogue One did, but that movie has to be seen as a meta-commentary on itself, as well as a soft remake. TFA was also more entertaining, so I’m prone to forgive its fan service and theft from the OT.
PLUS the structure didn’t match the genre. The structure was half Star Wars/half Jedi: first hour was Luke’s call to action and the gathering of allies; second hour was ships going PEW while people shoot at each other on the planet below. But that’s not a War Movie.
AND Digi-Tarkin and Cyber-Leia were still jarring and creepy. You didn’t need Tarkin at all, and you could have shown Princess Leia from the back. We would have recognized the buns. This wasn’t an uncanny valley you needed to ski down, Disney.
ALSO I promised not to nitpick, but Vader didn’t sound right.
That’s nitpicking.
Wow, I almost got through a post without talking to myself.
Don’t nitpick.
There is SO MUCH nitpickery to avail oneself of. There was a chomper door. Like in Galaxyquest.
You said you wouldn’t nitpick. Sum up and do something productive.
To sum up: if Rogue One had fun characters I enjoyed going on adventures with, then I could have lived with the disjointed story; if the story were more compelling, I could have overlooked the underwritten, unmotivated characters. Felicity Jones can’t act.
Feel free to disagree in the Comment Section.
Dear David Lemieuxseumofnaturalhistory,
Hi. How are you? I’m fine. How’s Canada? I see you will be legalizing marihuana soon. That’s lovely for you. We elected a urinal that likes to watch teevee. But I’m glad for you about the pot thing, honestly.
As always, David, I write as a fan and admirer. Your stewardship of the Dead’s catalogue has been consistently excellent, from your Picks (the latest of which, volume 22, was just announced and has already sold out) to box sets ranging from large to massive; you also oversaw the return of the fabled Betty Boards which will surely fill release slots for years. Like I said, I’m a fan and I’m on your side.
You need to be careful on Twitter.
You have recently signed up for the service–they make it very easy to get an account–and sent out some exploratory tweets. (I knew they were your tweets because I could hear the wind.) Many people rushed to follow you, and like and retweet you; that was fun, wasn’t it? Felt good, right? Hey, man: I know. I went viral once.
It was terrible and the site crashed and liberals yelled at you.
GET OUT OF THE OPEN LETTER. I don’t want David Lemieuxgoogaipan to think I’m weird.
He won’t notice.
Shh. Anyway, David, I just wanted to pass along some advice about Twitter now that you’ve joined, some things to keep in mind:
You’re gonna get 80’s Truthers Dude, it’s gonna happen. I can’t believe it hasn’t already, that some nut with a boner for 4/12/83 didn’t pigeonhole you second you signed in. You need to know that this will happen to you, David. It’s gonna be like the Dead.net forums times a billion.
When it does, there are three courses of action:
A) If the 80’s Truther is reasonable, you can explain the reason why the show he’s touting (which coincidentally happens to have been his first show) isn’t suitable for release.
B) You can block the person.
C) You can issue a SAVAGE BURN™. These are to Twitter what combos are to Street Fighter: if you hit the buttons in the right order, then you can rip your opponent’s spine out with your first move. If your SAVAGE BURN™is savage enough, it may make Buzzfeed and you will be hailed, along with Chrissy Teigen and whoever’s running the Wendy’s account, as the greatest bard of our time. Huzzah for you, David! (Seriously, don’t SAVAGE BURN™ people.)
Avoid tweetstorms if possible
The tweetstorm is the newest symptom of Global Warming. Twitter has a 140-character limit. It’s good for jokes and observations, and it’s an excellent platform to link to other sites from. However, Trump’s election has driven people so insane that they’re now using Twitter to post conspiracy theories the length of Infinite Jest (including the footnotes). What’s more, even if the tweetstorm has validity, the format makes it look like a conspiracy theory dreamt up in an opium den run by John Le Carre.
They all start the same way:
And then they get progressively pithier and abstract to the point where if you don’t read the whole thing it just looks like gibberish:
Sometimes they go off the rails for a few:
Just stay away. Looking at tweetstorms–or, God forbid, liking them–only encourages them.
Retweets totally equal endorsements People put this in their little bios, but it turns out not to be legally binding. Please do not be retweeting porn stars and Nazis.
The frog is not your friend If you see a cartoon frog, you are in danger. That frog is trying to trick you into saying something it can use against you. Do not trust cartoon frogs.
Do not anger Black Twitter They will drag you. Do not anger any part of Twitter, actually. Half of everyone on the service is just there to yell at people when they fuck up. But seriously never even mention Beyoncé. You do not want the Beyhive’s attention.
Memes are not magic I don’t know how down you are with the kids, David. They have these things. They’re called memes. They’re not for us. Do not meme. Maybe you’ll see a meme–say, Dat Boi–and think that it would be a good way to advertise the latest Dead release. It would not. Please do not meme.
Good luck on Twitter, David. May the retweets be ever in your favor. As always, my best to your wife, Regina, and your lovely children Gordie, Girl Gordie, Jean-Luc, Northstar, Fleece, and the twins, Micki and Bobbi.
Sincerely,
Thoughts on the Dead
Oh, Bobby, please tell me this isn’t–
“Tour family.”
–a tour family. Dammit. Why do you have a tour family?
“Remind me why I do it all. At the end of the day, it’s all for Baby Randa.”
Sweet. Different one each tour?
“Sure, yeah. Otherwise, they’re just your regular family.”
You dying your hair, buddy?
“It’s not a dye. It was sold to me as a tinted leave-in treatment.”
Ah.
At 0:04, we can see a hand that is later revealed to be Rey’s. But she’s making some sort of gesture with her hand. Is it a Jedi gesture? Is it part of her training? The screen then cuts to black. Is this symbolic of Rey’s death? How does Boba Fett fit into this?
At 0:10, we see a rock. Is it a space rock? Does it contain magic? Could it possibly be a Khyber crystal used in the construction of lightsabers? Or is it just a rock?
At 0:15 OMIGOD IT’S LUKE! LUUUUUUUUUUUUUKE!
Okay, that’s enough.
Everyone else on the innertubes got to do one.
All the more reason for you not to.
That’s not how you win the content game.
Let’s not play the content game. It’s a lovely poster.
What do you think the red symbolizes?
Stop that.
Okay. May I point out that Chewbacca wasn’t in the trailer?
Please.
They fucked Chewie again. He doesn’t get a medal in Star Wars, he doesn’t get a coat in Empire, he doesn’t get a hug from Leia in Force Awakens, and now he doesn’t get to be in the trailer. All the humans are in the trailer. Cute little droid is in the trailer. Racist bullshit.
Well said, I think.
I would also now like to issue a harangue to Star Wars.
Yeah, whatever.
Dear Star Wars,
Sincerely,
TotD
That was helpful.
Thank you. And now Thoughts on the Dead presents Ways Star Wars Is Going To Explain Carrie Fisher’s Death:
Stop this.
This is disrespectful.
No, I’m staying out here. More room.
Now I’m here, too. Whaddya got to say about that, tough guy?
Hello.
It is more spacious out here.
Yeah. You got anything else or you just petering out?
The second thing.
Sure, champ.
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