This one is an absurdly ramped-up version of the standard body-spray commercial in which a guy puts on Axe (or Tag, or whatever) in a public place, causing a bunch of hot women to go mad with lust and physically throw themselves at him.  The message is as clear as it is familiar:  our product will compel hot women to have vigorous monkey sex with you. It’s a little gross, but it’s nothing new.  I think they’ve found versions of this message in the ruins of Herculaneum.  Even so, there has always been something vaguely sinister about the body spray ads, what with their focus on physical violence and pharmaceutical mind-control.  And then the ads changed…

The basic formula is the same.  A dude wears Axe, so he gets an unrealistic level of attention from a hot woman.  But there’s a crucial difference:  the woman’s response isn’t really sexual anymore.  Instead, she just acts like an idiot and embarrasses herself.  The earlier ads always implied that the Axe-wearer and the girl(s) that tackled him would engage in some protracted boinking just as soon as the commercial ended.  The new ads do nothing of the kind.  It’s quite clear from the expression on the woman’s face that she is mortified, and wants nothing more to do with the guy she just fondled.  With these commercials, Axe has definitively stopped marketing to men who desire beautiful women and want to sleep with them, and started marketing to men who resent beautiful women and want to degrade them.

It’s something that I can only do after years of training, but it’s something you all need to be able to do. It’s your duty.

I don’t want to hear any of you thinking to yourselves, “Wait, is that the theme song to Family Ties? Wait, no, I think it’s Growing Pains. I’m certain. I think.” ever again.

FAMILY TIES

GROWING PAINS

Probably half your generation ask themselves that question at least once a year. Only you can help them.

Once you’re sure you’ve got it - and I mean really sure you’ve got it, be proud. You are now an overthinker. The best is ready to begin! Sha la la la!

Click through for your reward!

The sperm whale? Oh ha ha, real mature everybody.

What are we, like twelve? Honestly, this has got to stop.

And in case you thought that maybe “sperm,” in this case, had some sort of esoteric, alternate meaning, no, it doesn’t:

The whale was named after the milky-white waxy substance, spermaceti, found in its head and originally mistaken for sperm.

This is one of the largest, most majestic animals on the planet! It is an animal that people will pay serious money just to get a glimpse of. And it is named after sperm for no good reason.

Unacceptable.

I know that at this point, we’re kind of married to the name. But would people ever be able to accept a “vagina bear”? A “scrotum turtle”? I mean, there’s a monkey with a giant red ass, but do we call it the “ass monkey”?

No we don’t. Because we have a little thing called class.

We can do better, people. Physeter macrocephalus deserves a name that isn’t sperm-related.

Thank you.

Let me be clear: Obama and Palin, the human beings, are as complex and irreducible as any other human beings.  But Obama and Palin, the candidates, are wholly illusory creations shaped by their respective party machines and depictions in the media, and are only similar to the humans that share their names in so far as it is expedient.  In short, they are fictional, and as such, they are subject to literary criticism of the particularly snarky kind that flourishes in the blogosphere.

So I ran them through a  Mary Sue test (there are many of these, which you can find using google - I chose this one).  I’ll admit that I was a little generous in some of my criteria…  “Is he/she from a country or world different from the other characters in the story?” Alaska, check.  Hawaii check.  “Does she have special/magical powers that none of the other characters have?”  Can field dress a moose, check.  Anyway, here’s the feedback the test gave me for Obama.

“Barack Obama is suspiciously similar to you as you’d like to be. He may be popular, or he may not, but no matter what he’s impossible to ignore; he stands out… just the way you always wanted to. He may have sometimes thought that he was special, or destined for greater things… He’s come in for his share of hurt, but gotten off with minor damage. And you’ve been pretty kind to him, always ready to intercede on his behalf and give him a nice easy victory.

“You may have let yourself get a little too close to Barack Obama. Maybe he’s you as you wish you were, or maybe you’re just afraid no one will like him and are trying to give him a free ride. Have some confidence in your writing! Barack Obama is a good character. Give him room to be himself before you stifle him.”

(Palin’s feedback is essentially identical, assuming you fill it out while pretending to be the kind of voter she’s supposed to appeal to.)

The word “nonplussed” means “surprised”, “bewildered”, “at a loss.” It’s the opposite of “unmoved.”

Next Week: A very good post, but not the penultimate.

Motorcycle Guy runs through the comic world with 80s Girl, realizes she is unsafe there, and sends her back out to her world through a portal made of pencil so he can fight dirty with Evil Wrench Guy.  After his victory against Wrench Guy, Motorcycle Guy makes his way into The Real World to live happily ever after with 80s Girl.

We assume.  But what might actually await Motorcycle Guy on Earth?  What happens after the girl decides to take him on?

INTERIOR – GIRL’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

MOTORCYCLE GUY (MG) finds himself in a strange world.  In anguish, he beats himself against the wall of the apartment, not understanding this unfamiliar feeling called “depth.”  He falls to the floor in a heap of sobs.  EIGHTY’S GIRL (EG) comes over and puts her arms around him.

EG
It’s okay.  We’re safe now.  It’s okay.

He pushes her away, pained by her very touch.

EIGHTY’S GIRL is confused and upset by his reaction, but, looking upon his beautiful, tear-stained Patrick Swayzesque face, decides to crawl back towards him, slowly.

EG
You saved my life back there.

MG looks up at her, stares into her eyes momentarily.

EG
My name is Bunty.  What’s yours?

MG opens his mouth but doesn’t know how to speak.  He gestures for a pencil and paper.

BUNTY
I don’t…  Oh!  A pencil!  Just give me one second.

BUNTY runs across the room, rummages through a drawer, and brings him a sketchbook and a pencil.

BUNTY
Here you go.

MG flips through the sketchbook, which is filled with BUNTY’s comic book-style drawings.  He slows down to look at one of BUNTY’s self-portraits.  He points at her, questioning.

BUNTY
Yeah, it’s me.  I’m taking an art class on the weekends.  I know it’s not very useful, but I like it, you know?

MG flips to an empty page and writes on it.  At last he brings to the sketchbook up to near his face, revealing a large speech balloon with the words “It’s beautiful” written in it.  BUNTY blushes.

BUNTY
No, it’s silly.  I shouldn’t be wasting my time with it.  Only so many people can make a living off of art, and I doubt I’m one of them.  Oh, listen to me, blathering on about my life like this!  Here, come sit on the bed.  It’s more comfortable.

She offers him her hand.  Gingerly, he takes it.

BUNTY
Sorry my apartment’s not that big.  I’d get chairs but there’s no room.  Anyway I can’t really afford to buy any furniture right now…

They sit on the bed and look into each other’s eyes.

BUNTY
(getting up)
I’ll go make us some tea.  Or coffee?  I think I have some around here.

Then it dawns on her.

BUNTY
Oh my God!  I forgot to pay for my coffee at the diner!  I was reading the comic…  Well, your comic…  Anyway it completely slipped my mind!

A BANG on the door!  The waitress from the diner is outside!

DINER LADY
(O.S.)
Open up!  I know you’re in there!

BUNTY
Oh my God!  It’s the waitress from the diner!  What should I do?!

MG gets up and motions for her to stay in the kitchen area.  His eyes are steely as he opens the door.

DINER LADY
Who are you?  Oh, there she is, the little thief!  No one steals a cup of coffee and gets away with it!  Not in my diner!

MG blocks the doorway with his arm.

DINER LADY
You got a problem, buddy?

BUNTY runs up to him and gently pulls him away from the door.

BUNTY
It’s okay, honey.

She pulls out her wallet.

BUNTY
I’m so sorry about the coffee.  I don’t know where my head was.  It totally slipped my mind.  How much did I owe you?

DINER LADY
$1.75.  And don’t let the tip slip your mind, neither.

BUNTY
Oh dear.  I’m sorry; I only have a twenty.  Is that okay?

DINER LADY
What do I look like?  A change machine?  Just give me the twenty.

BUNTY
But it’s the only money I have!  I need it to pay for my bus pass to get to work tomorrow!

DINER LADY
That’s your own problem, lady.

MG gets back into the doorway.

DINER LADY
You starting something again, buddy?

BUNTY
No, honey.  I can handle this…

DINER LADY
Don’t you talk?  Why don’t you tell her to give me my money?  Go on.  Tell your whore girlfriend…

MG punches her in the face!!!

BUNTY
Honey, no!

DINER LADY
Oh, that’s it!  I’m callin’ the cops!  They’ll make you talk!

DINER LADY storms away.  MG looks at his hand and sinks to the floor.  His hand is red and bleeding.  He starts to scream.

MG
EEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

BUNTY
Oh my god, you’re hurt!   Hold on; I’ll get you some ice.  Don’t move.

She brings him some ice and paper towels.

BUNTY
Here, just apply pressure.  Like this.

She applies pressure.  He winces.

BUNTY
I guess you can talk.  I mean, a scream is talking, right?

MG doesn’t answer.

BUNTY
Can you move your fingers?

He does.

BUNTY
I don’t think your hand is broken.  That’s something.

Anyway, thanks for helping me with that woman.  I don’t know what I would have done without that twenty dollars.  I mean, I could go to the ATM, but it’s so far away, and…

He kisses her!  Sexily!

MG
My name… is Morten.

BUNTY
Morten…

Enter the DINER LADY with THE POLICE!

COP
Is this the guy, Ms. Furuholmen?

DINER LADY
That’s him!

COP
Sir, you’re under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent…

They cuff MORTEN.

BUNTY
No!  You’ve got it all wrong!

COP
Please, miss.  Step aside.

BUNTY
MORTEN!!

He looks at her one more time before they drag him away.

BUNTY
No…

INTERIOR – POLICE STATION INTERROGATION ROOM – NIGHT

COP
The report here says your name is Morten.

MORTEN shrugs.

COP
Well?  That it?  Morten what?

MORTEN says nothing.

COP
Silent type, eh?  Evidently not that silent.  The report here says neighbors in your girlfriend’s building heard a high-pitched scream just after the incident with Ms. Furuholmen.  Your scream.

MORTEN says nothing.

COP
You’re a man with no identity.  No wallet, no cards, no cash.  No name.  You’re nothing more than a ghost.  A two-dimensional sketch.  You’re nothing.

MORTEN looks somewhat upset.

COP
What?  That hit a nerve?  Little Morten have identity issues?  Well, you’ll have plenty of time to think about that.  You’re staying here for a long, long time.  We have plenty of time.  We’ll make you talk.  Hell, we’ll make you fucking sing.

INTERIOR – JAIL CELL – NIGHT

BUNTY rushes in while the other prisoners holler.

BUNTY
Morten, are you okay?

He looks up at her.

BUNTY
I’ll get you out of here.  Your bail isn’t that high.  I’ll get it together.  Somehow.

He shakes his head.

BUNTY
What do you mean, no?  You saved me from that crazy motorcycle guy with the wrench!  If it weren’t for you…  No.  I owe you.

MORTEN says something in a very soft voice.

BUNTY
What?

MORTEN
If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been in there in the first place.

BUNTY
What do you mean?

MORTEN
In my world.  My crazy dystopian motorcycling world.  And I loved it there.  I lived for the danger of it.  At first I raced to make a name for myself.  If you’re not born into the upper rungs of society, that’s it.  You’re nothing.  Unless you’re a racer.  Unless you win.

But soon it was for the thrill of it.  I was addicted, a monster.  Me and the pipe wrench guy… we weren’t really different at all.  Both… evil.

BUNTY
That’s not true!

MORTEN
No.  Not anymore.  Because last night, when I found that portal, that magic frame, I saw a beautiful woman.  Flesh and blood, in color, drinking coffee with a smile on her face.  I said to myself, you have been nothing all along, Morten.  Living life in the fast lane, racing towards your own destruction.  You never took the time to sit and enjoy life.  To drink a cup of coffee over a nice book.  To stop and admire the contours of a beautiful girl.  To write songs for her…

BUNTY
Oh, Morten…

MORTEN
It’s true.  Once I was silent, but now I must sing.  Life isn’t black and white.  It’s beautiful, wonderful color.  And I must sing it.  Sing for you.

That’s what I thought, anyway.  But what did I do?  The sight of you broke me out of the prison of my own life, and the first thing I did was trap you.  Bring you into my empty, ever-shifting world.

BUNTY
But I wanted to be there!  My world has color and sound and depth, but it was a prison to me!  That’s why I read those comic books.  To escape to a different world…  You helped me have an adventure.  Now I understand that there is more to life than work and bills and school.  I needed to experience that thrill.

MORTEN
It was too dangerous.  I should have known that.  But I couldn’t say no…

BUNTY
To who?

MORTEN
To my heart.

BUNTY is touched.  She reaches for his hand.  He doesn’t flinch this time.

BUNTY
Please don’t feel guilty, Morten.  Maybe bringing me into your world was a mistake, but you saved me.  You made that portal and freed me.  Like I said, I owe you.

MORTEN
No you don’t.  What did I just tell you?  You freed me.  You gave me my voice.

BUNTY
Wait, a portal!

She rummages through her bag and brings out her sketchpad and a pencil and starts drawing.  She shows him her picture.  It is of her apartment.

BUNTY
It’s my apartment.  Now I’ll put a portal here on this wall…

She draws a circle on the wall of her apartment.

BUNTY
Now all you have to do is make a portal in your cell.  Then I’ll bring the sketch back to my apartment, and all you have to do is make a portal out of the sketch!  You’ll be free!

MORTEN
No.

BUNTY
Why not?  It’ll work, won’t it?

MORTEN
That’s not the point.  You’ll be a criminal.

BUNTY
I’m already one.  The diner is pressing charges for the theft of the coffee.

MORTEN
It’s too dangerous.  We were lucky last time.  The portal closed before anything else could get out.  If we try it again…

BUNTY
But we have to!  Without a name and identity, the cops can keep you in here forever!  What’s the use of your freedom if you spend it in prison?

MORTEN
At least I’ll know now that you’re real and not just a dream.

BUNTY
No.  Come on.  We’re doing this.  Together.  I’m going back to my apartment with the sketch.  You meet me there.

She offers him the pencil.  He stares at it for a moment, then takes it.

BUNTY
See you in a jiff.

She leaves.  MORTEN looks at the pencil.

CUT TO: Later that night.

COP
Lights out, jackasses.

The lights go out.  MORTEN lies in bed.  His eyes snap open.  He takes out the pencil and in the cover of darkness draws a portal on the wall.  Then he steps through.

CUT TO: Sketchy apartment world.  MORTEN tries to speak, but it only comes out in a word balloon.  It says, “Bunty!  I’m here!”

But then who should appear but the pipe wrench guy from the music video!  He is wielding a pipe wrench!

PIPE WRENCH GUY
(in word balloon)
Back for more, you wanka?  I’ll break your giblets, I will!

MORTEN
(in word balloon)
Bunty!  Can you hear me?  Are you in your apartment?

CUT TO: Real world apartment.  BUNTY grabs a pencil and starts to write on the comic page, but the pencil breaks!  She rushes to find a new one.  Finally she does.  Now on the page, Morten is trapped in a corner near the portal.  Pipe Wrench Guy waves around his pipe wrench menacingly…

With her new pencil, BUNTY writes, “I’m here!”

MORTEN sees the writing on the wall and jumps through his end of the portal.

CUT TO: The real world apartment.

MORTEN
Erase the portal!

BUNTY does.  She crumples up the paper and throws it out the window.

BUNTY
We did it!

They hug.

CUT TO: The sketchy apartment world.  The dastardly PIPE WRENCH GUY finds a pencil in the sketchy apartment in the same drawer BUNTY originally found hers.  He draws a portal on the wall, considers it, and jumps through.

CUT TO: The street in Oslo where the drawing has fallen.  PIPE WRENCH GUY makes it through the page to the real world.

PIPE WRENCH GUY
(looking around)
What’s all this, then?  Bollocks.  Well, I’ll find you, Morten!  I’ll find you and destroy all you care for!

To be continued…  By you?

What would you write next?  Or would you do a sequel to Take On Me in a completely different way?

Never again will the real have the chance to produce itself — such is the vital function of the model in a system of death, or rather of anticipated resurrection, that no longer even gives the event of death a chance.

–Jean Baudrillard

Let’s play a game:  I’m going to say something ridiculous, just for the fun of it.  Okay, here goes.  “The Terminator franchise will come to an end with the upcoming Christian Bale movie, Terminator: Salvation.  It will be the very last Terminator story ever told in any medium; the franchise will die when the credits roll.”

So why is that so absurd?  Obviously a franchise is endlessly renewable as long as a corporate entity believes the property has value, and yet franchises do die.  There is nothing inherently ridiculous about the claim that there will not be another Ghostbusters movie.  The two that already exist present us with closed narrative forms, both individually and as a unit.  If another Ghostbusters movie were to be created, it would be a resurrection of a dead property.  The same is not true of the Terminator, which, as of the Sarah Connor Chronicles, exists outside of time.

The End of History
In the Terminator movies, the end of history was rather explicitly pegged to a robot uprising, scheduled to take place on August 29, 1997.  The world of the films is guided by a master narrative in which the plucky human resistance rises up and overthrows their robot overlords.  The robot side has its goals too:  to destroy John Connor and the resistance once and for all.  (Say what you will about the tenets of the T-1000, Donny, at least it’s an ethos.)  Now, the films may go back and forth on the issue of which narrative is likely to prevail.  At the end of T1, the apocalypse is still approaching on schedule, but humanity’s eventual salvation under the leadership of JC is assured.  At the end of T2, apocalypse has been averted, and humanity can proceed directly to a robot-free utopian existence.  T3 (rather uncanonical these days) allows the robots to win, nuking the crap out of most of humanity.  This is a downer, but the events still make some kind of teleological sense.  One could conceive of an infinite series of Terminator movies, each of which reverses the outcome of the final struggle, but the struggle in each case would still be final.   At the end of each movie, Judgement Day will have been prevented (or not).  John Connor will have survived to go on to lead the resistance to victory (or not).  The humans will win, or the robots will…

Or Not.

With the Sarah Connor Chronicles, the notion of a final victory for the humans or for Skynet, becomes untenable.  Some of this has to do with a change to the time-travel physics of the show.  In the movies, Skynet sends robots back in time to kill the Connors.  It does that in the TV show too, but this season it began to send robots back for the specific purpose of creating Skynet.  If this kind of bootstrapping is allowed, nothing that happens in the narrative can have any kind of permanent or objective truth.  The war against the robots is now both preemptive and permanent, not unlike Whack-a-Mole® or the War on Terror™.  The “end of history” presented in the movies is apocalyptic:  Judgement Day is a consumation devoutly to be wished, or at worst a catastrophe to be avoided.  The series presents us with a world in which history - the idea of history - has already ended.  Not with a bang, not with a whimper, not with anything.  It’s just not relevant any more.  And as we bid farewell to history, so too we bid farewell to narrative causality.  Now, this sounds like a serious diss on the show, but really it’s not.  Narrative causality can’t be sustained in a TV series anyway.  Yes I’m overstating my case for rhetorical effect.  Bear with me.

We expect certain things of narrative.  Well, we expect all kinds of things, but for my purposes today, we expect that:

1. With a few exceptions, all events in the story will contribute to the narrative.
2. The story will have a beginning, a middle, and (crucially) an end.
3. Causes early in the story will lead to effects late in the story. (Character development is a subset of this)
4. The characters will have goals which they will accomplish, or fail to accomplish, at the climax of the narrative.
5. The narrative will end shortly after the climax.

Are there narratives that violate these laws?  Of course.  But they aren’t normal.  Deviation from the model implies a conscious choice to buck the system, and instructs us to adjust our expectations accordingly.  Many movies have prominent events without narrative justification (badass flying kicks, awkward sex scenes, pie-in-the-face gags), but we explain these away by activating the generic expectations associated with kung-fu movies, Skinemax, and slapstick comedy.  Kafka’s The Castle has a beginning, middle, and no end:  we explain this away by activating the generic expectations associated with the fragmentary work (and thus investing it with all sorts of romantic associations).  If a movie has effectless causes and causeless effects, we see it as either artsy (c.f. No Country For Old Men) or incompetent (c.f. Black Dog).  But when these rules are broken in a long-running television serial, we don’t have to explain anything away, because the rules are different on the small screen.

1. Most events are motivated by the local plot of the episode; events are assumed to have no large-scale narrative significance unless we have reason to suspect otherwise.
2. The story has a beginning and a constantly expanding middle, but (ideally) no end.
3. Causes early in the story may or may not have any effect later in the story; at least some will be discarded.
4. The characters have goals which can never be accomplished OR definitively quashed.
5. The serial will end shortly after the public loses interest or (in rare cases) it becomes too expensive to produce.

Number five is the key point.  The end of a narrative is motivated by story-logic:  we assume that the writer (or director, or what have you) placed it where they did because it was artistically satisfying.  The end of a serial is motivated by finance-logic:  we assume that the network placed it where they did because the show was no longer making money.  Since serials are narratives of a kind, they can’t just up and end (well, they not usually), so a climax has to be inserted.

Come with them if you want to live.

The terminology here is a little confusing.  Often when we say climax, we mean the emotional climax, which is simply the most exciting point in the story for any given spectator.  I want to talk about the narrative climax, the moment in which the characters accomplish (or fail to accomplish) their goals, separating the rising and falling actions, and signaling the end of the narrative.  In most narratives, the emotional and narrative climaxes are synchronized.  But in a TV series, however well-made, the climax will not occur until the series has become unprofitable, which means that almost by definition the emotional climax will already have passed for most of the viewers.  Scrubs is a perfect example of this:  in 2006, the show was set to be cancelled.  I’m something of an anomaly in that I do still care about Scrubs (well, I did in 2006) so for me, the emotional and narrative climaxes were pretty well lined up.  JD was having a baby, Eliot was going to get married, Kelso was retiring… I was all set to be impressed by how well they had managed to tie everything up.  And then the show got picked up for another year.  And then another.  The result:  plotlines, stretched like the cables on a suspension bridge, snapped, backlashing wildly and tearing huge rents in the fabric of my ability to give a rat’s ass about Scrubs.

Obviously this is nothing new.  Soap operas have been playing this balancing act for decades, as have comic books.  But after a certain point, they don’t pretend to be subject to the laws of narrative.  This isn’t necessarily a criticism.  Rather than criticizing these shows for what they aren’t, we should enjoy them for what they are (as fans of soaps and comic books generally do).  The serial has major advantages over the well-made narrative in its ability to depict characters and richly textured worlds.  The characters can’t develop too much - the non-historical timeline of the serial prevents this - but entire episodes can be devoted to exploring a certain aspect of their personality or background.  The serial’s fictional world can’t really change much either, but it can be examined and explored in loving detail.  The Connor Chronicles has been making the most of these strengths.  The movie version of Sarah Connor, for all that she’s a badass, is pretty one-note:  in the first, she desperately wants not to get killed by Ahnold, in the second, she desperately wants to protect her son.  There’s a lot of the T2 Sarah Connor in the TV version, but her character is FAR more nuanced.  For the first time, you get the sense that she regrets the normal life she has had to give up.  Her relationship to John is also much more complicated:  she’s got the whole avenging-maternal-angel thing going on, sure, but there’s also a little percolating resentment going on, and even a whiff of Oedipal conflict.  (There’s no erotic tension between them as such, thank god, but she clearly dislikes any girl that her son takes a romantic interest in, and only partially because outside relationships put John’s survival at risk.) This is also the first Terminator I’ve seen in which John Connor wasn’t a total cypher.  And we’re getting all kinds of interesting exposition of the apocalyptic future that the Connors are working so hard to prevent.

In an earlier Terminator-themed podcast, I referred to the show as skillfully executed fanfic.  I realize now that this wasn’t quite fair.  The show is created by a team of professionals who take pride in their roles as custodians of the Terminator canon (as proven by our Bear McCreary podcast, here).  Nevertheless, there are similarities.  Fanfic, like the Connor Chronicles, dispenses with the notion of narrative causality.  (For every ‘fic that fills in a scene that did occur “off camera” in the original narrative, there’s a dozen in which, well, you know, Harry Potter impregnates Draco Malfoy.)  Fanfic, like any serial, is more about character and setting than it is about plot.  (Oh, plot may well be the thing that separates the good fanfic from the bad, but people don’t read fanfic unless they are fans of the source text, and while the plot of the source is discarded, its setting and/or characters are maintained.)

But there’s a major difference between fan fiction and the Connor Chronicles, and I don’t mean the lack of hot hot Schwarzenegger-on-Biehn action.  Fanfic is an imitation - or in some cases a perversion - of the “real” text, and always distinct from it.  The Connor Chronicles, on the other hand, is an imitation of the real text which is itself the real text.  If I was looking to name-drop Baudrillard again - and heck, why wouldn’t I? - I’d call it a simulacrum.

A “simulacrum” is basically a false thing that gives every outward appearance of being a true thing, which makes it a good term for canonical works that share the characteristics of fanfic. In recent years, we’ve had “Robert Ludlum’s The Bourne Sanction, a new Jason Bourne Novel by Eric Van Lustbader,” Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and Star Wars Episode I. The first one basically hangs a lampshade on it, but the second two are less obvious.  What stops them from just being sequels?  Well, Lucas jumped through hoops to insert R2D2 and C3PO into Episode I, just for the sake of giving some beloved characters another lap around the track, and that sounds like fanfic to me.  As for the Crystal Skull, Mutt Williams is a pretty ridiculous Mary Sue.  Actually, one could argue that ALL the Indiana Jones movies are simulacra, since Spielberg intended them to be an homage to the beloved adventure movies of his youth, and they became the beloved adventure movies of everyone else’s youth.

But please keep in mind that I’m not making any categorical judgements about the quality of the latter-day Bourne book (which I haven’t read), or the Indiana Jones sequel (which I generally liked) or the Star Wars prequel (which I hated).  I’m just trying to point out a new trend in the American entertainment industry.  Anyway, that’s my take on what is going on.  Now let’s talk about why.

It’s the Economy, Stupid

Part of the Problem

Profit motivates basically everything, especially when you’re talking about something as fundamentally expensive as a movie or a TV show.   Well-made narratives like the original Indiana Jones were made in the first place because people like them and are willing to pay for them.   But although the taste for narrative causality used to be universal and absolute, it has been fading in recent years.  I mean, apparently, right? Why might this be?  Here we can only speculate.  Some would claim that it has something to do with our increasing reliance on the internet, the least narrative medium of all. To Baudrillard, it would probably have to do with society’s increasing distrust of the grand social narratives that sustained us through the Cold War.  We no longer live in expectation of some future bliss:  we live both in and for the ever-intensified present.  I have a different theory.

Because our taste for narrative definitely isn’t gone yet.  I don’t even think it’s fading:  I think we’re addicted to it, and like any addict, we don’t know how much of it we can handle.  Modern America demands a story arc both neverending and well-made, allowing for infinite exploration of world and character (and preventing separation fan-xiety), but also allowing for change, real stakes, points of crisis, rising and falling action, closure, and so on.  Of course this is impossible. But our paradoxical desire explains shows like Lost, which desperately wants to have a narrative arc, but ends up in an ever-spiraling narrative orbit. (Click the pic for a readable chart.)

One last point. You’ll notice that the beginning of the Lost chart looks pretty much the same as the beginning of the T2 graph.  This means that the time to start watching the Connor Chronicles is NOW.  It’s still on the narrow part of the spiral.  It will probably spin out of control: most of these shows do.  But right now it’s good, and getting better.

Google - it’s time to lose the “beta” tag.

(Yeah, I bet all you guys forgot that was still up there.)

According to Wikipedia:

Betaware is a nickname for software which has passed the alpha testing stage of development and has been released to a limited amount of users for software testing before its official release.

Insisting that a wildly successful full-featured website is still in beta is like saying, “Oh, this old site? It’s okay, I guess. One day it’ll be good enough so that we can stop being ashamed of it.” It’s the web design equivalent of showboating.

Let me ask you guys, is it possible that nobody over there is aware they still have the word “beta” up there? Maybe if it was pointed out to them, they’d be like, “Whoa, didn’t Roberts take that down last year?” “Me?! I thought you took it down!” “Well, let me just open up Photoshop here… okay problem solved. Thanks!”

UPDATE: This post originally said that gmail had existed for longer than “the entirety of World War II.” This is not in fact the case. The error has been corrected, and its author forced to watched all of that Ken Burns documentary.

Oh, the Ramones, those sages of rock.  No subject is too lofty nor banal for their insightful commentary, be it existential angst (”Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue”) or preemptive warfare (”Blitzkrieg Bop”).  The Ramones’ catalog alone occupies multiple volumes of the Musical Talmud, but I’m going to choose one exceptional example for discussion here on this blog: “The KKK Took My Baby Away.”

Many speculate that this song was written by lead singer Joey Ramone after guitarist Johnny Ramone started dating Joey’s ex-girlfriend.  Johnny is referred to in the song as the KKK due to his conservative political views. Others, however, claim that the song was written before the founding of the band (thank you, Wikipedia).  All we know for certain is that Joey Ramone has the sole songwriting credit. Given the uncertain nature of its meaning, I think it’s time to set the record straight here in the Musical Talmud.

The first verse gives the back story on the narrator’s love interest:

She went away for the holidays
Said she’s going to LA
But she never got there
She never got there
She never got there, they say

Which “holidays” did she go to LA for?  Typically, “the holidays” refers to Christmas and New Years, but can also mean Thanksgiving (example: the 1995 movie “Home For The Holidays“). However, “the holidays” is also used as the politically correct way to refer to Christmas and Hannukah, and it so happens that Joey Ramone was the only Jewish Ramone. Therefore, there is a reasonable chance that the narrator’ love interest in this song is also Jewish. The significance of this is made clear in the chorus:

The KKK took my baby away
They took her away, away from me
The KKK took my baby away
They took her away away from me

Many forget the KKK’s antipathy against pretty much everyone not white and not Protestant. In the 1960’s, as the Ku Klux Klan faced prosecution and condemnation for its violence against blacks, they began to shift their focus to Jews in the South.  This is well documented in the book Terror in the Night: The Klan’s Campaign Against the Jews.

But what about geography? Where was this Jewish female coming from when she was apprehended by the KKK on her way to LA? Most likely, New York City. The Ramones were based there, and it’s also home to the largest Jewish population in the U.S.  Did she pass through Klan country along the way? Inevitably.  Although the Klan was most prevalent in the South, it still claims membership throughout the United States, coast to coast. See below for a map showing girl’s likely route from NYC to LA and estimated KKK presence in US, circa 1968.

Now I don’t know where my baby can be
They took her from me, they took her from me
I don’t know where my baby can be
They took her from me, they took her from me

The narrator has no leads on her whereabouts, so he goes to the national authorities:

Ring me, ring me, ring me up the President
And find out where my baby went
Ring me, ring me, ring me up the FBI
And find out if baby’s alive, yeah, yeah, yeah

Which President does the narrator call?  If this song takes place during the Klan’s campaign against Jews in the mid-late 1960’s, then the narrator would most likely be pleading for help from Lyndon Johnson, which would have been a good choice.  In 1938, then-Congressman Johnson helped create a sanctuary for Jews escaping the Holocaust in Texas.  Later, as President, he proved to be a true friend of Israel.  Recently uncovered audio recordings revealed that LBJ even had a “personal and emotional” connection to the Jewish state.

As for the FBI?  According to the aforementioned Terror in the Night, local law enforcement agencies’ memberships were infiltrated by the Klan and could not be trusted.  The FBI stepped into this vacuum and aggressively prosecuted the Klan in the absence of trusted local law enforcement. Again, the narrator has made a good choice in his appeal for help.

Unfortunately, the song ends with a reprise of the chorus: “The KKK Took My Baby Away.”  By the end of the song, not even President Johnson, friend of the Jews, nor the FBI, ceaseless prosecutor of the Ku Klux Klan, could rescue the narrator’s Jewish girlfriend after she was apprehended by the Klan on her way to Los Angeles from New York for Hannukah.

Okay, so did “Joan Crawford Axe Murderer” catch your attention?  It sure did mine.  With that kind of a hook, you’ve got to be wondering what kind of crazysauce movie Strait-Jacket is.  Answer:  it is THIS kind of crazysauce movie.

William Castle was sort of the poor man’s Roger Corman, which means a pretty freaking poor man, you follow me?  Not so much a B-movie director as a sideshow huckster, Castle seemed to have had some kind of grudge against narrative convention.  He wasn’t content to make cheesy movies:  they had to be aggressively weird.  His movies usually have ridiculous gimmicks, not M. Night Shyamalan twist endings, but gimmicks.  His most famous/notorious is The Tingler, which required theater owners to strap little vibrating boxes onto the bottom of their seats so that the projectionist could zap the audience mid-film.  I am not making this up.  (Film Forum, in New York City, has these boxes permanently installed in one of their theaters.)  When making a film about an axe murderer, William Castle is the kind of guy who finds it funny to do THIS to his own corporate logo.

I guess traditionally at this point in a review I would offer some kind of plot summary.  Plot is clearly the least of Castle’s concerns, but anyway here goes:  20 years ago, Joan Crawford walked in on her husband with another woman, and killed them both in a fit of jealous rage.  With an axe.  She was ruled legally insane and sent to an asylum.

NO... MORE... WIRE... FENCES!!!

Eventually, her doctors decide that she’s had enough, and let her out.  But is she cured?  Can she regain the trust of her daughter, who witnessed the murders on that fateful day?  And what’s up with the suspiciously Crawford-shaped silhouette that’s been committing a string of axe-themed murders ever since her release?

Oh, by the way, the murders in this film?  RIDICULOUS.  Let me show you how they pan out.

"I think I'll explore this deserted old barn," says Pipe Guy. Yeah, THIS is going to end well.

"Now let me just empty out my pipe on this here blood-stained chopping block doohickey..."

"Hey, who turned out the lights?"

Now that on its own isn’t so absurd.  The hilarious part is that EVERY TIME someone snuffs it, Castle invents an excuse for them to bend over and present their neck.  “Hmm, what’s in this trunk?” “Whoops, my shoelace is untied!” HACK! CHOP! BIFF! Method Man would not approve.

Now, horror movies are always have a subtext.  When you’re watching one, it’s always a good idea to ask, “What am I really supposed to be scared of?”  It’s NOT the severed heads.  I mean, when they look like this, it’s really not.

So what is it?  Strait-Jacket gives us a lot to choose from. Is it a perennial theme, like “the revenge of nature?”

or “hillbilly horror?”

or “female sexuality,” like so many horror movies where a woman is the villain one of the characters?

or “the ravages of age?”

or some queasy combination of the last two?

No.  No, you know what? Fuck that. I’ll tell you what I’m scared of.  Joan Crawford is what I’m scared of.

In a class that I took on horror, Strait-Jacket came up briefly.  “All William Castle films have a gimmick,” said the professor.  “In Strait-Jacket, Joan Crawford is the gimmick.”  And none of the still images I’ve provided can really do her justice.  The creepy intensity she brings to this performance is all about motion:  the grimace, the eye-roll, the oddly brittle change in posture, the momentary tremble of the clutching hand, the sashay in her 60-year old hip.  And of course, the swinging of the axe. Oh the swinging swinging of the axe.