As classical composers go, all can be said to have put real emotions into their work, but I think, of most, whether Romantic, Baroque or any style or time you favor, Tchaikovsky was the one who put his terror, his bitterness and his shame to music better than anyone else. The one exception is arguably Barber, but only for Adagio for Strings, truly the most heart-rending nine minutes in classical music.
It was a failed marriage that caused him such grief. That, and the homosexuality that the marriage presumably hid. And he clearly suffered from clinical depression and unspecified other disorders. Nobody knows why he was terrified that his head would fall off while he was conducting or if that’s just something he wrote in correspondence. I read his biography 30 years ago and while I can’t remember much of it, I remember that his sexuality shamed him. That was something that even back in my younger years was the societal decree for all whose sexual behavior didn’t conform to what was “normal.” The decree: live in secret in shame and a hell on Earth.
And so his darkness–and his moments of joy–appear in his every composition.
It is from both light and dark that true artists create; there cannot be one without the other. How shall I judge him? As a sexual deviate whose music should have been burned long ago?
I don’t judge him. He’s gone; only the Lamb can judge him now. His music remains, though, and I have always loved it, always felt free to love Classical music and its composers without biased and hateful judgement.
Now, every year at this time, Tchaikovsky shows up in the Christmas classic “Nutcracker Suite,” or just simply “Nutcracker.” And we all know some of the tunes, don’t we?
Ah, beautiful music. The March. The Sugarplum Fairies.
But have you watched it? The ballet I mean.
Here’s the one I hope you’ll watch. Indulge me just this once.
I score the conductor a perfect 10. Likewise the orchestra.
Now the dancers, they’re something really special. I only caught a few flubs where timing was off, but the recovery was always flawless. I score them a perfect 10, and tell you that around the one hour mark, they nailed “the Dances;” you won’t see better.
For the lighting, a 9.5. uneven in two places, but not hard to forgive.
Costumes, a perfect 10.
Makeup: 9.5 but only for making a supporting ballerina stand out too much and breaking the balance of “The Battle” number.
If nothing else, at least play the music, especially with headphones, and lie back, eyes closed, and see how moved you are.
The miniseries you never knew was there. Based on memoirs.
Three men. One, a courageous man whose actions in battle still echo across time.
One, who never should have even wanted to go to a war, but did anyway, and almost paid for it with his soul.
And another, whose bravery should have become legend like the first man, who yet survived to return home. And then daring to become something far better than his dreams, the imaginings of a lonely man, covered in mud and filth, writing letters he never meant to send to a woman he barely knew. And was now a world away.
The characters are real: Robert Leckie, Eugene B. Sledge, John Basilone.
During the Second World War, the story of the United States Marines gets overlooked in these days of short attention spans and lack of meaningful education in these United States.
History teachers have to stick with increasingly bare outlines lacking much text within. To get anything more, one must rely on websites or, more preferably, books collecting dust at a local library.
The usual case with the United States is a shameful one. All veterans of war and veterans in general are looked at with uncaring eyes, treated with a heart-rending lack of respect or the slightest bit of gratitude. They are our heroes, the men and women who served us in war and in peace, earning little pay, getting little in return, sometimes not even V.A. benefits. It is very dishonorable, the treatment they get.
One might think it was not always like this. But whatever you read or hear about any war you randomly pick, yes, it was always like this.
An argument can be made that returning veterans of the Vietnam War got the treatment they deserved, but as bad as that was, thanks to politicians and the media, perhaps it’s not as isolated as the observer sees it. Truth is, the Vietnam vet was every bit as brave and as faithful as any other man or woman who served in war times. The 1960s weren’t kind to service veterans, and I’m truly ashamed of that. But it has happened to veterans after every war. It always will. World War Two was no different.
The Pacific, executive-produced by Hanks and Spielberg, who did Band of Brothers, is the first of two companion series for the landmark 2001 series. The next just aired on Apple TV and was centered on the war fought in the skies over Europe. Since I haven’t the means to access the series, I’ll skip it. Besides, the critics didn’t like as much, and that’s fine with me.
In the first episode, we see the men, two going off to war, one saying goodbye to his best friend but unable to go because of a heart murmur. In episode two, we see Pfc. Bob Leckie and Gny Sgt. John Basilone on Guadalcanal, in the fight for an airfield, taking on a ceaseless charge of Japanese infantry. Basilone mans a .30 Browning machine gun, the early model with a water-cooled barrel. The jackets on these outdated weapons became searingly hot, and in more than one case, the Japanese managed to hit these water chambers and cause the barrels to overheat. But even with the water jacket intact, the weapon was an amazing piece of equipment. It could be fired constantly, and a 3-man crew feeding the ammo contained on cloth belts and assisting in calling shots and clearing jams were highly effective.
Henderson Field was of strategic importance to both sides, and the Marines were not about to give it up. To get to the field, the Japanese infantry had to cross water, which caused them to slow down and bottleneck to just such a degree that these machine guns tore them apart: on the night of 21 August 1942, the First Marines held a position on the bank. One three-man crew consisted of assistant gunner Albert Schmid. At one point, the gunner was killed by the surging Japanese, and Schmid took his position. He fired continually even after the water jacket was hit, and his gun’s barrel glowed like steel under a cutting torch. Knowing that meant utilizing short instead of long bursts of fire, and despite being wounded by a grenade, and being blinded as well, Schmid stayed at the gun, reloading and firing it by himself at first, then with assistance. What he did that night was and is legendary, worthy of a Homerian epic. He made Herakles look like a boy.
When the attacks ceased, two hundred enemy lay dead in front of him. Only one survivor escaped without a wound; the rest of the survivors suffered various injuries. It’s on the record that the Japanese commander killed himself for his dishonor.
John Basilone, another member of First Marines, had to move his machine gun, and with the heat of the barrel, he received 3rd degree burns on his hands and arms, because he had to cradle the barrel. He was credited with 83 confirmed kills, but he didn’t stop there. He shot several enemies while running, an extraordinary feat. He also ran for ammo and even dodged hostile fire to pull down a pile of bodies consisting of enemy KIA. It was his time to be a hero, an inspiration to his comrades, a hero who would go down in history as a Medal of Honor recipient. Col. Chesty Puller awarded the medal, which comes from the Commander in Chief, the US President, not Congress. There is not, nor has there ever been, any such thing as “the congressional medal of honor”. It is the Medal of Honor, period.
In Episode three, we see the troops, weary and filthy, docking in Melbourne to a wharf lined with cheering people, streamers, and pomp. Leckie begins a romance only to be dumped because she gets attached and is sure she will be heartbroken when he never comes back. But Leckie, despite a drinking binge and being broken in rank, recovers and continues to write letters to Vera, the girl who lived across the street while they both grew up.
Eugene Sledge finally enters training after his father, a doctor, tells him that the murmur is gone. But his father treated returning WWI veterans, and he tells his son that it wasn’t the physical wounds he treated that haunts him to this day. It was that look in their eyes, he says with a soft southern drawl, “…what I saw was that their souls had been lost. I couldn’t bear to look at you and see no spark in your eyes. That would break my heart.”
Stop. Because I really have to say, I wish I’d had a father like him.
In the 5th episode, Eugene gets a typical rude reception by veterans when he joins them. One of them, known as Snafu, plays a prank, a fairly mean yet mild one, on the new arrivals, but in the next episode, he starts to coach the new guys, although harshly. Sledge sees him prying gold off the teeth of a dead Japanese soldier, casually explaining that gold is thirty dollars an ounce. Taken aback, Pfc Eugene Sledge says nothing. In the next episode, Leckie returns to action after a hospital stay for enuresis, or, a problem with urinary incontinence. He’s hit by shrapnel while assaulting an enemy airfield on Peleliu, another in the island hopping campaign that never made sense to me. Its point was to save casualties by skipping over islands that could be bypassed without giving up strategic targets that mattered more. In gaining air superiority, islands with airfields were necessary targets. We concentrated on those. Had anyone in high command known what Peleliu would coast, they would have skipped that hellish place, too. It was here that “Gunny,” a WWI veteran, who was part of the Old Guard and an inspiration to the men, finally broke. He later told Sledge, “Ain’t never seen nothing like that. That was horrible. I’m ready to hang it up after that.” This scene is from Eugene’s book, and it isn’t shown. But we do see the thousand-yard stare, the trembling, the loss of humanity he has suffered. And, as I’ve seen that look with my own eyes, I can tell that it’s both heartbreaking and terrifying to see.
While charging against withering fire across the airfield, Snafu falls, disoriented and unable to get up. Eugene grabs him, and they make it to cover. It’s the beginning of a bond that will be mutually beneficial. As the unfeeling Snafu is an inspiration to Eugene afterward to lose his own humanity, Snafu will eventually pull himself back to humanity by being around Sledge. While on a route march, Snafu asks Eugene if he’s got a smoke. He gets one and says, “Thanks, Sledgehammer.” His new nickname.
Episode 8 sees John Basilone return to duty. He’s tired of Jane Grey and room service. He gets permission to train recruits and, meanwhile, falls in love with and marries Lena. He ships out to lead his men on Iwo but is killed the first day.
Next is Okinawa. A taste of what an invasion of Japan would be like?
Not even close. But it is a terrible ordeal. I’m not going any further than to say that this episode (9) is where Eugene gives up his humanity and even attacks a Japanese POW. He’s threatened with court-martial but seethes. It is only at the end when he’s faced with a cruel choice that he manages to make a very moving decision and emerges reunited with his soul. Of course, Snafu has a part in it, seeing Sledgehammer becoming like himself and intervening.
I found episode 10 to be a very moving conclusion to the series. Unlike Band of Brothers, we get to see some good, some sad, and utterly heartbreaking outcomes as they all return home.
We don’t get to see Snafu being met at the train station; he vanishes into the crowd with his dufflebag. We see Lena Basilone visit John’s parents, giving his father John’s Medal of Honor. Then Bob Leckie, who seems to adjust quickly, asks Vera for a date. He tells her about the letters he wrote, but she tells him that she never got them. He tells her he didn’t mail them because he didn’t think he would make it. She asks if she can read them now, and he says they didn’t survive the weather, but she presses him. “What were they like?”
“Best stuff I ever wrote,” he says, and it’s magic. They’re falling in love.
Eugene does not fare as well. His father hears him mumbling his nightmares out loud at night, and in a very poignant scene, he takes a seat outside of the door. He silently weeps for his boy.
He tries to take Gene dove hunting, but Eugene just can’t even nanage carrying the rifle. A few paces behind his father, he breaks down, dropping the rifle and falling to his knees, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he says. His father bends and puts his arms around him and softly says, “You don’t have to apologize to me,”
Eugene can’t work. He’s hurt, and he knows it. He does try to apply for college. This is what happened:
Although it’s said that the series lost money, it has a cult status today thanks to reaction videos. It maintains its historic accuracy and is often much more moving than any other depiction of the war in other motion pictures I’ve seen. Currently still available on HBO/Max, this is something everyone should see.
Is it really on any par with Band of Brothers?
I leave the answer to you. But it’s worthy of a look. Whether you’re a first-time watcher or not doesn’t matter. Go ahead and watch it again.
As for myself? I love both of these series, but I have a bit of bias toward The Pacific. It’s darker than Band, with a grotesqueness that made me laugh, cry, and everything in between. The weapons, vehicles, uniforms, everything is here. I believe that there’s no need to compare Band with Pacific, but this series has the home front depicted, and to me, that’s a plus. You get where these guys are coming from.
An honorable mention goes out to William Sadler for his portrayal of Chesty Puller, a hero and still one of the most decorated Marines in history. The actors did an amazing job of convincing me that I was witnessing actual history.
Note: This is what I’ve been doing lately, watching TV and reading, just trying to keep my mind busy. I haven’t anything new to report about my health, so there’s no reason to bring it up except that whatever happens, it’s fine. I’ll be okay. As always, thanks for stopping in, and may God bless.
I’ve watched Band of Brothers and The Pacific, two miniseries I’ll be reviewing soon along with other content, and as a World War Two buff, I, of course, want to watch Masters of the Air. That’s especially true since I’ve studied the air war over Europe extensively. The Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress was the workhorse of the Army Air Force. It’s my favorite warplane, and it is still the stuff of legend. It could bring its crew back to base even with the rudder shot off.
The crew survived. It appears as though this Fort was hit by a burst of flack. Picture credit unknown.
The British had the mighty Lancaster, and we had another heavy bomber, the Consolidated B-24 Liberator. It carried more payload, but though some say it has always been underestimated, there was a critical difference between the Liberator and the Flying Fort: the Lib could take fewer bullets or flak hits, and down it went. I swear the wings broke off quicker than that sadistic kid in your class could pull the wings off a butterfly.
During the war against Nazi Germany, less than 50 percent of all US crews survived. This may be partly due to early models of both bombers having no machine guns facing directly forward. In the Flying Fortress, the navigator was seated at a table behind and to the left of the bombardier. The nose guns were really on the cheeks of the compartment and fired at angles. The Luftwaffe pilots in fighter planes caught on quickly and attacked from straight ahead. It was not until the “G” model came out that there was a remedy, which was a chin turret just below the bombardier, who controlled it. It housed twin .50 caliber Browning machine guns, which were monsters that are still in use.
If the miniseries is based on true stories, I want to see it. But of all the maddening choices, they put it on Apple TV, a streaming service I don’t have and can’t afford. I have enough subscriptions now, so that’s it.
When I was growing up, there were 3 channels we could watch. They were WJZ, an ABC affiliate, WBAL, an NBC affiliate, and WMAR, a CBS affiliate. That was it. After a time, we could tune in two UHF channels: WDCA, Channel 20 in Washington, and WBFF, Channel 45 in Baltimore. UHF stood for ultra high frequency, and those stations were independent. I loved them because they showed The Lil’ Rascals and Speed Racer and good kid’s shows in the afternoon, then loads of good movies starting at 19:00 (can you believe that I once thought The Beast of Hollow Mountain was a good movie?).
When cable became unavoidable, there was fair competition. But the smaller companies were swallowed quickly. Like a Russian nesting doll, bigger companies ate the smaller ones until all that remained were monopolies. And what we have now makes us nostalgic for monopolies.
Are you a Trekkie? That’s too bad. Paramount Plus has the shows but not the movies; they’re on Max. I used Max to watch Band of Brothers and The Pacific, but the newest miniseries is on Apple.
We “cut the cable,” so to speak. We all stream now, almost. But we’ve been had. Caught in another coyote trap because we couldn’t see the inevitable. “Don’t want to pay us for cable, eh, folks? Okay. But we’re gonna fuck you very hard on internet service. Don’t like it? Go back to the Stone Age then. See how you like that!”
They’ve got us. Want to watch sports? They’ll be glad to hook you up, but you ain’t gonna believe the price tag.
Disney Plus, without ads, will set you back $14.00 per month. And, all services are now, or soon will be adding commercial ads. Don’t want those? Pay extra. Depending on the content you want to see, you can still subscribe to several services and still come in way below what cable costs. Just remember, you should keep it minimal because those prices are not guaranteed. They’ll go up.
Some movies and even TV shows make the rounds. Like a big circle, a movie may be on Hulu now, but if you don’t have Hulu, be patient as it will come to Tubi, freevee, or Prime. Only some content stays put. You’ll find out. Until then, renting through YouTube or Prime is okay, I’ve done it and even bought a few titles. Better than subscribing just to watch one movie.
But I’m still fuming. Too many titles are exclusive, and the competition in the entertainment industry has never been this vicious, with customers getting the short end every day. We’re getting rammed, they don’t care, and it will get a lot worse very soon.
TELL ME WHEN IT’S OVER
How is Survivor still a thing?
CAVEAT EMPTOR
It is not a buyer’s market. The economy is improving, but with interest rates above 7%, nobody’s going house hunting very soon. Don’t blame President Biden: democrats usually have to pick up after republican presidents, and with Covid-19, this time, it’s been worse. Stream only what you can afford. You need to eat.
YOUTUBE AND PATREON
Maybe YouTube is free with ads, but what if you want to go premium? And what about Patreon? If you subscribe to a channel, are you really gonna pay even more to get a video a day early? And what about hucksters who keep doing this “For the complete video, check out my Patreon”?
Because I have a guilty pleasure. It’s no doubt that you all know about “reaction” or “first time watching” videos. If you’re not familiar, it’s watching someone else watch a movie, supposedly for the first time. Seems like they’re all Canadian, come to avoid an even higher cost of living, and a higher unemployment rate than we have.
I’ll get tired of it quickly. It seems really stupid when you think about it. But what really makes my blood boil is when they keep telling us to hit “like” and “subscribe” and hit Patreon to give them money. I don’t know about you, but paying extra bucks to see someone reacting to a movie is just too much for me. It’s fucking stupid and I’m not going to be falling for it. Besides, after my Discord-Patreon experience last year with Why Files, I wouldn’t go on those even for higher quality and more cerebral content combined. Neither one of which YouTube has. Of course, if you want, you can ride with some cameraman in the front carriage of the New York subway. You ain’t gonna see much, but it’s really a thing. Afterward, you’ll have the urge to shower. Go for it. Ya never know, y’dig? Better safe than sorry.
Sometimes, in this rotten world, we have a little bit of power. Not just the rich, or the famous, but all of us. If we just let ourselves be ourselves, that power can be used. We don’t know when it will happen. We usually won’t know when it’s happening. In the most unfair way, we won’t always even get to know what happened afterward. Have you ever, just in being yourself and treating another kindly or maybe just in being friendly in a casual way, stopped after the fact and wondered, Did I help that kid?
Usually, we don’t. We ask ourselves why we bothered in the first place or we just plain forget it. It’s nothing, right?
Well, here’s an example of someone who was conscious of what he was doing, his true person showing in full view, with no reservations, and made a difference. Watch:
Kane, a.k.a. “The Big Red Machine” was a wrestler in the WWE who wore a mask and flame-themed costume. A big man, he was sometimes billed as the most feared wrestler in the WWE, formerly the WWF. His back story involved him being burned, hence the mask and red costume. He was a heavyweight and a badass, but I knew that the actor inside was a good guy. A good man.
The next time you have a chance to show that good side of yourself to someone, and it may seem like a small thing, do it. No matter how small, do it anyway.
It is always worth it, I promise you. And if we are allowed to hear about it, you’ll honor and give hope to jaded men like me.
Yep. You read it right. After my post “But You Can Never Leave,” what I thought was a longtime close friend immediately broke contact. This person has a high level of respect for Taylor Swift, much more than for me.
My post earned me silence.
Celebrities are public figures just as politicians or “guest stars” on Cops. All fair game, each and every one of them. If I hate everything Trump does, and have watched as he proved himself to be a nutsack and a bag of extremely small dicks, it doesn’t mean that I hate him. Hate takes too much out of me, leaving whatever good there is left in my soul to the lord of the Abyss.
Lampooning, criticizing, or just plain calling out people’s bullshit is part of our freedom of speech. That, however, doesn’t include hate speech. I haven’t engaged in such when writing about Taylor Swift. Criticism? You bet. Lampooning? Hell yeah! As for her bullshit, I see through it more than ever.
Swift, according to rumor, donates to causes. I don’t know which. Even if I did, I couldn’t prove it. From her stunts in the past, I’d make the guess that it’s disingenuous; she needs to make people like her, to buy tickets, and garner as much attention from paparazzi as possible. She’s always in character, always very fashionable, rarely caught without makeup. She doesn’t hate paparazzi; she eats attention like candy.
I still don’t hate her. And if I did, I would be the only casualty. She wouldn’t care even if she knew who I was.
I lost readers with the Swift posts. I had to close comments because I finally caught on that I would draw fire sooner or later.
But losing friends? I didn’t see that coming.
Turning my back on people isn’t a rare thing. I’ve many times found it a preferable choice for protecting myself from more trauma, rejection, and pain. I don’t do much of that anymore; if I backed off, it was to protect people I loved from witnessing or involvement in my delicate condition, causing the unpredictable. I just didn’t want them hurt. I had caused enough pain. A decent man regrets causing pain; an honorable one fights within himself to stop causing it.
So if I hurt other people by lampooning Swift, understand that it’s not my goal. But excess is disgusting, disgraceful, and self-destructive, and Swift refuses to learn that lesson. It’s too late now; she’s lost. The golf cart shit was a clue. In the end, it’s always about her. She would settle for nothing less. And she will eat Kelce up and spit him out. She’s never truly happy unless she’s got an ex crying over her. She’s got issues. I feel sorry for her as well as those who get hurt by her. She was probably hurt by some guy she looked up to or trusted once. The cycle it caused is not unfamiliar to me. Not even a little bit. But that’s what makes this so hard for me to watch. I know what’s coming.
And don’t hate me too much, please. I’m even more critical of Katy Perry, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Hamas. Oh, Israel is doing some horrible things, too. In war, ain’t nobody clean. It’s genocide and murder and bestiality and torture. It’s disease, famine, and more death. And wars are humanity’s favorite things of all. More cherished than making money, making music, or making love. We’ve been making weapons since prehistory and from clubs to nuclear weapons, we ain’t never stopped. We can’t.
So, in all of this, I lost two good friends. Some readers.
But I tell you one thing: I ain’t lost a bit of sleep. In fact, I’m sleeping better.
If Billy Bob Thornton ever made a movie where he pulled off the impossible, it was 2003’s Bad Santa. He’s not my favorite actor, but as a department store Santa with a drinking problem, a foul mouth and a serial quickie artist, he found a niche. This was because he somehow found a way to combine a single character into more than just a filthy-mouthed thief and alcoholic into one whose heart could be soft, and a bit protective of a child who came to his defense.
Years later, when we felt confident that it was a once-in-a-lifetime film and that we were safe at last, they made a sequel.
It was expected that, like most sequels, it was going to be a real stinker.
John Ritter and Bernie Mac were long gone.The love interest in the first film for both lead characters were on to other things.
Willy is about to commit suicide by turning on the oven and stove top burners until he figures out that it’s an electric range. He tries to hang himself, but his old friend Thurman intervenes. He bears a message and lots of cash; Marcus is out of the joint after ten years and wants a meeting to tell Willie about a new mark: a charity guaranteed to gross two million dollars.
Thornton is at his most abominable, which of course is the way we like him best, and Tony Cox can still belt out more one-liners with one or more uses of the word “fuck,” and pull it off.
There’s only one little snag. Oh, and for Willie, it is a big problem: his long-lost mother (Kathy Bates) is involved, and Willie hates her. He even swings on her on sight.
As well as this film is executed, and as much as the trio of Bad Santa characters pulled off staying true to their characters, it is Kathy Bates who blatantly steals the show. Her filthy mind and raunchy language, her unrefined mannerisms, and overall hilarious creepiness are a scream.
Of course, it still has to follow the formula of the first movie, so you’ll see the end coming… sort of. But it’s still satisfying and a riot from beginning to the end.
August of this year marked the 50th anniversary of the release of the film Jesus Christ Superstar.
It is an historic event, celebrating a masterpiece of art and culture from a time so long ago that you may not have been born yet. That’s too bad, because this is a musical film every bit worth seeing, but also a snapshot of popular culture and music from a time when people felt lost and teens were searching for their identity amid very troubled times.
Shot on location in 1972, released in August of 1973, the first thing to know is, it stirred up a lot of controversy.
That is no understatement, either. Protests happened outside of cinemas, then the entire Christian community became divided. When given a screening of it by director Norman Jewison, Pope Paul VI praised it. He found it inspiring and said that it “would bring (a lot of) people to Christianity.”
The pope also felt stirred by Mary Magdalena’s song “I don’t know how to love him” and felt that it was inspired.
There was, however, the age-old controversy of the Romans versus the Jews as to “who killed Christ”, and some of course claimed that it had an antisemitic theme.
It did not, but you would first need to understand what was already happening at the time of Christ. The movie chronicles the final week of the life of Jesus, what we Christians call “the Passion Week” which begins on Palm Sunday.
Contrary to belief, the Romans never flogged a condemned prisoner before saddling him with a cross. Known as the “half-death”, Rome had a set of rules to be followed to the letter regarding flogging and execution. Pilate had no intention of giving the Jews what they wanted. He hated his post and dreamed of a promotion, but Tiberius was slowly going mad and threatened to punish the prefect if he stirred up the Jewish people again, which he had, heretofore, taken great joy in doing. Giving in to Caiaphas was inevitable. He had no love or sympathy for Jesus, but there is reason to believe that the auxiliary soldiers (barbarians) consisted of semitic men who hated the Jews and wielded the lash with nothing held back, causing Pilate to recoil on seeing Jesus afterward. No victim of such a beating was ever supposed to be crucified; they would not last long, they wouldn’t be able to carry their cross, and the purpose of public execution to deter crime was rendered useless.
Also, the “39 lashes” was a Jewish custom and carried out not with a flagellum but with rods. Then, the act of washing his hands while pronouncing the death sentence, that, too, was a Jewish custom. He was throwing it in their face in a spiteful act.
One can argue these and many other details ad nauseum, but the act of the Sacrifice is always there, no matter what. It was meant to happen and no one race or group was responsible.
There’s really nothing here to fight over. Except one glaring detail…
The movie begins very curiously. A camera in some ruins pans, then shows a red, blue and silver bus raising dust as it approaches. When it stops a bunch of hippie actors begin unloading props to put on a project, and we know it’s a movie. The cross lashed to the bus roof is not a surprise; we know what this movie will be. As the Overture plays, Ted Neely (Jesus), wearing hippie threads, walks past the now grounded cross and looks down at it, a detail I missed for 20 years. I did see the movie on the big screen, which is still the best way, but details escape me.
As everyone dons costumes and makeup, the music intensifies until we see Neely changed into his Jesus costume and Judas (the one and only Carl Anderson) walks away, symbolic of his isolation from the other Apostles.
Since Anderson played Judas and was black, another protest sprang up. But the production could never have been done without him. His voice, the notes he could hit, his expressions, all made him the best man for the job.
In the heat of the deserts of the Holy Land, the crew and actors required 5 quarts of water or more a day. Temperatures reached 120°F, causing heat exhaustion, dehydration and they were all overdressed. Metal helmets, bloused military boots, heavy robes, even tunics…this production was brutal.
But everyone stuck it out. Friends were made. Their was love, a joy among them. That’s pretty special. Ted Neely even met his future wife, Leeyan Granger, on set, and their first encounter is sweet and romantic. She literally took his breath away.
The cast became so close that during the shooting of the Crucifixion, the actors watching cried.
The magnum opus is “Gethsemane”, and Ted nailed it in a single take. In the song “Superstar” we see a renewed, resurrected Jesus is clothed in pure white, while Judas asks him “Did you mean to die like that, was that a mistake or did you know your messy death would be a record breaker?”
In the Bible, the priests of the temple were greatly disturbed by the buzz created by Jesus of Nazareth. Stories of miracles worried them enough, but his words to the crowds filtered back to Jerusalem and caused High Priest Caiaphas to picture a revolt by the people against temple authority. By Palm Sunday when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem, he was already a marked man. This is shown in the movie. And in the Trial Before Pilate, the Roman prefectus tries to help Jesus escape death, but Jesus does not defend himself. It turned into a chess match (in the Bible) between Pilate and Caiaphas, one in which Pilate made mistakes with every move, underestimating the high priest and his frenzied crowd.
Following the Crucifixion, the actors board the bus to leave. Some are happy, some somber, especially Mary (Yvonne Eliman). Carl Anderson is the last to board and we see what he keeps looking at: the cross, now alone and bare, the sun setting behind it. Ted Neely doesn’t get on the bus. Jewison didn’t believe in the resurrection and it hadn’t been in the original play anyway. But some say that, if you look closely, in the foreground of the cross, a shepherd with his sheep just happened to walk across the scene. They take it as symbolic of Christ leading his sheep (believers) even after his earthly life had ended.
After seeing the movie, I was forever a fan. The double vinyl LP soundtrack became my favorite record of all time. It always will be. I hope you give it a listen or watch the movie. A Universal Pictures release, it still bears a G rating. You can buy a digital copy on Amazon or find the DVD.
The Overture
“Superstar” from the soundtrack album
The very emotional final number, the instrumental “John 19:41” bookend to the Overture.
The masterpiece that could not have been made without every piece falling into place exactly as it did. Jesus Christ Superstar, from 1973.
First off, this very dark and graphic movie isn’t for everyone. Most critics hate it and won’t recommend it. And although it is a release of the Lockdown, not many got to see it then because of limited access. As subscription prices rise to rival the cost of cable, free streaming is a myth standing in front of the growing cost of internet service.
Assuming that you have internet access, then, I suppose you already subscribe to at least one streaming service. Through the magic of the web, once online you can see a load of free movies and TV shows with ads that aren’t unbearable in the commercial break length.
So what to watch, with horrible weather and too many reasons to just chill inside?
Take your pick. Search any film title and the results show where you can see it. Some are on specific subscription services like Disney Plus or Hulu. Not worth the cost, since you’re already paying for Wi-Fi.
I’ve been getting Fios emails warning me that my service will increase in cost in January. They ignore the fact that they’re not the only game in town and should stay competitive, but then again, when does a corporation ever care about its customers?
Tubi is my go-to app for free movies and TV, but I still love the Amazon Prime benefit of tons of movies for cheap, without censorship or ad breaks.
That being said, the heat of summer and the bouts of rain here keep me indoors a lot. Discovering Ghosts of War was one rare treasure that I found compelling and intense. On Tubi now, it’s worth seeing by anyone who likes science fiction, horror and war in one movie.
That’s not to say that it’s particularly frightening; my first viewing had me pausing to take considerable breaks for smokes. It’s ugly stuff, as any movie about war should be. I’m not pushing an anti-war conviction here; all wars have always been nothing but humanity at its very worst, full of carnage, disease, war crimes, and the always present deaths of civilians, crudely called “collateral damage”. I’m saying that in my view, war is terrifying, leaving damaged or dead people everywhere it goes, like a plague. It is stupid, but not merely so; it is the very height of the stupidity of the human race.
I have never been in a major theatre of combat, but I’ve had a brief taste and it can’t be described. The closest thing on screen was the Omaha Beach portion of Saving Private Ryan.
When grenades and mortar shells hit nearby, the loss of hearing except for ringing in the ears and general shock and disorientation Captain Miller experiences are real. You’re terrified by bullets zinging past you, but that state is, and must be, overcome by the adrenaline it produces. It is unforgettable. Years later, decades later, the haunting memory of it gets worse, not better.
Our movie begins in the French countryside in 1944. Five soldiers from the 82nd Airborne are camped at night. The squad leader awakes and sees someone in the trees lighting a cigarette and watching them. He clenches his eyes shut, as a child does when trying to banish something out of a nightmare. When he opens his eyes again, the mysterious man is gone.
The next morning, they continue toward their assigned destination, a chateau 30 miles away by foot. On hearing a German jeep coming, they mine the road and watch as the vehicle hits it. This is our real introduction to the squad: they shoot the survivors, all but one of which would die anyway. Butchie, the big guy, wants to fistfight a major who’s in remarkably good shape considering what just happened. It’s unlikely. Also, the jeep was completely blown apart, but is now lying upside down and basically in one piece. You think it’s a goof, a cheap plot device by the director.
But it’s not. This is how they’re experiencing it. Butchie starts out strong in the fistfight, but the Nazi major quickly begins to beat him. That’s until the squad leader shoots the major in the head with his pistol.
Here’s the cast of the squad:
Chris, the squad leader: Brenton Thwaits
Alan Richson as Butchie, the big, tough guy
Theo Rossi as Kirk
Skylar Astin as Eugene, the brains in the outfit
Kyle Gallner as Tappert, squad sniper, who chews up every scene he’s in. Without him, this movie wouldn’t be worth watching.
Not to be overlooked is the dynamic between the squad members. There’s mistrust, apprehension and a tension that is visible from the beginning, but which becomes palpable later.
On reaching the chateau to relieve the current squad on watch, they find that the relieved members are dodging questions, antsy and far too anxious to leave: our first clue that something isn’t right here.
Searching the house, they find clues of a disturbing nature, and experience doors slamming shut, noises from the fireplace that sound like voices and then Morse code, and a dead animal dropping from the chimney. Eventually, even the level-headed, dedicated Chris admits that the chateau is haunted. Butchie wants to leave, but Chris refuses, saying that abandoning their post is sure to end in their court-martial.
But things get worse. Eugene finds the journal of a Nazi soldier, which describes what the Germans did to the Helwig family, the owners before the Reich moved in and made the beautiful chateau a headquarters. It’s ugly, merciless stuff, enough to horrify anyone. Having discovered that the Helwigs had sheltered Jews, the family’s executions are appropriately gross and barbaric; Nazis executed almost everyone suspected of harboring Jews.
This theme could trigger Holocaust survivors or their descendants, or anyone with a soul. But that’s not the end.
Through the course of the movie, I spotted what I thought were major mistakes. One was the 90 degree angled flashlight. But I looked it up and found that different models were in fact issued, but not widely, to G.I.s in WW2. The earliest had black caps at either end, but later the entire thing was OD green. No problem there.
The use of Thompson machine guns by everyone but the sniper is as incorrect as you can get. Squad leaders (like Captain Miller in Saving Private Ryan) would bear a Tommy, while the others would have carried the M-1 Garand, a rifle so superior to everything the Axis had that General George Patton called it the best weapon of the war and credited it with the Allies’ victory. All of these men carry Tommies, and sidearm, a mistake.
But, I do not consider this or any other inconsistencies to be mistakes.
For one, the squad wears the patches of both airborne and infantry. This is accounted for in the end.
Tappert overhears the others talking about him and later tells Eugene the story behind the cat’s cradle. This makes him both sympathetic and the worst mental casualty of them all. His face is worn by extreme fatigue and yet he tells the story of how he didn’t sleep for 5 days after Strasbourg.
“What I did to those Hitler youth was a fucking nightmare,” he says, but describes the scene as seeing it as an out-of-body experience. “I wanted to kill the eggs before they hatched,” he says. He describes decapitation of one boy who then sits up and makes a cat’s cradle with string. Eugene had told the others, “it wasn’t the first move”, which is inexplicable. Tappert gives that wan smile, tears coming from his eyes, and says in a southern accent, “…and what am I gonna do? I mean, I just cut his head off, am I gonna be rude? So I played cat’s cradle with him and then he just layed back down. It was like a fever dream. I forgot that happened until you reminded me.”
He already told Eugene that his mother liked scary movies. He names two: Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy and I was a Teenage Werewolf, both of which were not released until a decade after the end of the war. Some are quick to jump on this, calling it a glaring mistake. I believe it’s not a mistake at all but is explained in the end.
The chateau ends up getting attacked by Nazis, but the squad fends them off, but Butchie jumps on a grenade and won’t live much longer.
He comes awake through the morphine shots and screams, “This isn’t real” several times, then saying, “it was us!”. Then he tells them to “Remember”, and dies.
I’ve checked everything I saw and questioned in the movie and came away with very little that couldn’t be explained by the end.
In closing, I’ve met many war veterans in my life. Almost to a man they displayed behavior that can only be explained by trauma and tremendous guilt. And which is worse? Or are they always together and come in a bundle like insurance? I’ve known men who bore guilt but never admitted it. I learned how to spot it and adjust my discussions accordingly. The more I learned about my own condition, the less I understood it. PTSD costs millions in lost time at work and accidents from dissociation. War and abuse have more power to wreck lives than modern medicine has to fix the damage.
Here, we see a shocking end that makes a wild payoff, but leaves questions. I found no evidence of the curse used, and the men could not have “all said it at one time or another,” as a doctor claims. Chris had a tube for ventilation or feeding, Tappert has no lower jaw, and Butchie died. The questions linger. But that’s effective, as are the jump scares, phantom images and floors creaking. Critics call this a movie full of clichés. I don’t. I recommend it and score it 9 out of ten.
An absolutely ridiculous, insane plot, great performances, hilarious, bittersweet
Spoilers Ahead
At a southern rest home, the narration begins. It’s Elvis Presley, who never died at Graceland. That was an Elvis impersonator; he volunteered to take the King’s place when Elvis was in a crisis and wanted to get away from the madness his life had become. He took the impersonator’s place and had a great time making his music at lounges.
Somewhere in Egypt, a mummy is unearthed. And of course, its tomb carries a curse. During a tour of the US, the mummy is hijacked and is never found.
Since Elvis has gone by the impersonator’s name for so long, nobody believes him as his health fails and he wants his identity back. The nurses think he’s senile.
Another resident (a wonderful performance by Davis) claims to be John F. Kennedy. Two problems: he’s black, and everyone knows that JFK is dead. As Jack, he claims one night to Elvis that after the “Assassination”, the CIA took part of his brain and replaced it with a bag of sand. Then they dyed him black: “Even my dick is black”. And here he sits in a rest home. At first even Elvis doesn’t believe him. Then, mysterious deaths begin to take place among the other seniors and Elvis sees the mummy walking the halls. As they make eye contact, he sees the mummy’s past and a bus crash from a nearby bridge. The bus was carrying the stolen mummy of Bubba Ho-Tep (so named because he wears a stetson hat and Dingo boots). He tells Jack, and admits he knows that Jack is President Kennedy, and the two team up to stop the mummy from sucking the souls out of the seniors at night.
They lure the mummy, now trapped in the water where the bus crashed, to them, planning to burn it. President Kennedy is killed but, mortally wounded, Elvis succeeds in torching the mummy and ending the curse.
As he dies near the riverside, his voice-over continues; he has two regrets: he wishes he could see his daughter and that he had treated Priscilla better, but for him, he’s saved lives and redeemed himself. As the camera looks down on his face, he utters a prayer: “Thank you. Thank you very much.” The credits roll.
While I was busy being psycho, I saw this on Tubi. It was scary in parts, but funny, and very sad at the end as two forgotten men of greatness join forces to save lives. Campbell more than captures an elderly Elvis, maintains a consistent, bleak set of mannerisms, and sells it.
Davis, as JFK, is astonishing. His story is preposterous, but he does it! They team up as forgotten heroes on what’s essentially a suicide mission. So despite the laughs, I choked up at the end.
I needed that. The laughs, the camp, the mild fright and the way the friends died together.
I found by chance that I’m easily moved to tears, and that many remain to be shed. But this movie was a surprise and a welcome distraction.
Put this, if you’ve never seen it, on your list of summer movies to watch when going outside is not in your best interest. You’ll like it.
Recently I recommended “Star Trek Continues”, a web series I had praised, to my brother.
It turns out, however, that as of December 2022, just months ago, a court upheld judgements against lead actor and series creator Vic Mignogna, requiring him to pay legal fees for the plaintiffs who had claimed he sexually assaulted or harassed them. It ended the (2019-2022) fight for the actor to defend against, and then counter sue for damages, charges of sexual assault and sexual harassment made against him by multiple fans and actors. I won’t detail much here. In my opinion, what a person does in privacy with any other consenting adult is nobody else’s business. Rumors and false accusations or revelations about said activities, even to the point of entering mass media, can cause serious damage to those involved. “Outing” someone is an act of terrorism. People have died because of claims, whether true or false. The roommate of a college student, who was engaged in a same-sex relationship, video recorded the couple and made it available. The victim jumped off the George Washington Bridge. Not many people jump from there and fail to die, and face it, bridge-or-building suicide attempts are acts of pure despair and desperation. It’s often done with no real planning; just the effort to get to the place and do it. It’s a hard way to go and you have to, in that moment, want it to the exclusion of all else. Given time, second thoughts can make a difference. Intervention can too, but police can sometimes cause a bad end even under the best of conditions.
That’s not the case here; Mignogna had multiple people saying the same things against him. Three appeals failed. He was not charged, I assume, with a crime. It was civil action. I’m cautious about these things; after the Amber Heard debacle, I came to believe Depp was candid, honest and courageous. I do not believe that he was without guilt in the horribly failed relationship, but it was clear, Heard was lying. Every bit of her testimony was said directly to the jury, and that’s extraordinary. Nobody does that without lying. At no time do the innocent behave so. Except, of course, for sociopaths. Her display actually made me quite physically sick. Usually I’d side with a victim. I’m not like alpha male dicks who call bullshit all over the press, social media and truck stop shithouses and call all female and child victims “whores” or “stick kids”.
Conservatives in media cause too much damage without facing any consequences. That’s despicable. Trauma piled on top of trauma, which defense attorneys have already compounded, is one of our biggest problems and leads many victims to let a criminal go; all estimates of incidence of rape and child abuse are invalid and the act of estimation itself is horrifying. And all victims know that their lives have been damaged, but never do they realize just how drastically they have been damaged. They hardly need to go to the police and be humiliated in court for that.
I’m glad that Mignogna was properly treated by Sony Entertainment as a predator; pleased that his victims were so courageous, but it has changed how I feel about what was an excellent fan-made series. It’s a shame that his victims include the cast, donors and fans of the show. If you’re going to tell me that one bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole barrel, I’m sorry, but at times, the adage is accurate. Mignogna made the series happen, and the whole time, he was literally shitting on it and everyone associated with it. And some of his victims weren’t even of legal age to proposition, much less kiss, fondle or more. If it could get any worse, it’s probably because his victims included fans.
Ironic that he played the role of James T. Kirk so well, when the man who made the role famous was so infamous among his own co-stars. One actress had heard about this. As a guest for one episode, each of which took about a week, she had just arrived and gone to her trailer when she found Shatner suddenly “on top of me”. But back then, it was treated differently. Bill Shatner would be called a stalker and a predator today; apparently he has changed his ways over the decades since the 1960s.
All things considered: I no longer consider myself a “Star Trek Continues” fan, and would like to see his work removed from YouTube. It won’t be.
If nothing else, America knows how to treat its victims.
Okay, television fans, riddle yourselves this: if The Brady Bunch is about a couple getting married….a couple who had 3 children each, all of the same ages, but with counterparts of the opposite sex, a sure recipe for trouble if ever there was one, how and why did they get together in the first place? How did they meet, where did they meet, and what kinds of things made them free to marry when their youngest children were, well, that young? The timing alone makes the union highly suspect.
Well, actually, the only suspect thing here is, uh, well. Three people. Mike Brady, Carol Martin, and Mike’s housekeeper Alice.
You see, they killed each other’s spouses.
And of course, Alice. She sure knew her way around a knife and an oven. Right?
And that would be it, and that’s already too much. But it gets worse. Alice already knew Sam The Butcher, even if they weren’t dating yet. Nobody seems to have much information on him, but the would-be Bradys, they needed two bodies disposed of. And who better to get rid of them than a butcher. Sam bled the corpses, chopped them into pot roasts, steaks, chops and hamburgers, and he sold them. Whatever neighborhood they lived in, a lot of people were turned into cannibals whether they knew, or liked it, or not.
Meanwhile, the couple got married, and put on a hell of a display as America’s finest suburban parents, all while letting their children explore their sexuality across the hallway or in the toiletless bathroom, which of course had lots of extra room.
You get it so far? Because from here out, it gets messy.
You remember how Sam The Butcher was the dude who cut Mike’s first wife and Carol’s first husband into prime cuts?
He’d already been doing that for years. Sam wasn’t his name. During the Vietnam War, he was known by Sergeant Charles Hacker, a very apropos surname indeed. His constant pranks targeting Sergeant Vince Carter and Carter’s slow-witted Private Gomer Pyle are legendary because they all blew up in his face. Being a freshly returned war veteran, he naturally harbored internal rage. He served dead marines in the chow hall at Camp Pendleton. He stalked and killed Vietnamese refugees and made Asian dishes with them.
His warped mind was always feverish with plots and scenarios, but after a Dishonorable Discharge, he changed his name, used the money from his victims and bought a butcher shop. He bowled in a league. He appeared to be the quintessential neighbor and business man. But he had no way of reigning in his appetite for homicide.
Sam Franklin, a.k.a. Sam The Butcher, terrorized most of California and parts of Nevada, Arizona and New Mexico until, in 1978, he was caught, brought to trial for three murders, though the police in Las Vegas knew he was a serial killer, then was extradited to California, where he was convicted of nine homicides and malicious dismemberment, and executed in the electric chair while Charles Manson lived on.
But the damage was already done. Because of so many people eating human beings including brains passed off in natural casings as chitterlings and sausage, a deadly disease called the Wildfire Virus arose. This author will state nothing further on this ridiculous story.
As the years passed in the Brady home, normal sexual development took place. Hormones flew across and down the hall until, disastrously, Greg and Marcia were both allowed to share the same bedroom in the attic.
A former boyfriend of Carol’s showed up, claiming to be her husband so he could steal a priceless horse figure which unfortunately turned out to be a forgery. He kidnapped her, took her to Hawaii, and met the buyer/collector who wanted the horse.
Even sadder still, the collector, Robin Masters, who went by the name “Higgins” to cover his tracks in the criminal underworld of Hawaii, had found out by his private detective friend, Thomas Magnum, that the man was not only not Carol’s husband, he was also a drug runner who had sabotaged the S.S. Minnow and caused the disappearance of the collector’s son, Gilligan.
The Bradys were never caught for the disappearances of their former spouses, but rumor had it that guilt forced Mike to eventually leave Carol. The family held several reunions after leaving home and marrying people they didn’t really love.
Greg and Peter, who really loved Marcia and Jan, respectively, both died in a drug deal gone wrong in a Watts brothel. The very unhappy Carol turned to suicide but botched it and became a life coach, bilking rich californians out of far more money than the horse would have been worth if it hadn’t been a forgery.
Alice retired and was never heard from again. Gomer Pyle went on to become a deputy in Texas to a sheriff who was under pressure to shut down a famous brothel, Bobby insisted people call him “Robert” and worked up the corporate ladder to become the CEO of IBM, played video games and became fast friends with Donald Trump but distanced himself because he too had been with Stormy Daniels and was jealous. He switched parties to Democrat and campaigned for Hillary Clinton and funded other candidates who opposed the MAGA party.
Which leaves one nagging, unanswered question: why did some blonde show up at the renewal of Mike and Carol’s vows after the Hawaii trip?
Well…I can’t believe these theories, but…
Rumors had it that the woman was really a genie who was obsessed with him and who whisked him away to another country. And if you know anything about genies, you know it couldn’t have ended well. He didn’t leave Carol. He was taken.
Anyone anywhere near my age has always wrestled with that nagging, but ever-important question: if Gilligan and the Skipper were really out for a three-hour tour, then why did the Howells pack a suitcase full of thousand-dollar bills, and what the hell was Ginger doing in an evening gown, what was Mary Ann doing there, and while we’re at it, why did the Professor have so many lab and hand tools with him, and why would he have so much skill with a radio? And another thing: why did Mary Ann, Ginger and especially the Howells have extra clothes? The cruise was supposed to last for three hours. Why, even at that length, didn’t anyone check for a marine weather warning? And if Howell was so rich that he could have his own luxury yacht with a professional captain and crew who made the S.S. Minnow, The Skipper and Gilligan look like the reef bait they were, why the S.S.Minnow? These burning questions have scorched the lines of the Bell phone system since the first episode premiered. After that, letters poured in to the studios, then, finally, came magazine articles, followed decades later by the internet, where new generations could see the message boards, then, in the end, blogs. It all ends in a whopper of a “conspiracy theory” the like of which makes the General Electric/JFK Assassination theory look like a booger.
It seems that Thurston Howell the Third was a high stakes drug kingpin, and his cash was packed to pay for the sale of high quality heroin and coke. All powder, all pure. The Professor was the quality control expert who would use his chemist equipment to test for purity. Howell packed extra wardrobe in case he was chased by the Coast Guard and had to put ashore and lay low for a while. The Professor also monitored the radio for Coast Guard activity. Ginger was addicted to both coke and H, one for showtime, one for after, and being successful, could trade sex for discounts on the good stuff straight from the Howells, both of whom she was intimate with. Lovee herself indulged in untrammeled sex orgies and coke, and she founded the original party male strippers. She was a secret honorary member of Skull and Bones, and hid the fact from her disapproving husband. The Skipper and Gilligan knew, of course, so they were under the gun because of Howell. Once stranded, Gilligan played the fool, confounding the Skipper and the Castaways because if they were caught he would have a doctor plead insanity. As to Mary Ann, just exactly who was she, and what was she doing there? Well, she was a federal undercover agent on the verge of catching the Howells in the act. It was Ginger who first caught the attention of the Feds, being so obvious about her ambitions in theater, and so loose about her drug habit. Instead of a male agent, who would definitely be noticed if he pried, it was given to Mary Ann to get inside of the Howell Connection. It almost worked. By the time they were rescued, the Feds no longer had a case against Howell, and his cash alone was worth three times its value as Silver notes. The gang got high, but made the mistake of not checking for purity, and tripped out with horrifying consequences. The poor addled Gilligan even met the Harlem Globetrotters in an endless trip.
Now. If you are puzzled, and have unanswered questions about anything, anything at all, I offer you this comforting tidbit: out there, somewhere, there’s someone who has your answers. Most of us jeer at them. We call them conspiracy theories, but consider this before you jump to conclusions: in a tiny New England town, didn’t Miss Jessica find an awful lot of bodies? That’s because she was a serial killer. Same thing goes for one Leroy Jethro Gibbs; too many dead sailors and Marines kept showing up in his area of operations. Females in his orbit died violently or just vanished. In the end, after failing to fake his own death, he fled to parts north and is still at large, leaving Abby to think that it maybe wasn’t a coincidence that two of his ex-wives and a daughter were shot.
It gets worse. Gilligan was a virgin and an InCel for years. Before the Minnow was lost, he was a serial killer and rapist. His father didn’t know this; if someone had told him, he would have choked to death on a macademia nut. Gilligan’s father was known to go by the aliases “Higgins” and “Robin Masters” and he helped Mike Brady rescue his wife Carol from her kidnapper, who was really in the Air Force but washed out as a pilot after a blonde woman in a pink costume folded her arms and blinked, cursing him. He complained to Major Tony Nelson, to no avail. Nelson was insistent that his wife was not some kind of genie. Doctor Bellows, the Air Force psychiatrist, held the kidnapper in isolation for 16 years, driving him to madness. He caught Sam the Butcher cutting up people for his steak sale and blackmailed him to give up the cash to get a car and kidnap Mrs. Brady.
An extraterrestrial from Mars, whom a reporter claimed was his Uncle Martin, wiggled his pointer finger at him once. He swore in court that the alien had antennae, but in the end, Judge Wapner sentenced him to life without parole.
Gilligan had vanished again. After the castaways were rescued, Vince McMahon helped him escape sex crimes against minors charges by having his personal yacht take the son of a bitch back to his island hideout. Later, he would seek the same refuge. But that’s another story.
“From the most innocent and mundane come the things we fear the most.”
–Michael Smith, blogger, 20 January, 2023.
I’ve often had feelings of unease and then a questioning of reality during and following innocent errands, trips to new places (most of which were hardly “new” but new to me, as in, places I’d never been before.
Most recently, and perhaps significantly as well, was a trip to an oddly generic office building in Ellicott City. I was to see an ophthalmology specialist, a plastic surgeon.
Driven there by my healthcare worker who accompanied me to the suite, I was struck immediately by the ordinary familiarity with it. I had been to the location before, I was certain of it. I knew the area well, as it contains a somewhat infamous and infuriating intersection, known for accidents, road rage and confusion among drivers because of limited vision ahead and the lack of automatic signal. There is one close by, but it only makes the problem of entering its intersection worse. You never forget such a place because traffic backs up ahead of the intersection itself by an obsolete merge area with little allowance for courtesy or patience. Yes. I’d been here before. It even has a place in my novel.
Upon entering the building, I was gripped by an uncanny feeling which had the promise of getting more serious.
Not Déjà Vu. I knew I’d been in the building so that particular sensation was not present. Of course, it had been sufficiently into the past that I could not recall which doctor or practice I had been there to see, and of course that causes people to be distracted on a somewhat semi conscious level. And this, I suppose, could contribute to what I experienced next.
My healthcare worker punched the elevator button for the second floor and the doors closed. Assuming that we were on the first floor, it took too long to reach the second floor. It was wrong, just as the tiny lobby had been wrong. I actually said to her that I didn’t like the whole building because it just felt “off”. She pretty much ignored this and that’s as it should be. But as we turned a corner to walk through one of two long hallways, it felt even more off, as if I had entered some sort of parallel universe, one I did not belong in. It felt like it wasn’t real, as if staying there would result in some nebulous but unfortunate outcome.
Once we reached the proper office suite, it should have cleared up. In different spaces, energy, temperature and pressure can have slight changes. These could explain why one suddenly forgets why they have gone to the kitchen, which happens to everyone. We stand, vacantly staring, until we either remember our reason for being there, or give up. It’s so common an experience that no one really feels fearful of it.
The reception area was generic, but small; so much so that an appropriately wallpapered support beam stood in the center of the room. This subconsciously forces one to picture the building at its barebone newest appearance before finishing carpentry crews moved in. It’s there, but you never really put much thought to it unless you’re an architect, who of course would know the entire building on sight and see its blueprint in his or her mind.
In practice, though, it adds a certain claustrophobic element, and various reactions from annoyance to terror are probably felt quite plainly by incoming clients. Around this county it is common structure. I’ve seen it before but there is always something that makes each suite different: these range from what type of practice or other business uses the space, but all have at least light touches which make them unique in some fashion. The counter at the reception window had at the right end a large silver-colored candle box, usually associated with Christmas decorations of an old-fashioned lantern vein. I’ve wanted one for years. Never seen one before except in advertising or as elements in holiday season wallpapers for computers and phones.
That’s what I think of as a grounding point. It is real.
Or is it? You’ll questioneverything before you leave here, old man.
There comes a moment when that voice speaks inside you, and at least a good number, no matter how much in the minority they are, believe once again that their perception proves that we are living in a simulation.
Personally, my take on “simulation reality” is that it would still prove the existence of God; a higher being, a creator, and that our souls are who and what we really are, and physical life in our sense is temporary, fleeting, but very real.
In other words, who built the machine? It’s a way for people to account for their anti-religious stances while paradoxically also proving that they can in fact believe in some higher being.
The doctor saw me, and in his examination room, a small picture hung. A depiction of a doctor and patient as if painted in Ancient Egypt. It was singularly remarkable, another grounding object.
But wait, did I really see it, or was it some trick because I’m about to replay “Assassin’s Creed Origins”, a game which takes place in Ancient Egypt?
Come on, now, this questioning of ordinary life is really getting out of hand.
That wasn’t the end of this weird excursion. Oh, no. It gets worse.
Having set the date for the optic surgery, having also been reassured that I did not have cancer, you’d think I’d feel all set. I should have; after covid-19’s initial outbreak and disruption of most healthcare concerns, I’m finally taking care of myself.
My healthcare worker had left after checking in. I had to go downstairs and call her. I left the office, and right outside of the door, there was this old man. Really old, and he was bent as he walked, concealing his face. Immediately he struck me as sinister, and after asking him which direction the elevator was in (a generic hallway, exit signs at both ends, and the lack of anything to regain one’s bearings especially if vision impaired is unsettling), I got the idea that I’d just asked the devil which way to go.
I followed him at a lagging pace. I had severe misgivings, however hilarious they seem now, about getting on an elevator with him and going the opposite direction of up.
I passed a door marked “women” and decided I’d use the men’s room. But I couldn’t find it. I really did need to go; I’d had a glass of water with my meds before leaving. I said to the old man, who was now insisting that I get on the elevator, where the Men’s room was. He pointed but paused, so I told him to go ahead. He did, but didn’t he seem disappointed?
Entering the latrine was completely disequilibrating: it, too, was all wrong. The urinal was too small in proportion to the room and in comparison to every other pisser I’d ever seen!
The same generic wallpaper was there, yellowish-beige, a very unsettling color if ever I saw one. The only way it could have been worse was if they were blood-red or all black.
I went to wash my hands and found the hottest water I had felt since slipping while making pasta and plunging my left hand into boiling water. Had the old man really been the devil, and was he now punishing me for not going down on the elevator with him?
Back at the elevator, I noticed a door to a suite adorned with enormous silver laurel leaves: who does that, I wondered. It is bizarre and out of place and gave me the flying shits. I had to get out of this unholy place!
Pushed the button for the first floor. Exited the elevator only to find myself looking through a huge window onto the parking lot below. I stepped back into the elevator and found a button marked “LL” — Lower Level. I hesitated. I knew it was the floor we had entered the building on, but why mark it such when it should be the first floor? I wondered if the old man would be waiting, if the elevator would take me below ground. Far below ground. All of this seems silly now, because at no time did I feel panic. It was all disorienting and creepy, but not frightening. Except for the old man, who in reality must have been acting out of kindness. Still, the whole setting contributed to my perception, and in future, more consideration must be given to ensure that the layout and aesthetics of buildings comfort rather than the opposite. Because once outside, I felt better, less oppressed in the rain and cold air.
LIMINAL
There’s creepy pasta all over the internet, so much that there’s always more to catch up on. One of them involves “liminal spaces”. The first story and accompanying photograph involved something called “noclipping” a sort of transport into another reality, almost always accidentally. One ends up in a liminal space, like an office floor with yellow walls and absolutely no people or even furnishings. There is nothing but miles of connecting offices and one can actually become trapped there. Coming from 4chan initially, this concept has of course migrated to reddit, where it has been added to. Now long hallways exist in which you can walk until you die and never find a way out. Noclipping is a new concept for me, (I’ve encountered it in video games) but I take it to mean an accident during normal travel which deposits one into an alternate, in-between reality.
I have encountered the feeling before. Once, a very long time ago, in the 1980s when mega-malls were the next great part of the American Dream, I had to deliver a carpet to a shop called T-shirts Plus in the White Marsh Mall. The mall was unfinished, and that’s not an experience I’ve ever wanted to repeat. I walked through the mall with a heavy roll of Burlington Industries carpet slung over my shoulder (I was so much younger then) and the only comfort was a few construction workers above me.
While it was fascinating to see the mall in incomplete condition, it was also unnerving and uncomfortable. With the failure of malls to survive Reaganomics, and finally strip malls and online shopping, urban exploration has become popular, as have the recorded proof, both visual and auditory, of such risky endeavors. Trespassing is one thing; risking one’s life and limb quite another.
Liminal spaces are a real fear, although unquantified and little known, that I believe has been with us for a very long time. Whether psychologists want to examine the phenomenon, I can’t say, but it certainly does seem to qualify for scrutiny. It appeals to a fear of being lost and never found, a fear of being watched or menaced by an unseen force or being, a fear of being trapped, closed-in, and even of open spaces.
And while I believe these fears to be ancient in origin, I believe it all comes from one fear more than any others: the loss of control over one’s own life.
Since I have never been in control and believe that the concept of it is delusion and unreal, I have nothing to fear.
But yesterday, I came very close.
The old man was no devil. But in heightened awareness, when one suffers from various maladies, the wrong surroundings can make one believe almost anything.
Perhaps no one can explain the phenomenon more concisely than the Why Files personalities A.J. and Hecklefish. Here is the episode that gives us the skinny on liminal spaces and how they have entered pop culture.
And if you should find yourself somewhere strange, a featureless, empty space which evokes a feeling of the uncanny, of being menaced, trapped or lost, don’t worry.
I believe that I have changed much this past year. Looking back on the “Level-Up” post in which I wrote negatively about my birthday, I can see it. Now, at level 62, you’d be forgiven to think another birthday would make me more cynical, more depressed, more likely to complain.
Lately, I have thought of lots of things, and my faith is stronger. This has benefits I’ve never felt before. I resist temptation more. I’m more likely to check my swearing. I’m kinder than I was. Less depressed. I took an insult so well recently that I no longer recall it, while usually insults ring in my ears for months, and some for decades.
The search for God has been difficult and I was a believer. You could never imagine what’s changed or how simply it happened.
The change is real, but not enough for me. I want to do better, and do something good with my new faith. If that’s meant to be, I will. I’ve lost my greatest fears and will meet the end of life without them.
But I have these scars and still-open wounds, inflicted when I had no control. These injuries I cannot ask God to heal instantly. Time, friends who were patient with me, therapy, medicine and a dogged refusal to surrender along with the tiny bit of faith I had has led me here. And sometimes miracles come from the smallest of faiths, and sometimes you can’t get what you want immediately.
It just doesn’t work out like that. Pain and suffering are universal; there is no way out of or around it. I find that many suffer more than I, and maybe I don’t know what to say to them, and it’s true that no matter what I’ve been through, I can never imagine what it’s like for another, whose experience with suffering and trauma must be absolutely terrible.
And sometimes words of reassurance and comfort only bring anger and bitterness to those who hurt. Words are usually ineffective. But being there for someone who weeps, even if they do so silently, internally, is far better than any words. Just wait until they’re really ready to talk, pray for them, and then listen. Justlisten. If they need your shoulder or a hug, they’ll let you know.
Sometimes saying nothing is the most powerful medicine we have to offer. If words are necessary, be careful with them and keep it simple. The stages of healing from trauma and loss are never to end, and patience with all the people you long to comfort does not remain strong. They may be especially needy or cry a lot. That gets to be burdensome.
I think that is our greatest weakness and it was always a problem for me, because I go through my own pain. I’ve learned that my pain is something others cannot comprehend, but also that when I help others, I heal a bit more.
The Boondock Saints
I watched “The Boondock Saints” years back, and it really makes me think. Seeing it again made me think about much more.
The film begins in a “Catholic” church (it’s not actually filmed in one because Duffy was denied permission). The priest begins to talk about an incident in which a girl was stabbed to death and nobody helped her or called the police. He says, “Now, we all must fear evil men. But there is an evil we must fear most and that is the indifference of good men.”
The McManus brothers, fraternal twins, have prayed at the statue of the Holy Mother, and are on their way out when they hear this.
Connor, played by Sean Patrick Flannery, bears a tattoo on his left hand, “Veritas,” Latin for truth. His brother Murphy, played by Norman Reedus, bears a similar tattoo, “Aguitas”, Latin for equality and justice. These actors fully committed to their parts for a film that is truly a masterpiece. However…
In the United States, only 5 theaters showed it, and those had limited runs of one week because it followed the Columbine massacre so closely in time; it was felt that such a violent film would cause controversy and that it would be in poor taste as well.
Columbine Massacre
On 20 April, 1999, 18-year-old Eric Harris and 17-year-old Dylan Klebold went to their school, Columbine High School. Just like any other day, but on this one, the two carried out a plan one year in the making. They very quickly, using semiautomatic rifles and pistols, racked up a victim count of 12 dead 21 injured. Two propane bombs in the cafeteria could have killed many more, but didn’t detonate. The boys left behind, after killing themselves, a shocked nation and families who can never be healed from such sudden, violence-caused deaths of their children. One teacher was among the dead.
The film was released in Denmark well before the horrifying event, but not until November in the United States, some 7 months following the massacre. Thus, the limited release and dreadful critical reception. There was so much fallout after Columbine that people wanted to end all violence on the big screen, television and video games. The boys had played the game “Doom” which is a first-person shooter, and then had improvised their own “game” in a school setting. Instead of monsters, the enemies were students. Harris was most responsible for the modifications.
Video Release
Only after video release did the praise for it become unavoidable; a sequel, years in the making, did much better but failed to reach its full potential.
The first movie shows how the brothers stick together and protect each other no matter what. On St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish twins, who have never met their father, are working in a meat packing plant. They’re told to train a new employee. Connor mentions a rule of thumb and she’s offended, saying that in the early 1900s, men were allowed to beat their wives so long as they used a stick no wider than their thumb. This rule never existed in any form except as a possible unit of measure in Medieval Europe. Connor holds up his hand, thumb extended, and says you can’t do much with a stick that thin and suggests, “Maybe it should have been a rule of wrist”, at which she goes off. Explaining that it’s just a joke, she gets more enraged and kicks Connor in the groin. When she turns to face Murphy, he delivers a powerful right to her face. When one is hurt, the other avenges the wrong. You do not want an Irishman getting that angry with you, and sometimes I think the Irish in me can evoke reactions I later regret. But it is also a part of me that strengthens my faith.
This is not to bash my heritage or to stereotype, but it remains a fact that, on coming to America, the Irish were enslaved, discriminated against and paid less for hard labor than others. They were shunned for no reason at all. When driven too far, they were well known as fierce drinkers and even more fierce fighters. Drunk on Saturday night, they attended Mass on Sunday no matter how hungover they were. In a fight, getting up after being knocked down was a bad idea. Perhaps the stereotypical Irish temper comes from that; but things improved after World War Two in which they proved their patriotism and courage.
Connor and Murphy are turned into heroes when, after a bar fight, Russian mobsters come calling. The Russians are killed by the brothers, afterward turning themselves in to police, where FBI Agent Smecker (Willem Dafoe) questions and releases them because it was self defense.
They wear Celtic crosses, are devoutly catholic, and they are not finished killing. They go to a hotel and kill 9 Russian mobsters including the boss. They place pennies or quarters on the dead men’s eyes, questionable for them except that Roman mythology held that this must be done for them to pay Charon, the underworld ferryman who conveyed them across the Styx to be judged. It is not a modern or a Christian tradition. They say a prayer over the boss’s body that ends with “in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit” spoken in Latin:
Enter: Rocco, an abused errand boy for the Yakavetta mob family in Boston. He is sent to kill the Russians with only a revolver. The boys, who are fast friends with Rocco, try to tell him that his boss set him up. He doesn’t believe them until he goes to the Lakeview Lunch cafe and questions two wiseguys who laugh at him. He shoots both, then the old bartender who knew about the trap.
After this, he joins the “Saints” as the press have dubbed the brothers and his first idea is to whack the underboss who obviously hated him and came up with the plan to kill him. Played with delicious, hateful and scummy malice by Ron Jeremy, the Saints kill him. The Boss believes Rocco is getting revenge and that he’s good at it. He asks the retired underboss to help him call in “the Duke”, a non-Italian killer once used by his father to kill wiseguys because they didn’t like to kill their own. The old man warns him that the Duke is a Monster and to be careful.
After another mob killing, the trio exits a house only to face the Duke, waiting for them with six guns strapped to his body. The gunfight is vicious, and all four shooters are wounded. Rocco loses a finger, and in the next scene Agent Smecker is out front of the house, surrounded by detectives who at first were resentful that the Feds had sent him. He thinks for a few minutes and his brilliant mind recounts what happened. He gets very agitated and growls, followed immediately by “There was a firefight!” as he raises his arms over his head just like he did in “Platoon”. Smecker then finds Rocco’s finger and now knows he’s with the Saints.
After the boys and Rocco cauterize their wounds with an iron, they go to morning Mass while Rocco waits outside. Rocco sees a hungover Smecker walk into the church and follows him. When Smecker goes to a confession booth, Rocco holds the priest at gunpoint and forces him to tell Smecker that he’s right to believe the Irish twins are doing something necessary. Then the boys call Smecker and tell him they’re going after Yakavetta at his house that night. But the boys are captured trying to get in through the basement, and tortured. Yakavetta kills Rocco, and the twins get free, overcome their captors and say their generations-old family prayer. The Duke, who knocked out Agent Smecker upstairs (Smecker, who is gay, dressed in drag to pose as entertainment hired for the men). Smecker shoots two wiseguys before being knocked out (the Duke never killed women or children).
He walks into the basement and is ready to kill the twins until he hears their prayer, at which he finishes it: he’s their father. For 25 years he was in prison after being set up. He’s never seen his sons but now, he puts a hand gently to their cheeks and the family is reconciled.
Then the Duke and the boys, father and sons, with aid by the detectives and Agent Smecker, bypass security at the courthouse where boss Yakavetta is on trial. They execute him and warn the gallery that if they cross the line, they will find the Saints right on their trail.
But sometimes the very negative, the depiction of evil done in God’s name, can have a profound effect for the greater good. For one, the boys actually believe that killing evil men is righteous and necessary. Everything in the gospels say otherwise, and expressly so. For another, they didn’t have to be Irish; this story could work with anyone, but their devout prayers and deep accents really made this movie a classic. I had multiple issues with it yet when forced to face my own feelings, found an awareness and sensitivity to what is evil and what is not. It was their crosses that inspired me to shop cross pendants on Amazon.
By sheer accident I found rosary beads and crucifixes. One drew my attention and held it. I didn’t know why but ordered it without hesitation. On researching it, I found that the Saint Benedict Rosary is strong protection against Satan. Benedict guards one from temptation, Satan, vices and bad health. He is also believed to be there upon one’s death to escort their soul to Heaven along with St. Michael the archangel, and one’s guardian angels. He is also the patron Saint of Europe. Wearing a bracelet or rosary with St. Benedict medals is therefore quite powerful in spiritual combat against Satan.
I also bought a celtic cross pendant. This cross is said to have been created by St. Patrick himself. He placed the cross over the disc that symbolized the sun god to prove that Jesus was more powerful. Often seen in cemeteries, it is still worn by Irish, the Welsh and Scots.
Ultimately it is faith, not an object, that frees us from the devil’s grip. Faith that we are loved and watched over by God can make a huge difference in anyone’s life.
The question now is, can my new faith hold fast? With the cross on my chest and the beads wrapped around my hand, I am far less likely to think and behave badly. That’s a great illustration of hypocrisy and I refuse. Temptation will always be real and pervasive to all humans. We don’t get special powers. We get faith in Abba, the Holy Father, our creator. Through faith, few things are impossible.
I need to make clear, though, that intervention for people in danger is Godly, noble, honorable. Self sacrifice is a mark of a good person. It can never exceed that, and vigilantism I cannot condone. And all killing in God’s name must stop. War and murder is hateful to the Lord.
Top: the Rosary of St. Benedict; at the bottom is the Celtic cross.
Note that the rosary has nothing else but medals of Benedict. As you pray the Benedictine Rosary, each medal is a place to stop and meditate on the Mysteries. Benedict stood for abstinence, prayer and hard work along with studies. He advocated the resistance to Satan who brings harm and disease, causes covetousness for possessions; in turn the Benedictine monks began taking a vow of poverty.
You don’t have to say the Rosary if you’re protestant. But just holding it, and prayer in silence, makes me stronger in faith. And to think I got this from a movie…
Until the next time I’m leaving you with the main title music from the first Saints movie. Beautiful Irish music you can’t get out of your head.
Okay, let’s have the bad news first. In California, the BA.5 subvariant of the Omicron variant of COVID-19 has a fearful trait. Once in the body it replicates faster and more efficiently than its predecessors. And it ain’t gonna go away, so wherever you are, prepare. Keep masking, distance yourself from others, and keep safe. Get updates on boosters whenever they’re available and you should be good to go.
According to NBC News, a New York Times poll shows that 75 percent of Republicans still support Donald Trump, still believe his lies and would vote for him again. Morons.
And just to show you how much the world regards women as cattle, let’s say hello to Vincent McMahon of WWE fame. The majority shareholder of the company has been outed for paying 12 million dollars in NDAs, or hush money, to women he sexually abused, including at least one woman in his employ as a wrestler. It’s so bad that, after forcing her to perform oral sex on him and she refused further contact of any sexual nature, he demoted her and then would not renew her contract. Imagine how humiliating that was, and how it still affects her. 3 million is nothing to what she goes through.
It is unknown how many more women he violated, but things like this usually bring a lot of past victims forward, and McMahon deserves everything he gets. Because I know there are more. I’ve heard stories about him for decades, all of them grotesque. Forcing wrestlers to take steroids, then denying it, destroying lives and refusing to ever say their names again, writing puerile scripts that got so weird that I eventually stopped watching.. Mark Henry once had “an affair” with a pretty old Mae Young who used to wrestle, supposedly impregnating her. Some time later she went into labor and birthed a hand.
Mae Young announced her pregnancy at none other than the Baltimore Arena on 27 January, 2000.
The hand was the “miscarriage” caused by Kurt Angle in the following clip:
Now that was funny. She wasn’t really hurt, but my sick sense of humor has its limits, and the hand was it.
I had ideas about McMahon before this, but 1999-2000 were my favorite two years for wrestling. WCW was always cool, and Goldberg, the nWo and even Tank Abbott were there. The wrestlers for both franchises were fun to watch, but as soon as WCW was bought by WWE, that did it. I stopped watching. Still don’t. Even the video games, with their pay-extra wrestlers, clunky controls and awful create mode, suck.
Long before 2000 and long after, McMahon was a ravenous wolf who preyed on those he considered beneath him. And he considers almost everyone beneath him, especially women.
I’d like to see the bastard prosecuted. He’s so defiant and smug that even after leaving his daughter in an acting CEO position, he’s appeared on two shows in the ring. What a snot.
President Biden has headed to Israel on a multi-stop Middle East visit. He’s got a tough job ahead, especially in Saudi Arabia where questions about a murdered Washington Post reporter are bound to come up. On the other hand he’s got to negotiate oil prices. Iran will be discussed on every leg of the trip because impossibly, that nation is hosting Russian fruit loop Vladimir Putin and he’s asking for help in his massacre of Ukrainian children. You can’t make this shit up.
Russia seems in control of the eastern front, but Ukraine remains strong and defiant. How much longer, I wonder, until this insane war spills beyond the current theater of war? I hold to my previous assessment: it will spread.
Wait. Before I leave you tonight, what about the good news I mentioned in the title of this post?
There is none. I couldn’t find any.
Until next time, be well, be careful, be safe, and may God bless.
Last month, I was under the impression that Chrono Cross was to be released on the Nintendo Switch. Nostalgic but bitter, I bought a PS1 and Chrono Cross and managed to play one full time, about 60 hours total, before the disc drive failed. No hope of getting a refund, I was understandably miffed. I’d looked forward to revisiting all my original Playstation classics along with a few I had never played but wanted to.
But by then, I had learned to my shock that the game was being released on PS4, PC, and Xbox One as well, and that it was not a mere port; it was remastered!
Nobody had seemed to know about it. As I searched, there were speculative articles: the soundtrack had been modified and distressed the gamers who had played the original, released 22 years ago this August, in the US.
Ah, the month of August, 2000. Living in Sparrows Point, confined to my bedroom which was the only room equipped with an air conditioning window unit: it was fine by me. The kitchen was 98 degrees. I’d cook crab cakes and sweat profusely, take the meal to my room, shut the door and get lost in the tale of two worlds. Parallel Earths, one dying, one salvageable. Which was the one our hero belonged in?
I ended up getting all 11 endings, the whole month and part of September in gaming ecstasy.
Now, having once again played through the original, I have the remastered PS4 version.
The soundtrack has been modified, but so far, it is not something anyone but a hardcore Chrono fan would notice, and then only if you played the original recently. Also, most PS4 users have headphones, which enhance the new dynamic track and those make small changes seem more noticeable. It’s no big deal, but beautiful beyond compare to the original and, I must add, that is some feat.
The visuals include crisp and amazing models of the characters, and that’s unexpected. I imagined sharper images, but nothing like I’ve seen. The one problem is the backgrounds. Some are awesome while some look as if they were painted by brush using oils and watercolors. This is a little thing that hasn’t detracted from an immersive masterpiece.
This, you must understand, was a labor of love. The original game no longer existed as a complete code. The development team had to play it to reconstruct it. I suspect that if any original music does exist, that’s where I’ll find it, but since it’s done by the same composer, he will have kept to the basic areal themes. After all, Chrono Cross has never been forgotten as one of the finest game soundtracks ever made.
Gameplay
The story begins with a scene where three people (Serge, Kid and a random character) are fighting through ruins to activate a central transportation platform. At high levels and HP, we know there’s a catch. All games begin as level one protagonists, right? So there’s something wrong here, but the music lends an urgency to get through the area. We also don’t know that Serge, a teen, has fallen in love with Kid, another teen who’s pretty, but tomboyish and battle-hardened. She’s tough. The transport leads to an airborne structure above the ruins, where Serge hesitates. He’s bothered by something, but Kid urges him on. This leads to a cut scene which is, to understate, disturbing.
Now we find out why the characters were so leveled up: it was a nightmare suffered by Serge, who wakes up in his bed, called to by his mother. He was supposed to meet Leena, his girlfriend to go get some kommodo dragon scales for her to make a necklace. It’s critical that the player wanders the entire village first, finding certain items that will help him get started. The last thing any player should do is have Serge go alone; one character is immediately available to recruit, and it’s a good one: Poshul, Leena’s talking dog. Find a heckran bone hidden in someone’s house, and give it to the dog. She immediately joins your party.
Your party may consist of any three members, and they will have different abilities and resistance to magic and physical attacks. These can be overwhelming once the action gets hairy, so rotating members in and out, developing them and equipping them is challenging. Also, each will have different types of weapons and base element colors. Everyone comes with an element grid and using them effectively depends on who you’re about to fight, although indoors it becomes impossible to switch them.
Serge’s innate color is white, so he’s weaker against black innate characters; Kid’s is red, so you won’t use her in a boss fight when that boss has blue innate color. Zoah is yellow, so against green heavyweights, pull him in favor or a character who’s innate color is green.
That said, enemies of whatever color usually aren’t a problem once you gain about 15 stars. Not the basic enemies anyway; by then you’ll have upgraded armor and weapons along with accessories that can improve accuracy or protect a character. Exploring every region in any territory and winning battles yield cool things like rare Revive elements, hidden technical attacks, even armor.
As you play on, you realize that because it’s a classic turn-based JRPG, it is not a sandbox and therefore there’s no grinding. After a certain point, fighting will cease to yield points or spoils. This version offers a setting to turn off such battles. The classic game did have too much repetition, and it did get tiresome. There’s even an option for computer-controlled battles, but I’m just not able to go that route. Strategy is a big part of this game, and it is in every part, down to what you will do at each turn. Do you have Zoah do a Toss and Spike or cure a weaker member so they don’t need to have a revive used on them before you’ve felled even one of up to four enemies? These decisions are what makes the game great.
The cut scenes were magnificent the first time around; it is no different here. In 2000, I knew about the new PS2, but I was in awe of this game’s graphics and speed. No sweat loading or saving, and it pushed the original Playstation to its very limits. Squaresoft knew its stuff.
Also, in 2000, I had never played an RPG. What sold me was a demo disc that used to come with every Playstation (not PSM) Magazine which, I believe, was a sister publication of EGM. It went defunct a few years later. It should still be around. This, from the demo, is the in-game beginning, and what made me buy it without hesitation.
That’s all it took. Most demos were playable. I didn’t care, I wanted this game. Here’s that same sequence remastered with a look at the incredible precision of the actual game character models!
The Radical Dreamers is a separate game, a playable graphic novel that came between Chrono Trigger and Chrono Cross. I’ll have to wait. Right now I’m living a dream come true, and it is a joy to see and play this unexpected masterpiece! I’m glad that a new generation gets to experience such an extraordinary game.
He was lead singer for Procol Harum, the group whose single “A Whiter Shade Of Pale has been honored in the singles category of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He died of cancer last month, aged 76. He would have turned 77 in May. There’s not much I can say about the man that hasn’t already been said. He was charitable and talented beyond belief. I hope he rests in the Lord’s arms for sharing his gifts to the world. His music and singing will live forever. The world seems a bit darker to me. The sky has one less star. Rest in peace, Gary.
This live performance of a lifetime was from Denmark in 2006. I still get goosebumps every time I play it.
I binged the entire season last night and this morning, 8 hours of pure fun and escape. No spoilers will be found here but I have to say, it’s awesome stuff. Some critics and commenters along the net have claimed the first episode is the best and the rest boring. Bull. It’s all there, everything a true Witcher fan could have wanted. There’s lots of action, but how one sees and takes it depends on how invested they are in the characters, both loved and hated. I couldn’t turn it off. Every time the words “Next Episode” came up, I couldn’t help myself. And I’ll do it again, both seasons. You always miss something in such an intricate story, and for the record, my favorite episode this season is the last one.
It’s available now on Netflix. Go. Watch. Why are you still here? Tune to Netflix. Now. You’ll thank me.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 