Currently Sounds of Silence By Simon & Garfunkel And in the naked light I saw/10,000 people maybe more see related

Why You're An Ass For Not Liking Watchmen

Here's the thing: if you don't care about comics, this is not directed at you. If you're not a cinephile, this is not directed at you. If you really just couldn't care less, this isn't about you. However, for the many out there who consider themselves fans, nuts, freaks, geeks, nerds, afficionados, then yes, you are an ass for not liking Watchmen. Now don't get me wrong, I have no animosity towards people who don't share my taste, opinions, etc. I'm not so broken as to believe that an attack on something I appreciate is an attack on me (I ain't Rorschach). I just say, with all due respect, that you're an ass without an appropriate  appreciation for what film can be.

I don't think Zach Snyder is the Fellini of popular culture. I think he's a competent director with a nice level of passion for what he chooses to work on. All of his films thus far have been that: adequate, entertaining interpretations of other people's material. Which is, I believe, a director's strongest quality. Well, one of them. Dawn of the Dead was a joyous romp through zombie poppy fields, 300 was a testosterone soaked, violent masturbation (praise), and Watchmen was said to be unfilmable.

One complaint I've heard is that they changed the ending. This is laughable to me. The message at the end is perfectly reasonable, at least to me, and was a nice touch. But a giant squid? Alien attackers? That’s ridiculous, and it would have looked even more ridiculous on film. To savage the world in order to save it, to kill millions “(T)o save billions.” The greatest act of terrorism ever, designed to bring the world together. I personally think Ozymandias was destroyed by what he did. As Nite Owl and Silk Spectre (Laurie) are leaving, he cannot look at them. He will not fight against Nite Ow;’s onslaught, undoubtedly believing no amount of physical punishment could atone for what he has done. He sold his soul to save the world, will be tormented in this life and in the hereafter, for eternity. He martyred himself. He’s Jesus with a metaphysical arsenal.

Dr. Manhattan understands. Its telegraphed in his interview when he says there’s no difference between a living person and a dead one, that the atomic makeup is still the same. This is how he sees the world. He can summon just enough residual humanity to know that he, too, must sacrifice his existence on earth in order to save it. And in truth he’s fine with that. The Martian world holds far more interest to him anyway. Life is an annoyance, an irritant that can only be soothed by removal.

But lets talk about Dr. Manhattan (Jon) further. I believe Jon is tortured, haunted by the soul he’s close to losing. Its not that he really cares about losing it, but its continued presence is a nuisance. The accusation his mere presence is killing those he used to love tugs at his fake blue heart. His sudden belief that Laurie is a miracle seems tacked on, unbelievable, but it serves to give him his last moments of being a human before exile. His lust is gone, he tries to keep Laurie happy sexually but has little interest, doesn’t “know what stimulates” her anymore. His efforts to help those he used to care about is halfhearted, an attempt to keep the peace so he can go about his business. That and his origin kicks ass. How cool was it to see a glowing blue circulatory system walking around as he tries to reconfigure his human body. The mere existence of arms, legs, head, torso (and swaying blue cock) is probably just for appearances as well.

I’ve heard separate complaints about the Comedian’s apparent reversal. “He wouldn’t give a shit about Ozy’s plan,” someone said to me. Well, clearly he does. His confrontation with the retired villain Moloch proves it. He’s tortured about his own existence. Growing old has shown him that his life was one of terror, violence, misogyny, war. Aging makes us look back at ourselves, and we regret passed actions. He knew his death was coming, and he faced it like he always did, as a fighter. By the way, his confrontation with Jon, after shooting a Vietnamese woman carrying his baby, is hilarious. It takes a lot of balls to kill a pregnant woman, and then look at someone else and say, “You’ve lost your humanity.”

Nite Owl (Dan). Is there a more pathetic superhero in existence? He’s a terrified man, borderline impotent and a sap. He is Laurie’s fallback, a washed up crime fighter who really wasn’t that good to begin with. He’s (supposed to have) gone soft, lost his muscle and replaced it with a flabby exterior that masks his desire for helping the world. He has no superpowers, is a competent but weak fighter, and pales in the face of his adversaries (Jon, Ozy, the world). He is the underdog, doomed to fail yet persistent. He is a target at once for both contempt and admiration.

And Rorschach. Oh me, oh my, what can be said about Rorschach? To me he embodies all the archetypes on display. If you want to talk about torment (Jon, Ozy), a human suddenly fighting in a superhuman world (Dan, Laurie), paranoia and fear (Comedian), determination (all), he takes it. He is a simple man in a mask, devoted entirely to his work. And he’s badass. Plain and simple. The moment he becomes a three dimensional character for me is when he’s set up. The cops are outside, he’s trapped, and he freaks out. “No! No! No! No! No!” He’s terrified, and the hardboiled exterior gives way to the bullied, troubled kid he always was. And what does he do? Comes out swinging. He’s the noir detective, contemptuous of the world he is determined to save. Part of him wants the world to burn, so he can piss on the flames, but he still suits up every day to try and fix it in the only way he knows how. And the line, “I’m not locked in here with you. You’re locked in here with me!” That sums him up. The world can kick him as much as it likes. He’ll still bite a piece of its cheek off.

The music as well works nicely. Music is my strongest passion, and there is nothing more powerful in film. The opening montage of a brief history of masked justice set to Dylan drew me in perfectly. The choice in music says things that can’t be shown, subtext with a melody. The times are a’changin’; its like a sledgehammer that you don’t notice. My only problem was “Halleluiah,” which is a wonderful song, but ironically I don’t like the version by the guy who wrote it. Leonard Cohen was a good writer, but his execution tends to leave something to be desired. I suppose the Buckley version is overused and expected, but its so much better I wouldn’t have minded. Also, I can’t help but be ecstatic to hear “The Sounds of Silence” coming out of giant surround sound speakers. The only way to listen to it in my opinion.

Now is the time for a confession, however. Its been a long time since I read the book, and I actually never read all of it. My problem with Alan Moore is that his books aren’t really that good. The ideas are there and range from decent to remarkable. But, like Cohen, his execution is too indulgent, or spare, or longwinded. I find it fascinating that he consistently breaks ties to adaptations of his work, yet two of the three movies based on his novels (V for Vendetta and this) have been far superior to the source material. I can’t cite his reasons offhand, probably something to do with artistic integrity, buggering his vision, or some other pretentious humbug that, most likely, boils down to him wanting to seem superior to others. But, that is just speculation, and I cannot say for certain. I do, however, wonder if he receives any money, or if his integrity is strong enough that he will forego restitution.

The last complaint I can think of is the overuse of violence in the movie. It was surprising to see mobsters entrails and skeletal remains hanging from the bloody ceiling (a scene, I believe, is a direct steal and homage to Akira), but so what? Snyder enjoys ultraviolence. I do too. I think violence is a perfectly reasonable artistic expression, utilized quite gracefully in this flick. Sure, humans are violent by nature, and this sort of thing is mildly exploitative, and it just gets worse, and blah blah blah. But let’s face it, one of film’s strengths is its ability to visualize action in real time. I’ve heard people bitch about the Watchmen-fu, and how Nite Owl wasn’t that good a fighter, and that he and Laurie weren’t so violent in the book.

But who gives a shit? I think it made a valid point. These people were crime fighters, they had to have some skills to not only protect themselves, but to end conflicts as fast as possible. That and who doesn’t love a good fight scene? I know some people are turned off by overt violence, and that’s fine, I respect that position. But I believe the fight scenes were pretty sparse and spaced out enough not to exceed what was necessary. Just enough to excite the audience at critical moments. 

And back to the ending. I personally think they whole “explain-my-plan-while-I-fight-these-guys-who-are-much-weaker-then-I” scene was kinda ridiculous. It was rote, and felt unnecessary. I also think it muddled the point about Ozymandias. He’s kicking his former friend’s asses so he can tell them they can’t stop him, its too late. I think a cursory brawl would have been more effective. And he goes from that to taking Dan’s wrath. Of course, even as distraught as he was, why would Dan keep fighting a guy who could rip his throat out before Dan could blink? Ah well, nothing’s perfect. Which is in fact my main point.

Perfection is a goal to strive for, not something to attain. How boring perfection is? What’s the point? Failure is always more intriguing, and it in fact heightens what was good to begin with. Besides, if the movie was perfect, what would us nerds talk about after the film? How long could our discussions possibly be? “Wasn’t it great? Just awesome!”

“I agree, not a flaw in sight. Let’s get some pie.”

Ultimately, I do not care what others think of Watchmen. I don’t begrudge them their opinion, beyond saying this: geek elitism is no less bothersome then any other form. To complain that “not all of the book was in the movie” is a ludicrous position, and should from henceforth be banned from critical discussions of film adaptations. To be upset that a favorite moment from the source material is a valid complaint, but to be pissed that every single moment is not incorporated into a film is to vastly misunderstand different mediums. Changing things falls close under the same umbrella. In this case I think it worked fine; if I had seen a giant squid teleported into Manhattan, I probably would have laughed my ass off, regardless of the body count. The change was not only practical, it was an improvement on the source. Scientifically created gods, fine. A giant squid attack bringing the world together? Bullshit. 

Currently A People's History of the United States: Highlights from the Twentieth Century By Howard Zinn see related

Ad Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc

The snow falls delicately enough that I can imagine its going upward instead of crashing down. I can pretend a lot of things when I wish to avoid what's right in front of me. It was once considered pretending when the windows would break, or when the tree in the front yard went upside down. No one could explain how the principal's car was disassembled in broad daylight without a single witness. It never occurred to me that all these chaps weren't playing along. I pissed a lot of people off. I had fun doing it.

What's before me now is remarkably easy to ignore; the barrel of a Smith & Wesson 19-5, an uncommon issue amongst my enemies. The end is approximately seventeen inches away from my head, about sixteen and some change from my frontal lobe. Even as fast as I am, I doubt I could deflect it, or dodge it, or do anything other then laugh as it came screaming into me, ending the torment of my existence. But that would suck. So alls I can do is reason with the motherfucker. Stall him.

"Look, you got the wrong guy," I say, knowing that one always works. A human is prone to inquiry. Knowledge drives us harder then any other urge, and confusion is like an aphrodisiac. This guy wants to fuck my soul before releasing it, I can tell without a probe. Though he says nothing at first, my continued existence proves I have him. "Pal, if I could do shit with my mind, why would I be sitting here allowing you to poke that thing in my face?" He strafes a little bit, going back and forth in front of me. He knows this is all bullshit, but this one's different from the others. They were Dirty Harries with itchy trigger fingers and no control. I smelled them coming from eons away, I sat and waited for them.

This one is... unconcerned however. His mind is like a white noise machine, and even now all I got to go on is the little smile he retains. Perhaps they're sending assassins that had lobotomies, perhaps they were told, 'No, Jim, don't worry, we'll get that hunk o'brain back in there real quick, just go kill that bastard first.' The thought makes me laugh, a quick nervous ejaculation that brings about a chain of events that, well... blow. The chuckle breaks through in a spurt, my tabula rasa assassin gives me a first sign of humanity through sudden reaction, pulling the trigger after a slight delay. The quick flash lets down his guard, and I sense it coming, but, fuck, who's quicker then a bullet? I lurch left, sending out a wave of force right, but it's only enough to alter a fated trajectory. The rather hefty bullet curves and flies through my cheekbone, through my jaw, and out the back of my skull, just above the neck. Not pleasant.

In the interim I manage to persuade two large crates behind the guy to lift and crash down on his head a split second behind one another. What comes forth form the boxes are small and wrapped in bubble wrap and styrofoam, so I consider my hunter still very much alive, if somewhat befuddled. However, I'm in no shape to continue the retaliation. I jet, burning a considerable amount of fuel to clear a path through boarded up windows and piles of crap. My mind is exhausted, and my body is in shock. Once the adrenaline disappears I'll be shit out of luck and in a lot of pain. Better get to a hospital. They got good drugs.

--------

I remember that time that I let myself into a sorority house. A little tweak on the young woman's trepidation, a hint of premature arousal, a hint of pheromone that didn't exist. By the eighteenth girl I was so wiped out mentally I almost just said fuck it and hit her over the head with my pistol. But that was against my rules. If I couldn't get something with my mind, violence was not the way to go. I told myself it was a moral code I followed, that I was selfish but wasn't evil. I was just a pansy. I didn't ever want to hit someone, cause that gave them license to hit me back, and I don't handle pain well. I remember that time, because perhaps it was what got me where I am now. Or maybe that's just one pebble in a mountain. Yeah, probably just one.

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The sad thing about being a telepath is, you can't trick your own fucking mind. You can, depending on your strength, skill, and endurance, do god knows what to everyone else. But you can't make your own mind believe that there is not in fact a gaping hole in your face, that travels all the way through the breadth of your skull. Schizos can have conversations with people that ain't there. And they aren't even special.

I complain about these things as I traipse through the street, blinding anyone who looks my way. My coat is up around my face, my scarf is tight around my wound, but I guess its hard to conceal. A 'blind' is a quick flash of mental output, like a surge of electricity into an outlet. One quick flash and everything's dead. I imagined the brain would eventually reboot itself, but what did I know? Never went to college for nothing. Don't ask me. Maybe its just the huge trail of blood that gives me away.

As I'm walking I realize I committed the cardinal sin, that so many of my mates always complained about in suspense or horror movies; I left the gun with the killer. Fuck. So what if I was shot in the face? I should have finished the job instead of running away like a chickenshit. This guy had found me in the middle of nowhere, tracked me all the way from the jungle to Bombay. And I didn't leave breadcrumbs behind me back then. My heart begins to beat faster, anxiety and blood loss. I try to breathe easier, but it doesn't happen. That fucker is on my trail.

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I used to have a hobby, as a kid, of what I called 'Catching a Ride.' My parents thought I was ill, I would occasionally go into comas that would last days, weeks, months. I would insert my consciousness into other minds, and travel around with them, completely unbeknownst. It was fun, like a movie that didn't end. It was difficult though, getting close enough to a complete stranger to find that hidden entrance. Everyone has them, but some are trickier then others. I first started out with classmates, riding along with my friends for twenty minutes, until I realized that their lives were much like mine, boring, routine, no pussy. So I began to look to the older kids, and the rejects and rebels and thugs. I was a very misunderstood child. My stares at the ladykiller quarterback weren't lust, at least not for he himself. I was branded a freak, a fag, a what-have-you, but all I needed was that glimpse of their backdoor.

The first time I experienced sex by proxy was rape. I can't remember who the hell it was, who I was, or where, but I remember house party, alcohol, and some girl locked in a basement with five of us. I want to say I was shocked, that I  got off on the wrongness of it, it was nothing that I intended or wanted. I mirrored the girl's fear and shame, I couldn't get out of this asshole's mind! And come help you! Because I would have... at least I said so. But from then on, the tamer the sex, the angrier I got in the mind. So many times the guy I was infiltrating had to stop, take some aspirin, relax, rub his head, then have the girl call 911 because he was having what appeared to be an aneurysm. That rush, that first time, it could never be duplicated. Not by proxy, at least.

--------

I wake up in the hospital bed, furious that I am restrained. I jump through the minds of my neighbors and nurses like a hacker, but none of them are thinking about me, which angers me not a little bit. It would take too much time to sift through each square inch of their memories. I have no patience, no energy. I need caffeine, I need meth, or sugar, or something that my brain can burn, because right now I'm running on nothing but low grade morphine and saline, neither of which is conducive to one's mind burning at 500 degrees fahrenheit. I'm at a loss, and pass out against the everyday noises of a Bombay hospital. Who gives a fuck if I'm tied down?

--------

I remember the time I was strolling through some city, some night, some time ago. A gunshot breaks the quiet, and before I know it a couple are rushing past me, screaming and crying. I hug against the wall to let them pass. A young thief follows close after, pointing his gun at me to keep me from intervening. I let him pass.

--------

This time its San Fran, I was homeless and happy, sitting on a park bench munching on a bag of Frito's I had swooped from a quickie mart. This time there is no shot, but I hear the yelling, and see the people running. This time the proximity wasn't bad, they were across the street. There were two thieves this time chasing the other two young men. I don't recall what prompted me, as opposed to what held me back the last time, but I rose from my bench and pursued. At this point I knew I could move things, had experimented with small objects at night when I was alone. The effort left me weak and fuzzy, but the accomplishment was something I could cherish. Before long I realized that the chase was unneccessary, and in my mind, I imagined grabbing one of the criminals by the foot.

He stopped and fell forward as if caught in a bear trap. His comrade didn't seem concerned and kept on after they're prey. I imagined him lifting up into the air. He did. I imagined his arm being twisted until it broke. The snap was like a bunch of dried twigs. He was upside down in mid-air, it was midnight in San Fran, and we were in the middle of the street. He was facing me now, and his eyes were a mix of shock, pain, fear, and confusion. I twisted his other arm until it was a mirror of its brother. His legs came next. I can't remember the chronology, but before I was done the pieces of his body were individually no larger than my hand. I didn't have a drop on me. I slept for two days after that, and when I woke up, I drank two pots of coffee and a whole cheesecake before I really felt like myself.

--------

These memories passed through me as I slept. The time I ripped off the bookies, the foray into Vegas, my night at the Playboy mansion. The two days I pretended to be Ewan McGregor. No one ever noticed, that's how adept I had become, how sly. Too bad Ewan wasn't fooled. At least not for long. I always recalled these as good times; like when I crashed at the White House for two weeks, and only got kicked out when I forgot to keep the charade up around me. Dick Cheney has a foul mouth, especially when you walk in on some uber-secret energy meeting in your boxer shorts. Christ, all I wanted was a cigarette.

But slowly I began to reconsider the quality of these times. I was potentially near death. I remembered all the robberies, my few skirmishes with the law. That bank in Sarasota. Three people died. I tried controlling the other two perps, but my mind wandered, and I lost my hold over one, and that was all it took. Anyone who entered that hostage situation an Atheist left a believer. I let out my inner demon that day, and I saw what a man's brain looks like if you rip it from his skull before he's dead.

I never considered myself evil. Mischievous at worst, I always thought. And perhaps that was the case. Perhaps I wasn't evil, just lazy. My mind could do wonderful things, but I never once used it other then to benefit myself. I realized this then. I realized that was why these assholes hunted me. I was not a menace, but my existence threatened them. What if I did truly become a monster? Because I wasn't that bad at the moment.

I still remembered the Sarasota bank. The police came in guns blazing...

--------

... But it sounded different then the S&W 19-5 that was coming down the hallway. He was taking out everyone in his path, whether they defied him or not. I had apparently broken through his wall of Zen, because all I felt was rage, no longer repressed but amplified. Before I knew it he was standing before me, and the rage dissipated like a cooling oven. His head was a mess of blood and bruises, but that smile resumed its former place of prominence. He pointed the gun at me, pulled the trigger, and the click was like a blessing. Gave me time to think of a parting line as he placed a single bullet into the chamber and flipped it closed. Once again I was staring down that barrel. Sure I wanted to live, but that was the last of a series of selfish choices. I had lived a life no one else ever would. But this guy was an asshole.

My mind grabbed hold of scalpels, chairs, anything sharp or heavy that was around me. I focused on this asshole's skull as he cocked his gun and smiled at me.

"Hope I'm smarter then the Devil," I croaked. I launched every object in the room at him with the force of a Lear jet falling from the sky. I started laughing.

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BANG!

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