I never really asked to be "the guy who defends The MCU". I don't even love the franchise as much as some, as I've made clear before. Yet, despite any and all sentiments that I may have, I frequently find myself having to defend them from absurd claims. It's tedious and boring, but necessary.
Take a recent article from Indiewire about legendary director James Cameron, for example. Said article mentions that Cameron hopes people "suffer from Avengers fatigue". Despite mentioning that James Cameron's a fan of The MCU, something many of his critics missed, he feels that superhero films detract from other, more potentially-engaging forms of science-fiction:
"…[T]here are other stories to tell besides hyper-gonadal males without families doing death-defying things for two hours and wrecking cities in the process. It's like, oy!"
The rest of the article goes into detail about Cameron's four sequels to Avatar, but it's worth noting the insane backlash over this claim. Even the comments section of the article have people yelling at him for being "washed-up". Ignoring that I don't hate Avatar as much as most, even defending it in another blog entry, I still feel as though I should rescue Cameron's reputation while simultaneously rebutting him. Because I feel both are in order.
Let's get the elephant in the room out of the way: I don't think James Cameron's the "king of Hollywood". I never have, to be honest. Part of that could be that I only started watching his films six years ago, well-into my 20's, and, therefore, don't have nostalgia blinders on, but even outside of that I find his movies are…schlocky. Fun, but schlocky. They've never screamed "high art", but rather the best possible outcomes of B-movie premises. The only difference between his old films and his new films, in my mind, is their budgets.
I know some of you will be disappointed by that revelation, but it's true: despite Cameron's huge ego, or foul temper, the primary distinction between pre-Titanic and post-Titanic Cameron is the amount of money he has. Even ignoring that, his dedication to the craft, which is insane, hasn't diminished. Neither has his sense of scope, which, if anything, has actually increased. So to those people who call him a hack who now writes hackneyed dialogue, I wonder if you've been paying attention to his filmography.
So yes, James Cameron's not been the pariah people claimed. It's also worth noting that in-light of the additional, completely-unoriginal and incredibly-misleading claims that his last movie, Avatar, was a rehash of three other movies. I won't rebut that nonsense, I already have, but I'll like to remind everyone that, like Tim Burton, people need to set their criticism of the man himself, as well as his ill-founded claims, aside from his filmography. Because while his critique of The MCU, as well as his sexist attack of Wonder Woman last year, is absurd, that doesn't, and shouldn't, mean that he's not a talented director. You can be fond of an artist while recognizing their mistakes and wrongdoings, it's not impossible.
Now that I've made most of you angry, I should mention that Cameron's still in the wrong. Despite his appreciation of The MCU, something that's been ignored, I don't agree that there aren't good sci-fi movies coming out that aren't superhero-related. All you need to do is look at the pantheon of films released in a given year. I'll even list a few favourites:
In 2015, right as the hype for Star Wars: The Force Awakens was at its peak, there was an indie sci-fi film called Ex Machina. The movie, about a computer programmer who's invited to his boss's mansion to test artificial intelligence, was a masterwork. It was a cautionary tale about underestimating women, and it was a drama that bordered on suspense-thriller every-so-often. It also, being an Alex Garland work, was beautifully-shot. I won't spoil the plotting, since it deserves to be seen, but it's well-worth your time.
In 2016, there was Arrival. A passion-project from French-Canadian director Dennis Villeneuve, the movie dealt with themes of humanity, language and time. Alien invasion movies are often depicted as scary in film, but Arrival borrowed cues from Close Encounters of the Third Kind and made these aliens unthreatening. The point of the movie, in a nutshell, was about the importance of global communication. It helps that, being a thriller, it, like Ex Machina, was suspenseful. It also, like said movie, was beautifully-shot.
Finally, this year saw another Garland film with Annihilation. Playing as a hybrid of 2001: A Space Odyssey's trippy visuals and a female Alien set in a forest, the movie tackled themes of government secrets, the concept of humanity and the instability of the psyche. It's often terrifying, often mesmerizing, to say the least, even if it's not always coherent. And it, like the previous examples, is beautifully-shot. I know it didn't do well at the box-office, but I highly-recommend checking it out if you haven't.
There, three examples off the top of my head. I haven't even counted long-overdue sequels, like Blade Runner 2049, or films I consider overrated, like Mad Max: Fury Road, but Cameron's definitely off-the-mark. And even if he were on it…so what? The MCU knows what it's doing, and is doing it well, so does it really matter? Or is this another example of an old master shamelessly-rambling about "those crazy kids"?
I wouldn't even be inclined to defend superhero movies if they weren't so incredibly-divisive these days. It seems like you either love superheroes and hate indie dramas, or love indie dramas and hate superheroes, but not both. But why? Why can't I love both? I'm the oddball who'll watch anything, so long as it's good, but I shouldn't have to discard one over the other to be happy. Because you don't see this so much in the debate between free-form and realistic paintings, right? (Dennis Prager's video on the subject doesn't count.)
Maybe I'm being paranoid, but it's definitely worth thinking about.
I've been meaning to discuss The Incredibles on this blog since November of 2015. I've been meaning to write about it since its sequel was announced in 2013, to be exact, as this particular movie, one of my favourite animated films, deserved a piece dedicated to it. I racked my brain for 5 years, even re-watching the movie several times, hoping something'd come out, yet nothing did. And now, as if by the will of God, it's happened. And it couldn't have been a worse set of circumstances.
Everyone remembers "Where's my super suit?", right? It's not only one of the funniest conversations in the entire film, or even Samuel L. Jackson's career, but it's been immortalized via memes. I'd explain why it's great, but I think watching the clip does more justice to it than I could:
See? See?! Comedic gold! (Courtesy of Disney.Pixar.)
It's hard not to love what's, arguably, one of the highlights of one of the best superhero movies ever, so it was a treat to find out that Honey was returning in The Incredibles 2. But that begs the question: if Honey's so well-loved, how come we never see her?
Recently, Brad Bird, the director of these films, was asked that exact question by Heroic Hollywood. Shadow and Act, a website that covers global black culture, linked to the article in one of their own. They also wrote a response, which you can find here. Yet Bird's answer to the question raises eyebrows:
" She's funnier as a voice…[w]e actually went through all the trouble of designing a character and the design appears in the movie but not as Frozone's wife. We have used her design and she is a hero but there's not a lot of screen time though."
I've covered Hollywood's long-standing issues with racism in the past, via Tim Burton and Wes Anderson, but this is the hardest one to deconstruct of them all. Uunlike Burton and Anderson, Bird's racism requires an explanation. You'd figure that a man of his stature, and one who's closest friend was outed as a predator, would know to be more sensitive to other groups, especially given his reputation in the Pixar and film communities. Because this is an insult to both!
See, Brad Bird's a fan of Randian objectivism. Ayn Rand's philosophy's, essentially, become the backbone of modern, American libertarianism. Bird's love of the Randian narrative, even if he's never outright said it, is so extreme that all of his movies feature it: The Iron Giant contains Randian objectivism in its attempt to make the giant into a Superman character. The Incredibles has it in the need for Bob Parr to prove to the world that he's the best at what he does. Ratatouille has it in both Remy's rare skill and Ego's stand-in as the snooty critic who doubts him because "reasons". And while Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol might've skipped this, because no one cares about the stories in that franchise, Tomorrowland was so soaked in Randian objectivism that, combined with Damon Lindelof's desire to ignore pressing questions and plot-holes, it actively hurt the film.
Basically, and I loathe this phrase, Brad Bird's the epitome of a "problematic fave". His writing and directing are amazing, as is his partnership with legendary composer Michael Giacchino, but his films smell of subtle condescension toward those that dare snub his mad genius. And while his writing's condescending, his treatment of women is more-so. The Incredibles had Helen as a side-character for most of its runtime, while Mirage was a prop for Syndrome until she realized that Bob was in the right. Meanwhile, Violet, who started as a uniquely-insecure teenager, went through a complete 180 by the end and turned into…an ordinary teenager.
Perhaps Bird's biggest folly is his treatment of minorities. Both The Iron Giant and Ratatouille had only white characters in them, which is weird given their time periods, while The Incredibles…had Lucius. To be fair, Lucius was awesome. But that his wife is never on-screen speaks volumes. That Bird attempted a design of her, only to scrap it at the last-second because "screen-time limitations", reconfirms that.
If it sounds like I'm being overly-critical of Brad Bird, keep in mind that I'm only doing so because film's an imperfect art-form. Like all imperfect art-forms, it's important to acknowledge its flaws or areas of improvement even when it churns out masterpieces. And The Incredibles/The Incredibles 2, for all their brilliance, are no different; after all, if artists are to improve their craft, they should be able to respond to respectful feedback with dignity.
I'm also being critical because black people/other minorities, despite making strides in recent years, are still largely shunted from animation. Whether it's through lack of including them in stories, ignoring their input in the production process, or having white actors and actresses voice their parts, it's one of the last places lacking true representation. Doubly-so for minority women, whom are already at a disadvantage to begin with. So for Brad Bird to think of Honey as nothing more than a cameo voiceover because "it's funnier that way"? It doesn't reflect well on him.
Nevertheless, I don't think that Brad Bird intends to be malicious. He most-likely believes what he says, and would probably apologize if called out. I also don't think boycotting the film over this is the right call, as plenty of talented filmmakers are guilty of far worse. But, like with Steven Spielberg's recent comment about "Indiana Joan", I think Bird messed up and missed an opportunity for self-reflection. Though I could be wrong, in which case I apologize in advance.
Regardless, The Incredibles 2 comes out in a few months, and I'm excited to see it!
This week marks the third in a period of the Jewish calendar called "The Omer".
That was one of the hardest sentences that I've ever written for The Whitly-Verse. Not because it's a lie, but because it's true. Not because I lack an attachment to The Omer, but because I have too strong an attachment to it. And not because I don't know what to say, but because I want to say too much. However, since I don't wanna bore my readers, I'll try being as succinct as possible.
Get ready, this'll be a doozy.
What's The Omer?
One of the major Jewish holidays is Passover. Passover, which marks the exodus from Egypt, is celebrated for 8 days (or 7 days, assuming you live in Israel.) Passover marks a change in the Hebrew identity, going from 12 tribes of ragtag slaves to a people, and it contains rules and instructions, like every Jewish holiday, for how to be celebrated. In the times of the First and Second Temples, however, there was an additional rule involving offerings, a rule that's no longer practiced literally.
Judaism is an agricultural religion at its core. While most of its modern practices and rituals seem distant from that, especially in a capitalist setting, it's important to note that the early days were tied to the land. This included marking the days by the Sun and Moon, marking specific criteria for plowing the harvest, and, of course, offering the first of your crops as thanks to God. The barley offering, usually the first, marked the beginning of Spring, and it was mandated for every farmer to bring.
I haven't mentioned The Omer yet, and that's because the barley offering was a catalyst that began the countdown to the Omer, or wheat, offering 49 days later. If the barley offering marked the beginning of Spring, then the Omer offering marked the beginning of the harvest. And since both are equally important, that's exactly why the Omer offering came 7 weeks later. This was the practice all throughout the ancient periods of Judaism, halting only once The Second Temple was destroyed in 70CE.
You still with me? Good, it gets more complicated.
Jews make note of The Omer by counting the 49 days between the 2nd day of Passover and the holiday of Shavuot. The holiday of Shavuot's fascinating, and arguably less-known than Passover, but all you need to know now is that the days leading up to it are counted individually. But it's not a simple countdown, because we're not supposed to anticipate the end of it. Instead, we count upwards, because every day means something. Still with me? Because it gets even more complicated.
Here's where the nuances come in. Depending on which stream of thought you follow, The Omer has additional rules. If you consider The Omer communal, then you must count it with 10 or more men over the age of 13. If you consider The Omer personal, however, you can also count it by yourself. I go by the latter, due to a combination of OCD and wanting to appreciate the experience. This makes it more difficult, but I don't mind the challenge.
One more point: you can always count without the blessing if you miss an evening, provided you catch yourself in-time, with one exception: the first night. Why? Because why continue something if you never started? The first piece is always the catalyst for the rest, so it's only fair. It also makes it so that you have an obligation to start from the beginning, as opposed to waiting. It makes it so that you can prove that even if you got out at, say, Day 21, you still made it past Day 1.
Additional Details About The Omer.
I remember first learning about The Omer in high school, possibly when I started counting in Grade 11. Granted, I knew it existed as early as Senior Kindergarten, when we counted the days between Passover and Shavuot on a plastic board, but it always remained elusive: what was the deal with The Omer? Why was it a big deal? And how did it impact me?
When I learned about The Omer in class, I remember hearing additional customs about not shaving, not cutting your hair, or not doing basic tasks that you'd do during the year. And they didn't make sense intially: why can't I listen to music during The Omer? Why can't I watch movies during The Omer? Why can't I cut my hair during The Omer? Why, essentially, is The Omer so restricting?
As I went on, the reality became clearer. It turned out that, during the last days of The Second Temple, the Jews suffered a tragedy. The big rabbi was Rabbi Akiva, a man who, at his peak, had 24000 students. It sounds crazy, but that was how well-respected he was. The problem was that none of the students had respect for one another. As legend has it, a plague struck that wiped them all out. Some modern interpreters suggest that the "plague" was actually a rebellion against Rome, but given that Rome was unusually censoring to the Jews at the time…
We mark the first 33 days of The Omer as a semi-mourning period in commemoration. Since mourning in Judaism means not cutting your hair, or listening to music, or doing anything fun, many Jews will abstain from these basic activities. Personally, I only refrain partially: I won't go to live concerts, but because I need music to help with my anxiety I'll play stuff on the radio or listen to recordings. I won't go to movies in theatres, but I'll watch old films already out on streaming or video. And while I won't shave during the week, I'll shave for Shabbat.
There are also exceptions on certain days. Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the Jewish month, nullifies these rules, provided it falls on a weekend. Yom Ha'atzmaut, Israel's birthday, is also an exception (depending on who you ask), because you sing Hallel (or special praises to God) in services. I don't think it was accidental that Israeli Independence Day coincides with The Omer, although I can't prove why without going into mysticism.
Perhaps the most-important day of The Omer is the 33rd day, or Lag BaOmer. This is a day of celebration, even for those who count the 33 days of mourning in the second-half, because it's when Rabbi Akiva received 7 new students. On Lag BaOmer, people dress up in white and feast. In Biblical times, this was also a designated dating day. Once the 33rd day comes, the counting continues, but the mourning stops.
How Do I Internalize This Period?
I bet the question you're asking is: "Why does this matter?"
When I first started counting The Omer in 2007, this question was on the back of my mind: why should I do this? What do I have to gain? And why continue all the way through? To be fair, counting The Omer isn't easy. It requires intense discipline and commitment to memory. So while I do it, I had to struggle with these questions.
The last one was easy: I have OCD. That I can commit to tasks most people find arduous without much difficulty is because of that. After all, why leave something incomplete? My OCD wouldn't let me.
As for the first two questions? That was harder. I was 16-turning-17 when I first started counting, so I was at the age of experimentation anyway. Counting The Omer seemed neat, so I tried it. After all, what did I have to lose?
Unfortunately, The Omer proved a lot more difficult than I'd originally anticipated. I'd quickly adjust with advice and guidance from peers, religious leaders and mentors, but the idea of counting something every day before bed was foreign. I was afraid that, like my short-lived trauma surrounding Limewire, it'd become obsessive. It never ended up being that, but the anxiety was still there.
I credit three supports for helping me: the first was one of my favourite teachers in high school, a rabbi who taught Rabbinics. He was my go-to source before my brother became a rabbi, and any questions I had could be instantly vetted by him. If I wanted to know how to count The Omer, for example, I'd ask via email. And if email didn't work, I'd talk to him directly. Either way, I thank him for his help.
My second support was my older brother. Even before he became a rabbi, he was incredibly learned. He was the reason my family became more observant, so I figured he'd probably know the ins-and-outs of The Omer. It was harder to talk to him than the first source, since we lived in two different countries at the time, but whenever I had the chance to email or call him, I'd take it. Like my teacher, I thank him for his help.
My final support wasn't a person, but a website. Chabad's website, to be exact. Chabad has plenty of crash courses and "Judaism 101" pages for the uninitiated, and The Omer's one of their biggest hits. So for me to look up their rules and suggestions, well…it was great. I thank them for filling the gaps where the previous supports couldn't.
The Omer represents a yearly transition stage. It's the mid-point between Winter and Summer, one where my pollen allergies are at their worst, so it keeps me grounded amidst all the sneezing and itchy throats. It's also when I'm at my most-energetic, so it gives me an outlet to express myself. But it also helps me properly reorient myself after a long, cold Winter and a tough, sometimes gruelling Passover. It's the anchor in my Judaism, which is why I practice it.
And there you have it: The Omer. Assuming I haven't bored you to death, here's a little reward:
On April 5th, 2018, after a year-long battle with lung cancer, legendary anime director Isao Takahata passed away at the age of 82. When I heard this, I was immediately saddened, yet had little-to-no-time to let his death sink in. For one, I'd recently arrived home from an exhausting shift at work, so I had no energy to really process this. And two, the second-half of the Passover holidays was 2 hours away, so even if it sunk in I'd be preoccupied for the next two days. Add the recent dossier from Channel Awesome producers alleging abuse, as well as the announcement that Infinite Rainy Day, a site I'd poured 4 years of my life into, was closing up shop, and Takahata's death became the third most-depressing event that week.
My decision to post this on The Whitly-Verse wasn't exclusively because of Infinite Rainy Day's closure. While it's true that this would've been better-suited to that site, I feel that Isao Takahata is someone more people need to know about. Hayao Miyazaki is one of my favourite directors, and justifiably-so, but while knowledge of his work is more well-known in the West, Takahata's the outlier constantly overshadowed by his colleague. A crime of that nature's inexcusable.
Isao Takahata was born on October 29th, 1935. I've already written about his biography on Infinite Rainy Day, so I won't here, but his work in the field of animation predates Miyazaki by several years; in fact, the two actually became friends during the production of Takahata's directorial debut, Hols: Prince of the Sun, in 1968, and that friendship would long-outlive their time spent at Toei. Takahata would even serve as a producer on some of Miyazaki's early works at Studio Ghibli, namely Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and Castle in the Sky, before they managed to nab Toshio Suzuki in the early-90's, and the infamous decision to double-bill Takahata's Grave of the Fireflies with Miyazaki's My Neighbor Totoro would nearly bankrupt the company due to the emotional whiplash between films. Even when the two were at odds creatively, which happened often, there was still an irreverence they shared for one-another.
This difference in attitude could also be seen in their approach to filmmaking. Whereas Hayao Miyazaki would watch over his films like an authoritarian parent, constantly reanimating cels he wasn't happy with, Isao Takahata was more laid-back and had a great deal of trust in his artists. Whereas Miyazaki was always efficient and on-time, Takahata was notorious for being disorganized and behind schedule. Whereas Miyazaki made sure not to exceed his resources, Takahata was famous for going over budget, such that his last film, The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, still holds the record as the most-expensive project the studio has worked on. Even their understanding of the animation process was different, as Takahata never animated his works directly.
Despite the constant, long-stretches of time between works, Takahata also took on the role of promoting the studio's library and acquiring foreign films to add to The Studio Ghibli Museum. His love of animation extended well-beyond anime, and he considered one of his biggest inspirations to be a French film called The King and the Mockingbird. A great collector of art, Takahata made it his mission to showcase a wide variety of Western animation to the Japanese public. To say that he succeeded is an understatement.
Speaking of films, Takahata's five contributions to Studio Ghibli, Grave of the Fireflies, Only Yesterday, Pom Poko, My Neighbors the Yamadas and The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, were all shining examples of how flexible animation truly was. For all his visionary talent, Hayao Miyazaki mostly confined himself to fantasy and whimsy. Isao Takahata, however, constantly switched-up styles and genres, and his films became progressively more artsy and fantastical as his career progressed. This can be seen with the sharp contrast between Grave of the Fireflies's grounded realism and The Tale of the Princess Kaguya's stylistic abstractness. Regardless, all five of his Studio Ghibli efforts were highlights in his long-standing career, exemplifying some of the best anime had to offer.
This even allowed me to see past his filmmaking flaws. I have a hit-or-miss relationship with Takahata's body of work, frequently finding it slow and arduous, which I've made known numerous times on Infinite Rainy Day and Twitter. One of his works, My Neighbors the Yamadas, I don't even like, considering it to be Studio Ghibli's worst sans Tales From Earthsea. But even at the worst of times, I respected what Takahata was going for, appreciating his style regardless of outcome. That alone is worthy of adoration.
Takahata's body of work is also one that more people should've paid attention to while he was alive. Whereas Miyazaki amassed several trophies and awards, including twoOscars at The Academy Awards, Takahata was less appreciated, with only his final film, The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, receiving a Best Animated Feature nod in 2015 (and subsequently losing to Big Hero 6). It's a real travesty, as Takahata deserved better than he got. But if you want further venting on that matter, ask someone who's a bigger fan of anime than I am.
In the end, what matters is that, like I said, Isao Takahata's work deserves far more recognition. So I suggest searching for one of his films, tracking it down and watching it in his memory. I've seen his Studio Ghibli works several times, but going back further will reveal even more gems. Either way, rest in peace, Takahata-san. May your work serve as inspiration for many future animators…
