Paper Fruit

When Jesse and I realized we’d watched Total Recall and Dark City in quick succession, we decided to appoint November as Memory, Humanity, and Dystopia Month. So, cool! Theme months. Be warned, though–I was cranky and tired when I wrote this week’s review, so it’s probably more unfair than usual. . . but I also tend to get more riled by near misses than epic failures, just because I hate to see a good thing ruined. And after a very strong, compelling start, Dark City was ruined for me by a third act fumble of epic proportions, in that involved Heavy Exposition, The World’s Crappiest CGI Battle, Space Aliens, and a Conclusion that is Morally Questionable But Goes Internally Unquestioned. Woo! Onward:

The Film: Dark City (1998)

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Mostly Alex Proyas (The Crow, Knowing), who directed and co-wrote with screenwriters David S. Goyer (the Blade series) and Lem Dobbs (the Gary Busey classic Hider in the House). Soundtrack by Trevor Jones (From Hell), with some help from Anita Kelsey and Echo and the Bunnymen. Starring Rufus Sewell (A Knight’s Tale, The Illusionist), Jennifer Connolly (Labyrinth, Requiem for a Dream), William Hurt (A History of Violence, the Dune miniseries), Ian Richardson (Brazil), Richard O’Brien (The Rocky Horror Picture Show), and a bizzaro version of Kiefer Sutherland (Jason Patric and the Coreys versus the Dreamy Living Dead).

Quote: “Remember, John, never talk to strangers!”

Alternate quote: “No more Mr. Quick. Mr. Quick, dead, yes.”

First viewing by Molly: A couple of weeks ago.

First viewing by Jesse: In the theatre, so mid-high school.

Most recent viewing by both: A couple of weeks ago.

Impact on Molly’s childhood development: None. Never heard of it.

Impact on Jesse’s childhood development: Slight. I recall appreciating the aesthetic but thinking it aped a bit from City of Lost Children, stylistically. Like any teenager worth their weight in angst and mix-tapes, I was fiercely defensive of things I enjoyed and convinced everyone was out to take cools things and make them not cool via the dread mainstream.

Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:

Molly’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Our local video store is currently selling off stock, and when Jesse saw it on the rack he said something like “LOL DARK CITY” but in real-life speech. I was like “What the heck is Dark City?” and he replied “Oh, man. We should do that for Films of High Adventure,” but due to his refusal to tell anyone anything about a movie before watching it, wouldn’t say more.

Jesse’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Intrigued. I had only seen it the once, when it came out, and remembered thinking it was good if not great. I really couldn’t remember much about the movie, other than being dissatisfied with the finale and thinking wonky-ass Kiefer Sutherland was about the coolest thing ever.

Molly’s thoughts post-viewing: I’m still recovering from WFC so I’m just warning you—this is going to be disjointed and ranty.

Dark City is a case of squandered potential. I mean, it’s a movie that would be infinitely better without the lead actors’ characters being part of the plot. Yeah, I know, “what?” But it’s true. And just think about that for a second. I’m trying to think of another movie where I wished so continuously that the male and female leads would just go away so I could hang out with the supporting cast, but I’m coming up empty, because most movies where I despise the leads, I also am pretty eh about the supporting actors as well [Jesse says: uh, didn’t we just try to watch The Frighteners? I would watch maybe a thousand movies about Jeffrey Combs’ FBI agent character]. Not so here, where had Rufus Sewell and Jennifer Connolly been totally absent, it would’ve been a much, much better film, even with the goddamn space aliens in the third act.

I simply cannot wrap my head around why on earth the scriptwriters thought milquetoast monomyth nothing-master Sewell and Bland Love Interest Connolly were even remotely as engaging as twitchy mad scientist Kiefer Sutherland and angsty detective William Hurt. Then again, the scriptwriters thought that “space aliens create a large film noir-styled spaceship, populate it with human subjects, and use a scary syringe to switch up memories in people in order to search for what makes the human soul oh-so-precious and unique (?)” was an okay plot, so perhaps I’m just caring about this a bit too much [Jesse says: you’re right, it’s not an okay plot—it’s a great plot!]. After all, the space aliens hire Kiefer Sutherland’s “psychologist” character to go around switching up people’s memories because he. . . is an artist of the mind? Or something? ORLY? Is that what psychologists are? What? Jesus fucking Christ.

It’s just—argh. I just think Dark City had so much to offer, so much interesting stuff that (omg a sports metaphor?) is just sitting on the sidelines. Nay, languishing. Every good character, every engaging concept is benched (woo) in the name of that style of plot wherein a generic white male (with telekinesis!) will save the human race because he is a generic white male (with telekinesis!) and thus must overcome adversity for all our sakes in the form (this time) of the world’s lamest CGI battle.

In the end, Dark City begs no deeper question of its audience than “why should we care?” Sewell brings no depth to his role, but he’s not given much to work with other than a character description that was probably written down somewhere as ‘He is a generic white man who evolves telekinesis and shall save the world,” and indeed, is scripted in such a way that he comes off as kind of a d-bag at the end (more on that later). Jennifer Connolly is only worthy of our interest because she is pretty [Jesse says: and dresses nice and has a lovely singing voice (dubbed over her own)—what on earth more do you want from a female lead?!]. Of the only two interesting characters, one disappears into the shadows by way of resolving his plotline, the other is. . . sucked. . . out. . . into. . . space. Nice tidy ending there, especially because that character had more chemistry with Connolly than Sewell, so out he goes! Yeesh.

For a film that tries to be all moody and dark and emotional, it evokes zero pathos because there is no real substance, and like I said, anything interesting is just ignored. To wit: why did Sewell in particular evolve telekinesis? Why, if the detective had his memories of being a detective implanted, is he so good at noticing stuff? Why is Sewell convinced Connolly actually likes him, when he knows perfectly well that she had her love for him implanted in her skull, just like her memory of cheating on him [Jesse says: because you can’t fake love, Molly, the movie told us that multiple times, REMEMBER?!]? Why does he choose to believe one lie and not the other? (Because she’s pretty.) Why are there spirals everywhere? Does Kiefer Sutherland regret his decision to work for the space aliens? Did he retain any of his own memories? Does RiffRaff’s character yearn to be human and that’s why he chooses to have human memories implanted, or did he have a different reason to volunteer? WHO CARES! CGI BATTLE! IT’S-ALL-OK ENDING! CREDITS!

I dunno. I could go on, but it’s just one of those things where I can’t care any more, so I’ll just put the cap on this bottle of haterade by saying that Dark City’s ending is a perfect synecdoche for the entire film. Basically, at some point, the space aliens re-implant Connolly’s memories, giving her amnesia; Sewell retains his memories. After saving the world and then being given the power to re-shape it however he wants—and he just, like, does it because he’s apparently fully confident that he should be Lord of All and A God Amongst Men—he meets her on a weird little pier and pretends he’s seeing her for the first time, and they go off to presumably have a relationship. THIS IS PROBLEMATIC. Right? Who cares—he gets the girl! That’s it. I’m done.

Jesse’s thoughts post-viewing: I actually thought it was better than I remembered. Although I’ll agree with Molly’s assessment of a third act fumble, plot-wise, it bothered me way less the second time around, probably because I was vaguely expecting it and was thus prepared for it. I also appreciate now that it’s much more of its own thing than I’d previously given it credit—although the City of Lost Children touches are obvious, they’re not nearly as prevalent as I had remembered. The Jeunet and Caro film is one of my all time favorites, hence my protectiveness of it, but coming at it from a more experienced position, cinematically speaking, I see now that it’s just one of many sources of inspiration, and I would never begrudge anyone for loving the same works as myself.

So it’s a bit of a mess, and I agree that Hurt and Sutherland’s characters are more interesting than our actual focal points, but it’s so damn pretty I’m willing to forgive a lot. And I don’t have quite the aversion to aliens of the space variety that Molly does, though I’ll allow that I too was disappointed with the revelation the first time around. This is an unusual case of actually liking a film a bit more the second time around—being forewarned of its failings, I was better equipped to appreciate its successes. Other than that, I think Molly really covered all the bases (sports reference!) so I’ll leave off by saying that while she is technically correct about everything, it doesn’t make this movie any less cool looking, nor does it make Mr. Young Guns any less twitchy.

High Points: Kiefer Sutherland tweaking out. RiffRaff rocking the bald look. The hand-wringing of the creepy-ass strangers:

Low Points: When one gets to the point in the movie that should be titled Kiefer Sutherland Explains the Movie.

Final Verdict: A gorgeous, stylish thriller that trips over its CGI-enhanced feet in the third act.

Next Time: We continue Memory, Humanity, and Dystopia Month with either Robocop or Total Recall.

World Fantasy was a great time this year, even (sadly) without (1) S.J. Chambers, (2) having a voice more than an uncanny screech that sounded like rusted metal hinges or, alternatively, like the world’s grossest clarinet played by the devil’s worst musician, and (3) partaking of a single drink due to the brutal course of amoxicillin I was taking.

I met a lot of cool people and attended some wonderful readings. Most notably regarding the latter, you should all be anticipating Saladin Ahmed’s Throne of the Crescent Moon, and you, like me, should run out and grab Haunted Legends, edited by Ellen Datlow and Nick Mamatas, and Paul G. Tremblay’s In the Mean Time. Regarding the former, I met so many awesome folks that I’m not going to make a list because it would be too time consuming, but a few brief scenarios that will be cherished:

Excitedly discussing Jonah Hex, Christian Domestic Discipline, and other crimes against humanity with Genevieve Valentine, Mari Ness, Jesse, Charlie Jane Anders, and Annalee Newitz

Exploring North Market while discussing fantasy novels and Greek religious practices with a certain Columbus local who doesn’t really want her name all over the internet so let it just be said that she is a rad person

Comparing notes on awesome anime to watch with the lovely Dmitri Valente at the Habitation of the Blessed/Native Star release party

Giggling with Nick Mamatas at the aforementioned release party while we made gentle fun of the also aforementioned Dmitri Valente for reading Piers Anthony

Hearing Jeffrey Ford read his story in Haunted Legends and vowing to go home and re-read “The Beautiful Gelreesh” in Running with the Pack while imagining his Long Island accent instead of, I dunno, the Tim Curry-sounding person I’d “heard” narrating the first time I read it

Gargling Cepacol (provided to me by a thoughtful and generous friend) and actually managing to make it to my panel in order that I might discuss Batman and Dr. Horrible for an hour with my co-panelists Mark Teppo and David Boop

Feeling like a rock star when Christie Yant asked me to sign her copy of Running with the Pack–my first book-signing EVARRRR–and then feeling like a prat when I realized I’d left my copy of Way of the Wizard in my room and couldn’t get her to sign it for me

Meeting with Christie and John Joseph Adams over the exciting new changes to come over at Fantasy Magazine

Shaking L.E. Modesitt’s hand the first night, and then noting his delight in sporting loud waistcoats during the rest of the con

Using an unoccupied con suite to take off my shirt and compare tattoos with the cheerful and delightful Erin Cashier

I could go on, and on, and on, but I won’t, thus neglecting so many fun people and so many good times!

So, in conclusion, yay, and congrats to all the winners of the World Fantasy award–though honestly, an award should have been given to my conpanion Jesse, who totally took care of me like a champ while I was getting over the end of whatever horrible (non-contagious! I asked the doctor!) illness I was trying to kick during the whole damn con. It was such a great experience overall that I definitely had a moment of post-Christmas morning “meh” on the plane ride home. . . but thankfully the flight was so horrifically turbulent that I had to concentrate more on not vomiting. Huzzah!

This week is World Fantasy, so I’m flying out Wednesday to Columbus, OH. I’ll be speaking on a panel at 2 on Friday about why we like villains, and working at the Prime table during a lot of it, so come find me and say what up!

I’d likely feel a lot more enthusiastic had I not just contracted some sort of icky virus or something, which is making me feel insanely foggy-headed and like everything is, I dunno, really heavy when I pick it up? So I’m trying to drink lots of fluids and rest and kick the bug before I get on a plane.

Tonight I’m celebrating my birthday a little early with my husband and my friends Raechel and Jesse. We’ll likely get chinese food and watch a movie! I’m thinking of inflicting Friendly Persuasion on them, but I might show mercy and pick something made within the last 20 years.

Anyways, the long and short of it is (1) I’m sick, and (2) I don’t want to be sick. But I’m not too sick to watch crazypants YouTube videos, and thus I leave you with a series of messages from one William Tapley, the self-proclaimed “third eagle of the apocalypse” and “co-prophet of the end times.” Mr. Tapley is pretty convinced there are Satanic messages in the (admittedly kinda weird) murals at the Denver Airport (the very airport I’ll be traveling through to get to Columbus!). Enjoy watching him talk about “his sources on the Internet” and how a leopard with two cubs represents Barak Obama and his kids! Or something. I’m still not entirely sure.

Jesse Bullington and Molly Tanzer have decided to embark upon a quest: watching “classic” adventure movies that informed one or both of their childhoods. These columns will run every Wednesday on their blogs, excluding the last post of each month, which will appear over at Fantasy Magazine. This week, as they prepare to go out of town for a conference, they asked us, their respective spouses Raechel and John, to take over for them. Sure, we said. We’ll take great care of your column. We’ll treat it like our own. Hey, it’s October. How about a classic Halloween film? Something classy and intelligent, yet terrifying. Leave it to us. Really, don’t worry about a thing. Have fun at the conference!

Film: Ernest Scared Stupid (1991)

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Jim Varney and the gentle hand of a loving God. Mostly Jim Varney (Ernest Goes to Camp, Ernest Goes to Jail, Ernest Rides Again, and The Beverly Hillbillies) as Ernest, of course. Written and directed by John R. Cherry III (Ernest Goes to Camp, Ernest Goes to Jail, Ernest Rides Again, and shockingly enough not The Beverly Hillbillies). Child acting by a bunch of children who went on to do literally nothing else (with the notable exception of Shay Astar, who rockets from the success of this film right into your nightmares as the “imaginary” friend Isabella in a terrible early episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.) The voice of Ernie Fosselius as the voice of Trantor the Troll! (Who’s Ernie Fosselius? Only the director of Hardware Wars, the greatest Star Wars parody ever made! Also, apparently, the voice of most of the “ack-ack” noises in Mars Attacks!)  Oh, and Eartha Kitt (classic Catwoman, of course) setting this film apart from all other Ernest films by actually acting and being awesome in that way that only Eartha Kitt could.

Quote: “You’re the seventh son of the seventh son, you’re the baby, you’re the boy. . . you are the great redneck hope!”

Alternate quote: “You don’t want to fight me. . . I know tai chi, kung fu, chow mein, and. . . I saw Hulkamania three times, once in slow-mo!”

Alternate alternate quote: “Oh! I sure hope you’re from Keebler!”

And one more for good measure: “Well, nobody’s home! I guess they’re out robbing graves or biting the heads off of chickens or whatever’s in voodoo vogue.”

First viewing by John: The moment it came out on video. I’m guessing ’92, making it pretty much the perfect end to the Reagan/Bush years. I imagine W watched this at least a million times while he was supposed to be running his father’s re-election campaign.

First viewing by Raechel: Same here. Also, I’m pretty sure this movie was the cause of my dad’s dramatic breakup with Blockbuster. Upon returning Ernest Scared Stupid for what must have been the hundredth time, he incurred yet another $4/day late fee and finally snapped.

Most recent viewing by both: Too long ago, that’s for sure. Two weeks ago? Maybe more. Too long.

Impact on John’s childhood development: Huge. Ernest Goes to Camp was the Ernest film that kicked my childhood in the nuts (Molly says: wait, what? What does that even mean? Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? How did it come to pass that I married you?), but I only saw it once, at a friend’s house. Scared Stupid came out when my younger brothers were coming of age, and someone gave it to us as a gift, so it was screened in my living room pretty much every day between its release and the release of Major Payne. If I wasn’t watching Ernest I was hearing him in the background or listening to my brothers quote him. Sometimes when I listen to the rain I hear it tap out a soft, whispering “knowhatimean” on the rooftop.

Impact on Raechel’s childhood development: Like John, I was hooked on Ernest after seeing Ernest Goes to Camp, and really, how could one not be? Scared Stupid is the first cinematic masterpiece I ever watched, and I watched it over and over and over.

Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:

John’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Hells yeah! It’s like Christmas in October!

Raechel’s thoughts prior to re-watching: What the fuck is wrong with Molly and Jesse? Who wouldn’t want to watch this!? Whatever, they’re probably watching some period piece about ladies who die of sadness and people who live off of accrued interest. (Editorial note: Molly believes at least the latter half of that was actually true at the time.)

John’s thoughts post-viewing: God, this movie is even better than I remembered! Seeing Jim Varney and Eartha Kitt in a movie together is like watching a ninja make love to a supernova. It takes your breath away, but it leaves you with a feeling of deep, untarnished joy (Raechel says: this is perhaps the only time I have ever agreed with John’s assessment of a movie). Ernest Scared Stupid has everything that a movie should have: Ernest, Eartha Kitt, a troll named Trantor, an ancient prophecy, Jim Varney playing Ernest’s great-great-etc. grandfather, Ernest driving a garbage truck, a dog. . . everything!  And it’s only an hour and a half!  You can watch it twice in the time that it takes to watch a lot of movies that have neither Jim Varney nor Eartha Kitt! This movie is perfection.

Raechel’s thoughts post-viewing: Okay, confession time: I developed a severe allergy to slapstick and potty humor quite early in life. I hate most things that can be described as “silly,” and of all the silly things in the world, one of my least favorites is the category of Halloween movies that aren’t about people being gruesomely murdered (Jesse says: someday you’ll have to fess up to owning the Criterion Collection dvd of Hocus Pocus. . .). In short, if I must suffer a Halloween movie that is not rated R for “graphic horror violence and gore,” it’d better be a damn good one. Ernest Scared Stupid is just that. In truth, I was a little worried about re-watching this one because it prominently features children, which I dislike almost as much as slapstick. But in the end, it didn’t matter because Eartha Kitt screaming at Jim Varney while wielding a motherfucking flamethrower is pretty much the best thing ever to grace the big screen. Also, the main troll’s name is Trantor. Oh, and I’m glad I didn’t watch this film with Jesse because I cried when Ernest’s tiny dog, Rimshot, was transformed into a wooden doll, and while John at least tried to comfort me, Jesse is dogscriminatory and would have laughed at my tears. (Molly says: I just asked John “Is the dog really named Rimshot? Like. . . the thing that happens in a bad comedy routine?” John replied: “Yes, it is a joke about humor.” Oh my god.)

High Points: Jim Varney as Ernest. Jim Varney as a dozen other characters. Eartha Kitt. Eartha Kitt screaming and brandishing a flamethrower. The opening credits, which feature Jim Varney making silly faces interspersed with clips from old horror movies. Also, for all you history buffs out there, Ernest’s take on the Ottoman Empire’s attempts to expand into south Africa:

Low Points: The sad, sad fact that it does, no matter how hard you wish it wouldn’t, end.

Final Verdict: Watch it every October and you will achieve enlightenment.

Next Time: Who knows? Probably not an Ernest movie, so who cares?

World Fantasy is looming; projects are calling. I’m taking a stern internet break–email, facebook, LJ, lots of stuff will be verboten for a while, except at certain intervals. I’ll still be doing “Films of High Adventure” with Jesse and doing what it is I do for Fantasy, but if I’m slow to get back to anyone or anything, it’s because I have to do this for me. I tend to get caught up in online stuff too frequently–or, as I said to someone recently, I am Eve to the apple of the internet.

LOL, we’ll see how long this lasts. I anticipate full withdrawal symptoms–the shakes, the sweats, the, um, whatever else it is that happens to people in withdrawal. But hopefully the internet will be like cigarettes or something, and after the three-day hump I’ll be feeling OK. Right? RIGHT?

Jesse Bullington and I have decided to embark upon a quest: watching “classic” adventure movies that informed one or both of our childhoods. These columns will run every Wednesday on our blogs, excluding the last post of each month, which will appear over at Fantasy Magazine. This week we re-watched a movie that Wikipedia tells us was awarded the somewhat dubious honor of being “the 7th highest grossing movie since 1980 dealing with the genre of witches.” With a pedigree like that, it can’t be bad–right? RIGHT?!

Film: The Craft (1996)

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Direction by Andrew Fleming (Dick, Hamlet 2), from a truly odious script by Fleming and Peter Filardi, who wrote Flatliners and TNT’s Salem’s Lot remake. Soundtrack allegedly by Graeme Revell (Pitch Black, Sin City), but mostly it’s Letters to Cleo, Juliana Hatfield, Elastica, and other 90s bands you’d expect to find in such a production (I, Molly, will admit here that I owned a CD by every one of those artists). The teenagers are played by a host of 20-something actors, including Fairuza Balk (Return to Oz, American History X), Robin Tunney (End of Days—the movie where Schwarzenegger fights the devil), Rachel True (Nowhere, Half Baked), Neve Campbell (Scream, the perfectly respectable Wild Things), and Skeet Ulrich (Heh, Chill Factor) and Breckin Meyer (Clueless) as douchey high school dudes.

Quote: “If God and the Devil were playing football, Manon would be the stadium that they played on.”

Alternate quote: Bus driver: “watch out for weirdos, girls.”

Fairuza Balk: “We are the weirdos, mister.”

First viewing by Molly: Lord, I guess. . . 1996 or 1997? Soon after it came out. I remember watching it while lying on the floor of my friend’s bedroom. We had met at drama camp (!) and she decided it was high time I watched more movies about witches and serial killers, thus we watched The Craft and also all the death scenes from Se7en, which I have still yet to see in its entirety.

First viewing by Jesse: Around the time it came out on video—maybe 97? Early high school, probably.

Most recent viewing by both: Last week.

Impact on Molly’s childhood development: Thankfully less than it might have been? I remember thinking it was pretty OK but being underwhelmed by the conclusion, which had far too much of Fairuza Balk’s teeth-baring craziness and the obnoxious rich girl being rewarded for her highly-questionable virtue.

Impact on Jesse’s childhood development: Negligible. I was really excited about the movie when it came out, especially the prospect of Fairuza Balk playing some badass witch wrecking havoc at a Catholic school, but remember being disappointed and never bothered re-watching it.

Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:

Molly’s thoughts prior to re-watching: EXCITED. All I remembered was gothed-out schoolgirls successfully executing the “light as a feather, stiff as a board” trick and a scene wherein an icky racist blonde girl tells the lone black character that her hair looks like pubes. I had high, high hopes—the sort of hopes that only make the gods laugh and rub their hands together, as it turns out. Also, Jesse has a huge crush on Fairuza Balk and is totally and weirdly embarrassed about that, and so I anticipated teasing him a lot during the screening (Jesse says: I am not, in fact, embarrassed about respecting her work and talent, but I am hurt at the allegation that this appreciation for an actor’s ability and seemingly pretty cool personality stems from a simple “crush.” Which I also have for her). This anticipation was only bolstered by knowing that 10 Things I Hate About You is in no way a candidate for FoHA and thus I was immune from similar taunting regarding Heath Ledger.

Jesse’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Hopeful it would be better the second time around, but not exactly counting on it—the odds that the movie had miraculously altered into a state of not-sucking since my inaugural viewing seemed unlikely.

Molly’s thoughts post-viewing: Shit, this movie sucks. It sucks so, so hard. Harder than any movie about teenage schoolgirl witches has a right to suck because really, who could screw that up? These screenwriters, apparently. I just. . . OK. Pretty much any plot that only works if you believe the old chestnut “Girls! Ha ha! They just don’t get along!!” is stupid and should be called out as such ruthlessly and tirelessly. As Jesse will point out below, the “characters” are all dreadful stereotypes who act the way you’d expect dreadful stereotypes to do, especially when those stereotypes are thrown into a movie so classically sexist and repulsively classist I can’t even speculate as to what the writers must have been thinking. I mean, ok, here’s a brief run-down of the main players in this travesty and what they do with their magic powers:

The Pretty White Rich Girl who tried to commit suicide for no stated reason and likes the Male Lead even though he’s a complete fucking douchebag to her and her friends. When she casts a magic spell it’s to make the Male Lead like her even though. . .yeah. She gets to win at the end because she realizes what she has done is wrong and that she’s better than everyone else by virtue of being pretty, white, and rich. YAY!

The Token Black Girl who is. . . mad. . . about racism? And swims? And. . . is overlooked constantly because the only reason she’s in the movie is to be the Token Black Girl because it was 1996 and they knew they needed one? Her spell is something like “help me resist the hatred of haters” or something and it makes the aforementioned racist blonde girl’s hair fall out. Which in turn makes the swim coach notice Token Black Girl is a good diver? OMG.

The Ugly White Girl who is generally treated as a heinous monster by her classmates because she has a few totally average-looking scars on her shoulders from being burned as a kid. OH NOEZ. Let us note that her face is totally fine—more than, as it is NEVE CAMPBELL—and yet. And yet. All she wants is to be pretty!! ALL SHE WANTS IS TO BE PRETTY. Her spell is, you guessed it, to be pretty, and it makes her burns go away! But once she’s pretty she’s a bitch! Women, amiright?

The Batshit Crazy White Trash Girl who is batshit crazy and white trash. Let me say right now I tried like hell to find a different way of describing Fairuza Balk’s “character” but it’s so obvious the writers were thinking “she’ll be white trash!” as they wrote her that it’s literally impossible to think of her as anything else, as problematic as we all know that term to be (Jesse says: at least Fairuza does what she can with the role, turning a lemon role into a delicious Tom Collins of camp craziness). She (1) lives in a leaky trailer with her (2) wandering-handed wifebeater-wearing stepdad and (3) bleach-blonde mother who gets beat on when she’s uppity and then later-on (4) buys a jukebox with her insurance money and (5) wears a lavender silk pants suit while (6) smoking in her new house. Jesus Tapdancing Christ. Her spell is something like being powerful and stuff I guess? But it mostly just makes. . . a bunch of sharks die? Or something. God. GOD.

The Gypsy Woman Who Owns the Local Witch Emporium and what can I say other than that? Her magic spells are all about nurturing the white girl because the white girl is a “natural witch” of course.

I’m too disheartened to continue this. Honestly, I had to struggle to type anything other than “this movie is stupid” over and over again but I gave up my freebie on Aeon Flux. I had every intention of being amusing and teasing Jesse for crushing on Fairuza Balk but I can’t even (Jesse says: I guess that makes this week my “freebie?”). I’ll just conclude with the ardent wish that I never ever have to think about this movie again because it is enraging me simply to write about it.

Jesse’s thoughts post-viewing: Yup, it’s still terrible. The thing is it could have been awesome, it should have been awesome, and yet it’s not. I suspect the reason for this falls entirely on my gender—I can’t be sure, but I suspect if this movie had been at least co-written by a woman it wouldn’t be so offensively bad.

The reason it pissed me off so much as a teenager, I remembered as we were watching it, is that as an erstwhile outsider I really wanted the teen coven to use their powers to fuck up the jocks and bullies who had been making their lives miserable. That is what this movie should have been about. Instead, we get some of that before, natch, the young women either a) realize that they were too hard on their tormentors, or b) go bugfuck crazy from the power they have gained and turn on each other. Only the rich, pretty white girl maintains perspective, and natch, the rest of the coven— rich black girl, poor white girl, formerly “ugly” white girl—tries to murder her fucking ass. Why? Well, uh, cause they’re crazy? And stuff? You know, like women get when they’re allowed to have too much power without being white and rich, I mean, mature enough to handle it.

As a teenager I felt like my intelligence was being insulted watching this turkey, and the only thing that’s changed is that I can better articulate what makes it so horrible. I’m going to cover some of the same ground as Molly did above, but like a fire marshal investigating arson, just because the earth is scorched doesn’t mean you can’t look closer at it for clues to how the house burned down. What better place to start than with the main character, Pretty White Rich Girl (PWRG)? PWRG thinks Hunky Jerk is cute, so they go on a date—when she doesn’t want to go back to his place he acts like a turd about it, and then tells the school he slept with her and she’s “a bad lay.” When she confronts him he makes fun of her, and the rest of the coven tries to cheer her up by telling her that he does that to girls all the time.

So, what do the male screenwriters think would be a sensible reaction for PWRG? If you guessed “cast a spell to make Hunky Jerk fall in love with her” you win, except we’re talking about this stupid movie so actually you lose just by association. Anyway, the love spell works, and because of this he tries to rape PWRG. Yeah, I know, classy film. So PWRG gets away, tells her coven, and Fairuza Balk’s character, who is poor and therefore incredibly mean and jealous of PWRG, sees an opportunity to try to get with Hunky Jerk. You see, Hunky Jerk also treated Fairuza badly but of course she also still has teh hotz for him because she is a female character in this idiotic film. When he doesn’t want to get with Fairuza she freaks out, because she is also crazy as well as poor and jealous and mean, and she thus uses a glamour spell to make herself look like PWRG, whereupon dry-humping ensues. Blah blah blah, Hunky Jerk is a jerk some more, so Fairuza uses her witch powers to kill him (which, in case you forgot, is what this movie should have been about—Fairuza Balk and company offing or at least punishing high school d-bags). So where do we go from here? Directly to a scene of PWRG crying on her father’s shoulder because she knows Hunky Jerk was good on the inside—that taste in your mouth is bile, just choke it back down.

I can’t even talk about the class trash going on where Fairuza’s character is concerned without getting so pissed off I just started mashing the keys unintelligibly, but trust me when I say her character is handled just as poorly as PWRG and everyone else. What could have been an awesome film about empowerment and solidarity and a cautionary tale for bullies and oppressors instead turns into a disenfranchising pile of garbage where the clear lesson is that seeking to redress the racism, misogyny, and general cruelty of your so-called peers inevitably leads you to corruption, jealousy, and madness. Better to just accept that you’re a freak and accept the abuse than try to fix things, amiright bullied teenage girls? What a fucking terrible, terrible movie.

High Points: Seeing Fairuza Balk enroll at the Hammer Horror School for Camp is pretty amazing, and she gets to wear a lot of great outfits to pair with her screaming tirades, so that’s something. The soundtrack, while nowhere near as good as, say, the Tank Girl CD, at least instills one with a sense of nostalgia for an age when this movie hadn’t yet been released but the music videos were on MTV and so you didn’t know how much the film itself was going to hurt your brain. That’s it.

Low Points: Just about everything else. Like, why couldn’t the girls worship Hekate instead of the bogus-sounding male entity Manon? Oh, because that would be cool, that’s why. (Molly adds: don’t forget that Hekate is a girl, and in this movie, only men may award women power and a sense of security.) Ugh.

Final Verdict: Stink, stank, stunk—but we still love you, Ms Balk!

Next Time: Tremors

So you guys know about Tea Party Jesus, right? The concept is brilliant–put the words of batshit Tea Partiers into the mouth of Jesus Christ Himself (as envisioned by people who draw Jesus for those little cards that have Him looking beatific and then there’s, like, the 23rd Psalm on the back), and then you get to click on the image to find out who said what! It’s like a game! Except there’s no way to win, and the only prizes awarded are the tears you shed as you realize how truly fucking insane the people leading this growing movement really are.

It’s all very informative and the call-outs are epic, though Tea Partiers I’m sure will view these less as a series of call-outs and more spreading good wholesome American-flag waving values such as that there’s a difference between being rubbed and being raped by a priest or that, um, interracial marriage and school integration will make kids’ sexual imprinting mechanisms go all haywire. Anyways, my favorite one of late has been about the socialist implications of eating fruits and vegetables:

Now, of course, one has only to spend five minutes in the company of a Tea Partier to find out the socialist implications of goddamn near everything in the universe, but still. What? Here’s the news article and what this insane republican is ACTUALLY talking about (hint: there was never any “danger” of the CDC calling you up to tell you to eat your broccoli). Good times. By which of course I mean the worst of times.

Of course, all the vitriol the Tea Party uses to fire up indignant retirees on medicare is just that. Yet, as we all know, words have power. They have the power to influence people and their actions, and when we see Tea Party politics put into action, people suffer. Terribly. Such as, oh for example, privatizing social services, a truly stupid concept Tea Partiers uniformly agree is fucking awesome and the Right Direction for America. And yet. . . what happens when we privatize, saaaaaay, the fire department?

Firefighters Let Family’s House Burn Down Because Owner Didn’t Pay $75 Fee

Take that, moochers!

So I seem to recall hearing some stuff recently about the genre community, unrepentant, vitriolic Islamophobia, bigotry going unpunished by so-called advocates for safe spaces, and–you know, look, if this isn’t ringing a bell, just stop reading, because I’m not going to recap what’s essentially been front page news for weeks in the Genre Writers with Internet Presence Times.

For weeks now I’ve been typing up half-posts, trying to figure out what’s been bothering me about this whole situation, and completely failing. But yesterday I was able to really identify for the first time the source of my discomfort. The smart, savvy Shweta Narayan asked an insightful question about WisCon’s decision to not strip Elizabeth Moon of her Guest of Honor status. She asked: Who do you think will, or should, carry the burden of the Teaching Moments at the con?

OK. Yes. Here is the thing: before posting her hateful screed against Muslims and their allegedly uncitizenlike behavior (you know, like always trying to build community centers and shit), Elizabeth Moon was in a position of power. From reading her bio on her website, we can see that she was a white, Christian American who was college-educated. She actually holds multiple college degrees. She had been taught by the Marines to use computers during the infancy of computer science. She was able to pursue a career in writing that led to her winning multiple high-profile awards.

Now, it does seem like Elizabeth Moon “earned” a lot of this “for herself,” which should be a signifier for every American reading this that she should be awarded the Holy Order of Horatio Alger. And yet, as people who like to critically engage with American notions of meritocracy know, she had herself a pretty hefty invisible knapsack of privilege. While some might describe this as “immaterial” (like, apparently, the fact that Muslims also died in the 9/11 attacks), it isn’t actually immaterial at all. It is essential for those who have benefited from unearned privilege (skin color, social class one was born into, gender, sexuality, whatever) to acknowledge they have benefited from that unearned privilege and and not cultivate a disingenuous “but I did it all by myself!” attitude which elides the very real help they’ve gotten from such. It shouldn’t (for reasonable people) diminish her accomplishments to acknowledge that she benefited from being white, Christian, etc. It does, however, contextualize those accomplishments, and it makes her ignorant ranting against Muslims who don’t “realize how much forbearance they’ve had” all the more upsetting.

So moving on, people feel icky about WisCon’s decision to keep Elizabeth Moon as the Guest of Honor. We should feel icky. Because, like I said in a somewhat roundabout way, Elizabeth Moon was in a position of power before she posted her lecture on “citizenship” (as envisioned by a white Christian ex-Marine), and Muslims in America were having their prayer rugs peed on and their mosques burned and their cemeteries being alleged as illegal and their proposed community centers being treated like. . . you know, I don’t even know what. Now, after posting her lecture on “citizenship,” Elizabeth Moon is still in a position of power, and American Muslims are still. . . I think I’ve made my point. The really shitty status quo goes unchallenged, due to people conflating “not wanting to engage in censorship” or “not wishing to violate someone’s first amendment rights” with the idea that with great power (free speech) comes great responsibility (accepting the consequences of your behavior when those consequences might be. . . saaaaaay. . . getting your Guest of Honor status revoked at a progressive convention).

WisCon, through their refusal to strip her Guest of Honor status, is basically saying “hey, it’s OK that you did this, it’s all a dialogue, right?” I mean, they’re actually saying that Elizabeth Moon “would make a positive contribution to WisCon” and she is “an idol who turns out to be human.” Well, as Saladin Ahmed pointed out, it’s not that “an idol turned out to be human,” it’s that “an idol” turned out to be “hateful and cruel and vicious.”* There’s–there’s a big difference there. And it also unfairly puts the burden of “dialogue” (and “teaching”) on Muslims, as Shweta pointed out.

And then there’s just the fact that the way Moon has behaved throughout this thing demonstrates that she doesn’t want to be taught or learn new stuff. I mean, if you’re going to be a bigot, at least be a brave bigot. Deleting 400+ comments, most of which, from what I saw, were of a “hey, being a jerk to 1 billion+ people makes you a jerk” nature makes you a coward, as does posting a snide note that amounted to “go home, kids,” as does locking the post against further comments but keeping it up. It certainly doesn’t indicate that she’s interested in dialogue or learning or, as WisCon put it so teeth-hurtingly, engaging in “a difficult conversation.” It indicates that she’s the sort of person who is right and everyone else is wrong/just doesn’t understand. And that is total bullshit, and she shouldn’t be rewarded for it.

Elizabeth Moon is a person who deliberately and unrepentantly put unnecessary stress on an already misunderstood and marginalized community. WisCon, by keeping Moon as a Guest of Honor and slapping together some panels and stuff to provide “balance,” is also putting stress on a misunderstood and marginalized community. In the wake of hateful shit being slung about, the people in power are still in power, and the people who are marginalized are still being marginalized. Nothing’s changed. And it just goes to show that when a bigot somewhat spectacularly shows her ass, as long as that ass is white, Christian, and economically successful, it’s totally OK.

***

*I’d like here to record Saladin’s entire comment, which I found extremely illuminating, but couldn’t find a way to neatly quote in text:

Even though some of them SHOW SIGNS of being civilized, these Muslims are dangerous and ungrateful” is not a position from which to launch reasonable discussion of our current political climate, any more than “Rape is bad, but women who dress that way are asking for it” is a reasonable point to start a discussion about rape. No one’s talking about barring her from the con–they’re talking about, in light of her remarks, an ostensibly progressive con not according her its highest honor.

I, Molly, would like to add: word.

Jesse Bullington and I have decided to embark upon a quest: watching “classic” adventure movies that informed one or both of our childhoods. These columns will run every Wednesday on our blogs, excluding the last post of each month, which will appear over at Fantasy Magazine. This week we tackle a TV show that. . . well. . . was a TV show in the mid-90s on MTV that taught me a lot about life, and no, I’m not talking about Beavis and Butt-Head.

Show: Æon Flux (animated series1991—1995)

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Created by Peter Chung, who also wrote and directed several of the episodes—Chung’s oeuvre includes Phantom 2040, the disappointing Sci-fi take on Alexander the Great Reign: the Conqueror, the Chronicles of Riddick animation Dark Fury, a segment for The Animatrix, and Nickelodeon’s Rugrats. The distinctive character design, Chung’s trademark, is based heavily on the work of early 20^th century artist and Klimt disciple Egon Schiele’. Scripts were by a lot of different people; I recall Japhet Asher, Liquid Television executive producer, wrote one of the episodes we sampled. Æon is voiced by Denise Poirer, a true 90s tv actor who one-off jobs for everything from Seinfeld to Frasier to Murphy Brown to 3^rd Rock from the Sun, as well as a regular stint on the Spawn animated series; Trevor Goodchild is voiced by John Rafter Lee, who voiced the main bad guy in the US dub of Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, as well as providing “additional voices” for the Yankee version of Princess Mononoke. Music by Drew Neumann, who also did the soundtracks for The Wild Thornberrys and Aaaahh!!! Real Monsters.

Quote: “That which does not kill us makes us stranger.”

Alternate quote: Æon: “You’re drooling on me!”

Trevor: “I’m a genius; therefore I can afford to drool.”

First viewing by Molly: I think they aired prior to The Maxx, which I somehow found out about and watched during 7^th grade? I think? Maybe 8^th?

First viewing by Jesse: Back in the day, when the short first started showing up on Liquid Television.

Most recent viewing by both: Last night

Impact on Molly’s childhood development: High as a Georgia pine. OMG. I had a poster up in my room FOR YEARS of Aeon that was signed by Peter Chung, and I wanted her hair more than anything in the whole world. Aeon Flux was a show that taught me a lot about things. . . things like time travel, bondage aesthetics, the grossness of watching two people’s tongues moistly connect outside their faces, how sometimes it’s OK if your plot doesn’t make a lick of sense, and the heady combination of power and sex. Also, bird-people.

Impact on Jesse’s childhood development: Moderate. The aesthetic of the show really worked for me on most levels, but the character design always squicked me out—everyone was too angular, like they were descended from greyhounds or something. I recall digging the earlier shorts more than the full length show, although I suspect that may have simply been a matter of exposure—I saw less of the actual episodes than I did of the Liquid TV shorts, and this Diet Pepsi commercial.

Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:

Molly’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Hesitant. I own the whole series on DVD, as a few years ago I got a gift certificate to a Borders and that was what I bought, for some reason? I was vaguely underwhelmed when I watched them, though—a sentiment I become increasingly more familiar with, due to this column—and promptly forgot I owned the series. Then Jesse and I were like “oh fuck, it’s Tuesday, what are we going to do for FoHA?” and I saw them whilst trawling for something to watch in my collection.

Jesse’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Fairly pleased by the prospect. As I said, I didn’t see a lot of the episodes when they first aired and have never been much of a tv person in general so I never caught any re-runs, but it always seemed like something I should like. Then again, I watched the live action movie and was less than impressed, so I had some grounding to not be too excited.

Molly’s thoughts post-viewing: Oh, I dunno. Jesse kinda summed up everything I felt about the experience below, bizarrely enough. . . so I’mma take the week off. PEACE (Jesse says: WTF, dude—you’re gonna get yours. Maybe not next week, maybe not the week after, but one of these columns you are totally in for it)!

Jesse’s thoughts post-viewing: Fun, in small doses. Overexposure strips some of the gloss, and this show is more about gloss than a Claire’s crossed with a Cinderella II’s. OK, so I feel really, seriously, intensely creepy about that last line (Molly says: as well you should, man. . .why do you even know those stores exist, unless it’s because you hang out there, offering to buy some girls a glittery barrette or something? [Jesse says: really? Really? You’re taking the week off from writing a proper column, but not from saying stuff like that? One of these days, Tanz…]), but it’s been chiseled into the stone of this dying loaner mac that hes…it…ates before letting me do anything, so I ain’t going back to take it out—just saying the show is style-heavy, is all.

Surprisingly, however, it isn’t a case of style over substance—the scripts of the episodes we sampled were very tight, if intentionally overwrought, and delectably weird. We watched three, of them, which I think had plots as follows: the episode “Thanatophobia” is about a couple who want to escape from their totalitarian city-state to the freedom-loving country literally next door, but instead wind up as disfigured sex-pawns for Æon and Trevor, who use their new conquests to make each other jealous though highly kinky, exhibitionist methods. At one point the couple manage to fuck through a gap in a border wall thanks to the woman’s missing vertebrae allowing her to stretch under a fence and provide him access to the surgical hole in her back where her artificial spine pops into place, presumably, but “it just isn’t the same.” (Molly adds: also, the title? What? “Fear of Death?” I still can’t figure out what the fuck that has to do with the episode, but given that the bird-people episode detailed below is called “Isthmus Crypticus”. . .”)

The next episode had to do with Trevor keeping a bird-woman as a possibly willing sex-slave, only to have Æon roll up in to liberate her. Unfortunately, Æon’s female assistant has a thing for a bird-man also in captivity, and before you can say don’t-touch-that-or-the-mother-will-abandon-it the assistant has shacked up with the bird-man, who is infested with deadly mites. For serious. The last episode we screened was the season finale and had Trevor getting hot and bothered over a psychic alien that doesn’t have orifices (“one would have to be creative”), Æon trying to prevent Trevor from killing half the planet only to kill the entire planet herself, and plenty of other weird shit that creeps me out just to think about.

Obviously the show is better than I remembered, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in a rush to re-watch the whole series. Æon and Trevor’s ever-changing but ever-present kinkiness gets to be a bit much after a while, and as every episode seems to revolve around Trevor wanting to fuck someone/something and/or achieve ultimate power, and Æon trying to thwart him for dubious reasons, the show becomes repetitive despite its disconnected, fragmentary nature. I also feel a little weird about Æon seeming to be defined solely by her jealousy/sexuality, but since that’s how it seems to roll for all of the characters I guess that makes it less rubbing. See, you can’t even talk about this show without sounding like a perv.

High Points: The high level of kink which, when combined with the high level of camp, comes across less as exploitive and more as simply freaky. The self-referentially nonsensical nature of the show, which works better than it has any right to. The tidy action sequences, which still look pretty cool.

Final Verdict: Even after all these years, it’s still a weird, nasty, but ultimately intriguing little program.

Next Time: Time Bandits over at Fantasy Magazine!

You are all aware by now that Jesse Bullington and I have decided to embark upon a quest: watching “classic” adventure movies that informed one or both of our childhoods. These columns will run every Wednesday on our blogs, excluding the last post of each month, which will appear over at Fantasy Magazine. This week we do some good work filling in yet another Arnold-shaped gap in my movie knowledge. . .

Film: Predator (1987)

AKA: Hunter (insert Frisky Dingo reference here), and Primevil—would it still be a classic if it had been saddled with this horrible title?

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Direction by John McTiernan, who once gave a less than convincing explanation for how his film Die Hard is actually an adaptation of A Midsummer’s Night Dream. Screenplay by Jim and John Thomas, who also penned the De Palma not-classic Mission to Mars. Not-really-all-that-appropriate soundtrack by Alan Silvestri (The Abyss, Lilo and Stitch), with a number by the always-appropriate Little Richard. Starring more beefcake than is really reasonable for a single film: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse “The Body” Ventura, Carl Weathers, Bill Duke, Sonny Landham, Kevin Peter Hall, and some other people who don’t deserve mention by virtue of not being super beasts, except maybe action movie screenwriter Shane Black, who plays the terrible nerd commando. Oh, and Elpidia Carrillo as the film’s single female character, who spends most of the time cowering.

Quote: “You’re ghostin’ us, motherfucker. I don’t care who you are back in the world, you give away our position one more time, I’ll bleed ya, real quiet.”

Alternate quote: “If it bleeds we can kill it.”

Alternate alternate quote: Not as strong guy: “You’re bleeding, man.” Stronger guy (Jesse the Body, specifically): “I ain’t got time to bleed.”

First viewing by Molly: A couple of nights ago.

First viewing by Jesse: Around eight years old.

Most recent viewing by both: A couple of nights ago.

Impact on Molly’s childhood development: Honestly, I had no idea there was even a monster in Predator until, seriously, I saw the trailer for Alien vs. Predator and I laughed bemusedly along with the rest of the theatre.

Impact on Jesse’s childhood development: Sizable. Mind, I didn’t actually watch the movie with sound for years after my initial viewing, which makes a pretty big difference in appreciating the film, though the muted viewing wasn’t the impediment to understanding that it would be for most movies.

See, when I first watched this I was a really little kid visiting my family in California because my grandfather was dying. He was at home, hospice being the only real option, and wasn’t conscious most of the time. Since the only tv was in his room—he loved to watch horse racing when he was awake—when my brother Aaron and my cousin John rented Predator they had to watch it with my semi-comatose grandfather right behind them, and obviously all the shouting and explosions and gunfire and flaying of human skin wouldn’t help a dying man find peace, so they did the considerate thing and put on head phones. There weren’t enough jacks for me to listen as well, so I had to watch in silence; well, not quite silence, since the wheezing of my grandfather was right beside me. Thinking back on it, I really hope he slept through the film and didn’t awake to images of skinned people strung up in the jungle where his ponies should have been. Even without sound the film made no small impression on me, I assure you.

Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:

Molly’s thoughts prior to watching:

(cell phone rings)

John:             Hey, Beez! What? Hold on, lemme ask. Hey Molly—Jesse wants to know if we                                     want to watch Predator tonight?

Me:                What? OK? I guess?

Jesse’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Pretty happy—Molly’s reactions to seeing these movies for the first time are usually every bit as entertaining as the films themselves, and I very much doubted Predator would be the exception to the rule. I also had beer and freedom fries, which enhances the viewing of such things exponentially. The only thing I was really worried about was whether or not the movie would set off my beef allergy, and so I kept benadryl at the ready lest I break out in hives.

Molly’s thoughts post-viewing: I know I have a degree in Women’s Studies, but fuck that noise, I’ve seen the light (hallelujah!) and that light is men. MEN. In the jungle. With MUSCLES. Solid, rippling man-flesh and man-cunning, and also sometimes a Native American with sixth sense to go with his man-flesh and man-cunning. Oh, and guns! Guns with lots and lots of bullets. But in the end, what matters is men. In the world of jungle, where a predator stalks the unwary, bullets can only take you so far. I know this now. It is man-muscles and man-brain that determine whether you’ll be skinned and hung from a tree by a snatch-faced alien, or standing above said alien until it’s time to book it away from a nuclear explosion. (Jesse says: really, it’s a small nuclear explosion, so it’s not as implausible as she’s making it sound. Also, Molly is forbidden from describing movie monsters in the future—not cool)

But seriously, wow. Wow! This movie. I got into trouble with my friend David for alleging that the first part of Predator has nothing to do with the actual movie itself, documented here in this Facebook conversation:

David: Molly, the beginning of that movie is the plot. Coincidentally an alien shows up, guns are fired, people die, but the real question remains–who is the strongest (physically that is) warrior? Only a power handshake can tell us who the greatest of foes for the predator can possibly be.

Molly: David, no. The beginning of the movie is entirely irrelevant. They could’ve plugged in any “reason” to get Arnold and Jesse the Body into South America to bazooka a bunch of huts (is that a verb? it is now!) and then get messed with by the Predator. I was unmoved at the time and remain nonplussed that Arnold’s team “only does rescue missions” or whatever, it makes no difference to his “character” since his character was mostly biceps and tying spikes to tree limbs with vines and the awesomeness of being called “Dutch” as a nickname. Which is pretty cool, don’t get me wrong–but the plot has nothing to do with the beef between the CIA and the Army or whatever Arnold and Carl Weathers argue about intensely for a few minutes before the explosions start.

David: Molly, you are mistaken and this is why. The power handshake (Jesse says: see clip below) determines not only who is the most powerful, as in who will be the champion, but also to show us the audience exactly what kind of champion we actually have. It is Dutch that will defeat any foe. As you can see, he [can] and will beat all foes in the way most fitting. Carl Weathers (or Dillon) tries to subdue Dutch with politics, but Dutch will hear no lies and defeats him with his own tactics. A handshake of unmatched power is the weapon against the enemies of freedom.

And yet.

Regardless, it is silly, and I liked it a lot. It’s not often that you find a film as educational as Predator—being in the Army is awesome; mud negates your body heat—as well as explaining perfectly why the citizens of California have elected Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Governator (a phrase that Wikipedia earnestly informs us is a “portmanteau” of Terminator and governor!) more than once. Seriously! Why? Because in one scene Dutch demands that Anna tell them what she saw; Anna has, up until that point, spoken only Spanish, but then, through the sheer willpower of man, Arnold Schwarzenegger (apparently) makes that girl speak English. From what I hear out of CA these days, that really, really matters to folks out there.

Jesse’s thoughts post-viewing: Jesus, man—fucking Predator. Molly’s reactions ranged from a mild gape to a full-on gawp at points, and I know my arms gained about three inches of thickness just from exposure to the testosterone levels. Really, there’s not much to be said about this film that hasn’t been said elsewhere, but holy goddamn hell, it is one stupid, loud, awesome film. My friend David wrote a paper in college breaking down the worth of the characters by their physical strength and BMI, and I’ve gotta say he hit the nail right on the head—strength is everything; well, strength, and an ability to set traps that would make Wile E. Coyote jealous.

Jean Claude Van Damme actually played the Predator for a few days before quitting and leaving the role to Kevin Peter Hall (who played Harry, of the Henderson Harrys); van Damme was apparently pissed that his face would not be shown. Sixty-four people die in the course of the film. The Predator’s blood is, indeed, made of the stuff inside glowsticks. All this is incidental, anecdotal, irrelevant: Arnold fights an alien badass in the jungle. That’s it.

High Points: The unapologetic and unintentionally hilarious machismo, which starts at farcical levels and only increases as the movie progresses. The Predator itself, which remains a pretty sweet cinematic monster. Arnold’s trap-building montage. The hand shake, which sums up the whole movie perfectly, as does the giggling in the background of the clip:

Final Verdict: Though Molly prefers her Arnold with long hair, sword, and loincloth, in terms of modern action movies where shit blows up and guns are fired, Predator is hard to match.