Binge watching the streams and eye-balling the books falling off the shelf. What a life.
Ever since I was laid off from my full-time job of eleven years I’ve been working part-time. That means the other part-time portion of my life is spent staying up late (thinking of you Joe Franklin) to rewatch all the shows and movies I’ve seen over the years while tallying up the new ones clogging the channels.
There’s something nostalgic and potentially mortifying when you do that. Nostalgic because you have fond memories of times spent in and around those shows, and mortifying when you approach them again with adult eyes, sometimes forcing you to figure out what your younger mind was thinking back then. Or, worse yet, generating friction between those memories and the reality of now. Times do change. What was fun and engrossing THEN can become but-that’s-not-how-I-remembered-it! So holding to those fixed points can be a mixed-up bag of rapture and remembrance or rupture and disappointment. For the most part, though, if nothing else, it helps keep the gray cells sparking along and can show how much you’ve grown (or not). Funny too, while time may change, it often repeats events, just swapping out old windows for new, but the dressing stays the same.
I didn’t watch Marvel’s Iron Fist during its first run and now find it underwhelming. At least I didn’t have a nostalgic attachment to it as I wasn’t a fan of the comics it sprang from. The lead actor, Finn Jones as Danny Rand, is not an ideal candidate for being a Master of Kung Fu, let alone wielding a glowing fist of power. He keeps reminding me of the Brady Bunch and I don’t want to be reminded of The Brady Bunch. Ever. The story drags a bit much too. Add in sluggish, ill-choreographed fight scenes that look like a bunch of grandmothers kicking it out and yeah, it’s a letdown. Sure, I’m spoiled by watching the John Wick movies and I did grow up watching Bruce Lee and Kung Fu flicks filled with kick ass action, fly into the air with ease bodies, and bone-crushing punches (with outrageous sound effects and less than stellar dubbing), all while seated, carefully, in seedy 1970s’ New York City movie theaters. But we’re talking the Iron Fist here, not Drunken Master. I’m almost done with season one, but not sure I’ll finish it. If I find something better to watch I may bail early.
Now, Marvel’s Jessica Jones: I caught the first season when it looped on Netflix, and recently finished the third season on Disney. Yes. I need to go back and watch season two, but season three played well without me knowing all the backstory. JJ is an interesting mix: it’s slow moving, but so is the character, and Krysten Ritter is a perfect fit in the role of the superhero turned private eye. JJ has that dim hallways, worn fedora hat feel of noir style, and Ritter carries the rain with her in every scene. After a while, watching her cry over her expensive liquor and lament her past, present, and future does gets tedious, but damn, the acting and storyline just keeps it pumping at low doses in such a way you can’t hang it up, even if she wants to. I’m watching season two now.
Hey, my interest just shifted! Sorry, Iron Fist (insert image of Open Fist waving goodbye).
One should not live by streaming alone, so…
I’m currently reading Horrifica: Collected Stories by Sheldon Woodbury (sounds like a rich person in a noir film, doesn’t it). Woodbury, a scriptwriter and former advertising agency suit, leans to the fatalistic darker side of life, with short stories that would fit nicely in an EC horror comic. He breaks them up into three categories: Grotesqueries, Monstrosities, and Depravities. His characters are usually headed one way (down), with few side stops along the way. So if that “side of life” snip had you mentally singing the song from Life of Brian, stop. Ain’t no bright serendipity or goodwill to be found in these pages. He keeps the horror very horrible indeed. Not gory, just horrific and very no way out.
I’m also reading a course in a book called Theology of Horror: The Hidden Depths of Popular Films by Ryan G. Duns (a Jesuit priest). I shy away from academically-inclined books mostly because their authors use the jargon-spin so prevalent in their fields, so it’s like trying to get into a private club when you’re all jeans and t-shirt. But Duns is different. He uses the jargon and lots of references to philosophy and religion (I keep my tablet nearby to lookup stuff, often :), but the breadth and depth of his writing, his analyses, is awesomely detailed, thoughtful, and instructive. So if you are looking for a theological exercise that seeks to illuminate the darkest corners of some classic horrors, this one’s for you. Heaven forbid, you may learn something and be a better horror fan for it.