The End of My Childhood : Amazing Spider-Man 700/ Superior Spider-Man 1

I’m going to try to get through this without any more (excessive) nerd-gushing or rivers of tears; if I don’t stop soon I may drown. The Amazing Spider-Man, in its 50 years of comic book history, has hosted some of the greatest and worst stories ever told in comic books (same goes for the art). But throughout it all, one thing has remained constant; Peter Parker. Mr. Parker is the heart of Spider-Man, the true source of the power that makes Spidey an idol, a hero, and very loveable, something few other comic book titles can claim. When the man underneath the mask is the true source of power behind a superhero – not the hammer of a god, billions of dollars in gadgets, not cosmic rays or military black ops – a hero has truly become an amazing character (there are more of these puns, and I am not sorry).

            More than anything else, Peter Parker is what made Spidey my favorite superhero of all time. Undeniably, there have been better comic books, speaking from a critical point. The same may go for characters; I am willing to admit there may exist other characters with more complex backstories, less bullshit retconns, supporting casts that have not always functioned as crutches, etc. But, in my opinion, (and I am sure in many others) none of them are better at being heroes. Despite having one of the coolest super powers ever, they do nothing to aid the very human drama of the Parker Luck (in fact, you could say they only make it harder). Peter Parker is constantly (under good writing direction0 suffering in one capacity; be it at the receiving end of a cybernetic tentacle lash, girl troubles, lack of rent, trouble with the Avengers, whatever it may be, Parker has never gotten a break. But he never gives up. Sure, there aren’t many good superheroes who do give up, but it’s Peter Parker’s freaking uncle (who takes the award for best supporting cast member in comic book history easily) who coined the phrase that is driving philosophy behind social responsibility (that the heart of all good superhero stories lie at, really, in one way or another).

“With great power...” Peter Parker coughs, dieing in Doc Ock’s diseased body, “Must come great responsibility.” Dock Ock finishes, after living through all of Pete’s life after Peter manages to establish a brain link via the same technology that Ock used to switch their bodies in the first place.

Peter Parker’s legacy is so powerful that he successfully converts his first supervillain ever (really, look it up) into using Spider-Man’s body for good! Peter Parker’s sense of responsibility, duty, courage and capacity for sacrifice is so strong that Peter’s death is his greatest victory, really – he could never bring himself to kill Doc Ock…And now Peter has him fighting the good fight!

To me, ASM #700 is a well-written love letter to Peter Parker, who for me, Dan Slott, and am sure many other Spidey-lovers out there is the true heart and soul of the character, what makes him so powerful. Slott has managed to distill Spidey’s webbed quintessence, so to speak, and exposed it for all of us to examine. Peter Parker’s death scene is a testament to this; his idea of paradise is not wealth, success, victory over his enemies, power, or any of that, but finding the loved ones he has lost in his endless struggle at peace, and being forgiven and praised. Peter Parker does not truly think of himself, much like readers do, as just Spider-Man; his undeniably a person, flawed and fragile, yet so very strong because of it, rather than in spite of. It is truly heart-warming, and if you can’t at least recognize the sentimental value Slott has touched upon, I think you just don’t understand the heart of Spider-Man.

You see, all of ASM # 700 has reminded us that the amazing Spider-Man we have grown to love over fifty years is truly at his best, his strongest, his most courageous, when he’s most like Peter Parker. This is truly the prototypical Modern Age Comic – a clear display of affection, understanding, and love for the storied legacies these characters have created, yet an eagerness to re-imagine, to humanize, let loose the imagination, and create change (or the illusion of).

And that brings us to Superior Spider-Man # 1. I picked it up alongside ASM #700. I have high hopes for the book. Dan Slott has proven he understands the Webhead as well as any Spidey fan, and it will be interesting to read his reimagining of it. I have no illusions that, some years down the line, marvel will bring Pete back and make lots of money – no good hero stays dead. But for now I believe the Superior Spider-Man presents an interesting direction for Spider-Man stories to explore, a darker Spider-Man willing to push the boundaries of the traditional Spidey morality (literally held back by Peter’s conscience, coexisting in his body alongside Doc Ock’s brain, struggling for control).

The first issue of SSM introduces us to this tone, and does a pretty effective job of it. Stegman’s art is good and, in my opinion, superior to Ramos’ on the last issues of ASM, which became a little less stylized and simply more unproportional towards the end of his run. Slott’s dialogue, as always, is engaging. Spidey-Ock strikes a fine line between the traditional Spidey quips and his snotty, “SCIENCE!” personality. Spidey-Ock also allows Slott to bring in more of the hard science elements that used to be essential to Spidey’s crimefighting (and also explored on Slott’s ASM run). I’m fairly certain Slott wants to use this angle to further explore the issue of the moral lesson at the heart of almost every superhero origin – “I won’t kill, even evil people, because every live is valuable”. Slott teased us with this during the Spider Island event, and it was made abundantly clear in ASM # 700 – until he has absolutely no other option left, Spidey still tries to save Dock Ock’s life, even when brain-switched. Dock Ock’s brutality is effective – even at the end of ASM # 700 we see him knocking Scorpion’s jaw off because, unlike Spidey, he did not hold back with his super strength, unwilling to hurt someone. There is some potential here for some great philosophizing on this time-tested ideal, and in the context of the story – the death of one of the oldest and most beloved super-powered proponents of this morality – is made all the more effective. I

At the moment, I’m still concerned about Spidey-Ock’s relationship with MJ. Sure, I have nothing against Peter Parker and Mary Jane reuniting – I believe their relationship/marriage is not necessarily bad, just another story element that can be utilized effectively by a skilled writer or clumsily mismanaged by a bad one. But MJ doesn’t know Spidey-Ock is not entirely Peter anymore. I like to imagine Peter’s consciousness keeps Spidey-Ock from doing anything, but the implications, frankly, are gross. I hope Slott discusses this more; I’ve seen a few hints in the beginning of SSM that MJ detects something is a little off with Peter. Hopefully this issue will be addressed (and could potentially be an interesting plot point), rather than ignored, as again; the longer it goes silent, the easier it is to think the worst. Not so much a plot hole as it is just a pot hole in the story – uncomfortable to get through and desperately needing to be filled in order to smooth out the overall plot.

Besides that, however, I feel we need to give Slott a chance on SSM before decrying the end of ASM another Clone Saga. Slott’s proven his chops with his heartfelt ending of ASM; give him a few dozen issues to play with the new status quo he’s created and see if he can make any good stories. Reading SSM #1 clearly shows us Slott has much more planned, that he’s barely scratched the surface. If not, we can partake in the time-honored comic fan tradition of flooding the internet, sending death threats via mail of both the physical and digital varieties, and burning down houses.

Keep thinking,

Jordan

Bioshock 2 and Video Games as Art

Bioshock is one of my favorite games ever, and is really one of the few pieces of genuinely potent ammunition gamers have in fighting the “are video games art” battle against the naysayers (who are all mostly snobby middle-aged men who will die before I do and leave video games culturally accepted as a significant form of entertainment and thought). Its popularity was well-deserved and I hope it serves as a model for future game designers and writers in creating thoughtful narratives and interesting gameplay that is associated with said narrative not by “and then” clauses but “therefore” clauses. (In other words, the gameplay and story are not two separate entities but entertwined)

But I just needed to gush a bit. Greater minds than I have already tackled Bioshock and generated thought-provoking and intelligent critiques.
(see http://clicknothing.typepad.com/click_nothing/2007/10/ludonarrative-d.html)

Instead I’d like to discuss Bioshock 2, partly because I’ve only just gotten around to playing it and partly because I simply haven’t personally seen any discussion about it on the level the original Bioshock was critiqued.

This isn’t a game review, and, because I am so fond of them, this critique is rife with spoilers. I’ll focus on the games narrative and ludic (I know, I’m borrowing) elements and try to understand how they come together to create a comprehensive story, or in what ways they fail to come together.

Let’s start with the audio logs, a phenomenon pretty much singlehandedly begun by Bioshock, as far as my gaming knowledge extends. Rather than directly hammer the player with exposition, the player encounters audio logs left behind by the usually long-since-dead citizens of rapture, and often by their corpses that completes the stories on the audio logs. These logs featured monologues (with excellent voice acting and writing, for the most part)  that progressed the story, filled in background details, or effectively created atmosphere. This useful method of delivering story has since been copied and (mostly) misused by many other modern games, and Bioshock still remains the king of doing audio logs right (more on this in a bit).

One of video games’ most unique opportunities as an art form is to create atmosphere. Atmosphere, or game feel, or whatever you want to call it, is unique to video games and can truly involve a player in its world by making the world feel real, not just look, sound, or read real. Bioshock accomplished this so well and made its Objectivist critique so much more powerful and its plot turns so much more effective, from a storytelling point, by making the player invest himself in this textured, organic world of Rapture.

Bioshock 2, unfortunately, has a nasty case of “sequelitis” and mostly gets it wrong. The art direction, environments, and sound design is still on point; though perhaps these elements feel less effective because we’d already seen the world of Rapture in the first Bioshock and did not experience as much surprise. The audio logs do not help enhance the world of Bioshock 2; they instead do the opposite and create disconnections.

In Bioshock 2, the audio logs are mostly those of Sofia Lamb, a few of Andrew Ryan, and many other key players in the plot. This is fine, but when you’re trekking down a hidden passageway you only managed to access by dint of electro bolt’ing a jammed door open and find a store of weaponry and loot, it’s pretty surprising to find a personal diary entry from Sofia Lamb, a psychologist and main villain of the game’s narrative, just lying around. Sure, the audio logs are still well-written (though I do have some problems with them I’ll get to next) and acted, but why the hell am I finding these things scattered everywhere I go? Some locations I find them in make sense, like those detailing Eleanor Lamb’s care under Sofia Lamb in her old daycare, but why am I finding them scattered across Rapture in a storage closet, or some other unlikely area? The original Bioshock mostly featured random citizens from Rapture and always made sure it’s audio logs fit in their surroundings; Bioshock 2 does not accomplish this and creates a big disconnection. It may not seem like such a big issue, but it is a pretty confusing plothole in a franchise so concerned with telling a cohesive, well-structured and intelligent story.

The main reason I have a problem with this is because it ruins the game’s atmosphere, or game feel. Instead of finding an audio log and having my spine chilled when its owner reveals the corpse laying on the bed next to it committed suicide after refusing to splice up like her neighbors gone rabid, I am confused as to what a recording of Andrew Ryan’s grumblings on Sofia Lamb are doing lying around an underwater subway station. The reason this is such a big problem is because game feel is the video game medium’s strongest artistic tool in affecting a player and creating a compelling story. This disconnect concerning the audio logs throws a serious wrench in Bioshock 2’s atmosphere if you stop and think about it for a second.

On the subject of game feel, Bioshock 2’s ludic (or, roughly, specific story-related gameplay elements) elements also disrupt the game’s atmosphere. In the original Bioshock, you are just as new to this incredibly foreign and hostile environment as the character you play as. There’s a reason, at first, you die in two bullets and struggle taking down a handful of enemies; you’re just an average dude. But by the end of the game you can take a few more shots (with the help of some mystical healing drugs) and with some strategizing, utilize your genetic mutations to take down groups of advanced enemies. This progression is great, and helps the player understand the story of the (literal?) genetic rat race that the Objectivist utopia of Rapture has devolved into by directly forcing them to play it out.

Unfortunately, this design makes no sense in Bioshock 2, even though it is imitated perfectly. The player begins the game struggling to handle foes and dying very easily to most enemies, which would make sense if you were another average person, but not when the player is Delta, one of the first and most powerful Big Daddies that has a giant drill attached to his arm. Story-wise, it makes no sense to be so weak; part of the Bioshock story is the build up of the Big Daddy enemies as the most fearsome creatures around, at the top of Rapture’s ecology. If the story wants the player to believe they are a Big Daddy, why make them feel like they are just a dude who happens to have a drill for an arm? The enemy Big Daddies still take tons of punishment and are able to act as they did in the previous game, but the player cannot.

Admittedly, yes, by the end of Bioshock 2 the player is much more capable than ever before, but there is a strange feeling of being made of flesh rather than pressure-proof steel. This ludic storytelling element of vulnerability the player feels works so well in the story the first Bioshock does but works directly against the narrative of Bioshock 2. This vulnerability would make sense when the player faces a foe the story indicates they are supposed to feel vulnerable against- the Big Sisters, for example – but not when facing an average splicer the story of Bioshock makes clear is no threat to a Big Daddy.

Back to the audio logs, and this time I’d like to discuss the story they tell. The original Bioshock delivered a very thought-provoking examination of Ayn Rand’s Objectivist philosophy, particularly through the brilliant character of Andrew Ryan (get it?), founder of Rapture, Objectivist paradise. This examination even echoed on a meta level, exploring why we as human beings concede independence in certain situations, like playing video games, and are willing to mindlessly heed instructions without further thought. Bioshock 2, admirably, recognizes this story has been told and done so masterfully, and instead decides to tackle the opposite in Sofia Lamb, the collectivist.

Sofia Lamb functions as an anti-Andrew Ryan. Where Andrew Ryan preached the importance of the self and Objectivism, Lamb preached disregarding the self and the importance of society as the whoke, even functioning as a single organism, or her cult-like “Family”. Lamb’s Family takes over after Rapture has fallen apart and Andrew Ryan’s death, and the driving force of the plot is that she is making the player’s daughter, Eleanor Lamb, by dint of science and ADAM (no, really, that’s the explanation) into the perfect Utopian Big Sister, completely unaware of the self and devoted to the goals of the Family.

Props for originality and attempting something new. I enjoyed the story, for the most part, but honestly never felt it directly afflicted the player as it did in the original Bioshock. I know it’s not really fair to critique a work of art directly relative to another work, but as a sequel, one can at least the former work as a point of comparison, no? Bioshock 2 never really forces the player to directly confront or deal with issues regarding Lamb’s Collectivist philosophy. It seems to just sort of exist because Ryan was a selfish megalomaniac, and now we need something new. The decisions left to the player, such as sparing certain members of the Rapture Family, or rescuing or harvesting Little Sisters, function more as little morality tales instead of resonating with the game’s overarching theme of Collectivism. Those choices are fine, but they feel arbitrary and disassociated from the game’s major theme, and more like other characters have told you, “Hey, this person was a jerk, you could kill them, or maybe forgive them, whatever, up to you dude, no prob.”

As a game, Bioshock 2 is pretty fun, but ultimately fails to grasp what makes the original title’s story such an impressive piece of art. As a work of art, I don't think it strikes any particular chords. The story it tells is better than the average slop most developers stick their unfortunate games with, but does not develop its theme well or accomplish any succesfull thought-exploration or critiquing, in its narrative or ludic storytelling elements.

All that said, it’s still pretty fun to run across a room at someone frozen solid and then shatter them into tiny little pieces with a giant drill arm.

What do you think? Did you like the game? Why or why not? Am I spouting drivel? Don’t let me get away with it!

Keep thinking,

Jordan

Looking for Alaska and the Problem of Tone

Before I dig into Looking for Alaska, I’d like to make it clear I think John Green is one of my favorite human beings. The world would be a better place with more people like him. He’s caring, kind, likeable, has a sense of humor, and has done a lot for youth literacy and people who need help in general. I am sure there many people out there who discovered the power of reading thanks to Green, and for that service, Green will always command my respect.

But something about Looking for Alaska does not sit well with me. Something about it makes me uncomfortable, and I honestly had difficulty making it through to the end.

 By no means is this due to bad writing. I think Green is, for the most part, a great writer. I enjoy his colloquial tone and the greatest strength of Looking For Alaska is its ability to create interesting (if not necessarily likeable) and unique characters, along with a very vivid and textured setting. Culver Creek feels like a very real place, a place I want to visit. It could hold a Great Perhaps, as our narrator Pudge would put it, for everyone. Green’s voice is very strong and I never felt like I was being lectured or simply informed by-the-by, the effect bad first person POV tends to have on the reader. I was even reminded a bit of the boarding school from Rockstar Studio’s Bully, a vastly underrated sixth-generation video game that told an excellent coming-of-age story and really succeeded in creating a unique world. The many metaphors drawn from last words are effective, poetic and work well (up until I begin having problems with the novel, as you’ll see).

I digress. The writing is not what kept me from completely enjoying Looking for Alaska. It was the tone.

I could not tell, particularly with ( FAIR WARNING MAJOR SPOILERS SERIOUSLY THIS WILL RUIN THE BOOKS INTENDED EFFECT SO DONT GO AHEAD IF YOU PLAN TO READ IT OR CARE ABOUT THE PLOT MUCH OK IM JUST SAYING READER) the death of Alaska Young that separates the before and after sections of the novel, how I was supposed to take these characters, to understand what they were saying.

 The first third of the book strikes me as a whimsical, charming story about acceptance and "fitting in" as an introverted, gawky, nerdy teenager. Nothing wrong with those stories, they're popular for a reason. Green succeeds in telling a story in the style of said archetype pretty well. Pudge, our narrator, is believably gawky, not the sort of 1950’s sitcom nerd fiction loves to depict. His friends, The Colonel, Takumi, and Lara defy most stereotypes (Lara even does a pretty good job of staying away from the typical Eastern European cliché, for the most part). Takumi in particular worked for me the best, in the sense that he was a textured character, interesting, and never did anything that brought me out of the reality of Culver Creek Green creates. The setting and those characters are filled with all of the tiny yet very important details that make up a real person.

The tone of the novel, however, becomes conflicted and gives me some serious problem once we really start seeing more of Alaska Young’s character. Honestly, looking back, I don’t think I particularly liked Alaska, and it’s absolutely fine to create a character that is not inherently likeable – but Green never makes it clear if we’re supposed to like her or not. I think this makes for some serious flaws in connecting with the characters and understanding what the hell we’re supposed to take from their wandering around the great labyrinth of suffering, as Pudge might say.

The whole time I was reading Alaska’s character, I wanted to tell her to grow the fuck up. I know this is a book intended for “young adults” (which is easily the most condescending genre ever), but often the mark of a good work of art is its ability to be enjoyed and understood by those outside its target audience (see Adventure Time, almost every Nintendo Game ever, the Harry Potter series, etc). Alaska is angst-filled and mysterious, quoting poetry and constantly yammering on about “inverting the patriarchal paradigm”. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing wrong with strong, feminist characters. But Alaska feels like a parody one, and if we’re meant to take her seriously Green has inadvertently created a very sexist female figure!

 For all of Alaska’s rambling on about the objectification of women and patriarchy, she conforms to a patriarchal system herself. She’s implied to be constantly flirty and moody, and almost always talking about her omnipresent boyfriend Jake (who seems to take the news of her death and the fact Pudge and the Colonel did nothing to stop it pretty nonchalantly, the douchebag). The very first description we get of Alaska is about her body; Pudge notes she is the “hottest girl” he has ever seen. She often collapses into a crying wreck and seems to default on toying with Pudge’s emotions as a way of dealing with her problems. That sounds like a pretty sexist stereotype of attractive women to me. Even worse, even her closest friend, the Colonel, repeats throughout the novel “she can be a bitch, that’s part of Alaska”. So we’re to assume it is okay she’s just mean and rude to her closest friends merely because she’s a hot woman, and that’s just how they are?

I know the explanation the novel gives us is Alaska’s troubled past – she feels like it’s her fault her mother died when she was an eight year old child. But it’s so difficult to feel sympathetic for her due to this constant mysterious allure and mask of stoicism she hides behind, not to mention her constant “bitchy” moods. I get she’s hot. She’s got great tits. So I guess that’s enough to fall completely in love with her, obsessively so (referring to our narrator Pudge here) despite her serious emotional issues. Doesn’t this seem like a very sexist depiction of the very few female figures we’re given in the novel?

Now, this criticism is really only valid if green intends us to take her sincerely. If the intended tone of Alaska’s characterization is satirical instead, I get it. Green would then be demonstrating the destructive qualities of acting in the way Alaska does, and hiding behind a wall of pseudo-intellectualism in place of having a personality beyond being very flirtatious, hot, and mean to everyone. But reading from Pudge’s POV, I honestly don’t think this is a satirical novel. Pudge often waxes poetical throughout the novel (and I mean often like as often as Michael Bay blows shit up) about love, if Alaska like shim, so and so forth. He’s clearly bought her charade, and it seems Green wants the reader to buy it alongside Pudge. I never feel the words Pudge speaks are done so with any sort of dramatic irony; green never intends to distance us from the characters and their emotions. Instead we delve very deep into them and are intended to connect with them as much as possible. We’re meant to take this at face value, Alaska as a serious character, and the key relationship with Alaska everyone has fails when we accept this in a non-satirical light.

It’s a shame, because I really want to enjoy Looking for Alaska, but this thematic dissonance pulls me out of the story. Our narrator is so much harder to connect with or even believe as a credible storyteller when he keeps professing his love for Alaska while making out with a curvy (again, tities=feminism!) Romanian girl. I understand their only teenagers, and again, the characterization seems to want to be a parody of teenage angst, but the seriousness of Alaska’s death makes it impossible to read the story in that way. Their grief is real and believable, and I know it cannot be easy to deal with such a loss – but I don’t see any real change in the characters, particularly our narrator, at all throughout the grieving process. I mean, the Colonel pretty much hits the nail on the head when he describes our narrator as more obsessed with this fantasy love affair he created with Alaska (objectification of female sexuality as a prize rather than part of a person=feminism!), and even after being called out for it he never really changes his attitude there. To be fair, the last essay he writes that indicate Pudge is okay with Alaska being a mystery to him, but never once do I see a moment of self-realization where he says “holy shit, I’ve been a huge twat.”

I can't help but see the stupid mistakes I made as an obnoxious teenager I made in all of the characters. In that sense, I give Looking for Alaska credit; the characters are undeniably teens. Perhaps there's a little bit of self-loathing in my critique, but again; due to the novel's unclear tone, I am not sure if I am to feel sympathetic for these naive teens, as genuine people trying to understand their lives or see them as parodies of the age, or something else entirely.

I feel like this novel works as an excellent exploration of teenage inability to deal with love, emotion, trouble, and the need for guidance and development. In this regard, I’m glad the book is being taught more often in English classes around the world and so popular. I just think we ought to discuss the issue of its tonality I have brought up, because it is essential as to how the author intends for us to receive the message of Looking for Alaska. And despite Green’s writing chops, all the book left me with was difficult-to-like obnoxious narrator in love with an even bigger jerk who doesn’t seem to register the fact that the person (not the fantasy he created) is what died that night.

But that’s just me. Maybe you have a different idea. Don’t let me get away with this if you do. Let me know what you think.

Keep thinking,

Jordan

Django Unchained and The Fine Line Between Absurdity and Reality

So Quentin Tarantino made a movie about slavery, except it isn’t.

Not most importantly, I think.

Django Unchained (which will be called Django for convenience’s sake) is Quentin Terentino’s latest film, as of this writing, and in its short time in theaters has already gathered plenty of foot and praise alike, perhaps most notably Spike Lee’s  reaction. I don’t feel I that I have to give Django, its creator, or other people’s reactions any sort of long-winded introduction. Others far more capable than I have already done so, and above all I will argue it’s just a really entertaining film worth the long running time (approximately 165 minutes I believe).

Fair warning; SPOILERS. I don’t consider this a review of the movie because, again, others more capable and qualified than I have already done this and will do so. Instead, I’d like to critique it and point out what I saw at work, and am interested to see what lights up in the cavernous recesses of your brains. As such, I assume you’ve already seen the movie, as I have, and I can use the material as a reference point for my arguements

I’ll begin with what I immediately struggled with at first; racism. It is impossible to make a movie set in the antebellum south and ignore racism (unless the movie is just really fucking racist) and Django is no exception. One fairly common reaction I’ve noticed to Django is that the movie is disrespectful. A blaxploitation/spaghetti-western mash-up set in 1858 directed by Quentin Tarantino? I see where this knee-jerk reaction comes from, but Django addressed racism with great delicacy, avoiding preachyness or ham-fisted condemnations, even though it is not a movie primarily about racism (more on this in a bit).

Tarantino’s movies always feature ridiculous over-the-top violence, and once again, Django is no exception. The very first scene reminds us of this when one of the Speck brothers’ brian matter is blown to red jell-o by one of Dr. Schulz’s gunshots and the other Speck’s brother’s leg is crushed (accompanied by appropriate crunchy sound effect) underneath a dead horse. The violence in Tarantino’s movies has always been over-the-top, dramatized, a bit surreal, encouraging us not to view the action as realistic. In some cases it is glorified; certainly Django’s incredibly well-done shoot-out with all of the hired guns on the Candie plantation in the Big House attests to this. But Django’s approach to violence differs in one key way from Tarantino’s usual depiction of violence.

When the violence is directed toward innocents, particularly slaves, and performed at the hands of the cruel white slave-owners, its tone changes completely. The “Mandingo fight” we see when first introduced to Calvin Candie (great job, by the way, DiCaprio. Almost steals the show from Christopher Waltz) is not over-the-top. It is not accompanied by any of the film’s genre-appropriate soundtrack. We don’t see any gallons of blood flying around like the splash zone at a Shamu show in SeaWorld. Instead, we see two slaves, sweating and bleeding and clawing at each other. The action is not glorified, aesthetically ‘cool’, and truly cringe-inducing. It is brutal, realistic, and not easy to watch. This tone appears again when we see Django’s wife whipped and the runaway slave torn away by a pack of dogs. Django does not invite its viewer to enjoy this violence, as it does when Django kills his former slave overseers, for example, or any of the other “justified” violence. Django makes it very clear this is wrong, and it is no coincidence this tonality appears when the violence is the result of slavery. In this way I believe Django encourages to the audience to feel that slavery is wrong, rather than merely telling us so (which Dr. Schulz’s character does, anyway, I think).

Django Unchained consistently treads this line between over-the-top satire and the horrors of slavery. I do not believe this is disrespectful at all, because Django knows where this line is drawn and never oversteps its boundaries. Another example of this, besides the movie’s dichotomy of violence, is the use of the word nigger.

The movie’s use of the word nigger particularly interests me, because I believe the evolution of its use in the movie mirrors the evolution of its use in our own world. In the beginning of the movie, white racists use the word very clearly as a racial slur. Dr. Schulz, one of the very few (only? I can’t remember at the moment, but I will clarify once I see the movie again) whites in the movie who is not a racist, only uses the word when he must blend in with other white racists for the purpose of aiding Django in his quest to save Django’s love, Brunhilde. Django himself, at times, even uses the word when referring to other Blacks, and it seems like he does this because at the time the dominant, white supremacist culture of the time only allows him to see his own race through the dominant culture’s very bigoted, biased eyes. Samuel L Jackson’s character (another great performance by the way) Stephen the “Head House Nigger”, uses the word with the exact same connotation and intent the white supremacists of the cast use the word.

           

Perhaps I’ve been paying attention to much in Sociology, but as the character of Django grows stronger (he learns to trust in his gunslinging abilities, gains confidence in his friendship with Schulz, etc.) his usage of the word seems to change. In a sense, I argue, he reclaims it. He uses the word not so much as an insult but simply to refer to others, even if they are not black. I refer most famously to the very final scene when he returns to the Big House to exact his revenge. After firing six shots, Billy Cash (the racist asshole who tried to cut off Django’s balls, remember?) claims he has counted six bullets and seems confident, but Django confidently quips, “I count two guns, niggah,” and shoots Billy Cash with said second gun. Besides making for an excellent exchange, it is also demonstrates the transformation of the word nigger in the movie. Even its very pronunciation changes; nigga. I read this as Django’s acceptance of his racial identity, and it is that confidence and strength that allows him to defeat his oppressors and save his lover.

All that said, I feel Django handles race very well. Tarantino seems always aware of the limitations of the oddball niche of a genre he’s carved for himself, yet is not afraid to confront the viewer with some fucked up shit. Because the movie is able to balance its satirical elements and more serious elements with such sincerity, it never feels offensive or like its “missing the point”. The movie is by no means a realistic depiction of racial relations in the antebellum South, but it certainly adopts an appropriate and empowering depiction of race.

But despite this, I don’t think Django is a story about race, and that is where it succeeds so well in my book. It’s really a form of the Hero’s Journey, the great Monomyth that is simultaneously overrated and responsible for some really great stories. It is a story that transcends cultural boundaries and very well told; anyone can enjoy it and relate to it, be they victim of America’s racist hegemony or not. (Though maybe that’s a story for another time…)

Think about it. Django is called to his adventure by Dr. King (get it?) Schultz, literally unchained. In a way, this help is supernatural for the antebellum south; a racially progressive white man in the south that can recognize Django as a person despite the color of his skin, and also seems to bestow upon Django some inhumanely badass gunslinging skills ala the original Django (See Franco Nero)? That’s some supernatural shit. Schultz serves as both helper and mentor, and finetunes Django’s skills through a winter of bounty hunting; Django hereby faces his Challenges. Django faces his temptations in Candieland, where he must keep his anger controlled in the face of blatant racism and abuse in order to have a chance at saving Brunhilde.

Then Django falls into the Abyss; Schulz snaps and kills Candie, rendering their plans pointless and Django is captured and again sold into slavery. But Django has already undergone his Transformation; he is not the same man he was before, and is able to trick his captors into setting him free and returns to the Big House to exact revenge. He also has at this point a Meeting with a Goddess; Brundhilde, his lover, at long last. Now with all that he has accrued on his journey, he is able to finally defeat his oppresses, the destruction of the Big House both a literal defeat and a metaphorical destruction of the south’s system of slavery. All this accomplished, Django is able to return, with Brunhilde at his side, not to the plantation where they likely met, but their true original forms as human beings; as free!

The entire point of this little plot breakdown was to try to illustrate what I think is the brilliant design of Django’s plot. While the presence of all of the elements of the Monomyth do not necessarily an excellent story make, they do ensure the story is balanced. Django is able to balance its most absurd and most serious themes very successfully, partly thanks to its excellent plot I have just outlined. Part of the reason the Monomyth is so common in our storytelling is because, on a human level, it engages some of our strongest emotions; love, lost, anger, fear, etc.

Django is more so a movie, I contend, about White Supremacy than racism, necessarily. The antebellum south is certainly a great place to set such a critical discussion on, because never has a certain culture embraced white supremacy like the antebellum south did (except maybe the Barack Obama’s Dead Fly Facebook page and the Stormfront message boards). I use the character of Dr. King Schultz to support this argument, and it is not only Christopher Waltz’s fantastic performance that makes this character so central to this particularly element of Django.

Besides the allusion to certain other Dr. King, Schulz is a fantastic character to place in the world of Django. A white man who, by dint of appearance, is able to easily blend in among the white supremacist culture of the antebellum south, yet his ideals are very different.

(Before I go on, I’d like to point out a very subtle idea Tarantino plays with here, the idea that race and everything it brings with it is only skin deep rather than a social construction. By that, I mean simply by being white colored like Dr. Schulz, other characters of the antebellum south, even Django at first, assume he is like every other racist white bigot in the area. Yet this assumption always leads to these characters’ downfall, often at the end of Schulz’s revolver in a spectular explosion of blood and bone. They are unable to fathom a white man may not be racist not only because they don’t know anything else, but because he looks just like them, he must act the same! The social construction of race is something we never really discuss in our education our storytelling environments and I honestly wish Tarantino had explored this even more, though I am aware Django is not really the movie to do so and it would have likely ruined the overall exeperience. That said, moving on…)

But coming from Germany, a place where “they don’t got niggers” as one of the white characters of the cast helpfully points out (I believe it was one of Calvin Candie’s cohorts), Schulz was not raised in a culture where interaction between two races made white supremacy a daily reality. Free of this bias, Schulz is able to see blacks as people, not property, not as “niggers”, or as anything lesser. He recognizes their humanity; hell, he even jokes at one point, as a German, he is bound to help a “real life Siegfried” when helping Django rescue Brunhilde.

Shculz truly allows Tarantino to play with the idea of the knight in shining white armor as Django, a black man, and though this is probably obvious, it is just such a nice, refreshing to see I have to point it out. Really, as a culture, we need more discussions on race, be willing to view minorities as more than just their race (though never be racially color blind, as that’s just as bad), and if nothing else Django accomplishes this.

To me, Django’s main criticism lies with white supremacy. No white supremacist is left standing – literally. They all die. All of them. Most of them killed by Django. The forerunners to the KKK (who would surface until after the Civil War)? Exploded by dynamite and shot by Django’s rifle. The racist sheriff? Shot dead by Schulz. Django’s former overseers and opressers? Every single one of them dead by the time the credit rolls. This particular message isn’t subtle at all; white supremacy isn’t cool. Don’t do it, or Django will kill you.

But in all seriousness, the movie reserves most of its satire for the white supremacists I have repeated so often. I could discuss many scenes, but what comes to mind first is Calvin Candie’s great scene with the skull of one of his older slaves, the former “Head House Nigger”. His wholehearted conviction that “three dimples” are entirely responsible for the inferiority of an entire race is serious to the point of hilarity. It’s a great scene that shows just how ridiculous this kind of bigotry is when a true proponent of it explains its justification. It is interesting to note, however, that while the satirical tone of the scene is clear to the audience, it is not so much for our protagonists being held at gunpoint. Admittedly, this is likely due to them being held at gunpoint and DiCaprio’s fantastic sinister performance as Calvin Candie, but I have yet to give this much thought myself.

I hope the few idea I’ve laid out here encourage everyone to truly appreciate a story that has a lot to say not just about racism but the racial conditions of today’s America. I can say the cinematography is excellent, the acting spot-on and the soundtrack the best I’ve heard in a very long time, but that is subjective when it comes down to it. At the end of the day, Django’s true value as art is its exploration of race and its invitation to the audience for further conversations on a topic that is sorely glossed over for fear of “being politically correct”. Please don’t let Django fall victim to that.

Also don’t it feel good to see some racist motherfuckers get fucked up, bro? Or maybe Tarantino is questioning us to examine why we’re okay with that sort of violence in the movie but not the other violence, bro? Or maybe I already answered that question earlier on, bro, and this joke has overbro’d its welcome, bro? Bro?

Keep thinking,

Jordan

"in a different city, a different time..."

I would like to be able to say I've read a lot in my brief stint as a human being on this plane of existence, but that would be a lie. A lot typically implies 'most of' or a 'majority', and there's more out there to read than I could probably ever manage, as much as I might like to. That said, I still love stories, and think they are so important to the human experience, just as many others have before me. I want to make my contribution to the world that has given me so many great stories, starting in my own little way.

An internet blog trying to get to the heart of story in all the media we create and consume; comic books, novels, plays, movies, whatever I happen to come across and feel deserves some thought. Ideally these posts will exist to generate interest in engaging in critical dialogues with the stories our culture creates on a daily basis rather than passively consuming and learning nothing.

But really, I'd just like everyone to enjoy these as much as I do writing them.