Lost and "Make Your Own Kind Of Music"

Brad tells me that in LA, once something hits DVD, all bets are off, spoiler-wise, and everyone can speak freely about the secret twist ending or whatever. (I think discussions of comics, after the first week, should never need spoiler space, since comics are read only by die-hards, but that is a subject for another day). With the second season of Lost on DVD, I am going to talk about its first episode. If you have not seen it, and you are sure you are going to, stop reading now. You also might want to go download the song from somewhere, if you have not heard it.

The teaser -- the pre-credits sequence -- for the first episode of the second season of Lost is, outside of The West Wing, the most riveting television I have ever seen. One of the things that makes the sequence great it is that it revolves around the Mama Cass song "Make Your Own Kind of Music." In the the first season finale, our heroes blow open the island's mysterious hatch. The second season opens with a guy whose face we don't see in a white shirt and shorts leaping out of bed to answer some kind of alarm. He types at an old fashioned computer. Then he puts a record on -- Mama Cass's "Make Your Own Kind of Music" -- and we see his morning montage -- food in a blender, wash the single bowl in a nice sink, sit-ups on a piece of equipment, jogging on a treadmill, then off to a room full of weapons to inject something into his arm with one of those futuristic injection guns. As he goes to inject himself a dull explosion from far away rattles the place, causing dust to fall from the ceiling and knocking the needle off of the record just as the song hit the second chorus. The figure, tense, makes preparations, and a tracking shot reveals that this is no kind of flashback -- this is what is in the hatch.

Pop songs are about building tension through the verses and then exploding into the big satisfying chorus everyone is waiting for. Lost, of course, has built a lot of tension about what is in the hatch and is about to reveal the answer. Much like many ABBA songs, however, "Make Your Own Kind of Music" seems in a rush to get to the big chorus. The first verse seems to have barely begun when she bursts into "MAAAAKE YOUR OWN KIND OF MUSIC! SIIIIING YOUR OWN SPECIAL SONG!" It is a typical product of feel good 70s pop. The song is maniacally optimistic. Its nearly hysterical assertions are the opposite of Hamlet's oft quoted "thou dos't protest too much." The song asserts too much, as it were, especially as it breaks its own rhythm on "even if nobody else sings along". The fact that it has this double edged sense today -- the way it almost seems ironic now -- is why it is such a good choice for Lost.

As we get into the larger story about the hatch, we learn about the Dharma corporation. The fact that they selected such a song to put in the hatch speaks directly to the kind of "can-do" science that seems to drive them. In the case of our lone figure Desmond, the song -- an anthem about being an individual even when there is pressure to conform -- has a double meaning. On the one hand his individuality has been replaced by the will of the Dharma corporation; he mindlessly follows their orders. On the other hand he has been on his own in the hatch for a long time and so the "make your own way" theme is personal and direct and a reason to get up in the morning; the second verse begins, "You're gonna be lonely. The loneliest kind of lonely. It may be rough going. Just to do your own thing is the hardest thing to do" before it again hits the big chorus.

One of the big accomplishments of the scene is that we don't feel the influence of Tarantino, but we should -- an upbeat seventies song is being used out of context in a weird and pulpy story. The best example of this is in Kill Bill, when Lucy Liu and Uma Thurman fight in the snow to Santa Esmeralda's nearly eleven minute "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood." Unlike "Make Your Own Kind of Music" "Don't Let me Be Misunderstood" builds a lot of tension, refusing to get to the big explosion for quite some time. But just as in Lost's "Make Your Own Music," Kill Bill's "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" is violently interrupted when it hits its big moment; just as we are getting into listening to it, it suddenly stops to bring home on-screen violence. But I will save that song, and that scene, for another discussion. For now, "Make Your Own Kind of Music" stands out as one of Lost's best thought through details.

Brad Winderbaum's Satacracy 88: Episode Three

The third episode of Satacracy 88 is up at itsallinyourhands.com, and in it we begin to get a much larger sense of the world in which Angela (Diahnna Nicole Baxter) lives. If you have not seen it or voted, see it, vote, then come back here for the commentary.

The episode begins with one of Soderbergh's best devices: a visual on which the sound from the next scene intrudes. As Angela runs, bloody from committing murder, we hear Martin's gurgles before we cut to him. The death of Martin, Angela's boyfriend we hardly knew, is violent, stylish (that perfect drop of blood), surprisingly technically proficient (Nikki Koumas, in charge of special effects and make-up, is, after all, on a shoestring budget), and not entirely without humor. The alarm clock goes off only moments after Angela has stabbed him in the neck, and he ironically dies to an upbeat song by Khalil Anthony (one that finds it proper relevance as it joins the image of Angela running). To make matters worse, his cell phone is also going off with a call from "S. Carter." As we will learn in the course of the episode Sandy Carter has every reason to think Martin is dying at just that moment; the bastard is calling just to be mean.

Michael Jaynes controls the episode, both on the narrative level (he is clearly the top dog) and as an actor. A subtle riff on Gary Oldman's car-dealer-as-super villain character in The Fifth Element, Sandy Carter immediately gives the impression of a old-school shit-kicking southerner who has risen the ranks; he has gotten rid of a lot of the accent, and now wears a suit, but he still sports that Colonel Sanders goatee and at heart he is still the jackass old-boy Confederate flag waving bouncer he was in his youth. Here the race theme I spoke of last time reasserts itself without going to far, but remember that Susan (Cassie Pappas), the epitome of the beautiful white blonde, calls Angela "sister" when they meet in this episode.

The details are again lovely. Brad focuses in on Angela's painted toes more than once (it is the opening shot), recalling Tarantino's fascination with the feet of his leading female assassin in Kill Bill. (Cassie Pappas carefully doing her nails in the background emphasizes this by reversal: we are supposed to notice a woman doing her nails -- it is THE sign of indifference -- but toenail polish usually goes unremarked). "The Left Hand of Ariel Zim", an inspired title, has the same pulpy feel of Kill Bill's "The Lonely Grave of Paula Schultz."

The giant chip the workers take out of the neck of Martin, like the electric disappearing knife, is quite nice -- the only reason it is so big is that Brad, like J.J. Abrams on Lost, wants his sci-fi to be the sci-fi of the 1970s; it is only a matter of time before we get those fun old computers with the reels of tape. Brad uses blurs to great effect in this episode, to communicate disorientation, and he gets a great shot of Angela at the end, held by the throat and doing something to the electric lights as Carter glowers above her in top-notch B-villain form.

And my favorite bit: when Susan goes for the knife that disappears, she bites her pinkie fingernail. It is a gesture that is halfway between the frustration of a little girl and that "I wasn't doing that I was doing this the whole time" act (like people who suddenly decide they are going to not try and make the light at the crosswalk and attempt to make their return to the sidewalk look like something other than indecision).

In a month, the story continues.

Comics Out 4 October 2006

The Infinite Crisis hardcover is out this week, and, having missed the whole thing because the hype was making me crazy, I finally decided to check it out. Brad also talked me into reading Civil War, so I picked up issues 2, 3, and 4 (I originally got 1 and decided to skip the rest). Noticing a pattern, I also grabbed the House of M trade -- I will now catch up on all the comics I missed while I was avoiding "big events" and following my reliable favorite writers and artists. What can I say? -- I was busy reading Seven Soldiers, All Star Superman, the Ultimates, and Astonishing X-Men.

The big event comics all seemed bad to me; ultimately I decided as a comic book fan I could not ignore them. Weigh in: do you feel like you have to buy these things? Don't you feel like your money could be buying something better? Or, as people who care about this industry, is getting all the big events the responsible, informed thing to do? Discuss; also recommend and comment on what you are reading. I will let you know how my reading goes when I finish.

Also out this week is the third installment of Brad Winderbaum's Satacracy 88 at itsallinyourhands.com (link in the bar on the right). For the new kids Satacracy 88 is a series of free four minute live action chose your own adventure movies about a female assassin. Go see it and vote, then return here tomorrow for the commentary. You are going to like what you see.

Harold Bloom on Freud and Love (Commonplace Book)

The child sucking at his mother's breast becomes [in Freud] the paradigm for all sexual pleasure in later life, and Freud asserts that to begin with, sexual activity props itself upon the vital function of nourishment by the mother's milk. Thumb-sucking and the sensual smacking of the lips then gives Freud the three characteristics of infantile sexual manifestation. These are: (1) Propping, at the origin, upon a vital somatic function; (2) auto-eroticism, or the lack of a sexual object; (3) domination of sexual aim by an erotogenic zone; here, the lips. It is at this point in his discussion that Freud makes one of his uncanniest leaps, relying on his extraordinary trope of propping. While the propping of the sexual drive upon the vial order still continues, the sexual drive finds its first object outside the infant's body in the mother's breast, and the milk ensuing from it. Suddenly Freud surmises that just at the time the infant is capable of forming a total idea of the mother, quite abruptly the infant loses the initial object of the mother's breast, and tragically is thrown back on auto-eroticism. Consequently, the sexual drive has no proper object again until after the latency period has transpired, and adolescence begins. Hence that dark and infinitely suggestive Freudian sentence: "The finding of an object is in fact a re-finding of it."

Thus human sexuality, alas, on this account has not had, from its very origins, any real object. The only real object was milk, which belongs to the vital order. Hence the sorrows and the authentic anguish of all human erotic quest, hopelessly seeking to rediscover an object, which was never the true object anyway.

Dexter

Dexter is Showtime's new TV series about a cop who is also a serial killer. After years of movies and television shows playing though the theme of the link between the cop and the killer, this kind of a show is somewhat inevitable, and its high concept a little exhausting. If you don't like plots about serial killers Dexter will get on your nerves, as it is such a desperate attempt to keep a tired genre alive; if you do like serial killer plots -- or if, like me, you don't care that much one way or the other -- its hard not to admit that, in spite of the transparent premise, the first episode of Dexter is a pretty good piece of craftsmanship: the acting, the structure, the tone, the characters and their conflicts are surprisingly well thought out and engaging. Though nowhere near the brilliance of Joss Whedon, it has this in common with his shows -- a dumb idea executed well enough to rise above the dumbness (Whedon soars above the dumbness).

Dexter, played by Michael C. Hall (from Six Feet Under), is a CSI style blood spatter forensic expert by day. By night he hunts the rapists and child molesters that escape the system by getting off on technicalities or what not. What separates him from the more violent superhero vigilantes is the imagery and tone of his killings; Dexter conceives of himself as a serial killer. His foster father, Harry, was a cop; when Dexter began showing signs of having been born a serial killer at a young age Harry helped him channel his darkness in the service of something good, killing monsters. Now his city, Miami, has a new genius serial killer in town, one that is clearly challenging Dexter both as cop (catch him) and fellow killer (Dexter is amazed at this new guy's skills).

What really saves the show is the tone, which, while dark, is pulpy, fun, and a little bit silly at times (not unlike CSI). Dexter has a dumb, insecure but very cute sister on the force trying to make it as a homicide cop, even though no one will take her seriously; he does his best to help her by giving her access to his insights about the new killer. Like Patrick Bateman, from American Psycho, Dexter is completely empty inside and has to mimic, as best he can, normal social and emotional interactions. Rather than play up the horror of this isolation, Dexter uses it to earn our sympathy for this character who cannot understand simple things like sex, but kind of wants to. His girlfriend, Julie Benz from Buffy, never has sex with him because of past trauma in her life; when she tries, he tries with her, but is clearly relieved when they are interrupted. It's kind of sweet actually. I can only hope it holds its own for a while until the penultimate episode's inevitable reveal that the new serial killer in town is Dexter's biological father.

Dexter premiered Sunday night, but the first episode will be replayed many times; if you don't have Showtime it will play during the free Showtime preview later this week (October 6 - 13).