Looking Back: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

How many of us are doing this, I wonder? Come November, it will have been ten years since the first Harry Potter film, directed by Chris Columbus, was released around the world. It's already been more than 10 years since we all entered the age of breathless cynicism surrounding major entertainment projects. These days, oohing, aahing, and tsking about the latest casting announcement for the new Twilight movie, or the impending Hunger Games series is old hat, but it started (at least, for me) in 2000, when the world was first introduced to Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint. They were all pretty much unknown, yet these days, they've turned into an earnest Broadway performer, a budding fashion icon, and a happy oddball character actor.

So, as I said, with the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 less than 3 weeks away, I wonder how many of us are going back to the early films or watching everything up to and including the final installment. Because I'm married to someone who's always been far more fanatical about the Harry Potter film series than the books (we've both read them all, but I was way more amped up for the releases of the last two books), I've seen all of the movies countless times. The only difference in watching 2001's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (Philosopher everywhere else in the world, but you know us Amurricans think philosophy is a snooze, so Sorcerer it is) was watching the Blu-ray version.

Watching HDTV is as old hat to me as is reading about casting announcements, but every now and then, I'm reminded of one of the negative aspects of high-definition content. On the one hand, with HD quality, you can see every pore, every color, and every element of an image. On the other hand...well, you can see every pore, every color, and every element of an image. I'm sure it registered with me in the past, but when I watched one of the major action sequences of this chapter of the series--Harry, Ron, and Hermione taking on an escaped troll--I was presented with some truly awful special effects. I suppose that Columbus and his special-effects crew was able to get away with Harry astride the large troll being, literally, a cartoon, because of how rapidly both characters are moving, but 10 years down the line, it's almost cringe-inducing to watch. There are a couple of other moments where the special effects show their seams, but that's something I can forgive more than the troll scene.

In some ways, I bet the folks who've been involved in making each Harry Potter movie look at the first one as a mulligan, creatively speaking. The fever pitch surrounding the book series hit its highest initial peak in the summer of 2000, when Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was released to the worldwide public. Everyone read every word of each book. We all knew the series in and out, and some people went much further with their fandom, as we all do depending on the story. The producers of the film knew that they had a seriously hot property on their hands, but it could blow up in their faces very quickly if they made one step wrong. I can understand that from a business standpoint, mind you. The Harry Potter series has proven, predictably, to be one of the biggest cash cows Warner Bros. Pictures (or any film studio) has ever had. We all know that the first reason why there's even a Part 2 to the final installment is to make more money. Yes, I can delude myself into thinking that the final book just had too much for one movie to cover (unless said movie was six hours long). But we all know money is the biggest draw for Warner Bros. If they could do what The Onion joked about last month--splitting the last five minutes into five separate movies--they would.

My point is, Warner Bros. didn't want to screw up any Harry Potter movie, so the producers and Columbus had to tread carefully. Very, very, very carefully. They may have figured that as long as they stayed faithful to the first book, audiences wouldn't charge at them with torches and pitchforks. The problem, creatively, is that by the time the first movie came out, the fourth book had been read, and re-read, countless times by the devoted fans. What's more, we all knew that the first book from J.K. Rowling was so vastly smaller in scope to even the fourth one--gasp! a Hogwarts student gets killed, and that's just when Lord Voldemort makes a massive return--that it's almost quaint to watch the first movie and think of its minor-league aspirations. So, yeah, I can understand the producers' wariness to make one wrong step with Sorcerer's Stone, but no amount of concessions can eliminate one fact: Chris Columbus is not a great director, and for these movies, you either need a great director or a director who can fool us into thinking they're great. Columbus isn't a woeful helmer; he can point and shoot just like most filmmakers. But giving this man the keys to a massive franchise was too safe a choice, especially when you consider that Warner Bros. wanted Steven Spielberg (which makes sense, more for the first two films, honestly) and would have been fine with Terry Gilliam. (I want to see the alternate-universe version of the Harry Potter film series, where Gilliam directed the same cast. Can you imagine what that would've looked like?) Columbus, while an 80s-era protege of Spielberg, was too bland, too simple, too American. In a series where no American characters even existed, it's at odds for Columbus to direct the first two chapters.

When Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was released in theaters, a good portion of critics went nuts for it. Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper, I remember, were over the moon, the latter comparing it to The Wizard of Oz. While it's probably true that, 50 years from now, the Harry Potter series will be remembered fondly, I don't think that, even in 2001, I knew why the comparison made any sense, qualitatively. On the one hand, bringing so precisely to life the world that Rowling began creating works out well. Each performer was cast well, because they exactly fit the character they were playing. The evocation of Hogwarts looks, mostly, accurate. It fails, though, in the same way that the first two films in the series fail: it looks fake. I recoil when I see a movie or a TV show wherein characters walk around a clearly fake environment. Sometimes, it can't be helped, but here's a movie where money was thrown around willy-nilly. As the series has progressed, that money has been well-spent, but in looking at the Hogwarts of the first film, it reminds me of the climax of Blazing Saddles, where the good guys build a facade of the town that the villains want to ransack, hoping to divert them. That's what Hogwarts looks like in this movie: a facade, ready to tip over when it's attacked by a stiff breeze.

20 years from now, I wonder if Radcliffe, Watson, and Grint will wince when watching footage from this movie. None of the kids are bad, mind you; all are given monumental tasks just in becoming these beloved characters, and acquit themselves well enough for child actors. But a lot of the tics that have haunted each of them (Grint's cartoonish mugging, Watson's propensity for acting with her constantly moving eyebrows, and Radcliffe's apparent insistence, early on, in almost baring his teeth in every shot) show up here and don't leave. To be honest, there's nothing too notable from the actors here. The only person who really sticks out is Ian Hart, who gets probably the most thankless major role in the entire franchise. Does anyone remember Professor Quirrell? The villains in the subsequent films usually have more substance or more connection to the overall mythology, but Quirrell gets one big scene and Hart overplays it as much as he can. The other adult performers don't go too far out of their comfort zones, which means they're almost underplaying; Alan Rickman, an inspired choice for Severus Snape, in particular, recites his lines at the lowest possible boil. (My favorite delivery of his comes much later in the series, though: "You....just....know.") Hart's over-the-top style wouldn't be matched until Helena Bonham Carter showed up in the franchise.

Every time I watch the first two films in the Harry Potter franchise, though, I forget that someone other than Michael Gambon played Albus Dumbledore. It's not that Gambon was so indelible as Dumbledore, but he's had a lot longer to work with the character, and the material he's had is a lot more substantial than what Harris had. Harris was a very talented actor in his time, but either because Columbus told him to do so or because he chose it, he plays Dumbledore solely as a grandfatherly figure. While that's not a bad decision--certainly, the complexities that defined Dumbledore don't rear their head early on in the books--I always wondered if Harris would be able to convincingly change on a dime once the third film came around. He's fine here, delivering his dialogue in a twinkly manner, but he's treated as an afterthought, as is Maggie Smith as Professor McGonagall. Only Robbie Coltrane, as Hagrid, makes a serious mark here, but that's because Hagrid has a lot more to do early on in the series.

These days, I don't watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone that much, nor Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, which almost seem like British versions of The Goonies. Part of this is because so much of what made this series of books become so classic came after the first two books. Don't forget, the hype grew bigger once Prisoner of Azkaban hit the bookshelves. I eagerly await revisiting the other films in this series, but my hopes are only marginally higher for the second installment, in large part because it's better known as The Kenneth Branagh Show. Branagh gets a delightfully hammy part to play and does so marvelously, but at least he's actually having fun. The first film doesn't have a lot of fun in it, to the point where even transitions--such as when Nearly Headless Nick, portrayed by John Cleese, all but announces to the audience that Harry's become the Gryffindor Seeker--seem rote and lifeless. Lifeless is the worst thing any of these movies could be.

Starting a Podcast From Scratch

Sometimes, knowing that the first person you can let down is yourself is a good incentive to do something. I've been listening to podcasts for the last 3 years, and only recently got involved in creating one, the now-fallen Entertained. That podcast was originally a hodgepodge of entertainment subjects, hosted by myself and my friend Grant. One thing led to another, and we eventually morphed the show into an analysis of Disney movies, starting from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. However, as time went on and Grant found it harder to balance being a new dad and devoting the proper amount of time and energy to the show, something had to give. My pleas for him to give his child up for adoption went on deaf ears. Grant, you will regret that decision! (Not really.)

Now, I've decided to do a podcast solo. My greatest fear has been and will be that doing a solo podcast won't be as interesting as listening to two or three people go back and forth on a topic or a group of topics, but I also know that I have plenty to say about Disney movies. With that in mind, I'm proud to introduce you to my new podcast, Mousterpiece Cinema. By the time you're reading this, the first episode, in which I review Cars 2, is up on iTunes (right here!), ready to be downloaded, subscribed, rated and reviewed by all of you. I want to hear your feedback, but please make sure to direct it to the appropriate places. Here's a link to the show's Facebook page. The blog for the show is here. Also on the blog, there's a calendar of movies I plan on discussing for the rest of 2011. On Twitter, I'm @mousterpiece.

I know some of you may be skeptical about listening to a Disney podcast, but let me be clear: if I'm being nerdy about anything Disney on the show, it's the movies. I may mention the theme parks, or the associated merchandise, but this is a podcast about movies. They happen to be Disney movies, but they're movies nonetheless. I'm very excited about the show, and I want to know what you think. Tell me that I'm wrong to worry about doing a solo podcast. Tell me I'm right to worry and what I can do to update the format. Tell me what you think of the movies I talk about. In short, make me know you're listening and are engaged. Not every week will be solo; I'm hoping to get Grant on a few shows, depending on the movie and his schedule, and I may well encourage my wife to jump on board once or twice. Anyone who's reading this who's a Disney fan is welcome to petition to be a guest. I know I'm not the only one out there who loves Disney movies and wants to talk about it at length. I've got Skype, so if you've got a headset and a passion for all things Mouse-related, we can work it out. I hope you'll all check out the show, and let me know what you think.

(cross-posted at Mousterpiece Cinema)

Separate But Equal: Season 1 of Game of Thrones

Fandom has become so troubling in so many ways since the advent of the Internet. People who are already fiercely protective of something they've read, seen, or listened to (even if they had nothing to do with that thing's creation) become even more so when an outside force seems prepared to tamper with it. When a popular book is turned into a movie or TV show, as goes the obvious example, the truly dedicated fans of the book become fervent devotees to every bit of news, from casting to set design to music. Some are devoted to saying that all the news stories, big or small, mean that the book's adaptation will be the best thing since sliced bread. The other half are usually there to deride each decision as an example of the adaptation's impending failure. Then the damn adaptation is released to the public, and something even worse happens: the general public, unfamiliar with the book, gets to deliver their even more diverse opinions.

Example: in episode 9 of the first of hopefully many seasons of Game of Thrones, HBO's latest and greatest drama, the ostensible good guy of the show, Lord Eddard, or Ned, Stark, potentially faces execution on false charges of treason. He's chosen to swear fealty to the current King of Westeros, the young King Joffrey. Joffrey is the son of the late King Robert Baratheon, but Ned has found more than enough evidence that proves Joffrey isn't Robert's son at all, but a product of incest between the Queen and her brother, a supposedly dashing knight. Ned doesn't really believe Joffrey is the true King, but to protect his family, he's willing to be exiled to the far North, where he'll spend the rest of his days as part of the Night's Watch, who guard Westeros from whatever may or may not lie beyond their Wall.

I know, for someone who's unfamiliar with the show, the preceding information may seem like too much to handle. (And believe me, reader, there's a lot more plot-heavy details where that came from.) I bring up all of that so you understand the vital element of the climactic scene in "Baelor": Ned has to swear fealty to the new King or get killed in front of a crowd hungry for blood. Now, we've all watched plenty of TV shows and movies. We know the way things work in terms of building suspense. A character may get killed; that seems inherently suspenseful. But when I tell you that Ned is played by Sean Bean, formerly of the Lord of the Rings series, among others, you may assume that Ned's going to be safe. Why wouldn't you? Bean is the most recognizable actor in the show's cast, and the marketing for the show has centered around him. Also, as I said earlier, his character is the closest there is to a pure good guy on this show. (That, despite his having fathered a child with someone who isn't his wife.) Ned's going to be fine. But when Ned swears fealty, the snotty young King twists things around; as the King, he won't ever let treason go unpunished. Despite the confusion that reigns around him, Joffrey's demand is not unheeded. Ned soon loses his head, and plenty of viewers who'd never read the books and avoided the spoilers within, according to the media, went as crazy as the crowd in the show.

There were cries that people wouldn't watch the show anymore, because they had apparently forced themselves to watch 9 hours of television for one actor, despite his being one of many, many characters on the show. Now, I don't doubt that some people did actually think they'd give it up, but honestly, those people weren't watching the show for the right reasons. I've only read the first book in the series (the next three are in my house, staring me in the face, but I've yet to power through the second installment), but I was very confident that the HBO series, developed and written almost entirely by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss, would do a more than adequate job of bringing the book to the small screen. I picked up the first four books after the series was announced, and saw how simple it would be to make each book at least one season of a television series. The Song of Ice and Fire series, written by George R.R. Martin, is absolutely epic, but Martin's prior work in television shows, as most of the chapters in the book, which are all POV from eight characters, are structured like back-to-back scenes in a serialized drama. Martin made wise choices in writing characters like Tyrion Lannister, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, and Jon Snow, not only in creating singular human beings, but in subverting a lot of fantasy-novel tropes. Bringing them to further life, Benioff and Weiss managed to subtly define Game of Thrones as its own entity with ease and an appropriate amount of caution.

I don't know that Game of Thrones is ever going to succeed in making me forget that scenes added specifically for the show didn't originate in the book, but what's been added, taken out, or altered for dramatic purposes rarely seems forced or unnecessary. Something that does seem a bit unique to the TV version is its continued reliance on something Myles McNutt of Cultural Learnings has deemed "sexposition," meaning a scene where characters are having sex or watching someone have sex, solely so they can deliver an info-dump of a monologue. I don't know that every episode featured one of these moments, but I'd bet that more than half of the episodes did. The finale included such a moment, when Grand Maester Pycelle, a supposedly doddering wise man who sits on the King's Council, talks about what makes a true king after apparently having sex with a prostitute named Ros, who has clearly heard such ravings before. These scenes, it's been argued, are just here to maintain a level of titillation for the audience members who only want to see fantasy TV shows where clothing is optional.

To clarify, I was less offended than I was distracted, never more so than during a scene where the devious Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, was watching two prostitutes in the brothel he owned having sex while essentially telling us all about his childhood. On the one hand, as a fan of the HBO series Deadwood, I'm not against scenes where we learn about characters' motivations or histories while having sex. That show had a famous first-season scene where saloon owner Al Swearengen was describing his dark past as he received oral sex, something that helped solidified that show's legendary status for me. The reason that scene works and the scene with Littlefinger didn't is because the sex didn't seem like a natural part of the scene; instead, we were watching, as was he, two ladies get it on, because--hey, look, it's two ladies getting it on, OK?

Despite the sometimes gratuitous nature of these scenes, Game of Thrones, from its first scene to the last shot of the season finale, was an exciting, darkly escapist journey. The basic story is that Ned Stark gets entangled with the political machinations of the country of Westeros when his old friend, King Robert, asks him to be the king's right-hand man. Ned is too decent, too driven by his sense of honor to realize that he's descending slowly, but surely, into a pit of vipers, led by people such as Queen Cersei, who only wants her family, the Lannisters, to rule all of Westeros. The Starks' feud with the Lannisters exacerbates over the season, especially once Ned's wife, Catelyn, takes Cersei's brother Tyrion (known as the Imp, since he's a dwarf) prisoner. Tyrion, it turns out, may have tried to murder Catelyn's second youngest son, Bran. Bran was unlucky enough to see Cersei and her other brother, Jaime, having sex; all this gets him is paralyzed, once Jaime pushes him out a window to keep his secret. Once Tyrion is taken prisoner, the Lannister patriarch gets involved and declares war, just as Ned tries to maintain the appropriate bloodline to the throne so Cersei's illicit son, Joffrey, doesn't get to take the throne after King Robert dies in a potentially mysterious fashion.

Like I said before, there's a whole hell of a lot of plot in this show. Benioff, Weiss, and the scant few writers who contributed to the first season had a delicate balancing act to keep up. Unlike the books, which include plenty of inner monologues to complement the twists and turns, the TV series had to do a lot of work to keep the characters as important as the story they were living. While not every effort was perfect, as the season continued, it became clear that this show knew exactly what it was doing. The performances on the show, from the big names like Bean or Peter Dinklage as Tyrion, to younger actors like Maisie Williams and Emilia Clarke. Clarke, in particular, had one of the most challenging roles in the show, partly because of how separate she is from the main action.

Clarke plays Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of the man who used to be King, the late King Aerys. Aerys was overthrown by King Robert, who fears that Daenerys and her scheming brother, Viserys, will try to overthrow Robert and take back their rightful place in Westeros. Viserys plans on doing just this, by marrying his sister off to the head of a savage army, which will descend on Westeros and help him become King. Of course, things don't go as they're supposed to, mostly because Daenerys, who begins the series as a frightened, shy, and weak young girl, grows into a strong and powerful woman at the side of her husband, Khal Drogo of the Dothraki tribe. In the beginning, she is tossed around as a piece of meat, but when she reclaims, in no small way, the sigil of her family (the dragon), it's truly thrilling to watch. Clarke sells this transformation and this character as well as anyone else on the show. (Keep in mind, on the face of it, Dinklage steals every scene he's in, as he clearly relishes having such a fun, clever character to play.)

Salon's TV critic, Matt Zoller Seitz, argued earlier this week that Game of Thrones' first season was the best first season of any show since the first season of Deadwood. At first, I paused at this assertion, but the more I think about it, the more it seems clear that there are really only a few shows that began airing since 2004 that could claim to have had an incredibly strong first season. I'm not sure that the first season of Mad Men couldn't easily win this argument, but then again, I haven't that show's inaugural season since it aired, so I'd have to go back and reconsider it. (Boy, that would be a fun experiment. That might just happen, folks.) As it stands, Game of Thrones began as an enormously ambitious series, possibly the most ambitious dramatic undertaking on American television. When its first season ended this past Sunday, it stood as a major milestone in TV history: an adaptation whose scope exceeds all other shows and most movies that managed to exceed all expectations. That is, unless you were only interested in watching Sean Bean.

Jumping On The Top of The Dog Pile, or Season 1 of The Killing

Oh, where do I start with The Killing? This AMC series ended its first season last night with a finale that has, for the most part, landed with a resounding thud, inciting vitriol most places on the Internet. Add to that an interview with the show's head writer that quickly topples into surreal humor, two strange defenses of the show from The New York Times TV critic, and a disturbing profile of AMC itself over the weekend, and you have plenty of grist for the mill. I'll begin with the show itself, which gradually presented viewers with a disquieting problem. Which is worse, dear reader: a crime drama about two detectives who aren't good at their job, or a crime drama about two detectives who aren't good at their job, but written by people who think said detectives are unquestionably the best?

There were myriad problems with the first season of The Killing, but this is the worst of all. The show's protagonist, Sarah Linden, is offered to us, from the get-go, as the cop who can't let the case go. While I appreciated that, from the outset, Detective Linden wasn't made from the current mold of TV detectives (I have a photographic memory! I'm obsessive-compulsive! I pretend to be a psychic!), she still fit into a pretty basic stereotype of the crime procedural: the cop who doesn't know when to quit, even if it gets results, dammit! Linden, portrayed by Mireille Enos, is a dour, sometimes pouty character who thinks highly of herself, yet is presented at almost every turn as being strangely bad at what she does. The case that took place over a 13-day period chronicled in the season's 13 episodes was a murder of a teenage girl named Rosie Larsen. Rosie was found, drowned, in a car owned by the Darren Richmond for Mayor of Seattle campaign, and for whatever vague reasons, Linden immediately identifies with the girl and the case so much that she drops her plans to fly to Sonoma, California to get married for a second time.

That impending marriage and her sullen teenage son were albatrosses on the series from the beginning. Even though the conceit of the show--that each episode took place, roughly, over one day, back to back to back--didn't cause it to be too unrealistic that she might push back her wedding a couple of weeks, we all knew nothing would come of it. No one assumed that we'd see Linden get betrothed during one of the episodes, so each time we dipped our toes back into the waters of that subplot, you get antsy. We all know she's staying, Leoben from Battlestar Galactica, so stop asking her to run away from this case! Linden's son, Jack, was as much of a rough sketch, not a character, as was Linden's fiance. The character's never really given anything remotely close to a personality, so when he starts drinking to act out, or runs away for an episode, we're not truly invested in his safety and survival. I might care about Jack if I knew anything about him.

Another major problem is that characters' motivations would change from day to day. As an example, we're introduced to Linden's ex-husband and Jack's father in the penultimate episode (played by another Battlestar vet, Tahmoh Penikett). From the beginning, we've known little about this guy except the obvious: Linden's no fan. She gets in his face when he appears at the local precinct, trying to reach out, but then, in the season finale, when she hears that her son's just hanging out with the guy, she barely raises an eyebrow. What did I miss in the two episodes, readers? This is but one example of the sloppy, 24-at-its-worst writing that plagued each hour. But the biggest problem in terms of characterization were with the main characters: Linden, her apparently evil partner Holder, Richmond, and the Larsen parents. The show's head writer, Veena Sud, decided to play things so cool that personalities were almost beaten out of each actor, from Enos to Billy Campbell to Michelle Forbes. Don't get me wrong, the performances on the show were rarely the problem (though during one particularly prickly moment where Linden shouts at her son, I wondered if I had a problem with the character or Enos' squinty, do-I-smell-something-stinky style of acting; I'm still not sure which it is), but they can only do so much.

The writing was always the problem, from the get-go. As critics such as HitFix's Alan Sepinwall pointed out when they reviewed the premiere episode, a whole third of the show was devoted to Richmond's mayoral campaign and how the Rosie Larsen investigation affected it. But here's the problem: why spend time on a political campaign that is pretty much entirely separate from the murder investigation and from the grieving parents of the deceased, unless someone on the campaign is involved implicitly or explicitly in the murder? No amount of charm that Campbell, Kristin Lehman, or Eric Ladin possess as performers could save this storyline, which never moved past being inert. From the first episode, there was one of two outcomes: either someone on the campaign was involved in the murder and, thus, everyone is automatically suspicious, or the writers had no idea what they were doing.

Here, I'll delve into the finale, "Orpheus Descending." AMC plastered the country with ads for The Killing, most of which were daring because they featured a character played by an unknown actress who would also be dead by the time the first episode began. The posters showed the face of pretty, smiling, enigmatic Rosie Larsen, with the obvious question: "Who Killed Rosie Larsen?" Add to that the obvious title of the show, and you have audience members intrigued. Before the finale aired, I was arguing to someone that the show's amount of dramatic suspense was always going to be muted, because the show's storytelling style posed a serious problem: whatever else happened, we weren't going to find out who killed the girl until the finale. It would have been daring and unexpected for Sud to say, around episode 8, that we'd find out who murdered Rosie Larsen, and there was no reason for us to assume it would happen that way. But we'd find out in the finale. I mean...there was no way that we wouldn't, because who would be stupid enough to drag the storyline even further than it had already gone?

There is, it seems, an answer to that question, and its name is Veena Sud. Yes, if you haven't already read the scathing and incisive reviews from justifiably angry writers like Mo Ryan or Alan Sepinwall, well...read those after you finish reading this. Their screeds are scathing enough, but the point is this: if you, the viewer, want to find out who killed Rosie Larsen, you have to wait for another year, because the season finale ended as a lot of episodes ended this season: with an obvious suspect's guilt being questioned heavily. The penultimate episode ended by making it all but glaring that Richmond, for unknown reasons, drowned Rosie. The final episode ended with Linden finally on the plane to Sonoma, but finding out that her partner had falsified an image pretty much putting Richmond at the scene of the crime. Oh, and the Larsen's creepy friend may have shot Richmond as he was being taken away. See you next spring, everybody!

I don't know how this is reading so far for you, but if the tone is spittle-flying anger, I'm doing something wrong. I'm not angry about the ending of The Killing. I'm not even that disappointed anymore. I was intrigued by the first few episodes of the show, but I wasn't hooked as I was when I finished the first seasons of Mad Men, Breaking Bad, or even The Walking Dead, which had a weak first season, but wasn't nearly as flawed as The Killing ever was. Something that had been clear, in many ways, for the last five or six episodes of this show was the following: the writers for this show had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Why AMC picked the show up for a second season is somewhat beyond me. The ratings were OK, but nowhere near as impressive as those for The Walking Dead, and the critical noise surrounding the show hasn't been positive for a while. Maybe the executives realized it was too late to close the first season definitively, and wanted to see what the resolution would look like, as opposed to just hearing Veena Sud's pitch. Whatever the case, it's been clear that the writing staff figured out very early on the dilemma they were faced with. Example: as anyone with a working brain noticed, this show has a lot of actors who would, logically, only be around for the Rosie Larsen case. If it ended after one season, why would Michelle Forbes, Brent Sexton, or Billy Campbell show up once Rosie's case was closed? It may not seem like a very big dilemma--just go figure out a new mystery to solve, right?--but something must have shaken Sud and her writing staff to their very core, because the ending that we all saw is inexplicable, made all the more so by the reaction from Sud herself and a notable publication's critic defending it.

Sud was interviewed by Sepinwall here, and it's scarily illuminating despite being maddeningly vague. When Sepinwall mentioned that plenty of his readers would be disappointed that the season didn't have any closure, Sud responded, "We never said you'd get closure at the end of season 1. We said from the beginning, this is the anti-cop cop show. It's a show where nothing is as it seems, so throw out expectations." I suppose I should applaud Sud. As I said previously, I literally didn't expect the show to not tell me who killed Rosie Larsen at the end of its first season, partly because of those pesky ads that asked..."Who killed Rosie Larsen?" Sepinwall then mentions one of the show's biggest issues: that episodes would end pointing at one suspect and then exonerate them quickly. Her response, in part, is as follows: "It does feel like, initially, there's a bit of juggling between the 'he did it,' 'she did it,' 'he said,' 'she said,' the natural course of an investigation, and then landing on someone who the cops think potentially did it. And then we spent on a while on [Bennett Ahmed], until that twist happened." Yes, until that twist happened. When you read the entire interview--and you really should--you get the idea that Sud is a better executive than a writer, comparing her show to Mad Men and Breaking Bad, not just because they're also AMC dramas. Her comments to Entertainment Weekly make it clear that the finale's divisive nature is comparable to the reactions to the series finales of The Sopranos and Lost. I could spend an entire post explaining why that's wrong, but let's just say the obvious: Veena Sud's lack of self-awareness is mind-boggling.

Also mind-boggling is this article from the Hollywood Reporter. In it, Tim Appelo posits that AMC is now claiming Emmy glory from HBO, what with shows like Mad Men and Breaking Bad, which have won some big Emmys over the past few years. The problem is that the article essentially ignores that AMC hasn't done nearly as well since those two dramas. While The Walking Dead is a ratings hit, its Emmy chances are probably slightly less than another genre drama, Game of Thrones, which has similar buzz surrounding its twists and violence. Rubicon, while a compelling thriller, only lasted a season because of its low ratings. The Killing may have had solid ratings, but the reviews fell off a cliff even before the finale, and the ratings for the second season may well fall in a similarly precipitous fashion. What's more, with shows like the aforementioned Game of Thrones and Boardwalk Empire, it's hard to ignore the fact that, if anything, HBO has reclaimed its own mojo as the dominant source for out-of-the-mainstream, high-end drama. While The Killing is only mentioned a couple of times, it's used as a positive example. And, don't forget Sud's choice quote in that article: "Always assume the audience is smarter than you are." I fear for the intelligence levels of the writers of The Killing.

But finally, in the gold medal for baffling insanity, we have the issue of Ginia Bellafante, TV critic of The New York Times. Bellafante got plenty of Internet heat in April when she said that the HBO series Game of Thrones was pandering, through its gratuitous sex and nudity. Pandering to ladies. Ladies who, as you all know, never, ever, ever read fantasy novels. Bellafante came to the latter conclusion because, you know, she's never read or been interested by fantasy novels. Yesterday, around 8 p.m., Eastern time (two hours before The Killing aired its season finale, Bellafante posted this column, meant for publication in today's physical paper. The piece, which has since been slightly updated with...well, wait for it, 'cause it's good, said, in no uncertain terms, that Richmond was the killer. When I read the article, I was surprised, not that Richmond was the killer, but that the Times was essentially spoiling the ending of the show before it aired. Though anyone who only reads the physical paper wouldn't have to worry, anyone with a bit of know-how would've found out before the show even got to anger everyone else. But then the episode aired, and, well, as you've figured out by this point, it's pretty clear that Richmond may not be the killer. He's perhaps the most suspicious of the suspects, but...the evidence was faked. Sud herself said, in that quote, that the show didn't have any closure. Well, Bellafante has, as I said, added to the article, with the following quote, originally a parenthetical paragraph: "As a matter of due process, it should be said that the series satisfies conspiracy theorists with the .0009 percent chance that Richmond is actually not guilty. The sane among us will run, as they say, with the facts on the ground."

There was, I guess, a contest to see if anyone writing about The Killing could be crazier or less self-aware than Veena Sud in her interviews. Ms. Bellafante, congratulations. You've won, and no one else should even compete. I don't know why the Times continues to employ someone who prides herself on watching TV and treating her job as a sport to do whatever the opposite of sanity is, but the proof is in these two articles. The initial review makes you wonder if she even watched the finale, or wrote the article presuming that the penultimate episode's revelations wouldn't be negated. The follow-up blog, found here, makes it clear that Bellafante is blinding herself from the truth that even Sud would argue for: the finale for The Killing does not include a clear answer on who killed Rosie Larsen. That it doesn't is a failure, but not one I'll bemoan past this article. The fact that a person like Bellafante is still employed despite being a bad writer is troubling. I have no idea what person who thought the finale left a bad taste in their mouth would watch season two, though. Even though I stayed with the show through the first-season finale, it was to find out what I thought was obvious: who killed Rosie Larsen? I had originally figured that, barring some wild creative makeover, I'd not watch any more episodes of The Killing. By ending the episode with the very first extended middle finger in the form of a TV show, Ms. Sud did the job for me. Rest in peace, The Killing. Well...maybe, just rest.

Can Pixar Prove Me Wrong?

I really dislike when people concern troll about, oh, pretty much anything. I may have made a comment relating to this pet peeve recently, so without further ado, let me introduce my hypocritical side today. Yes, this post is likely going to amount to me being a concern troll, something I truly dislike. What's wrong with concern trolling? Well, if I have to choose a type of Internet troll, I'll take the concern troll, but at the same time, I almost physically recoil when someone starts worrying about something they literally cannot control. Why worry about something you have nothing to do with, right? Well, for the majority of us, it's something to talk about, I guess. Hence today's post.

Let me also say this: I so want to be wrong about today's topic. I want to be as wrong about this as anyone has ever been wrong. I want to be as wrong about this as anyone who ever doubted the airplane, the television, the cell phone, or the iPod. Granted, the issue of whether or not Cars 2 is a major step down for Pixar Animation Studios is nowhere near as gigantic, but it's a topic worth discussing. Still, the point is, I want to be wrong. I want very much to see Cars 2 and be blown away, not only by the animation (which, based on the trailers, is going to be typically excellent), but by the characters and story. On the latter point, I fear already that I'm going to be let down.

But let's be clear about something else: I have worried about the past four Pixar films and been wrong each time. What troubled me with Ratatouille, WALL-E, and Up was the strange ambition behind each film's concept. A talking rat who wants to be a chef in Paris? Forgive me if I pause a little at such an eye-catching, yet potentially disastrous idea. A movie about two robots who fall in love, 700 years in the future? That's a bit weird, but--wait, they don't speak English? Wait, there's almost no dialogue of any kind in the first 45 minutes? OK then. Oh, and don't forget about the one character who appears as a human. Like, a real, live-action person. Uh-huh. Last, but not least, a movie about a very old man who lifts his house up by balloons to Venezuela? Now, all of these movies have such arrestingly original ideas, but they also are movies that, with a minute, slight push in the wrong direction, could have spelled the end for Pixar. Instead, these three movies, along with Toy Story 3, made up a mini-Renaissance at the animation studio, proving that Disney's decision to buy Pixar was its wisest move in a long time.

The bookends to this creative zenith are the two Cars movies. Each Pixar movie has at least one iconic scene, something that sets it apart not only from its fellow Emeryville films, not just from other family films, but from other movies in general. Ratatouille has the climactic review from critic Anton Ego, Up has the montage of Carl and Ellie's married life, and Toy Story 3 has the final scene where Andy passes his toys onto a loving child. Though I unhesitatingly place Cars at the bottom of the Pixar releases, it has one of the most jaw-droppingly beautiful singular sequences, placed about halfway through. Lightning McQueen, the cocky race car who needs a lesson in accepting others into his life, is taking a drive around Radiator Springs with Sally, the pretty, smart, and feisty Porsche who functions as the town's lawyer. Their driving is somewhat flirtatious, but the scene kicks off when Sally takes the lead and Lightning follows behind, taking in the natural beauty of the Southwest, full of jagged rocks, lovely greenery, and the suntan color of the landscape. It's a bit cocky for the main character of the film to essentially be laid low by the photorealistic animation on display, but I can't argue when...well, the animation is incredible.

Ostensibly, this scene is the beginning of Lightning's transformation into a decent, unselfish character, but what the scene lacks is a forceful amount of character development. Cars does not lack for flash or childlike charm, but it has a deficiency of character. The biggest reason why Cars doesn't stand out among other Pixar films is the same reason why A Bug's Life is something of an afterthought in the filmography of this great studio: it's not that original. On the surface, Pixar movies are generally meant to place human emotions in something inhuman: toys, monsters, fish, rats, bugs, cars, superheroes, and robots. The notable instance where humans are the leads, Up, manages to not need hyperhuman characters, just a stylized background. The real problem is that Cars and A Bug's Life are so formulaic that you can almost see it. I'm not going to tell you that Ratatouille is some kind of consistent surprise of storytelling (we all know that Remy will get some realization of his dream in the end), but the story moves so swiftly and Brad Bird, the film's co-writer and director, has such confidence in how he's depicting the events that you don't see the next turn in the story around the corner. Because Cars and A Bug's Life are so clearly based on memorable films, implicitly or otherwise, we're not lured into a state of surprise or shock.

You may, at this point, be thinking back in your mind; "Which movies are Cars and A Bug's Life based on?" Thanks for asking, reader. (Yes, I can hear you asking these questions, even if you're only thinking them. The Internet is powerful!) The latter film is heavily influenced (and John Lasseter acknowledged it) by Seven Samurai, the Kurosawa classic, and Three Amigos, which, in itself, is influenced by Kurosawa. The connections are clear--a ragtag band fights off a powerful enemy, lead by a group of warriors (or, in Three Amigos and A Bug's Life, a group who says they're warriors)--so the movie's entertainment is only on the surface. Animation fanatics may get a kick out of the leaps and bounds taken by Pixar in terms of bringing the world to life, and how they used the Cinemascope format, but this story has been told time and time again. Pixar does their best to put a fresh spin on it, but the movie's only so successful. And then there's Cars, which is based, almost to a T, on Doc Hollywood. Yes, friends, the 1991 comedy starring Michael J. Fox and Julie Warner. (Remember, back in the early 1990s, when she was one of the up-and-coming leading ladies who was supposed to take the mantle from Michelle Pfeiffer?)

Yes, Cars and Doc Hollywood share a surprising amount of similarities. In both movies, the lead character is a hotshot at his profession. In both movies, the lead character sees his local ties (in the former, Lightning's sponsor; in the latter, Dr. Ben Stone's city of residence) as a hindrance dragging him down. In both movies, the lead character crashes his red sports car in a small town, and is sentenced by the local judge to community service before he can leave. In both movies, the lead character falls in love with a woman who practices law. In both movies, the lead character has to make a decision about heading to Los Angeles or staying in a small town. Now, don't get me wrong: Doc Hollywood is not the most original film ever made, and many aspects of the movie are as old as cinema itself. But the two movies are strikingly similar (I'd heard a joke about the two being alike a long time ago, but until I watched Doc Hollywood last summer, I didn't realize that the filmmakers could probably sue Pixar and have a damn good case). The difference between Cars and A Bug's Life is simple: John Lasseter acknowledged that the latter was a tribute to a previous film. No one has done so with Cars.

So, for that reason and a few others (Larry the Cable Guy), Cars is not a movie I've ever loved. I've seen it quite a few times, and while I appreciate what Lasseter was trying to do in terms of truly embracing small-town values, it's never hit me on the same level as the four films that followed it did. On the other hand, I've always freely admitted that if the movie was released when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I would love it more than life itself. Probably the only way to make the movie better if it had been about dinosaurs and cars, honestly. So it doesn't surprise me to see that Cars, while not the most successful Pixar film at the box office, is the biggest merchandising cash cow Disney has had in years. (And I do mean "biggest," as a Hollywood Reporter article today said Disney expects the franchise to make $10 billion in merchandising by the end of this year. TEN BILLION DOLLARS.) From a business standpoint, how could anyone not want to make a second Cars movie? Frankly, why not just announce that there will be a third in the series? We all know that press release is coming down the pipe.

But here's where I concern troll a bit: is this movie, Cars 2, going to be...you know, good? As I said, I've doubted Pixar in the past, and I was wrong. Frankly, I have my doubts about Monsters University, the prequel to Monsters, Inc. coming in 2013. The plot--that Mike and Sully met in college and, guess what, they hated each other--is all well and good, but I'm just predisposed to loathing prequels, since they remove suspense from the story, because we know what will happen further down the line. But I'm less worried about that, because I thoroughly enjoyed Monsters, Inc. back in 2001. I'm more emotionally tied to the characters than I am with Lightning McQueen or Mater, so I'll be more tolerant of that continuation. Some parts of Cars 2 intrigue me. The idea of using the cars in a car chase makes so much sense, it's almost baffling why there wasn't such a sequence in the first movie. Having Michael Caine in the movie (I presume as a mentor, based on the scenes I've seen) is a good way to get me more interested, too. But then I look at the cast list and see some of the character names, and groan all over again. This is the final nail in the coffin for me with the Cars movies: they are two steps removed from being DreamWorks movies.

Remember Shark Tale? Don't work too hard at trying to rack your brain, the movie's not worth it. If you don't remember it, the movie is essentially a mob movie with fish. Yes, what Finding Nemo was missing was a crime family! I bring Shark Tale up not to mock the story, but to criticize its animation and uncreative names. For example, the movie features the voices of Will Smith, Martin Scorsese, and Angelina Jolie, among others. If you can't identify their voices, don't worry: the animation helps out, since Will Smith's character looks like Will Smith, Scorsese's looks like Scorsese (replete with the bushy white eyebrows), and so on. What's more, there is a cameo from Katie Couric, who plays Katie Current. Get it? Get it? This Flintstones-style in-joke is so cheap and pandering that it drives me crazy. And if you watch Cars and Cars 2, you'll find the same cheap, pandering jokes. He's not Bob Costas, he's Bob Cutlass! That's not Darrell Waltrip, that's Darrell Cartrip! In the new movie, for example, you can hear the voice of Brent Musburger playing a character named Brent Mustangburger. Lasseter himself apparently makes a voice cameo, as John Lassetire. What's the point of this kind of joke? It's not even worth a full laugh, and the many kids who will flock to this movie don't get it or care. None of these kids are going to see Cars 2 will snicker knowingly when they hear Darrell Waltrip's voice, but see a different name. Hell, a hefty amount of the adults in the audience won't even get it, if they don't watch Nascar. But the jokes remain.

My concern is this: when I think of Pixar, I don't think of laziness. When I think of most DreamWorks Animation films, I think of laziness. There are exceptions in the case of the latter--though it's not God's gift to animation, How To Train Your Dragon is quite good--but DreamWorks is typically just to make money. While I know Pixar isn't a nonprofit, they typically tell great stories that do not reek of needing to make money. Cars 2 reeks of needing to make money. Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3 didn't feel that way, even if the original film didn't seem to cry out for one or two sequels. I want Pixar to continue its winning streak. More to the point, let's be clear about something else: while I'm no fan of Cars, it was still the best animated film of 2006. It's just that, compared with the other films from Pixar, it's a very weak link. I'm honestly concerned that Cars 2 is going to make Cars look like Ratatouille in terms of quality. I want Pixar to prove me wrong. Maybe, if I lower my expectations, I'll be pleasantly surprised come June 24. Allow me to doubt that until the film opens.

A Moratorium on Referendums in Pop Culture

Before I get too deep into this topic, let's just get one thing clear: box office tracking is as trustworthy as snake oil. In essence, I'm going to be railing against media reaction to box office tracking, but bear with me. There are stories today, which amount to concern trolling, wondering/worrying that Super 8, the new JJ Abrams movie that is a Steven Spielberg-sanctioned homage of Steven Spielberg movies, will not do very well at the box office when it opens this Friday. I want to clarify: while I have not yet seen Super 8, I'm very excited to do so. More to the point, making a Spielberg homage is fine by me, as long as we're focusing on his earlier work (basically, anything up to Jurassic Park). Since the movie is set in 1979, I'm not too concerned.

And, before I get too worked up, it's important to also point out the obvious: Super 8 might make $10 million this weekend, or it might make $100 million. It won't matter one bit if I don't like the movie, because unlike with, say, television, the movie's qualitative success isn't tied to its quantitative success. Sure, if the people who made the movie would love to tell more stories with the characters, they may need it to do well at the theaters to get a sequel. But it doesn't matter to me if a movie is a blockbuster or staggers to a payday that's half its budget. I've always feverishly followed TV ratings, and while it's a frivolous hobby to do so, it makes some sense. When I start watching a show and begin to enjoy it, I want more of it. It's rare for a TV showrunner to create and write one season's worth of episodes and be done with the whole affair. Shows like Community and Parks and Recreation need to get good ratings (well, NBC's version of good) to continue airing new episodes. Super 8 does not need to make a certain amount of money this weekend for me to see it. (What's more, based on what I know of the film, I don't foresee Abrams working on a sequel, unless it makes so much money that he's legally forced to.)

What galls me is a term that was used in an article on Vulture today. This isn't meant to be a slam about Vulture, a pop culture blog I quite enjoy. The inciting word is "referendum." The article, by Claude Brodesser-Akner, posits that Super 8 is something of a referendum in Hollywood because, while it's clearly heavily influenced by the films of Steven Spielberg, it is technically original. The film has an original script (by Abrams), it's not based on a book, graphic novel, play, etc., and it's not a remake or sequel. I don't have the schedule in front of me, but Super 8 is one of the only truly original movies to open this summer. The most recent original summer movie (possibly the only other candidate) was Bridesmaids, which, as we all know, was the referendum on whether ladies can be funny without being played by Kate Hudson.

Can we stop with the whole "referendum" argument? Last July, the same meme played out with Inception, the enormously successful thriller from writer-director Christopher Nolan. There are, of course, many differences between Super 8 and Inception, most notably that the former film boasted many well-known actors, while the latter film has Kyle "Coach Taylor" Chandler and Noah Emmerich. The other notable difference--that Inception was Nolan's first film since The Dark Knight--is somewhat moot. Arguably, the concept of Inception is a harder sell than the concept of Super 8. And yet, the point is this: what happened in between last July and now? There was a referendum on original movies then and, based solely on the box-office returns, the public voted in favor of originality, right? Inception pulled in over $800 million worldwide, so the issue is laid to rest, yes? Ah, but of course not, because we've all forgotten about that movie by now. No, now, we have to focus on the latest trend, which the media has decided is once again whether Joe Public is smart enough to not always want to watch movies based on toys, comic books, or books.

We've come to a point in our culture, unfortunately, where talking about what audiences like to watch is absolutely pointless. More than likely, even if it doesn't make as much as Paramount Pictures wants, Super 8 is going to be this weekend's number-one movie, if only be default. Will it be a massive hit? Perhaps. Will it be a disappointment? Perhaps. But the idea that one movie represents the future of originality or the future of women in comedy is laughable for so many reasons. If one movie did represent the future of a trend in Hollywood, then why is this summer and the next one and the next one filled with movies based on preexisting properties of any kind? Why am I reading about a movie based on Battleship? Why am I reading about the potential of a third Hangover movie set in Amsterdam? (Kudos on the obvious choice, rumormongers.) Because, shockingly enough, the media can try and set trends, but if people continue to see movies just because...well, the movies are there, nothing will change.

Maybe a better way to put it is that audiences aren't always going to be sheep. While I roundly reject the dual ideas that Bridesmaids being a success equals manna from heaven for ladies and that it was the female version of The Hangover, the movie has done very well in theaters, having crossed the $100 million mark last weekend, even without any majorly bankable actresses. However, as soon as you get too happy about Bridesmaids doing well, you notice that the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie--which you'll remember, I did like somewhat--has made more than $800 million worldwide in less than a month. I'm sure people at the studios know this, but some media writers don't acknowledge this too often: regular, non-industry people go to the movies for the same reason that they watch television. It's there. When you give people lots of options, they will spread the wealth, which can be a good thing (see: the slow but steady rise of cable programming over the past 2 decades) or a bad thing (see: the rapid decline of broadcast network ratings over the past decade). If you make movies like Bridesmaids, enough people will seek it out. If you make movies like Pirates of the Caribbean, people will seek it out. Make both types of movies, and you are doing something the studios should be doing more: encouraging people to go to the movies. What studios are doing now is just assuming that we'll go and spend money on anything. Though that's mostly true, it's clear from the last few 3D-centric releases that...well, that economy's getting pretty though and a pair of easily discarded glasses ain't gonna fix it.

The whole point of this post is to say that Super 8 is as much of a referendum on original product as Inception was, which is not one at all. I hope to enjoy Super 8 and can't wait to see it this weekend. I'm not worried about the movie's success, and no one outside of the industry--hell, no one outside of Paramount--should be worried about it. I'm more concerned with studios not getting the message about what people want to see: more of everything. We want choices. Give us choices, as long as it's not between 2D and 3D.