Why all award shows are demoralizing mind rot.
Remember when someone took twelve years to make a movie and it was just okay? I mean, it still won all of the awards it was supposed to—the film industry is too mathematical for it not to—but I have to disagree with the folks over at Roger “we gave Gigli three stars” Ebert dot com’s assessment of Boyhood as “indescribably moving.” And not just because calling a thing indescribable is, itself, technically a type of description.*
Can you imagine the decade-long boner that this director had to have for himself, though? Just going to bed every night, knowing that in ten years he would be blindly issued a rubber stamp of approval by the fucking Methuselahs who vote on this shit. That all he needed to do was show up with a camera every so often and pay Coldplay some royalties. Think about the 4,383 days he spent believing he’s creating this haterproof time capsule, and that anyone who doesn’t want to look like an uncultured knave would have to nod along because it’s indescribably fucking moving!
As you casually wear that Superman shirt, do you know his backstory? Can you name any of the writers and artists that brought it to life? What of the ancient Els on Krypton? None of that “On my planet it means hope” crap either. See, a real nerd can’t just go home after watching the latest DC movie flop, lick their wounds and re-watch The Wire for the sixth time. Actual nerds turn to things like the Smallville podcast or obsessing through the Superman wiki—lest we torment our friends and coworkers with all the fan theories and canon discrepancies that we physically can’t hold back. Meanwhile, non-nerds have the benefit of catching a few episodes of Doctor Who and grabbing a Funko Pop doll, instead of agonizing over the Face of Bo’s timeline or if the Silurians have the same makeup in each iteration. Nerds wield the responsibility of having an encyclopedic knowledge of the inane—that comes up in no normal daily conversation—which is why we overflow with excitement when someone indulges our discussions about which Comic Book universe is better or which season marked the decline of The Simpsons. This culture has gotten to enjoy the fruits of our laborious tending while we watch our passions rot into oblivion. It’s fine to like stuff that’s cool but it’s become far too easy to claim the nerd struggle as your own just by transiently consuming various “nerd” things. Things like:
By the time Kanye West released his much anticipated fourth studio album, 808s and Heartbreak, the world had already grown tired of the auto¬tuned vocoder voice popularized by T-pain and emulated, repeatedly, by a multitude of mediocre artists. Every singer, rapper, and producer living in their mother’s basement who saved up every penny from their retail I.T. job to buy Ableton already knew the trend was nearing its death rattle. None of that deterred Kanye West from releasing AN ENTIRE ALBUM OF AUTO-TUNED VOCALS, spewing lazily written lyrics over admittedly catchy but repetitive beats. If not for the sheer size and buoyancy of his ego he would have drowned along with the record. This cautionary tale speaks to the dangers of over saturating the social market. Too much of any one thing, no matter how unique, will turn the people against you (I resist bringing up the Scary Movie franchise, it’s already embarrassing enough for everybody) and it seems that we’ve reached this boiling point with movie and show remakes as well. A friend accurately pointed out once, that there will eventually be an entire generation whose whole upbringing will be on hand me downs, remakes, retcons, and nothing of original substance. And while this downer of an observation may eventually come to fruition, I assert that there is still room for one more remake, a franchise that nerds and 30 to 40 somethings everywhere have been waving an itchy finger over the restart button almost since its conception. I put it to you, dear readers THE ARGUMENT TO REMAKE HIGHLANDER
Continue reading “We Might as Well Just Remake Highlander”