Like most geeks of my generation, I’ve seen this classic time-travel movie countless times, and over the years, I’ve compiled a modest list of tiny details I’ve noticed and would like to expound upon. These minor details span a range of categories. In some cases, they’re simply powerful moments that have lingered with me, and in other cases, they’re rich details that I only recently noticed – and that I very well might be imagining. I’ll leave it to you to help me decide.
In the final segment of this three-part series, I try to diagnose season five's problems, all while suggesting some possible remedies and proposing ideas for future seasons.
Last time I asked: Where are the kids in season five? I know, I know — we see all of ‘em, if only briefly. We drop in on Randy in his brutal new foster home, where he’s been forced to harden his heart to combat accusations that he’s a snitch. We follow Michael and Dukie through most of season five, and even Namond makes a brief appearance in superheroic mode, kicking ass in a debate competition. Unfortunately, it’s not enough, and it’s not what season five needed, I submit.
Terry Gilliam was J.K. Rowling's first choice to direct the movies based on her books. How would he have handled the material?
Near the beginning of Chris Columbus' film version of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, hulking cockney giant Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane) takes Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) into Gringott's, the wizarding world's most secure bank, where Harry's vast inheritance is kept. Deep inside the dungeon-like caverns of the bank, Hagrid unlocks Harry's vault, and the camera jumps inside the vault's door to show us the sole flash of creativity in Columbus' lackluster movie.
When Hagrid turns the key, an elaborate, arachnid mechanism springs to life behind the door – hundreds of spindly tumblers and latches slither, creep and crawl away and apart from each other until the door swings open to reveal the horde of booty that Harry's parents left him. I mention this image because it was the one moment in both of Columbus' first two entries in the Potter franchise that not only gave me the heebie-jeebies, but it also made me think of Rowling's first choice to direct the movies based on her books: Monty Python alum Terry Gilliam.
It's easy to get suckered in by a sad story. Tamara Jenkins' The Savages, though well-crafted and impeccably acted, suffers from a reliance on cliché that is woven so deeply into the script that it's easy to overlook.
It’s time to talk about Black Mirror. Charlie Booker’s remarkable and disturbing—remarkably disturbing?—new show just dropped its third season on Netflix, and as with its first two outings, the reaction from across the critical spectrum is about the same: this show is messed up, but it’s one of the greatest shows of all time. But there are some dissenting voices…
Last night, I watched Star Wars for the first time in a few years. I know, I know -- what is there to say about it? Well, don't worry; I'm not about to launch into a 10,000 word treatise on its many virtues, but I did have a few thoughts:
Fanbase Press has one of the great unheralded stories of the comic-book publishing world. Run by Los Angeles-based husband-and-wife team Bryant and Barbra Dillon, Fanbase Press has been putting out top-notch content for the past several years. The company’s first two titles, Identity Thief and Something Animal, were both painterly explorations of dark psychosis. Since those releases, they’ve steadfastly sought…
John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is a southern-gothic masterpiece that borders ever so slightly on gonzo journalism—though it falls short of passing into that bizarro realm. Reading it spurred me to contemplate the border between the two major realms of nonfiction writing; the DMZ between the ordered lands of subject-first traditional journalism and the wild…
One of the myriad pleasures of the classic TV series Twin Peaks is sensing the artistic tug-of-war between showrunners David Lynch and Mark Frost. By now it’s received wisdom that Frost—an alum of more traditional story-driven shows like Hill Street Blues—was a necessary correction for Lynch, the dreamy abstractionist.
In competing narrative voices (mostly first with a dash of third), author Mayer ably explores the turbulent headspace of Quinn, a teenager with a condition known as congenital analgesia—he can't feel pain.