Editorial: The Obstacle of Shallow Faith

I recently took a look at the first three chapters of Kylie Bisutti's I'm no Angel: From Victoria's Secret Model to Role Model. My wife has read the whole book, and she assures me my pre-emptive impressions are the correct ones.

The short version: Bisutti went into modeling, despite having no real interest in it, because people kept telling her how pretty she was. After a certain degree of success, she wound up winning an event through Victoria's Secret; not actually signing a contract with the company as the title of the book would lead you to believe. But after her unsupportive husband kept bursting into extroverted prayer enough times whenever the modeling industry shockingly revealed itself to be intertwined with sex, Bisutti nobly chose to become a role model for young Christian girls; presumably pretty ones who might be in danger of pursuing the career that they want.

Do I sound bitter? Angry even? Let me explain. I'm a Christian. It's how I was raised, and after a period of serious soul searching I realized I agree with the teachings of Christ. Curiously, I tend to disagree with a lot of Christians, so much that at one chapter of my life I tried disavowing my faith altogether. In the end, I came to a reconciliation: God isn't the church, people are. And people have a knack for sucking at the wrong times.

Bisutti's book has tapped into something with me that I can't quite shake off, and I think I can best explain it as a metaphor.

Imagine a wave pool, like at a waterpark. Now this is a huge wave pool, to the point that it may as well be a beach, because the deep end of the pool stretches so far away that it disappears over the horizon. Where is the deep end exactly? I don't know. It's too far away. We're not allowed to bring boats to this wave pool. The only way to check is to swim out there, and you'll probably die before you ever reach the end.

In fact, the curious thing about this wave pool is that it's where our dead go. The waves carry the deceased into these mysterious depths. So what happens? Are they eaten? Do they find Atlantis? Do they just drift indefinitely? Does it even matter? The simple fact is, we don't know. We haven't died yet. We can get in the water and swim around a little bit, or a lot, but we can't KNOW until it's too late to be a part of the living.

So let's focus on what we can know, the ground leading up to the shallow end. Now the problem when you first approach the edge of the wave pool is how many billions of people are standing around speculating what the wave pool is about. Most of them tend to be very pleasant, minding their own business or congregating in small groups discussing possibilities.

But then there are the assholes, and they have megaphones. As loudly as they speak, you'd think they KNOW everything there is to know about the wave pool. Some of them decide that the water is irrelevant and there's no point in even acknowledging it's existence. While others demand that EVERYBODY has to accept a definitive explanation for what the end of the wave pool is, or they'll not be able to take the post death journey. Both of these types of people do absolutely no good, and they have the most potential to start a fight at the water park.

Pushing past them, there is now a barricade of people splashing around the shallow waters of the wave pool. This is where Bisutti is lounging and prattling on about how wonderful the water is. And to a degree, she's right. It does feel good, rolling back and forth against your ankles. Children are put in the water where they chant song lyrics about the waves that they accept without questioning. And why not? They're children. It's as much of an understanding of the wave pool as they're capable of having.

Unfortunately, there's this mass of adults who confuse wading in the shallow end with swimming. They insist that feeling the water is all they need, and all there is. I can accept that they're half right. When you're a shallow person, the shallow waters may very well be all you need. But it's not all there is.

So what do I care? There are Kylie Bisuttis everywhere. Most of them go to church and throw around phrases like "God has a plan" and "we should pray for this person who we're passively judging" (I'm paraphrasing). My wife had a friend who used to write such diverse inspirational/country songs like "God is Great", "God, You're so Great", "Can Everybody See How Great I'm Saying God Is?", and "Thank You God For Your Wonderfully Low Expectations"; and I'm certain they didn't all sound exactly the same to her.

Is there ultimately any direct harm from this? Sure, it's annoying as all hell. I tend to respond negatively to people who treat their faith as 'deep' when it's only coming up to their ankles, and maybe the social energy potentially lures some people away from actually learning how to swim. But is it anything more than a nuisance?

Well...

Here's the trick: the Kylie Bisuttis are usually privileged. The strength of their faith typically goes untested. They experience pain like everyone, but they don't know what hopelessness feels like. And perhaps in this life they'll never need to. But then again, they may get hit by that wave and that undertow. That's a bad time to start learning how to swim.

Now at this point in the metaphor I could shrug my shoulders and say, "Well, people who can't swim, drown. That's first draft Darwin." But maybe for me there's something else at play. I think it was the way I was raised Christian. I grew up in a good youth group where we challenged each other and debated and disagreed, and we always came away feeling like we'd shared an experience even though we didn't come to a middle ground compromise. In fact, one of my most active church friends was openly atheist. What could be more Methodist than that?

I went to a college with a strong religious representation that continued exploring the struggles from my youth group. I may have graduated feeling spiritually broken, but that was never the fault of the institution. That just happened to be the age I was. Unfortunately, after college I never found that spiritual community again. I found too many people with 'answers' that they were convinced of, and I was wasting my time trying to reach through their barriers. They didn't want to be challenged. They wanted to feel comfortable.

The bottom line is, we don't have answers. We don't know what's on the other side of death. We can read tomes on the subject and listen to professionals or celebrity voices, but we only have our own experiences to go on. We accept what makes the most sense. To us. As individuals. There's nothing wrong with that.

But my issue with shallow faith is that it creates an illusion of answers. With answers come the sense of correct and incorrect, and arguments, and exclusivity. It drives us further apart in an already isolated world. I continue to hope for a spiritual awakening of our species, but it's going to require an admission that self proclaimed role-models like Kylie Bisutti honestly know jack shit.


Addendum:

It's been brought to my attention that I may have written this blog from a place from a place other than love, and I'm inclined to agree. I may have come across as spiteful. While I still stand by my opinions, I have to admit there is a real pain in me regards to religion that I hadn't even realized was bubbling up.

My relationship with God is one of distance. It's not that I keep God away from me, I actually strive to become closer. But I sense the distance, and it hurts.

Edgar Allen Poe once described the power of music as being able to accomplish in a single chord interval what it took him thousands of words to convey. And he suggests that when you're moved to tears by a piece of music, it's not because you experience so much joy that it can't be contained. Instead, it's because a deeply rooted pain of separation from the divine (one that we ordinarily are able to repress) has been awakened.

I believe in God, and I believe some part of us will join the Divine when we die. And by that sensibility, I believe this same part of us was already connected at one time to Divinity. But here on this earth, it is disconnected, for whatever reason. Maybe to grow in a way not possible otherwise? I don't really know. But even though that piece of us has no cognitive recollection of being connected, it remembers the feeling.

Think about what drives you. Do you look for groups of people based on a common theme (sports fans, taste in anime, political affiliation) because something compels you to seek out a 'collective' larger than yourself? Are you drawn to images of babies (no) or puppies (awww) because they remind you of a world somehow more beautiful than the one you live in? Have you ever fallen in love with the wrong person because they seemed Divinity incarnate, or put a substance in your body to experience something that might allow you to feel connected, or hurt somebody because you thought it would get you closer to the feeling you wanted?

So, yeah, I think the compulsion exists in all of us, and I think being separated from the Divinity that Christians name 'God' is why. It's already a painful topic for me, and I guess lately I've been feeling a bit more emotionally charged about it. There are wonderful things about faith, and when one is able to find a community to hurt with, often it doesn't hurt as much. But I'm not finding that community anymore. Instead I'm finding Joel Osteen, who is the epitome of 'store your treasures on earth'.

I know there are a lot of amazing, insightful people of faith out there, but I don't seem to find them in churches much. And I suppose that's why Kylie Bisutti's book hit such a nerve with me. I'm not seeing a book about faith, I'm seeing one about success. She had success as a model, and when that started wane she found success selling out the modeling industry, and she's calling that faith.

Faith is about humility. I'm not seeing that from her.

The Wax Buzzard Files: Chapter One -The Prologue's Epilogue

If you want to go back to the Table of Contents, this link will take you there. If you don't want to go back to the Table of Contents, that link will take you to Mount McKinley's gift shop. Choose carefully.


An old college professor I never had, or met, once drunk tweeted me the motto I'd live the rest of my days by. The message read "Atttentoin 2 Dtail iz thf mstresss ofg Tha Czrc7oNNimststs :)". I have it framed in my office even though the phone's battery ran down months ago.

I never figured out what that last word was supposed to be, but attention to detail separated the crocs from the gators. And in the field it could mean the difference between a dead man and a man whose name happened to be Deadman; although to be fair, once he actually died those details wouldn't exactly make for the best example.

Miss Nomer's story had omitted several details that a trained eye like mine could spot miles away. Now that she was miles away, I noticed she had neglected to mention what she wanted from me. Was she hiring me? Playing me for a sap? Did she just want to hang out sometime? I could have just walked away and never looked back, but since this was where I lived I was already in too deep.

It takes a sharp mind to see the big picture before you have any of the pieces, but I knew exactly what I needed; someone with a sharp mind. I knew just the guy, Vincent "the weasel" Smith. He'd tried for years to build a respectable reputation. I was the one who gave him the idea to stop telling people his middle name was "the weasel". Now Vinnie was the senior record keeper at the What's-His-Face Memorial Hospital. If anybody could take a wild guess at how to track down Miss Nomer, Vinnie could; and he owed me a favor. I intended to find out what for.

"Vinnie!" I called as I walked through the door. Pity he wasn't in that room and the people in the board meeting were less than receptive to my charisma. I had to search the hospital for a few hours, but I finally tracked down the front desk clerk and she got me pointed in the direction of the parking lot.

I never found Vinnie, but as I made my way across the street I got this peculiar sensation I was being followed. I glanced behind me and saw nothing but a huge crowd of suspicious looking characters. I started walking.

Yeah, there it was. A string of footsteps keeping perfect pace with me. I stopped. My shadow stopped. I took one step forward and the tail followed suit. I did a hop shuffle ball change buffalo, matched by the synchronized steps behind me. I checked my posture to see if I was leaning really far forward and just hearing my own feet. Nope. Definitely someone there.

I had a decision to make. It was a long time ago and I didn't like it. Now I had another one. Would I whirl around and face my culprit, or would I shrug it off and go do the yard work I'd been avoiding? A third option entered my head. It was technically illegal and required one of those paddle ball toys with the elastic string, and I didn't feel like waiting in the long line at the convenience store across town.

But I had a thought. My shadow was likely a puppet. Not a shadow puppet, but the other kind of puppet, with strings, and someone else pulling them. Who was a shadow. Actually just forget about the shadow metaphor altogether. If this puppet had a puppeteer then those strings would lead me right to him. But how to get my shadow to lead me -I mean the puppet to lead me to the puppeteer when the puppet was clearly shadowing me?

Simple. I walked backwards.

That could have been my fatal mistake.

Obviously it wasn't, but it could have been; that's the point I'm making.

Chapter Two is available, but it's still getting over a serious breakup.

The Carousel: The Call of Mardi Gras

I didn't realize Mardi Gras was so early this year. I've been wanting to get back into writing some Carousel material, and this idea just kind of came to me last night. At this point I have no idea where I'm going with the story but I thought it might be fun to just explore a little.

Enjoy!


Mardi Gras.

More accurately Lundi Gras, but to fifteen year old Becky there was really no difference. Her stepmom claimed she wanted her to have the full Mardi Gras experience, which was really a euphemistic way of saying Fredonna had wanted to go to New Orleans for five days and test her limits on alcohol consumption.

Becky couldn't understand what the big damn deal was about either Mardi Gras or New Orleans. She'd seen several parades, and they were fine if a little claustrophobic inducing. She'd gotten into the spirit to a point, having scavenged for a large handful of beads and three sought after doubloons. But the thing seemed more trouble than it was worth.

The odd thing was, her stepmom seemed to be trying to reconnect with her youth. At the ripe old age of twenty-six. "Who was this holiday supposed to be for?" thought Becky. Not really for a fifteen year old girl. At least, not one who was down there with her stepmother's friends.

It was seven thirty in the morning. Becky woke up to the smell of pancakes and bacon, but a nearly empty second floor home. Fredonna's best friend Caris had managed to secure renting an enviable location with a balcony. It didn't face any parade routes, but it overlooked one of the side streets where people filtered in and out all day and night. Either most of the women had gone out extremely early or they'd not made it back the night before. And there on the balcony was the unmistakable figure of Zelphina, Caris's girlfriend.

Becky had grown up in a conservatively religious household. Her father was a preacher, and her mother had been an organist when she was alive. While her dad had never spoken down about same-sex couples, she could always feel that he'd had a bit of discomfort about the issue. But Becky loved her dad, and had always admired how he never let his feelings dictate his stance on topics. But Zelphina wasn't just Caris's girlfriend. She was also a demon.

What exactly that meant, Becky wasn't sure. Her dad couldn't explain it either, probably because he knew just as much as Becky did. But almost two years ago, something had happened to Becky that she didn't talk about. She'd become possessed. Becky had never understood by what, but Caris and Zelphina had been there, and they'd saved her life.

"Good morning Becky," said Zelphina, smiling only with her eyes.

Becky nodded silently, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. She had to admit Zelphina had a classic Hollywood beauty to her, even if her demeanor had always been a little intimidating. Much more so once you knew what she was capable of. Becky didn't know how common demons were in the world or why this particular one was reasonably helpful, but being left alone with her in New Orleans the day before Mardi Gras was a concept Becky felt more than a little discomfort over.

Zelphina gestured toward the wicker chair perpendicularly angled next to Becky. "May I?"

Becky nodded. "Where is everyone?"

"The girls are probably out looking for reasons to be irresponsible."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"I agreed to keep you safe."

Becky swallowed a larger bite of dough than she'd intended and had to resort to the milk glass for relief. "I'm fine here," she said.

"Yes. You are fine here. But you're bored."

Becky didn't respond, but it was true. When Fredonna had invited her (practically begged her) to come, she said yes primarily owing to the fact that she had nothing else to do. But she hadn't been connecting with the Mardi Gras experience for three days now, and the whole thing felt pointless to her. She shrugged. "I guess so."

"I feel similarly about this festival. It's strangely fascinating to witness how many people are drawn to this street party with so much joy and pleasure in the feigned debauchery, and yet I experience no attachment to it whatsoever. I've been asking myself why that is."

"Aren't you a demon?"

"I am."

"What do you do for fun?"

"I don't do for fun. I do for instructions. Why? Do you believe I'm missing out on something?"

Becky chewed up the last bite that she was interested in eating. "What if someone instructs you to have fun?"

"I give them a look that dissuades them from giving me that instruction again."

Becky tried to push back a smile, mostly succeeding. "Can you teach it to me?"

"Perhaps. But what do you say to a bit of adventure? You and me. The streets of New Orleans. Maybe discover what the heart of this beast is."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Zelphina. "We explore. You navigate, I protect you, and we go wherever you like. What do you say?"

All things being equal, it's usually a good idea not to agree to a demon's offer. But in this instant...

There was no predicate to that sentence. Becky didn't realize it, but she'd entered into a long, time honored tradition of people who'd said yes to a demon despite being taught to say no. And the rationale was always the same. It began and ended with "but in this instant". Even if this instant was somehow different than any other, at it's core it was self-permission to say yes.

Together they walked down the street.

Heart: Valentine (A Dozen Roses from Ann and Nancy Wilson)

Something I never thought would happen to me just came into being. I bought tickets to see Heart, live in concert.

They're touring with Joan Jett and Cheap Trick, and I was amazed to find that the tickets weren't priced in the hundred dollar range. This collection of performers isn't just amazing, it's a slice of rock and roll history.

It's with a certain amount of shame that I direct attention away from Jett and (um) Trick to focus on the Wilson sisters, but their music has had the greatest impact on me, and their story is one that I find powerful.

Before Anna and Elsa, there was Ann Wilson and her little sister Nancy. As the daughters of a U.S. Marine, the family would have to move around frequently, and the girls turned to music for a sense of consistency. There are some artists who clearly love music, and then there are those who embody it. And there's just something about the Wilson sisters where you can feel the emotions poured into their work. There's a pain laced through every album, from failed relationships to on stage panic attacks, but there's also the unyielding hope that refuses to be snuffed out.

You're undoubtedly familiar with their power ballads from the mid to late eighties (Alone, Never, These Dreams and What About Love), and they were all really good songs. But when you compare them to some of their lesser known or in-danger-of-being-forgotten gems, I think you'll find they may not be the absolute best compositions.

So as a bit of a love letter to the Wilsons, I've put together what I consider, in my superficially humble opinion, to be the ultimate album showcasing Heart's soul. On vinyl, because it sounds better.

A Dozen Roses

Side A:

1 Bebe le Strange (live) -Greatest Hits/Live (1980)

The album version of this song is good enough, but when you hear them perform it live it adds a whole new layer of energy. And that's one thing worth mentioning right out of the gate: Heart can play live! And they play the hell out of this song. The lyrics are about a female rock star receiving a fan letter from someone who has been captivated by her. Interestingly, it has nothing to do with the way she looks, but the way she handles her guitar. It's possible this song is based on the fan mail the sisters were receiving themselves, but I prefer to think of it as a fictional account of what drove them into the industry in the first place.

2 Magic Man -Dreamboat Annie (1975)

This is THE definitive Heart song, and the first one you hear if you listen to the albums in order. A woman is being seduced by a man, even against her conscious better judgment. She's doomed and she knows it, but she's addicted. It's all the more poignant by the omission of any details about this man other than his eye color. The guitar is exciting and haunting at the same time. There's more of an emotional arc in this five minute track than Stephanie Meyer's entire body of work.

3 Without You -Magazine (1977)

I hate this song. "Wait, what?" you cry, "Then why do you have it on the album?" First off, there's no need to cry, it's just a blog. Second, I'm talking about the actual Badfinger song written by Pete Ham and Tom Evans, and everyone from Harry Nilsson to freaking Mariah Carey seems to think it's some sort of romantic love ballad. It's not. Whether Ham and Evans realized it during the writing (no joke here: both committed suicide), this is the epitome of an unhealthy one-sided relationship. Ann Wilson is the only singer I've ever heard who sounds like she's singing it from this approach. As far as I'm concerned, that makes this the only version of this song.

4 Barracuda -Little Queen (1977)

Oh boy. The origin of this song is just painful. A Detroit radio promoter flippantly (and sincerely) asked Ann about her lover, referring to her sister Nancy. Ann was outraged, and went back to the hotel room, pouring everything she was feeling into writing this song. Then Nancy heard what had happened and channeled her fury into the melody and bridge. The result was one of the all time great Heart songs, and probably the sister as their most vulnerable.

5 Make Me -Jupiter's Darling (2004)

I literally discovered this song a few days ago. Post-eighties Heart is where the entity of the band really is defined as the Wilson sisters (being the only consistent force since the inception). The eighties was a productive time where musicians and studios had a solid working relationship. The nineties was the decade of the breakup between artists and establishment. "Make Me" has a clear return to roots feel, similar to Pat Benatar's overlooked 1997 sapphire Innamorata. Nancy shows she doesn't need studio technology to kill it on lead guitar, and nobody is going to keep Ann's powerhouse voice down.

6 I Want Your World to Turn -Brigade (1990)

Ann Wilson may very well have the greatest female hard rock voice in music history; I'd certainly support her claim of the title. But little attention has been given to Nancy as a singer. She really could have made it as a solo artist. I've listened to this song since the album came out and I've only just found out that it was Nancy singing lead, not Ann. This is another 'dirty' love song that Heart is so virtuoso at performing. Here we have a woman in love with someone who is openly non-monogamous. She doesn't seem to have a problem with it conceptually, but she's developing a sense of possessiveness. It's a fresh set up, and Nancy's voice is awesome.

7 Wild Child -Brigade (1990)

You can't go into Rock and Roll if you only like nice songs. At its core, rock is about the dark side of passion, but once in a while you get a song like "Wild Child" which feels like it has all of the grit and ash of typical rock, but is actually a purely happy song. Sexually happy, yes, but we're in a place devoid of pain (temporarily anyway). This is just pure, wild, unbridled fun; an inner child released into an adult carnival.

Side B:

1 Dog & Butterfly -Dog & Butterfly (1978)

I take an interest in the order that songs appear on an album, and this beautiful folk song is the perfect way to begin side two (a la "Here Comes the Sun"). I've loved this song since I was a teenager, (even if I had difficulty convincing my peers of its merit) and I still want it performed at my memorial service [There, mom. I finally wrote it down. Happy?]. This is what this song is about. You have a dog and a butterfly (duh). The butterfly can fly, and the dog can't. But the dog forgets this because it's playing so intensely with the butterfly. And when it winds up on its back on the ground, the dog laughs at its own foolishness. And it does it again and again, because the experience of failing at flying is so delightful on its own. Then you wrap that chorus in a few verses of someone experiencing defeat and finding the strength to get back up in this image. It always brings me tears. All the more reason I shouldn't be working on this blog in a public place.

2 If Looks Could Kill -Heart (1985)

The concept of this song is pretty basic, confronting someone who has betrayed you. The execution on the other hand is awesome. It has a fast tempo and a driving guitar riff, making it the most dangerous Heart song to drive in rush hour traffic to. Sadly, that's all I have to say about it. But take my finite word, it's a great song.

3 Mistral Wind (live)/Hit Single/Strange Euphoria -Greatest Hits/Live (1980)

Kind of a cheat here, but this has always felt to me like one very long surreal track. "Mistral Wind" kicks us off with a sailing in uncharted waters metaphor. The seven minute piece has an ethereal sound to it, conveying the emotions of someone who feels touched by something 'out there'. Ann's passion (particularly in the live version) comes across as almost agonizing that she can't experience this force all the time. But as the melody fades into a simple music box measure, we move into "Hit Single"; a dreamlike arrangement of outtakes from studio recording sessions. This bizarre tension builds, and then an abrupt silence. And from out of the dark comes...I'm not even sure what this is, but I really wouldn't mind it going on for twice as long. The aptly named "Strange Euphoria" just paints a picture of what a world devoid of ego would sound like. I really can't tell you what happens on this three track journey, but it's something quite special.

4 I Love You -Brigade (1990)

There are so many wonderful Heart songs that I know I'm doing a disservice to by not including them ("Crazy On You", "Heartless", and "Tall, Dark, Handsome Stranger" to name a few), and I very nearly overlooked this one. But then I remembered what it was about. Unlike "Magic Man" or "If Looks Could Kill" where there's a clear 'victim' in the narrative, "I Love You" is about a couple who truly love each other but have also had a fight so huge that they may have irreparably damaged the relationship. This is Ann Wilson of the early nineties, singing from the voice of adult maturity. And while she's not having the adolescent meltdown of "Without You" you can sense the subtext may be coming from the most broken place in any of the songs. The fact that the question of reconciliation remains unanswered makes this song all the more grueling.

5 I've Got the Music in Me (live) -Magazine (1977)

It's kind of a pity that I have to end things on one of the songs the sisters didn't write, but there really is no other song that captures the essence of 'this is what Heart is'. It's another fantastic live song, and when you place it after several of the more painful numbers, it feels like a rebirth. As I said at the beginning, Ann and Nancy's collective claim of having the music in them is more than just a pretty chorus. It's an anthem. Rock and roll is this whole ambiguous world. Thank God for our heroes, or in this case heroines, who can enter that wild realm and bring some of that magic back out for the rest of us.

See you on September 20th!

The Wax Buzzard Files: A Prologue

Table of Contents right here.

It was a cold, wet, miserable, and tentatively dangerous morning as I sprang from the nightmares of my slumber to greet the songbirds outside my window with an unwarranted aria (to show them once and for all how it feels). If there's one thing I've noticed about the outdoors, there's a lot of birds.

I straggled to the kitchen, collecting four cups of oatmeal, a half pint of milk, a tablespoon of olive oil and an egg. I mixed the concoction together, set it on the counter, and promptly forgot about it.

I was feeling both under and over the weather. When I say 'under' I'm of course referring to the fact that weather tends to occur in the skies above, while I remain an obedient servant of gravitational physics; and when I say 'over' it's because I'm lying.

I slept in the office that I have at home. It was a bedroom I'd converted into an office that looks suspiciously like a bedroom. Work's been slow lately, so I've really just been using it for sleep. Rain pelted the windows outside, and I was considering bringing them in to dry them off when I realized I wasn't alone, and not in the metaphysical sense.

She stood in the doorway. I wanted to offer her a chair, but unless she moved inside it would be a fire hazard. I'm a lot of things but I'm no vandal. At least not a very good one.

"Detective Guffey," she said in a way that merited no adverb. This woman's face was indescribable, like one of those things with the thing on it that wasn't too expensive.

I wanted to respond with 'speaking' which would have been true at that moment, but then it wouldn't have gone without saying, and I never miss that opportunity. Instead I gave her a huge grin with jazz hands. "How can I help you? Miss..."

"Nomer."

"Miss Nomer, if that is your real name." I put my feet up on my desk. A second later my back hit the floor. I forgot I'd left the chair out on the patio.

"I fear for my life, Mr. Guffey."

"Are you a stuntwoman?"

"No. I'm a professional thief." That explained how she'd broken into my house without my hearing it. It seemed her method was to carefully remove my front door from its hinges using nothing more than a high velocity off-road SUV.

She reached into her coin purse and produced a business card, in that order. She handed it to me (the card, not the coin purse unfortunately). "Everything you need to know is there. Names, addresses, accounting records, a summary of events with citations, an essay on morality; I write very small."

She abruptly turned and vanished from the doorway, returning a moment later to inform me that she needed to leave, and hadn't meant to be rude. I watched her slip into the SUV, which was very funny, and she backed out of the doorway, tearing down half the wall in the process without ever making a sound.

She was good. Really good.

Want Chapter One? It's on you, buddy.

X-Men: I Through X (with help from Cerebro)

It's 2016.

You might think of it as the year of a Presidential election, or the Summer Olympics. Or you might be preparing to set up your festive Leap Day lawn decorations. But I tend to think of 2016 as the year we get three films from the X-Men franchise, which is a feat even the Marvel Cinematic Universe won't pull off until 2017. Slackers.

I did my MCU Phase One and Two retrospectives, it only seems fair I give the same attention to the franchise that really started it all. Yeah, I know. Technically Blade got there first, but that was before the nerds took over Hollywood, and the average movie goer didn't even realize they were seeing a comic book-based film. 2000's X-Men was the real gamble. And I truly believe that everyone from Christian Bale to Charlie Cox owes a respectful nod to that first film.

So let's have a look back at the first seven films, and then I'll make my predictions about the three that are coming out this year.

X-Men (2000)

Prior to 2000, comic book movies were the spectacular Superman and Superman II (do your f**king research Zack Snyder!) The respectively broken and dead in the water III and IV. And then the Burton/Schumacher Batman franchise, which was NEVER that good in the first place and still managed to devolve into a migraine inducing disappointment. X-Men had a lot to prove.

For one thing, the mainstream audience wasn't watching the amazing X-Men cartoon series in the nineties, which meant that the film would have to be able to explain what mutation was. Another thing, Magneto was a pre-requisite. His character has always been a complicated, sometimes-revered-as-heroic villain. You wouldn't have the luxury of killing him at the end of the film. And thirdly, this was a financial risk for FOX. They weren't just going to dump money into the project with blind confidence that the return would pay off.
 

$75 million is certainly more money than I'll ever see in my life, but director Bryan Singer was having to spread that over a large cast, huge set pieces, and massive special effects in a time before CGI had really found its identity. So Singer did what he was good at. He focused on character.

This film could probably not be made today, what with the audience's expectations on action to non-action ratio; which makes the film all the more special. X-Men is practically a drama. The action scenes are pretty good, but the acting between Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen really sizzle. Anna Paquin's Rogue was never written quite as well as she was in this first film, but boy is she great here.

This was also the movie where the world discovered Hugh Jackman. We take his Wolverine for granted now but he really brought the character to life in a way we weren't expecting. There's always a danger of making Wolverine too close to a Clint Eastwood trope, but Jackman finds the humorous beats and the charm. You can believe Jean Grey would flirt with the bad boy.

There are a couple of weaknesses. Halle Berry is meh as Storm. Hell, I think she's meh as a person, but in the entire film series she's easily the most replaceable performer (it should have been Angela Bassett, and no, she wasn't too old). Singer also never really knows what to do with Tyler Mane's Sabretooth. But in the end, this movie succeeds in all of the right places. It was a long three years to have to wait for the follow-up.

X2 (2003)

Most people I talk to (about this anyway) agree that X2 was that highly sought after example of a sequel that surpasses the original. I don't entirely agree. I felt X2 matched X-Men in quality, but for different reasons. If I had to choose, I'd lean a tad toward the first movie just because the characters were so rich in presentation. But the sequel really excels on the action front, which is an understandably fair trade.

By 2003 every blockbuster was tapping into The Matrix for inspiration, but the opening sequence with Nightcrawler's attack on the Oval Office may be the most visually impressive. My favorite scene, however, is when Stryker's soldiers invade Xavier's mansion. Action and comedy share a dominant chromosome based on timing. I lose interest in action movies that rely on hyperactive editing and shaky camera movement to convey adrenaline. But when you master timing, you can do next to nothing in the scene and still evoke a sense of thrill from your audience.

Case in point, you have the build of suspense where the Harry Potter looking kid looks confused at the soldier who shoots him with a tranquilizer and he drops. Beat. Wolverine perks up, sensing something is wrong and leaves Bobby alone in the kitchen. Beat. Kitty Pryde wakes up and drops quietly through the floor, scurrying through a wall and a soldier. Beat. Each step is a build of tension like the chain that carries a roller coaster to the top of its first drop. Cut back to Bobby in the kitchen where he's seconds away from taking a shot by another soldier. Saved by Wolverine, who mutters "You picked the wrong house. bub." This is the apex of tension. Siryn screams. This is the tension release, or the big drop. It gives me chills every time.

The rest of the movie is a really fun ride, but the lack of Cyclops through the entire middle section has never sat well with me. I always liked James Marsden in the role, and he has the unfair burden of having to show up at the last minute and emote the loss of his loved one (without the expression of his eyes). His screen time is almost as much a casualty as the plot giving Jean Grey enough to do for us to really care about her death.
 

Both of these issues could have been smoothed over in part three, given the right storyline. But, you know. *sigh*

X-Men: The Last Stand

It's really hard to treat this movie fairly. I don't want to defend Brett Ratner, as he's since proven himself to be an asshole, but I really don't blame him for this particular fiasco. In case you've forgotten, Bryan Singer wanted to film X3 and X4 back to back, but FOX wanted to wrap everything up as a trilogy. And somewhere in there, Singer signed on to do Superman Reruns, taking James Marsden with him. And nobody came out with any dignity.

But let's back it up a bit. Ratner actually does a competent job of mimicking Singer's directorial style for much of the film. And the story has two major arcs going simultaneously: the mutant cure and the Dark Phoenix.

The mutant cure arc is really pretty good. If the whole movie had focused on it, we could have had more Rogue, more Xavier, and maybe a little more freaking Cyclops. And then they could pull out the Dark Phoenix in the final scenes and end on a cliff hanger. Because, dear God, the Dark Phoenix arc has to be the most wasted opportunity in any comic book based movie.

Famke Janssen is a wonderful actress, and she'd spent two movies holding herself back in the role. I was so looking forward to seeing her go full Xenia Onatopp nuts in this movie. But instead, they had to make her a zombie until they needed to kill off another major character prematurely. I wound up leaving the theater feeling indifferent. And I still do. In fact, I've never bothered owning this movie on DVD.

I won't go so far as to say that the movie is bad. Ghost Rider was bad. Daredevil was dumb, but somehow a step above bad. A step above that would be Spider-Man 3 which tried really hard but fell apart under its own weight. X-Men: The Last Stand would then be the next step into the realm of passable. I'll admit out of all the X-Men films, this one is the least good and most easily skippable. But when you compare it to the low points in the Star Trek franchise, I think we've all come down on it a little too hard.

X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009)

Members of the jury, I grant you that this movie has its flaws. Indeed, as the prosecution has been so avid to point out, Deadpool's character was clearly mishandled. The defense accepts this complaint without question. The prosecution has also thoroughly demonstrated the number of questionable choices made to the film's production; the replacing of Tyler Mane as Liev Schreiber, Gambit's screen time, will.i.am, and so on. These details are not in dispute.

But it is the defense's opinion that all the prosecution has proven is that X-Men Origins: Wolverine is a flawed movie, not a bad one as the lawsuit claims. On the contrary, the elements of the film which work hold together very well.

Case in point, Hugh Jackman easily could be phoning it by now, but he's still playing Wolverine as multilayered as he always has. People have been clamoring for a Wolverine solo film since the franchise began, and this movie delivers on exactly what it promised. Wolverine. Not just his origin story, but a complete character study of who he is and what he isn't.

Liev Schreiber's cruel but intelligent Sabretooth serves as a perfect counterbalance to Wolverine's compassionate side, while mirroring his animal instincts. Silverfox brings out his charm. Wraith, his sense of camaraderie. And Stryker serves as a psychological villain as opposed to a physical threat (of which Wolverine has practically none). Ultimately the point of the movie is to see Wolverine be Wolverine, and to give us a fun time in the process. This movie delivers.

It is understandable why many people walked away from the movie feeling like some element that they cared about had been presented incorrectly. We're all human. We're allowed human reactions. But it is an injustice to make the leap from our personal reactions to an assessment of the overall quality. I submit that if you take an honest look at the elements herein that were handled correctly, and compare them to those where the proverbial ball was dropped, you'll find that the strengths clearly outweigh the weaknesses. And as an unbiased jury, it will be your sworn duty to render a verdict of 'good movie' to X-Men Origins: Wolverine. A flawed, but entertainingly fun superhero film.

The defense rests.

X-Men: First Class (2011)

The short version is: I thought this was a really awesome movie that I've never had any interest in owning or even rewatching.

We all know what this is about. FOX legally has to keep making X-Men films or the ownership reverts back to Marvel. As much as I would love that to happen, the MCU is already getting kind of crowded. And as long as FOX keeps doing movies of this quality I'm not going to gripe. Much.

The problem is, I really want to see the story move forward, not just keep filling in gaps. The Last Stand sadly wrote the franchise into a corner, so it's next to impossible to move beyond the alleged ending point. I loved Wolverine's origin story, but I probably would have lost interest in seeing Magneto's solo film (like FOX was planning). First Class manages to knock that off the checklist, along with Charles and Mystique, and the formation of the X-Men.

Kevin Bacon is also quite brilliant as Sebastian Shaw, and Rose Byrne makes for a really engaging Moira MacTaggert. In fact, if we could just get rid of January Jones, I'd have no qualms about the cast list.

So why don't I like this movie more? Well in addition to feeling like filler, these aren't the mutants I fell in love with. Older Xavier is the true Xavier. Just like older Magneto is the real version. James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender both play their roles flawlessly, but it honestly seems like we're watching the B-team; almost like the franchise went to television. It's hard to get attached to Raven when you already know how she's going to wind up, and it's hard to worry about Hank when you know he's destined to survive into the future (present?).

In the end, we're really seeing FOX do a very good job holding on to their cash cow, but the franchise is just kind of existing now.

The Wolverine (2013)

I think I saw this one at the dollar theater, so I wound up missing the hype wave surrounding the movie's first month. It basically amounted to "THIS is the Wolverine film I wanted to see! They took it seriously. No boxing match with Blob."

Certainly the movie was a different flavor than Origins and I respect that some people responded better to this one. But I came away from it suspecting that a chunk of the praise was related to the fact that this movie wasn't Origins, and nothing else. And I truly feel that the hype covered up the fact that this movie was actually really boring. Maybe not Superman Returns boring, but the fight on top of the train is the ONLY scene that has stayed with me.

Origins seemed like a movie that was very much the epitome of Jackman's Wolverine, while Not X-Men: The Wolverine was closer akin to the character in the comics. The thing is, I've never liked the Wolverine of the comics. I find brute strength character traits to be tedious, and every Wolverine appearance I've read has focused on that element. It makes him an unsympathetic character.

Look at James Bond. He's not a sympathetic character either, but he's a likable one. He's an escapist metaphor for the notion of really getting your fists dirty but being able to shake it off in seconds and go back to being charming. We never really worry about his survival, so much a s take an interest in how he gets out of the scrapes he's been put in. His stories are fun. They have to be, or we'd lose interest.

In Wolverine's case, what are we supposed to be rooting for? The moment where he has his berserker rage isn't enough of a motive. He has to get that mad because of something in story context that we were rooting for, otherwise it's just brutishness. This movie makes no use of Jackman's natural charm, and it doesn't have the fun factor to offset the dreariness of the plot. While Last Stand was the least good of the whole franchise, The Wolverine is the least interesting. I'm not sure which is worse.

X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014)

Mystique is my favorite mutant, but only when she's used correctly (and that's a big 'when'). I rather enjoyed Rebecca Romijn's serpentine presence in the first two and a half films. Jennifer Lawrence? Well...she's fine I guess. Honestly, I don't fawn over her as an actress like so many people on my Facebook threads do. I'll probably lose it the next time I hear the phrase 'down to earth' uttered in the same sentence as Lawrence. I think she's fine as an actress, I just don't find her all that special.

But interestingly enough, Lawrence's star took off with The Hunger Games and the Academy Awards between the first and second films in this B-reel trilogy. As a delightful result, Mystique's role was obligatorily upgraded for Days of Future Past. I'll take it.

The movie itself was great(ish), but like First Class it really didn't leave me feeling much of anything. It's nice to see Stewart and McKellen back, and I loved the cameos at the end, but that's really the batch of performers I wanted to spend my time with.

The Quicksilver sequence was great, nearly rivaling Nightcrawler's X2 scene, but it's also the film's best card. Unfortunately they play it too early, and the rest of the film feels like it loses some momentum. And at the end when Charles had Magneto at his mercy, he just lets him go? Inexcusable. He should have at least re-incarcerated him.

The bottom line is, this movie is good. I liked it. I wanted to love it, but I liked it. I liked the fact that the Sentinels came across as a real threat without feeling cartoony. Peter Dinklage made a great Boliver Trask. And it was nice to see the damage done in Last Stand get wiped from the slate. But in the end it just feels like we're REALLY trying to reclaim the greatness of old and not quite getting there.


So that coincidentally catches us up to the present. We have one final Wolverine movie to allegedly look forward to. But this year will no doubt present the establishing trio of films that indicate whether or not FOX is just beating a dead horse. Here are my predictions for how the franchise is or isn't going to work:

 

Deadpool (2016)

Ryan Reynolds could not be more suited to play this role, and this is the movie that is bound to breathe new life into the whole franchise. People have wanted a Deadpool movie since 2009, but truthfully, it just wasn't time. Now it's time.

Really the only thing that could derail this train is if Deadpool proves to be much better in small doses than carrying a full feature. I don't predict that will happen, but it's always a possibility. But with a sequel already in development, the production team seems pretty confident. And damn it, we need to finally see Mr. Sinister on the big screen!

X-Men: Apocalypse (2016)

We've been needing to see Apocalypse for a while now. Sadly, it's coming in the First Class timeline instead of the real one. It would have been so nice to see Ian McKellen's Magneto face off against a bigger bad than himself.

This film will end the trilogy that I've been willing to tolerate. I'm not really looking forward to this movie, so much as I'm just accepting it.

Gambit (2016)

Just, no.

Channing Tatum is bland. He may be pretty to look at, but he just doesn't have the charm Hollywood seems to think he does. He sure as hell isn't Gambit worthy.

But even factoring that out, this movie is just too late. The franchise will have brought two trilogies to a close already, with a third leaving next year. We've seen beloved mutants killed and brought back to life. Even Hugh Jackman is hanging it up. Lauren Shuler Donner really thinks Gambit is going to be the new Wolverine, but he's walking in to the party just as it's winding down. Who are you? DC?

If they'd stuck with Taylor Kitsch I'd be willing to give it a shot. Channing Tatum is a big non merci, mon amie.

Editorial: When is Criticism Constructive?

I've been told I'm a bit of a mean critic. I don't necessarily agree, but I won't deny it either. I was on the selection committee for Summer Gothic and Jared Millet, the editor, identified me as the Simon of the group; although he immediately added that every committee benefits from a Simon.


Criticism hurts. When you're an artist, you create a small but active conduit to your soul. And when the response comes back as anything other than positive, your nerves are exposed. I think it probably hurts more when you're first starting out, because your limited number of creations feel bigger to you than they do once you've plugged yourself into several outlets.


Case in point, I participate in Hoover's Flash Fiction Night every year. My first story was not very good. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't all that special. If someone had given me real criticism at the time, it would have been a lot harder for me to get up on the stage the next year. But now that I've presented about six stories, I feel comfortable taking the dreaded criticism about any individual piece because I kind of think I've got a knack for story telling. Maybe not consistently, but I've done some stuff that I feel pretty good about.


Criticism is inevitable and it's always going to hit a nerve, but if you're inviting an audience into your head you have to be willing to extend that invitation to the critics. If you're not strong enough to take it, how solid can your work really be?


But therein lies the danger of the trolls (who mistake themselves for critics) hearing the call. Trolls carry big clubs with spikes on them. In their minds, criticism is an actual physical force, and the strength of a piece's artistic merit is based on its ability to withstand impact. And after they've bashed your exhibit into the splinters of its former glory, and you've completely shut down for fear of casting your claim to adulthood into question, they then hit you with that harshest knee to the groin. "What? You can't take constructive criticism?"


To a troll, art is a concept that doesn't exist; and as such, creation is indiscernible. So when they say 'constructive', they're only using phonetic sounds that they've heard other people use to preface the word they really like.


So we all know what constructive criticism isn't, but it's a little trickier to nail down the conceptual core of what it is. Here is the en.wikipedia definition. "Constructive criticism is the process of offering valid and well-reasoned opinions about the work of others, usually involving both positive and negative comments, in a friendly manner rather than an oppositional one. The purpose of constructive criticism is to improve the outcome."


That's well and good, but the artist and the critic usually don't see eye to eye on what constitutes improving the outcome.


The first thing is, all criticism is subjective. We're talking about artistic merit, not proofreading, so we're in abstract territory. A critic can be wrong, and it's beneficial to the artist to keep that in mind. But the trick is, there's a subjectivity spectrum where one end veers closer to an objective-subjective (what was the artist trying to accomplish and how well did they succeed?) while the other end is subjective-subjective (how did the piece make me feel?) Tommy Wiseau's The Room is a classic example of a film that fails on every level in the objective-subjective criticism but has brought a substantial amount of pleasure to audiences of the subjective-subjective variety.


At this time, I would approximate that constructive criticism is 90% limited to objective-subjective. There was a classic story about Caroll Spinney, who we all know as Big Bird's performer. When Spinney was starting out as a starving puppeteer, he was giving a puppet demonstration where glitch upon technical glitch happened, leaving his performance unsalvageable. And on top of the feelings of defeat, Spinney came to realize that Jim Henson had been in the audience. Henson tracked down Spinney offstage, at which point Spinney immediately began to apologize for the performance. And Jim Henson said the single most objective-subjective sentence ever uttered. "No, I really liked what you were trying to do."


Constructive criticism hurts, but it's possible it can hurt in a positive way. Think of a personal trainer. Okay, now think of a good one. When they're helping you develop flexibility they're job is to push you beyond your level of comfort, but not to the point where you'll be hospitalized. A good critic will figure out what you can take, and give that pressure to you.


Another important element to constructive criticism is recognizing that a single piece of work doesn't have to be all good or all bad. I took an online creative writing course back in September and we all did peer reviews of each other. Many of my reviews went along the lines of "I really like the premise you have. This is the element I'm the most invested in... I feel like you're going this direction with it, and I would love to see this happen. But I wonder what would happen if you went that way instead."


Now I admittedly got a few stories to read that I felt my time being wasted by, and that's when I became the mean critic. There was one story that felt so lifeless that I really got the sense the author was just filling a word count. My temple throbbing response was "The biggest problem isn't that I don't care about your characters. It's that I don't believe you do either." It's exactly what I would have told Tommy Wiseau if I'd ever read his script.


But ultimately I think the wiki-definition hits the main point succinctly, in that the constructive critic wants the artist's work to succeed. The troll wants the artist to fail. Of course nobody is just one or the other. We all have the ability of being both types of critic. The Star Wars fan base is a perfect example. We all wanted to love the prequel trilogy. We were right to feel let down by it. We were right to criticize where it went wrong. But we overdid it. We hurt Ahmed Best's feelings. We bullied Jake Lloyd. And we shunned George Lucas away from his own franchise. A lot of good things may have come out of it, but it's not worth becoming trolls just to feel good in the moment.