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Film

Cinema in 2022 was the Year of the Donkey

Note: This article contains donkey spoilers

In 2015, the German newspaper Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung published an article on why humans are fascinated with what they called “animal films,” or, films focusing on animals as their subjects rather than humans. It came to the conclusion that the phenomenon was attributed to the fact that, for the first time in history, a species (humans) has the ability to not only study and reflect on themselves, but to also document and research other species.

The cinema of 2022 seems to have brought that phenomenon to a heightened experience, albeit centered around an animal not so commonly focused on or documented. The donkey (Equus Asinus) seems to have taken the animal spotlight this year, particularly in films pushing for awards attention. Films such as Triangle of Sadness, Banshees of Inisherin, and EO have not just casted donkeys into the limelight, but gave them actual narrative-centric, stakes-heavy roles, even going so far as to make them protagonists in their own right.

But why now? Why this particular animal in this particular year? Well, the first thing one thinks of when they hear the word “donkey” is humor. On top of that, what donkeys also offer, or at least in these particular films, is companionship, thus making the animal great for sidekick roles that add a levity of humor (Shrek, etc.) 2021 and 2022 have had their fair share of ironic humor and wit. Comedy has become so “real” now, that what we used to joke about has now become commonplace. That’s not to say that the humor has gone, but our jokes have now become more of a reality than we previously thought.

With that in mind, no other animal embodies the levity of ironic humor quite like the donkey. Think of a donkey’s purpose: it’s indifferent, lazy, and doesn’t have much of a role on a farm aside from scaring off predators and pulling carts. Its only thought is to survive to the next day. Throughout pop culture, even stretching as far back as fairy tales and fables, the donkey has been the laughing stock of farm animals, which sadly gives it its gloomy reputation (Town Musicians of Bremen, Winnie the Pooh). But it also makes the perfect representation of ironic humor in 2022.

Donkey
Banshees of Inisherin

A donkey doesn’t make an appearance in Triangle of Sadness until about two-thirds through the film. But when it does, it’s used as a plot device in perhaps the most ruthless casting of the animal this year. When the upper echelon yacht cruise full of the rich and wealthy is shipwrecked, the affluent passengers are placed on an equal playing field with the yacht’s crew when they don’t know how to care for themselves, flipping the film’s theme of inequality upside down. Starving for food, they come across a donkey, and, well, you could guess what happens next….

The animal is definitely used in a darker comedic sense here, but why not any other animal? Would it have had the same effect had another animal been spared? The donkey tends to be the lowest on the totem pole. They’re a species that always gets the short end of the stick. And when it’s slaughtered, it’s merely a representation of irony dying, the cascading caste system that has descended upon the yacht-goers after being marooned.

But pity humor isn’t the only trait the donkey inherited this year in cinema. The animal also took on the role of companionship, with Banshees of Inisherin going so far as to cast the animal in a supporting role as Pádraic Súilleabháin’s (Colin Farrell’s) sidekick. As everyone starts to leave Padraic’s life due to his toxic trait of being stagnant with his future he begins to become more and more attached to his donkey, the only familiar face that stays behind. Where Triangle sees the donkey as pity-less humor, Banshees breathes life into the animal by casting it through the lens of loyalty. However, as Padraic pushes the ones closest to him away, he also puts the last shred of his donkey’s loyalty at risk, which ultimately dies in the end as well.

But aside from Donkeys perishing in the spotlight, the year in film has also casted them as main characters. The Jury Prize winner at this year’s Cannes film festival, EO follows a donkey that goes astray as it makes its way across Europe. It starts at a circus, where we see our donkey set free by an animal rights group and drift from one owner to the next, oblivious as to what’s carrying him each way. Along the way, he influences the outcome of a soccer match, becomes the mascot for a small town’s celebration, and is even brought into the company of Isabelle Huppert. But the most important element of this film is the stark contrast to our other two previous examples. What this film does that the other two don’t is give our donkey agency, an attempt to overcome the limitations placed upon itself, much like the preconceived notions humans already have when they hear the word “donkey.” Whereas Triangle and Banshees showed the fate of a donkey through a human lens, EO takes the POV of the animal, with the result being a surrealist, stylistic vision showing ultimately how humans interact with the animal kingdom.

Donkeys don’t tend to hold a soft spot for many people. Humans have put them to many uses over the years, including entertainment purposes. And these films go to show that they truly are at the mercy of the humans around them. People tend to argue what the most dangerous animal in the world is, when they’re blind to the fact that humans who are the most dangerous. To return to the article in Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, in our fascination with animal films, in our ability to record and document other creatures, we in turn often forget the implications and consequences of such actions, unaware of the interruptions we cause in their ecosystems. The cinema of 2022 seems to have flipped this perspective through empathy. In showing these consequences from the POV of the animal kingdom, the year gave us a necessary view of how, in studying other species, we also inadvertently record their demise.

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TV

How ‘Nicecore Television’ is Detrimental to the Medium of Scripted TV

Last May, The Guardian published an article on the rise of a kind of primetime television we haven’t seen before, a kind of television not driven by conflict like traditional TV, but one anchored by a levity of humor. It has come to be dubbed as “nicecore television,” that is, scripted television that aims to provide a charming touch of wit at the expense of pushing a show’s conflict forward. The article made some pretty valid points, but I believe nicecore television’s roots run deeper than the charm you seen on the screen. Shows such as Ted Lasso and Abbott Elementary tend to lean on these kneejerk humorous reactions as a crutch. But these aren’t just one-off jokes – these entire series are based off the need to rely on light-hearted humor in exchange for conflict driven episodic spaces.

But what does this mean for the future of serialized and episodic television and potentiality for series pick-ups? If these popular nicecore television shows aren’t driven by a central story engine, what does that signal to the longevity of other future series? In this day and age, incited by the pandemic, the business of TV has started shifting away from shows that have a consistent source of story energy in exchange for a more happy-go-lucky, wish-fulfilling TV series, which could very well be detrimental to the medium of scripted television. In light of next week’s Primetime Emmy Awards, we’d like to shed some light on these nicecore television shows and what they pose to the future of television writing.

The biggest example of nicecore television so far has been Ted Lasso, perhaps the first show in this new wave to sway away from a concentrated story engine. Apple’s first foray into TV signaled to viewers that the company was still finding its footing in the medium, but it was the height of the pandemic and the depths of quarantine that made Ted Lasso take off. It’s feel-good, un-American worldview provided the right feelings at the right time for viewers, as well as challenged the American viewer to watch a show about a world we weren’t accustomed to – international soccer – in a time where we desperately needed to go against our habits. It provided a rewarding light in a very dark time, pop-culture references we thought we’d forgotten, and sweet humor in the lead of Jason Sudeikis.

However, these attributes also contribute to the show’s flaws. Yes, the character of Ted Lasso is the lead. Yes, he provides a joke or pop-culture reference every sentence. And yes, his character is meant for us to feel happy. However, it is not his story. He is not the show’s protagonist. Interestingly enough, it’s Rebecca Welton’s (Hannah Waddingham), the team owner’s story. She is the one who’s put into conflict, she is the one putting the team at risk and instigating stakes. But what makes this conflict thin is the glue that keeps her in this situation. Why does she keep Lasso as manager? If she’s putting the team’s investors at risk and remains reluctant to Lasso’s optimism, why doesn’t she just get rid of Lasso? One hint: biscuits. But the show’s longevity is not reliant on this thin conflict. Merely, the through-line is only there to make the series function as a narrative, as the show instead relies on the jokes and personality of Ted Lasso morale boosting his team to generate episodes.

But nicecore television is not just an Apple TV problem. Now, even network shows are starting to borrow this approach. Abbott Elementary has only aired one season, but one can tell from the first episode that it relies heavily on its lightheartedness for audience satisfaction, much like Ted Lasso. But unlike Lasso, it follows its protagonist as its lead – Janine Teagues (Quinta Brunson), an elementary school teacher who desperately wants to help the underprivileged students she teaches. However, like Lasso, it also has a problem with the “glue” that keeps Brunson’s character in conflict. There is no organic glue keeping her in the world she is in other than that she wants to help the children. It’s admirable, and certainly provides for a likeable protagonist, but there is no central flaw or world of conflict she’s thrusted into. But these are the elements necessary to spur a series’ permanency, as the show instead aims to focus on high-spirited comical aspects to satisfy a viewer’s expectation for comic relief. It aims for a setup/punch-line combo instead of choosing to elevate the series by pushing the conflict forward.

Ted Lasso (courtesy of Apple)

Even though this is a fairly new formula, it’s one that’s quickly being copied in exchange for fewer series orders from networks. By following a formula such as this, the thought of the show’s longevity is quickly ignored, thus not promoting the show’s core theme and its varying degrees. CBS and ABC have both drastically cut back their series orders this year, in addition to axing many already existing series. This year, ABC had only one pilot order along with only one comedy picked up to series, whereas CBS ordered only 4 series out of its nine pilots with zero of them being comedies, and NBC has ordered two series so far out of its five pilots.

It used to be that a show took pride in delving deep into its theme over a number of seasons, churning out however many episodic spaces that stemmed from its central conflict. If you look at past successful TV shows (or, arguably, shows that ran for at least five seasons), a series longevity was a testament to the originality of a show’s theme – it was its social commentary. Shows such as Roseanne and Married with Children were not just light, dinner-time entertainment, but a particular insight into American society told through an intimate medium, a medium that centers around a flawed protagonist changing over a period of time based on the people they are surrounded by. These shows had just the right elements for a show to properly function: stakes, glue, dimensionalities of characters, and conflict.

Frasier is a perfect example of how central conflict can spur longevity. The show begins with the theme of privacy and a simple premise: a stuck-up Harvard-educated psychiatrist is forced to take in his injured policeman father who is everything but. The pilot episode lays down the bare basic bones of how the series will operate. But the conflict externalized on screen gradually gets more intimate as the series progresses. Soon enough, it becomes not just about the privacy of Frasier’s space, but also the privacy of his mind. The show grows to center around ethical dilemmas, as Frasier Crane rejects not only the invasion of his privacy, but the ethical quandaries that come with it, fearing that he might be going against his values as a highly-respected psychiatrist.

It wasn’t until the success of Seinfeld when networks discovered that a show can be essentially about “nothing,” thus taking away a sitcom’s essential social element. It brought about a “loose-ness” to network television, introducing the idea that a TV sitcom didn’t need a central theme. Traverse this all the way back to today, where the same predicament occurs but in a slightly heightened experience. Not only does breaking a story’s theme lead to a lengthy series, it also reinforces the need for a revolving door writers’ staff. Keeping fresh voices moving in and out of the writers’ room is essential for creating a show’s durability. It introduces new voices to bring about new story beats at a certain point in a show’s narrative, not just to keep the show fresh, but to also HIRE MORE WRITERS. Hiring more writers is key in breaking story. It promotes writers from within and provides a diversity of voices to lend to the exploration of a show’s central theme and the many pockets within it.

Cut back to today, where networks are giving fewer series orders and premium cable and streaming services are ordering what are essentially long movies cut up into 10 episodes. This, in turn, changes the entire economic climate of how television is written: by not working with a central theme and story engine, a show does not produce longevity. When a show does not produce longevity, it fails to hire fresh voices and perspectives, thus leading to the changing TV writer climate we have today. Have we really had better quality television with 8-10 episodes every one to two years as opposed 22 episodes in one year?

I’m sure it goes without saying that a show doesn’t absolutely NEED to stick to its conflict, it can survive just fine from its charm that stems from its cheeriness. But that will only take a show so far. It used to be a testament that a show’s depth goes as far as its writers’ room does. The more diverse the writers’ room, the more specific the show’s niche becomes. Not only do these “nicecore television” shows change the landscape of modern television, they change the very DNA as to how television is made. Television is an intimate medium based on character relationships, and a writers’ room centered around a single story engine provides this intimacy. When we lose what the central idea of what a show’s about, we lose its social commentary, we lose its intimacy. Let’s just hope there will be future shows that take into account the next generation of TV writers.

Featured image courtesy of ABC

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TV

How ‘Euphoria’ is this Generation’s ‘Twin Peaks’

Every generation has that one show. You have your Breaking Bad‘s, your Hill Street Blues‘, your I Love Lucy‘s… but every generation has that one show that operates on a different level. That’s not to say if it’s good or bad, but it definitely can’t be compared to anything. If you haven’t been under a rock, HBO’s Euphoria boasts penises, a heavy soundtrack, reckless drug use, and underage sex. It’s everything a parent wouldn’t want their child to be doing. But underneath all the debauchery are mysterious forces at work, something mythic – everyone trying to find their own form of satisfaction, or I guess, euphoria.

But it brings to mind another show that aired 30 years prior. Despite being a serialized primetime network drama, Twin Peaks also explored the darker side of a small town: both center on subjects in high school, yet they take vastly different directions – one’s a murder mystery, and the other a relationship drama. Both portray promiscuity with high schoolers and adults. Both involve some sort of drug use. The similarities on the surface are easy to point out, but let’s dive a little deeper.

The theme (and story engine) of Twin Peaks is truth – the truth of Laura Palmer’s death, and the truth that everyone in the town conceals. However, Euphoria’s characters are also in search of their own truths: what makes them tick, what gives them the ultimate satisfaction, what will bring them closer to what life is all about – happiness. But also, both shows portray their characters as doomed to fail in this search. It will always be a bottomless well – they’ll keep digging and digging for that stimulus of an answer, but they’ll never reach it, all while putting their well-being at risk. As for Twin Peaks’ case, the “truth” will always be some version of the truth, an interpreted truth, by one of the town’s inhabitants.

Twin Peaks

It’s needless to say both shows also sprung from singular auteur-ist visions. David Lynch and Sam Levinson both had artistic controls over their respective series, quite evident in Euphoria with its exuberant style: the lighting, the camera movements, the casting, the music – it’s incredible how HBO gave so much power to a young filmmaker, in its first two seasons no less. Every camera placement and backlight feels precisely and deliberately done, that it’s impossible to imagine Euphoria as a show that functions with the elements of a traditional drama series: a writers’ room, rotating directors, etc… some may argue that as a fault, but Euphoria wouldn’t be the show we love even if it did have those elements.

And for Twin Peaks, Lynch had what was fairly the equivalent in the 90s with a basic cable drama. From the theme song, to the tone and mood, Lynch’s fingerprints are all over every aspect of the series. But network primetime was a different place back in April 1990, and Peaks crashed the party like a goth at a debutante ball. However, when the show’s producers succumbed to network pressure and revealed Laura Palmer’s killer (sort of) in the seventh episode, the show’s viewership hemorrhaged. But it was no longer just a show about finding the murderer of a high school girl – it started to involve other dimensions, the birth of good and evil. Lynch took it in a wild, surreal direction, the style we usually associate him with. All of a sudden, Twin Peaks became some sort of puzzle, quickly growing out of the mold basic cable shows usually get stuck in becoming the show we know and love today.

Both shows also grew their audience reach while on hiatus. It’s hard to believe, given that season 2 of Euphoria just aired, season 1 aired two and a half years ago. Most TV shows wouldn’t ever be able to sustain that kind of momentum, nonetheless during a pandemic. A show about high school kids who abuse privilege – what made that so special? Why was it still a talking point amongst TV enthusiasts despite a two-and-a-half-year absence? Likely, there’s a few particular reasons, or rather, a culmination of them all. Euphoria became popular right before the pandemic hit. It was the last cultural phenomenon that was a trending topic before our lives were changed. It’s also the last serialized drama series we can remember where we’re given a week to gossip, digest, and theorize on an episode before watching the next one, thanks to Twitter supplying it with a constant discourse outlet.

Euphoria

Twin Peaks, on the other hand, had 26 years before its return. But just like Euphoria, Peaks’ cult status only grew during its absence, speaking to a new generation and fanning the flames for the desire of a revival. And that’s just what happened. When Twin Peaks: The Return aired, it not only brought along its old built-in audience, but drew in a newer, younger crowd, and even behooved them to revisit earlier seasons. Also like Euphoria, Peaks’ popularity soared in its absence thanks to internet discourse. Its history and folklore only made the show more infectious with theories on what could’ve happened. It was a feedback loop that drew in younger audiences in a way its original audience couldn’t understand.

There are just as many arguments against this opinion than there are for it. One can just as accurately argue that these two shows couldn’t be any more different. But the starkest similarity is the zeitgeist around the two. They are two shows that challenge and require audience participation, and there’s very much a world that stems from and exists outside of them: us, the viewers. One could say that about any show, but these two are special. They conjure a community of specific kinds of people – outcasts, people in the in-between, people who don’t know how to necessarily describe themselves, but also a community that ultimately wants to challenge itself. I think that’s what these two shows will be remembered for most: the discourse and the compelling urge of the viewer to step out of their comfort zone.

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Film

How This Year’s Oscar Nominees Revolve Around Subtlety

The Oscar nominees revealed just three weeks ago point in a direction where the Academy hasn’t really gone before. The films nominated aren’t necessarily box office darlings (not even Dune made it into the green stateside), nor are they franchises or revives (save for West Side Story). Rather, this year’s nominees revolve around subtlety to tell their stories, requiring viewers’ patience and their “dismissal” hat to be hung at the door. They aim to challenge the viewer, which is what any great film should do – test the boundaries of not only what you’re comfortable with, but also push the limits of your empathy. And perhaps this is why this year’s Oscar nominees are not necessarily quiet, but sensitive in their approach of telling their stories.

Let’s start with the first and biggest example: Drive My Car – Japan’s three-hour Oscar submission that’s an adaptation of Murakami whose opening credits don’t even appear until 50 minutes in – is this year’s Oscar favorite just behind The Power of the Dog. The film centers around a stage director (Hidetoshi Nishijima) who loses his wife and accuracy of vision and is forced to hire a driver (Tôko Miura) to transport him to and from rehearsal. At first tricked for self-importance, Drive My Car’s slow and quiet unraveling of its story of empathy thaws and rises to the surface during its lengthy run-time. Perhaps this is the function of the plot – it acts subtly and un-detectable, that its conflict only barely reveals itself. Their connection at first comes off stand-off-ish, but how the film employs the venue of a car for its subjects to be vulnerable with each other only aids the film’s empathy.

But the theme of empathy is not only a foreign affair: The Lost Daughter also maintains roots in its approach to intimate filmmaking. It’s another film whose conflict is not strictly overt, but requires patience and attention to figure out. It centers around a college professor (Olivia Colman) who’s apparently lost touch with her daughters and confronts her unsettling past when she encounters a new mother (Dakota Johnson) and her daughter. You assume her daughters are dead, or even worse, assume she’s at fault. But again, there’s only a very fine line of conflict in the film, most of which is worn and communicated via Colman’s performance. It is not one that is externalized, but internalized. The film’s story may as well have started before the beginning of the film, as that’s what’s implied: the thrusting of Colman’s character into a world she rejects is not necessarily shown, as the film forces the audience to be in Colman’s shoes in order to understand.

But perhaps the most likely film to win the top prize this year is The Power of the Dog, Jane Campion’s period piece western centering around a rugged cowboy (Benedict Cumberbatch) whose world is shaken up when his brother (Jesse Plemmons) brings home a new wife (Kirsten Dunst) and kid (Kodi Smit-Mcphee). The slow-burn conflict focuses on the empathy (or lack thereof) between Cumberbatch and Smit-McPhee. Clearly a homosexual, Smit-McPhee’s character serves to hit Cumberbatch’s vulnerable spots in the most cunning of ways, acting on his flaw of queer repression to change him over a period of time. He does so effectively, but again in such a minute way, externalized only through glances of the eyes and the softest of touches.

The inclusion of these films, and as frontrunners no less, seems to have Twitter scrambling to argue that the Academy is in fact “changing,” but maybe they’re rightfully so. Ever since 2017, the Academy has been inviting younger, more diverse members to join, and perhaps it’s only taken five years in order to see the result. The Academy has nominated “art” films before, but they’ve never been, for lack of better words, this quiet. Take a look back at the arthouse films nominated in the past twenty years. Crash was most definitely the surprise indie to win, but definitely wasn’t subtle in its message. Moonlight was definitely a step forward for the Academy, but that film was driven more by its externalization of empathy more so than subtlety. Roma was an exceptionally well-done film, but its ingenious indulgence of directorial choices and set pieces make it not very self-effacing.

 ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍ Drive My Car

This year’s Oscar nominees also fuel a fire to a debate that’s been resurfacing for a couple years – “why are movies so long nowadays?” With the inclusion of lengthy films such as Drive My Car (2 hours and 59 minutes), Nightmare Alley (2 hours and 30 minutes), and Licorice Pizza (2 hours and 13 minutes), the general public will likely begin to equate awards worthiness and critical acclaim with length. It’s almost as if a movie has to be long to get any awards recognition. But there are two sides to that argument.

The Academy tends to equate length with “seriousness,” indicating craft and skill. The shortest film to ever win best picture is Marty (1 hour and 31 minutes), but even that was an anomaly – it was a comedy, which tend to be shorter (and only four of which, arguably, have ever won best picture), with the average best picture nominee length from the past 20 years easily above the two-hour mark. But is that a necessary pre-requisite? Must a film be of a certain length to capture the attention of the academy?

The other side of the argument is that subtlety does often require patience, at least in terms of a feature length film. In order for a director to not be strictly overt and obvious in telling a story, the film almost needs to challenge the audience in that sense. It needs to bring about and require active viewership. Sure, it can be a film that actively tells you a story while the audience passively receives, but that’s exactly what it will be. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But a “smart” film, the kind that brings about a revelatory experience, requires an active audience. A film is more effective when both sides are actively participating, and the Oscar nominees this year embody that. It’s not to say so much that they are “long,” but they’re films of considerable length in order to accurately “challenge” an audience by asking for attentive viewership. One can argue that the Academy only nominates long films, but another can just as accurately say they nominate films that challenge us.

And when the length is rewarding, those are the ones that often stick with the viewer. The problem isn’t if a film is three hours. What matters is if it feels like three hours. If done effectively, if the writer has done their job, length is secondary. It’s when the narrative drifts out to sea that one starts to notice the length. Seven Samurai is three and a half hours long, but gets to and sticks with the conflict in the first minute.

But for all intents and purposes – yes, these movies are long. But they’re only long because they want to challenge you. It is the nature of filmmaking to actively challenge an audience, to force them outside of their comfort zone. It’s the sheer audacity to transcend what’s possible in film and push the limits of human empathy. Because subtlty drives this year’s Oscar nominees, then they just might be the next phase in film evolution to raise the art to a higher plane of existence.

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Film

Cruise v. Russia: The New Space Race

Late last year, Sky News reported that Russian state TV Channel One would be teaming with Roscosmos, the Russian Space Agency, for Challenge – the first feature film to be shot in outer space aboard the International Space Station. The announcement came off the heels of Tom Cruise announcing that he would be partnering with NASA and SpaceX to do so as well, thus launching yet another space race, one that isn’t necessarily a “historic” milestone humanity needs to accomplish, but one that would inevitably be on its list of accomplishments. So hey, if we can afford it, why not?

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TV

The Hope that Kills You: The American Optimism of ‘Ted Lasso’

The world of soccer has been virtually untouched by Hollywood for years. Why? Because of how simply un-American it is. It’s as idiosyncratic as Lance Armstrong choosing cycling as his sport: it takes a specific, odd American not to tackle baseball, or basketball, or football, but instead go for the outsider sport. Ted Lasso, however, aims to flip that on its head.

With its politics meets optimism duality, Ted Lasso gives the world of European football a jolt of American confidence. Determined on driving her ex-husband’s football club into the ground, Rebecca Welton (Hannah Waddingham), co-owner of AFC Richmond, hires Ted Lasso (Jason Sudeikis), a Division II American college football coach with no knowledge of soccer, in hopes that the team will be relegated and lose its worth. This, however, backfires. At first faced with adversity, Ted Lasso brings a morale and unified enthusiasm to the fragmented, divided team, which eventually upends the owner’s plans as the team begins to show more promise.

The story engine of the show exists to thrust American morale into the business and politics of European football, a world that can be such a “business” nowadays that it lacks any sportsmanship and team morale. Since the best teams in Europe have the most money, they buy up the best players and expect them to play well with each other to win games. However, when the gung-ho savvy coach is hired, it throws a monkey wrench into not only Welton’s plans, but the culture of European football as a whole.

The show aims to contrast the elements of American and British sportsmanship. The Premiere League is such a numbers game, where the best, wealthiest teams play each other over and over again for the top titles, that it misses the point of fostering a family. It’s a world where players are bought and sold, traded and loaned, and statistics make the judgements. Ted Lasso, however, introduces to his players what they’ve long lacked: confidence.

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The world of European football just feels so impenetrable, that American ideals struggle to fit in. There’s a number of reasons as to why soccer has never taken off in the states. 1) There is no youth infrastructure for the sport. If you look at Europe, you see club teams that have been fostering players since the age of 11. And, as a result, 2) only the wealthy can afford to excel at soccer. Since soccer is rarely taught in public schools in the U.S., one really has to invest money in the sport: trainers, youth leagues, fees… it’s a sport that just isn’t as accessible to Americans. Perhaps it’s because there is no “satisfaction” point in soccer: home-runs, touchdowns, or slam dunks. And more often than not, goals are sloppy pieces of work. But perhaps it’s also because Americans crave the individual gratification of taking sole credit for a score, as opposed to the team-driven effort of soccer.

However, just recently, actors Rob McElhenney and Ryan Reynolds took control of Wrexham AFC – a Welsh football club that currently plays in the fifth tier of the English football league system. With a two million pound investment, the purchase brings American money onto foreign soccer soil with a plan to foster growth and push for a promotion in order to compete with the greater Premiere and Champions League teams. But even Hollywood money can’t compare to the billionaire oil-money out of the Middle East or the mob money out of Russia that owns teams like Manchester City, Manchester United, and Chelsea – teams that are owned by powers that supersede Hollywood money.

And perhaps this is why, only less than a month ago, the biggest clubs in Europe agreed to join what would be called the European Super League. This was heavily scrutinized by the media and UEFA, European football’s governing body, and was seen as merely a “cash grab.” With the organizers of the league promising “solidarity payments” that would be “in excess of €10 billion during the course of the initial commitment period,” there would be a €3.5 billion advance to “support infrastructure investment plans.” This came as a result of the massive inequality in European football, as more often than not, the same richest teams play for the top spot year after year – be it the Champions League, Europa League, or Premiere League – further eluding to the idea that the world of European football is, in fact, just one big bubble waiting to burst (FC Barcelona, the world’s wealthiest football club, is already worth $4.6 billion.)

Ted Lasso points out this gaping hole of missing sportsmanship in European football culture by reinforcing the idea of what it means to be great: it’s not just about winning, but also about how you deal with the unfair. Because more often than not, the best team, at least on paper, doesn’t win. But it’s how you come back from that unfair disadvantage that makes it a sport both on and off the field. I think Ted Lasso would agree with those ideals.

Categories
Film

Fade Out: Saying Goodbye to the Arclight Hollywood

A mariachi band in the courtyard. Aziz Ansari trying to act lowkey. Teenagers hot boxing a car in the parking lot. A revival of a French New Wave classic everyone could care less about. A protest. A strike. One of the best first dates you’ve ever been on. And the worst. These are some of the things you may have encountered on a Friday night at the Arclight Hollywood. Yes, there are plenty of other art house and multiplex theaters in the city. But this one was special. I’ve thrown parties there, slept there, fallen in love there, fallen out of love, gotten in fights. It was more than just a cinema, but rather a romantic pulse that carried you no matter what phase of life you were in.

L.A. doesn’t feel so much as a vertical ladder you climb than a horizontal one, because at the Arclight, your past, present, and future lives intersected. Old classmates, bosses, romantic partners… no matter what career you were in or what part of the city you came from, the Arclight Hollywood always acted like an airport-hub of individuals constantly going in and out.

Equivalent to McDonald’s closing 153 outlets or Apple closing three of its stores, the announcement of Arclight and Pacific Theaters’ closure last week shocked the city and automatically sparked hopeful rumors about who could possibly save this mecca. Some things surely don’t add up: the highest grossing theater in the U.S. that provides one percent of the total North American gross? Its plug pulled just as establishments are re-opening? And with no mention or warning about the exhibitor going under? There were clear signs of trouble for Arclight just two weeks ago, when a Twitter user posted a photo of an eviction notice found on the doors of its Culver City location. ArcLight and Pacific executives have remained silent on the abrupt announcement, but it appears that a major factor in the decision was rent, the largest fixed cost for theatrical exhibitors. Culver City had a rent of $2.2 million annually.

If L.A. truly loved this theater – all of its inhabitants and players and dreamers – then surely it can be saved. If it won’t be filmmakers and studio-heads that band together to save it, then my guess would be Netflix, Amazon, or Apple, someone with enough clout (and money) that would be incentivized into buying out the theater for theatrical distribution for their own content, much like what Netflix did with the Egyptian Theater for Roma and The Irishman.

Among the top domestic exhibitors, Cinemark is considered the most likely candidate, having more solid financials than AMC and Regal and surprisingly still underrepresented in Southern California. AMC has eight of the top 12 grossing theaters in Southern California, so any more would risk anti-trust issues. Regal has fewer theaters in the Los Angeles area, but it’s been conservative in the nationwide reopening of its theaters already.

 ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍ ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍Arclight Hollywood’s Cinerama Dome

Among other candidates is the Arizona-based Harkins Theaters, which appears to have more solid fundamentals. The Mexico-based luxury theater chain Cinepolis has already made moves into Southern California with its Pacific Palisades location. Among the unlikely, however, are Alamo, which is in Chapter 11 bankruptcy, and Landmark. (Also possible is outside investors stepping in under the right circumstances and a reduced price.)

And, of course, gone is the famed Cinerama Dome – home of Hollywood premieres for decades, one of the few places in the country that could project 70mm film prints, and that damned curved screen from Hollywood’s old Vista-Vision days (three projectors playing simultaneously) that only looked good from a few select seats. But you didn’t mind it. It was a look you grew comfortable with.

In 1998, the city named the Cinerama Dome a Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Monument, giving it some special protections. But that designation does not prevent demolition or alteration. Any plans to significantly alter the Dome would have to go before the city’s Cultural Heritage Commission, which can delay demolition for up to a year allowing community leaders to develop a way to save the Dome.

However, even if the building itself will still be standing there, its soul will be gone. Gone is the staff that you could tell truly loved movies. Gone are the authentic usher intros and assistance to find your seat, and the cutoff time for late arrivals. It was a tradition that didn’t exist anymore. But the Arclight Hollywood kept it alive.

When I first moved to L.A., the first screening I attempted to see at Arclight was a newly restored 70mm print of Vertigo. Without knowing the sprawling layout of the city, I of course arrived late, with no ticket, in the standby line. I didn’t get in that night, but it didn’t matter – I was not the only one. (I’d since return to the theater with more successful attempts – friends’ premieres, birthday parties, special screenings). Instead I bummed around Hollywood that night: passed the Palladium, the Pantages, the El Capitan, No Vacancy, and wondered what living in this strange city might be like. L.A. has long been renowned for not having a “true” city center. The Arclight, however, was my city center.

Categories
Music

How the Flaming Lips Became the Only Act to Successfully Play Live Shows During the Pandemic

It seems like all these years performing in bubbles has finally paid off. The Flaming Lips have always been ahead of the game. With a successful run of live (!!) shows earlier this year at the Criterion in Oklahoma City, the Lips attempted yet another run of live shows last month. The catch? Both the band and the audience are placed in pressurized bubbles in separated locations throughout the theater. One ticket allocates for one bubble, which can contain up to three people in your party. Seems like a gimmick, right? Both yes and no. Ever since the debut of Wayne Coyne’s bubble feature at 2004’s Coachella Music and Arts Festival, it’s become a staple in the band’s live show. And for years since, they’ve been very vocal about wanting to play a show with the entire band and audience in their own bubbles. And now, they don’t have a better opportunity to execute such an idea.

It’s also a testament to not just how ballsy they are, but also how innovative they’ve always been throughout their career. They’ve always been able to outdo themselves one way or another, whether it be an album released entirely in fur (Emryonic), releasing an album that’s required to be listened to on four records simultaneously (Zaireeka), or releasing a 24-hour long song on a USB stick encased in a skull (7 Skies H3). Regardless of what you think of them, they’ve always pushed the boundaries and tested the limits of what music can be capable of. Comparing their college-garage rock days of the late 80s and the trajectory they’ve travelled to where they are today, they look like the result of Pink Floyd and the Sex Pistols having a baby that fell out of a UFO, and landed in, of all places, Oklahoma. Their audacity to transcend musical limitation has always led me to believe that there are no “good” or “bad” Flaming Lips records, but rather impulsive explorations in how music can be consumed.  

 ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍  ‍ Pic courtesy of Flaming Lips/Warner Music/Reuters

And now, the Lips are once again using the times to their advantage, realizing that, even though this is a time of separation, there’s still a viable place for intimacy. It also emphasizes what their music has tackled for decades. From their chaotic live shows to eccentric album releases, they capitalize on what rock music can achieve – a communal experience through personal obsession.

Ever since the 90s, the Flaming Lips have long been rock music’s most inventive band. And surprisingly, most of that time has been on a major record label. But it’s how they’ve marketed themselves that turned these freaks into such a success, being able to develop such a reputation for themselves and subvert expectations. Whether it be trying to record a 24-hour long song, or playing to a theater entirely capsuled in hamster balls, they’ve never been a result-oriented band. They’ve staked their whole career on the premise that it’s not about the destination, it’s all about getting there.

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Featured image courtesy of Scott Booker/Warner Records

Categories
Music

Human After All: Saying Goodbye to Daft Punk

Last week marked the twentieth anniversary of Discovery’s release, and a month prior, the iconic French electronic duo Daft Punk announced their break up after 28 years via a video titled “Epilogue” uploaded to their YouTube page. After nearly eight years of silence from the band (their last effort being 2013’s Random Access Memories), the announcement didn’t come as a surprise to many. To some, it was a satisfying sigh of relief after holding their breath for so long. And to others, it was like losing a loved one. Daft Punk was a one of a kind band, or studio project, or collaboration, whatever you wanted to call it, but they operated in the same manner as a band – taking their influences and assigning them their own definitions. That’s what kept Daft Punk relevant all these years: their relationship with cool.

Categories
TV

Texas Forever: The Character Dimensionalities of Friday Night Lights

Throughout the series Friday Night Lights, Coach Eric Taylor’s ignorance of the outside world is what ultimately brings about its characters’ demises in the town of Dillon, Texas. By having his life only revolve around football, Taylor ultimately hinders the futures of the people around him, and only the ones that suffer are the ones who truly transcend their high school bubble. It begins in the pilot episode, when hot-shot quarterback Jason Street of the Dillon Panthers loses his ability to walk. Afterward, the pressure on Coach Taylor increases ten-fold, as everyone in the small town feels like their opinions about the team matter and constantly harass him. This, essentially, is what the show is about – community.