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Saturday, September 13, 2003 ( 9/13/2003 09:35:00 AM ) Bill S. NANITE TIME – The title hero of UPN's new sci-fi spy actioner, Jake 2.0, looks like he could be playing second guitar for the Warren Cheswick Experience. A computer techie for the National Security Agency, Jake Foley (Christopher Gorham) wants to be a spy in the worst way. He's applied for the job twice, but because Version One Jake is, you know, yer basic big ol' geek, the security agency has ignored him. As tech support, Jake is like G.K. Chesterton's invisible man: able to enter a place without anybody really noticing him. He subsequently stumbles on an enemy agent's attempts at downloading double secret nano-technology; a gunfight ensues and our hero gets a shard from a beaker full of nanites impaled on his arms. The microscopic computer thingies spread throughout his body, making his Better, Faster, Stronger. Among his new abilities: super-strength, super vision and hearing, plus the capacity to tie into any computer system and do things like turn traffic lights from red to green. That last is something we can all relate to. But, of course, since this new biotechnology is untested on humans, the possibility of really nasty side effects also exists: muscle spasms, paralysis, blindness and/or death. Our government apparently has had too many scruples to test it on humans (what, no black inmates available?) I'm betting at some point in the first season, though, we learn that enemy interests have tried the technology on human guinea pigs. The NSA has no qualms about grabbing our hero and holding him for observation, of course, which leads to one of the lazier pieces of plotting that show creator Silvio (also responsible for one of my personal guilty pleasures, The Chronicle) has concocted. After capturing Jake and tying him down to a table for examination by the show’s cute-&-perky girl science geek, Diane (Keegan Connor Tracy), Jake is locked in an interrogation room. To escape, all our hero has to do is whip out a lighter and hold it up to the ceiling sprinkler system. These government agents didn't think to rummage through his pockets? Small wonder nobody has any confidence in our intelligence community these days. Because it is a s-f series and because someone has decided that the only way to sell this stuff is to write it around characters who look like they stepped out of Felicity, Jake 2.0 gets the requisite supporting cast of Gen Y-ers: a goofus roomie (Matt Czuchry) who pretends to be a secret agent to impress girls ("Never pictured spies living like really poor college students," one of his dates observes), plus an unattainable blonde named Sarah (Marina Black) who is working as a senator's aide. Sarah's convinced that government agents are after her, since she's been looking into some unexplained expenditures on the homeland security front. But, of course, it's not her they're after, it's Jake. That's blondes for ya: always convinced the whole world revolves around them. Our hero is also pursued by the baddies who were trying to download that top secret info in the beginning. Led by an IRA terrorist (that's a bit 1990's, isn't it?), they kidnap Sarah for the inevitable warehouse showdown. Our hero gets to jump around a lot and finally use his computer simpatico powers to dispatch the head terrorist. So, naturally, once the bodies have all been cleaned up, our government decides to create a new special ops team with Jake at its core. Step aside, Tom Ridge, Jake Foley's on the case! As junk series go, Jake 2.0 is an agreeable time waster. Christopher Gorham has an ease with the none-too-threatening action scenes, and he also has that twenty-something if-only-they-knew-who-I-really-was thing going for him. (There are moments in the premiere where you wonder if this series was Horta's way of doing Spider-Man without having to pay any licensing.) But as a freshman show, Jake suffers from placement opposite both WB's Angel (so why schedule one fantastic action series opposite another?) and NBC's The West Wing, both of which remain addictive viewing in my house. Once the full season is in swing, the only way we'd be able to watch it is by buying a third TV set and yet another piece of recording apparatus. On the basis of its debut, I don't think the show's worth the expenditure. . . # | Friday, September 12, 2003 ( 9/12/2003 02:57:00 PM ) Bill S. SIXTY MINUTE MANGA – (Episode Two: in which our manga dabbler accompanies the ninth grade class of Shiro Iwa Junior High to an island getaway.) Sometime back in the 1980's, during the heyday of Freddy Kreuger and Jason Voorhees, I remember attending a Freddy flick on a weekend matinee. I must've been going to the second show because I caught sight of a family on its way out of the theatre: father, mother and a boy who couldn't have been older than six. What the hell are you doing taking a kid to this picture? I thought about fifteen seconds after the family had stepped out into the sunlight. (Mister Quick Reaction Time, that's me!) When I was that age, the mere sight of a skull-and-crossbones on a pirate flag was enough to get me hiding behind the chair. Standing at the bookracks – where All Age titles and Mature commingle freely – perusing the manga graphic novels, I was reminded of that moviegoing family. By now that boy is old enough to have kids of his own: do you think they read manga? Or read at all? I wonder. The shrinkwrapped plastic covering the first volume of Koushun Takami & Masayuki Taguchi’s Battle Royale (Tokyopop) contains a stark Parental Advisory – and it needs one. If I were to compare ratings systems, I'd say the book was a solid "R," for both graphic violence and a disturbing panel depicting rape. Tokyopop recommends an Age "18+" readership, though as with that Nightmare on Elm Street flick, you can bet that there are idiot parents out there, letting their kids read this stuff. The cinema comparison is apt, since I’m told that this series also exists as a movie (and an actual prose novel). As I got into the first volume, I kept flashing on two filmic influences, The Tenth Victim and Mario Bava's Bay of Blood. The first, a 60’s s-f film based on a story by Robert Sheckley, is easily explicated: it served as a source for Richard Bachman's The Running Man. The second's a bit more obscure: Bay of Blood (which was also released in this country under the much more evocative title, Twitch of the Death Nerve) is a darkly comic body count flick that features a large cast of difficult-to-distinguish characters bumping each other off. It served as an influence on the noticeably inferior Friday the 13th (some of that pic's most striking deaths were directly stolen from Bava) and has been called the first "real" slasher film (it was originally released in 1971). But Bay of Blood's stature in the annals of horror filmdom doesn't just lie in the fact that Bava got there first. As a director (and cinematographer), he was also celebrated for a visually poetic brand of sadism that finds its manga equivalent in Battle Royale. Even when his films were nonsense (c.f. Blood And Black Lace), they were often visually breathtaking, especially when it came to visually documenting his movie victims' leave-taking.  Which brings us (finally) to our graphic novel. Takami & Taguchi's series is set in a future dystopia ("As military dictatorships go," Keith Giffen notes in his efficient English adaptation, "it could be worse. But not by much.") where the downtrodden masses are regularly entertained by a series entitled The Program. In it, a class of ninth graders are selected by lottery, transported against their will to a heavily booby-trapped island and then ordered to go General Zaroff on each other's ass. It's reality programming taken to the extreme – the only one allowed off the island is the ultimate sole survivor – with plenty of gleeful camera shots of each bloody victim. As readers, we get to glimpse several full-page panels of dangling eyeballs and gaping faces: when Volume One opens, two young orphan boys are shown watching their favorite anime actioner, only to have it interrupted by a news flash shot of The Program's most recent "winner," a mad teenage girl with her face half torn off.Those two orphans, Shuuya & Yoshi, will of course grow to be drafted into the government's Most Dangerous Game Show. Their entire class is gassed and shanghaied on a bus trip, then flown to a remote island. The students wake in an unfamiliar classroom where The Program's gloating overseer, Mr. Kamon, tells them the rules of the game and brags about raping the sweet orphanage housemother, Ms. Ryoko. (Whether this last really occurred or not is up for interpretation – it quickly becomes apparent that Kamon is the kind of s.o.b. who'd say anything to work up his "students" – but we get a gratuitous image of the described event, anyway.) Each student, we learn, has been equipped with an electronic collar around their necks; should they attempt to opt out of The Program, the collars will be detonated. Much of Volume One is devoted to explicating the story set-up; we don't fully get out of Mr. Kamon's classroom until Chapter Seven. In the opening chapter, we meet eight of the story's forty-two classmates, but the only two who initially make a lasting impression are Shuuya & Yoshi. The other six are introduced through quick-cut vignettes that deliberately blend into each other. In a way, this confusion is consistent with the demands of a story where the primary conflict resides in the unknow-ability of other people, but it also forces the reader to do some work from the get-go. Each classmate is also assigned a number (our apparent hero Shuuya is Boy #15), which fits into both the game structure of The Program and also works to remind us that we're reading a story with a high body count. The art in Battle Royale is heavily textured with both cross-hatch and mechanical shading, which gives the figures more sense of bulk to 'em than I, at least, have associated with manga art. (This is particularly impressive in the looming shots of a menacing Mr. Kamon.) Some of the other manga art conventions prevail – big-eyed femmes, large beads of sweat and tears that (understandably) flow freely, occasional untranslated lettering that more typically appears during moments of intense emotion or sudden death – but none of it interferes with our understanding of the book’s violent action. Or its central dilemma. At the root of the gore-riddled story lie questions of hope and trust: is either stance sensible in a setting where all of your peers have been set against you? Some of the students, we see, only too eagerly take to the Darwinian struggle. Others, like Shuuya and plucky Girl #15 Norika, work to build an alliance that will help them turn the tables. "I've thought it through," Shuuya tells Norika, after seeing his best friend murdered and another student gone round the bend, "and opted for 'hope.'" After we've read this inspirational statement, the book moves onto two other students who've gleefully chosen another path. Mario Bava would've definitely approved. Who, the book asks, is better suited to survive The Program? It's a testimony to Takami & Taguchi that I don't know by the end of Volume One what the answer'll be. But I definitely wanna find out. # | ( 9/12/2003 07:06:00 AM ) Bill S. RITTER – Like Johnny Bacardi, I wasn't a fan of the sitcom that brought John Ritter his initial fame. But in addition to his work in Sling Blade and that memorable guest turn on Buffy, the Vampire Slayer ("Beg to differ, little lady,") I was impressed by Ritter's smart work on the short-lived half-hour Steven Bochco dramedy, Hooperman. A talented guy, who as Mark Evanier notes, didn't always make the best decisions for his career. He died too soon. # | ( 9/12/2003 06:48:00 AM ) Bill S. "IT DOES A MILLION DOLLARS WORTH OF GOOD FOR YOU" – Living in Connecticut back in the 50's and early 60's, the main source for pop 'n' roll music was an AM station with the call letters WDRC. In those pre-demographic days, you could catch a lot of different stuff on pop radio, and that was where I first heard Johnny Cash. Cash's early Sun and Columbia hits were so catchy and distinct (that chunkin' Tennessee Two-than-Three sound couldn’t help but pull ya in) I loved hearing 'em as a kid; listening to his deep-felt vocals as I got older, they made even more sense. Like many entertainers in it for the long haul, Cash has had periods of prominence (I remember watching his variety show in the late sixties) and missteps (Door-to-Door Maniac, anyone?) Recently, he'd been enjoying elder statesman success with a series of folkish middle-of-the-night releases (the American Recordings series). Me, I still favor the early Cash stuff: the original "Folsom Prison Blues," "I Walk the Line," "Get Rhythm," "Guess Things Happen That Way," the mariachi-drenched "Ring of Fire," "Tennessee Flat-top Box" and more. Not entirely country, not fully rockabilly – all Johnny Cash and all great. There are a lot of great collections of Cash music out there (as I write this, I'm listening to Rhino's The Sun Years), both in budget editions (e.g., Legacy's Ring of Fire: The Best of Johnny Cash) and more opulent boxed sets (The Man in Black, which showcases all the 1963 – 69 material). I don't usually get too prescriptive, since I figure that there's room for lots of different tastes in the pop world. But this much I'll say: you owe it to yourself to own some Johnny Cash. # | Thursday, September 11, 2003 ( 9/11/2003 12:45:00 PM ) Bill S. TODAY – Woke up thinking about the 9/11 Anniversary, remembering and generally coming to no new conclusions. So I'm recommending Daryl Cagle's Slate collection of 9-11 editorial cartoons. A few get redundant (if I had some kids, I'd hug them, okay?) and at least one of 'em will irritate you. But the full collection provides a good visual overview of the thoughts folks have in this here democracy of ours. . . # | ( 9/11/2003 07:44:00 AM ) Bill S. BY THE HOARY HOSTS OF HOOEVER – My totally spurious "race" between Amazon and eBay has a winner: yesterday I received my copy of the Marvel Masterworks: Doctor Strange book won from Village Comics via eBay. According to Amazon today, my August 8th order for the second Fantastic Four volume has not been shipped (though, as I've noted already, the book has appeared in comics shops). Advantage: eBay! # | Wednesday, September 10, 2003 ( 9/10/2003 11:59:00 AM ) Bill S. PROJECT: YACCS RESCUE – Finally able to get into my old comments system, I’ve decided to try and rescue some of the more informative offerings that readers have brought to this blog. First up: Shawn Fumo’s fully packed addition to my rambling thoughts about manga in America. It’s pasted as an addendum to the original post. # | ( 9/10/2003 08:43:00 AM ) Bill S. BLOCKHEADS AND POWER CHORDS – It's been one of those not-enough-awake-time weeks: my mother-in-law went into the hospital late Sunday night, which has kicked several writing projects back a few days (among these, my second "Sixty Minute Manga" review). A few short comments beg to be made, though:
# | Tuesday, September 09, 2003 ( 9/09/2003 11:46:00 AM ) Bill S. FIVE GREAT WARREN ZEVON SONGS THAT AREN'T "WEREWOLVES OF LONDON" – Yeah, we all know the cult hit (though how "cult" can it be when Tom Cruise dances to it in Color of Money?) But there's way more to Warren Zevon than a catchy novelty number that gets trotted out each year near the end of the October. Here are a few more cooler entries from the Zevon catalog: the intrigued are encouraged to go deeper.
UPDATE: Mister Bacardi has since joined in with his own list. I can't argue with it - which only goes to show how many great songs Zevon crafted over the years. # | Monday, September 08, 2003 ( 9/08/2003 09:07:00 AM ) Bill S. "I SHOULD CLIMB OUT QUICK, BUT I HATE DOING WHAT I’M TOLD"– After several days of tracking it down at my local music stores (looks like the first orders were quickly sold out – thanx to the VH-1 special perhaps?), I was finally able to snag a copy of Warren Zezon's swan song album, The Wind (Artemis). So I'm riding into work this a.m., preparing to play the disc for about the fifth time and listening to the news summaries, and I learn that Zevon has lost his battle with lung cancer over the weekend. Damn, but I hate posthumous reviews. Zevon's final album is a mixed bag: roughly recorded and loose at parts, at times it sounds most like the unvarnished one-off collaboration that the singer/songwriter did with R.E.M. under the name Hindu Love Gods. Some cuts, you can hear Zevon just barely making it through the take ("She's Too Good for Me" has a few frail moments, while on "El Amor De Mi Vida" regular collaborator Jorge Calderon appears to be propping the singer up on the chorus). On a few other tracks the tempo (e.g., opener "Dirty Life and Times") seems a bit more sluggish than I'd wish, but not fatally so. For me, the strongest songs are the most raucous, "Disorder in the House" (with suitably disheveled back-up and guitar solo by Bruce Springsteen) and the bluesy "Rub Me Raw." A lot of attention's being paid to his cover of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," which is understandable, but there's not much in the performance to differentiate it from Dylan's original. I'm more enamored by disc finale, "Keep Me in Your Heart," with its heartbreaking double-edged line, "If I leave you, it doesn't mean I love you any less," and understated guitar work by Calderon. A fine note to go out on . . . # | ( 9/08/2003 04:14:00 AM ) Bill S. COOL COMICS-RELATED RUMOR OF THE WEEK – Don't usually report these, but according to this thread on The Comics Journal's message board, Fantagraphics Books'll be initiating a chronological reprinting of the Complete Peanuts, to be designed by Seth of Palookaville fame. Supposedly, a copy of Volume One's (1950 - 52) cover was being shown around this weekend at the Small Press Expo. If it's not true, it oughta be . . . # | ( 9/08/2003 04:12:00 AM ) Bill S. "WOULDN'T BE A REAL BEDROOM WITHOUT A PAINTING OF A LOON, NOW WOULD IT?" – With Trio repeating the entries of its "Brilliant, But Cancelled" opening marathon most every night this week, it wasn't that tough to catch all the pilots that I particularly wanted to see. Viewed the last 'un today: Bruce Paltrow & Robert Palm's teevee follow-up to the Coen Bros.' Fargo. Of all the pilots, this was the one I was most curious about seeing: I love the movie but was skeptical that anyone could successfully replicate its blend of Midwestern moodiness, unpredictable character comedy and slapstick grand guignol in a weekly network series. To their credit, co-writers Paltrow & Palm (abetted by director Kathy Bates, working her way up to more assured work on Six Feet Under) don't fully try. The pilot emphasizes small-town quirk more than any other element, much in the manner of David Kelley's Picket Fences (or this season's The Brotherhood of Poland, New Hampshire, I betcha). Teevee Fargo centers around Chief Marge Gunderson, still Very Pregnant and now gamely portrayed by Edie Falco (struggling with that Minnesotan accent and not always winning). Chief Marge has two crimes to solve, though neither one is a brain-stretcher. First is a murder that takes place in a snow-covered mall parking lot; second is a body that's been stolen from the morgue. The show devotes more time to the latter mystery than the first. When the identity of the killer is revealed, we've known so little about the dead man or murderer that we barely care (contrast this to the movie Fargo, where each miscreant is lovingly filled in). The second plotline, with a devoted son stealing his father's body so he can give him a Viking funeral, was more fully delineated: anticipating Alan Ball's HBO funereal series in its attention to mortuary minutia. Teevee Fargo's creative team doesn't show Ball's (or the Coens') willingness to venture into the bracingly morbid, which in this case proves to be a major failing. The pilot even ends on that ultimate of life-affirming notes (can it even be called a Spoiler when it's patently obvious from the first five minutes that we're gonna get there?): Chief Marge giving birth. Once we arrived at the birthin' scene I started imagining meetings between the pre-Sopranos Falco and her agent: "I promise, darling, you're only gonna have to wear the belly for one episode!" # | Sunday, September 07, 2003 ( 9/07/2003 08:03:00 AM ) Bill S. LIKE THE WEATHER – Our local paper, The Daily Pantagraph, prints Gary Trudeau's "Doonesbury" during weekdays in the editorial section and has traditionally skipped the Sunday strips, so I had to read this week's "controversial" masturbation strip on Daryl Cagle's strip-focused web log. (The blog has no permalinks that I can see, so just scroll to the September 7th posting if you're not reading this today.) I'm with Daryl; unless mere mention of masturbation is enough to get folks' backs up, I don't see what the fuss is all about. Are we supposed to believe that a lot of kids are reading "Doonesbury"? I'm guessing most younger readers find it about as entertaining as "Rex Morgan, M.D." # | ( 9/07/2003 07:00:00 AM ) Bill S. MY BIG FAT MOVIE POSTING – Though I happily avoided the short-lived sitcom, there was no way I could ditch the cable movie premiere of My Big Fat Greek Wedding last night: it's the kind of lightweight fare made for viewing with both spouse and mother-in-law. "Moonstruck without the operatic angst," I wound up thinking – though somebody should've told writer/star Nia Vardalos a sliver of darkness is what pushed that Cher vehicle from a good into a great romantic comedy. (Hard to imagine xeno boyfriend John Corbett bemoaning how "love ruins everything," the way Nick Cage did, though.) Still, I was entertained, even through the overdone bits (father Michael Constantine's repetitive lectures about Greek being the root of all language, for instance), and I'll always welcome the opportunity to watch either Lainie Kazan or Andrea Martin in a movie. # | |
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