lala

We now are on the eve of Oscar night...but really, who cares? Slumdog and Mickey's redemption. Bleh. I am more excited about my netflix que and the movies I will be attending in the near future at revival theaters. Hell, there are even a few interesting movies at the regular theater (by regular I, of course, mean arthouse fop theater). I now am fully submerged in film. My pores are sweating out theories, plots, narrative arc, dialogue in strangely satisfying ways. I know about comic timing, about dramatic pauses, beats, rhythms, algorithms etc. This applies to tv, as well. I can watch any episode of any dramatic show and tell the one sitting close to me who will be the killer, whom not to trust, who will be the love interest, when the narrative will go off-track, on track, etc etc etc. Poor people who sit by me!

Season 1 in Dexter. There is one shot of a seemingly neutral character, a handsome doctor, and immediately pegged Mr. Man (Dr. Man) as the serial killer. How did I do this? Well, the serial killer can't be just some random person who pops out of nowhere in the last episode. The serial killer has to be an established character, so we can have that wow effect. Up to that episode, there were no characters that were viable suspects; the one person we thought to be a killer was too obvious. But this doctor--handsome, charming, non-threatening--was so obviously not obvious that my obvious bells started obviously ringing. Oh sure, the writers threw him at Dexter's sister, but, again, this was a tad too obvious. So without a doubt, I made the prediction that the shit-balls insane suspect is innocent and Dr. is the killer, even though there was absolutely no evidence to prove it! Boy, how that thrilled the people watching the show with me after I ruined the suspense.

Also, I can tell, by the way the camera lingers for perhaps a millisecond too long, whether a character (or dog) will live or die. Especially dogs. It will always be a neutral scene and the character might refer to the dog, whom will run happily into the owners arms. If this has no narrative function then the dog will meet a terrible end; well-structured screenplays have no fat on them, every single moment in every single scene is there for a reason, so if you ask yourself "why is the writer wasting fifteen seconds with a dog", you know that the payoff will be coming shortly--see Audition or Damages for examples of this.

I'm not saying I'm a genius or even an autistic weirdo; all this proves is I am fluent in this language.

The Class

The Class

The class was finally in session. Our favorite teacher, Mr. Belfry, loped to the front of the room (he was hunch-backed, you see). Well, favorite is a rather cunning choice of a word—Mr. Belfry was our only teacher; as such, we could also denote him as: our worst teacher, our sexiest teacher, our teacher most resembling a pedophile etc.

Anyway, Mr. Belfry stationed himself behind his powerful, wooden podium and surveyed his class: fifty rows of students, from A to XX, all riveted and staring at his Kurtzy bald head, so shiny, as the spotlights accentuated the luminescent powers of his brain heat radiating from a vigorous cerebral workout. His gaze of us students lasted for about fifteen spellbinding seconds. We could hear the beats of our neighbors’ hearts as we fixated on his aforementioned head; his eyes were much too visionary (scary) for us to linger on for longer than a furtive glance—even that glance felt impure, as his red eyes (lack of sleep? Demonic powers) would find us and transmit insecurities to the brave souls that ventured close to this oracle. He created the illusion (so prevalent in 19th century portraits) of looking at each and every one of us. Quite impressive when you do some simple math: 50 rows multiplied by 20 columns equals a hell of a lot of students to be keeping an eye on (or two in this case). After we were thoroughly spooked and chastened, he opened his cavernous (or cadaverous) mouth and began his lecture:

‘Children of the new God, listen close. Our world is spinning out of primal orbit and will soon be floating in unchartered ether. We have no anchor to plunge into the Sun, nor have we a compass to map our progress. This is of our own doing and will soon create our own undoing—our demise, my children, my pets. Individual choice has proved a flawed idol that we can throw on the fires, forever burning, of our previous smashed Gods made of stone. This new idol cannot even be considered stone; straw being a substance more comparable to this: individual choice that we’ve held above all else. Now that we have purged our souls of a false daemon and float with no destination, we must decide where to go. Yes, we are passengers to an unholy eternity. Yes, we are destined to be destitute. Yes, things will never be the same. But all the same, can we not still define what we hold sacred?

‘You smart students will undoubtedly think to yourselves: how can we choose when individual choice is a fantasy, a falsehood, a lie? And yes, you are correct in this line of thought; individual choice died a false death as soon as that first caveman evolved a cerebrum. But what didn’t die and what shall rise from the ashes of false idols like a phoenix in the night sky is collective will. This is real; the collective movements that swing through history like a pendulum cutting across time itself. This urge to submit yourself into universal memory and destroy the individual, this will be our new God, our new mandate, Goddate. This is how we begin: renounce the individual and drop the anchor together, polarize the compass with our blood united and our will eviscerated into puzzle pieces that will fit together when we come together for the reign of harmony soon to be upon us. We are nothing alone, but everything together; a syllogism to lead us into our new orbit with enough gravity to outweigh the Sun and pull it into our orbit. This is how mythology is created. This is how constellations are made. This is how idols apotheosize.'