My Nightmare on Friday the 13th: A first timer’s dive into 80s Horror "Classics"

Awww! They Love Each Other!

Tis the season to be Spooky! Or, I don’t know. Some shit. Look, I enjoy scary movies, and don’t much care when I watch them. But, as the weekly movie night held by my friends has moved into October, the idea of digging into previously unviewed schlock has become an undeniable #mood. (Does it even matter if I point out my own sarcasm?)

As a child I was afraid of pretty much anything and everything. My sister and I still talk about the time we were staying at our aunt’s house and shook in complete fear while trying to eat dinner, with our cousins watching pet Semetary in the next room. Just the notion of being that close to a “Scary Movie” was terrifying. No need to watch it. Just being within ten feet was all we needed.

But, I, like most children, grew up eventually. (Some may debate this) And with the increase in height, body hair, and consistent cursing, came a new found appreciation for the rush of adrenaline given by literal hair raising cinema. What’s my poison? Mostly supernatural stuff. The Others, The Conjuring, The Uninvited (1944), and the Insidous series just to give a Sous Sant of my tastes. I did eventually start to go back and watch films from the era that had given me nightmares. Things like Halloween, Child’s Play, Children of the Corn, and so on. (Pet Semetary is still scary as shit.)

However, two series that never really drew me in were those of the two eventual head to headers Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees. I mean, they’re enough a part of the pop cultural landscape that I couldn’t possibly have made it this far, in life or art, without gaining at least a little background knowledge.

Freddy, burned alive by a mob of parents after escaping child murder charges on a technicality, kills teenagers in their dreams. Jason kills teenagers in the woods for no other real reason than their penchant for fucking too close to where he drowned as a child. So on. So forth. Rinse. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

I’m not going to lie. The shear number of entries in each franchise was among the list of deterrents to my exploring of each. That coupled with my previously held (with a kung fu grip) feelings regarding “Bad Movies.” But, as a very dear friend of mine taught me during the collapse of society, “There are no bad movies. Only experiences.”

So, fuck it. Enough prologue. Let’s talk about the movies.

I’ll summarize them both in terms of which entries I would recommend to a new comer. The way my mind works, I have to watch an entire series from the beginning. But for those who want to skip to just the good bits, here we go. (SPOILERS AHEAD)

Remember to exfoliate.

When it comes to the man in the brown hat and the Vegematic glove, there’s really only three movies worth your time.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

Obviously, the beginning. The classic. In case you were unaware, Wes Craven knows what he’s doing when it comes to stories that aren’t just jump scares, or gore fests. This man knows how to unsettle you. Whether it be the creepy children singing a creepy nursey rhyme that is by now seared into my brain. (1…2… Freddy’s coming for you!) Or just the base concept of never being able to sleep out of fear of dying in some painful, horrific way. When final girl Nancy’s alcoholic mother recounts the story of just why Freddy is after the kids, you can see and feel the complexity on everyone’s faces. The slowly cracking certainty that, not only is Freddy dead, but that the actions of the parents who murdered him were completely justified.

A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987)

Picking up 6 years after the original, and completely ignoring the second entry, we find Nancy as a young woman living with the weight of what happened to her. She takes an experimental medication to deprive her of dreams, and tries to help the kids Freddy is still terrorizing, as an intern at the Westin Hills Psychiatric Hospital. Craven had never wanted the original to become a franchise, so this was his attempt to put a nail in the coffin. We get a deeper, more disturbing origin of Freddy, some truly fantastic kills, young Laurence Fishburne, a hard rocking theme song by Dokken, and the answer I never knew I needed. “What happens to the kids after Freddy kills them?” Everything about this movie tells you this was meant to be the end of the franchise, and in another more perfect universe, it would have been the haunting crescendo to send us out on.

Wes Craven’s New Nightmare (1994)

Since the last one didn’t end it, instead spawning three more sequels, Wes Craven came back one more time to flip the entire story on it’s head. This time we’re in the real world. The lead isn’t Nancy, but rather Heather Langenkamp, the actress who played her. Heather is reticent to come back for another entry in the long running franchise, feeling that her two performances were enough. But, at the prodding of her husband, her on screen father, and the man behind Freddy himself, Robert Englund, she agrees to at least hear Wes Craven out on what he’s working on. But a series of strange phone calls, mysterious dreams, and truly bizarre behavior on the part of her son, begins to make her question her own reality, and whether or not her previous work were truly just movies.

It’s been a hard days night.

Jason Voorhees is a little tougher of a nut to crack. For one, the most interesting thing to me about the character is an Easter egg in his second to last solo entry, Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday. That’s where we learn that Jason is a Deadite. The evil possessed killing machines from Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead Franchise. His mother, grief stricken over the accidental death of her special needs child, somehow found a copy of the Necronomicon Ex Mortis and raised him from the dead as an unstoppable, indestructible killer. And, honestly, the whole franchise makes a ton more sense knowing that. Which is why it’s such a shame that that is never stated out loud. Owing to New Line Cinema not owning the rights to The Evil Dead movies, it is only heavily implied when a character enters the dilapidated Voorhees home, finds the iconic book, flips through it, and continues on with the rest of the movie.

So, I’m glad I read ahead. Because otherwise, these movies make no god damn sense. But, in the interest of playing fair, here’s my list.

Friday the 13th (1980)

Jason isn’t even in this one, aside from a dream sequence jump scare. But, again it’s best to begin any business at the beginning. (Thank you, Bilbo.) There are some truly great performances interspersed among the tits, and blood. But, then again, that could be said about most of the movies I’m listing from here on. But, it should be noted that this one has a surprise Kevin Bacon to brighten everyone’s day.

Friday the 13th Part II (1981)

Okay, now we get the man in the mask. But not a hockey mask. Nope. This time its a burlap sack. And along with it we find the fate of the last film’s final girl, and some truly confusing questions about where the, now full sized, adult Jason has been the whole time his mother was doing her thing in the first movie. Again, the Deadite plot makes a lot of this make more sense. With characters a little more likeable than the previous film, this movie treads a lot of the same ground. Two months after the previous film’s massacre, some teens are working on setting up a summer camp, a little further down the lakeside. (Who the hell is going to send their kids?) That, as you can probably imagine, doesn’t go so hot.

Friday the 13th Part III (1982)

This one gets a little interesting. The kills are better and more inventive, Jason gets his iconic mask, and we have a final girl with an actual arc. She’s working out her childhood trauma of having once had a run in with Jason in the woods outside her family’s home. Now as an adult, she returns for the first time and brings her weird, nerdy, and stoner friends for a nice weekend on the lake. Unfortunately, they piss off some multi ethnic street toughs (You know how the country side is just lousy with those.) But, all of that goes out the window entirely because the machete wielding Jason just has to crash the party.

Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (1984)

Aside from the laugh one has to stifle when uttering this title, my favorite part about this movie is the introduction of the character of Tommy Jarvis. Played here by a 12 year-old Corey Feldman, Tommy goes on to carry the franchise for the next two installments. Though the less said about Part V the better. We also get the joy of watching Crispin Glover be his deeply weird self. Just wait for his dance scene. It’s worth the watch alone.

Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives (1986)

Yes, as I said, we’re not going to talk about Part V. And, honestly, we don’t have to. This one picks up with a now adult Tommy Jarvis attempting to finally exercise his childhood trauma (A lot of that going around) by digging up Jason’s corpse and burning it, only to instead impale it with a very convenient lightning rod. No, seriously. The metal pole Tommy stabbed him with gets struck by lightning and the, now decomposed, killer is once again on a spree. We actually get some really fun characters in this one. It seems like they finally figured out that the best approach was to place ones tongue firmly in ones cheek before trying to make one of these movies. Tommy goes head to head with Jason and we get what is probably the closest thing to a satisfying ending this franchise could have. It just happens to come four or five films too soon.

Wait. Jason has a weakness? Since when?

And so we come to our denouement.

Freddy Vs. Jason (2003)

Honestly, this was a lot of fun. Seriously. Like it might be the most 2003 movie ever, but it definitely gave the people what they wanted. Building off of a blink and you’ll miss it surprise at the end of Jason Goes to Hell, we find ourselves in a world inhabited by both of these undying psychos. Freddy wants to come back, but unless people fear him, he has no power, and the people of Springwood (Where all the Elm Street movies take place) have gone way out of their way to make sure no one remembers him. So, he hatches a plan to revive Jason and guide him to Springwood to start slaughtering people, knowing that they’ll all assume that Freddy is back, fear him, and give him strength. But, you know what they say about best laid plans…

I think my favorite thing about this is that they chose to only focus on the first three Elm Street movies when it came to Freddy’s story, and just the first few Friday the 13ths for Jason. Like the filmmakers saw the mess, decided to sweep most of it under the rug, and play with the best parts. And they did! To great effect!

So, yeah. that’s it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to re-watch Dream Warriors, and New Nightmare.

Happy Halloween

The Falcon, The Winter Soldier, and the Captain America Legacy with the Uncomfortable

This post contains some spoilers for the Premiere of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.

So, I guess this is a thing I’m doing now. As I opined upon, at length, in my previous post, Marvel comics and the ensuing movies are of some matter of great import to me. Chief among those being Captain America. Possibly the most misunderstood of all of the newly mainstreamed characters Marvel has to show, and yet, I find, the most compelling.

In the last few weeks I’ve found myself discussing this with close friends, and trying to express that what they assume Captain America is, is not only far from the fact, but also that that presumption is really the fascinating jumping on point for a character with a very long history of being a conduit for political commentary. A white, blue eyed, blonde American man with the oh so wholesome name of Steve Rogers, with the flag on his chest and a giant “A” emblazoned across his forehead. I don’t really blame anyone for thinking he might be the personification of yawning propagandism. But, in truth, that is the exact legacy and expectation that Cap himself is in constant struggle with.

I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t something “Rah Rah America!” about seeing Cap deck Adolf Hitler on the cover of Captain America Comics #1. Especially in this day and age, I feel we could really use a more clear reminder of this country laying out the Nazis. But, even for the time that was a controversial stance. The comic dropped in March of 1941. A time when, not only were we as a country making a concerted effort to not get involved in World War 2, but there were large scale pro Nazi groups making their stances known clearly. It was only two years earlier that Madison Square Garden hosted a massive rally for American Nazis. So, two Jewish men from New York deciding to wrap a man in our flag and plaster him all over Newsstands across the country, fist squarely set against ol’ Adolf’s glass jaw, was a far more bold move than modern America is generally willing to admit. So, from the jump Captain America was political commentary rather than propaganda. The change really came post Pearl Harbor, when all of a sudden the American Nazi party seemed to just disappear. Suddenly, the controversy was the rally cry.

The war eventually ended. A thing wars used to do. The comic continued on through the 50s out of shear popularity, but eventually sales started to decline in favor of Tales From the Crypt and Mars Attacks style creature feature books. Cap started fighting Vampires like Baron Blood, and the thread was just generally lost. That is until Marvel Mastermind Stan Lee came up with the idea to revive the War time Cap in 1964. In the 4th issue of his newly minted mega crossover, The Avengers, it was revealed that the real Cap had been on ice, lost at sea ever since an ill fated fight against Baron Zemo. A fight that would claim the life of his long running boy sidekick Bucky Barnes. Eventually the 1950s appearances of the characters would be explained away as a government initiative to hide his disappearance by casting new heroes in the rolls of Cap and Bucky.

The newly thawed Steve Rogers would go on to struggle with the legacy of shifting American values. It had only been 19 years since his supposed death in 45, yet the nation had changed so much in that time. Emboldened by our defeat of the Nazis, The United States had set out on an imperialist campaign to “bring Democracy to the world.” We were indisputably the good guys? How could it possibly go wrong? (I don’t have the time or desire to give you a rundown on the past 70+ years of foreign policy, but just go ahead and google “Operation: Condor”, “Banana Republics", “The Dole Fruit Company in South America”, “Iran Contra”, “Operation: Paperclip", and pretty much anything in the Middle East since the Gulf War.)

In 1974 Steve Rogers would drop the shield and give up the mantle of Captain America, becoming “Nomad: The Man Without a Country.” In the comic it was reasoned as a response to learning that a “High level government official” (implied to be Nixon) was the head of a terrorist organization. In our world, this lined up with the end of the Watergate investigation and Nixon's eventual resignation. Yet again, the legacy and expectation of what the name, costume, and shield were meant to represent, came to logger heads with real world geopolitics. This would harken the arrival of John Walker “The U.S. Agent”, but I’ll come back to that.

As many of my generation are coming to understand these days, the America we learned about in our history classes is closer to Fan Fiction, baring a passing resemblance to the real historical place we hold in the world. Steve Rogers is a man who grew up believing in the best of what we could be. He put his body and his life on the line to fight for an Ideal that we as a nation don’t really adhere to regardless of what we tell our children. Be it belittling the historical contributions of other races, cultures, or sexes, whitewashing our own numerous sins, or wrapping our imperialism in a quest for democracy.

But here’s the thing. I fell in love with the fan fiction version of this country. Growing up outside Philadelphia, history wasn’t just in books. It was something very real that I could reach out and touch, at times literally, in the case of The Liberty Bell. I believe in the same country Steve Rogers does, even as I myself grapple with the truth that lies beneath our patriotic veneer.

So, where does this leave us with the new series that just dropped on Disney+? Picking up after Captain America’s retirement and handing off the shield to his friend and confidant, Sam Wilson, we watch as the new man to wield the shield has also come to find himself struggling with that legacy. Everything Captain America is meant to represent, mixed with the complicated experience of American blackness, let alone a black member of the armed forces. A population who has time and again put their bodies and lives on the line for the promises of the American social contract.

In the first episode we see Sam’s refusal of the call, and simultaneous fight to keep his family business alive while coming face to face with the subtle but stinging racism of the American banking structure. Made all the worse by the Banker’s fan gushing at meeting a real life Avenger. The flip of the coin is to watch as Sam’s co-headliner Bucky attempts make amends for his life as the War criminal and assassin The Winter Soldier. A journey brought to searing emotional life in the eyes of the elderly man he befriended , knowing that he killed that man’s son for no reason other than being in the wrong place. A soul tortured by full knowledge of the horrors he’s inflicted while being used as a weapon in someone else’s war.

Vague allusions to a shadowy new organization of anarchists' called the Flag Smashers ( a nice reimagining of one of Marvel’s least subtle villains.) set up what is to come, but the most stinging moment is in the final minutes when Sam sees that his decision to turn Cap’s shield over to the U.S. government for the Smithsonian's Captain America exhibition has yielded a bureaucratic rebranding and recasting of the symbol. Placing it in the hands of the aforementioned John Walker. The stage is set to tell a story complex and compelling enough to live up to the mantle Steve Rogers once bore. But the question that once graced the cover of many a comic in my personal golden age, is left hanging in the air. “Who will wield the shield?”

Rise of The Scarlett Witch and Faux Expertise

Elizabeth Olsen as The Scarlett Witch.

It should surprise literally no one that I'm a comic book nerd. Since the age of 13, as I entered the scary world of my freshman year in high school, I found a sense of identity I couldn't find anywhere else in the pages of Brian Michael Bendis's “Ultimate Spider-Man.” It was an, at the time, brand new reimagining of a character, and therefore a perfect jumping on point for me.

Like so many other major nerd properties, I was aware of Spider-Man long before I ever picked up a comic because in the near half century since Stan Lee and Steve Ditko had set pen to paper, Spider-Man, and Marvel as a whole, had go on to pervade the culture and risen to icon status. Ask any child, they can tell you about our pop cultural icons long before ever viewing the source material. What child can't identify Darth Vader on sight?

The 1994 Spider-Man animated series gave me a firm knowledge base to draw from so that when I did finally pick up Bendis's reimagined story, I knew the basics. Peter Parker became a superhero in high school. He was nerdy, down on his luck, and struggled for everything he had. To my younger self, the stories were a balm in a very painful age.

Soon after I would go on to find my favorite superhero, Captain America, and eventually dive all the way in with The Punisher, Daredevil, The Fantastic 4, The Avengers, and others. Marvel's own vision of New York was a magical place that I could escape to every Wednesday evening. Laying on my bedroom floor I could disappear to Earth 616 and go on all manner of complex and beautifully rendered adventures.

Around that time, a new event was brewing. Something happened called Avengers Disassembled. I hadn't followed it closely at the time but I caught the gist from the guys behind the shop's counter, when they deigned to condescend to me. Several major characters had died. Someone named The Scarlett Witch had lost her mind and, without knowing it, single handedly brought Earth's Mightiest Heroes to their knees.

So, began the days leading into the House of M. The Avengers & X-Men needed to decide what to do with Wanda Maximoff, The Scarlett Witch. Reluctantly, it was agreed that with both her powers and mental state as unpredictable as they were, Wanda was too dangerous to be left alive. I won't dive too deep here as this is clearly the doorstep Kevin Feige is leading us toward in the MCU.

That's kind of my point, honestly. For thirteen years now, I've watched as stories specific to the era when comics were most dear to me have been adapted for the screen. The Winter Soldier, Civil War, Extremis, Ragnarok, all were written and released in my formative years and I've gotten to watch with unbridled glee. My friends can attest to the emotional mess I devolved into at Captain America's final utterance of the long teased battle cry, “Avengers, Assemble!”

However, there has always been a nagging factor in the Marvel renaissance of comic book adaptation. The rise of the faux expert. Those more tuned to their word count than their actual subject. These were the people who said with astonishment that Captain America: The Winter Soldier “carried a complexity and seriousness more at home in 70s political thrillers than its source.” I can tell you with absolute certainty that this writer had never read comics. And if they had it was nothing more complex than Archie.

The Winter Soldier storyline was written by multi award winning writer Ed Brubaker. His vision of the Star spangled man has informed every choice made for Chris Evans's run as the character. From The First Avenger to the upcoming Falcon and The Winter Soldier series, Brubaker took us there first and he did it with an adeptness that is almost criminal to ignore.

It feels like there's a reflex to assume that comic book stories and characters are as two dimensional as the pages they're printed on. Again and again, I've read industry think pieces asking what Kevin Feige's secret is. How did he succeed so drastically where so many others failed in the ongoing quest for superhero the cinematic franchise?

In truth there is no secret. He stayed true to the books. He respected the source and put those stories on the screen. Before the birth of Marvel Studios, it seemed that each and every comic book movie had been a fight between the fans and the producers. The fans, often among those working behind the scenes, wanted to see the stories they loved, but the producers strode in with condescension, confident in the idea that they knew how to make movies. They would say what sold better. What would please more audiences, and so they would bend and twist and break those stories and give us things like Judge Dredd. Everything about it a slap in the face to anyone who read the book. And when those adaptations failed, it was because of the source and never that of producorial over reach. Clearly. I mean, they know how to make movies right? And that right there is the problem. Comic book adaptations don't follow the same rules as other movies. They are their own beasts.

Think back to an age before 2012's The Avengers. Right up until the movie's release, critics swore the movie would fail. That no one would want to watch all the movies that came before. That it was impossible to do a multi franchise spanning cross over. It simply couldn't be done. It took about a week for every studio to decide they needed their own cinematic universe.

We can discuss later about whether or not this new wave has been a boon to the industry as a whole. But, yet again, there is this urge to assume that comicbook movies can be normalized. What works for comic movies must work for all movies. A slight graduation from the previous line of thinking that what works for all movies must work for comic movies.

So, here we are, a few days following the finale of WandaVision. Marvel's mind bendy horror story. What is to be the birth of a deeply complex antagonist. Once again the web is awash in think pieces. People claim that the story fell flat. That it ran from its grander ideas is favor of a fairytale ending. The problem is, the story isn't over. How are we now 13 years into the MCU and people still don't understand how this works? Where those self satisfied critics who “know how movies work" saw a fairytale ending, I saw something terrifying in its implications. The safety measures have been disengaged. What comes next will be a wild, mind shattering series of films and shows that will leap through time and realities. WandaVision is the opening volley of a story guaranteed to wrench your heart and destroy your expectations. The implications of the shot I chose to headline this piece are massive. The Darkhold, Astral Projection, the subtle twisting of Doctor Strange's theme music. All of which are intrinsically important. None of which are “just fan service.” When I look at this shot, I see an event as impactful as the smiling face of Thanos in the final shot of The Avengers.

The Nigger Taste

Something that doesn't get a lot of attention about depression is how it affects your memory. Rather than just being sad, your mind kinda shuts down and refuses to do anything. Recording details included. Because of this, medication, and good old fashioned repression, my childhood memories are pretty much just a series of broad strokes.

However, the memories I do have tend to be pretty damn vivid. They're things that stick. In example, I want to tell you the story of “The Nigger Taste.”

My parents like to have get togethers. Family, friends, friends of family, they're all over, they're all laughing, eating, dancing. It's generally pleasant if you can avoid a panic attack in such situations.

At one such get together, I think I was maybe 12 or 13, my mom invited a coworker and her family to come by, and I met her son. He was a couple years younger than me, but we got along nicely. We liked the same movies, I showed off my action figures, it was a classic preteen buddy meet.

That is until the time came for jokes. We were sitting in the basement, which due to my Dad having collected an Arcade Machine, 2 Slot Machines, a Shuffle Board, and a Pinball Machine, was where the kids liked to hang out. At this point the basement was packed with kids from my church. All of them teenagers from Camden, New Jersey. Mostly Black, a couple White, and boisterously cracking the kind of rude, college humor jokes you would expect in a situation.

My new friend, clearly unsure of his place in a room full of city kids, decided he wanted to give it a shot. So, he raised his hand.

“I've got one.”

Ready for anything at that point, the room urged him on.

“Why does a dog lick his butt?”

“I don't know. Why does a dog lick his butt?”

“To get the Nigger taste out of his mouth.”

The room was silent for a while. Pretty sure everyone assumed they had misheard. So, they asked him to repeat it.

“To get the Nigger taste out of his mouth.”

Nope, we had it right the first time. Some one said I looked like I was ready to punch him. I wasn't. I've never really known what my face was doing, but I remember all I was thinking was, This isn't going to end well.

I was wrong, of course, though some in the room got pissed off, others took control and lead the conversation. When asked where he heard that joke, he said his brother told it to him.

That was it. He left and went upstairs. The room discussed a little more, but I was done with the whole vibe, and headed upstairs to go get some food.

The party was mostly wound down. My parents and their friends were in another room, but my Brother and his Girlfriend were there.

He asked what happened. Said he saw the kid come upstairs looking upset. So, I had to tell him the “joke.”

“…To get the Nigger taste out of his mouth.”

When the party finally ended, my brother, sister, and I told my parents. Again, having to repeat the “joke.”

“…To get the Nigger Taste out of his mouth.”

And here's the real thrust of the story.

A few days later, we were coming back from church, and my mom was talking about how she had spoken to her coworker, who swore that that “wasn't how they spoke at home.” They had “No idea where [their older son] learned such a thing.” They punished him by taking his XBOX away.

That's it.

I'm sure that really taught him a lesson on race relations.

My point in all this, is that this is how racism spreads. It's not all Klan hoods and Jack boots. More often than not it's “jokes" between friends. Little brothers trying to be like their big brothers. And it flourishes in cases where the people in question have no access or experience with the people they deride. The people they dehumanizing.

To this day, I harbor no ill will toward that kid. He clearly didn't know what he was saying. Either that, or it was the worst case in history of reading the room.

It's not like it was the first time I had heard someone say Nigger. Shit, by 13, I had been called Nigger more times than are worth counting. And that, right there, is the major difference. To that kids big brother, saying Nigger was funny because he had no exposure to what Black people experience daily. To that kid, who was only a year or two younger than me, he had the luxury of not knowing the meaning of the word. But, not me. Not anyone in that room that night. Not my parents.

I repeated that “joke" about three times that night to tell the story of what happened. Now, I've typed it more than I would have liked to. But, I don't have that luxury. That kid didn't know any better. But, in an age where we carry the world's collected knowledge in our pockets, there's no excuse. The information is there. The access is there. But, I still have to watch videos of unarmed Black men get shot to death, and armed White teenagers get taken alive (or ignored) after they've murdered people on camera.

What kind of taste do you think that leaves in my mouth?

This is America: Part 2

The Primaries are done. We have a candidate. Crying that your chosen person didn't win won't help remove Trump. No, Trump and Biden are not the same. Stop being a jackass. Grow up. Vote. Biden was not my choice, but my skin is too dark, and my personal life too colorful, to live through another 4 years of Trump.

So, maybe stop pretending you give a shit about other people, and actually do something. Vote like a responsible adult. Seriously, I'm over the bullshit. I'm over the performative outrage that Bernie or Elizabeth Warren didn't win. That's what primaries are for. So the will of the people can choose a candidate. If the majority didn't land behind your chosen candidate, congratulations, you just learned that Democracy doesn't bend to you. This must be a big day for you. Grow up. Vote.

I have no patience left for any arguments to the contrary. I've heard and been a part of them for the last 2 years. And guess what? Biden and Harris is our ticket. You choose not to vote? You're choosing to not remove Trump from office. You are allowing Evil to Triumph by doing nothing. You choose to vote independent in protest? You're allowing Trump to remain in office. Seriously, no one is going to see your "protest vote" and think, "Man, this small minority has a point."

You want a better world for every American? Vote. You want stormtroopers off of our streets? Vote. You want any chance of ever seeing the things you claim to want, like universal healthcare, a living minimum wage, or higher taxes for the super rich? Vote.

John Lewis had his skull cracked fighting to guarantee the right to vote. People have died to guarantee your right to vote. Republicans are still doing everything they can to suppress it. The only nations that fight this hard to keep their own people from voting are dictatorships.

You may not see the changes you want under Biden, but the door is open to further progress. Under Trump the door will be locked, nailed shut, and you'll be peppersprayed for acknowledging there ever was a door.

You people are being children. The whole class voted for Vanilla and Chocolate ice cream, and you're throwing a fucking tantrum in the corner because you wanted strawberry.

GROW. THE FUCK. UP.

VOTE.

This is America: Part 1

I think I've said this before, but I like guns. I could rattle off a list of what I've fired at rifle shoots when I was a kid, or talk about the guns my dad owned, but none of that matters. My desire to own a British Webley Mark IV service revolver doesn't matter. My father wanting to hand his guns down to me, even his father's guns, sadly doesn't matter. As much as I want them. As much as I deeply wish I could continue that legacy, the world is different now.

I recognize that the moment we allow the government to restrict all gun sales is the moment we invite Tyranny, but I also know that people who look like me will get shot for the suspicion of a gun while a white man who kills 19 will be taken alive. This is America.

I type that phrase a lot. Tagging various tragic posts I find. But, that is the truth of the America I see. Even as the self same person whose favorite superhero is Captain America. I value the ideal of what this country is supposed to be far above the bullshit of what we have allowed her to become.

Make no mistake, we have allowed this. With every conversation we decided wasn't worth it. Every battle we picked not to have for the sake of comfort. We have chosen to allow Nazism and Fascism to grow in our midst. No, I'm not exaggerating or using these words out of turn. I'm using them 100% in their accurate meaning. We are genuinely fighting for the soul of this nation, and most of us are sleeping through it because a brightly lit sign hasn't appeared saying, "This is the moment history will judge you for."

I want the best for this country. With every fiber of my being I want this country to reign supreme and be a guiding force in this world, but right now we are a joke. We are a nuclear armed laughingstock lead by a man with a bruised ego. We need to find someone who indemnifies the ideal we want to live by and actually go out and fucking vote!

God damnit, what the fuck else are you doing with your time that you can't pay attention, watch a few debates, and chose a candidate you want to fight for you. Especially now, in an age where we have candidates specifically fighting for Black and Brown Americans or people of varying genders and ethnicities. Just pick a candidate. And if they don't win the primary, be big enough to realize that your ego isn't worth the soul of this nation.

Please. For the love of God, this nation, your own existence, whatever it takes for you to believe that this is a real issue. This is not normal. This is not how life was meant to be lived. This is not America. And yet, somehow...

This is America.

The Mandalorian: A Primer - Part 2 - History of Mandalore

This article contains heavy spoilers for Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and light spoilers for Star Wars: Rebels.

Bare with me as I try to condense a few thousand years of lore into a digestable serving. If you’re at all curious about things I may have crossed over (Like the Mandalorian Jedi Tarre Vizsla) I strongly recommend you dig in on the EU.

Let me rip the band-aid off real quick. Boba Fett & Jango Fett are not Mandalorians. Jango is just some dude who bought/stole a set of Mandalorian armor to use for bounty hunting because it is beyond top of the line. Are you confused yet? It’s cool, I got you.

I mean, really, who are the Mandalorians? The short answer I could tell you is “Space Spartans,” but it’s actually a little more tragic than that. You see, going all the way back to when the ancient Sith and Jedi were tearing up the galaxy during the “Hundred Year Darkness,” there was a third party standing on the side lines. You guessed it.

A colossal ancient empire of warriors. War is their religion. It is there way of life. Failure is a sin and conquest is the closest you can get to God. So, they look at these battling Space Wizards and say: “1: Back the fuck up! 2: We’re taking your shit.” Wearing armor forged from their holy metal, Beskar, and designing weapons specifically to counter Force powers, the Empire of Mandalore joined the war.

By this point the early days of the Republic were coming together, and the Jedi took it as their duty to protect this fledgling group of planets, just trying to live in peace.

Over the millennia Mandalore would seed much of it’s territory to the Republic, but still maintain their sense of honor and dignity. In time, the culture started to shift. Following their defeat at the hands of the Jedi, Mandalore was left a scorched husk. It’s citizens forced to live in climate controlled domes. This lead the Mandalorian people to question some of their more war focused traditions. It’s an understandable thought after being smacked down so hard your planet is practically uninhabitable.

The choice was made to move toward a culture of Pacifism. Of course not everyone agreed, and when a pacifist Duchess was elected, those who refused to follow were exiled to Mandalore’s moon Concordia. For a time there was peace, but a terrorist group was born among the exiles. And when the Clone Wars began, Pre Vizsla, leader or the terroristic “Deathwatch”, and descendant of an ancient Madalorian hero, took the opportunity, afforded by Mandalore’s neutrality in the conflict, to reclaim the planet, and return the people to their proud warrior ways. The rub though, is that by returning to the ancient ways, Pre Vizsla left himself open to challenge, and the recently returned Maul (No longer a Darth) was able to defeat him in singles combat and take the throne.

With Maul in charge, the Republic could no longer sit idle, and began to lay siege to Mandalore in the last days of the Clone Wars. We all know how the war ended. Order 66. And just like that, the clone troopers, sent to liberate the planet, became the occupying stormtroopers of the Empire.

The last time we saw Mandalore was in Star Wars: Rebels, where the people finally rose up and began a rebellion against the Empire, but that story was never followed up on. So, where we find our hero and the other Mandalorians in the first episode of the new series, is the closest answer we have to how the revolution turned out. A once mighty Warrior Empire, brought low and forced to live as refugees in the outer rim of the galaxy.

Fletcher's Gauntlet

I don’t consider myself a “Runner.” I run. It’s a thing I do to keep my weight fluctuations remotely in hand. But, even that was a struggle. My life long battle with exercise induced asthma left me gasping for breath everyday as a kid, when it came time for gym class. Steroids, pills, inhalers, all manner of thing designed to make my lungs function like those of a child rather than those of an adult smoker. In turn, I never cared for sports. Playing them or following them. Even as my siblings ran track, and as any suburban kid, I “played soccer.” I quote that because more often than not, I wasn’t paying attention. I was a kid standing in a field who couldn’t run. What the hell was I doing playing soccer?

As you can probably imagine, I was a heavy kid. The combination steroids and inactivity tend to mix as you would expect. But as puberty hit, the weight slid off, I gained about a foot of height, and developed a sense of faux invulnerability in terms of my food choices. What? I can eat a Wendy’s triple with cheese everyday and not gain weight? Of course I’m going to do that!

I remember meeting someone who would go on to be one of my closest friends, and he warned me that once I hit my 20s it would all come back to haunt me as my body suddenly decided not to burn it all. Of course I didn’t believe him. Why would I? All of my personal experience up to that point had shown me otherwise. So, I just kept on keeping on.

My 20s came. So did my move to LA. So did my undiagnosed depression. In only a couple years I went from 180 lbs to within spitting distance to 260. I was eating two medium Domino’s pizzas for lunch on a Saturday without blinking. Punctuating my nights at the local bar with a trip to Jack in the Box or Del Taco and ordering an amount of food suited to a family. And as I had recently become a desk bound professional, what little exercise I had been getting immediately dried up. I felt like crap. Had absolutely no confidence. The idea of losing the weight sounded like the most unrealistic undertaking possible.

But my wake up call came. My tailbone started to ache. Literally the weight of my body was causing me pain. So, my boss was nice enough to give me a gel cushion, designed specifically for these situations. And that’s when it happened. After about two weeks of use, the cushion popped, leaking gel onto my clothes and chair. The embarrassment and shame I felt in that moment was enough to push me into a change.

I should mention that the two women I dated in the course of those years were both extremely supportive and tried to help, but it took me needing to do it for it to happen.

I started changing my diet. Buying my food more mindfully, and having out loud conversations with myself about why I didn’t need to go get fast food. I found the App “Zombies, Run!!!” and started loading on my asthma meds. First walking, then jogging, then running. It was heard. There were tears, pain, and the familiar sensation of my lungs sealing themselves off, but I pushed through. I remember the first time I finished 5k without stopping to walk, and upon completion, my vision going dark and me nearly passing out on a busy street corner. I don’t know how to explain it but, by then, somehow the threat of unconsciousness didn’t dissuade me. And, you know what? I dropped all the way down to 185.

In 2015 I did my first Fun Run with my sister. The Belfast, Maine Color Run 5k. Since then I’ve gone on to do 5ks, 10ks, the LA Marathon, and even hiked Peru’s 4 Day Inca Trail.

So, what now? Well, the sad truth about weight loss is that it is a constant battle. I’ve risen and fallen in weight. Every drop followed by the inevitable sense of faux invulnerability. That feeling of, '“Well, yeah. I can have that beer.” “You know, I do feel like a cheese burger. Once in a while won’t hurt.” And once in a while becomes more often. And the running stops, because who wants to keep getting up that early?

I don’t have a solution for this. But, I have a plan in the meantime. You may have seen me post #fletchersgauntlet. Hell, it’s the name of the article. But here’s what it’s about. I went up to 229 lbs last Christmas. I was in denial about it until I reached down to pick up something and tore a hole in the back of one of my favorite shirts. Shortly after I saw my doctor and was told I needed to lose 30 lbs immediately and 60 over all if I wanted to stay healthy and not fall prey to a number of issues lurking in my gene pool.

So, again I redesigned my diet. Found a plan I could actually stick to. Prepackaged meals made of real food (no or low preservatives) that I could scan into my phone and plan my caloric intake around. But, I also signed up for races. I know my style. Literally anything I do, I need the motivation of a target. A goal that I must take action to hit. So, I kept signing up for races, walks, challenges. And that is the Gauntlet.

5 months to 15 Medals. So, far 3 medals down. Two 5ks and a 10k. And, as I type this, I’m mentally preparing myself for a 5k “Terrain race” later today. But, next week is going to be the killer. The midpoint of the Gauntlet, and proverbial descent into the underworld in my Cambellian monomyth. Next week is the Philadelphia “Freedom Challenge.” A half marathon followed by an 8k, and a marathon the following day. Can I do it? I have no idea. But, much like I did with my first marathon, hiking in Peru, moving to LA to be a filmmaker, or even the very undertaking of starting to run, after an entire life of experiences proving to me that running = death, I’ve learned not to ask that question. I just assume that I can, and I will do everything possible to prove myself right.

The Mandalorian: A Primer - Part 1

It’s finally here. The world’s first live action Star Wars series. After years of hope and build. Rumors going as far back as the release of Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith. Finally, we have it. The Mandalorian.

Now maybe you have some basic knowledge as to what a Mandalorian is. Maybe you, like me have dove deep on the expanded universe to a mildly off putting degree. Or, maybe you’re a casual viewer. If so, welcome! It’s about to get weird.

For Part 1 of what I assume will be a 2 part Primer, I’m going to give a quick overview as to the state of the galaxy. What happened between “Return of the Jedi” and the first shot of The Mando? Strap in.

State of the Galaxy:

Shortly after the destruction of the Death Star, the Rebel Alliance has re-branded themselves as The New Republic. A seemingly benevolent governing body led by the high ideals of the new Chancellor, Mon Mothma. She’s the woman with short red hair you see giving orders in “Return of the Jedi”, “Rogue One”, and a deleted scene from “Revenge of the Sith” as well as numerous appearances in the animated series “Clone Wars” and “Rebels.” A former Senator of the Republic, she is the only surviving member of the small group of desenters who started and funded the Rebel Alliance when Palpatine reorganized the Republic into the infamous Empire.

While Leia Organa and Admiral Ackbar continue to lead the New Republic’s military in the hunt for what remains of the Empire, Mon Mothma decides that the only way to prove that the New Republic really does intend to be peaceful is to disarm after it’s done. This even carries over to the point where, even with reliable intel as to the location of the Empire’s final hold out, it is a narrow vote to decide whether or not to actually launch an attack. They do, of course, and that attack would be the Battle of Jakku. Also known as the wreckage we see Rey scavenging and living inside of in the opening of “The Force Awakens.” The battle itself is a much longer and fascinating story that I may go into at another point, but either way, I suggest you read the “Aftermath” Trilogy by Chuck Wendig.

In the end, the Galactic Concordance is signed and The Empire is, officially, no more. Those who participated in and survived Jakku head off into the “Unknown Regions” as part of Palpatine’s final contingency “Operation Cinder”

However, there were those who ignored the order. Never went to Jakku. Never surrendered. These would come to be known as “The Imperial Remnant.” True believers/War lords hiding out on the fringe of the galaxy; biding their time, and warring with criminals, New Republic forces, and other sects of the Remnant.

The last piece of the puzzle is the State of the Bounty Hunting profession. Another of Mon Mothma’s moves toward peace and civility is to largely outlaw the practice by imposing strict rules and procedures. Some Bounty Hunters are able to adjust and work within the new status quo. Others give it up and try to find a new manner of making a living. Still others, like our titular Mandalorian, try to eek out a living on the edges.

That’s it for now. Next time I’ll cover a brief history of who the Mandalorians were, and how they fell from an ancient empire of noble warriors to refugees in their own world.

Cineppraisal: The Film Nerd Friends For People Who Don't Have Film Nerd Friends

Illustrator/podcaster/ukelele enthusiast Dax Schaffer and myself are finally unleashing our film commentary podcast on the world. Cineppraisal is a catalog of commentary tracks meant to be synced up and listen to alongside the movies we discuss.

We bring our own studied insights along with a healthy dose of smartass humor to films as diverse as Rashomon (1950), The Woman in Black (2012), Amelie (2001), and King Kong (1933). It’s like we’re in your living room with you, cracking jokes and drawing your attention to some of the finer and more missable details of some truly great films.

Find us on your go to podcast app, or click here, and let’s watch some movies!

And let us know what you think! We’re on all the Social Medias @cineppraisal

Filthy, Strung Out, And Pissed Off: The Appeal of William Gibson's Cyberpunk Future in 2019

Artist: https://www.deviantart.com/dges

When you think of the future do you imagine flying cars, gleaming skyscrapers, and technological marvels? If you’re under the age of 50, probably not. The way things are going, William Gibson’s Sprawl Trilogy is starting to look more and more like prophecy than the speculative fiction it was meant as. Virtual Reality is becoming a more and more accessible and immersive escape from a world wracked with violence, inequality, pollution, and apathy to all of the above. Video billboards interact with viewers, self driving vehicles are showing up more and more often, and all of it is set to a retro inspired synthpop playlist that we can sink into with a few quick finger taps on the super computers in our pockets.

The world Gibson gave us with his three short stories, "Johnny Mnemonic", "New Rose Hotel", and "Burning Chrome" and their accompanying novels, Neuromancer (1984), Count Zero (1986), and Mona Lisa Overdrive (1988) is a near future where world governments have been replaced by Mega Corporate Empires. Cyberspace cowboys (Hackers) are celebrities of the underground who take on The Man. Cybernetics are common and expected. A world where assassins troll your local bar looking for work. The last world war and resource scarcity has left people clamoring into the major cities, and all the land in between is a garbage wasteland either uninhabitable by anyone sane, or rapidly being reclaimed by the wilderness.

The largest of these major cities is where the series gets its name. “The Sprawl” alternately referred to as “Bama” or “The Boston/Atlanta Metropolitan Axis.” It’s basically the next eventual evolution of our modern day Northeast megalopolis, safely situated below a series of temperature and light controlling domes. The repair of which has gone so neglected that they rarely control either. The Sprawl is an awful place. Average people who live there do all they can to escape their daily lives, and those escapes usually take the form of hard drugs, or the latest in virtual reality entertainment.

SimStims are the movies of the future. Jack in, and suddenly you see through the eyes, and live the pre-scripted life of your favorite celebrities. You feel the fineness of their fabrics. Taste the decadence of their food. When they fuck, you fuck. Sex or gender go unregarded as you slip into the skin of SimStim super stars like Tally Isham or Angie Mitchell, gazing through their perfect blue Zeiss Ikons. You can ride their mega yachts, date their supermodel boyfriends, or race across the desert in an experimental super jet, all from the comfort of your favorite chair. All you need is to do enough work to keep your rent and bills paid, because everything else can be bought as a Stim. In some rare cases, if you know the right back alley equipment dealer, maybe you can SimStim someone you know.

This world feels hauntingly close. Most of us won’t be assassins, or cyberspace cowboys. But, the little people of that world. The urban refugees, living in cramped, over flowing apartment buildings, working so they can buy their next escape from a world where they’ll never not be in debt. That one feels real. All too real. The people who do designer drugs, and steal from each other to finance their habit. The flashy, neon, targeted advertising. It is all on the way.

Oculus Rift kicked down the doors of what we thought was possible in Virtual Reality, and in only a hand full of years the technology has taken massive leaps. The Void VR has given us full scale virtual reality experiences that one can walk through, feel, and touch anything they see. You feel the wind on a rooftop, the heat from a lava field, and the impact of a laser blast on your armor. Other companies are working on a method of triggering your olfactory sense in time with your experiences so you’ll be able to really smell the sea air as you sit on the veranda of your Mediterranean mansion.

None of these things are, of course, cheap right now, but technology’s constant evolution and cost shifts means that anything less than the cutting edge will become affordable in no time at all. And in a generation of profound student loan debt, where people are entering the work world shackled by sometimes $100,000 before they’ve even found their first job, that kind of escape will be vastly cheaper than an actual physical vacation.

Gibson had us pegged. The future is dirty, and unless something drastic changes, Filthy, Strung Out, and Pissed Off will become the new normal.

Enjoyment & The Commoditized Opinion

The curse and blessing of the internet is that everyone has a voice. The Flat Earth theorist gets a voice. The indigenous population protesting gets a voice. The Dark side rises and Light to meet it. It’s a wild fucking west of thoughts, ideas, and opinions spreading like wildfire, fast as a finger can hit “Enter.” But, what have we gained from that in the pop cultural context? Sure, we have creators bucking the traditional system of distribution, and putting their art out there directly to the masses. Yet, we have also spawned a whole new industry of “Influencers.” The old adage “Everyone’s a critic” has never been more apropos.

I will admit, I myself debated joining the ranks of the online critic community. Sitting smug and self satisfied behind my keyboard, dishing out what I believed to be justice for the wrongs done to me by the purveyors of content. But, the feeling, like a bad stomach bug, passed eventually, and I went back to doing my best to actually make things. However, the world kept turning. The internet kept buzzing with opinions, and belief of being “owed something” by the creators spread virulently.

Now, I could use any number of examples, but I’m going to focus mostly on the fall out from Game of Thrones final season. The series is unarguably one of the largest pop cultural totems to ever grace the landscape. Didn’t matter who you were, what color, or what age, you probably knew the ins and outs of Westrosi politics, that a Dothraki wedding without at least four deaths was a dull affair, and that there was far more beyond the wall than “Grumpkins” and “Snarks.” And so, all the world sat down to the final six episodes of the series. Their breath baited by a wait of over a year.

The plot moved fast. That is inarguable. But, the choice had been made to limit the series order so as to give each episode the budget it deserved to show the full visual glory the story had earned. In episode three, “The Longest Night,” we were given what is unquestionably the largest battle sequence ever on television. Over an hour of tense, claustrophobia inducing fighting as an incalculable number of the dead poured into Winterfell. None of your favorite character were safe. Everyone was on the table to be wiped aside in a horrifying display of death coming to take the living.

Then the reviews came. Both online, and in the very room I watched it. Because that’s where we are now. It isn’t just critics. It’s average people now who feel emboldened to not just speak their disappointment, but viciously savage any content that didn’t tell the story as they saw fit. The creator’s intent be damned.

Don’t get me wrong. I do, in fact, believe critics are an important part of the creative process. like editors, they are there to help reign in the unchecked mind. But, we’re not talking about that. Today, we’re discussing the fact that, it is impossible to log onto social media without being inundated by the savaging of something you may have loved, at best, or even been indifferent to.

I went into the final season of Thrones, knowing full well that the season was only six episode, and so the pacing really didn’t surprise me. I just thought, “Okay, this is how we’re doing this.” Yet, somehow, around episode 4 I was still hearing complaints about the story moving too fast. Reading articles claiming that foreshadowing doesn’t count as character development. Oh, the endless slew of think pieces!

The series had, unfortunately, become a victim of it’s own hype. As such, for many, the prospect of simple enjoyment had long been lost. “This show had god damn better be the best thing I’ve ever fucking seen or so help me!” one can almost hear a thousand Facebook users typing on a thousand laptops.

So, what’s the take away? I wish I knew, honestly. I’m one of the fools damned enough to still choose a career in the arts. And, so I dangle my work before the public’s maw, even as the teeth grow sharper and the roar more guttural. I have no intention of writing the Great American Novel. I want to write a good summer beach read. But, in an age of perfection or nothing, who really stands a chance?

The Modern American Horseman

Alexander Wells

The feelings of the modern American man have been viewed through a number of different lenses in recent years. For many, Fight Club or The Matrix held the most “honest" “no bullshit" portrayals of the betrayal of “real” middle class men. Many of those who clung to this idea would go on to be the “Red Pills", “Incels”, or believers in White Supremacy and other damaging systems. Of course, to go down that road you'd be required to completely ignore the fact that Fight Club was written by an openly gay man, and that The Matrix is metaphor for two transgender women's breaking through the illusion of the toxicly masculine world view.

So, what exists to tell a frank and honest story of those men who find themselves in the empty post modernist world? One not of sympathy, but a wake up call to “Snap out of your shit!”, “Take responsibility for your own actions!”, and know that, “You're not fucking special!”

Enter Bojack Horseman. A truly miraculous addition that I can’t believe anyone really saw coming in the adolescent phase of the streaming wars. Creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg manages to bring shockingly emotional depth to cartoonist Lisa Hanawalt’s deceptively charming design. A world where anthropomorphic animals live alongside humans, and everyone slowly ceases to deceive themselves about the lies they live. The cartoony nature and interstitial comedy leaves you your guard lowered when the existential angst and dread set in.

Who could have guessed that the yearly arrival of a cartoon horse would leave me with such a sense of excitement and trepidation. And not just me. A good friend has made n bones about his tradition of grabbing a bottle of whiskey, locking himself in his apartment, and powering through each new season upon it’s release. A tradition that I can see the merits of.

I’m not here to give a play by play, or outline the basics of the show. I want to address the feeling that Will Arnett’s guttural voice sends through you when he hits another level of what you assume is rock bottom. A vision of what men, who consider themselves well meaning, could allow themselves to become by blindly pushing through the world, ignorant of the feelings and needs of those around us.

That’s the truly impressive thing about Bojack Horseman. Even as you watch the extremes Bojack falls to, either absent mindedly, or as the unintended consequences of his actions, it’s the universality of the presentation. I don’t assume any of the writers have ever had a sober friend trust them, only to selfishly go on a month long bender resulting in that friend’s death. It’s not exactly a sensation I’m familiar with myself. But, the gravity, pain, and regret are palpable in a way that rare to find in a show. Let alone one fronted by a talking horse.

Through Infinity and Beyond

Ok, guys. It’s been over a week. So, here we go. Hot Take, I know. Endgame was phenomenal. It is fairly common that we see a franchise, be it film or television, weave us through dramatic yin and yang only to fumble it on the last chapter. However, it is sadly too uncommon to see one stick the landing. I’ve seen trilogies with less satisfying finales. We’ve all been through the heartbreak of a long running series’s mediocre conclusion. Which is exactly why, seeing what Endgame does with the resolution of so many plot threads and seemingly disparate arches is almost painfully beautiful. Not going to lie. I messy cried like four times. Bounced up and down giggling like a child more times than I can count. At the utterance of a single word, that up till now how been eluding the fandom for the last eleven years, I actually accomplished both in a joyful mess of raw emotion.

As with any spectacle piece, it takes time to unpack what the hell actually happened, and whether or not each and every effect had a cause preceding it. Does it all hang together? Largely, yes. Writing duo Marcus and McFeely, whose Marvel scribbling pedigrees are second to none, take bold steps with the script, allowing us a first act that is truly heart wrenching as we watch our heroes sit in the single biggest failure in their lives. Earth’s Mightiest Heroes brought low.

That’s when they bring us the method of our resolution that would, in any other hands, be groan worthy: Time Travel. As in one of my favorite Crichton novels, Timeline, they acknowledge the shear ridiculousness of the very nature of a time travel plot (Rhodey and Scott taking turns listing the pop cultural touchstones that came before) but then methodically break down how we’re going to do it.

To quote The Doctor, “This is where things get complicated.”

What comes next is a tour through Marvel Cinematic History that isn’t just confined to the previous movies. Connective tissue is added in between movies, and long expanses, and some how, astonishingly it all feels earned and rewarding.

The final battle deserves to be seen on the biggest screen possible. The emotional fallout and denouement will echo through the franchise, if not pop culture itself. Psychologists were actually discussing that the deaths of characters could have real effects on the minds of viewers as so many people grew up along side the franchise. There are adults who were 10 or 12 when Iron Man came out. Some people have really never known a world without the connected Marvel Universe. But, here we are, on the raggedy edge. What comes next, I can only imagine. But, deep inside, there is a 14 year-old me getting ready to slip a new issue of Spider-Man out of a Mylar bag, ready for the next adventure.