Music!

Illustration for a music poster I did, way back in The Before Time.

Collier's epic review of Star Trek: Picard

Back in The Before Time, in The Long Long Ago, Red Letter Media made a set of feature length Mr. Plinkett Reviews of the Star Wars Prequel Trilogy. 

They were incisive, entertaining, and above all, novel. 

Now? Epic reviews are multiplying at an exponential rate. Soon as fresh content comes out, vast swarms of YouTube reviewers descend upon it and tear it to pieces.

It used to be just Siskel & Ebert. Today there are a LOTS of smart, media savvy citizen reviewers. 

One such is Angela Collier, who's made a long (3 hours, 47 minutes) video on Star Trek: Picard, and why she didn't like it, from the perspective of a TNG fan. This one stood out.

I don't intend to review the review (it could be trimmed down a little), that'd be too meta; I'll just say she makes some great points:

I also hate Section 31. It undermines Roddenberry's vision of the future. 

David Brin on AI (and, sshhh, COVID-19)

Always interesting to listen to. Competition between AIs sounds like the way to go. That Wallstreet AI could become dominant is truly frightening. 

Demons of El Dorado - Part 7, er, 11?

EDIT: Whoops, it's been so long I forgot I already published this on the blog several years ago. I have the remainder in screenplay format, but I've never put it into full prose. Maybe a project for a rainy month...? Or NaNoWriMo...

COAST OF TRINIDAD 

Sails unfurled, the six heavily loaded Brigantines slipped along the lush green coast, towards South America and the Orinoco River. 

Luis sat on the bulwark and watched the soldiers. Their gear was rolled up beneath their seats. They sang martial songs as they rowed. 

They had thirty arquebusiers, thirty crossbowmen, and at least sixty trained pikemen. On top of that were five greyhound war dogs and six horses. Not a significant army by European standards, but then, Cortez had brought down the Aztec Empire with under a thousand men. 

The air, clear and fresh, rushed over them. Beneath the water’s sparkling surface, Luis watched schools of multi-coloured fish darted about like living rainbows. 

He ran his fingers over the leather cover of a book cradled in his lap. It was the diary of a priest, Philip de Riverra, who had accompanied the expedition of Hernan Perez de Quesada into the Orinoco river basin. Professor Martin de Apilcueta Navarro had let Luis purchase it for a few ducats back in Salamanca, from his personal library. Luis thought it might have been of interest to his father, but had forgotten to pass it on. Philip had died of malaria in 1543, and had been demoralized for some time. Much of his writing, according to Navarro, was unreliable, even fantastical, more a product of fever than real events. But it was the best source of first had information Luis currently had access to. Abuljar only spoke to Bartome, and even that he did rarely. 

Luis settled a broad brimmed leather hat on his head, then cracked open the book to a random page. 

He began to read:

“August 5^th, 1542: We have been exploring inland, due South from the third major river fork. Always Quesada choses South. He believes there is yet a civilization to be found in this dark, oppressive jungle. It devours us without qualm, as it would any attempt at establishing order and sanity. The jungle is a beast, an entity, a living force, just one with a thousand thousand manifestations, all guided by an ill will. At first, I saw it as a bewildering, chaotic jumble of vines and trees and bugs and slithering reptiles. But it has personality. Will. And it is eating us up, one by one, felling us with sickness and madness. 

Jose died yesterday of a snakebite. He stepped in between a fallen tree and a rock, and it struck him in the ankle. I tried to suck out the poison to no avail. His death was merciful and quick. Those of us who continue on are wracked by dysentery, the more water we consume the more we expel. After three years, I am but a shadow of my former self. We have no mirrors. Only the rippling reflection in the river, and the man I see there is not one I recognize. 

There is no end to the wretched jungle. It lies over the earth like the rotting corpse of a pagan god. I fear eventually finding ourselves facing a solid wall of curling vegetation, vines so thick they throttle the trees and snuff out the light of the sun. 

August 10^th, 1542: During the night there was a commotion.

We gathered wood before nightfall to make a camp fire, and to cook some of the small mammals our crossbows had felled for dinner. Overhead great shadows flew over us, one after another, but we could not get a good look at their source. The trees are at least eighty feet, and with the sky already dim, it all merged into a single mass of darkness, only with faint speckles of light seeping through gaps. Soon those too were gone, and we were left with the cluster of campfires. We keep them lit throughout the night now, to keep the beasts back. They fear the fire. But some of the men do not like being crowded in beside it, and lay further away, at the edge of its light. I was awoken by shouts of alarm. It was just as well, for I was having that dreadful nightmare again. What awaited me was little better. 

A great black beast had landed on Martin, one of the few of our number still healthy. We could hear it making wet, slurping sounds and grunting. It was a bat, so large and horrific we at first took it to be a demon in the flickering light of our torches. I cannot describe the feeling of horror that seized me. It was the size of a large dog, with thick, knotted black fur, and a flattened, pig like face, with fangs and great veined ears. Sanchez ran his saber through its back so far he nicked Martin. The beast squealed and thrashed about. Martin is lucky we did not set it alight with the torches. Sanchez hauled it off and jabbed it in the neck with a knife until it stopped moving. 

There was much shouting, but none of that woke Martin, who lay in a blissful slumber so deep we feared he would never awaken. There were bite marks on his throat, where the creature had affixed itself. We splashed water in his face and slapped him, until finally he was roused. He described a dream in which he was atop a great, gold pyramid, looking down at supplicating worshippers below. I did not tell him I have had the same dream. I had the men lay the beast out, stretching out its leathery wings, and stepped along the length. I counted twelve feet. We will make sacks out of the wings, or perhaps patches for our boots; when Sanchez cut it open its belly, black blood jetted out; not its own, but Martins. The body we cooked. The meat was tender and delicious. Better than the bugs we’d been eating: big iridescent green monsters, weighing almost two pounds each. Something unholy about how large and distorted God’s creation is here. I hesitate to imagine what form indigenous man would take, here in this hellish jungle.

August 15^th, 1542: The bats left us alone for three days while we crossed a swamp, which was a wretched experience. The leeches concentrated upon my groin, and the filthy brine stank like an open sewer. There were mercifully none of those small predatory fish, and only a few curious crocodiles that our pikes turned easily away. We only lost one porter. I saw the our gold pursuers again, speckles sliding beneath black water, hinting at great hideous shapes. I’d say it was my mind playing tricks, paranoia, but the others saw it too, and fired crossbow bolts. Quesada put a stop to that, as ammunition is in short supply. No one yet has seen what is following us. It could be harmless.

We are but a faint echo of the men who entered this endless green waste. Covered in red welts, our clothes hanging like tents, full of lice, it is a wonder any of us still lives. 

Pity the civilization that fears conquerors such as us. 

August 17^th, 1542:There were two attacks last night. We are once again beneath the canopy, and here the bats seem to prefer to strike. The men nervous, and understandably so. There is talk that we are nearing the end of the world, perhaps even the Gates of Hell. I know that Aguirre reached the coast, through this very jungle, so there must be an end to it. Quesada has given orders for halberds to be set in the ground, pointing up, over us while we sleep, and doubled the night watch. We’re too exhausted to create greater defenses, there’s simply no strength left for it. 

We proceed onward by will alone, the unknown pursuing us, death waiting ahead.

Luis shut the book and listened to the men, who were now chattering, exuberant, eager for the adventure that lay ahead. They joked and laughed in the breezy ocean air. 

He got up and made his way towards Rodrigo and Angel who were at the bow, basking in sea foam. Rodrigo nodded at Luis as he drew near. “Finally got your nose out of a book, eh? As I was saying: we’ll sail through the night.” He put a hand on Angel’s shoulder. “Have shifts set up. de Berrio will send ships after us, if he’s at all like his father.”

Angel grunted agreement. “Once the son of a bitch gets his pants on.”

Iacos Point

ICACOS POINT

 

Booming waves drowned out the shouts of men. Luis was wedged between two soldiers, and rowed like mad against powerful cross currents that threatened to dash them into rocks. All pretense of status and rank had been cast aside in the struggle for survival. 

The fleet surged upward atop a bulging swell and began to shift sideways. 

The stern was partly obscured by mist and slashing water, but Luis could still make out Rodrigo and Angel, who held on to the rudder for all they were worth, their teeth grit, faces showing the strain of a three hour long ordeal. 

Luis struggled not to vomit. 

He wasn’t successful.

R-Ratings aren't just for blood, sex, and gore

James Mangold on making Logan:

"For Mangold, allowing Logan to be R-rated was important, not so much for violent content, but for style: "For me, what was most interesting in getting the studio to okay an R-rating was something entirely different. They suddenly let go of the expectation that this film is going to play for children, and when they let go of that, you are free in a myriad of ways. The scenes can be longer. Ideas being explored in dialogue or otherwise can be more sophisticated. Storytelling pace can be more poetic, and less built like attention-span-deficit theater."

When you put it like that, it becomes obvious why so much cinema is the way it is. 

Woman dead at work for 4 days

Most companies don't take 'work them to death' literally... and then there's Wells Fargo. This story has flooded wire feeds:

"A Wells Fargo employee at a corporate office in Arizona clocked in to what would be her last-ever shift on a Friday morning. Her body was found four days later at her cubicle desk, where she died sometime during the weekend, according to the Tempe Police Department., Denise Prudhomme, 60, worked at a Wells Fargo location in Tempe and had scanned into the building at 7 a.m. on August 16. 

There were no further scans from her either into or out of the building, the police department told CNN in a statement., On August 20, security on site reported finding an employee possibly dead in a cubicle on the building’s third floor, authorities said. Prudhomme was pronounced dead at 4:55 p.m., according to Tempe police."

Honestly, this doesn't say much for their office culture. 

I hope she got the overtime pay.

Eric Schmidt on AI, lawyers, and stealin'... but shh, don't quote him, it's a secret

Oh, Eric, I didn't know ye.

So is the spy who stole from Google just following the advice of (former and likely current) Google execs?

Eric FFS Schmidt, an ex-Google 'Do no Evil–Whoopsie!" CEO said at a recent conference:

“So, in the example that I gave of the TikTok competitor – and by the way, I was not arguing that you should illegally steal everybody’s music – what you would do if you’re a Silicon Valley entrepreneur, which hopefully all of you will be, is if it took off, then you’d hire a whole bunch of lawyers to go clean the mess up, right? But if nobody uses your product, it doesn’t matter that you stole all the content. And do not quote me.” 

Don't quote me... at an event being openly filmed for the internet. Okay, sure.

Later, after backlash, he issued a correction: 

"I misspoke about Google and their work hours. I regret my error."

That was in regards to him saying Google was falling behind as it let people work from home.

No correction was issued on advocating stealing. 

It's rare the mask is removed quite so brazenly. 

This is why society needs poles of power that can match big business.

Amateurs imitate. 

Great businessmen steal everything in sight and then get lawyers.

Or they just make it legal...

Oopsie!

Retro-review: The Pink Panther Strikes Again

Clouseau in one of his incredible under-cover disguises

This is 1970s Austin Powers long before Austin Powers: a deranged Inspector Dreyfuss escapes from the mental institution and creates a terrifyingly powerful criminal organization with one goal: to kill Clouseau! 

He doesn't go about it directly, oh no, he decides to use his organization to blackmail the rest of the entire world into killing Clouseau, because that's easier than... actually trying to kill the unkillable Clouseau. 

The ridiculous doomsday disintegration laser: so fancy!

Peter Sellers is in top form here, and plays the oblivious fool Clouseau with fine understatement, bumbling from one success to another, despite the odds.

He's a one man wrecking machine, and to be honest, I have sympathy for poor old by-the-book Inspector Dreyfuss. He's like Grimes from the Simpsons: a regular joe who does everything right and still winds up trailing far behind a fool (in Grimes' case, Homer Simpson). 

What might kill an ordinary man, or an army, is nothing to Homer or Clouseau. 

Dreyfuss picks an old castle for his lair, which isn't quite as iconic as a volcano, but his disintegration laser is right out of the most absurd James Bond flicks. And Inspector Clouseau's attempts to break inside the fortress are side splitting. 

Dreyfuss's castle of evil

This flick marked the apex of The Pink Panther series of films. They never again came even close to this, which is a real shame. The Oktoberfest sequences, and toothache climax, are sublimely funny when you're 8. 

I also really liked the guy who played President Gerald Ford: "Who won the game?!?"

Peter Sellers made one more appearance as Clouseau (in Revenge of the Pink Panther) before passing, and while he's still fabulous, the movie just didn't split my sides like Strikes Again did. 

Clouseau's face melting off, pre-Raiders of the Lost Arc! I'm telling you, this film was WAY ahead of its time!

The Boys season 4 review

The best worst villain on TV

The show's still got it, but the paint job is wearing thin. 

Franchises are repetitive by their very nature, but work best when the audience isn't constantly being made aware of this. 

I'd tune in to watch the X-Files, for example, with a vague expectation of what I was in for: a spooky occurrence, Mulder and Scully getting dispatched to investigate, Mulder insisting it's aliens while Scully desperately rationalizes, jeopardy followed by our heroes either overcome the foe or escaping by the skin of their teeth, with Mulder largely confirmed in his beliefs... yet still with room for doubt. The same as every week, just different. Swapped in details, same format. 

Same goes for The Boys, although it is far less episodic and more season (and multi-season) story arcs. In season 4, the show cycles through the usual corrupt hero tropes, just with different heroes than previous seasons. 

Nothing moves forward.

Don't get me wrong: I still enjoyed the show, I like the satirical bent of it all, and it's very sharp edged humour at times. The gross out stuff grated a bit, though; they've dived into that sordid pit over and over, and it's kind of getting old. Having said that, it seems to be baked into the DNA of The Boys, and the dungeon of the faux-Batman stuff... I still can't believe they put that on television. 

For all the glorious blood spattered exploded brains and sex act juvenilia, it felt like padding, like they were dragging their feet, and honestly, I think they were, in order to have that cliffhanger finale.

Fortunately, in the last couple episodes of the season, everything speeds up and events cascade. 

NOW things feel like they're moving forward again. I suspect they wanted to save the really bonkers stuff for the final season. 

Kripke was the showrunner on Supernatural and told a well realized story arc that concluded with season five. Then he left, and the show was kept on life support as a Zombie Franchise for 10 more seasons because money. But this bodes well for The Boys: Kripke very likely DOES have an ending in mind, and I expect it to be both disgusting and spectacular.

Which is exactly what you'd expect, and want, for The Boys.  

I have faith!