I stumbled on this web series the other day. It’s called Young Couple and it’s being done by some people that I know here in Chicago. Anyway, I’m really enjoying it. Check out the first episode:
I loved this movie for the sheer entertainment although the ending was a bit of a let down and didn’t quite punctuate the action up to that point, if that makes sense. Spoilers below.
A lot of people have been talking about the social critiques and it’s the kind of movie that could be claimed by people on both sides of social/political/economic issues. You can read it as a warning about global warming, but on the other hand, the solution to global warming in the movie basically destroyed earth.
I saw it as a critique of the perils of a social structure that has an underclass for whom meaningful participation in society is impossible. They’re kept down and there’s no way to move forward on the train. In the movie, this is done at gunpoint, overtly. In America, the mechanisms are more subtle. So you feel righteous as the back of the train rises up against oppression, especially against such a decadent ruling class, but the nice little vicious twist is that the revolution, while just, basically ends civilization as they know it. The train derails and almost everyone on it dies.
It’s hard to see the ending and think “this is a great alternative to where we started two hours ago, for all its faults and injustices.” Or did you take solace in the fact that we all get to start over in the snow? Because the missing act in that movie, what happens next, is that two children starve/freeze to death and get eaten by a polar bear, which may be more or less inconsequential to the future of carbon-based organisms on the thawing planet, but it’s not an optimistic picture of the future of humanity.
The (ironic?) thing is that the movie doesn’t really consider a third way–it frames the question in your mind as a binary–society as is, or obliteration? Well obviously you choose status quo because you don’t want everyone to die. But that’s a trick because there’s also an infinite number of alternatives along the spectrum of keeping things similar but changing certain things at the margins. Keep the class structure but make it merit-based. Or keep it and make life more humane for those at the bottom. Or change it entirely to something more egalitarian. Or send everyone at the front to the back and vice versa. Just to name a few.
Why didn’t this ever occur to Curtis or Wilford?
I enjoyed this but not as much as people I’ve talked to. It felt a little too frantic for me, but I thought it was a good satire of The Matrix. I saw Emmet as Neo, a basically boring guy that had done nothing of note who all of a sudden is chosen as special/the one. Basically a childhood fantasy that the world will see you as special, in the Lego movie, an actual child wishing his disconnected father (also a grown child) would see him that way and in The Matrix as an ostensibly grown man stuck in adolescence, waiting for someone to see him as he really is (well, as he thinks he is..). Normal for a child with an emotionally absent father but well, not really normal for a grown man.
Dear Yale University Admissions Officer,
Let’s dispense with the pleasantries because I have no time to fuck around. You need to admit me. I repeat, you need to admit me to the Yale class of 2018 or there will be blood on your hands.
What, were you expecting another trite letter from some spoiled overachiever talking about how she went on a charity mission to Africa to enrich himself, only to discover the true meaning of life and giving? If only. I did go to Africa but it was to get away from my parents and the only thing I discovered is that being poor isn’t that bad if your parents aren’t psychotic.
Now I know what you’re thinking—is she playing some kind of ‘anti-admissions-letter’ angle? Trying to connect with me on some kind of meta level? And you’d not be dumb for thinking that, because let’s be honest, I know the game—you’re probably 25, you’re hip, you get ‘it’ and you want your ego massaged a little bit.
No, the truth is, I’m genuinely afraid. Not afraid of writing a genuine letter and getting rejected—oh no, the fear of failure is nothing compared to what my mother is capable of.
You see, my mother views me as an extension of herself. Her whole identity is wrapped up in my success. And for reasons that are beyond me, she distilled the image of success into one thing and one thing only—a daughter that goes to Yale. That image represents the only thing in the world that can make up for all of her personal and career shortcomings.
This won’t be any old rejection—it’ll be a full-blown narcissistic injury and God help us all when she lashes out in rage. I’m talking lawsuits, NY Time op-eds, think-pieces in The Atlantic, and violence. Lots and lots of violence.
My mother is a generally peaceful woman… until her carefully-maintained identity is threatened. Her self-worth is riding on this and if you let her shallow little world collapse, I’m the collateral damage, and you’ll be an accessory to murder.
So let’s just pretend, me and you, that I played violin because I love classical music (I don’t, it’s boring, I prefer Katy Perry any day), and that I did all that community service to help the homeless (as if passing out soup is the answer), or that I learned three different languages to broaden my horizons (ha! Like they don’t speak English everywhere else in the world already!).
Maybe you’re thinking “what’s the worst that can happen? So she gets into an honors program at the local State U, how bad can that be?” I’m with you there. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not that big a deal. I mean, sure it means having to work to get rich but I actually enjoy work when it’s for an actual purpose other than padding a resume.
No, it’s not about me or my education, which let’s face it, I’m going to get on my own anyway, Yales’s just a brand and if you don’t believe me, kindly go out to the parking lot and tell me what the sticker on your rear windshield says.
Between you and me, there’s not enough Xanax in the world to make my mother at peace with me going anywhere but Yale. Trust me, I checked—she’s at the max dose.
So do the right thing. I know there’s a thousand generic 4.0s with padded resumes knocking on your door. You gotta pick at least one of them, right? Please pick me. You’re my only hope.
It’s a call every father doesn’t want to hear! “Sir, your son fell in the river and he almost drowned” exclaimed the sheriff of police, pausing for affect. Is he OK was my first question that I asked, first to myself out loud, and then to the sheriff. Yes, “he’s OK,” said the sheriff, you boy is going to be “alright.”
This story begins nine years ago when my son was born. Fast forward nine years and my son was playing near a river. At the outskirts of town, there’s a river. We live in Illinois. This will be important later. Now some will ask, is it a fast river? Is it a deep river? These are questions that race through every father’s mind.
Of course I wanted to know what happened. “What happened?” I asked the sheriff. He was playing near the river’s edge with his friend Tim. They were playing with rocks, throwing them into the river water to see how many times they would bounce on the surface of the water. I believe this process is called skipping rocks. There’s a certain technique to achieving this affect, which I taught my son, and he excels at now. A proud father indeed!
They were skipping rocks and something shiny came along (my son’s words). He reached into the pond (just kidding, it was a river, got you!) and lost his footing along the embankment and was carried away by the river, headed for New Orleans where the river ends and the fun begins.
Luckily, there was a man fishing along the river at the same time. Was he fishing for his dinner or just for the enjoyment of fishing that we all experience? These are questions for a thesaurus. What was important was that he saw my son fall in the river, and he jumped in to put him on his back. Then they swam; to safety.
All of this the sheriff recounted without breathing. I was in turmoil and silence. And then he said twelve words that changed my opinion of the world in an instant: “turns out the man who saved your son was a black guy.” Yeah! A black guy!
Now I don’t see color that way, which is why I assumed the man was a white man. I’m not a racist or anything but you know what I’m talking about! I know you do!!! Mark are you reading this? You know what I’m talking about. Ask Mark.
From now on, when I look at a river, I think of black guys. When I think of black guys, I see my son. When I see my son, I think of rivers. When I go to New Orleans, I also think of rivers. When I skip rocks, I think of physics and how does water make something bounce. Don’t ask me, I’m not a thesaurus.
This is my story. Please memorize it.