The Best of David Cronenberg

Whenever I think of David Cronenberg, I think of the apostle Paul's diatribes against the flesh. He would have hated Cronenberg, whose films not only revel in flesh but insist on its liberating nature through terrifying mutations. They give fleshy form to insane ideas. They obsess pandemic outbreaks, failed scientific experiments, and cold clinical environments. The results are destructive, but also celebratory. And, of course, outrageously disgusting. But Cronenberg isn't just about shock value; there's always subtext and philosophy at work; he has a unique recipe for making art out of puke and gore. If in the last decade he's moved away from this venereal horror, he remains focused on mind-body relationships, now channeled through more realistic examinations of cyclical violence and sex. Here is his best work, ranked per the favorite director's blogathon. Happy New Year!

1. Videodrome. 1983. 5 stars. If there was ever a film that merits the cliche "like nothing you've seen before", this is it. The idea that watching videos can somehow physically change and corrupt you is quintessential Cronenberg, and involves everything from torture porn to sadomasochism to mind control, all weaved through the body horrors of flesh guns, male "vagina" slots that play VHS tapes, and cruel metamorphosis. James Woods fits perfectly in this stew as the CEO of a cable station who gets involved with conspiracies behind a snuff-film franchise, and becomes a pawn in a plot to broadcast its signal to millions of viewers. The mission is to create a "new flesh" by merging human consciousness with a media stream of sexualized violence, and the hyper-commentary is obvious: we're becoming dangerously complacent the more we evolve into a mass-media culture. By far Cronenberg's most original, intelligent, and disturbing film; and his ultimate masterpiece.

2. Crash. 1996. 5 stars. Cronenberg's most fucked up film -- and I mean that in a good way -- is a bit like Pink Floyd's The Wall: just watching it is a drug trip. It explores esoteric fetishism, in this case people who are sexually aroused by car crashes, even fatal ones, and study and ritually reenact the car accidents of celebrities. I would probably call Crash the most artistic NC-17 film I've ever seen. For all the racy material, it doesn't come across as sensational, in fact, just the opposite: it's incredibly subdued and polished. The cold blue look works wonders in this regard, and dialogue seems to be spoken through a dream-like filter. The parallel of surrendering to an automobile wreck and giving oneself up to a sex partner sounds too crazy to take seriously, but it works in context, and indeed this is one of Cronenberg's most serious films. According to him, Crash would have been a cheap Basic Instinct type of thriller in the hands of Hollywood; in his it approaches the artistic nihilism of Ingmar Bergman.

3. The Brood. 1979. 4 ½ stars. This angry film testifies to the nasty divorce Cronenberg was going through at the time, and also to the crank psychoanalytic movement of the '70s. Here the therapy is "psychoplasmics", which attempts to heal mental derangement by a gross physical change to the patient's body; the patient in question is a woman who was abused as a child, and is now in legal battle for custody of her five-year old daughter. In rage she gives birth to deformed children who go on killing rampages, and they even go after her daughter. What keeps this a stand out film is the level of child endangerment we rarely see anymore. The Brood is in some ways an indictment of irrational feminine power, and also contends with the other '79 body-horror classic Alien: the scene with Samantha ripping open her external sac and licking clean her mutant newborn is almost as horrifying as Kane's chestburster. I revere this film, it has high rewatch value, and I wonder if it would have been as effective if not for the personal rage Cronenberg was able to pour into it.

4. The Fly. 1986. 4 ½ stars. A doomed romance is as much responsible for this one's popularity as the hideous horror show. It's astonishing, actually, how much emotion The Fly packs, given the minimal development of Brundle and Veronica's love affair. As for the repulsion on display, it's shocking even for Cronenberg -- animals torn inside out, food being puked on for edible purposes, a woman's nightmare of giving birth to a huge obscene larva. So many scenes have taken on classic status, not least the tragic dialogue at the end, "I'm an insect who dreamed he was a man; but now the dream is over, and the insect is awake," followed by Veronica's anguish as she can barely bring herself to kill Brundle in an act of mercy. If there's any criticism I have, it's the omission of exceptionally gross scenes that were censored in order to keep our sympathy for the protagonist, which was completely unnecessary. Then there's the tacky '80s feel. But it's only little things that keep The Fly from a perfect 5-rating.

5. Eastern Promises. 2007. 4 ½ stars. When Cronenberg left the body-horror genre, reactions were mixed, but this film vindicates the move if nothing else. Viggo Mortenson reprises his shady figure from A History of Violence, but with far more realism and depth -- the fight scene in the bathhouse where he gets the shit kicked out of him is classic, and contrasts in every way with his superhero vanquishing of the thugs at the end of History. Indeed, Eastern Promises exudes a black discipline in every frame; it's Cronenberg's Godfather, no less, with London Russians instead of American Italians, but the same mafia codes of honor and shame, weaved around a business of sex trafficking and a mysterious baby whose mother was murdered. There is the striking absence of guns in favor of knives, which throws a more intimate spotlight on the question of brutal violence. It's as if Cronenberg wanted to show what he could really do this time with Viggo Mortenson as a paradox of corruption and justice, and the result is one of his most artistic films.

6. eXistenZ. 1999. 4 stars. Or The Matrix goes organic. Some believe this film perfected what Videodrome tried in the '80s, but they're in the minority, and I'm certainly not with them. It may be a cleaner and more logical look at virtual reality but doesn't come close to topping Videodrome's raw demented power, let alone innovation. That being said, I really like eXistenZ. It exploits multiple layers of stories within stories, with people assuming different but roles on each level (shades of the later Inception), so even by the end you can't be sure of what's really going on. There's also some fun philosophy about free will. The most notorious scene has Jude Law greedily devouring a disgusting "Chinese special" at a restaurant (it has to be seen to fully appreciate the greenish-black mess of amphibian pus and slime), while also grimacing like he wants to throw up. When his partner tells him he won't be able to stop himself, so he may as well enjoy it, he complains about the farce of free will in the eXistenZ game; her retort: "It's like real life; there's just enough to make it interesting."

7. Dead Ringers. 1988. 4 stars. It was only a matter of time before Cronenberg took on gynecology, as what better territory for exploiting the flesh. And what better way to supplement this theme than with the idea of identical-twin doctors (each played by Jeremy Irons), physically separate but joined in mind, sleeping with the same patients who are unaware of being handed off. The beauty of their business, as one of them states, is that they don't have to get out to meet beautiful women, but it's the consequence of this that comes under Cronenberg's microscope. For the twins sex is a passion-less form of surgery -- the point made acutely when one of them clamps his patient down and doesn't release her until orgasm -- and yet, as always with Cronenberg, there is a certain liberating force under that which gratifies on the basest level. Considering this was made in the '80s, it's amazing how convincing the special effects shots are of Jeremy Irons playing the two twins. A creepy tale with pressing questions on genetic identity.

8. A Dangerous Method. 2011. 4 stars. I'd been waiting for a good cinematic treatment of Freud and Jung all my life. For all their quackery, their ideas are part of our Western heritage, and I've frankly never been sure who came off worse. We get to know them from the time they meet in 1907 until their fallout in 1913, and their philosophical disagreements are filtered mostly through Jung's affair with one of his patients. Some complain that Kiera Knightly's performance as Jung's patient/mistress is overwrought, but her jaw-jutting demonic facial contortions are based on historical fact, and I actually thought she did quite well. (And who could fail to be aroused by the floggings Jung gives her?) There are powerful moments between Freud and Jung, the master insisting on sexual explanations to everything, the student veering off, even more questionably, into esoteric mysticism. If The Brood was a body-horror slam on mental therapy, A Dangerous Method is its professional and historically dramatic analog.

9. Shivers and Rabid. 1975, 1977. 3 ½ stars each. These twins have low-budget baggage, but I suppose that's part of their charm like any cult classic. Shivers is perhaps the strongest example of sociological horror I know of. The theme of lonely, conformist, and consumerist people being raped to death by slugs, to rise again as part of a new parasitic world order, has been described by the director, for all its horror, as a liberation. Indeed, one can't help but cheer for the sex-crazed zombies and downfall of society on one level. Many things about this film herald the director's legacy: unnerving clinical atmospheres (the scientist cutting open the school girl and then slitting his own throat is a fantastic opening), unique spins on traditional ideas (zombies who want to fuck your flesh rather than eat it)... a forceful debut for Cronenberg. [It's also known as They Came From Within.]

Rabid is the companion follow-up to Shivers, another piece of low-budget cheese that stands on the strength of transgressive creativity. Sex and parasites are again in view, and in another apocalyptic context of global craziness, prefaced (of course) by a cold clinical atmosphere. Marilyn Chambers is somewhat wasted as an alluring vampire who doesn't get to show off much acting, but what her physique has to offer more than compensates. That Cronenberg would come up with a twisted variation on the vampire is a given, but a worm out of the armpit? What part of his demented mind dreamed that up? Rabid deserves a place among the best vampire films of all time, not only for its batshit weirdness, but for waving a prophetic torch to modern science and world issues. This young woman, forced to drink human blood for survival against her will, is as tragic as any Renaissance character out of Anne Rice's tales of the Vampire Lestat.

10. A History of Violence. 2004. 3 ½ stars. It's worth spelling out what Cronenberg was trying to do here, since I think this film is a bit overrated for all the love fans heap on it. The title has three levels of meaning, from the lead character's personal history of violence, to history of violence as a means to an end, to finally the Darwinian implications of the violence in humanity. It adds up to a nice philosophical film-noir thriller, except that Viggo's character, for all his background of bad-assery, is a little too super to take seriously, especially by the end act. This is easily Cronenberg's most commercial film, and based on a graphic novel -- unfortunately feeling too much like that for all its attempts to wrestle with a serious issue. But it is a fun film to watch, no doubt about it. Mortenson and Harris play off each other wonderfully, and scenes of brutal violence and raw burning sex in a small town setting are inherently dramatic.

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D&D Campaign Settings Ranked

Over a year ago I ranked what I consider to be the best D&D modules of all time. That post is still popular (currently averaging eight hits/day), so for a New Year treat, I thought I'd rank the D&D campaign settings. Here they are -- realms, planets, and worlds -- from best to worst. I decided to ignore Spelljammer and Eberron, not simply because I dislike them, though that's definitely true, but for the sci-fic elements; spaceships and robots just aren't D&D. Click on the maps to see the full size.

(1) Middle-Earth. 1982-1999. 5 stars. Not made for D&D, but no matter, ICE's superb modules were readily adaptable. Middle-Earth is of course a world of high fantasy, about which I usually have bad things to say (see 8 and 10 on this list), but Tolkien did it first and best, and he was darker than most give him credit for. His imitators are blind to the "long defeat" theme which pervades his tales, and the ultimate powerlessness of good over evil. Then too, magic is incredibly subdued in Middle-Earth, and (after the First Age anyway), the gods seldom involve themselves directly. Middle-Earth is in a constant state of fading, or "lowering" its fantasy context with the passage of time. On top of all this, it's a genius creation, with cultures, languages, and history so detailed it doesn't seem like fantasy; it's a pre-history to our own world and resonates with the realism of places like Mystara and Hyboria. The folks at ICE fleshed out Tolkien's labors with amazing scholarship of their own, especially in exploring lands to the south, and it was a sad day when the Tolkien Enterprise fascists took away their license. (Other Minds have done a pretty good job filling the 21st-century vacuum.) I never tired of gaming in Middle-Earth.

(2) Mystara. 1981-1995. 5 stars. Some of the best old-school modules were set in Mystara, the realm of Basic D&D. I played by Advanced rules, but the world for AD&D (see 9 below) did nothing to inspire me. Mystara hooked me right away, from its sketchy inception in The Isle of Dread module, to the fleshed-out detail in later gazeteers. The nations are compelling medieval European analogs of our own world: click left to see the Thyatian Empire (= the Byzantine), the Grand Duchy of Karameikos (= southeastern Europe), the Principalities of Glantri (= western Europe, ruled by wizard-princes), the Ethengar Khanate (= the Mongols), the Republic of Darokin (= the mercantile states of medieval Italy), the Emirates of Ylaruam (= Mid-Eastern Arabs), the Northern Reaches of Ostland/Vestland/Soderfjord (= Scandinavian vikings), plus regions for the dwarves, elves, and halflings. I still consider Mystara the most ideal setting for D&D campaigns.

(3) Athas. 1991-1999; 2008-present. 4 ½ stars. Launched the year I stopped playing D&D for a long time, The Dark Sun products are among the few decencies of the 2e period, superb in fact, set on a planet so saturated with Dune overtones you expect sandworms to appear. Athas is a land of ecological disaster, constant thirst, grinding poverty, and like most dying worlds has a history reaching back to a glorious age now forever out of reach. In this sense it's reminiscent of Middle-Earth's long defeat and foreordained passing, but even more depressing for its lack of deities; there are no Valar equivalents to assist, however obliquely, in keeping the tide of evil at bay. Clerics and druids draw their power from elemental forces, and wizards use magic at their own risk. It's a world where halflings are cannibals, heroes are almost unheard of, and sorcerer-kings hold city-states under complete tyranny. I wish I'd been able to get use out of this brutal world; it wasn't supported in 3e though has made an inferior comeback in 4e.

(4) Nehwon. 1985-1992. 4 ½ stars. In terms of legendary characters, D&D always reminded me of Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser (Conan a close second), roguish heroes who are anti-heroes at least half the time and involve themselves in personal or localized threats more than cosmic world-shattering evil. I was delighted to no end when TSR began publishing the Lankhmar resources in the mid-'80s, especially since this was an upsetting time when Dragonlance was changing the face of the game for the worse. Lankhmar City remains the vilest cesspit of any campaign setting, corrupt at every level, a place where you have to worry about being backstabbed (literally and figuratively) at every turn. The world beyond the city is great too, with classic regions like the Sinking Lands and City of Ghouls. I dreamed a lot about Nehwon as a teen, and being sent on the same kind of ludicrous missions Fafhrd and Mouser suffered under their wizard patrons. My nostalgia for this world is topped only by my reverance for Middle-Earth.

(5) Ravenloft. 1990-present. 4 ½ stars. Based on the vampire module of the early '80s, the world of Ravenloft was later developed as a full-blown setting of isolation, apprehension, and constant fear. It's a world of haunted mansions, cursed bloodlines, and of course plenty of undead, ruled by various domain lords who are so evil as beyond redemption. And it's a living terror in the hands of a DM who knows how to run mood pieces -- the only realm on this list which can be properly called a horror setting. Like Athas (see 3 above), Ravenloft isn't a place you'd choose to make your home; its inhabitants rarely smile; it's not for gamers who prefer light fantasy or expect their characters to live long or who will resent frequent saving throws against fright and madness. Evil forces are the norm. Once again it's interesting to note something excellent produced in the '90s, which was mostly a bad time for D&D. And Ravenloft has remained official throughout the 3e and 4e periods.

(6) Kara-Tur ("The Orient"). 1986-1987. 4 stars. As a fan of those godawful '80s ninja movies with Sho Kosugi, I was ecstatic when TSR produced the Oriental Adventures version of D&D, which naturally demanded its own world. Wisely, they didn't try for an eastern version of Greyhawk, but rather took the approach of Mystara and Hyboria, borrowing directly from the cultures and societies of our own world. Kara-Tur looks almost exactly like China (Shou Lung) and Japan (Kozakura), and given compelling histories of tumultuous dynasties and shogunates, not to mention (of course) underground assassin movements like ninjas. In '87 Kara-Tur was officially made part of The Forgotten Realms (see 8 below), which I never acknowledged, having no use for that setting. When you get down to it, Kara-Tur can be made the "East" of any world -- even Middle-Earth if you want to be bold. The modules designed for it were okay, though too railroady (pre-scripted in plotting) like most adventures of the late '80s.

(7) Hyboria. 1984. 4 stars. Classic D&D drew so much inspiration from Conan's world (who doesn't think of Red Nails when playing modules like The Lost City and Dwellers of the Forbidden City?), and I'm surprised there were only two short modules made for it. Even sadder is that these modules weren't particularly good, more in line with the atrocious film-sequel Conan the Destroyer than any of Howard's source material. But Hyboria itself is a great world, and what I love most is that, like Mystara and Kara-Tur, it's modeled so closely on our own that it feels real for all the fantasy. Where Mystara evokes medieval Europe and Kara-Tur the Far East, Hyboria reaches further back to antiquity and covers it all: Aquilonia is a blend of the Roman and Carolingian Empires, Corinthia the stand-in for ancient Greece, Shem the biblical region of Syria and Palestine, Stygia an Egypt-like domain of the snake cult of Set, Khitai the China equivalent, and so forth. A lot of the best classic AD&D modules could easily be set in Hyboria, frankly, instead of the artificial world of Oerth.

(8) The Forgotten Realms. 1987-present. 3 stars. Introduced to 1e in '87, incorporated into 2e in '89, the Forgotten Realms became unquestionably the most popular campaign setting of the '90s; it was revised for 3e and then again for 4e, and so remains alive and well today, though I'm certainly not one of its devotees. It's a quintessential high fantasy setting, where magic is ultra-powerful, magic items practically grow on trees, legendary monsters are to be found everywhere, and gods frequently involve themselves in mortal affairs. Most importantly, it's a world demanding moral crusaders against evil (like Krynn, see 10 below), which is the part I object to the most. Unlike pulp fantasy worlds (Mystara, Nehwon, Hyboria, Oerth), high fantasy doesn't encourage moral ambiguity, and the high-stakes plotting, ironically, can trivialize the problem of evil. That being said, this place does have a way of engaging you if you let it. A sample of modules are listed here.

(9) Oerth. 1980-2008. 2 stars. Readers will be astounded by this placement, as many of the best old-school modules are set in Greyhawk (Oerth's main continent), a world inspired by the classic pulp realms of Conan, Fafhrd & Grey Mouser, and Elric. But Greyhawk doesn't feel inspired at all. It's terribly artificial; its geography is forgettable and its politics contrived. As a teen I had the impression that Gygax threw a bunch of hastily concocted kingdoms at a map and let them fall where they may. He knew how to write modules better than anyone but couldn't design a setting for them to save himself. Oerth just doesn't feel distinct in any memorable way, and it says something that I would sooner resort to even a high-fantasy world like the Forgotten Realms. The setting remained officially supported for a long time, up until the launching of 4e a few years ago. I almost never used it; for me, Mystara suited AD&D modules as perfectly as it did the Basic modules.

(10) Krynn. 1984-present. 1 star. If Oerth is half-assed, then Krynn is conceptually irredeemable. But then this is Dragonlance we're talking about, for which really nothing good can be said, and I'm appalled (but not surprised) that it has the longest lifespan on this list, born at the tail-end of D&D's Golden Age ('74-'83) and still thriving to this day in 4e. Krynn is a world of high fantasy, and everything I wrote about the Forgotten Realms (see 8 above) applies here too. But Krynn is worse, marking a trend to mainstream fantasy so that it could be for "everyone" instead of D&D fans. Riding dragons horseback is an insult to the majestic creatures, and the kender are just plain offensive. Believe it or not, I still have the blasted modules, as I was caught up in the initial craze like everyone else; I dug them out of my closet last night to exasperate myself and relive the most painful gaming experiences of my life.

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The Hobbit: An Overextended Journey

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey was definitely too long and perhaps too ambitious, but then I wasn't expecting a masterpiece. It's barely a fresh tomato (65%) as opposed to the gourmet ratings of each of the Lord of the Rings films (92%, 96%, 94%), and while I often cut against critical consensus, the reviews in this case are a pretty reliable gauge. The film is bloated like King Kong and proof that Peter Jackson needs an editor. Yet there's a lot I liked about it, most of which doesn't even come from the book, which makes my feelings paradoxical; I'm complaining about an oversized length while commending material that by rights has no place in the story.

My favorite is Radagast the Brown, and he fits perfectly in a plot involving the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. Tolkien's story had no room for this menace. The Hobbit was written for children, and it certainly never explained why Gandalf abandoned Bilbo and the dwarves once they hit Mirkwood Forest. You have to read Lord of the Rings to learn what his "pressing business" was in the southern neck of the woods. Jackson isn't sidestepping that business, in fact, he's making Sauron the villain as much as Smaug -- an ambitious project, to be sure, one that dramatically divides our interest, and it could turn out a mess. But meanwhile I love Radagast, who keeps a watch on the Hill of Sorcery, where the Necromancer (= Sauron) rolls out his poison against the forest.

Purists, to be sure, are already howling over the way Radagast is so "disrespectfully" portrayed. In Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, he is dismissed as a crank only through the scorn of Saruman, while Jackson goes out of his way to make him a half-baked lunatic who lets birds nest in his hair and shit down his beard. This last gratifies me immensely, and I can't see what the fuss is about. (Perhaps being a purist entails not only a fundamentalist worship of the text, but also an unyielding disdain for anything vulgar like feces.) I adore everything about Jackson's Radagast. We're introduced to him as he tends to a dying hedgehog while his house is attacked by giant spiders; he remains tenderly focused on the hedgehog to its last gasp. Later he rescues Gandalf, Bilbo and the dwarves from a warg attack, by running tails around the beasts with a (yes) rabbit-pulled sleigh. This sleigh has already become famous, and is admittedly quite silly, but only in the same appropriately silly way that hobbits dance to frivolous songs on barroom tables.

My second favorite part is that which is actually most faithful to the book: the riddle game between Bilbo and Gollum. I retain a special fondness for the Rankin & Bass animated treatment of this scene, so it's saying something that I think Jackson's is just as good. He delivers the exact same riddles from Tolkien's story, and a flawless depiction of Gollum's schizophrenia -- his hate and desperation mixed with loneliness and a craving of the company of his own kind. It's the heart of Unexpected Journey and carries a tense introspective thrust that resonates across future decades.

The final scene of this episode even outdoes the riddle contest, in spotlighting the "pity of Bilbo" which will of course become the basis for Gandalf's sermon to Frodo. Greg Wright summarizes the lesson nicely:

"The important point is not entirely that Bilbo finds room in his heart for mercy, motivated by pity. It's that, through that merciful act, the larger Providential arc of Divine movement is worked out. Neither Bilbo, nor Frodo, nor even Gandalf, Elrond, or Galadriel, are powerful enough to save Middle-earth from great Evil. Evil will ultimately destroy itself through its own evil impulses, and Gollum is the agent of that demise -- in spite of the best intentions of others."

Bilbo's pity, here and now in The Hobbit, is what saves Middle-Earth in The Lord of the Rings -- not Frodo (who will be a foreordained failure, unable to resist the Ring when it matters most), nor Gandalf (who can only aid the Free Peoples per his charge), and certainly not Aragorn (who will rule as a mere reminder of man's past glory and not a promise of any future glory). Bilbo's compassion makes possible what no member of the Fellowship can accomplish, and Jackson foreshadows the euchatastrophe beautifully. Gollum's tortured look is heartbreaking, and carries none of the cheesy melodrama that mars some the interactions between, say, Bilbo and Thorin.

There's more that I enjoyed in Unexpected Journey, but Radagast and Gollum stole the show. The Southern Mirkwood plot involves the White Council (Elrond, Galadriel, Saruman, and Ganalf) meeting at Rivendell, another delight for Tolkien fans, even if centuries of Necromancer history are outrageously condensed into a single year. I also liked the prologue of Smaug laying waste to Erebor; we don't get to see the dragon yet, and this somehow made the fire attack even more terrifying. What I didn't like was all the self-indulgent air front-loading the story in the Shire. The return of Frodo left me nonplussed (and Elijah Wood is looking too old now), and it took too long for the dwarves to assemble in Bag End, sing songs, gorge themselves, and get Bilbo to sign their bloody contract. Mind you, I love Bag End and am not averse to lingering in the Shire per se. In the extended version of Fellowship of the Ring I savored every moment of the 40-minute first act, as none of it dragged, even when doing little more than fleshing out character moments. The theatrical Hobbit, by contrast, gives us a 45-minute Shire episode which feels twice the length it needed to be -- a hyper-extended version that wouldn't even be warranted on DVD.

Then there is Goblin Town. If Bag End made me yawn with its vacuousness, Goblin Town bored me twice as much with its ridiculous excesses. Jackson's Spielberg-sickness has plainly gotten the better of him since King Kong. Granted there's always some suspension of disbelief required in fantasy blockbusters, but once dwarves are leaping over crumbling bridges like Olympic athletes, and falling down chasms with hardly a scratch, suspension of disbelief is a non-sequitur. It's the same as Ann Darrow plummeting through hundreds of feet of tree branches while doing impossible trapeze artistry, or King Kong whipping her to and fro enough times to snap her body like a twig; or like Indiana Jones bailing out of a plane with a goddamn river raft. It's adolescent fanboy nonsense that recognizes no laws of physics whatsoever, and makes acrobatic superheroes by sheer wish-fulfillment.

And that's not all. The Goblin-King himself is a major offense, resembling Jabba the Hut and speaking like a toad out of a lame Tim Burton film. Ironically, the other orc baddie, Azog, is impressively fearsome, and he doesn't even belong in the story; in the Tolkien canon he was killed by dwarves over a century ago. But in Jackson's revisionism Azog only appeared to die at the Battle of Azanulbizar, so he can now resurface and wreak vengeance on Thorin. I enjoyed this invented storyline far more than the "legitimate" Goblin-Town drama, and I'm sure purists will hate me for approving Jackson's liberties.

Those who complain that Jackson has made The Hobbit too much like Lord of the Rings miss the point. The Dol Guldur plot involves the Lord of the Rings and is the other half of the story I always wanted to see. (Then too I have fond if brutal gaming memories of Southern Mirkwood.) In the grand scheme of things, the White Council's strike against the Necromancer is more epic than the dwarves' against Smaug. The question is whether or not Jackson bit off more than he can chew and can make these two threads mesh well. The next two films will tell. This one is really an over-extended journey, a bloated stage-setter, that simultaneously engages and divides our interest.

Rating: 3 stars out of 5.

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Dexter: The Seven Seasons Ranked

I'm still reeling from the season-seven finale, and if I were wise I'd probably wait a few weeks before attempting a list like this. But forget emotional distance, I'm going for it now while everything's still fresh in mind. There's no question that the crown jewels of Dexter are seasons 2, 4, and 7, and any one of these could qualify as my top favorite; it was hard deciding how to rank this trio. The others fell into place without much thought. I have high hopes for season 8, as the show writers have proven they can still go to the right places -- Laguerta's death left me speechless like Rita's. Dexter and Deb are now bonded in the unspeakable, and their fate will surely have to be as tragic as Walter White's. That's a lot of tragedy coming next year!

#1. Season Two: The Bay Harbor Butcher. 5 stars. The show has always been at its best when Dexter is the one being hunted, and Doakes is a more punishing adversary than someone like the Ice Truck Killer precisely because he's a good guy. Season two has all the wild supplements and roller-coaster rides that make it impossible to stop watching for a moment -- Dexter's whack-job girlfriend Lila, who fuels his dark passenger under the guise of therapy; FBI hound Frank Lundy, by far the most compelling guest star of the entire seven seasons. It's wonderfully ironic that Dexter's "recovery" from serial killing in episodes 5-7 comes from Lila's sponsorship; he then goes back to accepting his bloodthirsty nature when he returns to the normality of Rita at the end of episode 8. And it says something about how strong the script is when even the deus ex machina of Lila finding Doakes and burning down his cage (thus getting Dexter off the hook in more ways than one) plays so beautifully without feeling like a cheat. It's also worth noting that episodes 5-7 are the center masterpieces which play on Batman, a Soderbergh film, and the children's book "Where the Wild Things Are", respectively.

Best four episodes. (5) "The Dark Defender": Dexter takes a road trip with Lila to kill the man who murdered his mother. He fights his urge to kill, and has fantasies of himself as a comic book superhero. (6) "Dex, Lies, and Videotape": Dexter struggles with the lies Harry told him, and with threats of being discovered by Lundy's surveillance and Doakes' snooping. He begins a wild fling with Lila, and kills the copycat Bay Harbor Butcher -- not because he "needs to", only because he "has to", insisting on his free will and choice, per Lila's therapy. (7) "That Night a Forest Grew": Dexter seizes control on all fronts, sowing confusion amongst his colleagues, breaking into houses to have sex with Lila, and making an innocent man look guilty in order to make Doakes look bad; Doakes attacks him. (9) "Resistance is Futile": Dexter gets dragged in front of Lundy and Matthews, with his blood-slides waiting on a table. He and Doakes fence off in the Everglades.

#2. Season Seven: The Bay Harbor Butcher, Take 2. 5 stars. Jennifer Carpenter carries the drama almost entirely, and runs a gamut of emotions that frankly most actors wouldn't be able to pull off. I've re-watched her intimate scenes with Dexter so many times, they're that powerful: from learning Dexter's secret, to tortured attempts at understanding and reforming him, to near acceptance alongside guilt-ridden lust, to finally, committing cold-blooded murder in order to protect him. It's refreshing to see Laguerta finally pulling her head out of her ass, as I always found it incredible that she wouldn't have been suspicious of Dexter once Rita was killed by Trinity (out of pattern) and Quinn started hounding her about the sketch of Kyle Butler. The mafia boss Isaak Sirko is the best guest star since Trinity, hell-bent on vengeance only to bond strangely with Dexter in the end. And Hannah is the best woman to happen to Dexter since Lila, a killer who sedately accepts her own nature as much as his. This season marks an incredible comeback after the low-point of season 6, and I'm optimistic that season 8 will go out with the pulverizing tragedy that Dexter demands.

Best four episodes. (1) "Are You...?": Deb struggles with Dexter's killing of Travis. (2) "Sunshine and Frosty Swirl": Deb learns Dexter's full secret. Hand-in-hand with the first episode, this one showcases the most powerful Dexter-Deb moments in the show's history. (8) "Argentina": a gorgeous and artistic episode that features harrowing dialogue sequences between Dexter and everyone -- Deb (she pours out her guilt-ridden urges for him), Hannah (acceptance of each other, nature vs. need), and Isaac (who is moved by Dexter even while craving vengeance against him). (12) "Surprise, Motherfucker!": the highest rated episode in the show's history, for obvious reasons; Deb killing Laguerta outdoes even the shocker of Rita's murder at the end of season 4; I was left utterly speechless.

#3. Season Four: Trinity. 5 stars. An astounding comeback from the mediocrity of season 3 (much like 7 after 6). Here we have a villain who makes the Ice Truck Killer look like a home boy, a narrative crescendo that escalates without fail, and a script that matches the relentless tension of season two. Frank Lundy's return is used to great effect; his shocking murder causes Deb to meltdown big time (her scene from episode 5 had me in tears). But even that has nothing on Rita's demise. I had to rewatch the end of the finale after I first saw it, I couldn't credit what my eyes were telling me. As in seasons 2 and 7, Dexter finds himself out of control more than usual, killing his first innocent victim (the film director instead of his assistant), and letting Trinity get the upper hand too many times. The only slight weakness of this season (the reason I put it below 2 and 7, I suppose) is the side love affair between Batista and Laguerta: I didn't buy it at all. Did they have to throw these two together just because they're Hispanic?

Best four episodes. (5) "Dirty Harry": In the aftermath of Lundy's murder, Deb has a serious meltdown; Dexter sees Trinity kill his third victim and follows him home to his family, realizing that Trinity is "just like him". (9) "Hungry Man": Dexter spends a disturbing Thanksgiving with Trinity and his family, and ends up attacking him. (11) "Hello, Dexter Morgan": Trinity zeroes in on Dexter and confronts him at the police station -- in my opinion, the greatest cliffhanger of the entire seven seasons. (12) "The Getaway": the second-highest rated episode in the show's history -- Dexter desperately tries to get the upper hand, finally kills Trinity, then realizes Trinity killed Rita first.

#4. Season One: The Ice Truck Killer. 4 ½ stars. It's hard to remember the days when an insecure Rita gave Dexter a blow-job in Halloween costume, Deb was just graduating from blue uniform, and Astor and Cody were the size of hobbits. It was the season we got to know Dexter through his most iconic slayings (the child molester, the drowner of destitute immigrants, the psychiatrist counseling rich women to kill themselves), his trademark inner voice loaded with humorous subtext, and flashbacks of his childhood weaved brilliantly into the storylines. While an excellent season, the show was finding its footing, and the overarching drama doesn't carry the same unrelenting tension of the above three. The Ice Truck Killer's identity unfolds to a perfect beat -- revealed as Rudy at the end of episode 8, Dexter's brother at the very end -- as do our hero's repressed memories. This is classic Dexter.

Best four episodes. (6) "Return to Sender": Dexter is horrified to learn that a kid saw him kill the married couple who were drowning Cuban immigrants in the previous episode; great foreshadowing of season two, with Dexter so close to being discovered by his own police team. (8) "Shrink Wrap": Dexter seeks counseling from a therapist who encourages his depressed patients to commit suicide; great fencing between these two as Dexter sits on the psychiatrist's couch. (10) "Seeing Red": Dexter remembers his childhood trauma, triggered by a bloodbath left by The Ice Truck Killer; he also takes care of Rita's bullying ex-husband. (12) "Born Free": Dexter confronts the Ice Truck Killer, who is his own brother; this season finale is of course legendary.

#5. Season Five: The Barrel-Girl Gang. 4 stars. As in season three, Dexter acquires a partner in crime, but this time someone who remains faithful to him, even falling in love. Unlike season three, we now have engaging subplots: the Fuentes brothers, one of whom Deb ends up shooting at the night club, and of course Quinn's hiring Liddy to spy on Dexter. In fact, this season could have been a 4 ½ if they had only (a) cast someone other than Julia Stiles in the role of Lumen and (b) provided more payoff in the finale. (Deb confronting the "vigilantes in love" through the curtain without demanding they show themselves was preposterously unbelievable.) The idea of a fun-boys' rape club was a good move and offered something new in place of isolated and unrelated killings Dexter carries out in the other seasons. And the "Take It!" episode centered on Chase's convention was a jaw-dropper.

Best four episodes. (1) "My Bad": the aftermath of Rita's murder; Dexter comes to terms with grief. (4) "Beauty and the Beast": Dexter keeps Lumen locked up until he can trust her; shades of Doakes. (8) "Take It": the season's high point -- Dexter attends Chase's convention fueled by manic mobs; Cole Harman seizes Lumen, and Dexter executes him; Lumen realizes that Dexter kills not for justice but because he needs to. (10) "In the Beginning": a strong fan favorite involving a lot -- DVDs of the barrel girl victims getting raped and tortured; at the station Dexter quietly promises Jordan that he'll be safe from the police, though not from him; Liddy closes in on Dexter; Lumen's first kill.

#6. Season Three: The Skinner. 3 stars. Even the worst of Dexter is better than most of what runs on TV these days, but this season is relatively disappointing, especially in view of the top-notch seasons that sandwich it (2 and 4). Most of the subplots and side-stories go nowhere, and we don't care enough about them even if they did. Dexter gets increasingly domesticated by Rita who becomes rather irritating. The main feature, Miguel Prado, is however superb, and offers a fascinating sketch of what friendship with the true Dexter looks like, as well as the inevitable outcome when Miguel can't control his demons. The narrative crescendo reaches its peak in episode ten, then peters out to something less than impressive over the last two episodes. Dexter's marriage at the end is the inverse of Rita's shocking murder at the end of the next season: unpromisingly banal. As for the Skinner, he remains off-stage until the very end. It looked as though Dexter was on a downslide with this season, and few would have believed that the raging comebacks of seasons 4 and 7 were possible at this point.

Best four episodes (2) "Finding Freebo": Dexter questions the code Harry taught him, kills Freebo, and is caught by Miguel who thanks him for the murder. (6) "Sí Se Puede": Dexter has serious inner arguments with his father about having a friend like Miguel; he and Miguel abduct a convict being transferred. (8) "The Damage a Man Can Do": Dexter introduces Miguel to parts of Harry's Code, and they both kill a bookie together. (10) "Go Your Own Way": Dexter contemplates (a) killing Miguel, (b) dissolving the friendship, and (c) gaining the upper hand, until he realizes only (a) is the viable option after a big blowout.

#7. Season Six: The Doomsday Killer. 2 stars. The lowest point of the show's run consists of being jerked around by the obvious for too long, as it becomes clear by episode 4 that Gellar is imaginary. Travis Marshall is the true villain, and not a very good one. The season jumped the shark in other ways, such as with the "Nebraska" episode (the worst in the show's history), Deb's love-urges for Dexter (though lemonade was made of this drama in season 7), and the entirely unrealistic showdown between Travis and Dexter, as of course nothing bad will happen on a show like this to a child like Harrison. What saves this season from a rock-bottom rating of "1" is the apocalyptic backdrop: the Doomsday Killer is a great concept, and his tableau killings some of the most demented slayings that have ever been on display, from the dismembered horseman riding down the streets of Miami, to the angel of death, to live baby snakes being planted in a victim's abdomen. If this material had been worked around decent plotting, this season could have been very good.

Best four episodes. I honestly can't come up with favorites for this season. There are compelling moments with Brother Sam, who is well played by Mos Def. And as I mentioned, the Doomsday tableaus (the chopped up horseman, the brutal angel of death hanging, etc.) are priceless. Not to mention the scene where the homicide team stumbles into Travis' trap and gets dumped on by buckets of blood. But is there any episode which really impressed me on whole? Not really, no. The season's focus is on a mind-puzzle that we solve from the get-go, and once it is revealed, the rest of the season is substandard drama. I was personally let down by the over-arching theme of religion that had such potential but really went nowhere.

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What Makes an Asshole: Two Theories

An increasing number of scholars are using the term "asshole" to describe someone for whom no polite word suffices. Two will be considered in this post. First is Bob Sutton, whose runaway bestseller The No Asshole Rule (2007) has gone a long way in helping people cope with assholes in the workplace. Sutton offers a litmus test to determine whether or not someone is an asshole:

(1) Does the person make someone feel oppressed, humiliated, de-energized, or belittled?
(2) Does the person aim his or her venom at people who are less powerful rather than at those who are more powerful?

The second gauge is critical. One thing I always keep in mind as a supervisor is that if I'm going to get nasty, it's going to be at my equals or superiors, not the poor folks subordinate to me. Not that I do in fact behave this way towards equals or superiors. But if I had to choose, I'd go for the jugular sideways or up the ladder of command. It's telling that assholes are cowards at heart: only the weak beat up on the weak.

Sutton also identifies tactics of assholes, the "dirty dozen" as he calls them: (1) personal insults, (2) invading one's personal territory, (3) uninvited physical contact, (4) threats and intimidation (verbal and non-verbal), (5) jokes and teasing used as insult-delivery systems, (6) withering email flames, (7) status slaps, (8) public shaming or status degradation rituals, (9) rude interruptions, (10) two-faced attacks/backhanded compliments, (11) dirty looks, (12) treating people like they're invisible. (p 10)

Sometimes I'm guilty of a fair share of (1), (5), (10), and (12) (so I better watch myself), and Sutton acknowledges that everyone (including himself) acts like an asshole from time to time. But occasionally acting like an asshole doesn't make one so. The asshole is "one who displays a persistent pattern, and has a history of episodes that end with one target after another feeling belittled, put down, humiliated, disrespected, oppressed, de-energized, and generally worse about themselves" (p 11), on account of any combination of the above tactics. Sutton's book is very helpful, and one I've recommended to both managers and underdogs.

If Sutton's focus is on the workplace, where assholes wield their tyranny over others by way of insults (however open or veiled) and shaming strategies, then Aaron James' scope is more global. Assholes: A Theory (2012) is hot off the press, and covers all species of assholes -- boorish assholes, smug assholes, dignified assholes, corporate assholes, political assholes, reckless assholes, self-aggrandizing assholes. Many of these breeds don't necessarily have power over people in the way co-workers do. And yet they do anyway -- by the sheer outrage they cause. This is what makes them fascinating as they are infuriating. Assholes, according to James, impose small costs on people. They're not murderers or rapists; they're not criminals who need to be locked up. They are the petty offenders who cut in line, rudely interrupt, weave in and out of traffic, park in handicapped spaces, speak loudly on cell phones in the wrong places -- small-time stuff, yet so outrageously upsetting that they make even the most unflappable of us want to lash out and do them violence.

Why is this the case? The reason, says James, has to do with the asshole's mentality rather than his deeds per se. He refuses (or is unable) to register other people as morally real and worthy of consideration. The asshole basically regards himself as above the rules and all-special. "If one is special on one's birthday, the asshole's birthday comes every day." (p 16) Victims of assholes aren't so much fighting for their rightful place in line or any other minor injustice. They are fighting to be recognized, to be respected as people.

The asshole, in other words, has three critical traits according to James. He

(1) allows himself to enjoy special advantages and does so systematically,

(2) does this out of an entrenched sense of entitlement, and

(3) is immunized by his sense of entitlement against the complaints of other people.

By his threefold definition, James finds that most assholes are men. This isn't surprising. In most cultures, men are taught to be assertive and outspoken, while women are conditioned to be more circumspect and pull their punches. Then too there is plain nature: high testosterone levels and other genetic traits predispose men toward asshole behavior in later life, and gender culture channels these dispositions even more. (I think James downplays nature in favor of cultural conditioning a bit much, but he has the right idea.) That's why it's so easy to rattle off examples of male assholes (Rush Limbaugh, Michael Moore, Richard Dawkins, Hugo Chavez, Donald Trump, Dick Cheney, Steve Jobs, Simon Cowell, Mel Gibson) while only few women come to mind (like Ann Coulter).

Which isn't to say that women fall in a necessarily flattering spotlight. James makes a distinction between the asshole and the "bitch", the latter of whom only half-fulfills condition (3).

"The bitch listens to the voiced complaints of others, making at least a show of recognition. Nevertheless, what is said makes no motivational difference to what she does; once her face-to-face encounter with you is over, it is as though you never talked. She 'recognizes' you in one sense: she acts as though she feels it is important to hear you out, to entertain your concerns. But this turns out to be only for show. The bitch betrays you behind her back. The asshole fails to recognize you to your face... The asshole is especially outrageous, because, whatever his private motives, he can't even be polite. And when he is polite, or even charming, fundamental respect is not the reason why. Other motives are in play." (pp 93-94)

There is a slight problem here. I'm not sure the asshole's brazen honesty makes him more outrageous. He's probably more upsetting to most people, but others might prefer candor to deceit. It will depend largely on the circumstance. We all appreciate respect to some degree or another (however genuine or feigned), but the bitch, as defined, can be insidious and on a deeper level just as offensive as the asshole.

On James' theory, certain nations are breeding grounds for assholes. He finds the worst hells-on-earth to be America, Italy, and Brazil. For whatever reason, he singles out Canada, Scandinavia, and Japan with cleaner bills of health, which he attributes to non-capitalist and/or collectivist (group-oriented) cultural conditioning. Speaking of Japan in particular (p 100), he opines that collectivist cultures appear less likely to engender or tolerate a sense of entitlement than individualist cultures, and thus diffuse a significant amount of ass-holism in advance. This is a valid observation if we agree with James's starting point that entitlement is the chief index in gauging ass-holism. But if we return to Bob Sutton's "dirty dozen" workplace-tactics as our framework -- which focus on insults, status degradation, and shaming strategies -- then suddenly collectivist cultures look more asshole-prone, not less.

This needs unpacking. In collectivist honor-shame cultures, insults are often esteemed as fine arts; belligerence a commendable show of machismo; public degradation a staple of life; two-faced attacks (and backhanded compliments) prestigious displays of wit; and treating others as if they are invisible a proper way of snubbing inferiors and equals. And Sutton seems aware of cultural predispositions like these. In the middle of The No Asshole Rule he brings honor-shame cultures into the discussion, and also honor-shame subcultures -- like that of the southern United States

"People raised in these cultures are especially polite and considerate in most interactions, in part because they want to avoid threatening the honor of others (and the fight it provokes)... [But] once they are affronted, men raised in these places often feel obligated to lash back and protect what is theirs, especially their right to be treated with respect or honor." (pp 116-117)

He then cites an intriguing study conducted in 1996 at the University of Michigan, in which the behavior patterns of southern and northern Americans were contrasted:

"Subjects (half southerners and half northerners) passed a stooge who 'accidentally' bumped into him and swore at him. There were big differences between how the northerners and southerners reacted: 65% of the northerners were amused by the bump and insult, and only 35% got angry; only 15% of the insulted southerners were amused, and 85% got angry. Not only that, a second study showed that southerners had strong physiological reactions to being bumped, especially substantial increases in cortisol (a hormone associated with high levels of stress and anxiety), as well as some signs of increased testosterone levels. Yet northerners showed no signs of physiological reaction to the bump and insult." (p 117)

In other words, if you are from an honor-shame culture like Asia or the Middle-East -- or in this case, from even an honor-shame subculture like the southern United States -- "you will likely be more polite than your colleagues most of the time, but if you run into an even mildly insulting asshole, you are prone to lash out and risk fueling a cycle of asshole poisoning" (p 118). In this sense, the importance of being polite in these shame-based societies is a form of preventive damage control, where people are concerned every moment about their precious honor. The data cited by Sutton would thus imply that people from collectivist (honor-shame) cultures have stronger asshole potentials -- the opposite of James' findings.

In my view, both Sutton and James have the right of it. It just depends on our working definition of an asshole. If entitlement is the major index (James), then capitalist-driven individualists will indeed shine as our greatest asshole exemplars. If insults and shaming strategies are the main gauge (Sutton), then collectivists will out-asshole us in other ways. It ends up a wash. Assholes cover the globe under different permutations; they are frequently men, and share a disdain for everyone but themselves, coupled with an effortless ability to dismiss, degrade, and infuriate.

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Terrence Malick: From Best to Worst

Few artists have the luxury of being able to make films at their own snail's pace, and even fewer have this clout on the strength of a small number of films. Terrence Malick's five, released in '73, '78, '98, '05, '11, are not the box-office material that make one a Peter Jackson. (I always wondered at the reason for his 20-year hiatus between the second and third films and can't help but wonder if Malick was so depressed by '80s cinema that he swore off filmmaking forever; someday I'll have to write a blogpost about the evils of '80s American films.) I think of Malick as a composer of nature's symphonies. With one exception, nature is the lead character in all his work, through which plotting and the actual characters are filtered to yield an aesthetic that's pleasing, even exciting, whether you're inclined to arthouse or not. It was a given that Malick would place in this blogathon of favorite film directors, and here's how I rank his work.

1. The Tree of Life. 2011. 5 stars. Like Kubrick's Space Odyssey, this is a picture-perfect film attaining heights out of reach to all but the most gifted filmmakers. It spotlights an American Catholic family within a macrocosm of evolution, and an implied dialectic of nature vs. grace. If there ever was a case to be made for religionless Christianity, this is it. It pivots around a man reliving his childhood (in hindsight both wondrous and grim) while reflecting on his own place in the universe (negligible one level, having everything to do with it on another). In particular, grace emerges not as something which contradicts nature (even if it's its conceptual opposite), but something inherently part of it, or complementing it, or mutating from it. It's an incredible film, with each frame depending on just the right camera angle, scoring, and particular subtleties around snippets of dialogue you can barely hear. And it ends on a spiritual apocalypse that can strike to the heart of even the most unyielding atheist: the yearning for reunion in some form of afterlife, a hopeless fantasy we cling to in order to cope with pain and loss, gelling spendidly with the evolutionary framework of the film. I've seen The Tree of Life more than any other Malick film, and have been turned by new surprises each time.

2. Days of Heaven. 1978. 4 ½ stars. Quintessential Malick, gorgeous as it is simple, Days of Heaven preserves a still in every frame that you'd be proud to hang in your living room. As with Tree of Life, it's the kind of film that takes just the right director to make work. Or least for me, because I'm big on character, and here the characters are kept at arm's length even by Malick's standards. Nature is of course the lead in most of his work, but in Days of Heaven the horses, wheat, locusts, and pastures eclipse Bill and Abby to the extent we almost don't care a whit about their story with the dying farmer, yet remain hooked to the overall tapestry. There's nothing romantic in this vision: it shows nature like it is, completely indifferent to humanity, a theme strongly revisited in The Thin Red Line. Interesting is that Malick reportedly trashed his own screen-play during the production, deciding instead to allow the actors to improvise and find the story in their own way. And it shows, because nothing feels rehearsed -- it's as if you're watching something real through a painting come to life.

3. The Thin Red Line. 1998. 4 ½ stars. There are two films I can't avoid comparing to Saving Private Ryan, a film I never cared for. One is Kubrick's Paths of Glory, for the suicidal attempt to take the hill; it retains a brutal intensity that Spielberg couldn't match in the opening act of his overpraised film, much as he tried. The other is Malick's Thin Red Line, for the time of its release, the same year as Spielberg's but sadly overshadowed by it. This film laments warfare through naturalist philosophy, and it's horrific and uplifting in a completely organic way (as opposed to the manipulative cheap-story way of Saving Private Ryan). I maintain that anti-war films have the strongest difficulty doing right by the viewer. They must get their message across loud and clear, but without resorting to college-campus screed, political innuendo, or hollow contrivances. Bergman's Shame, Kubrick's Paths of Glory, and Malick's Thin Red Line are my trilogy of exhibits proving this is possible. What Bergman did at the level of personal intimacy, and Kubrick did along the ladder of military hierarchy, Malick expands to the broadest level possible, examining life and death in cosmic terms, finding beauty in each, yet an undeniable rage at the way the latter is reached. It's sheer genius.

4. Badlands. 1973. 4 ½ stars. Released the same year as The Exorcist, Malick's first film is in every way a '70s work par excellence, and one that only obliquely distinguishes itself as a Terrence Malick film. That's not a bad thing: the '70s were the Golden Age of filmmaking, and Badlands, like so many productions of this era, epitomizes the ideological emptiness of America after Vietnam and social upheaval of the '60s. Like many artists of the time, Malick takes an amoral stance, refusing to either condemn his delinquent killers or cheer them on as anti-heroes. The visuals of the American Midwest landscape are breathtaking -- on this point, the Malickian thumb-prints become evident -- but Badlands is the one film on this list where characters don't play second fiddle to nature. Malick is clearly trying to underscore the way characters react and relate to meaningless violence, and what I find most disturbing about it is the tone of disinterest and nonchalance; the duo don't relish killing, nor do they murder with any real purpose; it's just a way of life that came naturally to them given their circumstances. Of the umpteen Bonnie-and-Clyde films, Badlands is my choice, tied with Larry Clark's Another Day in Paradise.

5. The New World. 2005. 3 ½ stars. For all its stunning aesthetic, there's something fundamental about New World that irks me: this isn't the way I like historicals. I don't want figures like Pocahontas painted over Terrence Malick style, I want them delivered on a platter of artistic simplicity (as in A Man for all Seasons), induced documentary (as in Gospel According to St. Matthew), or even action-adventure brutality (as in Rob Roy). When nature is the main character -- as is almost always the case in a Malick film -- it distracts from what an historical epic should be about. Credit must be given for the way New World rescues Pocahontas from sissified Disney versions and portrays the love affair between her and Smith with subtle poetry. Most commendably, this isn't a slam against the White Man, nor a condescending, racist reverence for fantasy "noble savages" (who must nonetheless be saved by a whitey who grows to loathe himself -- per Dances with Wolves, The Last Samurai, Avatar, ad nauseum). Objectively, there's a lot to admire about this film. But I respect it from an emotional distance, because the historical genre is just not one I find suitable for Malick's style.

Next month: David Cronenberg.

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Zeba Crook's SBL Response to Mark Goodacre

Mark Goodacre has posted his SBL critique of Zeba Crook's Parallel Gospels, which should be read before going further. Mark was one of four reviewers at the SBL session (the others being Struthers Malbon, Paul Foster, and Robert Derrenbacker), to whom Zeba responded at the end.

Zeba has given me permission to post his response-paper, but I'll just paste the Goodacre part, since the other three reviewers haven't (to my knowledge) made their papers available online. Readers of this blog know I hold both Mark and Zeba in high esteem, though on inter-synoptic issues, I obviously tend to see eye-to-eye more with Mark. But I haven't read Zeba's book and can't offer any critical assessments at this point. So read Mark's critique and Zeb's response, and weigh the wisdom of each.

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Zeba Crook, SBL 2012, Review Session on Parallel Gospels

[Response to Mark Goodacre]

"Goodacre suggests that word-level parallels are key to sound synopsis construction. I wholly agree, so let me explain. This is ideal synopsis construction meets real world market. I think Mark would have loved the original synopsis that OUP saw. But the synopsis OUP saw was over 500 pages, because lining up parallel words on parallel lines creates a lot of white space on the page. Now I really liked that white space; I felt it gave the student room to think. OUP didn't. They wanted a synopsis that was going to be affordable, and this one really is. Making the synopsis Goodacre wants would have been ideal, but it also would have been much more expensive.

"In the end, we (OUP and me) opted for a compromise: Words that begin a short syntactical section are paralleled. So, in the section to which Mark refers (#184; Matt 18:2//Mark 9:36//Luke 9:47b), it is true that the three instances of “young-child” are not on exactly the same line. But two lines above clearly starts a new section, beginning with the triple agreement on the aorist participle (having-summoned in Matt; having-taken in Mark; and having-taken-hold-of in Luke). So the very short section lines up at the start, and it lines up at the next stage (Matt 8:3 and Luke 9:48 == Mark doesn't have any text there), and then after Matthew’s verses 3-4, the three line up again at the start of the next section (Matt 8:5, Mark 9:37; and the continuation of Luke 9:38). A compromise had to be struck, between ideal synopsis construction and marketability, and I think this is actually a good compromise. Goodacre complains that it makes the student work harder, but I actually came to see this as an added benefit: my original synopsis was so word-paralleled that it left almost no work for the student to do!

"Next Goodacre comments on problems with clarity and readability that are the result of my one-to-one translation principle: that cuts me to the core, Mark. Everyone here needs to understand how much sleep I lost in the decade I spent on this book over the issue of readability. I don't need to be told that hupo with the genitive means 'by' not 'under.' I don't need to be told that tis with an accent can mean who AND what. But in end I had to decide that if my goal was to devise a way for the non-Greek-reading student to see what words the gospel writers shared, how they may have changed words and phrases a lot or a little, over and over again, then this was the only way. I had to accept that the goal was NOT translation, but rendition, and I had to accept that readability had to be sacrificed. But then I also realized this: if I wanted to produce a source-language translation, I had to follow through on it. The translation Goodacre wants in a synopsis already exists out there (in multiple forms), and they all show that tis can mean 'who' and they show that Jesus was baptized 'by' John, but they also produce endless false positives, false negatives, and generally create agreements where none actually exist. My goal was to create a new synopsis, not duplicate existing synopses.

"But then I realized this: synopses exist for only two reasons: to be able to compare gospels structurally and at the level of the minute detail. These details are the foundation of source and redaction criticism. The reader who wants readable 'scripture' can go to target-language translations like the NRSV or NIV; the reader without Greek who wants to be able to really see word agreements and disagreements among the Greek gospels needs this book to be able to do that. No other English synopsis book will give them that. Mark is not wrong: the translation is a challenge to read; but what the student gains from that translation is greater than the cost. I've been told on many occasions that students, after a couple weeks of grappling with the strange translation, have a eureka moment in which they both 'get' what's happening and find their eye can do the necessary skip and dance to read it somewhat fluidly.

"Finally, Goodacre suggests that giving a column for Q gives Q an unrealistic concrete tangibility, and that it forecloses this important debate. I think this is unfair. Making a column for Q no more forecloses the debate than including John and Thomas forecloses the debates about their relationship to the synoptics. Further, the reader who thinks I have foreclosed the debate on the existence of Q merely by placing it in a column has not actually read my synopsis: a) one only has to read to the second paragraph of my introduction to see me state clearly that a column for Q does not give it material status. It is there simply to give students access to what scholars think the text of Q looked like; b) I am extremely clear in my synoptic study guides that Q is hypothetical, that there is no evidence of its ever having existed, that those who disagree with the Q hypothesis are perfectly reasonable scholars; and c) there are ways, I think, in which my synopsis challenges positions of the 2DH: my translation results in way more minor agreements being visible, which are an issue for the 2DH, and there is this: one of the key planks on which the Q Hypothesis rests is that Matthew and Luke never agree on inserting double tradition into the same place in Mark, usually after Q 3:7-9 it is said. But my synopsis arrangement ends up with 8 pericope that Matt and Luke place Q at the same point in Mark (pericopae #s 17, 19, 23, 25, 89, 122, 123, 126). I was curious to know what Goodacre would think of including Q, but I expected him to be more effusive about the pro-Mark-without-Q features of my new synopsis over others."

UPDATE: Mark Goodacre responds to Zeb's response.

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Plotting Among Giants and Drow

The most epic D&D campaign of the old-school era is the seven-module series later packaged into four: Against the Giants (G1-G3), Descent into the Depths of the Earth (D1-2), Vault of the Drow (D3), and Queen of the Demonweb Pits (Q1). From murderous dungeon crawls, to lethal underworld domains, to the unforgiving Abyss itself, players take on a coalition of giants in thrall to a group of drow (dark elves) whose hideous cultic allegiance spells disaster for the surface world.

What's fascinating about this series is how ambiguous the plot is. Of course, as a rule old-school modules kept plotting underdeveloped so as not to stifle DMs and railroad players, but for a multiple-module campaign to pull this off cohesively is no mean feat. James Maliszewski's retrospective of the D3 module, Vault of the Drow, offers one way of looking at the plot-path of the first six modules:

"There is absolutely no plot to [D3], just as there was no plot to its precursors in the D series. The 'plot' of the series, such as it is, mostly occurred in modules G1, G2, and G3, where the drow priestess of the Elder Elemental God, Eclavdra, was attempting to organize the giants into a vast army with which to subjugate a portion of the surface world, in the process gaining power for herself and her house, Eilservs. Once that plan is defeated, though, all that remains for the PCs is vengeance and exploration of the depths of the earth. Eclavdra -- or her clone -- reappears in Vault of the Drow, but only as the leader of House Eilservs, not as 'the big bad evil guy' of the module. No such personage exists in D3, as its 28 pages are devoted primarily to describing the city of Erelhei-Cinlu, its inhabitants, and their activities."

I suspect, however, that most DMs proceed on the design that Eclavdra (or her clone) has a backup plan in reserve if the giants fall, and that most PCs will assume that a drow attack on the surface world remains a viable threat. Otherwise there would be no point in pursuing the drow to their home under the earth. I never heard of PCs invading the underworld for pure vengeance or curiosity sake, though of course either scenario is possible. For myself as a DM, the Eilservs weren't giving up, regardless of the outcome in the fire giant hall. More to the point, even granting the two factions of drow posted there, it's exceedingly unlikely that PCs will have deduced (by the end of G3) that Eclavdra's crusade is opposed by most of the drow community.

Which brings us to the question of if and how and to what degree the PCs ever learn this, once they get past modules D1 and D2 and arrive in the Vault. Joe Bloch maintains there are two possible conclusions players will eventually draw as they proceed through D3:

(1) 'We need to stop the Eilservs once and for all, to halt their ambitions against the surface world.'

(2) 'We need to stop the drow once and for all, because they are evil and are ultimately a threat to the surface world.'

"The first attitude bears with it the implication that the drow factions can be parleyed with, and used against other drow factions. The second attitude implies that the party should be looking for some way to collapse the Vault itself...[In the second case] they have effectively declared war on the entire city. Wish them luck, and I hope they have 4d6 handy to roll up new characters... The module, of course, implies the first option."

I'm not so sure. There is a third possibility which straddles these two options, and indeed the one that seems to form the premise of later campaigns developed for 3rd edition D&D: that "marauders [PCs] from the upper world assaulted not only the Eilservs estate, but also the Fane of Lolth itself" (Dragon #298, p 84), which initiated an all-out war on the upper world, this time spearheaded by Lolth (who in the G1-Q1 modules opposed such action), as well as a civil war in the Vault (the priestess wars). I never heard of PCs who went into the Vault without, in some way, striking against the Fane. Granted I had a poor understanding of how to run Vault of the Drow in my early gaming years (see here, #5), I'm dubious that players, without heavy-handed steering from a DM, can bring themselves to ascribe to any drow faction a complete hostility/opposition to the spider goddess. After all, House Eilservs still coexists alongside the other Houses, right next door to the Fane.

Furthermore, option (2) is a reasonable conclusion in any case. The feud between House Eilservs (serving the Elemental God and allied with House Tormtor) and the Fane (serving Lolth and allied with all the other noble houses) owes to local politics, namely Eclavdra's desire to set herself up as Queen of the Drow, thus undermining clerical autonomy. Her crusade against the upper world is intended to consolidate a power base more than anything, but the fact is that all drow are ultimately driven by their ancient grudge against the surface, and not least Lolth's priestesses. Subjugation of other races is hardwired in drow genes; if one house can start a crusade out of self-interest, so can another, and so (especially) can the Fane. What the Fane is opposing is not a crusade against the surface per se, but Eclavdra's crusade and her bid for power, which also promulgates the worship of a rival deity.

Only PCs with high risk-addiction complexes would likely try allying with the Fane, as Bloch suggests, even on the logic that "the enemy of my enemy is my tool". If the drow were lawful-evil oriented, that would be one thing, but they're intrinsically chaotic and poisonous like the spiders they nest with. Getting in bed with the sisterhood is arguably as much an invitation to the grave as declaring war on the Vault. Lolth, for her part, thrives on the divisiveness and backbiting of her people, and would characteristically shaft any makeshift allies (especially foreign ones) at first opportunity. All things considered, PCs would be justified in concluding that the Fane is the ultimate (if not immediate) menace, and in striking a blow against both it and the rebellious Eilservs to send a clear message.

My point is not that restricting oneself to Bloch's option (1) is necessarily misguided, just that it's not the only sane course of action open to PCs. It's possible, with enough shrewdness and care, to strike against the Fane without having to take on the entire Vault. On the other hand, I agree completely with Bloch that there isn't much reason, per the plot design of G1-D3, for players to take the audacious step of confronting Lolth on the Abyss in order to kill her. It's been widely acknowledged how disappointing Q1 was in terms of design (as Gygax bailed on the project and left it in the hands of David Sutherland), but it's seldom acknowledged how much of a non-sequitur it is. Q1 only makes sense if the PCs are overambitious hotheads or fools -- or if they just want the orgasmic thrill of trying to kill a goddess on her home plane (which perhaps makes Q1 realistic after all!). On the other hand, Q1 could become relevant at the later time, when Lolth takes over the assault on the upper world, which is the follow-up scenario designed for later editions of D&D.

The fact that the plotting of G1-Q1 remains so murky and debatable is precisely its strength. In old-school D&D, plotting was barely integral to module design, and left largely to the interactive dynamic between DMs and players. In this sense, at least, Bloch's scenarios are as credible as anything I've countered with. That's what made the game what it was. Gygax even spelled this upfront:

"While considerable detail has been given, it is up to you to fill in any needed information and to color the whole thing and bring it to life. You, as Dungeon Master, must continue to improvise and create, for your players will certainly desire more descriptions, seek to do things not provided for here, and generally do things which are not anticipated. The script is here, but you will direct the whole, rewrite parts, and sit in final judgment." (Against the Giants, p 16)

This sort of gaming philosophy is of course anathema to the script slavery and rigid plotting of later "modules" (Dragonlance and beyond), which hand-held DMs and predestined players. G1-Q1 are a healthy reminder that series modules can indeed work with minimal plotting.

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