“Outwardly, Archie looks pretty much how you’d expect him to, updated for the millennial crowd, some 70 years after the original comic character’s creation. The same goes for the town of Riverdale itself, but this isn’t post-WWII suburbia anymore. Look beyond the perfect façade, and you see the small town has dirty roots, and everyone is tangled up within.”

That these beautiful actors are legally older than the high school kids they portray hopefully makes that statement a little less icky. But let’s be honest, I’m just buying what the show is selling. And selling it well, too, as we are talking about high school, and that’s a time when most people are at their horniest, most curious, most rebellious, and most willing to follow their hearts. So yeah, sordid situations are going to pop up.

Though mostly pure of heart, the reimagined Archie Comics characters of Riverdale High can’t seem to avoid the town’s multi-generational dirt, which all comes gurgling up when the captain of the football team, Jason Blossom, gets murdered. Against the background of this murder mystery, a high school drama unfolds, starring awkward yet glorious ginger KJ Apa as Archie Andrews, Blossom’s former teammate, aspiring folk singer, and the letterman-jacket-wearing embodiment of the perfect kid.

Outwardly, Archie looks pretty much how you’d expect him to, updated for the millennial crowd, some 70 years after the original comic character’s creation. The same goes for the town of Riverdale itself, but this isn’t post-WWII suburbia anymore. Look beyond the perfect façade, and you see the small town has dirty roots, and everyone is tangled up within.

Personally speaking, the only thing I remember about Archie Comics is that Archie did not deserve the love of Betty the blonde, and Veronica the brunette, that Jughead wore a funny hat and may have been hungry a lot, and that Josie and the Pussycats played all the school dances.

Somehow 2017’s version (the comics have been updated as well, btw) satisfies all those memories, while at the same time serving up surprising takes on the archetypes. For example, Betty Cooper isn’t just a hot blonde, she’s also one of the smartest, most sensitive girls in school, who isn’t about to take any bullying, slut shaming, or murdering going down in Riverdale. And the Pussycats still play “Candy Girl (Sugar Sugar),” but now it’s just the hook of a dope hip-hop/dance tune.

Essentially, this same-America-but-different theme is what makes Riverdale so fun, and of course the high school aspect, heck I even get Luke Perry playing Archie’s dad, just to scratch that Dylan McKay itch I didn’t realize was acting up. Who knew I’d grow up to miss such a place as high school?

The post Riverdale Might Actually Make You Miss High School appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“The maestro who has sea changed with every new generation of listeners has been working on this latest example since 2013, alongside four-time Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin; and we’re talking right along side, as the duo play and record nearly every instrument on the album.”

It’s by far my favorite tune of last year, and it would be my favorite of this year too, but qualifications don’t allow that, and rules are important.

Fortunately for all, now my “Wow” praise can officially commence, with the release of Beck’s new album, Colors. The maestro who has sea changed with every new generation of listeners has been working on this latest example since 2013, alongside four-time Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin; and we’re talking right along side, as the duo play and record nearly every instrument on the album.

Under the auspices of a nebulous forthcoming album, Beck released a slew of singles, starting with “Dreams” in 2015. Two of those, the aforementioned “Wow” and “Dreams,” are particularly strong. Which isn’t just my opinion, it’s apparently also Beck’s. In an interview with NME, Beck said, “the album is probably what exists in the range between ‘Dreams’ at one end and ‘Wow’ at the other.”

I would put both songs into the happy-to-be-alive-on-this-wonderland-called-Earth camp, with varying degrees of boogieability, but equally funky. And yet, though hips must be served, both make you think just enough about the wonder of it all, albeit with a technicolored oblivion that feels borderline escapist as opposed to trenchant, as does the album on the whole. Still, all in all, “It’s like WOW! It’s like right now!”

Interestingly, “Wow” was recorded while Beck and Kurstin were supposed to be recording “Dreams” … perhaps. As he told NME: “I was working on another song – maybe [2015 hit] ‘Dreams’ – when I had an idea for a flute beat. I picked up the mic and ‘Wow’ came out totally spontaneously. I put it away and forgot about it. Then ‘Wow’ was on in the studio one day and someone said “You should put this on the record.” I went “I don’t think anybody would like this.” Usually, I turn in a whole album to my record company when they want a single. But there were a lot of songs in progress, so I sent in a cache of them this time. Nothing happened for months, then suddenly the record company said “We’re putting ‘Wow’ out as a single.” I was “Really? ‘Wow’? Huh. Well, OK then.” ‘Wow’ was the last song on the cache I’d sent over.”

Yeah, Beck has ideas for flute beats. And that’s just one of the reasons why I’ll always wait patiently for his next album. Because you’re often rewarded with what right now sounds like, at least to Beck. As we are yet again with Colors. Alas, it kind of sounds like he’s tuning a lot out, or is releasing songs that were being written in 2013, back when times were simpler, more saccharine, less needy of bite. Oh well, we all need a little oblivion now and again.

The post Beck’s ‘Colors’ Finally Drops — Now Let’s Talk About ‘Wow’   appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“Like most of you, I woke up on Monday, Oct. 2, 2017 to the shitty news that another psycho shot up another concert. Later, we got news that the great Tom Petty died way too young, which just capped the shitty day. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt numb, dumb, and powerless. Who knows how long I would have stayed like that too, had music not pulled me out.”

Indeed, listening to the shit out of Tom Petty while writing about him helped put things in perspective, but I really pulled myself out of the doldrums with a live rock ‘n’ roll weekend the likes I’ve never seen.

Beginning after work on Thursday, I hightailed it to The Forum to go see The Gorillaz. As I stood in line with the rest of the multi-racial masses of LA, amidst the added security and tension, I’ll admit to wondering if it was worth it, to risk it all, just to see a show. What a fucking state of affairs I should have to think such thoughts, but I got over it, got frisked, got to my really good seat, examined my closest exits, and sat down, just in time to stand up for the entire disco party.

Indeed, I rocked steadily with Damon Albarn and his very large company of extra funky homo sapiens, including some of the most mesmerizing backup singers you’ll ever lay eyes on. The sound system over delivered too, with crystalline noise that turned the entire Forum into a cooking dancefloor. It was the exact release I needed, and the best show I’ve seen since Sturgil Simpson’s big band tour last year.

So I was even more excited for the next day, when Sturgil finally graced The Greek. For some reason though, he skipped A Sailor’s Guide to Earth’s Grammy-winning  sound – which he self-produced – in lieu of a stripped-down version, that didn’t even include my third favorite band member, Laur “The Estonian Sensation” Joamets on lead guitar, or any of that album’s (and last tour’s) sensational horn players. Apparently, Sturgil wanted to show the world that he’s a pretty damn good lead guitarist himself, as the golden-throated baritone complimented his snarl with a flurry of licks that rivaled Dicky Betts in his prime. But The Greek’s sound system wouldn’t crank the volume, even on a Friday night, and I have to say I was left a bit disappointed, compared to the two times I was previously blown away by Sturgil. Oh well, at least I didn’t get blown away by some crazy person.

Then came the weekend’s really big trip, to the Palm Desert’s Empire Polo Grounds, site of Coachella, to attend the Desert Oasis music fest. Nothing like a mostly-reggae fest in the gorgeous outdoors to remind you that one good thing about music, “when it hits you, you feel no pain,” as the undisputed father of the genre, Bob Marley, continually reminds me. Arguably even more fun than attending the sometimes overwhelming Coachella fest, the Desert Oasis is a much smaller affair (like its equally-fun cousin fest held on the same grounds, Rhythm, Wines & Brews), but you still get more damn music than you can actually watch.

Desert Oasis 2017, the debut of the festival, featured some of the best names in reggae – Damian “Jr. Gong” Marley (the most powerfully gifted of all the Marley kids!), Steel Pulse (still got it!), Rebelution (Sunday night and I still danced!) – but also some huge tangential-genre-rocking talent, too: Los Lobos, E-40, Murs, Fishbone, Reel Big Fish, Warren G, Fortunate Youth, Inner Circle, and more.

Altogether, it was a soul-stirring blitz of funky beats and irie vibes, and just what I needed to see: people of all colors and creed, moving as one, loving as one, vibing as one, and believing as one, that music is the soul of the people, and the people are one. One love. And that’s as timeless and indestructible, no matter how hard the bad guys try to get us to stop dancing.

The post When the Bullets Stop Flying, Music Will Still Be Here appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“I know Tom Petty isn’t really gone; I know when you leave behind such a canon of indisputably excellent work, you never really disappear.”

It doesn’t matter though, when I first found him, because Petty has seemingly been there all along. And I can’t imagine that will ever change, even now that he’s gone — at least in the terrestrial sense of the word. Becuse I know he’s not really gone; I know when you leave behind such a canon of indisputably excellent work, you never really disappear. No, Tom Petty is forever free falling, among the wildflowers.

I remember having a rock ‘n’ roll bar argument with a buddy of mine, not too long ago. He’s a rocker, no doubt, and has the hair to prove it. And when someone put “Honey Bee” on the juke, I pissed him off a little when I said that Wildflowers was by-far my favorite Petty album. He was incredulous that I could put such a semi-acoustic, non-Heartbreakers Petty album in front of 1979’s Damn the Torpedoes.

I’m generally a person who A) doesn’t like to piss people off, and B) doesn’t like to say stupid shit so I reconsidered my bold stance. And though you’d be hard pressed to find a better three-song start than “Refugee,” “Here Comes my Girl,” and “Even the Losers” and though it also includes another mega hit, “Don’t Do My Like That,” Damn the Torpedoes represents a different side of Petty than Wildflowers; it’s the work of a man figuring things out still, often indignantly, always poetically, while first breaking into the world of platinum levels.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3K3QqNiuHsU

In 1994, fifteen years after conquering that first giant peak, and a million miles smarter and more at peace, Petty, sans Heartbreakers, gifted us his second solo album, Wildflowers. It’s a master work, produced by the master minimalist, Rick Rubin. It’s also one of only six CDs that I had for my portable Discman that got me through my study-abroad time in London.

I was a country boy wandering around dirty, ancient streets, with dark, dreary clouds constantly overhead — but Wildflowers (and Bob Marley’s Kaya) kept me sunny. Not because it’s a wholly happy album, but more so introspective, sagaciously so. There’s wisdom from beyond, the kind that only one tapped into the ether, a man who’s not afraid anymore, can expound upon. Not that I’ve learned all its lessons yet, but they’re still there for the musing, and so Petty’s still very much with me. So if you need me, I’ll be running away with him, letting his heart be my guide.

The post Free Fallin’ Among the Wildflowers: Tom Petty Forever appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“For those of you who think that the lefties and progressives have gone a little nuts over the whole fascist-Trump thing, The Plot Against America should be your wakeup call that it doesn’t take much more than a popular figure spouting off ‘purifying’ nationalist parlance for our political landscape to quake violently.”

For those of you who think that the lefties and progressives have gone a little nuts over the whole fascist-Trump thing, The Plot Against America should be your wakeup call that it doesn’t take much more than a popular figure spouting off “purifying” nationalist parlance for our political landscape to quake violently.

The alternative-history novel, every bit as beautifully written as some of Roth’s other great works – Portnoy’s Complaint, American Pastoral, The Human Stain – tells the story of Philip Roth’s re-imagined own childhood growing up in pre-WWII Newark, New Jersey, which stays pre-war for a while longer than Roosevelt’s America, as this alternative America, led by isolationist and Nazi sympathizer Charles A. Lindbergh, stays out of the war, choosing not to assist the Brits, or more specifically, the Jews.

Yes, that Lindbergh, the world-famous aviator, the first to fly a transatlantic solo flight when he piloted his “Spirit of St. Louis” Ryan monoplane from New York to Paris in 1927; the very one who became even more famous, infamously so, when his infant son, Charles Jr., was kidnapped and murdered, sparking the “Trial of Century,” and causing the Lindberghs to flea America’s media circus and take refuge in Europe. There they stayed till 1939, when Lindbergh came home to lend his vocal support for the America First Committee, who didn’t even believe in monetarily supporting Britain’s war against Nazi Germany.

So far, all of that is Wikipedia-verified fact. Somewhere in the gray area is how much of a Nazi Lindbergh really was, but the alternative storyline of The Plot Against America doesn’t paint a pretty picture. It picks up when Lindbergh returns home, and quickly rises in power, enough to unseat the venerable Roosevelt, and more than enough to throw Roth’s adolescent upbringing in his mostly-Jewish and generally idyllic Weequahic neighborhood into shambles. Lindbergh’s rise to power emboldens the Antisemites of America, and their encroaching rage is felt little by little by young Philip and his family, as their threat becomes more and more real, and hits closer and closer to home.

It’s all so subtle the only way to really appreciate how well the book works is to read every last morsel of it. Page by page, Roth recounts all his minuscule memories of childhood, all those fears of the unknown big-bad world, and then throws the imaginative gasoline of organized Antisemitism on top. And you believe every last word of it. Terrifying stuff in post-fact world, where bravado and bluster and finger-pointing is the language of the land, and no one can be sure who will be the next target.

The post Fiction and All Too Real: Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“According to The Broad’s website, ‘Murakami’s influence on Japan rivals Andy Warhol’s on the United States.’ But unlike Warhol, who’s gone but not forgotten, Murakami is still working, and at 55, seems to be only improving. His two jaw-dropping ‘superflat’ works on display front and center at The Broad were both done in the last ten years.”

This is by no means meant to demean the importance of those visionary artists, but by far the most impressive paintings on display at the wholly impressive space were by an artist I’d never really spent too much time with, Takashi Murakami.

Apparently though, I’m the only one who’s new to Murakami’s fine pop art stylings, as his recent show at Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art, Takashi Murakami: The Octopus Eats Its Own Leg, just logged 193,000 some-odd visitors, making it the most well attended exhibition in the Museum’s 50-year history. And the two massive, vibrant paintings currently on display at The Broad certainly showed me exactly why he’s so popular.

Pop would be a good place to start, too, as Murakami’s creations very obviously elicit a Japanese pop culture influence, particularly anime, manga, toys, and video games. Indeed, according to The Broad’s website, “Murakami’s influence on Japan rivals Andy Warhol’s on the United States.” Unlike Warhol, who’s gone but not forgotten, Murakami is still working, and at 55, seems to be only improving. His two jaw-dropping “superflat” works on display front and center at The Broad were both done in the last ten years. (Superflat refers to the post-modern art movement that Murakami created, which refers to recognizable flattened forms pervasive in anime and manga, while also commenting on the shallowness of Japanese consumer culture.)

One of The Broad’s current Murakami hangings is the first painting you see when you go up the museum’s futuristic escalator, which empties into a huge, white, open space, with Murakami’s 82-foot, acrylic on canvas, “In the Land of the Dead, Stepping on the Tail of a Rainbow” filling up two entire walls. The showstopper is Murakami’s cartoonishly metaphorical reaction to the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, set inside the historical context of Japan’s history of natural disasters. It’s also informed by artist Kano Kazunobu’s 150-year-old scrolls, created in response to the 1855 Ansei Edo earthquake, and populated with 500 arhats, Buddhist stewards who have attained nirvana. It took me a full half hour of awe-inspired introspection to get from one end to the other.

I next dropped a good amount of time at Murakami’s much smaller, but by no means small, 118 1/8 x 239 3/8 x 2 in. acrylic and platinum leaf on canvas mounted on aluminum frame, “Hustle ‘n’ Punch By KaiKai and Kiki.” As you can see in the pic above, there are a thousand flowers and faces, with a million eyes staring at you, and each eye is a circle within a circle within a circle. It would take me years to paint so many circles, and all mine would be wildly more incongruous then Murakami’s perfect, bold lines. What does it all mean? Why so much shock, and revulsion within the seemingly springy and ebullient confines?

Who knows? Maybe Murakami? Maybe me, deep within, on a subconscious level. Maybe you. That’s the beauty of art, particularly Murakami’s: an inviting, bold, magnetic passage, that compels you to get lost within his metaphysical and physical gift, a human connection to a heavenly world.

The post Superflat is Where’s it’s At: Takashi Murakami is Your New Favorite Artist appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

I probably don’t have to tell you this, but sex sells. And I’m honest enough to tell you that’s why I tuned into HBO’s new show, The Deuce, when it debuted last Sunday. Well, that’s one of the reasons, the other big one being that it’s an HBO show, and after The Sopranos and Game of Thrones, hands down two of my favorite TV shows of all time, I’ll always give the premium cable channel the benefit of the doubt.

But let’s face it, I started watching those shows cause of the sex too. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one that HBO is targeting with their latest series though, because unlike those two skin-filled showed, there’s no pretense about The Deuce being about anything but sex, as you can hear at official synopsis level:

“Created by George Pelecanos and David Simon (The Wire) and starring James Franco and Maggie Gyllenhaal, The Deuce follows the story of the legalization and subsequent rise of the porn industry in New York’s Times Square from the early 1970s through the mid-1980s, exploring the rough-and-tumble world at the pioneering moments of what would become the billion-dollar American sex industry.”

Of course, The Wire is a show that also finds itself on many folks’ Top TV Shows list, although I can’t say I bit after watching the pilot episode. I keep saying I’ll go back and watch them, but then I keep forgetting to do that. Perhaps The Deuce will finally convince me of its must-see-ness. Having seen one episode, I will say it has convinced me to at least watching the current show, although … spoiler alert … we’re far from porn at this point, so if you were expecting to see some well-lit midget threesomes, sorry (although I’m keeping my fingers crossed for later in the eight-episode first season).

But before we get to AVN award winning scenes, like The Wire, we go straight to street level, to 42nd Street between Seventh Avenue and Eighth Avenue in Manhattan, aka The Deuce. And oh what seedy characters we meet. Also like The Wire (and GoT and The Sopranos), the show features an ensemble of characters, all sustained by this shitty stretch of concrete, including Franco, who plays both Vincent and Frankie Martino, twins, one goodish, the other baddish, who are both forced to become mob fronts because of the baddish one’s gambling problems. And guess who wants in on the new porn industry? Here’s betting they take any glamour you might have imagined right out of it. And there’s little glamourous about the supremely ‘70s pimps and sex workers either, although Gyllenhaal’s head-strong hooker is easy to love.

Both Gyllenhaal and Franco are well-supported by a veteran ensemble (including Method Man and Ralph Macchio!). With talent to kindle, the slow burn is likely to last, as the synopsis points out: the show covers a full decade-plus worth of time. From what I’ve seen so far, that’s a very good thing. And since I love having a date with HBO on Sunday nights, and was disappointed when Vinyl, another sex-filled-NYC-in-the-‘70s show, got cancelled, I think I’ll be tuning in again this Sunday. Will you?

The post The Deuce Doubles up on the Burgeoning Porn Biz appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“How can I watch a game after seeing all the studies about the physical harm these entertainer/athletes suffer from, both on the field during their glory days, and then later on, when no one gives a shit about them, after they spent all their money on hookers and blow, and ended up brain dead, living by a river somewhere?”

But since games were on Sunday, often conflicted with Sunday School, and were immensely more fun than learning about God, the Broncos quickly became more important to me. As such, I have almost no control over my passion, and it’s grown far too cumbersome; it gets in the way of work, my social calendar, and, most importantly, my peace-loving, no-gladiating ethics. So how can I rationalize such passion, and make peace with this dark side?

First of all, it’s important to acknowledge the inherent problems that football represents, societally speaking. How can I watch a game after seeing all the studies about the physical harm these entertainer/athletes suffer from, both on the field during their glory days, and then later on, when no one gives a shit about them, after they spent all their money on hookers and blow, and ended up brain dead, living by a river somewhere?

The root of the problem is that it’s a violent game, anyway you look at it. And I am not a violent man, or so I like to think. But how can a non-violent pacifist love — to the point of howling about it so loudly so as to defy noise ordinances — watching grown men try and tear each other apart, and root vociferously, nearly nationalistically, for the guy in orange to pummel the guy wearing any other color, for the sole purpose of dominating that Other. There’s a fundamental disconnect here (likely a different disconnect than the one that caused this method writer to craft this post whilst rocking along to Jock Jams).

Let’s talk about all the yelling for a second. I pride myself on being a dog and kid whisperer. I believe my ability to communicate on a higher, Zen-like level with both is a testament to my character. Yet when the Denver Broncos take the field, neither want to be within earshot of me. And I can’t help it, not if someone misses an obvious assignment, not if a ref blows a call, and not, Football Gods forbid, if the Raiders beat us. Then, like no other time in my life, I unleash from my innards the most detestably foul vitriol, with not a care as to who might hear. It’s not like me. It doesn’t even feel like me who’s doing the yelling, as somewhere outside of this magnificent asshole, the more real part of me floats above, watching this prick in judgement.

But here’s the rationalization part… okay, I’m still struggling with that apparently. The truth is, I love the Denver Broncos in spite of myself, in spite of what I know a more morally sound, ethically bound person would do. Does that make me amoral? Well, probably not that alone, although the consumption of terrible foodstuffs and whiskey during the games must also factor in. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s not going to change. No matter how much my mind wants me to ditch the game; the heart wants what the heart wants. So I’m not going to put too much more thought into it, because my team needs me to be focused now that the season is starting… okay, I’ll probably think a lot more about this. But still, go Broncos!

The post How to Rationalize Watching Football As a Progressive, Free-Thinking Adult appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

No, I’m not talking about the series’ namesake, as played with comedic genius by Peter Serafinowicz, although he is by every definition super; but rather, I’m referring to a man far more my own ilk, a man dwarfed by Serafinowicz’s sculpted blue Tick: the superhero known as Arthur, the short, neurotic geek, who would prefer to be doing anything other than superheroing. If you have ever wondered how Woody Allen would react to being a superhero, wonder no more; Griffin Newman’s genius portrayal of Arthur Everest, aka the far-from-smooth flying Moth Man, nails it.

“The show is exceptionally well paced; the action and special effects work well, and keep things moving along; there’s an outstanding supervillain, The Terror, played by always-a-Bad-News-Bear-to-me Jackie Earle Haley; and bonus, there’s a “robo ninja” too! “

That Arthur is the hero of the six half-hour shows that comprise the perfectly packaged series is not a spoiler, regardless of what the title may tell you. In fact, The Tick tells you as much, with his hilarious Captain Obvious dialogue, and also while serving as the show’s golden-throated narrator, relaying to the audience the highs and lows of Arthur’s origin story, which he equates, structurally speaking, to Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey. These self-referential knowing nods from the creators to the audience really work, especially because as an audience member, you can tell these guys know and love their comic books, even as they make fun of them. But what would a spoof be without true knowledge of the genre, and plenty of love?

For other comics-minded folks, The Tick has been in the world since Ben Edlund created the spoof superhero as a newsletter mascot for a chain of New England comic stores. With various helpers along the way, he created an independent comic book series starring the character in 1988, then hit the big time with an 1994 animated series on Fox and a 2001 live-action series on the same network, starring Patrick Warburton, aka Elaine’s face-painting boyfriend, Puddy, on Seinfeld. You’ll be excused if neither series crossed your radar, though, as the former only lasted four episodes, and the latter only nine.

Since then though, Edlund has learned a thing or two, particularly from his work with Joss Whedon on Firefly and Angel, and from producing/writing Supernatural and Gotham, among others. And with 24, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Lost producer David Fury serving as The Tick’s co-showrunner, Edlund and team have truly hit their stride.

The show is exceptionally well paced; the action and special effects work well, and keep things moving along; there’s an outstanding supervillain, The Terror, played by always-a-Bad-News-Bear-to-me Jackie Earle Haley; and bonus, there’s a “robo ninja” too! But it’s the relationship between The Tick and his “chum” Arthur that makes the whole thing work, really well, and makes me believe I have a crime-fighting future ahead.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GiFF18KblJ0

The post The Tick is What a Superhero Would Look Like if He Was a Sub-Regular Schmo appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“What I forgot my world needed, until I saw Ozark’s second episode, is someone to root for in the seedy, underworld of a Mexican drug cartel, that special someone to fill the cavernous void left by Walter White on Breaking Bad. Ozark’s story is somewhat similar, in that it involves a seemingly good family guy, paying the consequences of a very bad partnership, and having his family dangerously tied up in his questionable actions.”

At this point, if I suddenly had to cut some expenditures down, and had to start axing viewing options, the last to go would be Netflix (well, as soon as HBO’s Game of Thrones goes away again for Gods know how long), because man, they are making some great shit, and they don’t mind dropping $20 billion or so to get it right.

One of the most recent examples of Netflix getting it right, Ozark, comes from creator Bill Dubuque (The Accountant, The Judge) and exec producer and star, Jason Bateman, breaking out of the long shadow cast by his seminal role of Derek Taylor in Silver Spoons. The hour-long drama, of which all ten episodes are currently available for bingeing, is produced by Media Rights Capital, who among many other fine products, are responsible for the series that really set Netflix on the right trajectory: House of Cards.

If you’re looking for further reason to invest your time, the show also stars three-time Oscar nominee, Laura Linney; Rip Torn, who hasn’t made a wrong move since well before The Beastmaster; and Esai Morales, best remembered as the drunk older brother in La Bamba, or at least he is in my world.

What I forgot my world needed, until I saw Ozark’s second episode, is someone to root for in the seedy, underworld of a Mexican drug cartel, that special someone to fill the cavernous void left by Walter White on Breaking Bad. Ozark’s story is somewhat similar, in that it involves a seemingly good family guy, paying the consequences of a very bad partnership, and having his family dangerously tied up in his questionable actions. In this case, it’s Bateman’s Marty Byrde, a frugal Chicago suburbs financial planner, who’s been illegally cleaning money for the cartel, finds himself with a huge debt to pay to the wrong people, and in order to keep his family alive, ends up — somehow convincingly — getting one last opportunity to move the fam to the Lake of the Ozarks and launder money for those he owes. It’s definitely a mo-money-mo-problems situation.

Having seen the first two episodes, I’m sure I’m up for more. The story works, and is getting all the more interesting as Marty must pivot from the safe life in the ‘burbs with a wife he thought he loved and two perfect kids; to a very dangerous, reckless, path, that may very well end up getting them all killed. While there’s a lot that works, and I’m looking forward to seeing how it all shakes out, what really roped me in we’re two great moments, one important, the other not so much. One: a throw away line, that really doesn’t spoil anything, when a small-town records keeper tells Bateman to “walk a mile in my Crocs.” That craned my neck, for sure.

The other is a bit of spoiler… when Linney socks Bateman, her husband who has just explained how little sympathy he has for her and her dead lover that just got thrown off a balcony by the cartel that Marty owes money to. Yeah, family life gets really complicated when the cartel’s involved!

The post Can Ozark Fill Some of the Void Left by Breaking Bad? appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“With Exodus, Marley somehow overcame the pain of being forced from his homeland, which had been run into poverty, violence, and hatred by 400 years of colonialism and its aftermath. But he didn’t forget it, as the first half of the album – “Natural Mystic,” “So Much Things to Say,” “Guiltiness,” “The Heathen,” and “Exodus” – so poetically informs, in a way that even the best books could never do.”

Before we get into the album itself though, it’s important to discuss the events that led to Bob beginning recording at Harry J. Studio in Kingston, only to make a real-life exodus from Jamaica, to London, where he recorded the rest of the album at Chris Blackwell’s (“the single person most responsible for turning the world on to reggae music.”) Island Studio.

It was 1976, two years after The Wailers split up, and Bob, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer had gone solo. It was also an election year, and political tensions had boiled over into violence across Jamaica. In this atmosphere, according to Daily Beast, Bob agreed to play one song at the Smile Jamaica Concert in Kingston, as his attempt “to present a message of apolitical unity and love, not one of agendas and divisions.”

Before Bob fully realized the concert was being politically hijacked by many sides (a loaded assertion these days, but in this case, true), while practicing for the show, he and his bandmates got brutally gunned down by one side or the other (if you want to get an idea of just how f***ed-up politics had gotten at this point in Jamaica, check out Marlon James fictional masterpiece, A Brief History of Seven Killings). Four people were shot in the attack, including Bob, in the arm and chest, and his wife and backup singer, Rita Marley, in the head. Two days later, Bob played that one song, as well as many more in a magical 90-minute set, powered by the strength of Jah almighty.

It’s a transcendent performance, to be sure, and part of the lore that makes Bob more of a deity than a musician at this point. But none of that could have been achieved without Bob’s next move: Exodus. Realizing Jamaica had become toxic and dangerous, Bob moved the just-gelling new band – including the incredible I-Threes (Bob’s three little backing birds, Rita, Marcia Griffiths, and Judy Mowatt) and brand-new stud guitarist, Junior Marvin – and he got them crazy bandmates out of town, first to Nassau, and then on to London.

With Exodus, Marley somehow overcame the pain of being forced from his homeland, which had been run into poverty, violence, and hatred by 400 years of colonialism and its aftermath. But he didn’t forget it, as the first half of the album – “Natural Mystic,” “So Much Things to Say,” “Guiltiness,” “The Heathen,” and “Exodus” – so poetically informs, in a way that even the best books could never do. You feel Bob’s pain. You feel humanity’s pain. You know, deep within, that Bob’s right. That the struggle is and always has been real, and if you really open your ears and soul, that righteousness is on the side of the people.

And then you listen to the hit and love-song filled Side 2 – “Jamming,” “Waiting in Vain,” “Turn Your Lights Down Low” “Three Little Birds” and “One Love/People Get Ready” – and you realize that there’s a way out of all this oppression and hate: love. Bob feels love so hard you feel impregnated by it. Indeed, Bob’s love overcoming all that pain that makes his music truly soar. To be sure, no artist speaks more divinely to me than he. I need only put it on, and my whole being finds strength and calm, in knowing, undoubtedly, that One Love surrounds us all.

(via Daily Beast)

(photo Pinterest)

The post Forty Years Later, Bob Marley & The Wailers’ Exodus Remains Music for the People appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“I can’t think of a lot of novels that you can put down for 10 years, pick right back up to read the final passages, and then burst out in tears like you just consumed the whole vital work for the first life-saving time. But that’s the power of not one work by the great German/Swiss writer Hermann Hesse, but at least two that I know of: Siddhartha and Steppenwolf.”

I rediscovered these vital pages just this week, whilst trying to think about what to write about for this here arts column. No new movies, shows, or albums really have me all that jazzed at the moment, and I do my best to only be stoked about the stuff I’m sharing here. So, as I do when I’m wandering and restless and not sure, I perused my book shelves. As soon as my eyes stuck on the “used/saved” sticker from my university bookstore (lifelong thanks to Prof. Markman), I knew I had to write about Steppenwolf, Hesse’s tenth novel, originally published in 1927 in Germany, and far more than just a dope band name. It tells the tale of pathetic recluse Harry Haller, who’s too smart for his own good, paralyzed by his rational, bourgeois upbringing, and in constant conflict with his more wolf-like nature, the madman within. The surreal ending inside the “for madmen only” Magic Theater unfolds into a cathartic moment that every possibly crazy artist must read.

But it’s impossible to bring up that seminal work without bringing up Hesse’ ninth novel, Siddhartha, published in 1922 in Germany, brought to our language in 1951, and evolved into a full-on hippie manifesto by the ‘60s. It tells the story of a young man named Siddhartha, who in his quest for self-discovery, may just become everyone and everything. It’s far more grounded than that, as far as the simple tale unfolds, but at the end, you realize that Siddhartha’s not the only one connected to The All.

But we’re ahead of ourselves here. Discuss either book without first discussing the man himself would be unwise. Hesse was the ultimate self-seeker, and in searching, he ultimately found that love is the connective tissue. There’s a reason the hippies loved him. But during his turbulent lifetime, Hesse saw things that would turn many away from such sentiment, yet he still managed to not just feel love and peace, but through psychotherapy and self-discovery, to intellectually show how to go about attaining it. As such, the winner of the 1946 Nobel Prize in Literature remains the most important author in my life, even if I haven’t read one of his books since grad school. Yet when you Google “top authors of all time,” Hermann’s face doesn’t appear. And when you go to Ranker’s list of Best Writers of All Time, you have to scroll all the way down to #57 to get a glimpse of Hesse. And that’s just wrong.

Of course, you don’t win a Nobel Prize in Literature for two great books. Before going back to The All at the ripe old age of 85, Hesse delivered many more inspiring words, including the other two of his novels I’ve read, Demian and Narcissus and Goldmund, which are both revelatory and transportive stories of spirited self-discovery in the face of annihilation. But taken together, the one-two gut/mind/soul punch of Siddhartha and Steppenwolf, gracefully connecting Western culture, Jungian individuation, and Eastern Mysticism, lays a path for which the lost may follow, a trail that meanders along a well-traveled, well loved, and well-lived life, and so on into the next one.

The post In the Summer Doldrums, Revisit Nobel Prize Winner Hermann Hesse appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“In 2002, a mysterious plague wiped out the more brutish half of the mammalian population, leaving the females facing the prospects of being the last generation of life on Earth. And leaving Yorick, who had been previously oblivious to the world’s pressing needs, hugely responsible for helping to keep it populated post apocalypse.”

Y: The Last Man tells the story of Yorick Brown, the owner of the last human Y chromosome on Earth. He also owns Ampersand, a pet Capuchin monkey (the organ grinding kind) who is the only other male mammal left on the planet. In 2002, a mysterious plague wiped out the more brutish half of the mammalian population, leaving the females facing the prospects of being the last generation of life on Earth. And leaving Yorick, who had been previously oblivious to the world’s pressing needs, hugely responsible for helping to keep it populated post apocalypse.

But not everyone wants Yorkic to succeed in restoring that old misogynistic way of life, particularly the Daughters of the Amazon, who are militantly against it. Actually, Yorick, one of the most likeable characters you’ll ever meet in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, isn’t exactly up to the task of repopulating the planet either, at least not by mass doinking (which is likely the way most men would handle the situation). No, Yorick’s fiancé-to-be Beth is still presumably alive studying Aboriginals in the Outback Down Under, and the last man on Earth is remaining true to her. And in this world of survivors, all of them women, Yorick is seemingly the least tough of the lot. Those are the types of ironies that Eisner and Hugo Award winning Vaughn (Ex Machina, Runaways, Saga) peppers throughout the always-moving narrative.

So Yorick is an unlikely hero at best, who’s plunged into service as much by his circumstances as by his mother, a U.S. Congresswoman who commissions badass covert Agent 355 to protect her boy. Or perhaps Mom has other, more nefarious reasons as well? Either way, Yorick and 355 eventually track down Dr. Allison Mann, a geneticist who recently tried to clone herself, in order to recruit her to help cure the planet using Yorick and his monkey as genetic guinea pigs (since none of those exist any longer). Alas, her laboratory gets firebombed, possibly by the one-tittied Amazons (they cut one off to join the club) including Yorick’s own sister, Hero; or maybe the rogue commandos of the Israeli army did it; or the secret agents of the Culper Ring; or the fallen Culpers of the Sekauket Ring; or perhaps it was a ninja. I’m not going to spoil it for you, but it is a major plot point, that forces Yorick, 355, and Doc Mann to traverse the crumbling country in hopes of reaching Mann’s backup lab in San Francisco. And oh what a bitch of a time they have.

So yeah, we’re talking genre here. But if you’re not a comic book fan, a post-apocalypse fan, or even a sci-fi fan, don’t worry about it. This is just great storytelling, from whatever angle you’re reading it. Is it literature? At times, though Yorick’s perfect pop culture references and random facts spattered throughout help to keep us well out of over-seriousness. And the alluring often titillating art serves the story in a way that a novel never could. Indeed, throughout the first 40 or so issues of the 60-issue run (which has since been volumized twice), I’ve been more easily immersed in the story than any novel has ever made me. (And I’m pretty well read, and endowed with more imagination than sense.)

With Y: The Last Man, I’m immediately there, in the revelatory splendor of Vaughn’s vivid mind, on every action and emotion Pia-packed panel. I still have one more volume to go, and I’m craving this story so badly right now, it’s all I can do to finish up this paragraph and get back to reading it…

The post Don’t Be the Last to Read Brian K. Vaughn’s Y: The Last Man appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

But Dunkirk is a war movie, and an epic one at that about the miraculous evacuation of the British Army off the beaches of the French port town of Dunkirk, after the Nazis stormed France and the Low Countries in the early, dismal days of WWII. And I bloody hate war movies.

Why? Well, there’s a few main reasons. First and foremost, they always make me feel so much less heroic, which Dunkirk also excels in. Nolan sets his unsteady, take-you-into-action camera on three main storylines: by land, by air, and by sea — each replete with heroes of the highest might. There’s the pilot (Tom Hardy) whose gas gage becomes a ticking clock to ramp up the plenty-high-already stakes, but that doesn’t stop him from bearing down on German bombers in some of the best dogfighting footage since Mav.

“But the biggest reason I hate war films, and one that Dunkirk nails, is they just make me feel so damn sad about the nature of man. How the hell could my fellow man allow things to get so out of hand? Though Dunkirk is visually stunning and, continuity issues aside, a finely crafted film, I found it impossible to stay in the story without thinking about how such death and destruction got started in the first place.”

Then there’s the civilian boat captain (Mark Rylance) and his two boys, who set sail across the channel along with an armada of fellow non-military vessels, hulls full of life vests for the boys left stranded on the beach of France, with German guns and Luftwaffe planes all around. And finally, there’s the men on the beach, both the grunts and the officers, trying to stay alive and help others live throughout a desperate situation. So yeah, heroes all around, except for this one, of course, sitting in the theater thinking of things nitpick about.

But Dunkirk doesn’t just hit that hated war movie trope, it also ticks the haunting-my-nightmares box, too. Have you ever dreamed of drowning to death? How ‘bout burning to death? How about having to choose as you’re beneath the burning sea? Yeah, Dunkirk is that kind of terrifying. But, thankfully not nearly as gory as many war films, which is one the biggest issues I usually have with them. All. That. Blood. Yeah, I get it, war is hell, and you’re going for veracity. But we’re talking about me here, and I’m a pussy. Fortunately, though Dunkirk goes a long way towards making me feel like I’m doing nothing with my life, at least it generally doesn’t make me feel queasy while doing so.

But the biggest reason I hate war films, and one that Dunkirk nails, is they just make me feel so damn sad about the nature of man. How the hell could my fellow man allow things to get so out of hand? Though Dunkirk is visually stunning and, continuity issues aside, a finely crafted film, I found it impossible to stay in the story without thinking about how such death and destruction got started in the first place. Sure, Hitler took death and destruction to new lows, but he was very much a product of the world that made him. Throughout Europe’s history, and civilization’s really, it was just one people trying to eliminate another, rape their women, take their land, and enjoy the new view. What was Hitler doing differently? Other than using more vile means? The ends remained the same. And that’s just goddamned depressing, as Dunkirk thoroughly reminds me.

Even when you think about Churchill’s speech, which ends the film (but is also in the trailers, so I guess it can’t really be a spoiler), you get the sense that war will always just be: “We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender…”

Alas, Dunkirk gives no pretense of hope, except for maybe in the black and white, good guys vs bad sense of things. But though you might dread being reminded about the horrors of war as much as I do, I suppose a film like Dunkirk also helps you realize we’re duty bound to acknowledge such horrors exist. To shake us from our more enjoyable pop-culture distractions, and remind us that life is fragile, and never guaranteed. Still, as far as entertainment goes, I’ll take escapism every time.

The post Dunkirk: Death Everywhere and No Pretense of Hope appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Perhaps I didn’t have enough coffee, and was a little sleepy before heading to the theater for the epic conclusion of the Planet of the Apes reboot trilogy (nominally)—that started with the surprisingly great Rise of the Planet of the Apes directed by Rupert Wyatt, and was followed in gripping fashion by Matt Reeves’ Dawn of the Planet of the Apes. But I suspect that perhaps there’s more to it than just my tired eyes.

“Even having seen the last two Apes flicks, I was fairly confused early on as to where we were, and what was happening, and more importantly, why I should care – I mean aside from the fact that I’m an animal lover.”

Director Reeves is back for War, too, and there’s no doubt he’s at home in the incredibly realized world, which finds genetically enhanced genius ape leader, Caesar (motion-capture performance wizard, Andy Serkis), just trying to keep his clan safe and free from humans, and unable to do so because of Crazy Colonel Woody Harrelson’s angry army of ape haters. But I wonder if maybe Reeve’s familiarity, and his belief that others are familiar as well, is a detriment to the film as a standalone piece of entertainment.

Even having seen the last two Apes flicks, I was fairly confused early on as to where we were, and what was happening, and more importantly, why I should care – I mean aside from the fact that I’m an animal lover. Those problems could very well be cleared up if you’ve got an good understanding of the set-up already, but not if you’ve got a memory problem, as there is definitely some catching up to do. Not to mention the story itself is kind of a slow burn, so if your brain isn’t working quickly enough, it may just fall behind and never catchup. And further weighing down the eyelids are the many subtitles you get to read when the apes are talking to each other – perhaps a record amount for a summer movie.

Still, I’m pretty sure the tissue will connect for me a lot more solidly upon not just a second viewing of War, but also Dawn. And judging by what others have said, I’m willing to invest that time to see if their right. Upon doing so, I’m pretty sure that I’ll agree with the vast majority of Tomato graders that with this final Apes installment, Reeves and company have accomplished something rare in the world of blockbuster franchises: an overarching story that makes you think, a lot, about the nature of man, of beast, and what it means to truly be evolved.

In recent years, I’ve left many a comic book movie and sci-fi epic belittling the writers for so many gaping, obvious plot points, that are so often just glossed over with mega set-pieces. It’s the thing I most deride about modern blockbusters. So I guess here I’m complaining about the very same thing I’ve been hoping for: a thinking man’s action movie. Just in this case, perhaps I could have used a bit more weight on the action side.

The post War for the Planet of the Apes Is an Endangered Species: A Smart Summer Action Movie appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

First of all, the driving, which is obviously important, at title level. Indeed, our main character is a driver, and, conveniently, one named Baby (Ansel Elgort of The Fault in Our Stars and Divergent). We first meet Baby while he’s parked outside a bank in a fire-engine red Subaru Impreza WRX STI, rocking out to “Bellbottoms” by The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, and waiting for Jon Bernthal, Jon Hamm and his lethal Latin lover Eiza González to finish robbing a bank (I’m just labeling the type casting, mind you).

“Simon & Garfunkel’s “Baby Driver” was always a throwaway track for me, far lighter than the two tracks surrounding it, and seemingly misplaced. No more though, as the film has given the song a whole new meaning. Baby is a badass — and now his namesake song is too.”

Carrying heavy sacks of cash, they make their way back into the WRX just as the cops arrive, which may seem like trouble, but is actually the perfect time for Baby to really show off his skillz. Dude can drive. And the stunts, choreographed to the tunes with music-video synchronicity, awesomely convey that.

Speaking of those tunes, , which are seemingly Baby’s lifeblood, if you pay close attention to the title, you can actually see it’s not just a cue about the driving, but also the deep cuts. Before it was a film title, “Baby Driver” was a Simon & Garfunkel song off their classic Bridge Over Troubled Water album; track 7 to be specific, tucked in between “The Boxer” and “The Only Living Boy in New York,” arguably my two favorite S&G songs. As such, “Baby Driver” was always a throwaway track for me, far lighter than the two tracks that surround it, and seemingly misplaced.

No more though, as the film has given the song a whole new meaning, because Baby is a badass, and now his namesake song is too. The other finely-combed songs I previously knew on the soundtrack all speak a dope new truth, as well. And better yet, there are a ton of new gems I’m just getting to know, opening up previously unlit caverns of classic rock, funk, and soul — aka, my jams.

As far as story goes, well, the jam could be spread a little thicker, but it’s tasty enough for summer movie fare. It centers on Baby, who besides being a savant driver, also seems to be registering somewhere on the Autism Spectrum, though perhaps not as much as his fellow outlaws think. Most of the story hinges on the Baby driving said outlaws (including a lot of Jamie Foxx, and a little of Flea) after Baby’s boss/father-figure Doc (Kevin Spacey) sets up another doomed heist.

Apparently Doc has become the go-to heist guy, but his plans seem to mostly rely on Baby outdriving the fuzz. Which is great for stunt work, but not exactly peachy for Baby’s long-term growth. Still, along with a very basic love story between the good-hearted Baby and the easy-to-fall-for Deborah (Lily James of Cinderella), who has two excellent namesake songs herself (which is about all we really know about her flat character), it’s enough to hang a summer actioner on.

It’s definitely money well spent, although I can’t honestly say you wouldn’t be better off just buying the soundtrack on vinyl.

The post Hop on Board, Cause Baby Driver Is a Damn Fun Ride appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Since I’m confident you’ll want a confidante afterwards, before we go on, you should probably go watch the movie. Because remaining spoiler free is going to make it really hard to discuss Joon-ho’s (Snowpiercer, The Host) gut-wrenching yet thoroughly entertaining action-adventure, semi-sci-fi drama. For as soon as I tell you who the titular character is, I’ve already spoiled a bit of a plot point. And we find that out some 10 minutes in, right after the film’s berserk, cartoonish prologue.

“As bonkers as Okja gets — and rest assured, it gets pretty bonkers — everything works because of the very real love between a small girl and her giant pig.”

We begin in 2007, with Tilda Swinton playing the first of her two roles, the braces-wearing, manically emotive Lucy Mirando, pandering to the cameras while giving her acceptance speech/sales-pitch after taking over leadership of the multi-national Mirando Corporation from her sinister twin sister, Nancy, who had taken it over from their publicly reviled grandfather. Lucy, with puppeteering guidance from Frank Dawson (Giancarlo Esposito, Breaking Bad’s Gus Fring), is trying to steer the family food business back to prosperity, while feeding the starving world at the same time.

But in order to do so, Mirando is betting big on genetically mutated giant pigs who will revolutionize the livestock industry. To give this new species a positive spin, and ostensibly lie to the public about what they’re eating, Lucy announces a superpig contest, emceed by world-famous zoologist Dr. Johnny Wilcox, as played by a never-creepier Jake Gyllenhaal (and that’s saying something). Mirando gives 26 of the best “bred” pigs to farmers and ranchers across the globe, and tells the world that the best superpig will be named in a pageant in New York City in 10 years. And the public is sold.

That’s just the fucking prologue. And it gets far crazier from there, as ten years later, we visit the mountains outside of Seoul, Korea, and are eventually introduced to the idyllic life of one of those pigs, Okja, and her young master, Mija (badass teenager Seo-Hyun Ahn), as they forage for fruit and fish along the splendid countryside. We’re soon introduced to Mija’s grandfather, as he barks over a loud speaker calling for his dinner. To get home more quickly, Mija decides to lead Okja along a short cut, which jeopardizes both girl and superpig. It’s here we fully realize just what an incredible creature Okja truly is. And what a special relationship she and Mija so beautifully share. That you never question the truth of either is what makes the film so magical.

As bonkers as Okja gets – with Mirando taking their superpig back, and Mija chasing Okja from the malls of Seoul to the city streets of New York to the deranged depths of Mirando’s labs and stock yards, all while extreme animal rightist’s led by Paul Dano (There Will Be Blood) challenge Mirando every step of the adventure-laden way – it all works because of the very real love between a small girl and her giant pig.

If you have a special relationship with your pet, you’ll have a hard time not welling up. And one scene in particular will likely illicit rage (that’s the scene that sent my wife off to bed, unable to go on.) Indeed, it’s a disturbing film, that sticks with you hard. I definitely hugged my dog and cat a little tighter last night. And today I have no taste for bacon, whatsoever. We’ll see what happens next time I’m offered a steak, but I do know this: because of Okja, I’ll have a hard time calling myself a true animal lover without changing my meat-eating ways.

The post Okja: A Film Powerful Enough to Make Bacon Unsavory appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“Those strong female characters are the heart and soul of GLOW, particularly Brie. But there’s a lot of really well-written and mostly well-acted characters here, none of whom have been seen on shows I’ve been watching, and I watch a shitload of television. “

You had me at wrestling, and then you added gorgeous ladies. Yet now that it’s available for binging, and I’ve had a chance to catch most of the first season, I’m still not a 100% sure it’s a great show. But like its squared-circle inspiration, GLOW is certainly entertaining enough to keep watching.

And there are great parts, no doubt, particularly Mark Maron as Sam Sylvia, the asshole director/writer tasked with bringing G.L.O.W. to life. Though it feels sexist of me to pick out the only main dude in the cast to extol, the famed podcaster, semi-failed comedian has a complete lockdown on the tone, and every scene he’s in makes for a far more comedic situation. Besides, as the white/Jewish writer type who believes in story above all, Maron’s character is the easiest for me to identify with him. Which I suppose ought to be celebrated, since identification is a big reason why the show is being critically applauded, albeit mostly for all the underrepresented female types it gives voice to.

Those strong female characters are the heart and soul of GLOW, particularly Brie. But there’s a lot of really well-written and mostly well-acted characters here, none of whom have been seen on shows I’ve been watching, and I watch a shitload of television. And the characters aren’t just unique because they’re women, but also bi-racial, bi-sexual, and, in one case, bi-animal. Granted, the two main leads are white — Brie, and Betty Gilpin, who plays former soap star Debbie Eagan, the all-American blonde who would look right at home on my middle-school wall right next to Heather Thomas – but they’re also strong, emotionally raw, and motivated by much more than what Maron wants.

Interestingly, the show makes good use of the stereotypes that most of these female characters would traditionally be typecast as. As such, it’s also a scathing, unapologetic look at Hollywood’s typecasting machine. And a subversive one at that. With that knowing, wide-eyed look at Hollywood’s historically crappy treatment of women and minorities, it’s impossible to watch the show without a very feminine perspective, and a political one at that.

While that’s great, and we should all be open-minded and hear numerous voices, all of whom should be equally represented, and get equal pay, it’s not exactly what I want to watch. But Sylvia and the show’s female creators, Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch, get that — so there’s plenty of ’80s and wrestling fun, as well. As Sam tells a potential G.L.O.W. investor during the third episode: “It’s deeper than that really, they’re going to be wrestling with their own female stereotypes, metaphorically, and I think that’s something that’s really gonna resonate with female audiences. And guys, guys, let’s be honest, they’ll watch it cause it’s f***ing hot.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZqDO6cTYVY

The post GLOW Isn’t Just a Showcase for Underrepresented Females, It’s Also Hot appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

“I didn’t just like the book, I loved it. It’s one of those rare novels that slowly draws you into a very peculiar point of view – in this case the great Arturo Bandini’s – until you’re so wrapped up that the sparse and essential words sweep you up in the end, and hold you aloft for the final passages, as the whole cosmic point poetically unfolds into the ephemeral bliss of higher understanding.”

I’m also a Los Angeles guy; though I’ve lived here for 15 or so years, I only just came to realize as much upon moving back from Washington. See, I grew up in Denver, and when I first moved to L.A., I got homesick for the Colorado Rockies. But when I moved to Washington, I got homesick for Playa del Rey, my gritty little beach town within Los Angeles County, where I am now happily planted. And it finally feels like home.

With such a legacy, it’s no wonder why I’m embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of John Fante, a celebrated American writer who grew up in Denver, and went on to become the quintessential L.A. novelist, before Charles Bukowski could make such a claim. In fact, when Bukowski discovered Fante at the L.A. Public Library, it was like finding “gold in the city dump,” as he writes in the introduction of Harper Perennial ‘s Modern Classics edition of Ask the Dust. Bukowski was so taken with Fante’s poetic yet real style that Fante became his main literary influence. Yet I had still not heard of such a legend as Fante until a few weeks ago, when, just because he thought I’d like it, my friend Russell with the biggest smile on the beach, handed me a copy of Ask the Dust — a short, perfect novel widely regarded as an American classic, and one so popular as to have inspired a Hollywood version starring Colin Farrell and Salma Hayek.

I don’t know what part of me gives off the Fante feels, except that I love words and one of the book’s main characters is named Camilla, which also happens to be my wife’s name. Regardless, Russell was dead on, except that I didn’t just like the book, I loved it. It’s one of those rare novels that slowly draws you into a very peculiar point of view – in this case the great Arturo Bandini’s – until you’re so wrapped up that the sparse and essential words sweep you up in the end, and hold you aloft for the final passages, as the whole cosmic point poetically unfolds into the ephemeral bliss of higher understanding. That is the power of Fante’s words, written in 1939 about life in Depression-era L.A., and they still resonate across the skyscrapers of downtown.

At base value, the book is about a young Italian-American, Bandini, who left his family in Colorado to become a writer in L.A. We basically move in with him, into his tiny rented motel room, with his outlandish neighbors, none of whom ever seem to have any money, least of all Arturo. And then we meet Camilla, the exotic waitress at the corner bar, and Arturo is forever ruined. Though a mere synopsis can’t do it justice, one written by the author himself certainly lends some poetry to the effort. From the same edition, before having completed Ask the Dust, here’s what Fante told his editor about what to expect:

“New book will be called ‘Ask the Dust on the Road,’ and the story is in a Los Angeles background (no Hollywood stuff). Story of a girl I once loved who loved someone else, who in turn despised her. Strange story of a beautiful Mexican girl who somehow didn’t fit into modern life, took marijuana, lost her mind, and…”

Sorry, the last part there is a bit of a spoiler, and I wouldn’t want to ruin one of the truly great endings in literature, even at the expense of butchering the esteemed author’s own words. And you know how I feel about words. In the end, they’re what I love most about Arturo, and possibly Fante himself; indeed, starving Arturo’s belief in his words never waver. And regardless of the insanity of his unnatural world-order crumbling around him, he knows, deep inside, that his own words will save him.

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Not convinced by all those adverbs and the corny extended metaphor? I get it, taking on a new show is a commitment, and not something to be taken lightly, particularly if you’re the type who doesn’t give up on a show easily. If you even kind of like it (which you positively will!), you could very easily be in for some 50 hours of programming ahead, if you follow through to the end of this season, the show’s declared last. That’s a lot of time spent with clones. But these clones are all played by last year’s insanely deserving Emmy winner, Tatiana Maslany.

Maslany’s performance is nothing short of astonishing. You’ll think you’re watching a whole troupe of gifted actresses. Flawlessly, ever convincingly, she completely differentiates the myriad roles, beginning with the first scene of the series, where she plays both Sarah Manning and Beth Childs, face to face on a train platform staring into the sameness of each other’s eyes — a tense moment of surprised recognition, which ends with Beth jumping in front of an oncoming train. A hustler with a host of bad guys on her trail, Sarah sees the jumper’s purse, snatches it up, and bolts.

And so we get the first two characters Maslany becomes. But there are many more, all with their own distinct identity. According to Wikipedia, throughout the course of the series, Maslany also plays fellow clones Cosima Niehaus (the dreadlocked, lesbian, genius gene scientist), Alison Hendrix (the headbanded, high-strung soccer mom), Helena (the psycho sister who gets her own freaky theme music), Rachel Duncan, Krystal Goderitch, Veera “M.K.” Suominen, Katja Obinger, Janika Zingler, Aryanna Giordano, Danielle Fournier, Jennifer Fitzsimmons, and Tony Sawicki (who identifies as male). And they’re all totally different people. You don’t doubt it for a second. How the hell she didn’t win the Emmy every season merely comes down to the fact that not enough voters saw the show initially. Had they, it would have been impossible to vote otherwise.

The show is much more than just Tatiana’s tour deforce, though. The science, which seemingly could (…may… likely does) exist without too much imagination, is endlessly fascinating, though I do find myself most lost at those points. And that’s saying something too, because of how complex the detective story is, which centers around Sarah — one of the smartest, toughest, coolest female characters on television — taking on Beth’s cop identity to figure out why her fellow Clone Club members are being hunted, as well as how they came to be in the first place.

That initial mystery gets solved quite satisfyingly in season 1, for the most part. But I’m well into season two now, and we’re just scratching the surface of who made these clones, why and how they did it. And though there’s perhaps a little bit more story fat that needs trimming at this point, my interest is so thoroughly piqued, I’m pretty sure that 50 hours is going to be gone soon enough. Wanna hop onboard so we can talk about it?

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I guess that feeling started last Sunday, at band practice, where me and me mates were putting together our set list for the next gig (which we have not yet booked). We have a big band, with a lot of … unique personalities and different tastes in music, and most our fights happen while selecting new tunes. So yeah, consensus is rarely reached. But when one of our singers suggested Auerbach’s first single from the new album, “Shine on Me,” by the end of the video he threw on, we were 100% sold – a band united. And we rocked the simple tune on the first try, mostly.  I couldn’t figure out the progression on the chorus, but everyone else sounded great!

Perhaps the reason we all fell so had and immediately for the song is because of that recognizable, timeless quality that the Black Keys also possess. And maybe because the video is so damn captivating. Just the same, with the sweetest of harmonies and a simple melody, it’s like we already knew the song. That’s not as easy as it sounds, either. Auerbach’s a music-and-recording-aphile who knows his place in musical history, and is well aware of the shoulders upon which he stands.

But for this album, Auerbach also got to stand shoulder to shoulder with some of those giants, as Nashville legends John Prine, Duane Eddy, Jerry Douglas, Pat McLaughlin, and Bobby Wood and Gene Chrisman of the Memphis Boys all contributed to the 200+ songs recorded for the album at Auerbach’s Easy Eye Studios. 200. And they wrote more than that, those are just the recorded ones! Here’s what Auerbach told People about the experience:

“The thing is, keep in mind, every one of these musicians on this record probably played on some of your favorite records. So it doesn’t sound like those records, it sounds like those guys who invented those sounds. It’s a really important distinction to make, and I have to remind myself of that all the time that I’m hanging around with the masters. These are the guys we modeled things after.”

Auerbach obviously relished the experience. And you can hear it all over “Waiting on a Song.” The more I listen, the more I hear, the more I like. Maybe it’s just my latest thing, and I’ll move on to another album of the week, but just I don’t see how something this classic can ever get old. I think this one’s here to stay, folks. Give it a listen below, and let me know if I’m right in suspecting it’s an instant classic.

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