Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy: The Problem With Dramatic Comic Book Movies

We all know Batman.  We all know Chris Nolan.  And we’ve all seen his Dark Knight trilogy.  It kicked off in 2005 with Batman Begins, a fresh reboot of the popular character after he had languished for eight years in the great silence left by the utterly baffling 1997 production from Joel Schumacher, Batman and RobinBegins offered viewers a new, refreshing, more realistic take on the Batman origin story, featuring characters more grounded in a conceivable and relatable reality, an emphasis on cutting-edge technology, and a steady directorial hand in drama.  Drawing from the grittier, noir-inspired Year One and Long Halloween, it functioned as an ode to the modern world of its time, tackling issues of vigilantism, corruption, and self-deception, in addition to being an thrilling romp through the familiar tale of Batman’s canonical formation.

But therein lies the rub.  Exactly how serious is the trilogy?  Does its content justify its tone, or vice-versa?  How much should the audience actually suspend its disbelief when watching it? Continue reading “Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy: The Problem With Dramatic Comic Book Movies”

Why Are Writers Usually Leftists?

I’m not talking about your genre-fiction trash or your young adult garbage, although most of them are likely leftists as well.  I’m referring to the ever slimming margin of writers who write this ‘literary fiction’ stuff, the neatly categorized title for works that show a dimension of human spirit and effort otherwise alien to the annals of science fiction/fantasy pulps, mystery-thriller eye candy, or harlequin romance pornography.  I’m talking about the crap that’s going to be studied in fifty years’ time. Continue reading “Why Are Writers Usually Leftists?”

Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.

The show is fucking over, folks. It’s been more than a day. He is not coming back and he is gone forever and it’s time that we sucked up to the facts: we will never be David Bowie and we will never see another one again. Life, as we know it, is over (or something like it) so take off your tights and brush your hair and it’s time to wear that button-down shirt unironically and retire to your desk like a normal, antedelusional workperson you know you were supposed to be: that square peg in the circular hole that goes home to his shitty apartment in the middle of some bustling metropolis someplace where fun is around every corner before it disappears by the time you get there, or the basement of your parents’ house because despite being twenty-six and beginning to gray in the hair, the world just isn’t what it used to be back when you could hitchhike across the USA like Kerouac or the King; it’s frightening out there and it’s that sort of gloom that hollowed out his voice into the cathedral that he squeezed into strangulated higher tones and croons—rock isn’t something to play with, boy; your hair isn’t orange enough. Continue reading “Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.”

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