Over the next few weeks, I will be trying something a little new. I'm going to be reviewing some of my favorite albums of 2011, with the hope of record reviews becoming a regular feature here. They won't be in any particular order, just what I happened to find enjoyable over the past 11+ months.
Kiss Each Other Clean - Iron & Wine
Iron & Wine is a band that has become some kind of bizarro guilty pleasure for me. Not an actual guilty pleasure, as I make no apologies for liking them (and by "them" I really mean singer-songwriter Samuel Beam). What I mean is that they are a band that consistently makes music I enjoy and sometimes love, and yet seems to always be less than loved by critics, and the most positive reaction I get from people (assuming they've heard the music) is "eh", or something similar. It's hard to imagine Kiss Each Other Clean changing that too much (the album did peak at no.2 on the Billboard Chart, yet I don't know anyone who has listened to it, unless through myself), but I suppose that's the way it goes.
Over their first three albums, Iron & Wine have grown from simple, quiet beginnings of The Creek Drank the Cradle and developed into the more elaborate and nuanced, but still delicate sound of their most recent, The Shepherd's Dog. On Kiss Each Other Clean, Beam trades some of the backwoods charm of The Shepherd's Dog for a horn section, a few synthesizers, and what are possibly some of the most accessible songs he's written yet. Album opener Walking Far From Home sounds like it was written for the next album from The Postal Service, while Tree By The River is the kind of song young girls would listen to if they weren't listening to Jason Mraz or Boz Scaggs or whatever it is the kids listen to these days.
While it's a bit up and down through the first few tracks, it really takes off on the back half. Rabbit Will Run is one of the best songs of the year. A bass-and-drum run through the Everglades of Beam's Florida home and a lyrical story loaded with metaphors that cover almost every aspect of human existence, without feeling heavy-handed or forced. Big Burned Hand is a fuzzed-out trip into the back of a '72 Vista Cruiser, complete with hanging dice and the smell of cheap weed.
Kiss Each Other Clean has a way of guiding you into the most comfortable chair you can find, ready to just let the music pour over you. Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me does just that. The final 4 of its 7 minutes are spent in repetitive waves, Beam imploring us to experience everything life has to offer, good and bad.
While at times it seems as if he is still getting comfortable with his new instrumentation and arrangements, the final product is worth the effort. Four albums in to his career as Iron & Wine, it will be interesting to see if he tries to find a happy medium between his quiet beginnings and where he stands now, or if he will continue to expand his sound. With Kiss Each Other Clean, Iron & Wine have made sure that I'll be listening to find out.
Grade: 87
Key Tracks: Rabbit Will Run, Big Burned Hand
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
End is the Beginning is the End
This post contains spoilers for Groundhog Day, Memento, Inception, Fight Club, The Dark Knight, and No Country for Old Men. You've been warned.
I'm holding out hope to one day see a sequel to Groundhog Day. I don't want to watch a movie that is essentially a cheap knockoff with B-list actors and a reworked plot. I also don't want to see a cash-grab by the original actors with a reworked plot. And I definitely don't want to see this.
If you will, for a moment, imagine this. 4 years have passed since the events of the film. Phil Connors (Bill Murray) is alone and jobless. After trying to tell Rita (Andie MacDowell) what really happened to him on that fateful Groundhog Day, she thinks he's crazy (or a liar, or both) and leaves. Phil starts to tell others about his ordeal, hoping for some kind of validation, but slowly just pushes his friends away and loses his job. Now, unemployed and alone, Phil is left to piece together the shattered remains of his life.
This is the movie I want to see.
Now, I know that film is probably too dark to ever get made, and would need some tweaking to ever see theaters. Maybe he goes to Japan and meets Black Widow. I'm not opposed to this sequel having a happy ending, provided it felt believable (at least in the universe the original movie created, where someone can live the same day over while learning life lessons), and it's the believability that matters to me.
I find that many of my favorite movies are ones that, even if they are successful or well-received (not always the same thing), tend to leave a lot of people lost or upset. In my mind, one of the best movies to come out in the past ten years is No Country for Old Men, a film that most people I talk to claim to either hate or not understand (It is worth noting that it won Best Picture, which would indicate some level of success and critical reception, but I remember it being very hard to find overly supportive reviews when it came out). Almost all of the problems people had with it stemmed from the ending. Lewellyn Moss, the man you spend most of the movie following, dies in a gunfight the audience never sees, and Anton Chigurh (an all-time great villain, with even greater hair) escapes into the sunset, albeit with the Joe Theismann of arm injuries. The movie ends with professional crotchety-old-man Tommy Lee Jones telling his wife about the dreams he had. It's not exactly dripping with closure, but that's what I love about it. It's closer to real life than any movie with a clear-cut ending.
(For anyone reading this who didn't like the movie, try watching it while thinking of it as a story about Tommy Lee Jones dealing with a changing world and his coming retirement.)
Not always, but more often than not, I don't want movies to be an exercise in escapism. This isn't a knock on people who seek that, or the films that they find it in, and there are times when that's exactly what I want. But, in addition to the Coen brothers, many of my favorite directors are ones who make films that depict a less polished view of life, and often have endings that can be taken more than one way, not all of them happy. Christopher Nolan has come close to perfecting the dichotomic ending. Inception either has a perfectly happy conclusion, or Leonardo DiCaprio has trapped himself in his own delusional dream world. Guy Pierce has exacted revenge for the murder of his wife, or needlessly killed multiple innocent men while tricking himself into believing he isn't the one who took her life, depending on how you want to view Memento. Even his characters aren't safe from this split-view of the world. By the end of The Dark Knight, Batman is more heroic than Gotham City can know, accepting the weight of a crime he didn't commit.
I realize that talking about the importance of believability, and then following that with a discussion of those particular movies seems a little contradictory, but not as much as you might think. If a director builds his universe well enough, the actions are never questioned. This is why jumping into dreams to plant ideas seems like a completely reasonable idea. What needs to be believable, for me, is how the characters act in that universe. If you told your friend that you aren't able to stop yourself from thinking about your wife committing suicide because of an idea you planted in her mind while in a decades long dream, causing her to to appear in dreams you enter while trying to destroy your plans, that friend would stop talking to you immediately. But in the world of Inception, this feels exactly like something that would happen in that particular situation.
If someone asks me my favorite movie, I give them a list of all possible candidates, and Fight Club is always near the top of that list. Fight Club was a box-office failure and critically panned, but has grown into a rather well respected film. Part of it's initial failure was the marketing for the film, in that no one knew what they were going to see. It was a movie about fighting, or perhaps soap. It might have been a film to see how much blood, dirt, and weird clothing it would take to make women turn on Brad Pitt. Now, it's seen as a film about rejecting consumer culture in a society that has no place in history (this message could have been lost post-9/11, and I imagine it changes how people react to the line about being a generation with no great war, but I wonder how many people feel their lives have been defined by the war on terrorism). It's a film (and a wonderful novel before that) about the emptiness modern life can have, and the dangers of letting that push us too far, and of unchecked rebellion against that life. Creating a completely new person that you slowly become friends with before trying to bring down contemporary society is probably not something any of us would ever do. But what if it did? What if life pushed you to the point that your mind created another person that allowed you to fight back against that push? How different would you be than Jack (Ed Norton)? Wouldn't you embrace this new friend who helped you let go of the possessions you lost, then start to retreat from when you realized he was the one who destroyed and stole those possesions? Would you be any less maniacal when you discovered that this person was actually you when you thought you were sleeping?
Real life doesn't happen in acts. Relationships end, loved ones die, friends move away, but none of that happens in a vacuum. These events impact each other, and the effects last long after the actual moments in which they occurred. Movies end and leave you with a feeling that all is right in the world, or at least the world you've been watching for the last two hours. This is my problem with most films, and with one like Groundhog Day (I do like Groundhog Day, a lot, but I can't help but think about these things when I watch most movies, and this is no exception).
I know people get different things from art, and movies are no different. So maybe it's just me, but I want to be able to find myself somewhere in the characters of the film. I have a hard time letting things go, major events last longer in my mind, drifting into one another, and the past ends up feeling like a bigger part of the present than it actually is. I might be in the minority, but I don't think I am. Even if some may not think about it as much as others, or to the borderline obsessive levels that I think about it, we are all shaped by our past.
I know a film can't go on forever. At some point, all movies have to end, I just want more that acknowledge that the story doesn't.
I'm holding out hope to one day see a sequel to Groundhog Day. I don't want to watch a movie that is essentially a cheap knockoff with B-list actors and a reworked plot. I also don't want to see a cash-grab by the original actors with a reworked plot. And I definitely don't want to see this.
If you will, for a moment, imagine this. 4 years have passed since the events of the film. Phil Connors (Bill Murray) is alone and jobless. After trying to tell Rita (Andie MacDowell) what really happened to him on that fateful Groundhog Day, she thinks he's crazy (or a liar, or both) and leaves. Phil starts to tell others about his ordeal, hoping for some kind of validation, but slowly just pushes his friends away and loses his job. Now, unemployed and alone, Phil is left to piece together the shattered remains of his life.
This is the movie I want to see.
Now, I know that film is probably too dark to ever get made, and would need some tweaking to ever see theaters. Maybe he goes to Japan and meets Black Widow. I'm not opposed to this sequel having a happy ending, provided it felt believable (at least in the universe the original movie created, where someone can live the same day over while learning life lessons), and it's the believability that matters to me.
I find that many of my favorite movies are ones that, even if they are successful or well-received (not always the same thing), tend to leave a lot of people lost or upset. In my mind, one of the best movies to come out in the past ten years is No Country for Old Men, a film that most people I talk to claim to either hate or not understand (It is worth noting that it won Best Picture, which would indicate some level of success and critical reception, but I remember it being very hard to find overly supportive reviews when it came out). Almost all of the problems people had with it stemmed from the ending. Lewellyn Moss, the man you spend most of the movie following, dies in a gunfight the audience never sees, and Anton Chigurh (an all-time great villain, with even greater hair) escapes into the sunset, albeit with the Joe Theismann of arm injuries. The movie ends with professional crotchety-old-man Tommy Lee Jones telling his wife about the dreams he had. It's not exactly dripping with closure, but that's what I love about it. It's closer to real life than any movie with a clear-cut ending.
(For anyone reading this who didn't like the movie, try watching it while thinking of it as a story about Tommy Lee Jones dealing with a changing world and his coming retirement.)
Not always, but more often than not, I don't want movies to be an exercise in escapism. This isn't a knock on people who seek that, or the films that they find it in, and there are times when that's exactly what I want. But, in addition to the Coen brothers, many of my favorite directors are ones who make films that depict a less polished view of life, and often have endings that can be taken more than one way, not all of them happy. Christopher Nolan has come close to perfecting the dichotomic ending. Inception either has a perfectly happy conclusion, or Leonardo DiCaprio has trapped himself in his own delusional dream world. Guy Pierce has exacted revenge for the murder of his wife, or needlessly killed multiple innocent men while tricking himself into believing he isn't the one who took her life, depending on how you want to view Memento. Even his characters aren't safe from this split-view of the world. By the end of The Dark Knight, Batman is more heroic than Gotham City can know, accepting the weight of a crime he didn't commit.
I realize that talking about the importance of believability, and then following that with a discussion of those particular movies seems a little contradictory, but not as much as you might think. If a director builds his universe well enough, the actions are never questioned. This is why jumping into dreams to plant ideas seems like a completely reasonable idea. What needs to be believable, for me, is how the characters act in that universe. If you told your friend that you aren't able to stop yourself from thinking about your wife committing suicide because of an idea you planted in her mind while in a decades long dream, causing her to to appear in dreams you enter while trying to destroy your plans, that friend would stop talking to you immediately. But in the world of Inception, this feels exactly like something that would happen in that particular situation.
If someone asks me my favorite movie, I give them a list of all possible candidates, and Fight Club is always near the top of that list. Fight Club was a box-office failure and critically panned, but has grown into a rather well respected film. Part of it's initial failure was the marketing for the film, in that no one knew what they were going to see. It was a movie about fighting, or perhaps soap. It might have been a film to see how much blood, dirt, and weird clothing it would take to make women turn on Brad Pitt. Now, it's seen as a film about rejecting consumer culture in a society that has no place in history (this message could have been lost post-9/11, and I imagine it changes how people react to the line about being a generation with no great war, but I wonder how many people feel their lives have been defined by the war on terrorism). It's a film (and a wonderful novel before that) about the emptiness modern life can have, and the dangers of letting that push us too far, and of unchecked rebellion against that life. Creating a completely new person that you slowly become friends with before trying to bring down contemporary society is probably not something any of us would ever do. But what if it did? What if life pushed you to the point that your mind created another person that allowed you to fight back against that push? How different would you be than Jack (Ed Norton)? Wouldn't you embrace this new friend who helped you let go of the possessions you lost, then start to retreat from when you realized he was the one who destroyed and stole those possesions? Would you be any less maniacal when you discovered that this person was actually you when you thought you were sleeping?
Real life doesn't happen in acts. Relationships end, loved ones die, friends move away, but none of that happens in a vacuum. These events impact each other, and the effects last long after the actual moments in which they occurred. Movies end and leave you with a feeling that all is right in the world, or at least the world you've been watching for the last two hours. This is my problem with most films, and with one like Groundhog Day (I do like Groundhog Day, a lot, but I can't help but think about these things when I watch most movies, and this is no exception).
I know people get different things from art, and movies are no different. So maybe it's just me, but I want to be able to find myself somewhere in the characters of the film. I have a hard time letting things go, major events last longer in my mind, drifting into one another, and the past ends up feeling like a bigger part of the present than it actually is. I might be in the minority, but I don't think I am. Even if some may not think about it as much as others, or to the borderline obsessive levels that I think about it, we are all shaped by our past.
I know a film can't go on forever. At some point, all movies have to end, I just want more that acknowledge that the story doesn't.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Remembering What You Didn't Forget
I have watched very little footage of Joe Frazier. I know that he was one of the greatest boxers of all time, but only because it's something I generally know as sports fan, not because of any exhaustive research or personal opinions. He was the first man to defeat Ali, but I remember them more in their later years, taking jabs at each other through the press. My most vivid memory of him in the ring is when he was introduced at the start of the first Rocky-Creed fight. This is why it might seem weird when I tell you that Joe Frazier is my favorite boxer of all time, and that his passing left me saddened and feeling somehow different.
The thing that I will remember most about him was his nickname, Smokin' Joe Frazier. When I was about 5 years old, I heard his introduction to the ring, and I honestly don't remember anything else about that moment. Logically, I'm assuming my father was watching some sort of boxing match that was showing highlights of general boxing history or specifically from Joe Frazier's career. It didn't matter. "Smokin' Joe Frazier" latched itself into my still developing mind, and just like that I was shouting it in every room of my house daily. When I saw pictures or him wearing green (my favorite color) trunks in The Fight of the Century, it was settled then and there. No boxer would ever dethrone Joe as the greatest in my mind.
I've followed boxing somewhat half-heartedly since I was a kid, watching Tyson demolish opponents who were never actually that good, before ruining his own career and eventually revealing that he was never that good of a boxer in the first place. The most exciting fight in my lifetime was seeing George Foreman, a man I knew for being a goofy, friendly guy with his own grill and starring in muffler commercials, suddenly remind everyone that he was once a brutal and punishing man while becoming the oldest champion the sport has ever seen. Since then, (and possibly before), the sport has been in decline, particularly in the heavyweight division. There has been a lack of true superstars, and the titleholders have mostly been whoever happened to be there at the time. (The exception right now, of course, is the ongoing non-fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao, a fight that would most likely shatter ratings records. You know, if it ever happened.) This, combined with the rise of UFC and mixed martial arts, has pushed boxing to the back of the national sports consciousness.
Even in my own quasi-disinterested sort of way, I've always preferred boxing to MMA. I know I'm wrong about this, and that any fan of MMA would shout at me for hours with the reasons I am wrong, but MMA fights lack any real excitement and technique to me. Sure, this guy trained with this master of whatever, and that guy lived with a guru in the art of that other thing, and one punches a bit more while the other kicks a bit more, but 9 times out of 10, they just end up rolling around on the mat trying to bend their opponent's limbs in ways they aren't supposed to until the other taps out. Boxing can be equally mindless, but there is something about it that can (but doesn't always) transcend that savage brutality. Sometimes, it's not about the training or the skill of the two boxers, but it's about their will, something that made the Ali-Frazier fights so incredible. It's about two men who want to destroy each other, knowing that they have to give everything they have to bring his opponent down, while dealing with the same coming back. It's the ultimate test of perseverance and strength, both mentally and physically.
I wish there were more boxers that could push the sport to those levels, but not just for that reason. I miss sitting with my father and grandfather, watching two men trying to punch there way through one another, and then talking about the grace and intricacy of such an act. I want to see two men bring the absolute best out of one another, which is really one of the greatest things sports can allow us to witness. I suspect over the next couple of days, I'll watch clips of Joe Frazier's fights, and I'll sit through the entire third battle with Ali, and even though I'll know it's coming, I'll be crushed when Frazier's corner throws in the towel before the final round, his trainer realizing that Frazier couldn't see out of his eyes because his face was too swollen. And then I'll think about his green trunks, and his cool nickname, and I'll feel like I'm 5 years old again. And that will make me happy. And then I'll remember that he's gone.
The thing that I will remember most about him was his nickname, Smokin' Joe Frazier. When I was about 5 years old, I heard his introduction to the ring, and I honestly don't remember anything else about that moment. Logically, I'm assuming my father was watching some sort of boxing match that was showing highlights of general boxing history or specifically from Joe Frazier's career. It didn't matter. "Smokin' Joe Frazier" latched itself into my still developing mind, and just like that I was shouting it in every room of my house daily. When I saw pictures or him wearing green (my favorite color) trunks in The Fight of the Century, it was settled then and there. No boxer would ever dethrone Joe as the greatest in my mind.
I've followed boxing somewhat half-heartedly since I was a kid, watching Tyson demolish opponents who were never actually that good, before ruining his own career and eventually revealing that he was never that good of a boxer in the first place. The most exciting fight in my lifetime was seeing George Foreman, a man I knew for being a goofy, friendly guy with his own grill and starring in muffler commercials, suddenly remind everyone that he was once a brutal and punishing man while becoming the oldest champion the sport has ever seen. Since then, (and possibly before), the sport has been in decline, particularly in the heavyweight division. There has been a lack of true superstars, and the titleholders have mostly been whoever happened to be there at the time. (The exception right now, of course, is the ongoing non-fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao, a fight that would most likely shatter ratings records. You know, if it ever happened.) This, combined with the rise of UFC and mixed martial arts, has pushed boxing to the back of the national sports consciousness.
Even in my own quasi-disinterested sort of way, I've always preferred boxing to MMA. I know I'm wrong about this, and that any fan of MMA would shout at me for hours with the reasons I am wrong, but MMA fights lack any real excitement and technique to me. Sure, this guy trained with this master of whatever, and that guy lived with a guru in the art of that other thing, and one punches a bit more while the other kicks a bit more, but 9 times out of 10, they just end up rolling around on the mat trying to bend their opponent's limbs in ways they aren't supposed to until the other taps out. Boxing can be equally mindless, but there is something about it that can (but doesn't always) transcend that savage brutality. Sometimes, it's not about the training or the skill of the two boxers, but it's about their will, something that made the Ali-Frazier fights so incredible. It's about two men who want to destroy each other, knowing that they have to give everything they have to bring his opponent down, while dealing with the same coming back. It's the ultimate test of perseverance and strength, both mentally and physically.
I wish there were more boxers that could push the sport to those levels, but not just for that reason. I miss sitting with my father and grandfather, watching two men trying to punch there way through one another, and then talking about the grace and intricacy of such an act. I want to see two men bring the absolute best out of one another, which is really one of the greatest things sports can allow us to witness. I suspect over the next couple of days, I'll watch clips of Joe Frazier's fights, and I'll sit through the entire third battle with Ali, and even though I'll know it's coming, I'll be crushed when Frazier's corner throws in the towel before the final round, his trainer realizing that Frazier couldn't see out of his eyes because his face was too swollen. And then I'll think about his green trunks, and his cool nickname, and I'll feel like I'm 5 years old again. And that will make me happy. And then I'll remember that he's gone.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Hope for a Better Tomorrow
Some of you may have noticed (and some of you have even pointed it out) that when I write about something, I'm very often writing about something else as well. I tend to find a (somewhat) larger meaning behind whatever it is I happen to be writing about. This is not accidental. If I'm writing about something, I care about and feel it's interesting enough write about. If I care about, there is probably a deeper reasoning, even if I don't immediately understand what it is. Whether it's the state of television, John Lackey's histrionics (to be fair, I'm completely on his side about the recent events involving text messages and his personal life, but I wrote about him before all of that), or the coming technological revolution, writing helps (and forces) me to figure out those undiscovered connections. It's one of the reasons I enjoy writing as much as I do. I bring this up because this is not going to be one of those posts.
I love football. Sundays from September through early February are some of the best days of the year. I play in a flag football league that has given me the knees of someone significantly older, but I can't actually imagine the day when I'll decide I don't want to do it anymore. I'll watch almost any NFL game, and despite the fact that I will always talk about how inferior it is in any conversation, I tend to catch myself watching a handful of NCAA games each season as well.
As much as I love football, I love the Patriots more. I know there is a general criticism about people who love their team/s more than the given sport itself, and how that typically means those people don't really like whatever sport is in question, but I feel I've adequately explained myself here. It can ruin my whole day when they lose. I realize this is ridiculous. I understand that the outcome of one football game (or one football season, or all football seasons, etc...) has almost no actual impact on anything. That's fine. I'm still going to love football. And the Patriots.
Right now, the Patriots are making it difficult.
This past Sunday, Tom Brady completed 66.7 percent of his pass attempts, threw for 387 yards and 4 touchdowns. All fantastic numbers, except that with it he threw 4 interceptions. These were far from the only mistakes made by New England, and the defense has to take some of the blame for the 17 points they allowed after those interceptions. (Buffalo actually scored 24 points off the turnovers, but one of the interceptions was returned for a touchdown. Hard to pin that on the defense.) It was a bad day for the whole team, which happens from time to time. It was a bad day for Brady, which almost never happens.
Let's get one thing straight right now. Tom Brady is the best quarterback New England fans will ever see in their lifetime. There has been a seemingly endless debate about where Brady ranks among QBs all time, or even among his generation. (For the record, I still consider him to be the best of his generation. When given the weapons, he put up record-setting numbers that Manning only came close to, while also having the ability to come through when it mattered most. Say what you want about the Patriots recent playoff struggles, but Brady still has a 3-1 edge in Super Bowl rings. Brees is a great quarterback, but I don't think he's in the same class as Manning or Brady, and Aaron Rodgers needs to keep it up for a bit longer before I'm ready to really put him in this conversation. But that's just me.) Wherever you stand on Brady among the other greats, there has never been another New England quarterback who has been even close to this level, and the odds of seeing another player of his talent come along are astronomical. I've loved the Tom Brady era, knowing how special it is to watch one of the best ever lead your team.
Which is why Sunday's loss to the Bills is so upsetting. In terms of this season, it's not exactly the worst thing that could happen. It is a loss to a divisional opponent, and it puts New England a game behind Buffalo for first place in the division (and, technically, the conference and league). But it's only the third game of the season, and the teams play each other again. The discouraging thing is how they lost. They lost because Brady didn't have his best day, and this team wasn't good enough to pick him up. The offense still moved the ball well, when it was able to maintain possession, and scored points, but the defense couldn't come up with a stop when it needed one. If 31 points isn't enough to win a game, your defense isn't good enough. Again, it's one game, so maybe this is all a little bit of an over-reaction, but I'm afraid that it's not.
I was talking about this current Patriots team with a friend of mine before the game against Buffalo, and I told her that I felt like the offense looked to be good enough that it will cover for the defense most games, hopefully while the defense develops and comes together. Her response was, "sounds like a typical Patriots team to me." I was depressed by how accurate this statement was. When the Patriots were winning Super Bowls, they did it with a controlled offense and a defense that was always in the top-10 of points allowed. There are some who think the offense has become too much of the priority in recent seasons. That a high-octane offense can't win in the playoffs. Maybe, but I don't agree with that. Teams can win with that kind of offense, but they need the defense to go with it. Teams need to ability to stop their opponent, and at the very least, have the kind of second-gear or play-making ability to come up with a big stop when the game is on the line. The Patriots haven't had that for a while, with some pretty clear examples. (If you don't remember the '06 AFC Championship or the '07 Super Bowl, too bad, I'm not going to torture myself and anyone reading this more than I already have to.)
The NFL has become a passing league. This seems to be common knowledge. In 1991, teams threw for 199.1 yards per game (ypg). In 2010, that number has increased to 221.6 ypg. Through the first three weeks of this season, the league is on pace for an average of 245.5 ypg. In the past 4 full seasons, 2008 had the lowest average, with quarterbacks throwing for 211.3 ypg. In the 16 seasons prior to that stretch, only 3 of them had a higher average.
I love football. Sundays from September through early February are some of the best days of the year. I play in a flag football league that has given me the knees of someone significantly older, but I can't actually imagine the day when I'll decide I don't want to do it anymore. I'll watch almost any NFL game, and despite the fact that I will always talk about how inferior it is in any conversation, I tend to catch myself watching a handful of NCAA games each season as well.
As much as I love football, I love the Patriots more. I know there is a general criticism about people who love their team/s more than the given sport itself, and how that typically means those people don't really like whatever sport is in question, but I feel I've adequately explained myself here. It can ruin my whole day when they lose. I realize this is ridiculous. I understand that the outcome of one football game (or one football season, or all football seasons, etc...) has almost no actual impact on anything. That's fine. I'm still going to love football. And the Patriots.
Right now, the Patriots are making it difficult.
This past Sunday, Tom Brady completed 66.7 percent of his pass attempts, threw for 387 yards and 4 touchdowns. All fantastic numbers, except that with it he threw 4 interceptions. These were far from the only mistakes made by New England, and the defense has to take some of the blame for the 17 points they allowed after those interceptions. (Buffalo actually scored 24 points off the turnovers, but one of the interceptions was returned for a touchdown. Hard to pin that on the defense.) It was a bad day for the whole team, which happens from time to time. It was a bad day for Brady, which almost never happens.
Let's get one thing straight right now. Tom Brady is the best quarterback New England fans will ever see in their lifetime. There has been a seemingly endless debate about where Brady ranks among QBs all time, or even among his generation. (For the record, I still consider him to be the best of his generation. When given the weapons, he put up record-setting numbers that Manning only came close to, while also having the ability to come through when it mattered most. Say what you want about the Patriots recent playoff struggles, but Brady still has a 3-1 edge in Super Bowl rings. Brees is a great quarterback, but I don't think he's in the same class as Manning or Brady, and Aaron Rodgers needs to keep it up for a bit longer before I'm ready to really put him in this conversation. But that's just me.) Wherever you stand on Brady among the other greats, there has never been another New England quarterback who has been even close to this level, and the odds of seeing another player of his talent come along are astronomical. I've loved the Tom Brady era, knowing how special it is to watch one of the best ever lead your team.
Which is why Sunday's loss to the Bills is so upsetting. In terms of this season, it's not exactly the worst thing that could happen. It is a loss to a divisional opponent, and it puts New England a game behind Buffalo for first place in the division (and, technically, the conference and league). But it's only the third game of the season, and the teams play each other again. The discouraging thing is how they lost. They lost because Brady didn't have his best day, and this team wasn't good enough to pick him up. The offense still moved the ball well, when it was able to maintain possession, and scored points, but the defense couldn't come up with a stop when it needed one. If 31 points isn't enough to win a game, your defense isn't good enough. Again, it's one game, so maybe this is all a little bit of an over-reaction, but I'm afraid that it's not.
I was talking about this current Patriots team with a friend of mine before the game against Buffalo, and I told her that I felt like the offense looked to be good enough that it will cover for the defense most games, hopefully while the defense develops and comes together. Her response was, "sounds like a typical Patriots team to me." I was depressed by how accurate this statement was. When the Patriots were winning Super Bowls, they did it with a controlled offense and a defense that was always in the top-10 of points allowed. There are some who think the offense has become too much of the priority in recent seasons. That a high-octane offense can't win in the playoffs. Maybe, but I don't agree with that. Teams can win with that kind of offense, but they need the defense to go with it. Teams need to ability to stop their opponent, and at the very least, have the kind of second-gear or play-making ability to come up with a big stop when the game is on the line. The Patriots haven't had that for a while, with some pretty clear examples. (If you don't remember the '06 AFC Championship or the '07 Super Bowl, too bad, I'm not going to torture myself and anyone reading this more than I already have to.)
The NFL has become a passing league. This seems to be common knowledge. In 1991, teams threw for 199.1 yards per game (ypg). In 2010, that number has increased to 221.6 ypg. Through the first three weeks of this season, the league is on pace for an average of 245.5 ypg. In the past 4 full seasons, 2008 had the lowest average, with quarterbacks throwing for 211.3 ypg. In the 16 seasons prior to that stretch, only 3 of them had a higher average.
Going back a few years ago, many teams would try to establish a running game to open up their passing game. In response to this, a defense would try to stop the run, forcing a team to throw out of necessity, not by choice. With many teams choosing to pass regardless of their ability to run the ball (Indianapolis, New England, teams that want to be Indianapolis and New England), defenses now have to focus on stopping the pass first, and most defensive coaches (and analysts, talking-heads, and casual sports fans) seem to agree that the best way to slow down a passing offense is to pressure the quarterback. The numbers back it up. Going back to 2003, only 2 teams have ranked lower than 11th in the NFL in sack percentage (how often a defense sacks the opposing QB on a passing play): Indianapolis in 2006 (22nd) and New Orleans in 2009 (27th). In '06, Indianapolis had been questioned all season long about their defense, and whether it was good enough to win a Super Bowl. They made a few moves, tightened things up, and were a different team by the time the playoffs rolled around. The new defense shut teams down and they were unstoppable (well, the new defense along with pumped in crowd noise and the hottest stadium in the NFL, but whatever). New Orleans was a little different. They didn’t get much pressure the quarterback during their Super Bowl season, but they had a secondary that was effective (ranked 3rd in opposing QB rating) and pulled off big plays when they needed them (Tracy Porter had late interceptions in the NFC Championship game and the Super Bowl, both of which effectively sealed wins for New Orleans).
New England right now rates 28th in sack percentage and 22nd in opposing passer rating. Yes, we’re only three games in. Yes, there is plenty of time for them to change it. I’m just worried (and somewhat certain) that they won’t. And I feel that way because Belichick hasn’t called an aggressive blitz in what feels like years. This team doesn’t attack the quarterback. It chooses to instead drop men into coverage in the hopes of confusing opposing quarterbacks. I’m not trying to question Belichick. He is, without argument, the greatest coach in my lifetime. I trust that he has a better reason for crafting the defense that he does than I would have for questioning it. Maybe it’s as simple as he doesn’t feel he has the players for it (a criticism which would seem valid, but would also point out his recent track record with draft choices and free agent signings, at least among certain positions). It’s entirely possible that the sack rate stays the same, but McCourty and Bodden recover from their early season struggles, the younger guys/first-year starters develop, and the pass defense gets better that way.
But it might not. And if it doesn’t, the likely outcome is that another year of Tom Brady’s career will be lost. And that would be a shame. Because as rare as it is to see Brady have a game like he did against the Bills, it’s nothing compared to how rare it is to see Tom Brady.
(Forgot to include this. All stats in this post came from teamrankings.com and pro-football-reference.com)
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Untitled
Depending on who you ask, autumn has already started in New England. Officially, seasons are based on the length of the day, which means it won't really be fall until September 23 and the autumnal equinox, but for many people, summer ended with their Labor Day cookouts and beach trips, filled with grilled meats and beer, that suntan lotion smell of coconut and medicine left to be washed off in their morning shower.
By it's nature, autumn is somewhat of a second-class season. Summer and winter get top billing. People wait all year so they can do things that can only be done in those seasons (This isn't entirely accurate, as things like skiing/snowboarding and going to the beach start and end outside of their respective seasons, but people associate these activities with these seasons, and that's sort of all that matters.). By human nature, we tend to focus on the extremes of any particular group (see also: celebrity train wrecks, reality television {some overlap between these two}, weather patterns, the tea party). Spring and fall are basically just there to get us from one to the other.
Between the two backup seasons, fall gets the bum deal. Despite being little more than constant rain and pollen, spring gets everyone thinking about summer and how exciting that will be. By the time fall rolls around, summer is over, the beaches are closing, before you know it winter will be here, and no one likes winter (This is also an inaccurate statement, except no one is excited about winter until it's right on top of us. Ask someone in August how they feel about winter and they hate it, because at that moment, all winter means is that we will be cold and covered in snow.). Autumn has long been used as a metaphor for aging and sadness. The prime of the year is behind us, and all we have to do is look around to see reminders that we are all withering towards a barren and cold conclusion, an inevitable end on the horizon. All the new life and rebirth of spring has run it's course, and fall is just our small chance to brace for the coming winter.
This seems like a good time to mention that autumn is, without question, my favorite season. And not because I get some perverse kick out of all the crap I just mentioned. There are reasons on top of reasons that I love fall. As soon as the heat and humidity of summer breaks, I feel like a different person. It's almost as if I spend most of the summer thinking only of ways to keep myself from turning into a puddle, and fall allows me to start thinking about everything else again. Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in months, and that is due almost entirely to the cool breeze coming through my window. It was flat-out cold in my bedroom this morning, and I loved it.
Fall also brings with it the start of football. I love football, love my New England Patriots, and love watching Belichick and Brady be the best at what they do. More than that, though, I love the Sundays I spend at my grandfather's house watching the games with him and his son, three generations of Belair men together, watching their team, eating and drinking and bs'ing about whatever it is we decide to bs about. If you've kept up with these posts at all, you'll know that I have a certain relationship with sports and my father. Adding my grandfather to the mix is about the only thing that could make it better.
In the autumn of 2003, I was going through basic training for the U.S. Air Force, which takes place in San Antonio, Texas. Autumn in San Antonio is a lot like summer in New England, only hotter. I tried to explain what I was missing out on back home, and most of my fellow trainees had no idea what I was talking about. There were a few guys from New England, though, and they all knew what I knew: there is nothing like fall in New England. Forget what you've heard about the leaves and any sort of festival based around candy apples or pumpkins. All fun things in their own right, but their is a smell to autumn here that cannot be described. It's crisp and refreshing and cool. I know that all sounds like a terrible add for a Sprite knockoff, but I don't know how else to describe it, and I know that those words don't do it justice.
While I was in basic, my significant other at the time wrote to me regularly. Mail is absolutely the best part of basic training. The days when the mail gets backed up (you are the lowest priority mail recipients on base) are awful, but are made up for on the days when you go back to your bunk with a stack of letters. One of the letters she sent me was about how the leaves were changing and how nice everything looked. She knew how much I loved autumn, and sent a second envelope along containing a few leaves she had found and thought I would like. A small piece of home while I was away. It was sweet and touching and I loved it and loved her for doing it. The rest of our flight (the name for a group of trainees when you're in basic) finally began to understand how much we loved fall in New England when my "letter" became the most popular thing in the room, at least among the guys from the area. Everyone took their time with it, each of them examining the leaves and breathing in the scent inside the envelope. If you know the scent I've been talking about, this won't seem weird to you at all.
I'm sure there will be moments this autumn when the cool air turns to cold and I'll miss the summer sun. Or a night that seems to come too early, and the realization that it will only continue to get earlier for the coming months. It's then that I'll try to think about Sunday afternoons, and of the changing leaves, and of New England air floating through Texas. Autumn is my season. An in-between season defined by what it isn't, but knows what it has to offer.
By it's nature, autumn is somewhat of a second-class season. Summer and winter get top billing. People wait all year so they can do things that can only be done in those seasons (This isn't entirely accurate, as things like skiing/snowboarding and going to the beach start and end outside of their respective seasons, but people associate these activities with these seasons, and that's sort of all that matters.). By human nature, we tend to focus on the extremes of any particular group (see also: celebrity train wrecks, reality television {some overlap between these two}, weather patterns, the tea party). Spring and fall are basically just there to get us from one to the other.
Between the two backup seasons, fall gets the bum deal. Despite being little more than constant rain and pollen, spring gets everyone thinking about summer and how exciting that will be. By the time fall rolls around, summer is over, the beaches are closing, before you know it winter will be here, and no one likes winter (This is also an inaccurate statement, except no one is excited about winter until it's right on top of us. Ask someone in August how they feel about winter and they hate it, because at that moment, all winter means is that we will be cold and covered in snow.). Autumn has long been used as a metaphor for aging and sadness. The prime of the year is behind us, and all we have to do is look around to see reminders that we are all withering towards a barren and cold conclusion, an inevitable end on the horizon. All the new life and rebirth of spring has run it's course, and fall is just our small chance to brace for the coming winter.
This seems like a good time to mention that autumn is, without question, my favorite season. And not because I get some perverse kick out of all the crap I just mentioned. There are reasons on top of reasons that I love fall. As soon as the heat and humidity of summer breaks, I feel like a different person. It's almost as if I spend most of the summer thinking only of ways to keep myself from turning into a puddle, and fall allows me to start thinking about everything else again. Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in months, and that is due almost entirely to the cool breeze coming through my window. It was flat-out cold in my bedroom this morning, and I loved it.
Fall also brings with it the start of football. I love football, love my New England Patriots, and love watching Belichick and Brady be the best at what they do. More than that, though, I love the Sundays I spend at my grandfather's house watching the games with him and his son, three generations of Belair men together, watching their team, eating and drinking and bs'ing about whatever it is we decide to bs about. If you've kept up with these posts at all, you'll know that I have a certain relationship with sports and my father. Adding my grandfather to the mix is about the only thing that could make it better.
In the autumn of 2003, I was going through basic training for the U.S. Air Force, which takes place in San Antonio, Texas. Autumn in San Antonio is a lot like summer in New England, only hotter. I tried to explain what I was missing out on back home, and most of my fellow trainees had no idea what I was talking about. There were a few guys from New England, though, and they all knew what I knew: there is nothing like fall in New England. Forget what you've heard about the leaves and any sort of festival based around candy apples or pumpkins. All fun things in their own right, but their is a smell to autumn here that cannot be described. It's crisp and refreshing and cool. I know that all sounds like a terrible add for a Sprite knockoff, but I don't know how else to describe it, and I know that those words don't do it justice.
While I was in basic, my significant other at the time wrote to me regularly. Mail is absolutely the best part of basic training. The days when the mail gets backed up (you are the lowest priority mail recipients on base) are awful, but are made up for on the days when you go back to your bunk with a stack of letters. One of the letters she sent me was about how the leaves were changing and how nice everything looked. She knew how much I loved autumn, and sent a second envelope along containing a few leaves she had found and thought I would like. A small piece of home while I was away. It was sweet and touching and I loved it and loved her for doing it. The rest of our flight (the name for a group of trainees when you're in basic) finally began to understand how much we loved fall in New England when my "letter" became the most popular thing in the room, at least among the guys from the area. Everyone took their time with it, each of them examining the leaves and breathing in the scent inside the envelope. If you know the scent I've been talking about, this won't seem weird to you at all.
I'm sure there will be moments this autumn when the cool air turns to cold and I'll miss the summer sun. Or a night that seems to come too early, and the realization that it will only continue to get earlier for the coming months. It's then that I'll try to think about Sunday afternoons, and of the changing leaves, and of New England air floating through Texas. Autumn is my season. An in-between season defined by what it isn't, but knows what it has to offer.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Things We Said
There are a lot of things that people don't like to admit. There are a decent number of things that people take for granted. Television is something that a lot of people take for granted, and few people want to admit it. I recently read a statistic that the number of homes with at least one television set had declined over the past year. This is interesting for a few reasons. For starters, this is the first time that percentage has dropped in 20 years. The two main reasons for this drop appear to be a struggling economy and availability of online content. Secondly, the drop was from 99 percent to 97 percent. That's such a small drop from such a large number that it barely counts.
These numbers, and the ability to watch tv shows without an actual television, mean it's safe to assume almost everyone you know is watching tv (in some capacity). If you're reading this (a small group of people), or are even someone who could conceivably read this (a larger group), you are aware of a wide range of shows, and probably watch at least some of them. So, if (almost) all of us are watching, and even the ones who aren't watching are getting it somewhere else, why are we so afraid of admitting it?
Casually ask a few people you know if, or how much, tv they watch, and the most common response you'll get is "I don't really watch much television", or something along those lines. There are two reasons for this, and the first answer is pretty simple. We've all been conditioned to believe that television somehow makes you less intelligent, and that admitting to watching it is equivalent to admitting that you're a fool with nothing better to do with your time. The second reason is a bit more complicated. We're all afraid of who we are. Not to come off as a pretentious a-hole (little chance of that, I'm guessing), but I'm not terribly satisfied with either explanation, but for different reasons.
Everyone seems to agree that film, at its highest levels, is an art form. I don't want to get into a discussion about how it stacks up against music or literature or the visual arts, so let's just call them all equal (since that conversation is mostly dominated by personal tastes anyway). So why is it that sitting in a theater for 2 hours is fine, but spending 60 minutes watching a television show is something to be embarrassed about? I realize that there are certainly shows out there that do nothing for the human mind, and I would have a hard time calling any reality tv show "art", but even that might be overly critical.
(Extended side-discussion no.1 of 2. When discussing reality tv, the first show to come to mind is "Jersey Shore". Everyone seems to be in complete agreement that this show is a train wreck, no one wants to admit to watching it, yet everyone knows by Friday morning what The Situation was doing Thursday night. In the interest of full disclosure, I watched the last season. Every week, my friends and I would get together and watch it while drinking and having side conversations and insulting the behavior of various characters. This season, we haven't gotten together as a group to watch it, I watched the first episode alone, was bored to tears within the first 20 minutes and haven't been back. I've heard it wasn't the best episode, so maybe I'll catch up eventually, but who knows. Anyway, no one, even hardcore fans of the show, would praise it for being a particularly good show or classy or smart, but does that mean it has no value? An apologist could make the case that the show is an interesting insight into the mind set of a certain section of American society, and how we--or at least that section of society--view, define, and value fame, success, and friendship. And I'm not sure those apologists would be wrong.)
If there is even some value to be found in reality tv, what does that mean for television operating in the upper tiers? Shows that are compelling, thoughtful, and intelligent? All art can change the way we look at the world or our lives. If I can watch a character develop in a film, and become completely engulfed in his or her story, and feel differently about myself (or at least part of myself) than I did before I watched the movie. Doesn't it stand to reason then, that a television series that can keep me coming back week after week and season after season is just as much of an accomplishment, if not more so?
We live in an interesting time for television. We have never had more options in terms of programming. Neither of these ideas are particularly new, and neither is what I'm about to say, but it's worth saying. This range of choices has been both positive and negative for the 97 percent of us still watching. Having so many options has led to lower ratings for tv shows, We'll never have another M*A*S*H moment (the finale drew the largest absolute audience, a record held until the 2010 Super Bowl, and it still holds the highest share of all time). There are too many other things to watch. And as the internet begins to pull away more viewers (or, more accurately, more tracked viewers), ratings will continue to drop. This makes it harder for networks to generate advertising revenue, which makes it harder to justify the expense of high quality programming.
The other side, however. is that these options have given us just that, options. Shows exist today that probably wouldn't have had a place in American homes even 20 years ago. My favorite show currently airing is Breaking Bad (discussion 2 coming), a show about a high school chemistry teacher who becomes a meth cook. It's violent and edgy, wouldn't been on tv a decade ago (or at least not before the advent of the TV Parental Guidelines, which have allowed shows to get away with far more than they used to), and it airs on AMC (it wouldn't be noteworthy if it aired on HBO, where the rules have always been different). Most cursing is allowed (in moderation) on basic cable, violence is becoming more graphic, almost any subject matter is acceptable, and even nudity was beginning to become somewhat tolerated until Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson ruined everything for everyone (if everyone else wants to exaggerate how bad it was, so can I). Modern television gives us access to at least the possibility of almost anything we could want from a television show.
(Extended side-discussion no.2 of 2. I've been trying to avoid writing anything about Breaking Bad simply because I've seen and read so much about it already that I don't want to copy something that has already been said, inadvertently or otherwise. That being said, given the topic of this post, I have to at least mention it. This show is amazing. It's easily my favorite show on tv right now, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a show that I would consider better. Creator Vince Gilligan has developed incredibly interesting and complex characters who are acted out superbly by the entire cast. It's hard to imagine anyone else performing better in any of the main roles, and even some of the not so main roles. Gilligan has stated many times in interviews that he wanted to create a show where the "fundamental drive was towards change" and one that took the protagonist and made him the antagonist. He's done this by constantly putting his characters in situations where they need to make moral choices. These situations never feel forced or contrived, but it gives the audience a chance to watch these characters change right before us, sometimes gradually, sometimes in the course of a single scene. This also points to the pacing of the show, something that gets commented on quite frequently, and sometimes very critically by fans. Whether or not this is the best show I've ever watched, I have no problem saying that it has the best pacing of any show I've ever seen. I think one of the reasons behind this {and why so many people get upset about it} is because it doesn't operate like any show I've seen before. There will be multiple episode stretches where the tension of a given situation builds, far longer than a typical drama and past what many would consider to be the breaking point, before resolution is given. And yet there are other times when actions and reactions happen immediately, before you're even given a chance to consider what is about to transpire and what it all means. I could go on for a while, but point is, if you're a fan of television and you're not watching this show, you're missing out.)
This era of television and all of it's options have given us some incredible shows, moments, and characters to let into our lives. I would rank Arrested Development among the best all-time comedies to air. Perhaps four of the best shows ever made have aired with the past 10 years (depending on who you ask, and I ask Chuck Klosterman, in a manner of speaking), The Wire, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men. Aaron Sorkin gets criticized for being more style over substance and for bordering on pretentious and preachy(to put it kindly) but I think he makes some of the best dialogue to be found on television. (I also tend to love the characters on his shows, but this seems to be point of contention for his detractors).
Maybe everyone doesn't agree with me (?!), or maybe you don't think film is all that special as a medium for art. You might be right, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. If all of this is true, and tv is as diverse, smart, and compelling as it has ever been, then the belief that watching television is somehow bad for you mentally is a poor assumption. I'm not advocating spending hours in front of the device everyday, but enjoying it is nothing to be ashamed of. And that's where we get to the second reason people don't like to admit to watching tv.
People lie constantly. We tell little lies for almost any reason. Because it's easier than explaining the truth, because we think we have something to gain, and, more often than not, because we want to be seen as whatever it is we think we should be seen as. This may seem reductionist and cynical, but most people act in a way that is based on who they think they should be instead of who they actually are and what kind of person they want to be. This doesn't make anyone a bad person in itself, it just seems like a dangerous way to live your life and a good way to do things you don't actually want to do. I have spent a lot of time considering what kind of person I am, what kind of person I want to be, and why I do what I do. This doesn't make me better than anyone else, it just makes me (somewhat) self-aware. I do this mostly because I think about things too much. I may have mentioned this before, and if I did, it's because I think about things too much, and I think about that, too.
I was watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Aaron Sorkin's short lived show that takes place behind the scenes of a late-night sketch comedy show. There is a scene where Matthew Perry's character (Matt) asks his on-and-off girlfriend (Harriet) one thing she likes about the guy she is currently seeing. She replies that he is "easy". The obvious sexual joke is made, and then she explains that he is easy to be around, that his personality is easy, with the implication being that Matt is not. This is mostly because Matt can't understand Harriet's religious beliefs and questions them constantly, along with the motivations behind the actions of just about everyone he interacts with. (This is something a lot of Sorkin characters do, which might be one of the reasons I like his shows so much.)
When watching this, I came to realize that I'm not easy, either, and that I've actually pushed some people away from me by not being easy. I can't stand when someone assumes they know why I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing (usually because they don't have any idea why I'm doing what I'm doing) and will think nothing of questioning why someone says or does anything. Being someone who knows me isn't easy. I will question things you probably haven't questioned yourself. If you can't handle someone doing that to you, you probably wouldn't like me after a while. I suspect that all this actually does is make me incredibly annoying to be around for most people, but at this point, I kind of don't care. The reason I don't care is that, if I'm doing this to you, it's most likely because I value your thoughts and opinions in some way, and want to know more about whatever is we're/you're talking about or doing.
I know it seems ridiculous to admit and revel in doing something annoying and sometimes troubling to people I like and care about. But I like who I am (at least this part of who I am), and I want to know who you are, and I want you to know who you are. And if that's troubling to you and you need time to think about it, that's fine. I'll be watching tv.
These numbers, and the ability to watch tv shows without an actual television, mean it's safe to assume almost everyone you know is watching tv (in some capacity). If you're reading this (a small group of people), or are even someone who could conceivably read this (a larger group), you are aware of a wide range of shows, and probably watch at least some of them. So, if (almost) all of us are watching, and even the ones who aren't watching are getting it somewhere else, why are we so afraid of admitting it?
Casually ask a few people you know if, or how much, tv they watch, and the most common response you'll get is "I don't really watch much television", or something along those lines. There are two reasons for this, and the first answer is pretty simple. We've all been conditioned to believe that television somehow makes you less intelligent, and that admitting to watching it is equivalent to admitting that you're a fool with nothing better to do with your time. The second reason is a bit more complicated. We're all afraid of who we are. Not to come off as a pretentious a-hole (little chance of that, I'm guessing), but I'm not terribly satisfied with either explanation, but for different reasons.
Everyone seems to agree that film, at its highest levels, is an art form. I don't want to get into a discussion about how it stacks up against music or literature or the visual arts, so let's just call them all equal (since that conversation is mostly dominated by personal tastes anyway). So why is it that sitting in a theater for 2 hours is fine, but spending 60 minutes watching a television show is something to be embarrassed about? I realize that there are certainly shows out there that do nothing for the human mind, and I would have a hard time calling any reality tv show "art", but even that might be overly critical.
(Extended side-discussion no.1 of 2. When discussing reality tv, the first show to come to mind is "Jersey Shore". Everyone seems to be in complete agreement that this show is a train wreck, no one wants to admit to watching it, yet everyone knows by Friday morning what The Situation was doing Thursday night. In the interest of full disclosure, I watched the last season. Every week, my friends and I would get together and watch it while drinking and having side conversations and insulting the behavior of various characters. This season, we haven't gotten together as a group to watch it, I watched the first episode alone, was bored to tears within the first 20 minutes and haven't been back. I've heard it wasn't the best episode, so maybe I'll catch up eventually, but who knows. Anyway, no one, even hardcore fans of the show, would praise it for being a particularly good show or classy or smart, but does that mean it has no value? An apologist could make the case that the show is an interesting insight into the mind set of a certain section of American society, and how we--or at least that section of society--view, define, and value fame, success, and friendship. And I'm not sure those apologists would be wrong.)
If there is even some value to be found in reality tv, what does that mean for television operating in the upper tiers? Shows that are compelling, thoughtful, and intelligent? All art can change the way we look at the world or our lives. If I can watch a character develop in a film, and become completely engulfed in his or her story, and feel differently about myself (or at least part of myself) than I did before I watched the movie. Doesn't it stand to reason then, that a television series that can keep me coming back week after week and season after season is just as much of an accomplishment, if not more so?
We live in an interesting time for television. We have never had more options in terms of programming. Neither of these ideas are particularly new, and neither is what I'm about to say, but it's worth saying. This range of choices has been both positive and negative for the 97 percent of us still watching. Having so many options has led to lower ratings for tv shows, We'll never have another M*A*S*H moment (the finale drew the largest absolute audience, a record held until the 2010 Super Bowl, and it still holds the highest share of all time). There are too many other things to watch. And as the internet begins to pull away more viewers (or, more accurately, more tracked viewers), ratings will continue to drop. This makes it harder for networks to generate advertising revenue, which makes it harder to justify the expense of high quality programming.
The other side, however. is that these options have given us just that, options. Shows exist today that probably wouldn't have had a place in American homes even 20 years ago. My favorite show currently airing is Breaking Bad (discussion 2 coming), a show about a high school chemistry teacher who becomes a meth cook. It's violent and edgy, wouldn't been on tv a decade ago (or at least not before the advent of the TV Parental Guidelines, which have allowed shows to get away with far more than they used to), and it airs on AMC (it wouldn't be noteworthy if it aired on HBO, where the rules have always been different). Most cursing is allowed (in moderation) on basic cable, violence is becoming more graphic, almost any subject matter is acceptable, and even nudity was beginning to become somewhat tolerated until Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson ruined everything for everyone (if everyone else wants to exaggerate how bad it was, so can I). Modern television gives us access to at least the possibility of almost anything we could want from a television show.
(Extended side-discussion no.2 of 2. I've been trying to avoid writing anything about Breaking Bad simply because I've seen and read so much about it already that I don't want to copy something that has already been said, inadvertently or otherwise. That being said, given the topic of this post, I have to at least mention it. This show is amazing. It's easily my favorite show on tv right now, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a show that I would consider better. Creator Vince Gilligan has developed incredibly interesting and complex characters who are acted out superbly by the entire cast. It's hard to imagine anyone else performing better in any of the main roles, and even some of the not so main roles. Gilligan has stated many times in interviews that he wanted to create a show where the "fundamental drive was towards change" and one that took the protagonist and made him the antagonist. He's done this by constantly putting his characters in situations where they need to make moral choices. These situations never feel forced or contrived, but it gives the audience a chance to watch these characters change right before us, sometimes gradually, sometimes in the course of a single scene. This also points to the pacing of the show, something that gets commented on quite frequently, and sometimes very critically by fans. Whether or not this is the best show I've ever watched, I have no problem saying that it has the best pacing of any show I've ever seen. I think one of the reasons behind this {and why so many people get upset about it} is because it doesn't operate like any show I've seen before. There will be multiple episode stretches where the tension of a given situation builds, far longer than a typical drama and past what many would consider to be the breaking point, before resolution is given. And yet there are other times when actions and reactions happen immediately, before you're even given a chance to consider what is about to transpire and what it all means. I could go on for a while, but point is, if you're a fan of television and you're not watching this show, you're missing out.)
This era of television and all of it's options have given us some incredible shows, moments, and characters to let into our lives. I would rank Arrested Development among the best all-time comedies to air. Perhaps four of the best shows ever made have aired with the past 10 years (depending on who you ask, and I ask Chuck Klosterman, in a manner of speaking), The Wire, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men. Aaron Sorkin gets criticized for being more style over substance and for bordering on pretentious and preachy(to put it kindly) but I think he makes some of the best dialogue to be found on television. (I also tend to love the characters on his shows, but this seems to be point of contention for his detractors).
Maybe everyone doesn't agree with me (?!), or maybe you don't think film is all that special as a medium for art. You might be right, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. If all of this is true, and tv is as diverse, smart, and compelling as it has ever been, then the belief that watching television is somehow bad for you mentally is a poor assumption. I'm not advocating spending hours in front of the device everyday, but enjoying it is nothing to be ashamed of. And that's where we get to the second reason people don't like to admit to watching tv.
People lie constantly. We tell little lies for almost any reason. Because it's easier than explaining the truth, because we think we have something to gain, and, more often than not, because we want to be seen as whatever it is we think we should be seen as. This may seem reductionist and cynical, but most people act in a way that is based on who they think they should be instead of who they actually are and what kind of person they want to be. This doesn't make anyone a bad person in itself, it just seems like a dangerous way to live your life and a good way to do things you don't actually want to do. I have spent a lot of time considering what kind of person I am, what kind of person I want to be, and why I do what I do. This doesn't make me better than anyone else, it just makes me (somewhat) self-aware. I do this mostly because I think about things too much. I may have mentioned this before, and if I did, it's because I think about things too much, and I think about that, too.
I was watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Aaron Sorkin's short lived show that takes place behind the scenes of a late-night sketch comedy show. There is a scene where Matthew Perry's character (Matt) asks his on-and-off girlfriend (Harriet) one thing she likes about the guy she is currently seeing. She replies that he is "easy". The obvious sexual joke is made, and then she explains that he is easy to be around, that his personality is easy, with the implication being that Matt is not. This is mostly because Matt can't understand Harriet's religious beliefs and questions them constantly, along with the motivations behind the actions of just about everyone he interacts with. (This is something a lot of Sorkin characters do, which might be one of the reasons I like his shows so much.)
When watching this, I came to realize that I'm not easy, either, and that I've actually pushed some people away from me by not being easy. I can't stand when someone assumes they know why I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing (usually because they don't have any idea why I'm doing what I'm doing) and will think nothing of questioning why someone says or does anything. Being someone who knows me isn't easy. I will question things you probably haven't questioned yourself. If you can't handle someone doing that to you, you probably wouldn't like me after a while. I suspect that all this actually does is make me incredibly annoying to be around for most people, but at this point, I kind of don't care. The reason I don't care is that, if I'm doing this to you, it's most likely because I value your thoughts and opinions in some way, and want to know more about whatever is we're/you're talking about or doing.
I know it seems ridiculous to admit and revel in doing something annoying and sometimes troubling to people I like and care about. But I like who I am (at least this part of who I am), and I want to know who you are, and I want you to know who you are. And if that's troubling to you and you need time to think about it, that's fine. I'll be watching tv.
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Downward Spiral
I have heard my favorite album. Contrary to what you might be thinking based on the title of this post, that album is not by Nine Inch Nails. I could tell you what album it is, and perhaps someone reading this might know me well enough to guess, but that would lead to a discussion about that album. Certainly, I could make my case for why I think this is the best album ever made (although I'm not even sure I feel that way; favorite and best are not the same thing), but "best" is really just a measure of "good", and what the hell does that mean, anyway? No, my point is that, at 28, music (in all likelihood) has peaked for me. And while I'm not sure exactly what that means yet, I know it means something.
For starters, let me clarify a few details about why this album (which will be referred to as "Album X" henceforth) is my favorite album. Album X came out in my lifetime, which is an important distinction. The Beatles made some great albums, and some of those I might consider to be the "best" album ever made, but my (and probably most peoples') favorite album is about more than just being the best. It's about how an album strikes you when you first hear it, which itself is dependent on a number of factors. When Album X came out, I was living with someone at the time. We had been together for a few years and were living in my parents house. We had recently moved out of the house we had been living in but hadn't found a new place to live yet. I listened to Album X the first time, shortly before we went to bed. I played it on her computer while she was already lying down. I'll never forget how much she seemed to enjoy watching me enjoy it. These are the sorts of little things that can't be recreated on further listens or another album.
Album X's genre is somewhat unimportant as well (my favorite style of music vs. your favorite style of music is irrelevant in this scenario), but even within a given form, there are still times when music can surprise you. Album X was (and still is in someways) the only music I had ever heard that sounded the way it did. This may seem like an absurd or nonsensical statement, but think about the first time you discovered a particular band or type of music. That feeling of having a door opened that you didn't even know was there. That door can never be closed, which is a good thing, but that also means you can never open it again.
This isn't to say that I will never be surprised by a new album, but I have serious doubts that I will ever be surprised in that way ever again. While the internet age has made it easier to find more and better music than we used to have access to, it also means that there is a smaller chance of finding some new thing that completely shifts your understanding of music. Sure, there are new bands posting videos of themselves right now that I will never hear but would possibly love. But with such a large pool of styles available to us, what are the chances that band would sound unlike anything we have ever heard before?
I don't want to sound like someone's dad. As I mentioned, I still find new music that I like. I think there is potential for great music in the future, and even think that maybe (a big maybe, but maybe) their might be good music on popular radio again one day. But I don't think I'll ever have a better album experience than the one I had listening to Album X. And that is a strange realization.
It's not necessarily a bad thing. Realizing how much something means to you is a good thing. It's possible that this doesn't actually change anything for me at all. If I still seek new music and enjoy music (in general) as much as I used to, what's different? This is the sort of understanding that can make me feel old, but it doesn't actually change anything about my physical age. So if I don't act any differently, and nothing has actually, physically changed as a result of this, then it would seem to reason out that I shouldn't feel any differently at all. But I do.
Maybe it's because, like all milestones in life, it represents a sort of end. An end of possibility. As soon as we are old enough to be aware of the future, we consider the assorted events and experiences life has in store for us. Even though we are always moving towards fewer and fewer of these possibilities, we aren't always aware of it. And even if we stop and think about it, we don't often feel it. This makes me feel it. Which isn't to say that I feel like I'm closer to "the end", or that feel I have fewer possibilities now than I did when I first heard Album X (even though that is true). It simply means that I'm aware of this event within my own life. And as strange as that is, I think I like it. At least now I know what I'm looking for, and not just in an album.
For starters, let me clarify a few details about why this album (which will be referred to as "Album X" henceforth) is my favorite album. Album X came out in my lifetime, which is an important distinction. The Beatles made some great albums, and some of those I might consider to be the "best" album ever made, but my (and probably most peoples') favorite album is about more than just being the best. It's about how an album strikes you when you first hear it, which itself is dependent on a number of factors. When Album X came out, I was living with someone at the time. We had been together for a few years and were living in my parents house. We had recently moved out of the house we had been living in but hadn't found a new place to live yet. I listened to Album X the first time, shortly before we went to bed. I played it on her computer while she was already lying down. I'll never forget how much she seemed to enjoy watching me enjoy it. These are the sorts of little things that can't be recreated on further listens or another album.
Album X's genre is somewhat unimportant as well (my favorite style of music vs. your favorite style of music is irrelevant in this scenario), but even within a given form, there are still times when music can surprise you. Album X was (and still is in someways) the only music I had ever heard that sounded the way it did. This may seem like an absurd or nonsensical statement, but think about the first time you discovered a particular band or type of music. That feeling of having a door opened that you didn't even know was there. That door can never be closed, which is a good thing, but that also means you can never open it again.
This isn't to say that I will never be surprised by a new album, but I have serious doubts that I will ever be surprised in that way ever again. While the internet age has made it easier to find more and better music than we used to have access to, it also means that there is a smaller chance of finding some new thing that completely shifts your understanding of music. Sure, there are new bands posting videos of themselves right now that I will never hear but would possibly love. But with such a large pool of styles available to us, what are the chances that band would sound unlike anything we have ever heard before?
I don't want to sound like someone's dad. As I mentioned, I still find new music that I like. I think there is potential for great music in the future, and even think that maybe (a big maybe, but maybe) their might be good music on popular radio again one day. But I don't think I'll ever have a better album experience than the one I had listening to Album X. And that is a strange realization.
It's not necessarily a bad thing. Realizing how much something means to you is a good thing. It's possible that this doesn't actually change anything for me at all. If I still seek new music and enjoy music (in general) as much as I used to, what's different? This is the sort of understanding that can make me feel old, but it doesn't actually change anything about my physical age. So if I don't act any differently, and nothing has actually, physically changed as a result of this, then it would seem to reason out that I shouldn't feel any differently at all. But I do.
Maybe it's because, like all milestones in life, it represents a sort of end. An end of possibility. As soon as we are old enough to be aware of the future, we consider the assorted events and experiences life has in store for us. Even though we are always moving towards fewer and fewer of these possibilities, we aren't always aware of it. And even if we stop and think about it, we don't often feel it. This makes me feel it. Which isn't to say that I feel like I'm closer to "the end", or that feel I have fewer possibilities now than I did when I first heard Album X (even though that is true). It simply means that I'm aware of this event within my own life. And as strange as that is, I think I like it. At least now I know what I'm looking for, and not just in an album.
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