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TV Title Sequences: The Goldbergs

One of the more pleasant surprises of the TV season just ending has been The Goldbergs, an ABC sitcom predicated on nostalgia for the late, great 1980s. I wasn’t sure about this one at first — the pilot episode was a queasy mismatch of mean-spirited snark and treacly sentiment that had just enough laughs to bring me back for another try. Fortunately, the showrunners saw the problem and modulated the yelling and sarcasm in later episodes, allowing the show to develop its own quirky flavor that’s a lot less Married… with Children and a lot more The Wonder Years.

The Goldbergs actually echoes The Wonder Years — that landmark coming-of-age series that ran in the late ’80s/early ’90s, but was set 20 years earlier — in a number of ways, which I suspect is probably intentional. Like The Wonder Years, the show is built around a family of five familiar archetypes: grumpy dad, kooky mom, moody older sister, bullying lunkhead middle brother, and cute youngest brother, who serves as the protagonist of most stories. The Goldbergs also adds a sixth character to the recipe, a swinging-single grandfather who is winningly played by veteran character actor George Segal.

There are other similarities to The Wonder Years, notably a voice-over narration supplied by an adult version of the youngest brother, as well as the show’s use of original music from the period to comment on and enhance the storylines. (The season ender last week deployed Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” in a way that was simply sublime. If any Gen-Xer watching that episode didn’t end up with a lump in their throat and a big old grin on their lips, they need to catch the first time-traveling DeLorean back to the ’80s and do it all over again.)

However, one big and very remarkable difference between The Goldbergs and The Wonder Years is the way they respectively handle time. While the latter show identified each season as representing a specific historical year, as well as a specific school year/grade level for its young protagonist, The Goldbergs takes a more… post-modern approach. We are informed in the voice-over each week that the show is set in a generalized “1980-something.” This gimmick — which I think is actually pretty funny — allows the producers to include familiar pop-cultural landmarks, fads, clothing styles, and news events from all over the decade without smart-alecks like me pointing out, for example, that there were five years between the release of The Goonies and the advent of the Reebok Pump basketball shoe, two ’80s icons that have both figured prominently in recent episodes. This approach gives the show a slightly absurdist tone, but in a weird way, it helps to better capture the sense of the Awesome ’80 than a show with a more persnickety focus on detail might. We end up with something that feels true rather than strictly factual. Kind of like the jumbled, middle-aged, increasingly unreliable memories of the Gen-Xers who surely comprise the show’s target demographic.

(It also occurs to me that perhaps this “1980-something” trope says something about how we Xers recall our youth versus how the Baby Boomers who made The Wonder Years saw theirs. They were all about earnestness and bittersweet poignancy, whereas — if a sitcom can be said to be representative of a generation — we’re a lot more irreverent about our formative decade. That’s not to say The Goldbergs is never poignant — I frequently get a little something in my eye while watching — but it lacks the self-consciousness and self-importance of its predecessor. To follow this through to the grossest overgeneralization I’ll ever make based on a half-hour sitcom, the Boomers wanted to change the world; we Xers just wanted to have fun with it.)

The Goldbergs‘ theme song — if a composition only 30 seconds long can really be called a song — has a similar post-modern, mix-and-match origin. Performed by a band called I Fight Dragons, “Rewind” is a mixture of pop instruments and vocals with something called “chiptune,” electronic music and other sounds originally synthesized by vintage computers and video games. The result, like the show itself, is weirdly effective at evoking the feel of the ’80s without really being much like an actual TV theme from the era. I’ll warn you now before you click “Play”: it’s insanely catchy.

I love it.

I recently tweeted I Fight Dragons to ask if there’s a longer version of this, and they actually responded… it won’t be on their upcoming album, but they will “definitely be doing a full-length version soon.” Something to watch for…

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Happy 70th, Uncle George!

george-lucas_singapore-01-2014I remember a t-shirt I saw once, years ago in the fall of 1980… the fall after The Empire Strikes Back came out, the fall Ronald Reagan was vying against Jimmy Carter for the White House. The shirt was worn by a kid at my middle school, and it read, simply, “George Lucas for President.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time. That was how much we loved the bearded man from Modesto, California, the creative genius (or so we used to think) who’d given Generation X such a bountiful gift, an entire universe in which to let our imaginations roam, and who upended virtually everything about the way movies were made, distributed, marketed, and merchandised. To us, he was like Walt Disney must’ve been for our parents, a benevolent wizard who fulfilled fantasies we hadn’t even known we’d had and changed the world while doing it. We felt like we knew him, and we revered him. He was our hero.

But that was a long time ago… before the Great Disillusionment and the Fanboy Wars. These days, Lucas is routinely dismissed by many, and especially by the most passionate fans of his creation, as a hack… a greedy, no-talent megalomaniac who somehow got tremendously lucky, and whose only interest all along has been in selling the action figures we were all too eager to buy… and that we continue to buy, even as we curse the name of this master mesmerist who’s cast such a powerful spell over us that we can’t stop ourselves from reaching for our wallets.

None of that is true, or fair, in my estimation. As far as I’m concerned, the man still deserves our respect for creating the Star Wars universe (not to mention Indiana Jones), even if we (collectively) don’t especially approve of where he chose to take it.

Look, I’m no apologist. I feel a lot of frustration toward George Lucas, most notably with his obstinate insistence on suppressing the pre-1997 editions of the original trilogy. I’m frankly disappointed by many of the creative decisions he’s made, and many of the things he’s said, over the last 17 years. But at the same time, I cannot condemn him for the sin of being human. For getting older and revealing his limitations. For not taking his creation as seriously as we fans always have. For not loving Star Wars in exactly the same way we do. For feeling bitter at the fans who begged him for more, but then turned on him so viciously when they didn’t get what they expected. I disagree with him on many points, yes, but I also have a lot of sympathy for him. He really is just a guy from Modesto, a guy who created this crazy thing that grew beyond anything he ever could’ve dreamed.

So in the spirit of compassion for a one-time hero who turned out to have feet of clay, but who nevertheless must be given credit where it’s due, I’d like to raise a glass tonight to The Great Flanneled One, the Maker himself, George Lucas, on the occasion of his 70th birthday.

If it were possible for me to speak with him for a moment, I wouldn’t give him shit about Greedo firing first, or about Jar Jar Binks. I wouldn’t even hit him up about getting the real original trilogy on BluRay. Instead, I’d just say, “Thank you, George. Thanks for contributing to my happy childhood, and for providing me with so much pleasure and so much to think and talk about over the years.” Because in the end, no matter where the Star Wars franchise goes in the future, no matter where it is right at this moment, that’s his great achievement, and his legacy. And that’s worth celebrating.

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And One from Mark Twain…

I’ve already posted this on Facebook and Tumblr, so sorry if you’re getting bored of it, but I really like this quote:

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And the photo is pretty cool, too!

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Three Frightening Quotations from Sylvia Plath

Frightening, that is, in how much they resonate with me…

Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

 

 

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

 

 

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

That last one, in particular… yeah. I’ve often said that one of the big appeals, for me, of the movie and television series Highlander is the “what-if?” idea of immortal people being able to live many different lives down through the ages. The idea of having time to be and do many different things. I struggle almost daily with the knowledge that there just isn’t going to be enough time for everything I want to do in this world, all the places I want to go and things I want to accomplish, and that so much of the time I do have gets eaten up with mundane bullshit like household chores and paying the bills and commuting.

And that middle quotation… I struggle with that too. The sense that the potential I was always told I possessed is unfulfilled and my powers and chances are fading…

I think maybe it’s time to go for a walk in the sunshine…

Source.

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She Moves in Mysterious Ways

I was driving to the train station on my way to work this morning, driving into the blinding sunlight of a new day as it poured over the Wasatch Range that borders the valley on the east.The air outside was a bit on the crisp side, following a downright chilly night, but I could tell from the quality of the sky that we’d have pleasant springtime temperatures by afternoon. “Mysterious Ways” by U2 had just started to thrum from the speakers, and I was feeling good… if not yet fully awake. Mornings have never been my best time.

Traffic was moderate as my Mustang dropped into the broad gully known to locals as “the river bottoms.” Until just a few years ago, this was a strip of undeveloped wetlands that formed a natural boundary between the east side of the valley and the west, but subdivisions and office towers are sprouting even here now, and the modest two-lane roads that used to cut through the bottoms with an almost apologetic air have swelled into four- and, in some places, six-lane highways. The posted speed limit is 50, but nobody pays much attention to that; my speedometer needle was edging toward 60 as the downward slope leveled off and my car started to blast across the flat center of this valley within the valley

And then I saw the deer standing on the far side of the road. It wasn’t a huge specimen, probably a doe or a young male, but I knew it was still big enough to cause a lot of damage if it were to have a close encounter with a car traveling at 60 mph. I let off the gas pedal and kept my eyes locked on the animal, feeling, as always, a spark of adrenaline and wonder at encountering a wild creature in a place that feels more and more tamed with every passing year. I found myself thinking of the time when my friend Jeremy clipped a deer in his Grand Am, and ended up needing to replace his entire front fender, and the wheel on that side as well.

Maybe I detected some flicker of increased muscular tension or a certain twitch of the ear. Maybe it was some inscrutable vestige of a sixth sense, some holdover from our distant ancestors’ hunter-gatherer days. Whatever it was that tipped me off, I knew, somehow I just knew, that the deer was about to make its move. And then it was in motion, bounding across the westbound lanes at incredible speed for a mere animal, the SUV coming in my direction braking hard enough to drop its nose toward the pavement. The deer made it to the center island and I tried to telepathically tell it to just stay put… but my Spidey-sense was still jangled, and I knew it was going to stand there only a fraction of a second before continuing on its way across the eastbound lanes… into my lane…

I saw, very clearly, that the animal’s speed was perfectly matched to intersect with my own course. I knew I couldn’t stop in time, and the image of Jeremy’s ruined fender was replaced in my mind with a picture of the deer impacting my beloved Mustang dead-center, rolling up across my hood, crushing in my windshield, falling into the cab with me…

My instincts took over. I was still thinking about what it would look like, what it would feel like, to have Bambi come crashing through my windshield, even as my foot mashed the accelerator to the floor. My Mustang boomed forward, closing the distance to the interception point. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel and turned it to the right, swerving the car into the emergency lane, trying to give the deer a little more space to have to cover before it hit me. My laggard imagination now pictured the animal’s broad chest plowing into my driver’s-side door….

And then I was clear, drifting back into the lane where I was supposed to be. I saw the deer in my rear-view mirror finish his (or her) run across the road with a final bounce that carried it over an embankment and down to the marshy riverbank below the level of the road, safely out of the human machine-traffic and back in its own realm. I kept my eyes peeled for another one as my car climbed the opposite side of the gully, but I saw no more.

The road carried me forward, past car washes and fast-food franchises and restaurants and grocery stores and strip malls. I got lucky and coasted through green lights the whole way. I turned into the park-and-ride lot and locked up my trusty ragtop and walked across a field of asphalt to board a gleaming white train. The same gleaming white train I ride every weekday morning into a downtown of concrete and skyscrapers and hemmed-in civilization. More and more tamed every year… but not entirely tamed just yet.

That thought makes me smile.

 

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Best Anniversary Present… EVER

And this ad is pretty fun, too…

Written and directed by Bruce Branit, a visual-effects artist whose credits include the TV series Lost, Breaking Bad, Revolution, and Fringe. He was also one of the cats behind that incredible short film 405 that went viral a few years back. And get this: According to Gizmodo, this ad was done as a spec for his portfolio. On his own time, essentially for the hell of it, in other words…

We live in astounding times, when you think about it. We’re able to realize our fantasies (visually anyhow) to a level of realism we could only dream of only a couple decades ago… and it’s so economical that people are doing it on spec and just for fun.

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Friday Evening Videos: “Love Somebody”

rick-springfield_walk-of-famePhoto: Courtesy of Mercury News

Turning now to cheerier topics, my main man Rick Springfield is having quite a week. On Sunday, May the Fourth (a.k.a. “Star Wars Day”), he appeared in a College Humor video as “Rick Forcefield” (little-known trivia fact: Rick is a sci-fi fanboy who owns an extensive collection of Star Wars action figures… “One of us! One of us!”). His first novel, Magnificent Vibration, was released Tuesday and has been garnering some good reviews (my copy is already waiting on the “to read” stack). And just this morning, he was honored with his very own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. His fellow ’80s pop artist Richard Marx probably said it best during the ceremony today: “He’s arguably writing the best songs he’s even written in his life right now, plus now he’s an accomplished author, he’s still acting up a storm all over TV, and he’s still that good-looking… which, if I didn’t like him, would be really freakin’ annoying.”

In light of all that, I think it’s all entirely fitting to end the work week with a selection from the man of the hour. His signature song “Jessie’s Girl” is of course the obvious choice for a Friday Evening Video… which is exactly why I’ve chosen to go with something else. Because I’m contrary that way.

“Love Somebody” was a top-five hit from the soundtrack of Rick’s 1984 feature-film debut Hard to Hold, a mediocre flick that’s mostly remembered these days by middle-aged women who were teeny-bopper fans at the time, and who fondly recall those unfamiliar tingling sensations they experienced following a brief glimpse of Rick’s bare butt midway through the movie. (Rick mentions this moment in every single concert performance just before launching into this song.) The video is typical peak-period MTV: a quasi-narrative that mixes footage from the movie with live concert clips and an out-of-left-field fantasy sequence that includes a hot chick with big hair, a wind machine, fog, and breaking glass. It doesn’t make a lick of sense… but I love it. And I love this song, which I’d probably rank second only to “Jessie’s Girl” in my personal all-time Rick canon, thanks to its catchy melody and chorus, and that really mean-sounding guitar-thing at the bridge…

And with that, I bid you all a good Friday…

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Points of Clarification

My previous entry inspired a few remarks over on Facebook, suggesting — gently, of course — that it’s disingenuous of me to complain about people bitching about the Star Wars prequels considering how much bitching I do myself on various other topics (like, say, people bitching about the prequels!), and also that I’m griping about people prejudging Episode VII while doing the same thing myself through my comments regarding JJ Abrams. I’d like to quickly address these points.

First, on the subject of Abrams, it’s true: I don’t care for the man’s work to date and I’ve been pretty outspoken about it. And I am genuinely concerned about what he’s got in mind for my beloved Star Wars franchise. But I hope I haven’t given the impression that I’m already condemning Episode VII before I see it, simply because his name is going to be on the one-sheet. I really am hoping for the best outcome here. I’d like nothing better than to see a brilliant, wildly successful Star Wars movie that’s true to its roots, respectful of the huge legacy that comes with the title, moves the saga forward in some interesting and relevant way, and causes me to rethink my whole opinion of the film’s director. I’m not holding my breath on any of that… but I am trying to remain open-minded while also being honest about my misgivings.

The commentary I was reading last week, on the other hand, did condemn the movie sight unseen (at least that’s how I interpreted it), based entirely on one narrowly defined parameter and the scant data provided by the cast list. And that rubbed me the wrong way, so I felt compelled to rub back. If, by so doing, I contributed to the general sense of outrage that seems to permeate fandom these days — the very thing with which I am so fed up — then I sincerely apologize, because that’s the last thing I have any desire to do.

Now, as to the prequels, it was further suggested that I’m tired of hearing them criticized only because I happen to like them. Well, yes, I do like them, at least more than most people seem to. But what I was trying to say in that previous entry really has nothing to do with whether or not I personally enjoy those three movies. I’ve just gotten tired of the fact that it’s impossible these days to even raise the subject of Star Wars — any aspect of the franchise in general — without kicking off this whole big thing. I’m tired of the franchise being such a contentious subject. I want to talk about it, I just don’t want to risk another tiresome overheated dialog about it, and I fear that every time I open my mouth or set my fingers to the keyboard, that’s inevitably where it’s going to end up. Maybe I am adding fuel to the fire by even mentioning it… if so, that really pains me. Because I just want Star Wars to be fun again. More precisely, I want it to be fun to be a fan of Star Wars again.

Maybe that’s not possible. Maybe what I’m missing is actually the innocence of childhood, or at least of young adulthood. Nevertheless, that’s what I want…

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And So It Begins… Again…

star-wars-ep-7_castIn case you missed it — as if anyone with an Internet connection could! — DisneyLucas officially announced the cast of Star Wars Episode VII last week. To no one’s great surprise, all of our heroes from the original trilogy are returning, with the notable and lamentable exception of Billy Dee Williams. I think I understand his absence, though, having just met the man at the Salt Lake Comic Con FanXperience a couple weeks ago. He’s had two hip replacements in the years since Lando Calrissian took down the second Death Star, and he’s moving very slowly and gingerly these days, as anyone who caught his recent appearance on Dancing with the Stars can attest. I doubt he could physically endure any kind of action-hero stuff like he did back in Empire, although it would’ve been cool to at least see him playing cards with Han Solo or something.

Among the new cast members are Andy Serkis of Lord of the Rings fame — no word yet on whether he’ll be playing a computer-generated character like his signature role of Gollum, or appearing in his own face — and the great Max von Sydow, a distinguished actor with a lengthy resume, but who is probably best known to my tribe of Gen-X nerds as Ming the Merciless in the 1980 film Flash Gordon. I imagine he’s there to continue the Star Wars-ian tradition of classy older actors appearing in secondary roles (see also Guinness, Alec; Cushing, Peter; and Lee, Christopher). I’ll also bet a Republic credit he’s playing a villain, possibly even a Sith Lord come to make trouble for whatever form the Jedi have taken under Master Luke Skywalker’s guidance.

In addition, the cast includes a bunch of younger actors, none of whom I recognize from anything.

Based on the make-up of this group, I strongly suspect we’re looking at a “passing the torch to the next generation” type of story, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the original-trilogy cast members have relatively small parts, if not mere cameos. Possibly Luke will be more central to the plot; since Mark Hamill is about the same age Alec Guinness was when they filmed the original Star Wars, it’s logical to assume Luke will now become the wizened mentor figure for one of the younger characters. But really, until we get some idea of the movie’s plot, or at least a title or logline, it’s pointless to speculate. And that’s basically all I have to say about Episode VII at this time.

If I sound uncharacteristically aloof about a major new Star Wars project, well… I suppose it’s because I am, for a couple of reasons. First, I am very concerned that JJ Abrams is at the helm of this project. I utterly loathe what he did to my other personal touchstone, my beloved Star Trek, with his flashy-but-empty-headed reboot films, and I fear that he’ll have no better understanding of what a good Star Wars movie ought to be. I dread the possibility of an Episode VII filled with obnoxious lens flares and a storyline that seems to be constantly moving but never really takes you anywhere. At least Abrams jettisoned his usual writing partners for this one and is working with Lawrence Kasdan, who cowrote The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. With Kasdan on board, we might get a screenplay that at least feels like Star Wars, and maybe even has some character development too. We’ll see, I guess.

The other issue that’s keeping me from getting too enthused about more Star Wars  is, frankly, my fellow fans. It only took an hour or so after last week’s news surfaced before I saw the first round of complaints… in this case, that there are only two women on the cast list and how is it possible that the Star Wars universe can still be so sexist after 40 years? Never mind that we know nothing yet about the plot of this new movie, or how much screentime the two women cast members will be getting compared to the males, or who the protagonist of the movie might actually be. Hey, here’s a crazy possibility for you: maybe the new Campbellian hero about to take their great journey is Leia’s daughter and the movie focuses on the two of them, with all the menfolk relegated to supporting roles! Probably not, I’ll admit, but my point is, we don’t know anything yet, so how can we already be complaining?

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not dismissing or belittling concerns about sexism. It’s a valid criticism: Female characters really don’t fare very well in the genre films that dominate popular culture these days, and Star Wars, which looms above everything else in the zeitgeist, is in a position to take the lead and set trends for years to come. A new entry in the series really ought to reflect the changes we’ve seen in our society since 1977. And chances are, it’ll fail in that regard. But we don’t know yet that it will. And I’m troubled that people who supposedly love this franchise are already bitching before we see even one frame of film. But really that’s just par for the course these days, isn’t it?

I remember another time, before the prequels, before the Special Editions, when the original trilogy was beloved by pretty much everyone of my generation. It was the closest thing to a lingua franca we had. Stuck for something to make small talk about? There was always Star Wars. When I met my best friend 21 years ago on the streets of Cambridge, England, two young guys from different parts of the U.S. who didn’t immediately seem to have much in common, we bonded by sharing our memories and thoughts of Star Wars over pints of Guinness. It was something special, something we both treasured. Something we all treasured.

Then came the Disillusionment of 1999, and the long period of darkness I think of as The Great Fanboy Wars, when everybody had an opinion and was determined to make damn sure everyone else knew what it was. And suddenly, this wonderful, cherished thing became a source of never-ending contention and argument, something you really didn’t want to bring up anymore. Whatever else you may say about it, pro or con, the prequel trilogy sucked all the fun out of being a Star Wars fan.

Long-time readers may recall an entry I wrote shortly after Revenge of the Sith, in which I declared that I was tired of the rancor and hostility that now surrounded something I just wanted to love, tired of feeling like I had to defend my opinions all the time, or at least listen to everyone else’s. That was nearly 10 years ago… and nothing has changed. You still can’t mention the prequels in mixed company without someone going off on a spittle-flecked rant about Jar Jar Binks, or what a hack George Lucas is. Worse yet, all that animus has started to spill over to the original trilogy, as well; a lot of people now believe it really wasn’t that good either, which is a worse piece of revisionism than all the CG dinosaurs Uncle George ever dreamed of inserting into Mos Eisley. It’s no wonder George finally just wanted to wash his hands of the whole damn thing.

When Episode VII was first announced, I briefly hoped that it might somehow heal the rift that was torn open by The Great Fanboy Wars, that people might come to love Star Wars without reservation again. But the moment I found myself sourly thinking I couldn’t enjoy the casting news for even a full hour before somebody started bitching about something, I knew. Ep VII is going to be more of the same. Even if it’s the greatest entry in the entire series, the fans will whine and moan more than they’ll praise and enjoy. And I just can’t allow myself to get too swept up in all of that. I don’t need the rage, I just don’t. There’s too much of it out there these days, directed at and coming from too many things…

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So That’s Why I Quit Going…

From a Mormon satire site called “The Bunyion“:

beards_mormon-humor

Bottom line, according to the same source: “Those with beards are 67% less righteous than their clean-shaven counterparts, according to a recent study by BYU.”

Remember, kids: NOT. EVEN. ONCE.

(An aside: Even though this is obviously meant to be humor, as a bearded man living in Mormon Utah, I’ve definitely encountered this attitude, up to and including ladies refusing to go out with me in my younger days because of my facial fuzz, and a well-meaning neighbor lecturing my dad on his beard until Dad very memorably reminded him that Jesus himself had one, and that many of the church’s early leaders looked like members of ZZ Top.)

Via the fabulously bearded Andrew Sullivan

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