This show caught my attention because I have fond memories of a road trip with my wife, during which we listened to an audiobook of Recursion, by the same author, Blake Crouch. The common thread between these two stories, and what I suppose is the strength of the author, is a mind-bending, twisty sci-fi plot, featuring a character who is motivated by a specific kind of romantic love, that of loyal, long-term partners. It’s this latter emotional element that makes me a fan of his work.1
It’s an unfortunate consequence of marketing that one usually knows a bit about the premise of a show before watching it. As a result, the first few episodes of Dark Matter feel a little slow, because we already know the basic explanation for what’s going on. I think it would be cool to dive in completely fresh.
Having said that, I need to reveal some spoilers ahead to discuss what I enjoyed about the show.
During the middle episodes, as the protagonist Jason explores the many worlds of the multiverse, the question comes up: knowing that there are infinite variations of every person, where each one made different decisions in their lives, what defines the core of a person? By the end, as those infinite variations of Jason appear in the “home” world, the show answers the question in a fascinating, tragic way: he’s defined by his desire to be with his family, and the one copy that we’re rooting for just happens to have been the one that we’ve been following. They all have equal right to their happy ending, but they won’t be able to get it.
Footnotes
I’m reminded a bit of Robert J. Sawyer, who I read a lot when I was younger. ↩
Foundation is based on the classic series of novels by Isaac Asimov. I read them a long time ago, for an undergrad sci-fi literature course, and from what I recall, the adaptation is a loose one.
The show depicts a powerful interplanetary Empire, and a mathematician who develops a method of calculating the course of history, extending thousands of years into the future. He predicts that the Empire will fall, and is allowed to form a Foundation to ease the process of rebuilding afterwards.
It’s a complicated premise and I think the show struggles to stick to its own rules. Characters keep saying that the math is indisputable, that the fall of the Empire is inevitable, but gradually, the Foundation becomes like an organized rebellion, actively attacking the Empire. I don’t need to root for another David against another Goliath, and I would have been more interested by a story that shows how unpredictable “black swans” can turn the tide of history.
An enjoyable feel-good sports documentary about a Welsh soccer team as they try to ascend the ranks of the English league system. The whole thing is possible because of an injection of Hollywood money, in the form of new owners Rob McElhenney and Ryan Reynolds.
The first couple seasons of the show are a bit more rough, with a tendency to veer off into tangents that feature somewhat narcissistic attempts at comedy by the two “stars.” They also lean a bit too hard on the “football is more than a sport, it’s a way of life” angle, in my opinion. Having said that, by season 3, they’ve found a better balance between exciting game footage and slice-of-life stories about the players and the townspeople.
I recently tore through this fantasy series, which consists of the novels The Poppy War, The Dragon Republic, and The Burning God. It tells the epic story of a young woman who discovers her magical ability to control fire, and uses it to rise to military power. It’s set in a fictionalized version of Asia, with parallels to China, Japan, Taiwan, and a vaguely European colonial power.
The series kicks off with the protagonist Rin entering an elite military school. It’s a fun way to get introduced to the world, and feels reminiscent of Harry Potter, with her making alliances and rivalries with her fellow students as well as the faculty. But then the stakes escalate very suddenly when war breaks out with a neighbouring country.
I got a kick out of the magic system in this fantasy world. Rin and the other “shamans” harness the power of gods; or rather, they act as conduits for the gods, and are never fully in control. The ability to wield magic is as much a curse as anything, and eventually, all shamans go insane because they’re constantly fighting to keep the gods from taking over their minds. It’s also cool how the interplay between magic and warfare is depicted: geography and natural resources play a big role in how they form military strategies, but as soon as a superpowered soldier enters the fray, it completely turns the tide.
I must confess that I didn’t quite finish the final book. I got a bit fatigued by the relentless violence, but even more than that, the character of Rin is motivated by such anger and hatred that it kind of wore me down. I think the story suffers a bit from being limited to only showing her perspective. As the series progresses, Rin shifts allegiances between the various political factions that are involved in the war, but she’s not driven by any ideology, only by rage against whoever happens to be her enemy at the time. I didn’t get a sense of what she was fighting for.
My read was probably hampered by reading the whole series back to back to back, and within the limited timeframe of library loans. If you want the best experience, I would suggest pacing yourself and letting it breathe.
I’ve been selectively revisiting the X-Men series, which, as a whole, are known to be a mixed bag. At their best1, they’re great action spectacles that effectively explore the opposing philosophies of Professor X and Magneto. At their worst… well, I didn’t rewatch the bad ones, so I won’t comment.
These two entries, both directed by James Mangold, stand apart from the rest in the way that they zoom into the psychology of a single character. The Wolverine is the more conventionally comic-booky of the two, featuring ninjas and a cool bullet train fight scene. Logan doesn’t feel like a superhero movie at all, and lands more like a crime drama, with brutal violence that makes you feel every kill.
Both follow a similar emotional arc for the character: he’s a broken man, haunted by the past, until he finds someone to care for and protect. It’s especially effective in Logan, due to the compelling performance by Dafne Keen as Wolverine’s clone-daughter.
I have to say though, Wolverine’s lack of emotional range (99.5% brooding and angry, 0.5% vulnerable) is more noticeably one-note when he’s flying solo and not part of a team.
This film has a fascinating and unique premise: a family who has adopted a Chinese girl purchases an android with the same ethnicity—a cultural techno-sapien, as they call it—to act as her older brother, and to ensure that she has a connection to her heritage. But he malfunctions, and in the process of trying to repair him1, they gain access to his storage modules and are able to view his memories.
Due to the title, I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that their efforts are unsuccessful, and the film becomes an emotional meditation on grief. When we lose someone close to us, we usually focus on our memories of them. This film uses the sci-fi premise to invert that idea and ask, what would the departed hold as their most treasured memories of us?
This includes a trip to a glossy franchised repair shop called Quick Fix, which immediately reminded me of my experiences with a similar place called uBreakiFix, or as I like to call it, uBreak-I-break-it-even-more. ↩
I’ve lately gone on a kick of revisitingmovies that have left a lasting impression on me. With that in mind, I rewatched this pair of Ari Aster films in quick succession, and my snap verdict is: Midsommar has gone up in my estimation, while Hereditary has gone down.
I don’t scare easily at horror movies, but part of the reason is because I tend to avoid seeing them in the theatre. The big screen and loud sound, along with being surrounded by the dark, would probably overwhelm me, and raise the fear factor beyond what I’d be comfortable with.1 This is all to give Hereditary the credit that it deserves: it freaked me the hell out the first time I watched it, even in the comfort of my basement man cave. On this second viewing, because I knew what was coming, it didn’t hit me much. I didn’t expect to be scared, but great horror can be rewatched because it offers more than fear2, and Hereditary didn’t.
Midsommar, on the other hand, opened up for me the second time around. I don’t think it was ever really that scary in the first place, more shocking and disturbing. Without the element of surprise, it becomes a fascinating exploration of how outsiders perceive “foreign” cultures, and the thin line between community and cult.
Things that connect the two films:
The lead actors, Toni Collette and Florence Pugh, are both great.
Corpses in Aster’s movies have a bloodless, rubbery quality that I “enjoy.” I can’t say they’re realistic, but they’re also not clearly fake. It’s like a gross, macabre version of the Yoda puppet in The Empire Strikes Back.
I’ll always remember the experience of seeing Signs in the theatre all those years ago. I propose that a recent, comparable film, No One Will Save You, didn’t feel very scary to me (though still enjoyable) because I watched it at home. ↩
I first saw this movie at TIFF in 2016. At the time, I was in the (relatively) early days of the relationship that would become my marriage. In other words, less emotionally evolved, let’s say. I remember being moved by the core theme of the movie, which—spoiler warning—hinges on the question: if you have foreknowledge that your child would die from a childhood illness, would you still choose to have that child? But, I think the main appeal for me back then were the sci-fi elements. Cool spaceships! Alien first contact!
Rewatching it this time around, I’ve been happily married for years. We don’t have kids, but the notion of being a parent is way more immediate and accessible to me now than eight years ago. As such, the movie had a bigger emotional impact for me this time. But the connection that actually resonated the most for me, unexpectedly, was this: pet owners, in most cases, know that they will outlive their pets, and yet, we choose to share our lives with our animals. These can be some of the most fulfilling relationships we have, in fact.
Of course, I’m not equating the loss of a child to that of a pet. But both types of loss highlight the message of Arrival, I think: the act of fully loving someone or something requires accepting the possibility of loss. And if you know that the loss is certain, it makes the love that much stronger.
It’s hard to review this book without mentioning its structure, including what happens in the story. I don’t think it’s the kind of book that hinges on plot points, but I’ll still put a spoiler warning here.
The prose is structured in short fragments, usually no longer than a few sentences each. It’s reminiscent of Dept. of Speculation and Weather by Jenny Offill, both of which I enjoyed. There are no real “scenes,” just glimpses into the mind of the main character, an unnamed woman who spends a lot of time on the Internet, and becomes famous for a single tweet. Ultimately, I think I prefer Lockwood’s novel to Offill’s, because of how the style changes meaning over the course of the book.
For the first half of this book, the style obviously evokes the flood of unrelated content that you experience when scrolling through social media. It’s filled with references to memes and jokes, and would probably not even make sense for the first dozen or so pages if you hadn’t read the jacket copy.
But then, in the second half, the book shifts focus to a medical emergency involving the protagonist’s infant niece. The protagonist is no longer constantly online, but the style remains fragmentary, taking on a lyrical quality. I came to appreciate that even without the distraction of the Internet, the mind still works this way: when you’re supposedly only thinking about one thing—in this case, love towards an ailing child—you still jump from idea to idea, emotion to emotion. I found it very powerful, and I was brought close to tears by many passages.
The Andy Serkis Planet of the Apes trilogy, especially the middle entry, are some of my favourite movies ever. What the new sequel retains is the utter believability of the special effects. You really believe that you’re watching living apes, and that they are persons with thoughts and feelings.
I loved the first half of the film, which establishes the culture of the future ape society, through the main character Noa, and then the studies of a monk-like ape named Raka. If the film had stuck with the “buddy search quest” plotline, where the two of them try to find Noa’s missing clan, this would have been a home run. Unfortunately, the film loses steam for me when it introduces a triangular conflict involving a power-hungry self-proclaimed king ape, and a mysterious human girl. The focus shifts to a big action climax instead of fleshing out the motivations of the antagonist(s), and made me miss the moral complexity of the original trilogy.
