Does parody even work anymore?

This has been on my mind ever since I wrote a post last year about the dangers of breast feeding. In it, I began by describing, for those unfamiliar, the recent trend in which mothers of infants and toddlers put their breasts in their children’s mouths, as if to substitute the sexually deviant act for nourishment. Through interviews, scientific studies, and even a graphically detailed description of the practice as personally witnessed, I provided evidence, proof positive, that breastfeeding is a real threat that everyone must be aware of and vigilant against. It was incontrovertible, airtight, and a great service to good conservative Christian morals.

And no one got the joke.

I wrote it in an exaggerated investigative style. I used AP standards to mangle invented quotes to serve an asinine thesis. I cited clergy as scientific sources. I used the word intercourse to refer to breastfeeding, for Magic Space Wizard’s sake, and somehow, it just wasn’t ever absurd enough. Hardly anyone realized that it was a parody of investigative journalism and conservative morality. People thought I was being serious.

I was baffled for weeks before my short attention span came back and I found something else to be outraged by, but the whole thing stuck to the back of my mind like an atomic Band-Aid. How could something that I thought was so obviously satire be construed as genuine?

The same problem can be seen in reactions to The Onion’s editorial cartoons and the Onion-affiliated parody conservative Christian blog ChristWire.org. In the former case, many people think that The Onion is creating genuine conservative satire, and in the latter case, people think the blog author honestly is “extremely terrified of the Chinese” and believes that prom night is “Satan’s plan to get your daughter pregnant“. Both spout endless absurdities that no sound-minded person could ever honestly believe in, and no one gets the joke.

Many months ago, I discovered Conservapedia, a wiki-based encyclopedia founded by conservative Andy Schlafly, who felt that Wikipedia contained “liberal, anti-Christian, and anti-American” bias. Fair enough, was my first thought. I’ll give anyone my attention for a minute or two if they don’t sound crazy, so I clicked around the site for a bit, figuring there can’t be much harm with hearing an opposing argument.

What I found though, was in many instances bizarre. Bible verses cited in arguments against homosexuality; criticisms against feminists for going against tradition; McCarthic links between Atheism and Communism; a note that President Obama uses mind control in his speeches.

That was when I realized… this is why the parodies don’t work. These people really do sound like this.

Conservative far-rightists should find this terrifying. Their rhetoric has become so ridiculous that, when we as satirists try to make fun of them, people think we are them. When one cannot make it through a conservative treatise without thinking it might be a joke, that it’s just too out there to be real, while at the same time interpreting a piece satirizing those same conservatives as sincere, something must be wrong.

There was a time when conservatives just wanted minimal government and fair laws. But then, at some point, they found morality, and now, they themselves have become a parody.

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I’ve got Apple’s new in-ear buds buried deep in my head right now, testing them out with Rush’s Snakes & Arrows album. Admittedly a poor choice of music for a headphone test, as Rush has gotten into the habit of mixing their albums very bass heavy since the early 90’s, but it does point out something very interesting about these earbuds: They’re flat! As in that’s good!

Even with Geddy Lee’s beastly bass lines and Neil Peart’s metal-inspired double-kicking, the bass on these headphones does not devastate like it usually does with other in-ear headphones. My old Sony in-ears were really big on bass, to the point where I tended to turn on the Bass-Reducer setting in the iPod’s Equalizer menu when using them. Not the case here.

If you’re the type who just wants a big, flesh-rending bass response, you’re going to be underwhelmed. These earbuds are clearly not designed for it. Even I was expecting more bass when I plugged them in and was, for the briefest moment, disappointed. But the more I use them, the more I appreciate that Apple has focused on balance here. Mids could be a little crisper (Lifeson’s getting a little lost, but only a little), but trebels are bright and basses are appropriately restrained.

But, for the people out there whose equalizers keep looking like this: (,,,,,,++++*****), you’ll finally be able to flatten that out and enjoy a clean, balanced sound without any fiddling.

One final note: I’ve found that I need to use a bit more force getting a good seal in my ear from these than I’m used to. If the bass sounds so low that you think something is wrong, push the earbuds in a little more.

Worth $79 for audio pricks like me. Not worth $79 for pimp daddies.

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WARNING: The following is a spoiler-ridden review of Star Wars – Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. I swear to God, if you ignore this warning and you e-mail me complaining that I ruined it for you, I am going to print out a copy of this review, staple it to your spinal cord, and set it on fire. Then, I’m going to kill you. I mean it. I am going to take your life. Anyway…

A great bass drum beats menacingly beneath the anthem of the Force. Two starfighters zip across the bow of a Republic starship, hotdogging in unison. It is clear that we are in orbit around the galactic capital, though we do not quite see what is going on over the planet, or what these two fighters are doing there and who is flying them. For several agonizing seconds, we wait expectantly. We know exactly what is going on. We know what we are about to see. We’ve known it for more than a year. Yet, he teases us, dangles it in front of our noses, waiting for exactly the right moment. And then at last, WHOOM, the overwhelming carnage below, swarms of starships hurling endless barages of light at each other – the Battle of Coruscant.

I felt a tear well up, and I spoke of the divine excrement to anyone who might want to hear my thoughts on the spectacle, the only words with which I felt I could properly convey the feeling. With this thirty second shot, one which the fair Lucas massaged and tenderized to the paramount of majesty, begins Star Wars – Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, and with that fanfare comes the penance of the prodigal director.

The furball rages on below, but this scene is not about a battle, nor is it about the rescue of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine from the clutches of General Grievous, and the death of Darth Tyranus; it is about Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi, brothers in the Force, and their bond as lifelong comrades. The music sits back for many portions of this act, allowing the action to instead be punctuated by the friendly banter between the Chosen One and his mentor.

The characters shine. Anakin’s confidence and arrogance are unmistakable as he uses his ship, in midflight, to gently sweep a swarm of droids from the surface of Obi-Wan’s fighter. Kenobi, on the other hand, is clearly getting old. “Nothing too fancy,” he beseeches to his astromech droid when it comes time to evade a pair of incoming missiles. The aging Master is also the only character in the film to deliver the obligatory line, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

For twenty-five to thirty wildly entertaining minutes, it seems like business as usual. The rescue is filled with lighthearted chatter between the Jedi, and Artoo Deetoo breaks up the action with a generous but measured helping of comic relief. Contrasting with Threepio’s annoying puns from Episode II, the laughs are welcome and appreciated. As a matter of fact, without them, Revenge of the Sith would be impossible to bear, not because the film is bad – it is, in fact, better than I ever could have hoped; it is the quality itself of the tale that causes it to be hard on the emotions.

Make no mistake, this movie is dark. The deaths of Owen and Beru Lars in Episode IV were little more than tragic. The revelation of Darth Vader as Luke Skywalker’s father in Episode V was merely bleak. Episode III is what the other five Star Wars episodes never even tried to be: depressing, shocking, powerful. It is like no Star Wars film that you have yet seen. Characters that we’ve known and cared about since 1999 are murdered by their own savior. Palpatine’s transformation into the hideous figure we loved to hate in Episode VI is positively gruesome. Mace Windu’s death is intensely painful. Yoda loses a fight.

That is something that deserves its own discussion. To date, we have thought of Yoda as the most powerful being in the galaxy, an indestructible Master of the Force. No matter how impossible a feat seemed, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that Yoda could perform it. But here, in his battle with Emperor Palpatine, the Dark Lord of the Sith, Yoda gets hit. The sight of the most beloved character in the Star Wars saga lying on the floor, helpless, is terribly heartbreaking. To hear him admit his failure to destroy Darth Sidious feels like betrayal.

The corruption of Anakin does not happen instantly. Palpatine manipulates him, his trust in the Jedi falters, his desire for power grows over time. We can see the conflict in him, right up until he turns to the Dark Side. None would sense this conflict again until he is reunited with his son on Bespin.

The poetry of his fall can not be contested. He is faced with a choice, the choice between following his beliefs, allowing to happen what he knows must be done to keep order in the galaxy, and forsaking everything to save someone he loves – the same choice that he faces twenty years later during the Battle of Endor. In both cases, his compassion for those he cares about takes hold, and in both cases, his alignment in the Force is reversed. Love leads him to both his downfall and to his redemption.

The Jedi Purge then follows, and it is a horrible thing to see. Ki-Adi-Mundi beckons his clone troopers forward in battle, only to be fired on himself by his own men. A small platoon of clones should have been no match for a Jedi Master, but caught off guard as he was, there was little he could do to prevent their blasters from boring through his chest. Around the galaxy, the Jedi fall as the London Symphony Orchestra croons a somber elegy. And at last, we see Yoda, and the look of shock he wears as he feels so many Jedi become one with the Force.

We know what must happen next: Obi-Wan will track Anakin down, engage him in battle, and defeat him. And so the duel we’ve all been waiting to see begins, what John Williams dubbed the Battle of the Heroes, when Obi-Wan confronts his former Padawan on Mustafar. Lucas does not pull this punch. Anakin burns. His flesh is seared to blackness. He screams in agony. And the victorious Obi-Wan can do nothing more than leave him there to die.

Anakin does not die, of course. We are well aware of the continuity: his nearly destroyed body is rebuilt with cybernetic prosthetics, and a black mask is placed over his scarred face. The artificial respirator is switched on, and we hear the familiar hoooooo-khaaaahhhhh for the first time. But when that deep, intimidating voice that we have been waiting to hear finally speaks, it is not the voice of a mighty Sith Lord. The timbre is there, it is James Earl Jones, but Vader’s voice croaks slightly, we can hear his pain as he weakly asks, “Where is Padme?”

Star Wars Episode III is a brilliantly executed tragedy. If I sound like I’m swooning, it’s because I am. That is not, however, to say that Revenge of the Sith is perfect. Most of its faults, however, can be attributed to the sheer volume of meat that had to be crammed into the film. There were just so many plot points that needed to be touched on, to include them all would have required more than three hours of screen time. Instead, we get many short, slightly choppy scenes, as opposed to the long, drawn-out subplots of the other five movies. I was particularly disappointed to find that Mon Mothma’s scene was cut, as it was supposed to lay the foundation for the Rebel Alliance. I hope it gets put back in for the DVD.

So the movie is merely excellent. Darn. I know there are those of you out there that hated it, however, and you all piss me off to no end. I will speak to you as if you are together a single individual, because all of you think identically anyway.

You are a fat, sweaty dud. You sit at your computer all day, your fat, sweaty hands rapping away on the keyboard as you rant on Slashdot about how Lucas has beefed all over your childhood. Do you even hear yourself saying that? Do you recognize for a moment what that says about you? I can fill you in if you like: it says that you are a fat, sweaty blob who spent his innocent years obsessing over a movie instead of playing kickball outside with the rest of the kids, and now you compensate for it with prose intended to show that you are too smart to like a movie that everyone else likes. Oh, boo hoo, Jar Jar Binks, wah wah, midi-chlorians, Jesus, if it meant that much to you, why didn’t you just get up and make it yourself? Oh, that’s right, because you’re fat and sweaty. Do yourself a big favor: put away the Cheetos, move out of your parents’ house, wash your greasy hair, and try going on a date for once. You are a worthless slob whom the Catholic Church is one day going to point to when they say, “If Darwin was so smart, then why is that guy still alive?”

Critics who gave Episode III poor reviews draw similar ire. There are fewer this time around, but their irrationality is as pungent and rancid as ever. They, like the nerds, buy into the fad, poopooing yet another great movie just so they can demonstrate to the world what cultured, refined cunts they are.

To both of these groups, the nerds and the critics, I say this: you are all despicable. You make no contribution to this society whatsoever. You sit at your desks ranting self-importantly about a movie that will have no more overall bearing on the course of history than the bad half-and-half I poured down the drain the other day. If this were ten thousand years ago, you’d have all been eaten by predators before adulthood, and I would have pointed and laughed and then killed the predators just so I myself could eat your flesh. I don’t even care what you think of Star Wars. That’s not what cheeses me. I want you all out of this genepool because you as a collective are a regression of the human race. All of you pretentious wastes of space should be slaughtered en masse for being what you are.

Think, you mindless lemmings. Use your own brains for once, instead of mirroring what the other useless lumps of meat are saying. You’re complaining about a movie to be popular, with nerds no less. How pathetic can you get?

Rrrgh. Anyway, in conclusion, I liked Revenge of the Sith.

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This is a Purge that you knew had to be coming soon. Things like this are compulsory, you see. It is not every April, 2005 that a forthcoming film brings my excitement to a vehement, frothing boil the way the arrival of the film adaptation of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has. It was something I had steeped in just as much anticipation as I have Revenge of the Sith. You could feel the jitters through my sweating palms when you shook my hand. The tension was unbearable; what if it was bad? What if the masterpiece of the late Douglas Adams ended up being paid tribute by a poorly conceived, quick-buck monstrosity of a film, worthy only to be viewed by the most iniquitous of men as punishment for their foul deeds?

The moment came, the film began, and my smile beamed, burning a crater of joy in the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me. If you’re in a hurry to get out the door and go to work, you can stop here: I thought this motion picture was wonderful. It made me very very happy. If you are still here, for you, I shall now elaborate.

But before I do that, I must say something: that this movie come out beautifully was extremely important to me, due to the tattered history I have with the multifarious entertainment media to which I have access. I am convinced that I am a jinx. Enterprise, for example, is the first Trek show I’ve ever watched, and it has been one that I have enjoyed greatly; it is being cancelled. The live-action The Tick series was, to me, glorious; it was canned after six episodes. Calvin and Hobbes may have been the single best part of my childhood; Bill Watterson retired from it when I was fifteen.

The absolute worst of it all, however, came when I finally got around to reading the Hitchhiker’s trilogy. I became hopelessly enamored with the books almost immediately, and my writing style very quickly assimilated a good chunk of that of Mr. Adams. But then, just when my love of the Guide was reaching its peak, Douglas Adams’ heart decided that, no, all this thump thump thump bullshit was beneath it, and promptly stopped. Most sources of entertainment that I come to enjoy to a large degree eventually disappear, and I tend to get over it quickly, but when your new favorite author dies shortly after attaining his princely standing in your personal ranking system, it affects you slightly, in much the same manner as a mouthful of bees. For me, the grief is still so great that I cannot imagine ever not naming a pet after a character from the series.

The film meant a lot to me because I killed Douglas Adams with my love, is what I’m trying to say here, to the point where I was heartbroken when I didn’t get around to seeing it on opening night, so when I say that I am pleased with how it came out, you must take it to heart, nurture it as one of your own. To break it down:

I only have one complaint about the movie, so let’s get that out of the way first: there’s a bit more slapstick here than in the books. I can see how some would argue that Hitchhiker’s has been Americanized a bit in the transition. There is certainly a lot more silliness than you’ll probably remember, but even the books were laugh-out-loud funny at least once a chapter, so despite the absence of the philosophy and the political commentary with which Adams loved to pepper his writing, this is all very forgivable.

Casting-wise, each actor plays his or her part with aplomb – every major character is good. Zooey Deschanel is perfect, not to mention adorable, as Trillian. I can already feel her beginning to fill the void left by the disenchantment I’ve been experiencing with Natalie Portman as of late. Sam Rockwell plays Zaphod with only a vague faithfulness to the book, and is brilliant in every way about it. Mos Def, of all people, plays Ford, and I’m truly ashamed of having ever been surprised that he was cast into the role. Martin Freeman may as well just change his name to Arthur Dent, as he’s easily the best casting decision since James Earl Jones voiced Darth Vader. I’ve always read Marvin with Alan Rickman’s voice; you can imagine my delight in his performance. No one but Bill Nighy should ever play Slartibartfast. And Stephen Fry as the voice of the Guide, well, Adams handpicked this one himself more than a decade ago, so no amount of flawlessness can surprise you there.

A lot of people don’t like the inconsistencies between the book and the film, which I suppose is understandable – I’d say the film is only about 75% faithful, if that – but it is no way justified, because Douglas Adams made every change himself before he died. If something is different in the movie, it is because the author wanted it to be different. It’s just something that he likes to do. Lots of changes were made between the radio series and the books. Lots of changes were made between the books and the BBC miniseries. If you don’t like it, I suggest you either swallow it and deal with it, or relieve yourself of the material plane and bring it to him personally. The changes work. They make it a better movie.

That’s not to say that the story is unrecognizable, though. The general idea is intact, and all changes were at least in the spirit of the novel. A lot of the dialogues have made the transfer verbatim, which I loved; the Guide entries sound like they were being read right from a copy of the book that they had lying around the studio; even the sperm whale soliloquy is almost word for word identical, and hell, I was thrilled that it was in there at all. Many things have been cut, a couple things that were in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe (the second book) show up here in volume one instead, there is an entirely new subplot written specially for the movie, and the ending has been changed almost drastically, but all things considered, this is how a Hitchhiker’s Guide movie would have been made had Douglas Adams been the one to make it.

So what I’m saying is, I’m crazy about the movie. I got my hopes way up, and was not disappointed. I must’ve looked like the biggest idiot, grinning for two hours the way I was. When the credits started rolling, ask anyone who was with me, I raised my hands up and squealed, proclaiming in a squeaky voice, “Yay! It was good! It was actually good!” It was the most relieving moment of the year for me.

I must have four more of these. I need them. I am overjoyed that the Hitchhiker’s movie came in first at the box office this weekend, making $21.7 million. I plan to do my part and see it again. Get out there and vote with your money, because if I don’t get the whole trilogy in a 5-disc HD-DVD collection by 2015, I am going to be very depressed indeed. Life, don’t talk to me about life.

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‘Kay, just so you know, The Incredibles: best Pixar flick… ever.

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