Eyes reveal quite a lot about a person. Fire, fear, self-loathing, bottled aggression, love, doubt, contradiction, honesty. The last is the most important. What you see in someone's eyes will tell you how much to take them at their word. They say what lips simply can't admit.
Case in point: a girl confessing that she's trouble, she's nuts, don't trust her, walk away. The verbal warning resounds with the immediacy of a mattress tag. "DO NOT REMOVE." But what do the eyes say? They emphasize the point, refine it, like punctuation. Honesty, in all it's glassy brown glory.
I have a bunch of examples from the last week, gleaned from an unusual bounty of unpleasant run-ins. When some outside element might bend or twist words beyond their intended form, when alcohol or frustration or fatigue turn mild irritation into flat-out hatred, look to the eyes. Love, lust or friendship can be sparked or fractured irreparably by the intensity of an iris.
Bismarck's a blast. Delta lost my suitcase in Salt Lake, leaving me without toothbrush and more than my high school wardrobe for the better part of yesterday. But drinks with the crew, with the Neal-Amanda-Amanda-Annie posse, were a much-needed lift. Twenty-some miles of canoeing with the old man helped put a lot of things in perspective, better than a morning on Rock Creek. Yes, crashing a bachelorette party was not the highlight of my life, but six-way spooning with people you've known all your adult life? Well worth the shrill giggles.
Wedding tomorrow, Missoula the day after. For now, vacation and family and no thoughts of work. I think I'll re-learn Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." Haven't played the Chickering in a few years.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Finding time
I need to write today.
There's a lot hidden in that simple statement. Since I joined the Independent full-time, the hours I used to dedicate to creative writing have grown fewer and farther between. Writing is a regime easily broken by obligation, I guess, and when you write 1,000 words or more a week on deadline it's really the last thing you want to spend your precious free hours doing. Prose should never feel like a chore.
I find myself mostly at a loss for material. Moments in life lend themselves to poetry nicely, especially the seedier, hazier hours between dinner and coffee. But longer works? I need to be fully awake and aware, in possession of all my faculties for short stories and essays. More and more I feel this urge to chase down the elusive novel, that bound beast of ink and plot and arch. Or a screenplay. I could write a screenplay. When?
Trucked out to Tarkio for my publisher's wedding last night. Carpooled with the boss. Fun times. The ceremony put most others I've seen to some serious shame. Scores of guests in varying degrees of formal and Missoula-formal (tucked flannel and Carhartts) all milling about a giant white tent. Matt dropped real coin on the deal, down to the fiddle-and-guitar duo bluegrassing his bride down the aisle. Beautiful stuff.
Friday night was anything but. Kyle dragged me to the Top Hat to meet up with some work-related friends, Tricia and Brook. I've become something less than a fan of Reverend Slanky over the years, but they played some awesome funk covers. The Guess Who, Grand Funk Railroad, Mack Rice (or Wilson Pickett, for those not too familiar with the genesis of "Mustang Sally"). Ended up discoing my ass off, working up a sweat, and buttoning down past the nipple line. Of course, Kyle and his savant irresistibility worked magic on both Tricia and Brook. Nothing compares to feeling like the fourth wheel in a gender-balanced group. Eesh.
Still attempting to drum up a date for the approaching wedding back home. Nothing against going stag, but Ann might well kill me for fucking up the seating arrangement if I show up empty handed. Does being throttled by a bride qualify as going out in a flash of blazes?
There's a lot hidden in that simple statement. Since I joined the Independent full-time, the hours I used to dedicate to creative writing have grown fewer and farther between. Writing is a regime easily broken by obligation, I guess, and when you write 1,000 words or more a week on deadline it's really the last thing you want to spend your precious free hours doing. Prose should never feel like a chore.
I find myself mostly at a loss for material. Moments in life lend themselves to poetry nicely, especially the seedier, hazier hours between dinner and coffee. But longer works? I need to be fully awake and aware, in possession of all my faculties for short stories and essays. More and more I feel this urge to chase down the elusive novel, that bound beast of ink and plot and arch. Or a screenplay. I could write a screenplay. When?
Trucked out to Tarkio for my publisher's wedding last night. Carpooled with the boss. Fun times. The ceremony put most others I've seen to some serious shame. Scores of guests in varying degrees of formal and Missoula-formal (tucked flannel and Carhartts) all milling about a giant white tent. Matt dropped real coin on the deal, down to the fiddle-and-guitar duo bluegrassing his bride down the aisle. Beautiful stuff.
Friday night was anything but. Kyle dragged me to the Top Hat to meet up with some work-related friends, Tricia and Brook. I've become something less than a fan of Reverend Slanky over the years, but they played some awesome funk covers. The Guess Who, Grand Funk Railroad, Mack Rice (or Wilson Pickett, for those not too familiar with the genesis of "Mustang Sally"). Ended up discoing my ass off, working up a sweat, and buttoning down past the nipple line. Of course, Kyle and his savant irresistibility worked magic on both Tricia and Brook. Nothing compares to feeling like the fourth wheel in a gender-balanced group. Eesh.
Still attempting to drum up a date for the approaching wedding back home. Nothing against going stag, but Ann might well kill me for fucking up the seating arrangement if I show up empty handed. Does being throttled by a bride qualify as going out in a flash of blazes?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
There is a God, and his name is Milbank
Seems the Washington Post can't get a break these days. Following a trend toward bad decision making set a few years back (when they briefly removed comment boards from the Post blog), the acclaimed rag decided to cash in on its rep in July by charging lobbyists for access to Post reporters and editors. Snafu, anyone? The controversy came to light thanks to Politico (ironically, founded by two former Post reporters), which exposed a flier sent by the paper to a health care lobbyist. Post publisher Katharine Weymouth later condemned the flier as an un-vetted product from the paper's marketing department. Good buddy Boram, an intern at the Post, told me at the time that Weymouth visited the newsroom and the atmosphere was pretty whacked. No surprise. Media outlets nationwide put the Post over their knees.
Then, last week, the Post pulled yet another dumbshit stunt: they removed political columnist and deadpan funny-man Dana Milbank's comedic net video "Mouthpiece Theater." The segment in question–coproduced with Postman Chris Cillizza–spring-boarded off President Barack Obama's backyard beers-and-diplomacy party, pairing the nation's political talking heads with international beers appropriate to their personalities. Dennis Kucinich, for example, was encouraged to sip a frosty Insanely Bad Elf. Funny, right?
No one seemed to mind Milbank's in-no-way-veiled comparison of the folks on Capitol Hill to the Prince of Darkness(watch the video). But then came the snide suggestion that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton glug a Mad Bitch brew.
Hold the pres...er...hold the Net content! We can't have any snide, semi-witty, sarcastic digs at THAT prominent politician. Not from the Washington Post, not from a man who once stood outside a McCain/Palin rally with a sandwich board and sign boasting "Mainstream Media" and "I need a hug," not from the brilliant comic who turned presidential primary speeches into a drinking game. Henry Waxman as a grumpy troll? OK. The former First Lady, who should be capable of taking her share of biting sarcasm, drinking a beer all but named for her? Not so much.
Slate writer Jack Shafer, bless his sense of humor, came to Milbank's and Cillizza's rescue. He nods to a good point: why should the Post not run a comedy sketch? Isn't Milbank's weekly Washington Sketch nothing more than an incredibly enlightened and insightful jab at the nation's politics? It's just what we need. The front page material, hell, the lion's share of Post opinion writing errs on the side of seriousness. Top-tier censoring undermines everything a newspaper stands for. Weymouth needs to do what we journalists always dream publishers will do: back off and let the paper approach topical debate on every level. Even the mad bitch one.
In other news, my third feature is currently in production (at last) and hits newsstands tomorrow morning. And a week from today, I'll be flying back to old NoDak for the wedding of a very close friend/former roommate. But more on that as it unfolds. For now I'm going to sneak out early and get some much needed sleep. Toodle pipskie, friends.
Then, last week, the Post pulled yet another dumbshit stunt: they removed political columnist and deadpan funny-man Dana Milbank's comedic net video "Mouthpiece Theater." The segment in question–coproduced with Postman Chris Cillizza–spring-boarded off President Barack Obama's backyard beers-and-diplomacy party, pairing the nation's political talking heads with international beers appropriate to their personalities. Dennis Kucinich, for example, was encouraged to sip a frosty Insanely Bad Elf. Funny, right?
No one seemed to mind Milbank's in-no-way-veiled comparison of the folks on Capitol Hill to the Prince of Darkness(watch the video). But then came the snide suggestion that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton glug a Mad Bitch brew.
Hold the pres...er...hold the Net content! We can't have any snide, semi-witty, sarcastic digs at THAT prominent politician. Not from the Washington Post, not from a man who once stood outside a McCain/Palin rally with a sandwich board and sign boasting "Mainstream Media" and "I need a hug," not from the brilliant comic who turned presidential primary speeches into a drinking game. Henry Waxman as a grumpy troll? OK. The former First Lady, who should be capable of taking her share of biting sarcasm, drinking a beer all but named for her? Not so much.
Slate writer Jack Shafer, bless his sense of humor, came to Milbank's and Cillizza's rescue. He nods to a good point: why should the Post not run a comedy sketch? Isn't Milbank's weekly Washington Sketch nothing more than an incredibly enlightened and insightful jab at the nation's politics? It's just what we need. The front page material, hell, the lion's share of Post opinion writing errs on the side of seriousness. Top-tier censoring undermines everything a newspaper stands for. Weymouth needs to do what we journalists always dream publishers will do: back off and let the paper approach topical debate on every level. Even the mad bitch one.
In other news, my third feature is currently in production (at last) and hits newsstands tomorrow morning. And a week from today, I'll be flying back to old NoDak for the wedding of a very close friend/former roommate. But more on that as it unfolds. For now I'm going to sneak out early and get some much needed sleep. Toodle pipskie, friends.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Snapped
Wow. March 24. What the hell happened to the last few months...?
When it comes to this blog, I feel like a walking guilt-trip. I've honestly flirted with the idea of canning it altogether, if only to avoid the impending backlash from friends or family about my chronic sloth. But SportsWhit wants an update, and work is painfully slow, so here goes.
Since I last posted here, I have (in no particular order): written three cover stories for the Indy; published my second freelance magazine story, this time for some petty cash; composed a handful of original songs on mandolin; recorded two tracks with Sean at Club Shmed Studios; skied the Beartooth Pass for an upcoming freelance magazine story; skied a snowfield above Hidden Lake for shits and giggles; attended one coworker's wedding; RSVPed to three more weddings; joined Twitter; abandoned Facebook; watched the Twins lost to the Angels again...and again...and again; moved in with K-Hole buddy and now-landlord Kyle; hosted countless parties; played music in the garage during countless parties; played Rock Band during countless parties; built fires during countless parties; gawked at a neighbor walking her five cats (yes, cats) during countless parties; drank countless liters during countless parties; done other things during countless parties; woke up to countless killer hangovers after countless parties.
Between the office, the bars and the hammock, haven't budgeted much time for ye olde blog. But (and I know I've said this before...repeatedly) I'm hoping to remedy that. I'll likely go into more detail about all the things listed above, and all the things to come, in coming days/weeks/months. For now, I'm going to shamelessly plug our paper's new website and just refer you to the Indy for the real reason I've been absent from the bloggosphere of late (though take note I'm now blogging for work).
Here's something creative, to make up for the annoying and self-incriminating list above. Take care, folks. Talk soon.
Finding the car
Two girls lean against brick outside Bodega,
Dejected, embarrassed, texting with looks that say
“Whatever. Fuck.”
Three men, black uniforms, black 9 millies on black belts,
Hands holding fake licenses, hands reaching to radios.
Bored, perhaps reassessing location or career choice.
Drunks stroll by, gawk, then forget what they’ve seen,
Lost in alcohol dreams.
Whatever. Fuck.
Every cologne known breeds in air with Jaegermeister and body odor,
An assault on the senses.
Beyond glass walls glass lives glide along Spruce,
Skaters in a scheme less than grand.
Drink, dance, flirt. Back to my place?
Yes and the hot night is hotter.
No and the cold heart is colder.
Two men, more cops. Busted looks on busted faces.
Whatever. Fuck.
Done with the heat, with bad service, with the fire twirlers in the alley.
No Chelsy tonight, no waitress to chat with,
to pass a number to
Jokingly at first, but with a phantom of hope.
Walk on, boy, walk on.
Past alleys, past drunks, past tomorrow morning’s regret.
Glass lives, filled with whiskey and vodka and shattered with one word.
Yes.
Whatever. Fuck.
July 24, 2009
When it comes to this blog, I feel like a walking guilt-trip. I've honestly flirted with the idea of canning it altogether, if only to avoid the impending backlash from friends or family about my chronic sloth. But SportsWhit wants an update, and work is painfully slow, so here goes.
Since I last posted here, I have (in no particular order): written three cover stories for the Indy; published my second freelance magazine story, this time for some petty cash; composed a handful of original songs on mandolin; recorded two tracks with Sean at Club Shmed Studios; skied the Beartooth Pass for an upcoming freelance magazine story; skied a snowfield above Hidden Lake for shits and giggles; attended one coworker's wedding; RSVPed to three more weddings; joined Twitter; abandoned Facebook; watched the Twins lost to the Angels again...and again...and again; moved in with K-Hole buddy and now-landlord Kyle; hosted countless parties; played music in the garage during countless parties; played Rock Band during countless parties; built fires during countless parties; gawked at a neighbor walking her five cats (yes, cats) during countless parties; drank countless liters during countless parties; done other things during countless parties; woke up to countless killer hangovers after countless parties.
Between the office, the bars and the hammock, haven't budgeted much time for ye olde blog. But (and I know I've said this before...repeatedly) I'm hoping to remedy that. I'll likely go into more detail about all the things listed above, and all the things to come, in coming days/weeks/months. For now, I'm going to shamelessly plug our paper's new website and just refer you to the Indy for the real reason I've been absent from the bloggosphere of late (though take note I'm now blogging for work).
Here's something creative, to make up for the annoying and self-incriminating list above. Take care, folks. Talk soon.
Finding the car
Two girls lean against brick outside Bodega,
Dejected, embarrassed, texting with looks that say
“Whatever. Fuck.”
Three men, black uniforms, black 9 millies on black belts,
Hands holding fake licenses, hands reaching to radios.
Bored, perhaps reassessing location or career choice.
Drunks stroll by, gawk, then forget what they’ve seen,
Lost in alcohol dreams.
Whatever. Fuck.
Every cologne known breeds in air with Jaegermeister and body odor,
An assault on the senses.
Beyond glass walls glass lives glide along Spruce,
Skaters in a scheme less than grand.
Drink, dance, flirt. Back to my place?
Yes and the hot night is hotter.
No and the cold heart is colder.
Two men, more cops. Busted looks on busted faces.
Whatever. Fuck.
Done with the heat, with bad service, with the fire twirlers in the alley.
No Chelsy tonight, no waitress to chat with,
to pass a number to
Jokingly at first, but with a phantom of hope.
Walk on, boy, walk on.
Past alleys, past drunks, past tomorrow morning’s regret.
Glass lives, filled with whiskey and vodka and shattered with one word.
Yes.
Whatever. Fuck.
July 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Long time coming Part II
Just caught Modest Mouse's March 19 appearance on the Late Show (thank you, YouTube). Held my breath for a mo. The band has circled the drain the past few years, lurching from one side of the music industry toilet bowl to the other. Good News, We Were Dead. One wrong step followed by another. But this new vinyl release, "Satellite Skin," is something old. Faith restored. Isaac Brock and cronies have returned to the Lonesome Crowded West formula, even as long-time purists have clambered for a taste of the golden Moon & Antarctica. Subdued lyrics, twang-tastic guitar harmonies, a riff that's catchy for reasons beyond reason. Good move. Fall back on the not-so-familiar and leave the untoppable crowning achievement where it sits: on a pedestal.
Long time coming
Okay, update time. I've been seriously lax on this shit and apologize from the depths of my cold, cold heart.
You ask, "Alex, what has kept you so busy lately that you could justify leaving your loyal readers in the dark?" Short answer: I got a job. Longer answer: I got a job in my chosen profession. More specifically, at the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly in the town that just won't let me leave.
This is how it went down. I've been qualifying for food stamps since graduation, freelancing for a number of journalistic outlets in order to fund my drinking habit. The money wasn't great, hardly a trickle. But it got my foot in the door. When a position opened up at the Indy, my editor looked to his loyal freelancers as a sort of potential employment pool. He called me in to meet with the execs, offered me the job a day later. That was March 6. Now I'm a full-time staff writer, one of three. I cover University news, the Bitterroot Valley, and various aspects of the community at large. Four years of entertainment writing has me scratching my head over news stories at times, but it's a kick. And I've succeeded in landing a job in arguably one of the most tumultuous industries of the time.
No less worthy of note, I blew the last of my freelance savings on a beautiful Epiphone amp. Valkenberg has taken to the air again, flying Monday nights at Sean Kelly's with something less than regularity. I've skied, I've fished, I've bought far more Moby and Cake from Amazon than any human should. Hopefully now I'll take it upon myself to update at least once a week.
Hell, the job is slow enough at times. And blogging is more productive than playing online Scrabble in my cubicle.
You ask, "Alex, what has kept you so busy lately that you could justify leaving your loyal readers in the dark?" Short answer: I got a job. Longer answer: I got a job in my chosen profession. More specifically, at the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly in the town that just won't let me leave.
This is how it went down. I've been qualifying for food stamps since graduation, freelancing for a number of journalistic outlets in order to fund my drinking habit. The money wasn't great, hardly a trickle. But it got my foot in the door. When a position opened up at the Indy, my editor looked to his loyal freelancers as a sort of potential employment pool. He called me in to meet with the execs, offered me the job a day later. That was March 6. Now I'm a full-time staff writer, one of three. I cover University news, the Bitterroot Valley, and various aspects of the community at large. Four years of entertainment writing has me scratching my head over news stories at times, but it's a kick. And I've succeeded in landing a job in arguably one of the most tumultuous industries of the time.
No less worthy of note, I blew the last of my freelance savings on a beautiful Epiphone amp. Valkenberg has taken to the air again, flying Monday nights at Sean Kelly's with something less than regularity. I've skied, I've fished, I've bought far more Moby and Cake from Amazon than any human should. Hopefully now I'll take it upon myself to update at least once a week.
Hell, the job is slow enough at times. And blogging is more productive than playing online Scrabble in my cubicle.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Who's going to watch "Watchmen"?
There are moments when I enjoy being a critic. Getting paid to listen to music or watch movies is about as sweet a gig as ever imagined. And there are moments when I regret being a critic. Not every album is a winner, and there's a certain inevitability that feelings will be hurt, reputations marred. Comes with the territory.
Then there are the moments when I truly hate critics, at least the ones at the top. These fellows make me want nothing more than to enter their ranks and set them straight about interpretation. Perhaps when you've been at it too long, even "Casablanca" would be just another movie to review. And it should never come to that.
The most glaring example is the latest string of reviews for Zack Synder's "Watchmen." A film adaptation of the classic 1980s graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, "Watchmen" seems to have set reviewers off in every way possible. It's been called too long, a waste of time, a film lacking any addition to the original work. To that claim, made by Washington Post reviewer Philip Kennicott, I ask: why must a film add anything to an original work? If that work is strong enough on its own merit, shouldn't a film adaptation spend more time capturing the spirit of the original and less time trying to make its own impact? The trail has already been blazed, folks. TIME ranked "Watchmen" in the top 100 pieces of English language literature of the 20th Century. No director is going to top that, no matter how much depth he tries to add.
I understand the cuts made to the original "Watchmen" story. The comic-within-a-comic "Marooned" was an allegorical trick made for print alone. Back history offered by interviews and book clips were better condensed in narration or dialogue. Not sure I understand the loss of the giant alien squid (which Pat laments as much as I), but Synder no doubt had reasons. I only hope his translation of Adrian Veidt's ploy is similarly brilliant.
I'll save judgment for "Watchmen" until I've seen the film for myself. But I won't be walking into the theater with high expectations. What Zak Penn did to X-Men 2 and 3 was appalling, attempting to condense two trilogy-worth arches like the Phoenix Force and the Weapon X Program to a mere movie and a half. The crimes committed against the Spider-Man saga, chiefly the botched attempt at squeezing Venom into the third film, should have Sam Raimi before some sort of fanboy judicial panel. Comic fans haven't been without vindication. "Iron Man" was an impressive modernization of the original Iron Man genesis, and "V for Vendetta" knocked my fucking socks off. Still, screenwriters seem dedicated to screwing up whatever classic heroes they can. And I don't predict "Watchmen" changing that pattern.
What I will complain about are the critics now using a film adaptation to take pot-shots at the original work. To say the film stinks is one thing. To turn around and attack "Watchmen" as a graphic novel too big for its britches is ludicrous. Kennicott calls into question the revolutionary reputation "Watchmen" has earned, suggesting (if not flat-out stating) that it won acclaim merely as a figurehead for rising pop culture in the 80s. Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that it re-wrote the way people view comic book superheroes and, as a direct result, their oh-so-real counterparts.
Sure, the premise of "Watchmen" is outdated. Its impact was felt much more widely at its publication, when Cold War fears were very much alive. The story has lost no more importance in years since. Instead of a statement on the rampant Red paranoia of a bygone today, "Watchmen" is now an example of how that paranoia shaped the literary products of the 80s. It is and always has been the near science-fictional concept of alternative history. What if Nixon had remained president through congressional changes through the 80s? What if America had the ultimate trump card in winning a war against Communism? Never mind the issue of "superheroes," who aren't your typical comic book capes at all but a group of average-Joes and Jans in masks. "Watchmen" is a story about humanity on the brink, a very grim and very real view of our past. And its a story about humanity's reaction when God gets fed up with our shortcomings and leaves to start anew.
"Watchmen" is not "pretentious" or "unreadable," as Kennicott states. "Watchmen" is universal. The comic gore and noire styling (here we're talking dialogue) are not problems to be overcome in a film adaptation. They are cultural relics to be treasured and respected. So forget where Synder's film might stray physically from Moore and Gibbons' work. Concentrate on the spirit and emotion the two versions might share in common. And hope that Synder had the good sense to put some briefs on Dr. Manhattan. The last thing we need to see is Billy Crudup's motion-captured junk.
Then there are the moments when I truly hate critics, at least the ones at the top. These fellows make me want nothing more than to enter their ranks and set them straight about interpretation. Perhaps when you've been at it too long, even "Casablanca" would be just another movie to review. And it should never come to that.
The most glaring example is the latest string of reviews for Zack Synder's "Watchmen." A film adaptation of the classic 1980s graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, "Watchmen" seems to have set reviewers off in every way possible. It's been called too long, a waste of time, a film lacking any addition to the original work. To that claim, made by Washington Post reviewer Philip Kennicott, I ask: why must a film add anything to an original work? If that work is strong enough on its own merit, shouldn't a film adaptation spend more time capturing the spirit of the original and less time trying to make its own impact? The trail has already been blazed, folks. TIME ranked "Watchmen" in the top 100 pieces of English language literature of the 20th Century. No director is going to top that, no matter how much depth he tries to add.
I understand the cuts made to the original "Watchmen" story. The comic-within-a-comic "Marooned" was an allegorical trick made for print alone. Back history offered by interviews and book clips were better condensed in narration or dialogue. Not sure I understand the loss of the giant alien squid (which Pat laments as much as I), but Synder no doubt had reasons. I only hope his translation of Adrian Veidt's ploy is similarly brilliant.
I'll save judgment for "Watchmen" until I've seen the film for myself. But I won't be walking into the theater with high expectations. What Zak Penn did to X-Men 2 and 3 was appalling, attempting to condense two trilogy-worth arches like the Phoenix Force and the Weapon X Program to a mere movie and a half. The crimes committed against the Spider-Man saga, chiefly the botched attempt at squeezing Venom into the third film, should have Sam Raimi before some sort of fanboy judicial panel. Comic fans haven't been without vindication. "Iron Man" was an impressive modernization of the original Iron Man genesis, and "V for Vendetta" knocked my fucking socks off. Still, screenwriters seem dedicated to screwing up whatever classic heroes they can. And I don't predict "Watchmen" changing that pattern.
What I will complain about are the critics now using a film adaptation to take pot-shots at the original work. To say the film stinks is one thing. To turn around and attack "Watchmen" as a graphic novel too big for its britches is ludicrous. Kennicott calls into question the revolutionary reputation "Watchmen" has earned, suggesting (if not flat-out stating) that it won acclaim merely as a figurehead for rising pop culture in the 80s. Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that it re-wrote the way people view comic book superheroes and, as a direct result, their oh-so-real counterparts.
Sure, the premise of "Watchmen" is outdated. Its impact was felt much more widely at its publication, when Cold War fears were very much alive. The story has lost no more importance in years since. Instead of a statement on the rampant Red paranoia of a bygone today, "Watchmen" is now an example of how that paranoia shaped the literary products of the 80s. It is and always has been the near science-fictional concept of alternative history. What if Nixon had remained president through congressional changes through the 80s? What if America had the ultimate trump card in winning a war against Communism? Never mind the issue of "superheroes," who aren't your typical comic book capes at all but a group of average-Joes and Jans in masks. "Watchmen" is a story about humanity on the brink, a very grim and very real view of our past. And its a story about humanity's reaction when God gets fed up with our shortcomings and leaves to start anew.
"Watchmen" is not "pretentious" or "unreadable," as Kennicott states. "Watchmen" is universal. The comic gore and noire styling (here we're talking dialogue) are not problems to be overcome in a film adaptation. They are cultural relics to be treasured and respected. So forget where Synder's film might stray physically from Moore and Gibbons' work. Concentrate on the spirit and emotion the two versions might share in common. And hope that Synder had the good sense to put some briefs on Dr. Manhattan. The last thing we need to see is Billy Crudup's motion-captured junk.
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