But This Is Wondrous Strange: Week 3
Week the Third
A deeply underwhelming Snowpocalypse
Neil Peart Lives
Like any other towering figure in life, he lives in my thoughts, memories, and sometimes actions. I was playing Rush albums relentlessly in High School and beyond, for maybe a dozen years. I learned guitar parts, sang along, and memorized lyrics. Neil’s lyrics. I’m not a good drummer, but because of his obsessively crafted and precise playing, I became further fascinated with rhythm and a drummer’s role in a band. To the extent that I probably know and watch more drummers than any other musician online, even though it’s a distant third on my wish list to learn better.
Neil Peart wrote just about all the lyrics for Rush. He was sometimes inelegant, but more often thoughtful, incisive, wry, and earnest. Earnestness doesn’t get you a lot of points in rock music, nor does pretentiousness, which the band got stuck with as a label early on. But I always loved his refusal to give in to cynicism, his belief in humanity and the power of self-determination. He matured as a writer and lyricist over his career, as well as a musician, never satisfied to rest on his well-deserved accolades, always searching for new ways and challenges.
Neil Peart: A Work in Progress, Pt. 1, is only one of a dozen I wanted to share, and it’s long, I admit. But it’s an easy example of Neil’s love of and enthusiasm for music, and for his instrument in particular. For a man so shy in most social situations, when he starts talking about rhythm and music, he can hardly stop. It’s infectious and charming, as is his conversation with fellow drummers Doane Perry and Terry Bozzio on Drum Channel.
67 years isn’t nearly long enough to allot to a person who contributed so much to music, to my life, to so many hopes and dreams and ambitions. To take a Peart lyric to heart was to believe in the highest potential, that one could achieve great things in the smallest relationships and pursuits. It was never about fame or glory, but it was deeply, essentially human.
The Rise of Skywalker Is a Star Wars Movie
A lot of this film is very oceany
Let me say up front, I enjoyed it! I was expecting I might not. I’ve grown a little tired of the franchise over the past few years, but the pull of closure was strong in this one. So, I went. The best:
- Adam Driver and Daisy Ridley
- Babu Frik
- set design
First: the two leads wring as much heart and raw emotion from the words as possible, and I hope they’re recognized for that above everything. Adam Driver in particular has become an actor I want to keep up with. Why? He knows how to risk. ReyLo, the fan shipping of Rey and Kylo Ren as romantic partners—which I find odious—exists in no small part because he made Ben vulnerable as well as petulant. He's playing a tragic role because he's not just purely evil the way so many villains are. I'd bet Abrams didn't know how good he was for the first film, but by the second, Rian Johnson gave him more to do, and room to stretch out. And in the finale, Abrams followed that up. I had an acting teacher in L.A. who was big on this. “Risk” in an acting context means opening yourself up so the audience can see your raw emotions, and being vulnerable, which can be scary as an actor. It feels ... I dunno, personal? You aren't just pretending to be some character, you're exposing inner truths. Risking means taking the chance that you'll fail, too. For most of the cast, who are pretty good, mind, I can see they're acting, even when sad or angry. But Driver? Feels real.
Second and third: I’m a sucker for cute, and Babu Frik was a nice moment of comedy amidst much angst. And it’s a very, very pretty film. The concept art wing of Star Wars is composed of some of the best artists in the biz, and it shows.
That’s the good. The not-so-good, well—I felt bored halfway through. It seemed all too tidy as a story wrap-up. I may be old, now. I was cool with a solid 80 or 90 minutes of Star Wars, and I got way more than that. The body count started to bug me, as well. It didn’t bug me watching John Wick, but it did in The Rise of Skywalker. I was surprised how gruesome the many, many stormtrooper deaths seemed, despite the same armor, the same helmets, the same horrible marksmanship. 42ish years after the first one, I was kind of sickened. They seemed more real as people, and the casual manner Our Heroes blasted their way through so many of them gave me pause. Perhaps it’s a symptom of our times.
The Wrap
I note, along with NP, the death this week of William Higgins, gay porn pioneer, whose films brought teenaged me closer to coming out and accepting myself as I am. Thanks, Bill.
Here are a few things that tweaked my undiagnosed ADHD the past few days:
- Portland/alt-right specific: The Making of Andy Ngo
- Songfacts on Led Zeppelin’s “Gallows Pole”
- Undark magazine on how outrage over Goop’s anti-science glop isn’t slowing its spread
- I learned what style frames are
- A 2014 Atlantic piece asserts Dead Poets Society is no friend of literature
- I refreshed my hazy memory of how LCD displays work
Blog: marcusharwell.com
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