my week with windows 8 (at TFPO)

Well, two weeks actually.

Part the First

If you believe the tech trades and the various opinionators who lurk in the articles’ comments section, Microsoft’s newest operating system, Windows 8, is the second coming of the much-maligned Windows Vista or, if you really want to give yourself the heebie-jeebies, Microsoft Bob...After a week working with Windows 8 on my office workstation, I'm gaining enough experience to reach a verdict of my own. Thus, the questions: Is Windows 8 a win or a fail? Read the rest here.

Part the Second

After almost two weeks of working with Windows 8, I’ve gained enough experience to reinforce my suspicion that critics of the OS are either operating with a bias against Microsoft or are simply old dogs whimpering at new tricks. An unfair characterization, no doubt, but I remain baffled at the hostility towards Windows 8. In my experience, Windows is just like Windows 7, only with a Start screen instead of a Start menu. Read the rest here.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (at TFPO)

I've returned to active writing duty at The Front Page Online, beginning with a review of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey...

Time has passed since Jackson first materialized Middle Earth in a trilogy of films that made pure fantasy fashionable again, although I’ll stick with the Harry Potter films as the superior accomplishment. My opinion of Tolkien’s work hasn’t changed – imagination and exhaustive attention to detail put to the service of a dull and shallow narrative – yet I’ve come to appreciate that imagination and detail through Jackson’s breathtaking rendition of Tolkien’s universe...

Read the rest of "An Unexpected Pleasure" at The Front Page Online.

quick film review: rise of the guardians

There seems to be an excess of guardians in Hollywood these days, which should serve as a reminder not to confuse the animated Holiday-themed Rise of the Guardians with Zach Snyder’s gorgeous, but shallow, war-themed effort, Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hule. Another aid: although both dance to similar rhythms, it’s Rise of the Guardians that succeeds in delivering enough visual novelty and earnest characterizations to deliver a familiar hero’s journey with heart, humour, and surprisingly effective moments of threat and menace. The inventively realized lands of the films’ heroic guardians, at least those with lands to call home - Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy – range from lush to surreal and benefit from an attention to detail that often inspires the sense of wonder so valued by the film’s characters. And the characters are conceived, designed and voiced with an elegant mix of whimsy and panache, a combination that elicits an immediately favourable visceral reaction. A biker-like Santa Claus voiced by Alec Baldwin with a Russian accent dual wielding sabers when not carving magical toys out of ice? Very cool, as is the diminutive and silent Sandman whose expressiveness is mediated via symbols that form in sand above his head. The bunny is funny, even with an inexplicable Australian accent, and the tooth fairy is appropriately sweet and lovely.

The protagonist is literally as well as figuratively cool, an amnesic youth who is chosen by the Man in the Moon to become Jack Frost and, in dire times, to finally assume his place as a guardian of the world’s children. He is the sort of likeable chap whose innate nobility struggles to burst through the eclipsing effects of self-doubt and the nefarious influence of the film’s boogeyman (smoothly voiced by Jude Law)  – think of Darth Vader’s attempt to seduce Luke to the Dark Side of the Force. It might be a (tempting) stretch to see in the film, which aggregates author/illustrator William Joyce’s Guardians of Childhood series into a single story, a celebratory fable of paganism pitted against the dark age fearfulness of Christianity. But wishful, and arguable, politics aside, the film is first and foremost a rousing celebration of those lovely universal sentiments so colourfully expressed through the pageantry of holidays. Rise of the Guardians is that wonderful treat, a film addressed to all ages, without condescension towards adults or treacly indulgences for the kids.

tragedy, history, repeat

The massacre in Connecticut should require no adjectives to describe its obvious moral terror, and a preface to my comments I will categorically declare my sympathy and compassion with the grieving families of Newtown. With that , however, I must take issue with the reaction of people who have no direct connection to the unequivocally saddening tragedy, beginning with the hypocrisy of people who scarcely seem to muster any outrage when this sort of thing happens elsewhere in the world. My objection stems from the various people I've encountered who expressed their heartbreak and emotional devastation at the event. Violent tragedies happens on a regular basis around the world; why does this one merit special emotional upheaval? I'm not suggesting apathy or indifference. I'm merely pointint out the moral deficiency of selective empathy. How many, I wonder, were ravaged by Anders Breivik's numerically worse massacre in Norway, an unconscionable crime that seems to share similar characteristic as the crime in Newtown? How many people give thought to the victims of the Assad regime in Syria, or the victims of violence in Afghanistan? At the heart of our reaction to the tragedy are questionable assumptions.

First is the notion that the loss of children's lives is a special class of egregious crime. Yet, do we not all have our lives ahead of us? Why is it more tragic for society to lose a child than an adult? The supervaluation of children leads to a corresponding devaluation of adults, whose lives are somehow perceived as less precious. If we value life, should we not reject such agist moralism? Why should the experience and, hopefully, wisdom of age be any less a loss to the world than the potential of youth?

Second, in a fearful, reactionary society that confuses being armed with being secure, the notion of a rational discussion of the place of guns in society is all but hopelessly muddled. Blame goes to the NRA, of course, and its relentless grip on policy. But , crucially, the problem is one of the reasoning error that equivocates gun control with gun bans. How many times does it have to be explained that the purpose of gun control is not to deprive responsible individuals of weapons to defend themselves or to hunt, but to balance 2nd amendment rights with the need for social safety and preserving the public good? The 9th amendment, it's worth remembering, states that “The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.” And surely the right to enact public safety policies by supporting responsible gun ownership falls within the realm of other rights “retained by the people.” We have technology to aid law enforcement, such as etching serial numbers on bullet to help track the chain of ownership. We can implement policies to reduce the likelihood of irresponsible gun owners – whether criminal, pathological, or psychologically troubled – from coming into possession of weapons. We can hold gun manufacturers, those crime profiteers, accountable for manufacturing and selling their weapons without discrimination. We can point the finger to the NRA, which is not a voice for sane gun ownership but a smut peddler of gun fetishism. And, of course, we can turn our attention towards achieving the social justice and benevolence that reduces the likelihood of people turning their suffering into acts of evil.

The President said, “We can't tolerate this anymore.” I ask: why did we tolerate it at all? An argument can be made to ban guns, particularly their manufacture. After all, it is a mathematical fact that criminals and terrorists, not to forget ordinary individuals involved in domestic disputes, will have fewer opportunities to perpetrate gun violence if there are fewer guns in existence. Nevertheless, in deference to the possibility that some situations legitimately warrant private gun ownership (and, of course, the 2nd Amendment), I would not advocate for a total ban. Restrictions, however, are another matter. No military weapons for private citizens, for example. Limits on the number of firearms and ammunition an individual can possess. Stronger background checks. None of these are revolutionary ideas, except to the radicals of the NRA.

Will history repeat itself? It remains to be seen whether the grief engendered by this tragedy will cascade into definitive action.

Skyfail

Warning! Spoilers!

It was all going so well. Building on the grittier, grounded Bond of the Timothy Dalton years and the relatively modernized sensibilities of the subsequent Pierce Brosnan era, Casino Royale and it’s awkwardly-named sequel, Quantum of Solace, were poised to deliver not only a Bond for our times, but perhaps the definitive cinematic Bond. Gone, at last, were the zany gadgets, scenery-chewing villains, outré plots of world subjugation, and sexual innuendo that, more often than not, suggested masculinity still waiting to grow into adulthood. In their place: sensible but no less formidable foes plucked from today’s terrorist and corporate threats, and a Bond whose cunning, brawn, and burgeoning charm are the tools of choice above gizmos. And, of course, Daniel Craig with his inevitable comparisons to Steve McQueen.

When Sam Mendes & Co – which includes veteran Bond screenwriters Neil Purvis and Robert Wade, along with John Logan – announced their intention to return Bond to the “classic” era, at least by way of astral projection, I admit, in hindsight, to indulging expectations derived from the so-far excellent re-imagining of a cultural icon. Casino Royale offered a winning start with a surprisingly personal Bond story – delivered in a context of international crime, terrorism, and espionage that made the topic of finances seem awfully exciting. Quantum of Solace may have soured some fans and divided critics, but I was gripped by the frighteningly credible threat of an organization exploiting the geopolitics of water scarcity for the purposes of amassing money and power. The story successfully evoked the paranoia that comes from an organization with its own intelligence capabilities, network of operatives, mysterious power brokers at undisclosed levels of the group’s hierarchy, and necessary aversion to flash and theatricality – precisely the sort of threat intelligence agencies such as MI6 are intended to detect and defeat. 

I fully anticipated that the handsomely filmed Skyfall would complete Bond’s evolution from blunt instrument to vengeful machine until, at last, he could relax into the persona of playboy agent; ever deadly, but always receptive to the finer pleasures of the high-life. Bond could re-assume his place as the World’s Most Interesting Man, a title currently held by John Goldsmith on behalf of Dos Equis, with a turbulent psyche and conflicted morals smoothed over by carefully manicured hedonism. And wetted with a shaken martini. But while Mendes & Co make the film an homage to Bond’s golden age, stuffing the film with enough amusing references for a Bond museum, they also revive the franchise’s chauvinism, this time amplified into forthright misogyny. 

I can understand Bond’s aversion to anything more than fleeting romantic liaisons on account of his tragic affair with Vesper Lynd – but does he have to be an asshole? It’s depressing enough that, in a scene tinged with colonialist condescension, Bond fucks and forgets a pretty (read: exotic)woman without even politely dispensing sweet nothings or common post-coital courtesy. When another beautiful woman – a victim of sexual trafficking and slavery whom Bond also beds in a creepy sequence –is mercilessly executed by the film’s villain in a sadistic version of William Tell’s apple trick, the best Bond can do is coldly quip about spilled scotch. Sean Connery would never be so crass or mean. Therein lies the difference between the Bonds of yore and Skyfall’s Bond; past 007s may have only rarely loved women on a spiritual level, but they certainly loved women on the level of aesthetic, sensual and, to be fair, consensual gratification. We could understand why women longingly sighed for Bond; he offered not only sex, but good-humoured romance with no strings attached. Craig’s Bond, however, doesn’t even possess the aesthete’s appreciation of pleasure, let alone the effortless charm that lends itself to seduction, rendering his post-Vesper liaisions little more than outbreaks of redirected aggression. 

The past chauvinism of the franchise, tempered by the fact that Bond’s affairs were between consenting adults, is here manifested as disturbing hostility and dismissiveness. Consider the introduction of a female agent named Eve, a kick-ass sort played with moxie and humour by Naomie Harris. When a job goes wrong, resulting in Bond’s apparent death, she is sent scurrying back to headquarters to have her fitness for field-work reevaluated. Bond’s advice when they reunite? Not all people are fit for field work – an opinion confirmed when Mendes & Co have her choose to take an administrative position instead of returning to field duty. And there, in quick, is Miss Moneypenny’s origin story within the reimagined Bond universe; a promising field agent who ends up a secretary…but since the decision is contrived as voluntary, the patriarchy’s wish for willingly submissive women is fulfilled and excused. 

It’s demeaning enough to have the women stay home while the men fight the war, but even worse when Judy Dench’s M – a formidable force in the Bond universe and quite possibility the franchises’ most brilliant casting decision – is reduced to a damsel in distress and surrogate mother. I get it: she’s an old lady, though Judi Dench can never be old to me. As the head of MI6, however, with enough personality to power a metropolitan city for a year, M’s feebleness comes across as a jarring, unlikely contradiction. The film half-heartedly tries to give her some spunk and ingenuity in the climactic confrontation, only to reward her with a cheap, unworthy death saddled with the villain’s mother issues and a tarnished career legacy. 

There’s no denying the film’s kinetic energy, however, or the few delightful bon-bons plucked from the franchise’s most iconic elements. Like a roller coaster, the film succeeds in leaving thinking brains far beyond bodies exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. There are a few genuinely human moments, such as the welcome reintroduction of Q branch via an improbable museum encounter between Bond and the fresh quartermaster played by Ben Whishaw. The scene is one of the film’s best, as two generations meet, size each other up via witty repartee, and come out sparkling with the promise of a beautiful new friendship. But scenes with any hint of humanity, including promising glimpses into Bond’s sad childhood, are marginalized between extended action scenes that have only the thinnest application of plot to glue them together. Divorced from any semblance of narrative context, most of the action and fight scenes are thrilling in and of themselves, marking a return to the classical stunt choreography and practical special effects that, these days, have been replaced by CGI. The opening sequence, involving a chase that culminates with a train and construction equipment, is tense and exhilarating. Just don’t give in to the taboo of asking about collateral damage; thinking about the innocent lives put at risk, not to mention the property damage, is bad form for an action movie. Other scenes of destruction, ranging from large-scale to larger-scale, fare worse by unintentional evoking disbelief. One in particular, involving a train crash reminiscent of the Universal City studio tour, is partly brazen. Why is that train empty during rush hour? And if Mendes & Co had populated the train, wouldn’t the death toll and number of injuries be horrific? Given the superficial plot that is neatly, and entirely, summed up as a rogue agent’s revenge on M for a past wrong, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the details are muddled too. Also, note this: screenwriters Neil Purvis and Robert Wade are the same folk who gave us the invisible car in Die Another Day. Perhaps they missed the critical influence of their partner for the previous films, Paul Haggis.

Most action movies exhibit cracks in their plausibility but have enough momentum to race forward. This is partly true of Skyfall. Until the perversely hilarious end, that is, when it becomes clear that all that effort, what one could rightly refer to as storm and fury, serviced a con. Just as The Dark Knight Rises pranked viewers into believing the franchise celebrated Batman when, subversively, it took apart his mythology, Skyfall ends up signifying nothing. James Bond, once the hero’s hero, is here punctured by one the grandest Pyrrhic victories on screen in some time. After an entire film whose events are almost entirely and single-handedly orchestrated by Javier Bardem’s vengeful hacker villain, Bond takes charge and delivers a killing blow of his own only to simultaneously fail in preventing the end-game; M’s death. The prank in all of this? MI6 is blown up and hacked (repeatedly), a humiliation capped by the death of its head, and Bond, after spending most of the movie’s duration sulking, is restored to full Bond-hood in a celebration of failing upwards. And audiences are rewarded with a franchise reset to an earlier era that no longer has to consider the complex realities of the 21st century, let alone the nuances of the human spirit. 

Between the irony and the misogyny, however, I have so far failed to mention the film’s villain, a blond-haired fop who, as conceived by Mendes & Co, amounts to Hannibal Lecter homoeroticized for the unfortunate sake of a joke. Bardem is too good an actor to deliver a bad performance, and in this capacity he doesn’t disappoint; his Raoul Silva oozes every bit of quirky malice a cartoon supervillain requires. The sheer preposterousness of his brilliance – his computer skills defy MI6’s supposedly best-of-the-best Q branch – and ability to manipulate even the smallest events as part of his grand design is matched only by the sheer banality of his motive for revenge. Resolving his evil into psychological instability with suicidal tendencies and mommy issues doesn’t add layers to the characters. It highlights the malleability Mendes & Co exploit to suit an agenda that is devoted to style and aversive to substance. In any case, we’ve seen Silva before in the Bond franchise, only done with greater conviction and acuity, and less camp: he was called Alec Trevalyan and played by Sean Bean in GoldenEye. In Skyfall, Bardem’s Silva merely merely proves that the only threat worthy for

The good news is that, like Doctor Who, the Bond universe is not burdened with an excessive interest in continuity. Like the good doctor, the menu of different Bond actors and approaches to Ian Fleming’s creation means there can be a Bond for everyone. The bad news is that, also in keeping with the BBC’s revival of Doctor Who, the Bond revival with Craig does involve an undeniable connection between films. Just as Quantum of Solace’s injection of moral awareness into Daniel Craig’s Bond elevated Casino Royale in retrospect – by providing a psychological trajectory for the character to follow – Skyfall has the inverse effect of degrading the entire series. It is, to some extent, the same depreciation I experienced with Nolan’s Batman trilogy after watching The Dark Knight Rises. Where the latter, however, amounted to the disappointment of missed opportunities, Skyfall amounts to the outright repudiation of the past films. The significant franchise achievements of Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace seem much less worthy of praise knowing that they culminate in a profoundly dislikeable asshole Bond and in a franchise return to cartooning .