Apollo 18: A Review

I don't do movie reviews.

It's just never been something I've thought to spend time on. This time though, something is different. I can't quite place my-- Wait. I got it. I'm bored. Well that explains it. Also, beware. Spoilers.

Anyway, Apollo 18. Let's begin first with the obvious conclusion that anyone who enjoyed the Paranormal Activity series but thought to themselves, "I just wish there were more aliens..." would love this film. That's a no-brainer. I'm not even sure it was done by the same dudes who brought us Toby the demon but if it wasn't, someone is getting sued. Apollo 18 might as well be a first cousin to the Paranormal films. You've got all the hallmarks of P.A. but this time in space; shoddy camera work, an unknown threat, plenty of "oh-shit" moments, and a predictable ending that while easily guessed, it is almost impossible to say how that obvious ending will come to pass.

Also, in the tradition of Paranormal Activity, Apollo 18 passes itself off as actual, recovered footage that some enterprising individual turned into a movie. I can assure you though, my no-doubt terrified little audience, that this film is not based on fact. How do I know? How can I be so certain that this film is not actually spliced together from top secret video recordings that document contact with an alien species? Well, I'm glad you asked. There are several reasons:

1. The government would have hushed this up. It would have never made it to film.
2. There is no atmosphere on the moon. One of the defining charicteristics of complex Life is that living things respirate. No living thing can breathe on the moon, therefore no living thing can live on the moon.
3. The moon does not have a molten core. The film shows the aliens crawling from a crater in the surface of the moon where the sun never shines. It is very cold down there because there is no thermal energy from the moon's center heating it up. Without heat energy from the sun or from the moon's core, nothing could survive. All living things need energy, whether heat or light or food. The environment these creatures are coming from has none of those things.
• Some might argue that the aliens are inorganic, since they look like rocks. I would argue that in order for inorganic material to exhibit life-like traits, like movement, it would still need some energy source which the moon is not providing.
4. Just how in the hell did anyone recover this film anyway? It was floating in space.
5. Space crabs? Really? I mean, come on.

However the last reason is the most convincing and also the most obvious. Bonus Features. No real footage of alien contact on the moon would come with bonus features including alternate endings on the DVD. So don't panic, lovely audience. There are no space crabs disguised as rocks on the moon. That still didn't stop me from throwing a rock at my brother's feet while he was in the shower this morning. Oh the hilarity.

Despite being a complete fabrication, and an obvious one at that, the film still manages to be freaky as all get-out. The aforementioned "oh-shit" moments are enough to make a seasoned thrill-seeker jump. This is largely thanks to the distinctive shooting style that made the Paranormal films so popular. Apollo 18, however, has something here that P.A. did not. Because the Apollo missions took place when color video cameras had just begun to appear, the film style is grainy and suffers from occasional discoloration, just the way a really old roll of film would. The effect sounds obnoxious, like it would detract from the overall experience, but the reality is quite the opposite. If anything, the way the film discolors or skips accentuates curcial points in the movie. Particularly, I am reminded of the scene where one of the American astonauts is being interviewed by his co-pilot about his first contact with the aliens. As the astronaut answers questions, the film occsionally casts his face in a blurred sepia tone, which really draws out the lines on his face, making him appear extremely haggard, confused, and defensive. I thought it was fantastic. It also worked as an excellent cover for any poor acting. The film quality would make a slightly disgruntled "I-just-stubbed-my-toe" face into a full blown "Dear-God-I'm-being-eaten-alive" face.

In addition to this new way to use crappy film quality to change the experience, Apollo 18 adds another ingredient to the pot of terror that was not present in the Paranormal films: Isolation. When the demon Toby attacks, it is in the suburban home. This is frightening in the extreme, because most of us live in homes just like the ones in the Paranormal series, but at the same time you think to yourself "If this happened to me, I could just leave the house." There is no "leaving" in Apollo 18. You're on the moon. NASA has abandoned you. You're being told to die for the good of your country and that you can never see your family again.

That's some freaky stuff right there, nowa'umsayin?

This strong sense of isolation, from home, from family, and even from something as simple as air, really gives the movie a claustrophobic vibe. Being in space is bad enough, but throw in space crabs and it's all like, "Oh snap. This just got real."

Now I am not usually one for scary movies. Beauty and the Beast terrified me until I was 12 or 13. So, while myself, my little brother and our friends the twins were standing around the Red Box at the local CVS deciding on what we wanted to rent, I was pretty adamant that I would not watch Apollo 18. Somehow, though, my steadfast decision to avoid watching it turned into me paying for the thing and being the first one to sit down and hit "play". I can openly admit that I was genuinely scared but never once did I regret my decision. There was nothing completely ruinous about this film, insofar as my personal feeling of safety is concerned. I fell asleep with no nightmares and I did not once freak out when I heard odd sounds around the house when I was getting ready for work this morning. It was thrilling to watch, but no lingering feeling of fear came afterward. I think that simple fact is the thing I liked best about this film.

So those are the most interesting things I have to say about Apollo 18. There's plenty more to talk about, like how the story was there but really didn't require any attention or how an American atronaut manages to pilot a Soviet lunar lander without any training in a machine that was developed on the other side of the world in secret, but all of that kinda just pales in comparison to the simple pleasure of watching a movie that makes you jump.

I hate scary movies and I liked it. That's saying something.

A Holy Crusade for the 21st Century

History by Carol Ann Duffy

She woke up old at last, alone,
bones in a bed, not a tooth
in her head, half dead, shuffled
and limped downstairs
in the rag of her nightdress,
smelling of pee.

Slurped tea, stared
at her hand--twigs, stained gloves--
wheezed and coughed, pulled on
the coat that hung from a hook
on the door, lay on the sofa,
dozed, snored.

She was History.
She'd seen them ease him down
from the Cross, his mother gasping
for breath, as though his death
was a difficult birth, the soldiers spitting,
spears in the earth;

been there
when the fisherman swore he was back
from the dead; seen the basilicas rise
in Jerusalem, Constantinople, Sicily; watched
for a hundred years as the air of Rome
turned into stone;

witnessed the wars,
the bloody crusades, knew them by date
and by name, Bannockburn, Passchendaele,
Babi Yar, Vietnam. She'd heard the last words
of the martyrs burnt at the stake, the murderers
hung by the neck,

seen up-close
how the saint whistled and spat in the flames,
how the dictator strutting and stuttering film
blew out his brains, how the children waved
their little hands from the trains. She woke again,
cold, in the dark,

in the empty house.
Bricks through the window now, thieves
in the night. When they rang on her bell
there was nobody there; fresh graffiti sprayed
on her door, shit wrapped in a newspaper posted
onto the floor.

I love this poem. I've been a little obsessed with it for a couple days now. I found it when I was wandering through the wikipedia page for "poet laureate". Duffy's name was listed as the current poet laureate for the United Kingdom. Curious, I looked for something she'd written and found "History". Had I read more about her before I read the poem, I might not have been so interested. Carol Ann Duffy is one of many contemporary authors who is making a name for herself while being an openly lesbian woman. I'm not repulsed by her sexuality so much as I am by the thought that, perhaps, many of these women wouldn't be so novel if not for their preferences. Do we like them because they're gay? Or because they're really good? Does society demand we over-appreciate them to make up for cruel treatment of homoseuxals in the past or does society genuinely love the works these women produce? I don't know. I can't know. There is no way to know.

However, this is probably one of the better poems I've read in my life. I love it. I loved it before I knew she was a lesbian and therefore I can admit, openly, that I appreciate Carol Ann Duffy's work with absolutely no regard to her sex life. I love her personification of History as an old woman, underappreciated, abused, ignored. She is not dead, but neither is she alive. No one is tending to her needs and soon, it seems, she will die. Alone with no offspring to carry on her legacy. Is that where our history is going?

I took several history classes in the past few years as part of an exploration into what I thought might be the field I'd like to spend the rest of my life in. I found, quickly, that history is really not for me, though it is extremely interesting. We spent whole class periods discussing whether or not the study of history was useful, how it should be done, and why. To be honest, we never really discovered a true answer to those questions. It is largely a grey area. The study of history has been abused, rendered perverse, by so many different cultures and generations, it is almost impossible to retell the past without someone's bias interfering anymore. Frustrated, I once cried out, "What's the point!?" to which my professor responded, "History! We do it for the sake of history."

History for history's sake. No agenda, no expected answers to be got. It seems almost... like an unrealistic dream. An impossibility. But that is the job of the historian. To look at the past for no reason other than to make certain that the past can persist unchanged, unbiased, and without perversion. A holy calling, to be sure. So I salute you, historians, and your crusade. Keep on keeping on, and all that. Also, Carol Ann Duffy? I would totally take you on a date if you were into that.

Long Distance

When she calls I can hear the tears in her voice.
They bubble deep inside a well,
Dark and cold and strong,
And overflow sometimes.
And I know that I am the source
And sometimes I think,
"Maybe I should die,"
That'd really give her something to cry about.
But that makes me feel sick.
And so I whisper that it will be okay,
I try to make her laugh,
I try to stem the salt-tide of tears
That I have caused.
And I never really do any good
And things'll probably be worse next time
And I know it.
But still I try because she loves me.
And I love her.
And we haunt each other like bad memories
And we can't stop.
And the best we can hope for is that,
Between phone calls,
We forget our miserable romance for a while.

The Pride

Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. (1 Corinthians 16:13)

I've started leading a small group of middle school guys. The first night we met together I knew these kids were going places. It's not like they understand the Bible exceedingly well, or even well at all, but when they don't get something they immediately ask questions and they don't stop until they get it. I love that. The other college guy I lead the group with, Caleb, is one of coolest guys I know. I'm so excited about this I don't really know what to do with myself.

The first thing I wanted to do was to get the kids to pick a name for themselves. Immediately they started slinging crazy names around and for a while we almost settled on "Fish" but before it was decided I suggested we name ourselves after a word which denotes a group, like "The Mob" or "The Flock". They loved this and so I kept spouting out words until we came across "The Pride". A group of lions. The guys immediately agreed that this was our name. I was so excited I went home and made a Facebook group and added all the kids to it and even designed the logo you see at the top of this post. I then went about designing t-shirts and coming up with monthly get-togethers where we can do boy things together. I'm really, really excited. So excited that I can't even tell a proper story about all of this.

Usually I would spin a nifty little tale with more details to make it interesting and with at least one twist somewhere, but this is just too much. If I went into detail about the way heading up this group makes me feel I might explode. I want so much for these guys because I know exactly what it was like being a Christian at that age. Everything felt so superficial. My faith was secondary to everything. I'm not going to say that isn't true now, but I wasn't aware of it then. I want these kids to really see that faith can be deep beyond their wildest dreams and that God is so real he makes this keyboard I'm pounding seem like an illusion. I believe most of all that what these kids need is a translator; someone who can read the Bible out to them so that it makes perfect sense. I want them to understand the setting of the Word, how Jewish culture colors everything that happened, and how, when viewed through the eyes of a witness, Jesus' miracles were a hundred times more impressive than they first appear.

We're burning through Luke right now, reading three chapters a week instead of the usual one. The guys insisted we do this when they learned that we could read through Revelation after we finished Luke. They're really excited to learn about the symbolism in Revelation and see what it all means. So am I for that matter. I've been looking to find a text that walks through Revelation and explains it so I can have a deeper understanding of the metaphors before I go trying to teach anything to the guys. Also, we need a symbol. Something easy to draw....

Doesn't anyone speak English anymore?

I can understand omitting punctuation and capitalization given the right circumstances. For example, in a text message that's only one sentence long, why would anyone waste the extra effort on a capital and a period? The meaning can be inferred almost without error.

I can also understand misspelling words, or possibly even making up words, to make a point. Like spelling the word "dog" as "dawg." It's a cultural reference. There can be implicit meaning in misspellings like that and therefore they become necessary to communicate those meanings. Made up words like "sheeple," while obnoxious, are just ways Americans shorten complex thoughts and ideas into single words. That's totally cool. It doesn't bother me at all.

But I'll be damned if I don't get on Facebook at least twice a day and see someone use "they're", "there", or "their" incorrectly or spell "affection" with an "e" instead of an "a" or so horribly abuse tense you have no idea if they're talking about today, tomorrow or fifteen years ago. I mean, come on! Everyone on my friends list has gone through grade school and many of them are in college, writing papers, preparing to be the voices of the next generation and they can't figure out if they should say "I drank some water" or "I drunk some water." How many of us mocked George Bush Jr. because he couldn't speak standard American English? How could anyone expect him to when they can't do it themselves!? The hypocrisy in infuriating.

I openly admit that I have a hard time spelling words. Looking through my blog posts, though, you'll probably notice that spelling errors are few and far between. It's because I use spellcheck. It's hard not to use it. Even when I'm just making a post on a friend's wall, a little red line pops up under any misspelled word. It constantly reminds me that you don't spell "business" without an "i." How is it then that so many people misspell English words online every single day?


The simple answer is that they don't care. That, however, is an explanation that I simply do not understand. How can someone not care that they just proved to everyone connected to them online that they are not intelligent enough to use the language they were raised speaking when they post, publicly, an obvious abuse of grammar or spelling? Wouldn't any red-blooded American have a problem with showing the ignorance of a five-year-old? Apparently not.

Maybe my opinion is of little consequence. Maybe I'm a hard ass when it comes to grammar and spelling. However, being able to adequately and accurately communicate your thoughts and ideas has got to be one of the most crucial signs of intelligence. Without that, what are you?







Oh. That's right. A doofus.

A letter concerning your novel.

Dear Joan,

I have examined your book and,

if you will please excuse me,

have found it disconcerting.

The title words pour down the cover

across a field of sickly green.

Play

   It

     As It

       Lays.

The words appear ill themselves.

Beyond the block of vomitous green a woman,

a faceless woman in fishnet stockings and with just a hint,

a teeny curve,

of quite the luscious bottom,

is bent in half.

Backwards.

Painfully in black and white backed by cream,

the color mental institutions use in lieu of white.

And then there are the words:

"A novel by"

after which is a photo of,

I assume,

your face.

Your oversized, dark glasses survey John Leonard's praise.

He claims you surpass all since West.

He calls your work terrifying.

Joan, why do you hide your eyes?

Do you think the fear you've planted in John Leonard will show there?

Do your words terrify you too?

Or do you hide because it is a sham? The fear you write is guesswork.

If I must read your novel I would like to know;

Why?

Sincerely,

Alan

I could post in my blog...

I could watch more TV.
I could make lunch.
I could play Borderlands. Again.
I could play Final Fantasy... even though I'm stuck.
I could post in my blog...
I could play Nintendogs.
I could post in my blog...
I could read Jack London! Again.
I could post in my blog.
I should post in my blog.
I'm going to post in my blog.
Now.
Right now.
I could play Nintendogs?
Post!
In!
Blog!
Fine.

I know exactly why I avoid doing this so much. To be a writer requires constant practice. It is not a skill like breathing, bicycling or cracking all your knuckles in one go that is learned, perfected, and never thought about again. If you slack off for a month, even a week or a couple of days, you will be coming back to the iron cold with none of the fire of life, no flexibility. What results is often disaster. Total garbage. I hate that. I hate not being able to spew beautiful prose instantly, on command, like some kind of machine built for this. Instead I fumble in everything I write. Sure, I am capable of fantastic verbiage and am prone, on occasion, to even write a few, precious lines of poetry. But this is rare, like picking out the shark's tooth from among the innumerable billions of other blackish triangly-shaped thingies that pepper the shelly beaches of St. Augustine.

I am certain that "blackish, triangly-shaped thingies" is exactly how every shark's tooth hunter thinks of those false, deceitful particles.

So I put it off. I tip-toe around it thinking: "It's too soon. I've got nothing new to say. I'll wait until something worth writing about has taken place." Something worth writing about is taking place every single moment of every single day that a writer is alive. But I lie to myself anyway.

It is hard to write for an audience primed to let fly with criticism. I think it is harder still to write for a silent audience that comes and goes with the strength of my talent like the tide with the waxing and waning of the moon. Hardest of all is writing for an army of Yes-Men and, while it serves to stroke my ego, is probably my least favorite kind of audience. And then of course there is my family. If anyone is able to tell me my writing is trash it is my family. They hold no illusions when it comes to my talent. It makes them honest, which I both love and hate.

The cat still has fleas. I took her to the vet and they applied some kind of stuff that was supposed to kill the damn things and still they live, hitching rides on our beloved Cricket into the confines of my bedsheets where they pester me all night with their insatiable appetites. I will kill them all!