That’s why fanboys are intrigued. The rest of us are intrigued because the film purports to simultaneously explore the beginning — in fact, the engineering — of humanity itself, along with our inevitable end. And because H.R. Giger is involved, it probably has something to do with penises and Oedipal insinuations.
Recently, Guillermo del Toro blamed the green-lighting of “Prometheus” for the failure of his own “At the Mountains of Madness” — an adaptation of the classic H.P. Lovecraft novella — to secure sufficient funding, as the former is, to paraphrase del Toro, pretty much the latter, only set in space. So, y’know, spoiler alert and all that.
Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. I’m a huge Lovecraft mark and everything, but if a major studio had to give the go-ahead to a risky, anthropological-philosophical space opera with an R rating, you can be damn sure they’re gonna give it to the guy who directed “Gladiator,” not the guy who directed “Hellboy II: The Golden Army.” As much sense as that doesn’t make to nerds.
We bemoan this perceived lack of originality in art. “It’s been done before,” we say, or “Do we really need a sequel?” or “How is Tyler Perry a thing?” The truth, though, is that there’s only a handful of templates with which we have to work; it’s simply a matter of presenting those templates in fresh, engaging ways, whether it be through the use of cutting edge cinematography, startling metaphor or Bill Murray.
In the case of the whole “Prometheus”/”At the Mountains of Madness” debacle, humanity has always been concerned with its own origins and eventual end. It’s what science, math and most of the arts are there for, and the reason why the Bible, “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Planet of the Apes” all exist. Obsession, by its very nature, mandates revisiting.
Here is what all poetry is about: love, sex, death. That’s ridiculously boiled down, but also, I think, accurate. Religious poems are nothing if not an affirmation of our belief that the afterlife might be real; in Matthew Zapruder’s “Poem,” the lines “the marching band took a deep collective/breath, and plunged back into its song” insinuate the seizing just before or during orgasm.
We waste our time harping on repetition in art, expending energy that would be better served delineating, appreciating the near-infinite possibilities contained within such problems and wonders. As in fractals, the deeper you delve, the more miniscule the elements. The higher the stakes, the more devastating the consequences.You Might Also Like:
Not Writer’s Block
by Josh Ruffin
I don’t write about death much in this column. Best I can tell, there are a couple of reasons for that: For one, I’ve not had to reckon very closely with it. Yes, I’ve known people who have died — who hasn’t? Both grandparents on my mom’s side passed away before I was 10 years old, a girl with whom I went to church died in a car crash more than six years after the last time I saw her. My great aunt, to whom I was closer than probably any of my extended family, died just a few months ago. Acquaintances, pets, blood — I’ve witness all of them transition to whatever (if-ever) is next.
The other reason is… well, let’s be frank: this is a column, don’t forget, in which I’ve hypothesized murder mysteries based on crappy holidays, compared the job hunt to a mechanized, bloodthirsty Chihuahua, and reminisced about the time that one Japanese fighter got knocked out by a cross-dressing embodiment of karma.
It’s not exactly the type of venue where you can dig in your heels, ruminate on the myriad implications of the nature of death and be taken seriously. In short, I’m not the first guy you’d go to. You’d sooner ask John Kerry for catchphrase advice.
A good bit of my poetry, though, is, and it never really dawned on me until recently. I looked back over a manuscript of all my published or publishable work, and found the subject matter somewhat skewed toward some facet of death: used to bridge a conversation about spaghetti westerns and dueling cardinals beside a lake, a miscarriage and a leap of drunken faith, the common thread running through Spencer Tracy and Mount Kamiokoka.
I’m not sure why this is. Trying to catalogue one’s every thought is an exercise in opulent futility but, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time dwelling on the subject, and never have. I didn’t go through a goth phase in high school, though I did listen to HIM for about a week, so who knows.
Most of the philosophy classes I took as part of my college major were more focused on historical power structures than anything else, and I’ve always thought 90 percent of black metal is hilarious bulls**t, no matter how favorably I may regard bands like Immortal and Nachtmystium.
In about a week, “Prometheus” will be released across the nation. In case you’ve been living under a rock, this marks Ridley Scott’s return to the universe he helped create in the “Alien” franchise. While not a sequel or prequel, the film does have an undercurrent of “Alien” DNA running through it, according to those involved in the production.
That’s why fanboys are intrigued. The rest of us are intrigued because the film purports to simultaneously explore the beginning — in fact, the engineering — of humanity itself, along with our inevitable end. And because H.R. Giger is involved, it probably has something to do with penises and Oedipal insinuations.
Recently, Guillermo del Toro blamed the green-lighting of “Prometheus” for the failure of his own “At the Mountains of Madness” — an adaptation of the classic H.P. Lovecraft novella — to secure sufficient funding, as the former is, to paraphrase del Toro, pretty much the latter, only set in space. So, y’know, spoiler alert and all that.
Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. I’m a huge Lovecraft mark and everything, but if a major studio had to give the go-ahead to a risky, anthropological-philosophical space opera with an R rating, you can be damn sure they’re gonna give it to the guy who directed “Gladiator,” not the guy who directed “Hellboy II: The Golden Army.” As much sense as that doesn’t make to nerds.
We bemoan this perceived lack of originality in art. “It’s been done before,” we say, or “Do we really need a sequel?” or “How is Tyler Perry a thing?” The truth, though, is that there’s only a handful of templates with which we have to work; it’s simply a matter of presenting those templates in fresh, engaging ways, whether it be through the use of cutting edge cinematography, startling metaphor or Bill Murray.
In the case of the whole “Prometheus”/”At the Mountains of Madness” debacle, humanity has always been concerned with its own origins and eventual end. It’s what science, math and most of the arts are there for, and the reason why the Bible, “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Planet of the Apes” all exist. Obsession, by its very nature, mandates revisiting.
Here is what all poetry is about: love, sex, death. That’s ridiculously boiled down, but also, I think, accurate. Religious poems are nothing if not an affirmation of our belief that the afterlife might be real; in Matthew Zapruder’s “Poem,” the lines “the marching band took a deep collective/breath, and plunged back into its song” insinuate the seizing just before or during orgasm.
We waste our time harping on repetition in art, expending energy that would be better served delineating, appreciating the near-infinite possibilities contained within such problems and wonders. As in fractals, the deeper you delve, the more miniscule the elements. The higher the stakes, the more devastating the consequences.You Might Also Like:
That’s why fanboys are intrigued. The rest of us are intrigued because the film purports to simultaneously explore the beginning — in fact, the engineering — of humanity itself, along with our inevitable end. And because H.R. Giger is involved, it probably has something to do with penises and Oedipal insinuations.
Recently, Guillermo del Toro blamed the green-lighting of “Prometheus” for the failure of his own “At the Mountains of Madness” — an adaptation of the classic H.P. Lovecraft novella — to secure sufficient funding, as the former is, to paraphrase del Toro, pretty much the latter, only set in space. So, y’know, spoiler alert and all that.
Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. I’m a huge Lovecraft mark and everything, but if a major studio had to give the go-ahead to a risky, anthropological-philosophical space opera with an R rating, you can be damn sure they’re gonna give it to the guy who directed “Gladiator,” not the guy who directed “Hellboy II: The Golden Army.” As much sense as that doesn’t make to nerds.
We bemoan this perceived lack of originality in art. “It’s been done before,” we say, or “Do we really need a sequel?” or “How is Tyler Perry a thing?” The truth, though, is that there’s only a handful of templates with which we have to work; it’s simply a matter of presenting those templates in fresh, engaging ways, whether it be through the use of cutting edge cinematography, startling metaphor or Bill Murray.
In the case of the whole “Prometheus”/”At the Mountains of Madness” debacle, humanity has always been concerned with its own origins and eventual end. It’s what science, math and most of the arts are there for, and the reason why the Bible, “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Planet of the Apes” all exist. Obsession, by its very nature, mandates revisiting.
Here is what all poetry is about: love, sex, death. That’s ridiculously boiled down, but also, I think, accurate. Religious poems are nothing if not an affirmation of our belief that the afterlife might be real; in Matthew Zapruder’s “Poem,” the lines “the marching band took a deep collective/breath, and plunged back into its song” insinuate the seizing just before or during orgasm.
We waste our time harping on repetition in art, expending energy that would be better served delineating, appreciating the near-infinite possibilities contained within such problems and wonders. As in fractals, the deeper you delve, the more miniscule the elements. The higher the stakes, the more devastating the consequences.You Might Also Like:
Posted in Ruffin' It