review: up

Three things to note before I begin my review: (1) Most importantly, I will be discussing the film in full, including spoilers and ruining surprises in the film, so continue reading at your own risk. Or come back and read it after you've seen the movie. (2) Many critics in the blogosphere are claiming that Pixar's Up is the funniest film the company has made to date, but I don't recall crying in Monster's Inc. or Toy Story (though, at times, they did pull at my heart strings). There are indeed humorous parts in the film, but they are not counterbalanced evenly by the somber parts. For the most part, Up is a meditation on grieving and the impermanence of life. But the real, more Up-lifting message of the movie, without any trace of cliché, is that the journey far surpasses the destination. (3) I cried five times during the movie -- FIVE -- and I loved every minute of it. Pixar created a near-perfect film. I would only put WALL-E and Monster's Inc. above it.

Synopsis: Up follows the adventures of grumpy ol' Carl Fredricksen, modeled after Walter Matthau and Spencer Tracy, and stow-away Wilderness Explorer Russell as they head to the (unfortunately) fictional Paradise Falls to fulfill Fredricksen's long-forgotten dream of traveling. Using thousands of helium-inflated balloons, Mr. Fredricksen's house is lifted high into the skies as the primary vehicle for their adventure. Russell and Mr. Fredricksen's already onerous journey is interrupted by Kevin (a female bird, named by Russell), Dug (a dog with a collar enabling his thoughts to be heard -- "Squirrel!"), and Charles Muntz, an explorer and Mr. Fredricksen's childhood hero. After returning from an exploration with the bones of an unknown bird, Muntz was declared a fraud and he disappeared, vowing not to return until he had captured the live bird and redeemed his reputation. Mr. Fredricksen has to choose between saving the meddlesome Russell and his pet Kevin, reaching Paradise Falls before the helium deflates, or helping his childhood hero capture the bird.

The power of silence: For anyone who's been paying attention, Pixar has an unparalleled brilliance in the art of silence. All of their film's preceding shorts are entirely silent -- "Geri's Game" is still my favorite -- and WALL-E took this devotion to storytelling in a lengthier direction. Up also contains an element of silence, and although it's only five minutes long, it is by far the most affecting.

First of all, we are introduced to Carl Fredricksen as a child. The film opens with him watching new reel footage of Charles Muntz's career. Dressed in an aviator hat and goggles and holding a blue balloon, he comes across an abandoned home -- not unlike the old Granville house in It's a Wonderful Life, another home of great symbolic meaning -- where he meets a young and very talkative girl named Ellie. Young Carl is stunned not only by her vivacity but by her shared adoration for Charles Muntz. Not once do we hear Carl talk, which is important because it is the older, grieving Carl with whom the audience is supposed to identify and not the younger, dream-filled child. One night, a blue balloon enters Carl's bedroom window, followed by Ellie and an incomplete scrapbook, waiting to be detailed with great adventures. She makes Carl promise to take her to Paradise Falls -- to cross his heart -- a promise that we soon learn he failed to keep.

What follows is a five minute silent montage of Ellie and Carl's marriage and life together, from painting a mailbox with their handprints to learning that they are unable to have children. They have moved into the old Granville house, as I shall refer to it, and we see them washing windows from opposite sides (her smile becomes a reflection of his), Carl working as a balloon salesman and Ellie as a bird handler, and putting extra coins into a Paradise Falls jar. Other financial obligations force them to repeatedly break the jar, and the dream of visiting Paradise Falls become a faint memory as Ellie grows weaker and dies of old age. After her death, cleaning the windows becomes a reminder of loneliness as Ellie's smile is not there to greet him, and the mailbox with their interlocking handprints becomes a physical reminder of their time together. Carl spends his days in a chair next to Ellie's chair.

Within the first twenty minutes of the movie, I was crying. Not just one tear, but many. And it was the power in the montage's storytelling that kept me emotionally tied to the misunderstood Mr. Fredricksen throughout the movie. He was merely a man who missed his wife, and he refused to change any material thing in her absence. It was only the threat of being moved to a retirement home and the recollection of a cross-your-heart promise that prompted him to do the impossible -- travel to Paradise Falls with the house that he and Ellie made into a home.

The house: Essentially, Up is both a coming of age tale (for Russell) and an unfinished love story (for Carl, who is still dealing with the loss of his wife). Russell, a child of divorce, is the perfect company for Carl as both of them are dealing with the weight of loss -- represented by the house, which both tie to their waists as a means of keeping it from floating away. The house represents family, something that Russell and Carl both feel is lacking in their lives, and the house is a constant physical manifestation of that loss. Only after carrying the burden of the house and becoming friends in the process are either of them able to regain purpose.

The house also, of course, represents Ellie. As her picture hangs on the wall in the living room, Carl often talks to it -- the picture specifically and the house generally -- and it looks to both Russell and the audience as though Carl perceives the house to be his wife. And it is. Every inch of that house contains a reminder of Ellie -- a bird she once painted, her scrapbook of memories, her chair, her picture on the wall, etc. When Carl initially takes flight, he steers his house in the living room where young Ellie pretended to take the reigns of a flying blimp. And the implausibility of a flying house -- by balloons, no less -- is ignored because of what the house represents. The film's use of balloons clearly orchestrates a life-long connection between Ellie and trying to reach for your dreams, but it's also a visual personification of Ellie floating towards the heavens and Carl trying to keep her close to the ground. Carl and Russell eventually reach Paradise Falls, but they are on the wrong side of the canyon and have limited time to take the house to its proper location before the helium in the balloons runs out. The helium, then, becomes a metaphor for time. Just like sand in an hourglass, time is escaping and Carl is constantly reminded of that burden.

This leads me to another point in the movie in which I began to cry: Exasperated and lacking time himself, Muntz lights Carl's house on fire to deter Carl from following him. It wasn't just a house on fire; it was Ellie. Luckily for us, the house does not burn down and Carl is able to place the home in its rightful place. Russell, however, has been kidnapped by Muntz and are floating back to the States with the exotic bird, Kevin, with them. Carl sits down in his chair -- next to Ellie's chair, in the very spot he crossed-his-heart he would take her -- and he can't be at peace because he knows that Russell, who has becomes Carl's new family, needs him. In order to make his house fly again, Carl unloads his house (and thus his baggage, his past), leaving all material items in a heap outside. All save two items, his and Ellie's chairs, which are set upright beside the heap of furniture. Insert waterworks again.

The importance of family: Before Carl discovers that Russell's been kidnapped, he leafs through Ellie's childhood scrapbook. He finds momentos of her married life with Carl, as well as a final note thanking him for their own adventure (life) and then encouraging him to go have his own. I somehow found a way to hold back the tears at this moment, but then Carl goes to the door looking for Russ and finds Dug, who says, "I was hiding under the porch because I love you." And then I began crying. Dug was once an additional burden for Fredricksen, but now he has been accepted as a loving companion who chooses to go on an adventure with Fredricksen even when he wasn't wanted. The familial presence of Dug is only heightened by Kevin, who, as a bird, becomes an extension of Ellie. Ellie was a bird handler and created a wooden bird, one of the many items Carl tries to salvage throughout the narrative, and so it only seems appropriate that he extends his love of Ellie onto Kevin, who becomes a temporary replacement for his wife. At the end of the adventure, Carl has to say goodbye to Kevin and release her back with her family, just as he had to say goodbye to Ellie.

The importance of dreams: One of the many, many morals of this movie is that dreams, whether realized or not, are important and that sometimes we embark on journeys without even realizing it. John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." At one particularly profound moment, we learn why Russell is so intent on receiving his "Help the Elderly" Wilderness Explorer badge. Since his parents' divorce, which is never stated and only alluded to, Russ never sees his father except when he's awarded a new badge. There is an empty spot on Russ's sash -- right over his heart -- where the badge will be placed. He explains to Fredricksen that afterwards, he and his dad would go to an ice cream shop and count the red and blue cars passing by. Fredricksen rolls his eyes in annoyance, but then Russ says, "I know this stuff may seem boring, but it's the boring stuff I remember." This is yet another moment when I began to cry because this, of course, mirrors the earlier montage of Fredricksen remembering the quotidian of his life with Ellie.

At the end of the film, Russ gets his badge, but his father never shows up. Then we hear a familiar grumpy voice pushing through the crowd to pin the badge on Russ's sash. It's Mr. Fredricksen, but instead of the badge, he's pinned a grape soda pop top Ellie had pinned on his lapel when they were children. Once again, Up has illustrated a deep and profound love through the passing of a material object, and I... well, you know what I did. After the ceremony, Russell and Fredricksen go to the curb of the ice cream store and count the red and blue cars passing by. In a quick montage, the film closes with the future adventures of Russ and Fredricksen, two lost persons who found a new family and new dreams to have together.

Russell had the dream to get his Wilderness Explorers badge, which was really an excuse for him to spend time with his absent father, and Fredricksen had the dream to go to Paradise Falls with Ellie. Both of these dreams were important to the individuals who held them, but both were able to see the new adventures right before them.

lost: the valenzetti equation and a moment of grace

Between seasons 2 and 3 of Lost the writers and producers created an alternate reality game (ARG) known as The Lost Experience. In short, it was intended to engage the audience in a narrative that would be too difficult to tell on the show itself. Videos were created and hidden on the internet, following a band of contemporary characters following the Dharma Initiative and the Flight 815 hoax. The Lost Experience supposedly followed the story of Lost, and those who chose to engage in the experience would be rewarded with extra information while those who didn't follow the game (and only watched the show) would not be missing anything. And for the most part, that's been true. I stopped following easter eggs on the internet after season 3, but there is one part of the Lost Experience that has become part of the mythology for me, a major part that has yet to be addressed on the show: the Valenzetti Equation.


The Lostpedia website explains:

According to the 1975 orientation film in the Sri Lanka Video, the Valenzetti Equation "predicts the exact number of years and months until humanity extinguishes itself." During the video, Alvar Hanso also states that the radio transmitter on the Island, will "broadcast the core numerical values of the Valenzetti Equation." The numbers, 4, 8, 15, 16, 23 and 42, are explained in the Sri Lanka Video, as the numerical values to the core environmental and human factors of the Valenzetti Equation. Alvar Hanso also states in the video that the purpose of the DHARMA Initiative is to change the numerical values of any one of the core factors in the equation in order to give humanity a chance to survive by, effectively, changing doomsday. However, Thomas Mittelwerk reveals that as of 2006, they have failed to change the values through manipulating the environment, as the equation continues to arrive at the same six numbers.

The equation, therefore, is a mathematical prediction of the end of days, and Dharma is part of the experiment to change the equation. So here are my questions: (1) Why hasn't the show explained either the Valenzetti Equation or Dharma's purpose? Having just finished season 5, I would think the Cuse and Lindelof would have incorporated this background information into the story by now. Changing the equation explains why Dharma is experimenting with polar bears in tropical climates, electro-magnetism, and time-travel (the bunnies). (2) The purpose of the numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42 are still being depicted on the show as coincidental. When they were etching the numbers into the Swan's door, why wasn't there an explanation as to why those numbers were chosen? And (3) the show is heavily invested in this idea of variables. If the following theory is correct (which I attribute entirely to my mother), then why hasn't the Valenzetti Equation been mentioned?

If the show does not incorporate the Valenzetti Equation into the last season of the show, I will be very disappointed. The following explanation of the show has allowed me to accept and appreciate the characters, their ridiculous circumstances (and even more ridiculous decisions), and to embrace the tone of the show rather than merely criticize the reality of it.

The End-All, Explain-All Theory (that makes Lost better than it actually is)

If we assume that changing the Valenzetti Equation is in fact part of Lost's mythology -- and I really hope it is because it explains so much (for a show that explains so little) -- then we can connect Jacob and Esau's "game" to the equation as well. Let's say that Jacob and Esau are god-like characters (not necessarily the Judeo-Christian God, but some sort of metaphysical beings), who are engaged in an eternal debate concerning the quality of humanity. To borrow the over-arching question of Battlestar Galactica -- Is humanity worth saving? Season 5's finale began with Esau stating, "They come, fight, they destroy, they corrupt. It always ends the same." It refers to the cycle of destruction in humanity's history, and cyles are traceably mathematical in nature, so Esau could be representative of the Valenzetti Equation. He predicts and awaits for humankind of destroy itself. (I will ignore, for now, what the loophole is and why Esau is intent on killing Jacob. Perhaps Esau isn't interested in saving humanity.) Jacob's duty, therefore, is to prove to Esau that humanity is worth saving -- that the outcome of the equation/cycle can be changed -- by choosing randomly selected individuals to represent the human race.

The random selection is important. Sure, Jacob could have chosen Buddhist monks or philanthropists to come to the island, but the point is that humanity is flawed. Our heroes are flawed. Our heroes make mistakes. Our heroes are not incredibly intelligent. They are average people who are conflicted between their hearts and their heads, between doing what is right and doing what is necessary. And as Daniel Faraday mentioned before he died, our characters are the variables. Not variables in time travel, but variables in the equation. Faraday noted that free will is what changes the course of history. Our heroes were chosen to save humanity through their choices.

In the finale, Jacob is reading Flannery O'Connor's Everything that Rises Must Converge collection of short stories outside of the hospital where Locke's father pushes him out the window. Wikipedia describes the collection as follows:

In the story after which the work is titled, human weaknesses are exposed and important moral questions are explored through everyday situations. Critics view the story as a prime example of O’Connor’s literary skills and moral views. [...] Through irony, the blindness and ignorance of the characters are exposed. The title Everything That Rises Must Converge refers to an underlying religious message central to her work: aiming to expose the sinful nature of humanity that often goes unrecognized in the modern, secular world.

My mother, having a PhD in Southern literature, explained to me that Flannery O'Connor's works are about a moment of grace, where a character, despite their moral turpitude, may be redeemed. Patrick Galloway expands on this in his essay, "The Dark Side of the Cross: Flannery O'Connor's Short Fiction":

O'Connor is compassionate to her characters in that she gives them the opportunity of receiving grace, however devastating that might be to their fragile self-images, as well as their fragile mortal frames, for in O'Connor, grace often comes at the moment of grisly death.

In a letter written to Winifred McCarthy, Flannery O'Connor writes, "There is a moment in every great story in which the presence of grace can be felt as it waits to be accepted or rejected, even though the reader may not recognize this moment." [...] Critic Carter W. Martin notes, "Most of the short stories are constructed in such a way as to dramatize the sinfulness and the need for grace..." and goes on to delineate two different kinds of grace normally received by the characters: "prevenient grace-- which moves the will spontaneously, making it incline to God--and illuminating grace, by which God enlightens men to bring them nearer to eternal life." That is to say either a kind of spark that ignites a low smolder of realization, or full-blown revelation. Usually the character "recognizes his need for repentance and either accepts or ignores the opportunity.

In "The Incident: Part I and II," many of the characters have a moment of reaching grace -- hence the significance of Jacob's flashbacks. (Earlier I mentioned that I didn't like the flashbacks, but considering that Jacob was present for each character's moment of grace, I now appreciate their relevance to both the characters and the mythology of the show.) Kate promises to near steal again, but we all know that she chooses to rob a bank later in life (which leads to the death of her childhood friend). Sawyer's decision to write a letter to the man who killed his parents is thwarted by an inkless pen. Jacob gives him a new pen, allowing him the choice to continue writing the letter. A friend of the family tells young James Ford not to finish the letter, but we know that he chooses to finish it later. Locke is essentially killed by his father but is revived from Jacob's touch. This is the moment where Locke is given a second chance at life. He can go on being pathetic and miserable (a failed relationship, daddy issues, etc.) or he can choose a life of adventure. His infamous line -- "You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do" -- places the decisions of his life solely in his hands. Despite being in a wheelchair, he chooses to do a walk-about. When faced with killing his father, per Ben's instructions, Locke chooses to ask Sawyer to do it (which is arguably Sawyer's moment of choice as well). Sun and Jin, our resident couple of institutional love, get married and vow to honor and love one another. But we all know that Jin chooses to work and murder for Sun's father and that Sun chooses to have an extramarital affair. Their moment of grace comes through their separation in time. Three years after the time split, Sun and Jin refuse to let go of the idea of finding one another. (Love, my friends, love is what will save humanity.) With Jack and Hurley, they are both at a crossroads -- Jack with quitting his job and Hurley with being released from prison. They can continue moving forward, or they can change direction altogether. As Jacob points out to Hurley, he doesn't have to get on the Ajira flight. He could have chosen to walk away.

And most importantly, Ben has the choice to kill Jacob. Perhaps it is because Jacob knows how Ben will choose -- Ben does have quite the history of killing people (let's not forget about The Purge) -- that prompts him to tell Ben, "You? What about you?" He says it with such sadness, not because he knows that he is about to die but because Ben represents everything that is greedy and immoral about humanity. Ben could have walked away. But he didn't. He chose to kill Jacob, hence Esau's victory burial of Jacob in the fire.

The entire series of Lost has been about choices. Originally it was about the choices of Jack versus Locke, but when you consider all of the flashbacks throughout the series, it makes a lot of sense that these flashbacks serve to illustrate not simply the type of character each individual person is, but also how they come to make choices. What outside influencing factors help determine their path? What do they choose to ignore, what do they choose to embrace? And most importantly, how is their moment of grace significant to the Valenzetti Equation? Sawyer sacrificed himself by jumping out of the helicopter. Kate returned to the island to find Claire. Jack and Juliet, the rational characters, are willing to "reset" history for love. Charlie sacrificed himself for Desmond and the others. Michael died as a means of redeeming himself for leaving the island. A majority of these deeply flawed characters have already had their moment of grace, that moment where they undoubtedly answer the question -- Yes. Yes, humanity is worth saving.

episode: lost, "this place is death" (5.5)

I don't have anything too insightful to add about last night's episode, mainly because it moved the plot forward -- some say in a hurried way, but I say at an appreciated pace. We learned that Charlotte's parents were part of the Dharma Initiative and that she had indeed been on the island before; Daniel visited her when she was a child and warned her that coming back to the island would mean certain death (and I hope the show sticks to the time-travel rules and that, no matter what Daniel says to her, he doesn't change the fact that she dies); the time-travel flashes have been occurring because Ben knocked the wheel of its axis (does this mean the time-flashes won't happen anymore?); Jin gives Locke his wedding ring to convince Sun that he is dead, but when Ben gives the ring to Sun, it is this very item that convinces him he is alive; Eloise Hawkings is in fact Daniel's mother (but is she the same Ellie that was part of the Dharma Initiative and took Daniel to the atomic bomb?); and Kate still sucks.

I thought this episode was very good in answering some of our questions -- how Danielle's men got "the sickness" (from the monster), what "the Temple" looks like (the hieroglyphs say "Underworld") -- and it showed us some awesome scenes along the way, like Smokey ripping off a guy's arm and Desmond encountering Ben. As Alan Sepinwall notes in his recap, there's no reason for Desmond to recognize Ben or to know that Ben is searching down his beloved Penny to kill her as retribution for Charles Widmore killing Alex.


In case you haven't been reading Entertainment Weekly's Lost recaps, I highly recommend that you do so. I believe a team of graduate students must be behind these impossibly thorough connections, all of which are highly educational to the mythos and intelligence of the show. Take for instance EW's insight into Charlotte's further connection with C.S. Lewis, as demonstrated in this week's episode:

''I'm not supposed to have chocolate before dinner,'' she blurted, her mind suddenly elsewhere. And then she was gone for good.

The temptation of chocolate takes us somewhere, too — namely, straight to hell. In C.S. Lewis' first Chronicles of Narnia novel, The White Witch — a stand-in for Satan; the incarnation of death — seduced Edmund into betraying his siblings with an English delicacy made of chocolate known as Turkish Delight. For Charlotte, the Island was her Turkish Delight — her forbidden fruit — and chasing after it led to her doom. ''This place is death!'' she bellowed, and I couldn't tell in that moment if her mind was in the present, speaking of her killer environs, or if it was in the past, passing along something she had been told.

Digging deeper into the Charlotte/Lewis connection, we sinker deeper into an abyss of subtext. Along the way, we pass A Grief Observed, Lewis' chronicle about the death of his companion, Joy, and how it tested his Christian faith. Then, there's The Great Divorce, which actually isn't about marital dissolution but a fantastical vision of the afterlife, à la Dante's Inferno, although it was actually meant as a parable about living in the here and now. (The title is a riff on — and the book a response to — William Blake's surreal manifesto, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.) These are stories about the underworld, the mythical place where souls hang after they've shed the mortal coil. And now recall the Egyptian hieroglyphics in "The Hatch," which according to the producers of Lost translated into ''Underworld.'' And Smokey's scene-stealing, arm -ripping presence in this episode reminds us that the guy who made the Map in "The Hatch" called the Monster by a different name: ''Cerberus,'' the three-headed demon dog that guarded the gates of Hades. And finally, know that Christian Shepherd, the dude with the Jesus pun name, played the part of ''psychopomp'' in this episode — a ''psychopomp'' being a mythic underworld figure who serves as a ''guide to souls,'' escorting the dead between states of existence.

Pretty interesting, right? And here's a connection that EW makes to HP Lovecraft's works:

Actually, forget CS Lewis and his Christian parables. ''This Place Is Death'' felt like an HP Lovecraft horror story to me. Lovecraft was all about fools who go chasing after forbidden knowledge and buried secrets and wind up getting more than they bargained for, if not killed, or worse, driven hopelessly mad. His stories were full of ancient lands hidden away from the world, where malevolent gods and their pet monsters dwell in their ruins and lie in wait for explorers and other lost souls to feed upon or possess. The essential Lovecraft saga is At The Mountains of Madness, about geologists who discover the remnants of an old civilization in Antarctica and stumble into supernatural trouble, including a monstrous, shape-shifting creature called a Shoggoth. What did Faraday say in this episode?

And here's where your mind is about to blow up. I'm not kidding. It. Will. Explode.

Per the precedent set in ''The Constant,'' in which Season 4 Faraday did not remember meeting Time Traveling Desmond in the past until Season 4 Desmond actually made the trip, I don't think Season 1 Rousseau recognized Jin from their Season 5 encounter. Yes, a little confusing, but it's all summed up by the term ''course correction'' which Lost has frequently cited.

Simply, this means that some kind of omniscient and self-aware agency — God; Fate; Some undiscovered regulatory force — finds a way to sort things out when paradoxes or inconsistencies are created by time travel. This is not merely a writers' contrivance. This is actually rooted in some kind of theory. It is called ''The Principle of Self-Consistency,'' and it was promoted by two eggheads, one named Igor Novikov, and one named David Lewis — and yes, as we learned last season, that also happens to be the name of Dead Charlotte's Dharma Dad.

But it's that Novikov guy who's about to flip your lid. In 1991, in a journal called Classical and Quantum Gravity, Novikov and another dude named Andrei Lossev wrote a big paper about time travel called — drum roll please! — ''The Jinn of the Time Machine: Non-Trivial Self Consistent Solutions.'' The purpose of the paper was to describe various solutions to paradoxical problems created by time travel. Here's an example of one such paradox — taken from a book I found called The New Time Travelers — that I believe speaks to the larger plot of Lost. Let's say a writer wants to write a novel. So he builds a time travel machine, goes to the future, buys a copy of the novel he wrote, then brings it back. Easy. Except who created the novel if the author really didn't write it?

And in describing the significance of Jin's name, EW explains:

The term ''Jinn'' is another word for the kind of genies you might find in Arabic fairy tales. Novikov and Lossev used the term Jinn to describe things like that magical novel I mentioned earlier — things whose existence defy conventional explanations. According to the mysterious author of The New Time Travelers, Novikov and Lossev were drawing on the depiction of a kind of Jinn that you find in the Koran; they are ''a race of spirits that can appear suddenly and unexpectedly.''

A race of spirits that can appear suddenly and unexpectedly. Just like Jin in last night's episode. Just like Christian Shepherd in last night's episode. And just like Desmond in last night's episode — Desmond, whom Faraday in the season premiere called ''miraculously unique.'' Just like a Jinn.

Lost, I may have been short with you in the past -- a bit impatient, with a lot of eye-rolling and sighs -- but I'm 100% back on board. Take me wherever you may lead.

episode: battlestar galactica, "blood on the scales" (4.16)

Warning: Spoilers for last night's episode are to be found throughout this post.

"It stopped."

In the last few moments of "Blood on Scales," Battlestar Galactica broke my heart and I cried. Last week I said "The Oath" was my favorite episode of this season, but I think that award goes to this week's phenomenal ending to a tripartite narrative. I've divided my commentary by characters because, in a well-constructed pairing, this episode was just as much about the characters as it was the plot.

Kara: Last July, I complained about Katee Sackoff's joy at getting to use a gun on the show. I thought it was a fairly unintelligent answer -- compared to James Callis, everyone is intellectually inferior -- but now I understand. After a season of being stranded and essentially physically impotent on New Caprica and another season on an insane chase towards Earth, I now get why Sackoff was so happy to have a gun back in Kara's possession. Some random traitor takes a leak at the urinal, and kick-ass Starbuck comes up behind him and slams his head into the wall. (Let this be a lesson to you men; when involved in a coup, think twice before using the bathroom.) On the one hand, this scene is just awesome, but on the other, it's an exciting storyline for an actress. I also want to note that there was something visually engaging about Kara and Lee's pairing. Kara is in her military uniform, whereas Lee is in his civilian uniform. And yet their conversation and banter is familiar, as if they were never separated by these two worlds.

Roslin: Good Gods, Mary McDonnell was absolutely brilliant in this episode. In general, her acting is hit or miss with me. Sometimes I think she's too ambivalent in regards to Roslin's decision-making process, and other times I feel like her delivery is flat. But she's really been putting everything out there these last few episodes (her book-burning breakdown in the premiere, her rejecting cancer medications after that, and her sleeping with Bill Adama were exceptional), but her outright refusal to give up gave me chills. After Zarek (wrongly) informs Roslin that Adama has been executed, McDonnell delivers this speech: "No. Not now, not ever. Do you hear me? I will use every cannon, every bomb, every bullet, every weapon I have down to my own eye teeth to end you! I swear it! I'm coming for all of you!" I really thought that last week's kiss was a goodbye kiss, so I was pleasantly surprised to see these two reunite at the end of their separation. (And on the note of their separation, I thought this episode did an excellent job of pacing Roslin's scenes on the Cylon basestar in conjunction with Gaeta's scenes in the CIC. That was strong tension-building at its finest.) When Adama and Roslin do reunite, McDonnell does not play straight joy or relief; she mixes in hints of terror and fear, hopeless and despair. Her gentle patting on his shoulder -- in a moment where she can't even look him in the eye -- is so tender and personal that I really found myself caring about her.

Adama: After speaking with my friend who is a veteran, I have a better understanding of Adama's role in the coup. I was looking at this in terms of a civilian, some random person in the fleet who doesn't see one lick of sense in joining forces with a race who killed 50 billion (!!!) of our people. But I think the writers sat down in a room and consciously decided to avoid analyzing Adama's control from outside the military. Practically speaking, if BSG were to tackle civilian thoughts and fears, it would take much, much longer than the series has time for. Artistically speaking, it's a more interesting story to explain the coup from within the military. It's about honor and the uniform. It's about respecting your commanders and taking orders without question to ensure that the ship continues to run. When Gaeta first arrests Adama, the commander's first words are in response to Gaeta being a traitor to his uniform, that he -- that both of them -- had to declare an oath. So this narrative trilogy is less about an uprising in politics and more about an uprising within the military itself.

I bring this up because I was uneasy about Adama's complete disregard for Gaeta's questioning. Was Romo Lampkin just decoration and was Zarek going to find Adama guilty during his "trial"? You betcha. But Adama not explaining himself, not justifying his actions made it seem like he was in the wrong, that he's running a totalitarian regime where no one questions his authority. But in this military world, that's exactly how it needs to be. As my friend explained to me, soldiers cannot just go around demanding answers from the commanding officers. They need to trust and accept their decisions without judgement or skepticism. If Adama starts answering for himself now, he loses his Barthesian "commander-ness." So I was misreading Adama's decisions based on Adama-as-man, rather than Adama-as-commander. And it's very clear that the writers did not want to focus on Adama's relationship to/with civilians (where Adama-as-man would be explored), but rather this idea of trust and loyalty within a structure that needs to survive.

But it is extremely interesting to me that, as a commenter elsewhere noted, "It really is startling to have a not-altogether-unsympathetic character act out of principle and die for it at the hand of the series lead." Adama executed Gaeta. Gaeta, the officer who always tries to do the right thing. Gaeta, the man who wanted to kill Baltar for his shady dealings with the Cylons on New Caprica. And Adama -- our beloved, supposedly morally righteous hero -- killed him.

Lee: As mentioned above, Lee is wearing typical black slacks and a blue button-up Oxford shirt throughout most of the episode, including the final scene where Gaeta and Zarek are executed for their crimes of treason. This is visually significant because you have this well-dressed man with a gun in his hands and the ability to assess situations quickly. Lee is working within two spheres -- the military and the law -- and it isn't until this episode that this dichotomy really becomes a thematic focus. While in the Quorum, and even during his stint as Baltar's lawyer during the season three finale, Lee tried bringing his military knowledge to the political realm, but he never truly had the opportunity (or reason) to showcase his military skills in politics. With Zarek's merciless massacre on the Quorum, Lee is sent into survival mode first, kick ass mode second. Once he is able to secure his life as stable, his first and only order of business is to find and save his father and he does this by carrying a big, scary weapon around the halls on Galactica.

During Gaeta's execution, it's very intriguing having Lee's presence in the room. Whereas Adama's presence represents the world of the military -- and Baltar's presence marks a civilian presence -- Lee is between the two worlds. He is a man of law (truth, justice), but he is also a man of structure (loyalty a la the oath, getting the job done). I don't think that Lee's face should be read as anger, but rather disappointment. Here he was thinking that these two conflicting powers could reconcile their differences, and they couldn't. He's disappointed that Zarek was not the leader he thought he was, and he's disappointed that political order is falling apart. (How can there be a democracy without the Quorum of 12?) He's also disappointed because, like Gaeta, he's a man of principle, and just last week he mentioned that there was some truth to Zarek's concerns.

Baltar: First of all, thank the gods that he admitted he was putting on a religious show (presumably as a means of securing his own survival). Baltar is a creature of habit, as I will discuss in a moment, and I simply did not buy that our scientifically-minded atheist would all of a sudden become a prophet. Even with Head Six telling him there was one and only God. So I'm happy that Baltar admitted to this scam. Second, Baltar's main purpose in the narrative of the series is to run. It's how he's stayed alive. He runs. Some may call this cowardly, but not all humans are noble. I would run, too. Some people would call it selfish, but I don't think there's anything selfish about wanting to live. One of the people I watch BSG with hates Baltar, but during his speech discussing his need to go back to Galactica to save his followers, she said, "Okay, finally I like him." But it's not just this switch of personal behavior that's interesting. What's intriguing about this revelation is that, after having sex with one of the Six models (Lida), he still feels awful and lonely and regretful. Normally when Baltar runs (or is being tortured by D'Anna), he rely on either an apparition or a real-life Six model to make him feel good through sex. But not this time. Even sex will not cure him of his regret. I think Baltar is finally realizing that it's lonely at the top, and even though his followers were strange, he was surrounded by people, and I think Baltar was reminded of his love for the spotlight, his need for people to pay attention to him. And this is in no way a selfish realization. He just realizes that there's more to life than surviving yet another day just to have sex. There are other people. There are other situations outside of him. And I truly think it's this revelation that leads to the beautifully shot coffee scene with Gaeata.

Writer Michael Angeli (see previous post) intended for viewers to think Gaeta got off on the charges. After all, we are in Gaeta's quarters. But between Gaeta's topic of conversation and Baltar's near-tears reactions, I don't think anyone was fooled. Regardless of Baltar's profound pity for Gaeta, Gaeta's reflections on his past -- his love for architecture, then science -- indicated that the end was looming for him, and it really spoke to the logical nature of his character. Gaeta's reflections gave us a further insight into who he is, how got to this point in his life, and what his life was like before Galactica. It's a very touching scene, and Gaeta's complete resolve during this scene really makes you empathize with him. It's also a humanizing scene for Baltar because, following the scene with the Six model Lida, you know that Baltar respects Gaeta. He respects this man who acted on principle, even though it would most certainly lead to his demise. He's sitting across from the man who took to the stands to ensure that Baltar was found guilty (and who later tried to kill Baltar), and he respects Gaeta's rational understanding of the situation. Unlike Baltar, Gaeta doesn't run, he doesn't hide his head, and he doesn't beg for forgiveness. Gaeta knows what he did was wrong (he dishonored the oath), and that has a price. And for the first time, possibly ever, Baltar-the-Coward understands the logic of action and reaction, and he respects Gaeta's stoic acknowledgement of this natural law. There has been no character on the show other than Gaeta who I think is an equal to Baltar.

Gaeta: Alessandro Juliani, my Gods, you broke my heart. During the episode, I thought the cuts to Gaeta's throbbing leg were a bit overdone. We get it; his leg hurts. We get it; there's turmoil on the ship, and the leg gets progressively worse. We get it; Gaeta can't receive better care for his leg because Dr. Cottle is too busy tending to the Cylons. We get it. But then the episode ends on this moment of complete acceptance, and it tore my heart right out of my chest. "It stopped." The pain stopped. The mutiny stopped. Gaeta's life stopped. Everything stops. The absence of Gaeta's leg symbolizes a sort of phantom honor (in the same vein as a phantom limb), in that the absence of his leg is a constant reminder for all the times he sacrificed for his ship. Hell, the secret council (made up of two Cylons and a Cylon's wife) almost airlocked him for being a Cylon coconspirator, when really he was leaking them information from the Cylon camp. Anders shot him in the leg because he tried to save their ship instead of waiting for Kara to come back. Throughout the series, he tried to do the right thing -- the honorable, moral thing -- and what does he have to show for it? Nothing but phantom honor. When his leg was taken, the real pain set in. Gaeta's never really been angry that they took his leg. It was the situation in which his leg was taken that aggravates and disgusts him. When that leg was taken, his honor was taken, and now he's just running on the last bit of gas he has. He's putting all of his chips in. He's acting on the ghost of honor.

When Gaeta and Zarek exchanged smiles before their execution, it was like looking at two sides of the same coin. Both thought that they were right (and I happen to agree with Gaeta, as a non-military citizen), but Zarek knew there was going to be bloodshed whereas Gaeta had a more idealized vision. I don't think Zarek is necessarily evil (killing the Quorum should be seen more as killing democracy than killing eleven individual bystanders), but he understands the necessity of killing the opposition, where Gaeta is still trying to give Adama a proper trial to answer for his crimes. It's two sides of the revolution -- violence and moral high ground -- and both sides lead to death. And then comes Gaeta's line...

"It stopped." This line certainly could have been referencing my heart. This line could have been talking about time, since Gaeta's entire character narrative replayed in my head as if time had stood still. This line was a remark on Gaeta's calmn before the darkness. It was about his acceptance of the consequences, his complete resolve.

First Callie, then Dualla, and now Gaeta. Ron Moore, stop breaking my heart. I only have a few pieces left.

sepinwall's interview with ron moore

With the premiere of Battlestar Galactica just two weeks away (my heart is racing in anticipation as I write this), Alan Sepinwall has posted his interview with creator/mastermind Ron Moore concerning the last season of the greatest show on television. I've said this before and I'll say it again... I probably wouldn't like Ron Moore if I ever met him. On the DVD commentaries, he notes which scotch and cigarette brands he's using, and the idolatry of that man is enough to annoy me. But still, he's created the best television show I've ever seen, and he's never insulted the intelligence of his audience, and in a business that is determined to dumb down its audiences, I really respect how Ron Moore has handled this show, its well-constructed characters (there is not a character I don't love -- though Gaius Baltar beats them all), and certainly the brilliance of its episodic and continuous narratives. So here, below, I've included some interesting sections of Sepinwall's interview (including bits on the upcoming Caprica series), though I definitely would encourage any fan to read the whole thing here.


Talk me through the narrative and thematic style of ("Caprica"). You like to compare "Galactica" to war movies and political films from the '70s. What's something that looks like what "Caprica" is going to be?

It's hard to say. The comparison I used to keep making was "It's a sci-fi version of 'Dallas.' But the deeper we get into it, it's not. It's so different in tone and style to what we did on "Battlestar." If you just watched and didn't know the other program or didn't know what the connective tissue was, it wouldn't feel like they're part of the same family. They're very different stylistically. This is really a character piece and a drama that's very political. It has a lot of religious issues too. There are terrorists and terrorists bombings, religious strife... In "Galactica," we talked about monotheism versus polytheism; in "Caprica," those ideas are just starting to percolate.

Prequels can be very tricky to deal with, especially when one of the characters is from the other show, and a lot of what we know about him has to go a certain way. What made you want to tell a story in the past of this universe?

I knew the series of "Battlestar Galactica" was going to end with a period at the end of the sentence. Because of the way we're ending "Battlestar," I didn't see other stories beyond it that I felt were interesting or had any real relevance to what the show is about. But we had a very rich backstory to deal with. I mean, we could have done another Battlestar, or the first Cylon war, but those would have been repeating things we had done. Remi Aubuchon had come to the studio with an idea to do something unrelated to "Battlestar" about robots and artificial intelligence and the creation of life, and when we started talking together, I got interested in the idea of doing a sci-fi show that was set on a planet, did not have an action adventure component to it, is even more of a character piece than "Battlestar," where it really has to live and die on its characters and its story without the Cylons attacking every week. Could you sustain a science fiction show in that kind of context? That's what got me excited.

Ever since you did the reveal of the Final Four, people have been really fascinated by the origins of the skinjobs and how they came to be. How much of that's going to be revealed in this final batch of "Galactica"s and how much will have to be in the new show?

It's mostly revealed in "Galactica." I don't think there are many pieces of the puzzle that are set up in "Galactica" that we held out for "Caprica." Most of the questions raised in "Galactica" are answered in "Galactica." We just said, "The Cylons were created by man and turned against their masters." And now we're telling that story.

The "Star Wars" prequels had lots and lots of problems, but one of the big ones was that we knew they were going to a fixed point, where Annakin is going to turn evil, the Republic's going to collapse, etc. How do you tell the story of the creation of the Cylons when we know what's eventually going to happen to them? Will there be a lot of scenes where one guy says, "Are you sure this is such a good idea?" and his buddy insists, "Yeah, what could possibly go wrong?"

I think that's a good tricky point. I think there's some important differences. We're not tracking a given set of characters through this. Willy will be the only person from the other show who even figures into it, and he's a kid. Internally, it's like doing a period piece. If you do a WWII piece, you know the Nazis are going to lose, that the North is going to win the Civil War, but you can still tell good stories about those periods. The fact that you do know where it's all going to end adds a certain layer of dread. Events have a certain import, because Caprica is doomed. The opening line that we show on Caprica, right now is "Caprica, 51 years before the fall." Right from the get-go we're telling you these people are all doomed. In some ways, we're taking the fact that you know where it's all going work for us.

So, for instance, when you decided who four of the Final Five would be, how much thought did you have to put into it before revealing it in "Crossroads," and how much was, "Oh, we'll say this and figure it out over the hiatus"?

The impulse to do it was literally an impulse. We were in the writers room on the finale of that season, always knew we would end season 3 on trial of Baltar and his acquittal, the writers had worked out a story and a plot, they were pitching it to me in the room. And I had a nagging sense that it wasn't big enough, on the level of jumping ahead a year or shooting Adama. And I literally made it up in the room, I said, "What if four of our characters walk from different parts of the ship, end up in a room and say, 'Oh my God, we're Cylons'? And we leave one for next season." And everyone said "Oh my God," and they were scared, and because they were scared, I knew I was right. And then we sat and spent a couple of hours talking about who those four would be. Surprisingly, it wasn't that hard to lock in who made the most sense and who would make the most story going forward.

One of the things I've thought about since you revealed them is the amazing chain of luck that had to happen for these four to survive everything that's gone down. They survived the genocide, Anders survives his time on Caprica, they all survive being the resistance leadership on New Caprica. Is this a coincidence?

This very topic is wrestled with at the end of the new season. Within the show overall, there's been a constant discussion of, "Is all this a coincidence or is there some meaning to it?" It's a glass half-full or half-empty question. Adama took a hard-line secular view on things a lot of other characters took a miraculous view on, and we the audience have seen a lot of things that can't be explained by rational means. How did these four survive through all of this -- how did all these people survive? -- and ultimately the show does have an answer to it.

One of the things I've always liked about your storytelling style is that you let a lot of things just be assumed: "Oh, the fans are going to understand this, we don't need the technobabble or whatever. I just want to hit the parts of the story that are interesting to me, even if we don't explain everything."

I like doing it that way. On some level, I write the show for me and what I like, and I flavor everything in that light. "This is how I would like to tell a story." And I just assume that the audience is as smart as me, easily and they've seen a lot of TV and seen a lot of stories, and they can fill in the blanks and make the leaps with me on certain things.

A lot of times in the podcast, you'll say things like, "I know people are interested in this, but that's really not where the story's going." You didn't really deal with the toasters becoming sentient again, that sort of thing. After I watched "Revelations," I thought it was a great ending, but I jotted down a list of things that still had to be dealt with. I'm wondering, without you giving it away, whether these things are going to be addressed or whether these are things that we're thinking a lot more about than you were.

Do you have a list?

1. Obviously, the identity of the final Cylon, we will find this out?

Yeah.

2. The origin and nature of the Final Four and how they're different from the rest of them?

Yes.

3. The origin of the rest of the skinjobs?

Yes.

4. What happened to Earth and what happened to the 13th Colony?

Yes.

5. Who, if anyone, is orchestrating all of this?

Basically, yeah. I don't know if it's going to be wrapped up in a neat bow. The show has an answer for it, whether it's a satisfying answer, I don't know.

6. Will "All this has happened before and it will happen again" be explained in some way?

Yes.

7. The opera house?

Yes.

8. What happened to Kara when she went through the Malestrom?

Pretty much.

9. Identity and nature of the "head" characters?

Yes.

10. Tigh and Six's baby, and whether that means Cylons can breed?

Yes. That's not a "yes" to whether they can breed -- the question will be answered.

11. The fate of Boomer and whether there are other 1's, 4's and 5's floating out there?

Yes.

12. Roslin's health?

Yes.

Okay, that's a "yes" on all of them.

See? We knew what all the questions were! I'm kind of proud of myself. "Yes"es to all of them. I thought you were going to throw a curve at me, like, "Oh, (bleep)."

You said there's a part of you that wished you had done what David Chase did with "The Sopranos." How do you want, or how do you expect, people to react when we get to the end of this?

I hope it's satisfying. Ultimately, I hope it's satisfying. This one is a closed-end story to an extent, setting aside "Caprica" for the moment. It's a beginning, middle and end, "Battlestar Galactica." This big story, how it all began, the apocalypse of the 12 Colonies, then the journey, and then they get here. This is the end of all these characters that you have come to know and love. I really wanted it to be satisfying and answer questions that the audience has asked for a long time. I wanted them to like the answers, or at least appreciate the answers, that thought was given to them. At the end, you can say goodbye to the characters as you're saying goodbye to the show, and there's not a dry eye in the house.

Other than the toasters getting free will this year, what are some other stories you had to drop that, all things being equal, you wish you could have done something with?

The big one that we had to make a shift on in the first season is we never got out into the civilian fleet and showed those other ships. I always felt like different cultures would be on different ships, and as time went on, would develop into their own little mini-societies depending on their circumstances. Over here, you have one captain and 50 people, and here you have four captains and 500 people, those are very different worlds that they're trapped in. For production reason, we were never able to leave Galactica for any length of time. That's a big open chapter that I never got to write.

Things I would have done differently was the Lee and Dualla romance. It sounded better in theory than the way it worked out, and I would've laid more pipe to get there in the beginning if I had known. As it was, it felt a little too thrown together and punched in too quickly.

it's a wonderful life

People sometimes dismiss It's a Wonderful Life as only a Christmas classic, merely an NBC Christmas Eve staple, without really reflecting upon it's message. And if one hasn't grown up watching the film every Christmas Eve like I have, then one might not even be able to recognize why this gem has a place in everyone's heart. For instance, one IMDB poster called it "sentimental hogwash," and someone I know once called it "trite conservative propaganda." But these people are clearly caught up in the spectacle and popularity of the film, and they're not really paying attention to the brilliant script (it's funnier than most people remember) and the fantastic performances by James Stewart (in arguably his greatest role), Lionel Barrymore, and Henry Travers. Does the film have its flaws? Of course -- Mary would have married Sam Wainwright before becoming an old maid, and if Harry hadn't saved the lives of everyone on that transport, someone else would have. But the flaws in the "what ifs" are so minor when compared to the overall message that they can (and should) be overlooked.

It's no secret that this movie is my favorite film of all time. I grew up watching this film, and I identified and related to George Bailey, a young subscriber of National Geographic who wanted to travel and see the world. And the underlying reminder of my mortality resonated with me even as a child to the point that, as rash or abrupt as they may be, I determine most of my choices based on the idea that I could be gone tomorrow. Is the movie conservative? Of course, it emphasizes family values and the need to preserve small business (as to escape the inevitable globalized Pottersville metaphor). Is the movie sappy? Of course, but being sentimental doesn't have to be a bad thing. So here, below, I've listed just some of the reasons why It's a Wonderful Life is more than just a Christmas movie and why it should be everyone's favorite film.

10 Reasons to Love It's a Wonderful Life
10. Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.


Okay, this line is kind of corny, and director Frank Capra certainly made sure to get the most adorable little girl to play Zuzu. But the reason why this line is so effective is not because of Zuzu but because of George's response. He says softly, "That's right, that's right. Attaboy, Clarence," and he winks to the heavens. One of the smartest things this film did was portray God and the other angels as stars (as opposed to men in white robes hanging out on fluffy white clouds) because it allows the viewer to feel like someone is always watching over them, that stars can hear their prayers. Stars represent a physical means for believing in angels, and I think, as sappy as it is, that's such a wonderful representation. So when George winks to the ceiling (remember, it's nighttime outside), we know that he's really winking to the stars, and to one star in particular who now has his wings. And the above line is quoted so often not because people believe every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings, but because we're grown accustomed to the angel Clarence, and, like George, we are proud that he was recognized for the world he showed us.

9. I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that. I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I'm comin' back here to go to college and see what they know. And then I'm gonna build things. I'm gonna build airfields, I'm gonna build skyscrapers a hundred stories high, I'm gonna build bridges a mile long.

George gives this wonderful speech to Mary after his throws a rock at the old Granville house. And this speech is a lot more meaningful than people realize. George is talking about seeing the world, and it's not just that he wants to leave Bedford Falls, it's that he knows there's an entire world out there that he wants to see. This becomes relevant at the end of the movie when -- as hokey as it sounds -- Bedford Falls, his family, and his friends become his world. No, George doesn't get to build airfields and skyscrapers, but he does get to build Bailey Park, a residential area for families (such as the Gowers) to rest. And the brilliant part about this speech is that it's right outside of the Granville house, which they later move into, and while George is building scale models of buildings and bridges, Mary is the one who is refurbishing that building into a home. George's mind is constantly outside of Bedford Falls, and all he can think about is what he didn't do rather than all that he's accomplished. This speech is so uplifting in the moment that you almost forget how trapped he will feel later, but this speech is a reminder that sometimes your reality is just as good as your dreams.

8. Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about... they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you'll ever be.


Here's another one of Jimmy Stewart's fantastic speeches (see also: Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Harvey). I can honestly say there will never be another Jimmy Stewart, though Hollywood likes to cast Tom Hanks in that role. There will be other Clark Gables and Cary Grants, but there won't be another actor like Jimmy Stewart with his aw-shucks charm and boy-next-door demeanor. Stewart doesn't play this speech with anger but with honesty. Potter is a crooked old man, and with repeat viewings, you will find yourself cheering during this speech. (I'm not going to lie; I sometimes clap when watching this scene.) And, of course, the final line ties back into the larger motif of the film; like his father, George will grow to be "the richest man in town."

7. Why don't you kiss her instead of talking her to death? Ah, youth is wasted on the wrong people.


This entire scene (see previous post for the video) makes you believe in love again. At 38, I don't know if Stewart quite passes off realistically as college-aged, but that's no matter. Donna Reed is absolutely glowing in this scene (thanks to a soft focus), but why wouldn't she be when opposite the most charming man in the world? There are plenty of fantastic lines in this scene, the least of which is "This is a very interesting situation!" There's just something about the way Stewart delivers that line that makes me crack up, and the following dialogue is quite hilarious. After Mary drops her robe and hides behind the hydrangea bushes, George considers selling tickets to the spectacle. "George Bailey, I'm ashamed of you! I'm going to tell your mother." "Oh, she's way down the street." But the line that everyone remembers is the cranky old neighbor who scoffs at their flirtation. He doesn't seem like the romantic type himself, which is what makes his delivery of "youth is wasted on the wrong people" so funny, but it's George's defensive response that really sells the scene: "You want me to kiss her? Hey, come back here. I'll show you some kissing that'll make your head spin!"

6. The kiss.


Watch the scene above. Then remind yourself to breathe. Then repeat. Famously, this scene actually had a lot left out. As the story goes, Stewart and Reed were so caught up in the scene that they skipped over eight pages of dialogue, and to the screenwriter's dismay, Capra accepted this scene in only one take, and it's the final version you see in the film. This kiss is intense -- for 1946 and 2008 -- because it's impassioned and frightening and romantic all at the same time. It's hot and cold, dangerous and safe, scary but rewarding. Mary's been waiting for this moment, and it comes just after George declares he never wants to get married. Most people list this as one of the most romantic kisses in cinema, and I certainly wouldn't argue against that, but there's also a darkness to this scene that I think indicates the troubles ahead for George. He's not settling for Mary and I don't believe he's giving up on himself, but I do think George is well-aware of the conflicts inherent in his decision to be with her.

5. Is this the ear you can't hear in? George Bailey, I'll love you 'til the day I die.

Okay, this scene just makes me happy. Young Mary is adorable. This scene also brings us the oft-quoted (as least for me) line, "You don't like coconut? Say brainless, don't you know where coconuts come from?" You'd be surprised how applicable that line is to many situations.

4. My mouth's bleeding, Bert! My mouth's bleeding! Zuzu's petals... Zuzu...


This scene is really fantastic because George isn't just happy to be alive, and it's not until he's running through Bedford Falls that he's thankful that Pottersville is no more. This scene is actually about the family, and like so much of this film, there are layers that allude and reference other parts of the film. George is happy because Bert recognizes him, that his old and dear friend remembers him. He's happy because he still has Zuzu's petals, even though those petals represent Zuzu's sickness and the earlier altercation between George and Zuzu's teacher's husband. Those petals symbolize George's life -- decaying and with a hint of sadness and bitterness, and yet they're so beautiful. And Zuzu loves those petals. And thus George loves those petals because he loves Zuzu. And again, this is a really strong performance from Stewart. He is genuinely ecstatic to come home to his family, even if it means going to jail, because they are the bridges and skyscrapers that make up his life's greatest work.

3. Every man on that transport died! Harry wasn't there to save them, because you weren't there to save Harry.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, there are some flaws in the "what if" scenarios that Clarence constructs. If Harry hadn't lived, someone else probably would have been the hero and saved the people on the transport. But still, this scene has the greatest lesson from the entire movie. It's not necessarily about family or having friends (although that's certainly part of it), but that on a much smaller, almost always overlooked note, it's the little things that we do that make up the narrative of humanity. George saved Harry from the broken ice because Harry was his brother. He didn't even think twice about it. And this is an idea that escapes me much too often, that people think of me when I'm not around, that I somehow make a dent in someone else's life. It may be small, and it may be minor, but my very existence -- just walking around, just having conversations -- makes a difference. I think people generally like to see change instantly, rewarded instantly for their efforts. But sometimes our biggest moments are actually small ones, and we might never know how we changed the world just by being in it.

2. Clarence Oddbody, AS2.


Clarence Oddbody, Angel Second Class, doesn't appear until almost thirty minutes are left in the film, and yet Henry Travers's presence is so memorable that you'd think he was in the entire film. Not only is Travers hysterically simple-minded (thank God Capra didn't make Clarence an omnipotent or arrogant goody-goody), but some of the film's best lines involve him. I, for one, love sarcastic George Bailey. "Well, you look about the kind of angel I'd get. Sort of a fallen angel, aren't you," he asks when he first meets Clarence. And then when they're walking back to his car, he tells Clarence, "We'll stroll up to my car and get... Oh, I'm sorry. I'll stroll. You fly." And of course, the funniest Clarence gag is when George calls him Gabriel. There's such an honesty in their relationship that when Clarence does weird things (like order an old-time drink), George still defends him despite his peculiarity. And by the end of the movie, I think everyone wants a Clarence of their own.

1. A toast to my big brother George: The richest man in town.


There are just some scenes from movies that make me cry without even needing to have seen the rest of the film, and this is at the top of that list. I can't even hear this line without misting up. And what makes this scene so magical and truly wonderful is that when Harry says this line, everyone in the room roars in a communal love. They know, just as well as we know, that Harry's not talking about money, and George's reaction is one of heartfelt sincerity. Scenes like this just aren't made anymore. Now, if a movie is trying to be profound or thought-provoking, it tells you. But this scene just unfolds so naturally, and it truly becomes a celebration for life. This scene -- and this movie -- reminds us that, even with all of its hardships and struggles and compromises, it really is a wonderful life.

favorite trailers: revolutionary road

I absolutely love movie trailers. In fact, I could spend two hours at the theater just watching movie trailers. Trailers have to construct a narrative, develop relatable (or at the very least intriguing) characters, provide visual representation of what the film experience will be like, and lure in the audience in a matter of 30 seconds to 2 minutes. I think in today's ADHD society -- and I completely blame MTV -- people overlook the wonderful creative process of editing and sound mixing. Thankfully, trailers are recognized by the Golden Trailer Awards (they have categories for Best Voiceover!), so not all is lost. Below are four of my favorite recent trailers.


Revolutionary Road: I'm not even going to explain what this movie is about because I feel like the first trailer already provided that information (you can read a good synopsis of Richard Yates' 1962 novel here at Wikipedia). But how brilliant is the split screen? Go back and rewatch it. Pay attention to what's being shown on each side in juxtaposition with each other. And Cat Powers' "Sea of Love" song is perfect for this trailer -- it's dreamy, uncomplicated, romantic... and yet, secretive, nostalgic, and haunting. Sam Mendes, you may have won me back.

Little Children Trailer

Little Children: Two words -- choo choo. That child's train is one of the most suspenseful things I've ever seen in a montage of this nature. The movie is about an affair in suburbia... but it's so, so much more, and this trailer definitely alludes to the type of experience you'll have while watching this movie. This film gets better on repeat viewings, as does this trailer.

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The Fountain: My all-time favorite trailer... for one of my favorite movies. I swear, this movie was made specifically for me. Just me.

Australia Trailer

Australia: I heart Baz Luhrmann. I heart Hugh Jackman. I heart beautiful cinematography. Other than The Fountain, I can't think of a single trailer that has really reminded me of why I love films so much, why I'm making them part of my career. Movies can be great -- they can be cathartic, they can imagine better realities for us, they ask questions and sometimes provide answers -- but, specifically, I love films because of their universal humanitarian themes. Love and nature. Difference and likeness. Old world and new world. Of course, these themes are held together by a really strong story, and Australia definitely has all of these. It is going to be -- and I do not use this word lightly -- epic.