Kent State’s bible thumpers are really leveling up their pamphlet game. A whole little book! That takes some amount of coin. And crazy.
As evidenced by this morning, their battle plan can also be best described as “divide and conquer.” And boy, did they conquer.
I had heard from some not-so-religious friends that they were handing them out by the MAC center, so I had to see what they were up to. Two of them were in front of the aforementioned building while another one was further closer to the Student Center.
I saw the former two chatting with each other in the moment right before the one closest to where I was walking reached out to me with a book, so I can only assume they were noting which one would be responsible for helping save my bleach-blonde soul.
After a brief stop in the Student Center, I took a semi-sneaky way around the Move The Gym annex in an attempt to avoid them on my way back to my dorm.
Ran into another one. A kid in a hoodie was seemingly denying his offer, but my iPod was turned up too loud to make out any discussion. I walked by as quickly and silently as I could.
In search of food, I was hoping the Design Innovation Hub would be a safe haven from campus creeps. Nope.
ANOTHER one of ‘em, brown suit and all, right in front of the main entrance with two others hanging out on the esplanade in the distance. Luckily the brown suit guy was too distracted trying to turn over some other chicks and I slipped by. He was still there when I took the long way out after my coffee and Rice Krispies.
Ah, my first post from my brand new MacBook! It looks and feels exactly the same as my previous machine, albeit with twice the storage and twice the memory. A weird part of me wishes the jump in unfamilarity was bigger, but I’m more than satisfied that I’ll be experiencing much less of the dreaded rainbow swirl of death in the future.
The summer is coming to a close, but with a bang instead of a whimper. The weather is finally cooling down in my neck of the woods, but all of last week was scorching beyond belief. I spent the weekend in DC a good two hours closer to the equator than I usually am, so I really got to feel it.
The (first) main attraction: Jawbox, round II, at the Black Cat. It was an extremely fun time—so fun, in fact, that I didn’t take that many photos because I was just too into it! They opened with my favorite song of theirs—“FF=66”—and ended with their cover of a Tori Amos song that I’d actually been hoping they would play the first time I saw them. It’s just really entertaining hearing the badass angsty dude that is J. Robbins declaring he “never was a cornflake girrrrrl!” And it just rocks in general when they do it. Scientifically proven, I would assume. It was great.
We visited the Smithsonian the next day, braving the oppressive heat to do so. I wish the Air and Space Museum had been open—it’s undergoing renovations. But the Museum of American History did not disappoint. Every part we walked through was immersive and gorgeously, intelligently curated. The place really speaks for itself.
Take the sprawling tree of presidential campaign ads, arranged in chronological order and swerving over the clusters of museumgoers. Immaculate.
There’s a temporary exhibit going on there right now entitled Girlhood, which explores the evolution of the titular age frame in America. It was interesting, but I guess being on the edge of proper adulthood made it the slightest bit uncanny to me. I also cannot get over how much it bugged me having to hear “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill twice as I milled about the exhibition space. Do I understand the song’s historical significance? Yes. Are there more “underground” female musicians that matter from back then than solely Kathleen Hanna? Yes! (Ugh, I’m such a nerd.) Later I even saw Le Tigre tickets (ironically from the venue we’d just been at the previous night) on display in another part of the museum alongside some old zines as an example of WOMEN being DEFIANT with MUSIC in the NINETIES. At least they had some Sleater-Kinney stubs there, too.
I guess I’m just frustrated with modern day hero worship. Cults of personality are fascinating to me. And strangely enough nowadays it seems more and more people are obsessed with being the master of their own niche domains as opposed to seeking widespread acclaim. Forget being the next Kim Kardashian—feeling like you’re the next Kathleen Hanna alongside similarly dressed peers with similar music taste is more relatable (and attainable). Doing the exact same things her circle did, especially in a time where her previously scorned actions are gaining more acceptance, is more comfortable than trying something new, something more culturally dangerous. What’s ironic is that the idols that we’ve collectively built out of these countercultural gamechangers would rather their worshippers try to pave some new ground instead of retreading what has now become safety net cliche.
Didn’t you know that being a cookie cutter punk is more rebellious and meaningful than ever when Machine Gun Kelly is allowed to strut around with pink hair on his head and dumb Sid ‘n’ Nancy fantasies in his brain? What perfect role models for a generation of increasingly volatile youth struggling with mental illness and 21st century stress. And when being a starving artist is in (no “sellouts” here), doesn’t that mean affording self care and security is the peak of uncool?
As the world continues to implode, self stagnation has never been so hip. I wonder how Kurt Cobain would feel.
Know your history. Avoid trends. Hop on them. Stop caring what others think of you. Get famous. Fight the power.
A good fourth of my bedroom floorspace is currently taken up by filled bags and storage bins waiting to be loaded into a car and actually get put to use. I’ve got an upgraded laptop arriving at the beginning of August and numerous niche band posters on my eBay watchlist. A pristine double room in one Johnson Hall awaits five hours away. It feels too good to be true.
One month left.
My anticipation towards heading off to Kent has only been rising recently. So is the anxiety. I’m going off to Ohio, and Ohio is a state currently best known for being a place that ten year old girls have to escape from if they want to get abortions after being raped, so I can’t help but feel…weird…about it. Especially when I get to see people literally flat out say not to go to colleges in states that crack down on abortion, which, despite being aimed at the peanut gallery and not me personally, make me paranoid as hell. Ah, the internet.
Back in the protesty heyday of the swinging sixties, Kent State was considered a “liberal oasis” in a cesspool of rednecks that I can’t imagine being not too dissimilar from the cesspool of rednecks I get to experience living where I have my whole life. Pennsylvania? “Liberal”? Really? When a house a few blocks down from me boasts a cutesy cartoon cutout of No. 45 (seriously) and a “Not My President” sign in the front lawn, I think not. When I say that Ohio feels like a home away from home, I mean that in both the best and worst ways possible.
I tried for college in my supposedly libby home state. It didn’t exactly work out. I actually got accepted into a school not very far from my home base that my parents always dreamed for me to attend. It is much more traditionally prestigious than Kent and also happened to support the draft during the Vietnam War (no kidding). Their admitted student day event opened with possibly the most boring, statistics filled PowerPoint slideshow known to man, one that not even the parents should have had to sit through, never mind the kids. I did not retain most of its pie chart-laden glory. But I do remember the main emphasis of the power-dressing young female presenter’s speech on the school’s well-rounded curriculum: that it would help “market” students to future employers. She then went on to highlight all the shiny big name corporations graduates of the school had entered careers at. What a reason to get an education—so that your parents can smile at your hefty paycheck and how charming it is that you work for Google or Disney. Unlike the squeaky clean cardboard cutout of a college kid that exists inside the heads of people like that, I’m not aiming to stay in a certain lane to make the faceless head honchos I’m apparently supposed to be pleasing feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I may please some people as I make my way down the highway of life, but my trip is mine. I would rather not have someone who thinks they know more about my life than I do try to make life-altering decisions for me. Sound familiar?
I could go on about the multitude of reasons why I’ve chosen Kent State, but I’m not in the mood. I don’t feel the need to ‘prove’ my decision to anyone, and I feel comfortable not having that burden. I was granted the ability to take the chance that I wanted to take, and it would be silly to throw it away for something subpar and unfulfilling.
It’s my choice, and I’m sticking to it. Having few freedoms left, I feel strangely proud of that.
It’s really great that, once again, society is proving that it doesn’t give one shit about the rights of human beings. Maybe I shouldn’t got those two sweet, sweet pairs of perfectly fitting, low-rise pants the other day. Maybe I should have instead capitulated to literally any other pair of pants in the tri-state area, all of which ranged from “high rise” to “super high rise,” the latter of which I didn’t even know was a thing until a few weeks ago. I’d assume such conservative garments will be more acceptable once our American Taliban really takes control around here. Will we all be required to wear those ugly button flies in the future to keep any midriff from showing? Will skinny jeans be deemed too show-y, and will ‘mom jeans’ be the soup du jour from those trying to skirt the burqa? At least there won’t be any more of those dumb factory-ripped holes.
Not that only the female will be effected or is being effected by recent events. The Supreme Court’s ruling on Roe v. Wade may appear on the surface to be one that only effects one half of the country’s population—thee uterus-owners, thee whatever. In reality, considering how same sex relations, birth control, and desegregated schools now sit neatly in the court’s crosshairs after their big hit on Friday, it effects each and every American. Hell, it effects each and every person on this planet, considering the similar, anti-bodily autonomy pressure the Catholic church also has on countries like Poland. It effects anyone under the thumb of an oppressive and fundamentalist ruling class who just wants to live without said ruling class poking its nose in their business. That’s pretty much all of us, as much as some of us would like to deny it. It’s easier to succumb to the religious right’s reigning propaganda schemes—or to deflect the blame onto the entire male species, on the other side of the oversimplified political spectrum—than to unpack the weaving, intertwining tentacles of church and state in modern America. It’s easier to accept the reality of sending unwanted children to school in bulletproof backpacks and crossing your fingers, than trying to change that reality—especially when the so-called ‘representatives’ who promised to change that reality for you failed miserably at their one job.
As someone used to humans being the most awful and abhorrent creatures walking the planet, the weirdest thing about times like this is how much the world stays the same. I went out for sushi with my family for dinner Friday night, and it was definitively the best meal out I’d had in recent memory. I wasn’t turned away from dining out due to my new low rise pants or my feminine wiles. It doesn’t look like I’ll be turned away from higher education in the already parasitic, sinister Buckeye State any time soon either, despite the likeliness of said state to crack down on abortion rights coming up. It’s a strange crossroads to be standing on trying to sow tiny sparks of hope for your personal steps forwards while society around you is chronically and rapidly regressing with the highest hopes of taking you down with it. But with studies on the horizon and the resurrected Kent State SDS on my side, I guess I won’t be fleeing the country any time soon.
What’s with all this country business anyway? All it does is fuel ugly jingoism in the first place. And if the systematically defined borders around my place of residence define my or anybody else’s ability to legally be a fully autonomous human being capable of exercising freedom to the fullest, safest extent, I just wish we’d consider some truly universal healthcare.
I’m forced to look at political discourse daily thanks to the beautiful nature of the internet, and with the January 6 hearings kicking off and the like, I’ve been seeing a lot of it lately. But it’s all the same old story. The key to making bold points on the internet, form what I’ve seen, is to come off as someone who can see through every dirty window and every veil of fog when it comes to how the world works. I am right and you are wrong; you are fallible, I am not. But people seem to forget that no one is truly immune to propaganda. The world tells you that arguing on the internet about how awesome your political devotion is over everybody else’s, will help change society’s most deeply rooted flaws. It’s not going to.
Having your voice out there in the world is important; it all depends on how you use it. I wish that people collectively could strive towards turning their ideas into some sort of worldly force, one as creative as it is subversive and as diverse in its contributors as it is unified. The world doesn’t want that. There are plenty of much more productive ways to use your emotions than trying to come off as superior than others on the internet. That’s what the world wants you to succumb to.
While left-leaning people who surely do want to make positive change were bickering over crap that doesn’t matter, a group of brainwashed assholes were able to mobilize an attempt at a military coup on the concept of democracy and the truth (not that they hadn’t almost entirely chipped away at it already and are still doing so). That was over a year ago, and with chuds continuing to reign supreme in and outside of politics and perfectly capable people still yelling into voids, nothing has changed.
“Anger can be power; don’tcha know that you can use it?” asked the Clash. Do we have to keep saying that to the people where and when it really matters?
I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Last week was technically the last ‘normal’ week of classes before AP and state testing wreck havoc across the land. For me, it was the busiest week of my high school career. I had my final Model UN conference, which ended with a joke motion to “get rid of Ohio (via bulldozer boats)” (don’t ask). Guess I won’t be off to Kent State in August, for it had to be sacrificed to save America from the rapidly expanding, parasitic Buckeye State. On other days of the week, I found myself in parts of my school I had never seen in my entire four years of attendance there. The secret agent lurking inside of me adored that, though I still question why my school doesn’t use its perfectly preserved time capsule pool for more than the swim team and physics class boat races, or why I didn’t know they have a room full of iMacs.
All that aside, it gives me mixed emotions to know that the public school system I’ve been tethered to for the last twelve years will be soon be behind me.
It’s even odder placing my role as a freethinking high schooler in the context of our current culture. More and more attacks on critical thinking have been entering schools across the country thanks to concerned parents who would prefer their children remain ignorant to history and the world at large. Reading about book bans and threats towards teachers who teach the truth is disheartening and, frankly, terrifying. It’s a shame that we as humans, instead of encouraging nuance and intelligent analysis, have allowed for those actively promoting ignorance to have an increasingly large platform. Society is being rapidly dumbed down at the hands of these types, the ones who let their favorite political pundits and reality show stars—what’s the difference nowadays?—determine their every opinion instead of stopping to think about what they are consuming. They may be puppets, but they have power.
We live in a world of ever-increasing absurdity, plain and simple, and humans are basically just strange little animals trapped in an overcrowded cage. They do weird things and can seem very kind one moment and then be seen brutally mauling each other the next. Recognizing these truths is the only way to see the world for what it is. And when logical thought and critical thinking are placed at the forefront of this observation and emotions don’t blind us, work can be done and change can be made for the better—for all of us. When education devalues these qualities and promotes homogeny and close-mindedness in their place, you are learning nothing but a lie.
I’m genuinely grateful that I was able to receive a quality education throughout my high school career. And I’m miffed that the things that made those four years so valuable to me—the discussions I’ve had in my English and social studies classes, the documentaries I’ve watched and dissections I’ve done in anatomy class, the support I’ve received from my teachers—are being disparaged across the country. But then again, people still think that the Kent students protesting the Vietnam War on that crisp spring day in 1970—the anniversary of which is coming up rapidly—were the true agitators when the National Guard came to town. And that’s not stopping me any time soon.
As I enter the next phase of my life, I will continue to seek the truth.
Somehow, in this media hypersaturated world, I’ve been feeling like I should watch more television. It’s the end of the academic year, and I constantly find myself in a weird limbo between feeling overloaded with home stretch work and having absolutely nothing to do. This limbo usually fluctuates within hours multiple times every day. And when my schedule creates a void, I need something to fill it. (I guess my time management skills are too good.) My teenage years made me into a movie watcher as I subconsciously rejected the cartoons of my childhood. But as someone who loathes dismembering a movie that was intended to be watched in one sitting, finding the time to fully digest one is sometimes tricky. TV can provide a similar experience in a (usually) shorter time frame, making it easier to work into a night. And, when done right, it can be the medium for incredible and moving works.
Not that everyone is “doing it right.”
The internet alerted me yesterday to the fact that horribly corrupt anti-democracy politician Rudy Giuliani made an appearance on a show called The Masked Singer. (It had apparently first leaked a while ago, but it somehow it didn’t appear on my radar back then, or maybe the news cycle moves way too fast for anyone to keep up in today’s world.) The first thing that popped into my mind upon learning this oh so crucial piece of information was this: Again? It was only a few months ago that that show, which I have never watched, made similar headlines for having Sarah Palin on as a fluffy singing bear or something, which had made me want to slam my head into a wall. Why?
Well, I think I’ve figured out why. Prior to those two media meltdowns, the only times I had to deal with The Masked Singer‘s existence was my DEVO fan friends cringing at some video game streamer bro singing “Whip It” on there, because their cultural assimilation continues to be amusing. Otherwise, I would have been blissfully unaware of anything regarding the show except maybe seeing a commercial once or twice when I wasn’t paying attention.
But The Masked Singer has cracked a code: Putting high profile, morally reprehensible people on your ditzy TV show gets headlines and, in turn, free promotion. Your content can be the most useless dribble in existence, but you can glue a controversial face onto it and the world cannot refuse to ignore it. Does the show in question bring anything new to the table? No. To, appropriately, apply an one-off DEVO catchphrase to a wider scale, people have been wanting their EmpTV for a long time. They like their charming C-list celebrities and cheesy old songs (which, in Rudy’s case, was the most tainted rendition of “Bad To The Bone” possible, which I don’t think even the guys from DEVO could have made up). Is there any reason to pay attention to it other than its promotion of some hideous politicians (and Jenny McCarthy)? Not anything meritable. Did it even matter that the rude-y episode actually hit a low point in viewers despite its shock value? Considering that I’m also seeing articles from the same publications about their epic fail, probably not. Any attention is good attention, and effort that could have gone into reporting about something not mindlessly idiotic and crass was forced to divert itself. It goes to show how cynical our modern world and media cycle is when you have to promote some of the world’s most undesirable people to get the share of the floor that you crave. It’s nice to call yourself “relevant,” even when you’re exploiting political starpower and uplifting people who only seek to slam the boot down on the little guy. And when cute little grandpa Rudy wanting to make a good impression on his granddaughter—he has kids?—comes off as harmless, it’s all the easier. It may have gone slightly awry this time, but maybe it won’t the next. Think of the people who viewed Joe Exotic as some sort of kitsch god after Tiger King gripped us in the early days of the pandemic, or Dubya Bush trying his best to fill in for Bob Ross. The media is manipulative; it just depends on what angle you’re viewing it from.
There’s plenty of shows out there that are actually worth sitting through, and we’re the ones who choose what we watch. Can we change the channel already?
I mentioned in my previous full length log how strange it is to have to watch historical events unfold from a screen while your own life marches on as usual. It’s hard to say anything about Russia’s war on Ukraine that I feel hasn’t been said before, even though it’s only been a few weeks. Don’t the headlines speak for themselves? Each one is another reminder that most humans don’t know how to view others as human. The Russian government pushes absurd propaganda while its people cry for a ceasefire, and the West seems obsessed with intervention that would only make the violence worse. It’s frustrating to see.
But the problem with worrying about things that you aren’t able to directly affect is that it traps you in your head. Allowing the world to whomp you into submission in that way keeps you from doing the things that do matter when they come along. So, in the meantime, I’ve been trying to keep a spring in my step.
Music in particular always helps me keep on my toes. Get the right combination of rocket riffs, vocal squelches, pounding metronome, and low-low-end and you’ve got one happy Sophia. Currently on repeat is a spinoff group of spaced-out surf rockers Man Or Astro-Man?, Servotron. I was blown away to find a CD of theirs in the wild last weekend (thanks, AY&P) and it only reminded me of how much they satisfy my ears. Servotron were four humanoid robots who used hyper-charged twanged-out synth punk to espouse their philosophy that humankind should be exterminated due to its “inefficiency.” It’s hilarious. It’s also dangerously catchy. And all this talk about AI picture generators and “the Metaverse,” the furthered blurring of the lines between man and machine, only validates me listening to them, I guess.
Absurd lyrics about making humans huff carbon dioxide aside, they’ve got a point about the human condition. Humans are extremely fickle and confusing creatures; I know from just being one. That side of mankind has been on full display in the news recently. For example, some people have been “protesting” Russia’s cruelty by emptying out bottles of vodka they don’t realize isn’t actually Russian. I would assume it took a lot of time and effort to make the contents of those bottles, but I guess it doesn’t matter if you associate that product with dirty commies. They were probably munching on some “freedom fries” as they did so. That’s what America called French fries—which are Belgian—after France disapproved of America’s invasion of Iraq back in the 2000s. It’s funny that we were talking about the similar “liberty cabbage” phenomenon of the World War I era in history class just a few weeks ago. We’ve gone back to calling it sauerkraut, but we still haven’t learned from it. What’s next? Another Red Scare?
But neither a robot uprising or nuclear bombs are going to keep humans from human-ing. Mass destruction, discrimination, and loss of life seem like very inefficient things to indulge in. Maybe, with enough work and cooperation from us carbon based lifeforms, we can up our efficiency game by being better to each other. We can only learn from our mistakes if we try. Let’s start by taking away all the arbitrary barriers that separate us—silly things like nationality and ethnicity. Maybe then we won’t invade other countries for personal gain because those barriers will have lost their socially constructed meanings. Remember: we’re all in this together.
Last week in one of my classes I participated in a discussion on whether or not art should be considered important during turbulent times. Unfortunately, it became a reminder of how warped some people’s interpretations of the world are. According to some, in times like these, art should give way to other, more important things. What exactly these “more important” things are was not elaborated on. Funnily enough, they also clarified that, despite its lack of importance, art is also a luxury, which is why it is not needed all the time. Hence, art both holds value and is lacking in it.
If these people had opened their eyes, they would notice that art practically suffocates us everyday. The clothes on your back, the car you drive, the building you live in and the buildings you wished you lived in, the fancy garbage can in the kitchen that has a foot pedal to flip the lid open—all of that had to be designed by someone. You can go to a museum gallery or you can go to Times Square—you’re getting an eyeful of art either way, and it influences the world in many ways. Life does imitate art, after all.
Throughout my entire life, art has been a defining force in shaping my worldview and introducing me to new ideas. Being trapped inside for months due to the pandemic only strengthened my appreciation for it. Art has whisked me away to weird and wonderful places that revel in the absurd and tickle the funny bone. It has also grounded me in reality and reminded me of the essential work that still needs to be done. It’s motivated me to express myself in my own ways and take action where it is needed; it’s connected me to likeminded people and pushed me to go places I never would have thought to go to otherwise.
I know from experience that the best art is art that serves as a call to arms, challenging the mind and encouraging action. It can do so silently or with immense fanfare. It can fight back against the boot that kicks the outcasts and inspired dregs of society with a bang; it can upend entire social orders momentarily without anyone knowing unless they stop for a second and think. Often times, art is the only force of true change in a world of stagnation drained of hope. It’s a refuge from the soul-crushing monotony of the daily grind to think, If that person has the gall to do that, maybe I can, too! It’s a healthy alternative to giving up. And that thought process can translate to true impact if one lets it; it can set off a chain reaction. If one person can change their outlook on the world or the way they go about their day because of a song they heard or a book they read, that’s great. If someone can pass that mentality on to someone else who can pass it on to more people who can pass it on across the globe, forming networks of connection and camaraderie, that’s incredible. That possibility is art’s greatest power. It only depends on how one uses it.
So, does art have value in these trying times? I argue an emphatic “yes.”
Go Ape
Sunday, May 29th, 2022I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Tags:advertising, commercials, common sense, de-evolution, films, humanity, old toys, Planet of the Apes, Rod Serling, society, the truth, things I enjoy, videos
Posted in Rants, Reviews & Commentaries | No Comments »