by Adam Ferenz

March 31, 1999. Written and Directed by The Wachowskis. Starring: Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne, Carrie-Anne Moss, Joe Pantoliano, Hugo Weaving, Gloria Foster.

What is The Matrix? Existence. Perception. Reality. Fantasy. It is everything and nothing. A construct intended to use humanity as a battery for a race of sentient machines. A battleground for the fight to free humanity from the clutches of said machines, and their minions, the Agents, lead by Agent Smith. Into this enters Neo, a young computer hacker who discovers the awful truth about mankind’s current condition. The film is as much about ideas as it is about plot.

What is The Matrix?

The Matrix is the world the machines create to trick humanity into sleeping their lives away as an energy source. When Neo meets Morpheus and Trinity, the leaders of a resistance cell, based on a ship called the Nebudchadnezzar, his life is irrevocably altered, and the course of humanity reset. One could talk about the action sequences-such as the assault on the stronghold to free Morpheus, a ballet of glass, leather coats, shiny marble floors and bullets-or the chase through the tunnels and final fight with the construct, an Agent known as Mr. Smith. But that would miss much of the point of the film, which is about dual identity. It would be easy to say that the Wachowski Brothers-as they were then known-were interested in this for personal reasons. But, the Wachowski’s were really more interested in exploring what is real and what is forced. Choice or will versus enslavement.

They accomplish this through a variety of means. Philosophical discussions. Action sequences doubling as metaphors, or very specific staging of events in order to evoke a sense of self.  Much has been made of the film’s Abrahamic roots, and while this is true, what with obvious nods like the ship being named the Nebudchadnezzar, one character being Morpheus-to change-another being Neo, “the one” or the Chosen, and yet a third, the aptly named Trinity, this is but one layer on which the film operates. Continue Reading »

(53) Akira


Bob Clark

Today, we reach one of the definitive anime experiences of the past 30 years, Katsuhiro Otomo’s Akira. Along with that, some musings on what it means to predict the future, and what we’re best left looking forward to in all tomorrow’s apocalypses.



Screen capture from “Hell or High Water,” one of the best films of 2016

by Sam Juliano

One more week and we’ll be scraping our shoes on the foot mat of September, with the Labor Day weekend to follow shortly thereafter.  Seems like it all flew by us in record-breaking fashion, but conventional belief has always asserted that the older you get the faster things move forward.  The temperatures have been high, typical of late August, though the past week has been marginally cooler than those it preceeded.

The science-fiction countdown is just about half way completed and that too is rather amazing when you consider it seems we just launched it.  The essays have been simply superlative and a small but reliable group of commenters have been carrying their weight in some terrific comment threads.  Many thanks to all especially John Grant, Jamie Uhler, Bob Clark and Robert Hornak for their vigorous participation.  But others have been wonderful in that capacity as well.  We are now reaching the stage of the countdown (the upper half) where all the real fun should begin.

Lucille and I have been out and around the past week, though I have continued a torrid pace of home viewing, if not quite as intense as the past four.  We took in an amateur production of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman in a grungy and oppressively hot Manhattan back-room theater on Saturday night, and it turned out to be hugely problematic for so many reasons, but since I know those who brought it to fruition I’ll refrain from any other commentary.  I’ll leave Miller himself to turn in his grave.  This is the seventh time I have attended this play on the stage in my lifetime, and even taught it once to high school juniors. Continue Reading »

ET - 1

by Robert Hornak

Note/confession: E.T. is one of my favorite films of all time, and not just from a nostalgic point of view, though that is indeed an unquenchable part of it, but from a pure cinema, pure demonstration of skill point of view… and yet, for all that love, I won’t at all be giving it the loving treatment here that it deserves. This will not be an essay equal to my respect for the movie – let’s just say today I’ll be working without storyboards. Trouble is, I’ve had a terrible week time-wise, with unexpected responsibilities and a tectonic shift in my usual schedule. This isn’t a plea for sympathy (unless you just want to give me some), rather a set up to suggest that this is exactly the right time to see, think about, and say a few words about the movie: I believe it’s a story about childhood for adults who are overwhelmed by adulthood and who too often forget what it was like to yearn so purely. When I watch the movie, it stunts and expands in equal measure – an emotional projection of the squashy guy’s bizarro stretchy-neck. It stunts because every time I see it, I’m right back to being 11 and seeing it for the first time – it simply hasn’t lost any of the power of its first run for me. It’s so densely of its time (in terms of mise-en-scène and in terms of its ubiquitous grip on/embodiment of whatever the ’80s were), that I sink right back into its world from the moment Williams’ quiet, weirdly-hollow music plays over the thumb-scrawled title, and I’m with it right through to the still-teary end. But it expands by my life experience since that first viewing, by the fact that I’ve got the baggage of all the hundreds (conservative estimate) of times I’ve lost somebody, was disappointed by a negated desire, got sideswiped by a sudden change of life plans, or simply sank into sadness over a friend long gone by proximity or worse. It’s my movie (and everyone has one or more of these) that lets me be young again and grows into something more meaningful as time extracts its years, precisely because those years are passing. Continue Reading »


By Marilyn Ferdinand

The line between science fiction and horror is often breached because humanity’s fear of the unknown has proven fertile soil for the fevered imaginations of scifi writers and filmmakers. The 1950s, of course, produced a slew of Atomic Age nightmares, as the science fact of massively destructive weapons merged with the paranoias of the time. Some forget that this period in human and movie history also was awash in psychoanalysis—the science of the mind—with Freudian theories all the rage in films of all types.

The 1957 scifi/horror classic The Incredible Shrinking Man from director Jack Arnold is firmly rooted in these socioscientific concerns. The plot is propelled by environmental horrors. A radioactive cloud floats toward the boat where the title character, Scott Carey (Grant Williams), and his wife Louise (Randy Stuart) are relaxing and coats him with a stardust sheen. Scott doesn’t start shrinking, however, until he is exposed to insecticide after they return home. While there is plenty of frightening action ahead, it is in the aftermath of these initial events that the film takes on more psychological and philosophical shading, and makes a pointed critique of a society slipping a straitjacket of conformity and wholesomeness over its citizens following the chaos and lingering malaise of World War II.

Scott asserts his privilege as a white man in a white-male-dominated society in the very first scene by ordering his wife to go below deck to get him a beer: “To the galley, wench.

Fetch me a flagon of beer,” he jests. Unwittingly, he did the manly thing by saving her from getting dusted, but because his rescue was unintentional and unconscious, we know we are in Freud’s realm of the uncanny. Freud said, “The uncanny is anything we experience in adulthood that reminds us of earlier psychic stages, of aspects of our unconscious life, or of the primitive experience of the human species.” Continue Reading »


by Adam Ferenz

August 15, 1986. 96 minutes. Written by Charles Edward Pogue and David Cronenberg. Directed by David Cronenberg. Starring: Jeff Goldblum, Geena Davis, John Getz.

Director David Cronenberg’s reworking of the 1950s B-classic, The Fly, is a tale for the times, at once a straight body horror, yet infused with themes that are very modern. There is a sense of isolation, of dread, and infection, which is ever present. The story is about a man who loses his humanity because of his obsession, because of a plot in which an advanced genetic experiment goes very wrong. The film, as it unfolds, appears to at first be a morality play about not messing with the delicate balance of nature, but is instead a meditation on choice, consequence and chance. In this sense, it can be viewed as a warning, or an examination, about behaviors, in particular, sexual conduct.

The film itself is technically superb, with the makeup being a legendary achievement which has lost none of its potency in now thirty years of release. The acting is very effective, with Goldblum perfecting the role he has continued to play for the rest of his career. He was never better than this film. Neither was Geena Davis, who runs the emotional gamut, as does John Getz as Stathis Borans, Veronica’s ex. A note must also be made of the sets, in particular the telepods, Seth Brundles’s invention, which have an almost amniotic sac shape, merged with the design of a honey dipper. The photography is kept dark but not poorly lit, a world of shadows that never lacks clarity, with the film almost all in medium range. When the film changes to close-ups or long shots, it is very noticeable. What this achieves is a sense of a very controlled yet dangerous world. Continue Reading »


by Stephen Mullen

The Island of Lost Souls is another of those films that might be more horror and adventure yarn than science fiction, though it is certainly science fiction. The basic plot is SF – a mad scientist in his lair, short-cutting evolution with surgery and cellular manipulation, creating monsters to roam the world – though none of this is given a lot of weight. Dr. Moreau’s fictional science is treated as the given of the story, and they move on from there. But the film is also science fiction at a more significant level. The horror themes (monsters, body horror, the slippages of identity and so on) run alongside themes more associated with science fiction: man vs. nature; science’s attempts to control nature, with mixed results; the question of progress, whether progress is necessarily an improvement, whether it is reversible, and so on. These themes run all through the film, they are embedded in its style as much as its story; the story, the film, present a microcosm of dystopia, and a dystopia very much made by human attempts at science. Its science fiction is wrapped around its horror tropes and vice versa – working very well at both.

Criterion’s edition of the film contains an interview with Gerry Casales and Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo, taking about the film’s influence on their ideas and music, its relevance to 1970s Akron, and so on. What did they see in it? They talk about Ghoulardi (who showed it on late night television); they talk about Kent State (where they were students at the time of the shootings); they talk about de-evolution, about the film and its look (its masks, shadows, monsters) and its themes, and what it meant to them. They mention a strange fact – how this film set on a lost jungle island in the south seas looks like what’s outside their doors – 5 o’clock at the Goodyear plant, says Mothersbaugh. It’s true – the film has a strong dose of German expressionism in its veins, and the beast men emerging from one of Moreau’s stone doors and passing a wall where their shadows loom as they shuffle out of the shot, bent knees and backs, look like factory workers shuffling out after their shifts. The same image turns up in another 70s era rust belt song, Pere Ubu’s “Heart of Darkness”: “Image object illusion, go down to the corner, where none of the faces fit a human form, nothing I see there isn’t deformed, maybe in a secret lab works Dr. Moreau” – it’s less the images of deformity that catch you, than the beginning – go down to the corner – this is what it looks like, now, today, Cleveland in the 70s.


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