ANTI-GRAVITY (MOVIE REVIEW)

Small, water-dwelling, segmented micro-animals with eight legs, waterbears are really something.

One of the most complex of all known polyextremophiles, they can thrive in physically or geochemically extreme conditions that would be detrimental to most life on Earth. 

They can withstand temperatures from just above absolute zero to well above the boiling point of water, pressures about 6 times stronger than pressures found in the deepest ocean trenches, ionizing radiation at doses hundreds of times higher than the lethal dose for a person, and the vacuum of outer space. They can go without food or water for more than 10 years, drying out to the point where they are 3% or less water, only to rehydrate, forage, and reproduce.

But could they survive more than a single viewing of Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity, the astonishingly bad, but incredibly popular, space junk soap opera currently orbiting US and international multiplexes?  I have my doubts.

Jane and I saw Gravity this afternoon.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, in this superficial, clichéd melodrama, says or shows anything that wasn't expressed or implied more economically, elegantly and powerfully in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, especially beginning with the scene in that film where HAL 9000 murders astronaut Dr. Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) and astronaut Dr. Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea in his finest role) confronts and corrects the situation.

2001 is a brave, passionate, but unsentimental work, which like many of Kubrick’s films affirms the enduring nature of human dignity (however flawed the ultimate results of human efforts) achieved through determination, diligence and active intelligence.  Character is revealed through action rather than over-explanation and gassy discourse and digression.  To paraphrase Kubrick’s immortal Colonel Bat Guano from Dr. Strangelove, Gravity is a movie that went into combat with a lot of loose change in its pocket.   George Clooney’s Rip Torn-as-Patches O’Houlihan (DodgeBall) homage is unintentionally hilarious Best Supporting Actor Oscar-bait, as they say.  Rip was robbed in that department, giving a far superior performance as the Knute Rockne of dodgeball.

Space was integral to 2001’s drama, as it was to Forbidden Planet, the Alien series, and even to the less potent Star Wars sagas.   Gravity is simply a kitchen sink potboiler that could just as easily been set in a tenement apartment building, at a business office or on a psychiatrist’s couch.  Space and especially weightlessness are used as flimsy, overly-symbolic props, reminding me of the teary, vaprous Tennessee Williams dramas I endlessly endured in high school productions. 

Poor Water Bear.  Change the channel, little fellow.  DodgeBall’s starting in a few minutes.

HOW SUNDRY GENTLEMEN PUT THEIR TRUST IN HORSES

The curricle with its oddly matched pair swung out of the inn-yard as the moon rose above the poplars.  Sir Turnour was in the best Four-in-Hand Club style, head erect, shoulders squared, hands well down, elbows close to his side; but though immobile as a Buddha, his delicate fingers were testing the mouths of the cattle. Beside him Harry Belses was buried in the folds of his great-coat, and in the narrow space at his feet, his head against Sir Turnour’s apron, lay the spaniel Benjamin.

They passed through a sleeping hamlet, and debouched from the narrow parish into the broader Lynn highway.  Here Sir Turnour gathered up the ribbons and proceeded to try the quality of his horses.  In a trot their paces did not match, and the curricle swayed unpleasantly, but when he sprung them into a short gallop, they went better together.

‘John was right,’ said Sir Turnour.  ‘There’s blood in both of them, and willing blood.  No need for fanning or towelling or chopping ‘em.  But they’re not a sweet pair to drive, and I don’t know how the chestnut will last the course.  He has come down too often over the sticks, I’ll swear, and his off fore-leg may give out before we’re done with him.  The bat-eyed bay is right enough.  As they say on the road, he’ll go through to hell or Hackney.’

Note:  “The Free Fishers,” one of John Buchan’s late novels, is another peculiar, particular example of what made this polymath genius's works exceptional and unique. 

We once had a good friend from Hackney.  (Sounds like the beginning of a limerick, but it isn't.)  

He spoke in the distinctive accent of that borough.  He sang like a tortured angel.

Talk Talk: Such A Shame (Link) 

From:  John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.

STUPIDITY HYMN

Impossible to resist the “development hell” image in light of the scarifying Obamacare website rollout events.  At this point in information technology and world wide web history, vast numbers of non-technologist businesspeople know exactly why nightmare software systems architecture and integration disasters like this occur and the steps you need to take to avoid this happening.  I've lived this story before at my own companies and have witnessed many similar events at other companies.  

Prepare to see large numbers of executive branch and Democratic Congressional figures assume the posture of pissed off customers/contractors gassing and whining about gross errors and failures of responsibility solely attributable to their crony subcontractors.  This, of course, is a category error.  U.S. citizens are the customers/contractors here and we had a deal with our government to perform competently.  

 
HYMN -- KEVIN AYERS (LINK)

STUPIDITY -- KING SIZE TAYLOR AND THE DOMINOES (LINK) 

IT'S MY LIFE (DON'T YOU FORGET)

Somewhere between dreams two nights ago, in space, I wondered where I was and reconsidered my first gyroscope sighting. Was it in primary school or on Mr. Wizard? 

No matter, the gyro’s twirling stirred me in unforgettable, indelible visions and sensations of balance and imbalance, order and chaos, nausea.

My dream field was black and cloudy.  Spots sparked resembling prick-light-flashes in the vision field tests I've been taking, reminding me of those Psych Dept. perception experiments I loved; they paid you cash on the spot for describing what you saw. 

Unfortunately, this time around I’m paying, and it’s all truth, consequences, diagnosis, prognosis.

I saw myself in a dream and I want to tell you everything was all right.

That is to say, I briefly caught a glimpse in the mirror of the back of my head and I looked better than I have in years. 

I’m beginning to see the light. (It's coming a little softer.)  

Flitting by, a false accusation of disloyalty from someone I care about disappears silently in a dark dust-cloud. 

It’s a hard world to get a break in. 

Over under sideways down. 

All the good things have been taken. 

We’ve got to get out of this place. 

It's My Life: Talk Talk (Link)

André Masson Images:  Top – Automatic Drawing (1924); Bottom – Automatic Drawing (1925).