RIP, House MD

No, neither the show nor the eponymous doctor have died. But after watching the first three episodes of the eighth season, I'm ready for the show to be put down. Am I bailing too quickly by giving up after only three episodes? I don't think so, because House hasn't been good for a while now (which I wrote about back in the spring), and as someone who used to be a huge fan of the show, I'd prefer to see it mercifully put down than to continue on like a wounded animal.

Let's recap this season so far: House is in jail, that should be intere—oh look, Foreman sprung him at the beginning of the second episodes. Guess there won't be any sort of seasonal arc about that. And wait, Foreman's the new dean of medicine? What? (Lise Edelstein left the show) Instead of seeking a new character to instill some new energy into the show, the producers again took the easy option of "Hey! Let's use one of our regulars!" And has been pointed out by House himself, Foreman is as about exciting as watching paint dry. (No offense to Omar Epps; Foreman has just become an incredibly boring character who pretends he doesn't pander to House's every whim when in fact he does).

And Thirteen? (I still can't believe they call her that; She's been on the show for three seasons). Well, she leaves after episode three, and it had to be one of the worst send-offs I've seen recently. She shows up halfway through the episode after not appearing in the first two episodes of the season, has some minor sub-plot, and then boom, House "fires" her right at the end of the episode out of the goodness of his heart so that she can spend the last few years of her life with her lover. As I've pointed out in the past, Thirteen is much like other previous characters on House in that she used to be quite interesting. Giving her Huntington's was a bold move. But after season five (when the show started going down hill), I can't really recall any decent character development.

Chase? Taub? Haven't seen them at all. No idea what's up with them. No idea if the actors are still working for the show. Instead, there's some random medical student with some bullshit backstory designed to make her unique from all of House's former team members. I guess what makes her different is that she's pretty apathetic to House's antics (fortunately he hasn't done anything that ridiculous yet), but she reminds me too much of Chase in that respect. And now there's another doctor from the first episode who's probably just there to replace Olivia Wilde's pretty face. Rhetorical question time: Who are these two new doctors? Why do I care about them? I'm not just going to accept them because they're on House and after seven seasons I'm not supposed to question this decision.

Wilson is still around, but at this point, the House/Wilson relationship is as stale as it can get. Fight, make up, fight, make up, etc. House drives his car into Cuddy's living room (which could have killed her had she been in there), but Wilson's already buddying up with House at the end of the second episode. Are you kidding me? That's not the same James Wilson from the first couple seasons.

Please, House producers, let the show die. Don't try to drag it on for as long as the network allows you to. The longer the show goes, more you're betraying the original spirit of the characters and the show. I know deep down House is just another medical procedural, but at times it was an excellent character drama, delving into different characters and moral stances through each episode's patient-of-the-week format. House used to be a compelling character, one that left the audience guessing as to why he was so bitter and cynical. There was a time when you really pitied him: I'm thinking of a moment early in the show when House sees Cameron, Chase, and Foreman enjoying each other's company in a restaurant, and House thinks about joining them but then doesn't, and instead is left out in the cold by himself. But that mystery's seemingly been solved: He's just an asshole. Pretty crummy way to solve that one.

Here's an idea how to end the show: Maybe let House finally realize how destructive he truly is. Cameron's gone. Chase's gone. Taub's gone. Thirteen's gone. Kutner's gone. Cuddy's gone. Cutthroat Bitch is gone. Amber Tamblyn's gone. Have Foreman leave. But more importantly, finally have Wilson leave. There House is, alone, friendless, and addicted to Vicodin, all of which are his own doing. I've always thought the show, whenever it would finally get around to it, would end with House committing suicide. All of his pain, both inner and physical, would finally be gone. But because of how ridiculous the last two seasons have been, his suicide would be cheapened because he's no longer the pitiable and suffering character he once was. So now I don't think you can end House on a proper note, because he's not the same character that made him so compelling.

Until next time, Orange Hat Guy

"Sports Are Better Than Anything Else, Always"

*Note: Title credit goes to ESPN's Scott Van Pelt.

Wow. Last night was something, wasn't it. Dan Johnson? Who the hell is he? Robert Andino? Who the hell is that? Evan Longoria? Ok, might've heard of him. This kind of stuff isn't supposed to happen until late in October, long after the regular season's given way to the playoffs. But it did. And it didn't just happen. This wasn't just a "that's baseball" moment. This was the sports equivalent of poetry, of magic. It had underdogs and heavy favorites. It had nobodies becoming super heroes, and it had super heroes doing what they do best.

Derek Jeter didn't do anything impressive. Alex Rodriguez wasn't there to choke it away. Mariano Rivera wasn't out there to close it out. No one threw the game of their life, no dueling shutouts or strike out battles.The Phillies tied the Braves with a sacrifice fly. The Red Sox tied their game on a balk. A balk. Not a clutch base hit or home run. On a tiny little flinch by an Orioles pitcher. The guy who hit the game-tying home run for the Rays probably won't even make the post-season roster. I had to Google the guy who had the game-winning hit for the Orioles to find out his name. There won't even be a one-game playoff to determine a wild card spot.

But then the Rays scored six runs in the bottom of the eighth inning to pull within a run of the Yankees. Then the Braves' unhittable closer was hittable and blew the save. Then Dan Johnson happened. Then the Braves lost. Then the Red Sox blew the lead in the bottom of the ninth. Then Robert Andino happened. Then Evan Longoria happened.

I know that in the grand scheme of things, last night wasn't one of the greatest moments in sports history. It probably doesn't even breach the top ten. It was more about being in the moment, rather than the moment itself compared to others. But you had to be there, glued to the TV, sitting on the edge of your seat, holding your jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. You had to be there, hoping the night wouldn't end.

It did, of course. We probably won't ever see another night of baseball quite like that, but that's ok, because you can't replicate perfection.

Until next time, Orange Hat Guy

How Not to Make a Horror Movie

I just got done watching "Insidious," a supernatural horror film that I though was going to be good and scary. It wasn't. Well, it was, but only for about half an hour. After that, it became painfully obvious that the filmmakers were using the exact same technique to try and scare the audience over and over and over again, completely ruining the film's second half. I should also mention that I'm not a huge fan of supernatural horror, because generally there's nothing the protagonist(s) can do to overcome what's haunting them (I.E. my problem with "The Grudge").

The first few scare moment were pretty decent, albeit the sound effects dragged them down somewhat. They were fairly standard frightening moments: Shapes in the background, faces suddenly popping up and creeping on a baby, an unseen intruder, and sudden appearances of bloody hand prints. Let me talk about one particular scene that really stood out to me, which came early on in the movie and really raised my hopes that this would be a good movie.

The unseen intruder scene was particularly well done, as it relied on different techniques to achieve a suspenseful sequence than pretty much every other scare moment. It relied on natural sound (the home alarm went off), mystery (the antagonist had yet to be revealed, so the possibility of an unexplained intruder really fit with the building creepy tone), the set lighting was revealed little by little (the house lights would only illuminate so much), and the choreography of Patrick Wilson (the lead actor) moving throughout the  house without the camera revealing too much as it moved from room to room. And thanks to a few earlier scare moments, the sequence felt genuinely frightening and suspenseful.

But unfortunately all the other scare moments and scenes after that  relied on the exact same techniques: jump cuts and sound effects. The sound would go down to near silence, the camera would do a close up on a particular actor, then quickly do a jump cut to whatever specter was haunting said character while at the same time a loud sound effect is struck up (just in case you blinked) to break the silence. Then the specter is gone. The filmmakers used this technique the entire second half of the movie. Every. Single. Time.

Pretty soon, you're jumping not because you're scared by what's on screen, but because of your innate reflex to the sudden loud sound effect that cuts through the silence. After a while you stop jumping because the moments aren't just the same technique, but they become entirely predictable. Once there's a brief period of silence, you're expecting a scare moment. The rest of the movie is effectively ruined (well, the horror aspect at least, though the rest of "Insidious" also kind of stunk; minor SPOILER ALERT: the twist ending didn't come as a surprise at all, thanks to the final act's soporific climax).

Foreground vs. Background

Jump cuts can work. Brief, incomplete glimpses of monsters can be incredibly frightening, as it really draws on each individual audience member's imagination to fill in what's missing. But they should be used sparingly. If I were to go back and watch "Insidious" again, counting the number of jump cut scare moments, I'd probably count at least two dozen different moments. Complete Overkill. You also don't need jump cuts to induce thrills. Take "Halloween," for example. That relied on the reverse: Long shots that emphasis the foreground versus the background, with Michael Myers always lurking in the corner of the frame. The scare isn't forced onto the viewer. (Also, "The Strangers" is a great example of this stylistic approach, though the ending of the movie sucked).

Well I think I've reached the end of my rant. I just happen to find it sad when something that has potential goes to waste. As I stated earlier, the first half hour of "Insidious" was great. But then it became formulaic and boring, not to mention the rather ridiculous supernatural elements that dominated the final act. Better luck next time, filmmakers.

Until next time, Orange Hat Guy

The 14th Inning Stretch

I ordered a hot dog, a giant pretzel, a bottle of water, and a bag of peanuts before finding my friend and heading back to our seats. A baseball game really isn't complete without a hot dog or two and a bag of peanuts. I finished the hot dog pretty quickly, but my friend and I didn't empty that bag of peanuts until around one in the morning, as we were leaving the ballpark. At that point, the concourses were practically empty, and the walkway leading down from the upper deck seating to ground level was inhabited solely by the two of us. It looked as if the walkway had already been cleaned: There was no trash, no bottles or wrappers lying around, so I hope the two us casually dropping empty peanut shells as we scarfed down the last of what remained in the bag didn't cause too much of a mess.

When we got to the train station, a north-bound train had already arrived, and my friend had the brilliant idea of trying to make it to the front car, which happened to be a few hundred feet away from the stairs we had just descended from. Naturally, we ran along the platform up to towards the front car, only for the doors to close and the train to depart before we reached that particular car. I don't particularly care which subway car I ride in, but my friend seems to prefer the very first one. And so we wound up defeated, out of breath and sweaty, waiting for the next train to arrive.

It's odd to see a train station so empty after a sporting event. I've been to tons of baseball and football games, and every time the nearest station is always packed to the brim with fans heading home. People are usually packed along the sides, and there's always a mad dash to enter the subway cars once a train arrives. You have to be smart about how you board one of these trains: Try to get in first, and you might wind up stuck in the middle of a packed car, with little room to stand. You'll have to do a whole lot of fighting through the crowd of people to get to the door when your stop arrives. Go too late, and you're either smashed up against a bunch of people and the door, or you miss the train altogether because it's too packed.

But this night wasn't like that. There were only a few thousand fans left at the game when it finally ended, and so the nearby train station wasn't even half-filled. The last time I was waiting for a train at this station, I saw a mouse scrambling around near the tracks. He kept poking around the layer of rocks that lay underneath the rails, but I didn't seem him on this night.

About ten minutes later, another north-bound train made its way into the station, and we managed to get on to the first car, presumably to the delight of my friend. It's not a very long ride back to the station that nearest to my apartment, and it just so happens that my friend and I live close enough that we're only one stop apart, so neither of us had to take a long journey alone. When my friend's stop arrived, I shook his hand and wished him well in his second year of college. My stop, of course, came next, and after walking two blocks made it back to my apartment in one piece, collapsing into bed around two.

 I've been to about 50 baseball games in my life, and my friend's probably been to about 100 baseball games. I've visited four different Major League ballparks, and my friend's been to a dozen. In all that time, we've seen our fair share of exciting, rare, boring, painful, memorable, and truly fun moments. Baseball is, in a way, like a box of chocolates (to steal a phrase). Together, the two of have gone to 150 baseball games, and every single one of the them was unique in some way. We've seen walk-offs, back-to-back home runs, diving catches, amazing throws, Cy Young winners, MVPs, future Hall of Famers, you name it.

I've been to four baseball games this year, none of them very remarkable. Two were White Sox games, two were Cubs games. The Sox managed to win both of their games, and the Cubs were able to win the second game I went to. This particular game, the second White Sox game, wasn't exactly the game of the century. The Sox kept blowing every single lead they had managed to gain. At one point, they walked in the tying run. Three times the Sox wasted triples by leaving the runners stranded on third. Another time they loaded the bases with one out and failed to score. On the Indians' side, their star pitcher was giving up hits left and right. And though they kept managing to tie it up, the Indians could never gain a lead.

The Sox managed to blow the lead in the top of the ninth inning, and then proceeded to put the winning run in scoring position with less than two outs in the bottom of the ninth, only to leave him stranded. Extra innings is always fun because its brings along a sense of unstructured uncertaintly. Normally you expect a baseball game to go nine innings, and that seems to happen about 99 percent of the time. But when we get into extras, it's kind of freeing because all bets are off. There's no set end point, no ties, no sudden death elimination. If we have to go 26 innings to settle a game, we'll go 26 innings.

As the game wore on and plunged deeper into extra innings, both sides began to run out of pitchers, and neither offense was could do anything useful with a bat. I'm not sure which is worse: Sloppy play on the field or futility at the plate, but the latter definitely was painful to witness in this game. I'm sure that most of the people who had been watching the game at home had turned it off by now, tired of seeing this rather pathetic excuse for a baseball game. The stadium, which was only about half full at the start of the game, had only a few thousand fans remaining, with more leaving after every half inning of play during extras.

My friend and I moved up to the first row of our section, as the ballpark was nearly empty. By this point it was well past midnight, and we figured that only the diehards and the Indians fans who traveled all the way to Chicago to see the game were sticking around to see the end of this pitiful thing. Our section, which at one point consisted of mostly White Sox fans, was now made up of about two dozen people, many of whom were Indians fans, including me. (To be clear: I'm a Cubs fan and my friend's a Sox fan. I went to the game to spend some time with my friend, and root against the Sox, of course.)

The 7th inning stretch is a baseball tradition. Everyone knows the words to "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" by the time they're ten years old, and knows to shout their favorite team at the appropriate moment. It's such a famous piece of Americana that when I was in China, it was the song that my travel mates and I chose to teach out host family after being given the task to help them learn a song in English. It has a simple melody, the lyrics aren't too wordy, and practically anyone can sing it, regardless of their vocal range.

It also seems to come at the perfect time. You might thing that the middle of the 5th inning, the halfway mark of a 9-inning ballgame, would be a better spot. But that'd feel too early, in the sense that both not enough baseball's been played and that there's too much baseball left to be played. The 6th inning also doesn't quite work. You're still getting a sense of what the game's like. And the 8th inning? Way too late; the game's nearly over. But the middle of the 7th? By this time, you've watched enough baseball to get a good sense of how the game's gone, and although more than half the game has gone by, there's still a decent amount of baseball yet to be played.

My friend and I sang along to the 7th inning stretch, our arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, swaying to the tempo of the organist who accompanied the rest of the stadium. It's one of the few times when rival fans can join together, except, of course, for the "root, root root for the ___" part. When we were done singing and stretching, we sat back down to watch the bottom half of the inning. A few hours later, the two of us stood up again and sang "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" for a second time. It wasn't because we were bored, or because we wanted to pass the time after running all the way down station platform and just missing our train. We sang it again because it was the middle of the 14th inning, and an encore was demanded.

Few baseball games make it to extra innings, and fewer still make it to 14 innings. That makes the 14th inning stretch a rare event. In fact, this happened to be the first time that either of us got to take part in the 14th inning stretch, and keep in mind that we've been to about 150 games, collectively. And for all the poor performances on the field that night by the two teams, the 14th inning stretch made the entire night worth it, for some reason. I think what I liked most about it is just how absurd the concept is. "It's been another seven innings of baseball, so let's sing it again!" It's kind of utterly ridiculous (in a good way) to do it over, but it does seem to reflect the ridiculousness of the game at hand: Here you are in the 14th inning, both teams are refusing to win the stupid game, and it's very likely that that this game will go on for another 14 innings. It's like a reward for stick around to witness all this awful baseball.

The final out of the 13th inning was probably the most excited I was all night simply because it guaranteed that this ridiculous yet wonderful event would take place, and I would get to be there to take part in it. The top of the 14th went by quickly enough, with the Indians failing to score a run. I'll admit, I was slightly worried that the park wouldn't play "Take Me Out To The Ball Game," and that my friend and I would have to a cappella it on our own. But sure enough, the public address announcer that there would indeed be a 14th inning stretch, and as he finished speaking, the organ began to play, leading those of us left into the song.

Again we stood, again we sang, and again we stretched. It was the most fun I had all night. All of the game's struggles vanished during that period of time. The poor pitching, the horrid hitting, all of it was forgotten or put aside for a little while. This made the whole game worth it, the whole terrible, awful, abysmal game worth it. It was absurd and ridiculous and perfect. And perfect timing as well. The Sox managed to win it during the bottom of the inning, mercifully ending the game after that wonderful high note.

I wonder what the 21st inning stretch is like...

Until next time, Orange Hat Guy

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes" Review

Two Stars

I almost decided not to write a review for this movie, because it didn't seem to be going anywhere for a while. It just did't seem worth it to write about a movie that wasn't really good or bad, that seemingly was middling on, without much intrigue. It wasn't boring per se, rather it was uninteresting, if that makes sense to you. But the second half of the movie changed my mind. Did it get better? Kind of. The tempo certainly picked up, which helped, and the story began to have some serious development. But the ending didn't sit well with me, and the movie ultimately fizzled for me.

The movie begins with Will Rodman (James Franco), a scientist who's working on a cure for Alzheimer's, which has afflicted his father (John Lithgow), by testing an experimental retrovirus on chimpanzees. After the trial is shut down because one of the chimps got loose and began wreaking havoc in an effort to protect its just-born baby, Will takes in the baby chimp (christened "Caesar") and raises it himself. As Caesar (Andy Serkis, though digitally rendered) gets older, he begins to demonstrate extraordinarily enhanced mental abilities, including understanding human speech. This leads Will to believe that the retrovirus works, and persuades his boss to restart the trials with a slightly modified retrovirus.

But then things take a turn for the worse: Caesar is sent to an animal control compound for primates after attacking one of Will's neighbors, and one of the scientists working on the new retrovirus accidentally inhales it. The compound that Caesar is placed in is run by John Landon (Brian Cox), whose son Dodge (Tom Felton) takes great pleasure in mistreating all the apes that are housed there. Using his enhanced cognitive skills, Caesar soon begins hatching a plan to escape and bring back canisters of the retrovirus in order to smarten up the rest of the apes.

Now, this wasn't a bad movie, but wasn't really a good one either. It has some major plot holes, and doesn't seem sure which side it supports (humans or apes). I've already talked about the pacing issues that really hindered the first half of the movie, and I feel that this contributes to that uncertainty. In the first half, director Rupert Wyatt really tries to get the audience to sympathize for Caesar, which is totally understandable. He tries to do the same thing when we watch Malfoy viciously mistreat the rest of the apes, but by the time the climax of the film roles around (a giant battle on the Golden Gate Bridge), that sympathy is lost.

I'm not sure if the ambiguity of this showdown between humans and apes was intentional, but it didn't come off like it was intentional. Instead, there were times when you were supposed to root for apes and times when you were supposed to root for humans, based on whichever scenario fit the plot at that specific point (though it seemed like we were meant to sympathize with the apes more). At least, that's the impression it left on me, which made the ending all the more confusing. We all know what eventually happens, that the apes become major antagonists for humankind. Wyatt could have told his story better if it was clearer who the audience was supposed to root for, because it's hard for me to root for apes that will eventually enslave us.

But here's the problem with all of that: The root cause for these apes to revolt against humanity stems from how Tom Felton's character treats them. Their entire basis for asserting their dominance comes from the actions of a single person who, unfortunately for us, happens to be a gigantic asshole. There's a moment during the battle on the Golden Gate Bridge when one of the chimps has an opportunity to save a human's life. (Minor SPOILER) The chimp doesn't save him. How am I supposed to sympathize with these apes now? They're acting as immorally as the human that drove them revolt, which makes them no better than Felton's monstrous character. Why didn't they instead follow Will's example? He chose to adopt Caesar rather than putting him down, raised Caesar as best one can, and had profound respect for chimpanzees.

The movie makes a limited effort to suggest that this is all our own fault, that because we use animals as test subjects we got what was coming to us. But I don't buy that. This really isn't the place to argue over animal rights or the ethical implications surrounding live animal testing, but suggesting that an eye for an eye is what humans should pay as penance for using chimpanzees in their drug testing doesn't sit well with me. I guess, then, that this movie's biggest problem is that it tries to say too much, but actually doesn't say enough, and when it does try to say something, it doesn't say it very well.

But that doesn't detract from the other elements of the movie. Franco, Lithgow, Felton, and Serkis are all excellent, the latter in particular. Much like he's done before with Gollum, and then as the gorilla in "King Kong," Andy Serkis played the hell out a character that was ultimately rendered digitally. His performance shouldn't be overlooked because you don't see his face. I'm not certain how much of Caesar was Andy Serkis and how much of it was only CGI, but I have a good enough understanding of how characters like Caesar are rendered to know that Serkis put in a whole lot of work, and it really came off on screen. Most of the other apes are remarkably well done too, though I wonder how much of their behavior was at all accurate.

So here we are, at the conclusion of this review. From what Wikipedia tells me, "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" is the first in a rebooted series, so we'll have to wait and see if this does indeed hold true. Certain elements were set up as potential sequel material (the scientist who accidentally inhaled the retrovirus; brief news report of the launch of a manned mission to Mars), but this movie could just as easily be a standalone piece. It would've been nice if the movie had been set in New York instead of San Francisco, and having the movie end with an ominous shot of the Statue of Liberty, but maybe they're saving that for one of the sequels.