I love schlocky action films. I will always respect a movie that knows what it is and embraces it.
The John Wick films do a pretty respectable job at that. The scripts are laughably formulaic, a computer could have written them. That’s the way schlock is supposed to be: everything is supposed to be up on screen. I love the juxtaposition between violence and every day life. Even the casting of Keanu Reeves is a stroke of genius: he is an extraordinarily limited actor. When you see him, you know you’re not getting anything deep. He’s just there to kick ass and kill. Respect.
Sure, I talked shit about Keanu before. I don’t think I’m being controversial when I say that I don’t find him compelling usually. Not that he has to be. He’s a pretty boy that’s limited to certain roles.
It’s rare to find a true gritty action star, one that’s not necessarily being tongue in cheek, one that’s not a pretty boy, or trying to overly impress you with their physique.
I suppose Daniel Craig is such an actor. Jason Statham could be another. Maybe Bruce Willis at times.
But the best one was Charles Bronson.
For whatever reasons, I’ve been binging the fuck out his movies. Bronson’s stretch through the 70s was the greatest run of any action star. It’s hard to imagine an actor like him succeeding in modern Hollywood.
Contrary to popular perception, Charles Bronson could act. In fact, I’d say he was much more capable of handling emotionally intense scenes than Clint Eastwood, a contemporary of Bronson and an actor of similar caliber. Just watch Breakout or Mr. Majestyk. This is especially true when he’s playing opposite a female costar, specifically the romantic interest. There’s something about his glare that can carry those scenes.
Was Charles Bronson a good looking man?
Seriously, was he?
I like that ambiguity about him: a sex symbol whose appeal is derived from raw power and everyman looks. Daniel Craig, at least as James Bond, has similar appeal.
But, for me, the biggest appeal was that he wasn’t an actor’s actor. He had a workman approach to his craft. He knew exactly what he was creating. And the days of those actors are long LONG gone.
Unpopular opinion, but Bronson’s collaborations with Michael Winner are some of my least favorite, specifically Chato’s Land and The Mechanic. Winner seems to have overestimated his abilities as a director. (Death Wish III is an undeniable classic though) J. Lee Thompson was better suited to Bronson, specifically 10 to Midnight.
Honestly, I barely remember the Matrix. It was forgettable and bland, much like Keanu Reeves.
I’ve never seen the sequels and I never will.
Unfortunately it has left an indelible mark on our social consciousness, so I can’t but be reminded of it every time I look at the internet.
The philosophy of the Matrix has always kind of annoyed me. I don’t know if that’s the fault of the film, or by the malcontents that roam the web.
I’m vaguely familiar with Jean Baudrillard. I guess much of the film’s philosophy is influenced by his work, specifically Simulacra and Simulation. Never read it. But a quick Google search would suggest that there’s some overlap with my own personal philosophy which I discussed in “the joker sucks” series.
Since I never read Baudrillard (and probably never will) I can’t provide a valuable critique, but I’d venture to say that I’d break from his central thesis: that reality is somehow made “less real” by excessive use of “symbols”,“consumerism”, or “late stage capitalism”. (Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong on that thesis)
Reality IS distorted by human perception, and human perception is, to a degree, culturally constructed. But reality is, by definition really, real…regardless of how our perceptions change.
So, in reality, “the Matrix” in the Matrix is actually Reality, and the “desert of the real” (with all the mythology and sinister forces at play) is actually the Fantasy.
None of this matters to the quality of the film AS A FILM, but when its philosophy is utilized as genuine cultural critique by internet malcontents, they completely miss the irony.
The truth of the matter is that I don’t know what the Internet is. Is it real? A pointless fantasy projected onto real physical materiality? The “Real” Matrix that we all must escape from?
I guess it’s just mental masturbation for me.
Anyways, shit’s boring. Lost my train of thought. Basically I’m saying the same shit in “the joker sucks” but I’m applying it to the Matrix because the two are overused memes from overrated films.
As we fall further down the technological abyss, bombarded by competing information and ideas, we struggle to make sense of anything.
With an endless stream of movies, television, videos, and literature, we perceive the world through a dramatic prism, unable to grasp that the universe is impartial to our reasoning.
When confronted with this cognitive dissonance, we double down. And the opportunists in the media are all too happy to entertain our delusions.
In a sense, we are living in the “matrix.”
But perhaps this has always been true, even prior to the Internet. Maybe to live in a cultivated society means to live in a “matrix”, and no one wants to admit this.
Because of this, there rises either futile sentiments of cultural superiority, or need to “break free” from the restraints of society. But they’re both fantasies…fantasies that fuel our collective imagination.
Philosophers and theorists have failed to understand this: “the dramatic progression” that underpins our understanding. This is how nationalists can assert dominance, or how Christians and Marxists share an almost identical eschatological worldview despite being seemingly opposed. We view the world through a dramatic lens, and there are bad actors out there that try to entertain it.
All of this lies in our subconscious, and we may not be able to escape it. Being a part of this human collective is what makes us…human. So maybe the real political objective is not more theory, but to take from Sigmund Freud: we need to “sublimate well”.
Some might argue that’s Machiavellian, or utopian, or Orwellian, or naive, or overly optimistic, over pessimistic, liberal, conservative, or whatever.
With the Kantian blockage…or the inability to perceive the universe in its total, final form…it becomes difficult to understand that multiple truths can simultaneously exist.
Or maybe none of it is true.
It doesn’t matter. Stay pissed off if you choose. The universe goes on.
I’m easily persuaded because I know that my own understanding is limited and people should be open to new information as it becomes available.
That’s what sensible people SHOULD do.
But that’s heresy in the world of politics. And purity of ideals is currency.
I remember, what felt like a million years ago but was actually last year, when Joe Rogan said he’d vote for Bernie Sanders because he’s been “consistent”, or whatever. In many circles on Twitter, “consistency” became a buzz word and some took it up as a badge of virtue.
I always thought that was odd.
Maybe I’m crazy, but what if you’re consistently WRONG? How is consistency a virtue then?
I dunno. I’ve spent the last month not paying attention to the news and honestly…it paid off. I don’t miss it.
Or I didn’tmiss it.
Unfortunately, like a bad habit, I got sucked back in. And after not looking at the news, or Twitter, or any of that bullshit for a month, the world just looks stupid.
Post 9/11, when the 24/7 news became the hottest show in town, politics slowly began to take the stage as the #1 form of entertainment. That’s pathetic.
This is why your conspiracy theories are absolute trash: because politics is our entertainment, we see the world as an ongoing…totally coherent, totally plotted…drama. There are heroes, and there are villains. The left hand always knows what the right hand is doing….and they’re both plotting against you and people like you. You’re the hero, fighting the good fight on social media. And it’s all a wet fantasy.
Politics is business and business is a boomin.
And when business is boomin, out comes the con artists and cult leaders. Any dickhead with a camera, microphone, and smartphone wants in. And when their lies are exposed, they have to double down.
Is the mass media lying to you? Yes. That’s just business my friend.
Is your paranoid uncle or anarchist roommate on Twitter and Facebook lying to you? You bet. And they’re in it for the love of the game.
If you’re a person with any, and I mean ANY sort of political convictions, you are broadcasting to the world that you are someone that can’t be trusted.
How do I know that?
Your mind is objectively finite and the world doesn’t conform to your narrow parameters. But you will deliberately bend or distort the truth to claim it does.
You’re a terrible person.
What I do find interesting though are the psychological effects of unprecedented technological advancement. That’s the real question no one wants to ask because the answer might mean we’d have to log off for a few days.
I’m just always astounded when people can claim with absolute certainty that they know the truth of the universe. God exists, God doesn’t exist. Capitalism good, capitalism bad. That sort of shit. How can people still hold certainty of correctness during the era of the Internet?
Obviously, not everything on the Internet is true. You have to be adult enough to use your fucking head when you see bullshit. But claiming ignorance of opposing views and facts is getting tiresome.
You have the most important tool ever created by man at your fingertips. So use it wisely, jackass.
Delete all your social media accounts.
Be happy and embrace the fact that you live in a non-homogeneous world. Be open to the challenge and don’t claim CONSPIRACY! when confronted with something you don’t understand or contradicts your narrow view.
While sitting around the fire, Dale was free style rapping like a shitty 90s PSA.
Then the first explosions went off. A booby trap was tripped. Dale and I threw on our bandoliers, our machetes, and our AKs.
I tossed an AR-15 over to Nicky. “When in doubt, just spray bullets indiscriminately across that tree line,” I told him. “If they catch you, go ahead and use the weapon on yourself.”
Both Dale and I penetrated deep into the woods, deep into the cold of night. Another explosive went off. Someone, somewhere was close.
“Drop your weapons,” we heard.
We dropped them.
We obviously made shitty commandos.
Dale and I were surrounded by men in black uniforms and state of the art technology. They patted us down and escorted us through the dense woods to a large, portable, tank-like structure that resembled something out of Avatar.
How this structure moved undetected through Southern California is a mystery.
We were brought up to the bridge of this mega tank, and just like when Dale and I faced Honda, we were placed on our knees and presented with a series of theatrics that culminated in a villain presenting himself.
“Cut the bullshit, Randy,” I said. “We know it’s you.”
“Damn,” he replied. “But this tank is pretty cool, huh?”
“What are you and the dumb syndicate up to now?” I asked. “Poison the world’s food supply? Creating a race of super humans for world domination?”
“How did you know?” Randy replied.
“Just leave me out of it,” I said.
Then the black shirts brought in Nicky and placed him in front of Randy.
“We found this asshole with a rifle in his mouth. He didn’t even put up a fight,” one of the soldiers said.
“Damn it dad!” I said. “You were supposed to at least get off ONE shot before you offed yourself!”
“Sorry son,” Nicky replied. “I’m just not very good in firefights.”
Randy spoke up.
“Son? Dad? What’s this about?” he asked.
“Nicky’s my dad,” I replied. “I may die today, but at least I’ll die knowing who my family is.”
“Nicky’s not your dad,” Randy said. “I am your dad.”
“Bullshit,” I replied.
“It’s true! I thought I told you. Guess I forgot 🤷♂️. Anyhow, your mom and me were partners in another syndicate before we joined TOILET (Terrorism Or the International League that Engages in Terrorism). Unfortunately it was the 80s, so we were coked up and fucked, then you were born. So she left the syndicate.
Years later, the syndicate wanted to cover up its tracks, so I deployed my other son, Nicky, to kill you and your mother. But then the FBI shot the fuck out that strip club and Nicky got amnesia. After realizing that you were just some loser, the syndicate decided it wasn’t worth spending resources to kill you.
So Nicky, I’m also your father.”
I felt the world disappear beneath my feet. My heart sunk. I knew it was true.
“So what do we do now?” I asked. “I know the truth.”
“Excellent question,” Randy said.
Out of the shadows appeared Anthrax in full battle rattle. “I say we finish the job,” she said.
“Great idea!” Randy said.
“Traitor,” I said to Anthrax.
The soldiers grabbed Dale and placed him up against the wall. Randy took out his flame thrower and began taunting us.
“This has been quite a reunion,” Randy said. “You thought that Anthrax was your friend. You thought that you could stop me. But your plans just went up in flames.”
Randy then unleashed the full wrath of hell onto Dale. There were no screams. Dale just danced around as a gigantic flame before falling to the ground. What was once a man was now just charred, smoldering, remains.
“Was that supposed to scare me? Because I just shit my pants,” I said.
Just then the structure began to violently shake. Then there was a massive explosion and soldiers began to man their stations.
“Perhaps there’s a species in a higher dimension. Perhaps this species is what we commonly refer to as ‘God’.
Perhaps this species has given us free will, creativity, and logical thinking as an experiment…to see how we might use these gifts to bring about peace, justice, and equality for all in a universe that’s seemingly indifferent to suffering.
Dale and I were found outside of Palm Springs buck naked. We were bound together and gagged. It took awhile for the police to realize we were victims and not nudists.
We were taken to the hospital where I was treated for massive scrotal damage. Dale was alright.
“Aye, don’t worry lad. We’ll get your wee workin again. You watch,” Dick (my Scottish roommate) said.
“Never mind that. I need you to find Honda. It isn’t over between us,” I instructed Dick.
“Aye”
Dick quickly left the hospital room to begin work. Dale spoke up.
“I’m just glad that we all made it out alive,” he said.
“No one asked you anything,” I said.
Anthrax also came to visit. After Dale and Dick exited, she came to my bedside.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Honda,” she inquired.
“She seems to possess extraordinary strength. I don’t think she’s human anymore, Anthrax. I think she’s a cyborg. Who the fuck would do that to her? Randy’s a dumbass, there’s no way he could’ve done something like that,” I told her.
“I think I know who.”
“Who? That stupid ass crime syndicate? Honda said that they didn’t want her anymore. That’s why she’s riding around with those dorks like she’s Peter fuckin Fonda,” I replied.
“It’s not Randy. It’s not the syndicate,” Anthrax said.
“Alright. This is getting too complicated and contrived. But if you or Dick find Honda, tell her I’m coming after her,” I said.
“I’ll find her. But please, before you do anything, I need to know if there’s at least an ounce of humanity in her. If there is, I know that I can save her. Please James.”
I agreed.
As Anthrax began to leave, I grabbed her by the hand.
“I learned from a James Bond movie that before one seeks vengeance, they must first dig two graves,” I said.
“But I’m not seeking vengeance,” Anthrax replied.
“Oh yeah, I am. I mean….please be careful.”
Anthrax gave a faint smile then departed. I laid in the hospital bed bored and feeling awkward for not feeling like I have to compulsively masturbate.
“Your mother is on the phone,” a nurse told me.
I reluctantly took the call.
“Ohh my poor Tony,” mom said. “I heard that you were in the hospital!”
“This is James, ma. Who the hell is Tony?”
“What do you mean? I don’t have dementia,” she said. “How’s my sweetheart doing?”
“I’m alright. Is something wrong? I’ve been to the hospital hundreds of times and you’ve never called.”
“I’m just checking up on my favorite son. What are you, a moron?”
“I’m your only son Ma,” I said. “Anyway, are you sure Nicky is not my father?”
“Did you not read your birth certificate?”
“You put down Lou Diamond Phillips. Is there anything you can tell me about my father?”
“He was a tall glass of water. He could send shivers up and down my body with one touch. He was smooth, suave, with a voice of gold like Sinatra in a younger day. You don’t remind me of him at all,” Ma replied.
“Weaver’s my name. Dick Weaver,” the tall burly Scotsman told me. “I was a whaler fer 13 year. Been a private eye fer 15.”
The man was covered in hair from head to toe. He wore only plaid. And denim.
His jeans were tight.
I put out an add for a roommate to help with rent. Dick was the only one who responded.
Dick sat down, pulled a cracker out of his toboggan, then started munching.
“Listen here young lad, let’s set some ground rules. Me bein a private dick, I do ne wanchya snoopin around me business. If I catch ya, I’ll kill ya. If I see ya sippin on me Irn-bru, I’ll kill ya. If I catch ya eatin me powsowdie, I’ll eat yur cock for breakfast,” he told me.
“Fair enough,” I said.
After I showed him his bedroom, he grunted for a bit and then slammed the door. I went to bed.
The next morning, Dick was hanging up clandestinely taken pictures of naked women on the wall.
“You said you were a private eye, right?” I asked.
“Aye”
“Is this a special case you’re working on?” I inquired.
“What business is that of yurs? Eh boy? Ask again an I’ll crack open ye noggin!” Dick angerly retorted.
“I was just asking. Jesus!”
That night, I was lying in bed when I heard some stomping around then considerable hootin’ n hollerin’ outside. It was none of my business. Hours later, Dick came stumbling into my room drunk as all get-out.
“Aye boy, I got to bein pissed at the pub an met a nice ol hen behin tha bar. Aye brought er here but she got to slippin digits n me hole. Aye it was a’right first but then I shat me britches,” he said.
“So you were smashing ass and then you shit the bed?”
“Aye. I cannae sleep because the sheets are covered in shite.”
“Well climb on in.”
Dick got under the covers. We shared a shot of whisky and a few tales of his time at sea before falling fast asleep.
The next morning, I awoke to find Dick wide awake and his hair-swirled chest in full view. I was fully clothed.“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” he said.
He climbed out of bed and his buttcheeks were beaten blood red.
“Aye boy,” Dick said. “I s’pose I should be congratulatin ya. You rammed me a new one!”
The Internet Ruined Everything 