Dave | unobtrusive lucidity

A Review of Marvel’s “Jessica Jones”

Jessica Jones is a very interesting choice of characters for Marvel’s second installment in their direct-to-Netflix Defenders chronology, particularly because she’s never a Defender. For a more general audience, though, this is an even more interesting choice because Jessica Jones isn’t the sort of comic book character that’s “mainstream” in the geek knowledge-base. She’s more niche geek, if you will. That said, she’s played a role in the Avengers and crossed paths with other characters from Hell’s Kitchen, notably Daredevil and, more consistently, Luke Cage, so this series makes sense in a courageous way from Netflix’s perspective.

For those who don’t know, Jessica Jones receives her superhuman abilities in childhood following an accident, and her attempts at being a hero (de-emphasized in the writing of this series) don’t end well as she falls into the hands of Zebediah Kilgrave. She instead becomes a private detective. In the series, this is less from a desire to do good than it is to “make a living in this…town,” but she’s also good at it, although catching others in extramarital affairs is less than glamorous.

I liked the directorial choice to emphasize the “private eye” element of this story, because it’s part of what sets Jones’ character apart. The opening score is outstanding, full or noir-ish appeal blended with modern edge that captures the character and her landscape perfectly. The score becomes extremely important as the series progresses, because it doesn’t recur regularly. In fact most episodes open without it, and the entire opening credits sequence is only used to mark a new act, as it were, in the story. The directors make use of this creative decision quite effectively.

Overall, the writers have been very faithful to the characters, as well. We see adapted origin stories, as is expected at some level when the stories move to the screen, but they are still handled mostly with respect to the canon. We see a fringe villain introduced, and I’m very impressed with Rachael Taylor’s (of Transformer’s fame) portrayal of Jessica’s friend, Trish Walker…aka Patsy Walker, aka one of Marvel’s oldest heroes, Hellcat. While we don’t see any costumed identity launched in this season for Trish, we certainly see a respectable groundwork laid for her, which I’m in hopes Marvel will develop further.

The writers have also impressed with their introduction of Luke Cage. This was sort of necessary, as it would be impossible to divorce Jones’ and Cage’s stories and still remain faithful to the comics canon (their romantic involvement anchors multiple story arcs). Cage is gritty and real. His conversation over breakfast with Jones about the nature of their abilities and the stories of their acquisition is pleasing to any serious fan in its brevity and light-heartedness. One of the things done well here is that the characters are all picked up well after their origins. We don’t see them acquire their powers, we only see how they’ve learned to adapt their lives to having them. These are characters, as Captain America phrases it in the printed version of Civil War, who are “close to the street.” They don’t don costumes and fight alien invasions (at least not yet). They fight to survive the evil around them, and hopefully save some other lives in the process.

What’s particularly compelling about Jessica Jones as a character is that she flees from heroism, but, in the literature at least, only after trying to use her abilities for good in that way. Here, we don’t see Jones wanting toward being a hero in an overt way. Although her impulse is to save those in trouble when she has the option, her goal is survival. Still, we see this survival instinct as only a secondary desire to revenge, to the point that she is willing to sacrifice several other lives in order stop Kilgrave late in the series. She even tells Trish at one point, “I’m still not the hero you want me to be.”

Another outstanding point in the series is both the writers’ treatment of, and David Tenant’s performance of, Kilgrave. Felt as much in his absence in early episodes, descriptions of him from other characters paint him in a manner to match the very visible outcomes of the use of his powers. That is, we see Kilgrave’s actions before we meet him, and the result is a villain that is, without question, terrifying. Kilgrave leaves the viewer disturbed, shaken, and questioning their own thoughts on many evenings after watching one of these episodes. This could be the most insidious villain we’ve seen from Marvel Studios to date, and that’s no small accomplishment.

Unfortunately, what the writers and directors did well in plot and treatment, they nearly destroyed with lack of taste. Something that sets apart Netflix’s presentation of the characters of Hell’s Kitchen is their brooding realism. The violence is more violent (something that detracted heavily from Daredevil’s first season), the darkness darker, the passions more full in this depraved section of New York. The directors of Jessica Jones made poor decisions to take sexual elements that were necessary to the story and transform them into the most racy and most crass scenes possible, giving minutes of graphic screen time to the plot point that two characters slept with one another. Similarly, a lot of screen time is given to two attorneys whose romance, while hardly worth mentioning in the overall plot of the season, was given extended time in multiple episodes, as though only there for public opinion points, not for the story. While the violence is not as overstated as Daredevil, there a several moments when the resulting gore certainly is. The blood and shock value is numbing, causing the viewer to detach rather than engage the evil acts of Kilgrave.

That’s just bad art.

Then, there’s the dialogue.

For everything that the writers did well in plotting this season, they fell short of in dialogue. The banter between characters does manage to have a few scattered bright moments (likely due to the actors’ performances saving the scenes), but, overall, interactions between characters (especially those who are not leads) leaves much to be desired. Most distracting is the writer’s love a very specific obscenity. While there are very notable exceptions in which a very good writer can get by with this, this isn’t that writer and not one of those moments. When one character’s speech cadence is marked by an obscenity as a pausal phrase, then that’s a character. When every character’s speech cadence uses the same, that’s the mark of a writer who cannot find the characters’ voices. This distracted me severely enough to make me miss important information more than once.

That’s just bad craft.

There’s an intentional harmony, or at least an attempt at one, made in several moments here…a discord between Jones’ heroic impulses and the pragmatism forced on her by her environs. There’s a glimpse of the costume that she wore in the comics as Jewel that delights fans, for certain, but also references so subtle as to be easily missed when she intervenes on behalf of those who can’t help themselves, and another characters tells her at one point, “You’re a good person, Jessica Jones.” Jessica simply swaggers away, maintaining her facade that she needs no one else around, and continues to survive. This lack of overt heroism, however, is not as much of a detractor from Jones’ character as one might imagine. Rather, it actually makes her more compelling, an extremely human struggle to move past trauma and take the journey from anti-hero to hero, which is where we see our tough-as-nails P.I. in the last scene.

Jessica Jones is a fascinating character full of potential, someone original that gives a lot of depth to the Marvel Universe on the page. She can give this depth to the on-screen universe, as well, if she can survive poor writing and directing. This season, while it did a lot of good things, was mostly lost to bad taste. I hope that future installments will be back to (at least) the level of what began with Daredevil. If you intentionally dig for the good as you watch this season of Jessica Jones, you’ll find it. Otherwise, it will seem like every other program that you might watch on HBO, and you’ll move on. If you’ve never met the character before, that would be a shame, but it’s true.

The Angst of Holiday Wishes

In the U.S., we’re celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday this week, a holiday that, while originally tied to religious components in the language of its original proclamation, did not spring forth from any sort of faith tradition. That is to say, while it is a holiday that is loosely tied to the Christian faith, it is not a holiday rooted in the Christian Church’s history or theology. It’s more a national day of remembrance, if you will.

This is interesting when we consider the season into which we enter. A couple of weeks ago, our daughter requested to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, a longstanding prerequisite for me to enter any sort of Christmas “spirit.” While that was a bit early, I’ll admit, I am beginning to find myself feeling the peace of the Holiday early this year, which is a welcome change from recent years, during which I struggled through Christmas day to feel anything at all.

All as we enter a decidedly non-religious holiday.

One of the holidays encapsulated when I wish someone, “Happy Holidays.”

Something that I do, because, much to the apparent horror of many other members of the Christian faith who apparently have no more substantive an outlet than anger over a coffee chain’s cup design, I find this expression not diminutive to my own faith, but rather respectful of my fellow human beings.

You see, many of my friends and colleagues practice different faiths than I do. Some practice no faith at all. A way in which I am particularly blessed, however, is that all of my colleagues and friends are respectful of this. My wishing them Happy Holidays, a phrase which encompasses the group of winter holidays, some of which are not religious and some of which may or may not be holidays that my friends or I observe, is being polite and civil to them. It is, in fact, far more appropriate that they wish me a Merry Christmas than I them, if they do not celebrate Christmas, because that is them being kind to me, as it is kind of me to wish them, for example, a Happy Hanukkah.

So, all of this to say that, as much as playable sound-bytes might have one to believe otherwise, there are those of us who take the practice of our faith very seriously, and part of the practice of my faith is to love my neighbor. That means respecting my neighbor, not forcing the practice of my faith on them.

That said, I find it quite sad that any member of any faith would waste this much energy being upset over the phraseology of a holiday wish, year after year. After all, with so many experiencing hunger, injustice, poverty, and loneliness over any of these winter holidays, it seems that the true practice of our faith would involve something much more…human…than debating whether or not we’ve “kept Christ in Christmas.”

Because, if we’ve loved the least of these, then we have.

Regardless of the verbiage of our expression.

Image attribution: Camera Eye Photography under Creative Commons.

Cheating the System

When I was in middle school, I was (and this will not exactly take you by surprise) a bit of a nerd, not exactly popular in social circles. My best friend was three grade levels older than me, and also not exactly the most socially mobile. We partook of the sorts of things that you might guess, perhaps stereotypically, would interest us…Dungeons and Dragons, chess, fantasy and science fiction novels, and all of the imaginative escapism that went along with them. The issue was that, being older and more experienced at things, my friend nearly always won every game that we played, and I was still immature enough that this really bothered me.

Our families were both heavily involved in the same faith community, and that was the beginning of the age in which the youth group was a heavily prioritized aspect of church culture. I remember one evening in which some church function was occurring, and we were the oldest youth group members present. While the adults had dinner and talked about…boring adult things…and the younger children played games appropriate to their ages, my friend and I were playing a board game. I couldn’t tell you which one (although we were particularly given to Axis and Allies at the time). I was losing, and so I took the opportunity to alter the odds in my favor when my friend wasn’t looking. I just wanted a chance, after all, and was quite tired of losing. He, of course, noticed immediately upon returning his attention to the game, and things erupted into a quarrel.

I only remember two other incidents in which I cheated on something, both involving quizzes and spread between my late middle school and early high school careers. The point is, the older I became, the less palatable cheating became to me. The same faith in which I was participating the night that I cheated on that board game necessitates that truth is more important, that cheating is (as much as this would frustrate my friends ascribing to a philosophical post-modernism) wrong.

Our daughter is old enough that she is beginning to grasp board games more effectively. On the evening that I write this, she and I were playing a simple game involving spinning an arrow and placing plastic acorns into cardboard tree stumps…you get the idea. Of course, one of the options that the arrow can land on with each spin is the “you lose all of your acorns” option. I was the first recipient of this unfortunate spin, and used the opportunity to show good sportsmanship by giving away all of my acorns. Then she landed on the same option a turn or two later, and was significantly more reluctant to give away her acorns.

So, I compromised. She gave up half.

This actually worked, because, the next time she landed on the harbinger of acorn loss, she hesitated, but gave them all away, working on copying my sportsmanship. This was great until she landed on it again. And then again. That was too much.

So, I compromised. I nudged the arrow to the next option over, much to her satisfaction. Then, a few turns later, I did it again.

So, I suppose I cheated.

I’m not entirely certain whether this will have a negative impact on how our daughter views games or competition or any of the other developmental processes associated with these sorts of activities. Or, perhaps the event will be inconsequential for her, lost in the mists of memory. For me, though, I’m quite taken with the amusing fact that I cheated.

What’s different is the motivation. When I was young, on those three occasions, I cheated to further myself, to compensate for self-esteem issues, to look better in the eyes of others. When I cheated tonight, there was no self-serving incentive behind the act. Rather, the impulse was to protect my daughter from a cold fact that she shouldn’t have to experience quite yet, the fact that life can, indeed, be that unfair.

I cheated because she doesn’t need to know that yet, because she doesn’t understand the concept of cheating yet, and because maybe at least her first exposure to it, if remembered at all, will be a positive one.

I cheated in a good way, if that’s even possible.

I’ll try to do better in the future.

Selfie Abandonment

Earlier this week, I updated the operating system on my phone. Karen always says that I should block off two hours for such an event, because I like playing with shiny new things. She’s not altogether wrong (although I think that two hours might be stretching it a bit). In browsing through some of the changes that this particular update brought about, I landed upon something unsettling.

There’s a new album in my photos. It’s called “Selfies.”

I feel a bit…ill.

Because the selfie isn’t something that I do, nor will I ever, it’s interesting to see what this “intelligent” album is including…candid photos of me in a funny hat, for example, that Karen took with my phone one day while we were shopping for something. I mean, if it includes only my own face, then it must meet the definition of a selfie, at least by the software’s calculations, right?

Except I’ve seen this thing in the wild, and this isn’t it.

A few weeks ago, we were visiting family in a different state and were out to dinner. It was Sunday afternoon, and the restaurant was a bit busy. Another family sat in the booth just to the left of us, grandparents and a teenage grand-daughter if appearances were accurate. During a break in our conversation, my attention drifted over to them. Their conversation was still moving along, and I noticed the grand-daughter slip her phone from her purse, smile into it, snap a photo of her face (it was a phone the size of a tablet, so it was difficult to miss what had happened), and begin typing whatever message that was to accompany its posting to whichever medium she was choosing.

https://twitter.com/truthscribe722/status/648196662125547520

What was disturbing about this to me was the alienation, however momentary, of the people with whom she was sharing this moment, in order to, it would seem, take the opportunity to propagate her likeness to people with whom she was not in “real” contact. I struggle with having to keep my back to television screens when I’m in a restaurant so that I can focus on those with whom I’m eating. I don’t need to distract myself further by even considering what my Twitter followers might think of where I am, or whether or not I’m smiling while I eat my food, or whatever. I’m there with people, interacting interpersonally. Isn’t that a larger priority?

Fast forward a couple of weeks, when Karen and I were eating with our daughter during a Saturday afternoon shopping excursion, and I saw a group of teenage girls outside the restaurant window pausing at a set of steps in the mall to snap a quick selfie, taking time to compose the photo just right. That day was the first time I actually saw the “selfie stick” phenomenon in use.

I was equally disturbed.

Now, I know the literature and opinions that claim that the selfie is simply a controlled form of expression of one’s image. There’s actually some research that claims that this is a healthy expression, a way to take back control of one’s image within one’s social circles in a way that one can choose, that one can control, that is not objectifying and is thus empowering. I’m afraid I must disagree. The selfie is the height of narcissism, and it’s distasteful to me not even because I don’t (and don’t think anyone should, in the interest of good health) love myself nearly that much, but because I believe that we should love those around us more.

I see the selfie, however, not as a surprising cultural event, but rather as the natural result of a market-driven society, a society reduces everything and everyone to being a “brand.” Acceptable, perhaps, when marketing a product. Dehumanizing, however, when applied to our interpersonal…and intrapersonal…existences. The selfie is something flat, something one-dimensional, something lacking substance, because it is focusing on image-management, presenting a crafted representation of how the individual wishes they were. I suspect that this gives the person the escapist ability to avoid considering their true condition, to dance around the existential questions that we all grow as human beings for asking.

My goal is not to sound curmudgeonly. I don’t wish everyone to go through life examining their every flaw with no joy or escapist outlets whatsoever. I’m human, and I’m as escapist as anyone else. I’m concerned, though, at the painfully inward, selfish focus that our culture not only permits, but rewards. The less we know…or care about…our neighbor, the further we sink as a people. The less concern with others that we permit ourselves, the less human we become.

I complained on the night that I wrote this that I didn’t get to buy something that I had wanted because we needed to spend the money on our daughter’s educational supplies. I groaned that I feel I don’t get what I want because others need what they need worse.

The more inwardly focused I become, the more miserable I become.

I don’t really want to be miserable while masking it under the guise of a well-planned photo of myself in various surroundings.

I don’t want to be miserable at all.

I certainly don’t want to fake it, either.

Image attribution: Yasmeen under Creative Commons.

Artificial Intelligence

In Brian Michael Bendis‘ story arc for Marvel’s 2013 graphic novel Age of Ultron, we are presented with an unexpected present that one would initially guess to be an alternate future. The artificial intelligence run amok known as Ultron has succeeded in destroying most of humanity. The handful of people who have survived in the world’s major cities have an even smaller handful of heroes among them, hiding underground and attempting to form a strategy to overcome Ultron. While Bendis deals with many themes in these pages, one of the most prominent is the need for what we view as progress. Bendis makes us privy to the internal dialogue of Hank Pym, the Avenger known as Ant-Man and the creator of Ultron, as he wrestles with the potential to benefit humanity that he sees in the concept of the Ultron artificial intelligence. The reader is left feeling…skeptical…of what Pym wants to achieve, understanding that his hopes are mis-placed. However, his motivations are clearly pure. He wants to help.

When faced with this extinction of humanity, Wolverine makes a more difficult choice. He wrestles with the decision of whether or not to travel back in time and end Pym’s life before he can create Ultron. The reader is even more dubious of these intentions, but Wolverine sees no other real alternative. The choice between one life or millions of lives is clear to him in that moment.

In the 2015 cinematic version of Age of Ultron, Tony Stark encourages Bruce Banner to assist in exploring the artificial intelligence that will become Ultron. He presses Banner to accept that this is who they are, the “mad scientists,” and must do what they do.

That is the intelligence that I would find artificial.

C.S. Lewis points out a sound philosophical truth: just because we can do something, doesn’t necessarily mean that we should. Yet, the logical fallacy that “can” must necessarily lead to “do” drives much of what we view today as progress. Humans as a race are always pressing forward, always confronted with our own mortality, seeking to make life more palatable not only for ourselves, but for our successors, our children. Once we discover that we are capable of something that we perceive as good, we feel an overwhelming drive to do that thing, hang the consequences.

Part of the tragedy of the character of the mad genius is that s/he works in isolation much of the time, experiencing an absence of feedback from other people about their plans. No one can see all of the failings of their own plans…everyone needs another party to hear their ideas, to proofread their work, as it were.

I think that our decisions, sometimes very important decisions, are becoming rushed. A desire to help others is a noble thing, but not every wonderful idea to better mankind turns out to be such a wonderful idea. In short, innovation must be checked by wisdom, and that wisdom is in short supply when crowd mentalities rush to gather around what is popular, without giving careful thought to what it is that they might be supporting.

I’ve been accused of being a futurist, because I become excited about the potential of what new discoveries and technologies can offer us. I see the problems that they solve, and dream of how much simpler life might be with that problem solved. Then I have to pause, I have to step back and examine whether or not my excitement is equivalent to Pym’s excitement as he dreams of Ultron. Sometimes I continue to see minimal negatives, and sometimes I feel uneasy, a misgiving that gives pause, and is usually justified when I think the issue through carefully. I’m no inventor…I don’t build exciting new things. I’m certainly no entrepreneur…while I dream of new stories and worlds, I don’t formulate new strategies to change the world as we know it. So, granted, I’m not in a position to truly understand many of these things. I am, however, a critical thinker. I believe in examining things through a lens of close observation. I think of what great science fiction writers have written, warning us of the potential outcomes of some of our innovations, and I recall Tillich’s observation that artists are the prophets of our time, warning of dangers before the rest of us can see them.

And I wonder about the dangers, unseen in the excitement over the good.

I wonder.

Photo, by Pascal, is public domain.