If I ever get out of here

While at work the other day, I overheard two people discussing the lottery. Earlier this month, the multi-state Mega Millions lottery, having reached a jackpot of $380 million, was split between two lucky winners. Even split in two, that is, of course, more money than the average person would even know how to spend over their lifetime. It’s something to dream about. I’m not sure, though, whether the dream is made any more or less tangible by the fact that, a few years ago, someone at work actually did win the lottery. It was a much smaller jackpot—about $4 million, I think—but still several times more money than most of us will ever see at once.

I must admit, the moment I heard the news, my heart began to race as I considered what his winning could possibly mean for me. It settled down quickly enough, however, as I recognized that it didn’t mean anything for me. I could only try to feel glad for my coworker, actually a supervisor, who had often loudly complained about being too old to stay until 5 PM, about his arthritis in both hands, and about wishing he could work from home, “minus the work part.” I don’t really know what he’s doing now, but he certainly didn’t stick around long after winning. From conversations I overhear, I gather that he’s basically using the money to enjoy retirement, still occasionally having lunch with former coworkers, inviting them to shoot pool, letting them bask in his newfound fortune and comfort.

Yes, I think being so close to that money, without actually being able to touch it myself, does encourage me to dream a little more, despite the fact that I didn’t play the lottery then, and still don’t play it now. Maybe it’s the same for some of my coworkers, or maybe they don’t need extra encouragement to thus fantasize.

The guy who brought up the jackpot the other day is actually also a supervisor, of a higher rank than the guy who won the $4 million. I used to sit next to this guy, and I would overhear his conversations about buying vintage cars and parts to work on, or about his thirty acres of land at home for the dogs to roam. I couldn’t really picture it, but thirty acres sounded pretty big, and I got the impression that he was rather well-to-do. On the other hand, he also works much harder and much more than I do. Also, our company is officially a non-profit, so it’s hard to comprehend how anyone could get rich doing what we do. Maybe his money, if indeed he has any, comes from his wife. Even if they do have money, however, it’s not so much as to spare him from dreaming of a more comfortable life. Reflecting on that $380 million jackpot, he mused, “With that kind of money, I could probably disappear.”

It got me thinking too. It was an appealing idea. Years ago, working the late shift at my previous job, my coworkers got into a discussion over our ideas of “the perfect day.” It took me a good long while to come up with an answer—I’m a guy without any goals or prospects, after all—but in my very uncertainty lay my answer. For a man who could not think of anything to desire, perhaps the dream was really a life apart from everything. I would find a place far from other people, and I would just stare out the window all day with a glass of juice in my hand, caring nothing about the world, and the world caring nothing about me.

I don’t know if my supervisor was thinking along the same lines when he spoke of “disappearing,” but that’s what I pictured as my own dream. I thought to myself, if I ever had enough money, I would find a nice house out in the middle of nowhere, to spend the rest of my days doing nothing, seeing no one. It’s merely a dream, not a plan, and probably, if I ever did come into such a large sum of money, my conscience would forbid my spending it so wastefully.

I read a news story recently about a man who wrote a $10,000 check to the state of California. Dennis R. Ferguson was retired and living in South Carolina, but, seeing California in its current budget crisis, he felt compelled to give a little as “repayment” to the state that, almost fifty years ago, helped him through a tough couple of weeks with unemployment checks.

I thought it an extraordinary story, though it didn’t make “front page” news and was quickly bumped by other articles. Of course, practically speaking, that $10,000 is nothing against the state’s budget issues. Even $380 million would hardly put a dent in our deficit. But it made me think. For it will never be the money that solves our world’s problems. Money has been the source of our problems, not the solution. Truly, Ferguson’s newsworthy gesture is of greater benefit than the actual dollar amount of his contribution. By that, I mean that, in showing such admirable character and selfless generosity, Ferguson might have inspired a lot of people, and the fruits of his seemingly small act might ultimately have been much more than his $10,000 check.

Daydreaming about the Mega Millions lottery at work, and recalling Ferguson’s check, I thought about what an inspiring story it would make, if someone were to win some $380+ million and then donate every last cent to charity. In fact, my imagination perhaps got a little carried away, as I began to think seriously about how it would go down.

Ferguson’s story certainly inspired me, but unfortunately it did not make huge waves in the media. Sadly, I don’t think he made any practical difference. But a man donating the entirety of his nine-figure lottery jackpot to a good cause—surely the world could not ignore such a deed. At least, I would hope that people would be inspired and motivated. Because, again, even nine figures is practically nothing against the bigger issues of today’s world. But it would seem a lot to the average person. It would make headlines, hopefully for more than one day. Hopefully, people would see that this man, being not some exceptional genius, was no different from them, but only luckier. And if he could give away all of luck's spoils separating him from them, then surely they too, having hearts, had the capacity for charity. And if everyone gave just a little, the amount would quickly dwarf the original contribution. More important than the money collected, however, would be the good feelings cultivated, that positive drive to do for one another. Much more than any amount of money, to generate and then spread that kind of active positivity would go a long way toward fixing our world.

I suppose I’m still dreaming. But as I sat there grinding out the day at work, I made a silent commitment. I don’t know to whom, but I vowed that, if I were to somehow win that jackpot, I would do exactly according to that dream. I have no idea to whom I would give all that money, but again the gesture would be more important than the details. If it made the news, then people, seeing the gesture, and having their hearts magnified by it, would in turn magnify the details by spreading more money to more causes. But I would have to give every last cent. If I kept even a little for myself, it would be a very different story. People would see the giving, but they would also note the saving for self, and I think it would give them sufficient excuse not to follow, but to instead conclude that I, being so lucky unlike them, could afford to give, because I had plenty to spare. No, in order to make any real difference, the sum would have to be massive, first of all, in order to make people notice, and it would have to be everything, so as to leave no easy excuses.

And I continued to think about it. And I realized that, truthfully, I couldn’t be that guy. I have too many flaws, too many weaknesses of character. The media, after raising me up for my good deed, would then dig up dirt to tear me down, as it ultimately tears everyone down. And, once again, the people would have their excuse not to follow, not to change, not to try. Martin Luther King, Jr., great American that he was, also had his weaknesses. Just the other day, my brother, responding to a news segment reflecting on King’s achievements, again pointed to the man’s philandering, which is not very much disputed. Does it take away from the good that King did? I guess not really. But it’s pretty bad. And it made me think, when people can point easily to such flaws in their would-be heroes, as my brother did with King, that again grants them an excuse. They see that they are justified in being as bad as their heroes, instead of trying to be as good.

Well, it’s only a dream.

Never Again

I was discussing with my sister, not for the first time, about what Disney properties remained for the Kingdom Hearts series to explore. In the recent wake of the release of yet another "fake" Kingdom Hearts game--it's so obvious which are the fake ones, and which are the real, that they might as well be upfront about it and explicitly label them as such--there was much groaning about how tiresome it was to have to revisit Aladdin world and Hercules world yet again. No doubt, they are saving any new worlds for the next real Kingdom Hearts game.

But, even supposing that, how much is there really left in the Disney vault for an action-oriented, heroes-versus-villains story such as Kingdom Hearts to mine? The idea seems necessarily finite, perhaps not even sufficient for more than one more major console release. And even supposing that next installment is composed mostly of new worlds, which is what we want, we'd kind of be scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point.

For fantasy action game-appropriate worlds, I basically came up with The Sword in the Stone, The Jungle Book, Robin Hood, Atlantis, Treasure Planet, and The Princess and the Frog. Only those first two might make for exciting headliners (how many people even saw Treasure Planet?), and I don't personally imagine that I would enjoy a Jungle Book world very much. There are plenty more borderline cases, such as Pocahontas or Hunchback, that they maybe could make work, but neither are these very exciting. No, in all likelihood, we should expect to see Aladdin world and Hercules world many more times. And maybe they can do Tron world and Pirates of the Caribbean world again, and we will not yet find those stale.

Well, there is one more movie that could work. I just recently slept through most of The Black Cauldron, but what I saw of it seemed usable. But what I mainly recall is that there was this really annoying talking dog thing named Gurgi, who "spoke" in some Donald Duck-esque barely intelligible voice. And I considered how awesome it would be if Gurgi and Donald could actually meet and share a scene (or several). Really, is it not for possibilities like that that Kingdom Hearts as an idea exists?

Tron: Legacy

Tron: Legacy is quite possibly the coolest movie I have ever seen.

Mind you, I'm not some die-hard Tron fanboy, and I came into this sequel with low expectations.  I tried watching the original when I was a kid, but I just found it terribly boring. Coming to it recently as a more cultured adult, I found it still boring, and furthermore ridiculous, but I could at least appreciate that it was unique, at the time new, and unlike anything else people had ever seen before.

Like its predecessor, Tron: Legacy too is something new and unique. But it also looks good and is entertaining. Indeed, I think the new world of Tron: Legacy is what Tron was supposed to have looked like all along, only the technological constraints of the time having distorted the vision. It creates a world wholly and deliberately unreal, yet makes it as convincing as it is attractive. Yes, it is somehow, paradoxically, convincingly unreal. Credit must be given, of course, to the original Tron, whose basic design laid the groundwork for the sequel. Whenever, God forbid, I should imagine what it is like to exist inside a computer, the image shall hereafter forever be informed by both movies. But, whereas everyone remembers the original as a technical marvel, I don't imagine that Tron: Legacy is the result of considerably more supercomputers at work than any other current special effects-laden flick. Rather, the singular aesthetic of the movie is, first and foremost, a work of art that sets it quite apart from any other blockbuster.

Equally essential, if not more so, is the film score by Daft Punk. Even before the film transitions to the virtual world, the urgent soundtrack takes hold and has you surrendering your emotions to the groove. The hypnotic score remains in the foreground throughout, and the otherworldly visuals later seem almost more an illustration of the movie's sound. The sublime marriage of audio and visuals is truly what makes Tron: Legacy, nearly a feature-length music video.

Writing is also improved over the original, although the story is definitely a sequel, and depends heavily on the first film's. All the ridiculous explanations from the first movie remain in effect, but they seem less ridiculous this time, mainly because the sequel doesn't even bother explaining how flesh-and-blood humans are able to enter the realm of digital data. Tron: Legacy also doesn't tell viewers much about who Kevin Flynn and Tron were, though both characters return, the latter being more welcome than the former.

On that note, I should make mention of the special effects used to make Jeff Bridges and Bruce Boxleitner appear young again, whether because they appear in flashbacks or because data isn't supposed to show wrinkles. By some accounts, the digitally de-aged Jeff Bridges is the one blemish on an otherwise visually impeccable film. To be honest, I wasn't much bothered by it. Rather, when I watched the original Tron just a few months ago, I was startled by the genuine image of the young Jeff Bridges, since I had only ever really known him from his work as a much older man. So, perhaps because any young Jeff Bridges is, by its nature, a strange sight to me, I did not regard his CG mask as itself deficient in Tron: Legacy.

It is somewhat the opposite case with Bruce Boxleitner. Playing Tron would be the highlight of his career, so for most people, having not watched him age through his later roles, he has remained frozen in that image of him as a young man in Tron. So when I saw him as the young Tron again in Tron: Legacy, it seemed right (and, in this case, I have met little disagreement), whereas it was the scenes featuring the old Bruce Boxleitner's real face that kind of unsettled.

At the risk of spoiling things, I will say that Tron's role in the movie is brief, and his face shown only from a distance and through some distortion filter for most of it. So maybe the filmmakers themselves did not have complete confidence in their tech to do justice to the series's coolest and most beloved character. It makes me wonder about the possibility for future sequels. Without both CG assistance and shrewd editing, Bruce Boxleitner is already too old, not only in body but in voice, to convincingly play the same character from thirty years ago. I'd wager that limiting that character's minutes in Tron: Legacy was simply a practical necessity. But, going forward, would a Tron movie without any Tron at all even be worth making? Well, I suppose as technology advances, the Tron character may yet endure, and now truly as just data.

The Last Unicorn

"And where were you twenty years ago? Ten years ago? Where were you when I was new? When I was one of those innocent young maidens you always come to? How dare you? How dare you come to me now, when I am this?"

The Last Unicorn was not so vivid in my memory as Robin Hood. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard of it before, let alone seen it. But there was something vaguely resonant about the title and DVD cover art, and as I read the synopsis, I felt certain that this was the very movie I had been searching for for years.

It was back when I was a kindergartener. At my elementary school, I remember, at the end of the last Friday of every month, all the kindergarteners would gather into one classroom to watch a movie (usually a Disney animated classic—Lady and the Tramp, Peter Pan, 101 Dalmatians, etc.).

To be honest, I didn’t really like “movie day,” mainly on account of the fact that it was always hosted in the other kindergarten class, where I would have to sit on the floor and be surrounded by strange kids I didn’t normally see. Looking back, I also wonder why we even had a movie day. What educational value was there to be had from watching Disney movies during class time? As heavily criticized as California’s under-budgeted education system is nowadays, I suppose it’s easy to be cynical in retrospect and imagine that the underpaid teachers were just idling the day away any way they could.

But, no, I really did like my kindergarten teacher, and though I can’t remember much of the day-to-day in her class, everything I can remember tells me that she had the students’ best interests at heart. It is neither easy nor profitable being a teacher, especially for the very young kids. I have to believe that anyone who would take on that job would do so from the heart (though that speaks unfortunately little of their qualifications). And maybe, for us young kids, movie time existed for the same reason as nap time—we could only handle so much and needed periods to unwind.

But I’ve no expertise to comment on such matters of education, and, anyway, I digress. The Last Unicorn was not even screened on movie day, but rather came presumably from our teacher’s personal collection. Near the end of the school year, she would end every day by playing a bit of the movie. I don’t remember her introducing it in any way or even discussing it at all. When the work was done for the day, she would just turn the lights down, pop in the tape, and have us watch quietly until the bell rang.

Trying to sort through the memories now, it’s hard to make sense of the math. I feel like we must have watched The Last Unicorn for at least a week, but, in that case, we must have only been watching for a few minutes at a time, because it was not a very long movie after all. Yet each viewing must have been long enough for me to become quite engrossed, as I definitely recall being the case. But what I mainly remember is that the school year ended before we could finish the movie (and, yes, we were still watching it up to the final bell of the final class day).

I was, at the time, still quite new to this “school” thing, so I didn’t really appreciate what “summer break” meant, even though my older brother seemed very excited for it. I gathered quickly enough that it was a long break from school. But, to be honest, through that whole enjoyable summer, there was a small part of me that was still anxious to find out how The Last Unicorn was going to end, and, in my naivete, I actually believed that, once school started up again, we would pick up right where we left off. Once first grade did start, it did not take me long to realize how stupid I’d been to think that I’d be resuming The Last Unicorn with a different class and different teacher. But I was still a tad disappointed.

For years after that, I continued to wonder how the movie was supposed to end. I might have just asked my parents to buy the movie for me, except that I actually couldn't remember the title of it. And in those pre-Internet days, it was not easy to look up and identify a movie based on some recollected description. Over time, I would forget almost entirely what the movie itself was about. I would only remember, now and again, that there was some animated fantasy movie that I had watched in kindergarten, which I did not get to see the end of.

I might have asked my kindergarten teacher, except that she left the school after my year. I was told that she had moved away with her husband, who was nothing less than a Harlem Globetrotter. I knew that athletes had to do a lot of traveling, so I supposed that she also had to move around a lot to be with him. Only much later in life did I do some digging and find out that her husband was actually David “Smokey” Gaines, a former Globetrotter, who was already long past his performing days by the time I was in his wife’s kindergarten class. He had become a basketball coach, and he had received an offer in another state, so that was why they had moved.

To be honest, I actually managed to track down Mr. Gaines’s current office, and I almost considered giving him a call just to ask how his wife was now. Of course, I didn’t know if they were still married, or if she was even still alive . . . . But, even in the best-case scenario, I seriously doubt she would remember me, just as I can no longer remember much about her. And what would I even say to her?

Hello, Mrs. Gaines, I was in your kindergarten class some twenty years ago. Chinese kid. Kind of quiet. You asked me once how I would feel about being selected for a “good citizenship” award, and I told you to “let me think about it.” You laughed and said okay, but later you gave me the award anyway without ever asking for my answer. Thank you for that. And how are you these days?

Yeah, it probably wouldn’t go down like that . . . .

Anyway, I digress again.

As for the movie itself? Well, I actually bought the DVD about three years ago, but, even though I'd already waited twenty years to see the end of it, I kept putting off watching it until yesterday. Or maybe, precisely because it had been that long, I was afraid to watch it, for fear that it could not possibly live up to my childhood feelings about it, those feelings being about all that I could remember, in lieu of any details about the movie itself.

Well, now having seen the whole thing finally, I don't think it's a particularly great movie, worthy of all that I've invested in it over these more than twenty years. But there is a certain haunting beauty and an earnestness to it that is seldom found nowadays in children's pictures. I would say that the filmmakers grasped rightly that a child can more deeply feel than think. Truly, there is little of sense to the movie, but the characters' ever guileless (and seemingly always unprovoked) expressions of love, longing, frustration, sadness, and dread would have been keenly resonant to younger audiences, children being all emotion before reason. Or perhaps I speak only of my own younger self.

Robin Hood

While shopping the other day, I happened by the movies section of the electronics store at the mall. And, for whatever reason, I quickly gravitated toward the animated shelf. Perhaps I was looking for some comforting reminder of my childhood, back when I could watch a movie more earnestly, even if it happened to star talking cartoon animals. I passed by a number of older titles that I could remember liking—An American Tail, The Rescuers, The Fox and the Hound—though I could not otherwise remember anything about them, so long had it been since I’d seen them.

One that caught my eye was Disney’s version of Robin Hood. It had been a particular favorite of mine growing up, though again I cannot remember it well enough now to determine where it would stack up against more recent pictures. But I remember, back when my parents, who used to work days and nights, would drop me off at the daycare, Robin Hood was one of the handful of VHS tapes on hand to entertain the kids.

I probably watched Robin Hood at least a dozen times there, yet somehow the twelfth time was as engaging as the first. I suppose, being a child, maybe I was just easily diverted. It has now been many years since I last saw it, but there is still one scene that I can vividly recall.

I believe it came near the end of the movie. I don’t even remember the exact context, but Robin Hood was attempting to flee Prince John’s burning castle. All avenues of escape were cut off, however, and he was forced to turn from one dead end to another, meanwhile having to evade relentless guards and arrows fired from all directions. Although Robin Hood had been a charismatic and cocksure hero up to that point, the panic and desperation were now clearly drawn on his expression, as though he were for the first time confronting a situation he wasn’t sure he could get out of. And as his seemingly futile escape attempt stretched on for interminable minutes, it became all the more agonizing to watch him get boxed in, his options shrinking along with his chances, until he was driven to flee deeper inward and upward into the castle (which, in my five-year-old experience, was never a good idea).

The climax came when finally Robin Hood dove (or fell) into the moat. He sank beneath the surface of the water almost upon landing, a hail of arrows following immediately behind, while both Prince John and Robin Hood’s own merry band looking on waited expectantly for him to rise again. But there was no stirring in the water, and as the bubbles stopped floating up to the surface, what followed was only his hat, an arrow running through it. Prince John was exultant, while Robin Hood’s friends were in disbelief, then pained resignation, the depth of their grief itself, more than anything else, serving as seeming proof of the cruel fate handed upon their heroic leader.

Of course that wasn’t the end of the movie, and Robin Hood did survive, and there was much rejoicing as good triumphed over evil. Yet somehow that whole sequence was, every time I saw it, as vital to me as though I were seeing it for the first time. Even though I knew he would make it out okay—in fact, I probably knew that even the first time I watched it—somehow it was still terrifying for me every time Robin Hood sank beneath the water. Somehow I got anxious every time waiting for him to surface. And the anguish of his friends, as they believed him perished, especially tore me up inside every time.

Anyway, that was Robin Hood to me.

Maybe for charity

You know how they sometimes have Celebrity Jeopardy!, Celebrity Apprentice, etc.?

Well, maybe they should do a "Celebrity" edition of Dancing with the Stars.


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You know, just to shake things up for a season.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

I feel about Modern Warfare, as a video game, much as I do about The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy. I think both are technically well-made, but I have little personal affection for either. I probably enjoyed playing Modern Warfare more so than I did watching Lord of the Rings, but I think parts of me also despised the game much more so than those movies, toward which I would describe myself as more lukewarm. In all fairness, I am not a particular fan of first-person shooters, so Modern Warfare may have started at a disadvantage for me, but truly I must say that playing it was one of the most soul-numbing experiences I ever had in gaming.

The game was sold to me as the modern exemplar of its genre. If you were to play only one FPS in your life, in other words, it should be this one. I might actually be inclined to agree with that, although I have admittedly not played that many examples myself. But Modern Warfare does include just about everything one should expect from an FPS, and most of it done better (if only slightly so) than in any other game I've played.

There is fun to be had here, as well as some of the most exhilarating moments I've had in gaming. Truly, what make the game are the explosive set pieces and scripted sequences that leave the player feeling as though they are acting out a Hollywood blockbuster. There were occasionally stunning images, such as the sight of a helicopter spinning out and going down in real time (no cut to cinematic, pre-rendered or otherwise), while my character sat watching from another helicopter alongside. Even more impressive were the interactive moments that, although obviously scripted, gave the player just enough of an illusion of agency to feel like the hero of the script, as in the game's most adrenaline-fueled scene, when the slow motion kicks in, and you know you've got just one clip in your sidearm to make count, or else.

My favorite mission in the game, essentially a series of scripted encounters, had me playing as part of a two-man sniping team. The operation takes place indoors and outdoors, moves from the foliage to an urban environment, and encompasses just about every gameplay type--stealthy infiltration, long-range sniping, escort mission, and hectic standoff while awaiting rescue. Had that been the only mission in the game (actually, it was spread across two campaign levels), it might still have been the most perfect FPS I would ever have played, despite also being the shortest.

But then there were the other five hours of the roughly six-hour campaign. Most of the game, unfortunately, is just tedious room-clearing, practically indistinguishable from the basic gameplay found in Haze or Perfect Dark Zero, which are regarded as among the worst FPS titles of this generation. You just march forward, unload a clip into any enemy combatant that pops up probably out of nowhere, reload often, retreat to regenerate health, and probably die many unforeseen deaths before it's all over. The formula repeats several times, until there are seemingly thousands of nameless dead left behind on both sides, and there is almost no discernible narrative to let you know where you are, who you're fighting or why. It's unsettlingly impersonal, one of the most emotionally and spiritually deadening experiences not just in gaming, but in my life in general.

The game is assuredly better than Haze or Perfect Dark Zero, yet in some ways it made me feel worse. It may be the game's attitude in the face of its own realism. The game's action is, for sure, very over-the-top, but the overall aesthetic is still starker by far than the cartoony Perfect Dark Zero or even a rugged sci-fi shooter such as Gears of War. Even in the aforementioned favorite mission of mine, there was something eerie about the way, every time I sniped a guy in the head, my AI partner would compliment me with a mesmerized "Beautiful." In Haze, these sorts of war-intoxicated hollow men were the bad guys. Even Army of Two, with its mercenary protagonists, was less unnerving, because it actually came across as satirical at times, whereas Modern Warfare seems sincerely gung ho in its militarism.

The very worst (and most impersonal) mission in the game, "Death From Above," has the player staring down the sights from an AC-130 gunship that is providing cover fire for friendlies on the ground. Everything is black-and-white, and your job is to fire upon the many tiny, noiseless enemy silhouettes below until they just stop moving. Your mostly dispassionate pilot will periodically mutter a "Nice shooting" to let you know that you hit your targets. Although Modern Warfare was released three years ago, the stage bears a remarkable resemblance to the infamous WikiLeaks "Collateral Murder" video that came out earlier this year. Even the pilot audio is almost identical. It all suggests that, compared to Haze or Army of Two, Modern Warfare's representation of war is probably the more realistic. It's also uglier. What's furthermore baffling is that, come end credits, developer Infinity Ward chose to roll more of this type of footage, before closing with an irreverent rap anthem that samples, among other things, the developer's own pre-release hype for its game.

So did I ultimately have fun with Modern Warfare? I guess. I'm really not sure, however, because by the end I had kind of stopped feeling.