Cutting to the Chase: A Genital Mutilation Rant

It is frequently the case that the current popular sentiment of many people I know tends towards sententious “what’s the problem now?” rhetoric (“It’s always something!” “Why can’t we just leave well enough alone?” “It’s been that way for thousands of years!”) Perhaps such an attitude could be attributed to the climate of the popular culture that enshrouds us all with its thick, “conscientious objector to all sides of the debate” veil. Every thinkable direction for us to cast our gaze instructs us to be skeptical, be cynical, be scrutinizing– and this is all well and good. For when we become all-accepting and overly egalitarian, we lose our edge and our focus as a people. But despite our repudiation of the ever-polarizing “definite opinion, there is a tendency to eagerly feast on the alternative offered to us by the originators of such directives: the middling “do nothing because doing means taking a side, and sides are inherently wrong” alternative (my ire is largely focused on you, Matt Stone and Trey Parker.)It is because of such a Randian– that is to say “fuck all of you, I’m going to be happy without inconveniencing myself for the sake of others”–attitude that we become complacent and anesthetized to real, palpable conflicts within our worlds. This is what I like to think of as an “inactivist”–the Peripheral Blocking Character, much as Shakespeare imagined, there to simply obstruct and castigate.; to discourage action and encourage humiliation and criminality for taking a stand. In this case, the blocking characters want us to keep on keeping on with senseless dick choppery. And I do mean senseless. The verve that follows this debate is compounded not only by the ambiguity of it all, but the intimacy of having been (likely) involuntarily relegated to one camp or the other. Unless there are men out there that have cosmetic penis hoods, attachable at their leisure as the situation demands. Then there is a third and slightly less involved camp out there. Moving on.

The media, late as it is to every hip party out there, is all abuzz with this “new” fringe debate concerning male circumcision. Fringe because it has no exact home. Does it belong strictly in the “division of church and state” camp, the hard scrabble ground that none shall tread upon lest they be accused of violating the inexorable bill of rights? Or is it a purely medical debate that deserves proper investigation (STD transmission and disease, UTIs, etc)? In San Francisco, Llloyd Schofield is leading a charge against the medical procedure, decrying it as a form of genital mutilation. In his own language, he has explained how it is essentially a dogmatic practice enacted against a child’s body, normally by the legal custodians thereof. As the guardians, they are given the right to speak for their child in this matter, much as they would any other matter of “health”.

But it isn’t a matter of health. It’s a practice. And a highly religious one at that.

It ages back centuries upon centuries, through dusk and damask passages of years. Looking back, we find that the ancient Egyptians began circumcision as a ritual; it was an initiation into being male, into being healthy and accepted. Moving forward, Abrahamic Religions adopted circumcision as a commandment of god himself. To not adhere to such a thing would be tantamount to inclemency and, perhaps, heresy. So… like all things so finely aged, it’s repetition of practice MUST mean that it has validity, right? (read: bigotry, racism, sexism, agism, xenophobia, slavery, asceticism, and every other -ism you can manage.) After all, there are ceremonies devoted to the event. The cleaving of the foreskin is not simply ensuring a disease-free future (sigh); it is a right of passage! It indicates that the child is healthy and proper, groomed and trimmed like a prime cut of meat. Thus, the commandment of the unnamed god has been fulfilled, and the child can go and be fruitful. Such a commandment has become so procedural and common that it is offered openly and, often times, with certain encouragement from most hospital maternity wards. Strange how there are so many hospitals that are religiously owned and operated. (Locally, Caritas Christi) Cus’ religion and medicine have always been great bedfellows. Yeah…

Now, I’m going to take a slight detour here and highlight an important segment of this exceedingly more and more confusing debate, (confusing in that it is a debate at all.) It is known fact that if a government, local or federal, takes an action against a belief or practice because it is considered unlawful or damaging to society on the whole, there will always be a demographic that will continue the practice. This will continue in a manner that is more and more surreptitious/ramshackle as it becomes observed as a truly illicit act. The intrigue of undermining law fuses with love for the perpetuity of a proud tradition, and as a result we see improperly conducted rituals. Take, for instance, oh, I dont know, abortion. Outlawed in other countries, women are either forced to carry children they are most likely not prepared to care for to term or (better yet!) resort to bush medicine/do-it-yourself procedures. At this point, it is best to either consult wikipedia or allow your vivid imagination to conceive of it’s own lurid reality. So, we meet our crossroads. How does one introduce the idea that a timeless practice could POSSIBLY be vestigial, dangerous, or unethical? Well, as the fight against the female variety of circumcision has gone, so should the male.

In order to change the collective mind of the public, we need to route the belief that uncircumcised is, essentially, synonymous with “unclean” or (even worse in America) “deviant”. A preponderance of evidence exists in defense of leaving children uncloven: sexual sensitivity remains intact; belief systems aren’t permanently tethered to one’s physical state; there is no sense of “loss”, psychologically; the prevention of trauma or irritation. Contrariwise, the evidence in favor of circumcision mumbles something under it’s eucharisty breath about how it raises the chances of AIDS and STDs overall, as well as it being a sometimes necessary medical procedure. I will absolutely confirm that, given the (frankly terrifying) notion of penile constriction due to a disproportionately small foreskin, there are medical emergencies that demand such action. But to use unclear, science-less arguments that it’s unclean and unsanitary reinforces an otherwise entirely religious notion of purity and godliness, (which, as we all know, is cleanliness.)

As a male, I personally will recognize the stigmatization of the uncircumcised penis. It is, at best, regarded as a comical oversight on the behalf of the parents. The fact that the control over the situation is never there heightens tension– that is, that we can’t DO anything about it. Among groups of men, the tendency to attack the minority or the outlier is extremely likely if not certain. Thus, a pressure is exerted upon parents to prevent their children from ever experiencing such a discrimination. It’s easier, right? And the doctors do recommend it anyhow. They’ll never know the difference. Except they will.

This doesn’t even begin to delve into the complexity of imposing a religious system onto an infant who will feel less like he has a choice in the matter due to an irreversible alteration of his genitalia. In fact, as science begins to trump the chimerical fiction of uncircumcised men being weird, those who have been involuntarily initiated into the peeled banana club may grow to resent their religion and, perhaps, parents for subjecting them to what is, at it’s core, a long, hateful attack on natural sexuality and genitalia. This argument seems as though it could get long-winded and Freudian at this point, so I’ll wrap it up. IN A NICE WARM FORESKIN THAT IS.

As it stands, I realize that I’m just another voice in a crowd of biased people. I know that there will be extremely high emotions in this argument, as it enters the sacrosanct sector of one’s body. We have what cards we are dealt. There’s no undoing what has been done, and if you’ve been cleft, you’re likely to have at least a slight bias in order to justify what has been done to you. What I’m saying, though, is that this isn’t a game of black jack. As a modern and (generally) evolving people, we should recognize that volition is the first and foremost of all liberties. The right to choose to keep one’s foreskin is but another brick in the wall of “things we need to get around to letting people decide for themselves”. Parents have to begin to take a sense of personal responsibility for the livelihood of their children, less of an “err on the side of religious caution” and more of a personal, educated stance. We must deconstruct the entire dichotomy of clean vs. unclean, in vs. out. Once we have extracted and disproved the belief, then logic will, like a cool, refreshing deluge from the floodgates of reason, fill the bloody recesses left by outdated religious practices. Let the dismantling begin…but not of one’s penis.

In which a morning begins shittily

The morning is a sacred time where commitments to wake up quickly dissolve into hasty renegotiation with one’s cell phone alarm. Just 10 more minutes of remarkably uncomfortable sleep. Noises of once imperceptible stirring ring out like gunshots in the silence (generous word for the city) of dawn. We all hit that ceiling where restful sleep is not to be had, and all that’s left is the hunting down of that pretty relieving fart you know is coming and reconciling with the fact that, yes, you’ll have to get up and pee. And at that point, it’s up and at ‘em.

This morning was no different than any other. I woke up to the sound of an apartment under siege. This particular bombardment was that of two professional working women, one of which is my girlfriend. Shower valves releasing their why-is-it-so-cold-I-thought-water-heaters-were-faster-these-days contents, hair dryers interminably screaming with electricity, cotton-polyblend clothes whisked through the air and onto eager unprotected limbs. This, minus the poesy, was a morning that was so deliciously normal it would be forgotten as soon as the door was locked shut behind us.

It was a cold day, I suppose. Rounding the corner is a ritual reserved for the travel-anxious such as myself, one wherein crushing self doubt of one’s ability to “make that train, jesus fuck” ensues. Indeed, it is not only the reality of the train, but the possibility of the train at any moment that inspires such paranoia. Is that the telltale MBTA engine idle I hear, or perhaps just a large truck badly in need of servicing? Your pace becomes slightly more frenzied, in a schizoid half-run half-walk. Either way, you make it and delight in some perverse joy of having “won” (then pass out next to a bunch of strangers) or you miss it and you’re stuck staring at the nearest point of ingress for the train tracks. Today, I made it.

I read through a chapter or two of “American Gods”, which is really doing it for me right now. Gaiman is, as I’ve said, like King–except less forced. Where King probably rifles through 20-some-odd pages of rotten.com, queries google with the unfinished search of “why am I afraid of”, and gently runs his hands over a John Wayne Gacy Jr. original just before he slumbers for inspiration these days, Gaiman seems to just sort of have this shit in his head. In short, it feels more organic and personal, and I can’t wait to move on to Anansi Boys. We hit Copley and enjoy an abridged “have a good day” kiss, yet another daily ritual or affirmation, and I’m off to work! It’s one, two, three, and they’re off! Oh, hey there unflinchingly enthusiastic Metro guy, what’s your secret? Do you  actually love standing out here in the goddamned cold as shit weather, or have you underwent some sort of partial lobectomy to remove sadness from your catalogue of available emotions? Either way, your aloof pacifism sort of transfers through the paper-I-do-not-want and into me for a brief 20 seconds, or as long as it takes for me to get to the next leg of this empty recollection.

Stepping into CVS, as we are all wont to do, I proceeded to peruse aisles of shit I do not need. The varieties are endless and the mark-downs entirely relative to their ham-fisted retail gouging. I bite anyhow, purchasing some pop tarts (for their nostalgic quality as well as dense caloric value) and granola bars that I know aren’t nearly as good as they purport to be. The self checkout, which was doubtlessly created to impartially mediate the purchasing process of awkward intimate items (read: Vaginal Diaphragm and Sour Cream and Onion Pringles purchases), allowed me a hasty and nearly guilt-free getaway.

As I repaired the primrose path of the pavement leading to my work, the “return headphones to ears” initiative was enacted by the much beloved Incumbent Governor of the Brain– Mr. Don’t-want-to-talk-to-bums Fuckoff-ovitch. That being said, the previous “look where youre going” social program was left to it’s own devices.

Alright, I’m getting sick of trying too hard with word smithing. I stepped in dog shit.

Fresh, pasty, work dog class dog shit. The kind that bespeaks of necessity, crude protein, and callous owner disregard.

Having entirely buried the heel of my shoe in the poo, I proceeded to stagger away in a disheveled huff of expletives, humility, and anger. I thought to myself “What sort of asshole lets his dog shit dead in the middle of a high pedestrian traffic sidewalk in Boston?” The deliberateness with which it was done can only be properly translated into the stuff of Mario Kart, wherein one tactfully lays such snares to gain advantage.

As I hobbled away in a clubfooted dirge of desperation, I realized that I must look eerily similar to one of the crazy homeless I was so desperate to dodge– dragging one foot, cursing unknown pantheons of gods, clutching a bag full of cheap CVS goods. And at that moment, I felt myself beginning to transfer my hostilities. “What the fuck are you looking at buddy?” I thought. If you just stepped in piping hot dog shit, you’d be staggering around trying to dislodge it’s earthen clay-like remnants too. If this was one of those moments wherein societal norms underwent some sort of ironic inversion, I definitely wasn’t aware. I just knew that everyone could totally shove it and that, come hell or high water, I was getting the shit off of my shoe.

Standing in a tepid pool of rainwater, I began the mechanical process of soaking and stomping off ridiculously smelly dog poo from my shoe onto the brickwork. It was just as graceless as it was classless, and I didn’t care. Fuck this, I said, as something like The Eagles “New York Minute” went unregarded through my headphones and into the faraway place where such music goes to mourn it’s lack of active consideration. And as I realized I wasn’t giving a proper shit for my music, I saw what I’ve since retroactively assumed was the culpable dog in question. In movie quality slow motion, I axe-handle kicked my heel to the sidewalk and looked up to see the worlds most resplendent Husky prancing it’s fluffy ass down the street. It was, naturally, grinning and panting as though on some sort of personal animalesque Iditarod. In short, showdog material, folks.

I immediately began to feel myself forgiving this dog of it’s natural biological function. My forgiveness was so deep and religious that I couldn’t even begin to care about the real violator– the owner– who strode past just as mindlessly as Im sure he had on his first lap of the street. Here the dog was, like some sort of virginal christ figure to me, and there was man, vapid and merely accessory to the entire scenario. I’m sure there’s some lost archival dissertation out there that, yet again, describes such an earth shatteringly meaningful inversion of man and beast that could articulate this entire “point” with more grace.

But, I don’t much care. I’m not entirely sure there is a point at all to be had.

And that is the story of how I learned forgiveness towards the dog shit on my shoe and went to work looking like a crazy man with lower limb paralysis.

On Modernity in Literature and the Fantasy Novel

Obviously this post pertains to a highly specified genre, one that has been progressively trivialized by both canon and the modern bookish critique. When we the readers think of fantasy, we regard a campy tapestry of somewhat tired chivalry interspersed with time period references, idiomatic language/vocabulary, and highly linear character profiles. In short, we view the unabridged transcript of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign.

(insert the sound of 5-10 people clicking the x button on their browser)

And that’s just the point! There is a stigma in place that needs to be addressed. In generalizing Fantasy like this, I do not wish to denegrate the D&D-cum-novel model as something unusable or “low brow”. In fact, I wish to do just the opposite. Literature has undergone modernization in a manner that mimics the (much shorter, mind you) genesis of television broadcasting– beginning with material destined for the annals of history, brimming with talent, intimate authorship, yet quickly devolving into something more of a backward glancing movement, something that was a part of the eternal dialogue of media. The problem of original content is something left for another day, but the symptom of retrograde comparison that pervades literature is that which denies it authority in our era. It makes the post-modernist valiant and brave where the fantasy writer is trite and mawkish. Through my analysis, you will come to see that the privileged few Fantasy writers of renowned become as such due to a creedence to the past, that very backward glance that is rewarded by the accolades of the wildly pedantic readers of the 21st century.

I begin by presenting the concept of the monomyth as established by the now (of household-name status) Joseph Campbell. For all of you who have read any of his work, which is probably all of you since the rest of this post will only be viewed by those who could make it beyond the title of the post, you understand that there is a patternesque quality to the titular hero’s adventure, something timeless and internal to the structure of a successful and compelling plot. There is intrigue, mystery, the “call to adventure”– all of the trappings of a story that allows the reader to feel (humanly) inserted into the story as an accompanying party. Insisting that the monomyth is the be-all-end-all story structure is not my goal; what I do wish to point out, though, is that the monomyth has existed in literature since…well…it’s very inception (or at least known inception.) From Beowulf to the Epic of Gilgamesh, we see each and every step of the story comfortably compartmentalized into digestable and identifiable brackets of the monomyth. Even in Victorian romance, each character is undergirded by a sense of American monomythology, something that dictates what should happen, what the audience expects of the novel. We must then pursue the line of enquiry: is it the mystery of uncovering the stories hidden motives that drives us onward (plot twist-driven interest)or is it the actual bildungsroman of the story, the coming of age–that is, the bare motions that the story makes (“storyweaving” or “theory-driven”.) One would be tempted to say that the theory-driven story is more significant in that it asserts an actual idea, something more than a climactic story arc or a “man behind the curtain” reveal. One author that exemplifies this is Thomas Pynchon. He writes in a Joycean fashion, encrypting meaning and story progression in fleshy layers of world language, geography, wartime nomenclature, etc. Is this style valuable? Absolutely. It is, however, highly experiential. The reader either feels a complete sense of connectivity with the writer because they share similar memories and can thus be “transported”. If, however, you do not know where exactly Mumbai, India is, nor the common cultural etiquettes and mannerisms, you will feel both alienated, diminished, and possibly pissed off. Pynchon is regarded as one of the most important writers of our time, by the NYT, Atlantic, and many other establishments of high repute. I agree that he is important, and I agree that his style is inimitable and beautiful in it’s own right. But what of the simplistic monomyth, what of the journey and the high adventure? When did our generations literature become a pangeneticism of cultures that blend into a muddy swirl of languages and dialogues, creating an abstraction that demands some precedent of knowledge. Modern literature has become much like a Physics book– symbols and meaningless jargon to the naked eye, beauty and elegance to the educated mind.

This leads to the point of this article. I feel strongly that modern fantasy has been disowned by the readership as something both inferior in quality and frivolous in nature to the Modern novel. The only writers that manage to pervade this veritable reckoning are those who resort to classical allegory/reference or historical pertinence (Stephen King, George RR Martin, Tolkien, Lovecraft, CS Lewis). Obviously, there are plenty of Authors to name who have succeeded in Fantasy. But the myriad ranks of writers left behind are whom I speak out for right now. The Terry Pratchet/JK Rowling of today are the false prophets who cater to linked in publishing companies. They are writers in their own regard, but they are driven by certain demands. They are what I like to call commercial fantasy writers, people who enjoy limitless attention because they appeal to so many and because they do not transgress the limitations of what is “too fantasy.” That is, they do not become absolutely adult in content; instead, they skirt the fringe of “young adult”, thus making the fantasy genre digestable for the young, the teen-aged, and the “young hearted” adult. Why can only one variety of Fantasy be given the stamp of approval? Why must the disembowlment, the heroism and the incest, the vile politicking and religious usurpery stay within the confines of the degenerate “low brow” fantasy genre? The Mabinogion, King Arthur and His Knights, Canterbury Tales, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, to name just a few, delved this content in ways that was poetic and meaningful. They established the Arthurian legend, contributed to the monomyth, espoused the idea of construction over mystery.

Now, to bring it all together, I must say that much of the ignored Fantasy of our time has resorted to the instantized-mystery-novel schema. Fantasy does not depend on philosophy or gender role, it does not approach  issues of xenophobia, the “trusthworthy narrator”, amanuensis, apotheosis, anagnorisis, denouement…it does not need to. For the Fantasy reader of today is either unashamed and digests greedily (and happily) whatever surviving works exist out there, or they resign themselves to the masses, where it’s normatively acceptable to boast a wardrobe bedecked with Ravenclaw scarves and Prince Caspian shirts. We need to support Fantasy and tell authors out there that they do not need to be afraid of writing adventure-style books, that they can incorporate both the monomyth AND theory. There can be a synthesis. Robert Zelazny has proved this to be absolutely true, without becoming engirded by senseless fans who demand more-for-more’s-sake, those types who never want the adventure to end, (Read:holy shit Robert Jordan/Terry Brooks.) We as readers need to read on and support fantasy for what it is: a descendant of the most noble literature to grace this earth. It is not to be decried for it’s exploits, nor discluded because of it’s racy content. It is not a ren faire nor a caricature, not dragon-slaying simplicity nor senseless salacious romance. It is a classic genre bracket that has been smeared by the vast majority of readers as something inferior. I simply ask that we all take a step back from our Palahniuks, our Sedaris’, our Cormac McCarthies and our Haruki Murakamis and realize that value is not assigned simply by the human condition. Value is experiential and personal. One can read beyond the modern fiction of “what it’s like to live”, moving beyond into what it could be like in the “what if” of fantasy. Release yourself.

Review: Where the Wild Things Are

This will be my first entry into a new blog, one that doesn’t maintain a strict tone of poetic puritanism. I can see myself running the gamut from computer gaming diatribe to world politics polemic. Open the floodgates I say!

I cannot deny myself the obvious indulgence of reviewing a movie of hot contention, one defended by the deafening cries of die hard childrens book advocates and threatened by the deconstructionism of present day movie analysts and reviewers. Where the Wild Things Are refuses the quaint categorizations that pervade tinseltown movie go’ers and, accordingly, reviewers. Let’s begin with a brief biography and subsequent qualification of Spike Jonze as a young, aspiring director.

No, I did not write “Right in Der Fuehrer’s Face!”

Spike Jonze (Adam Spiegel) began as an innovator as a director of short skateboarding mash-ups, (eventually leading into a greater collaboration with the Jack-ass crew,) music videos, (to name a few of the big ones: beastie boys, sonic youth, Dinosaur Jr. (GREAT video), and various political documentaries. In short, he was a 90′s hero waiting to be stowed away in the annals of other awesome things that just didn’t get a huge payout. Enter: Being John Malkovitch (1999). Collaborating with writer Charlie Kaufman, Jonze thus endeavored to begin the first of his “meta” movies.In Malkovitch,  Craig Schwartz, down on his luck, out of the job, and lost in a corporate-induced coma, hazards upon a rift that somehow inserts a single person into the mind of John Malkovitch. This movie, rapidly beloved by all that self-relegate into the “thinkers” crowd, initiated Jonze into mainstream hollywood. Accompanying this initiation was his marriage to Sophia Coppola and consequent affiliation with the hollywood hegemon that is the Coppola clan. Adaptation (2002) would follow as his next big breakout, winning Nicholas Cage some actual respect from consumers and coworkers alike. It was yet another installment in Jonze’s “meta” project– a Matryoshka doll fitting into itself, divesting layer upon layer until the hard core is exposed for scrutiny, (but what composes the core?) Also, I must note Jonze’s involvement with what I consider to be a perrenial piece of cult humor as well as a renewal of the serialized rock epic– Tenacious D: The Complete Masterworks (2003). Greatness abounds. Though this history is obviously abridged and leaves out a lot of critical notes on his personal life, it is enough to get where we’re going with this. Present Day.

Where the Wild Things Are (2009)

Heralded by what ultimately became a glutted ad campaign, this movie was guaranteed box office priority. It’s broad appeal, mischevious thematics, and heart rending musical accompaniment made it the perfect storm for a consumer base that is both backward glancing in cultural hungers and deeply wounded in sociopolitics. Something that does not preach nor pander, but instead invites and evokes. Ah yes, that’s the rub. A resounding “yes” issued across the face of the world– we could finally feel vulnerable concerning something sensitive such as is childhood in the common space of the theater! As it stands, WTWTA is the current box office leader, and I’m guessing the querulous 68% on Rotten Tomatoes, which both lauds and laments, will keep the money rolling in.

Let’s get into the movie, shall we? Damn near everyone has read, or had read to them, WTWTA. It is a beautifully vacuous novel, replete with chiaroscuro coloration, chimeric monstrosities that bite, beguile, and endear at once. The eponymous Max is a boy, destructive and imaginative, who is adventurous enough to fill each heart up with longing to return to the tabula rasa of youth, the unpreposessed worldview that allows a plane to be a fighter jet in an interstellar war or a mound of dirt the home for a dozen sedulous dwarven metal workers. The movie does not, for a single moment, defy or cross its source text. Many people would say to this, “well, how hard could faithfulness to a text be when it is 8 sentences long?” I would argue that it is much greater a challenge to represent the extraneous spaces, the unspoken parts, lilting and haunting sentiments, vagueries of the novel than it would be to, say, translate Alice Sebolds Lovely Bones into film format.

The movie casts Catherine Keener as Max’s mother, Max Records as…well…Max, and James Gandolfini as Carol. For all extensive purposes, these are the most important roles, (though I found Lauren Ambrose’s (of Six Feet Under) voice acting for KG both lachrymose and relatable. Max is a hellchild. He has all the time in the world and no one to join him in conquering it. So Jonzes machine begins to churn, and the longing/yearning for catharsis pours out. We want Max to have a vehicle for the tenor of his mind, a place to feel completely accepted for his behavior. We want him to have this (if you have a heart, for all of those cold bastard tinmans out there) because it idealizes our own experiences, reducing them into a concentrate so potent that to drink it would cause the brain to explode with the fantastic, whimsical, and other-worldly. I believe that Jonze must have had a very good relationship with Sendak during the filming of this movie, for it fuses all of the ambivalence of the source text with visually stunning effects, none of which ever transgress the ever-important boundaries of suspension of disbelief. Credit must be given to both Sendak and Jonze for ascribing personalities, names, and real dimensions to characters that, simply put, did not limn more than their faces, expressions, and postures could in the animated book. Max’s world is in suspension, constantly striking notes of excitement, despair, rollicking freedom, insularity and suffocation, estrangement, togetherness. There is never a unity to these disparate feelings, causing the audience to feel a constant unease. The movie itself is an exercise in mood changes. It is no more bipolar or finnicky than the child that we’ve all “grown out of”, the same-seeming persona that compells us towards emotional extremes.

Conclusions

Without delving the actual story and perhaps causing readers to think that I am completely in favor of this movie, I must say that I left feeling like I’d broken my wrist playing catch with a parent– in deep pain at the immediacy of the event, but comforted by the aftermath of the trauma and the coming together that pain invariably causes. I would say that Jonze pushes the entire “manifestations of Max” thing too much, if anything, and those tropes that are embodied by the monsters risk becoming cliche. But right when I felt that, they developed interrelationships. They weren’t just furies, muses, or ephemera, but instead were real.

I loved this movie, obviously. I feel that everyone should give it a chance, not only for the experience of the movie itself, but for the memories it will reawaken within you. If you are unwilling to risk the outcome of feeling inextricably lost and reassuringly found, I would skip the movie and watch something with a digestable plot. It is, after all, prime time for linear horror movies. I guarantee that the quickly medicated ”fear” that you feel during those flicks will be much more pallatable than the self-enquiry that WTWTA insists you perform.