Review of Battlestar Galactica Razor
*draft*
Once, in the boozy midst of a rooftop barbecue on Brooklyn populated by young (and not so young) musicians and artists, there was a question posed. Had you ever invented something only to find that someone had beat you to the punch? There were several absurd ideas, some quirky bits of genius, and some just unmentionable. The question went around while we snacked on chorizo, until it came to me. Battlestar Galactica, I said. I totally invented Battlestar long before Ronald Moore came along and reinvented the genre. No one bought it, so I spouted off something about an album of recording by subway musicians and sent the question off to someone with a bright idea about toilet seats.
But no amount of dericisive laughter could deter me from knowing that Battlestar Galactica is show whose time has come, and the recent TV Movie, Battlestar Galactica Razor is as a good an argumeent as any.
In case you don't have cable, have recently woken from a coma, or have just returned from a four-year expedition in the brazillian highlands, Battlestar Galactica is a reimagining of the super-tacky 70s Star Wars knockoff. The series hems close to the original, compelete a with crypto-Mormon apocolyptic theme. Humans have emerged from a brutal war with sentient war machines of their own design. After a brief armistice, the robots reemerge, now sporting fancy organic bodies and a massive religious complex. A few well placed nukes and the entire human race has been confined to a few civillian space ships, protected by the titular Battlestar. Series creator Ronald Moore has infused the story with a post-9/11 sensibility and bush-incumbent religious fanatacism.
The series has been notorious for deft tension and bizarre plot twists, while conversely forcing fans to wait long dry periods between new episodes. Battlestar Galactica Razor comes when the future of the show seems uncertain. While tentively scheduled for April, the writer's strike threatens to push back new episodes even further In this respect, the TV movie makes for a good appetizer, but no replacement for the main course.
Essentially filling in gaps in between seasons three and four, Razor follows the trials of Kendra Shaw, the former XO of the Battlestar Pegasus, the sister ship of the Galactica. Fans of the show will remember that the Pagasus was formally commanded by Admiral Cain, a viciously effective commander who stretched her own ethical constraints in her struggle against the Cylons. In a long series of flashbacks, Kendra witnesses how Admiral Cain blurred the line between war and veangence. Cain and her loyal crew display a Cheneyesque sensibility, plundering civilian fleets, torturing enemy agents, and even executing crew members who failed to execute orders.
For fans of the show (young nerds,) Razor is full of all the things that make the series great. Though full of gritty, military inspired realism, the show has always been character driven. Even the impressively rendered CGI robots and explosions are less important than the throaty whispers that make up the dialogue.
Unfortunately for casual viewers, Razor does nothing to discourage the view that serialized dramas are simply inaccesable. The story is told through three seperate flashbacks, as well a present-tense narrative that is more than complex. Older nerds will appreciate the nod to the original series, as the clunky, boxy Cylons make an appearance, complete with a Gold Centurion model and the digitized "By Your Command." Younger nerds will appreciate the important development of Starbuck, Lee, and Adama and the promise of a future cliffhanger. The problem for those who aren't nerds, the final product seems like like an entirely inside job, a hindrance that has plagued the Sci Fi Channel efforts from Farscape to Stargate. It would be a shame for such a smart show get stuck in a the same esoteric rut.
And when I say I invented Battlestar, I mean that I always thought that the genre deserved to be taken seriously. Battlestar Galatica has consistently proven that a great story wiht good ideas can take place aboard a space shi, with as much profundity as any swords and sandals epic. Even with killer robots.
Oh, and I was in the record store the other day, and what did I see but a collection of recordings by New York City subway musicians.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Rebel Night
It was a cold night, so we were happy to see that there was no line. There was a doorman, but when he saw MIke, he didn't bother with my ID, or the ID of the pretty young woman who walked between us. It was still relatively quiet in the bar, though there were already signs of life. There were a few girls in long skirts, hair up in ornate beehives and sharp bangs, arms bared to reveal a parade of mermaids and pinup girls. The D.J. was playing some song that Elvis had once sung, but everyone in the bar knew that it wasn't Elvis singing, and it was only on vinyl. It smelled like beer, only vaguely like cigarettes, and only near the door.
The first stop was the bar, where it was early enough that we could still get a pint of Brooklyn Lager in a glass. We walked down the hallways, the music getting louder, switching tempos as the needle came down on a new piece of wax. In the hallway, bathrooms and videogames, the usual college kid fare. A quiz game and a buck hunter cabinet, along with the usual college kids. Still early, and their hats were still on backwards. We walked by as they blasted away at digital buck, wondering what was all the noise coming from the back room. Rebel Night, someone blurted out, uninvited. Tonight is Rebel Night.
We sit down at the only table. The rest of the floor is reserved for dancing. Its empty now, and we sip our beer and chat. We talk about new records and girls. Slowly, familiar faces emerge from the hall and we stand, shake hands, return to our beer. The music gets a little louder and the pretty young girl begins to grow restless. She sees the Japanese gurus hit the floor. Their hair is greased up with dramatic precision. Their sleeves are rolled up, measured to reveal just the right amount of tattoo. Their clothes are vintage, their moves are vintage, and the whole thing unrolls itself like scotch. Vintage and smooth. The gurus and the girls embrace, beginning to swing, twirling across the floor, catching the simple rockabilly rythm and exploding it into movement. We sit back and watch. The young girl drinks her margarita and taps her foot.
She gets up to use the restroom. I lean over to Mike, who looks concerned.
"You're gonna have to dance with this girl." I say. "If you want to keep her happy."
Mike knows better than me. He waits.
It takes three more beers to push us into the now swirling tides. Bodies are moving, twisting, everyone trying to find just a little bit real estate on the tiny dance floor. Every now and then, the guru couples take the floor to show us all how it's done. Other times, the girls in the skirts and hair and tattoos all take the floor and form up in lines, doing a synchronized shuffle to Maybelline. When these theatrics are over, the floor opens up again, and we're all there, twisting and shaking. We sweat through our shirts and strut, and roll up our sleeves to show our tattoos. You try to show that you're a member of the tribe, even though the tribe is a transient manifestation of guitars and vinyl. Glancing over at Mike, you see the young girl's head on his shoulder, exhausted from dancing. You now its time to go home.
It's past two, and you figure it's a good night. You wish you could've made it till closing time.
The first stop was the bar, where it was early enough that we could still get a pint of Brooklyn Lager in a glass. We walked down the hallways, the music getting louder, switching tempos as the needle came down on a new piece of wax. In the hallway, bathrooms and videogames, the usual college kid fare. A quiz game and a buck hunter cabinet, along with the usual college kids. Still early, and their hats were still on backwards. We walked by as they blasted away at digital buck, wondering what was all the noise coming from the back room. Rebel Night, someone blurted out, uninvited. Tonight is Rebel Night.
We sit down at the only table. The rest of the floor is reserved for dancing. Its empty now, and we sip our beer and chat. We talk about new records and girls. Slowly, familiar faces emerge from the hall and we stand, shake hands, return to our beer. The music gets a little louder and the pretty young girl begins to grow restless. She sees the Japanese gurus hit the floor. Their hair is greased up with dramatic precision. Their sleeves are rolled up, measured to reveal just the right amount of tattoo. Their clothes are vintage, their moves are vintage, and the whole thing unrolls itself like scotch. Vintage and smooth. The gurus and the girls embrace, beginning to swing, twirling across the floor, catching the simple rockabilly rythm and exploding it into movement. We sit back and watch. The young girl drinks her margarita and taps her foot.
She gets up to use the restroom. I lean over to Mike, who looks concerned.
"You're gonna have to dance with this girl." I say. "If you want to keep her happy."
Mike knows better than me. He waits.
It takes three more beers to push us into the now swirling tides. Bodies are moving, twisting, everyone trying to find just a little bit real estate on the tiny dance floor. Every now and then, the guru couples take the floor to show us all how it's done. Other times, the girls in the skirts and hair and tattoos all take the floor and form up in lines, doing a synchronized shuffle to Maybelline. When these theatrics are over, the floor opens up again, and we're all there, twisting and shaking. We sweat through our shirts and strut, and roll up our sleeves to show our tattoos. You try to show that you're a member of the tribe, even though the tribe is a transient manifestation of guitars and vinyl. Glancing over at Mike, you see the young girl's head on his shoulder, exhausted from dancing. You now its time to go home.
It's past two, and you figure it's a good night. You wish you could've made it till closing time.
An introduction
NYC, 12:45 A.M.
I'm not from here. Few people are. That was one of the first things I learned. Everyone is from somewhere else, and they have thier own stories to to tell. Or not to tell. That usually depends on how close friendships become. But that is the second thing you learn in New York, that friendships are simultaneously close and fleeting. Ten years, and both these lessons have shaped my understanding of the city and guided my experiences. I worked my way through college, and now I have the straight job, and I'm coming only to third hard lesson this city has been able to beat into me. That is, life moves so fast, and NYC has a way of surrounding one with so much noise and light that you forget to live your life. So I've decided to start this blog, partly because I want to begin working as a freelance writer, but mostly because I would like some kind of document, an imprint in the sand before the tide comes in.
I am from Salt Lake City, Utah. I was raised Mormon, though I was never a very good one. But I feel that this experience continues to shape how I realate to the world. Growing up surrounded by a community of faith effects every aspect of interaction, and this is something I would defintely like to explore in this blog.
I am a writer. I'm currently working on two novels that I hope will be more than a hobby. Hopefully, this blog will help me sharpen my skills and break out of the fiction ghetto. Here I will write about music, art, bars, and life. And television, which will be easy because I live in a tiny studio apartment, so finding a spot in the room that is not within range of the warm glow proves difficult.
I will start with this new project tomorrow. I just bought the soundtrack to the new Bob Dylan biopic, so maybe there will be an album review. Maybe I'll just bitch about work. Maybe both.
I'm not from here. Few people are. That was one of the first things I learned. Everyone is from somewhere else, and they have thier own stories to to tell. Or not to tell. That usually depends on how close friendships become. But that is the second thing you learn in New York, that friendships are simultaneously close and fleeting. Ten years, and both these lessons have shaped my understanding of the city and guided my experiences. I worked my way through college, and now I have the straight job, and I'm coming only to third hard lesson this city has been able to beat into me. That is, life moves so fast, and NYC has a way of surrounding one with so much noise and light that you forget to live your life. So I've decided to start this blog, partly because I want to begin working as a freelance writer, but mostly because I would like some kind of document, an imprint in the sand before the tide comes in.
I am from Salt Lake City, Utah. I was raised Mormon, though I was never a very good one. But I feel that this experience continues to shape how I realate to the world. Growing up surrounded by a community of faith effects every aspect of interaction, and this is something I would defintely like to explore in this blog.
I am a writer. I'm currently working on two novels that I hope will be more than a hobby. Hopefully, this blog will help me sharpen my skills and break out of the fiction ghetto. Here I will write about music, art, bars, and life. And television, which will be easy because I live in a tiny studio apartment, so finding a spot in the room that is not within range of the warm glow proves difficult.
I will start with this new project tomorrow. I just bought the soundtrack to the new Bob Dylan biopic, so maybe there will be an album review. Maybe I'll just bitch about work. Maybe both.
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