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Pretty hardcore, and terrifying when you're a kid. So Savage started his campaign to get re-instated to get revenge on Jake Roberts. You can even call a to vote! Macho was back to get revenge! Savage beat Roberts clean with the elbow drop. Macho went berserk and went to jump Roberts after the match, but as sneaky as Roberts was hit the DDT out of nowhere knocking Savage out. Jake went for his signature snake, making the crowd shriek in protest. Miss Elizabeth stupidly come out from the back to try and save her man from the same fate he fell upon weeks ago.
It was like Jake never learned his lesson, he gets beat by Savage twice clean, and now he's jumping the Undertaker?
The touched his urn, and slammed his hand in the casket?! The Undertaker no sold it all, and chased him with the casket on his hand. Pretty funny now, but bad ass then. It set them up for an epic encounter for Wrestlemania 8, where Undertaker beat Roberts clean.
The Undertaker's face turn was so unexpected, and it was something I wanted so bad, but never thought possible. When you are 12 those things mattered to me, and I continued to cheer Taker for a decade afterwards. Roberts was such a legend on the mic, and in the ring. Take the epic character of the Undertaker, the chilling promos of Jake Roberts, and the Charismatic Randy Savage, it had all the makings of such a classic, and unforgettable storyline that has never left my mind.
Here are some more movies that hold some bit of significance for me. These movies are some that really tugged on my heart strings, and burned a permanent place in my memory.
I remember watching Edward Scissorhands with my parents as one of the first Pay Per View things we ever bought. For some reason I recall me watching it with them as a teenager and being embarrassed with the salty scenes with the cougar wife mounting Edward after the haircut. I was captivated with the movie with it's unique premise, but what makes it special for me is the way the movie dug at my emotions. The scene below where Edward can't hold his love, was so touching to me I fought tears of in front of my parents.
The Pursuit of Happyness was a cheese soaked based on a true story about the down on his luck - lose everything - have an unrealistic goal - work hard - overcome adversity - hit rock bottom - get a break - then succeed movie of that particular year.
It was a 3rd choice renter one night for my and the wife. The "famous" bathroom scene however transported me into the moment thinking about what I would sacrifice to get success when I had kids. I determined that I would not take just a dumb risk when I had kids to worry about, but hitting rock bottom like that still made me feel awful for the main character.
Armageddon was just supposed to be just another big budget summer bloated exploitation of overindulgence.
I still remember the cool red countdown song just stating "Armageddon" at the time they used to promote the movie. Although the movie was a predictable "over come impossible odds" movie, I always had a soft spot for the end of the world genre.
Well Armageddon, turned out to be pretty bad ass. It was a unique idea, filled with sick action of great characters. If you don't swell up during this scene, you are a robot. If that's the case I want to thank you for visiting our site, and I hope you include Ian and I in your take over of this planet.
In last week's post , I took a side-step into a pointed critique of what we call Post-Modernism. Since it is such a large issue, one that riles me from my normally docile and tolerant self, and one that paradoxically stifles what we can accept as creativity.
This is the first in a formally proposed series of essays attempting to either define or dismantle the current view of our art world. For the sake of this discussion, please consider all forms of creation under the umbrella term "Art. Andy Warhol did not end painterly expression.
Eliot did not paralyze poetry, etc etc etc The hallmark, however, of Post-Modernism which I intend to use as a blanket academic term for all Post War art, including and especially contemporary art--at odds with those who may want to consider the current era separate, giving it the equally generic label of Contemporary--The hallmark, however, of Post-Modernism, is to insist that we live in an age where traditional forms of art are antiquated and by the very means of each respective medium, lack the ability to communicate any remotely profound insight.
From this springs forth the artificial question of how to be an artist in an age where all artforms are dead. From this, we've seemingly explored every region--mixed media, psychological manipulation, primitivism--but never end up any further. Authors are still writing and selling novels and asking the same questions as writers in the pre-novellic age I want to take the time to ask why, as this concerns me somewhat personally, the novel, inarguably the youngest of the three major modes of artistic writing, was the first to be pronounced dead?
We all know stream of consciousness and abstract action painting and automatic drawing and --ugh-- free verse. It's clear that the need for human expression still exists. But the use for formalism of any kind has vanished. So how do we determine what's valid art, and what's opportunism, and what's simply a madman's scrawlings?
It can't be what communicates more directly and poignantly to a person's emotions than other work, becuase that old Post-Modern insistence on Subjectivism dictates that all art has an audience. We are left to consider all submissions regardless of quality as viable forms of art. What muddles this argument further is the musing that "art is everywhere" which is simply untrue.
If we step back for a moment and think of what we mean when we say art, it's a truncated form of artifice, creation, labor, not accident, not vulgar expose of the ugly parts of the world. Art, by its very definition , demands strenuous exertion, intuitive knowledge bolstered by exploration of one's medium. But the post-modern age insist on barraging its audience with the profundity of everyday life, which is really no different than quaint pastoral dramas of an era most artists of the Post-Modern age would desire to distance themselves from.
So what is the result? Art lacking form but still accepted by a sponsor be it a publication firm, an agency or a well-endowed individual is defended on basis of veracity, whether through autobiography or deconstructionist intent--incidentally, a candidate the most misunderstood term of the postmodernage--if it lacks aesthetic appeal or an attempt at universality.
I agree that beauty is everywhere, but it doesn't automatically make arbitrarily selected subject matter beautiful, or a story more interesting because it happens to be true.
Add to that the insistence that every story has been told or every song has been written, a falsehood of the most wicked design. I have encountered this protestation countless times and bristle more broadly with each snotty remark. It isn't that stories or melodies or aren't unlimited, it's that we have created such a finitie but broad classification system that we systematically take any unique idea and force it into a category.
The only safe territory is current topical observation or the empty, irreverent dismantling of a long standing idol. Our artists are all defult iconoclasts. On the now presumed "fact" that all art forms are dead or dead ends, the postmodern age is a parade of vapid revisionist critique. Artists now take aim even at themselves, wherein an entire work is one long setup for an ad hoc pratfall.
How many times can we veil bad art with the supposedly incisive purpose of questioning the nature of art? If indeed, there is truth that music, writing, sculpture, dancing, painting, are dead then why not start back at the beginning? Why is this the irreverible direction we must continue in, constantly breaking fourth walls and undermining our own assertions? Why not start back with the classical forms again? The Greeks didn't have laptops, so if we follow the path of previous now deceased artforms in our current political and technological atmosphere, the outcome could be radically different?
When someone attempts that, it's pocketed away as an abberration, an exercise in neoclassicism. The easiest analogy is that parents can have multiple children and while one--the one that received all the attention--may turn out to be a drug-addled wreck, there are other children who may have vastly different lives.
We, as an artistic culture follow such a linear path, which is currently in a state of self-rejection. And all this empty irreverence, what does it teach us?
What is replacing these old, outdated modes of expression? They offer nothing, not even nothing ness , but nothing. So one of my biggest issues with postmodern thought is its arrogance, is that it exists as the summation of all previous though, either through exclusion of disproven ideas or confirmation of yet-to-be-disproven ones.
Who are we to say that the world has led up to all that we do and create and produce now? We are one possibility and we speak with such a limited vocabulary for appreciating the world, and we're so happy to consider ourselves, as I'm sure every phase of every culture does, the very apex of sophistication and enlightenment. When encountering our artistic endeavors, I feel that nothing could be further from the truth, personally at least. I conjecture that it's from fear of openness, that saying that formal art is dead is easier than accepting one's inability to express oneself as well in a formatted venue as an unformatted one.
That is half of art. Not just expression. But execution, creation. But if one ignores that part, then one can hide behind the total rejection of previous and current forms and scoff. As I said last week, no one wants to be rejected, and that's at the core of this transpiration of our culture. It's a way for no one to feel rejected, to say that all forms of all modes of all media are valid and it's simply luck, mysterious, effusive luck that dictates success or acknowledgement.
In the end, we are forced to ask what the criteria for art is, then? If art can be found everywhere, in every medium and in everyday life, then what sets it aside from someone intentionally creating a replica of everyday life or implementing anti-academic lack of technique. In short, most music writing painting fashion and cinema by way of example only serves to affirm the old and ignorant argument, " I could do that. How does understanding, but not respecting and not working to elevate the act of creation differ from or illuminate the layman's stance?
Why are some elevated to the status of genius and others left to wallow in humiliating failure? I've been in a huge movie kick as of late, and wanted to touch upon some of the most remarkable scenes from some of my favorite films. Most of these are easy to remember, but have a somewhat personal meaning to me. Jersey Girl Yeah, I know not Kevin Smith's most celebrated movies, but this scene cut really cuts me to the bone. I think as a young father we all doubt our abilities to raise a child, and doing it alone must be terrifying.
I remember these private talks with my own babies at one point on a late night with sleep depravity. This was one of the first movies I ever saw in the theaters. Boy, did I get blindsided with the death of Optimus Prime. No one knew it was coming.
Optimus Prime in the cartoons was untouchable, the auto-bots would fight and make a mess of things then Prime would come in say something wise, and take care of business. Main characters in cartoons just didn't die I was floored, and if I remember right there wasn't a dry eye in the place. Someone told me that Powder was "the best one star movie out there". I have no clue why this movie remains in cult status. I do remember feeling so much empathy for poor Powder, and all the guy wanted was peace.
I remember his speech as well about everyone being apart of all one energy, and his compassion for all living things, maybe planting an early seed for my interest in Buddhism? In our virulent world of web-journals, web-diaries, webinars and the dreaded 'blog, it's not at all uncommon to see opinions contested.
This causes me to consider the true core of what Criticism proper is and what role in our "culture" it actually supplies, thinking that it might in some small way provide a conclusive and applicable determinant towards an objective system of qualification for those of us still gestating in the gestalt of the amorphous amateur world of logging our supposed insights; in short, who's hot and who's wrong.
So in my typical blackened-white view of the world, I will attempt to categorize all modes of criticism focusing more on the published and professional forms as I find them more distressing into two distinct and mutually exclusive categories. The first and more digestible is popular, or qualitative, criticism. It is the attempt of someone with an apparently educated opinion attempting to place a judgment on work offered to the public in a manner that the less educated, or initiated, can understand.
I give those who work in this category the benefit of the doubt that they set out with the best intentions, to inform others of whether or not what is being advertised as good or the best truly is, to keep movie-goers from wasting money on a bad film or demanding more from an artist selling work for millions.
This is rarely the case, though. We often find ourselves presented with no more than an individual's point-of-view that is granted authority by some vague qualification, such as a diploma. The views become inflated, self-laudatory and obscure, often based on some contemporarily conceived or historically posited criteria that isn't relevant to those that the judgment is originally supposed to be created for.
Then of course, these opinions are then called into question, often quite literally, in such forms as "Who are you to say that? We have no standards anymore in both senses to differentiate, much less qualify "good" and "bad", whether regarding contemporary work or revising stances on dated works. Look how often the indicators "critically" and "commerically" are paired for juxtaposition.
If someone acheives both, then this is assumed to be universal acclaim, but we neglect the fact that Professional Critics or now bloggers hold some respected influence for their assumed heightened sense of appreciation, as well as the fact that both critics and a population of some 7 billion people never represent more than a minority percentage. And of course, this doesn't account for my most loathed MOR stance, usually stated as, "I can appreciate what they're doing, but I don't really like it.
Normally, I would speak up in support of technical proficiency, but this is tenuous territory when talking about any type of work intended for a mass audience with widely varying tastes. At some point, skill becomes a veil, merely decoration, a showy distraction intended to compensate for a lack of substance. This applies really only to the world of the liberal arts though, for in some fields, such as athletics and culinary, skill is all but in rare flukes directly related to the quality of the product.
In all fields, though, the same notion applies that even the most technically accomplished chef may not create a dish of universal appeal, as some prefer more common recipes. A classically trained musician may lack the emotion to truly connect with a listener, or may by the simple virtue of the demonstrative pomposity of one's skill, distance someone whose preference is for an earthy jugband.
For these two basic reasons, one cannot determine the quality of work based on its technical appeal this itself being another academic artifice. In its stead I want to offer the concept of sincerity, or as labeled above, "substance" or what is called in the fields of athletics, business and politics, "heart" as the only valid qualitative judgment.
I want to, but as we'll encounter shortly, there stand too many complexities to present it as a useful and measurable standard. Even the proclivity for choosing the "inner beauty" of a presented work is a post-modern attitude, but that we will investigate later on. Although I want to First, of course, we need to define what we mean by all these vague terms that we are blanketing under "sincerity.
In other words, it's what someone is able to execute on the basis of ability given genuine intent on communicating through that work. Again, the rejection of simply assessing someone on solely one's skill as opposed to their intent is is a post-modern attitude, I'll take a moment to demystify "post-modern" which is a peculiar and useless term to me--In the modern age, everyone railed against what they saw as black-and-white objectivism that had lost its functionality due to an archaic method and academic set of standards that allowed for only certain styles of work to be publicly acknowledged; this applied to literature, painting and sculpture, music, fashion, cuisine, etc.
The argument here is that what may take someone a matter of months to accomplish to an acceptable degree may take another merely a matter of days to complete to an aesthetically superior degree--acknowledging with our newly acquired post-modern sensibilities that even this assessment lacks any acceptable rubric--so we even see a natural gulf distancing degrees of ability in a given field, and on top of that, some may appreciate what appears as the result of meticulous and methoidcal training, whether the actual product of innate talent or acquired skill, and others feel more connected to the apparent result of unfettered and uncluttered purity of raw expression.
So as for the relativity part of the equation, we lack an agreeable measurement on that point. We have now concluded that it is impossible to determine quality based on the perceived effort exerted, and the proportional effort exerted and now we can focus on the core of "Sincerity"--the intention merely to communicate through the process of creation and the product created.
This is a muddle, I'll say from the outset, because we all know Sincerity, unlike technical ability, can easily be faked. I feel there is no need to clutter this discussion with an exploration of that truism.
But additionally, sincerity can be confused with sentimentality, which can also be faked. We deal with false sentiment on a daily level, in advertisements for consumables, in hypocritical gestures, and most certainly in pieces of work falsely presented as the work of inner struggle to connect oneself with the outside world, especially by someone perceptive and opportunistic who simply emulates a popular type of emotional depth or perceptual sensitivity.
It can only be said that the absence of aesthetic does not automatically mean the presence of genuine emotion, as well as that the skillful execution doesn't necessarily diminish or eliminate the heart, soul, or emotional import of a work [I will admit I have noted a more than circumstantial inverse correlation of that which I perceive as "Sincere" or "Substantial" to that which I feel to be technically proficient, often extending the possibility that an academic or educated approach to a field does somehow limit one's intuitive abilities in that same field.
So all one can confidently do is react and then, for the intellectuals, attempt to decipher why that reaction occurred. How can we interact with the work offered by others for our consumption, then?? This brings us to the second--and less useful--type of criticism, artistic or speculative. This applies to the set of mostly academics who offer opinions and interpretations on all various works offered for public consumption.
EMBED for wordpress. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! Publication date Here's a mix for all you wrestling marks, I'm alllowed to say it cause I'm one too! Hope this mix makes you pop! After you listen to the mix check out the trailer for the movie: www.
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