“The Venture Bros. (Season 4, episode16: “Operation: P.R.O.M.,” Cartoon Network)

            “This show is getting awfully self-referential” said “Venture Bros” writer Doc Hammer to show creator Jackson Publick while watching the one-hour special fourth season finale, “Operation: P.RO.M.” via a low-res feed before a commercial break. This title would be perfect for a nasally, sarcastic Sarah Vowell story about the regimentation of one suburban New Jersey high school dance where teachers enforcing puritanical rules become like covert agents. Instead we get covert agents acting like suburban high school students, mulling about in a dance arguing over which elicit sex act is referred to as the “Rusty Venture.”

            From the beginning the show has followed dialectic patterns in advancing the plot. New characters are introduced and cause tension until they are confronted and altered sufficiently to fit within the status quo while ultimately shifting it slightly. This has never been more obvious than in “Operation: P.R.O.M.” where every running plot is a conflict between two individuals: Dean vs. Triana (and her new boyfriend), Henchmen #21 vs. The Monarch, Brock Samson vs. Molotov Cocktease and Col. Hunter Gathers vs. General Treister.

What makes this an action show is that the oppositional forces aren’t theoretical trends like technology or civil rights, but flesh and blood people who duke it out time and again. The lessons learned each time accumulate into depth and character development which in turn form a basis for the show’s authentic core. As an exercise in post-modernism, Hammer and Publick have purposefully made the point that they can kill anyone or do anything they want and will never give in to fanboys. The two-part season three finale “The Family That Slays Together, Stays Together” saw Samson quit his role as the guardian of the family while the robot H.E.L.P.eR and Henchmen #24 died, both theoretically marginal to the larger plot but seemingly integral to the show. But Hammer and Publick don’t really intend to arbitrarily sabotage their show—that’s why when Shore Leave and Sgt. Hatred find 21 creeping around the Venture compound (attempting to bury the skull of 24 and free himself from the haunting of his best friend) they shoot him. Even without hints as it was the audience could have half guessed they were rubber bullets.

            Ever since the end of season three the show has been adding convoluting characters and plots, stretching the core realism to near its breaking point. The entire secret agency S.P.H.I.N.X. was unnecessary, and it wasn’t satisfying for Samson to be living on the compound but not taking care of the family. Twenty-one grew to be an awesome hero, but he was still serving as just another henchmen. In “Operation: P.R.O.M.,” these and other unstable issues snap back into a position of low potential energy like a relaxed rubber-band. Is that boring? No, it’s just the opposite, and it’s returning to a new synthesis position unlike hitting the reset button on a sitcom.

In the last few moments of the show Samson discovers he has only one minute to race back to the compound and save everyone he cares about from mercenary agents posing as escorts at Hank and Dean’s homeschooled prom. The action hero tropes are knowingly played up, but if it sounds ridiculous, it didn’t come off as such. We’ve been waiting for Samson to be reunited with the family the entire season. His James Bond action sequence complete with 3D graphics and special effects works because it mirrors the intensity of the emotions involved. There are some loose ends, but nothing emotionally dissonant. This very special episode will be like comfort food for appreciative fans.

"Sky Above Clouds IV"

“Sky Above Clouds IV,” oil on canvas by Georgia O’Keeffe, 1965

This painting is massive. Twenty-four feet long by eight feet tall, “Sky Above Clouds IV” was painted by American modernist Georgia O’Keeffe with the aid of assistants in 1965 when she was seventy-seven years old. Row after row of white ovals shrink into the distance towards a blue and pink horizon. A pair of massive, identical plaques state the painting was inspired by commercial air travel and the experience of looking down on clouds from above. It’s surprising to learn how representational the painting actually is. As someone who has been flying since before he could crawl, I’ve seen what this image is describing—many times—and I didn’t get it, but it got me.

            Most of the elements imply an ostentatious cartoonish quality. The clouds are cobblestones, or marshmallows, or rigid rectangular plant cells, or anything other than clouds. Their white is absolute and so it appears an exaggeration of some near-white symbol. Convention would surely have the pure white of clouds apologetically covered by shades of gray or streaks of blue. The ordered rows are too obviously created, and upon inspection columns emerge as well. A handful of wayward globs are the exceptions that prove the rule. Above all else the painting seems to be attempting to convey a long perspective, but of numerous techniques painters employ for this, only the crudest is used, size. The clouds, in imperfect intervals, gradually shrink from torso-sized to fingeresque ascending. There is no shading, no reference in space, no true illusion of perspective. As with the seemingly abstract subject matter, the true dimensions can be learned but they are not instinctually understood. One must view the change in size and imagine the intended effect in space.

            In O’Keeffe’s earlier paintings of flowers, the gradient from realism to abstract advanced along with the magnification of the image and inversely to the literal space conveyed in the frame. In the “Sky Above Clouds” series it moves from puffy to geometric, with respect to the clouds. But IV is the one that is meant to be seen. This is the huge one, beckoning stares. This is the one as grand as the commercial airline industry appeared in the ‘60s. For the same reason this painting does a poor job of conveying the literal experience of looking down from above the clouds, it succeeds in conveying what’s really key to that experience—a sense of wonder.

 There’s more than just a grammatical relationship between wondering what this image is showing and wonderment at its impressiveness of scale and color. Part of the true experience of passing through the clouds is the dissociated acknowledgment that while fantastic, it is perpetually foreign. We might on one level understand where we are, but that knowledge will always be conscious, not inherent like our knowledge of the smell of rain.

Love Your Idols

“Almost Famous” (Directed by Cameron Crowe, 2000)

 

             Cameron Crowe shows us his young rock critic side in the semi-autobiographical film “Almost Famous,” but obscures the rest of himself. This isn’t a biopic, and doesn’t have any inherent responsibility to cover him in totality. The narrative is centered in a specific time, a few locations and a group of people—none of which have to do with the Hollywood side of his life. However, because this story is itself a film, one of many that Crowe has written, produced and directed, and because there is a Hollywood movie scene just as there is a rock music scene, it seems a blatant, almost ironic omission to ignore it entirely.

Biographically, he performs different functions while creating movies or critiquing music. In performing the latter, Crowe establishes a handful of direct messages about art and appreciation that can’t seem to hold up with respect to his own work—this film. Without changing the content of the narrative, Crowe could have used different filmmaking techniques to incorporate a self-conscious look at Hollywood and thus paint a more complete and nuanced portrait of art and celebrity.

When Kate Hudson plays famous groupie or “Band-Aid” Penny Lane, her character is critiquing the lifestyle, but in performing that role Hudson offers no critique of being an actress. Her first appearance recalls the glamorous introduction of Grace Kelly as Lisa Carol Freemont in “Rear Window” (Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, 1954). Whether or not this is an intentional allusion or questionable borrowing, it certainly isn’t a critique of idolizing stars. We do come to see Penny Lane as more tragic and human later on, but those scenes are so far removed that this moment of rapture in the alley comes off and completely sincere. And Hollywood starlets weren’t without their troubles either; eating disorders, drugs and male chauvinism among them. How is Crowe being “honest and unmerciful,” Lester Bangs’ catchphrase from the film? He isn’t.

The first 15 minutes establish a lot and revel in very little. The film is rushing, frenetically marching forward and leaving the audience to try and catch-up. While not logically confusing, the plot remains unintuitive. Just like William’s (Patrick Fugit) and Crowe’s childhood, everything is condensed. Time is ellipsed after virtually every scene, making for some kind of quasi-montage preamble with no clear parameters. The composition, art direction style and acting are operating with a glossy finish that must be nice to enjoy, someone would ever get the chance. Other times, a scene has a clear purpose for shaping the meaning of the film, such as the early scene where the radio plays “The Christmas Song” by Alvin and the Chipmunks over a montage of palm trees, surfboards and Santa wearing shorts. Christmas in California scene is maybe the most straight-forward scene (and the most cliched), but many others are certainly obvious enough to the point where Crowe’s intention becomes like a watermark on the frame. Clarity is often a virtue, but when scenes extend beyond the time it takes to make their point, they can become annoying—like “The Christmas Song.”

Things gel more when William joins fictional band Stillwater on tour for an article in Rolling Stone. William is exploring these amazing opportunities, and letting the audience come along for the ride. Frances McDormand plays William’s mom and has a humorous heart-to-heart with Stillwater star guitarist Russel (Jason Lee). A series of attempts for William to get an interview with Russel have him waiting by a closed door while being yelled at to leave. Crowe’s subconscious absent father issues seem to have broken through here in some of the most engrossing scenes of the film. But then, each viewer is going to identify with something more than the rest. The film is like a collage in some ways and the basically ineffectual protagonist character allows the audience to choose their own path.

There are definite highs and calculated lows, but everything shines equally with a high-gloss, Hollywood finish undermining the impact of the drama. While most of the film may be true, it doesn’t feel very real.