Dead Island...No, the Other One

I'm going to do my best to keep this one short because my recent blog outputs have been unforgivably verbose. Plus, I need to maintain my busy schedule of sitting on my couch and staring at the wall.

Yep, it's winter intercession. I probably should be doing something productive with my time but a confluence of events that include both my Athens' jobs being unavailable and me not fully understanding the concept of an application deadline have left me stranded in the homeland, Twinsburg, Ohio. And oh has it been boring. But one of the bright spots came this past Sunday with the midseason finale of "The Walking Dead."

I really like "The Walking Dead." But I'm starting to feel like I might be the only person on the planet who still does . My TV critic go-tos, Alan Sepinwall and the A.V. Club have both been lukewarm toward season 2. Ken Tucker at EW and Andy Greenwald at Grantland have downright hated it. And the commenters on all four websites have me fearing for creator and exec-producer Robert Kirkman's safety.

A lot of what the critics say does have merit but I'm started to get a little frustrated with the moving critical target on this show.

Season one of "The Walking Dead" was for the most part, a mess. Over an abbreviated six episodes, a very large unruly cast of characters ran around Atlanta from location to location with shifting sets of motivations. I think the producers felt the pressure to make a good impression with only six episodes and overextended themselves, producing a sense of chaos instead of excitement. Critics pointed this out and rightfully so.

Season two slowed things down considerably with the characters settling on a farm that was largely untouched by the zombie apocalypse. The new setting solved the schizophrenic pacing problems of the first season and has given the characters some space to breathe and interact with each other.

This is where I depart from most critics of the show. Most of them say that yes, it's nice that things have slowed down but it has only revealed that the characters aren't worth following. Some have even opined for the more frenetic zombie-killing porn aspect of the first season. I cry bullshit and for two reasons.

1. Desensitization - The last thing this TV show needs is for its audience to become desensitized to the undead violence its peddling. By kill #3 in most zombie movies, the audience has already become acclimated to the violence and decapitating hundreds of

reanimated corpses becomes no different than euthanizing cattle. "The Walking Dead" has done a great job of keeping its audience (or maybe just me) viscerally frightened and repulsed a the sight of a decaying corpse stumbling around. And the "Walking Dead" has been around for 10+ hours already where most zombie movies are only two hours. Also, if season four of "Breaking Bad" taught us anything it's that a slow burn to an explosive conclusion can be immensely satisfying on cable. It would mean the death of the show for the producers to go "Fuck it, we're not that good at characterization...let's try our hand at zombie-killing porn." We'd all be desensitized within three weeks and the same critics who called for the show to embrace its bloodlust more would say that it had gone too far and now needs to be off the air. But what about their difficulties with characterization...

2. They're Archetypes, Stupid - We get spoiled with TV shows such as "The Sopranos" or "Breaking Bad" and their characters who are so realistically human that we often forget that 98% of all characters who have ever appeared on television are broadly drawn people with a few outsized, exaggerated traits. "The Walking Dead" doesn't have characters as rich as Walter White or Tony Soprano but there is no shame in that. What season two has revealed is that the show has wisely abandoned the ambition to live up to characters in all-time classic cable shows. Instead, it has aimed its sights slightly lower, at an all-time classic network show. "The Walking Dead" is striving to be "Lost."

The characters on "Lost" were not real human beings, they were archetypes. Jack was a generic man of science. Locke was the man of faith. Sawyer was the wild card. Ben was the creepy Machiavellian genius we've all known at some point or another. Occasionally, they would transcend their prescribed roles, but for the most part they represented concepts larger than themselves.

Let's look for a moment at the characters on "The Walking Dead" then. Rick and Shane clearly have a poor man's version of Jack and Locke going where Rick represents morality and Shane represents the sheer desire to survive. They're actually kind of analogous to Piggy and Jack from Lord of the Flies (another classic that "Lost" drew from) as well. Daryl is a Sawyerian wild card as well. Carl represents the old word and how it can potentially be corrupted by this new one. Carol is the capital "M" Mother (and a shitty one at that, mind you). Andrea is a Juliet or Kate-modeled "tough chick." Dale is Rose and Bernard or the wizened elder whose intellectualism is of little use in this new world of physicality. And Glenn? Well Glenn just rocks. Keep doing what you do, dude.

"Lost" was a critical darling from moment one, and while that enthusiasm waned in later years, the reasoning behind it was never "the characters aren't vividly crafted enough."

The more I think about it the more "The Walking Dead" and "Lost" are similar. TWD has replaced "Lost" as the show that people continue to bitch about but refuse to stop watching. They both feature archetypical characters reacting to supernatural events and they both feature a fair share of mysteries. The mysteries on "Lost" are well known and numerous but TWD is building up an impressive roster of them with Merle's disappearance, Jenner's words to Rick and oh year, WHY ARE THE DEAD WALKING THE EARTH?

Anywho, I've prattled on too long. Let me know how wrong or right I am in the comments section.

P.S. SPOILER ALERT. While my brother and I were watching the midseason finale of TWD, my mom was upstairs watching an episode of "The Next Iron Chef" on Food Network. She came down afterward.

Mom: "They chopped Chef Samuelson on 'The Next Iron Chef.'"

Me: "A little girl got shot in the face on 'The Walking Dead.'"

Mom: "Oh. I guess your news is worse."

P.P.S. I started reading the "Walking Dead" comic books recently and...oh man, I don't know if I could possibly hate them more. All I can say is that if there are any fanboys out there who say the show is ruining the book's richly drawn characters, they need to go to a hospital immediately and have the 4 lb. tumor of stupid removed from their brain.

Gimme Some Rope, Tie Me to Dream

"Community" isn't my TV favorite comedy of all time. "Arrested Development" is unquestionably more brilliant. "Scrubs" cracked the "goofy-group-of-strangers-as-family" code far earlier and more effectively than "Community." Hell, I don't even think "Community" is the best comedy currently on television. "Parks and Recreation" probably has the crown. But even "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" has been more consistent. "Sunny's" FX mates, Archer and Louie would also ultimately finish ahead of "Community" in a top ten list for me (and that top ten is probably coming later this year, by the way).

But since you're observant reader, you notice that I'm not writing about any of those shows right now. I'm writing about "Community." Part of that is due to some unfortunate timing. NBC in its infinite wisdom, struck "Community" from its midseason schedule. The show will probably be able to finish out its excellent third season but its long-term prospects with the peacock don't look as sunny. So I felt compelled to write a little about network TV's strangest experiment beyond the obligatory #savecommunity and #sixseasonsandamovie hashtag. The other reason for this post, however, is just that it's overdue.

I got a little bored this finals week so instead of studying for finals I watched the most recent episode, "Documentary Filmmaking: Redux," three times. Every time I marvel at its absolute ridiculousness as Greendale College's becomes an ambiguously gay Francis Ford Coppola/Martin Sheen/Colonel Kurtz hybrid monster while directing a commercial for the school. I enjoyed it so much that I thought I would try to fit it into my own personal pantheon of great "Community" episodes. And as I researched past episodes, I realized just how many truly great episodes of TV "Community" has produced.

While "Community" would probably not ultimately crack a top ten list of my favorite TV comedies, if I were to make a list of my favorite comedic episodes ever I would have a hard time finding room for anything that WASN'T "Community." I don't what it is about Dan Harmon's creation that lends it to such brilliant individual episodes that transcend the possibilities of his show's own framework and the expectations of network television in general. The simple answer might be that "Community" swings for the fences in certain high-concept episodes like "Modern Warfare" and "Epidemiology." But my eventual top ten list doesn't feature those episodes. It actually features as many "normal" episodes as it does high-concept ones. So, no, I don't get why Community has been able to kick so much ass in certain episodes but I'm certainly not complaining. Here is my full list. Let me know what I got wrong in the comments section.

10. Physical Education

There is a moment at the end of this episode that encapsulates modern culture more than anything else I've ever seen. Jeff Winger is in love with billiards. But his old school phys-ed coach dismisses his skills because he is too enthralled with the style of the "sport," jeans, leather jackets and a Winger-ian grin. So the climax involves Winger challengers his teacher to a game while wearing the customary gym shorts and t-shirt. But the coach still thinks that Winger is still somehow creating some sort of ironic fashion statement so the two men strip down to nothing and battle like B.C. Greco-Roman wrestlers. The scene of two naked men playing billiards says more about style vs. substance (a.k.a. the chief bugaboo of hipster culture) than anything I've ever seen.

9. Cooperative Caligraphy

This is the bottle episode that a character (Abed, who else) openly acknowledges that it's a bottle episode. Every group needs an Abed who fully understands that reality is just a farce and is only meaningful when every aspect of your existence can be repackaged into several seasons of 18-24 episodes each. Also: Annie's Boobs.

8. Advanced Dungeons and Dragons

This is kind of the antithesis to the Christmas episode where the group remains in a room and we get to see where their imaginations go. In this episode, the group remains in the room and we don't follow their imaginative paths of claymation whimsy. But somehow the stakes are incredibly higher. Actually, that's the part that I like about this episode. The writers establish from the first scene that the stakes are nothing short of the death of a peripheral character. And somehow it's not absurd in the slightest. It's the world most intense game of D&D ever where the group playing actually doesn't really care about D&D. It's also a testament to the sheer power of dialog.

7. Conspiracy Theories and Interior Design

I have no deep philosophical interpretation of this episode. Because blanket fort.

6. For a Few Paintballs More

You know what really bugs me? When "The Incredibles" is classified as a comedy. Look, I know it's a cartoon and I know it's pretty funny but "The Incredibles" is nothing short of the best action film of the past decade. I feel the same way about all the "Community" paintball episodes, especially "For a Few Paintballs More." Of course, there are a lot of ridiculous elements in "For a Few Paintballs Mores." chief among them the fact that there is a school-wide paintball war. But that doesn't change the fact that it is just straight badass. Abed-as-Han-Solo making out with Annie as orange paint rains down upon them is a stunningly beautiful shot. And the final story of Pierce's redemption of Greendale's triumph is actually quite thrilling. It would have made an excellent series finale but it also wouldn't have brought us episodes like...

5. Documentary Filmmaking: Redux

So this is where this episode ends up in the pantheon. Everything about this one is just genius. Annie's stockholm syndrome. Jeff "becoming" a bald man, Greendale's most famous alum, Luis Guzman, coming home. But it would amount to nothing without Jim Rash's weirdly incredibly layered performance as Dean Pelton. Every time I've watched this I've started laughing once he turns up with a gravelly voice and hoodie and no shirt, and don't stop laughing until the final frame of the episode.

4. Contemporary American Poultry

This is the moment I knew "Community" was a show for me. Only a show as warped as this one could pull off such a flawless parody of a 21-year-old mob movie and American classic this effectively. Given the option of watching this episode or "Goodfellas," I would almost always watch this episode. It all wouldn't matter, however, without that final tender scene with Jeff and Abed. The U.S Autism and Aspberger Association really needs to send Dan Harmon some kind of award.

3. Remedial Chaos Theory

This is the crown-jewel of season three so far. Wired's recent (and excellent) profile of Dan Harmon reveals just how much effort and thought he and the writing staff put into each episode. Harmon even creates little circles for each character's arc for every episode. Per Wired:

Harmon calls his circles embryos—they contain all the elements needed for a satisfying story—and he uses them to map out nearly every turn on Community, from throwaway gags to entire seasons. If a plot doesn’t follow these steps, the embryo is invalid, and he starts over. To this day, Harmon still studies each film and TV show he watches, searching for his algorithm underneath, checking to see if the theory is airtight. “I can’t not see that circle,” he says. “It’s tattooed on my brain.”

That must mean that for this episode, Harmon created 49 circles for seven characters in seven timelines. That kind of effort for a half-hour network sitcom that only 3.5 million people regularly watch is astounding. Of course, it would mean nothing if the effort sucked. Each timeline brilliantly and usually quite accurately shows the results of what happens when a particular member of a group is absent, even if for only two minutes. That the story reaches a satisfying and total conclusion with seven different stories set in different universes is astonishing. Also, it's just damn funny.

2. Mixology Certification

"You were talking about the same bar?!?!?!" See: "Physical Education", "commenting on hipster culture."

1. Critical Film Studies

"Conversation was invented by humans to conceal reality. We use it to sweet talk away around natural selection."

When I saw NBC advertising for the "Pulp Fiction" episode of "Community," I was positive that it would be my favorite episode ever. It ended up being my favorite episode ever but it had almost nothing to do with "Pulp Fiction," and it's all because of several scenes of dialog that contain no score and almost no jokes. Abed convinces Jeff that he got to be an extra on the set of his favorite show "Cougar Town." While filming he developed an alter-ego named Chet and immediately constructed an entire life story for Chet. But once filming is done, Abed's reality is thrown into crisis. How can Chet still be if filming stops...and conversely, how could Abed ever be is all Abed cares about is television and all television shows one day stop filming. So Abed becomes Chet. Chet and Jeff have a conversation in which Jeff gets into some deep shit. Jeff feels like he has gotten a huge emotional weight off of his chest but of course it turns out that Abed was only "doing" another movie, this time a scene form "My Dinner with Andre." Jeff feels betrayed and viciously attacks Abed for his inability to connect with another human being without the context of pop culture. I watch this scene all the time now because I very much identify with Abed. And now that we live in a time where we can watch pretty much whatever we want, whenever we want, I think more and more people are beginning to identify with Abed. So is that time that we spend in front of the television or computer screen real? Can it be a shared experience for communities to interact with, or is it just indulging meaningless fantasies that are only robbing us of our time here on earth? And if we have a meaningful experience with someone else with pop culture as the basis, does it demean or degrade it? These are some of the most fascinating questions we can ask ourselves in this era of media saturation and I will always pinpoint those two quiet scenes with two characters at a restaurant as the moment that society finally asked those questions in the most eloquent, entertaining and ultimately most meta way possible.

May the Black Turtleneck Retire to the Rafters of Our Apple-Shaped Hearts

Image via Jonathan Mark

I just wrote 500 words on the death of Steve Jobs. Then I deleted them.

God, they sucked, they just sucked. I don't know where I wanted to take it. I suppose it was a eulogy of sorts. But I didn't know Steve Jobs. Me writing a eulogy for Steve Jobs would be about as illustrative as Steve Jobs writing a eulogy for me.

"Well, his name was Alec Bojalad. Those are some two pretty weird names. I bet people mispronounced them all the time. I'm sure Alec was quite disappointed on those occasions...and ummm...hmm, what else? There is a lot of seemingly homophobic content on his Facebook page. I think he's just joking with his friends but you never know. It's just as likely that he was actually gay I suppose and just had to overcompensate for his feelings with offensive jokes and comments. So...in conclusion: let's all honor Alec Bojalad, a gay youth with a funny name!"

- Steve Jobs writing for The Wall Street Journal

So instead of a eulogy, let's take this opportunity to talk about death, itself.

Wait...where are you all going?

There is a surefire way to tell exactly how important and influential someone is after they die. Measure how long it takes on your social networks and the comment sections you frequent for what I like to call the "what about Africa?" comments to start rolling in. The "what about Africa" comments are pretty much what they sound like. Example (that I made up but you will still probably encounter verbatim sooner or later):

I am getting reall sik (sic) of everybody talking about this (INSERT CELEBRITY/PUBLIC FIGURE HERE) dood. ITS JUST 1 PERSON!!! Dont u kno that there are people dieing in Africa?

At some point this sentiment will constitute 35% of all online interactions regarding Steve Jobs' death. We will measure just how valued Steve Jobs was to planet Earth based on how long it takes to get to that 35%. In Jobs' case, I imagine it's going to be quite a while.

I feel confident in this assessment, but I am still trying to reconcile how I feel about the "what about Africa?" crowd. I have always reacted to celebrity deaths. I don't want to say reacted "strongly" because I don't really react strongly to anything (seriously, ask my poor girlfriend). But the deaths of pretty, successful famous strangers have always stuck in my mind much longer and more prominently than the deaths of millions upon millions of non-famous anonymous individuals.

I am not entirely sure why this is the case. The best I can figure is that it's because I am so plugged into pop culture and become so attached to the characters and personas they portray. And any good artist should be able to become a mirror for his or her audience. In the case of non-actors or artists, it can be sobering to have one significant case of a talented and capable individual still succumbing to the inevitable. So essentially when I see that Heath Ledger died I think "William in A Knight's Tale was just like me and now he's dead. Oh God, I'm next." And when I see that Steve Jobs died I think "He was way, way, way, way better and more important than I'll ever be and he still died. Christ, there's no escaping it, is there?"

It is a quite narcissistic worldview and I do feel some measure of guilt when I come up against the "what about Africa?" folks. I don't know what the demographic of this group is but I would guess that they've spent a lot less time watching TV than I have. I also suspect, however, that they are not that different from me.

Everyone fears their own demise (except for Jedi, of course, Jedi fear nothing). And everyone obsesses over this fear first and foremost through the deaths of others. We all obsess and despair over the deaths of others we know...but after that we split into those two camps: those who first and foremost mourn the loss of the well known people they've never met and those who mourn the loss of little known people they've never met.

So when the "what about Africa?" folks feel that enough time has passed to start drawing people's attention away from Steve Jobs to the rest of the suffering world, let them, "celebrity death" folks. And be patient with the "celebrity death" people for now, "what about Africa?" homies - they are just trying to come to grips with their own eventual demise...just like you will be soon enough. There is no sense in fighting each other over what amounts to the only common fear you both share.

After all, a wise man once said that "remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose."

Who was that? Oh, right.

One last note.

You've probably seen this image by now.

In my opinion, it is one of the lulziest moments in the history of the internet but it also represents the moment where we finally just have to break up with the Westboro Baptist Church. I know we've all had fun being outraged by these people but this might be their biggest stretch yet. At this point they're going to picket Fred Phelps funeral after he dies (that has to be coming up soon, right?)

So can we all agree to just ignore them? Finally? Please? Pretty pretty please? And ignore is not even a strong enough word. Megan Phelps and company would probably enjoy being ignored. What we all need to do is agree, as a global society that they just don't exist.

Nobody talk to the Phelps, nobody talk about the Phelps. They do not register in our visual or auditory spectrums anymore. Even if they exist, in theory, it is only some sort of alternate dimension that no known human sense has access to.

If they are at your own mother's funeral, three inches in your face - screaming about the status of her soul- you do not hear that. If the spit from their mouths fly into your eyes, do not wipe them out, even if it stings. There is no spit in your eye because the Westboro Baptist Church doesn't exist.

If you are at a food court in a Kansas mall and Fred Phelps, himself, stands over you and rests his penis on your shoulder, do not call the cops. Do not react. Do not do anything but continue to eat your high-sodium food. Fred Phelps doesn't exist.

The media will not cover the Westboro Baptist Church, the federal government will shred their birth certificates. The Westboro Baptist Church will not exist. And then...maybe then we can have a god damn funeral in peace.

Too Late, Too Early, Right on Time

I think I speak for all of us when I say that critics completely represent my views in their totality regarding every movie, TV show, album, song or book I've ever seen.

Now that I can hear all of your collective Vader-like screams of "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I've realized that I may be in the minority on this. Oh well.

Anywho, I am one of eleven people on the planet who still values critical consensus as a legitimate measure of something's quality (along with box office gross and number of fart jokes), so I spend an inordinate amount of time analyzing what goes into creating that consensus. And here is my controversial finding: there is always a consensus.

The internet has time and time again that all critics not named "Armond White" have generally the same opinions and thoughts regarding what they're reviewing. Now that your "NOOO!" scream has died out, I can hear your exasperated sigh: "Come on now, Alec, that can't be true. I just googled 'Rotten Tomatoes 50% scores' and see that Tron Legacy split critical opinion almost exactly with 110 critics recommending the film and 111 critics not."

It is true that some films, TV shows and albums receive mixed reviews, but if you just glance over to the right of Tron Legacy you will see that under "critical consensus" the Rotten Tomatoes editors have written:

Tron Legacy boasts dazzling visuals, but its human characters and story get lost amidst its state-of-the-art production design.

That is what the critics have (correctly) declared Tron Legacy to be. They have come to the consensus over exactly what kind of film Tron Legacy is....and half of them think that that makes it a film worthy of your time and money, while the other half would probably have you seek out more sophisticated fare.

There will never be a day when every critic in the country comes to a wildly different conclusion over a piece of art. Owen Glieberman at EW is not going to interpret Tron Legacy as an allegory of the working class's uprisings in 1930's Ukraine while Roger Ebert sees it as a shot for shot remake of Freddy Got Fingered. There will almost always be a general consensus.

Now what I want to know is how often these consensuses are correct....and by "correct," I mean "in line with what I think." I believe, for the most part, they are but, in the case of serialized entertainment (TV shows with multiple seasons and to a lesser extent albums from pop artists) not always at the right time.

Let me explain. Critics will come to consensus regarding something's quality but not at the exact right moment that they are trying to pinpoint. This means declaring that a show is the best show on TV during season three...when it really earned that title in season two. Or it means calling a band's first album a once-in-a-lifetime achievement, only to have that band top it handily on their second attempt.

So I've compiled a little list of TV shows and musicians who critics have been too late, too early or right on time in their collective opinions of. I am not tackling movies, yet because unless they are part of a series critical consensus is reached once and rarely changes over time.

MUSIC

Too Late: Fucked Up

Album #2 - The Chemistry of Common Life, Meta Critic Score - 85

Album #3 - David Comes to Life, Meta Critic Score - 86

Why critics were too late: I'm actually listening to David Comes to Life as I write this and it was my inspiration for writing this post. I love David Comes to Life and I think it will end up being my favorite album of 2011 (at least until I hear this shit). But I must admit to being a little taken aback by the critical response. In my opinion, music critics are correct in asserting that David Comes to Life is Fucked Up's best album, but I think they are exaggerating the band's supposed transformation into an indie force to be reckoned with. David Comes to Life isn't Fucked Up's big coming out party because 2008's The Chemistry of Common Life already was.

Too Early: Arcade Fire

Album #1 - Funeral, Meta Critic Score - 90

Album #2 - Neon Bible, Meta Critic Score - 87

Why critics were too early: Oh boy. Let's tread carefully here because if I don't say what I'm about to say as delicately as possible, I may be cast out of pop culture journalism forever. Funeral is a great album but Neon Bible is better...and so is The Suburbs. When something so fresh and exciting bursts onto the scene I know it can be hard to temper one's enthusiasm. Funeral is an undeniably wonderful and even whimsical introduction to one of humankind's great bands. But it sounds just like that: an introduction. It doesn't sound as sharp as I think Win Butler and Co.wanted them to be. Neon Bible and The Suburbs feel more like the official Arcade Fire business cards that all 9,238 of their members would be happy to hand out at some social engagement. If Neon Bible, Funeral and The Suburbs all came out at the same time, what would critics say was the best? The correct answer is anything but Funeral. But music critics had already exhausted every superlative in their thesaurus by the time Neon Bible came out that it just felt redundant to call it genius again.

Right on Time: Kanye West

Albums #1-4 - Average Meta Critic Score - 82

Album #5 - My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Average Meta Critic Score - 94

Why critics were right on time: Here is kind of the opposite example of Arcade Fire. Critics could have called any Kanye album leading up to Fantasy his seminal work and a touchstone of modern hip hop. And indeed many of them did, but one gets the sense that most critics were holding out for that one last bit to click in place, the place where Kanye's ego, talent and current emotional status all combine into one molotov cocktail of pure amazing. When that moment came along in the guise of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, critics finally let loose their unadulterated enthusiasm for both the album and Kanye's decade of sustained excellence.

TELEVISION

Too Late: Breaking Bad

Season 2 Meta Critic Score: 85

Season 3 Meta Critic Score: 89

Why critics were too late: As things stand right now, Breaking Bad is the best show on TV (or at the very least the best drama on TV). And to television critic's credit, the general consensus recognizes this. Unfortunately, it took the critical mass one season too long to come to this conclusion. Even Alan Sepinwall, who is the finest television critic in the history of the medium argues that season three is where Breaking Bad is inducted into the TV pantheon. But Breaking Bad didn't make the jump in season two, as the current critical narrative suggest, but rather in season two. The two seasons are at least on equal footing but in my mind, season two even surpasses its more popular follow-up. Season three is a testament to creator Vince Gilligan's improvisational skill, moving along at a natural and exciting pace like a excellent jazz composition that just happened to be punctuated with several murders. But season two is a more complete and consistent vision in which every possible moment connects to every other moment in impossibly complex and emotionally devastating ways. I guess what I'm saying is that you should watch Breaking Bad.

Too Early: Lost

Season 4 Meta Critic Score: 87

Season 5 Meta Critic Score: 78

Why critics were too early: I wish Meta Critic had scores for Lost season 1 because I'm certain they would be in the 90s. I know it might be hard to remember now but Lost was one of the "buzziest" shows of all time. Critics were so intoxicated with the shows zeitgeist potential that they were tripping over themselves to declare it one of network's TV's finest triumphs. Then in subsequent seasons (particularly following season 3) Lost actually became network TV's finest triumphs, to which the critics responded "y r yooo foggots stil watching that gay show?!!?!>!!1" Ok, maybe that response isn't just from the critics but that is what many of them were articulating, only with better grammar. See, the early response to Lost wasn't just over what J.J Abrams, Damon Lindelof and Co. were producing onscreen but also for the potential of what might be onscreen later on in the show's run. Now I would argue that once Lost had an end date set, the show's quality skyrocketed as the writers could move from "potential" to "substance." And that substance included three seasons of pure sci-fi genius. Unfortunately, the fact that there was any sort of substance or resolution began to drag down Lost's critical consensus because they preferred the resolutions in their minds to the resolutions that Lost had finally committed to film. Season 5 of Lost is one of the 10 best TV seasons of the past 10 years...and it also has the lowest Meta Critic ranking of anything on this page.

Right on Time: Justified

Season 1 Meta Critic Score: 81

Season 2 Meta Critic Score: 91

Why critics were right on time: I'll make a confession here: I've not watched season 1 of Justified all the way through. It's definitely a good season of TV but when I sat down to watch it my dance card was already full of shows demanding my attention and Justified was only politely asking my attention, not grabbing my eyeballs and stapling them to my laptop. Then I sat down to review season two for the Post. Consider my eyes stapled from that moment on. The jump in quality from season one to season two of Justifed is the first time I can remember reading about the concept of the "jump" in critical essays. And they were completely, ahem, Justified.

So now I turn it over to you, friends and countrymen. What shows, music artists and maybe even film directors did critical consensus get right too late, too early or right on time?

Saint Rebecca

I think we all knew a second Rebecca Black single was coming.

And just as surely, I'm sure we all had our own expectations. I had only two wishes for what Ms. Black would churn out with song number two...only two possible scenarios I wanted to see.

Scenario #1 was that the song would be good. And I mean really good. I wanted both pop cultural critics and classical musical scholars to be in full agreement that it was one of the finest original compositions a human being has ever come up with. Children 500 years in the future would play "My Moment" at piano recitals instead of Beethoven's Fifth. No one would be able to hear it without immediately bursting into tears, having become suddenly aware of their own humanity in an unprecedented way.

Why did I want this? Why not. At some point, something has to come along that will change the course of music forever and it might as well come from the least likeliest source we're aware of. I am willing to concede, however, that this was not the most realistic desire on my part.

So I came up with Scenario #2. I wanted Rebecca to show us in some way, any way, that she was now in on the joke. The general gist of "My Moment" (I swear to God I originally wrote "My Struggle" on the first two references of the song) would be "Haha, yeah I get it. Friday was pretty bad. Now here's another pretty bad song that you kids with your tight-ass jeans can dance to ironically."

In hindsight, I guess maybe Scenario #1 would have been more likely.

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There is no self-awareness in "My Moment," nor is there much quality to speak of. But it does have a quality that makes me want to revise my initial expectations. It's optimistic.

Rebecca Black released one of the worst songs of the Internet era. She then spent about half a year being told that she had released one of the worst songs of the Internet era. She was humiliated through every possible form of media, went through a protracted legal battle for her earnings off the song and even received death threats (although it should be noted that death threats may be the most common forms of internet censure).

So what does she do? She releases a song celebrating her "moment." We as a society spent six months raping this 13-year-old girl's soul and she essentially says "Thanks, guys! It's awesome to have y'all as fans."

I can't tell if this is courageous or just youthful naivety but I do know that, whatever it is, I plan on encouraging it. It is a rare feat to stare directly into the black heart of the Internet and still come away with a cheerful disposition. It is as impressive as Jesus facing temptation in the desert and still going to the cross. But damn it all if Rebecca doesn't pull it off.

Rebecca Black began her "career" as a social experiment of sorts. Is it possible to gain fame for something objectively awful? Having proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the answer is "yes," Rebecca deserves a continuation on this social experiment. I propose that we see if its possible to sustain someone's career in a field in which they clearly have no talent. We all know the answer is "yes" thanks to this:

The only question is if our appreciation for this girl's tenacity in following her dreams will equal our fascination with drunken fist-bumping lunatics.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, Rebecca.

Goodnight, Sweet Half-Blood Prince

I'd like to share a quote with you. It's from Stephen King, one of the very few literary (if you are scoffing at the words "Stephen King" and "literary" appearing in the same sentence then you may not be the target audience for this post) icons bigger than the subject of this post. It's from his novella The Body, which was later adapted into Rob Reiner's Stand By Me.

"The most important things are the hardest to say because words diminish them."

It's always been one of my favorite quotes but I'm not entirely sure it should be. I've always considered myself a writer (and if you're scoffing at the concepts of "Alec Bojalad" and "writer," then you are definitely not the target audience for this post) and have subsequently felt a certain amount of guilt for holding that quote so highly.

Words shouldn't diminish the most important things. All I have ever wanted to do with my career and my life is to capture what's important with words, to explain it and to catalogue it. But more often than I'd like, I cannot. This is one of those moments.

In The Body, King's character is trying to explain why seeing a doe amongst the rising sun and dew of a new morning was important. I suppose this is a very difficult thing to communicate to someone - why an early morning encounter with nature can be the very moment that your whole life hinges on.

In my case, however, communicating why Harry Potter is important to me feels like it should be so much easier.

Harry Potter may very well be the biggest cultural "thing" ever. In a time where books should be huge, Harry Potter was. Hell, in a time of constantly fracturing cultural interests, nothing should be this huge, but this was.

The Harry Potter brand is worth $15 billion worldwide. That's means everybody on the planet could have conceivably paid more than $2 on some sort of Harry Potter product. J.K Rowling makes $1 million a week from Harry Potter. Harry Potter has invaded every aspect of culture. Almost everybody in English-speaking societies has a basic concept of who "Harry Potter" is.

So yes, Harry Potter is clearly important...far more important that a damn doe standing alert in the rising sun. Still, my words can only continue to fail me.

Every morning I take the subway into work. And every morning I will inevitably glimpse an ad with Harry, Ron and Hermione standing in front of a pile of rubble that was once Hogwarts with the words below them declaring "It All Ends - July 15." And I can't quite communicate what that feels like. It's like Warner Brothers bought an ad to remind me every morning that a close friend of mine will be dying in mid-July. I have an almost scandalized reaction. It seems reckless on Warner Brother's part and just downright mean.

Obviously, Harry Potter won't be dying then. But the era of my life in which there was always another outing with Potter and Company will be ceasing.

I'm not the first to say that July 15 marks the end of my childhood. I'm almost wary to use that phrase because it lends credence to the prevailing notion that Harry Potter is a children's franchise (at the very latest, it stopped being that when an evil sorcerer was brought back from ghost-like state in a ritual bordering on satanic but not before murdering a teenager). Harry Potter became an adult series, but I remained a child throughout.

When I read the first book, I was 9 years old and Harry was 11. When I saw the first movie, we were both 11. When I read the final book, we were both 17. And now Harry has stayed 17 for nearly four years as I've advanced to the uncomfortably ancient age of 21.

From age 9 to age 21, I, and my generation, had the world's most real imaginary friend to grow with...to brave the awkwardness of puberty with, to learn about the inherent injustices of the world with and to figure out just how we would ever reconcile the inconsistencies of what our parents and teachers taught us.

Now, I see "It all ends," and I'm faced with a horrifying notion. It's not horrifying that Harry Potter is ending, it's horrifying that I'm not. The students of the Hogwarts class of '98 are crystalized in a perpetual moment of triumph, defeat over evil and, in Harry's case, defeat over death. They all froze at the same moment and I found that I could still move my limbs. They won their war and then I realized that someone had to clear all of the bodies out of the Great Hall.

I suppose this realization should have hit me in 2007, when the series actually, you know, ended. There was a tremendous feeling of emotional catharsis when I closed the Deathly Hallows, but part of me was aware that I was still living in the era of "Active Potter." Somewhere in Scotland the wheels were still turning on the franchise, and it's a credit to the team behind the films that I considered the series to not quite be finished yet. But now as Warner Brothers continues to remind me, it really, really is ending.

I'm not going to the midnight release. The logistics of it finding which theater to go to while in a foreign land (the locals call it "New Jurrzee," I believe) were difficult. For something so monumental I know I could have figured it out. I've not missed a midnight release of a movie since Goblet of Fire and I haven't missed a midnight release of a book since Order of the Phoenix but I'm going to be missing this one.

I wanted to make it a special experience but nothing felt grand enough. A midnight release was fine for a middle chapter but for the end...? The only way to pay the series its due in symbolic fashion would be to fly to Scotland, identify the exact spot Hogwarts would sit on if it did exist, and set up a projection to watch the movie with everybody who's ever been important to me, living and dead.

That didn't work out.

So sometime this weekend or early next week I will sneak into a screening by myself. I'll marvel at the Dark Knight Rises trailer, finish 3/4 of my popcorn before the movie starts and have a religious experience. Once the movie is over, I will exit the theater. I might keep walking to my car, or I might take a moment to lean up against a wall.

Undoubtedly something important will have just happened and I will put it into words. And those words will diminish more than half a lifetime spent at Hogwarts.

Super (H)8(er)

Some things become are such obvious slam dunks that there is no question they will somehow be messed up.

Imagine, if you will, that a basketball player knocks a pass from the opposing team towards his own basket around the free throw line (those who know nothing about sports may want to skip a paragraph or two). He takes off in a dead run, gets control of the ball around mid court and is dribbling full speed towards his own basket, with no one remotely close to him. He knows he's going to dunk it - there's really no other option.

But as you're watching this, you just have this gut feeling that he'll miss the dunk. It's too easy. Athletes thrive on adversity and there is no adversity in a fastbreak dunk. He'll start to think about what will happen if he misses the dunk. What will his excuse be? That he was too open? So what does end up happening? I don't know. Let's ask Ron Artest.

Sometimes slam dunks are just too obvious. And that's exactly how I feel about Super 8.

Look, I know Super 8 came out roughly 328 years ago (in pop culture time) but humor me and just hop in the Delorean all the way back to June 10 so we can pretend this post is still relevant.

Until Roman Polanski makes a movie about child molestation, there will never be a more perfect coupling than J.J. Abrams and a Spielbergian monster movie dripping in nostalgia. Almost everything Abrams has been involved in up to this point has been screaming that he wants to do this movie.

The first half of Lost season one (one of the very few times Abrams was actually closely involved with the show) plays kind of like Super 8-lite. There are adults and children dealing with their familial issues while the supernatural plays out in the background. The supernatural isn't the foci of the drama, it's merely the impetus.

During Abrams 2007 "Mystery Box" presentation to the TED Conference, he spoke of why Jaws is one of the best movies ever (fastforward to 9:08 in the video)

He said it's not because of the suspense or the terror of a massive, prehistoric shark. It's because Spielberg knows how to insert one scene between father and son that establishes that everything on the screen matters. There is a very fine line for cinematic characters between human being and shark chum, and Abrams clearly gets that.

Abrams understands everything he says in that TED Conference both intellectually and emotionally. And he's proven it he knows how to demonstrate that in summer movies like Mission Impossible 3 and Star Trek.

J.J. Abrams not only respects and loves Steven Spielberg's work but he understands it. He's the one man in the world who would not only want to recreate E.T more than anyone but he's also probably the only person who could.

So does it work? Do you need me to post the Ron Artest clip again? No, of course it doesn't work. How could it? Super 8 is far too close its own filmmaker's comfort zone to do or say anything meaningful or affecting.

It looks like a J.J. Abrams movie, which is to say quite visually impressive (I don't even mind the lens flare). The acting is very good, and in the case of Elle Fanning spine-tingling good. The action is solid, and the creature in question is actually quite an interesting creation. The script isn't even overly terrible, despite some awkward dialogue.

But despite every reason why it should, Super 8 just doesn't work. The emotional arcs don't hit. And it might be because we know they're just that: arcs. It feels pre-determined and false. Abrams may have gotten both emotional storytelling down to such a science that it comes across as predictably scientific and cold.

To a certain extent, all characters in summer blockbusters and Abrams' movies are loosely drawn archetypes. But Super 8, which is so invested in nostalgia, should not rely as heavily on archetypes and outright cliche as it sometimes does.

Super 8 couldn't possibly fail and that's why it predictably did. J.J. Abrams was in complete control of the ball in Super 8. Every possible aspect was pointing to a slam dunk and he clanged it off the rim. He'll bounce back, presumably when his hero isn't looking over his shoulder as a producer. It's easier to slam home that dunk when your girlfriend isn't watching from the stands.

Until then, here are more missed dunks.