F. Scott Fitzgerald and His Critique of the American Dream

The following paper is a bit of a milestone of mine, as it is the last academic paper of my undergraduate career. Be that as it may, it is by no means a work of genius, nor is it my best paper (at least by my account). In any case, if you happen to be a hardcore Fitzgerald fan such as myself, or even have an interest in that grand old American myth known as the American Dream, this paper is for you.

F. Scott Fitzgerald and His Critique of the American Dream

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s earlier fiction, the short stories “Dalyrimple Goes Wrong” and “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” critique, among other things, the abuse of wealth throughout American history, and the effect that this flagrant abuse of wealth has had on the fabled American dream. As this paper will go on to prove, F. Scott Fitzgerald asserts that the abuse of wealth in the United States has, rather ironically, soiled the idea that in America, everyone who comes to its shores, works hard, and makes sacrifices can be successful beyond his or her wildest dreams. He accomplishes this feat through the showcasing of the exploits of the Washington family in the more relevant of the two stories, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” and the crushing disillusionment of Bryan Dalyrimple in one of his least critiqued short stories, “Dalyrimple Goes Wrong.” In them, both sets of characters come to see wealth at its absolute worst, with the young veteran Dalyrimple coming to see wealth in a rather Marxist light, in that it is a source of inequality, while the Washington family, particularly its patriarch, Braddock Washington, falls under the spell of its nigh infinite wealth and believes to the utmost ridiculously degree that money can, indeed, solve anything.

The thing is however, the entire argument of this paper hinges upon what the definition of the American dream actually is, and how, over the decades, it has actually been defined. For if indeed the American dream really is just the acquisition of vast sums of material wealth through hard work, then, well, the Washington family has, by definition, achieved the American dream to its highest possible culmination. Of course, in that regard, Bryan Dalyrimple’s story is slightly different. He does not, by the story’s end, achieve vast stockpiles of material wealth, but he does acquire another quality attributed to the realization of the American dream: political power. With this fate as his story’s end result, and after his, albeit short-lived, fame as a battle-hardened war veteran, then surely Bryan Dalyrimple has also achieved the mysterious phenomena known as the American dream. But, did he and the Washington family really do it? Did they really achieve the spirit of that age-old, red-white-and-blue institution, the American dream?

Well, according to Jim Cullen, author of The American Dream, and his quoting of James Truslow Adams, a 1930s historian of American history who allegedly first coined the phrase itself, “‘[the] American dream [is] a better, richer, and happier life for all out citizens of every rank, which is the greatest contribution we have made to the thought and welfare of the world’” (Cullen, 4). Of course, the Washingtons are no doubt ‘rich’ (and arguably ‘better’ if one counts being ‘rich’ as being ‘better’), but are they ‘happy’? What about Bryan Dalyrimple? Is he ‘happy’? He certainly wields great political power by the end of his story, and he will also undoubtedly acquire a nice sum of wealth from his terms in the state senate. However, do these things ultimately make him ‘better’? Will these things ultimately make him ‘happy’? Such questions though only lead to more ambiguities. As Cullen goes on to state, quoting Adams once again and chiming in his own opinion, “‘[the] dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for every man’ may be fine as far as it goes, but the devil is in the details: just what does ‘better and richer and fuller’ mean?” (Cullen, 7).

This is a quite a relevant notion, to be sure, as concretely defining these terms is what holds the ultimate insight of this paper. For, as Cullen continues onward in his very next paragraph, “The answers vary. Sometimes ‘better and richer and fuller’ is defined in terms of money -- in the contemporary United States, one could almost believe this is the only definition -- but there are others. Religious transformation, political reform, educational attainment, sexual expression: the list is endless” (Cullen, 7; first emphasis mine). Such a conclusion only goes on to show that, overall, Bryan Dalyrimple and Braddock Washington only achieve one small part of the picture, and that their wealth and power only count for success in a portion of the American dream, and not all of it, as they may have thought. (Although in all honesty, I do not believe, at any point in either text, the characters explicitly mention the American dream). In this particular case however, as mentioned before, the question becomes: have Bryan and Braddock fulfilled the American dream, and if so, has this made them ‘happy’? Or rather, is the culmination of vast wealth and power truly the American dream, and will this culmination, once reached, make you ‘happy’ as the American dream, at its root, so dearly promises?

For the first possible answer to that burning question, one must look to one of Fitzgerald’s most neglected short stories, “Dalyrimple Goes Wrong.” In it, the audience finds a soon-to-be disillusioned war veteran, Bryan Dalyrimple, and the immense psychological upheaval he experiences at the moment of his disillusion, as well as its eventual consequences. Differentiating greatly from the tale of infinite excess in “Diamond,” “Dalyrimple” is essentially a tale of too little, with its main character, Bryan, working a long and boring dead-end grocery job for much, much longer than he intended, and then finding out, through sheer happenstance, that one of his fellow employees, a newer worker and the grocery owner’s relative, is already earning a higher wage than he is, even though Bryan is the senior worker (“Dalyrimple,” 9).

This, of course, sends Dalyrimple into a passionate rage, as he is angered over the inequality of his workplace and the idea that he has been pushed around and bullied by the establishment long enough. In essence, he is angry that he never quite got his fair share, or rather, that his fame in coming home from the war simply did not last. As Robert Merill offers in his article, “‘Dalyrimple Goes Wrong’: The Best of the Neglected Early Stories,” “Fitzgerald makes it clear that celebrating war heroes is a ritualistic gesture with virtually no real meaning to an American public that has no conception of what war is like” (Merill, 28; emphasis mine).

In other words, as Dalyrimple begins to realize that he really is just another person, no one out of the ordinary, he begins to feel as though not only is he under appreciated, but that the American dream, the idea responsible for his fame as a war hero, has failed him in some way, and failed him horribly. And so, like any other do-it-yourself American, he decides to make up his own dream. As Fitzgerald himself states:

He was more than Byronic now: not the spiritual rebel, Don Juan; not the philosophical rebel, Faust; but a new psychological rebel of his own century -- defying the sentimental a priori forms of his own mind -- (“Dalyrimple,” 13)

While paying special attention to the very next sentence in the paragraph:

Happiness was what he wanted -- a slowly rising scale of gratifications of the normal appetites -- and he had a strong conviction that the materials, if not the inspiration of happiness, could be bought with money. (“Dalyrimple,” 14)

This proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that not only is Fitzgerald critiquing the American dream within the context of the war hero and how, upon return, they find only fleeting fame, but also that to Dalyrimple, and by proxy, according to Fitzgerald, the American public, believe that happiness, and by extension the American dream, can only be measured in material wealth. That is to say, the richer one is, the happier they must therefore be.

Understandably, this would correctly coincide with Bryan Dalyrimple’s story. He begins the narrative as a popular war veteran who is hailed in his city as a hero, only to find out that his wealth faded with time. Left poor and working a pointless job, as well as feeling entitled to the same level of public spotlight that he had felt when he came home, Dalyrimple asks for a raise, only come to find out that, in fact, he was nowhere near as important as he once thought he was. And so, seeking to fill the void left by his disillusionment, he goes on a crime spree to accumulate wealth, and, in essence, fulfill the American dream he thought had left him. As Robert Merill most succinctly states, “Reasoning thus, Dalyrimple embarks on a series of robberies intended to provide the funds hard work promises never to offer” (Merill, 31).

The thing is though, despite all of what Merrill calls Dalyrimple’s “Zarathustrian rationalizations” (Merrill, 33), he fails to notice what actually happens to his future at the end of the story. Having sought fame, power, and fortune for so long at the expense of his own morality (“Dalyrimple,” 13), Bryan completely fails to realize that in order to finally gain the power that he so desires, he must ultimately turn his back on everything he has worked for in his nightly tirades by becoming a state senator. As Merrill asserts, “Now [that] he is offered what he wants -- money, security, a touch of power -- he will [have to] agree to do the older men’s bidding…In the end all Dalyrimple must do to achieve his goals is give up any pretense to independence” (Merrill, 33). And looking back to our working definitions of the American dream, is a man who cannot control his own fate living out its ideals, regardless of what American dream he holds dear? Is a man who thinks he is happy for living the lifestyle that others wish him to live truly happy? I think not.

Moving on to the second possible answer as to whether or not F. Scott Fitzgerald’s other short story, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” can be said to critique the American dream, well, the answer is an astounding yes. Fitzgerald’s “Diamond” has by far the largest and most condemning critique of the legendary American dream out of all of Fitzgerald’s short fiction, with even some critics, as Lawrence Buell states in his essay, “The Significance of Fantasy in Fitzgerald’s Short Fiction,” “treat[ing] it as a prelude to Gatsby” (Buell, 34). In the story itself, we find the story of a young man named John T. Unger and his precarious adventures involving the Washington family, a family that been subsisting in vast, nearly god-like wealth for the last several generations due to its owning of a diamond that is, quite literally, as big as the Ritz Carlton hotel. Of course, the only way for the Washingtons to hold on to their immense fortune is to keep it a secret and hidden away in a part of Montana “that’s never been surveyed” (“Diamond,” 4) via a series of state-department manipulations on Braddock’s part, and ultimately killing anyone who comes to find out about the diamond itself.

The critiques of the American dream present within “Diamond” should be obvious at this point in the text, considering the blatant display of the themes involved. For one, the idea of being so insanely wealthy that one has to keep it secret flies directly in the face of how wealth is ordinarily perceived in America. As mentioned before, Cullen argues that money is the only definition of success in the United States, and so if your neighbor does not understand how truly wealthy you are, well, then what is the whole point of struggling for wealth anyway? Secondly, the working definition of the American dream, as Truslow Adams first proctored, implied that if one were richer, one would be freer, one would be more fulfilled than if left poor. After reviewing the Washingtons secluded, very secluded, lifestyle, how could one even bare to conclude that the Washingtons are freer than other men? They are not free at all, Braddock Washington being the least free of the whole family. Their wealth has trapped them in the very mountains of their own wealth forever.

The critique of the age-old American institution also manages to manifest itself in other parts of the text as well, as, after all, Buell states once again that, “[Diamond] is his most succinct critique of the American dream” (Buell, 30). Specifically, the narrative style of the story itself is written like a dream, as, to borrow from Buell once again, “the story is narrated in such a way as continually to flaunt its own illusoriness” (Buell, 31). That is to say, what would be a better way for Fitzgerald to narrate a story critiquing the American dream, other than to write the actual story like a dream itself? To use vivid imagery, fantastic details, and surrealist settings is the perfect way to portray a dream, while adding in the Washington family, descended from the first president of America himself, to further secure the image of critiquing one of the most sacred of American cultural institutions in all its history.

There is also the question of arrogance present within the context of vast material wealth to be found in Fitzgerald’s critiques of not only the American dream, but also of vulgar displays of power as well. In the last few pages of “Diamond” for example, the audience is left with a most surreal and terrifying image, the image of a lone and desperate Braddock Washington attempting to bribe God with his riches (“Diamond,” 22-26). This is ultimately what I think Fitzgerald was trying to get at, especially in his later work. He was trying to show that with enough money and enough power, with the American dream, forgive my lack of a better phrase, gone horribly awry, people could develop the kind of arrogance necessary to believe that they, based purely on wealth alone, were equal to that of God himself. It almost sounds out of place, the theme of hubris, in a modern text like this, but like all texts concerning blasphemy, they always manage to somehow find their place.

Being sure to keep this in mind, any observer of Braddock and Bryan can see that neither of the two men are happy, even though they have theoretically acquired all of the essential elements necessary to qualify for the achievement of the American dream. Dalyrimple, for one, is a war hero wielding fame who eventually becomes a state senator with previously no experience in the field whatsoever, while Washington, on the other hand, is immensely rich and related directly to the first president of the United States, not to mention owning a small army of slaves who have no idea that the North won the Civil War. Sure, these men should be happy, the ‘happy’ as defined by Adams and Cullen mentioned earlier, but they are not. They are two of the truest examples of grotesque, broken men.

Although, in light of their existence, what does their critique ultimately say about the state of the American dream? Is it gone now, because of the billionaire capitalists and the corrupt politicians that Bryan and Dalyrimple were so obviously modeled off of, or is it still an actual phenomenon that is attainable by anyone who comes to America, works hard, and makes sacrifices to become successful? Did it, quite terrifyingly, even exist at all? Going back to Cullen’s work, he asserts that, “The problem with the American dream…is not exactly that its corrupt or vain. Indeed the great paradox of The Great Gatsby is that even as Gatsby pursues his dream…through fraud…there is a deeply compelling purity about his ambition” (Cullen, 182). That is to say, the idea itself is not flawed, but rather, the paths in which Bryan and Braddock took to reach their dreams were flawed. Flawed men, arguably, have flawed dreams. But, as Cullen goes on to say later in the paragraph:

What makes the American Dream American is not that our dreams are any better, worse, or more interesting than anyone else’s, but that we live in a country constituted of dreams, whose very justification continues to rest on it being a place where one can, for better and worse, pursue distant goals. (182)

Of course, this kind of message reveals great promise for who still believe, like I do, in the American dream, and worry about those, like Dalyrimple and Washington, who wish to apparently use its promises for less-than-noble causes.

In any case, we ultimately have to conclude that upon examining the short stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” and “Dalyrimple Goes Wrong,” the characters Bryan Dalyrimple and Braddock Washington exemplify the kind of wickedness, whether intentional or unintentional, of those who have soiled the promise of the American dream both within the time period in which they were written, the early twentieth century, and the contemporary era of the twenty-first. They, despite having accumulated vast wealth and power, lacked seemingly the most important tenet of the American dream, happiness, and instead, through their riches, spread only pain and suffering or the corruption of statewide politics. Thus it can be said, that while they did in fact achieve some aspects of the traditional American dream, they really made manifest more of an anti-American dream, which, in retrospect, I suppose was Fitzgerald’s point all along. He wanted to show the audience past the myths in the American media and the up-and-coming print culture and present to them the downsides of the American dream, if there really was such a thing at all, and he wanted to show, I think, most importantly, what the American dream was, by showing us what it is not.

Works Cited

Buell, Lawrence. “The Significance of Fantasy in Fitzgerald’s Short Fiction.” The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: New Approaches in Criticism. Ed. Jackson R. Bryer. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1982. 23-38.

Cullen, Jim. The American Dream. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. Dalyrimple Goes Wrong. 1920. Feedbooks.com. http://gutenberg.org.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. A Diamond as Big as the Ritz. 21 January 1998. http://www.sc.ed./fitzgerald/diamond/diamond.html.

Merill, Robert. “‘Dalyrimple Goes Wrong’: The Best of the Neglected Early Stories.” New Essays on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Neglected Stories. Ed. Jackson R. Bryer. Columbia, Missouri: The University of Missouri Press, 1996. 24-34.

Subject 234

Hey, here's another one that's missing. What's going on?

Don't worry, dear reader, this is just another one of those stories I have floating around in some unlucky editor's hands, and so I can't have it readable anywhere in cyberspace.

Rest assured, if the editor passes, I'll have it back up in no time for your reading pleasure.

Thanks so much for your readership,

The House of Dane

Can I Help You, Mr. Rider?

Woah. Where did that great story of yours happen to go, Mr. Dane?

Well kiddos, I've currently got this out and about in an editor's hands, and unfortunately can't have it hanging around on the internet.

If the editor passes, rest assured, I'll have it back up in no time.

Thanks for all the great readership,

The House of Dane

Let Me In: The House Review

Let Me In, Matt Reeves' adaptation of both the Swedish novel Lat Den Ratte Komma In and its film version of the same name, was not really expected to bring forth the same kind of emotional intensity and character-driven horror as its Swedish counterparts. Fans all over the world simply hated the idea, actually, myself very much included. Having seen and read (sadly) the Twilight novels, I knew that us Americans would surely find a way to fuck it up in a way inconceivable to the rest of the art world. We would fuck up John Ajvide Lindqvist's masterpiece of vampire horror, and we would do it without even the slightest care in the world, because, quite frankly, us Americans totally suck at horror films.

(I mean honestly, I can see you nodding right now. They're that bad. If Wes Craven doesn't go into retirement soon, we should call it quits. The fact they're making a Scream 4 says it all.)

But let me tell you something, that Matt Reeves? The Cloverfield director of JJ Abrams viral marketing fame? Yeah, HE TOTALLY FUCKING NAILED IT. A movie hasn't freaked me out this badly since the American adaptation of Japan's The Ring. The directing here was superb, and never once relied on the typical scare-tactics. The angst-ridden and lonely tone was set perfectly, and mirrored the book exactly. The final product was precisely what I wanted when I went into that theater, and I got just the reaction I wanted from my girlfriend when it was over: "I'm never letting you take me to a movie ever again. That was fucking sick."

I'm glad you thought so, babe.

It was about time someone like Matt Reeves reminded us what vampires are supposed to be like. They don't glitter when caught in sunlight, they burst into flames. They don't have brooding existential crises. They don't "pounce," "leer," "have venom," or give a fuck if they have a soul. They, like Abby (or Eli), lure men into worlds of resentment and self-loathing and betrayals of the human condition with their Lolita-like charms, and then discard them without even the slightest bit of a conscience.

They devour.

They maim.

They kill.

We are the children of love, spurned on by God's mercy.

They have no mercy, and are the children of death.

(I mean what the fuck, Stephanie Meyer? Why glitter?)

But all that aside, the aspects of the film that really sealed the deal for me, so to speak, was the cinematography. An important aspect of any film, effective cinematography is especially important in the horror genre, and here Reeves executed it beautifully.

Owen's mother, for example, (or Oskar's mother in the novel) was never completely shown to the audience, only in fuzzy focus, and distance or obscured shots. Taking into account her apparent absence and indifference to Owen's development, she, essentially, becomes the Mother Who Was Never There, the mother who was either too far away, or so close, but so far. Upon even further examining Owen's mother, we find that she is often associated with religious overtones, such as saying Grace at dinner, watching televangelists, and displaying Christian iconography throughout their home. This is significant because not only does it tap into the movie's delving into the dichotomy of good and evil, it also expresses it was not just Owen's mother who was never there, but that his God was never there as well.

The way Abby's physicality was portrayed was also exceedingly well done, blending actual effects with CG modeling for a totally believable creature. There was a special attention payed to the way she climbed, I noticed, and how animalistic she could be when hunting, attacking, and spying on potential victims, especially when in the presence of blood. Never once did I consider her a Meyer vampire, and the entire time the audience was constantly aware that, in fact, Abby was an Evil entity, with a capital E, and not some love-sick, overly (emo)tional man-child. That having been said, however, I feel that Abby did possess some remnant of humanity, as fading and fleeting as it may have been. After all, she did seek and find some kind of odd, if not parasitic, companionship in both Owen and his ill-fated predecessor, Abby's "father."

There was also that sweet swimming pool scene at the end.

Oh yeah.

That swimming pool scene.

Probably one of the most metal things I've seen in a while, the swimming pool scene was so well done I can't bring myself to spoil it for you. But, for those of you who have already seen it, you know what I'm talking about. It was easily one of the greatest examples of showing something without showing it at all that I have ever witnessed, and easily the best reason for paying the ten bucks or however much to go see this movie. It's that good.

Moving on to critical analysis, I have to say that there's something to be said in this film about cycles. In many ways, we know the story of Abby's "father" in that we are experiencing the story of Owen. By the end of the film, we feel as though Owen will end up doing what her "father" has always done for her, especially after seeing the old photo-booth reel in her apartment. As the audience, we have no idea how long exactly this cycle, her practice, has been going on, but theoretically it could have been going on for ages. In fact, I think the frequent mentioning of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet serves to date her as someone from that particular period, the 1560s - 1610s, as opposed to just paralleling that tragic love story to that of Abby and Owen, but that's just me.

In any case, regardless of her age, does this ultimately make Abby Evil with a capital E, as I have expressed before?

Yes and no.

(And I'm fucking giddy with excitement that it's ambiguous, because ambiguity is what we Humanities majors specialize in.)

You see, I'm glad that Abby is complicated (to say the least), and I'm glad that we, the audience, is forced to think about her. Is she evil, or is she not? Well, she's evil in that she continues the cycle of drawing in young, disillusioned and alienated males to do her killing for her, but honestly, why can't she just do this killing herself? We know that she is perfectly capable, and yet, she asks less-capable people to do it.

Ultimately, I think its because she both uses and needs their humanity.

She then in essence becomes human by proxy, and rather interestingly, she becomes a vampire in a different way: not only does she drain prey victims of their blood, she also drains cycle victims of their humanity. Once that humanity has been depleted, she discards them, or they, as in the case of her father, discard themselves.

Genius.

Mr. Lindqvist, I may not know how to pronounce your name or congratulate you in your native language, but you sir, are seriously fucking awesome.

All international praises of awesomeness aside however, we must still ask ourselves if we believe that Abby's feelings for Owen are sincere, if indeed there are any feelings at all. On one hand, I would love to believe that she does indeed have feelings for Owen, if not only because as a member of the audience I have invested so much time into caring about Owen's story. The thing is though, in the end, Owen still feels like a means to an end, a puppet of Abby, if you will, almost begging the question of who the films and the novels are really about.

I mean you have to wonder, is this Owen's story, or is it Abby's?

Is Owen the Protagonist, and is Abby the Antagonist like traditionally thought?

Or are they both the Protagonists? Or both the Antagonists?

Could Abby be the Protagonist, perhaps? And Owen be the Anti-Hero?

One could easily write pages and pages on any of these ideas, maybe even novels, so I'll leave it up to you, along with the film's litany of other interpretations. Regardless, I hope you actually go see this film and enjoy it as much as I did, especially in light (in spite?) of the hugely popular Twilight series and it's legion of tweenager fans.

Because honestly, if Twilight is the vampire romance story of the Victorian era strung out on ecstasy, then Let Me In is the vampire romance story of the Post Modern age hyped up on PCP and a string of reckless one-night stands.

Overall, I would give Matt Reeves' adaptation of Lindqvist's Lat Den Ratte Komma In 10 out of 10 Natural 20s, the highest recommendation I can give. The direction was superb, the cinematography flawless, and the casting beyond the standard definitions of excellent. Chloe Moretz of Hit-Girl and Kick-Ass fame once again delivers a well-acted and well-defined character portrait, this time as the immortal Abby, and her co-star, Kodi Smit-McPhee, totally sells the twisted yet innocent Owen. You would have to be totally fucking retarded not to go see this movie. Absolutely fucking retarded.

Oh, and don't forget to read the book. :)

The Satan of Paradise Lost: A Political and Cautionary Tale

The following paper is a paper I wrote over the summer for a course exploring the depths of John Milton's world-famous Christian epic, Paradise Lost. Overall, I believe this paper turned out exceptionally well, and I was more than happy with the grade I received. Grades, however, are merely a side-note, for the topic of this paper, Satan and his ultimate identity in Milton's work, is far more interesting to me, and hopefully for you, than an A or a B. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.

The Satan of Paradise Lost: A Political and Cautionary Tale

In John Milton’s Christian epic Paradise Lost, Satan has been given many, if not too many, descriptive epithets by the poem’s epic narrator, labeling him everything from the “Infernal Serpent” (Milton, 1.34), to the “Arch-Fiend” (1.156), to even, quite simply, the “Foe” (6.149). He is, after all, the supposed archenemy of all mankind, the great antagonist of God, that one larger than life personification of evil that has dominated an entire culture for over two-thousand years. It would only be fitting, then, for Milton to address him in such a malign way. The crux of the poem lies however, in the question of why, if Satan really is the “Arch Enemy” (Milton, 1.81), the “Author of Evil” (6.262), Milton apparently chooses to write his Satan as a hero, a revolutionary not unlike politically-minded Milton himself, a radical fighting a noble cause against an ignoble and tyrannical God? Why does Milton choose to bestow upon his Satan excellent rhetorical qualities, a shield “hung on his shoulders like the moon” (Milton, 1.287), and a spear “to equal which the tallest pine / Hewn on Norwegian hills…/ were but a wand” (1.292)? Why does Milton essentially characterize his Satan to the great epic heroes of antiquity, like that of Homer’s Odysseus and Virgil’s Achilles? Perplexing questions, surely, to any reader of any era since the poem was written. However, despite their apparent complexity or convoluted-ness, their answers reside simply within the religious beliefs of Milton himself, and, more importantly, within his political beliefs regarding the tumultuous years of the English Civil War, the tyranny of Charles I, and the clamoring Protestant rhetoric in the middle of it all. For Milton’s reasons behind writing his account of the great Satan as an impassioned revolutionary, was to take his apparent selfless heroism, build it up with his own signature love of the dramatic, only to have it destroyed by showing Satan as a coward, a hypocrite, and ultimately, the greatest anti-hero the world had ever seen. For when taking it upon yourself to bring down a tyrant, whether a mortal king or God himself, one must be careful not to become a tyrant as well.

In order to begin, one must correctly identify whether or not the idea that Milton’s Satan was actually written in the spirit of classical heroes, the archetypes, of said classical heroes must be thoroughly examined. After all, what does it mean to be a hero in the most basic sense? Then again, what does it mean to be an epic hero? According to the OED, a “hero” can be defined as “a name given (as in Homer) to men of superhuman strength, courage, or ability, favored by the gods,” “a man distinguished by extraordinary valor and martial achievements; one who does brave or noble deeds; an illustrious warrior,” or also “a man who exhibits extraordinary bravery, firmness, fortitude, or greatness of soul, in any course of action, or in connection with any pursuit, work, or enterprise.” Satan, understandably, fits none of these definitions. He is most certainly not “favored by the gods,” and he is definitely not known for his “noble deeds.” And yet, curiously, the various definitions of “hero” in the OED do somehow manage to meet the fourth definition quite well, for he arguably is “the man who forms the subject of an epic; the chief male personage in a poem, play, or story; he in whom the interest of the story or plot in centered.” Indeed, Satan does centrally concern the focus of the first six books of the poem, and, even when the “Prince of Hell” (Milton, 4.871) is not present, the action does revolve around his rebellion, and his intent to corrupt man. Even if he is not the intended hero of Paradise Lost, he is, at the very least, its main character.

Although, a definition of classical heroism cannot be defined by the OED alone, as impressive a resource as it may be. There needs to be a broader overview of the term, especially in regards to its connection with the epic form. According to Dean A. Miller and his book, The Epic Hero, “an individual is named the ‘hero’ of a particular incident, which means that he or she had intervened in some critical situation in an extraordinary fashion” (Miller, 1). Note that Miller’s definition relies not on whether the actions of a hero are good or evil, only that they involve a “critical situation” intervened via “extraordinary fashion.” Satan meets these qualifications, does he not? He has the ability to change shape, which is no doubt extraordinary, and in fact he uses this extraordinary ability to “intervene” in the path and ultimate fall of man. For Miller, it seems that morality is never something all that relevant to the hero and his actions. He goes on to establish many other classic qualities of the epic hero, which, unbelievably, also match up all too well with Milton’s Satan. For one, he establishes that heroic tales may revolve around the act of winning a woman in so-called “romantic epics,” (Miller, 45) a feat that Milton’s Satan no doubt accomplishes in convincing Eve to eat the forbidden fruit. No, he does not “woo” her as the term romantic epic suggests, with manly skills or feats, but she is a goal for him, and he does succeed, regardless of how he may have actually felt emotionally about her. Miller also asserts that heroic epics rely on the “adventure,” of going to an unknown place “out there,” “indeterminately far from his heroic base” (Miller, 47). Satan does this extensively throughout the poem, traveling through “the void” (Milton, 2.438), going to Hell, and landing in Eden. Not even taking into account that Miller also asserts that epic heroes usually have “divine parentage” as part of their “heroic biography,” (Miller, 70) or in Milton’s Satan’s case, divine origin, it is nigh impossible to label Milton’s Satan anything but an epic hero.

However, despite Satan’s strongly heroic appearances, one must be sure to remember that he still is, and shall forever be, “The Deceiver.” For ultimately, Milton’s Satan is no closer to the paradigms of epic heroism than the average person is, say, to becoming a superhero. And how, exactly, is the reader made aware of such distinctions, of Satan’s proverbial dirty little secrets? Well, luckily, the literary Satan’s creator, John Milton, left some very condemning clues.

Harkening back to the aforementioned shield and spear of Satan, they, upon first glance, appear to be the larger-than-life weapons of a larger-than-life classical hero. Both are described in epic detail, alluding to their vast size and power, and both are given the same kind of significance and attention a hero’s weapons are normally given in typical epic form. His shield is described as “His ponderous shield, / Ethereal temper, massy, large and round, / behind him cast. The broad circumference / Hung on his shoulders like the moon,” (Milton, 1.284) while his spear is detailed as “His spear (to equal which the tallest pine / Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast / Of some great admiral were but a wand),” (1.293). But upon closer inspection, something is apparently amiss, and just like most of Milton’s literary creations, this “something” relies on cleverly sculpted poetic syntax. With Satan’s spear for example, it is supposed that its length equals that of the tallest tree in Norway, until, of course, the reader reaches the end of the passage and realizes that it has suddenly shrunk to the size of “but a wand.” This humiliation continues further in the very same passage, for in order for Satan to rise up from the lake of fire, he uses his once-thought mighty spear as a crutch, as if the Fall somehow enfeebled him, “He walked with [it] to support [his] uneasy steps / over the burning marl” (Milton, 1.295). This is not the only mention of Satan using his spear in this way either, for in Book Six he uses it again as a crutch to steady himself after his blow from Abdiel: “Ten paces huge / He back recoiled, the tenth on bended knee / His massy spear upstayed, as if… / Winds under ground… / Had pushed a mountain from his seat” (Milton, 6.193). Suddenly, the audience now has a completely different view of Milton’s Satan, one as the great Adversary, the Arch Fiend, the Arch Enemy of all Mankind that the epic narrator proclaims him to be, and yet, one that is also pathetic, and small, so small, as though Milton is taking all of Satan’s power and squishing it into nothing more than a little fly buzzing around humanity’s head.

Of course, such a caustic interpretation of Satan’s spear can only translate into more of the same regarding Satan’s shield, and just like his spear, he cannot seem to use this weapon correctly either. In Stephen B. Dobranski’s article Pondering Satan’s Shield in Milton’s Paradise Lost, he argues that “when examined…Satan’s shield symbolizes, updates, and subverts his heroic aspirations, and simultaneously…exposes his…transgressing from Heaven to Hell” (Dobranski, 491). Dobranski goes on to support this claim by focusing on the word “ponderous” in the shield’s original description. For according to the article, the word “ponderous” “during the Renaissance meant not just ‘weighty’ but also ‘clumsy’ and ‘unwieldy’” (Dobranski, 495). Taking this newly discovered nuance into context with the other words of the shield’s description, “massy,” and “large,” the shield is now not only an inconvenience, but also too large for Satan, just as his spear was too small. Once again, the great military leader seen later in the first two books of the poem is called into serious question, begging the question if Milton’s Satan, even while written in the same spirit as Odysseus and Achilles, is really worthy of the post of military commander, or hero, at all. This question is even more solidified when examining the rest of his shield’s description, which states that it “Hung on his shoulders like the moon.” For as Dobranski was so clever in pointing out, this is considerably odd; shields were never worn this way. As the article states, “little in ancient epics recommends this particular placement of Satan’s weapon” (Dobranski, 497), for if Satan were to try and use it for protection, it would not be readily available as his side. Instead, it hangs behind him, on his back, useless and unreachable, alluding to yet another humiliating and cowardly image of Satan as wearing a “tortoise’s ‘shield’” (Dobranski, 500), and failing utterly as a leader.

Although the question still remains, if words such as “hero” and “epic hero” do not, or cannot, accurately define Satan as he really is, then what words do? Starting with one of his most famous epithets, “The Adversary” (Milton, 2.629) (3.81) (3.156) (6.282), what, exactly, does the OED qualify as an “adversary”? “One who, or that which, takes up a position of antagonism, or acts in a hostile manner; an opponent, antagonist; an enemy, foe.” Quite humorously, the definition ends with, “spec. The enemy of mankind, the Devil.” Although considering how utterly complicated and chaotic the mind of Milton’s Satan really is, it is doubtful that the Arch Fiend can be so easily pigeonholed. He did, after all, convince one third of God’s angels to fight with him and follow him on his quest to rid Heaven of a tyrannical God, a quest that while totally insane, did appeal to someone. He therefore cannot be as perfectly dark as a universally hated being of ruin, as the term “adversary” would suggest, nor can he be an epic hero worthy of “noble deeds,” and endless bardic praise. No, Milton’s Satan is something else, the embodiment of a concept called the anti-hero, the aforementioned term first discussed paragraphs ago. But just what is such a thing? And, more specifically, why would Milton go through the trouble, the extensive trouble, no less, as he was blind when he wrote the poem, to even cast his Satan in such a strange, contradictory, and even paradoxical light? The OED unfortunately is not too helpful in defining an “anti-hero,” only supplying a definition that details what an anti-hero is not, offering, “one who is the opposite or reverse of a hero; esp. a chief character in a poem, play, or story who is totally unlike a conventional hero,” but it does however seem to get one thing right: Satan is very much totally unlike a conventional hero. And, as it would turn out, Milton would ultimately end up using this anti-heroic Satan to prove a point, a point regarding the battle of Milton’s very own real-life tyrant, James I, and the rebel forces acting against him.

In order to correctly understand Milton’s war in Heaven and its potential literary, social, and political ramifications, a distinction must be made about what kind of war it actually is. For according to Michael Bryson’s book, The Tyranny of Heaven, “[To] Satan, the war against God is not an allegory of good and evil, but a real and present struggle against a tyrant” (Bryson, 81). Milton’s Satan apparently never saw it as the cosmic struggle between good and evil that average readers would view it as; instead, he viewed it simply as a tyrannical king’s subjects rebelling against (surprise here) tyranny. Although, such a cut and dry assessment of him is unfair. It could be said that that sort of interpretation would be accurate for the other devils that rebelled with Satan, but for Satan himself there was definitely a matter of personal pride involved regarding the rebellion itself. As Bryson most succinctly puts it, “Satan is filled with the rage of a brilliant son who cannot, for whatever reason or combination of reasons, ever be quite brilliant enough to hear his parents say, ‘Thou art my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased’ (Mark 1:11)” (Bryson, 78). Anyone, of course, can relate to such a human take on the Arch Fiend, but once again, if Satan really is Milton’s attempt to “encapsulate evil,” as Bryson put it (78), then why does Milton make him so relatable, and, in many ways, his actions justifiable? Drawing upon Bryson’s book once more, “Milton’s poetic and political use of Satan requires understanding…[of] what is honorable about the rebel angel in order to set the stage for an analysis of where…he goes wrong” (81). Of course, by the poem’s end, there does not seem to be anything at all honorable about Milton’s Satan, although his rebellion against tyranny is, considerably, the most heroic thing the literary Satan ever accomplished. His decision to rebel, even in the face of “the greatest and most terrifying tyranny of all ¾ the tyranny of God himself” (Bryson, 83), “places him in the ranks of the great mythological heroes of world literature” (Bryson, 82). And yet, somewhere along the way, he goes wrong, and where he goes wrong ends up consuming him, destroying his noble war against an ignoble God, for in the process of warring against tyranny, he becomes a tyrant himself. Where God is the King of Heaven, so too Satan is now the king of Hell. It is this great moral tragedy that is not only “the crux of Satan’s character” (Bryson, 83), but also the securing of himself a place in literary history as the ultimate anti-hero, serving as both a model and warning to his once republican England that traded one tyrant for another.

Ultimately, despite Milton aligning his Satan with great classical heroes such as Homer’s Odysseus and Virgil’s Achilles, giving him great and mighty weapons worthy of such a heroic status, and even befitting him with a war against a tyrannical God, he ultimately lives up to none of these virtues associated with the ancient world. Although, for Milton’s own socio-political purposes, his Satan had to fall from grace, he had to begin his journey as a great hero, only to ruin it with his own ontological downfall, otherwise Milton’s point regarding the tyranny of both his Satan and God would simply not have functioned. Milton’s Satan had to become the ultimate anti-hero, and he had to show his audience the consequences of dealing with tyranny only to become even more tyrannical in the process. Herein lies the true message of Satan’s character, more relevant now than it has ever been. His ultimate threat to humanity is his hypocrisy; he is a hero, but he is not; he is a freedom fighter, but he is not. It is this paradoxical nature that slowly alerts the reader to his true qualities, the qualities of a skilled orator, a skilled theoretician, the qualities of yet another of his most famous namesakes, “The Deceiver.” For if Milton truly “believed that the basis of a free state was free speech and freedom of conscience” (320) as Anna Beer states in her Milton biography, Milton: Poet, Pamphleteer, and Patriot, then this would also mean that each person in that society would then have the overwhelming responsibility to discern the truth from the rhetoric themselves, or else, quite possibly, as Beer continues, “The people would fall for Satan” (320).

Works Cited

Beer, Anna. Milton: Poet, Pamphleteer, and Patriot. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2008.

Bryson, Michael. The Tyranny of Heaven: Milton’s Rejection of God as King. Delaware: Rosemont Publishing & Printing Corp., 2004.

Dobranski, Stephen B. “Pondering Satan’s Shield in Milton’s Paradise Lost.” English Literary Renaissance Inc. Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2005. 490-506.

Miller, Dean A. The Epic Hero. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2000.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost: A Norton Critical Edition. Ed. Gordon Teskey. United States: W.W. Norton & Company Inc., 2005

The Last Airbender: The House Review

Before the House begins its review of M. Night Shyamalan's motion picture adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender, let me sit down and tell you a little story.

On February 21st, 2005, the sun rose just as it had always done, in its everyday way, casting its once miraculous but now commonplace rays upon the world. People awoke in their bedrooms, some groggy, some anxious, some excited, and went down to their breakfast tables to drink their milk and eat their morning bagel. They rushed along in their routines, just as they had done so many times before, with parents pushing their children onto their buses and reminding them of band practice the following night. They drove to work, and they worked from home. They were bullies and they were bullied, and they scored top marks on their SATs. They found out they were expecting, and they found out they were making arrangements. They came home from their schools, their mothers and fathers came home from work, and they came home to greet their kids. They cooked dinner and fed their dogs and their cats and their fish and their gerbils, cleaning their kitchens with either care or neglect, their dinner tables ready to be breakfast tables once more. They sat down on their couches with their girlfriends and boyfriends, their husbands and their wives, their sons and their daughters. Some went to their rooms, while some did not. Others did their homework and made their conference calls, while others did not. February 21st, 2005 passed along into the annals of history just as any other day before it had done, in its everyday way, casting its once miraculous but now commonplace happenings into the maelstrom of the world, save one exception.

Because on February 21st, 2005, the world, my friends, was introduced to a spectacle.

And that spectacle, as it would turn out, would come from one of the most unlikely of places, a children's television network, Nickelodeon.

Of course, the event to which I am referring is the premier of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko's animated series Avatar: The Last Airbender.

And what a premier it would turn out to be.

But, I will be the first to admit that I, too, was among those people mentioned above. I, too, was not there, sitting on my couch, ready for the premier. I had missed it, just as so many others had. Only years later, in early 2009, when I finally sat down and viewed the entire series with one of my friends, would I begin to wonder how I could have missed such a monumental event, the likes of which only comes around to American television once every other decade.

Needless to say, I never found an answer; I was too enthralled. The writing was in immaculate balance, the acting was spot on, and the animation was something worthy of Japan. The mythology was of the most original ideas I had seen in years, and the themes contained therein were those of all the world's greatest epics. The show was a masterpiece of creative power, from conception to execution.

And yet, the show itself was simple in its premise, following the journey of three friends, Aang, Sokka, and Katara, on a quest to save their world from an evil, imperialistic regime. It was recollective of the original Star Wars saga in that regard, and, dare I say it, it even carried with it the same inspirational magic that has kept those classic films and their fans reeling for decades. There were more similarities than just that though, I must say, for yes, those three friends also possessed unique powers, just like their Star Wars counterparts, only instead of possessing "the Force" with a capital F, they instead had the ability to manipulate the very elements of the world around them, their particular specialty depending on their place of birth.

Aang, as you should certainly know by now, was the last of his kind, the last airbender in the world, his race wiped out by the fire nation. He was also blessed with being the Avatar, the only person in existence who was capable of controlling all four of the basic elements, and ultimately the last and only hope for the survival of his world.

His friend Katara, too, was an elemental bender, but of another sort. Since she was from the Southern Water Tribe, she had a mastery over the element of water, even developing an insidious technique later in the series that allowed her to manipulate the water in a person's body and control their actions. Her brother Sokka, however, was not a bender at all, of any kind, only a warrior of his people that had a penchant for relying on a boomerang that never returned to him.

Immediately one can see the similarities to the now world famous Star Wars saga, with Aang being Luke, Katara being Leia, and Sokka being the infamous Han Solo. Perhaps this was intentional of the creators, perhaps it was not: perhaps all epic stories have a similar trifecta of personalities that simply must exist for them to be just that: epic.

All things must eventually come to an end however, whether they be Star Wars or some other grand, all-encompassing saga. Yes, all stories must come to a close. The groundbreaking series that inspired millions continued on for two more seasons before it came to its predestined conclusion, raking in legions of viewers, a heap of critical praise, and even a couple of Emmys along the way. The series finale aired on July 19th, 2008, and brought with it a two hour event the likes of which a children's television network had never seen before.

I remember sitting down to watch the three part finale with my friend, both of us sitting there waiting for it to load on our computer with eager eyes and ears, and I remember thinking, right after it had ended, "You finally got it right, world. That's how stories are supposed to go. That's how all stories should be. They should be as fulfilling as Avatar: The Last Airbender."

The credits rolled, and I got up feeling as if I had just finished a good book. Surely, if you take the time out of your day to read the opinions of someone you have never met, then surely you know the feeling I'm writing about. That feeling in the pit of your stomach, that feeling that aches like you have just said goodbye.

Now the reasons, if you must know, as to why I'm telling you all of this before going into my House review really begins with just a simple fact: I'm about to be cruel. And why, my friends, I'm about to be cruel is because Avatar: The Last Airbender, by none other than a Mr. M. Night Shyamalan, has the most unfortunate position of being the first creative endeavor the House has ever negatively reviewed, and also because I have to make sure that this kind of crime against humanity NEVER. HAPPENS. AGAIN.

Yes, the special effects teams and set designers did a miraculous job. Yes, they recreated the settings from the show and the bending phenomena with incredibly realistic CGI. And yes, when I laid my eyes upon what they did with the Northern Water Tribe, the flying bison Appa, and the flying monkey Momo, I was amazed beyond belief. But no amount of fancy effects was going to save this film, no amount of perfect martial arts choreography was going to redeem this motion picture. In fact, the special effects and martial arts were the only things that worked in this entire movie. The plot, even to a well seasoned Avatar fan, was practically incomprehensible, so I can't even imagine what the parents bringing their children were thinking. And the acting, oh God, the acting was so flat I could make origami out of it, origami so well done, even, that I could make them into little Avatar puppets and put on a better show than this movie, and I have absolutely no acting or directing experience at all.

Though let's be frank. We can't condemn the actors and actresses. They were young, and I'm pretty certain most of them, aside from a couple of the supporting characters, were in their first big production, or second one at the very least. I knew that going in. I knew the acting was going to be a little shaky, and I was ready to excuse it in the presence of good writing. People do this kind of thing all the time. Not to mention the standards and expectations they all had to live up to. I know full well that if I were their age and cast in a movie like this I wouldn't know how to handle that kind of pressure. So many people hold this series in an infinitely high esteem, myself included, so I'm sure all sorts of doubts and what-ifs were running through the young actors' minds.

But, you know what wasn't running through their minds?

The script.

Because there wasn't one.

I swear, this script had more exposition than Frank Herbert's Dune and Tolkien's Lord of Rings put together. There was a voice over and script scroll at the beginning, and even a title heading that read Book One: Water, just like in the series, but by the time the film actually starts, the audience is left with so much exposition it doesn't know what to do with itself. And you know why? Because the conflict of the movie was never, not once, within the entirety of the film, presented in an understandable and accessible way. M. Night gave us a doctoral dissertation's worth of exposition on the world of the characters, its history and their history, but he left out the thesis statement. We, the audience, ended up having no investment in the characters, their destinies, the plot, or its outcome.

Not to mention, the dialogue, too, was saturated with exposition. Every single line a character uttered wound up justifying that character's entire existence to the audience. Every single time Aang uttered a phrase, it was about how he lost his entire race of people, and how he was the avatar, and how he was supposed to save the world. Every single time Prince Zuko uttered a phrase, it was about how his father had exiled him, how he was in debt to his father, how the only way his father, Firelord Ozai, would take him back was if he captured the avatar. Even a character completely made up for the film, some earthbending villager Aang finds in the ruins of one of the lost air temples, ends up explaining his entire existence to the audience, and why he betrayed Aang to the fire nation, and how he needed the money to feed his starving family, etc., etc., etc.

I mean, you could reduce the entire script to one single, all-encompassing, master formula:

(Detail about current action) + (How detail relates to character's entire life) + (General character biography) = Line of Dialogue.

I shit thee not. The whole movie was written that way.

Now, I understand perfectly well that The Last Airbender series holds an overwhelmingly vast amount of information, and that as a writer, M. Night had to somehow compress all of that information into an hour and forty-five minutes, but honestly, the exposition is so ever present in the film that the characters never actually have room to breathe. In fact, the exposition is so dense and so pervasive that the movie never feels as if it actually starts, but rather the entire length of the film is building up to one grand beginning of something even bigger, even though that beginning never actually happens. The whole movie felt like a popped balloon.

Another thing about the script that really pissed me off was the fact that several of the character's names were pronounced incorrectly. And before you go off on some kind of stupid anti-fandom rant, let me put this into perspective.

Throughout the series, Aang's name is pronounced "Ayng," but in the movie, it's pronounced "Ahng." His friend Sokka's name is pronounced "Sahkka," but in the movie it's pronounced "Sookka," or "Suukka." Even Katara's name, pronounced "Katahrah" in the series, is pronounced differently as "Kutahrah." Why the pronunciation change? I have not a fucking clue, but the effect would be similar to, taking another cue from Star Wars, changing the pronunciation of Yoda's name to Yado. It just doesn't make any fucking sense, and I'm sure you would find it not only just as odd, but also just as annoying.

Going back to the "acting," M. Night Shyamalamadingdong's adaptation also had one of the most epic failures of miscasting in recent memory. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Aasif Mandvi's work on The Daily Show. The guy's hilarious, and I love it when they air his "investigative reports," but honestly, casting him as the infamous Admiral Zhao was a horrible, horrible idea, one that I may not forgive Hollywood for for a very long time. You see, the Admiral Zhao of the animated series has the distinction of being one of the most hated fantasy antagonists of all time. By the end of the first season, where he and Aang and his friends face off to defend the Northern Water Tribe, you want to fucking murder this mother fucker. He's just that kind of villain; one that you absolutely love to hate. And in my opinion, those are always the best kinds of villains.

Going back to Star Wars again, sure, Darth Vader was a pretty evil guy, but did you hate him? No. In Harry Potter, sure, Voldemort was also a pretty evil guy, but did you hate him? What about Sauron in Lord of the Rings, yes, he too was a pretty evil guy, but did you hate him? No. Now, Dolores Umbridge from Harry Potter? She was a villain you could hate. In fiction, fantasy especially, your reader should always feel for the antagonist with the same intensity that the reader feels for the protagonist, only expressed as a negative. If the reader loves the protagonist as if he or she loves a real life person, then the reader should hate the antagonist just as realistically. Otherwise, the reader just doesn't care.

And that, my friends, is exactly what happened in the adaptation. Every time Admiral Zhao appeared on screen, I kept expecting a header to come on screen, too, one that read "Admiral Zhao: Senior Firebending Correspondent". I just couldn't take him seriously, and that's why his casting failed. I was so disappointed; I wanted to hate him as much as I did the animated version, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

As for the other casting, I suppose it was decent enough, although I wish Iroh was played by a bigger guy, like he was portrayed in the series. Although, if I could have had the movie done over again, I would really want Jackson Rathbone recast, or at least given more lines. Sokka was mainly a comic relief character in the show, and the script didn't give him any opportunities to be funny at all. In fact, he was probably the least developed character out of all of them, which isn't saying that much,because honestly all of the characters were about as two-dimensional as they could be. I don't even know how that's even possible really, because for the most part the animated series is a character driven show, despite the epic characteristics of its plot. It just seems like something M. Night. Shyamalamasassafrass wouldn't have passed up.

Speaking of plot, this film didn't really have one of these, either. Then again, with everything being force-fed to you through the mountains of exposition, there didn't really need to be one. Since every character explained his or her entire backstory every time he or she spoke, the plot around them essentially became meaningless, as it appeared to the audience that the characters had no where to grow, leaving the audience disengaged and passive to the events within the film. In all stories, regardless of their content, the audience needs to feel as if they are a part of the action, as if they are an anonymous character of sorts that exists somewhere between the story and the medium through which it is being told. In M. Night. Shyamalamafifaifofama's adaptation, there is none of this. The strings are too visible in his puppet show, and people are constantly reminded that they are just an audience, and have no reason to feel involved with the character's lives or their development, that is, even if the screenplay M. Night Shyamalama'alibaba wrote had a coherent plot in the first place. The snail's pace of the combat and the light speed of the "plot" were just too at odds with one another to make any kind of sense, leaving the audience with yet more questions to grapple with, ones already stacked onto the litany of questions posed by the endless exposition and metaphorical descriptions of the world's mythology.

Questions like, "Wait a minute, they have to dance around for a couple of minutes like circus clowns before they can bend elements? That seems so impractical for high speed, martial arts combat. And yet "Ahng" just delivered a five second speech to a group of people that have been oppressed for over a hundred years and now suddenly have the will and determination to fight back? What the fuck? M. Night ShyamalamaIwishIwasGeorgeLucas, you got it all wrong."

All that having been said, there was one scene right near the end that I felt got it right. It was a one shot that had to be less than ten seconds long, maybe twelve, but after it ended my younger brother and I, who came to the premier with me, looked at each other and knew that that single scene was what we had come for. If the entire movie had been shot and paced this way, this review may have turned out to be much, much nicer.

It was when AANG was running across a pavilion in the Northern Water Tribe, past a pack of fire nation guards. The score, the cinematography, the correct pacing, and the action all came together in that one shot, the beat of the orchestra synchronizing perfectly with the running steps of the young Aang, and the waterbending techniques he used to encase those fire nation soldiers in blocks of ice, even complimenting the raining down of huge icicles down onto his foes. That one shot was perfect, and almost redeemed that part of the film. But alas, the characters opened their mouths again soon after, and the illusion was ruined once again.

Overall, I was extremely disappointed with this film. The source material had so much potential it was mind-boggling. I mean, this could have been the film to save M. Night ShyamalamaIguessImissedmychance's career. It could have been the beginning of a new Star Wars trilogy, doing for kids and young adults what George Lucas' vision did for the previous generation. But sadly, it didn't live up to that, and it didn't rise to the occasion. After coming from the premier, I remember going online and reading how other fans, people just like me, already wanted a series reboot. So sad.

I mean, how can you screw up a story that's already been written for you? How do you honestly do that? How is that even possible? There has to be Avatar fan fiction out there that's better put together than the script he offered. I just can't believe it.

In any case, I better go ahead and offer my final verdict. Ultimately, I have decided that his adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender deserves 1 Natural 20 out of ten, as this has to not only be one of the biggest disappointments I have ever had, but also because it's, quite ironically, one of the finest examples of bad film making I have ever seen.

Monster Manual 3: The House Review

For the longest time, Dungeons and Dragons Fourth Edition didn't really feel like D&D to me. Its mechanics were too different, its cosmology was too different, its classes and races were too different; the general feeling of the game was just not the same as earlier editions. It felt clunky and rough and purely combat driven, as if what had always made D&D fun, the story, had been forgotten somehow, left on the drawing board. In many ways, Third Edition, the first edition of D&D I ever learned, was my Windows XP, bug-filled but lovable, while Fourth was Windows Vista coming in to destroy its already delicate bits of code with its shiny new gimmicks.

You see, it's because people love the classics. It's why we re-watch our favorite movies, and it's why we re-read our favorite books. Even today, in our throwaway culture, we yearn for that nostalgia, that idea of holding onto experiences that we believe, by their very nature, are a cut above all others. And that's what Third Edition was for me. It was a classic, something that could not have been so easily replaced.

I remember cracking open the first round Fourth Edition supplements, the Player's Handbook, the Monster Manual, and the Dungeon Master's Guide:

Where did my alignment go?

I thought humans sucked?

You can play dragons now?

I have damage resistance(s)?

Where did my skills go?

What the hell is an Action Point?

We don't measure in feet?

I can attack with Charisma?

Wands don't have charges?

I can't perform anymore?

What did they do to my game?

It all felt so alien, so surreal. I really didn't know what to think about it, to be honest, other than questions and complaints and a couple (million) curses. I was so disappointed with how they had altered the game, with how drastically different everything was, how quickly, it seemed, that everything had been thrown together.

But I decided to wait. Perhaps, I thought, these new mechanics are still coming to their point. Perhaps this is not yet the final incarnation of this edition. Perhaps they will fix the combat length problems, the over-powered problems, the rule ambiguity problems, the problems concerning the development of character and monster backstory and the "just winging it" mentality structuring everything else.

I'm so glad I did.

Because Wizards of the Coast, you have done it. I applaud thee. You have succeeded with the Monster Manual 3 where the two previous Monster Manuals have failed. You have delivered unto me, one of your most loyal servants, a masterstroke of role-playing game engineering. I officially recant every awful thing thing I may have said about your new edition, for the latest Monster Manual addresses every concern I once had.

The heavily reorganized stat blocks alone were enough to revitalize my trust in the game's designers, as labeling abilities according to action type and monster trait instead of by power title and attack type made my DMing life instantly easier, allowing me to structure a creature's turn based on what kind of actions it had left and not spend so much time scouring it's abilities for specific details like when a particular effect ends or what kind of prerequisites it's supposed to have. The new structure is definitely a great leap in user-friendliness, and I'm sure that other DMs will feel the same way.

The amount of space allotted for a creature's lore was also significantly increased, something that was not only underdeveloped in previous manuals, but also something that I greatly missed. Now, instead of a paragraph or so introducing each monster, each creature is given several paragraphs, maybe more, sometimes even a side-bar, detailing its place in the Dungeons and Dragons world. This could not be more appreciated, I have to say, as there is nothing like a heavily fleshed out monster that any DM, regardless of experience, can place into a campaign without the once commonplace fuss of having to flesh it out from scratch. I know from experience that creating monster lore only for the sake of giving curious PCs something to learn can be incredibly time-consuming, and even frustrating, as new players often have the problem of bothering to ask about a creature's origin in the first place. It seems that Wizards finally woke up from its slumber and remembered that a creature's story always takes precedence over its statistics.

As for the actual creatures, the Monster Manual 3 has by far the greatest collection of epic baddies out of any other Fourth Edition manual so far. And not to completely digress from the theme of this post, I'll tell you why:

It's because people love the classics.

And let me tell you, the Monster Manual 3 takes Dungeons and Dragons back to its roots. Single-handedly. With a spiked, flaming gauntlet around its neck. Because finally, finally, a monster manual included the classic elementals of water, earth, fire, and air. I swear, it always bugged the hell out of me how they never included those in the first two. They always had these weird elementals with all the proverbial bells and whistles, like the Thunderblast Cyclone and the Rockfire Dreadnaught, or the Chillfire Destroyer and the Rockfist Smasher. I could never understand it. It was just another example of the Windows Vista mentality taking over my game. But, my fellow players and DMs, fear no longer, for your time has finally come. Once again you can set out from your local drinking establishment with your magic sword, and go slay a column of living fucking fire, no other elements included.

How great is that?

Some other all-time favorite classics include the Rot Grub, a morbid larva that burrows under your skin to devour your internal organs, the Mimic, a strange creature that has a penchant for taking on the forms of treasure chests, the Cloaker, a string ray resembling monster that can hide in plain sight as a cape, and of course, quite possibly the most hideous of the newly updated monsters from earlier editions, the fearsome Catoblepas.

Now, for the uninitiated, the Catoblepas is by far one of the strangest and most bizarre D&D monsters out there. Taking it's form from some kind of weird, emaciated half-bison attached to the neck of some kind of ghoulish, horned and razor-toothed half-giraffe, the Catoblepas has the ability, I shit you not, to scare the living fuck out of every kind of powerful character that has ever been or that shall ever be. Stalking the planes of reality for no other purpose than to leave death and decay in its wake, the Catoblepas is unrivaled in its ability to thoroughly ruin an adventurer's day with its Withering Gaze, Final Glance, and of course, its Poison Breath. And for that, Wizards, I am grateful. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite First Edition creatures once again.

That having been said, we cannot let ourselves forget the other creatures in the book, especially the epic threats that are so often featured in the Monster Manual series. In the first Monster Manual, the world of Fourth Edition was introduced to Orcus, Demon Prince of Undeath, essentially the game's first campaign-ending solo creature. In the Monster Manual 2, the world was introduced to Demogorgon, the Prince of Demons, and his dual personas of Aameul and Hethradiah, along with Dagon, the Demon Prince of the Deep. In the third Monster Manual however, the world is introduced to three epic threats instead of just one or two. Within its pages, we find Imix, the Prince of Elemental Fire; Ogremoch, the Prince of Elemental Earth; and last, but definitely not least, Lolth, the Queen of the Demonweb Pits.

With that much epic (don't you dare forget how I define that word) crammed into the Monster Manuals already, I cannot even imagine what kind of powerful creatures will be lurking in the Monster Manual 4, which I'm certain Wizards is already working on as we speak. There's plenty of cosmology to draw from, certainly, but when you have lore for entities like Imix, the Prince of Elemental Fire, that reads:

"In raging wildfires that spread across the wilderness and brutal murders enacted in the heat of passion, one can find the Fire Lord's touch."

And,

"The Fire Lord's followers hear their master's whispers in the crackle of flames, in the ragged exhalations of burned victims, and in the crunch of char beneath their feet."

How in the hell are you supposed to top that?

I mean, I can't even think of another character that even comes close to topping that. Sure, they could probably include the other counterparts to Imix and Ogremoch, like the so far unnamed Princes of Elemental Air and Water, but I think many people would see that as kind of a cop-out. It would complete the set, certainly, but why include something so predictable? If it were up to me, I would prefer to see more of the Demon Princes, especially the likes of Juiblex, the Faceless Lord. He's the Demon Prince of oozes, I believe, and has always been one of those obscure D&D powerhouses that has often left me with curiosity. Perhaps Wizards could illuminate me next time around? I hope so. Oozes have always been one of my favorite creatures to not only fight, but also to play as the DM.

Of course, they could finally reveal Him.

And by Him, I'm referring to The Chained God, Tharizdun, The Destroyer of All Creation.

(Yeah, he's one tough mother fucker.)

Remember the Catoblepas? Fuck it. Fuck it and leave it the next morning before it wakes up. Fuck it and never call it again. Fuck it and then date its best friend. You see, with Tharizdun, there are no compromises. There are no prisoners. There are no negotiations and there are no reconciliations. There is only destruction, the endless, wanton destruction of all things within the universe. To quote The Destroyer's unholy dogma:

"The very threads of existence must be torn asunder, then burned, then the ashes scattered, until all is nothing and no one exists to remember existence."

So yeah, the Catoblepas? FUCK IT.

Anyway, it's highly doubtful that Wizards is quite ready to unveil its trump card, its ace in the hole, just yet. I mean, players aren't even supposed to know of his existence, really, and in fact his mentioning was left out of all the player's materials entirely for just such a purpose. Like all things Lovecraftian in their nature though, I have always been fascinated with the history of Tharizdun and his influence on the Dungeons and Dragons universe, so of course I would really like to see his stat block, not necessarily for the sake of having him face my PCs (the guy has to be level 40, he just has to be), but just for the sake of my own personal enjoyment.

All that having been said, I think it's about time I draw this review of the third Monster Manual to a close. I kind of went off topic a bit, but this has nothing to do with academia so I can't really say that I give a damn. Overall, I highly recommend the Monster Manual 3, not only for its more than satisfying look at classic D&D monsters, but also for the amount of time and effort put into their development and ecological history. The new stat blocks, too, I swear they have to be one of the greatest advents to Fourth Edition user-friendliness thus far, so much so that now whenever I create my own monsters, I will surely use this bold new format to structure them.

All in all, I would have to give the Monster Manual 3 9.5 Natural 20s out of 10. All of its content was extraordinary, I have to say, but for some reason it had a number of typographical errors, which I fear is becoming all too commonplace in Fourth Edition manuals.

I mean come on, Wizards. You're so much better than simple mistakes.

All Things Kick-Ass: The House Review

Every once in a while, I'd say, maybe every two or three years or so, you come across a franchise that does more than deliver the standard comicbook hypersexualized thrills, the rampant, even saturating, supermasculinity that bursts forth like the stuffing of a Chipotle burrito from every page, a franchise that hits you square in the jaw with a 2x4, steals your shitty car, and doesn't even bother to pay for dinner.

A franchise, that in not so many words, kicks your ass.

Sure, we've all seen blood before. If you're a trauma surgeon reading this, you see blood everyday. Hell, we're in America, if you're a kindergarten teacher you see blood everyday. But not like this, oh no, never like this.

No one has ever seen blood like this.

You see, in the world of Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.'s Kick-Ass graphic novel and Director Mattew Vaugn's film adaptation of the same name, everything bleeds.

Now, I'm not sure if this was just my ignorance as to how many things in this world are actually capable of bleeding, or if this was just my ignorance as to how much blood an adult human body actually contains, but I shit you not, this was by far the most brutal testament to the art of exsanguination I have ever seen.

Dare I say it, the amount of blood in this franchise rivals even that of Ninja Scroll, a feat considered by most to be nigh-unreachable. (That is, just short of painting every frame completely red.)

The interesting thing about this title though is what it's really about, something that I think the final cut of the film misses entirely as it diverges from the graphic novel completely about half-way through, and what it's about, is quite simply, the comicbooks themselves.

You have the main character, Dave Lizewski, a raging comicbook fiend like yours truly, who decides that he's going to be a superhero (Kick-Ass), and that ultimately superpowers and glorified origin stories don't matter, as long as someone is looking to do some good in the world. Of course, this was before the little idealist got knifed in the gut and flattened by a car, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right? He read the books and thought, however misguidedly, that he could do it himself. It was downright American of him.

Then, definitely not to be forgotten, you have the duo of the epically (remember how I define that word?) foul-mouthed Hit-Girl, an eleven year old killing machine and expert ball basher, and her father, Big Daddy, a staunch neo-conservative and fellow comicbook fiend who has a penchant for blowing people's brains out with a high-powered sniper rifle. He turns out to be an even worse comicbook fan than Dave, actually, far worse, but you don't find that out until the very end in a twist that for some reason the film decided to omit.

Why, though? In fact, everything else in the graphic novel is identical to the film, except for Big Daddy, the result of Dave's romantic arc with the female lead, and a few costume alterations. The Big Daddy in the film is a goofy, Adam West inspired character, played by none other than the master himself, Nicholas Cage. The thing is though, the Big Daddy of the film is all well and good on his own, it's just that he stands so opposed to the very serious, no-laughing-matter Big Daddy in the graphic novel.

You see, in the film, Big Daddy was a former cop who couldn't be paid off by the film's antagonist, Johnny G, a mobster kingpin, and so the mob attempted to kill his pregnant wife. The hit succeeded, although the baby was saved, and, through her father's police training, went on become Hit-Girl. In many ways, the origin story of Big Daddy and Hit-Girl in the movie were typical genre conventions of the comicbook origin story paradigm: Good Cop pisses off some mobster/wealthy/powerful asshole, asshole kills loved one(s) of Good Cop, Good Cop, having lost faith in the regular criminal justice system, takes up the mantle of superhero and vows to kill said asshole. The film follows the standard formula perfectly.

However, the Big Daddy in the graphic novel is better, and not just because the author of this review is some super-obsessed fanboy comicbook purist, oh no, the Big Daddy of the graphic novel is better because he's deeper. He's deeper because instead of the one-man-against-the-entire-mob origin story being true like we see it in the film, when we see the same explanation for the existence of Hit-Girl and Big Daddy, we find out later that it was all just a lie! The big Daddy of the graphic novel made it up! He was no different than Kick-Ass! He had left his wife, kidnapped and brainwashed his daughter, and bought all of their arms and armor through selling his collection of vintage comicbooks on eBay! He was trying to live the life of a superhero traveling around fighting crime with his kid side-kick!

Oh, how wonderful the irony was. It was something breathtaking.

As a matter of fact, it was the irony that led me to a very interesting parallel, a parallel to which, in my honest opinion, any self-respecting comicbook fan can relate: What do Big Daddy, Don Quixote, and Madame Bovary all have in common?

They were all driven insane by reading too much.

Don Quixote, by far the most famous of the three, was driven insane by reading too many chivalry novels, and convinced himself of all sorts of delusions regarding his "knightly missions". Madame Bovary, a character devised by Gustave Flaubert regarding the over-saturation of romantic novels amongst women, was driven insane by thinking that courtly love was a real phenomenon, eventually committing suicide over her inability to gain the "princess" status she thought she rightfully deserved. And finally, we come to the last of the three, Big Daddy, a character who has driven himself into longing for an unattainable life, the life of a superhero, by reading too many comicbooks, a longing that ultimately killed him, as he realized all too late that the good guys don't always win, or at least, they don't always come to the rescue of friends in need.

Now, I cannot tell you that Mark Millar and John Romita Jr. set out to write Kick-Ass as a commentary on the effects of fandom in its most ridiculous, yet frighteningly feasible, sense, although as one can see the parallels to other delusional characters are most certainly there.

This could be perhaps why the Kick-Ass graphic novel ended the way it did, with Dave essentially hanging up the cape, so to speak, and Hit-Girl re-uniting with her mother: it was a way of showing that while the life of a superhero is grand, or at least supposed to be, it is best left to the pages of comicbooks themselves.

Overall, I give the Kick-Ass graphic novel 8 out of 10 Natural 20s, and the Kick-Ass film 7 out of 10 Natural 20s, as the ramifications of the potential depth of the novel largely outshines the flashiness of the film.

(In all honesty though, go see the film. The actress who played Hit-Girl, Chloe Moretz I believe her name was, totally steals the show. She did a fantastic job.)

God of War III: The House Review

Of course, God of War III is the final chapter in the hugely successful God of War series, and never has a conclusion to any trilogy come with such force and gravitas. Never before has a game left me physically exhausted after completing it. The adrenaline rush of gutting open centaurs and decapitating chimeras is just so intense it's practically face-melting. After the final credits, you just sit there in front of your TV in a daze, your hands sweaty and shaking and white-knuckled. I shit you not, there is absolutely no way to mentally prepare yourself for such an explosive ride through the Hellenistic world. It simply does not exist.

Because honestly, how do cope with an opening sequence that begins like this:

"Before the age of twilight set upon the gods, a legend rose to claim his place among them. And even though Kratos sat upon the throne as the new god of war, he was haunted by visions of his family he himself murdered. But the hands of Death could not defeat him. The Sisters of Fate could not control him. And on this day, the man, the legend, Kratos, will have his revenge."

The answer? You don't.

You just accept it. You just accept that this game is going to kick your ass. You just accept that your world and how you view it is going to be forever changed by how epically Kratos of Sparta, the aforementioned, newly-throned God of War, is going to exact his vengeance upon the gods of Mount Olympus.

And. There. Is. Nothing. You. Can. Do. To. Stop. It.

But let's backtrack for a moment, before I go any further into the no-holds-barred world of Kratos. That word I mentioned earlier, epic. I think I need to clarify what I mean by that.

If every aspect of God of War III--the gameplay, the plot, the graphics, the settings, the characters--could be described using only one word, that word would be epic. And I'm not talking about the kind of epic that acne-ridden World of Warcraft junkies use to describe their 75th level Druid or whatever the hell, or the kind of epic that LARPers use to describe their "swords" made out of cut-up yoga mats and cardboard, oh no, not that kind of epic at all.

I'm talking about the kind of epic that Homer had in mind when he was writing the Odyssey, the kind of epic that Frank Miller had in mind when he was writing 300. That kind of epic. The kind of epic that concerns itself not with the trivialities of "Hey guys, I think there might be a girl on this server," or "Hey guys, if you add food coloring to water and keep it in a test tube, it looks like a potion," but the kind of epic that concerns itself with manly men doing manly things, with only the manly sweat of their manly backs and the manly strength of their manly, manly hands.

Because that's what this game is really about. It's about big, manly, epic things. It's about epic gods and their epic domains, epic settings and their epic monsters, epic heroes and their epic quests for vengeance. It's about an epic man named Kratos, a Spartan warrior, and his epic decision that he has had enough.

Enough lies.
Enough death.
Enough treachery.

Enough of Hades
Enough of Poseidon.
Enough of Zeus.

Enough.
Enough.
ENOUGH.

And unfortunately for the gods of Olympus, Kratos is not the kind of man who talks out his problems. Oh no, he missed that after school special. Kratos, instead, destroys his problems. In fact, by the end of God of War III, Kratos nearly wipes out the entire Greek pantheon:

Hephaestus? Impaled on his own enormous anvil.
Hera? Kratos snapped her neck.
Helios? Decapitated and used for a flashlight.
Poseidon? Beaten to death.
Hermes? Ripped limb from limb.
Aphrodite? Nailed. (In the Kratosian sense.)
Hercules? Face-Fisted.
Hades? Kratos tore out his soul.
And Zeus? Imapled on his own Titan-slaying, super-sword.

Kratos is unstoppable. All throughout the game, he just destroys and murders and kills and decimates and murders and slays and murders and decimates. With the Blades of Exile that you get in this installment, the upgraded Blades of Athena from God of War II, you could actually call Kratos a living meatgrinder. There's certainly enough blood splatter effects to call him that.

Kratos, the Meatgrinder.

Like Mentos, the Freshmaker, but infinitely more brutal than a roll of mints.

You may not believe this now, as the seasoned video gamer you most likely are, but there will be moments in this game where you will think to yourself, "Hey...Kratos? Man, I think they get it. You're pissed. You just poked out a legless Hermes' eyes with your thumbs. I THINK THEY GET IT." But the game just keeps going. It's unbelievable. The sheer carnage is just mind-boggling.

Each time you slay a god in one of the many, many boss battles throughout this title, you think, "There's no way in hell the developers can beat that. I just ripped off Helios' head with my bare hands and now use it for a secret-revealing flashlight. There's just no way."

Well, you would be wrong, because this game is the game that does not know when to quit. This is the game that your mother warned you about. This is the game that erects a giant middle-finger to the ESRB and then blows it up with a bazillion megatons of TNT. Right when you think there's a break in the action, right when you think the game has given you room to breathe, flaming minotaurs suddenly erupt from the walls and it's a fight to the death.

But that's when you remember you have an arsenal of certified god-killing weapons at your disposal. Weapons like your Blades of Exile, your Nemesis Whip, your Nemean Cestus, and your Claws of Hades, all of which are conveniently upgradable with the cashing in of the spilled blood of your enemies.

I swear, this game has one of the best combat systems I have ever seen on a third-person RPG. It takes the sublime art of button-mashing and turns the user into a godless, killing machine. The detail of the series' trademark finishing combos are taken to a whole new level of brutality. Kratos proves throughout the title that he can take hold of virtually any body part, rip it off, and then beat the former owner of that body part to death with it. You impale Minotaurs with their own horns, decapitate Medusas to petrify surrounding enemy hordes, and chain yourself to Chimeras and use their breath weapon to completely immolate flanking foes. You eviscerate Centaurs and walk through their guts, you climb up Cyclopes with your Blades of Exile and rip out their eyes, and you use your Nemean Cestus to bash through hordes of living onyx statues and turn them to dust.

Just watching this game is more of a workout than Wii Fit.

Oh, and did I mention that you kill Titans, too? Titans, as in, more than one? That's right. In God of War III, Kratos finishes what Zeus could not. Kratos was like, "Zeus? You're such a girl. A girly, girly, girl. Let me show you what it means to be a god." And so he did. He went to the underworld, for I believe the third or fourth time in the series, and kicked Chronos' ass. And Gaia, too. Gaia was like, "Hey Kratos, yeah, I've been using you and stuff to get to Zeus. I actually don't really care about you at all. No hard feelings, right?"

WRONG.

WRONG.
WRONG.
WRONG.

Kratos is nothing but hard feelings. And so he kicked her over the edge of Mount Olympus. That's when Zeus was like, "Uh, wow, did Kratos just pull a 300 on Gaia, the Earth Titan? I think he did. You know, I'm actually starting to get a little worried up here."

YOU SHOULD BE, ZEUS.

EVERYONE SHOULD BE WORRIED.

Because this game, God of War III, and everything about it--the settings, the plot, the characters, the graphics, the gameplay--is so gut-bustingly awesome it can barely contain itself. I shit you not, the sounds of battle coming from this game's cellophane-wrapped package are so loud you can practically hear it humming with the energy it's waiting to unless at your fingertips. This is not a game to be taken lightly. In many ways, it's not even a game. It's an undertaking, an undertaking that will fight you every step of the way. This game will challenge you. This game will fight you. This game will test you. This game will determine if you are a god, or just another mortal.

But you will succeed, have no doubt.

Because you are Kratos, the God of War.

(Overall Rating: 10 out of 10 Natural 20s, the highest score I can give.)