Has it really been forty-one months since the covid shut-down? Did that universally stressful stretch of time really happen? Stuck at home, with even the fitbit strolls, saunters, amblings, and power hikes becoming somewhat self-delusional as far as sustaining that I got this kind of gumption. Weather a lone wolf lifestyle or parents of a brood of grade schoolers, it all became blursville. Within that blur there was the rote mannerisms of masks, disinfectants, keeping one’s distance, while watching the death toll mount, locally or globally. And of course we here in the U.S. had the added burden of a sociopathic president who at one point suggested drinking bleach. Did some people follow that flagrantly flippant, insane advice? If so, then at least some of us could be comforted by figuring it was a Darwinian thinning of the herd. Then came a vaccine. Then another and then boosters. And science saved the daze. But with the caveat that it could mutate. In the meantime some bought as much Big Pharma stock as possible. See, always a silver lining–for those who can afford the luxury.

Here we are, in mid-August of 2023. We mostly feel safe, and as survivors of that once-in-a-lifetime confrontation with a global attack on humanity by an invisible monster, perhaps all the better for it. You know, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Until something does eventually kill us; however, many of the “steppers” gained healthy cardio while losing love handles. Damn right. The health clubs were all closed. Think outside that box. Even if one walked the floorboards of their domesticated virtual prison cells.

We are now in so much a better place. We have Hulu, Netflix, Apple, Disney, HBO Max, Peacock, Amazon, Paramount, Sing TV, Tubi and more. And then there was–and will now always be-Zoom. Zoom-doom! Good thing we added that covid cardio since as we all know exercise is much harder than sitting on ass.

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Recently the cinema has had some big budget fodder to entice those asses to fill a seat in a multiplex, pigging on popcorn with synthetic butter slathered over it; tub-size Big Gulps, and many venues offering booze too. Been to a movie lately? If so, it was likely a superhero comic book bloat of 150 minutes on average, or a supernatural haunting tale a million times already told, or a pinball body count contrivance of revenge by an ex-CIA operative requiring daring do and lots of shit blowing up. Let’s not forget the remakes/reboots/sequels/prequels starring ageless action heroes. With lots and lots more of shit blowing up. Hey. movies are a means of escaping reality. Reality?–time and space and the law of physics have no place in action movies. And usually there’s no place for a comprehensible plot. But free refills on that soda and lubed-up popcorn.

Then there’s kiddie fare galore. Ninja Turtles. Mario Brothers. Actual cartoons rather than the live action cartoons. You know, like Barbie. Yeah. Saturated pink Barbie. This Barbie isn’t a little girl’s plaything Barbie. She seems to live and breath and walk and talk and smile endlessly, in saturated pink. According to critics, there’s substance beneath its insufferably pink surface: about patriarchy. And body image. And feminism. Or, as one explanation of the point of the movie reads: a metamodern approach to dissecting the toy’s standing in the world and how it relates to the ways we (we?) construct our own identities. So much for escapism on the silver screen! And in SATURATED PINK to boot. I’ll wait for the sequel, hopefully made by David Lynch or David Cronenberg. Or Steven Soderberg. Hey, can you imagine what James Cameron might do with the same material? It would likely be filmed underwater, and Barbie could finally have her scuba attire added to her wardrobe.

But we have lived to see cinema become mildly popular again–though in my estimation not offering much creative gravitas. You want gravitas? Oppenheimer is making big bucks, too, inviting speculation on that man’s moral struggle with creating a weapon that can end the world. Ironically, since the lifting of the covid shutdown, and much saber rattling by the U.S., Russia and China, the atomic Doomsday clock is set at a mere 90 seconds to midnight. Closer to lights out than ever before. Barbie was a manufactured play thing. The Bomb was the terror of science and NOT a play thing, eh? Which one has more to say about human nature than the other?

Girls play with dolls. Guys like to blow shit up. What underlying ethos in either case is there to explore? For me, it’s just look around and see what a mess the human species has created. If you are inclined to explore the depths of our current dilemma, there are volumes of well written analysis and speculation. Not one page of such writing or one bit of cinema can ever explain how dysfunctional reality has now become. Ask Siri. Or Alexi. Or Big Blue. Or better yet, just try not to think about it. That should be no problem, eh? Think? Critically? If the human brain were wired to actually endeavor for a world where all could live in peace and love and understanding, going to see a live action cartoon in saturated pink that serves to address little girls and grown women and the toxic culture of hyper masculinity would never have to be made. Ya think? There’d never be a world war that generated the The Bomb. Or a post world war where autocrats and sociopaths get elected to public office. Morons too. Conspiracy nutjobs. Up is down. Right is wrong. There is no there there. Alternative facts. Fake news. Normalizing the pathogenic political circus full of creepy clowns.

Drink the bleach. Drink the Cool-Aid. Play with your doll or G.I. Joe action figure. If it’s not too late, don’t grow up. From where I sit, growing up is the biggest trap of all. Then again, William Golding grew up, only to write the dystopian novel Lord of the Flies. If you’re not familiar with that work, its characters are aged 6 to 12. They are stranded on an island after a plane crash. In short order they indulge in factionalism and murder. Would the same happen if they were 6-12 year-old girls? Uh, yes, that would be Dare Me by Megan Abbott. Which begs the question as to what if those Golding’s Fly Boys met Megan’s cheerleaders? Maybe love would conquer all. That would make it fiction for sure. Reality? Hey, it’s a mad, mad, mad mad world, and you can’t make this shit up anymore. And books that have meaningful lessons to tell are now being banned.

But please, have a nice day.