Month: February 2020

It’s one thing for an artist to simply be convinced of the importance of their work. Arrogance isn’t recommendable, but there’s at least the opportunity for said artist to put their money where their mouth is.

The problem with something like Netflix’s Locke and Key is that it’s convinced of an importance that it doesn’t have.

Just as the villainess Dodge (Laysla De Oliveria) tells one of her victims, “there’s nothing special about you at all.”

The show tries to tackle many different subjects and many different tones with many different characters. It takes a gander at trauma, family, toxic masculinity, the impact of violent media, and alcoholism via comedy, horror, and fantasy through characters of all different backgrounds and ages.

The issue here is not one of cohesiveness. It is one of substance, one of a failure to accomplish any of these things. While there’s certainly a clear passion behind this show and the implementation of all its ideas, the show’s creators and writers don’t seem to go beyond “this is a good idea, therefore the show will be good!” There’s no proper exploration of these ideas, no joy of true creativity, no soul. Everything is just a check off of a list.

Typically these kinds of issues are associated with expository thematic dialogue. That’s occasionally an issue with Locke and Key, but the soullessness of the show is found beyond these typical issues. Like last year’s Ready or Not, the storytellers are so desperate to convince you of the show’s cleverness, of its personality, and that it has an “emotional core” that in this desperation, the final product is utterly lifeless.

One example of this is found in a flashback. Locke matriarch Nina (Darby Stanchfield) is celebrating her one year of sobriety with presently deceased Locke patriarch Rendell (Bill Heck). The scene is bizarrely, uncomfortably casual, as though she wasn’t celebrating this with her husband but someone she met on the street. He gives her a mug that says “Ray Of F*cking Sunshine” on it. They celebrate by toasting with ginger ale.

Everything about this scene rings false. “Ray Of F*cking Sunshine” feels as though it was strategically chosen to show how much personality these characters have. Same with the ginger ale; you see, they’re not celebrating with something flashy, they’re celebrating with something casual! Because they’re casual folks just like you and me!

The most glaring examples of this problem are found in the show’s villainess Dodge. Take the scene in the second episode; Dodge is a sort of demon who is confined to a well house. She tricks young Bode Locke (Jackson Robert Scott) into freeing her and giving her the “anywhere key”, which allows her to transport anywhere she’s seen.

When she’s first freed from her confinement, she’s teleporting around, stuffing her face with handfuls of pancakes, stealing clothes from a prestigious fashion show in a different country, and so on.

The idea behind the scene is an effective use of visual storytelling to convey both Dodge’s personality and how the key works. The idea behind this scene is fine. But I could practically hear the creative forces behind the show saying “oh my gosh, the kids will look at her and say ‘goals’! This scene will be one yas queen moment after another!”

This “how do you do, fellow kids” attitude is probably the most prevalent example of the show’s desperation to be loved. There’s at least one use of  a modern song per episode.

And each use is bad. Very bad.

The most embarrassing example is found in the second to last episode. A villainous character (won’t get into who exactly, don’t want to get too spoilery) puts on an evil crown as dark, shadow spirits surround them. As the spirits converge, the villainous characters says

“hello darkness…..

….my old friend.”

As if I didn’t want to drown myself in kerosene enough after that awful line, Bille Eilish’s “you should see me in a crown” plays over this scene.

The use of this song is dramatically incompetent and tonally irrelevant. It escalated the show’s use of songs from “alright, I guess they want to be hip” to the the purest form of embarrassing that I’ve come across in a Netflix original.

And you know the worst part about all of this?

It isn’t that the creative people behind this show don’t care.

It’s that they clearly do.

 

 

 

 

 

I read Doctor Sleep in rehab back in November 2018. I’ve said before that rehab helped curb my minor physical dependence and plant the seeds of total, finally sobriety. But I didn’t reach this total, final sobriety until the following April (knock on wood; 295 days as I type this).

Despite this not yet total commitment to sobriety, I still reflect on Doctor Sleep as a companion, a friend during my time there. I may not have shown proper appreciation to this friend, the way I didn’t show proper appreciation to any friend or loved one during this not yet total commitment.

But a friend it was. In a time when a balance of healthy isolation and healthy community was paramount, it allowed me to be with someone by myself. Of particular importance was the fact that the majority of Dan’s struggles in the novel happen after he achieves sobriety. This friend was teaching me (or trying to, anyway) that sobriety will not fix my problems; it will help me face them.

In what could only be the result of divine timing, the film adaptation of Doctor Sleep released roughly about a year after I started reading the book. Even if it wasn’t a year of sobriety, a year tends to permit for reflection. And as I watched Dan go from page to screen, I was able to see what the seeds rehab had planted had finally become. It didn’t hurt that the significant (and brilliant) changes from the book included a scene where Dan gets to confront the ghost of his father. While the Jack Torrance in both of King’s novels redeemed himself, the one we saw in Kubrick’s film didn’t, and takes on the Lloyd persona in Doctor Sleep, not knowing he’s Dan’s father (supposedly).

As Dan talks about the death of Wendy Torrance and the impact this had on him, the man that should be his father repeatedly deflects the conversation, and tries to get him to drink.

“She was your wife, don’t you wanna know about it?” are the words that Dan speaks.

What he’s actually asking, is “why weren’t you better?”

When I look back on all of my time I spent drinking the time after rehab, the time I should have been sober, the time when the seeds I should have been watering were being drenched every two weeks by rebel yell whiskey, I ask myself the same thing. I ask myself that as I reflect on the entirety of the time I spent drinking, but especially that time.

But what was most important about that scene wasn’t my reaction; it was the reaction of two dear friends, Seth and Dylan. They, both being fond of the movie, didn’t just praise it. They made a point to tell me that they knew the film had a personal impact on me.

I didn’t even tell them it did. But it did, and they knew.

And so the story that helped me in isolation (even if I didn’t show proper appreciation) would go on to help me in friendship.

This is the power of storytelling, and it’s something Stephen King knows very well. It can allow you to see yourself, and allow others to see you. His emphasis on alcoholism in stories can range from giving life to a supporting character like Claude Bolton in The Outsider, or it can be out in plain sight for all to see like it is in Doctor Sleep.

But whether supporting character or core theme, it’s there.

I know Stephen King retracted his statements about diversity in art, so I’m not trying to pile on him anymore. But given this personal connection I had to both a work of art he created and a work of art he helped originate, it felt remiss to not speak about this connection, given the recent discussion he incited.

Just as it feels remiss to ignore the fact that I’m not the only one that needs to see myself.

There are so many people that need to, and so many people that aren’t. When discussions of diversity in art come up, it shouldn’t be seen as “meeting a quota”, but instead as denied opportunities of expression. Denied opportunities of humanity. The oh so common stance of “I don’t care about the race/gender of the character so long as they’re well written” (not saying King said this)  denies the vast richness of humanity, as though our different experiences and gifts should be dismissed because “all that matters is if the character is good” (whatever that means).

Richer stories will come from our understanding of our rich humanity, and a richer humanity will come from these richer stories. And we ought to stop ignoring that.