#it made Brennan so emotional to see Matt play in his world I can only imagine how proud he’d feel to see one of the intrepid heroes do it

[sittinginsunflowers]

I know we’ve been begging for a Murph DM season for years now and I would still kill to see it but idk man I think we’ve been dropping the ball. Something about Zac Oyama behind that screen looked right

[acsversace-news]

There’s a moment early on in The Assassination Of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story that, perhaps more than any other, sticks with you long after the image fades. Andrew Cunanan (a remarkable, terrifying Darren Criss), who we’ve already seen kill Gianni Versace, stands in the bathroom of a rundown motel room that he occasionally shares with his friend and potential partner Ronnie Holston (Max Greenfield). He stares at his reflection in the mirror. His face doesn’t move. He betrays no sign of any emotion. Then, he picks up a roll of duct tape, peels the tape back, and begins wrapping it around his head. The motion continues, the signature sound of the strong adhesive an eerie soundtrack to the nonsensical actions. Before long he’s covered his face and head, with just enough room to breathe.

It’s a quietly chilling scene made all the more tense when Andrew plays it off like nothing to Ronnie, but it’s also an insight into one of the show’s more intriguing thematic explorations: the violence of capitalism and its effect on our identity. In the early episodes especially, the show seems to revel in the lavishness of its setting while contrasting that sense of fullness with Andrew’s persistent change in identity. The very first scene of the premiere sees the camera moving from the expanse of the ocean to the expanse of Gianni Versace’s mansion, both settings turbulent, overwhelming, and unpredictable in their own ways. Ryan Murphy directs the opening sequence in a way that immediately situates us in this world of opulence. We take in the clouds painted on the bedroom ceiling, a verisimilitude of the outdoors, and the first of many images that look to replicate an authentic experience.

Through the halls of the mansion we go, our eyes unable to keep up with everything in our path: chandeliers, priceless art, silk pajamas, and balconies with an ocean view. This is the life we are meant to envy, the American Dream come true. Murphy, for the most part, films the scene with a bird’s-eye view, as if we’re outsiders that long to be given access to these gilded halls. Immediately the show is drawing a visual connection between violence and materialism. The episode cuts from Andrew angrily screaming in the tempestuous ocean to Gianni, surrounded by servants, enjoying a lavish breakfast inside the sunlit concourse of his home. More viscerally, there’s the image of Andrew pulling The Man Who Was Vogue, a book about the rise of Condé Nast and his influence on cultural gatekeeping and style, out of his backpack, followed immediately by a gun. Violence follows materialism is the suggestion, one that pops up again and again throughout the season.

It’d be slightly preposterous to argue that The Assassination Of Gianni Versace is some sort of remarkable Marxist critique of capitalism and material wealth, but as the episodes unfold it’s hard to ignore that the show is teasing out an intriguing connection between Andrew Cunanan’s ability to shift his personality at will and our own willingness to adopt certain roles in a very public way, spurred on by a culture obsessed with social media and its consumerist tendencies. Coursing through the show is a critique of our consumerist culture; despite being set the in the late ’90s out of necessity to the true crime, this is a show that’s very much aware of the plague of tastemaking and performative consumption and sharing that defines so much of our lives today. But what’s more scathing is how the show uses Andrew Cunanan as a stand-in for the anxiety and personal oppression that comes with such a culture. His need to be anything and everything to the people around him is not just a sign of his psychopathic tendencies, but a result of the pressures of a capitalist system that continually tells us we’re not doing good enough, that who we are is a failure, and that buying more things is the only way to establish a true, stable, respected identity.

Cunanan—it’s important to note that throughout this piece any mention or analysis of Andrew Cunanan is referring to the character within this show, and not the real man he’s based on—is an enigma similar to Patrick Bateman, a character from a more problematic work that, nonetheless, still draws a connection between Bateman’s bloody outbursts and his need to conform to an ever-shifting set of ideals about what it means to be respected, glorified, and envied. There’s a reason the business-card scene in Mary Harron’s 2000 adaptation of American Psycho stands out so vividly within the film; because it provides terrifying insight into Patrick’s mind-set that the violent acts simply don’t. We need that context of Patrick’s insecurity to understand the violence.

Assassination wants us to understand Andrew in a similar way. He’s a man with no single identity—Andrew’s sexuality is a major component of his complex identity within the show, and Paste’s Matt Brennan wrote a stirring piece about it—but rather a collection of signifiers meant to convey worldliness, taste, and stature. When he first meets Gianni in a club, he regales him with stories about his lavish lifestyle and impeccable taste. Only later do we, and Gianni, realize that it’s all a fabrication, an attempt to convey a certain social standing that he’s been unable to achieve.

This is the anxiety and alienation that capitalism thrives on. It’s a system that creates and then benefits from identity crisis. Alienation is a term in Marxist theory with many different meanings that, when taken together, give us a broader understanding of a feeling that’s often difficult to define. As David Harvey lays out in Seventeen Contradictions And The End Of Capitalism, one such definition is alienation as a “passive psychological term” that means to “become isolated and estranged from some valued connectivity.” The result of that alienation is “to be angry and hostile at feeling oppressed, deprived or dispossessed and to act out that anger and hostility, lashing out sometimes without any clear definitive reason or rational target.” Andrew cannot fill that void inside of him, the one created by a system that tells you that you alone aren’t good enough. When a man in a dance club asks Andrew what he does, he responds thusly: “I’m a serial killer, I’m a banker, I’m a stockbroker, a paperback writer, I’m a cop, I’m a naval officer,” and more, listing off one profession after another. He’s everything and nothing all at once, driving home the idea that under capitalism there is no true identity, only a series of labels that oppress us.

The question is, then, are we all as psychopathic as Andrew Cunanan? Certainly most of us aren’t murderers, but Assassination does seem to suggest that Andrew’s troubling need to be everything all at once is not too far removed from our own need to belong, a feeling amplified in our current culture of constant sharing and liking. We curate our lives, and more importantly our social media timelines, in much the same way Andrew curates his behavior and personality. Andrew literally puts on a costume, another man’s suit and his expensive watch, to attend the opera. He can’t imagine doing anything else. He tells outlandish stories about fictional past boyfriends; one in particular would drive him around in his Rolls-Royce and also snagged Andrew a job building sets for Titanic. These are small violences, little bits of untruth that erode the social fabric and Andrew’s own understanding of himself. Are we doing the same? Are we allowing Instagram influencers, native advertising, and increasingly “hip and socially aware” brands to make us feel like shit just so we’ll buy the thing they’re shilling that supposedly won’t make us feel that way?

Assassination, in at least some way, wants us to ask those questions. It’s not the larger thematic thrust of the season, but it is an intriguing and unavoidable presence. The series asks us to question our own search for identity through material means by showing not only how Andrew is affected by alienation, but also how those around him struggle within a capitalist system. The Miglins are the best example. They are the epitome of the American Dream under capitalism. At a fundraiser gala, Lee gives a speech that evokes the classic “bootstraps” story of his success, and his wife has no trouble building a line of perfume to sell on TV. Everything is picture perfect.

That is, until you dig deeper. At home, Marilyn Miglin (Judith Light in a devastating performance) takes off her makeup, a maudlin look on her face. The mask necessitated by the public gala has been removed, and her sorrow is now visible. Similarly, Lee Miglin can’t be his true self, a gay man in a world that would financially and socially punish him for his sexuality. He wishes he could just “roam among them,” a beautiful statement about wanting to live free of restriction and punishment for who he is. But capitalism has a set of rules and an oppressive structure that must be abided by, and anything outside of that is pushed aside. So, this isn’t just about Andrew, but rather all of us, and the way we’re forced to imitate ways of life rather than living the way we truly want to.

I wish there were a hopeful message to end on, something in the show that points the way forward to a place where we can know one another’s intentions and understand our own, free from the forces of capitalism. But if anything, the world portrayed in The Assassination Of Gianni Versace, in all its gold-plated, vacuum-sealed glory, has only gotten worse. We’ve become more convinced that we can buy something in order to be something. We’ve become chameleons of emotion, projecting our grief, joy, and anxiety to our followers without any check on our authenticity. Like Andrew, we can wear any mask we want.

As chilling as the duct-tape scene is, the most telling moment when it comes to the performative nature of Andrew Cunanan, and thus ourselves, is when Andrew sees the news’ first piece about the killing of Gianni Versace. His face is blank for a moment before he’s overcome with grief. He looks on the verge of weeping, all before the hint of a smile creeps in and the episode cuts to commercial. An imitation of emotion, literally mimicking the public grief of the woman in front of him, as convincing as the real thing. It’s a moment with implications that the show explores throughout the season, which is that Andrew, and everyone else, is a product of a system that grinds us down, asks us to perform emotions and wants, and then shames us for failure. “It was all a lie, an act,” says David, one of Andrew’s victims, moments before he gets a bullet in the back. The violence of capitalism breeds an identity crisis, and a subsequent emptiness and isolation, that can lead to physical violence. We’re all at risk, refusing to challenge the rules and upend the system. We have more in common with Andrew Cunanan than any of us would like to admit.

[briangroth27]

The Punisher Season 1 Review

Going into this show, I’d seen all three Punisher movies and his appearance on Daredevil (in addition to cartoons like the 90s Spider-man animated series and guest spots in non-Punisher comics), and thought the character was OK, but none of those sources got me to seek out his solo comics. As far as I was concerned, the use of Frank in Daredevil as a foil for Matt is the best and most interesting role he’d ever played. Unfortunately, while this solo series introduced a couple of compelling ideas, I can’t say it made me a fan of Frank Castle.

Full spoilers…

I feel like the biggest problem was that the season’s focus was entirely on the wrong plot. I didn’t care about Castle’s (Jon Bernthal) battle with his ex-friend Billy Russo (Ben Barnes) at all; not only did we barely get any scenes of the deep friendship they supposedly had, which would’ve given weight and tragedy to their conflict as enemies, but unnaturally extending the conspiracy surrounding the murder of Castle’s family (Kelli Barrett, Aidan Pierce Brennan, Nicolette Pierini) after he’d resolved it at the beginning of the series fell totally flat. We got even fewer scenes of the Castles together than we did Frank and Billy together. We were shown his wife Maria shot in the face in a dream sequence in each of the first three episodes (which was totally unnecessary), and that felt like the majority of what we saw of them. So, not only did leaning on Frank’s vengeance arc feel repetitive since we’d already seen him fight that fight, the season failed to connect me to his family and the loss Frank was feeling because of the Castle family’s total lack of characterization. I shouldn’t feel the violence of his family’s death more than I know any of the characters who were killed—that makes it feel like Frank is fighting against violence itself, rather than avenging anyone he personally cared for—but that’s exactly what happened here. The show wanted me to mourn his dead family with him, but since I didn’t know those people, they came off as shorthand pain for Frank instead of characters it was a tragedy to lose (watching him bond with Micro’s (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) son (Kobi Frumer) isn’t the same thing as seeing Frank with his actual boy). As much as I hated Castle re-avenging his family, Frank’s near-death experience at the end of the season—where Maria tells him to come home with her, but Frank decides to live instead—was a well-made and well-acted sequence. It just should've happened at the start of the season, right after avenging his family. All that time where he’s a walking zombie at the start of the season could’ve built to a moment where he can’t go on just existing and has to choose to live again. I have to believe Frank has a purpose beyond avenging his family (it can’t be the only thing pulling him back into life) and this show should've been about him exploring and defining what that purpose is instead of just throwing him back into the same grief he already dealt with.

Castle admits he's scared to think about what to do when the war is over in the final minutes of the season and that’s an interesting angle to approach the character from (and Bernthal played it very well), but it too should’ve happened much sooner instead of regressing his character with the conspiracy. That's what they should've started with and expanded from there, particularly as that was already a briefly-mentioned theme early on. I would’ve been much more invested in a man trying (and sometimes failing) to get back into society than I was in a man who was essentially dead, like Castle was in the first couple of episodes. I did enjoy the ex-soldier support group run by Curtis Hoyle (Jason R. Moore) that met throughout the season. Not only was that a good place to tie Castle’s experiences to our world and lend the series some social relevance when it talked about society’s treatment of soldiers after they come home from war, but it provided what should’ve been the main plot of the season: Lewis (Daniel Webber) as a Punisher copycat/acolyte. Lewis’ psychological issues were fascinating and comparing his inability to deal with the real world with Frank’s failed attempts to reconnect would’ve been a strong juxtaposition. Furthermore, turning Frank’s mission on its head by having Lewis (and, if I were writing it, others) become a violent copycat who attacked the governmental system “that’s trying to take away their right to defend themselves” (along with sympathetic media sources) while Frank only killed criminals—making Frank the “half-measure” he called Matt Murdock (Charlie Cox)—would’ve been a great way to force Frank to deal with what he’d brought into the world and to reflect on his own methodology. Lewis should’ve been the main villain: he was the direct challenge to Castle’s morality and crusade that could force Frank to grow, not Frank’s old corrupt war buddy. Frank dealing with what he brought into the world would’ve been a much stronger conflict than anything they did with Billy and the conspiracy. Instead, Lewis was a short-lived subplot that didn’t really make Frank reflect much at all.

Between Castle and Lewis, they had the perfect opportunity to dive deeper into the gun control issue—Frank is practically the dream “good guy with a gun”—so I don’t know why they didn’t. I wish they’d dug deeper into the problematic nature of the character in today’s world—he would be someone (unintentionally) riling up gun fanatics who fancy themselves Wild West heroes to take matters into their own hands—and not doing so seems irresponsible. I wouldn’t have a problem with him bringing a conservative viewpoint to the table—I don’t have to agree with everything he does or thinks, after all—but bringing next to no viewpoint to the main character felt like a cheat. Maybe it would’ve been OK to come down on the side that says the Punisher is a problem, and then show Frank dealing with that. That would be something totally fresh; we’ve seen countless stories where the main character might be morally wrong but works for the greater good and is thereby absolved; maybe having Frank deal with the fact that his morality isn’t in society’s best interest but having him to go on fighting regardless would’ve been a compelling journey.

David Lieberman/Micro was a good foil for Castle and his steps toward becoming someone like Frank worked well without making him a full-on action hero. The ups and downs of their partnership provided some solid drama, as did his separation from his family (Jaime Ray Newman, Ripley Sobo). If we’d known the Castles at all, we could’ve felt more of what Frank was feeling about David missing his family—but still being able to watch over them—as well. I’m very glad the show didn’t seriously venture down a flirtatious route for Frank and Sarah Lieberman, though their scenes together did have a good measure of chemistry.

Dinah Madani (Amber Rose Revah) was OK, but I never found myself rooting for her to either catch or team up with Castle. While her unique perspective on working in the government as an Iranian-American who saw herself as an American was interesting, her antagonistic role towards Castle didn’t really spark with me (showing her mettle in the early chicken scene was fun, though). I also didn't feel a big moment coming during the build to her discovering that Billy was betraying her (and his de facto confession in the stairwell didn’t seem like it had much of an impact either). I feel like both Revah and her character would’ve been better used in a better plot.

Early on, Karen Page (Deborah Ann Woll) seemed to have nothing to do but deliver a clue or two and worry about Frank, which was a waste. I’m glad she came back during Lewis’ attacks and that she played a major role in that subplot. Going against Lewis with the media was exactly the role I wanted to see from her and it was great to see Karen so adept at wielding her journalistic voice. I would’ve liked to learn more about Karen’s dark past, since I read that Woll sees Karen as being able to open up about that with Castle, presumably in a way she doesn’t feel she can with Matt. I wish Karen had come back after Episode 10; there wasn’t time for her to check in on Frank (or he on her) after he was given a new life?

As for the conspiracy itself, I don’t have much to say about it because none of the power players interested me at all. The double-crosses and self-preservation in the upper echelons of government agencies didn’t make me want to know more about the broader Punisher world. I think Billy would've worked better if they'd made him either more emotionally dependent on his Anvil gig as his "place" in the world after the war, another Punisher copycat, or both (if you’re only interested in the name/arc of Jigsaw, just rename Lewis “Billy Russo”). As it was, I wasn’t invested in their friendship so their clashes fell flat (even Frank mutilating his face just had me realizing “Oh. He’s gonna be Jigsaw.”) and I certainly don’t care if he comes back for revenge. The show’s action was pretty underwhelming compared to the street-level fights we've seen on the likes of Daredevil. Perhaps this style of fighting just isn’t my cup of tea, though; I didn't need the violence to be as brutal as it was to prove this was some harder-edged take on the Marvel world. "Cool" sequences like Frank running around gunning down enemies in the forest and Micro’s lair did nothing for me.

Like Inhumans before it, Punisher introduced some interesting ideas but didn’t expand on them enough to keep me interested. Doubling down on Frank’s family’s murders felt redundant and I couldn’t connect to him or them. While the series did convince me that Frank (and certainly Bernthal) could be a compelling lead given the right enemy and emotional journey, this show didn’t provide enough of either. If this does not change, I don't think I'd be interested in a second season.