Most of us have ridden on an airplane. We climb aboard these agglomerations of steel and wires, dials and levers. We assuage our fears, telling ourselves we will not suffer the fate of Icarus. His wings were made of wax, while we are mesmerized by the sheer incomprehensible nature of the airplane. And, even if we did understand, it would look great on paper. Our faith is based in the pure lunacy of planes: tons upon tons of metal defying gravity. We become invulnerable through mysterious cogs enigmatically falling into place.
But, before we climb aboard, we’re in the airport. These strange arenas are filled with indifferent fluorescent lights and impersonal pleather seats. We find ourselves there at the most curious hours. Janitors in blue aprons are constantly sanitizing, but it never feels clean. We pass through metal detectors, the roman arches of our civilization that promise absolution and inviolability. Yet, airports never feel safe. They’re foreign, completely void of meaning and place.
Prior, we say our goodbyes before TSA employees with dull eyes and sewn on badges. On occasion, this will be a final parting. I never know how I should or how I am going to act. In a universe of infinite possibilities, what guiding force has put these people in our paths? How is it possible we found these fantastic people that change and hearten our lives only to leave them in such a dreary locale? Though the universe is infinite, we leave on these times knowing we’ll never see these people again. Not really, at least. Maybe you’ll cross paths, you can hope. But, you’ll know that it can’t be the same.
For me, these moments are accompanied by a jumble of emotions. There’s mourning and laughter, terror and awe. Sometimes I try to choke out bad jokes. Other times, I’ll try the stoic route, “Well, I’m off.” There’s this bizarre cathartic fear.
This is what I first thought after watching The Watchmen.
Many of you will watch this movie and leave thinking: “hee-hee, blue dick;” “who were those actors in that long movie;” or “I don’t get it.”
Others will think: Fincher had better FX; Van Sant’s was more real; or Boyle made a much better movie. Fuck, a lot of people are going to say “Rorschach sounds like Batman,” “no one was nearly as good as Ledger in Batman,” and “I would have rather rewatched Batman.”
Well, in the words of Colonel Custer, You can S my D.
Without Watchmen, the Dark Knight never would’ve come to be. Think of any comic book movie you like. Without the Watchmen graphic novel, it’s improbable any of them would exist.
In the 80’s, comic books were about to die. The golden age of Jack Kirby and Stan Lee, Batman and Superman were over. Comics became the lowest form of geek masturbatory material. The cheap dots and primary colors were passé. The industry was floundering.
Then, one man dared to dream of the most fuckin’ insanely awesome story to be told in sequential images. There is no end to the greatness of this graphic novel. We’re talking waking-up-one-morning-with-a-supermodel-in-your-bed-that-just-so-happens-to-be-a-moon-crater-because-guess-what-you-have-a-second-home-on-the-moon-which-seems-like-it-might-be-a-pain-in-the-horse’s-butt-but-you-are-so -badass-you-can-fly-to-the-moon-and-it-aint-no-big-thang kind of awesome. Respect.
Watchmen is not going to win any awards.
But, you get to see them breathe. Am I happy or am I sad? I don’t know. Probably both. Short of them coming to life, a part of me had to say goodbye.
For the True Believer, this is a must. Also, it’s 6:23 AM, and I’ve stayed awake to scrawl out some sort of review.