How Hollywood may bring down America: A Cultural Time Bomb

"Dream Big, Take Big Risks"

I watched Real Steel (2011) recently. It has an interesting premise, but plays out like the typical Hollywood film where the protagonist (In this case, former boxer Charlie) eventually makes it big, and also reconciles with estranged family, in this case his son, Max. Admittedly, the producers tried to balance out the ending by having Zeus win, but having watched apocalyptic animes and mangas such as 新世紀エヴァゲリオン and 未来日記, the ending still comes across as very feel-good. The completely one-sided characterisation of Mashido-san still grates on my nerves.

A closer look, however, together with a comparison to Death of a Salesman, reveals how Real Steel plays down the real world consequences of Charlie's initially irresponsible attitude and pursuit of the American Dream, a theme also explored in Death of a Salesman. The beginning half, up to the discovery of Atom, portrays quite realistically the consequences of Charlie's constant evasion of his creditors, his recklessness and carelessness and overconfidence regarding his future. One slightly redeeming moment of the film is when Max attempts to convince his father to play small first and not try to win it big in one go, typical of the American Dream. Charlie ignores him, to his peril. This is still subverted though, when Max attempts to win big money from Kingpin, putting the duo's only viable robot at risk, and still wins. And, of course, the fight with Twin Cities and subsequent challenge to Zeus throws risk moderation right out the window.

The multiple wins by Atom also contribute to the lack of realism. While Atom apparently relies on speed and durability to win, it uses voice control, which, when you think about it, is probably just about the slowest control medium available. It takes about half a second to say the word "uppercut!" and an additional penalty for the speed at which Noisy Boy's speech recognition can recognise it (although the film presents it as instantaneous, which then raises the issue of other, more practical uses of that sort of processing speed). On the other hand, pressing a button only has the delay of the control rig sending the command (presumably through IR) to the robot. One might also ask why professional robot boxing teams have not adopted shadow boxing control, as it seems to be one of the reasons for Atom's success. One would also expect that a team with multiple technicians managing and monitoring Zeus's and Twin Cities's internal systems to minimise damage and optimise performance would be able to keep their robots functioning longer than a semi-professional duo who can only control their bot externally and carry out a semblance of repair between rounds.

Death of a Salesman paints a much more realistic picture of the American Dream. Willy is trapped within his dream of making it big (Inception, anyone?) and repeatedly turns down offers of a steady, stable, though okay-paying job from his neighbour and instead seeks to make it big with the right gamble. He ends up committing suicide, unable to face reality. While this is extreme in its depiction, I daresay that it gives an idea of the reasons, perhaps, behind the decline of America.

On the other hand, Real Steel sends the message that if you put your needs before that of others (Charlie attempting to bargain with his childhood friend Bailey, who runs the gym that he trains in but is in danger of having to sell it), gamble all your chances on the big prize, rather than do steady regular work, you will still eventually succeed. Whether this is true is a different issue.

This post was jointly authored by my father and I.

Projectsday Competition '11

The Projectsday Competition is coming round again.

Projectsday Competition = stress

I've had to drop two members from my project group last year because of limits on group formation for Secondary 3 students. At first I had a lot of ideas coming up with a project idea (resorted to planning an analysis of End of Evangelion) but the addition of a group member sort of resolved it. We've got pretty good (good means insane) ideas running and it's just a matter of finding a mentor. First we wanted to do something on antibiotics, then we shifted to bioremediation because two out of the three of us were familiar with remediation techniques, then we shifted back to antibiotic methods, except using Korean Red Ginseng instead (heard it affects animal testicles O.o). So I'm pretty much set.

Execution by Placebo

His blindfold was pulled off. The man sat in the metal chair, his frame dwarfed by its size. Between his feet lay a rusty, stained metal pail. Tight bindings restrained him to the chair; 3 sets of handcuffs held his wrists together. A black suited officer stood on his right, an FN P90 slung over his shoulder.

They were in a two metre square room with plastered, white walls. A single ventilator shaft with a slightly scorched grill directly above the man’s head was the only visible exit. What looked like red paint could be seen splattered on several spots on the floor; the wall on the man’s left was pockmarked with tiny grey craters.

After an interminable wait, a young woman wearing a lab coat, her hands tucked in its pockets, together with another officer, an FN Five-seveN tucked in a quick draw holster, entered the room from behind the man. The woman stood off to the right, facing the man, as the second officer reached down and unlocked the cuffs.

“Raise your hands up in front of you, palms up,” he said slowly. Without betraying his fear, the man did as he was told.

“I take it you have been briefed on what is about to happen.”

Slowly, tense, the man nodded, a slight tilt of the neck.

“We shall proceed.”

After blindfolding the man, the officer manipulated a barely visible switch on the wall in front of the man, sliding back a cover to reveal a tap and another equally decrepit pail. Pulling a metal ruler from the inside of his jacket, he slid it slowly across the top of the man’s outstretched wrists, then twisted them to face downwards. After a few seconds, he loosened the tap behind him slightly, so the “tap, tap, tap” of dripping water could be heard. Then, he grasped the man’s wrists and held them up.

Slowly, the man’s face began to turn pale, the colour fading from his lips.

A matter of minutes after the man’s complexion had turned a colour indistinguishable from paper, the officer finally let the man’s hands drop back to his sides, limp. Pulling the man’s blindfold off, the officer glanced at the unseeing, unfocused eyes, then placed his hand underneath the man’s nose, and finally tucked two fingers beneath the man’s jaw, then turned and nodded to the woman, who responded likewise before leaving the room without a second glance at the body. Pulling a combat knife from inside his coat, the first officer cut the man’s bonds and lifted him by the armpits. His colleague grabbed the cadaver’s right arm and leg, then swung it onto his back and sidestepped the chair, striding towards the exit. The first officer then lifted the partially filled pail and followed suit, closing the door behind himself.