‘Nice war we had. Of course every war has its cute things.’

My parents divorced when I was three, so I always told my friends that I was too young to experience the trauma of separation. That was mostly true, but I dealt with the indirect consequences of later years. I was allowed to visit my father every weekend, but after they had a major dispute, that was downgraded to every other weekend. My father never remarried, instead focusing on his business in selling commercial signs. He struck a deal with a local hotel owner and moved into a second floor suite in ‘91. When I was with my father at the hotel, the living room, bedroom, dining room, and kitchen were all one space. We always ate out, we constantly traveled, and we shared television programs.

This meant I often had to yield to my father’s taste, and for the first ten years of my life, my program schedule was very different from that of my schoolmates. I watched shows like Walker, Texas Ranger , Nash Bridges, and MacGuyver instead of Looney Tunes and Power Rangers (I was often told that Power Rangers was sacrilegious ). They were enjoyable enough, but I always felt like I was succumbing to my father’s preferences. I didn’t follow them as rigidly as he did, often retreating to “my” side of the room to play the Super Nintendo. It was at 11 P.M. on Saturday nights, however, that my father and I both were wholly devoted to M*A*S*H. My father was in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War, and I knew that he found some affinity with the wartime experience of the surgeons of the 4077th. The world was new to me, but it reaffirmed most of my father’s war stories. They were materializing into truths in the form of Alan Alda and Harry Morgan. I also liked it particularly for the extension in bed time — it was the only night that my father would allow me to stay up until midnight. Therefore, when the somber melody of the M*A*S*H theme drifted on, I was starting the show with the exhilaration of living beyond that forbidden hour.

 

My M*A*S*H experience had little continuity. There was a poorly funded local station that sponsored the show, and they would play the episodes in random fashion. There were a few Saturday nights when they didn’t even play the show at all; the station would just go off the air after the local news and I’d be left with a pulsing void and a father whose stern objections meant that my bedtime had returned to its previous timeslot. Some episodes had Wayne Rogers cast as Trapper John McIntyre, others had Mike Farrell. There was no sense of “seasons”, I had a M*A*S*H potpourri and hoped that every weekend brought a new episode or a rerun that I liked enough to watch again.

 

M*A*S*H is comedy/drama about the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit 4077 in the Korean War. The story of the show centers on the work of surgeons and how they cope with being in the war. The comedy of M*A*S*H is mainly mischievous antics and revolves around Hawkeye, played by Alan Alda. Hawkeye and his sidekick, Trapper ( Captain Hunnicut later on), play off of each other’s dry sarcasm, having fun at the expense of their comrades. They’re jovial characters, two cheerful surgeons amidst a backdrop of perpetual violence. Their personalities even infiltrate the operating room and it’s not uncommon to see a comedic exchange while a wounded patient is being treated. Overly serious characters like Frank Burns and Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan are constantly frustrated by the oftentimes immature behavior of Hawkeye and company. Supporting characters like Radar and Colonel Potter add to the mix, often mediating the ‘conflict’ between jokesters and prudes.

 

M*A*S*H is more than comedy, however. The harmless exchanges between the characters are halted by human injury and peril. As soon as the medical chopper arrives with new patients, the surgeons, like super heroes uncovering their secret identities, assume their appropriate roles as doctors. And then there’s the crippling scene where a fatally wounded soldier has his last conversation with Hawkeye and all Hawkeye can do is offer him the reassurance that he will do all he can to mend his broken body. Each character is presented, whether individually or communally, with these human struggles throughout the show.

 

An interesting thing thus occurs. There’s a realization this isn’t another show peppered with laugh-tracks and light humor. It’s the opposite of what happens when a scene in a movie externalizes the filmmaking, when the viewer becomes aware of its ‘movieness’. It’s putting all of the characters and their setting back into context. The comedy no longer seems intended to entertain. The personnel of the 4077^th aren’t trying to make us laugh, but make themselves laugh. They’re trying to find humor amongst the uncertainty of their battleground. The comical aspect of M*A*S*H emphasizes the serious moments. It creates a transition between laughter and hesitation, so that when an injured Korean child strays into the camp, that shift from the child’s play to the urgency of rushing the wounded to surgery is emboldened. These dramatic moments in M*A*S*H vary in their breadth and how they move us, but they’re still there as a reminder of the uneasy atmosphere that war brings.

‘The Biggest Act in the Universe’

 

It seems that, amongst the squalor of angst ridden punk bands and beat oriented club tracks, a television show about a Death Metal band would be uncomfortably out of place. Indeed, Adult Swim’s Metalocalypse is nothing short of peculiar, but, surprisingly, it delivers humor that a variety of people could enjoy. Though the show is laden with obscure metal references, the show’s continual parody of Heavy Metal in general is easily understood; therefore, the overall comedy of the show doesn’t suffer because of ambiguous allusion.

Dethkløk is a half-American, half-Scandinavian Death Metal band whose popularity is only exceeded by their immense wealth (they’re the twelfth largest economy in the world). Fans flock to Dethkløk’s fatal performances, signing death waivers just to see the band play. Throughout the series, Metalocalypse chronicles the lives behind dysfunctional musicians, combining the strange humor found so often in shows like Aqua Teen Hunger Force and blatant, caustic satire. It’s an attack on the overzealous fan base and their larger than life idols – vapid musicians who lead incapable lives off stage. In fact, the only thing Dethkløk can do adequately is rock out. The show relies heavily on hyperbole, absurdly emphasizing certain characteristics of the band members with minute details. Lead guitarist Skiwsgaar’s hands are insured for $10 billion, a billion for each finger. But in the small span of 15 minutes, Metalocalypse manages to organize a conflict, off-stage antics, and performances into a discernible plot (though the series itself has little to no continuity). The Dethkløk songs are original works written specifically for the show and contain exaggerated lyrics and rhythms that are unmistakably Death Metal. The voice acting is skillfully executed – creators Brendon Small and Tommy Blancha provide a range of voices – and the characters’ varied and distinct personalities have a synergy similar to the character harmony in King of the Hill. The paper doll animation, a staple of Adult Swim comedy, provides abrupt movement that gives the cartoon a comically unrealistic effect.

Metalocalypse is eerily morbid and abounding with graphic scenes. The band’s immense popularity allows them amnesty for a variety of inhuman acts and their fans are often shown, in gory detail, being decapitated or mortally injured. It’s humorous when Dethkløk drops a gigantic stage from the sky, crushing hundreds of fans below – it’s trying to say something. “Hey, we’re a Death Metal band, so what’s wrong with death?” But there are instances in the show when the gore is sudden and excessive. In one episode, the band stands around their dismembered chef, whose separated and flesh-stripped body parts are laying on individual life support platforms, pondering what they should do about dinner. The scene is intense, even slightly humorous, but it’s disturbing to see the still-living chef pumping his lungs (the only thing still attached to his neck) to grasp that tiny puff of air just to stay alive. It’s at that point when Dethkløk looks genuinely ridiculous – Metalocalypse has crossed the threshold between comedy and dark comedy. It comes with a grim realization that, though the shallowness of real bands couldn’t possibly reach this, we have to separate the men from their music.

 

The First Step Through the Wall

Imagine, after a night of exhausting work, crawling into bed and drifting away. A dream begins, and it’s your average subconscious compilation of past and present, but after a day or so (dream-time?) it contorts into bizarreness. Lamps reciting John Donne, television sets vomiting the remnants of your sixth-grade homework, your college professor ferrying your classmates across the River Acheron; anything goes. This persists for sometime before your body finally rebels and you jump out of bed, grasping your table lamp around its ‘neck’ to choke out its endless poetry. Three seconds later you relax your grip and realize that you’re okay, and your lamp is as lifeless as it has always been. Welcome to the art of Salvador Dali.

I grew up hearing about Dali, his Persistence of Memory, and surrealism, but I didn’t see my first Dali painting until I was sixteen. I had always liked the ‘idea’ behind paintings, but I didn’t fully comprehend it. My art teacher would try to persuade us of important qualities in art, but I still only saw paintings as paintings. Rembrandt’s The Night Watch was nothing more than a pretentious photograph of outdated men standing around talking. It was of little importance to me when I saw Dali’s Persistence of Memory because I couldn’t see beyond the melting clocks; I couldn’t prescribe any meaning to the painting other than what I could see. It wasn’t until two years later, when my art teacher showed our class the Temptation of St. Anthony, that I actually hesitated and thought about what I was seeing. I remember thinking that it wouldn’t have been the same if Joseph Conrad had written a description of the same images, however eloquent and precise his writing was. The legs of the animals were like stilts trailing off into wispy threads, the altar atop an elephant in the background shone with a brilliant golden aura that drew your gaze to the center of the painting, the defiant tilt of the white horse’s head frozen in place emphasized the immortal moment they were caught in. This was a static image, but this was evocative imagery, this was art.

But why did I react so strongly to a painting? I had never felt this way about a film, or even a book (and I read constantly). Sure, I had defining moments in film and literature, but my reaction to The Temptation of St. Anthony was revolutionary. The story in that painting was there, in one frame. What differentiates a painting from a book or a film is the construction of meaning around that one image. Dali was able to incorporate his symbolism directly — through images augmented by color and texture. No dialogue, no fade-outs, just the sensation of an eternal moment. I was engaged in a medium through only my eyes — all sound and movement had to be imagined. This isn’t just true for Dali — all paintings are engaging to a degree. Sometimes paintings aren’t laden with symbolism; they’re exactly what they show. But others require patient participation and a careful eye; otherwise we might miss the opportunity to understand what they really are.

Overboard by Chip Denham

There is little doubt that Americans have a soft spot for pirates. Children have always dressed as pirates for Halloween and adolescents have adopted the quirky and cliché buccaneer jargon. Just look at the film, Pirates of the Caribbean — it’s one of the most successful films of the decade. Chuck Denham knew he was dealing with a familiar subject when his strip, Overboard, made its debut in 1990. But he added an interesting and humorous twist to the world of pirates — mediocrity.

Denham’s pirates are average, run of the mill people, whose greatest struggle is their own incompetence. They often suffer the ridicule of their green-garbed rival pirates and endure the frequent rejections of the women they seek. The most intelligent member of the crew isn’t even human — Captain Crow’s dog, Louie, often outsmarts the other pirates. The strip is anachronistic, often portraying its characters in modern situations. For example, one strip shows the Captain loading a washing machine onboard after dirty Louie had soiled his bed sheets.

Denham’s humor, though sarcastic at times, isn’t dripping with satire. Overboard is a skillful balance wit and slapstick, providing an accessible and widely appealing strip. The art of Overboard is relatively simple and utilizes round, curved lines to convey a comical atmosphere. Denham uses the same facial design for all characters, even the animals, providing a uniform look. This gives characters like Louie more emphasis and enables them to take on as equally fulfilling roles as their human counterparts. Also, Denham isn’t afraid to breach the third wall, and often includes himself in strips. His interaction with his characters adds an extra element. There are few situations as humorous as seeing Captain Crow erased from the comic because of a scathing comment directed at the artist.

The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

Ken Follett is no stranger to the espionage novel — he’s churned several best-selling thrillers that display his mastery of suspense. His subjects have ranged from bio-terrorism in Scotland to crime trafficking in Victorian England to covert operations in Nazi Germany. His true masterpiece, however, takes readers beyond global intrigue and espionage and into the long-past realm of medieval England. The Pillars of the Earth is historical fiction, like many of Follett’s novels, but deviates from his usual thriller formula. Instead, it is a multi-perspective simulation of what life was possibly like in the 12th century. Follett’s tale is realistically bleak, utilizing the harsh language, Byzantine politics, and chaotic behavior of the time. Death is prominent and cruel characters are abounding. Follett even details, in his own creatively gruesome method, the death of Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury. The move is bold — retelling history is a tricky endeavor — but offers a dramatic twist to a highly relevant historical event.

What separates The Pillars of the Earth from other historical novels is not its realism, but the skillful weaving of multiple tales into one larger chronicle. There are multiple protagonists, each with their own deliberate goal and obstacle. Tom Builder, a mason with a dream to construct a massive cathedral, struggles to find work to keep his impoverished family from starving. Philip, a clever country clergyman, is given the task of maintaining a run down priory in Kingsbridge and must transform the church estate into a profitable asset. Aliena, the daughter of the Earl of Shiring, is flung unto the streets and forced to sustain her younger brother, an aspiring squire, after her father is overthrown by a greedy neighboring lord.

Through the course of the novel, Follett forces the reader to relive a chaotic world in which uncertainty dominates the society and politics of the time. Characters are dynamic in the strictest sense of the word, displaying a broad range of emotions typical of human personality. The feral and awkward child, Jack, is tamed by his adoration of the heiress Aliena. Through a series of encounters with Tom Builder, Jack eventually becomes his apprentice, inheriting Tom’s dream of becoming a master architect. The story’s main antagonist, William, is dastardly through and through, but struggles with the prevailing faith of the time through his morbid and disheartening fear of the horrors of Hell. Philip, who is outwardly warm, hospitable, and religious, develops ambition and is forced to adopt a sterner attitude to match the anarchy of the 12th century. At 973 pages, Follett’s novel is epic — he details their struggles and interactions in a storyline that spans nearly half a century. With the exception of an unexpected shift in protagonists, the story is seamless, offering a balanced blend of suspense, drama, action, politics and history while maintaining a thought-provoking plot. There are more than a few decent historical accounts of the medieval period, but few match the masterful storytelling in The Pillars of the Earth.

 

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