Look up pretty much any list of the best films of all time and see what's sitting pretty at the top. Go ahead, I'll wait.
You didn't even do it, did you? No, you didn't, because you already knew what was going to be there. To be fair, the title of this post kinda gives it away, but you still would have assumed that the top spot on any given list of best all-time movies was Citizen Kane.
I'm not going to dismiss Citizen Kane outright. I would put it at the top of quite a few lists. "Best Movies Where the Answer to the Pressing Question That Drives the Plot Is a Fucking Sled," maybe. "Best First Filmmaking Efforts by Orson Welles," definitely. And without a doubt, it would go in the top five positions of "My Picks for Most Overrated Movies of All Time."
You might be thinking to yourself, "Well, at least it would be the best movie released in 1941, right?" Do you even know what other movies came out in 1941? Dumbo came out in 1941. Mr. & Mrs. Smith came out in 1941. The Wolfman, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, THE MALTESE FUCKING FALCON came out in 1941.
Now, if you've seen any of those other movies, and you've seen Citizen Kane, I want you to answer me honestly: if you were stuck on a deserted island with only one movie to watch for the rest of your life, which would you pick? If one of the movies on the short list you could choose from was the greatest film of all time, it would be an easy choice, wouldn't it?
I've seen Manos: The Hands of Fate several dozen times. I've seen Troll 2 at least three or four times. I've seen Citizen Kane once. I have no desire to watch it again.
Although I've only seen Kane once, I have seen the first 20-30 minutes of it three times, because the first two times I tried to watch it I literally fell asleep on my couch. The movie is relentlessly boring. It may have been a technical marvel at the time, but it's so slow and dull and I simply don't care about any of the characters. I've seen apologists describe its dreadful performance upon release as a consequence of it being ahead of its time. I submit that it was a bomb because it wasn't entertaining.
And listen, I know the history behind its production. I know the technical innovations it brought to the table. I don't deny its influence. I simply deny its greatness. Don't even bother trying to convince me otherwise, because I've heard all of the arguments and I have found them all wanting.
The worst, and possibly most common, argument I've heard in favor of Kane? "You just didn't get it. Here's a bunch of information that's a prerequisite for enjoying it. Now go watch it again." No. Fuck you. Go boil your head in oil, you pompous ass.
What, you don't like tripe? Tripe is amazing. It's made from cow's stomach. People in the UK used to eat it a whole lot, but now they really don't anymore. Tastes have simply changed as the country became more affluent. But if you understand why people liked it in its heyday you'll really have an appreciation for it. Now go eat some tripe.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Thursday, July 7, 2016
What's it like to be colorblind?
There are a lot of websites dedicated to helping people with normal color vision understand what it's like to be colorblind. They tend to do a good job of explaining that there are many different types of colorblindness, and sometimes they even get into what causes the various conditions. They almost always have some sort of photo comparison section that purports to represent what a given image looks like to a person with one of a number of color anomalies. They very in accuracy, but none of them are ever spot-on for me. If they exactly represented the way I see colors, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the images, but I always can.
I am, in the least technical possible terms, partially red/green colorblind. I can see red, and I can see green. The line between them is a bit blurred, and sometimes I can't detect them at all when their presence is subtle.
It mostly affects my ability to play puzzle games--in Puzzle Bobble, for example, I occasionally have trouble distinguishing between yellow and orange bubbles or (more rarely) blue and purple ones. The little creatures inside the bubbles are there partially to help folks like me tell the difference.
I'm very bad at distinguishing subtle changes in skin color. When a person has a slight rash or is blushing, I won't notice. I literally can't see it unless it's very dramatic.
One time when I was working at a gas station, I complimented a customer's car, noting that it was a really interesting shade of purple. It was dark green.
I used to have a pair of slacks that was sort of a pale green color. I thought they were grey for years. My mom would berate me for not knowing how to match my clothes because I would wear colors that looked really awful together. She said she felt really bad when we found out that I just wasn't able to perceive the colors normally. I don't hold it against her, though.
But here's the real deal. Here's what it's actually like to be colorblind.
Everything is going normally, I'm hanging around with some friends, and somehow or other it becomes apparent that I'm colorblind. Rarely, it's because I mention it outright. More often, it's because somebody else mentions it. Then something very predictable happens:
Everyone who didn't previously know about my colorblindness wants to know what color their shirt is.
If I play along, I'll be answering color-related questions for at least 15 to 20 minutes. At the end of that time, everyone will be completely unsatisfied because I'll have correctly identified the color of everything they throw at me. Usually I will just say, "Your shirt is [insert color here], I can see colors, I just don't see them quite the same way you do." That's usually enough to give the (correct) impression that I'm not interested in playing a game based on my ability to see color. Sometimes it's not enough, though, and someone persists in trying to find something--anything--whose color I can't correctly identify.
They want me to tell them what color the sky is. The sky is fucking blue. What, did you think that I knew that your jeans were blue, but I think the sky is orange?
Maybe I say, "Blue isn't an issue. I'm partially red/green colorblind. I have trouble telling the difference between very similar shades of red and green." Then they want to know what color grass is. Grass is green, dude. It's green. What do you want me to say?
And so, with this type of person, I almost always have to say something regrettable:
"Please stop pressing me for details on my disability."
I don't consider myself disabled. I'm fully mobile, I like to think that I'm of above-average intellectual ability, I can see and hear and speak. But I lack the ability to differentiate between subtly different shades of some colors. It's an extremely minor disability, but a disability nonetheless. And the fact that it's so minor almost makes it worse that they won't let it go. It doesn't affect me in my daily life, and so it sure as hell doesn't affect them. If I needed special accommodation because, for example, I had spina bifida, it would actually be much more understandable that they would want some idea of the extent of my abilities. But with mild, partial colorblindness, the only reason to keep pushing me for explanation (which is difficult to provide) is the novelty of it.
It shouldn't bother me, but it does, and it's probably because I've had the same conversation a hundred times. It's so predictable, and I know how it ends: you still don't understand the way that I see, and I'm not surprised.
I am, in the least technical possible terms, partially red/green colorblind. I can see red, and I can see green. The line between them is a bit blurred, and sometimes I can't detect them at all when their presence is subtle.
It mostly affects my ability to play puzzle games--in Puzzle Bobble, for example, I occasionally have trouble distinguishing between yellow and orange bubbles or (more rarely) blue and purple ones. The little creatures inside the bubbles are there partially to help folks like me tell the difference.
I'm very bad at distinguishing subtle changes in skin color. When a person has a slight rash or is blushing, I won't notice. I literally can't see it unless it's very dramatic.
One time when I was working at a gas station, I complimented a customer's car, noting that it was a really interesting shade of purple. It was dark green.
I used to have a pair of slacks that was sort of a pale green color. I thought they were grey for years. My mom would berate me for not knowing how to match my clothes because I would wear colors that looked really awful together. She said she felt really bad when we found out that I just wasn't able to perceive the colors normally. I don't hold it against her, though.
But here's the real deal. Here's what it's actually like to be colorblind.
Everything is going normally, I'm hanging around with some friends, and somehow or other it becomes apparent that I'm colorblind. Rarely, it's because I mention it outright. More often, it's because somebody else mentions it. Then something very predictable happens:
Everyone who didn't previously know about my colorblindness wants to know what color their shirt is.
If I play along, I'll be answering color-related questions for at least 15 to 20 minutes. At the end of that time, everyone will be completely unsatisfied because I'll have correctly identified the color of everything they throw at me. Usually I will just say, "Your shirt is [insert color here], I can see colors, I just don't see them quite the same way you do." That's usually enough to give the (correct) impression that I'm not interested in playing a game based on my ability to see color. Sometimes it's not enough, though, and someone persists in trying to find something--anything--whose color I can't correctly identify.
They want me to tell them what color the sky is. The sky is fucking blue. What, did you think that I knew that your jeans were blue, but I think the sky is orange?
Maybe I say, "Blue isn't an issue. I'm partially red/green colorblind. I have trouble telling the difference between very similar shades of red and green." Then they want to know what color grass is. Grass is green, dude. It's green. What do you want me to say?
And so, with this type of person, I almost always have to say something regrettable:
"Please stop pressing me for details on my disability."
I don't consider myself disabled. I'm fully mobile, I like to think that I'm of above-average intellectual ability, I can see and hear and speak. But I lack the ability to differentiate between subtly different shades of some colors. It's an extremely minor disability, but a disability nonetheless. And the fact that it's so minor almost makes it worse that they won't let it go. It doesn't affect me in my daily life, and so it sure as hell doesn't affect them. If I needed special accommodation because, for example, I had spina bifida, it would actually be much more understandable that they would want some idea of the extent of my abilities. But with mild, partial colorblindness, the only reason to keep pushing me for explanation (which is difficult to provide) is the novelty of it.
It shouldn't bother me, but it does, and it's probably because I've had the same conversation a hundred times. It's so predictable, and I know how it ends: you still don't understand the way that I see, and I'm not surprised.
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