Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

Last weekend Brent and I decided to venture out to Redbox (not something we do often--we usually find that the amount of time waiting in line/scrolling through endlessly terrible titles isn't worth the payoff of watching something you forgot to catch in the dollar theater), and amid the flood of soulless action movies, we found a film we've actually been wanting to see for a long time: Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium.

I don't really know why I wanted to see this film. It wasn't because I'd heard anything good about it (Rotten Tomatoes gives the film a 36%--not exactly kind). I didn't know anyone who had gone to see it and liked it. I wasn't familiar with the director or the screenwriter, and although I like Dustin Hoffman and Natalie Portman, their screen presence alone is not enough to draw me to a film.

Point blank, it looked like a fun film. From the rhyming title to the whimsical production design, I just thought it looked fun.

And fun it was.

*Somewhat related sidenote: As I was teaching this morning, and my students and I were considering a few photo essays, and I realized that the nature of the way that I critique media is generally to always look for the things it's doing well. I once took a class called "Great Films", and essentially every week we looked at a different way that a film can be great: great satire, great comedy, great ambition, great sincerity, great artistry, etc. Most films can't be all things at once, and so being great at one thing necessarily means that the film won't be good at being something else. So, when I criticize media, I always try to figure out what it's great at. True, each text probably has flaws that should be addressed (I'm not as kind to action films as I am to other films), but I hold to the idea that we should treat texts the way we treat people (articulated by Wayne C. Booth in his book The Company We Keep), which is above all else kind.

So, back to Mr. Magorium. I felt like this film was a sincere and believing attempt to have a good time. The story is simple, but the joy of the film isn't really in the story--it's in the details. Details like the odd boy narrator who has a hat collection to beat all hat collections. Details like a zebra that lives with Mr. Magorium. This is the kind of film that happens when you value play almost as much as you value storytelling.

And that is why I liked it. I thought the division into chapters was charming, I still enjoy calling accountants "mutants", and I'm trying to think of ways to incorporate sombreros into my wardrobe more often.

Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog

In all my classes, we make our students to a media blog, which is basically a blog about some of their media interactions that allows them to think critically about the media they engage with, and offers them the opportunity to think of ways they might use that media (or ideas that the text generates) in a teaching setting. It's an excellent assignment that helps students become more aware of the many voices and messages that surround them. It helps to keep us from becoming passive consumers.

Lately, I've felt much more like a passive consumer than an actively engaged participant in the media world, so I thought it would be a good idea to start my own media blog. I haven't yet decided if it will be available to my students. So, here goes.

Yesterday I watched Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. I heard about it from one of my students, but the reason I wanted to watch it was not only because she said it was something of value to her--it was because I seemed to be the only person in the room who didn't know what she was talking about. This always disturbs me; I graduated a Media Arts major, I teach Media Literacy, so shouldn't I be aware of all the cool things going on? There's a lot that I chalk up to not having TV, but shouldn't I know about server-meltingly popular videos? Why yes, yes I should.

And so I watched it, and I really liked it (not loved--liked). I think I love the idea of it more than the execution--the idea being that a bunch of professionals who were (selectively) out of work for the Writers' Strike getting together and making a great quality little film for internet distribution. I don't think that Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog had lofty aspirations (in the beginning, they weren't even sure if they could pay people), but now they're talking about Broadway versions, a sequel, etc. It's the kind of get-up-and-go story that we love; a group of friends get together to make something they love with no promise of success, and then they make it big (sort of like this student film that I helped on, where all the funding was out of the director's pocket, and it made it into Sundance. Not that I got paid, but my name is in the credits, so that's fabulous).

It is also really interesting to see how Dr. Horrible combines two forms that don't seem to be compatible at all--the video blog (which is so rooted in reality that it can become banal--one person sitting in front of a camera and talking about their life), and the musical (which nearly always requires us to suspend our disbelief in such a way as to not doubt the ability of characters to harmonize even though they are a town apart). Surprisingly, we don't really bat an eyelash at this odd juxtaposition, which just proves that a great story (well written...) has the ability to keep anything together.

Dr. Horrible sets up some interesting questions to consider (that I'm going to attempt to pose in way that won't spoil it for you in case you want to watch it): in this scenario, what constitutes a happy ending? Does a happy ending mean that a protagonist achieves his objective, that justice is served, or that good wins? Why do we long for happy ending in the first place? This offers a good opportunity to talk with students/kids about paying attention to which character we identify with, and why that might become complicated.

This film also breaks down trite stereotypes that (used to) dominate the superhero film--in this case, "good" is a bit terrible, "bad" is quite lovable, and in the end we're left to decide who we root for and why.