Fantastic Heists and Where to Steal Them

You’ve got to love when something tells you what you’re going to get right on the packaging.  No bait and switch, just an upfront setting of expectations.  For example, I didn’t realize until second viewing that Blue Jay was the name of the coffee shop.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I watched the movie waiting for a bird to show up, but still.  With Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves, you know you’re going to be in for at least one dungeon, at least one dragon, and some thieves with varying degrees of honor.

We open on bard Edgin (Chris Pine, the second best Chris behind Evans) and barbarian Holga (Michelle Rodriguez, who doesn’t have a party, she’s got family) in prison, waiting for their pardon hearing.  After brief fight where a very large man gets what’s coming to him via some potato-based violence, we see Edgin and Holga go to the hearing.  This is a very good narrative device, because it allows for an exposition dump that doesn’t feel like someone’s talking at you the whole time for no reason.  We’re treated to Edgin telling the story of how he and Holga ended up there via flashbacks and voiceover; Edgin was once a Harper, a spy network that is sworn to do good and take no payment in return.  Unfortunately, the life of a Harper means that they make a lot of enemies and those enemies found him.  One day, he returns home to find his wife slain and his infant daughter Kira hidden, the sole survivor of the attack.  At that point, he and Holga turn to a life of crime, eventually teaming up with a sorcerer, Simon (Justice Smith, always great), a rogue called Forge (Hugh Grant, whose talents are on full display), and a very powerful wizard named Sofina.  However, on a heist, stealing from the Harpers to get the Tablet of Reawakening to resurrect his wife, Edgin and Holga get caught in a spell, and Edgin entrusts Kira’s wellbeing to Forge before he’s captured.  He ends his speech to the board with a genuine expression of regret for his actions and a desire to make up for lost time with his daughter—oh, and also a daring escape.

From there, they find Forge and try to reconnect with Kira, and, well, let’s just say things don’t go quite as planned and they have to get the band back together along with newcomer Doric, a tiefling druid played by Sophia Lillis (a very talented actress in her own right), in order to plan an even more daring infiltration of Forge’s new fiefdom, Neverwinter, during the High Sun Games, a brutal game of survival that was ended under the old Lord of Neverwinter for making the Roman gladiatorial fights look like laser tag in comparison.  This takes them on a series of quests to prepare, including running into Xenk, a Thayan paladin played by Regé-Jean Page, who helps them get a magical helmet, called the Helmet of Disjunction, for Simon to use in the heist.  Don’t worry if you don’t know what a Thayan is, I didn’t either before I watched the movie and it really doesn’t matter.  Xenk is a deeply hilarious character, unintended by him of course; so unbelievably good to the core and very literal in the way he speaks, he’s the kind of person that makes you feel worse about being a regular human being with flaws, because he’s basically perfect.  But not in an obnoxious way, it’s actually very endearing.  When we first see him, he pulls a baby cat person out of a giant fish’s mouth without harming either of them and then he just walks away, unfazed by his gentle act of heroism.  How can you not feel inadequate after witnessing that?   I’d save baby cat people all the time if I could.  However, Edgin is very distrustful of him because he’s from Thay, which is a city that has a deep lore behind that I still don’t fully understand.

But that’s one of the biggest strengths of Dungeons and Dragons; you don’t need to know a single thing about Dungeons and Dragons the tabletop game to enjoy the movie.  It doesn’t hung up on lore, it doesn’t get hung up on mechanics, and when they do come about, it feels incredibly natural to the storytelling—nothing ever feels tacked on or needlessly complicated, the film is very aware that people watching it won’t necessarily be steeped in the game’s history.  I mean, I’ve played a campaign or two, never to the end, and I have a few of the LEGO Dungeons and Dragons collectible minifigures, mainly because I love LEGO and many of them are adorable, but I’m far from an expert.  And yet, that never got in the way of my enjoyment of the movie.  If you know your way around Dungeons and Dragons more than someone who has just listened to The Adventure Zone a few times, you may get more out of the movie and enjoy the Easter eggs and references on a deeper level than I did, but even if you’ve never rolled a D20 in your life, it won’t matter.  Every bit of this is a wholly enjoyable film for just about anyone—and I do mean anyone, it’s a very family friendly movie, especially for older kids (some of the scenes might be frightening for younger children).

It’s easy to look at a fantastical ensemble action-comedy and draw comparisons with Guardians of the Galaxy, and I definitely see some similarities.  In fact, just a few days prior to rewatching Dungeons, I rewatched Guardians in preparation (and not just because I’m so obsessed with Marvel Rivals that I am thinking about the world in a Marvel lens).  But there are a few key differences and some major improvements.  I don’t consider it criticism to say this feels like an early MCU movie in the best way, because it’s important to acknowledge how art builds on art.  Much like how Astro Bot owes a lot to Super Mario Odyssey and The Town owes a lot to Heat while improving on its predecessors, Dungeons makes some moves here that surpass the Guardians formula, which Marvel has been trying desperately to recreate with varying degrees of success (and if the Super Bowl’s Thunderbolts ad is any indication, they’re still trying and the prospects don’t look so great).  By making the characters mostly all familiar with each other prior to the story makes for a different style of narrative.  Rather than a call to heroism like Guardians, it’s a redemption story, which can be very compelling in a different way than a call to heroism.  And furthermore, Dungeons embraces the importance of failure in a way you rarely see in film.  The characters are deeply self aware of their foibles and shortcomings; they know their weaknesses and they still strive to move forward, embracing each failure in their path as an invitation to try again.  It’s a surprisingly touching and moving story for one that’s as funny—and, at times, silly—as this one is.  Edgin especially is the driver of this, as his redemption arc is the most prominent in the film, but that’s not to say that the supporting cast don’t have their own rich story arcs to tell.  At one point, Edgin gives an impassioned speech about how he’s not tired of failing because it’s only when you give up that you truly fail.  Plan A turns into Plan B and into Plan C and beyond, but getting up off the mat is far more important the fact you were knocked down in the first place.  And Edgin is there to remind everyone of that.  “We must never stop failing,” he says, and that is such a powerful statement that is avoided by a lot of movies (and movies that do embrace failure, no matter how brilliant they are, like The Last Jedi, are often misunderstood and unfairly maligned).

Edgin’s self-awareness is what elevates this movie above other ensemble action-comedies.  Edgin runs on bravado, he runs on improvisation, but he’s wildly aware of what’s wrong with him and he has a keen understanding of his failings. But he keeps fighting anyway.  Perpetually undeterred by failure, he’s the kind of hero we don’t get to see often in film.  Heroes aren’t expected to be perfect these days, thank goodness, but they are expected to be winners.  Their relentless drive doesn’t have time to think about failure, it doesn’t have time to empathize with others, but it does allow them to bolster those around them. It’s not a criticism of that kind of hero, they can be very compelling, for sure, but it’s also nice to see something different from that.  One of the MCU’s biggest traps that it keeps falling into is having overly arrogant protagonists who are humbled and then go back to being overly arrogant again once they’ve recovered—Tony Stark, Dr. Strange, etc; after a little while, they all begin to feel a bit too similar—but Edgin feels humble in comparison, which makes him incredibly relatable.  He’s there for the others in his party because he knows what it’s like to need people to be there for him.  When there is a moment where they’re called to heroism, it’s not bravado that compels him to answer, it’s empathy.  It’s knowing that the world works best when people work together and care about the wellbeing of others, including strangers.  And he does it without hesitation.  And Simon, Holga, Doric, and even Xenk (who feels more like a dungeonmaster insert character than an actual party member, to be fair) all have their issues to overcome too—there isn’t a bad character in this movie and that really underscores how strong of a film this is.

Dungeons shouldn’t be a hidden gem—it should have been a massive blockbuster with lasting influence on the genre and a spate of sequels.  But it had the unfortunate fate of coming out at a time when people were still in a pandemic hangover (in some ways, it seems like many people still are; I only went to the movie theater for the first time since the pandemic in December of last year), so the ticket sales were lackluster and I feel like a lot of people missed out on this wonderful film.  Every aspect of this film deserves praise, from the storytelling to the visual effects, to the acting performances (I haven’t talked about him much because you really need to experience it for yourself, but Hugh Grant as Forge is one of the most fun performances in a film I’ve seen; he is really embracing these kinds of roles and continually knocking it out of the park), to pacing and personality in the film.  I know I often bemoan the bloated length of movies these days and praise movies that respect your time, and at 2 hours 14 minutes, it’s not a short movie, but it definitely respects your time.  Not a frame is wasted.  The comedy is on point, with fantastic comedic timing from the entire cast, the action is fast-paced and fun, and the characters are truly something special.  This is the kind of film you can watch over and over again with anyone in the room and it was always be enjoyable.  I’ve seen it maybe five or six times already and I’m always noticing new details about it and finding new reasons to love it.  Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves is available for streaming on Paramount+ and Prime Video (for the next two weeks), in addition to being available to rent digitally and I highly suggest you set aside a couple hours and a bit to watch it.  Because this is one campaign you won’t be able to get enough of.

A Talk to Remember

Sometimes there’s a name that, when attached to a project, makes you very excited to see that project.  Those names often come with guarantees—Tom Cruise generally means you’re going to get a high-octane action film with great stunts, Denis Villenueve usually means you’re going to have stunning visuals and visual storytelling (even if I thought Dune was boring Christ-figure nonsense), Ryan Reynolds means you’re going to get Ryan Reynolds playing Ryan Reynolds.  But for me, the number one name that gets me excited might be Mark Duplass.  I know, he’s not really the A-list talent that anchors record-breaking popcorn flicks and you’re likely not going to see him headlining an MCU movie any time soon (though I would have said the same about Paul Rudd and the first two Ant-Man were delightful), but he rarely disappoints. Safety Not Guaranteed, The One I Love, Your Sister’s Sister, Language Lessons, Paddleton; when you see his name attached to a project, especially as more than just an actor, you’re in for a well crafted, emotionally affecting movie that is small in scope and will stick with you for years to come.

Blue Jay (streaming on Netflix) is no different.  Released in 2016 and garnering a 91% RT score, it’s the kind of hidden gem that I love bringing to your attention because even I had never heard of it until I scrolled past it one day in a couch-bound reenactment of browsing the Blockbuster when you don’t know what you want to watch.  Another small scale indie, it stars Mark Duplass, Sarah Paulson, and just about no one else, and is written by Duplass, directed by Alex Lehmann.  Like The One I Love, this is a showcase of two actors’ ability in the craft.  And like a lot of Duplass’s projects, the movie largely improvised; the script itself consisted of a two page outline that was workshopped with a woman-led creative team and then approached fairly cold by the actors.  Duplass said it was the movie that he was perhaps most unprepared for in his career and that was by design.  Much like the overshadowed and underappreciated masterpiece Past Lives, Blue Jay thrives on the genuine performances of its main cast and that was aided by the spontaneity of Duplass and Paulson.  Sarah Paulson especially was a revelation—I’ve seen her act very well before, powerfully even, in shows like American Crime Story (she was fantastic as Marcia Clark), but I’ve never seen her act like this.  It is so low key and natural and just so incredibly real.  The two of them disappear into their roles in really flawless performances that make you feel like you’re there, like you’re watching a memory, not a movie.  I honestly can’t speak highly enough of their performances in this film.

Memory lane is not always the most smoothly paved road to drive down.  Time may be a flat circle, but we experience it as a one way street, always moving forward, relentlessly forward, whether we want it to move or not.  And trying to go backwards down a one way street is at best uncomfortable, at worst inadvisable, and, most of the time, painful.  Even happy memories can be tinged with sadness, because that happiness is in the past.  If you’re not happy now, those pleasant memories may be fleeting moments that leave you feeling more melancholy than before.  I think happiness as a state of being is somewhat of a red herring; happiness comes in moments, perhaps contentedness is more a state of being, but happiness?  A smile on your face and that warm feeling in your chest?  All the time?  Or at least generally?  I don’t think you can reasonably experience that outside of a worry-free childhood.  Maybe I’m wrong and there are people who are truly happy most of the time, but that’s not been my experience.  Regrets stack up, those insomniac nights, those waking somnambulisms; it takes work not to be crushed under the weight of your past decisions, right or wrong.  Blue Jay is a movie about the pain of the past; the mourning of the person you used to be, the life you wanted to lead, and the loss of the fantasies of your future that wither and die as reality sets in.  But that’s not to say that this is a downer or a melodrama.  It’s not sappy, it’s not happy, but rather it’s the natural oscillation of life. It’s a deeply funny movie in some ways and there are moments of pure joy and happiness as the film progresses, just as there are heart-wrenching moments; it’s just like life.  It’s up and it’s down, and, yet, time still marches forward.  The characters play through silly little memories; they are in very different places in life and that makes things difficult.  So yes, memory lane can be a painful place, but it can also be a joyful one.  Life really is a mixed bag, isn’t it?  The bastard.

The black and white film opens with some atmospheric establishing shots before settling in to the quiet picture of Jim (Mark Duplass) standing at the aisles of a grocery story looking quizzically at the items on the shelf when he recognizes Amanda (Sarah Paulson).  Yes, I know, black and white often feels pretentious, but the aesthetic really works here to drive home the dreariness of the town in which it takes place, from where they both fled after their teen years; lacking the vibrancy of color aids the storytelling.  The interaction is short and awkward and Jim is visibly upset at how it went when they part ways, only to bump into each other again in the parking lot.  It’s clear from the off that they have a past and knew each other quite well once upon a time, but have long since grown apart; I’m talking patently obvious from the moment they see each other that their stories were once deeply intertwined.  Jim asks her to coffee and she agrees.  Amanda is in town because her sister is having a baby, Jim is in town because his mother passed away and he is there to manage her affairs.  They haven’t seen each other in twenty years, but it doesn’t take long for them to loosen into an easy chemistry; after the awkwardness of the market aisles, their shoulders stop tensing and they start to catch up.  Amanda is married now, she has two step sons—Jim, upon hearing this news, spontaneously cries.  It’s subtle, not some over the top melodrama, and it’s not the only time it’s going to happen.  He’s emotional about seeing Amanda again and clearly going through a lot in general; surely he must have figured that life goes on, but hearing it causes him to tear up.  He assures her that things are fine, that his face just leaks, and tells her what’s going on with his life, which is considerably less.  No family, a job putting up drywall in Tucson, and now he’s here, sitting in an empty house.

And when I say empty house, I mean a very full house, filled with memories and his mother’s belongings.  It’s haunted by the past.  Overstuffed with supermarket checkout line romance books that somehow make Jim confront his mortality, his room untouched, unchanged since he left town decades ago.  Amanda says that she wants to see it and “the famous lovebirds”, as the only other actor, an old general store owner calls them, return to Jim’s childhood home.  But not before picking up a six pack and some jelly beans and chatting more.  The moments here shared between the two of them are so perfect, so incredibly powerful, such a terrific example of storytelling.  It’s hard to call a movie that is basically a conversation between two people a powerhouse in visual storytelling, but it really is, because of the level of acting between these two.  So much is said with body language and facial expressions; on one occasion, Jim opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.  Amanda opens her mouth slightly, likely to assure him that it’s okay and that nothing needs to be said, but the words don’t come for her either.  And that moment is perfect.  Real.  Genuine.  The product of an occasion that the characters are trying to navigate, not a script where everyone says the right thing all the time.  This nonverbal communication between the two is just absolutely excellent, which adds to this feeling of genuineness and realness in the film.  There’s something about these slice of life films—Blue Jay takes place over the course of one day; an afternoon and an evening—that can just be so powerful when they’re done right.  All the clues of their past are there, they don’t need to sit down and state things that they already know for the benefit of the audience.  If they sat there, eating jelly beans or drinking the bad coffee at the diner they used to go to as kids and said “Well, as we both know, we used to date in high school, it was a passionate and strong relationship that ended irrevocably and significantly and we haven’t seen each other since,” it would take you completely out of the narrative and make the movie feel like a movie, like a product.  If you’ve been reading my blog for a little while, you’ve seen me appreciate when the creative team trusts the audience to pick up on cues and not need everything spelled out.  When you trust your audience and let the actors shine without having to dump a lot of unnecessary exposition, I really appreciate that—when you don’t, when you feel the need to explain every little thing in painstaking and needless detail, and with repetitive retreads, it not only hurts the narrative flow of a story, it also really annoys me.

That is not the case here.  This is the second time I’ve seen this movie and much like watching a mystery again, you see all the clues as to the depth of their story the second time.  But it doesn’t take multiple viewings for Blue Jay to have an impact.  When the penny drops, it hits you like a ton of bricks and upon a second viewing, you see how well everything was choreographed, like a ballet with talking instead of dancing (actually, there is a little dancing, to be fair).  As Duplass himself said, the idea of two old flames meeting again is not new, it’s not novel, but you can tell it in a different way that is new and novel.  And that’s exactly what this movie does.  It’s not about star-crossed lovers who find their way back to each other, it’s not some cliched story you’ve seen a million times, even though the premise isn’t exactly original.  I don’t want to tell you any more about what happens in this film because it’s something every fan of film should experience for themselves—after all, the movie is almost entirely a conversation between two people, if I tell you what they say, it would ruin the whole thing.  And that would be a proper shame, because this is a fantastic movie.  Sit down, put your phone away, and really watch Blue Jay, because that’s the way to really appreciate it.  At a brief 80 minutes in length, it won’t take up your evening, but it might just ruin it in the best way possible.  We are all trying to heal from from something.  We are all dealing with something; perhaps from the past, perhaps in the present, our dystopian now.  But as sad as memory lane can be, I highly recommend this film, even if you’re struggling mentally and emotionally right now, as so many are. Because Blue Jay acts as a reminder that healing is a painful, but possible process.   

Port Circuit

It seems like since John Wick released to surprise (and earned) praise in 2014, we’ve had a spate of revenge thrillers.  From the pale pretenders and copycats like Nobody, to the ultra violent and unforgiving shoot ‘em ups like Wrath of Man, shows that forgot about the thrill part like Black Doves, to emotionally deep and affecting films like the cheesily named, but excellent Riders of Justice and the quiet, contemplative Pig, it seems like every time you turn around, there’s a new revenge thriller coming out.  Some are great, like the aforementioned Riders of Justice and Pig, also Monkey Man, and most of the John Wick sequels (Wick 3 dragged a little, but Wick 4 was more than good enough to justify its nearly three hour runtime), some are less successful, like The Foreigner, which was such a forgettable waste of Jackie Chan’s talents that I can barely remember that I watched it, let alone what happened.

Today, I want to tell you about another revenge thriller that you might have missed when it first came around, Upgrade.  Released in 2018, it was kind of overshadowed by Venom, even though it was a critical success with an 88% RT score and 88% audience score.  It stars Logan Marshall-Green, whereas Venom has Tom Hardy, and to be honest, back in 2018, I used to mix the two up all the time.  Logan Marshall-Green seemed like an American Tom Hardy, the kind of guy you get when you want an outstanding actor in the role, but don’t necessarily want the cost of an A-list superstar like Hardy (if you really want to see a showcase of his abilities as an actor, check out 2015’s The Invitation, an excellent horror indie—and readers, you know horror is not my genre, so I think it’s really something special if I’m mentioning it).  And Marshall-Green brings it in this movie, as I’ve come to expect from him.  In addition to a gruff, but handsome white guy, both movies feature a second voice in their heads that is more than slightly murderous at times.  And, to top it all off, Venom had a recognizable IP behind it and Upgrade did not, and despite the spectacular failure that is Sony’s Spider-Villain-verse, and the fact that Venom was terrible, it was successful enough to get a few sequels and Upgrade is a seemingly forgotten movie. Which is a shame, because it’s quite good.

Upgrade opens on our protagonist Grey working on a 1970s Pontiac Firebird Trans Am in his garage.  He’s getting dirty, working with his hands, and when he drops the engine in, he celebrates it firing up by cracking open a beer.  It’s a very Hank Hill start to a movie about a futuristic world in which robots and AI run much of our lives and there’s constant drone surveillance with facial recognition. Grey’s wife Asha returns home from work in a self-driving electric car that looks like a futuristic Lamborghini Urus with blacked out windows, all angular and sleek.  The contrast couldn’t be more evident; it’s not just the Firebird or his 1971 Dodge Challenger that’s the anachronism, it’s Grey himself.  He’s an analogue man in a digital world, and he’s happy to keep it that way.  Frankly, I understand the impulse; I briefly had an Apple Watch, wore it for about an hour, and promptly returned it before going back to a mechanical watch, fatigued by the constant connectivity and alerts (as much as I wanted to feel like Dick Tracy, talking into my watch, the gimmick wore thin really fast), I drive a car with a manual transmission and wouldn’t have it any other way.  I get it.  Grey doesn’t want or need to be connected all the time, which is increasingly difficult in our world now, but even more so in the near future world of Upgrade, where Cyberpunk 2077-like cybernetic implants are the norm and your coffee table displays your emails.  Opt me out of that, please.

Grey tells Asha that he wants her to accompany him to drop off the Firebird for a client because he can’t take the self-driving car back, since he doesn’t know how to use it and he’s afraid he’d press the wrong button and end up in a different country.  When dropping off the car to reclusive tech genius Eron Keen (that’s right, not Elon; Eron, pronounced like Erin), Asha fangirls a bit—turns out she works for one of his competitors and is a big fan of his work.  He’s then prompted to show off his newest piece of technology, a chip called Stem.  Grey is of course unimpressed by the chip that can do just about anything; where Eron sees the future in Stem, Grey says he sees ten people on the unemployment line.  Eron seems a little miffed that he thinks it would only replace ten, to be honest, and this introduces the central societal conflict that underlies the story—what is the human cost of technological improvement?  I’ve always said that all good science fiction is a way to talk about real societal concerns, and Upgrade is no different.  More on that later, though.

On the way home from Eron’s luxurious underground bunker—I hesitate to call it a house—the car malfunctions, taking Grey and Asha to Grey’s old, crime-ridden neighborhood and proceeds to go full speed into a head-on collision, flipping the car (must be a descendant of Tesla’s Autopilot software).  Now, as I’m sure you can imagine, being in a serious accident is already a bad day, but flipping and being stranded in a dangerous area makes things much worse.  A car full of masked men arrives and things get much worse, very quickly.  Grey is hurt and drags himself from the car, but only in time to watch one of the men pull his mask down and shoot Asha point blank, before shooting Grey in the neck, severing his spine and leaving him a quadriplegic, helpless as he watches his wife die.  It’s a horrifying prospect; shocking random violence, with no rhyme or reason, that strikes in the middle of a happy moment.  Tearing away the person whom you hold most dear, in an irreversible act of cruelty; it’s as unthinkable as it is, sadly, commonplace.  I think it’s part of the reason revenge thrillers are such an easy sell.  We want to know that when people face tragedy, there is a way to get justice, even if the system fails to deliver it.  In a world with an increasingly unreliable justice system, the idea of going outside of it becomes more and more palatable, and even more seemingly reasonable, despite the fact it’s probably a bad idea in reality.  But it’s not reality, it’s the movies (let’s set aside the messages that entertainment media can and do send for the moment).  So how exactly does a quadriplegic get revenge on hardened killers who gleefully murder for no reason?

Enter Stem.  Eron explains to Grey that he can implant (or should I say install?) Stem into his spine to take over the functions that his body can no longer do; Stem can bridge the broken neural pathways and give him his body back.  Grey is resistant at first, wanting to end things, but he eventually acquiesces and has the surgery in secret, because Stem is years away from the human testing phase.  It’s after this that Stem starts talking to Grey, helping him analyze data that the police aren’t able to and giving him some leads on the killers.  What ensues then is some top notch hand to hand action as Grey lets Stem take over and use its faster-than-human reflexes to start a campaign of revenge against the people who took everything from him.  If you’re up for a great action movie that eschews the gun-fu of John Wick in favor of a more brutal approach, Upgrade delivers.  It’s one of the things that helps it stand out from the crowd of Wick-likes and makes it a unique experience rather than a copycat.  And it’s more than that.  Just like John Wick stands above other movies that were similar and how every movie that feels like Die Hard doesn’t quite feel as good to watch as Die Hard, Upgrade has a few tricks up its sleeve to make it special.

I mentioned earlier about the underlying conflict of the greater world in Upgrade and while the movie isn’t always the most subtle in getting the point across, it does indeed have something to say about the world in which we live.  Grey sees the human factor in everything; he’s not what I’d call a people person, but it’s clear that he’s empathetic to the struggles people face.  Upon seeing some folks addicted to VR, he questions the wisdom of living in fake world instead of the real one.  I’m assuming the VR in this near-future is more like OASIS from Ready Player One (a fun book with a movie adaptation I did not care for) and less like the nausea-inducing VR we have now, otherwise it wouldn’t be much of an escape.  But the real one in Upgrade is pretty bleak—unlike the shiny post-scarcity, techno-utopia from Star Trek, this is a dark, gritty world, full of crime and poverty.  I’ve written on the importance of escapism before, but it can be taken too far; if escaping the real world becomes your entire existence, it’s a problem.  Technology is amazing, technology is what allows me to share these thoughts with you, and so many other things, but we’ve already reached a point where tech can seriously interfere with the rest of our lives.  Upgrade shows a snapshot of a society in which tech and life are fully integrated and Grey is the outlier.  The drones above can scan people for their cybernetic implants, the murderer has a gun implanted in his arm, you can be tracked by the technology you put into your body (much like our phones can be used to track us now).  And the cost of all this progress is plain to see when the police have no leads on Asha’s murder and just don’t seem to care too much about it until other bodies start dropping.  After all, it might have been the worst day of Grey’s life, but in this crime-ridden and poverty-stricken world, it’s just another Tuesday for the 5-0.  Tech is being used to replace humans, AI is the new buzzword and the hot commodity, whether or not it works well, and it’s being used in the worst ways.  Being used to replace creative jobs, writing terrible press releases, violating copyrights, replacing artists, used by high school students to write awful papers and avoid learning; we’re already seeing the human cost of technology.  I have no solutions for you, unfortunately, I’m not delusional enough to think I can solve the world’s complex problems from this little blog, but it’s still important to talk about them.  And Upgrade opens the door to conversation.

But like Attack the Block, you can let all the social commentary pass over you and Upgrade is still a great action film, made on a shoestring budget (a reported $5,000,000, which makes you wonder why garbage like Red One cost $250,000,000), that is genuinely fun to watch, has depth to the storytelling, and is well worth the 1 hour, 40 minute run time.  It’s a compact movie with a lot to say and do and it doesn’t waste its time or yours.  Available to stream on Netflix, I definitely recommend checking it out.

Office Headspace

I am a person, you are not.  It’s a cold message no one wants to receive, but one they do in many ways, from many sources.

Severance is back.  If you somehow missed the fervor around it before, I don’t blame you for missing my brief mention of it back in 2022 when it first gripped me and wouldn’t let go.  Now here we are, in the beginning of 2025, and it’s finally returned, after I spent actual years holding off on rewatching it so I could have the freshest eyes possible.  To get you ready to head into the office once again, I want to talk deeply about the themes and implications of the first season.  If you haven’t seen it yet and want to, don’t worry, I’m going to avoid major spoilers.  If you haven’t seen it yet and you’re on the fence, I’m hoping this will convince you to watch it.  And thankfully, Apple TV is doing weekly Friday episodes instead of a binge drop, so there’s still plenty of time to catch up between episodes.

Severance is a process used by a (definitely pharmaceutical, perhaps more) company called Lumon to surgically alter the brain so that the your memories are geographically split in two.  It’s said that the work is so sensitive that some jobs at Lumon require severance and what this does is create a separate you when at the office.  This goes way beyond not friending your coworkers on Facebook or letting them follow you on Twitter, it’s a completely different person that never sleeps, has no friends, and lives exclusively in the office.  Season 1 starts with the extremely talented Britt Lower waking up on a conference room table with no memories.  She’s Helly, she’s told, as she’s greeted by a disembodied voice giving her a survey.  Confused and angry, she asks to leave.  But she doesn’t.  Well, she does, but every time she walks out the door, she walks back in, inexplicably.  After several attempts to quit, which has to be approved by her “outie”, the main personality outside of the office, she receives that cold, cold message.  The outie is a person, Helly is not.  And her outie is 100% on-board with whatever is happening to Helly, so it doesn’t matter that she isn’t.

In Severance, there are mysteries abound.  What are they working on that’s so sensitive?  The team we see the most of, Macrodata Refinement, groups seemingly random strings of numbers by feeling until they’re out of numbers for the quarter.  Why is the technology at Lumon so seemingly out of date?  Seriously, what’s with the 70s aesthetic?  The computers look more rudimentary than when Matthew Broderick had to hold a phone handset up to his modem to connect to the internet in WarGames.  Why are the severed groups kept separate from each other?  Why does Lumon seem so cult-like?  Their handbook is written more like a Biblical text than anything I got at work, which consisted mostly of meaningless motivational garbage and warnings about insider trading.  Just how much power do they have (the town where our severed protagonists live and work is called Kier, a clear reference to the Lumon founder Kier Eagan; he’s even depicted on the license plates; and while we’re talking about license plates, why do they say “a cure, for mankind” in Latin? That sounds like a corporate slogan).  And what exactly does Lumon do?

But that’s not what I want to talk about.  We can have plenty of discussions on the theories, pick apart the clues, but I can’t do any of that without spoiling the show for you.  What I want to focus on more are the implications of severance and the questions raised by the very concept of severing your memories.  And that cold, cold message from Helly’s outie.

It’s not just corporate culture, either, which Severance does ask a lot of questions about, it’s the nature of life and identity itself.  If you have no memories of your outside self, are you the same person?  Who even are we without the memories of who we were?  There’s an old saying, that no man ever steps in the same river twice, because he is changed and the river is changed; but we carry those memories with us, we have the echoes of our previous selves rattling around in that squishy gray trap in our skulls.  Without those memories, how can we be sure of who we are?  Lumon is generous enough to let people use their real first names; up top, our main protagonist, played by the always brilliant and yet somehow still underrated Adam Scott, is depressed widower Mark Scout.  We see him crying in his car and always cloaked in darkness when he’s in the outside world, a complete mess, rudderless and adrift in a sea in which he no longer feels complete after the loss of his wife.  On the severed floor, he’s the relatively well adjusted Mark S., but only because they told him so and he has to believe it.  You’re given a name, kept separate not only from your coworkers (so they don’t find each other on the outside; they’re given staggered entrance and exit times to minimize outside contact), but also from yourself.  You don’t even get to know who you are; outside clothes are changed and kept separate, Mark even has to leave his Vostok in the locker in favor of a sterile dial watch.  Any reminder of yourself is quite literally checked at the door.  Mark is running from the grief of losing his wife, but we all carry things like that with us.  We all have pain, grief, and trauma that haunt us, that fly invisibly above our heads like a cloud in an ad for antidepressants.  But we have joy as well, we have happy memories, we have formative memories, and they’re part of us too.  They’re the parts that make the cloud easier to deal with, the parts that make things better when it seems like they’re all bad.  Divorcing yourself from the grief may seem attractive, but at the cost of losing your joy, losing your self, is that worth it?

I suppose that’s a question that you’d have to answer for yourself, if you lived in a world where the severance procedure exists, but I know what my answer would be—and it’s a resounding no.  I’ve thought back on the things that I’ve gone through in my life and even my worst days, the ones that creep into my mind when I’m staring at the clock on my bedside table late at night, I wouldn’t give them up, not even for a few hours a day.  Because those bad days made me who I am just as much as the good days.  As The Babadook showed us, grief isn’t something you get over, even the acceptance stage in the DABDA model doesn’t mean that you’ve let it go; it just means that you learn to live with it, that though it with stays with you, it loses its power.  Joy doesn’t.  Joy stays with you and doesn’t fade.  Sure, the salient details may fade as memories do, but the feelings stay with you and they don’t lose their power.  I may not remember the exact route of my driving test, but I definitely remember the feeling the first time I took to the open road as a licensed driver. I wouldn’t trade that, not even for a brief escape from my ghosts.

Severance also asks a lot of questions about work/life balance, a wink-wink-nudge-nudge phrase used often in jobs where the balance is meant to be tipped heavily towards work.  I remember getting my first BlackBerry, which somehow was meant to make my work/life balance better, but also seemed to mean that even though I’d get home from work at 7 or 8 at night, I was still supposed to be available.  It’s funny how these technological advancements are sold as making our lives better, but the ultimate benefit seems to be with the employer.  Now, a severed employee shouldn’t have to worry about taking work home with them, this is a completely different problem.  It creates a version of you with no rights, no anchor in the world.  It creates an unseen, unknowing, and unknowable slave.  That’s not a word I use lightly; I know the weight it carries and I know the history of it in the United States—but it’s also not history in a lot of places and it’s in places that we benefit from.  Is slavery acceptable just because we can’t see the slaves?  Because it doesn’t affect us personally?  Because we don’t know about it?  The Good Place addressed the complications of modern life and how difficult it is to live without contributing to harm unknowingly; Severance drives this point home by asking if we’re complicit by being willfully ignorant of the harm to which we contribute.

When the question is asked about what they do at work, which neither the outie nor innie actually know, the cost is raised.  The moral cost, that is.  Is this separation worth it if the cost is killing people eight hours a day?  Not that I think that’s what they’re doing, but I don’t know—and they don’t know either.  We have things like fast fashion, almost certainly made in sweatshops in third world countries.  We’ve heard of factories with such terrible working conditions that they have safety nets installed to counteract suicide attempts and, hell, even here in the US, the working conditions at companies like Amazon make my complaint about my BlackBerry positively quaint.  Even without all that, it calls into question the very idea of separating your work and personal life.  How are you supposed to even do that?  Am I a person at home and not a person at work?  Just an employee, property like the desk where I sat or the water cooler which I huddled around to talk about Game of Thrones?  To be fair to my old employer, they actually did a pretty good job at letting you be a human being at work, but I know that’s not the case everywhere.  And that’s the question Severance is begging you to ask—you are the person you are and you are that person whether or not you’re at work, so how are you supposed to be someone else just because you walked through a specific set of doors?  Time and time again, our protagonists have said the work they do is important.  They’re told it’s important.  This prompts Helly to ask “Is it really important or is it just important because you say it is?”  It’s a salient question when they don’t actually know what they’re doing.  But it’s a question that’s applicable to many of our lives.  We put work ahead of so many things—family, leisure time, the arts, our hobbies, etc., because it’s something we have to do—and that’s not to say work can’t be important.  I certainly wouldn’t imagine a doctor or a nurse having to question the importance of their work, and the pandemic showed us just how many jobs are essential, but in an office setting?  Moving numbers around?  Is it all that important to the level that we have to exclude other things from our lives?  Severance, in addition to being an incredibly well constructed, well acted, and well written mystery, is a terrific vehicle for meaningful philosophical questions about practical, everyday life.  We’re not talking about Immanuel Kant and Epictetus here, we’re talking the daily lives that each of us are living right now, today.  And that’s part of what makes Severance so brilliant.

I didn’t even mention that in the midst of all this mystery and deep moral questions, there are standout performances by the entire main cast.  That may be odd to say, but there’s so much to every character, so much depth and realness to these people inside and out of Lumon’s Macrodata Refinement department, that each one of them gets more than one moment to stand out above the rest from time to time.  Of course Britt Lower’s Helly and Adam Scott’s Mark are excellent, but the performance as Irving by John Turturro shows off his masterful ability as an actor and Zach Cherry’s star turn as Dylan took him from the guy I recognized from a bit part in Search Party to a role in another one of prestige TV’s gems, Fallout, and I’m sure there’s more to come from him.  Tramell Tillman as Mr. Milchick and Patricia Arquette as Ms. Cobel are also magnetic when on screen.  Even the supporting cast is excellent, especially the self-aggrandizing blowhard of a dime store philosopher whose every superficial thought he treats as a revelation, Ricken, played by Michael Churnen. And on top of all that, the show is genuinely hilarious, giving moments of true laugh out loud comedy in amongst the darkness and mystery (sometimes wholly unintentionally, in the case of Ricken).  If you haven’t tuned into this show yet, do it.  It’s worth getting an Apple TV subscription just for this.  It’s that good.  Severance marks not just the return of the water cooler talk-worthy show (owing in part to its weekly episodic releases), but the return of appointment television.  In an era where so much content is available at any given time, we’re inundated constantly with shows that don’t respect our time because in the streaming space, time works differently, Severance is a show that wants to give you the most from your time and the space to digest, think about, and discuss.  Thank goodness for that.