MPAA Downgrades “Wings” from Unrated to PG-13 for Sake of Teens That Need to See It

Variety reports the very first Best Picture Oscar winner, 1927’s silent WWI aerial dogfight drama Wings, will receive a limited theatrical re-release in May at select Cinemark theaters nationwide. At the request of the MPAA, Paramount submitted it for review and received a PG-13 for “war violence”.

This newly restored, MPAA-approved version will feature no bloody decapitations, all F-words removed, and several exposed ankles pixilated for younger eyes. Now that the MPAA has removed the stigma of sharing the same non-rating as 2011’s sexaholic character study Shame, families nationwide can safely satisfy the silent-film withdrawal that has kept them debilitated in these waning days of post-The Artist-mania.

Children under 12 will still require parental approval, or else wait for the 2014 edited-for-Nickelodeon version which will delete all human-related scenes, be digitally recolored in shiny blues and oranges, and grant wacky cartoon voices to each of the planes.

Intro Withheld Till Now to Justify Oblique “Firefly” Reference in Previous Post Title

(Or, “What the Blog Title Means to Me”.)

In 1985 the creative Powers That Be at DC Comics decided that five decades’ worth of heroes, villains, counterparts, successors, multiple Earths, and divergent timelines had conglomerated into one widespread literary hodgepodge of a super-hero universe far too convoluted and alienating for any new and some current readers. Many current readers disagreed, but were overruled.

Their idea of a necessary housecleaning was the 12-issue maxiseries Crisis on Infinite Earths, which united all of these disparate characters, whether hero or villain or powerless supporting character, in a single story that required them to team up and/or fight until many of them were murdered or downsized due to redundancy. The advertising tagline was, “Worlds will live, worlds will die, and the DC Universe will never be the same!” Their solution to overcrowding was akin to savage arena combat on a scale beyond intergalactic.

The story branched beyond those twelve issues into all other existing DC titles for what were termed “Official Crisis Crossovers”, in which issues of their ongoing series would portray unwanted side effects of the Crisis. The impact of each individual crossover issue could be as traumatic as a major character dying at the hands of Crisis villains, or as inconsequential as a single panel telling us, “Look, the sky is red because of Crisis!” and nothing else. The messages sent by all this internecine intertwining were: (1) This story is the Most Important of All Times; and (2) you must buy every issue and crossover, no matter how pointless, or else the bad guys win and we go back to doing lame stories about an uppity Lois Lane conniving to discover that darn Superman’s secret identity.

Because this idea was not unwieldy enough for their overreaching ambition, they also decided that several hundred other company-owned intellectual properties that were never direct participants in the DC Universe — popular self-contained works, cult obscurities, forgotten one-shot wonders, and several super-hero lineups purchased from other defunct publishers — should also henceforth be connected throughout all of spacetime — regardless of genre, tone, or creator wishes — to this same universe. Formerly autonomous casts and milieux were now marched into the mainstream and forced to mingle with strangers, thus retroactively becoming part of a problem that was previously not theirs.

Crisis on Infinite Earths #1 opened with a mysterious armored space hermit called the Monitor (distant cousin to Uatu the Watcher and forefather of the Observers) gathering random, unwitting heroes and villains from various Earths and eras for the purpose of sending them on team missions ostensibly to thwart the plans of his arch-nemesis, the sadly named Anti-Monitor. Over the first six issues Our Heroes’ efforts were collectively futile in preventing the last six issues from happening. Those couple dozen folks are later joined by all surviving heroes anywhere and everywhere, crammed into panels wherever dead space was available, tripping over each other’s capes and buccaneer boots, vying for fifteen seconds of our reading time to exert a single power apiece before losing the spotlight to the winners of the next panel. By #12 the last several hundred survivors were reduced to the size of postage stamps.

After decades of reading, viewing, listening, and general aesthetic consumption, this is how my brain looks on a good day.

Inside is a festival of collisions and team-ups between entities that may or may not add up to much. Spider-Man trades quips with John McClane. Henry Rollins duets with Miss Piggy. Charles Ingalls lectures Ozymandias about the importance of being a decent, hard-working, upright citizen. Dick Loudon and Michael Scott stare at each other to see who can create the funniest prolonged silence. Hulk smash puny humans, except Mongo, because Mongo only pawn in game of life. Somewhere in a large, skittish huddle are real-life politicians and personalities ripped from the headlines, of whom I try maintaining minimal awareness for good measure, even when they bore me. A few 4×6 index cards strewn in one dusty corner contain all my sports knowledge.

Standing on a balcony above them all is Jesus Christ, to whom I gave my life at age 30, and who frequently gives me such a look. I promise I’m not ignoring him, but I can’t merely have Marvin the Martian empty the place with a disintegration ray. Some among this vast lineup offer invaluable memories and Morals of the Story useful to retain. Some are indelible, having been etched in there since childhood. Pretending they no longer exist will only get me so far. I don’t have to idolize them anymore, but I like to think they can be revisited and occasionally repurposed.

Meanwhile, three weeks from now a new villain will attempt to rise above and join my personal Rogues Gallery: the Big 4-0. Despite my best wishes, I’m not getting any younger. Thankfully I’ve not yet evinced cravings for a new unaffordable car, a hot new wife half my age and weight, or amenities such as hair plugs and spray tans that old men my age think they need before they go cruise for unnecessary ladies. So far, so good. Praise the Lord and my amazing wife.

While I’m busy not destroying my life in the name of self-validation, I’m curious to see how the aging process affects my entertainment choices, how my impressions of my everyday surroundings are formulated as my focus changes during the long walk ahead, and what use can be made of my retention of past experiences and salvaged vocabulary. Likewise, as artists and decision-makers change of their own accord, I wonder what will happen if I stand still while they march ahead, or vice versa.

I’m well aware that what I watch and read today does not resemble what Past Me watched and read twenty years ago. Some longtime characters and tales have already exited my head, or are lurking in dark corners where they think I can’t see them. Many newcomers are no longer welcome to the shindig, though an occasional special invitation is issued for select occasions. That which sticks around will find its presence endangered as my brain eventually begins jettisoning guests it no longer welcomes or remembers inviting.

Until then, the place remains one sprawling, ongoing series in which heroes, villains, powerless supporting characters, and real people I’ve known from across four decades’ worth of spacetime meet, greet, team up, and face off against the sinister forces of Father Time, the Lost Youth, the Aging Brain, and the Kids These Days.

The Midlife Crisis Crossover.

Worth noting: after twelve issues and countless crossovers full of fight-and-fight-and-fight, this unprecedented, multiversal, world-shattering epic culminated in a unified DC Universe with a single DC Earth and a singular DC timeline. Less than a decade passed before everything devolved into the same mess with a new look, fraught with ill-conceived reboots, contradictory new histories, unreconciled loose ends, and revisionist miniseries stacked upon revisionist miniseries like new bandages covering old, mottled ones. Square One has become a regular signpost on their vicious roundabout of neverending restarts.

Phillippians 4:13 notwithstanding, I’ve no idea how my own maxiseries will end. A heroic ending would be nice, if far-fetched. One involving use of the phrase “good and faithful servant” would be even better, providing I can stick to the path and pay attention to instructions. Among other things, I know for sure that: (1) This story is the Most Important of All Times; and (2) you must read every installment and crossover, no matter how pointless and overlong, or else the bad guys win.

The Train Job

If I were appointed Mass Transit Czar for the city of Indianapolis, the impossibility thereof notwithstanding, my first plan would be to install a subway system that would initially disrupt the lives of tens of thousands of citizens while ultimately serving hundreds of thousands more.

I’ve had limited exposure to subways in Chicago and DC in years past, but Manhattan’s far-reaching MTA system made last summer’s vacation possible and pleasurable thanks to its comprehensive geographic coverage, lack of service interruptions, and relatively smooth rides even when elbow room was at a premium.  Despite the occasional rush-hour crush and panhandler performance, I appreciated being able to relax in my own way while someone else drove us around at top speeds without the threat of automotive gridlock.  More than any tangible souvenir or gaudy Times Square photo, their subway was what I wanted to bring home from Manhattan more than anything else.

Alas, it can’t be done.  Despite the hopes and wishes of those citizens who’d love to see an efficient light-rail line connecting Carmel and downtown with each other and nowhere else, a combination of special interests, budgetary conservation, and fear of radical change all but ensures I won’t be riding any local rails within my lifetime.  The Methodist/Wishard “people mover” (a euphemism meaning “amusement-park rail ride”) is a nice attraction to stare at longingly during my daily commute, but I think it tops out at a paltry 1.5 miles per hour.  I also dislike that it only has two stops, neither of which is my house.  I understand Indianapolis has a railroad for travel to and from other cities, but my house isn’t that far away.  Adding insult to injury, our nearest IndyGo bus stop is a mile-and-half walk away, and receives only partial daily service.

Submitted for no one’s approval is my own proposal for what an Indianapolis subway system should look like:

Subway Proposal, Accompanying blog forthcoming.

My primary goal: eliminate the archaic wagon-wheel design of our IndyGo routes.  Once upon a time when downtown was everything to everyone, designating it as a transportation hub was a logical plan.  You could take the bus from nearly any point in the city to downtown, transfer to another bus for only a few cents extra, then head back out to any other point in town.  If you enjoyed the stopover in the heart of the city and didn’t mind spending an hour on travel time each way, the bus was a great option.  If you need a ride from West 38th Street to West 71st Street and aren’t up for bicycling, the bus is an absurd option.

Thus my ideal subway routes avoid this misplaced prioritization.  Downtown should not be a mandatory stop for every single ride.  In fact, I minimized downtown subway access because IndyGo has that somewhat covered.  Regardless of pricing, safety, speed, or smells, the option already exists for many neighborhoods.  I made two major concessions:  one line connecting 96th and Meridian to Greenwood Park Mall, and one connecting Avon and Washington Square.  I-465 is handy for driving from one quadrant of town to the next, but travel between polar opposites is interminable and frequently beyond interstate scope.  Those few who live near the randomly placed intersections of I-465 and other interstates should count their blessings.

My secondary goal:  end neighborhood isolationism.  It’s time we broke down barriers and learned to get along citywide.  We can’t do that very well if we never see each other.  Broad Ripple, for one, needs to learn to play better with others.  It has no interstate access, no convenient highways alongside it, and canals too tiny for riverboats.  I resent that every trip to the Vogue feels like I’m infiltrating a landlocked foreign nation, and that’s just the scary parking lot out back.  Sometimes commoners want vinyl LPs, magazine-article clothes, and fair-trade coffee, too.  It’s time to share with others.  Hence the direct line from Broad Ripple to today’s internationally flavored and commercially challenged Lafayette Square Mall area.  The two disparate communities should have much to share with each other.

Same goes double for the northeast side.  Every time I open an issue of Indianapolis Monthly or google new restaurant options, I get the impression all the city’s most talented restaurateurs are sequestering themselves in Carmel or its clingy entourage of other suburbs.  So many learned folk surely have ideas about life, love, peace, and success that would effect remarkable influence and widescale social uplift if only they could be spread to other, needier parts of town.  By direct contrast, Indy’s near-east side has a much longer history than CarmeLand, but is mentioned more frequently in Indianapolis Star articles about murder than any other side of town.  In my brave new city, they’re connected for the sake of transcending castes and fostering a deeper sense of cross-mindset synergy.  Think “buddy-cop film” writ large.  Who doesn’t like buddy-cop films?  If that’s not enough, this same line also connects Carmel with the Marion County Fairgrounds.  Convenient, right?

I’ve created several such team-ups like this, in the same spirit as those miserable “group projects” we all undertook in school against our will. And aren’t we as adults all the better for it?  To that end, I’ve connected Haughville to Beech Grove; Zionsville to Mars Hill; Fountain Square to the Pyramids; Butler University to the University of Indianapolis; the Indianapolis Motor Speedway to the Indianapolis Museum of Art; and Mass Ave to Mug-‘n’-Bun.  You’re all sister areas now.  Play nice.

As in Manhattan, transfers will still be necessary to reach some points B from certain points A.  You’ll note I’ve included a subway route alongside I-465 that can be used to reach Lafayette, Washington, Greenwood, and Castleton Square Malls all within the span of a single day.  That day, of course, would be Black Friday.  You can transfer from any of those four mall stops to the aforementioned meridian lines to reach Circle Centre Mall, and there’s an extra detour toward the Metropolis “lifestyle center” out in Plainfield.  For the true Black Friday overachiever, shuttle service would be offered between Castleton Square and the Keystone Fashion Mall, all the better to provide me access to Key Cinemas.

Speaking of me:  you’ll notice a conglomeration of sorts on the west side.  Since this is my proposal, my convenience is obviously paramount.  In addition to my Key Cinemas shuttle route, these routes are tailored to serve my house, my employer, my regular comic shop, my church, and Fry’s Electronics as well.  Anyone who is exactly like me in every way will learn to appreciate these small concessions.  By way of compromise, I agree to continue using my car for groceries, thereby eliminating one needless subway stop.  That’s just too many bags for me to drag around anyway, especially if the Mass Transit Czar position doesn’t oversee enough paid assistants.

In order to achieve all of this in as little time as possible, we may need to evacuate most of the city for several years until the bulldozing and tunneling are completed.  I also don’t look forward to the tense negotiations that will be required to arrange for the borrowing of lots of underground drilling equipment from West Virginia miners or from any heretofore undiscovered colonies of mole people.  On the upside, construction employment will be at an all-time high during the project.  Any and all unemployed humans and animals with thumbs will be cordially invited to participate.  Said thumbs don’t even need to be opposable.  We need all hands on deck if we’re to make my dream come true before I reach AARP age and become a much more dangerous driver than I already am.

According to my budgetary calculations, which may or may not be affected by how much calculus has faded from my memory since high school ended two decades ago, this project will cost the city approximately thirty-eleven jillion dollars.  Obviously the financial burden should not be dumped on hard-working Hoosier taxpayers, especially not those teeming masses who will be forced by eminent domain to vacate their demolished domiciles and hopefully relocate somewhere nicer and outside the IPS district.

Funding would instead be provided by declaring war on Ohio.  I don’t have any details worked out.  The drawing up of proper war plans would be delegated to the Indiana National Guard or whichever body our state charter designates for inter-state invasion maneuvers.  All I know is Ohio is larger than us, therefore possibly richer than us, and likely won’t even notice they’ve been conquered until it’s too late, after our new subways are operational and carting away their lost treasures, including but not limited to their narrow catalog of Kings Island Skee-Ball prizes and whatever autographed artifacts our boys can loot from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Granted, this plan is thoroughly unworkable and entirely fictitious.  It’s also just as likely to become reality in my lifetime as any sincere mass transit plan ever to be conceived for Indianapolis.

If this meets with no one’s approval, then I’ll offer to withdraw my name from consideration for the Mass Transit Czar position under one condition: if and only if Key Cinemas grants me the favor of opening a second location on the west side.  That should cost us considerably less than thirty-eleven jillion dollars, even allowing for organic snacks.

Default Intro Removed, Personalized Replacement Procrastinated

WordPress says to me upon entering:

Welcome to WordPress.com! This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.

Happy blogging!

Rather welcoming of them, a free test post to/for me. Deleting it outright would be unfeeling and dismissive. I’m preserving it for later use, to remind Future Me that, come what may, Jesus loves me and WordPress wishes me happiness.

Actual intro will follow the next set piece, because in today’s entertainment world everything that should have a beginning must have a set piece instead.