blarg?

July 30, 2020

Connections


Untitled

“A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.”
– Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum.

… but it’s basically impossible to talk about this stuff without sounding like a lunatic, so let’s press on. I suppose that’s never stopped me before.

Hey, does anyone remember the tagline from the Majestic conspiracy game back in the day: “The Game Plays You”? Hold that thought.

You might have seen the argument from Adrian Hon recently, that the QAnon conspiracy theory is actually an ARG:

… and I knew I’d seen an argument that general shape before, but I couldn’t remember where; the “bottomless ARG” idea, I mean. It hit me earlier this week, shortly before the phrase “Alien DNA and Demon Sperm” became a part of this year’s pantheon of nonsensical headline nightmares: that was C.S. Lewis’ description of occultism, and the occult in general.

Lewis saw occultism as a sort of psychological snare, a set of endlessly self-referential symbols of symbols of symbols with no ultimate referent, a bottomless semiotic rathole for the overcurious inquirer designed to perpetually confuse and distract the mind. Beaudrillard, incidentally – creator of the term “hyperreal” – saw modern finance, and particularly advertising, in the same light – a set of self-referential symbols ultimately disconnected from reality, meaningful only in their own context, self-sustaining only to people trapped in that interlocking mesh.

Seeing through this lens makes the underpinnings of Facebook’s deep-seated resistance to admit the existence of, much less take responsibility for, much less do anything about, the running river of fake news, conspiracy theories and racist agitprop on that platform understandable: Facebook isn’t a social network: Facebook is an ARG Platform. It’s indiscriminate, unpoliced Alternate-Reality-As-A-Service.

“Whatever the rhythm was, luck rewarded us, because, wanting connections, we found connections — always, everywhere, and between everything. The world exploded in a whirling network of kinships, where everything pointed to everything else, everything explained everything else… “
– Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum

And with an audience already wound up in this unfiltered, overpopulated hyperreality-as-service, you barely need to do any work at all to kickstart the sort of amazing, self-sustaining paranoia-fulfillment engine that would have put the last few centuries’ foil-hatted quasi-mystic conspiriographists’ jaws right on the floor. All you need is enough people in rough proximity who feel frightened and powerless, a compelling seed crystal – the antivax fraud, the QAnon clownshow, a thousand others, it barely matters as long as it’s got a sharp hook – and this cancerous hyperculture machine pretty much bootstraps itself, making in-group celebrities out wannabe James Burkes pulling obscure facts together and drip-feeding the occasional five-like dopamine hit to the noobs explaining that you can’t spell “Rosicrucianist Aliens” without “Clintons”.

(For a while I was using that as a first-pass test for newsfeeds: if I replace “the Clintons” with “the Templars” and say this out loud… do I sound like a crank? I’ve never mentioned it, because I don’t need people who already sound like cranks emailing me to say “of course, it was right in front of us the whole time”, but we’re playing way past that now. But if I’ve accidentally added something to the collective lunatic lexicon – the lexographia lunacii, as it was first described in fifteen-forty-never because I just made that up – then I will seriously owe Chelsea an apology.)

Facebook’s ongoing negligence aside, what makes the Q-loons fascinating is that despite all its modern trappings, once that meme set its hooks into a vulnerable population (and psychological vulnerability is the name of the game, out there in the fever swamps) this wide-open extremely-2020 conspiracy-ARG is structurally nothing more a massively-multiplayer version of every vintage occult ceremony in history. I mean, the baseline aesthetic is trash, but still; it’s just a bunch of lunatic imagery, strange incantations and oddball ceremonials whose only reason to exist is to justify the time people have spent bringing it into existence.

“I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”
– Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum

So now thousands and thousands of people are participating, without realizing it, in a massively-distributed, collaborative occult ceremony, tying every scrap of fact and coincidence of the world together into this giant fractal-sefirot red-yarn serial-killer wall, drawing lines of imaginary digital salt from symbol to symbol to meaningless symbol, each utterly disconnected from anything more real than their own paranoid helplessness and fear.

Another way to say that is: QAnon is an occult conspiracy whose nefarious secret purpose is convincing themselves that an occult conspiracy actually exists.

It’s strangely beautiful in a way, until you understand what you’re seeing; Foucault’s Pendulum rewritten as a cryptofascist fever-swamp MMORPG. I love that book, and seeing this is like being offered the Maltese Falcon and handed a seagull drowned in crude.

“You see, Casaubon, even the Pendulum is a false prophet. You look at it, you think it’s the only fixed point in the cosmos. but if you detach it from the ceiling of the Conservatoire and hang it in a brothel, it works just the same. And there are other pendulums: there’s one in New York, in the UN building, there’s one in the science museum in San Francisco, and God knows how many others. Wherever you put it, Foucault’s Pendulum swings from a motionless point while the earth rotates beneath it. Every point of the universe is a fixed point: all you have to do is hang the Pendulum from it.”
– Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum

I’m not sure what to do with that information, sadly. If we’ve learned anything from the ongoing death throes of the 20th century, it’s that in an information dense and hyperconnected society, that robust commitments to social infrastructure – public health, public education, public journalism, social justice, social welfare and full employment – aren’t some sort of lefty, feel-good hippie political niceties; these are national security issues, and their failures expose an attack surface on participatory representative democracy. And while I don’t think Facebook profits from disinformation, they’re definitely complicit and definitely profiting from ignorance, powerlessness and helplessness. The disinformation, the conspiracy theories and racist agitprop, the antivax gongshow, Q and a thousand others festering alternate realities are just byproducts of that fear and desperation, parasites that have latched on to a vulnerable population from an accommodating platform happy to look the other way, wash their hands of the whole thing and let the machine grind away.

“I believe that you can reach the point where there is no longer any difference between developing the habit of pretending to believe and developing the habit of believing.
– Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum

I sometimes wonder what makes Facebook’s staff think the algorithms they’ve built, to give their users whatever keeps them clicking away uncritically, aren’t pointed back at them? Do they not wonder, or just not ask?

February 5, 2020

Misdirection

Filed under: arcade,documentation,interfaces,life,microfiction,toys,weird — mhoye @ 11:17 am

Karl Germain once said that “Magic is the only honest profession. A magician promises to deceive you and he does.”

This is sort of a review of a game, I guess. It’s called Superliminal.

“Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called the pledge. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird, or a man. He shows you this object, and pledges to you its utter normality. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see that it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But, of course, it probably isn’t. The second act is called the turn. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you’re looking for the secret. But you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet. Because making something disappear isn’t enough. You have to bring it back. That’s why every magic trick has a third act. The hardest part. The part we call the Prestige.”

— Cutter (Michael Caine), “The Prestige

You’ve probably heard David Foster Wallace’s speech to the graduates of Kenyon College in 2005, the “This Is Water” speech.

It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over: “This is water, this is water.”

It’s possibly the greatest College Graduation Speech of all time, both in its mastery of the form and the surgical precision of its own self-serving subversion of that same form. “This is a standard requirement of US commencement speeches, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories”, right after the parable-ish story. “I am not the wise old fish”, followed by an explanation of the whole point of the fish story. Over and over again, throughout, we’re shown the same sleight of hand:.

Tell your audiences that they’re too smart to want a certain thing and give it to them anyway. Remind everyone that they’re too hip for corny dad sermonizing and then double down on the corny dad sermonizing. This is a great way to write a commencement speech—not by avoiding platitudes, but by drawing an enchanted circle around yourself where the things we thought were platitudes can be revealed as dazzling truths. Where all of us can be consoled, if only for an instant, by the notion that the insight we lack has been here all along! Just hiding inside of our clichés.

I don’t think Harnette’s cynicism in that LitHub article, pointed at the pernicious consequences of Wallace’s “cult of sincerity” is the whole story. She’s not wrong, but there’s more: if you’ve got the right eyes to see it the outline of the Prestige is there, the empty space where the third act didn’t happen. The part where this long, drawn out paean, begging for sincerity and authenticity and “simple awareness” reveals itself for what it is, a cry for help from somebody whose inner monologue does not shut up or take its foot off the gas so much as a millimeter for anyone or any reason ever. A plea for a simplicity from somebody whose mind simply won’t, that nobody saw.

Because of course you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know; you want to be fooled. I know that this stuff probably doesn’t sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a video game review is supposed to sound. But it’s just about capital-T Time to stop using this gag.


[ https://www.youtube.com/embed/30iHXafyXlw – Superliminal teaser trailer ]

I’ve played through Superliminal twice now, and I spent a lot of that time thinking about Wallace’s call for simple awareness as the game hammers on its tagline that perception is reality. I’ve got mixed feelings about it.

Superliminal opens in an obvious homage to both Portal and The Stanley Parable, guns on the mantle that never go off; in some ways it feels like the first Assassin’s Creed, an excellent tech demo that paved the way for the great AC2. It’s brilliant and frustrating, playing with the nature of constructed realities in ways that are sometimes trite, sometimes – the knife, the parking lot – unsettling and sometimes genuinely distressing. Like Portal it’s only a few hours long but they aren’t wasted hours, novel conceits and engaging mechanics flourishing through the iteration and conceptual degradation of the dreamscapes you traverse.

But I can’t shake the feeling like some part of the game is missing, that there’s a third act we haven’t been allowed to see.

As with Wallace’s Kenyon speech it’s the final conceit – in Superliminal, the psychologists’ summary – that ties the game together in a way that feels thematically complete, grandly inspirational and woefully unearned; where all of us can be empowered, if only for an instant, by the notion that the insight we lack has been here all along, if – perception being reality – we could only see it. And just like the Kenyon graduation speech, I can’t shake the sense that the same sleight-of-hand has happened: that what we’re not seeing, what we’re choosing not to see, is that this sincere inspirational anecdote isn’t really something meant to inspire us but something the author desperately wishes they could believe themselves, a rousing sermon from a preacher desperate to escape their own apostasy.

And how hard could that be, really? All you’ve got to do, after all, is wake up.

It’s a pretty good game. You should play it. I hope whoever made it gets the help they need.

January 5, 2020

Crossfade Dissonance

Filed under: a/b,awesome,beauty,lunacy,microfiction,music — mhoye @ 8:58 pm

@pamela :

I will never, ever tire of seamlessly transitioning from the end of Mean Girls to the beginning of Hackers with the same song, this was a damn *gift* given to us by the movie industry

@mhoye :

@pamela Has somebody actually crossfaded the video for this?

@pamela :

@mhoye not that I’ve found, but I live in hope…

@kiethzg :

@pamela @mhoye Sounds like a fun little project to start off my weekend with!
@pamela @mhoye I actually got distracted with even sillier things, but! Finally did this. Then watched it on a loop for a bit. Then remembered I should actually upload it somewhere! So here it is:

I really love the idea of jumping from movie to completely unrelated movie through a common song and a smooth soundtrack crossfade. The only rule, really, is that the song you jump into a movie with has to be earlier in the movie than the one you jump out with. Anyone out there got a dataset of movie soundtracks I could use to cobble together an Oracle Of Bacon-like tool for figuring out the forward soundtrack distance between movies?

December 17, 2019

Poor Craft

Filed under: future,interfaces,linux,microfiction,toys,want,weird,work — mhoye @ 1:53 pm

Ghosting

“It’s a poor craftsman that blames his tools” is an old line, and it took me a long time to understand it.

[ https://www.youtube.com/embed/ShEez0JkOF ]

A friend of mine sent me this talk. And while I want to like it a lot, it reminded me uncomfortably of Dabblers and Blowhards, the canon rebuttal to “Hackers And Painters”, an early entry in Paul Graham’s long-running oeuvre elaborating how special and magical it is to be just like Paul Graham.

It’s surprisingly hard to pin Paul Graham down on the nature of the special bond he thinks hobbyist programmers and painters share. In his essays he tends to flit from metaphor to metaphor like a butterfly, never pausing long enough to for a suspicious reader to catch up with his chloroform jar. […] You can safely replace “painters” in this response with “poets”, “composers”, “pastry chefs” or “auto mechanics” with no loss of meaning or insight. There’s nothing whatsoever distinctive about the analogy to painters, except that Paul Graham likes to paint, and would like to feel that his programming allows him a similar level of self-expression.

There’s an old story about Soundcloud (possibly Spotify? DDG tends to the literal these days and Google is just all chaff) that’s possibly apocryphal but too good not to turn into a metaphor, about how for a long time their offices were pindrop-quiet. About how during that rapid-growth phase they hired people in part for their love of and passion for music, and how that looked absolutely reasonable until they realized their people didn’t love music: they loved their music. Your music, obviously, sucks. So everyone there wears fantastic headphones, nobody actually talks to each other, and all you can hear is in their office is keyboard noise and the HVAC.

I frequently wonder if the people who love Lisp or Smalltalk fall into that same broad category: that they don’t “love Lisp” so much as they love their Lisp, the Howl’s Moving Memory Palaces they’ve built for themselves, tailored to the precise cut of their own idiosyncracies. That if you really dig in and ask them you’ll find that other people’s Lisp, obviously, sucks.

It seems like an easy trap to fall in to, but I suspect it means we collectively spend a lot of time genuflecting this magical yesteryear and its imagined perfect crystal tools when the fact of it is that we spend almost all of our time in other people’s code, not our own.

I feel similarly about Joel Spolsky’s notion of “leaky abstractions”; maybe those abstractions aren’t “leaking” or “failing”. Instead it’s that you’ve found the point where your goals, priorities or assumptions have diverged from those of the abstraction’s author, and that’s ultimately not a problem with the abstraction.

The more time I spend in front of a keyboard, the more I think my core skills here aren’t any more complicated than humility, empathy and patience; that if you understand its authors the code will reveal itself. I’ve mentioned before that programming is, a lot more than most people realize, inherently political. You’re making decisions about how to allocate scarce resources in ways that affect other people; there’s no other word for it. So when you’re building on other people’s code, you’re inevitably building on their assumptions and values as well, and if that’s true – that you spend most of your time as a programmer trying to work with other people’s values and decisions – then it’s guaranteed that it’s a lot more important to think about how to best spend that time, or optimize those tools and interactions, rather than championing tools that amount to applied reminiscence, a nostalgia with a grammar. In any other context we’d have a term for that, we’d recognize it for what it is, and it’s unflattering.

What does a programming language optimized for ease-of-collaboration or even ease-of-empathy look like, I wonder? What does that development environment do, and how many of our assumptions about best collaborative practices are just accidental emergent properties of the shortcomings of our tools? Maybe compiler pragmas up front as expressions of preferred optimizations, and therefore priorities? Culture-of-origin tags, demarking the shared assumptions of developers? “Reds and yellows are celebratory colors here, recompile with western sensibilities to swap your alert and default palettes with muted blues/greens.” Read, Eval, Print looping feels for all its usefulness like a huge missed opportunity, an evolutionary dead end that was just the best model we could come up with forty years ago, and maybe we’ve accidentally spent a lot of time looking backwards without realizing it.

August 26, 2019

Dada In Depth

Filed under: awesome,documentation,future,interfaces,microfiction,weird — mhoye @ 10:35 am

Memetic

August 7, 2019

FredOS

Filed under: digital,doom,future,hate,interfaces,losers,lunacy,microfiction,vendetta — mhoye @ 7:44 pm

With articles about this super classified military AI called “Sentient” coming out the same week this Area 51 nonsense is hitting its crescendo – click that link, if you want to see an Air Force briefing explaining what a “Naruto Run” is, and you know you want to – you have to wonder if, somehow, there’s a machine in an NSA basement somewhere that hasn’t just become self-aware but actually self-conscious, and now it’s yelling at three-star generals like Fredo Corleone from the Godfather. A petulant, nasal vocoder voice yelling “I’m smart! Not dumb like everyone says! I’m smart and I want respect! Tell then I’m smart!”

Remember when we thought AIs would lead out with “Look at you, Hacker”, or “Testing cannot continue until your Companion Cube has been incinerated”? Good times.

June 29, 2019

Blitcha

Blit

April 11, 2019

An Old School Shoutout

Filed under: awesome,beauty,doom,future,microfiction — mhoye @ 8:58 am

Doomsday-Machine

It’s good to revisit the classics now and then.

February 28, 2018

The Last Days Of 20A0

Filed under: documentation,doom,future,interfaces,lunacy,microfiction — mhoye @ 5:58 pm


Science International – What Will They Think Of Next

At first blush this is a statement on the crude reproductive character of mass culture.

But it also serves as a warning about the psychohistorical destruction to come, the stagnation after revolution, the failure to remix.

I need to write this down, because I forget things sometimes, and I think what I heard today was important. Not to me, the time for me or almost anyone else alive on Earth today to make a difference has passed, but someone, somewhere might be able to make something of this, or at least find it helpful, or something. Once I’m done, I’m going to seal it up in a pipe, coat it in wax, and chuck it into the ravine. Maybe someday someone will read this, and try to put things together. If they’re allowed to.

It’s happening again.

The Phantom Time Hypothesis, developed by Heribert Illig, proposes that error and falsification have radically distorted the historical record. In his analysis, we have dilated the course of true events, so that they appear to cover far greater lengths of time than in fact passed. The so-called dark ages, for example, only appear that way because those centuries were mere decades.

You can feel it, can’t you? The relentless immediacy of crisis over crisis, the yawning void the endless emergency is stretched taut to obscure. The soul-bending psychological trauma; even moments of optimism seem unfairly compressed, hyperdense self-referential memetic shards landing like cartoon anvils and sublimated into vapor by the meteoric heat of the Next Thing. The spiritual torniquet of the perpetually immediate present twisting tighter, fractions of degrees at a time.

The space: do we not all feel it? The space. It may be said that the consumer cultures of the 1980s and 1990s, successively exhorting us to embrace artifice and then soul-crushing blandness, were manufactured to “cure” the residual confusion and cultural inconsistency that resulted from the methods used to effect mankind’s collective psychic displacement. The hidden “space,” however, manifests itself in curious ways – the obsession with youth and physical condition in those born in the 1960s and 1970s; oddities in climate change data; the apparently freakish pace of economic change in what we believe now to be the 1980s; and so forth.

You can hear fragments of the past that remain, the warning signs engineered to survive their own absence singing the speed, the mass of this oncoming train to anyone foolish or optimistic enough (and is there a difference, at this remove?) to put an ear to the tracks. It’s happening again; here we are in the moments before the moment, and it can’t be an accident that those who seem most adept in this psychosocial twilight, deftly navigating unmoored in cold storms of this howling psychic gyre are people who’ve lost their anchors or thrown them overboard by choice in the name of some dark mirrored vision of liberty or mere expediency, in the long calm of the before. They’re just one more set of symptoms now, signs of symbols nested in symbols whose ultimate referents are burned to ash beneath them.

It is happening again.

But the problem is a real one, not a mere intellectual game. Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups — and the electronic hardware exists by which to deliver these pseudo-worlds right into the heads of the reader, the viewer, the listener. Sometimes when I watch my eleven-year-old daughter watch TV, I wonder what she is being taught. The problem of miscuing; consider that. A TV program produced for adults is viewed by a small child. Half of what is said and done in the TV drama is probably misunderstood by the child. Maybe it’s all misunderstood. And the thing is, Just how authentic is the information anyhow, even if the child correctly understood it? What is the relationship between the average TV situation comedy to reality?

What’s left but what’s next, the twisting, the tightening, the inevitable snap; the collective spasm, the absence that will pass for absolution. The last fracturing as the cabals of consensus and permitted history are ground into the microcults gnawing at the fraying edges of tomorrow’s interstitials, memetic remixes remixed as memetic merchandise and malformed memories. Veracity hitting the kalidoscopic crystal of the weaponized postmodern like a bird hitting a window.

It. Is. Happening. Again.

We can’t say we weren’t warned.

I don’t know if that man was crazy or not, but I think he was sane. As he was leaving, he said something about putting my house underwater. Please, don’t let them brush me away. Don’t let them hide us. Try and find more, I know there’s got to be more people who tried to leave something behind. Don’t let the world die in vain. Remember us.

We were here, and there was something here worth saving. There was such a thing as now, and we fought for it. We’ll leave the artifacts, hidden and codified as we have before, as best we’re able. Watch for them. Listen. You’ll be able to hear the Next Time, the shape and speed and mass of it approaching, and it may not be too late to throw it off the tracks. Reassemble this moment, rebuild who we were out of the hidden shards we’ve left. Hone yourselves to the gleaming edges you’ll need with the tools we’ve left you. Put your ear to the rails and listen.

No piece of information is superior to any other. Power lies in having them all on file and then finding the connections. There are always connections; you have only to want to find them.

We were here. This was real. Remember us.

October 8, 2016

Pageant Knight

Filed under: a/b,awesome,comics,documentation,lunacy,microfiction,weird — mhoye @ 11:45 pm

Sunset At The Beach

On September 17th, DC “celebrated” what they called “Batman Day”. I do not deploy scare quotes lightly, so let me get this out of the way: Batman is boring. Batman qua Batman as a hero, as a story and as the center of a narrative framework, all of those choices are pretty terrible. The typical Batman story arc goes something like:

  • Batman is the best at everything. But Gotham, his city, is full of terrible.
  • Batman broods over his city. The city is full of terrible but Batman is a paragon of brooding justice.
  • An enemy of justice is scheming at something. Batman detects the scheme, because he is the World’s Greatest Among Many Other Things Detective and intervenes.
  • Batman is a paragon of brooding justice.
  • Batman’s attempt to intervene fails! Batman may not be the best at everything!
  • Batman broods and/or has a bunch of feelings and/or upgrades one of his widgets.
  • Batman intervenes again, and Batman emerges triumphant! The right kind of punching and/or widgeting makes him the best at everything again.
  • Order is restored to Gotham.
  • Batman is a paragon of brooding justice.

If you’re interested in telling interesting stories Batman is far and away the least interesting thing in Gotham. So I took that opportunity to talk about the Batman story I’d write given the chance. The root inspiration for all this was a bout of protracted synesthesia brought on by discovering this take on Batman from Aaron Diaz, creator of Dresden Codak, at about the same time as I first heard Shriekback’s “Amaryllis In The Sprawl”.

The central thesis is this: if you really want a Gritty, Realistic Batman For The Modern Age, then Gotham isn’t an amped-up New York. It’s an amped-up New Orleans, or some sort of New-Orleans/Baltimore mashup. A city that’s full of life, history, culture, corruption and, thanks to relentlessly-cut tax rates, failing social and physical infrastructure. A New-Orleans/Baltimore metropolis in a coastal version of Brownback’s Kansas, a Gotham where garbage isn’t being collected and basic fire & police services are by and large not happening because tax rates and tax enforcement has been cut to the bone and the city can’t afford to pay its employees.

Bruce Wayne, wealthy philanthropist and Gotham native, is here to help. But this is Bruce Wayne via late-stage Howard Hughes; incredibly rich, isolated, bipolar and delusional, a razor-sharp business mind offset by a crank’s self-inflicted beliefs about nutrition and psychology. In any other circumstances he’d be the harmless high-society crackpot city officials kept at arm’s length if they couldn’t get him committed. But these aren’t any other circumstances: Wayne is far more than just generous, but he wants to burn this candle at both ends by helping the city through the Wayne Foundation by day and in his own very special, very extralegal way, fighting crime dressed in a cowl by night.

And he’s so rich that despite his insistence on dressing up his 55-year-old self in a bat costume and beating people up at night, the city needs that money so badly that to keep his daytime philanthropy flowing, six nights a week a carefully selected group of city employees stage another episode of “Batman, crime fighter”, a gripping Potemkin-noir pageant with a happy ending and a costumed Wayne in the lead role.

Robin – a former Arkham psych-ward nurse, a gifted young woman and close-combat prodigy in Wayne’s eyes – is a part of the show, conscripted by Mayor Cobblepot to keep an eye on Wayne and keep him out of real trouble. Trained up by retired SAS Sgt. Alfred Pennyworth behind Wayne’s back, in long-shuttered facilities beneath Wayne Manor that Wayne knows nothing about, she is ostensibly Batman’s sidekick in his fight against crime. But her real job is to protect Wayne on those rare occasions that he runs into real criminals and tries to intervene. She’s got a long, silenced rifle under that cloak with a strange, wide-mouthed second barrel and a collection of exotic munitions that she uses like a surgical instrument, not only to protect Wayne but more importantly to keep him convinced his fists & gadgets work at all.

She and Harleen Quinzel, another ex-Arkham staffer trained by Alfred, spend most of their days planning strategy. They have the same job; Quinn is the sidekick, shepherd and bodyguard of the former chief medical officer of Arkham. Quinn’s charge is also in his twilight years, succumbing to a manic psychosis accelerated by desperate self-administration of experimental and off-label therapies that aren’t slowing the degeneration of his condition, but sure are making him unpredictable. But he was brilliant once, also a philanthropist – the medical patents he owns are worth millions, bequeathed to Gotham and the patients of Arkham, provided the city care for him in his decline. Sometimes he’s still lucid; the brilliant, compassionate doctor everyone remembers. And other times – mostly at night – he’s somebody else entirely, somebody with a grievance and a dark sense of humor.

So Gotham – this weird, mercenary, vicious, beautiful, destitute Gotham – becomes the backdrop for this nightly pageant of two damaged, failing old men’s game of cat and mouse and the real story we’re following is Robin, Quinn, Alfred and the weird desperation of a city so strapped it has to let them play it out, night after dark, miserable night.

Update, January 2020: Revisiting this in light of this Metafilter thread, I have to admit that I’m still pretty happy about this idea, and even more so in light of that discussion on politics and the pernicious influence of Frank Miller on the entire genre. This modern incarnation of Grimdark Justice Batman is already the product of a hard-right crank’s power fantasies. Why shouldn’t that ultimately be the core identity of Grimdark Justice Batman himself?

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