Star Trek -- Review

I only recently became a fan of Star Trek (the original series), last year to be precise. Growing up, I would occasionally watch syndicated episodes on Saturday afternoons, and they would invariably put me to sleep; perhaps because, as much as I'd like to fashion myself a deep thinker, I'm not fond of Big Ideas, or at least I didn't use to be. For I am of the Star Wars Generation, and any show set in space that didn't involve whiz-bang action and was heavy on both concepts and dialog wasn't my idea of fun. My bad, because some twenty years later, after a former co-worker gave me a burned DVD of Star Trek's first season, I realized how great the series is (despite its camp and tendency to cannibalize itself, surprising for a show that lasted only three seasons). I could go on and on about exactly how and why Star Trek hooked me so late in life, but it basically boils down to one thing: the contrast between the infinite expanse of space and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the USS Enterprise's bridge.

In that regard, JJ Abrams new film left me disappointed. For a movie that is largely set in space, I rarely felt a sense of wonder at the settings, whether they were on alien planets or far-off galaxies. That gripe aside, Star Trek manages to be a compelling picture that both pays homage to and redefines Trek lore. The characters are re-imagined in such a way that they, remarkably, stand boldly apart from and complement their earlier counterparts (save Karl Urban, who mimics DeForest Kelley as Dr. McCoy so accurately as to elicit goosebumps; and I dare anyone to find a single flaw in his performance). No mean feat. Hardcore Trek fans might begrudge the film's writers for making Spock too emotional (and, in a blatant plot device that works, making Uhura less one-dimensional) or for tinkering with other canonical aspects, such as the color of Chekov's hair and Romulans seen on the view screen pre-Balance of Terror; but it simply works, and, in fact, the plot hinges on just that idea: one of an alternate reality. Rebooting the Star Trek "franchise" while staying true to its roots -- however sleight-of-hand it may be -- is, much like the film itself, a thing of wonder; and despite its faults I cannot say the movie suffers from a lack of effort.

The plot is another matter. Discounting the great character development and winks to fans, there's not much there, all told. Par for the course vis a vis so-called "origin" movies, too much time (read: the entire fucking movie) is spent showing us how the Enterprise's crew formed, and invariably some shoehorning has to be done. The ubiquity of Uhura in earlier scenes is just the tip of the iceberg; and when Kirk is marooned on an ice planet and first encounters Old Spock, then Scotty a hop skip and a jump away, the movie leaps from somewhat-believable coincidence into the realm of script manipulation. I can forgive the film its 10,000-plus lens flares if I try hard enough, but I'm only Vulcan, and that criticism is, I think, somewhat logical.

Star Trek has a lot going for it: it's well filmed, despite the aforementioned lens flares -- a style concept run amok -- and a glaringly Apple-esque/insane-asylum-padded-room sterile bridge; despite Nero's ship looking like a titanic pine cone; despite the usage of words such as "bastard" and "bullshit," shocking in their context, seeing as how the context is Star Trek. Despite Scotty being the caretaker of a new-millennial Ewok whose reappearance later in the film is never explained...

3/4 *_*

PS - While the film's denouement elicits chills, boo on not having William Shatner narrate the closing lines.

Psychedelic Kimchi

This is how I feel. This is how I look. Welcome to the universe.

Coach

The PK 27 -- Game No. 6

Who's that man with the killer Cypher?

Strider Hiryu!

Strider who?




Rewind to 1989, on a family vacation to Arkansas. What we did while there, I can't remember. How long we spent there, I can't be bothered. How we got there; take a guess, as long as that guess consists of the words station and wagon.

What I do recall is that on our long drive through Missouri, our family stopped at a Wal-Mart to stock up on food (that's right, fine eateries like Stuckey's and Big Boy were unnecessary for folks like us) to eat during our journey. Being that shopping was not my forte, I was given free reign to roam the aisles at my leisure for about forty minutes. I never made it past the vestibule. Beside the mechanical crane and gyrating airplane, stood a lone game cabinet: Strider.

I had four quarters in my pocket, and I was eager to spend them. From the onset, in which the titular, acrobatic one-man wrecking crew, Strider Hiryu, hang-glided into a futuristic Russia to dispense justice with his deadly Cypher (the best way I can describe it would be to call it a tonfa with a blade attached, capable of creating a blurry arc of electricity when swung with blazing speed) against an armada of robotic Ruskies (this was 1989, you know), I was hooked. The graphics were superb for the period, as was the sound quality. That being said, I only made it up to the second stage, Siberia, before I succumbed to the game's wiles. Nonetheless, I was entranced, and lamented the fact that I would have to wait quite awhile to play it again, if ever. Keep in mind that I'm from Iowa, and quality arcade games could be hard to locate at times, at the time.

One year later, I had the distinct privilege of attending Thanksgiving dinner at my (then) sister-in-law's parent's home. If nothing else, I'd like to emphasize that it was a decidedly awkward affair, given that I rarely spent time with any of those people, and because I had nothing in common with them whatsoever, brother notwithstanding.* Amidst all my malaise, a ray of light: there was a Sega Genesis, courtesy of my sister-in-law's brother, and he had a copy of Strider, one of the best ports of an arcade game to a home console (as of 1990). It's hard to believe that a Genesis (and not a DJ) saved my life , but it's true. I played that bastard till the sun went down, food was digested, and farts were discharged. I also managed to avoid conversation with my extended family, and for that, Hiryu, I am forever grateful.


For the record, Strider Hiryu was developed by none other than the geniuses at Capcom, the company behind several memorable titles released since 1984. Never heard of them? Don't worry, you will. Trust me on that one.



* Don't get me started!

The PK 27 -- Game No. 23

I guess we'll have to save the unorthodox for the next entry, because Pac-Man, that big yellow sonuvabitch with an eating disorder, is our leadoff hitter.

I don't know about you, but when I think of video games, two iconic characters come to mind; and while mustachioed plumbers are cool and all, for me Pac-Man is to gaming what the cross on the Golgotha is to Christianity. See, I can play Mario in many of his iterations, from platformers to 3D, from puzzle games to fucking kart riding, but all I need from Pac-Man is one game. To rule them all. And the cold truth that I will never finish it...well, over the years I have learned to accept my fate.

For I am only human. I am flawed. Sometimes I eat up all my power pellets and get cornered by fruity-colored ghosts. Sometimes I turn left when I should have turned right (or I get run down in the warp tunnel!). Life is hard like that. And while I try to learn from my mistakes, it ain't easy. I oftentimes find myself racing down the same dangerous path, chased by ghosts of my own creation.

It's at those times that I wonder, "What's the point of it all? How does an orange or a bunch of grapes or a damn golden key change my fate? Sure, they may satisfy me in the short term, but eventually I'll lose them all with nothing more to show for it than a measly high score of 143,651*."

Those times can be really hard.

But I try to keep my faith. Because what else is there? Reset? Reset is for cowards. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I've at times lived on berries and shrubs -- a pineapple is a shrub, right? It looks like one, at least -- in the wilderness, on a single man, and persevered. So will I again, in the future.

Still, I know the future looks bleak. Not a lot of options when you're 28 and trapped in a never-ending maze. It can put hate into your heart, you know? That's when I call on Him. I'm resigned to the fact that I will never reach the 256th level and attain split-screen enlightenment. No one will, especially not Asian-American elementary school student false prophets who trick Ronald Reagan into congratulating them...

Billy, if you're up there, I need a little bit of your strength.



3,333,360




* and an eight-inch cock!

05/08/2003

May is a month of days: Worker's Day, my birthday and Buddha's, Teacher's Day, my mother's birthday, Parents' Day (Korea), Mother's Day (the West), and Masta Ace Day (Psychedelic Kimchi). But none are bigger to me than May 5th, Children's Day.

I don't need a reminder that I have a daughter so amazing that a thousand adjectives can't do her justice, but it's nice to commemorate it once a year. Sometimes it's good to be wistful, too.

This is for the 18th Letter, who speaks in universal truths; who once told me, correctly, that, "It's good to be alive, because then you can do stuff."

Damn straight.

As you once told me, "Children's Day is for everyone, because everyone is someone's child."

Happy Children's Day, everyone.

Daddy loves you, Rahne.

The All-New PK 27 -- Video Games Edition

Longtime readers and archivers of this hallowed blog may remember the PK 27: twenty-seven songs -- and then some -- that we, the illustrious PK brain trust, deemed essential to the Psychedelic Kimchi ethos. And the fact that there is no Psychedelic Kimchi ethos made it all the more fun.

This is going to be sorta like that, only comprised of my and Kmart's favorite time killer not onanism, video games.

But it isn't about our "favorite" games or games we consider the best. No; this list will be about games both past and present that define PK. And since PK is indefinable, "Your guess is as good as mine" is a good maxim to stick to both when reading each entry and when visiting Psychedelic Kimchi. But you already knew that.

Neither is it going contain entries on games we've exhaustively heralded. Which means no Chrono Trigger. No Panzer Dragoon Saga. No Contra 4. No Devil's Crush. No Castlevania (although I may in the future write about my undying affinity for Castlevania: The Adventure and how it's been unfairly maligned by some).

No Double Dungeons.

Intrigued? Probably not. But that's never stopped me before. Trust me, for you Constant Retards who aren't fans of video games, I'll try to make this as painless and as entertaining as possible. You'll just have to trust me.

Still not convinced? All right, here's a preview from the first entry (exaggerated for dramatic effect):

No. 24

Ice Hockey (NES)

"...and that's when my brother thwacked me over the head with his controller. It's not sound to taunt your big brother when you're up 11-3 late in the third period, I discovered; nor is it wise to chant "USSR!" over and over again during the Cold War, especially when it comes to hockey. But I didn't know that."

Il-sa

The greatness of the forthcoming video speaks for itself.




In other news, who the fuck steals the 8 ball from a pool table? Are you just a total asshole, or were you molested as a child?

Psychedelic Kimochi

1,000 pictures x 10,000 words = 10,000,000 machinations

Burn Victim

Yeah, Celts-Bulls is one for the ages (I'm constipated because I watched all those overtime periods instead of delivering my Chuck daily morning mail), but I'm more intrigued by that series' bizarro equivalent, the Heat vs. the Hawks. While Celts-Bulls is tighter than mouse sphincter, Heat-Hawks is a clinic on blowouts and How Much Jermaine O'Neal can Help/Hurt His Team on Any Given Night (and if you want to know how I really feel, Jermaine O'Neal can fuck off and die).

Tune me in tomorrow. I'm itching for a barn burner. Whatever the result, we all win.

Wake me up on Monday morning. But only if the Heat won.

(We both know that I'm watching that fucker at 3 AM. No sense in pretending.)