You Only Moved The Headstones

 It's been a week.

I have always had pretty rotten luck. Not that I necessarily believe in luck, so much, or fate. Or maybe I do. I tend to find myself always going back and forth on belief in the cosmic nature of reality, or whatever the hell wants to call it. But the point is that I tend to often have pretty big setbacks, and fairly often. Sometimes these are of my own doing, other times it does feel like fate wants me to suffer. Obviously, I am still here, so fate either is doing a shitty job of killing me, or it has other plans.

But this week, it feels like I am cursed.

On Wednesday, there was a outbreak of covid at work, I tested negative, and went home at the end of the day feeling fine and excited for a day off, only for there to be a pretty severe fire in my apartment building. Luckily, no one was hurt and nothing too important was damaged, and I was able to replace what was damaged beyond repair, and everything seemed okay. I handled the fire and that intensity rather well. Cleaned up the room, replaced stuff, watched TV. Nothing too terrible.

Then I was told I needed to move to a new room while the building is repaired. Again, annoying, but doable. Then it was that I had to go to this hotel in the middle of nowhere for the weekend, far from work or home.

And then I got covid.

I spent that weekend in the hotel sick as hell, got home today and moved into my new room. Went to the store, got covid tests...I have this inescapable fear that somehow I'm going to lose my job (there is no evidence for this, just a worry I have...I have pretty severe work PTSD, and it likely is only in my head, but...what if it's not), the new room is fine but it's small and I don't feel terribly comfortable, I still feel a bit sick and...

Well, it's a lot. 

I hate whining. Or, rather, hate sounding like I'm whining, and I often fear that I am a whiny person in the eyes of others. People tend to get annoyed at my apologizing, my over-explanation, my various other likely-autistic traits...and I don't want to be whiny. I don't mind complaining. In fact, I kinda like complaining, but I can't stand the idea that people may think I want them to pity me.

Of course, all of this traces back to the same inescapable issue that is "But, Nathaniel, what do you care what other people think" and I don't, but I care what You think. To quote Turk from Scrubs. But that isn't why I wanted to write tonight, not really anyway. I mean, there was the desire to talk about the past few days, which have been somewhat lonely and isolating (it sucks going through scary stuff alone sometimes), but a simple recap is relatively pointless and unproductive. 

I haven't had a lot of time to process things, what with all the delirium, and stress, and fear, and all that stuff I've already driven into the ground here, but I do know that there is an inkling of an idea that I need to take some sort of stock of my life and what I've been doing.

Things had been somewhat on the upswing for me. Got out a toxic job, found one I didn't hate doing, was starting to make progress in developing basic working relationships and, maybe, even being somewhat liked at work. Granted, I'm poor(er) now, but it was an upswing.

Obviously, that upswing isn't gone, exactly (hopefully), but it has been kinda taken out behind the building and roughed up a bit, and when you take a beating, your life flashes before your eyes and other cliches...edible may be kicking in and I've been watching too much Rick and Morty...but it occurs to me that both the fire and the covid are, in fact, events that could have killed me, as they have killed others, and that while it feels like I'm being punished karmically, maybe it's also possible that fate saved me? Kinda all perspective, yeah? Especially if you don't really believe in fate, or karma, or luck...or much of anything really? 

Einstein did his best work when he was working as a Patent Clerk, or whatever. 

But, call it fate, call it karma, I believe we were destined to get thrown out of this dump. To go into business for ourselves.

Yeah. Edible kicking in. That was just Ghostbusters.

Point is: I didn't die. Again. So many times in my life these things pile on, and I get discouraged and feel like the world is ending, and somehow I get dumped on the side of the road to dust myself off and hike back to town, bruised and battered, but not dead or destroyed, and usually not that worse off than when I started. 

Granted, I rarely get ahead (not sure I have ever pulled that off), but I'm not as far behind as I tend to think I am, this time included.

But it does mean I need to maybe get serious about some things, even though many of those things are silly. I need to stop putting off watching movies I want to watch, for one. I need to figure out better living situations, I need to enrich myself more, get into the world, write stuff and make art. 

Trying to view this positively, which is rare for me...I'm going to have to cut this short before I make much sense of it. The smaller apartment means the horrible piece of a shit motherfucker of a roommate is even worse to deal with, and he has decided that 10pm is the perfect time to move his stuff in despite his doing nothing all day as per usual. Must be nice. And his dry heaving noises and his tik tok videos and all that other useless shit. 

I hate him so much. 

I actually have hated very few people in my whole life, and I genuinely wish harm upon this trash bag of a human.

Anyway, this was about the unusual way in which I have found myself adjusting to setbacks. It's rare that I hang onto, well, maybe hope is stretching it, but something hope adjacent? Maybe this journey of self-discovery is managing itself better than I thought. 

In taking stock, which was kinda the point of this (coming off of two events that have killed others who aren't me throughout history), I realize I have come to better understanding of myself in terms of my mental health, my kinks and sexuality (and maybe some spiritualism, these past couple months have been interesting in that mode of private self-examination, which isn't as dirty as that sentence sounds), my personal views on people, and my own ability to cope with setbacks. It isn't a bad start.

So, just gotta keep rolling with it, I guess. But I think I can do that. And that's actually...well, it's something.

Just wish I didn't feel like I had been hit by a truck. 

Backrooms and managing expectations

 Years ago, I walked into the Nickelodeon Cinema in my hometown of Portland, Maine to see Hereditary, a film that was blessed (and cursed) with a pull-quote heralding it "This Generation's The Exorcist." 

I didn't necessarily buy into that hype, mind you, but it admittedly did get me into the theater far sooner than I would have ordinarily gone (not quite opening weekend, but close), somewhat excited to see it. Ultimately, Hereditary largely delivered, but I found myself thinking a lot about the comparison to Exorcist and saying to myself that it wasn't that accurate a comparison.

This same concept is in my head right now, having left a screening of Backrooms just half an hour ago (give or take a few minutes), and finding myself not entirely trusting my own instincts. I opened social media upon arriving home and found at least a few people eager to get my thoughts on the film, and I found myself uncertain of what exactly to say about it. 

Ordinarily, I leap to my letterboxd and give a hot take review when I see a new film, nothing special or in depth, just a standard paragraph or two giving some broad strokes criticism and a star rating...but I find myself thinking that, in this case, that doesn't seem as fair as it normally would. 

This isn't because Backrooms is special (it's not), but because so many people are so hyped for this movie, dude. Just like I was. And I didn't want a broad, two paragraph review to contribute to that (in either direction). Because I currently find that hype working against me, and I don't want it to work against you. 

And before you get worried, I will give you my thoughts on Backrooms in just a minute (Jesus, you people are pushy) and no, there won't be any spoilers, but I'm realizing that the hype of the film is something of an enemy of critical thinking. I expected something from the film and, to be honest, I didn't get that expectation rewarded...but that shouldn't be held against the movie. That is my issue, and I have to work with that, and it has been on my mind since leaving the theater. 

Just like with Hereditary, it feels as if something was promised me in the marketing and general hype of the film that ultimately wasn't delivered, but then I realize nothing actually was promised. Just a trailer, some discourse, a few social media posts of people who liked the film, didn't like the film, hated the film, loved the film, whatever. People are upset that the film didn't incorporate the "lore" (I hate that term, by the way) of the overall Backrooms catalogue (which, like any other creepypasta that runs on a huge amount of the unknown, was aggressively jammed up it's own ass by chronically online people who can't just enjoy the concept of an empty room without needing to put something in it). People praise the film for the same reason.

I myself spoke not too long ago in a post about how curious I was to see if Backrooms would have an effect on the horror genre in the short term, if it would become a foundational text...and it might be? It certainly has already grossed enough money to ensure Kane Parsons isn't going anywhere, and likely will spawn sequels (there is something about the film that gives a certain mercenary "setting up a franchise" vibe, which didn't help, in my opinion) and probably will end up influencing the genre going forward.

All of this contributes to the exact same essential problem: projection of the self onto a work of art when the purpose of the art is to be absorbed into the self. Like I said before: there are people who cannot appreciate an empty room without needing to put something in it. And so, I walked out the theater finding myself trying to put something in an empty room because of my own expectations of what the room would be. So the best thing I can do, when writing about Backrooms, is to try and divorce those expectations and caution you to do the same.

It's just interesting how our expectations can get in the way of things, our own need to fill that empty space, and that is (in part, at least) somewhat crucial to Backrooms as a film: when is a search for meaning in the external nothing more than a projection of what our internal hopes for? What happens when we find something in the empty, but it isn't positive or constructive, but just our own empty expectations?

In some ways, this works for the film, in other ways it doesn't. Can I say that I found something about myself that maybe I didn't like in Backrooms? I can, and I bet most of you reading this can, too. Was it worth it? Maybe. That's what I can't quite figure out.

Backrooms largely delivers on the visual end of things, featuring incredible set design that creates a sense of otherworldly and that is, in the end, the film's core reason for being. If an audience wants to walk into the titular backrooms and see the strange lay outs, twisting corridors, uncanny rooms, and weird artifacts, the film offers plenty, and becomes an occasionally disorientating and unsettling experience. Parsons' direction is admirably confident, utilizing strong framing and camera work to maximize suspense in it's first hour, as characters attempt to navigate the space. 

All of that is well and good, but not quite good enough to keep it from mostly collapsing in the third act, and the reason for that is admittedly rather simple: script just ain't that great. The story and the characters feel largely interchangeable from any other A24 "Trauma Monster" narrative (no shade on actors Chiwetel Ejiofor or Renate Reinsve, both of whom are excellent (Reinsve in particular shines)), in which broken people run into something that just so happens to cause them to take a hard look at themselves, which is fine when it's interesting but Backrooms just...kinda isn't? 

At the end of the day, a concept like this runs into the same problem, and that problem lies in explanation. Even shows like Lost, Twin Peaks, and From inevitably suffer from asking questions they cannot entirely answer in a manner that will satisfy, and Backrooms falls into that same trap. "I am certain nothing in the world is more important than this place," a character says (paraphrased), "but I don't understand it." And there is no line that sums it up better. The film is saying a lot about the manner in which we, as flawed and broken humans, traverse the space around us, seeking meaning in the mundane and desperately avoiding the horrors contained within ourselves, but can't seem to find any meaning to it's own and, while one could make a meta-textual argument in terms of the art itself making a statement about lack of payoff in life(re: the film is the backrooms, and there's nothing there that you don't bring with you, ala House of Leaves), it doesn't entirely hold water. 

However, there thankfully are no expositional answers from old white men mumbling about a failed science experiment, creepy children making up fantasy realms, or ancient eldritch abominations rolling over in their sleep. There may be a Minotaur somewhere in this labyrinth, but if there is, they offer no answers...or much in the way of payoff. In the end, the characters just aren't that interesting, the story doesn't feel like it gets anywhere, spinning it's wheels in the same Trauma Caricatures that tend to permeate the modern "elevated" horror genre. 

It is as visually engaging and provocative as anything else you're likely to see this year, with plenty of surrealism and absurdist designs throughout (though there are things in the third act that will absolutely be polarizing, I don't care what your name is, but no spoilers means no spoilers...but I'm torn on one or two things), with nice moments of suspense and terror (liminal spaces lend themselves to that extremely well). There feels like there is a tonal disconnect that my gut tells me can be chalked up to the big names on that Producer list, like Parsons may have been mildly restrained, or the narrative muddled with in the name of digestible themes but, again, maybe I'm projecting? I do know there are occasional pacing issues, and I do know that a lot of it feels a bit shallow, and maybe more than a little trendy, and there is something of an uneasy desperation in the execution of the film...but maybe that is an intentional choice? 

But what did I expect? I guess I went in expecting House Of Leaves and got something more in line with Zach Cregger's  Barbarian and Weapons, which is mostly fine. I find myself thinking that I thought this would be more of a moody art film, not quite Skinamarink, but something more guerrilla, something more daring, something more transgressive and weird and challenging and it...wasn't. But I didn't want to hold it against the film. But taken on it's own merits, it feels lacking, like unmet expectations, but it doesn't quite feel like my expectations were the ones necessarily unmet, but rather a strange collective consciousness of hopes for something new and different that, when the space is navigated, offered little catharsis or further understanding. Just a series of rooms that we wish meant something, but can't quite manage to even find meaning in the empty room. Just, and this sounds harsher than intended, a shallow lie? A preliminary exercise meant to jog a few ideas but little else? There's something in the film to connect that to but, again, not quite enough for me to connect in any way that doesn't feel like an apology for underwhelming art.

So, instead of a couple paragraphs on Letterboxd, you get this. And this has been helpful to me in working through the film, so I appreciate you reading it. I hope I haven't discouraged anyone.

To sum up, for the tl;dr crowd:

Backrooms 3.5/5 Stars

Some uneven direction and a lackluster story hinder what is otherwise a visually interesting, well-acted series of sequences and sets that will satisfy most fans of both the original creepypasta, as well the those in the "liminal spaces" crowd, but casual audiences or fans of the wiki-driven versions will likely not find an awful lot of satisfaction in it's messy, "Trauma Caricature" story. 

Ejiofor is good, Reinsve is great, and the first half has tons of really neat stuff in it, but the overall effect is lacking in depth or substance, with what is almost certainly an extremely polarizing final act. What feels like it wants to be a guerilla filmmaking, surrealistic horror exercise, becomes another largely by-the-numbers A24 film, with everything that promises.

That's probably what's going in the Letterboxd, right there. 

As for my aforementioned statement about spotting something about myself that maybe I didn't like...let's just say that aspects of Ejiofor's character kinda felt too familiar, and are in line with a lot of themes in my own self-reflection, but you'll need to see the film to understand it, cause I ain't spoiling shit, yo.