Author: Josh

  • A response to “Superman Saves the Cat”

    This short essay responds to the video “Superman Saves the Cat” by essayist Maggie Mae Fish.

    In Superman (1978) a mother slaps her child for a presumed lie about a man swooping down from the sky.

    My problem begins with the slap. The child, having met and interacted with Superman, and having received a light scolding from him, heads indoors and — by her mother — is slapped. I agree with you about the cycle of violence and the message conveyed — that Superman is the embodiment of America’s better nature — but the truth of the scene is belied in that slap. Richard Donner is a cynic; I don’t think it’s credible to claim that the director of Lethal Weapon is so doe-eyed that he was unaware that this is how the scene plays out. Superman could have intervened and prevented that child coming to physical harm; he could have walked her home and met her mother, and found out for himself what kind of cycle of violence was being incurred. But Donner’s Superman does not use his powers to fix the world.

    The status quo, being very literally restored in the scene from Superman (1978) where time is reversed.

    There is a difference, as I don’t believe you note in your video, between the things that happen in a film and the message the film sends about them being done. I agree that the sequence of shots from Batman v Superman are intended to convey Superman’s actions with a degree of ambivalence and separation. The sequence is intercut with talking heads criticising Superman, if it weren’t clear enough. But crucially, the actions he is depicted as performing are heroic. They might be presented in any given way, but they are unambiguously heroic and are not undercut for humour or cynicism like Donner chooses to do. Is it not heroic to save people if you feel conflicted about the positions you are put in? Does it become less heroic to have rescued people from a burning building if you are later frustrated or angry when criticised? Which is to say: your thesis appears to be that the content of a message is irrelevant if it is perceived to have the wrong tone. This is the crux of your criticism of Man of Steel.

    Clark saves a family in this scene from the climax of Man of Steel.

    Clark in Man of Steel is never shown to do other than the correct thing, save human life discerningly and unconditionally. You specifically mock the scene where he kills Zod to protect a cowering family; would it have been more heroic to let them die? He acts; he would presumably have intervened in the young girl getting slapped. Perhaps he would have overreacted, as when he wrecks the driver’s truck. Donner’s Superman, for all his merits, does not act in the scene. He rescues the cat from the tree, a trivial, superficial heroism, but he goes no further. His heroism is restricted to maintaining the status quo. You compare the Superman of Man of Steel to a cop in that he “doesn’t care about human life”, an utterly torturous (and perhaps distasteful) allusion to of the problems with policing in the United States. But what is worse, to use power fairly but wrestle with misgivings, or to use power unquestioningly to maintain the status quo?

    There’s a dog, I guess.

    Man of Steel does not literally save a cat, but it has scenes where Clark performs selfless acts which help others at a cost to him; it is slightly dishonest, in my opinion, to intercut these with scenes from Batman v Superman which are intended to distance us from the character, as if they were all of a kind. Donner’s Superman has a scene where he literally saves a cat, and literally allows a child to be slapped. Cinematic language can convey many things and is very interesting to develop, but it first and foremost conveys the literal events which happen onscreen and a project which bypasses those to speculate on psychoanalysis of the director is misguided at best.


    If you’re interested in more writing on Man of Steel, please check out my essay “Morality and choice in Man of Steel”. For more of my long-form work on comic book films, watch “Sixteen attempts to talk to you about Suicide Squad”.

  • The most frustrating habits of Rust crate maintainers

    Rust has a fantastic and well developed universe of 3rd-party crates which will help you develop almost any application, right up until they suddenly won’t. Here are four ways in which you will be suddenly and deeply frustrated while learning this exciting new language.

    1. Weak typing is a documentation-specific feature.

    One of the unique aspects of Rust is the subtle but specific control over the movement of data under the ‘borrow’ system, which provides tough but fair oversight of access to information. To work effectively in this system, you need to know all about your data types, their capabilities, their restrictions, their lifetimes and much else — especially if you want to pass them into and out of functions.

    Enter the idiomatic documentation style, in which you’d be forgiven, encountering the language, for believing that the whole thing was weakly typed all along:

    Taken (with apologies) from the rand crate book, the most popular rust crate.

    Members of the community will be happy to inform you that compiler error messages are the fastest source of correct type name information.

    2. The new version is completely different and we’re all using it now.

    Enjoying all the conveniences afforded to you by this popular crate? Well, watch out, because that’s the deprecated 0.15 package.

    That’s right, despite being at the end of a 32-crate long chain locking you in to 0.15, main development — and somehow a bulk of users — are focused on 0.16 now.

    The API is fundamentally incompatible, usually due to the start or end of support for a platform you’re not interested in, and all of the dependencies are partially updated — if at all.

    3. “I have made excellent progress on this in a private branch seven months ago”

    Oh no — you’re using your fancy new Rust crate, but it won’t interop with another similarly fancy API or library that you’re also using! In fact, they’re mutually exclusive.

    Fortunately, there’s a GitHub issue for tracking this already, and some smart young grouse is making very perceptive comments and hinting that the solution is just around the corner — seven months ago, with radio silence and the fork set to private ever since.

    4. You shouldn’t, and therefore you can’t.

    Code, colleagues and convenience will often contrive to back you into a corner on some proposed feature or extension. It’s ugly, but there’s no other way to do it without necessitating some fundamental restructuring of your application. You sigh as you open your box of ugly hacks and set about patching it up.

    Unfortunately, you hit a blocker — some Rust package you depend on is complaining loudly about the exact thing you’re intending to do, and is blocking the build. Time to take to the airwaves, and search social media to see if there’s any quick way around this one. The replies comes quickly and in force: “you shouldn’t, and therefore you can’t”. Whether or not there’s a technical barrier to solving your problem, there’s an organic barrier that will be just as effective. Computers are machines of infinite flexibility, but that may not hold for your fellow coders.

    (Double points if there is a workaround available in the interface, but it’s been unmaintained to the point where it no longer works correctly.)


    A disclaimer, of course, that this list is at the very least wildly unfair on the good work usually done for free by package maintainers and the community around Rust, whose contribution to problems I’ve needed fixing absolutely outweighs their contribution to problems that have made me swear loudly.

  • Can I make games if I don’t like players?

    This essay is an accessible version of an in-browser game available here.

    I don’t like players.

    Or, to be less misanthropic, I don’t care for players. 
    They do their thing, and I do mine. I make my games like I built sandcastles as a child.

    Can you come play in my sandcastle?

    Maybe, sure, once it’s done.

    Once I’ve drawn the line in the sand that means “the part where this gets made is over and the part where it falls away into oblivion has started”.


    Sometimes of course, I am a player. 
    I try to play appropriate respect to the people who make the games I play, which is maybe to compliment them on their artistry if there’s an appropriate venue to do so… probably not on twitter… and remain silent the other 99% of the time. 
    Nothing more perverse than taking someone’s art and offering them unsolicited technical advice.

    Lots of people in games have a community; I wish them all the best. 
    But I have a community, and it is not in games. 
    To have a community in games I’d have to compromise my participation in communities elsewhere and I’m not willing to do that.
    Like most people, I think, I’m already anxious enough that I’m failing to meet my existing social commitments. 
    I’m not willing to take on the burden of more friends. 
    Sorry.
    I could get a job making games. But I won’t. No apologies there.


    Without players, and without a community, and without a commercial interest and promotion and professional marketing and all that guff… 
    There aren’t many venues through which people to play the games I make. 
    I can expect a polite level of interest from my friends, like when they talk to me about climbing or rowing or filmmaking or cooking or running. 
    They might have a look, as a curiosity. Or they might not. Their interest is not my interest.


    For the most part, this does not bother me.

    I like the part where I build the sandcastle, and if I depended on other people’s validation of my art (at least in this instance) then I might act differently. 
    But I don’t, and I won’t. 
    It just seems so odd, to make a game that is not to be played. 
    So much so that I’ve taken some time out and made games that can be played, just to make sure I could. 
    But I feel just as unfulfilled in either instance.
    Giving those games to people, to play them, is nerve-wracking.


    When I’m at home alone, just me, I dance. 
    I put some music on, whatever I’m feeling like, and I just slam around. 
    Back and forth, up and down, in different rooms. 
    Or I put on some movies I don’t think anyone else would be interested in, and watch three in a row.

    Or I sing, and record myself singing, then delete the recording. 
    These activities have never felt less than complete.
    Which I not to say that I don’t appreciate participatory art; I’ve made videos, I’ve directed a play, I’ve done things which are collaborative. They’re fun. 
    But I make my games for me, even as they pull away from me. 
    They demand of me that I learn the skill of marketing and networking and twitter, and they press me against this horrible flat surface where I read about… how the steam storefront is changing and what that means for wishlisting… or else how there are game jams happening this weekend. 
    They even have game jams for people who make games alone.
    But I don’t want any of that. I like to make my games, by myself.
    Even now, I’m writing an essay so I can release an essay, in the exact space where I make my game and do not release my game.
    It’s just how it is with me.


    Can I make games alone if I don’t like players?
    I guess, I can.

  • Cats is a triumph of the cinematic form

    This article transcribes a video essay available here, titled “Cats is a triumph of the cinematic form.”


    Cats, the 2019 movie directed by Tom Hooper, represents countless hours of work-power, in likely miserable conditions, assembling what is unmistakably the world’s highest budget work of furry cinema.

    Hooper, fresh off the success of the Les Misérables movie adaptation, which I hate, likely had a free reign to interpret as he wished the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical CATS, itself a loose adaptation of T. S. Elliot’s poetry collection “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats”. The Webber musical is his standard campy fare, lurid face-paint and costumes in the fashion of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat or Phantom of the Opera, two other musicals which had their own dubious route to the big (or small) screen.

    Easily the least interesting parts in Cats are where Tom Hooper concedes to the style that won him critical acclaim with Les Misérables and holds a steady close-up of an impassioned face singing a showstopper. Where he’s persuaded away from it, we get Rebel Wilson tearing the head off a cockroach with a human face, Jason Derulo showering himself with milk as a rake of female cats watch in awe, and a succession of cats improbably wearing human clothing seemingly only for fetishistic effect — an even more convincing case for Tom Hooper being prevented from filming close-ups than anything in Les Misérables. Macavity, the cat devil, is introduced with a Batman-like sudden disappearance once he’s off-camera — but the next time he appears he really can teleport and does it constantly for the rest of the film.

    The film is determined to see any suggestion that there’s a sexual undertone off at the pass. Over the first thirty minutes, cats present their groins, arch their thighs, tangle round each other almost deliberately so that there’s as much contact with their Barbie-doll under-sections and chests as possible. Every cat is wearing a human-sized collar. Rebel Wilson’s cat bends her tail forward between her legs and swings it like a windmill. Cats wear fursuits, gorge themselves on food and dive into trash cans to rub themselves in waste. When a male character hits a high note, there is a conversation about neutering where Rebel Wilson makes a chop-chop motion with her fingers. As mentioned, Jason Derulo pours milk into his own mouth as he lies back on the floor. The cats devour other, smaller humanoids with a smile and a wink. During his song, there is a lingering shot where Jason Derulo has a furry cat foot inches from mouth with a furry cat foot. By the time three cats are cavorting on a bed together covered in feathers you’re absolutely numb to it, and the film proceeds to get into the plot — and even the plot involves all the cats getting high, having a PG-rated orgy, then lying about groaning for a good minute. Idris Elba’s character is fully dressed for the majority of the film, just so that when he appears sans garments in the climax, you can’t escape any suggestion, Idris Elba is nude now.

    As critics have mentioned, the film makes minimal effort to explain who anyone is or what they’re doing. They’re cats, they’re having some kind of event, most of them are going to sing one song, the word Jellicle is involved, get with the program. The cats sing an entire song about the importance of the protagonists’ “real” cat name, but we never find it out. It’s just not for us to know. One member of the main cast is never properly introduced and doesn’t have a song. At one point I thought he was singing about himself but he turned out to be singing about a cat dressed as a male stripper.

    Which is fine! It’s fine.

    Much of the prerelease buzz around Cats focused on the uncanny appearance of the characters, human faces rotoscoped by hand onto almost-matching CG bodies. What the previews did not reveal, is that the rest of the film compensates for this effect by being equally uncanny, unsettled, and unmoored from conventional notions of filmmaking. The structure of Cats — individual vignettes about the mercurial nature of individual Cats — is forcibly bookended by an overarching plot in which Francesca Hayward’s character, ‘Victoria’ is abandoned by her (full scale human!) owner, such as it were, and falls into the company of a gaggle of cats who immediately begin a chain of often unintelligible songs which continue end-to-end for the rest of the film, save for brief interruptions by the antagonist, Macavity, played by a gurning, scenery-gnawing Idris Elba. The cats hold a yearly competition, we are repeatedly told, where the victor receives a ‘second chance at life’. This plot structure being clamped around the more freeform nature of the musical adds a terrifying air of inevitability to proceedings, and makes the eventual awarding of the prize to Grizabella feel less like the triumph of good nature and compassion and more like “oh crap, gotta foist this ticking bomb off on someone before Idris Elba gets back. The sense of unease and the unknown is shared between the audience and Victoria, but it leaves the more carefree earlier songs feel like they’ve been shot through the sights of a gun. “Stop dancing!” you want to scream at the screen, “Idris Elba is murdering you!”

    Between this and the borderline-violent reaction unnamed cats have to the down-and-out Grizabella every time she appears, cat society is deeply unsettling, and that’s before the Taylor-Swift-penned addition to the songbook “Beautiful Ghosts” has appeared, with the haunting refrain “The memories were lost long ago, but at least you have beautiful ghosts”.

    Perhaps to provide cover for some less prioritised effects shots, the camera often appears as if in the hand of a drunkard, dipping and rolling with the music in a way that almost induces illness, especially combined with how, over the course of the film, the scope of the visuals slowly narrows and a set of basic images recurs: The theatre door, the bolted milk-parlour, Grizabella in the street, the graveyard entrance, Old Deuteronomy beckons, repeat. One of the most striking visuals, a stairway to heaven summoned by Macavity when he seeks to force Old Deuteronomy to grant him a second life, does not reappear at the denouement. Instead, Grizabella is loaded into a balloon and floated off into the sky.

    The protagonist sings of dancing with ghosts; Grizabella is “saved” by being jettisoned into the sky and forgotten. The cats who are kidnapped by Macavity throw Ray Winstone, of Noah fame, into the Thames to drown – and cheer while they do it. Taylor Swift’s cat disappears halfway through the third act. It’s hard not to come to the conclusion that the film is telling us that the cats are in hell, or at least in purgatory. There is a cat devil, but there is no cat god.

    Let me be clear about what I am saying: this film is an absolute triumph. It’s utterly bizarre, obeys only its own logic, and I would have eagerly watched another hour of it. Go and see this film.

    Please see Cats.

    The image of Old Deuteronomy stretching her leg in this article is taken from Twitter user @MrMichaelSwartz’s video.