Michael Phillips

Who was the toughest kid you knew, or knew of, growing up? Not a bully, or loud and arrogant, but just himself because the truly rough ones tended to go quietly in my experience, though they pushed reputation before them in waves. The toughest guys I knew earned their reps in the street. Guys who fought in the middle of sixty or seventy on the playground or in the park. Fights so full of juice that they broke news for years. These were guys who, just knowing them, elevated your estimation. And, sometimes, the reasons behind these fights pushed their renown even higher. One of the toughest guys I knew fought, and nearly killed, a cross-town street tough who had raped my best friend in juvenile detention. My point? These tough Joes were the real thing, as were the dramas surrounding their fights and the reputations that built upon them. I believe that Western films seek, often, to outline similar moments. Though the toughness, loyalty, and vengeance themes found in Westerns can feel simplistic--even humorous--to well-heeled filmmakers like Jane Campion, whose film, “The Power of the Dog,” seeks, it seems, to delegitimize the kernel of truth within “toughness.” She has projected a cowboy-like film, but injected latent homosexuality into the cowboy ethos; she’s woven a period piece about gay-leaning, cowboy-seeming characters, dovetailing upon Western tropes, in what appears an attempt to throw shade upon Western themes of grit and moral fiber. The whole affair feels portentous, affected, and overwrought, an offering of art over truth. But here’s the thing, the tough fellas I knew, and the reality of their moments, stood beyond sexual orientation. Some of them could have been gay for all I know—I don't think so, but that wouldn't have mattered in the fight. This reality seems to escape Campion, so busy with her art. But, sometimes, truly tough guys can step up to truly tough moments in life, and show themselves well and worthy of remembering...gay or straight.

One of the finest shows in TV history, 'Breaking Bad' draws full, complex characters and remained true to them through comedy, pathos, and tragedy. The show's creator, Vince Gilligan, never forgets his duty to his characters and, thus, to you. He doesn't get lost in his own ego or in the presentation of his scripted 'little darlings.' Stellar writing and direction fueled great performances.

Film Review: Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. I was eighteen years old in the early summer of 1977 when Star Wars dropped like a cannonball into our laps. Both of my parents were still alive, and my brother’s mental illness had not yet shattered our family and sent my father to his early grave. As a group, we’d watched the last episode of Gunsmoke just two years prior, my Dad’s favorite show hands-down for most of its run, only falling off during those jaded Watergate years and our final disillusion with the Vietnam War. Then, suddenly, Star Wars arrived unannounced with its clear water morality—love not hate, courage over fear, loyalty to friends and common cause, and an appeal for simple faith in the universal connected-ness of all things. It felt childlike beside that era’s gritty, American cinema verité films like Chinatown (1974), Dog Day Afternoon (1975) and Report to the Commissioner (1975). But, oh, how strong that simple appeal! In Star Wars, we found classic characters bound in common struggle against evil at high odds. The Kid, the rogue with the heart-a-gold, the princess—and we reveled in their unlikely success as they did, reassured that faith, courage, loyalty, and a little luck will stand against evil even at terrible odds. Still, Star Wars felt like a simple, rousing tale, but for The Empire Strikes Back (1980), which grounded the Force in family. All at once, my father’s disappointment came clear, as did my resentment and confusion over my new role as the family’s savior in the aftermath of my brother’s affliction, a brother whose every step I followed like a trail blazed through adolescence. The tears I saw flowing on my father’s face bewildered, and the things I shouted over my shoulder, and he at me, stung, as I stormed out unaware that I would never see him again. With The Rise of Skywalker, director J.J. Abrams understands one thing, clearly: forty years have passed since an American generation of young people marveled at those early Star Wars films. He knows that those young people have grown into middle age and that many have confronted life’s hard equations: that you cannot go back, that some opportunities never recur, and that you cannot unspeak harsh words you have said to those who have died. The Rise of Skywalker’s plot may feel derivative, its conventions rehashed, and its refusal to realize the story lines set out in The Last Jedi (2017) frustrating, but such things are small beer. They barely register next to Princess Leia’s final connection to, and Han Solo’s recovery of, their lost son; Ben's reawakening to the love within him, and Rey’s final thrust to set things right while all the Jedi speak within her. For those of us who cannot stand beside the ‘force ghosts’ of our dead mothers and fathers and brothers, in conversation, and speak the loving truths we wish we could, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker rings our bell. J.J. Abrams knows well the film he has made for us, bless his heart. Michael D. Phillips