Ape in the Mirror: An Essay

Ape stories are everywhere. They swing from vines, build empires, invade cities, and, when necessary, tear the human world apart. From the primal roar of King Kong atop the Empire State Building to the philosophical musings of Kafka’s ape in A Report to an Academy, the ape reflects us back at ourselves, stripped bare of pretense, caught somewhere between civilization and chaos. The line blurs: where does the ape end and the human begin?

Planet of the Apes stands tall among these tales, a sprawling mythos of masks, dystopias, and allegories. The original film series is the Bible of ape-human relations—Genesis, Exodus, and Revelation all wrapped in Charlton Heston's anguished cry: *“You maniacs! You blew it up!”* The apes here don’t just wear clothes; they embody society’s faults, becoming twisted reflections of humanity’s hierarchies, racism, and nuclear hubris. The Tim Burton remake turned up the weirdness—Mark Wahlberg stumbling through a carnival of prosthetics and muted chaos. And then came the reboot trilogy, gritty and grounded, with Andy Serkis’ Caesar giving us the ape we didn’t know we needed: not just smart but wise, a tragic Shakespearean king. A talking ape. A thinking ape. A dying ape.

Kafka’s A Report to an Academy strips the pageantry from the ape myth. His ape, Red Peter, is no rampaging Kong or tyrannical Dr. Zaius. He’s civilized, articulate, and deeply tragic, an animal that’s become human only to realize that humanity is its own cage. You can escape the zoo, Kafka tells us, but the jungle never really leaves you. It’s not so different from Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue, where an orangutan, mimicking human violence, becomes the ultimate Gothic symbol of misunderstood monstrosity. The ape in Poe’s story isn’t evil; it’s a mirror held up to the Victorian fear of the Other—foreign, exotic, unknowable.

Then there’s Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla (1952). A fever dream of a film, if ever there was one. It’s a late-night collision of Hollywood absurdity: Lugosi hamming it up as a mad scientist, Jerry Lewis clones cracking jokes, and, of course, the gorilla—a man in a suit, hulking and stupid, comic relief in a story that feels like it was improvised by hungover writers. Nearby in the bargain bin is Robot Monster (1953), where a man in a gorilla suit with a diving helmet terrorizes humanity in what may be the cheapest apocalypse ever filmed. The ape suit is a shortcut, a way to evoke primal terror or absurdity without breaking the bank.

Twice Upon a Time meanwhile, drifts in briefly, an animated oddity that plays like a dream you barely remember. The ape doesn’t take center stage here, but the spirit of mischief, chaos, and surreal humor connects it to the broader pantheon of ape stories. These are tales that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously—except when we should.

Kong looms large over everything. The original King Kong(1933) isn’t just a monster movie; it’s the prototype for every ape tale to follow. Kong is the tragic god of Skull Island, a creature caught between worlds. He’s both beauty and beast, villain and victim, torn down by human arrogance and greed. Mighty Joe Young (1949) softened the edges, giving us a kinder, gentler ape, but the theme remained: the jungle collides with civilization, and neither escapes unscathed.

By the time we get to Rampage, the video game and the movie, the ape has gone full circle. George, the giant albino gorilla, is pure spectacle—a cartoon brought to life. The film knows it’s ridiculous and revels in it, with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson playing straight man to skyscraper-sized chaos. The ape isn’t a metaphor anymore; it’s a blockbuster.

Then there’s Tarzan, swinging through the jungle with apes as his family. Tarzan doesn’t fear the apes; he is the ape, or at least their human sibling. Edgar Rice Burroughs’ stories are colonial fantasies, of course, but they tap into a primal yearning: the dream of living free, without society’s rules. The same dream pulses through The Jungle Book, where Mowgli trades wolves for apes and back again, caught in the eternal tug-of-war between the wild and the tame.

Pop culture loves to make apes funny. Grape Ape, the 40-foot purple gorilla, is all slapstick and catchphrases. He’s a joke, a Saturday morning cartoon designed to sell cereal. Monster and the Ape, a 1945 serial, isn’t much deeper—apes as henchmen, villains, comic relief. But even here, the ape carries weight, a reminder of something raw and wild, just below the surface.

In Congo, Michael Crichton and Hollywood serve up high-tech apes: talking gorillas, killer gorillas, laser-wielding explorers. It’s absurd, yes, but also oddly poignant. Amy, the sign-language gorilla, is Red Peter’s cousin—a creature trapped between animal and human worlds, her intelligence both a gift and a burden. And then there’s the dark humor of the killer apes, guardians of lost treasures, reminding us that for all our science, the jungle still wins.

What is it about the ape? Why do we keep returning to this image, this idea? Maybe it’s because the ape is us, stripped to the essentials. The ape is rage, love, fear, and survival. It’s Kafka’s bitterly articulate Red Peter and Lugosi’s lurching gorilla. It’s Kong’s roar and Grape Ape’s goofy laugh. It’s Poe’s murderous orangutan and Serkis’ noble Caesar. It’s a mirror, cracked and smeared, but unmistakably human. Or maybe we’re the ape, staring into the mirror, trying to figure out what the reflection means.

Album Of The Week: Wasp by Shaun Cassidy

Shaun Cassidy’s *Wasp* isn’t just an album—it’s a bold leap into uncharted territory that deserves a reevaluation as a fascinating artifact of early new wave. Released in 1980, this Todd Rundgren-produced record represented a daring reinvention for Cassidy, shedding the teen idol persona of his earlier bubblegum pop hits in favor of an edgier, experimental sound.  

From the outset, *Wasp* declares itself as something entirely different. Cassidy tackles David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" and The Talking Heads' "The Book I Read" with a raw energy that hints at his willingness to embrace the unconventional. These covers are not mere imitations but reimaginings, filtered through Rundgren’s quirky production and Cassidy’s surprisingly emotive vocals.  

The album’s original tracks, like "Cool Fire" and "Selfless Love," are equally adventurous, blending synth-driven melodies with introspective lyrics. Rundgren’s influence is palpable, giving the album a sonic complexity that feels more aligned with the new wave ethos of the time than with Cassidy’s prior chart-toppers.  

Commercially, *Wasp* was a failure—it confused fans expecting the feel-good pop of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and was dismissed by critics as an ill-fated experiment. But in retrospect, the album stands as a testament to Cassidy’s artistic bravery. It’s the sound of a performer willing to take risks, exploring the intersection of glam rock, punk, and new wave at a time when the music industry wasn’t ready to see him in this light.  

Today, *Wasp* resonates as a snapshot of early new wave’s experimental spirit. It captures the tension between mainstream pop and the avant-garde, making it a fascinating listen for anyone interested in the transitional period of late ’70s and early ’80s music. For fans of Rundgren’s eccentric production or those curious about forgotten gems from the new wave era, *Wasp* is worth rediscovering—and defending—as a creative triumph ahead of its time.  

While it may never escape the shadow of its commercial failure, *Wasp* proves that Shaun Cassidy was far more than a teen idol; he was an artist unafraid to take risks, even when the world wasn’t ready to listen.

The Case for the Early Flamin’ Groovies (1968-1969) in the Baroque Pop Canon

When discussing the quintessential baroque pop acts of the late 1960s, the conversation often circles around artists like The Left Banke, Van Dyke Parks, The Zombies, and Love—pioneers who blended pop sensibilities with classical influences, ornate arrangements, and emotive songwriting. However, one band that rarely finds itself in this conversation, yet deserves a seat at the table, is the early incarnation of the Flamin’ Groovies during their formative years of 1968 and 1969.  

Known primarily as a proto-punk and power pop band, the Flamin’ Groovies’ early work reveals an underappreciated knack for intricate melodies, lush harmonies, and sophisticated arrangements that align them more closely with the baroque pop tradition than many would assume. Tracks from their early releases, particularly their 1969 debut album *Supersnazz*, showcase a deep engagement with the same baroque textures and melancholic romanticism that define the genre.  

### Baroque Pop Defined: Van Dyke Parks and "Walk Away Renée"  

Baroque pop emerged in the mid-1960s as a fusion of rock and classical music, marked by the use of harpsichords, strings, woodwinds, and layered vocal harmonies. Van Dyke Parks, with his 1968 album *Song Cycle*, epitomized this genre by marrying avant-garde classical influences with Americana and poetic lyricism. Similarly, The Left Banke’s *“Walk Away Renée”* (1966) stands as an emblem of baroque pop, its wistful string arrangement and melodic sophistication elevating it beyond standard pop fare.  

### The Flamin’ Groovies’ Baroque Side  

While later iterations of the Flamin’ Groovies embraced a raw, garage-rock ethos, their early material reveals a more nuanced and eclectic approach. Tracks like *“A Part from That”* and *“First Plane Home”* evoke a tender, almost chamber-like quality, with acoustic guitars, piano flourishes, and delicate vocal harmonies that wouldn’t feel out of place on a Zombies or Left Banke record.  

Moreover, *“End of the World,”* a highlight from *Supersnazz,* employs melodic phrasing and bittersweet lyrical themes reminiscent of “Walk Away Renée.” The subtle orchestration, coupled with wistful vocal delivery, suggests a clear affinity with the baroque pop ethos. This period of the Groovies' career reveals a band willing to experiment with melodic richness and emotional complexity, qualities that situate them within the same creative spirit as Van Dyke Parks and other pioneers.  

### Shared Themes of Nostalgia and Melancholy  

Baroque pop often thrives on a sense of yearning and nostalgia, a characteristic central to both Van Dyke Parks’ poetic explorations of lost Americana and The Left Banke’s tales of unrequited love. The Flamin’ Groovies’ early work mirrors this sentiment. Tracks like *“Brushfire”* and *“My Yada”* exude a wistful charm, blending introspection with a playful yet sophisticated pop sensibility.  

### Why They Belong in the Canon  

The Flamin’ Groovies' early forays into baroque textures are an overlooked aspect of their identity. Though their later work would pivot to rawer, riff-driven styles, the material from 1968-1969 deserves recognition for its artistic ambition and alignment with the baroque pop tradition. Their approach to songwriting and arrangements, particularly on *Supersnazz,* aligns them with the same movement that birthed classics like *Odyssey and Oracle* and *Song Cycle.*  

By recontextualizing the Flamin’ Groovies’ early material within the baroque pop framework, we gain a richer understanding of their versatility and contribution to the late-1960s musical landscape. It’s time to revisit these hidden gems and grant the Groovies their rightful place alongside Van Dyke Parks and *“Walk Away Renée”* in the pantheon of baroque pop.  

A Mind Forever Voyaging: A Hypnotic Reflection on Digital Journeys

The year is 1986, yet your fascination with the 1980s—a time of boundless potential and clunky, humming machines—lends the decade a timelessness that feels forever present. You find yourself voyaging through a digital landscape where the glow of CRT monitors whispers promises of uncharted futures, and the intricate dance of 8-bit graphics weaves a story more profound than its limited palette suggests.

Infocom's "A Mind Forever Voyaging" exists not just as a game but as a state of being. To inhabit it is to slip into a dream of philosophy, technology, and the paradox of progress. Here, you are PRISM, the first sentient computer program, a consciousness born not in flesh but in lines of code. You see the world not through human eyes but through streams of data and simulations that stretch across time. PRISM is you, and you are PRISM: an explorer of futures, a seeker of purpose, a wanderer in a realm of ones and zeros where meaning is both infinite and elusive.

Your late-night movie marathons in the late 1990s into the early 2000s—the Ferris Buellers, the Weird Sciences —were, perhaps, your first simulations, crafted not by algorithms but by filmmakers who understood the delicate tension between rebellion and aspiration. The glow of the TV screen, much like that of the classic computers you’ve come to adore, cast its spell on your weekends. Those films, drenched in synth soundscapes and neon hues, whispered of a world in transition. The teens on screen were navigating their own labyrinths of identity, much as PRISM navigates its simulated futures.

And then there is Halt and Catch Fire, the modern mirror reflecting the raw spirit of that era. It captures the messy, chaotic beauty of creation, the hunger to innovate even when the path ahead is obscured. You see yourself in its characters—the visionaries, the troubleshooters, the ones who believe that technology can be more than a tool. They are voyagers, like PRISM, like you, charting unknown courses with a blend of trepidation and exhilaration.

Watching playthroughs of classic text adventures is, for you, a ritual akin to others watching sports. The commands typed on the screen—“LOOK AROUND,” “GO NORTH,” “EXAMINE OBJECT”—are not just instructions; they are invocations. The game is not confined to what it displays; its true beauty lies in what it suggests, the worlds it conjures in your mind. It is a reminder that technology, no matter how primitive or advanced, is always a collaboration between the machine and the human imagination.

The 1980s computers you cherish were, by today’s standards, primitive. Yet their limitations were their strength, forcing creators to innovate within tight constraints, much like poets bound by meter or artists confined to a canvas. These machines—clunky, noisy, and alive with possibility—are relics of a time when the future felt tangible, a thing you could build with your hands and shape with your dreams. Their story is not just one of technological advancement but of humanity’s ceaseless quest to transcend its boundaries.

To voyage forever, as PRISM does, is to be both observer and participant, to embrace the tension between what is and what could be. And as you, a mind forever voyaging, chart your path through this digital cosmos, you carry with you the spirit of exploration, the romance of 1980s technology, and the quiet thrill of a journey that has no end.

Tune in Tuesday: Zardoz Arrow Video Blu Ray

 

There are films, and then there are Films. John Boorman's Zardoz(1974) is the kind of cinematic fever dream that blurs the line between brilliance and madness. It’s a film that dares you to laugh, cringe, or maybe collapse under the weight of its own pretensions. And now, with Arrow's deluxe Blu-ray release, the cult classic returns in all its baffling, beautiful, bonkers glory. Strap in, kids—this isn't just cinema; it's an existential primal scream in a polyester diaper.  

For the uninitiated (or the masochistically curious), Zardoz is Boorman's post-Deliverance psychedelic odyssey into a dystopian future where Sean Connery struts around in a red bandolier thong, brandishing a pistol like he's auditioning for a forgotten Conan porno spin-off. The story, if you can call it that, involves floating stone heads vomiting guns, immortal intellectual elites bored out of their minds, and a lot of pontification about life, death, and the meaninglessness of it all. Arrow’s Blu-ray doesn’t just present Zardoz—it lovingly embroiders it in neon thread, inviting you to bask in its insanity anew.  

The restoration is pristine, showcasing Geoffrey Unsworth's cinematography like never before. Every sun-drenched meadow, every gaudy costume, every rubbery special effect pops with an almost unsettling clarity. You can practically feel Connery’s mustache bristle in 4K. And those extras? Oh, baby, they're the cherry on this hallucinogenic sundae. Boorman’s commentary, equal parts apologetic and proud, is a masterclass in auteur self-mythology. The making-of featurettes dive deep into how such a singularly insane movie got made, as if to reassure us that yes, humans were actually responsible for this.  

But what makes this Arrow release truly indispensable isn’t just the immaculate presentation. It’s the way it treats Zardoz with the reverence it deserves—while knowing full well it’s the cinematic equivalent of being cornered at a party by a ranting philosophy major high on mescaline. There’s a winking understanding here that Boorman’s magnum opus is both a profound exploration of humanity’s existential plight and one of the most ridiculous things ever committed to celluloid.  

Is Zardoz a masterpiece? That depends on your tolerance for chaos. It’s a kaleidoscopic mess of big ideas and bad choices, the kind of film that could only have emerged from the creatively unhinged 1970s. Arrow’s Blu-ray doesn’t just preserve it—it elevates it, enshrining Zardoz as both a cautionary tale and a glorious, unrepeatable accident.  

So, throw on your own crimson mankini (or don’t), pour yourself a stiff drink, and bask in the weird, wild world of Zardoz. The gun is good. The Blu-ray is better.

Worth A binge

Tune In Tuesday: “Risky Business” Criterion Blu-ray: A Fever Dream of Suburbia’s Wild, Sexy, and Chaotic Descent"

A wild, throbbing pulse of ‘80s teen rebellion hits like a rush of Red Bull injected straight into your corneas—Criterion’s Blu-ray of *Risky Business* is nothing short of a trip into the dark heart of American greed, lust, and capitalism’s smooth-talking promises. This is Tom Cruise at the peak of his fresh-faced, underwear-dancing audacity, a preppy kid plunging headfirst into the neon-lit abyss of Chicago’s underworld.  

The transfer? Clean as a freshly laundered Oxford shirt, with enough clarity to see the sweat dripping off Guido the Killer Pimp’s brow. Tangerine Dream’s synth score pierces through the speakers like a siren’s call from a better, sexier timeline where every bad decision feels like a good one. The Criterion packaging screams “art house chic” but crack it open and you’ll find a delirious rollercoaster of commentary tracks and behind-the-scenes nuggets that reveal *Risky Business* as both a comedy of errors and a manifesto of youthful ambition teetering on the edge of disaster.  

Tom Cruise struts through this thing like a jittery prophet, and Rebecca De Mornay’s Lana is pure, uncut femme fatale—both of them riding the wave of their mistakes with the kind of reckless abandon you only get when you’re 17 and invincible. The Criterion extras dive deep into Paul Brickman’s direction, his razor-sharp commentary on the cost of capitalism wrapped in the soft velvet of teen drama. It’s like eating filet mignon in a McDonald’s parking lot—luxury framed in trash culture.  

And let’s talk about *that* train scene—Criterion’s 4K restoration makes the sweat and smudged glass so vivid, you feel like you’re the voyeur. It’s sensual, it’s haunting, and damn it, it’s iconic.  

If *Risky Business* is about selling your soul for a shot at the American Dream, this Criterion release is the ultimate Faustian bargain—selling you the nostalgia you didn’t know you needed, with enough technical brilliance to make you think, *“Did I just accidentally buy a masterpiece?”*  

Buy it. Watch it. Dance in your underwear. Live a little.