Neolithic Agriculture and the Modern Gamer

Let's talk about monoculture. For everyone not up on their Mesopotamian agriculture practices, monoculture is a method of farming in which the same crops are planted on the same plots of land, year after year after year. It's simple, tidy, and utterly unsustainable. 

As it turns out, different plants require different nutrients. Each will take certain nutrients out of the ground and put others back in. This isn't a problem for the first year, or the first five years, or mayber even the first twenty. But after too many years of sustaining one kind of plant, the plot of land no longer has the stuff that plant needs to sustain itself. The crop has literally exhausted its own ability to exist.

But there's a solution. Farmers living in 6000 BCE might not have been educated in the modern sense, but they knew their work. And without knowing why, they understood that by changing the crops grown in a given field from year to year, they would ensure it remained productive for years to come. 

The concept of monoculture has an important lesson to teach in practically every field. In economics, we understand that all enterprise requires demand to sustain it, and in media, novelty and interest function similarly. The common element here is a single idea: any practice any field, from farming to banking to film production, has an expiration date. Stagnation might seem easy easy or tidy or traditional, but it's a surefire way to run yourself out of a job in the long run. The only cure is change.

Now imagine a world in which not committing murder is a radical choice. Where by the simple act of not killing any old person on the street out of convenience, or random malice, or sheer impulse, you have managed to distinguish yourself as a model citizen.

That's the current status of video games, on a whole. In the current culture of game design, offering a narrative where the player does not commit murder is a radical choice.

I don't want to retread the tired and false argument that video games are murder simulators that warp our youth into deranged lunatics. But when I can look out on a field of triple-A titles and count the number of games that don't require killing on one hand, count the number of games which aren't power fantasies on one hand - there's something wrong. Monoculture in media is just as unsustainable as in agriculture.

Say you're a moviegoer. Movies are important to you, because you grew up with them, and they're not just the medium with which you're most familiar, they're also a cultural signpost. You identify with characters from movies, you go to movie conventions, and you met most of your friends through movies.

Now imagine that 95% of movies coming out were horror films.

And to be fair - you like horror films. Some of you favorite movies are horror films. But when horror films are that inescapably abundant, you might start to long for a nice comedy. Maybe even a drama or a biopic. And even though you've asked for it, even though every non-horror movie to hit the silver screen makes millions because there's just no competition, practically every studio out there just keeps cranking out horror films.

And after years and years of this, you start to wonder: are movies even worth it anymore?

That's what it's like being a modern gaming fan.

(Well, plus some seriously toxic communities that I'm not even going to poke a stick at here.)

While there's nothing inherently wrong with violent video games - indeed, many of them are quite good - when there's nothing but violent video games to be seen, that's a problem. That much uniformity and saturation is just bad for the medium. It hurts fans, who lose access to a vast breath of potential innovation that just isn't being produced. It hurts game studios, who lose profit due frustration on the part of fans and talent alike. And artistically, it stifles new and unique narratives, choking the potential of one of the most versatile forms of media ever created and making serious discussion of video games as an art form all but impossible.

To be fair, indie gaming community has been making strides in this direction. A resurgence of narrative-driven games, of Tetris-like games too abstract for violence to enter the picture, and of thoughtful explorations or critiques of the medium has loosened the stranglehold of monoculture on modern gaming. 

Still - I'm sad to admit it, but this never such a glaring problem to me until I played a game which both critiques the omnipresence of violence in games without requiring the same violence from the player. (That game is Toby Fox's phenomenal RPG Undertale, which systematically questions aspects of videogames as a medium I've never before seen attacked.)

The most dangerous thing about monoculture is how easy it is. Some of it might stem from laziness, some from tradition, but I'd estimate the bulk of it is a simple matter of failing to challenge assumptions so deeply-ingrained we don't even think about them. Beating monoculture is not a matter of asking unasked questions, of opening doors that were closed. It's a matter of asking questions that haven't even been considered - of building doors where once we saw only walls.

And then, once our new doors are in place, finding new walls to knock down. 

Mishnah and Miranda: Commentary, Growth, and an American Myth

A decent part of my internal life over the last year has been pondering and exploring Judaism. I more or less lacked access to it as a kid, so I've been playing a lot of catch-up. It's good work. As I've learned and am still learning, there's an immense wealth of cultural, philosophical, and religious depth to it. 

(You could call me a bit of a dunce for not immediately realizing there might be something to those 3000-plus years of living tradition. But that would be rude!)

One thing I've found particularly wonderful about it is its emphasis on questioning - on examining our literature and traditions with a critical eye, on commenting and arguing and interpreting and reinterpreting. It's chaotic and combative and I LOVE IT.

In that spirit, the prayer book at the synagogue I visited for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur was absolutely filled with margin notes - some educational, some interpretive, some argumentative. I shamelessly took photos of some of my favorites, including this gem by Betsy Platkin Teusch:

I love this SO MUCH.

I love that the two most important holidays of our year are entirely devoted to self-examination, reflection, and improvement: finding what we could have done better in the last year, fixing any wrongs we've done, and finding ways to be a better person in the year to come. There's a huge emphasis on thought and awareness and sincerity and choice - and particularly on personal action.

We don't pray for God or whatever the heck is out there to save us; we pray for the power to save ourselves. Except "save" isn't even the right word - it implies a disturbing permanence to failure. What we pray for is clarity and humility and impetus: for the clarity to keep asking questions, for the humility to recognize our flaws, and for the impetus to correct them. We hope to keep moving and growing, and that by doing so we'll help the world grow with us.

Life is motion. If you put a rock on the floor, it will stay there until something moves it; if you put a cat on the floor, it'll be gone the moment you look away. (Or it might fall asleep. But its heart is still beating; it's still breathing; the potential for motion still lies within it.)

Our task in life, then, is nothing less than to move, and to help those around us to do the same. That's no small task. How many bildungsromans and Great American Novels have been written about some middle-aged guy who can't seem to work any change in his life? Self-improvement is hard. It takes constant, constant, grinding effort and a whole lot of humility. There's a reason hubris is such a classic theme - humans are always prey to the idea that we're already perfect, that what we are right now is the best we can be, that we have no flaws to improve on.

I've always been fairly agnostic. "Agnostic" isn't quite the right word for it - sure, I didn't know if any sort of higher being existed, but the question always struck me as kind of irrelevant in any practical sense. And even after examining my Judaism more fully, it still does. Jewish conceptions of God, to the best of my understanding, are abstract at best. That's by design.

God isn't a being, it's an abstraction. It's a unifying word we use to describe the qualities of the world that make it worth living in, and the qualities in ourselves that enable us to grow and make the world better. It's also a reminder that there are things beyond us, that there will always and should always be things in life we can't control. Without anything greater than ourselves we have nothing to remind us that we are flawed - that there are elements of ourselves we ought to improve on.

The presence or absence of a divine being in that equation are immaterial - the world has wonders enough.

NOTE: After this point, there will be spoilers for the musical Hamilton. If you don't want to see them, TURN BACK NOW.



Coincidentally, I was introduced to the music of Lin Manuel Miranda's new Broadway show Hamilton (now available on NPR!) just days after Yom Kippur. Hamilton is...a lot. In the same way as the portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer (which I talked about a few weeks ago), it's just too much to take in - and I've only listened to it!

Hamilton is a musical marvel with an awe-inspiring webwork of self reference that it weaves into a language of its own. It's a modern story of rebellion, triumph, and liberation. It's a classical story of hubris, an all-American Greek tragedy with modern rap's blistering cascade of rhyme in place of the thrum of iambic trimeter. And it's a commentary; a commentary within a commentary.

Yes, it's a Greek tragedy - but the specific manner in which Hamilton examines its eponymous founder comes across to me as much in the spirit of Yom Kippur. Hamilton's boundless energy, breakneck pace, and flair for commentary and argumentation carry him like a meteor through the first act. The narrative's extolling of those traits invites the audience to get excited, to question and argue and hunger for learning. The show itself is also a commentary - a reinterpretation of an American myth in the language of today's oppressed that tells us we can make this country better than it was. It reminds us that our task as citizens is to help it move, to help it grow.

If that isn't Jewish, I don't know what is.

The same traits lead Hamilton to ruin in the second act - primarily because he fails to examine himself and realize that the pattern of choices which had worked so well before would need adaptation if he were to thrive after the war. Though Hamilton is a brilliant scholar and commentator, compulsive and relentless, it's ultimately his failure to examine himself - to weigh his choices, to make amends for damage done, and to set himself on a different course - that lead to his fall and death.

Hamilton is by no means a Jewish story - to say otherwise would be to discredit the brilliant black and Latino artists behind it - but its resonance with Jewish ideals and values is undeniable.

GO SEE IT. (Or if you're like me and can't afford to...listen to it!)

A Portrait Bigger Than Its Frame

Today has been a lazy weekend for me. And frankly, I think I've earned it. For the past three months I've been working six days a week, and even though the past two weeks have been vastly less stressful, I still hadn't really had a chance to actually relax and give my body a chance to recuperate. Y'know kick back, watch something relaxing...something like Daredevil...

(WHAT? You say Daredevil isn't a relaxing thing to watch? You're...probably right. But for me, the very concept of sitting down and not doing running around and doing things is strange and vaguely alien, so...yes. It was relaxing.)

After my two days of chilling out, I felt like for Labor Day I should at least do something. So I poked around online and found that a certain painting was on display at the Neue Galerie. That painting was Gustav Klimt's Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer - also known as Woman in Gold because Nazis didn't want to admit that such a beautiful picture could have been of a Jew.

A few months back, I watched a film of the same name, chronicling the portrait's history. I found it spectacular and moving, a brilliantly unsubtle treatment of how catastrophic damage the Holocaust inflicted on Jewish culture has rippled forward through generations, how our rage at that injustice is completely justified, and why the apathy of those whose grandparents had helped kill ours is so infuriating. And when I found that certain prominent film critics had misread its central message and in some cases conveniently forgotten it was about Jews, I wrote a rather irate counter-review. With that in mind, I practically couldn't not go.

Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer

Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer is housed in with some other contemporary Austrian works, but it dominates the room in every way. Even before you see the painting itself, the attention of everyone else in the room fixes on it, making it hard to seriously examine anything else.

And when you turn to it - it's too much to take in. The sheer visual spectacle of it, the details winding in on details, the weight of history, of memory that radiates from it ... I couldn't look at something like that all at once, just stand and absorb it, and I got a nasty headache trying. Instead I forced myself to examine just one thing at a time.

Physical details: the shape of Adele's dress against the flowing corona of her background, the infinity of eyes making up her body, the texture of the rich gold paints literally rising from the canvas, the wash of shapes and colors sweeping upward to her face, her face, framed in a kaleidoscopic halo. But the painting's patterns - her patterns - seem to hold secrets, to draw you in and whisper them to you, telling you secrets and stories you can barely remember. Stories that speak to me as a Jew on a level I don't comprehend, and I'm not sure I'm ever will.

Portait of Adele Bloch-Bauer is ... vast. I can't think of another word for this little 4'x5' painting. It seems to exist more thoroughly than the world around it - bearing the weight of history, of memory, all else seems like memory and shadow. It's harrowing and it's exhausting, and I can't see how anyone could ever stand to put it up on their wall, to deal with something that much every day. Even hours later, writing this, I still have a headache from looking at it.

And I'm glad - so glad - that I did.

Exhaustion: A User's Guide

I have been busy lately. Extraordinarily, exhaustingly busy. I work at a magazine two days a week and in retail four days. Retail, as anyone who's worked there or had the slightest bit of empathy for somebody else working there, is exhausting - physically and emotionally demanding, with shifts ranging from 9 to 11 hours at a stretch and unpredictable schedules that make it impossible to form any sort of sleep pattern. On top of working an average of 57 hours a week, I have a brick-wall networking calendar that has me all around New York at all hours, and I recently started taking dance classes.

And I'm going to be honest - I love it. I love being busy, seeing people all the time, having things to do and keeping myself moving.

I love it right up to the exact point when my body sits down and goes "nope, sorry, you're not doing anything else today". At which point I ignore it and keep doing things anyway.

Which...may not be the best plan.

So INSTEAD of slowing down, I've decided to expend more of my dwindling energy to build...let's call it a user's guide. A user's guide to exhaustion.


Here goes.


You may find your thoughts trend inward. You may have find it hard to focus on others. You may think yourself selfish. This is normal.

You may find your mind wandering, only to discover it was thinking of nothing at all. This is also normal.

At the same time, you may want to spend more time with others, but forget to contact them. This is also normal.


You may make mistakes.

You will make mistakes.


You may forget things.

You may forget appointments.

You may forget to go to bed.

You may forget that others care.

You may forget to trust.

You may forget to care.


This is all normal.


Your legs may give out. Maybe at the top of the stairs. Or on the train. This is normal.

Your stomach may ache. Your head may ache. This is normal too.


You will push yourself.

You may wonder if you can get up tomorrow.

You may wonder if you can keep doing this.

You can.

You may wonder how.

Dark Chronicle: Fixing the World

                Games do setting better than any other medium. While novels or films might pay some attention to their setting, a game is its setting, just as a novel is its text. Games communicate everything through their settings, so the setting has to be strong and memorable. Luckily, they’re well up to the task. To take advantage of the medium’s natural strength, many games focus on exploration, which is why Minecraft works. But exploration isn’t the whole story. Most exploration-heavy games like Mass Effect or Legend of Zelda still have a clear goal that gives them a sense of impetus and progression, and marks the boundary between a sandbox and an adventure.

                Adventures are about how the heroes become the people they need to be, and about the consequences should they fail. Not all involve travel, but many do, because travel links the heroes’ development to its impact on the world around them. Travel both causes and represents change: the process through which the heroes become the people they need to be. Video games do this fantastically well, because when players interact with a setting, they empathize with it. When Minas Tirith falls in Return of the King, we mourn the heroes’ loss of their home. When the Citadel falls in Mass Effect 3, it’s the place itself we mourn. We’ve connected with and protected it for three games, and when we can’t save it, we feel responsible. We feel like we’ve failed, and we want to take it back. We want to rebuild it.

                We can talk about how saving the world is important, necessary, but no medium can get us as personally and emotionally involved in saving the world as games. Books and movies make us want to save the people in the world, but only games make us want to save the world itself. They make their world our home, and we don’t want to let it break.

                But what if it’s already broken?

                In Dark Chronicle (also titled Dark Cloud 2), a 2001 action-RPG for PS2, you play as a young man named Max, who builds and fixes machines and carries a mysterious red stone around his neck. Max lives in Palm Brinks, a cozy industrial-age walled town closed off from the outside world. Though its railroad once brought in a booming age of exploration and growth, it’s since been shut down, the town gates sealed. The community is tight-knit and warm, but static: few residents know or care much about the world outside. Assassins soon try to take your stone, and you flee the town through the underground aqueducts.

                You step outside to find a world stripped of civilization. Using the railroad your mentor helped reestablish, you travel farther and soon meet Monica, a girl who carries a blue stone to match your red one. Monica is from the future, and grew up on the losing side of a great war against a figure known as Griffon, who has been wiping out humanity across time. Only Palm Brinks remains in the present. The stones have the power of time travel: Monica’s blue stone allows her to jump a hundred years back in time, while Max’s red one allows him to travel a hundred years forward. By using both in tandem, you can plant the seeds of civilization in your time: small settlements that will come into bloom in hers.

                Just because you’ve left Palm Brinks doesn’t mean you’re gone for good. The city is home. It’s a foundation to build on and a cushion to fall on. It supports you when you need to rise, and it’s there to catch you when you collapse. Palm Brinks is that world’s heart, and the love that went into building it oozes from every cobblestone and storefront. No area exemplifies that like the once-bustling train station. With the railroad line shut down, no trains go in and out, no passengers line up, and no clerks sell tickets. Still, the city maintains it like the day it was built. It’s gorgeous and baroque and empty: a place of motion, held in place, filled with potential that could break free with the spark of an engine. Like the world, it’s dormant, not dead. That the developers put so much effort into one area makes Palm Brinks a place that we, the players, care about. It’s not just somewhere we have to go back to; it’s a place we want to go back to, a place we want to protect. It’s not just Max’s home. It’s ours.

                Having a home means you’re not afraid to fall, because there are people who will catch you. The people there give you a place to come back to, and in return, you give them a place to go. Your task is to rebuild civilization, and you can’t have civilization without people – but the only people left are in Palm Brinks! They’re kind people, good people, but they’re complacent, and before they’ll venture out with you, you need to understand them and help them with their problems. You show each of them you care, and they learn to care as well, not just about the people around them, but the world as a whole. You’re the one that builds the settlements, but they live in them and bring them to life. Your adventure becomes everyone’s adventure, and once you’ve helped them become the people they need to be – helped them care, fixed them – they fix the world themselves.

                The people in your settlements aren’t the only ones making things better. There’s a beautifully cyclical nature to the way you rebuild the world. Once you’ve built your friends new homes, you travel to the future to find that over a hundred years, what you’ve built has blossomed under their care. Their descendants in turn give you tools and knowledge that you can carry back to the present and use to help the settlers. Ancestors nourish descendants and descendants nourish ancestors, building between them a world far better than the one that was lost.

You don’t just rebuild the world; you don’t just rebuild the world. You unite two groups of people, creating each other across a hundred years of history, to bring the world through its darkest hours shining brighter than it ever had before. To fix the world, you fix the people in it. You teach them to care, but before that, the game makes you care in a way no other medium could. It shows you a broken place, a beautiful place, a place full of loss but brimming with potential, a place you fall in love with, a place you can make better. And like the train, all it needs from you is a spark to come alive. All it needs for you to do is interact.

And you do. The rest follows.

Fine

This is a little mini-story - well, a scene really - that I wrote during a 30 minute sit-down event with some other writers. Here's the prompt:

1)      Set it in summertime.

2)      Start with a lie.

3)      Include the phrase “Everything’s been different since…”

4)      End with a truth.


            “I’m fine.”

            Anna doesn’t respond. The broken air conditioner buzzes in the background. It’s even louder than the cicadas outside, and just as good at keeping the room cool.

            Jen wipes the sweat from her forehead. “I’m fine.”

           “You’re sitting in the worst café in Dallas, drinking at noon-“

            Jen’s eyes flick to her wineglass – almost empty – then to the waiter – busy.

            “-you just lost your job-“

            “Hey,” Jen interrupts, “that’s not-”

            “-and you’re with me.” Her words hang in the air like a car falling off a cliff. Outside, a particularly daring cicada raises its voice over the drone of the AC unit.

            Jen licks her lips, pondering. “Okay yeah, it seems bad, but when you think about it-”

            “You’re still with me.”

            Anna’s seen corpses give stares less dead than Jen’s.

            “And…” Anna speaks slowly, gauging Jen’s reaction. “I seem to remember you had some. Uh…words. About what you’d do, if you ever saw me again.”

            Jen grips her wineglass, and tiny ripples dance across the surface of the cheap white inside. “Anna…” The word sounds like broken glass between her teeth.

            Okay, yeah. Time to stop on that particular thread. No need to make her mad. Unlike the Jen of years before, the Jen of today probably wouldn’t do anything…but Anna saw no sense in chancing it. Perhaps a safer path was in order. “You wanna…talk about it?”

            “No.”

            “But you’re gonna.”

            “…I am, dammit. See, it’s shit like this that got you booted back in Houston.”

            Anna shrugs. “I wanted out. I got out.”

            The sound Jen makes sits about halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Yeah.” She tosses back the rest of her wine, raises the glass at the waiter. “Lucky fucker.”

            Anna flashes her a grin. “And now that we’re both out, we’ll ride across the desert like Bonnie and…uh…”

            “Louise?”

            Anna’s face hits her palm. “That…didn’t go where I wanted it to.”

            “Never does,” Jen says, but she’s smiling now. She lifts her wineglass. It’s still empty. She shakes her head. “It’s just, everything’s been different since Pedro left.”

            “Pedro left?”

            Jen nods.

            “So, Frankie…”

            “So,” Jen nods. “Frankie.”

            “Shit.”

            “Shit,” Jen agrees.

            The waiter ambles up, wordlessly fills Jen’s glass.

            “You’l be okay?” says Anna.

            Jen picks up her glass. She considers it, makes as if to toss it all back in a single gulp. Then she stops, sets it down. “I’m fine.”

Reviewing the Reviews: Woman in Gold

This weekend a friend and I went to see Woman in Gold. It was a rare pleasure. The story of Holocaust survivor Maria Altmann's struggle to reclaim a stolen portrait of her aunt from the Austrian government, it's tense and fiery, with a lot of heart and a genuine understanding of the family and cultural connections that were at stake during the Holocaust. Reviewers have dismissed it as melodramatic, hamfisted, lacking nuance, and so on. And they're right. It's not subtle! But much like Pacific Rim, the lack of subtlety isn't a bug, it's a feature. Woman in Gold is a tale about avenging a martyred culture, and that kernel of smoldering fury that lies at its heart has no room for subtlety. Woman in Gold is not melodramatic. It's concise.

Woman in Gold deals with cultural trauma with a level of empathy, insight, and clarity I've never seen before in a film. Though it's nominally about art restitution, the soul of it lies in its exploration of how something like the Holocaust, and the subsequent shattering of European Jewish cultural identity, can ripple forward in time and impact those born far later. I'm in particular a huge fan of the film's very conscious decision to evoke that trauma in form of the PURE ANCESTRAL WRATH which permeates every element of the film's construction, and makes the story a very personal one for every Jew who sees it.

It's also one of the rare movies about Jews that's actually about Jews. See, Jews are accustomed to seeing pretty much every movie that OUGHT to be about us - say, anything concerning the Holocaust - focusing instead on some Gentile standing tall with a shield and a cross. (I'm looking at you, Schindler's List.) The fact that a movie which is supposed to be about us for once actually is makes me really happy. (Though the decision to cast the stellar-but-still-very-Gentile Helen Mirren and Tatiana Maslany as very Jewish characters in a very Jewish film is...perplexing, and the decision to cast the mediocre-and-also-very-Gentile Ryan Reynolds is...dubious at best.)

I understand that giving the audience a Gentile they can identify with is an effort to broaden the appeal, but I'm unimpressed, to say the least. By viewing a Jewish story through a Christian lens, that kind of film loses out on any chance it had to inspire genuine understanding of and empathy for its Jews. Wisely, Woman in Gold chooses to focus on perspective and choices of actual Jews, forcing the audience into our shoes for a moment.

Of course, not a single review I read actually cared that Woman in Gold was about Jews. Most of them didn't even seem to notice.

Of the six or so reviews I read, EVERY SINGLE ONE very neatly sidesteps or sidelines the fact that this film is specifically about Jews and Jewish heritage. (The LA Times review doesn't even mention that Altmann is Jewish.)  Many bemoan the film's treatment of the obstructive Austrian government, much as reviewers bemoaned Selma's treatment of Lyndon Johnson. Their complaints, while arguably accurate from a historical standpoint, ignore the unique perspectives from which these films were written.

From the perspective of an oppressed minority, someone who understands your plight, who has the power to help you, but refuses to do so is a villain. Full stop. They may not be the worst you have to face, they may even be redeemable, but in the moment their utter apathy to your existence is horrific. As a uniquely black film, Selma therefore portrays Lyndon Johnson, who had the power to protect blacks with the stroke of a pen but chose to drag his heels, negatively. Woman in Gold portrays the Austrian government, which could have easily returned the plundered art pieces to their rightful owners but chose to hold on to them for its own benefit, in a similar light.

The worst reviews come from the most venerable publications. The New York Times, Telegraph, and Variety each pretend Woman in Gold is really about the concept of art ownership - the question of whether art can or should be a possession, the extent to which it should be democratized, and so on. It's an important topic, and would be a good critique to bring up if this were literally any other movie about art. In the case of Woman in Gold, however, shifting the discussion to the airy topic of art theory ignores the very pressing fact that A GENOCIDE HAPPENED, and the overriding demand for justice outweighs any theoretical, academic concerns about who owns art.

The damage of that singular attempt to plunder, enslave, and ultimately annihilate an entire people ripples forward through history in the form of a cultural scar that manifests as alienation, isolation, and a host of other insidious problems invisible to those who don't live with them. The enormity of the crime is such that it can NEVER be repaid. You can't give us back our grandparents and great-grandparents, our heritage, our homes, our ability to live our lives without the lurking suspicion that some day, for no particular reason, Gentiles might collectively decide it's a good time to murder us all.

You can never pay it back. But you can at LEAST admit what you did. You can at LEAST give us back the things you stole.

These critics' attempts to divert the discussion are painfully ironic, considering that Woman in Gold depicts the Austrian government of using the exact same tactics to ignore, belittle, and delay. Particularly striking was a moment early in the movie, when a minor Austrian functionary meets Maria to say - (pardon the paraphrasing, I'm working from memory) -  "Not everything is about the Holocaust. Why don't you people ever quit?"

But that's a code, and it's a simple one. It means, "Your existence is inconvenient to me. Can you please stop?"

And when a film critic tries to turn a conversation about the Holocaust into one about art theory, all I can hear is that. Just below the surface.


(By the way, I'm planning to start writing more reviews of reviews! If you liked this piece, and there's a review of a book/movie/show you want me to talk about...just comment right below!)