retro movie review: Sherman's March

In 1864, Civil War General William Tecumsah Sherman led Union troops in a march from Atlanta to Savannah, destroying everything in their path. Sherman's March is so infamous for its brutality that over a century later, southerners hundreds of miles from where Sherman ever set foot claim to still be recovering from the devestation.

In 1981, freelance documentarian Ross McElwee is assigned the task of producing a documentary on Sherman's March, an opportunity he jumps at, since it gives him an excuse to re-connect with friends and relatives in the area. However, just before filming is to begin, his girlfriend leaves him. He is devestated, although the fact that he lived in Boston and she lived in New York should have given him a clue that something had to give. Nevertheless, when Ross sets out on his journey to document Sherman's March, he is so distracted by this turn of events that his documentary radically shifts focus, becoming an exploration of his own pitiful love life.

This is the concept behind Sherman's March, Ross McElwee's award-winning portrait of southern women. As Ross sets out on his journey, ostensibly to make his documentary on Sherman's March, his mother, sister, and multitude of platonic friends (all of his friends in the movie are women; one male friend is briefly mentioned towards the beginning, but he is never seen, and quickly forgotten in the larger narrative) rally around to give him unasked-for, unsuccessful, and often unwelcome "help" in finding a woman.

Ross is clueless when it comes to women. One girl, for example, flirts with him shamelessly, and it isn't until hours later that he starts to wonder if her comment that she isn't wearing underwear was a come-on. He blows his chances with her, but she is such a carefree spirit that it takes him forever to realize it. He hangs around for weeks, shifting the focus of his documentary to her fledgling acting career, becoming emotionally involved in her own professional hopes, all the while oblivious to the fact that she has no romantic interest in him whatsoever.

Watching this movie, I couldn't help but wonder, "how can he not realize that she is completely uninterested in him?" She goes on and on about how she's got a crush on Burt Reynolds, and long after the viewer realizes that she actually believes in her fantasy about Reynolds, McElwee keeps filming, apparently under the impression that, by filming her diatribe about her fictional love affair with Reynolds, he is merely humoring her; what he doesn't realize is that, like so many women in this film, she is the one humoring him just by letting him hang around; the women Ross dates (or tries to date) in Sherman's March don't keep him around out of affection, they do so out of a tolerance that stems only from a detached amusement.

Meanwhile, both during and after Ross's non-relationship with the would-be actress/screenwriter (whose screenplay idea is so astoundingly insane and narcissistic that it should have given him a clue that she was a lost cause), the women in Ross's life continue to try, in vain, to help his floundering love life: They set him up on dates, they make stabs at life-coaching, and they offer him romantic advice that is alternately foolish, wise, ludicrous, and just plain inappropriate for their target audience; for all their affection for Ross McEwlee, it becomes clear through their unhelpful advice that a lot of these women don't seem to know much about what kind of women would suit his personality. In a reverse of stereotypical attitudes toward romance, Ross seems in search of a soul-mate, while the only criteria for the women trying to help him is that his significant other be A) attractive and B) available. Ross's mother is particularly eager to set him up with a woman, any woman, partially out of love for her son, but mostly, as she explains to a wearied Ross, because she finds his singleness "boring." "Do you like her?" she asks about one random female passerby. "If you do, mommy will buy her for you." She is joking. Sort of.

Ross's mother is easily the most interesting and likable character in the movie, and her monologues on the necessity of passion -- in dating and in life in general -- are both hilarious and profound. At the center of all of these women -- dates, friends, relatives, girlfriends, and ex-girlfriends -- is Ross himself, who remains ever clueless about romance. How clueless? At one point, he tries to reunite with an old girlfriend and remains undeterred when she reveals that she is now living with another man, and if Ross is to stay as a house guest, he has to sleep in the tree-house out back. The tree-house, she explains, is infested with fleas, mosquitoes, spiders, ticks, and a type of insect terrifyingly described as a "cone-nosed blood-sucker." Ross gripes to the camera about the physical discomfort and about his fear of the cone-nosed blood-suckers, but still agrees to spend the night.

Occasionally, Ross remembers that he's supposed to be making a documentary on Sherman's March, and includes a scene involving the historical event. Not often, but occasionally. He seems in denial that, just like his love life, his film project has fallen off the rails a long time ago.

Sherman's March is, without argument, a challenge to viewers. If you're not in the right mood to watch something like this, even a patient viewer will quickly get bored with McElwee's film. The pace is maddeningly slow, and McElwee's narration, delivered in a melancholy monotone, doesn't exactly help to make the film any less dull. I can't help but speculate that if this wasn't a documentary, but rather a Hollywood narrative, would it be a better movie? Surely the comedy potential is there, although viewers might dismiss the real-life characters as unrealistic (the actress's description of her screenplay, for example, really has to be heard first-hand for one to believe that anyone would come up with such an insane idea). But if you have the patience and time to sit down and watch a movie that is actually about real people -- not the arrogant, famous-for-being-famous "celebrities" on modern "reality TV," but ordinary people you might actually meet in your daily life, then Sherman's March is a fascinating and sometimes hilarious "slice of life" treat. Just don't say I didn't warn you about the pace.

Saturday Night Live: A Dissatisfied Retrospective

Are you a fan of "Saturday Night Live"? Are you one of those semi-fans, who loves the classic episodes, but feels that the show has lost its way? Well, due to the wonders of Netflix, the show is available for viewing -- even most of the seasons not yet officially released on DVD are available for instant viewing on the Netflix website. And I have made a remarkable discovery: despite the conventional wisdom that the show used to be great, but now it sucks, the truth of the matter is that the show has always sucked.

Now, this may seem like sacrilege to many loyal fans of the show, especially to those who so fondly remember the years with the original cast of the 1970s, often referred to as the show's golden age. But after watching several episodes from seasons one and two, I'm forced to conclude that the show is much more fondly remembered than it deserves. Our memories have been tainted by countless "best of" compilations and retrospectives, which present classic sketches whose humor endures, often almost as funny with the hundredth viewing as they were with the first. But if you actually sit down and watch entire episodes, you'll find that those "best of" sketches actually represent a very small percentage of the series as a whole. The vast majority of sketches fall flat, to the point where it becomes a real chore to sit through an entire episode. Put simply, for all its legendary stature, SNL is a distressingly, painfully unfunny show. And I know my reaction is not from a lack of "getting it"; even the sometimes-visible applause sign often fails to elicit much of a reaction from the live studio audience, and it's clear to me that without that sign, the crowd would often sit silently.

Say what you will about the ups and downs of Chevy Chase's career, but you have to admit that he was hilarious on Saturday Night Live. The fact is, aside from the very occasional exceptions that we're all familiar with (Dan Aykroyd as Julia Child, the brilliant Star Trek spoof, etc.) Chase is the only real bright spot in the early seasons (he was replaced by Bill Murray mid-way through season two). He delivers his lines with a star-making mixture of charm, skilled comic timing, and downright good acting (note his letter-perfect performance as Spock in the aforementioned Star Trek spoof, for example).

Yet it would be unfair to give Chase too much credit, because despite common complaints about more recent cast members who allegedly "suck," the strengths and weaknesses of SNL -- since the show's inception right down to the present day -- have always been a result of the writing rather than the acting. Think about it. John Belushi, for example, immediately established himself as a brilliant mimic, with dead-on impressions of Joe Cocker, Marlon Brando, Ray Charles, etc. Belushi was, no two ways about it, the first of many great impressionists to be featured on SNL. But once you get past the delightful comic shock of how much Belushi's impersonations resemble the real-life counterparts, the smile quickly fades; "okay," we're left to wonder, "so Belushi is playing Humphrey Bogart in this sketch, got it, but where are the writers going with this? What about this is funny other than the fact that Belushi's acting like Bogie?" Sadly, the answer is usually "very little."

One flaw SNL is known for is just how long their sketches can last; it's bad enough when the joke isn't working, but when the writers take an already unfunny idea and stretch it past all reason, that's what turns a potentially minor fault into an outrightly negative viewing experience. Despite fond memories of the 70s SNL, those early years are filled with examples of this type. Jane Curtin's advertisement for Quarry-brand cereal, for instance, lasts longer than many real-life television commercials, and the only joke in the whole thing is the remarkably unfunny, extended gag that the cereal is made out of rocks.

An even better example of a sketch that lasts much longer than it should is a woeful Twilight Zone parody: Jane Curtin stars as an actress who checks into a hotel room, "but what she doesn't know," Aykroyd warns in a pretty good Rod Serling impression, "is that she has really just checked into the Twilight Zone!" This is a set-up with some potential. But Aykroyd/Serling then delivers a nearly identical monologue introducing Gilda Radner as another actress who enters the hotel room. And then we are treated to yet another monologue about a third actress in the same room. By now, the sketch is getting redundant, and I'm impatiently thinking, "ok, after all that, there better be a damn funny pay-off -- or at least an interesting one!" But no, the punch line is that Rod Serling has invited all three actresses into the room, so that he can seduce them. That joke would have fallen flat with even one set-up, let alone a set-up that is repeated ad nauseum. And please keep in mind that I'm not picking and choosing only the worst sketches to gripe about; my whole point is that these lumps of yawn-inducing dreck are sadly typical of SNL's output even in the 1970s golden era.

At the risk of repeating myself, I must emphasize that the fault lies with the writing, not the acting. (The fact that much of the writing is done by the actors is completely beside the point; they are simply failing at one task, and succeeding at the other.) Take the 1985/86 season, for example. The cast included gifted comic actor Randy Quaid and future Oscar winners Joan Cusack and Robert Downey, Jr. But the whole year was so forgettable that even most of Downey's countless fans are completely unaware that he used to be a cast member of Saturday Night Live.

The makers of SNL were the first to become aware that their success or failure depends on their writers. When the show's ratings plummeted in 1980, the producers tried to fix the situation by bringing back Michael O'Donoghue, who had served as the show's head writer during most of the 70s. During O'Donoghue's absence, we had the single worst season in the show's 35-year history. O'Donoghue came back, and saved the show from cancellation by making Eddie Murphy a star.

A more recent example is Tina Fey; while writing SNL has always been a highly collaborative process, Fey's reign as head writer almost speaks for itself. When she joined the writing staff, the show was hitting near-record lows in the ratings, but by the time she left, the show was popular again, sketches were reviewed on primetime news broadcasts, and Will Ferrell and others had become celebrities due to their tenures on S.N.L. This is not to suggest that Fey deserves sole credit for all of this, but the timing can't be denied; it's no coincidence that when she left in favor of her own series, 30 Rock, ratings immediately began to plummet.

None of this is to say that the legacy of Saturday Night Live should be ignored. The number of actors, celebrities, and comedians who owe their careers to the show is simply mind-boggling, and it's safe to say that the series has become a part of nearly every aspect of American popular culture. SNL gave us Eddie Murphy, Will Ferrell, laughs and memories, and the much-needed occasional reminder that Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead. But don't confuse the show's legacy with nostalgia for a level of quality that never existed. Sometimes, the fondly remembered "good old days" just aren't as good as we remember.

retro movie review: Star Trek VI

Let me preface this blog entry by admitting that this movie review reflects not only my opinions on the film, but also the circumstances surrounding my viewing experience. In the 19 years since Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country was in the theaters, my only experience with the film has been through V.H.S. Now that I've finally watched the digitally enhanced version of the movie, I feel like I've seen it for the first time -- again. OK, so digital video enhancement is nothing new, so I understand that going on about it may make me seem a bit old fashioned. But if there's one thing I learned from watching Ghostbusters on DVD, after years of watching the movie only in TV broadcasts, the differences a digital enhancement can make are simply stunning no matter how familiar we are with the process.

And both the nature and the quality of the film determine how largely it will benefit from a digital enhancement process. I can't imagine caring much whether All the President's Men, for example, gets a high-tech treatment. But watching the digitally enhanced Star Trek VI made me feel like I was back in the theater again. The stars seem to leap off the screen, propelling us into space along with the U.S.S. Enterprise, and the sound quality is simply amazing. Cliff Eidelman's foreboding, ominous score creates a near-constant suspense, and is effectively complemented by both the sonorous voices of the aging actors, and the Oscar-winning sound effects. This movie really pays attention to audio detail: starship engines hum convincingly, dissatisfied characters quietly sniff their noses in contempt, and the prison on Rura Penthe is full of such off-screen ambient noises as dripping water, echoed footsteps, and grumbling convicts who pass by unseen.

But enough about the digital enhancement already, let's get down to the meat and bones of the movie. The story is set in motion by a catastrophic explosion which completely destroys Praxis, the primary energy production facility of the Klingons, who have been the primary Star Trek villains ever since the 1960s. The resulting devastation, as well as the Klingons' awareness of its long-term consequences, force the Klingon Empire to open negotiations toward peace with our own interstellar government, the United Federation of Planets. In light of the long-standing animosity between the Federation and the Klingons, no one on either side had ever dreamed that a day of peace talks would ever arrive, and while many people see recent developments as an opportunity for a better future, many others fear that future as an end to their familiar way of life.

Fear of having to change for a changing future is an affliction that affects the movie's heroes and villains alike. It's no accident that Gorkon, the one character with the most optimism for the future mistakenly refers to it as "the undiscovered country"; he's quoting Hamlet, but doesn't realize that Hamlet used the phrase "undiscovered country" not in reference to the future, but as a metaphor for death. Gorkon's misinterpretation of Hamlet is uncomfortable for everyone, for it inadvertently but effectively equates death with the future.

The parallels between the events in the film, and then-current realities of U.S./Soviet detente (with the explosion of Praxis standing in for the accident at Chernobyl) are not meant to be subtle, but with the Cold War now long over, those parallels seem almost unimportant. The topic of racism -- less commented on by reviewers of the film -- now seems to be the more notable theme. Most disturbingly, Captain Kirk himself, who has served as the franchise's primary hero for nearly thirty years, proves to be an unapologetic racist when it comes to Klingons.

Kirk's attitude can be partially explained away by the well-established but tragic reality that political hostility can often manifest as racism, as U.S. images of Asians during our wars with Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese enemies can attest. In Star Trek VI, the most obvious example of this phenomenon is when Admiral Cartwright (notably played by Brock Peters, a black actor whose own career has often featured racial themes) callously describes Klingons as "the alien trash of the galaxy." But Kirk's racism, while clearly influenced by political hostility, also has a more personal source. "I've never trusted Klingons," he says in a key bit of dialogue, "and I never will. I can never forgive them for the death of my son." With David's actual killers now long dead, Kirk has nowhere specific to focus his anger, and so shifts the blame from individual murderers to the entire Klingon race. Spock's pleas for compassion fall on indifferent ears: "They are dying," Spock explains. "Let them die!" Kirk replies with shocking brutality. For any audience members who may have missed the racial overtones, Chekov (Walter Koenig) later quotes the race-relations movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, and for any viewers still unclear about the theme, a Klingon diplomat soon lays the cards on the table and explicitly calls the Enterprise crew racist. Over the course of the film, we learn which Enterprise crew members actually are racist, which ones aren't, and which ones start out with racist tendencies but show plenty of promise for change.

Yet for all its serious undertones, Star Trek VI is a lot of fun. Kevin Smith has publicly opined that, of all the Star Trek films featuring the original cast, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is both the best movie, and also the one Star Trek film most accessible to people unfamiliar with the Star Trek characters. I have to disagree. I saw Star Trek VI in the theater and I remember being surprised in the conversations that followed, by how many of the viewers in that theater were new to Star Trek, and how many of those newbies so thoroughly enjoyed the movie. The reasons, I think, are two-fold.

First, the heavy social themes of death, racism, war, peace, and fear of the future are ably balanced by a consistent sense of humor -- a sense of humor which, with apologies to Kevin Smith, is largely lacking in the excellent but generally humorless Star Trek II. The writers certainly deserve the lion's share of the credit for the film's humor, but keep in mind that the actors playing the Enterprise crew have, by this point, worked together for decades, and have mastered the art of witty repartee.

Second, all of this humor and melodrama are presented in the context of a compelling story. Star Trek VI succeeds as a science fiction adventure, but in the context of other, time-tested genres. On the one hand, the movie serves as a political thriller, with the assassination of Klingon Chancellor Gorkon (David Warner) serving as a catalyst for most of the plot's developments. On the other hand, you've got a skillfully written murder mystery, which pays such homage to the genre that Spock not only quotes Sherlock Holmes, but also claims Holmes to be one of his distant ancestors. And the subplot about Kirk and McCoy being framed for Gorkon's death includes all of the classic cliches of a standard prison film, complete with an unjust trial, a prison fight, and an obligatory escape sequence. A fan of any of these cinematic styles -- science fiction, action, political thriller, murder mystery, prison drama, etc. -- will find something to like about Star Trek VI.

At the center of it all is one of Star Trek's most effective villains, the duplicitous, possibly mad, General Chang. In light of Chang's eccentric obsession with quoting William Shakespeare, it's apt that he's played by accomplished Shakespearean actor Christopher Plummer, who spouts the Bard's lines out of context, molding the meaning of Shakespeare's words to fit Chang's own nefarious agenda. Plummer seems to be enjoying the role, as he chews the scenery with delight and revels in his own villainy.

Much has changed since Star Trek VI premiered. The Soviet Union that served as the inspiration for the villainous Klingon Empire has fallen. Cast members who once seemed doomed to eternal typecasting have made names for themselves in other roles. And the Star Trek franchise itself has passed through stages of media saturation, decline, and, at the hands of J.J. Abrams and his writers, resurrection. But the bottom line is that some movies stand up to the test of time, and others don't. Star Trek VI, with its important themes, layered storyline, and welcome humor, is as exciting and fun as it was in the theaters back in '91.

movie review: For Sale by Owner

I just finished watching For Sale by Owner, a movie I've been looking forward to for a long time. Add a creepy subject matter (haunted houses, usually good for a fun time), a good supporting cast of reliable character actors, and the indie-cred of Port Pictures, and you've got a movie with a lot of promise. Unfortunately, the whole thing was directed by Robert J. Wilson and written by Scott Cooper, two filmmakers who, judging from this film, have more talent than competence; in other words, their work shows promise, but they really need to attend a couple of basic filmmaking and screenwriting courses (a criticism, by the way, which I've never made in any of my reviews before).

The movie starts so abruptly, and so awkwardly, that I swear I thought I was watching a movie preview, and didn't realize until the second scene that, oh wait, the actual movie's started. I realize that this sounds like an odd complaint, but all I can say is, at the risk of repeating myself, that's exactly how the film's prologue plays out, like an MPAA movie preview.

Then we meet the main characters, in a couple of scenes with distractingly artificial audio. Usually, when we talk about bad audio dubbing, we think of Asian films whose translated dialogue doesn't synch with movement of the actors' lips. Here, the audio is synchronized perfectly, but we get scenes which take place outside, that sound exactly like two actors talking to each other in a recording studio. Isn't it a relatively simple fix to alter the resonance so we don't get that "hey they're clearly inside" feel to it? I've seen YouTube backyard productions with better audio than this. (Fortunately, this audio problem doesn't last longer than a couple of brief scenes.)

The three main characters are schoolteacher Anna Ferrier; her fiance, protagonist James Wilson "Will" Custis; and her father, archeologist/ historian Clive Ferrier. Clive is played by Tom Skerrit in a performance that has become Skerritt's unique specialty, as a soft-spoken man who delivers his insults so gently you almost have to do a double-take to realize that what he just said qualifies him as an S.O.B. There's a reason Skerritt keeps playing this kind of character -- because he does it so well.

One of the subjects of these introductory scenes is Anna's revelation that she is pregnant. It plays out as a scene we've seen in countless movies before, the only difference being that here, it turns out to be completely pointless, since the pregnancy has zero relevance to the rest of the plot, and isn't ever mentioned again.

The other subject of these scenes is the introduction of Clive, to establish that he hates Will for reasons that are much more vague than, I suspect, the writers intended. Best as I can figure, he just thinks Will isn't good enough for his daughter, but the movie awkwardly hints that he has a specific reason for feeling this way, yet never reveals what that reason is.

The story is set into motion when Will stumbles upon the real estate classified ad mentioned in the title. Despite the fact that Anna and Will have no reason to move, Will decides to follow a whim by investigating. He instantly falls in love with the house, which looks like a fixer-upper, but is huge and being sold at a real bargain. The owner, Ferlin Smith, claims to be a direct descendant of the legendary Captain John Smith, and also claims that the house has been in the family since colonial times. Smith is played by Kris Kristofferson, in another one of his "just a friendly country boy" roles. For all his faults, director Wilson at least knows how to cast his guest stars.

Will sets about renovating the house on his own. His occasional trips into town allows him, and the viewer, to meet the other key supporting players, most of them highly cliched stock characters. There's the clueless but well-meaning sheriff played by Tom Bower, the menacing redneck mechanic played by Skeet Ulrich (unrecognizable behind a long, graying beard), and the friendly local handyman played by the always likable Frankie Faison.

If I had to describe this movie in just one word, it would be "unfocused." Screenwriter Cooper presents us with quite a few intriguing storylines, but every time we start to get wrapped up in one narrative, the movie bounces to the next. The story that is at the center of the others, and the one that plays out most effectively, is the haunting. But then there are also no less than five subplots:

1. The mystery of Ferlin Smith: Everyone in town insists that the only Ferlin Smith that ever lived in the area died years ago. So who was the guy who sold the house to Will? Was he an impostor? A ghost? A figment of Will's imagination? All three possibilities are hinted at, but we're never given a definitive answer.

2. The enigma of the house's title deed: It disappears mysteriously, never to turn up again. Considering how little this affects the rest of the plot, it's an odd detail for the writer to keep referencing, as characters keep asking, "so, did that deed ever turn up?" No, it didn't? Then I'd advise the screenwriter to either make something of it, or let the subject matter go! What's the point of bring it up over and over again if it ultimately has no consequence?

3. The question of Faison's handyman character, Gene Woodman: Will hires Gene to help renovate the house, and is confused by the fact that Gene insists on walking home through the woods at the end of every shift -- especially since, after taking only a couple of steps into the woods, Gene always immediately disappears from sight, as if by magic (or possibly just because the woods are deceptively thick).

4. The riddle of the little boy: Who is he? A ghost or a living kid? At one point, Will describes him to Gene, who tells Will that the kid is his stepson. But later, Gene asserts that he doesn't have a son or stepson, and insists that he never told Will otherwise.

5. The historical puzzle: Will discovers a mural in the basement that was apparently drawn by Governor John White and contains clues about what happened to the legendary Lost Colony of Roanoke Island. This subplot not only ties in to the haunting in a confusing way, but it also gives the writer an excuse to explore the Anna/Clive/Will dynamic, as Clive and one of his colleagues, Frank Kapla, are brought in as consultants after the discovery of the mural. Clive and Frank excitedly declare the mural to be the solution to "the greatest mystery in American history" although the movie never makes it clear exactly what that solution is. This subplot features a sub-subplot in which Clive, seeking academic glory, plans to steal Will's credit for discovering the mural. In an odd (but pleasantly effective) casting choice, Frank Kapla isn't played by an actor, but by famous anchorman Forrest Sawyer.

Any one of these subplots is interesting, but Cooper's attempt to juggle so many different storylines sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. The movie keeps dropping hints that all of these events are connected, which I have mixed feelings about, since the emotional result for the viewer is alternately intriguing and frustrating. I'm struggling with whether or not to reveal if all of this pays off in the end. I guess I shouldn't, because I don't want to spoil the movie for you if you plan on seeing it.

But that leaves me with a dilemma, because while I don't want to spoil anything, the ending simply must be addressed in some way, since some endings can make or break a movie, and in my opinion, the ending of For Sale by Owner is the worst aspect of the whole film. So since I don't want to give away any specifics, let me just say a few words about endings in general. Some endings, by their very nature, have a way of negating every aspect of the film that preceded it. The classic examples -- and I'm not saying that For Sale by Owner does or doesn't use any of these techniques, I'm just using a "for instance" -- are the old "it was all just a dream/hallucination/fictional story or lie told by an unreliable narrator" ploys.

Sometimes this works -- The Wizard of Oz comes to mind, and I'm sure you can think of your own favorite examples -- and sometimes it comes off as a cheap stunt and a cheat to the audience, robbing them of the emotional investment they'd put into the events of the film. The ending of For Sale by Owner falls squarely into the latter category, and this is where my advice of "take a couple of screenwriting courses" comes into play. Someone should have explained to Cooper that twist endings work only when they force you to reconsider, rather than dismiss, the dramatic significance of what has happened in the movie. For Sale by Owner, by contrast, has an ending that is clearly motivated not by any dramatic, narrative, or thematic element of the film, but rather by a writer who has discovered that he has painted himself into a corner with too many loose ends (I know, I'm mixing my metaphors) and then slapped on a half-assed "twist" ending that pretends to explain everything and ultimately explains nothing.