I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Hard Living
Saturday, September 9th, 2023Pussy Gillette are hands down one of the best recent groups in existence. And to think frontwoman Masani didn’t first pick up a bass until her thirties and all of their music videos—favorably—look like a straight rip from a thrice-copied VHS tape you would get your grubby hands on from a cool skater buddy in either 1988 or 1998. They are as real and raw as it gets, yet the video of theirs linked above, which just came out a few days ago, has just 312 views at the time of me writing this.
A message of defiant empowerment that pairs big-smile badassery with a great and much needed sense of humor, buried against the tides of internet business as usual. I don’t think people are quite ready for Pussy Gillette. They may be “recent”, but they bring with them a heady aspiration for longevity that might alienate the general public. The general public is not concerned with artists with guts, just artists with all-caps GUTS. Of course, I speak of America’s prodigal girlchild, Olivia Rodrigo, who I cannot believe I am mentioning in the same breath as Pussy Gillette. But I have to.
I voluntarily keep up with Olivia’s music as a checking tool since she’s just one year older than me yet completely the opposite of me in numerous ways. Here’s the thing: when I write songs and make music, I hope to make a—for lack of a better term—ack—safe space for young female artists who prefer not to listen to Taylor Swift. Olivia’s music intends to make a hostile space for young female artists who prefer not to listen to Taylor Swift. You see the problem here? We are not very compatible. I will give her most recent video credit for not being a genreless slice of slap-in-the-face curd pie like some of her others—c’mon, it’s kyuuuuute.
Olivia is twenty, a baby in the grand scheme of things. Not too long ago she was nineteen, my age. I can attest to the pain and suffering that comes with being a teenage girl, as well as the satisfaction that can come from squishing and pouring those swirling emotions into song (or prose). The truth is is that I am just not as social as Olivia—no wonder she uses the butterfly throughout her branding. I don’t really have songs to write about regarding Tyler from history class. I have songs to write about mass media brainwashing’s effect on the populace and that scene from The Wall where Bob Geldof is yelling at everyone (which is probably the most accurate depiction of the modern day large scale concert production, by the way). Maybe if that Tyler kid said something that really fascinated/infuriated/both of those things-me I would wring it like a towel and turn the warped, pulsating droplets into a song. But my brain is too skewered and too focused on my studies to do the whole “normal teenage girl” thing that much.
Or maybe that’s just the “commercially palatable” thing. Olivia’s GUTS are that she is smooth, like intestines in a well-oiled Cuckoo’s Nest Combine machine. Our friends Pussy Gillette, however, are rough, jagged, and edgy in a way that is all their own. And boy, do they own it. Yet they are not willy nilly—they share the same focus, awareness, and intelligence that societally powerful artists have, though PG choose cute shock value over cute exploitation of the vulnerable masses. In this I actually see a chance of engagement with a wider, captive audience—they embody defiance and self-assured-ness in a world that needs it. “Permanent Trash” is an ode to self empowerment and self pride. These traits are of great yet controversial interest and analysis to our society. Because of the internet, the self esteem of humanity sits in a perilous state in an age of simultaneous constant comparison to and instant disappointment in other people. We are forced to ask ourselves what traits we can find pride in without alienating others, springing gray hairs like poison darts as we ruminate on how we could be “better”.
Never mind that the people pitting us against each other in this manner are so comfortable in their positions of corrupt power that they never even consider these concerns. They know they are bad, and they know they have their fingers on society’s pulse. The “influencers” we worship and revile in unison, the milquetoast kings and queens of the schoolyard, guide us towards superficial quests for brownie points that only serve to obscure that they are the real enemy. In a desperate bid for commercial acceptance, humanity cries out, “what part of me is palatable?” Pussy Gillette offer the answer: the whole she-bang, baby. Live with yourself. Live.
But, of course, by the time you’re on the “G” in their name when typing it into the YouTube search bar, the suggested results snap away out of fear of Pussy Gallavanting, Pussy Galloping, Pussy Grumbling, or any sort of adorable videos of tiny felines doing cute things, therefore obstructing the culture of cat videos that has been the foundation of the internet since its earliest days.
But all of the best recent bands—PG, cumgirl8, Round Eye, as I was writing this Spotify recommended me a band called DICKFARTBUTTSEX—have eyebrow raising names. I say we usher in a new culture of degeneracy and dignity with the music we listen to. You can’t truly spill guts without a little seppuku.
P.S.: A side note from the Tumblr side of things: this new wave of porn bots is too good. “ReformedBlasphemy” should be MY username.
Tags:censorship, crowd control, degeneracy, humanity, music, music videos, pop music, popular music, pride, Pussy Gillette, society, suppression, videos
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