I was raised on Spark Avenue

What is something others do that sparks your admiration?

The technical

I’ll give a recent example. A while ago, I watched the film, No Hard Feelings. The protagonist (Andrew Barth Feldman) surprises his date (Jennifer Lawrence) by playing ‘Man Eater’ on the piano. His impressive technical skills were on full display. This captivated the whole restaurant. When he ended the piece, he got a warm ovation. Lawrence was astonished that he would do that for her. He had learned the chords last week.

I wish I could do likewise to impress a lady. Perfecting the song after a week’s duration is swell. Imagine if, by chance, a piano appeared beside us. I’d play and sing ‘Killing Me Softly’. Hopefully, I’ll get a warmer reception than Will (Hugh Grant) in About a Boy.

Upon finishing the movie, I wondered which is more difficult. Playing an intermediate song à la ‘Man Eater’ on the piano or penning a full length poetry collection. For a novice, it would take up to six months to pull off the former. A veteran writer would need much more than a half year to write, curate, edit, and publish a book of poems. Both jobs are not for the fainthearted.

Reaction

Feldman’s singing wasn’t what impressed me. The crowd was left speechless. Playing on the piano is more immediate than releasing a poetry manuscript. You must know the nuances of the keys and the melody. Making music seems simple but in truth is complex. Feldman was a teener in the film, adding to his mystique. In real life, he does really play various instruments. It’s true that he learned ‘Man Eater’ for the film.

Different

As for Topher, I have a different medium. I’ve used poetry to convey my feelings. Having an excellent long-term memory helps. I could remember details from decades past, which was interpreted as ‘taking notes’. It’s like that firm’s ad. I can see past zebra stripes and ‘spot the difference’.

One of my better poems was described as ‘This is treasure’ and ‘it’s never palpak.’

It’s nice to know that I made others happy and that my couplets are appreciated.

Oscar Robertson, the NBA’s original triple double king

Three up

Good things come in threes. On the NBA court, a triple double for me is the ultimate validation. Seeing superstars rack up huge numbers never fails to amaze me. When they win the ballgame, it’s even more impressive. Filling up the stat sheet is the league’s best indication of versatility.

In entertainment or the performing arts, the triple threat usually pertains to competence in acting, singing, and dancing. Meanwhile, the triple crown of acting is for film, telly, and the stage. In case you’re wondering, the elusive egot honours telly, music, film, and the theatre.

Triple threat

Back to writers, we also have triple threats. Excelling in three genres sparks my curiosity. I mentioned Kurt Vonnegut in my memoir. He was a prolific writer with a storied career. After fighting in the war, he wrote novels, stage plays, and nonfiction. As I observed, ‘he was a writer of tremendous versatility’.

He may not have won the Oscar or Pulitzer but he garnered the hallowed respect of the literary world. I’ve read two of his books: Slaughterhouse Five and Cat’s Cradle. Both have his trademark dark humour.

One guy who did win it all was Albert Camus. In his forties, he had received the Nobel Prize. The Stranger, a novella, is his most famous piece. It’s his only work that I’ve crested. He also wrote The Plague. Camus’s philosophy background shows in his writing. He was stellar in fiction, nonfiction, and the stage. His work is an acquired taste as a result of his absurdist background.

One-trick pony

Most popular authors stick to their strengths. Stephen King, Karin Slaughter, and Dan Brown concentrate on their bread and butter. Among bestselling authors, you rarely see trebles. They are more common in literary fiction or prizewinning writers. Aside from their meal ticket, some dabble in nonfiction, plays, poetry, or screenwriting.

Personally, I’ve tried my hand in three literary forms. Fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. My stories is escapism and parallel universes. Nonfiction is nostalgic. My poetry recalibrates my limits and is very expressive. Writers should be well-rounded. Branch out, innovate, and adapt or you’ll be left behind.

Once, there was this hulking NBA player. A college standout, he became an unsung backup in the L. The announcer pointed out that his dearth of new skills ensured he was treed to the bench. He never added to his arsenal. There was no new floater or pull-up jumper. Ergo, authors should never settle for complacency. We must keep trying and exploring new frontiers.

‘The sky’s the limit.’

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Secret Skill

What skill would you like to learn?

This week’s title is taken from a retro Semisonic song. Months ago, I uncovered the gem via Spotify. With its catchy tune, it has remained on my YouTube playlist. I’d like to be a painting maestro. Let us count the ways.

First to the floor

As early as primary school, I made a giant leap as a writer. Drawing and painting were very much part of our curriculum. My primary and secondary years were littered with art projects. Not the case at uni, where I intentionally shunned them. Playwrights and John Milton were fine as those were my strengths. In contrast, I did not look forward to drawing portraits.

The quick brown fox

Call me creative and artistic. A quick learner, I can finish books and write lengthy poetry. I can apply inspiration, life experience, and references to my projects. I’ve never penned a play, the only major literary form missing from my resume. Personally, crafting paintings is an outlet. I’d channel my emotions on the canvas.

I may be a dedicated author but we must step out of our comfort zone. I’ve been an inconsistent painter. I have my moments. Sometimes, I produce good output. Many moons ago, I impressed my teacher with my sea painting. With the right implements and focus, I can be okay. I’ll focus on nature panoramas and simple scenery. Unlike actor Anh Do, I won’t compete in the Archibald Prize.

Niche business

I wouldn’t end up with a stick figure or a half-assed illustration either. I’m long past that phase. Artists have many other options. Being a sculptor, musician, actor, and director are some of them. A screenwriter seems a natural progression for me. Like penning poetry, it remains a niche profession. Screen writing classes at uni did not interest me. Instead, I pursued playwriting seminars. Speaking of the stage, we tackled Edvard Munch and The Scream. When I saw District 9 with a friend, I talked about being a script writer. The director’s originality blew me away. That was the exception though, rather than the norm.

Then and now

Munch’s portraits were very different for his time. Definitely someone that I look up to. Fernando Amorsolo focused on Filo landscapes and culture. Widely regarded as the finest Filo painter, ahead of Juan Luna and his Spolarium. Quick aside: one of my new book’s sections is called Scholarium. Amorsolo was the first ever National Artist. Even Jose Rizal, the First Filipino, tried his hand at painting. Finally, Pablo Picasso epitomised the modernist movement. A national treasure, his portraits were distinctive. Blending elements, they proffered a deeper meaning. A muse inspired Picasso’s later works. Painting their portraits, like Picasso, would be really cool. Writing poems is one thing but creating fuller art is another.

The changing times have not diminished art’s prominence. The Louvre in Paris remains a must-see. It’s etched on everyone’s bucket list. Famous artworks regularly sell for a fortune at auctions. Paintings like the Mona Lisa have inspired bestsellers, including The Da Vinci Code. Ditto Matthew Reilly’s Jack West series. Heck, people shell out millions for Banksy’s efforts. The Mission Impossible franchise has featured the recovery of plundered artworks. The French series Lupin involves a serial conman outsmarting the rich. He plans elaborate heists before sharing his loot with the destitute. A modern take on Robin Hood.

The archeologist and the artist

Way back, I’ve had classmates who were artists. Let’s face it, most musicians and painters won’t get the recognition and income that they deserve. They carry on because they’re passionate, not to get rich or famous. In general, the arts isn’t a discipline that’ll make millionaires. History is littered with countless artists who disappeared alongside their precious. In this regard, archeology is more straightforward. If they unearth a mangled skeleton, that’s already a win-win. Meanwhile, a writer could present five hundred pages to the world and still be disappointed. Insert grumpy smiley.

My aspirations have evolved. As a child, I yearned to be a scientist. Then a business tycoon. In high school, I went for the heavens: a pilot and astronaut. By college, I was set on becoming an author. Johnny Kim showed us that you could excel in everything. He’s a former Navy officer, a licensed physician, and now an astronaut. Comedian Ken Jeong is also a doctor. Natalie Portman can speak five languages fluently. In addition, heaps of actors are also models or helmers. Ditto with singers who moonlight as songwriters or dancers. Being a triple threat has become easier. Nowadays, they aim for the egot. Multitasking isn’t groundbreaking. As long as earthlings have missions, bigger goals will be on the horizon.

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Wellington’s Finest

TL;DR

My top four poems are:

Mi Primer Adios (My First Farewell). 70 lines.

My Flick. A parody of a movie theme song. 68 lines.

The Green Hills of North Ryde. A tribute to uni life. 76 lines

Musings (2025 version). Published in our high school yearbook, remastered this year. The titular poem in my collection. 72 lines.

Four poems. Three unpublished and forthcoming. All of them around seventy lines and to be included in Musings: Poems Selected and New. So far, I’ve written about 300 pages of poesy. Good for three full-length collections. I’ve shared some of them on this site. The other weekend, I contacted Apple tech support. Lou, a Pinay, asked about my battery usage. I retorted, ‘Pages, 69%’.

‘69%? You must be doing something IMPORTANT.’

‘Yes, I’m editing my first poetry book. Have you heard of Mi Ultimo Adios by Jose Rizal?’

(Thinking) ‘Yes.’

‘My lead poem is Mi Primer Adios. My First Farewell.’

She seemed impressed. She told me that she was excited to read it. I stressed that I haven’t released it yet.

Allow me to discuss my top four, with some excerpts.

Mi Primer Adios. Rizalesque in style and scope, this will anchor my poetry debut. Hands down, my most impressive piece. The best verses appear on the back cover. Some of the lines mobilise an abacc rhyme scheme. I mostly followed Rizal’s technique. If it was read in the US Congress, as Adios was, then that’s good enough for me. I’ll go with what works.

‘My desperate yearnings as a schoolboy

My true fantasy, a dreamer full to the brim

Were clocking you, beauteous, radiant but coy

Your dreary eyes wide open, angelic face held nigh

Ready for the next decade, prepped to fly’

My Flick. A parody of My Dick, the theme song of Harold and Kumar: Escape from Guantanamo Bay. A catchy and comic tune, it plays on the end credits. The most entertaining poem I’ve written, verse for verse. Its lightheartedness left an impact on me. This inspired me to pen my own version. My Flick is the only parody of the quartet. The last written of my top four poems. I had a blast drafting this piece. In classic couplet style, minimal editing was required. Last year, a classmate asked me how long it took to produce these poems.

I’m used to writing couplets, so not that long.

Wow intelligent, she typed.

Smiling emoji.

‘My flick size of Titanic

Your flick downright Satanic

My flick got every dawg lovin’

Your flick left the crowd fumin’

My flick made Tourette’s stop

Your flick saw girlfriends slap

My flick too darn weepy

Your flick so bad it’s scary

My flick hotter than fish grease

Your flick rioters from Greenpeace

My flick fit for a royal

Your flick botched buccal

The Green Hills of North Ryde. The title is taken from a Hemingway read on Africa. As per above, it’s an ode to my university. There I gained a Bachelor’s and an Honours degree. Green Hills is built like Musings. I used the reverse consonance rhyming. Popularised by my ‘friend’, Jose Garcia Villa. This involves inverting the first and last consonants of the last word. Like Harry Potter and expelliarmus, I’m getting good at it. A fair amount of poems in my collection utilise this method.

‘Inferno’s, gari ngaya impierno’ (Inferno’s it’s like hell)

Auntie’s sentiments at the restaurant after my honours graduation nom nom nom

She told the waiter that Heineken is German he said it was Dutch

The brown leather seats not impressing Auntie pleasing her was hard

Musings. I’ve come a long way since this was featured unedited on my high school yearbook’s final page. At sixteen, I was making waves. Like Green Hills, I used an acronym for my Alma mater. Four lines to each stanza. Making it 72 verses in total. With an alternate rhyme, it’s the only shoo-in across my drafts. The collection wouldn’t be Musings without the titular poem.

Since day one on her age old scene

I found my promise and heard the colours

My intensity never dies so sounds were seen

An incendiary sight inspiring hollers

So, that’s it, a teaser of my current project. All passionate and a joy to read. The rhyme scheme may differ. The themes are dissimilar. His ingenuity remains.

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Best. Album. Ever.

What’s your all-time favorite album?

I usually go for older music. I grew up on Snow Patrol (SP), The Fray, The Script, and Newton Faulkner. More recent go-to’s include George Ezra and Ed Sheeran. I love Eyes Open by SP. The whole disc is chock full of sleeper hits. My fave on the album is Open Your Eyes. It reminds me of Let It Be by the Beatles. Chasing Cars has been deemed as the most played song of the naughts. Back when radio was in vogue, it was everywhere.

I have Faulkner’s first two albums. Dream catch me got massive airplay in Australia. Those were the days. Other songs like Tear drop and photograph solidified his effort. Some of the tracks were featured on TV shows.

The Show

I recall going to Enmore Theatre with a friend. The Script had just released their debut album and we headed to their first ever Aussie concert. The place was reasonably packed but not bursting at the seams. The current Aussie Idol opened proceedings. Soon, we heard Danny O’Donaghue belting We Cry, The Man who can’t be Moved, and Breakeven. It finished around twelve. I took the bus home.

Mitty

I saw Walter Mitty with a pal. We both liked the film, though it got mixed reviews. Starring Ben Stiller and Kristen Wiig, the picture had gorgeous shots of Iceland. Mitty had Adam Scott as the villain. His recent roles are in Big Little Lies and Severance.

A few years ago, I purchased the soundtrack off eBay. It was sent from the US. This has since become a personal fave. The whole cd is robust. Jose Gonzalez has two songs, Step Out and Stay Alive. Icelandic band, Of Monsters and Men, impress with Dirty Paws. Jack Johnson has the Pina Colada Song. Finally, Rogue Wave delivers with Lake Michigan. The latter represents my pick of the album. It’s invigorating, catchy, and snappy.

So long, CD’s

As you’ve probably heard, I’ve made the move to YouTube Music. I do not buy CD’s anymore. This has been the trend: people subscribing. With these streaming services, you can leave your CD racks at home. Music is mobile.

As it stands, the days of collecting CDs may be gone for good. With the convenience of mobile phones, CDs have become dispensable. Like watching movies, why spend more on one album when music streaming gets you access to a full library?

Vinyl records have made a comeback, but CDs are more unlikely to do so.

Music and Stories

As an author and poet, I can see the similarities between musicians and me. Albums are like books. Each track matters, just as chapters or sections hold weight. They create music and we perfect stories. They have lyrics and we’ve got verses. We both dedicate hours, days, and months to perfecting our projects. We edit our material with a fine-tooth comb. They use guitars, bass, and keyboards. We mobilise MS Word, professional editors, and reversed consonance rhyming.

We end up with inspired pieces, relayed to the world. If singers have concerts, writers have book launches. They’ve got the Billboard Top 100; we’ve got the Times Best Sellers. Being prolific over time gives you a body of work. Consistency is key.

The question is: which player will you pine for? ‘Por que no los dos.’

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CODA (2021) reviewed

It’s not every day that Topher reviews an Oscar Best Picture. In the past, I watched and analysed Parasite and Green Book. I saw both at the cinemas with a friend. Aside from this, I evaluated Moonlight, The Shape of Water, and Nomadland. CODA (Children of Deaf Adults) was the first movie ‘distributed by a streaming service’ to take out top prize. Earlier, Netflix’s Roma was considered a strong contender but came up short. Coda premiered at the Sundance Festival and its rights were bought by Apple. Recently, I finally beheld this masterpiece.

Mr V

The movie stars Emilia Jones as Ruby Rossi, the only hearing member of a deaf family. She navigates home life, school, the family business, and her singing aspirations. Initially, she auditions in the school choir to follow her heart. The tryouts only involved singing Happy Birthday. Overwhelmed, she becomes a runner. However, she returns and Mr Villalobos realises that she’s ’rare’. The latter takes her under his wing, coaching for free. She has what it takes to be accepted at Berklee, his prestigious alma mater.

Casting

Ruby’s family have been fishermen for generations. When they are slighted or fooled, she save the day. In town hall or at the docks, she’s their voice and interpreter. Emilia studied sign language for nine months to prep for the role. She likewise has a budding if rocky romance. When filming began, Jones was seventeen. I’ve noticed her in Locke and Key. You could see her acting chops.

Ruby’s maturation is apparent, as is her family’s. She grew up quick as their link to the world. Though the youngest, she was thrust into this role. At the start, all she did was back up her family. As the film progresses, she creates a life outside home. Ruby engages in a duet, both romantically and academically. She dreams of going to college and moving away from la familia.

Fam and beyond

At first, her parents do not warm up to this. They regard her as their piggy bank. Without her, they’d be lost. How can they handle a simple TV interview without their A1 child? This leads to arguments at the dinner table and hurt feelings. Being a good hija, she’s prepared to forgo her ambitions. This leads her elder brother, Leo, to be miffed. He’s seen her gift. She should not throw them away.

Mr. V was there for her. However, her tardiness gets to him. If you value someone, their time would be important to you. On two occasions, he almost gives up on her. When she reveals the reason for her flakiness, the stern mentor would understand. We totes need a figure like him.

Fresh

The extensive use of sign language was a breath of fresh air. Could be funny or intriguing. Deliberately wrong hand signs were humorous. Likewise with misread signals. In decades of Hollywood productions, it hasn’t been utilised enough. Eugenio Derbez (Mr V.) was perfect as the serious music teacher with a heart of gold. The canine exercise was quite funny. Upon further research, I found out that making audiences titter is his life’s work. The soundtrack was likewise def. Ruby rendered Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now during her Berklee audition. A bravura performance.

Frailty

The movie highlights the frailty of the human condition. Most of us take our normalcy for granted. This picture reminds us that others aren’t as fortunate. We shouldn’t focus on richer or more famous critters. Instead, be grateful. In spite of their impediments, they shined. If they can fish, make connections, and live eventful lives, then why couldn’t we?

Each individual has different talents. No standard test measures a person’s consequence. We may have shortcomings but don’t let them define you. Ruby’s family cannot hear her sing. Yet they know that she’s good and deserving of a bright future with them in the background. They’ll support her, whether near or far, audible or not.

Five stars

The movie was a good length, about two hours. Choreography wasn’t the main selling point. Those boat scenes and Emilia’s diving escapades fleshed out the storylines. It’s got a bit of everything: drama and laughs. Family and friendships. Sign language and auditions. Musicals and outdoor scenes. Romance and heartbreak. The actors were well-cast. One was a previous Oscar winner. Marlee Matlin (Jackie Rossi) was the first actor signed on the film. Meanwhile, Troy Kotsur (Frank Rossi) would win Best Supporting Actor for his turn. Universally acclaimed, CODA took out three Oscars in 2022. Personally, it’s better than Nomadland, Shape of Water, and Green Book. It’s on par with Parasite and Moonlight in terms of originality.

Rating: 5/5

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The Hermit

He moves at a snail’s pace with all the time in the race

In his thirties, published the Great 20th century American Novel

Before this, met iconic Ernest Hemingway who owned the place

The don was very encouraging of his fiction knew he’d reach another level

They met during the war, soldiers with a laser focus

At uni before the war, he had mouthed his ambition

The institution would inspire Pencey Prep, his groundbreaking book’s locus

Catcher would save many aspiring authors from literary malnutrition

Released a collection of stories, which I’ve perused

Offered some novellas

Public scrutiny made him hibernate and unenthused

Never released new material and rarely appeared, unfazed even by paellas

Only ventured out to rebuff exploitative figures

Fathered a daughter, who grew up with her mum

Had an affair with a younger lass but bristled when she capitalised on their adventures

Jerome was not known for his poetry or rum

A master of the short story, Catcher is essential in schools today

I too was like him, with forays into short fiction

Attaining early success, nothing prepared him into the fray

Solitude became his mission

He flamed out too soon

In the end, publishing and sharing his gifts did not bring happiness

Chose the path less travelled, the other fork to the moon

While his contemporaries sold millions, he went awol opting for loneliness

Like that dissident, hanging in there by choice

Wasn’t he interested in what the world offered?

Wondered about Central Park’s breeze? Heard another voice?

See the flowers and trees? Didn’t the walls make him stutter?

Or to helm a talk of his latest release?

When he left us a decade ago, more questions than answers

His work outlives him, his legend sweeter than jellies

His reclusiveness inspired Finding Forrester, my all time fave

Unfinished business, yet now he’s gone

We cannot query him of his intents or summon him from the grave

Hear him discuss his fam or pick a bone

How did his day look like? What sumptuous food did he go for?

Which books impelled him? Did he even need casual clothes, only for them to sit in his wardrobe?

To this day, his lone novel divides, some don’t get it while we give it amour

I think it’s brilliant, a classic for the globe

Others criticise the writing and miss the symbolisms

Catcher was cruisy, one helluva book to read

Wish he gave us more material and paroxysms.

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Quote of the Week

Actor Jackie Chan was asked by this reporter. Was he happy with his life? His retort was thus:

‘You know I once heard some very wise words:

…Your restless child is the dream of every childless person

Your small home is the dream of every homeless person

…Your ill health is the dream of every patient with an incurable disease

Your peace, your sound sleep, your accessible food are the dream of every person ina country at war

You must cherish everything you have. After all, no one knows what tomorrow will bring.’

TY, FB

Thank you, Facebook, for giving me this saying. A random post that showed up on my news feed.

As humans, we are natural challengers. We yearn to be the best, fastest, and smartest. Having one house is insufficient. Once we get three, why stop at that? Why not gobble up the entire neighbourhood? It’s like the fable of the dog with a bone. The canine sees himself reflected in the water. Since he’s greedy, he goes for the second bone and ends up with nothing.

These words make Mr Chan look like a philosopher. Highlights the best and worst attributes of his fellow men. We always compare ourselves with others. We are looking ahead and never behind. We fail to see our success while millions of people are stateless, homeless, or childless. We worry about the day’s outfit when others do not have basic necessities.

Cruise Nation

Some travellers are on the lookout for their next vacay. Posting about their jet setting lives would make them more validated. Funnily enough, these are things that others care about. Superficial toys like islands, beaches, streaming shows, and cruises. Spare a thought for Malala.

Different things motivate people. A farmer would eat a heavy breakfast and plough the fields. A war refugee will evade danger with his family. An influencer would post her latest finds on social media. A soldier would fight for his homeland, and so on. What does tomorrow’s sunup mean to you?

Temporal

Status is relative. Power, impermanent. We must be prudent, grateful and considerate. The nature of life on earth is temporal. Today you might have a mansion, tomorrow you may have nothing to munch on. Women are worried about their zit. How about those without arms or legs? Would we consider them fit?

We’ve got all these trends like carnivore, low carb, and vegan diets. Do you think war refugees worry about what they eat? When these creators sup on their steaks, do they ever remember their brothers in the sticks?

The Game

We try our darn best to outrun Father Time. We cheat ageing. We tackle health problems by nipping them in the bud. Count our sugar intake while others feast on Mega Macs.

‘Life is a game boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.’

This is another quote from Catcher in the Rye. Seems like one you’ll hear from a primary school. Hence, it doesn’t merit its own post. Look deeper though and it is rather similar to Chan’s sentiments. Life has parameters and we must follow them to coexist. To play the game, we must take others into consideration. To be fair and reasonable. According to Chan, some give little thought to others and their plight.

You know who you are

More importantly, which rules are we following? Our parents’? Michael Jordan’s? Our politicians? That’s the beauty of this simple quote: it’s a bit open ended. To paraphrase a quote, birds of different feathers do not flock together. I’m sure there will be different rules for a Hawks’ high flier and a KFC deep fryer. The laws of the game are dissimilar in Ukraine and Bahrain. As is our nature, earthlings have continued to push the boundaries and uncover new frontiers. We grow as villages, if not as families.

Chan’s answer highlights our folly. We are concerned with immaterial things and the secular world. We aim to build a kingdom when we can make do with what we have. His reply reveals how being satisfied is complex. It’s not black and white. The human condition is fragmented. In our haste, will we end up as the dog with a bone? Or will we rise above our flaws and be more humane?

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Squid Game (2025) reviewed

I looked through my blog posts. I’ve never posted about Squid Game. Yes, I’ve mentioned it in other reviews. I haven’t written specifically about the Korean series. Unless wandering in the Sahara, most would’ve heard of Squid. The series is one of Netflix’s (NF) most successful, being an Emmy darling. It likewise secured one Golden Globe, flying the Asian flag in Hollywood.

With a fresh format, the first series (2021) was overwhelmingly popular. Children’s games democratised the show to all age groups. Humans are drawn to the unknown. A bankrupt small timer competing in kids’ games on an undisclosed island is pure genius. Becoming an instant billionaire lights our fire. We are drawn to the hero, his empathy and quick thinking.

Opening Week

Initially a standalone, NF appended two more seasons. Seasons 1 and 2 had a three year gap. My Achi said that they shouldn’t have returned. The ending of season 1 was enough. By last year, all viewers would’ve forgotten about the plot. The third and final season premiered on 27 June. The main guy, Player 456, returned. Ditto many participants from the previous season.

While topping the NF charts, Squid is not the latest hit. Wednesday and Untamed are more recent number one releases. Regardless, this represented the biggest first week for a Netflix series. Sixty million viewers watched it, equating to 360 million hours in its opening week. Quick aside: the second and third seasons were shot consecutively. However, the director thought that there were too many plot lines. Hence, the two instalments.

Brilliant, but eerie

Like its predecessors, this felt eerie. The uncertain outcome. Yes or no buzzers at the end of each game. The jaunty music. Masked guards with rifles. Of course the blood and gore will perturb you. So will corrupt law enforcement. Plus, the lavish lifestyle of gamblers betting on their horses. The ‘private detective’ returns with gusto. His life’s mission is to out these scumbags who toy with human lives. The island and sadists must be revealed. He’ll stop at nothing for the truth to prevail. Even facing injustice and roadblocks, he won’t succumb.

As expected, the final season is a slayings galore. A mother killing her son. A father terminating a tranny. He likewise sends said mother to kingdom come. He stages it as a suicide. Player 456 murdering the latter. A Lara Croft wannabe pulverising an entire team of misogynists. She did this to save a guy, as she empathised with his child. The other detective is on a boat searching for the hideous island. The boat’s captain is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He regrets not taking the private detective seriously, though he kills the captain.

Lord of the Games

Initially superficial, the show is allegorical. It explores themes such as family, love, and relationships. Even temporality and existentialism. Though foregrounding children’s games, deeper messages and lessons lie within. It contrasts money and cultural capital with intellect and integrity. Squid shows how greed changes people, with billions of won up for grabs. Most contestants would murder and betray for a few millions.

The show is a modern day Lord of the Flies. The characters play kids’ games and are sequestered from the world. Like Flies, they separate into factions. It’s survival of the fittest (and most cunning). Unlike Lord, they’re not kids. However, in their quest for money and notoriety, they stop at nothing. As per above, they’ll throw family members off the bus. They’ve no qualms with slaying an infant. In their eyes, she’s undeserving of prize money. Sprains and bruises won’t deter them. They compete in mortal peril. See also: The Goblet of Fire

A Determined Hombre

The first season had better character growth. The mainstays were more likeable. An oldie acted as 456’s mentor. Player 456 wasn’t the smartest or strongest. Yet he made it to the end. He had a bit of luck. Most importantly, he was determined. You won’t get what you want as a patsy. To paraphrase an old ad, you can’t buy a medal; ‘it must be earned.’

A Farewell to Harms

The final series was underwhelming. Not as flashy or philosophical as the first two. Less action sequences and more dialogue. At the movies, it was like The Maze Runner. By the third instalment, it lost the element of surprise. This isn’t breaking news. Dramas and, in general, TV shows taper off after the first salvo. The last season had six episodes. There is a cameo by an Oscar winner in the end. She acts as a recruiter.

Squid Game probably won’t win more Emmy’s or Golden Globes. They’ve rode this horse as far as they could. Altogether, it’s still engrossing. Currently, the final series has an 81% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Critics have given two thumbs up. Meanwhile, it received a mixed reception from audiences. Most disliked the ending. Squid sets the bar for future Korean releases. Well worth my NF subscription. Vale! Squid Game.

Rating: 4.5/5

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Dexter: New Blood (2021) reviewed

The past fortnight, I’ve been allotting time to finish New Blood. I rented the ten eps on Amazon Prime. As they say, ‘Better late than never.’

Dexter cast mates

The series continues where Dexter left off. Previously, our favourite vigilante loses his sister and abandons his family. He is forced into hiding and resurfaces, bearded, in a cold town. Viewers speculated that he had headed up north, possibly to Canada or Alaska. Most of the main story arc occurred in sunny Miami. He worked as a blood spatter analyst. At night, he transforms into a killing machine, taking out the trash by serving up Robin Hood justice. Much like Batman and Daredevil, in that respect. He has been dubbed the Bay Harbor Butcher. Impressive as his body count may be, he evaded comeuppance. Purely by his smarts and a bit of luck. His workmate, Sargeant Doakes, was pinned as the Butcher. He outsmarted an FBI honcho and the whole department.

Iron Lake, NY

Iron Lake

Dexter the series was very addictive. Each season and episode, a must watch. It was comic and gory, thrilling and immersive. We see Dexter transform from matador to family man. His deceased foster father, Harry, enlightens him about his dark passenger and enforces a code. We see the latter in times of Dexter’s moral crises. This time, it’s the sister, Debrah, who becomes his moral compass. Though conked out, she’s the second most ubiquitous character. Turns out, Dexter isn’t in Alaska but upstate New York. Iron Lake, a town of 2,000 souls, is where the action takes place. He has a new name: Jim Lindsay. The town’s police chief (Angela Bishop) is his girlfriend. He works as a gun salesman.

Born in blood

For two years, he has resisted the urge to mete out his ‘Dex Signal’. Until this entitled schmuck forces his hand. Turns out he’s the son of a fellow serial killer. The latter gets off at murdering runaway women. He has a long kill list. To complicate matters, Harrison – his son – returns. Dexter/Jim navigates his teenage blues while juggling work and other personal commitments. Hannah McKay, his former partner, has died. She raised Harrison by herself. Dexter struggles in his new role, building a shaky connection with his son. They are linked superficially, their home a pit stop. Harrison is everything Dexter ain’t: good at sports, confident around girls, and quite sociable. He has a dark passenger. Dexter realises that they’re more alike than he imagined. They’re psychopaths and ‘born in blood’.

Matador

Harrison falls for Audrey, his classmate. She’s Angela’s daughter. When the school’s Lone Ranger is attacked, he becomes the hero. While he recuperates, only his father gleans that he’s the transgressor. Harrison starts an uneasy friendship with Kurt, the serial killer. Likewise, Molly Park, a famous crime podcaster, descends upon the town. Together with Angela, they add a bit of inclusion to the plot. Initially at odds, the two develop a friendship which grows in time. Kurt takes a liking to Molly, seeing her as his next victim. Only Jim’s persistence saves the celebrity…until ‘curiosity kills the cat.’

When Kurt abducts Harrison, Dexter saves the day. He finally opens up about his dark passenger and the two quickly unite. This reminded me of Hannah. The pair had more in common than Dexter thought. Thus, it unfolds like his previous relationships: they bond in blood. However, Angela’s suspicions are confirmed and she arrests Jim. In order to escape, Jim kills the deputy (and Harrison’s coach), which severs the father-son bond. We see Dexter lying in a pool of blood.

Dexter: the comeback

Set ten years on, New Blood is very Dexteresque. The surreal choreography and stunning visuals. Clever camera work and voice over. Full characters and dialogue. The fast forward scenes which opens every episode. This reminds me of Ozark and The Simpson’s couch gag. In his day job, Dexter is likeable. As a serial matador, he’s despicable. He’s calculating and a master manipulator. He convinces Angela to head out, knowing that she’ll do anything for Iris, her slain best friend. In effect, he’s left with the coach, who he murders. Just another day in the office.

Nefarious as Dexter may be, Kurt is worse. He terminates young women. Keeps them as trophies in an underground Hall of Shame. Upon witnessing the attraction, any casual observer will be shocked…beyond repair.

Another similarity: the ritual. Dexter’s MO is to tranquillise the bastard and bring them to his ‘operating table’. When they wake up, he’ll converse with them for five minutes. They’re secured with sticky tape. Harrison asks why the tape. His dad answers that it’s less trouble. After all, he knew his crime scenes. He always wears the same outfit to his practice: an olive green long sleeve henley with trousers and gloves. Once he’s milked them and gets his answers, he slays them point blank. Dexter wants to see the light leave their eyes. To have the last say before they go to kingdom come. He’ll then chop them up into six pieces. Before, he chucked them into the bay. Now, he reduces them to ash.

Resonant

This series may be four years old but still resonates. Easy to lose yourself in Iron Lake. Michael C. Hall remains a primetime thespian. The locale and players breathe new life into the series. The move from sunny Miami to chilling New York was ingenious. Dex brought his talents to the Big Apple. A reverse of LeBron who went from his Cleveland kingdom to South Beach. Special guests like Deb and Angel Batista make you nostalgic. A prequel has since followed New Blood. Dexter: Ressurection continues where Blood left off. Almost a decade since we last saw Morgan, the show continues the tradition. A certified fresh score on Rotten Tomatoes confirms this. Five well deserved stars from me.

Rating: 5/5

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The Dawn…

Is different in Southeast Asia and Sydney

Farmers plough the fields and drink black coffee long day ahead

There, the sun is up in a hurry

In Sydney, sunup varies by season instead

It could be up soon, or remain dark past the early hours

The village is lively and neighbours mingle

In the Harbour City, they worry about the mortgage and booking tours

Little time to socialise or sprinkle

In Sydney, we have frequent trains and buses they’re ripe

Growing up, I had a view of our city below

The night lights extinguished as downtown comes to life

You hear the rooster crowing and chickens buzzing it’s mellow

The portrait of lizards scurrying in the ceiling

Sounds of native brooms

Dogs lapping their servings

The bright light as you grapple with homework in your bedroom

The coldish morning air you memorise your piece

The dawn is but a metaphor, an imagery

When we start school or college

Every time we embark on a new journey

Take a fork in the road or face a challenge

We live in our own Camino

Get all the help along the way

When we purchase a fresh pair of shoes or midrange Seiko

Sleep at night and dream of a payday

The inchoate dawn that greeted Fernando Amorsolo, Ramon Magsaysay, and Carlos Romulo

The self-same sunup that captivated Manny Pacquiao, Clark M. Recto, and Lino Brocka

So mesmerising that morning fog heroes laid down their lives for her, our dear Cordero

Whether sporting greats or statesmen, actors or artistes, love for her is no enigma

Tomorrow, the sun will rise again

Just like how the leaves will sway and lemons, harvested

The eggs collected and stanzas written

The laundry load will become dry

Apps updated

Dishes won’t get stacked high

Children won’t be constipated

Emails will be read just fine

Masses would be heard

We do not live in Rizal’s time

Handwriting has been largely reserved

Not as much love letters and poems, even for those past their prime

Regardless of these peculiarities, ‘The show must go on’

We won’t get rich by fixating on the past

Neither will we make progress by ruing the present and being a don

We advance in maximising our cards and by moving fast

For life is just a phase ‘A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more…’

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