At Disney World, Trauma, Therapy, and Lingering Damage as American Pilgrimage

(Hey everyone!  So for Nano this month, I’m going to try to write something every day.  I know the blog is somewhat disused, but it’s my platform, and I’m stickin’ to it!  Without further ado, the content.  This piece is old, but I never published it, so I’m counting it for the day.)

There’s a noticeable tension as we’re led into our seats at Boma, the luxurious buffet at the Animal Kingdom Lodge.  I had just gotten off the phone with a last-minute hotel arrangement after our original lodgings had every trapping of a murder motel save for the dead hooker under the mattress.  There were also a handful of grumbles about the price, continuing until the waiter arrived.  Our waiter, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, built like a linebacker, then says the magic words: jungle juice is included with the buffet.

Jungle Juice typically suggests either the triple-strength kool-aid of summer camps, or the hell brew of vodka and whatever drink mix was in the cupboard that can be found at any frat house.  This was closer to the former, although much nicer.  Sunny D bright, it tasted mostly of orange and mango, with some other tropical fruits thrown in in the back.  Our party immediately regresses, for better and worse (the conversation improves, and ancient food pickiness rears its head.)  Naturally, dessert (at least 50% of the meal’s calories, including the cultishly adored “zebra dome” mousse cakes) is not the final course.

Disney parks are obsessively designed to trigger age-regressive behavior.  From the beginning, it’s been their naked appeal.  To quote Uncle Walt, at Disneyland’s opening: “here age relives fond memories of the past”.  The churros and kibitzing characters are just as much for the adults.  This is why the Pleasure Island nightclub complex was doomed from the start.  People aren’t going to Disney World to go clubbing.  No matter what your age, you’re eleven at Disney.  Eleven-year-old children notoriously detest nightclubs.  Calling Disney’s appeal cross generational misses the point.  Disney is for children; you’re just inevitably going to be a big child there.  Of course people keep coming back on pilgrimage to the mouse: it’s the fountain of youth, and they can’t resist another sip.

There’s one niggling detail though, that ends up uniquely reacting with the facts above: Disney World is wildly fucking traumatic.

Perhaps like me, you were a Type A child with a Type B parent taking you.  Placed in the middle of endless delights, and desperate to squeeze every bit out of the day, the hours are agonizing waiting for your parents to finish their drinks when I can be a pirate literally 300 feet away Dad, please!  This pleading, combined with your parent’s inevitable exasperation at the fact that everything costs a billion dollars, typically ends in a screaming match.  Then again, in my observation, the inverse seems to be more common: miserable children who’s promise of magic and charm is shattered by a death march.  Jawohl, Kommandant Mutter!  Only another day’s half march until we reach Splash Mountain!  In the middle of the Kodak moments we choose to preserve, everyone has a nightmare at Disney they’d prefer to forget.

Walking into Hollywood Studios as an over analytic 23-year-old, I should have known I would be primed back to somewhere between 6 and 12.  Breakfast is a fat Napoleon gushing cream (a favorite childhood treat literally not eaten in at least 10 years) along with milk.  Star Lord, of Marvel fame, has just told my party that we’re good dancers and laugh at his corny jokes, and as such are more than welcome to crash on his spaceship.  And on the subject of space, there is Star Wars everything.  As someone who formerly forced their father to drive to every Pizza Hut in the state to find one that had a windup model of Naboo in stock, I can’t help myself.  Chewbacca gives us all bear hugs.  We are “offered audience” with Kylo Ren as new potential Sith initiates.  Best of all, the fastpasses have worked out so we can ride Star Tours, reviled by my parents and only grudgingly ridden once as a child, twice.  Once on, my “It’s My Birthday” pin singles me out on the ride, where a surreptitiously taken photo, inserted into the ride, identifies me as a rebel spy who must be delivered to Yoda to save the Galaxy.  I’m beaming.

Walking out of Hollywood Studios as a precocious 12-year-old, I’m sobbing.  I’ve just been sitting in the rain for about an hour and a half, soaked through, waiting for the start of Fantasmic.  The show is unceremoniously canceled, and I have a small outburst, tired and uncomfortable.  Although not directed at my family, my father takes this unkindly.  All the way back to the car, he berates me: no one wants to be my friend because I’m like nitroglycerin.  I’m too volatile to be around people.  The insult still stings today.

It’s about 8:45 PM, May of 2017, immediately post Star Lord, and the rain is coming down in sheets.  Jess, one of the friends I’m travelling with, has also hurt her leg through some sort of jamming accident on the Rock n’ Roller Coaster.  She’s been limping like a trooper for the better part of the day, but by now, she’s hobbling and miserable.  However, the stakes have gone higher than canceling Fantasmic.  Disney has just debuted a new evening Star Wars spectacular, said to be their greatest show yet produced.  The gang’s not having it though.  There’s no shelter with a vantage point.  To watch this would be to fully submit to the elements, with Jess on her bad leg.

I’m a kid, and I want to scream and beg for it to finally go right.  I want to believe Star Lord is real and there’s potential for adventure, and eat cake for breakfast, and see every ride.  No, I’m a (young) adult, and I want the gorgeous actor playing Star Lord to jump me (a “friend of Star Lord” in Disney speak,) having called dibs when my friend Cat and I draft picked the hottest actors to pass time.  I’m begging for some salt to get the lingering old sugar taste out of my mouth.  I’m acquiescing, realizing how ridiculous standing in the rain with a miserable group of friends would be.  I’m finally getting it right.  I’m good enough to have friends.  The poison is also the antidote.  Amid all the entertaining fantasy roleplaying, I’ve managed to slip into a minute of gestalt therapeutic roleplay.

In an unexpected twist, my party happens to have arrived at Disney for Gay Days.  Not officially endorsed by the park, but quietly cheered, LGBT people of all ages (but mostly, it seems, gay men) descend upon the parks for a weekend, and host lavish parties in the evenings.   As the only practicing homosexual in our group, we didn’t partake, but I couldn’t help but check my Grindr in curiosity.  The pamphlets can pretend the event is for young gay families all they like, I know gay men, and as expected, the hook-up pool is buzzing.

I’m no stranger to older men asking me to call them Daddy.  It’s a common kink.  I’m no stranger to other young gay men looking to call people Daddy.  It’s a common trauma.  I don’t think I ever have, or ever will, see quite so many in the same place though.  I’ve found the one class of people that don’t have childhood trauma at Disney; those that got denied a happy childhood.  Here’s an army of men looking to have that perfect fantasy of happy youth, or clumsily offer a sexual simulation.

I take another sip of my boozy “Cosmic Galaxy Shake”, complete with light up “meteorite” ice cube, at the Hollywood Studios Sci-Fi Dine-In.  Even at the outrageous costs, I hope they find it.  I hope we all do.

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Final Fantasy Retrospective: Final Fantasy X

In the wake of the upcoming Final Fantasy XV, in all its fanfare, it feels like an auspicious time to look back on the long, winding road that got us to this point.  Final Fantasy is a series that evokes wildly complicated feelings.  Deep nostalgia, and a love for the clever mechanics and grand, operatic stories draw generations of fans to the series, but the series has grown, to a certain extent, into a bloated parody of itself.  Micro-management, linearity, atrocious character design, and incomprehensible motivation have become some of the series hallmarks.  Final Fantasy XV seems to acknowledge and seek a departure from the sins of the past, breaking with the turn based gameplay of previous titles.  However, it’s worth seeing what brought us to this point.  Reader be warned, this retrospective will be spoiler heavy.

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“Miles Ahead”, and Every Inch a Bore

Miles Davis wass a fantastic musician, guaranteed to be forever remembered for his innovation and skill.  He permanently shaped the musical landscape, and those achievements are not to be understated.  Nonetheless, he is not, in a conventional sense, famous.  Although well known in his heyday, today, he remains unknown to a vast majority of Americans.  Those who do know him, music fans and academics, know him by his music, and perhaps a few tidbits about his life.

“Miles Ahead”, Don Cheadle’s elaborate vanity project (Cheadle writing, directing, and starring in the title role), does not understand this.  It can’t be concerned with such mundane things as plot, or characters.  No, “Miles Ahead” is Capital A “Art”.  Littered with ever so precious shots (“We’ll film a series of Polaroids instead of a montage!  It’ll be perfect!”) and often repeated yet never explained platitudes  (“Jazz is just a made up word.  Call it “Social Music”,) the film can’t be bothered to tell us things like who Miles Davis is, how he got to the point we see him at, or why we’re supposed to care.

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Allegiant: Genetically Pure and Fundamentally Damaged

Much has been made over the term “Mary Sue”.  Referring to a character that tends to populate the worst amateur fiction, the characters is flawless, too beautiful for mere mortals, beloved by all except those who’s admiration turns to resentment, and should they have a flaw, it comes across as token and self serving.  The Mary Sue reeks of author surrogate and empowerment fantasy, hence the stereotype that it appears in the works of young, disenfranchised high school students scrawled in the back of their marble notebooks.  Defenders of the term point to countless examples, and ask for a better common name to unite them, while detractors see the term as a sexist label, primarily slung at young female writers, ignoring equally empowered characters in dime-a-dozen Heroes Journey clones.

Tris (Shailene Woodley) isn’t quite a Mary Sue, but lord help me if the film doesn’t feel like fanfiction from a deeply insecure high school student.  Tris (an absurd shortening of the name Beatrice) is at the very least in the same ballpark.    We spend an eternity describing how she is literally everyone in the films genetic superior, all who meet her love and sacrifice for her without a moments hesitation (and no legitimate buildup to the now front-and-center romance,) and her decisions, even the most obviously wrong ones, always turn out to be for the best.

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The Boy and the Beast: Definitely a Beauty

Fatherhood is a very tricky subject to tackle.  Any bond between a parent and child is filled with a number of deep emotions, but men quite typically present a stoic front.  Show too little emotion, then the relationship comes across as shallow.  Show too much emotion, and the relationship becomes artificial, bogged down by maudlin sentimentality.  Of course, it’s doubly tricky when it’s a father/son relationship, as you have two sets of sealed off emotions to delicately reveal.  Luckily, Mamoru Hosoda’s gorgeously realized “The Boy and the Beast” manages to walk that delicate line, using fabulously expressive animation and tight metaphor to tell the story of a boys relationship to his surrogate father.

Of course, this being a Mamoru Hosoda film, themes of family are wrapped in a whimsical magical realism.  A young boy runs off from home after the death of his mother, his callous relatives and absent, divorced father offering him no comfort, and promptly stumbles into a parallel reality, inhabited by anthropomorphic animals.  He’s quickly taken under the wing of Kumatetsu, a prideful, boorish bear swordsman in need of a pupil to make him eligible to compete to succeed the towns lord.  Renaming the boy Kyuta, they begin a combative relationship that slowly changes them both.

The story complicates as it focuses on Kyuta’s adolescence, first romance, and search for a place in the human world, and contrasts the family life of the seemingly perfect father Iozen, a boar man who is Kumatetsu’s rival for the throne.  Nonetheless, all plot elements serve to highlight the central relationships between Kumatetsu and Kyuta, and the central themes of the effects of loneliness and neglect on the soul, and the difficulty and necessity of repairing through emotional bonds.  It’s a simple fable, richly constructed, and necessary to our current generation in which fatherhood is a lost art, and a toxically independent brand of masculinity the norm.

The animation is gorgeous, blending traditional animation and CGI, allowing subtleties of emotion to come out in the characters deeply expressive faces.  Thick outlines and unshaded colors give the film a distinctive aesthetic, and backgrounds are rich and detailed.  The architecture of the parallel world is particularly noteworthy, the sun-baked stones creating a perfect mirror of Tokyo’s Shibuya ward, in which the majority of the human world action takes place.  Also worth mentioning is the use of sterile, detail lacking security camera footage for the human world, making a neat visual representation of urban isolation.  Action is visceral and well choreographed, and character motion is smooth and natural.

Acting is equally strong, even simple lines packed with emotion without slipping into caricature.  Special applause to Koji Yakusho, who fills the role of Kumatetsu with both aggressive pride and surprising tenderness.

The score is also evocative, done by Takagi Masakatsu, marking him as a force to be reckoned with along the lines of Joe Hisashi.  Like Hisashi, he creates simple, building melodies that nicely mirror the characters emotional development.  The films theme by Mr. Children is pleasant enough, but ultimately forgettable.

The writing is good, but slightly more mixed.  Although solidly written, plotted, and populated, the film occasionally violates “show, don’t tell” and slips into redundant expository dialogue, vastly improving after the first act.  Additionally, while working well within the universe of the movie, the use of Moby Dick as a recurring motif and metaphor is slightly confusing, and relies on a fairly clumsy interpretation of the book bluntly exposited in the second act.  The script is incredibly economical though, all plot elements, metaphors, and motifs working like a well oiled machine to support the films emotional core.  Additional kudos to the script for respecting the audience enough not to explicitly state the moral in any grand speeches (a rare feat for a family picture.)

Hosoda is often referred to as the next Miyazaki, and while I would agree with some other critics that the assessment is not entirely fair, I would disagree that he is somehow the lesser filmmaker.  Miyazaki has managed to capture the American critical mind through his absolute rejection of anime tropes, while retaining a distinctly Japanese sensibility to his films.  Hosoda, however, revels in those tropes, reappropriating them to serve, here as in his other films, themes on family and man as a social creature.  While not inferior, to those not inundated in the conventions and history of anime, his films can feel distinctly modern and lacking in Miyazki’s timelessness.  I would nonetheless argue that Hosoda’s films are no less valid or beautiful than Miyazaki’s, as a general body of work.

Possessing an incredible charm, “The Boy and the Beast” deeply invests the audience in the lives of its characters.  Heartwarming and sweet, it manages to retain and articulate a distinct masculinity, while also portraying the pitfalls of unguided masculine pride.  Hosoda has made another triumph of a film, which stands as a prime example of his skill and heart.

3 1/2 out of 4 Stars

Japanese with English Subtitles

A Note on Film Starring Systems

Starring systems are next to meaningless.  They always have been, and the always will be.  Quick, name two four star films.  I’ve decided to go with “The Godfather” and “Spirited Away”.  What do these movies have in common?  What successes do they share?  They operate on completely different scales, tell completely different stories, and find completely different merits.

I can name three successes they share though:
1) They succeed in fully realizing their stories.  They find success in creating and populating a world, and having those inhabitants act in ways sensible to that world’s logic, fully engaging the audience.

2) They are at the pinnacle of their genre.  For mafia films and family anime, those names will inevitably rise to the top.  They have elevated their genres to new and greater heights.

3) They successfully impart their worldview to the audience.  While not all films necessarily need to educate us about the human condition.  Trust me, I have nothing against action and comedy flicks that don’t have any pretensions of profundity.  But these films try to illuminate some aspect of human nature, or our current society, and leave a lasting impression with the audience.

Because these are the commonalities I see between high quality films, they are the criteria upon which I will be awarding stars.  That way, films of wildly different genres, and different types of quality can be equally recognized.  However, reduction of a films whole to a numerical score is ultimately reductive, and I would urge less attention be payed to the numerical score than the whole of the review. Of course not with the same criteria, but the general principle can also be applied to any review with a numerical rating system.  Differences in type of quality should not be reduced to simply differences in quality.

 

Zootopia: A Charming City Littered with Potholes

Zootopia, Disney’s latest animated adventure is, if nothing else, a movie of stunning ambition.  What a world we live in, where Disney of all people attempts to make a children’s movie about civic manipulations of racial tension.  I can make no complaints either about the films aesthetics.  Zootopia, as a city, is vibrant and lively, and feels living and fully realized.  The animals bristle with gorgeously rendered fur, and have wonderfully expressive features.  The dialogue and plotting is high quality, giving laugh lines at a good clip, and managing to somehow to cram a very decent buddy cop thriller into the Disney mold.  Why then, can I not manage to give this film a whole-hearted endorsement?

The answer to that question is fairly simple in brief, and monstrously complex in detail.  Zootopia’s central message is an absolute mess.  The central metaphor of animal relationships as a surrogate for the worlds various -isms (racism, primarily, but briefly touching on sexism) does not work, at a fundamental level.

Take for example, the films central pair.  Zootopia follows Judy Hopps, a ambitious, optimistic rabbit seeking to become a cop, and Nick Wilde, a fox con-artist roped in by Judy to solve an increasingly complex missing persons case.  Judy is thwarted, tokenized, and belittled at every turn, while Nick is the subject to endless pseudo-racial prejudice, and it is a testament to the films quality that the audience feels genuinely terrible for the two of them.  But if one stops to think for a moment, and draw the inteded lines of metaphor to their intended destination, those paths grow muddled and frankly disturbing.  Judy can’t compete with the other animals on the force in size, so she makes up for that with her superior intelligence and agility.  Are we implying a racial/gender ability divide?  But Nick Wilde and the rest of the films predators get it even worse.  Anti-predator sentiment runs rampant, based out of fear among the (far larger) prey community.  But how on earth does that fit into a reasoned discussion of racial prejudice?  The film acknowledges a real history of violence between the animals, that is still invoked in anger by predators within the film.  A fear would be perfectly reasonable.  The implication that prejudice is based in reasoned historical precedent (an inevitable implication with five minutes of thought) is extremely uncomfortable.

This isn’t, once again, to completely condemn the movie.  Suffering a troubled production history, and extensive last minute rewrites, it came out incredibly well for its issues, and the inconsistencies can be explained away by simply not enough time to smooth them.  The film is genuinely funny, and on a character level, fairly touching.  The plot also flows smoothly for a film of such a troubled history (avoiding some of the pacing hiccups of similarly troubled films such as “Brave”.)  Action sequences are well choreographed, and even bit characters are memorable.  However, when you’re dealing with subjects as sensitive as race and gender, precision in your message is vitally important, and the sloppy delivery casts a long shadow over the entire film.

Certainly not Disney’s worst film in recent memory, and worthy of praise for it’s noble intentions, Zootopia is a fun jaunt that both succeeds and fails on the quality of it’s premise.  The lush execution makes the film zoom by, but inconsistencies of message leave the audience less than enlightened.

2 1/2 Stars of 4

Hail, Caesar!: A Film Geeks Paradise

Anyone who’s seen a Coen Brothers film has the same, incredibly clear picture of their childhood.  With just one viewing, you can tell the religious fervor with which they attended films, the almost ritualistic quality they must have taken.  This week it’s Ben Hur.  The next it’s Fred and Ginger on re-release.  It’s how they obtained the same mastery of genre that they share with Tarantino.  But while Tarantino’s obsessions spin towards heady video store fare, the Coen Brothers minds spin with the glamour of old Hollywood.  How else could you explain such out-of place fare as 1994s criminally underrated Hudsucker Proxy, charming yet doomed to fail by the irrelevance of Frank Capra films and screwball comedies to the 90’s sensibility.  Luckily, the glitz and glam of 50’s Hollywood is always of fascination, and the whimsical confection that is “Hail, Caesar!” has found a large audience.

The attention to detail comes through in a variety of ways, subtle to overt, rapid fire from the word go.  The opening sequence sets the tone perfectly, introducing us to “Hail, Caesar!: A Tale of The Christ”, with everything from the typography to the melodramatic narration (carried through into the main plot) servicing the old Hollywood aesthetic.  At times, it can read like a bad piece of fanfiction (“and then Roy Rogers and Carmen Miranda went on a date and ate spaghetti and it was awesome”,) but the cast has enough talent and charm to make even the movies thinner moments shine with a mirror polish.

The film follows a day in the life of Eddie Maddix (Josh Brolin), a harried studio executive trying to manage his eccentric stars.  When the star of the studios high-budget Roman epic (George Clooney) is kidnapped by a cadre of communists, he kicks into high gear, trying to solve the mystery while patting down the studios daily flames.  Rounding out the cast are Channing Tatum as a Gene Kelley type, Scarlett Johansson as the worlds most vulgar Esther Williams, Tilda Swinton as twin gossip columnists in the mold of Hedda Hopper, Ralph Fiennes as an auteur director, and a star turn by the new(-ish) Alden Ehrenreich as a lovable, way in over his head Roy Rogers type.  He pulls off the role with charm, innocence, and heart, and draws forth some of the movies biggest laughs.

Of course, Hollywood in the 50’s means lavish musical numbers, and the Coen Brothers do not dissapoint.  Led by Johannson and Tatum, the production numbers nail every detail right, completely embracing the feel of the original pictures while poking fun at their more flamboyant excesses.  The Channing Tatum “No Dames!” number in particular manages to feel like long lost footage from a Gene Kelley extravaganza.

Admittedly, the movie can, at times, be fragmented.  The episodic nature of the plot can be frustrating when you want to get back to your favorite actors or storylines, but no joke overstays its welcome, and none fall flat.  It’s effective in showcasing, however, the relentless frustrations of Maddix’s career, and his quest to find meaning in his hand in producing, for all intents and purposes, glitzy schlock.  While the communists pose a threat to Hollywood from the inside, the real villains of the movie are the creeping banality and malice seeping into the country at that time and darkening the lighthearted fun of Hollywood, personified as the glib, fast talking agents of Lockheed.

A fantasia of charm, clever references, and strong performances makes Hail Caesar a delight to behold.  Although it would perhaps go over the head of someone disengaged from film history, for all movie buffs, the Coen Brothers have prepared a delightful feast.  Dig in, cinephiles, dig in.

3 out of 4 Stars

Toki Underground (Washington, D.C.): Fake Yuppie Ramen for Fake Yuppie People

Back when I was spending a semester in Japan, I had a friend named Taro.  Taro was not a ramen fan.  He was not a ramen enthusiast.  Taro was a ramen fanatic.  No matter what the occasion, no matter what the circumstance, ramen would be his choice for any meal.  I was lucky enough to have Taro take me under his wing, and take me to what seemed, at the time, like an endless procession of noodle houses.  Some were very traditional, serving up steaming bowls of cloudy tonkotsu (pork bone) broth with rich slabs of roast belly meat and soft boiled eggs with runny yolks on top.  Others, not so traditional, finding innovation within the world of ramen, made light, herbaceous shio (salt) broths with thin slices of seared tuna and tender greens, or the distinctly addictive rich tsukumen (ramen not in broth, but dipped in a richer, thickened sauce) that was flourishing in Tokyo during my stay, or even the fabulously strange pineapple and shrimp ramen of PaPaPaPine (all of which may be stories for another day.)  Taro had very exacting standards.  Only the best Ramen would suffice.  I would point out store after store that he would reject out of hand.  “Too much on top.  They’re ignoring the broth.  The pork’s all wrong.”

I was excited ascending the steps of Toki Underground (a peculiar and ironic name for a second story restaurant.)  The shop is decorated with tidbits and trinkets of Japanese ephemera (including an incredibly fun collage of “Attack on Titan” prints,) and lit with shocking lanterns.  The whole restaurant pulses with a fun urban beat, and the soundtrack of modern rap provides it with a distinctive flair. Slurping my noodles, however, I felt Taro’s glowering disapproval like a ghost over my shoulder, and it hit me: I was converted to ramenism, and Toki Underground was sacrilege.

Ramen houses are typically only judged on one dish.  While many offer dumplings, or alternate noodle selections, the house bowl makes or breaks a shop. As such, it is fair to judge the merits of Toki Underground based on its signature dish.

The base of any good ramen is its broth.  For its signature broth, Toki Underound uses a tonkotsu broth.  Typically tonkotsu has a rich purity to it, the pork flavor from the bone marrow overwhelming you.  That purity is nowhere to be found at Toki Underground.  While the broth doesn’t taste bad, it doesn’t taste like much of anything, salt and a vague meatiness being the only real flavors.  When I asked what was in the broth, I was informed to the culprit: the broth had beef and fish added to it.  While certainly palatable, the flavor was muddy and indistinct, and ultimately unmemorable.

Once the base, the broth, is set, a ramen needs to have superb noodles.  If the broth is the body of the ramen, the noodles are its soul.  Once again I was left grasping.  The noodles were cooked well, having a pleasant springiness to them.  However, they had the unmistakable texture of dried ramen.  The crinkles felt like I was slurping up an (admittedly well cooked) bowl of dorm room Maruchan.  They would be well served by either finding a new noodle provider, or simply making their own.

As I illustrated in my introduction, ramen can be many things.  Innovation is entirely possible.  And yet every deviation at Toki Underground is stunning in its pointlessness.  The swap from thick slices of roast pork to a scoop of shredded pork is merely odd, and doesn’t add anything, and lacks some of the richness and purity of the traditional slab.  The vegetable component, two giant fronds of bok choy, are impossible to manage with chopsticks, and cumbersome in the bowl.  A strange black oil floated on top of the broth, a clear addition, yet had no clear flavor, and was not listed as an ingredient.  The egg was a tremendous disappointment.  Ramen often comes with a soft boiled egg, cooked in the broth.  The egg has it’s own distinct flavor that when infused with the broth creates a creamy rich flavor, the yolk luxuriously coating your mouth.  Toki Underground merely cracks the egg into the broth.  While this perfectly poaches the egg, when surrounded by broth, the egg is quick to dissolve and the yolk mix into the broth, giving you none of the glorious texture and losing all flavor under the heavy muddy broth.  Most baffling of all the innovations, however, was the giant scoop of cherry red matchsticks of pickled ginger.  Typically served with fried food to cut the grease, the ginger didn’t meld in the slightest with the ramen, distracting and masking the other flavors in the ramen.  The one-dimensional “endorphin sauce” (a homemade Sriracha clone) serves only to confuse flavors further.   And lastly, where a spoon for Western diners (or sipping from the bowl, for those used to traditional presentation,) would suffice, the presence of a ladle is baffling and difficult to use.

When you eat ramen, you’re seeking a very specific experience.  All good ramen I have ever eaten gives you a rich feeling of comfort.  It’s marked by a sort of strange populism.  It’s a distinctly working class dish.  By attempting to gussy it up, Toki Underground created a sort of obnoxious yuppie pseudo-ramen.  Suddenly, after a bowl, the bright young things at the bar seem like (and almost undoubtedly are) irritating poseurs, eager to check out a local hot spot, and mostly disinterested in their noodles.  The prices certainly match, the twelve dollar bowl (and 15 dollar appetizers) a far cry from the seven dollar students dinners I enjoyed in tiny Tokyo backstreets.

While the restaurant is lively and hip, the staff friendly, the cocktails creative, and the clientele attractive for a certain type, ultimately, Toki Underground has failed it’s central mission.  While certainly edible, it fails to capture what makes ramen special, or even really desirable.  I’m sorry it wasn’t better, Taro.  May this review be my penitence.

1 1/2 out of 4 stars

Welcome to Critical Strike

Good afternoon (or morning, or evening, depending on when you read this,) dear reader, and welcome to Critical Strike!  Critical Strike is my space for film, game, restaurant, book, television, and music reviews (and whatever strikes my fancy: it is my blog after all.)

A little bit about your author: My name is Blake, and I’m a recent college graduate.  I’ve done some amateur criticism for my school newspaper, and now that I’m out, and have no outlet, it feels like it’s finally time to get my own space to publish.  I previously specialized in movies and restaurants, but that was more the nature of the paper that I wrote on rather than a matter of preference.  Outside of my writing, I fence, swim, consume a bit too much media, and like to cook and bake.

I now leave you, dear reader, to go and write my first post of substance.  To anyone who’s reading who doesn’t know me in the physical world, I invite you to comment here, ask questions, and get to know me.  Hopefully we’ll be talking for a long time to come.