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If I were a zombie, I'd bite her too. And by too I mean still.
God, I am one terrible blogger. Maybe it has something to do with blogging not really being considered a deadline (or is it more like having a 24/7 deadline?). I’m pretty good with deadlines but don’t exactly seek them out.
Anyway, enough about my terribleness, onward to Hollywood’s! Also, in the interest of offering better value for something that’s already free, herewith instead of the usual long single movie review is a comprehensive analectic take on every movie that I saw this summer and early October, including, at no extra charge, a bunch I didn’t*:
Inglourious Basterds – Best repeated baseball-bat to the face, best Nazi, best dialogue, best Italian accent by Brad Pitt, best redneck accent by Brad Pitt, best ending, best opening, and worst anachronistic music-video interlude involving lipstick (did de Palma ghost direct for a day?). I went into it with lowered expectations because a friend who’d caught an advance screening had complained about how it was “talkier even than Grindhouse.” Well, yeah, except that here instead of loquacious girls dicking around in bars for an hour, it’s people talking because they’re spies trying not to get shot by supernaturally perceptive Nazi officers at a single verbal slip-up. You can tell by the neglect of most of the Basterd backstories that like Mulholland Drive this was originally intended as a much vaster tapestry reduced to a pared-down Cliff’s Notes version, but this one efficiently saves you those 18 extra hours. Which you can then spend watching crappy movies based on toys or forty-word-long children’s books that feel way longer than this. Thanks, Quentin!
Terminator: Salvation – Didn’t catch this one because it was rated PG-13 (or rather, Mc-PG-13), and also because nothing in the trailers was dark-blue-tinged or showed skulls getting bulldozed as enticingly promised in the first three movies. Plus they cut Moon Bloodgood’s nude scene. Thanks, Warner Bros.!
Transformers 2: Rise of the Fallen – Didn’t see because I’m tired of movies about giant robots who want to kill everybody but never kill anybody. Plus I can get Megan Fox on a motorcycle at home. Or at least Robert Foxworthy in a bear-suit.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince – Did this even come out? Most Boring Characters Per Longest Movie/Book Series Ever**. I think I’ve seen half of one of these, the one that ends in a cave, like all movies. The cave was referred to as a “chamber of secrets” although it contains no secrets, just some monster that the supposedly heroic, wise dumbasses who ineptly run Hogwarts somehow never noticed lives right under their school (and eats what? ineptitude vibrations through the walls?). I hear this is the one where Snape kills Dumbledore (spoiler alert).
Land of the Lost – Didn’t see this because they turned an eerie cheap-ass jungle I loved as a child into an expensive desert under a normal sky, and a stranded family into a milquetoast British girl, a redneck (Danny McBride, really stretching) and a physicist who are all grown-ups and genetically unrelated. Fuck that noise. Note to soulless movie execs: The Brady Bunch Movie parodied its source material by actually resembling the source material. At all. In fact, that was, like, the joke. The family with bad hair was still a family with the same names, ages and personalities as the original characters they were spoofing. This resemblance made people laugh. /pats soulless shoulder-pad: I know. Comedy’s complicated.
Up – Saw eagerly and loved because it’s about an old man who hates everyone, which I can identify with. And a bird. After WALL-E, the first kids’ movie, or any movie, to suggest that the conquest of space would be boring, ecologically unsound, and not even worth looking through the viewports at, I was grateful for some Pixar visuals that flaunted their exotic, lush, natural geographies and had characters with motivations more nuanced and comprehensible than those of an insane captain’s wheel.
Jennifer’s Body – Horribly directed and acted except for shapely Megan Fox, who reveals an unexpected (and underrated) flair for throwaway lines and crazed demonic leers. Both of which, by the way, are harder to pull off well than they look, maybe even more so if you were initially hired just to be gorgeous and bitchy and had to learn these skills on the fly. But it’s a bad, formless movie, persistently vague about crucial details: I still don’t get who started that fire at the club or why or whether it was deliberate, or why the artsy guy wouldn’t have told every, let alone any, of his classmates that he’d landed a date with the hottest girl in school that night. And why would Jennifer trance out during that endless wretched straight-faced indie-rock musical number early on? Those musicians weren’t demons themselves, just douchebags. Rather, wannabee douchebags. Their music is supposed to (and does) suck so bad, they need to make demonic pacts to succeed. As in the Resident Evil movies, the camera here always seems to be cutting away from the gore, the sex, anything good. But its worst omission? Back in my youth, R-rated horror films like this were at least choc-a-bloc with bare breasts. I pity teen audiences today, and myself…And Megan. It drags when she’s not around.
Zombieland -- Like one of those live-action Disney movies from the ‘70’s, only with zombies instead of Dean Jones. Spoiler alert: I was so baked I actually thought that was Michael Cera. One great sequence set in a celebrity home is worth the price of sneaking in but so is Woody Harrelson’s performance and Emma Stone’s face. My only gripe is that Stone’s excruciatingly hot character Wichita is set up as a bad-ass con artiste able to get the drop on Woody Harrelson’s unflappably competent Tallahassee twice, but then just like the Naomie Harris character in 28 Days Later and Rose Byrne’s in Weeks she goes soft and stupid toward the end, reverting to an immobile damsel of distress after flooding an amusement park with zombie-attracting lights and clamor without at least clearing and sealing off the area first. The trailers for this looked dull but I must admit I haven’t seen a movie kill a mid-day audience like this since Borat. Screenwriters Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick make comedic mincemeat out of Diablo Cody, kinda like Emma Stone’s face does to Megan’s Body. Zombieland may even wind up rendering the upcoming World War Z movie dated. If the hacks who wrote Epic Movie and all those other “__ Movies” wrote Zombie Movie and were talented, it still wouldn’t be this good.
Capitalism: A Love Story – In which we learn that airline pilots make 19K a year yet for some reason don’t fly planes into skyscrapers. Daily. My modest proposal: bankers can now fly only commercially.
Couples Retreat – A movie for girls to drag their boyfriends to about guys being dragged to something they don’t want to do.
Black Knight – Admittedly this came out 8 years ago, but caught it on satellite the other night and it so holds up. Martin Lawrence meets L. Sprague de Camp! Magical.
The Avatar trailer – Pure awesome till the smurf speaks about three seconds in.
Well, that’s it for now, movie review aficionados. I hereby promise to see more remakes, reboots, sequels, and rip-offs next summer, and in the frostier meantime to provide more of the lovable snideness that’s the next best thing to actually seeing a movie and blogging about it yourself!
*It’s like I’m my generation’s Gary Franklin, only slightly less bulbous.
**Does Cuba Gooding, Jr.’s body of work count as a “series”?
September 11th 2009 07:25
Been on that date.
I know, I know…I really should be writing my Inglourious Basterds review, not least because A) I saw it first and 2) it’s actually worth writing about. But I’m afraid very afraid that all the many ways in which FD43D irritated me will fade from memory like toothache pain within the next few hours, leaving me unable to recall all the slipshod ways in which it sucked and thus unable to blog exhaustively about them. It seems, annoyingly, that my prolificity is directly proportional to my annoyance.
And no movie in a long time has annoyed me quite like The Final Destination -- mainly because the first movie in the tetralogy was so evocative, inventive, and spookily cool.
It had characters I could believe in, reacting strongly and convincingly to unusual, inescapable catastrophes. It gracefully wedded metaphysics and questions of free will to a traditionally witless genre, wittifying it. It gave a shit about details. The studio and the title both claim that this is the “final” Final Destination movie, which if true (it’s been #1 in the U.S. two weeks in a row, so maybe they just mean the last sequel before the inevitable “reboot”) makes it the crummiest series finale this side of Alien Resurrection. Maybe even AfterM*A*S*H.
Purportedly the director, David R. Ellis (the guy who did the sporadically more watchable second one), signed on because he was “intrigued” by the visual potential of 3D deaths. I’m increasingly convinced that 3D is officially Hollywood’s new crutch. The effect is repetitive and limiting -- every punchline is something sharp or glistening abruptly jutting at you -- and it doesn’t help that most of the money shots in this installment are shamelessly recycled. Improbably slothful screenwriter Eric Bress conveys the sense that omnipotent Death is far less a threat than the massive number of improbably slothful construction workers, hospital interns and maintenance people who do most of Death’s heavy lifting throughout the movie. There’s a potentially great drinking game here; just hoist your mugs every time something spills or a negligent laborer goes on lunch-break.
The movie sticks to the now tired, established pattern: unprepossessing teenager inexplicably has premonition of disaster (this time at a NASCAR race, which bears a depressing resemblance to the second movie’s infinitely awesome-r highway collision opener), saves a small group of people as the result of his panicky outburst, and then they all die one by one in convoluted ways despite repeated, unsuccessful last-second rescue attempts by the main character and his mate, generally right after the victim saying something ironic or smiling cheerfully about a near miss. There’s not one surprise throughout.
And ZERO enlargement of the series lore. Even after four movies, we still don’t know why random kids are having these ultimately futile premonitions (is some other benign force opposing death and transmitting them?) or why Death’s so inept – why doesn’t he just send a meteor down and take them all out? Or just give them cancer or heart attacks? Why’s he always need to resort to appliances and wind? Also, if the survivors have to die in a certain order, isn’t the sequence already permanently screwed up from the hundreds of deaths killed in the original “accident”? At least in the second movie, there was a cursory explanation that those characters had to die because they had all by chance survived the “paradoxes” created by ripples in the first movie; so is that continuity-wise still what’s going on? In fact, whatever happened to the two main characters who (uniquely) survived FD 2? For the first time in the series, Tony Todd’s character isn’t on hand to explain the “rules”. Instead, a black homeless guy with a less creepy voice shows up periodically and says cryptic stuff about being in “the right place at the right time”. (You know that he’s Death, or at least oracular, because he’s black. And a transient.)
The cast is the usual bland assortment of hotties with few defining characteristics besides their hair color/shape. There’s a dick character, a pretty girl, another pretty girl, and a nice, handsome, boring guy who has the premonitions and dreams that even his close friends refuse to put credence in no matter how many times in a row he’s right. He also tends to get them just as it’s too late to do anything about it, so what’s the point? Whatever unspecified force is sending these “clues” seriously needs to find a better delivery method. This time instead of being imbedded in photographs or window-reflections, they’re just twirling 3D montages of symbolic imagery that only make (vague) sense after the fact (how is a poor teenage psychic supposed to get “ambulance” out of entwined cobras?).
As usual, instead of all sticking in a room together and being careful, the characters continually split up and try to call each other on cell phones at the last minute while they drive across town at high speeds (which is of course perfectly safe for them due to Death’s immutable but paradoxically constantly amended “design”). Where in the first movie, the main character’s premonition of a plane crash understandably aroused the suspicion of FBI agents and the supernatural dread of his peers, there’s no legal fallout or remotely nuanced reaction from anyone this time around. You’d think it would be national news if for the FOURTH time in a decade, some kid had a premonition right before a major disaster and turned out to be right, but nobody cares. As in Jumper, passersby never register anything bizarre happening right in front of them or notice people dying slowly in plain view in broad daylight, whether in a public car wash or crowded, draining swimming pool. (They’re probably thinking, “That must be one of those doomed Final Destination characters from that NASCAR debacle; guess we’ll come back later.”)
The movie doesn’t even rip off its predecessors properly. Amanda Detmer’s iconic death by bus in the first movie was pitch-perfect film-making; director James Wong claimed that after seeing it preview audiences were so vocal, he had to insert a long, deliberately sluggish scene of Devon Sawa mixing Alka-Seltzer because ensuing dialogue kept getting drowned out. The reason it’s so effective is the meticulous misdirection of the set-up: Seann William Scott’s dumbass nearly gets splattered by Kerr Smith in his car, then Smith and Devon Sawa’s character’s quarrel bitterly on the street-corner about the nature of fate. There's a lot going on all at once. Amanda Detmer’s barely in the shot…Finally she gets mad at both of them, tells them to DFD, and WHAM. Even Wong concedes the sheer implausibility that Detmer’s character wouldn’t see or hear an oncoming bus, but that’s part of what makes it eerie: maybe Death screwed with her peripheral vision and hearing. It was an ingenious bit, copied and parodied dozens of times over the course of the series but never once equaled in sheer compositional nigh-Hitchcockian elegance.
Nine years later in FD4, an ambulance arbitrarily broadsides Forrest Gump’s Mykelti Williamson. Twice. No one even grieves for him (standing right beside him and nearly a victim himself, the main character’s first and only response is to realize he has to get across town to prevent another incident…again). In fact, no one in this movie grieves ever, despite witnessing multiple horrific accidents, or worries much that they’re living in a city held together purely by chickenwire and papier-mache. Or that the title of the 3D movie-within-the-movie they're about to die at is flagrantly ungrammatical.
They even ruined the theme music.
I was uniformly mocked by my seatmates for expressing dismay that a great paean to paranoia like the first FD had been reduced to this boring formulaic retread; what did I expect? Uh, how about a single twist? Like, what if all or some of the characters were really old and/or terminally ill anyway? Or kids? Or pregnant? Or Unbreakable? Or the movie was set in another time period? Here’s a pitch that I proffer to New Line gratis: a tie-in sequel to Titanic featuring the Gloria Stuart/Kate Winslet character, who’s been resourcefully dodging Death lo these many decades ever since she survived Death’s crafty iceberg…
Check, please.
Shots like this put the 'art' back in 'Apartheid.'
I liked District 9 but didn’t love it, which seems to place me in an obviously insane minority of one. (Except for Armond White, whose vocabulary makes me feel quite the poltroon.)
29-year-old South African director Neill Blomkamp’s feature debut is intriguing, memorable, and wildly popular, the last bit surprising news considering its light action, absence of marquee actors, deliberately inconclusive third act, and originality. Based on Blomkamp’s 6-minute short film Alive in Joburg (basically just a trailer/demo-reel for this) and funded by New Zealander* patron saint Peter Jackson’s Wingnut Studios, D9 exists because the more expensive deal for a Halo movie thankfully fell through -- and we’re all better for it.
The film’s darkly comic tone is established early on in a series of naturalistic found-video “interviews” and “documentary footage” that swiftly, cryptically detail how a gi-normous alien mothership settled over the city of Johannesburg one crazy day twenty years ago. After human explorers somehow penetrated its hull and found most of its chitinous crew (all but one belonging to a worker-drone caste with inferiority issues) dead from an unexplained illness that apparently precipitated the ship’s emergency landing on (above, rather) Earth, the remaining survivors were somehow naturalized and took up gloomy segregated residence in the city’s squalid ghetto of gang-run junkyards (allegory alert!), where for two decades they have proceeded to trade their useless machinery and sweet but inoperable weaponry for raw meat and cat-food. See, we’re not so different after all.
While it seems initially far-fetched that humans would ever find even these aliens boring enough to leave mostly unmolested and subject to mundane trumped-up eviction paperwork, Blomkamp makes this cosmic disinterest comically convincing. The Prawns’ inherent passivity to a bunch of dumb apes like us is ostensibly the result of their worker-caste conditioning, although you’d still think that with an indestructible mothership big enough to flatten any city and vastly cooler hand-to-hand weapons, numbers or no numbers we’d be the ones in the ghetto and the Prawns would be the oppressors. The Prawns, after all, exhibit mostly human emotions and priorities, and throughout our own history superior tech has decided every conflict to date. Yet outside of 2001, no movie made so far has supplied an alien race that finds us too negligible even to conquer. And let’s face it, we’re embarrassingly backward. As a species, we can’t even get past tribal warfare, let alone figure out space travel, but somehow in our movies we’ve managed to beat masters of interstellar travel with water, crop-dusting planes, computer viruses, refrigeration, folk music, blind luck, and the common cold. If I were a real alien watching this dumb-ass propaganda, I’d be shaking my weird gray fist and invading our probe-able redneck asses yesterday. District 9’s aliens are idiots too: they take orders from douchebags like us and can’t even make their own cat-food.
There’s no disputing director Neill Blomkamp’s comic energy and timing, his willingness not to pander, and his smooth transitions between carefully hurky-jurky “archival footage” and hand-held sequences of conventional narrative. The problem with D9 isn’t that it’s boring.
But while ambiguity is endemic to the movie’s comic style, so much is left unanswered that I felt gypped. Conceptually I admire that the human characters find the alien Prawns so uninteresting that although we can communicate with them to the point of understanding their speech, we don’t care to learn anything of their origins or philosophy. The movie’s tone is just realistic enough to make me crave such details. Conceptually I admire an anti-finale that cuts the story off in mid-sentence and defiantly refuses to resolve a single story thread, but since there’s already talk of a District 10, the bittersweet final shots aren’t poetic and modernist but just a set-up for a franchise. I didn’t leave the theatre wanting more about these straightforward, slow-witted characters. Given the movie’s justified success, the inevitable sequel means a higher budget and, I suspect, more “action” along the lines of the well-produced but conventional stuff that saturates D9’s third act. Sigh.
Before this shark-jumping videogamey hijinx lowers the awe factor considerably, D9’s eerie introductory shots of a massive refinery-shaped alien mothership hovering silently over Johannesburg spliced with faux-doc footage of the Prawns adapting to wretched existence in their bleak shantytown are captivating. In fact, just the images of downtown Johannesburg are captivating. To underscore the idea of our treating this immense fixture as little more than a scenic nuisance, Blomkamp ingeniously gives us a clueless middle-management bureaucrat to protagonize with. Wikus van der Merwe (played with endearing cluelessness by Sharlto Copley) is the newly promoted flunky of a corporation called MNU (which stands for Multi-Mational United, although all the employees sound vaguely South African) and he’s happily married to the boss’ daughter, who’s attractive, conventional, and appears to really love him (her relationship with her asshole father, though arguably crucial to the plot, isn’t really gone into). The muckety-mucks at MNU are highly interested in Prawn armaments, but, a bit arbitrarily, said weapons only work when operated by Prawns and are thus considered useless. Widely considered by his colleagues to be an ineffectual laughingstock, Wikus is nevertheless assigned to head a task-force to evict the Prawn squatters from their slums and "encourage" them to take up their new dismal residences outside city limits where no one will have to look at them. (Why not just deport them back to their ship?)
Ingeniously on Blomkamp and Copley’s parts, Wikus isn’t set up as especially compassionate or exceptional: he orders a Prawn hovel torched with flamethtowers and remarks cheerily on the popcorn sounds that the dying alien infants within make as they burn alive (I was curious about the smell). Ancillary characters including his wife refer in interviews to Wikus with sadness and in the past tense, so we know an ill fate awaits him but not the details. So far, so good.
In the course of his door-to-door raids, Wikus meets an unusually intelligent Prawn named Christopher, whom we can discern is intelligent because he’s wearing a red tunic like Enik on Land of the Lost, his shack is choc-a-bloc with computer parts and salvaged bits of technology, and he challenges the legality of MNU’s purge.
Despite being more physically imposing, understandably irritable, and capable of wielding their superior weapons, few of the Prawns give Wikus and his escorts much resistance. From what we’re shown, Prawns are easily manipulated and direly eager to trade anything they own for cat-food or raw meat, thereby begging the question: if they’re so pliable, why doesn’t MNU simply bribe them to use their weapons on nefarious human behalf in exchange for cat-food?
While bumbling around in Christopher’s shack, Wikus effortlessly locates a cryptic silver canister. This unprepossessing cylinder, we eventually learn, contains rare “fluid” which has taken the Prawns 20 years to obtain and is the key to repowering their ship and returning to their homeworld, so you’d expect it to be carefully stashed away and vigilantly guarded by their smartest member. But okay. While inanely fiddling with the canister, Wikus promptly gets blasted with a jet of toxic black spores and belatedly decides to put it carefully in a baggie for future investigation.
There are some amusingly grisly scenes of Wikus freaking out at work and a surprise party as he gloomily realizes that he’s somehow infected, that his hand has become a Prawn-claw, and that his corporate bosses, including his own heartless father-in-law, are more interested in harvesting his remains than curing him.
At this point, however, right around the scene when a cadre of MNU “physicians” remove a bloody gauze-bandage from Wikus’ arm to reveal some ghastly extraterrestrial metamorphosis in progress and we the audience are eagerly awaiting what will be Blomkamp’s next totally insane, unpredictable fastball…D9 makes the tragic mistake of remembering it’s a summer blockbuster and downshifts into a routine sci-fi action piece about stuff blowing up other stuff**.
*Mega-spoilerama-icles ensue!!!!!* It seems that the canister’s “fluid”, the Prawn rocket-fuel, turns humans into Prawns, which is pretty half-baked if you think about it. This is basically like a shrimp turning into a man by being doused with gasoline. Although this bizarre, unprecedented process is somehow known to be supposedly “accelerating”, the transformation pretty much restricts itself to one of Wikus’ hands and later an eye. Which lets him fire the alien weaponry (unwillingly). So MNU tries to cut his arm off, even though his transformation is far from complete and the severed lifeless limb would be militarily useless. Then a sedated, nauseated, unarmed, non-military-trained Wikus breaks out of the heavily patrolled high-security facility single-handedly. And wanders the streets of Johannesburg with impunity, despite there being a global manhunt for a freaked-out guy with a prawn-claw in full effect. And the news media reports MNU’s trumped-up charge of his having had sex with aliens, which in this mythos is a monstrous crime akin to necrophilia even though eating them is an accepted if superstitious practice and inter-species prostitution has already been casually alluded to. And we meet Christopher’s alien kid, the only kid in the whole shantytown, who’s cute and acts just like a human kid. And different gangster-guys want to cut off Wikus’ arm so they can eat it and “gain his power,” even though this process has never once worked before. And Wikus and Christopher break into the MNU facility to steal back the precious canister, which the humans just leave lying around like Christopher did. And apparently there’s still enough of this precious goo left in it even after Wikus inhaled a sufficient amount to get infected to still power up the mothership instantly and fly it to another star system (or galaxy). And during the break-in, Christopher learns that the humans have been performing medical experiments on his fellow Prawns, which surprises him, even though similar or worse abuses against his people have been going on publicly every day for 20 years. And Wikus gets into a combat-mech-suit and rides it around to kill off some stereotypically dickish mercenaries who were dicks to him earlier, and the mech-suit responds instantly to his three other still-human limbs and fits his smaller human frame well enough to operate. And Christopher never shoots anybody himself even when his kid’s life is endangered, even though we know they’re not exactly a pacifist race because they make such great weapons. And Christopher tells Wikus that he can “fix” him but that it’ll take exactly three Earth years, although he also says it’ll take him three years to fly back to his planet and come back with reinforcements to save his people (assuming any are still alive on Earth by then), which would make it more like six years. And eventually Wikus’ transformation becomes complete, but he still sends his wife small metal origami flowers, even though now he’s this totally different unique organism with decapod DNA who should have eyes only for female Prawns, along with a totally different worldview, metabolism, esthetics, and only one decent claw to make the petals with (he mutilates his other claw with an axe).
And that’s basically it. The fate of Wikus, the Prawns, Christopher, the evil father-in-law, and MNU are all left hanging like giant question-mark-shaped motherships at the end. Without the ship still around to spook humans, wouldn’t the remaining Prawns be instantly rounded up and used for more experiments? How does Wikus feel about being a Prawn? Does he live with other Prawns? Does he fight on their side now against MNU? How many other still-working mech-suits are there?
Except for Up, District 9’s still the best thing to happen over an anemic summer filled even more than usual with giant stupid robots, but no truly great movie requires a sequel to tell its original story. Those that do should at least let you re-use your ticket stub.
* The Puerto Rico of South Africa
**The inverse of Danny Boyle’s Sunshine, which starts out as an awesome science-fiction adventure movie and eventually degrades into a retarded horror movie.
TJ Hooker cradles his beloved quatloo.
I confess that I’ve never been much of a Trekkie. You read enough Iain Banks or Olaf Stapledon or even Vernor Vinge, and by comparison Trek’s constant space-time anomalies (how come they never use the same one twice?), excruciating puns, and simplistic, spelled-out morality seem even more vanilla than it all struck me at 12. (Go read Lord of Light or Star Maker and then explain to me how every Star Trek episode combined is in any way, shape, or form better value.) I remember irritably wondering why, if the Vulcans were the smart ones, weren’t we joining their Federation? And how could we cross-breed with them if they had green blood and, uh, no emotions like, say, erotic ardor? Shouldn’t they have more complex emotions?
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If you thought his popcorn trick from Diner was painful...
In some ways, “The Wrestler” is Darren Aronofsky’s weirdest movie yet. Bleak and gritty, shot in drab, chilly, sweaty New Jersey locker-rooms and trailer parks, it offers a harsh, fluorescent look into the (final?) days of a self-described “brokendown piece of meat” who was once royalty in a sport that largely consists of enduring scripted physical punishment on a rubber mat before a crowd of howling human jackals. In subject matter and tone, it makes Requiem for a Dream look like Topper. But it also makes you feel more human, and embarrassed to be human*.
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on THEY BAN TORTURE PORN, DON'T THEY?
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