Game vs. Film: Borderlands

Well, it finally happened. The long overdue Borderlands movie has blasted its way onto the big screen with the resounding impact of a wet fart. I was kind of excited when it first got announced *checks watch* nine years ago. But every bit of news that came out after that made me wince and say to myself, “Maybe it’ll still be good?”

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t good. It was a catastrophic commercial, critical, and creative failure. And yet… it wasn’t that bad. Was it a faithful adaptation of the games? No. Was it a terrible unwatchable mess? Also no. Sure, there was plenty of room for improvement, but I’ve definitely seen much worse. Most of it directed by Uwe Boll. Remember Far Cry? Exactly. There was a whole Far Cry movie we just never talk about because it was that bad. People decrying Borderlands as the worst video game adaptation of all time are forgetting that Wing Commander exists. Hell, the Assassin’s Creed movie was a bigger snore—I don’t remember anything about that movie except Michael Fassbender convulsing in VR. Despite the questionable liberties taken with the source material, Borderlands is far from the worst video game adaptation I have ever seen, and is moderately entertaining for most of its runtime. Nobody could say that about Double Dragon. 

Upon reflection, I realize that most of my criticisms of Borderlands the movie are just the ways it deviated from Borderlands the game. The basic premise is the same—there’s a crazy dangerous world called Pandora that hides a legendary Vault full of ancient alien technology that everybody wants to find. But just about everything else is different, and few (if any) of these changes are improvements. 

This movie does run roughshod over many beloved characters, with only a few even resembling their inspirations. And almost all of them are confusingly miscast. Roland, the stoic soldier-boy with a heart of gold, is played by neurotic loudmouth comedian Kevin Hart. While struggling to play against type he ends up giving a performance so reserved that he literally blends into the scenery. The movie’s version of Mad Moxxi, the top-hatted temptress that seems to tend every bar in the Borderlands, looks like a haunted clown in a corset so drab the real Moxxi wouldn’t use it to wipe her countertop. And when she speaks she sounds far more scary puppet than seductive clown. Instead of one of the series’ great villains, General Knoxx of the Crimson Lance, the film pits its protagonists against his (made-up) daughter, who betrays no character development until she randomly decides to stand up to her boss and gets murdered for it. Tiny Tina, the eccentric thirteen-year-old hyperactive bomb-maker who stole the spotlight so effectively in Borderlands 2 that she got her very own DLC campaign and spin-off game, is barely recognizable. They made her a rather quiet and sullen teen always snarking at the adults around her while doing nothing to move the story forward, despite being stuck as its narrative center. See, they made movie Tina a straight-up Chosen One—she’s a clone made from alien blood, and the only person that can theoretically open the legendary Vault of Pandora. That’s why all of the antagonists are after her, and that’s why Borderlands the movie is a two-hour escort mission. Yet, after her introduction to Lilith, Tina barely even blows anything up, let alone exercises any agency. 

Ah yes. Poor Lilith. The iconic hero of the series. Eli Roth did her dirtiest of all. While being portrayed by the immensely talented Cate Blanchett is an honor any fictional character would dream of, she looks utterly bored for most of the movie, even in the midst of a gunfight. At the beginning of the first game, Lilith is twenty-two years old. She came to Pandora explicitly to hunt for the Vault, and she has cool glowing tattoos as a result of her supernatural siren powers. Lilith is also one of the vanishingly few characters in the series with an intact conscience. She doesn’t even believe in killing people for sport! After the first game, she spends more time running the city of Sanctuary as a community leader, happy to leave the Vault hunting to the player. The only thing Blanchett’s version has in common with her inspiration is the red hair. And later, the powers. The mysterious Sirens and their strange abilities are a major part of Borderlands lore, but the movie explicitly ties them to the alien artifacts on Pandora. Lilith only discovers her powers in the last twenty minutes of the movie so she can serve as its deus ex machina, wiping out the bad guys and saving all her friends in a burst of cheap CG to cover up the fact they still couldn’t write a better ending. Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying in any way that Cate Blanchett didn’t give the best performance she was capable of. Her grumpy and sarcastic bounty hunter is a compelling enough character to lead a movie; she just isn’t really Lilith. 

The same goes for the guns. Your weapons are practically supporting characters in the games, each with their own quirks and personality. A player’s choice of firearms can reveal a lot about them before they ever say a word. A few legendary guns get name-checked, like the Vladof Infinity pistol, and it looks just like the one you can find in the games, but that’s it. We never learn what makes that one special, or even why Lilith chose it out of the eleventy-gazillion guns available all over Pandora. In the movie, none of them shoot anything other than bullets. Which is not just disappointing, it also eliminates a ton of the world-building that makes Borderlands feel like its own distinct place rather than just another generic sci-fi wasteland. 

Other than the existence of the coveted Vault of Pandora, the plot of the movie bears absolutely no resemblance to its source material. Movie Lilith goes on a journey from lonely bounty hunter to a Vault Hunter with friends. But in the first game, Lilith is already a Vault Hunter and her heroic journey is about reluctantly accepting the mantle of leadership. Her and Roland are also in love, but their romance was left out of the movie. Tiny Tina and Krieg don’t show up until the second game, and their inclusion here means that other great characters from the first entry, like Brick and Mordecai, have been cut out completely. Which is a shame, because Tina’s little sister dynamic with big brawler Brick is one of the more endearing pairings in the entire series. They try to replicate this with Krieg in the movie, but its hard to bond with a character that has been turned into a homicidal slab of meat screaming nonsense, with no indication there is anything else going on behind that mask. It is a disservice to one of the series’ more complex characters. 

There’s only two characters that make it to the silver screen intact: Marcus and Claptrap. Benjamin Byron Davis gives a pitch-perfect portrayal of the friendly-yet-ruthless arms dealer Marcus Kincaid—my only note is to use him in more scenes! Marcus Munitions is a pillar of the Sanctuary community. Without his network of vending machines, crossing the Borderlands would be a lot more treacherous for everyone. Jack Black similarly nails his vocal performance of irritating-yet-lovable robot Claptrap, the mascot of the series. He manages to strike that perfect balance of sounding like the character without falling into rote imitation of the previous performer. He’s still the same hilariously obnoxious little bot fans love to hate, and his comic relief moments are some of the best parts of the movie.

So, after reading all of that, I’m sure you’re thinking “Wait… Didn’t you say the movie wasn’t that bad? Because it sounds terrible.” I get it. I understand your confusion. But if you look back at everything I said, you’ll notice a theme. Most of the movie’s problems stem from misrepresenting the source material. If this film was simply Eli Roth’s unique vision for a hyper violent sci-fi action comedy rather than a botched adaptation of a beloved franchise, most of my criticisms fade away like gun smoke. Most, but not all. 

While there are pieces of a decent flick here, they’ve been assembled and edited haphazardly. Visually, Pandora looks pretty good. They visit a few locations and kill lots of CG critters that players will recognize. Sanctuary feels like a real place people live in, rather than just a quest hub. They spend way too long in Roland’s truck having a rather boring chase scene, but Cate Blanchett does look amazing dispatching waves of psychos with a pistol in each hand.

Which brings us inexorably to the film’s most fatal flaw: the PG-13 rating. Let me attempt to explain what a tremendously bad idea that was. The titular setting of the Borderlands franchise is a savage and lawless post-apocalyptic wasteland—think Mad Max with more guns and crappier cars. It is impossible to overstate just how hostile an environment Pandora truly is. In addition to all variety of vicious flora and fauna, it is also home to clans of bloodthirsty psychos that kill just for kicks. Borderlands is the kind of game where you burn through bullets by the boxful spilling buckets of blood and splattering bandit body parts all across the landscape. The most insane weapons you can find will reduce enemies to glistening red chunks in glorious High Definition. Nearly every character you meet is a murder connoisseur of one variety or another, for there is no such thing as an innocent Pandoran. Violence is the global pastime. 

By eliminating all of the blood and guts, the movie renders the dangers of Pandora toothless. It’s hard to believe our heroes are ever truly threatened since we never see anyone get hurt. Waves of psychos get gunned down and just flop on the floor bloodlessly. Krieg swings around a giant buzz-axe, but never seems to cut anyone—it just knocks them aside like a bat. Lilith and company weather the entire film without a single noteworthy injury, which makes Pandora feel more like a carnival ride than the meat-grinder of a world the script keeps insisting it really is. Lots of people talk about what a scary planet it is, but the movie provides little compelling evidence of that. Roland even gets set up for an epic last stand scene, holding back a tide of psychos alone to buy his friends time to flee, and he just… survives? No special tactic or maneuver saves him. He’s just found under a pile of bodies when his friends return and pick him up to continue the story like nothing happened. 

The decision to nerf the violence seems like another unforced error mandated from the executive suite rather than the director’s chair. I sincerely doubt Eli Roth, who directed the disturbingly graphic Hostel films, envisioned a Borderlands free of viscera. But someone made what they called a “business decision” and sanded off all the edges in a desperate bid to make it safe for everyone, thus ensuring it would appeal to no one. Perhaps they should have considered that if the built-in audience of millions of Borderlands fans didn’t like the movie, there would be no one to convince those unfamiliar with the property that it was worth watching. 

The movie wasn’t the cinematic crime critical consensus makes it out to be, but Borderlands is my favorite video game franchise, and I can’t even recommend you watch it ironically. How sad is that? After such an abysmal performance, it seems unlikely we’ll be seeing the Borderlands back on the big screen anytime soon, and that’s a shame. Pandora is a rich and vibrant setting full of interesting characters with fascinating stories—it really shouldn’t be this hard to turn some of that into a decent popcorn movie. 

The original Vault Hunters from the first game

How Olympic Breaking Was Broken

So the first, and likely only, Olympic breaking competition has come and gone. Japan’s B-girl Ami and Canada’s Phil Wizard took home the first gold medals in the history of the sport, and they were well-deserved. While it was certainly fun to watch a lineup that included five former world champions battle it out in the big circle, in the end it wasn’t a particularly good showing for the sport, leaving a lackluster first impression on the global stage. Much to my surprise, by the time the last record spun, I had concluded that the Olympics wasn’t really the best place for breaking to be. Let me explain.

First and foremost, the anchors and commentators and officials and whatever other powers that be completely failed to explain how the scoring worked. Millions of people were watching a breakdance battle for the first time, and none of them had any idea who was winning or why. Other Olympic sports, no matter how odd or obscure, do not have this problem. I was able to learn the basics of curling within half an hour of turning on my TV. Even a more subjective competition, like figure skating, does a better job of informing the audience what a winning performance looks like. But other than a brief rundown of some vocabulary, breaking got almost no introduction to the Olympic audience. There were several decisions by the judges that drew choruses of boos from the confused onlookers. And some of them were bad decisions, but I’ll get to that in just a bit. As far as introducing the sport of breaking to a new audience, the Olympics dropped the ball and it was a totally unforced error. 

The battle between Vicious Victor of America and Hiro10 from Japan made the divide between the judges and the audience all too clear. Hiro10 put on a dazzling display of power combos, spending a truly incredible amount of time spinning on his head, and the crowd understandably went nuts—they were watching something that seemed impossible, but he made it look easy. While Victor danced a very clean, competent set like he always does, it was nowhere near as impressive as his opponent’s, and the quietness of the crowd during Victor’s turn confirmed it. And although it was obvious to even the most casual observer that Hiro10 had won decisively, the judges voted overwhelmingly for Victor, which drew down angry shouts from a stadium full of confused and frustrated people. I can’t recall another time the Olympic judges were booed by the entire crowd. Quite frankly, it felt like Victor was just given the bronze so that an American could stand on the podium for breaking’s Olympic debut. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Hiro10 could perform every move Victor did, but Victor definitely couldn’t do everything Hiro10 did. In any other sport, that would decide the winner. The ice skater that can’t land a triple lutz loses to the one that can.

Sadly, the gold medal battle was ultimately underwhelming. France’s Dany Dann and Canada’s Phil Wizard performed two killer rounds. But in the third, Dany Dann landed a move wrong and seemingly hurt himself because he abruptly ended his turn afterward, even making a gesture conceding the battle to his opponent. Of course, that’s nobody’s fault and mistakes happen when you’re breakdancing, but it was a bummer of a way to conclude the sport’s first Olympic showing. Nobody wants to win gold by forfeit, and it doesn’t make for compelling viewing, either. 

Now, we have to talk about the kangaroo in the room. *Sigh*

Dr. Rachel “Raygun” Gunn, a university lecturer and self-proclaimed b-girl from Australia, put on such a pathetically shameful display that it has completely dominated all conversations about Olympic breaking. It was readily apparent, even before she failed to score a single point, that Dr. Gunn was completely, hilariously out of her league. She did a kangaroo hop and even the fucking sprinkler—it was like watching your mom dance after her third glass of wine. Dr. Gunn displayed absolutely no command of even the most basic fundamentals of breaking. She had no power, no footwork, no downrock, and zero finesse. Completely unable to do anything remotely interesting or impressive, or even keep her flailing on the beat. At one point, it looked like her opponent interrupted her turn just to spare her more humiliation. To put it bluntly, Dr. Gunn had no business being on that stage, and what she did was an embarrassment to herself, Australia, the Olympics, and the entire sport of breaking. 

So, how did she manage to do all of that in just three rounds? Is she really that bad a dancer?

The short answer is YES. As of this writing, Gunn’s is the only Olympic battle I have not been able to find a complete recording for. Australian news anchors divulged that they “weren’t allowed” to show the footage. The clips I have seen would have been embarrassing even for a first year breaker. But Gunn claims she’s been breaking for 16 years, which actually makes her look so much worse. I haven’t thrown down in a circle in over 20 years, but I could easily recreate Gunn’s entire set right now without a single second of practice, and you could, too. That’s how simplistic and facile her dance was. She kept insisting in interviews that what she brought to the cypher was “creativity and originality” but she didn’t do anything you haven’t seen a hyperactive six year old do. Sure, other b-girls aren’t biting her moves, but that’s because they are awful, not because they’re “too original.” To be brutally honest, there is no context in which what Dr. Gunn did could be described as good dancing. 

Then Australia’s Olympic Chief tried to come to her defense, sounding downright delusional as she tried to play the misogyny card. She told a story about Dr. Gunn crying in 2008 because breaking was such a male-dominated sport and talked about how much Gunn deserved to be there because of her academic dedication. Interestingly, no mention was made of Dr. Gunn’s skill as a b-girl, because she literally has none. This coach actually tried to make her out to be some kind of hero to women athletes because she so bravely showed up in a place she did not belong and made a fool of herself and her country. To be clear, nobody said Gunn didn’t belong there because she was a woman—there were 13 other b-girls who actually deserved to be there doing some world-class breakdancing. And all of them got overshadowed by this Australian set of clown shoes. 

The worst part is that Gunn didn’t just embarrass herself or her country, but the entire sport of breaking. Sending her out there as Australia’s champion was a slap in the face to b-girls back at home and around the world. And the circumstances of her selection are suspect at best. Gunn spent the last few years attending breakdancing competitions all over Australia, where she consistently placed between 40th-70th. But then, miraculously, she won one! From 70th place to first in just a few years. She must be an incredible breakdancer, or a really good cheater. Anyone who saw her performance in Paris knows it wasn’t the former. And that was it. Just the one. Apparently that was enough to let her walk onto the Olympic stage. Every other b-girl in attendance had multiple national or world titles to their names and had achieved top places in numerous Olympic qualifiers. According to the Chief, all Gunn had to do was “want it so bad.”

In short, what Dr. Gunn did was entirely selfish. At first, I wanted to believe she was just delusional, but I eventually came to realize that none of this was an accident. She did it all on purpose. Gunn’s doctorate is in cultural studies, specifically the social dynamics of breaking, which means she knew exactly what she was doing. Nobody misled her to believe she was a good breakdancer—she’s watched the best b-girls in Australia her entire career, and she knew for a fact that she was not one of them. But that didn’t stop her from taking an Olympic opportunity away from a girl that might have done herself and her country proud. Why would someone who loves b-girls and breaking so much do that?

Academic exploitation, plain and simple. Dr. Gunn researches and writes about breaking professionally, so her farcical failure can be mined for content for the rest of her career. She’ll still get tons of papers, articles, interviews and speaking gigs out of that experience, even though she was an utter laughingstock. Because now if you try to search for “Olympics breaking” (or any variation thereof) the first pictures you see won’t be of Ami and Phil Wizard biting their gold medals—no, you’ll see page after page of this clown, each pose stupider than the one before. Dr. Gunn has become the face of breaking worldwide. Instead of the incredible athletes who put on jaw-dropping performances, the public discourse on breaking is now all about a woman that cannot breakdance. This was breaking’s chance to be taken seriously as a sport on the world stage, and she destroyed that opportunity with her unpracticed convulsing. Presenting Dr. Gunn as a world-class breakdancer undermines all of the hard work thousands of real b-boys and b-girls have been putting in for decades. It’s now very unlikely breaking will be taken seriously anytime in the near future—her performance was so bad it damaged the reputation of the entire sport. It won’t be included at the next games. Every asshole out there that says breakdancing is just dumb people rolling around on the floor now has all the ammunition they need, and that’s thanks to Dr. Gunn. No doubt someday in the future another young PhD hopeful will write a thesis about the many negative impacts the selfish entitlement of Dr. Rachel Gunn had on the culture of breaking. She is easily, and without exaggeration, the worst thing to happen to breakdancing in my lifetime. 

The First Reboot (2003)

After its debut in 1987, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the most popular cartoon on television for the better part of a decade. Although all good things come to an end, profitable things often get to come back. That’s why the Ninja Turtles got their first reboot in 2003—it was a chance to reconnect with old fans and create a generation of new ones while moving merchandise by the metric ton. And it was largely successful at all three of those things. It was proof positive that the Turtles were not an outdated relic best left in the ‘90s, but a powerhouse franchise that could be rebooted and re-shaped to sell toys and T-shirts to a new age. Reboot it just right, and the property could print money in perpetuity!

Of course, the first and most obvious difference everyone notices in the 2003 series is the art. This show adopts a style much closer to the original comic book. The Turtles are each different shades of green, and they have the blank white eyes behind their masks that prove to be surprisingly expressive. The rest of the characters and the world they live in have a bold and blocky minimalist style, with lots of thick lines reminiscent of the black and white pages that birthed the franchise. Their movement looks pretty cheap in the first season, but the animation becomes smoother and more fluid with each year that passes. The color scheme reflects the much darker thematic tone set by this series.

Its theme song is absolute garbage. Doesn’t matter which one. This show committed three crimes in musical form. They represent the worst of the high-pitched pop-punk/hip-hop fusion that was already annoying back in 2001. I’m pretty sure no classrooms full of fourth graders were singing it at their teachers. That the show succeeded with critics and fans despite replacing one of the most iconic theme songs of all time with increasingly worse versions is a testament to how well the rest of the production is executed. This show also tries to avoid catchphrases until the sixth season introduces the lackluster declaration “It’s ninja time!” There are no celebrations of Turtle Power or Pizza Time. I think Mikey says “Cowabunga” once in the whole series, and Raph slaps him on the back of the head and tells him to stop being a dork. 

I know it sounds ridiculous to say this about a show that primarily features mutant amphibians performing martial arts, but the 2003 revival is a much more grounded story. It’s still the kind of Saturday morning cartoon where even the bad guys try not to hurt anyone, but this version of TMNT played it (mostly) straight. The hordes of Foot Clan henchmen the Turtles fight are human beings rather than robots, and there are very few other mutants—not even the classic duo of Bebop and Rocksteady make an appearance. Where the original cartoon was a slapstick comedy with some action in it, this series is a martial arts action show with some humor in it. The titular teenagers take fighting crime very seriously, and while they still crack jokes and make pop culture references, they never turn to camera and address the audience directly. Battles don’t end when someone slips on a banana peel or crashes into a pile of boxes. Sometimes the Turtles even lose, suffer lasting injuries, and grapple with their PTSD while trying to recover physically. 

So let’s talk about the real heart of the series, the Ninja Turtles themselves. The brotherly bond between the four is much more developed and centered in the show. It’s just as much fun to watch them hanging out eating pizza as kicking ninja butt. Like all teenage boys they can’t help starting stupid fights on occasion, but at the end of the day it’s always clear how much they love each other. Oftentimes it feels like Leonardo is the only one legitimately interested in being a hero, and his brothers just tag along to watch his back. Which also makes it more interesting when Michelangelo or Donatello suddenly care about standing up for something that puts them at odds with the rest of their weird little family. All of the Turtles get to develop a little more individual personality as well. We learn that Leo is a history buff and a fan of old war movies. We see that Mikey is an artist who can’t resist drawing stick figures and silly symbols on everything he owns. And we watch as Raphael discovers that he’s a gearhead who loves working on engines and driving way too fast. 

For the most part, the actors playing Leonardo, Donatello and Michelangelo sound like they’re doing their best impression of their predecessors. Which is fine—you wouldn’t want to make too many changes to a formula that works. Mikey is still the chill party dude, and Donny is the awkward high school nerd. But they made Raphael sound like a grumpy cab driver from Brooklyn, and it totally works for him. You know exactly what kind of angry asshole he is as soon as he starts talking. And it also made me wonder: how is Raph the only one with a New York accent? 

Splinter’s voice is uniquely terrible, as it is painfully obvious that a white person is imitating an Asian accent. Just… so bad. Can’t believe that shit happened in 2003, and continued for the entire run of the show. It sounds like a placeholder somebody in the office recorded and forgot to switch it out with real audio. This version of April O’Neil never becomes a reporter or dons a yellow jumpsuit. At the beginning of the series she seems to be on the path to becoming a scientist, working in a lab under future villain Baxter Stockman, until four mutant turtles being chased by a horde of robots she helped create wrecked her workplace. After that, she becomes the second member of the Turtles’ IT department, which is useful when Donny is unavailable, or if he needs another nerd to help him with the science. Thankfully, she doesn’t get the damsel treatment as frequently as her predecessor. Casey Jones gets to be more than a one-note joke as a classic New York knucklehead with a heart of gold who can’t say no to an honest fight. And Usagi Yojimbo, the honorable samurai rabbit from another universe, is as awesome as he is underutilized. 

While the Turtles have plenty of great friends, it is the villains that always steal the show. We’ll save the obvious one for last. This version of Baxter Stockman is closer to his comic counterpart in personality even though his story has a very different arc. Stockman is a truly brilliant man continuously humbled by his own hubris, so assured of his own genius that he overlooks tiny details with big consequences. It seriously never occurred to him that serving as tech support to an evil ninja clan was a bad idea that would lead to disastrous results. Instead of accidentally mutating himself into a fly, this Baxter suffers a far worse fate. Every time he fails, the Shredder punishes him by removing a body part and replacing it with a cybernetic implement, until he is no more than a brain in a jar begging to die. 

This show also created several new villains that became fan-favorites and staples of the canon going forward. Hun, the leader of the Purple Dragons street gang, both worships and seeks to usurp the Shredder as the lord of the Foot Clan. He loves his master so much he starts to hate him, and that conflict makes him more interesting than the average goon. We were also introduced to Agent Bishop, the hyper-competent paranoid xenophobic secret government operative with an infinite budget and zero oversight. He originally mistakes the Turtles for alien invaders and declares war on them. Even after they help him save the world from a real alien invasion, Bishop doesn’t take them off his capture/kill list. Which makes his centuries-long redemption arc all the more impressive.

Obviously, the biggest bad is the Shredder. This show has four of them! One of the more interesting concepts this series introduced was that the Shredder was not one singular bad guy, but a mantle worn by several different villains. The original was a man named Oroku Saki, a ninja lord in feudal Japan who was as notorious for his mercilessness as he was his skill. When the Emperor sent him to slay a legendary tengu, Saki cut a deal instead, letting the demon into his soul in exchange for unimaginable power. He raised an army of monsters and plunged Japan into an age of darkness that he planned to spread to the entire world. The Ninja Tribunal, an assembly of the greatest living warriors, was finally able to defeat and capture the Shredder, but they could not destroy him. So the demonic ninja lord was sealed inside a casket, separated from his magic helmet and gauntlet. The pieces were kept far apart to ensure the Shredder never rose again, but of course he did eventually. 

The second Shredder, although he’s the first one introduced in the show, is an impostor. Under all that pointy armor, he’s actually Ch’rell, a dangerous fugitive from the alien race known as the Utroms—Krang’s people, if you only remember the original cartoon. This murderous pink blob wound up stranded on Earth in the 15th century when his escape attempt went sideways. But Ch’rell isn’t going to let that impede his plans for conquest and domination. To that end, he builds an exosuit that looks like the fabled tengu Shredder and assumes his identity so he can take control of the Foot Clan. In an odd way, this character combines Shredder and Krang into one villain. Using his stolen army of ninjas, the pretender built a criminal empire that expanded far beyond the shores of Japan. The Utroms live for centuries, so Ch’rell gathered his power while he waited for the day Earth’s technology finally advanced enough to repair his spaceship. Then he will return to his homeworld and take revenge on those that banished him. 

Ironically, the second Shredder raised the third. Karai was an orphan girl taken in by the impostor and trained to be his right hand. As she grew up, Karai became increasingly aware that her adoptive father was not a nice man. Despite discovering his true nature and evil plans, and generally not approving of either of those things, she still feels honor-bound to serve the father figure that saved her from a short life of suffering in squalor and transformed her into one of the most dangerous women alive. But Karai cannot escape her father’s shadow even after he is believed to be slain in battle with the Turtles. She assumes the mantle of the Shredder, but instead of pursuing her vision for the future of the Foot Clan, her misplaced honor demands a prolonged quest for revenge that accomplishes nothing, wastes a great deal of man power and resources, and ultimately makes Karai look very foolish, like a child stumbling about in their father’s shoes. Her devotion to her deceased father undermines her authority with his followers. Of all the Shredders seen on this show, Karai’s tenure was the shortest. When her father returns from the grave, she immediately surrenders the clan and all of her autonomy to him. But a glimpse of a possible future showed her leading the Foot Clan once again, suggesting that Karai will tire of dutiful daughterhood eventually.

The fourth and final Shredder is a copy. Not like a devoted fan that went way too far, but a literal digital copy. See, Ch’rell the impostor created an AI backup of his mind as a final failsafe. For very complicated reasons, the copy is awakened in the distant future and hitches a ride on a robot that travels back to the present day. Although he rules cyberspace with a silicon fist, the Cyber Shredder spends most of Season 7 trying to find a way into the real world. The Turtles have to digitize themselves to fight him INSIDE THE INTERNET. Which conveniently necessitated a redesign of all the main characters and a new line of vehicles for cruising the information superhighway that no doubt sold a lot of brightly colored plastic to children. 

Bonus round: a fifth Shredder does make an appearance before the end of the show. But he doesn’t really count for reasons that would be spoilers, and I don’t want to ruin the fun. 

Overall, this show proved the narrative versatility of the Ninja Turtles. Part of what makes the concept so brilliant is that giant talking turtles who do martial arts look weird and out of place even in their hometown of NYC. Since our heroes always look weird and out of place, you can drop them into almost any kind of story and it still makes sense, even if it doesn’t. The Turtles are equally at home fighting street punks, robot ninjas, mutant monsters, or alien warlords. Even this (slightly) more grounded show sends them to outer space and alternate dimensions. They travel back in time to ride on dinosaurs, and they travel 100 years into the future on accident, getting stuck there for all of Season 6. They even go inside a computer to fight a sentient virus. The Turtles wear the weirdness on their non-existent sleeves, simultaneously acknowledging and ignoring it. Looking strange is their normal, so much so that when they are in a place that takes no notice of them it feels wrong. It may not make any sense for giant turtles to show up and start kicking butt all over feudal Japan, but it’s always interesting. That’s why so many episodes of this show start in medias res—it’s fun to just throw the Ninja Turtles into unusual situations and watch them fight their way out of it. 

The 2003 revival was a pleasant surprise for me. I always knew it existed, but never found the time to watch it until now. It seems to have taken all of the coolest stuff I remember from the original comics and cartoons and given it all a fresh coat of paint for modern audiences while adding plenty of new stuff to the canon for future creators to play around with. The artwork, animation and writing are all improvements over its predecessor. Although I didn’t know it back then, this show was proving that the Turtles franchise wasn’t just a beloved relic of the ‘90s—it had real staying power, and the potential to keep producing loyal fans with every passing generation. It’s no exaggeration to say that without this show, there would have been no more Ninja Turtles on our TVs every Saturday morning. And to top it all off, it’s still a pretty good watch today. It still has the obviously neutered action of children’s television, but it never lets that get in the way of telling a good story about four brothers against the universe. 

If you haven’t seen 2003’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I highly recommend you rectify that error as soon as possible. I’m glad I did. It has inspired confidence that I made the right decision starting The Complete Cowabunga Critique, and I’m looking forward to what the next series (2012’s computer-animated affair) has to offer. Am I in for another pleasant surprise? Or am I overdue for a crushing disappointment? Let’s find out.

Intro to Criteria

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are one of the most brilliantly designed pop culture phenomenons ever produced. You can’t really argue otherwise without making yourself look terribly foolish. Even if you don’t care for everyone’s favorite amphibious martial artists, there’s no denying their Brobdingnagian appeal, and their resulting impact on popular culture. New series, movies, and video games continue to be produced. The Turtles have been rebooted no less than four times, with varying degrees of success. But the franchise has never rested for long, with yet another new animated series about to drop even as I type. Whatever the indefinable ephemeral “it” is, the Turtles have “it” by the bucketful. 

I’ll admit right now that The Complete Cowabunga Critique cannot even pretend to be impartial. The original Ninja Turtles cartoon was a big part of my childhood, and the source of many great memories. It may be hard for younger generations to fathom but when I was eight years old, the Ninja Turtles weren’t just the most popular show or the hottest toy in the world. They were the biggest thing in the world. Period. 

For example… on the last day of fourth grade, our teachers threw the kids a pizza party and wheeled in a TV with a VCR to keep us occupied until the final bell of the year. My teacher popped in the VHS tape that came with the pizza—a collection of Ninja Turtles episodes. As soon as the theme song began to play, every kid in the room was singing along at the top of our lungs. I remember the look of shock on my poor teacher’s face. She had been trying and failing to get this class of fourth graders to sing the national anthem in harmony for months, and now here we were belting out the Ninja Turtles theme with perfect synchronicity, completely unsupervised by any adult. There were forty kids in that room, and all of them knew every single word of that song. I wonder if there’s anything that could provoke a similar response in the classrooms of today. Pokemon, perhaps. 

But indulging my old memories is not the point of this post. As I prepare to perform an exhaustive critique of the entirety of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I wanted to lay down the ground rules and establish the criteria for review. All of the animated series will be judged on the following elements:

• Theme Song: Obviously a huge part of the original series’ success. You might be surprised that anyone has ever attempted to replace it, but they have. 

• Art Style: How does the show look? What inspirations and influences are present? How smooth is the animation?

• The Turtles: The titular band of brothers, the cornerstone of this whole thing. How do the characters work separately and together? How do Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael and Michelangelo relate to each other not just as partners, but family?

• Friends: The Turtles are often aided on their quests by a myriad of interesting allies— from Channel 6’s top news reporter to everyone’s favorite samurai rabbit. How many friends new and old do we meet, and how well are they represented?

• Foes: Every series would be more boring without a stable of villains to reliably threaten our heroes. Of course Shredder has been the most memorable, but the Turtles have amassed an extensive rogues’ gallery over the decades. In fact, it is fairly common for new characters created for the show to eventually be integrated into the comics. Who gives the Turtles the most trouble, and looks the coolest while doing it?

• Notable Stories: The Turtles’ origin story gets retold the most, but it’s not even close to one of their best stories. They have fought ninjas, robots, and aliens. Traveled all over the world and through space and time, as well. The Ninja Turtles are remarkably versatile protagonists, so what are the best and most memorable stories of each series?

• Catch Phrases: From “Cowabunga!” to “Hot Soup!”, no Ninja Turtles series is complete without one.

• Lasting Impacts: What new and interesting things does the series add to the lore? How did each show change the Turtles and their world?

Those are the criteria I’ll be using to critique the various animated series. I’ll conclude with an overview of each one and how watchable it is today. And of course, how it compares to my warm and fuzzy memories. Just a reminder, my first critique will be of the 2003 series, since I’ve never seen it before. I’m looking forward to it. 

The Complete Cowabunga Critique

I’m pleased to announce my latest adventure in pop culture over-analysis: The Complete Cowabunga Critique. 

Paramount Plus keeps reminding me that it is the home of all things Ninja Turtles, one of the most beloved franchises of my childhood. So eventually I figured “Why the shell not? Let’s do this.” 

That’s right. I am embarking on a quest to re-watch and review the entirety of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Every show, every movie, every video game. Not the comics. Sorry, not sorry, but I want this critique to end before I die. This post is mostly a public promise to myself so that I can’t abandon the project. 

I’m going to take a unique approach. Instead of beginning with the first cartoon like any sane person would, I’m going to start with the 2003 revival series. My reasons are thus:

1 - I have seen very little of this show, as it aired when I was in college and not spending my Saturday mornings watching cartoons. Starting with something I haven’t seen before will make it more fun for me, which will also increase the likelihood of me finishing this project. 

2 - I haven’t seen the original cartoon since it aired when I was a kid. I have heard and read secondhand that it did not age well and I don’t find that hard to believe, as it was made at the height of “Cheaper is Better!” ‘80s animation. But my own memory of that particular slice of my childhood is still intact and untarnished by the truth. As I watch everything that came after, I want to savor all of the memories that they will undoubtedly trigger and record them honestly.

3 - When I do get to the original series, for good or ill, there will be big feelings involved. Even though I’m a long way from getting there, it already feels like an appropriate finale—returning to a beloved childhood memory with the unkind eyes of an adult.

So that’s the plan. I’ve got seven seasons of cartoons to get through before my first review, so it will probably be a while. But, I wrote it down and posted it here, so now I gotta do it.

The Weird Reversed Career of The Crystal Method

The Crystal Method never made a song better than “Keep Hope Alive,” their very first single. It was (and remains) the most Crystal Method song in their entire catalogue. It is their signature sound, the one that established them as major players in 90s techno. And they’ve never rivaled its heights again. 

That’s not to say the rest of their albums weren’t any good. Tweekend was great dance floor fodder, and their self-titled album was a welcome return to form, but neither had the impact of Vegas. How could they? That CD was a perfectly crystalized slice of 1997, a powerful blend of samples, synths and breakbeats that scored car commercials and action movies when it wasn’t breaking stereos and deafening ravers all over the country. Nearly every track was commercially licensed. As soon as any of those songs began to play, you knew what you were watching was going to be cool. Vegas still sounds like the future almost 30 years later, something that can’t be said of the Method’s subsequent work. 

Again, I’m not saying the other albums were bad. Except for Divided by Night—that one was a terrible disappointment we will eviscerate later. Most of the rest is perfectly serviceable breakbeat shredder. What’s unique about the Crystal Method’s discography is the release order, starting with a genre-defining masterpiece and slowly progressing into a fumbling freeform experimentalism. That’s not a typical trajectory for a musical career. Or rather, it is, just in reverse. 

Most musicians, but especially those that make electronica, begin their journey by just messing around and seeing what interesting sounds they can make. These efforts usually result in music that is fun if unrefined. Strangely, this accurately describes the Crystal Method’s last two albums, The Trip Home and The Trip Out. Rather than the most recent release of a weathered veteran, these albums sound like the first fledgling attempts of a new artist who is still figuring it out, but shows tremendous potential. The songs are quite long and rambling, full of weird spacey interludes and heavy bass punctuated with meandering waves of synth. Although they’re an interesting listen, these two albums contain surprisingly few dance floor friendly tracks from a group known to dominate them. While there are a few bangers in the bunch, there is nothing as iconic as “Keep Hope Alive,” or even “Wild, Sweet and Cool,” for that matter. These are the only two Crystal Method albums where I cannot name a single song from memory. They’re a good time, but ultimately forgettable. It’s just odd that they were produced by an artist with 30 years experience rocking dance floors, and not some rookie cutting his first mixtape. 

The Crystal Method, their self-titled 2014 album, feels like a sophomore effort from an ambitious new musician determined to improve. It doubles down on the heavy synth and big beats heard on The Trip Home and The Trip Out, but tightens up the structure even as it adds complexity. It firmly establishes the “five minutes into the future” sound that would become the Method’s enduring signature. Or it would have, if The Crystal Method was their second album rather than their fifth. As it is, that album served as more of a capstone on an era of electronic music rather than a ground-breaking foray into new and original sounds.

Divided By Night is the ludicrously terrible concept album that somebody should have tried harder to discourage. It’s a hazard that befalls many musicians fortunate enough to make more than two albums, and the Crystal Method was not immune. The Chemical Brothers have the disjointed Born In The Echoes, Moby has the disinterested Hotel, and even the Beastie Boys have that one ill-advised punk record. Divided By Night is trying so hard to sound “different” that it ultimately fails to do anything interesting. It is littered with boring beats and lackluster vocals, including the worst performance I have ever heard from Matisyahu. The “best” tracks this album has to offer sound like elevator music covers of better Crystal Method songs. When you’re ready for the party to be over and you want everyone to get the fuck out of your house, just put on Divided By Night. Your place will be empty by Track 4.

Legion of Boom sounds like the over-correction made in the wake of Divided By Night’s utterly flat failure. On this reversed timeline, Legion of Boom takes the role of a welcome return to form after a disappointing deviation. It doubles down on the most recognizable elements of its predecessors—more synths, thicker basslines, heavier guitar riffs—producing a much more industrial sound. Lots of threatening beats and aggressive vocals. It even has one chill downtempo song, just like all of their best albums. Many of its best tracks feel like a machine struggling to break its programming, constantly pushing the boundaries between breakbeats and techno, but ultimately unsure what to do once it got there. In the end, Legion of Boom was more shrill than it was edgy, a loud statement that the Crystal Method continued to exist, devoid of any real substance. It’s not a bad album, but it never got the radio and dance floor plays that its predecessors did in either version of the timeline. Legion of Boom has no unforgettable classics like “Keep Hope Alive,” but it also doesn’t have any embarrassing flubs like “Drown in the Now.” A fun and energetic listen, it just doesn’t have enough personality to be anybody’s favorite.

Continuing along this timeline, the Crystal Method’s second album, Tweekend, becomes their sixth. And that simple change elevates it into something truly special rather than the first step of a long decline. They appear to have taken all the lessons learned from both their successes and failures, and synthesized them into one fantastic breakbeat record. Tweekend has all of the Method’s strengths, and shockingly few weaknesses. “Murder” and “Name of the Game” are the only ill-advised mergers of grunge and breakbeat on this album, an idea that had plagued all of its “predecessors.” Thrashing guitars are still prevalent throughout, but with the previous two exceptions, they don’t overpower the rest of the song. This record is fast, frenetic, and pulsing with energy. You will find it extremely difficult to sit still when it’s on. Tweekend feels like the Crystal Method refining their own unique electronic sound instead of a rock album made by a robot. In that way, it is strange that Tweekend was actually the follow-up rather than the precursor to the Method’s greatest work, Vegas. 

Vegas is a thing of sublime sonic beauty. A record nobody else could have made in any other time, not even the Crystal Method. A sound sleek as glass and sharper than a katana. It is liquid hype in an aerosol can, ready to burst into flames at the slightest spark. Put on any track, and within thirty seconds you’ll be ready to win a drag race or fight a room full of ninjas. It starts off slow, with the spaced-out acid tech vibe of “Trip Like I Do,” but catches you by surprise when it finally kicks off. After that, Vegas never taps the brakes, pouring gallon after gallon of gas into a vibrant pumping engine of music. The massive reverberating big beat of “Busy Child” builds into the minimalist synthwave rhythms of “Cherry Twist,” which gradually gives way to the fat delicious heavy bass groove of “High Roller.” Trixie Reiss gives the best vocal performances the Method ever had on “Comin Back” and “Jaded.” And of course, Vegas included the dance floor shattering single “Keep Hope Alive.” 

Vegas was the album of 1997. It took off like a space shuttle the first time a DJ gave it a spin. This record was inescapable. You heard it everywhere—on the radio, in the club, bumping from car windows and juicing up action movie trailers. Any footage you had instantly became 95% cooler when it was set to the pulsating vibrations of the Crystal Method. Hell, when my father went to buy his midlife crisis sports car, the salesman showed off the stereo by cranking up the subwoofer on “Vapor Trail.” And it fucking worked. My father drove around in an uncomfortably small gas-guzzling Ferrari that he hated for two years because it was just too rad to resist when the Method was pumping through its speakers. It would be difficult to think of any album from that year that was more influential. The best tracks on Vegas didn’t just inspire future musicians to copy them, they literally convinced us to buy things we didn’t need just because they look so cool with the hook for “Keep Hope Alive” playing in the background. Most musicians of any genre would count themselves fortunate to make an album half as iconic after decades of hard work, but the Crystal Method absolutely crushed it on their first attempt. They continued to make great music after, but nothing as world-flipping as their first single. It’s not really all that surprising that they were never able to surpass the perfect electric craftsmanship of Vegas—nobody could. “Keep Hope Alive” was the pinnacle of a career that just started; a track so amazing that everything that followed it couldn’t help but look derivative.

What a strange, reversed trajectory for a musician. To begin with your magnum opus, and then spend the rest of your career getting close, but never surpassing it. Vegas still sounds like the final refined product of a long percolating process, but it’s more like the Big Bang that created the Crystal Method in a burst of sound and fury, and its been ever-so-slowly collapsing in on itself ever since. 

Wow. That last bit sounds a lot harsher than I meant it. I really do think the Crystal Method is a great producer with more good tracks than bad ones. It was just the order of their releases that struck me as so odd, so perfectly reversed from what you might expect. And it’s still a bit of a mystery—how did they manage to do an entire musical career backwards? Maybe we’ll never know. 

Do You Really Remember Ghostbusters?

When you totally finished reading Moby Dick one high school summer, did you wonder what happened next? It’s not much of a cliffhanger—the whale smashes the ship and pulls the captain down into the depths with him. Ahab’s final fate doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I was pretty sure Herman Melville left no part of his story untold, as his exhaustive novel is still one of the all-time heavyweights, both literally and figuratively. It took me a whole summer to read it. I finished every other book on my reading list just to take breaks from Ishmael’s tragic tale. I’ll be honest: I don’t remember a whole lot of it. But I was pretty sure that Captain Ahab’s pursuit of a personal vendetta against a whale ended with his entirely anticipated death. It never seemed like anything but a foregone conclusion. We don’t find out what happens to Moby Dick after their final encounter, but it’s not like the whale had a character arc to complete. 

But what if he did? I found an answer to the question nobody asked from the most unlikely source: the Ghostbusters. 

No, not them. The Original Ghostbusters.

Nope. You’ve gotta go back further than that.

OK, too far. Technically correct, as they are the first Ghostbusters. There’s a whole copyright kerfuffle back there, which would be enough to fill a whole other post, so I’m not going to get into it.

There we go. These Ghostbusters are the descendants of the originals, except for Tracy the Gorilla. He outlived his partners and continues to serve as gadget master to their sons. They rode around in Ghost Buggy, a car that could talk (with a Southern stutter), fly, and even travel through time. That last one leads us to the subject of today’s post. In the episode “The White Whale,” Ghostbusters finally answers all of the questions nobody had after the end of Moby Dick. This will either amuse or infuriate all the English teachers I know, and I’m looking forward to finding out who is which. 

So, a ghost ship (that is an actual spectral Spanish sailing galleon) and its crew of ghost pirates are just cruising through space looking for a good time. That’s the part of the episode that makes the most sense. Most of the dangers of space travel lose their fangs if you are no longer breathing, or corporeal. Why not get your pirate on across the stars? 

The ghost captain of this ghost space pirate ship has a brilliant evil plan: they are going to stage a jailbreak on the Phantom Prison Planet, basically a correctional facility for misbehaving spirits. Are they going to jailbreak these ghost prisoners and press them into service as ghost pirates? Nope. Think bigger. They’re going to bust out the ghost of Moby Dick, and force the deceased white whale to raid ships all across the galaxy for them. 

How are they going to do that? Quite simple, really. They’re going to kidnap the ghost of Captain Ahab and hold him hostage to make the giant whale comply. Next, you’re probably going to ask why Moby Dick would care about the well-being of Captain Ahab, a man primarily known as the guy who spent a thousand pages trying to kill Moby Dick. Also, he is just as dead as the whale, so how persuasively imperiled can such a hostage be?

Well, it just so happens that Captain Ahab and the former object of his burning hatred have been cellmates on the Phantom Prison Planet for the last 600 years, and in that time they have become the fastest of friends. So many weird things are implied by that previous sentence which go maddeningly unremarked upon. First, that these formerly bitter foes sought each other out in the afterlife. They make it to the sweet hereafter and neither of them looked up departed loved ones before seeking out the one being they hated more than anything? Those two deserve each other. Second, Captain Ahab and Moby Dick have been sentenced to the Phantom Prison Planet the last 600 years for crimes they committed post mortem as ghosts, which go frustratingly unspecified. And since they both received the same sentence, it’s a reasonable assumption that whatever heinous violation earned them such a stiff punishment was committed together. At the end of the episode it is revealed that Captain Ahab and Moby Dick are getting released with time served as a reward for their help in foiling the schemes of the ghost space pirates, which means that whatever they did earned them more than 600 years in the pen. Finally, the captain and the whale have been imprisoned for 600 years! But today, the events of the novel Moby Dick take place a mere two centuries ago. Which means this episode of Ghostbusters takes place over 400 years in the future! And as far as I can tell, there’s no reason for it. This detail is just casually dropped and never referenced again. 

But Ghostbusters, both the original sitcom and the animated adaptation, fully embraces its own excessive absurdity. “Ghosts” are just a reason for lots of ridiculous nonsense to transpire. Like many cartoons of the era, it featured an extended “suiting up” montage. But even by the standards of the 80s, the Ghostbusters montage was beyond extra. The heroes summon a magical skeleton elevator that takes them to some psychedelic dimension that looks like the side of your uncle’s van. They are then ejected from the elevator and caught in a giant spectral spiderweb that instantly dissolves all of their clothes, except for their underwear, of course. Our heroes are slingshotted from the spiderwebs onto a conveyor belt made of bones, which usher them into the maw of a dressing machine that spits them out the other side ready for action. And what special outfits require such an elaborate process to put on? Button up shirts. Khaki pants. Boots. Leather jackets. A hat. Honestly, it would probably be faster for them to drive home and change rather than take the elevator to limbo. But they use that sequence at least once an episode, sometimes twice!

And that sequence is the original Ghostbusters, through and through. This show never has one or two good ideas. No, it fires every idea at the screen as if from a blunderbuss, creating a ridiculous mess that makes no sense, but is no less watchable for it. Few shows these days would be bold enough to create a villain that is a ghost robot wizard because they couldn’t decide on one or even two things—they had to make him everything. Are there still cartoons that crazy these days? For children? It feels like it’s been a long time since I heard a pitch for a kids’ cartoon that made me shake my head and go “WTF?” Maybe that’s progress. But it’s not nearly as much fun.

A Skeletor Christmas Story

I like to watch cartoons to fall asleep at night. During the holidays, I watch all the “very special” Christmas episodes. Everyone from the Super Mario Brothers to the Men In Black is trying to help Santa bring joy to all the kids watching at home. Everyone, that is, except Skeletor. 

He-Man’s arch nemesis travels to Earth to capture the Christmas spirit for his boss, but ends up infected with it himself. After his vehicle is shot down on a snowy mountain, Skeletor must escort his child prisoners on foot. Along the way, the children explain the warm and fuzzy feeling of a Christmas morning to an utterly bewildered villain. Despite his illest intentions for the little hostages, Skeletor gives them coats when they are cold, rest when they are tired, and even defends them from a rampaging snow-beast. When the children thank “Mr. Skeletor” for his many kindnesses, he has an existential crisis and flips his shit. Starts yelling that he’s not nice! He’s soooo EVIL! And yet, when the moment of truth arrives, Skeletor turns on his master and sets the children free in defiance of his orders. Disgusted with his own selfless actions, Skeletor begs the heroes to tell him “Why am I acting this way? What is WRONG with me?” He is very relieved to hear that Christmas only comes once a year.

Although it’s fairly common for cartoon villains to steal the show, especially in Christmas episodes, Skeletor’s anti-arc is a hilariously unique reversal of the typical tropes. The holiday spirit compels him to be kind and charitable to children and small animals despite his vocal resistance. Unlike Ebenezer Scrooge, Skeletor learns no valuable lessons and emerges from his ordeal completely unchanged. He is eager to resume his nefarious schemes as soon as all this Christmas nonsense is over. And I think that’s a valuable lesson for the kids, too. Just because that big mean jerk that makes your life difficult cut you a break over the holidays, it doesn’t mean they’ve miraculously turned over a new leaf. Sure, the Christmas spirit can bring out the best in everyone, but it can’t change who they are. Come New Year’s Day, Skeletor will be wreaking havoc on Eternia once again. A fun and unexpected twist on the usual Christmas adventure.

Top 10 B-boys

With breakdancing’s Olympic debut fast approaching, debate about the best b-boys in the world is at an all-time high. Rather than wade into that mess, I thought I’d create this handy reference for newcomers to learn about some of the amazing athletes they might be seeing at the Paris games. This is just my list of personal favorites, ordered by how much I like to watch them. It is in no way a definitive ranking. I’ve also limited myself to b-boys who are still actively competing so that I don’t have to namecheck every breakdancing pioneer from the last 50 years. Yes, Crazy Legs was amazing, but he danced his last battle over a decade ago. So here’s a list of ten amazing b-boys who are keeping the culture alive and pushing it ever forward.

10) Mighty Jake: The Venezuelan powerhouse that dances mostly on his hands. He can 90, elbow stack, and air flare forever. Mighty Jake can spin on one hand, an elbow, even the back of his wrist. While his incredible power may have earned him that nickname, learning to control it has proven to be his greatest challenge. He frequently has near-collisions when he’s really showing off, and that makes it hard for him to integrate his power moves with the rest of his set. His footwork is expressive and detailed, so it would be great to see more of it between spins. Mighty Jake made it to the world stage this year and performed admirably before being defeated by Dany Dann. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if we saw him in the final circle next year. 

9) Vicious Victor: Two-time world champ Victor from America is your father’s b-boy, with a classic street style that incorporates modern combos seamlessly. He wouldn’t look the least bit out of place at a cypher in the ‘90s. Ironically, he is the most technically proficient yet stylistically neutral breakdancer out there. Victor has a massive vocabulary of moves and executes them cleanly without fail—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crash. But despite the two world titles to his name, I can’t remember any of his sets. Victor may nail every move exactly, but that’s all he can do. There’s no real personality or passion coming through when he dances. His toprocking is generic, and his energy level and speed stay consistent throughout. I’ve been watching Victor dance for almost a decade now, and the only thing I know about him is that he works out. He is like a clockwork top spinning perfectly forever. It’s incredibly impressive, but you can only stare at it so long before you get bored. 

8) Klash: The best b-boy in Egypt, if not all of Africa. How he didn’t make it to the Olympic Qualifier, I’ll never understand. I first saw him battle Lil Zoo at the African Finals in 2015, and although he lost, his performance was so captivating that I’ve followed him ever since. Klash displays a comfortable mastery of the fundamentals while mixing it up with more abstract shapes and signature variations, like his no-handed backflip into a headstand airchair. He is incredibly fast and flexible despite his size—imagine Gumby as a linebacker. And Klash is the king of the suicide drop. Just watching him makes my ribs ache, but he’s certainly never boring. 

7) Bruce Almighty: The cardboard court jester from Russia. Bruce is the biggest clown in breaking, and I mean that in the best possible way. Many b-boys use humor in their sets, even if only to ridicule their opponent, but Bruce uses comedy as the foundation of his entire persona. He bobs and weaves like a drunk, but his toprock is always on the beat. While he can do all the impressive power moves like flares and headspins, Bruce will often pretend to fail a trick in hilarious fashion before deftly recovering into another. He also does things that are just silly, like jumping out of his sneakers, or removing his hoodie while spinning on his back. Bruce Almighty is the only b-boy I can think of who doesn’t even attempt to look cool—his only goal is to make the audience laugh. That unique philosophy has gotten him dangerously close to a world title more than once.

6) Nasty Ray: A b-boy from San Jose who has it all. Footwork, power, style and a fun, flippant personality that shows just as much on the sideline as in the circle. Nasty Ray manages to be hilariously rude without being aggressive, making fun of his opponents before completely upstaging them. His vocabulary of moves is extensive and he’s a true freestyler, able to mix them up in countless variations. Many world class b-boys develop certain patterns that they repeat without even intending to, like always transitioning from a 1990 into a flare, but Nasty Ray doesn’t have this habit, and as a result his sets are always dynamic and fresh. He also commands the entire space, able to cover distance in the blink of an eye, whether he’s backflipping off his elbow or sliding across the dance floor on his head. Finally, he actually pays attention to his opponents and replies to them specifically. He doesn’t just throw together a string of his best moves and hope to win. A regular fixture at cyphers all over California, it is genuinely puzzling that Nasty Ray has never gotten within striking distance of a world title, despite defeating former champs like B-boy Gravity. Definitely the most overlooked dancer on this list.

5) Lee: A young abstractionist from the Netherlands, raised by breakdancers, who blends the best elements of old school and circus style. The vanguard of a new generation of b-boys that eschews the traditional forms in favor of finding interesting new shapes to take while they spin and slide around the floor. Lee never does just one move—a windmill transitions into air flares, which turns into a headspin that ends with his body frozen in an impossible pose. No matter how fast he’s going, Lee can stop on a dime or reverse instantly. His sharp control over his momentum sometimes makes him look like a glitchy video being rewound and skipped ahead. He made it to the last battle of the world championship in 2022 and placed second in the European Olympic Qualifier, so there’s a decent chance Lee might be the world’s first gold medal b-boy next year at the Paris games. 

4) Issin: Japan’s 17 year old atomic firestorm in sneakers. Already an incredibly well-rounded b-boy, Issin is a solid balance of impeccable toprock and explosive power. His combos are so seamless it can be hard to keep track of how many moves he’s doing. Not only can he perform all of the most difficult tricks perfectly on the beat, he can do most of them with just one hand. And to top it all off, he makes it look so damn easy. Like he simply throws his body onto the dance floor and magic happens. He never slows down, never looks tired, and never looks like he’s trying particularly hard to smoke all who face him. Issin’s made it to the world stage the last two years, and was defeated just one match away from the 2023 final. His battle with Phil Wizard was so epic it completely overshadowed the actual final battle in online discussions. He’s also given impressive performances at the Asian Olympic Qualifiers. I doubt it will be long before this kid is world champion.

3) Phil Wizard: Canada’s champion and Olympic hope. Phil began as a classic power mover, but has gradually evolved into a comic abstractionist, blurring the line between high speed contortion and dance. Slides on his head a lot. Most likely to smoke you with a move you never saw before. When toprocking, Phil always looks surprised, as if his limbs were flailing about independent of his input. But when he nails an impossible freeze, he gives a little smile and a wave to make sure you saw that awesome thing he just did. He’s also a really nice guy, smiling and clapping for his opponents when they land a dope move. Phil’s been a world class contender for years now; made it all the way to the final battle against the legendary Hong 10 in 2023. He’s also performed well in the Olympic Qualifiers, so it seems this Wizard is determined to be crowned best b-boy in the world one way or another.

2) Hong 10: The legend from South Korea. Hong 10 is a like a Shaolin monk that decided to give b-boying a go, capable of physical feats that look like science fiction. He can do a handstand on two fingers, reverse and freeze his halos in any position, and toprocks just as deftly while upside down on his head. I’ve been watching this guy dance for 20 years now, and he just keeps getting better. He took home his first belt in 2006, and won another at the 2013 Contest of Champions. In 2023, he miraculously recovered from what should have been a career-ending spine injury to win his third world title at age 38, making him the oldest champion in the history of the Red Bull BC One. Lately he’s been seen serving other former champs like Wing and Shigekix at the Olympic Qualifiers. It seems more than likely Hong 10 will be taking a medal back to Korea next year. The only question is what color will it be?

1) Dany Dann: The Man From France, Paris’ hometown hero. Dany Dann is the platonic ideal of the b-boy. His footwork is intricate and endless. His power moves are varied, impressive, and flow together perfectly. He has style for days, his showmanship is unmatched, and he is always on the beat. Dany Dann can destroy his opponent’s game with a hand gesture from the sidelines, or by doing halo spins with one hand behind his head. He’ll take your best move and throw it back at you with an extra backflip just to show off. But most importantly, he always looks like he is having so much fun. Nobody enjoys their time in the cypher more. A regular on the world stage, Dany Dann almost made it to the final circle in 2023 before he was defeated by three-time champ Hong 10. He came second in the Olympic Qualifier for Europe, totally robbed by Menno’s lackluster performance. But if I had to bet on which b-boy will win gold at the Paris games, my money’s on Dany Dann. 

Doc Awesome’s Guide to B-boy Insults

I’ve been watching the Olympic Qualifiers for Breaking, and it’s been quite entertaining. You can find them on the official Olympics YouTube channel. After listening to the painful banter between commentators who have no idea what they’re talking about, it occurred to me that the 2024 Games will be a lot of people’s first time seeing a breakdancing battle. And the questions I see getting asked the most are about the various hand signals b-boys use to taunt each other when they’re not dancing. So I decided to write this helpful glossary of breakdancing insults for all the newcomers (and the Olympic commentators). 

This guide is going to focus on gestures unique to breaking. While there’s a lot of middle fingers and crotch-grabbing in the average battle, I don’t think anyone needs me to explain what those mean. Pointing and laughing is also universal, no matter what language you speak. Same for pantomiming violence—more aggressive b-boys will pretend to punch and kick their opponents, shoot them with finger guns or slice them up with invisible swords. Not exactly subtle. But at least if they make physical contact with anything other than a friendly handshake it’s an automatic disqualification. In this DJ’s humble opinion, miming violent acts is the easiest and lowest form of taunt, and the best b-boys almost never resort to it.

With all that said, let’s learn some b-boy insults. 

Home: Sometimes you’ll see this during the face-off at the beginning of a battle, when you’re waiting to see which b-boy will go first. Especially in international competitions. A dancer will hold his arms up over his head in a triangle that resembles the roof of a house. He’s saying that since he’s in the opponent’s hometown, they should go first. But the opponent may reply with a house of his own, insisting that since it’s his hometown, his guest should graciously take the first round. Usually results in a tedious waiting game for the battle to start. Thankfully, the Olympics will eliminate this particular headache with their 10-second start timer.

Smoke: B-boys will often conclude their best sets by doing a pantomime of smoking a cigarette. He’s saying he “smoked” the other dancer, meaning the opponent was completely defeated and it wasn’t even close. This one is the most overused. Sometimes you sit through four rounds and see four smokes, which is just absurd. While b-boys tend to suffer an abundance of confidence, competitive battles are rarely blowouts where one dancer completely “smokes” another. 

Listen: If you see a b-boy pointing to or tapping his ear, he’s saying his opponent is not listening to the music. No matter how impressive your power move set may be, it doesn’t matter if it’s not on the beat. B-boying is a dance, not a competition of strength.

Crash: When the b-boy not dancing slaps the floor, he’s saying his opponent crashed. A “crash” is when a dancer messes up a trick in an obvious way without managing to recover. Quite simply the most embarrassing thing that can happen to a b-boy during their set, made even worse by getting called out by their opponent. It’s so effective that even calling a false crash can throw your opponent off their game by making them overthink, which is the enemy of good freestyling. 

Almost: Holding your thumb and forefinger close together, as if requesting a tiny amount of something, means “almost,” or “so close.” This is for when your opponent doesn’t completely crash, but still doesn’t quite nail the move. Maybe their foot slipped, or they didn’t hold that freeze long enough. The audience might not even see it, especially if the dancer recovers, but an “almost” lets him know you saw that mistake. Another good way to attack your opponent’s confidence during their set.

Bite: Opening and closing the forearms like a large mouth says your opponent is biting. A b-boy “bites” if he copies another dancer’s move, and that’s a very serious accusation in breaking. This only applies to signature moves. Nobody “owns” basic staples like the flare or the headspin, but many dancers develop their own unique variations on these moves, and copying those is considered disrespectful and unoriginal. The one common exception is when a b-boy immediately repeats his opponent’s best move just to show it isn’t that difficult. Bonus points if you do a harder or faster version.

Repeats: When a dancer holds up two or more fingers like they’re counting, they’re saying their opponent is repeating themself. In competition, repeating moves costs you points and makes you look tired and unoriginal. This is often deployed against powerhouses that spend most of their set spinning around on different parts of their body. But, just because two moves look similar doesn’t always mean a repeat—a headspin is different than a headspin while holding one foot, and both are different from a headspin that ends in a freeze. This one is frequently miscalled, but it isn’t as disruptive as a crash.

Choreography: If your opponent pretends to be writing on a notepad, he’s accusing you of just performing choreography rather than freestyling to the music. That’s a big no-no in a one-on-one setting. Both dancers are supposed to freestyle rather than perform a practiced set, and their ability to meaningfully connect with the beat is a huge part of how they are judged. Musicality can often be the deciding factor in a close battle, so no dancer wants to even appear to be rehearsed.

Show me: When a b-boy points to the dance floor, he’s basically challenging you to “put up or shut up.” Maybe you’re spending too long toprocking, or just having a really weak round. Whatever the case, your opponent is unimpressed with your performance, and demands you step it up. This is also frequently used against obnoxiously aggressive b-boys who act like they’d rather start a fight than win a dance battle, and can’t back up their bravado with any moves to match. Another version of this is when the b-boy who just finished his set makes a big show of presenting the dance floor to his opponent, basically daring him to “top that.”

Eye contact: When a b-boy points to his eyes, he’s telling his opponent to face him. You use this one to remind your opponent he’s dancing against you, not the audience or his feet. A battle is basically a conversation between the two dancers, and you can’t respond properly if you don’t pay attention to what the other person is saying. It’s not just about being rude to your opponent, but also a skill-check—the best b-boys don’t need to look at their feet. They can maintain eye contact and even emote with their face while still dancing. It’s a small detail that really sets the amateurs apart from the pros.

Now when you watch breaking’s Olympic debut, you’ll know what the b-boys are saying to each other from the sidelines. Hopefully this will add another layer to your enjoyment of what promise to be some epic battles. I’ll leave you with a great example of these insults in action from this year’s world championship. In this battle, Dany Dann from France is able to use some tactical taunting to undermine his opponent’s confidence, which results in Poland’s B-boy Wigor losing his flow and making several crashes that cost him the match. And since he was able to make his opponent flame out, Dany Dann got to save a lot of his good moves for later battles. A well-placed insult can be surprisingly powerful in a breakdance cypher.

Imaginary Memories

The other day I remembered something I didn’t even know I forgot.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. My mind just won’t shut up, fretting about things to be done, making up new stories, or just replaying half-remembered songs. One thing that consistently helps my brain wind down is watching cartoons before bed. And I don’t mean anime or the latest episode of Invincible. It’s either got to be appropriate for kids or a light-hearted comedy—no heavy themes or high drama to over-analyze as I lay in the dark. I’ve enjoyed newer finds like Gravity Falls and Dogs in Space, but every now and then I’ll try to revisit a lost gem from my youth. I use the word try because animation has improved so much over my lifetime that it sometimes can render old favorites unwatchable through modern eyes. For example, much as I love the Ninja Turtles, I have to admit their original series has aged like milk in the sun. Today’s kids won’t even watch it, and I can’t blame them. Recently, I returned to a childhood favorite, anticipating another disappointing reappraisal. And while my prediction proved accurate, it unearthed a surprising memory I didn’t even realize had been misplaced.

You should totally watch Dogs in Space

The 1987 cartoon series Brave Starr was a Space Western set on the distant world of New Texas in the 23rd century. It follows the adventures of the titular Marshal as he keeps the peace and protects the good folks of this frontier planet from robot bandits, space pirates, and alien monsters. The main villain is an outlaw sorcerer named Tex Hex, basically a Cowboy Skeletor. Marshal Brave Starr fights these threats by calling upon the shamanistic powers of different animal spirits. “Speed of the puma” allows him to outrun even the fastest of vehicles, while “strength of the bear” can punch boulders into pebbles. You get the idea. It’s the kind of show where everyone wields what I call “plot blasters,” weapons that fire whatever the story needs at the moment, whether that be a grappling hook, snakes made of fire, or even a cage. These guns can do anything—except kill people. And after the bad guys were locked up at the end of every episode, Marshal Brave Starr would explain the moral of the story and tell the kids at home to always believe in themselves. 

Marshal Brave Starr, Deputy Thirty/Thirty, and the nefarious Tex Hex.

Watching Brave Starr again brought back the expected warm fuzzy feeling of Saturday morning cartoons as a kid, but it also shook loose a long lost imaginary memory. As a boy of no more than ten, who had recently graduated from reading Westerns to science fiction, Brave Starr was captivating. Here was a show that took all of my interests and melded them together to create something new. Thusly inspired, I came up with my very first original character: Sheriff Davey Dragon. Yes, he was a dragon who was also a cowboy. In space. He walked upright, folded his wings about his shoulders like a coat, and wore a ten-gallon hat with little holes in the top for his horns. Of course he could spit fire, but he also carried a pair of blasters just in case he was ever short of breath. His arch nemesis was an outlaw named Mr. Frosty who used freeze rays to rob trains. While Davey Dragon went on many adventures in my head and countless crayon drawings, I never wrote more than a few words about him. Since no physical evidence of him survived as I grew up, I eventually forgot about the brave sheriff of Draconia. I went on to create hundreds of new characters and fill books with their stories. Hadn’t thought of him in at least thirty years. But then I saw yet another cheaply animated shootout on Brave Starr and it all came flooding back. I don’t know why it was that particular unremarkable action scene (there are so many), but it must have been the one that inspired a seven-year-old to draw a dragon in a cowboy hat. Why else would this memory be tied to a cartoon I barely remember?

Cowboy Skeletor

It was like running into an old friend from college. “Oh my god, is that Davey Dragon? Good to see you! Where have you been?” We got to catch up with each other and make tentative plans to talk again. I made sure to write down his name and what details I could recall, so I won’t forget him again. Even if I never end up using him in anything, it was a worthwhile and eye-opening experience to reconnect with such an important part of my creative development.

A toast to Sheriff Davey Dragon, my very first character. 

AI rendering of what Sheriff Davey Dragon might have looked like

Who’s the worst?

I recently watched all three seasons of The Orville, Seth MacFarlane’s parody/homage to Star Trek. Mostly just to kill time until the next real Star Trek show drops. The first season was as bad as I imagined and worse, but a handful of characters were charming enough to bring me back. The show improves a great deal with each consecutive season, finding its own identity as a sci-fi comedy that wears its influences on its sleeve. The Orville was able to take on missions that would have been far too controversial or salacious for the Enterprise, and with a better sense of humor than any other Trek show made before Lower Decks.

Despite being quite possibly my most favorite thing ever, Star Trek has one consistent, glaring narrative flaw. Unlikable characters, the ones who are rude and offensive to our heroes, almost always turn out to be villains. If someone acts like a jerk on Star Trek, there’s a very good chance he is hiding a secret that could start a war or end the universe. The scientist that’s a little too proud of his work, the admiral that thinks Starfleet has gotten soft, or the old Klingon warrior looking for a glorious last stand. Anybody who behaves unprofessionally is immediately suspect, and usually up to no good. But real people are more complicated than that—the guy that always annoys you at work isn’t a malicious mastermind, just an obnoxious person that won’t take a hint.

The Orville wholeheartedly embraces moral ambiguity in its better stories. And one thing it has that Star Trek doesn’t is people who are difficult, but not evil. There are characters who are quite unpleasant antagonists without crossing into full-on villainy. The other characters and the audience may come to hate them, but they are usually revealed to just be scared and angry people lashing out. The Orville has plenty of characters that range from mild irritants to major nuisances without ever escalating to mustache-twirling. 

Which begs the question—who is the most unlikable character on The Orville? 

Let’s narrow our selection by eliminating the actual villains. Teleya uses misinformation and fear-mongering to goad the Krill into a never-ending holy war. Isaac has a redemption arc, but he only needed one because he betrayed all of his friends and facilitated the murder of thousands of innocent people. And every member of the Moclan government we have ever seen is a rabid misogynist willing to mutilate or murder any women unfortunate enough to be born on their world. Those people are all up to some supervillain shit, so of course we’re not meant to like them. But what about characters who are just abrasive, not bad?

The Kaylon

Captain Ed Mercer was unbearably naive in the first season, abandoning all reason every time a pretty girl pays any attention to him, and afterward he wonders why he’s so easily manipulated. But he actually grows and becomes a better person and a leader over the next two seasons, so I’ll give Ed a pass. Same goes for Dann, who becomes less annoying as we slowly learn more about him over time. Yaphit could use a refresher course on appropriate workplace behavior, but he’s not really hurting anybody. All of these characters are tedious to put up with at times, but they’re hardly hated. No, when it comes to the least liked characters of The Orville, there’s really only two contenders: Klyden or Charly Burke.

Klyden is a civilian, the mate of Second Officer Bortus. They are Moclans, members of an all-male race, and their culture has some very regressive attitudes toward gender. Females are seen as weak, an aberration to be “corrected.” Any alien societies that include women are viewed as inherently inferior. While Bortus has kept an open mind and learned to form healthy working and personal relationships with different people from across the galaxy, Klyden remained a staunch traditionalist who was disgusted by the very idea of women and avoided interacting with them as much as possible. And when Klyden’s vitriol for the feminine was revealed to be a reflection of his own twisted self-hatred, he discarded any possibility to learn or grow from it. Instead he defends the cruel system that created him, and teaches its intolerant values to his child. Klyden was the one who insisted upon an unnecessary sex change operation to turn his infant daughter into a son, and then taught her to look down on others and despise herself just as he did. And when she finally dares to assert her own identity, he tells her he wishes she had never been born, which has got to be the cruelest thing a parent can tell you on any planet. Klyden is such a hateful bigot that he even reaches out to ruin the lives of other people in his free time.

Charly Burke is an ensign on the Orville, the navigator. She joins the crew after her previous ship, the Quimby, was destroyed in the war against the Kaylon. Unlike the rest of the crew, Burke is not willing to forgive Isaac for helping the Kaylon kill so many human beings. She avoids him when she can, and loudly protests his presence when she can’t. She is openly racist, deliberately cruel, and wildly unprofessional at times. Many viewers also complained that she was a hyper-competent Mary Sue, but where else would a young highly motivated and super talented overachiever in a post-utopian space-faring future go if not the bridge of a starship? It would actually make less sense if she wasn’t one of their most brilliant officers. And I have to point out that real Mary Sue characters don’t get entire episodes dedicated to learning they were wrong. 

That’s the key difference. In the end, Charly Burke learns and changes. She tries to make up for her mistakes. She even sacrifices her own life to prevent the genocide of a people she considered her enemy because it was the right thing to do. Klyden does not have any such redemptive moment. Only after his daughter is kidnapped and tortured by the Moclan government does he make apologies and beg forgiveness. His sudden realization that he should love and protect his child whether they be a son or daughter is really the bare minimum of parenting. Klyden’s awakening feels all the more late and unimpressive considering Bortus, his mate, arrived at the same conclusion the moment their child was born. Maybe Klyden would have continued his journey to redemption in the mythical fourth season, but he has consistently displayed the least awareness and concern for others, doing the most collateral damage, and playing the victim while surrounded by all the fires he lit. By the end of the show, every time Klyden was on screen I found myself asking “What the hell does Bortus even see in him?” Bortus has called out Klyden on his ignorance and hatred, as well as expressed serious concern over how his attitudes were affecting the development of their child, on multiple occasions. Despite Klyden making no effort to change and doubling down on his most toxic beliefs and behaviors, Bortus not only stays with him but renews their vows in a ridiculous Moclan ceremony. Honestly, I kind of judge Bortus for his choice to keep such a terrible influence in his child’s life. His daughter was contemplating suicide because of how Klyden treated her. How could you possibly welcome a person like that back into your family? It’s not like Klyden made some heartfelt gesture to show he had changed. He just showed up and said sorry. Which is an important first step, but that’s all it is. As far as what’s on screen, we have seen no evidence that Klyden has truly improved as a person.

By contrast, we see Burke confront and grapple with her own preconceptions. When she receives new information, she re-evaluates her beliefs and changes them. She’s still plenty obnoxious, with her holier-than-thou attitude and a tendency to run her mouth in front of her superiors, but she is actively making an effort to be a better person. On two separate occasions she saves the life of an enemy because she acknowledges that her prejudice is not an acceptable reason to let a person die, while Klyden’s unchecked bigotry drives him to harm others who never did him any wrong. When confronted, Klyden never admits wrongdoing or remorse—he is only ever sorry that he got caught.

So there you have it. Klyden’s the winner—he is the The Worst on the Orville. While lots of people suck, it takes a special kind of asshole to realize just how much you suck and actively decide to do nothing about it. Who knows, maybe Klyden would have continued a redemption arc is some future episodes that never got produced. But based purely on what happens on-screen, Klyden was a violent hateful bigot whose ignorance and abuse did unspeakable damage to his family and even cost the lives of many innocent bystanders. He may seem like a nice guy upon first meeting, but once you get to know him, he is most definitely not.

Because this is the internet, I need to add this explainer at the end. Declaring Klyden the most unlikable character on The Orville is not a value judgement on how the character is written or acted. Klyden is unlikable because of his actions, and I believe that is an intentional choice by the creators to have him serve a narrative function in their storytelling. I’m not saying that anybody made a mistake or did anything wrong. Klyden is unlikable on purpose, and the character is very well-executed by both the writers and the actor to promote such a visceral reaction in so many people. He is not a bad character, he is a bad person.

The Orville in flight

Breaking scandal in japan

A recent post of mine was all about how the Red Bull BC One increased the mainstream visibility and legitimacy of breakdancing as a sport by treating it like other major sporting events. And while that has helped elevate breaking to Olympic heights, becoming a recognized sport also brings downsides of equal depth. There’s still the toxic masculinity bullshit I mentioned previously, and there are a few competitive b-boys already collecting sexual misconduct allegations like pro athletes. Of course those are both very bad things that need to be addressed sooner rather than later, but there is one threat that could cripple the fledgling sport just as it steps onto the world stage—match fixing. 

A cancer that corrupts the spirit of fair competition at the heart of every beloved sport, even rumors of match fixing could undermine the confidence of both the athletes and the audience in the authenticity of the game. If either of those groups don’t believe they are witnessing a legitimate contest, the sport can’t survive. Skilled athletes don’t join competitions known for match fixing, and if a competition can’t attract skilled athletes, it won’t attract an audience, either. This is especially important in more subjective forms of competition like breaking, where the winner isn’t decided simply by calculating points. The judges for such a contest must be competent and trustworthy, otherwise no one will care about their results. To that end, the judges must avoid even the appearance of impropriety. Sadly, that has not been the case in Japan as of late. 

Let me open this next section with the caveat that my sources for the following are a lot of YouTube videos and comments, as well as Google translations of interviews in Japanese. It is entirely possible that I have misinterpreted things, but this is just my admittedly incomplete understanding of what seems to be breakdancing’s first match fixing scandal. 

Watching the Japan cypher was a puzzling experience for myself and many others, judging by the sheer volume of commentary. The engagement on most b-boy content is just declarations of who is awesome or not, occasionally interrupted by requests for the name of the song playing. But the results of the 2023 cypher whipped up a storm of indignant questions that was soon followed by a wave of disappointingly predictable answers. It’s the first time I can remember hearing the entire crowd vociferously reject the judges’ decision. Everyone wanted to know: just how the hell did B-boy Nicolas win?

Nicolas’ questionable victory

As I noted in my previous post, Japanese b-boys tend to put more emphasis on footwork than their counterparts in other countries. So much so that last year they had a competitor in their top sixteen who didn’t have any power moves, just fancy footwork and freezes. And he was eliminated in the first round, which makes sense as he completely lacked one of the major pillars of breaking. This year, Japan’s top sixteen contained no less than three competitors with finely detailed toprock, but no power moves. Not only did they all survive the first round, one of them—Nicolas—somehow defeated four obviously superior b-boys and won it all to a chorus of head scratches. Nicolas was clearly, demonstrably not on the same level as his opponents. He did not have the quick and clean execution of Hiro10, nor a vast vocabulary of moves like Shosei, and he lacked Gen Roc’s mastery of all the fundamentals of breaking. That includes power moves, of which Nicolas had none. In the final battle, Gen Roc was still pulling out new moves while Nicolas fumbled and repeated himself, utterly failing to impress. Quite simply, Nicolas is a long way from being a world-class b-boy. Yet, to the surprise of everyone including Nicolas himself, he won. And the internet said “Um, what?”

What I was able to glean from all the angry chatter that resulted was that one of the judges belonged to the same dance crew as B-boy Nicolas: the Floorriorz, which is a portmanteau of “floor” and “warriors.” It is a really stupid name. But that’s not all! A second judge is the girlfriend of that first judge with a glaring conflict of interest, and she followed his lead on every vote, pushing his under-qualified crewmate all the way to final circle, where they robbed Gen Roc of the chance to compete against the best b-boys in the world and possibly bring a third championship belt to Japan. Instead, Nicolas is going all the way to Paris to get hilariously trounced in the first round when none of his friends are in the judge’s chair. An embarrassing loss of face for Japanese b-boys, but at least the Floorriorz get to claim another world final contender on their roster! 

Apparently this isn’t the first final the Floorriorz have fixed. Back in 2017, the Japan cypher had one of its most underwhelming final battles ever as two b-boys with no power moves just traded footwork until the crowd fell asleep. Even with the bar set so low, b-boy Steez managed to turn in a particularly pathetic performance that was painfully slow, unoriginal, unimpressive, unable to hit a beat, and of course, completely lacking power moves. Despite doing nothing we hadn’t seen before and doing it poorly to boot, Steez was named Japan’s 2017 champion. And the internet said “Um, what?” 

The underwhelming Ryo vs. Steez final battle from 2017

Well, I’m sure you will be shocked to hear that b-boy Steez and two of the judges at that 2017 cypher were all members of the Floorriorz dance crew at the time. Even better, Steez never made it to the finals that year because he got knocked out during the Last Chance Cypher that decides who the sixteen world finalists will be. So the Floorriorz have compromised the integrity of the competition in Japan at least twice (that we know of) for their own gain, and have only gotten more flagrant about it. Back in 2017, they at least tried to set up Steez against a weak opponent so he would look better by comparison. This year, they pitted Nicolas against an actual world-class b-boy, making it obvious to even the most casual observer that the fix was in. It’s an insult and an injustice to all the b-boys who entered that cypher and danced their best to be denied and disregarded because of some sleazy backstage politics. The best b-boys in Japan aren’t going to keep giving their all at the Red Bull BC One if they know their skill, talent and style can be beaten by a secret handshake. At the very least, the Floorriorz should be banned from judging or participating in any events for five years, and Red Bull needs to seriously examine their recruitment criteria for judges. Allowing teammates to judge each other seems like the most obvious conflict of interest that should be avoided in an athletic competition, and it’s weird that nobody in the organization seems to think that might be a problem. As of this writing, I have not seen any comment from Red Bull on this controversy. 

But wait! It gets worse! After watching translated post-battle interviews with both questionable winners, I discovered an unsettling similarity. Both Steez and Nicolas espoused more than a few talking points of a toxic false philosophy that seeks to undermine the very foundations of breaking to serve a selfish desire to make it “easier” for less skilled dancers to compete at the highest levels. They proclaim themselves the pioneers of a “new, abstract style” that’s somehow “more artistic” because it doesn’t rely on “flashy power moves.” As if this were some kind of aesthetic choice on their part, and not just a lame excuse for why they can’t do power moves. They insinuate that breakdancing has been dumbed down by an unfair emphasis on the moves they are personally unable to do. That breaking is being dominated by jocks performing feats of strength rather than artists expressing themselves. And I can only assume the Floorriorz hold this view as well, since they’ve gone to such lengths to force it into the spotlight.

All of that is complete and utter nonsense, and I’ll tell you why. They are not inventing a “new style.” Below-average b-boys have been telling themselves this since the late 1990s. The simple fact is that power moves are one of the pillars of breaking, and if you can’t do any, then you aren’t the best breakdancer in the world. There’s a world of difference between not depending on power moves and not having any at all. The first one is an artistic choice, while the second is a personal shortcoming. To put in perspective just how absurd their assertions are, it would be like a figure skater that refuses to do any spinning moves. That might be interesting to watch, but it definitely wouldn’t win her any Olympic medals, because the best figure skaters in the world can spin. If you can’t spin, you are not one of the best in the world, and the same is true of breaking. The difference is that these insecure subpar b-boys refused to accept that they might need to work harder to become world class contenders, so instead they started a disinformation campaign trying to convince everyone that power moves don’t matter and aren’t even that cool anyway, but are somehow also unfairly favored and exclusionary. A bad faith argument and a victim complex wrapped up in one toxic package that could poison the core of breakdancing.

Power moves are not this dominating force in competitive breaking. Sure, there will always be “b-bros” that try to brute force their way to the finals by just cramming as many moves as they can into 90 seconds, but the important thing to note is that those guys don’t win. Contrary to the Floorriorz position, the world finals is not even remotely saturated with powerhouses that win despite ignoring footwork and style. In fact, “too much spinning, not enough dancing” has become a common critique leveled by judges and commentators at b-boys who forget to listen to the beat. There are plenty of very successful b-boys out there that use few traditional power moves, or replace them with their own creations. Two-time world champ B-boy Lilou’s abstract style used absurd acrobatics to break up his bouts of brilliant downrocking, while former Japanese champ Issei won the big belt in 2016 by saving his few power moves as punctuation in a performance of impeccable footwork. His reserved approach actually defeated an impressive onslaught of combos by former champ Hong10, proof that power alone doesn’t win the world title. One thing all three of those former world champs have in common—they can all spin on their heads, but it’s not even close to their most impressive trick.

Hong10 vs. Issei in the world final battle of 2016

Ultimately, every proponent of this fake philosophy is a hypocrite. They falsely accuse their betters of under-appreciating footwork while they completely ignore power moves and whine about not getting the recognition they don’t deserve. You don’t get to be the best at any art or sport by refusing to engage with parts of it. Just like a figure skater refusing to twirl, or a gymnast that won’t jump, a b-boy that can’t spin on his head has no place in the world championships. It is the height of entitlement for these power-free dancers to insist they belong there, especially since there is an entirely separate category that caters exclusively to them! That’s right—the Red Bull BC One, along with most of the other big breaking tournaments in the world, host footwork-only competitions alongside the main event. These guys literally have their own tournaments where power moves aren’t allowed, but that isn’t enough. They want to be able to beat the best b-boys in the world without putting in the hard work to actually become better dancers, so they want to win by changing the rules instead. And that idea is completely antithetical to the spirit of breakdancing. You try to top your opponent, not drag them down. You win by doing better. In competitive breaking, dancers are scored on several metrics: number of moves, complexity/difficulty of moves, footwork, execution, style, and musicality. If your opponent combos a flare into a headspin, and you reply with two minutes of downrock, you already know you didn’t top him. To insist otherwise is either dishonest or delusional.

The Red Bull BC One’s footwork-only competition in 2023

If this corruption is allowed to continue, it will irreparably damage the integrity of the sport. When a match is so flagrantly fixed that the entire audience can tell, it undermines everybody’s confidence that the competition will be judged in good faith, free of outside influence. The Red Bull BC One risks earning a reputation for running rigged games, and when that happens the world’s best b-boys won’t be battling in their circle anymore—it won’t be worth their sweat if the belt always goes to the judge’s friend. And the audience will go with them. Nobody wants to tune into three hours of mediocre b-boys practicing the six-step. The Red Bull BC One would become the worst thing an international athletic competition can be: boring.

Not related to this article, but I wanted to leave you with an actually good battle: Quake vs. Mighty Jake

Litreactor shutting down

Sadly, on October 9, LitReactor announced it will be shutting down. It was a site dedicated to the craft of writing, helping its practitioners refine their skills and tell their stories. Hundreds of articles, workshops and classes backed by a robust and active community, all of it dedicated to making writers better at what they do. It was as entertaining as it was informative, and I enjoyed learning a great deal from the site over the last decade. 

The end of an era

LitReactor was one of the first sites to pay me regularly to write. I was initially brought on to write about comic books and the movies that sprang from them, but eventually expanded into book reviews, video game criticism, and essays on the craft. While it didn’t pay any bills, it gave me the opportunity to explore interesting topics like character development, world building, and ludonarrative dissonance. I even managed to weigh in on some important issues, like mental health and police brutality. And having a byline on LitReactor opened the doors to a few other writing gigs over the years. 

Despite being a destination for writers looking to take their craft seriously, LitReactor was also host to many hilarious satirical bits, listicles, and all-around nonsense that reminded us to still have fun. Everything from dialogue tips to the worst schools in fiction. A salute to popular tropes right next to a clinical dissection of an entire genre. My favorite piece I ever wrote for LitReactor was “Your Favorite Book Sucks: The Giving Tree,” in which I draw an uncomfortably accurate comparison between the philosophies of Shel Silverstein’s beloved children’s book, and those of Iceberg Slim’s controversial classic novel Pimp. I thought it was hilarious. Some people took offense. But honestly, “The Giving Tree” is practically a how-to book on building toxic relationships.

LitReactor was a repository of interesting writing from a variety of viewpoints, and I consider myself lucky to have been one of them. A very unique corner of the internet will be going dark, and that’s always a bummer. Farewell, LitReactor. You will be missed.

All about b-boys

I love breakdancing. Always have. When I was a young boy, I saw a kid moonwalking on Sesame Street and was completely captivated by the otherworldly movement. To me, it looked impossible. I shared Big Bird’s amazement when Petey explained that the moonwalk belonged to a whole galaxy of wild moves known as breakdancing, and I was all in. Learned new moves injury by injury through pain and perseverance. Showed off at parties and school dances. Never won any competitions, or even qualified for them, but I enjoyed myself immensely. Eventually I discovered I was a much better DJ than a dancer, and so I left the floor behind for the booth. Although my own time as a breaker was quite short and unremarkable, I cultivated an appreciation for the form and the culture surrounding it, as well as an everlasting admiration for the b-boys, those dance samurai dueling for honor on the cardboard battlefield. To my eyes, the b-boy is a living symbol of the pure jubilation that comes from uniting a body with a beat. I have never seen anyone having more fun than a breakdancer who knows they are totally shredding. 

It’s been at least twenty years since I threw down in a circle. Definitely can’t do it now, with the bad back and carpal tunnel syndrome my brief b-boy phase gave me, all exacerbated by age. But I still enjoy seeing the form grow and flourish, and to that end, I watch the Red Bull BC One World Finals every year. Essentially the Super Bowl of breakdancing. It is not the first nor the only global breakdancing championship, but it is the most popular for a reason. Over the years they have refined competitive breaking into its simplest form, easy for even the most casual viewer to understand. They turned it into a real sporting event, with star performers playing to a stadium full of cheering spectators, and former contenders providing color commentary on the action. Their broadcasts are of equal value to fans new and old. And every year without fail, I see at least one ambitious b-boy do something impossible. It keeps me coming back, and continues to inspire new generations of dancers to join the circle. 

Most importantly, the Red Bull BC One has increased the visibility of breaking all around the world, bringing a wealth of new inspiration and energy to the sport. When I was a kid growing up in 1990s Texas, there weren’t a ton of resources for a wannabe breaker to draw on. You couldn’t just look up videos on the internet and there weren’t any classes to sign up for at the local gym, so I had to settle for wearing out my VHS copy of Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo as I tried to replicate the moves in the mirror. Now, high schools field breakdancing teams and there are waiting lists to get on them. Breaking is set to make its Olympic debut at the 2024 games in Paris, a city that houses a robust hip-hop scene to rival New York’s, and has produced more than a few world class dancers. As a sport, breakdancing is on the verge of getting all the respect and attention it deserves. 

This year I decided that in addition to the world final, I would also watch all of the qualifiers leading up to it. I’m really glad I did, because there are so many incredibly talented b-boys that never make it to the championship ring, but they are no less enthralling to behold. The finalists are all the more impressive now that I’ve seen the capable contenders they had to overcome to get there. And every year they raise the bar on what’s possible, creating new tricks and combining old ones in astounding ways. Back when I was learning, the headspin was basically a “game over” move—there was pretty much nothing your opponent could do that was cooler than that, except spin faster and longer than you. But if you want a shot at the world finals in 2023, spinning on your head is a prerequisite. A basic one, at that. If you can’t land a backflip on your head and spin into a windmill with no hands, you won’t be dancing in the last circle. In fact, the endless combo has become common enough that these days judges will penalize b-boys who do too much spinning and not enough dancing.

The hypothetical ideal b-boy strikes a perfect balance between dancer and athlete, adding a subjective element to the competition that cannot be overlooked. Physical prowess alone is not enough to win. Victory is not achieved by scoring the most goals, but by being the most compelling contestant to watch. Dancers are judged not just on the difficulty and execution of their moves, but also footwork, style, and musicality. I’ve seen plenty of powerhouses fizzle out despite their feats of superhuman strength because they ignored the beat. And I’ve seen b-boys defeat seemingly superior opponents with sheer force of personality. When two equally skilled b-boys throw down, the victor is often the one who appears to be having the most fun, making those impossible stunts look easy. But originality matters above all—performing the same catalogue of moves as everyone else won’t win you any oversized belts. That’s just gymnastics. 

Watching all of the cyphers around the world has also revealed interesting regional variances in breakdancing. Some things that I originally identified as personal stylistic differences between b-boys turned out to be the standard in their countries of origin. I believed former Japanese champion Issei to be a singularly skilled master of toprock, only to find out that all of the contenders in his homeland have the most impeccably detailed footwork. They spend much more time dancing upright than b-boys from other countries. One of Japan’s top 16 breakers last year didn’t even have any power moves—just fancy footwork and poses. Of course he was eliminated in the first round, but the fact he made it that far says a lot about how much his countrymen value the fine details of the dance. On the opposite end of the spectrum were Holland and Poland, fielding the most of what I’ve termed “b-bros.” Breakdancers built like football players who do only enough footwork to build up momentum for their ridiculous string of power moves without rhythm or reason, as if it were a contest of strength rather than a dance. While impressive, these displays are always defeated by those that actually listen to the music. Which is not to say these countries did not produce some world-class b-boys. Holland’s winner, Kid Colombia, embodies the best of both schools: all the speed and power of a linebacker combined with the grace of an ice skater and more flair than a crate of fireworks. And he makes it look so easy. Definitely my early pick for world champ this year. 

I’m sure everyone will be shocked to hear Brazil had the most hyped crowd. They made a righteous amount of noise, went absolutely nuts every time someone landed a dope trick, and some of them even waved handmade signs for their favorite b-boys. Brazil’s competitors also have the most tattoos, if anyone’s counting. Several had full body and face works. Even those I thought didn’t have any would reveal the ink on their chest as a soon as they did a handstand. Although tattoos are common on competitive breakers almost everywhere except Japan, I’d never seen them in such volume before.

The Austrians really love to spin. Even their footwork is spinning. I don’t know how they do it; I get dizzy just watching them. 

Taiwan had the most intense fashion choices. Almost nobody showed up in just sweats and a T-shirt. There was a guy with Super Saiyan hair and gold shades wearing a yellow and black striped prisoner uniform with red suspenders. One dude in a banana yellow hoodie facing a dude in an orange vinyl jacket. B-boy Jasper had a black and white checkered pattern all over his sweatsuit, and when he began to spin it looked like my screen was glitching. Even the few b-boys that didn’t bother to dress up still had colorful patterns of KT tape applied to their arms and back. Fashion is an important but often overlooked part of b-boy culture. Many just wear sweats or whatever athletic wear they find the most comfortable, which would be fine in any other sport where artistic expression doesn’t matter. A slam dunk in basketball is always worth two points, no matter how awesome the player looked doing it. But again, breaking is not about scoring goals. A b-boy wins by being more interesting to watch than his opponent, and the clothes they choose to wear have a huge impact on that. Yes, bright colors and interesting patterns can be eye-catching, but there’s more to it than that. Wearing contrasting colors on different parts of the body can make it easier for the audience’s eye to follow a dancer’s movements when they approach ludicrous speed. And the movement of their clothing adds to the overall picture the dancer paints, at times emphasizing, exaggerating, or even concealing their motions. The b-boys of Taiwan seem to understand this better than most.

B-boy Jasper breaking monitors

But what stood out even more than the differences were the things that were the same all over the world. One similarity that surprised me was the music. Of course it was all breakbeats, but that is a genre miles wide. It’s deceptively simple and incredibly versatile—add just enough drums to any catchy hook and you have a circle-shredding banger. I expected a little more diversity in the tunes, to hear samples from the many different musical heritages in all the host countries. Big bass drums from Brazil, sitar stings in India, or maybe some trumpet and violin samples in Mexico. But other than France’s fondness for funk, the records spun were surprisingly similar and betrayed no regional influences. By contrast, the DJs at the world finals tend to play beats from all over the globe, so I was surprised to hear so little variety. I’ve never had the privilege of DJing for a b-boy battle, so I wonder if there are unique considerations when selecting records for a competition as opposed to a cypher at a party or on the street.

Sadly, the other universal constant was the presence of toxic masculinity bullshit. Dancers being aggressive to the point of almost starting fights. While taunting and clowning one’s opponent has always been a part of breakdancing, there’s always at least one guy in the cypher who takes it way too far. A breaker in Poland performed a rude gesture where he put his hand in his opponent’s face, and of course they ended up bumping chests like a couple of silverbacks. In Kazakhstan, a competitor walked out into the middle of the dance floor during his opponent’s turn in an attempt to interfere and had to be ordered to step back. A contender in India opened his set by spitting at his opponent, which is disgusting on even more levels in a world recently ravaged by COVID. To his opponent’s credit, he took it remarkably well. He actually laughed, because he knew there was nothing that guy could do to win after that. 

I can’t really fathom the why of this particular brand of stupidity. Breaking isn’t like hockey, where there’s a subtle metagame to playing dirty enough to win, yet clean enough to avoid penalties. If you’re rude, aggressive and obnoxious about it—honestly, if you do anything other than dancing to win a breakdancing competition, you suck and nobody likes you. Not even the judges. All of the b-boys I mentioned performed otherwise admirable sets that had a chance to win if they hadn’t behaved so disgracefully, and each one was unanimously voted off. That brings hope for the future of the sport. Although the judges could do a better job of calling out when a contender is eliminated due to poor sportsmanship. Everyone, even the audience, should know when a competitor is disqualified rather than defeated by his opponent. It helps everyone learn the rules, and it will definitely discourage such behavior when b-boys know that acting like a jerk gets him an automatic loss, no matter how fly his moves may be.

Breaking is bigger than ever, and it looks like it’s going to get the time, attention, and energy it needs to continue to grow and evolve. I can’t wait to see all of the amazing things b-boys will do over the next fifty years. 

first!!!

My first post here. How exciting! Still has that new blog smell. Now that I’ve said that, I can’t help but wonder: what does the internet smell like? Not sure I want an answer.

That’s the kind of quality unstructured musing you can probably expect to be a regular thing here. I’ll also use this space to post my less polished thoughts on movies, video games, music, and writing. Maybe I’ll even provide updates and peeks behind the curtain as I develop new worlds and fill them with stories.

Actually, that can be the first one. I write most of my fiction by building the world and filling it with characters first. Then I follow them around to see which ones lead to the most interesting stories, and it’s rarely the characters that look the most like protagonists. Sweet Benny was originally made to be a minor comic relief role in another character’s story, but the brilliant con artist with terrible luck quickly hustled his way to top billing in my first novel. The legendary gunslinger Dodge Hardin began as just a supporting player in Benny’s story, before graduating to a novel of his own. And the character I’m writing about now, Marshal Galaxy, was initially conceived as a secondary villain to provide a narrative obstacle in another, admittedly less interesting, hero’s story.

In my experience, building the world first eventually makes it much easier to generate characters and storylines. Your mileage may vary, but if you’re suffering writer’s block or are just bored and want to try something new, give it a shot.