Captain Amurrrica.

The heat here has been almost unbearable, especially for creatures like Mr. Sleepschmeep and me, who dream of living in a place with perpetual autumn and no humidity. So today, seeking respite from the energy-sucking humidity lurking around our third-floor apartment, we decided to head to catch a matinee at the cinema. He chose, and I agreed to see Captain America. (“But it takes place during WWII! And there are Europeans! It’s your field and period!” Well, he was half right. I don’t focus on WWII). I knew absolutely nothing about the franchise, as I have never opened a comic book, but I figured it’d be something like Spiderman. (Warning, there are probably some spoilers ahead.)

It was okay. I’d say that it was gratuitously flame-ridden and melodramatic, with masturbatory special effects and one-liners and over-the-top villains who only managed to stop short of a “mwahahahahaha,” tapping their fingers together in front of their menacing grins. But this would be stupid, because I basically went in expecting it to be just like this. And I think anyone who goes into a movie like Captain America expecting to find something refreshing or poignant or subtle social commentaries is an idiot. Instead, I’ll just say that it was a relaxing way to pass a sweltering afternoon. The film cost a fortune to produce, and it shows. The costuming and staging are delicious, and the orchestration was nicely done, too. That being said, a few bones to pick:

1. As some other bloggers have pointed out, what is with American war films whitewashing the realities of military racial segregation? Captain America managed to drum up a multicultural team of American soldiers including an Asian and a black guy! That’s quite a feat, and the cynic inside of me kept finding this the one element of the film for which I could not suspend my disbelief. It wasn’t Captain America out-swimming a submarine, or the insane motorcycle feats, or the annoying and skinny bobble-head version of Chris Evans complete with unconvincing voice dubbing, or hell, even the premise that Stanley Tucci (more on him in a minute) could turn a scrawny Brooklyn kid into the brawny superhero with a blue serum in a society that couldn’t even yet vaccinate for polio. It was the desegregated American forces. Meh.

2. I love Stanley Tucci. He has this sort of demeanor onscreen that reads as charmingly understated. He does not disappoint in this film. And the German accent works, too.

3. While I appreciate that the film tried to “empower” Agent Peggy Carter, and that she wasn’t only a vagina (or probably more fitting, not only a huge set of breasts in a tight red dress), the character was just… blah. It seemed ironic to me that her character was titled “Agent” at all, since she was afforded all the agency of a teaspoon. Hey, uh, Agent Carter. Sit in the car and look wistful and seductive. Provide moral support for Captain America when he needs mothering comfort. Punch a soldier in the face like a BAMF, but turn submissive shortly after. (Note to Hollywood: giving your supporting female a gun does not empower her.) I brightened for a moment when I saw Natalie Dormer (with American accent!) appear onscreen, but she really was just a big steaming puddle of vagina. Who must express gratitude for “the women of America,” who are grateful for what the Captain has done for their men, by throwing herself at him. Other women? What other women? (Oh wait, sorry, there were a few dancing girls.)

But like I said, it would have been stupid to expect anything else out of this film. So if you’re looking for spectacle, a villain and Igor-like sidekick (seriously, the shots in their lab were ripped straight out of the old mad scientist films), lots of explosions, motorcycles, fights, and very little interruption from any pesky womenfolk, this movie’s for you.

Facebook.

I’ve been having a lot of feelings about Facebook lately. I’m probably just bitter, or externalizing, or both. But really, I can’t spend more than a few minutes at a time on there before I start getting irritated and vow to log off and stay away for at least a week. And then I log back in twenty minutes later. You know.

If you’ve seen Easy A, which I happened to think was charming, you’ll remember this scene.

I’m not really sure what my problem is with Facebook. I have no real case against it, except that it breeds narcissism. And turns brains to mashed potatoes. And encourages people to focus on superficial personal traits at the expense of learning to foster deep connections with other human beings.

Lately, I cannot stop thinking about how many of my peers are obsessed with defining themselves, very publicly, in a highly idealized way. It is annoying, and I know we all do it. I don’t think everyone realizes how frequently this happens. Facebook encourages this sort of behavior. Lonely people can talk about how great their friends are, and change their profile picture to a shot from someone’s wedding or a party five months ago. Insecure people can choose pseudo-artsy photos of themselves, staring off into the distance or made to look as though they didn’t realize the shot was being captured, that this is how they really look and exist from moment to moment. Unhappy people can declare their love for their boyfriend or job or new sectional. People afraid of blending in can project an image of themselves as eclectic, with an array of  “favorite” music artists and films that they’ve only partially experienced, if at all. I have a few friends and acquaintances who are severely guilty of these offenses.

And the strangest part is that we simultaneously let the rest of the world “in,” to this flattering misrepresentation of our lives, and eagerly devour these projections from our peers. It’s strange.

I think I also dislike Facebook because once I started to grow irritated with its inherent narcissism, I realized that I was as guilty as anyone. I have spent more time on there than I care to admit. I used to update my status religiously. I had a million “likes” and groups and blurbs about myself in my profile. You know, because the world really needs to know that I love David Rakoff and Sassy Gay Friend and Jezebel and puppies and despise Glenn Beck. I do it too.

This brings me to my next point. Too many of my Facebook friends fail to maintain boundaries between private and public. Beyond just self-projecting in a conceited and idealized way, they often let people in a bit too much. If you’re familiar with Lamebook, you get the idea. Some of them fall in a grey area: snapshots of your child in the bathtub, your entire schedule for the day spelled out in your status update (yes, I have several friends who do this every damn day), the complaints about your spouse or your boss or coworkers. Other offenses are a bit more unsettling. Like the acquaintance who sought revenge against an ex by airing a laundry list of sexual fetishes. Or the unsavory photos of girls I went to high school in provocative poses. Or another girl I went to high school with, who keeps posting really intimate details about her ongoing divorce.

Then there are the just plain annoying proclamations. Does the world need to know that you love Red Bull? Is it going to make a difference in the world if you join a group to end hunger? Does the world need to know that you had Quizno’s for lunch? What is this foursquare business, besides ri-god-damn-diculous?

I think much of this bitterness stems from the fact that I have some complete idiots on my list. For a long time, I just let anyone I already knew add me as a friend, for fear of seeming like a jerk. Born and raised in the wilds of Appalachia, and relocating to a cosmopolitan area for college, I have quite a blend of friends. And now that my conservative, progressive-hatin’, gun-totin’ family (yes, I know this is a generalization at best) has joined Facebook, my feed is under attack by a constant barrage of groups like “Keep Christ in CHRISTmas… Who’s with me?” and “Bush Fans” and, oddly enough, “If you DON’T want people in your business, DON’T post it on your STATUS!” Election season is grueling.

Finally, why in the world must we type LIKE THIS?!!????!!!???**~*~* My mom is the worst at this. She insists on typing as though she is SHOUTING all the TIME, as though no one will take her seriously or understand how PASSIONATE she is about attacking Walmart for leaving a puddle of water near the deli with only a small “wet floor” sign, if she doesn’t type like this, followed by fifty exclamation points or question marks. I get it. You mean what you’re saying. Please stop making my eyes bleed. Or to all of the people who insist on publishing song lyrics or quotes as their status updates: why? Yes, girl I graduated with, we know you like country music, but continually posting lyrics to self-identify gets annoying. And what the hell is this Picnik business? Don’t even get me started on those strange quizzes, games, and apps.

But still, I suppose my biggest concern is that I am party to this ridiculousness. I still use the site. I’ll still use it even after I finish this angst-ridden blog post. And, despite my complaints about people insistently projecting idealized self-images into the abyss of the internet, I am sitting here writing about my feelings for whomever chooses to read this. But I am going to try to take a break from Facebook, really. It makes me angry. On a positive note: I recently decided to stop “hiding” people on my feed, and actually went through and deleted over 200 of them. It felt good. I’m now at the point where I basically use my account to send people birthday wishes and annoying memes, or read interesting articles posted by some of the interesting friends on my feed. It’s a start.

Further reading: this article by Libby Copeland at Slate.