post- 02/15/19

Issue

In This Defending Eurylochus Charlie Stewart 4h

Finding My Way

Holly Zheng 3

Providence Steamrollers

Colleen Cronin 2 Robert Capron 5

If It Weren't For You Meddling Kids Harry Levine 6

Controlled Chaos

postCover by Joanne Han

FEB 15

VOL 23 —

ISSUE 15

FEATURE

Providence Steamrollers Family History and Football

By Colleen Cronin Illustrated by Ashley Hernandez

A

week before the Super Bowl, my dad called me and said he had a great story for me to write. My dad often pitches me story ideas, but this one was a little more personal than usual. My dad thought, after talking to his dad, that I should write about my great-grandfather and his brother, both of whom played for an NFL team in Providence before the Great Depression.

I knew in the back of my mind that my greatgrandfather had played for the NFL, but I had no idea that he had played in Providence; I didn’t even know the city ever had a football team. Could there really have been a New England champion besides my beloved Pats?

If you are from New England, you know that the Patriots are more than just a football team to many locals. Even if you’re not, their notoriety and Rob Gronkowski’s Tide commercials have made the team a household name.

And if you know me, you know I’m a Patriots fan and quite unapologetic about it. In my house my dad is always watching “the game,” and my mom and I are usually watching with him.

Since 2001, the Patriots have won six Super Bowls, and with a winning streak like that, how could you not watch? Although New England as a whole has been able to claim six rings in the last two decades, everyone from this area knows that residents of Massachusetts, particularly Boston (a.k.a. Titletown), gain the most pride (and the most excuses to day-drink) from the championship machine.

Where did the Pats celebrate their big win? Not College Hill’s Thayer Street, but Boston’s Boylston Street. It’s true that Warwick’s T.F. Green is the official airport of the Pats and that Rhode Island has tried to have a larger role in the franchise in the past. In the 1990s, before a winning streak started that many would call a miracle (and New Yorkers would call a pain in the ass), Providence’s infamous Mayor Buddy Cianci tried to coerce Pats

owner Robert Kraft to build a field near Providence Place Mall. In 1997, the Baltimore Sun reported that former RI Governor Lincoln Almond called Kraft about a possible site change for the team. The coercion didn’t work. Instead, thousands of Rhode Islanders have to flock to Massachusetts every year to get their football fixes.

However, 90 years ago, it was actually the other way around.

There was once a team called the Providence Steam Roller, sometimes called The Roller, The Steamroller, or even The Steamrollers. Winning a championship a mere nine years after the founding of the National Football League, the Rollers weren’t exactly a modern franchise; take, for example, Coach Jimmy Conzelman, who also moonlit as the team’s quarterback. They played in a stadium called the Cycledrome, on North Main Street, near

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, So it snowed a lot. These things tend to happen in the winter. Especially here.

But now, the snow is melting. These things also tend to happen. Everywhere (except the very north and the very south). But what’s important is that for us at Brown, spring is (supposedly) coming! And as the flowers start to blossom, so too does another spring semester’s worth of creativity.

To that end, check out this week’s pieces! Spring semester always begets an intense bout of self-reflection, whether that manifests as actually showing up to class sometimes or, say, doing your laundry more than once a month.

What better way to explore our inner selves than through an intergenerational meditation on professional football?

Or how about through Greek myth?

Or Scooby Doo? Or the uncomfortably relatable sensation of being absolutely,

2 post–

helplessly lost even with the baroque technology of Google Maps readily available to you?

If you’re looking for more, cough, alternative methods of self-examination, why not read an in-depth analysis of the entire Lethal Weapon franchise? Mel Gibson is as sage of a spiritual guide as any…right?

At any rate, the taxing spiritual hurdle of Valentine’s Day is past us, some groundhog in Philadelphia used his gift of prophecy to foretell an early spring, and February’s the shortest month of the year. Things are looking up. Perhaps that laundry will get done after all. And if nothing else, post- is here to guide you through the next few months of ontological and academic imbroglio.

Griffin

section editor of arts & culture

Things to Do Over the Long Weekend 1.

2.

Spend too long deciding whether to hit up your Datamatches Peruse the CVS candy aisle for discount Valentine’s Day chocolates

3.

Go to Boston only to wander around Boston Commons then talk about it for months

4.

5.

“Apply” to “internships” Pretend to study for biochemistry, organic chemistry, physics, etc. while actually just rewatching Marie Kondo’s The Art of Cleaning Up for the eighth time

6.

Rewatch the first five seasons of Friends and realize you’re too far gone, so just finish the remaining five

7.

Sleep, regardless of the number of overdue assignments you have

8.

Convince your friend to spend $100 on a projector so you can invite people over to play Smash

9.

10.

Actually make the time to ~bond~ with your friends Spend time venerating past U.S. presidents, because they have such a great track record

NARRATIVE the Pawtucket-Providence line, according to the team’s official programs (archived in Rhode Island Historical Society's library).

Although the team only played professionally for six years, they became world champions in 1928. In those early days of American football, the NFL was small, and the Rollers didn’t have a lot of in-league competition. But the Rollers still played against some familiar faces, like the Green Bay Packers and New York Giants. Other rivals have faded into the past, like the Rollers themselves.

According to The Pro Football Archives, in the 1928 season, the team had eight wins, one loss and two ties. In the NFL today, there’s no such thing as a tie, but then again, back then there was no such thing as a “Super Bowl” or even a championship game. In 1928, the team with the best season record won the league.

alums who had done both—it didn’t matter. Football was much more than the games they played.

Although Bill would only stay on the team until 1929, and Jack until 1930, football (and sports in general) would remain a large part of their lives.

When their pro careers ended, Jack stayed in Providence to teach and coach football, baseball, and hockey at La Salle Academy, a Catholic high school in Providence. Bill moved back to their hometown of Hingham, ultimately coaching the same three sports at both the Hingham High School and Thayer Academy in Braintree. Both men were highly regarded Hall of Famers at their respective institutions. They started recreational groups, gave back to their communities, and helped kids go pro.

For a while, they lived pretty wonderful, mirrored lives. But while Jack would live to be 90, Bill would only live to 54.

Sure I am proud that I have pro-footballers in my family tree— it is kind of cool. But what I’m more proud of is the sense that they were so much more than that; they left a lot in their wake.

In the ’28 season, the Rollers faced off against the Frankford Yellow Jackets several times, and the Jackets would claim the team’s only loss that year.

The Rollers also went up against a football team called the New York Yankees (not to be confused with the baseball team of the same name) who played at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

Documentation on the Rollers is everywhere, including in the archives of the Providence Journal and in the personal collections of Peter Laudi (who was a partial owner of the Rollers), which are kept at the Rhode Island Historical Society.

After looking into my family’s “scoop,” I was excited to find some familiar names in the archives.

Throughout the Rollers’ 1928 programs, two names show up on the starting lineup almost every week: Bill and Jack Cronin, my great-grandfather and his brother.

Jack was a leftback and Bill backed him up, like any big brother would, as his fullback. Jack was number five on the field, while Bill was number nine (my own favorite number).

I first heard about the brothers, especially Bill, when I was about five years old. My greatgrandfather was a legend, the first in a long line of men whom I deeply respect. Pictures of him, most of the time posing on a sports field, adorn the walls of my grandparents’ den. As I dug into the story and looked through old newspaper coverage of the games, more pictures appeared. Dark-haired, broadly built, with a square-jawed face, Bill Sr. looked just like my dad.

In the Rollers’ era, football was very different.

Teddy Roosevelt had tried to ban the sport in its early days, but even after surviving that initial trial, professional football struggled to gain popularity.

College football was very popular, which might explain why the NFL thrived in Providence (which only had Brown’s football team) but was nonexistent in Boston (full of Harvard and Boston College football players).

College or professional, to Bill and Jack—BC

In ’56, my great-grandfather died of an unexpected heart attack when my grandfather was only a junior in high school.

Prior to his father’s death, as a three-sport athlete with a three-sport coach for a father, my grandfather, Bill Jr., in many ways lived his early life alongside Bill Sr. “I went to all the high school practices, football practices, baseball practices, and hockey…from the time I was two or three. I was with my father every day, virtually every day,” my Papa told me over the phone one night. “Talk about having a close relationship. I mean, I only had 17 years with my father, but I probably spent more time with my father than most parents spend in a lifetime with their kids.”

When his father wasn’t coaching, he was writing columns in the Patriot Ledger about football and scouting for college teams, including the Brown University team in the 1940s.

Using his own money, Bill Sr. would take kids to meet coaches and help them map out colleges and careers. He wasn’t just focused on the kids going pro—he started several recreational programs, including one of the first for girls in Hingham.

After Bill Sr. died, a field was dedicated to him in Hingham, the largest baseball field in town. He was active in the community from 1919 to 1956, and “had a presence all those years,” according to my grandfather.

Back in Providence, Jack had been giving back too. His obituary in 1993, titled “Jack Cronin never failed to do the right thing,” chronicled his life as a coach and included the legacy of coaches and players at the college and pro level that he left behind. And even after his death, La Salle players still wore John “Jack” Patrick Cronin’s initials on their jerseys.

“The story of the two brothers in the NFL is really something. What they both achieved in their lives after that and what they did was more remarkable,” my grandfather told me.

Something in that statement really rang true to me. Sure, I am proud that I have pro footballers in

my family tree—it is kind of cool. But what I’m more proud of is the sense that they were so much more than that; they left a lot in their wake. In the course of their lives, they inspired a lot of joy.

I think that’s why many of us love sports stories. The players give their all, and they give us joy. They are our champions because they exceed our expectations and are larger than life. What astonishes me is that Jack and Bill really were those champions on and off the field.

Learning about their story makes me feel a deeper connection to a sport I already loved for its wins and its triumphs, something I always watch with my dad.

I wonder a lot about what my great-grandfather would have thought about the Pats today and the state of professional football in general. The sport has certainly changed a lot since my greatgrandfather played. Although football players did not achieve then the celebrity status that figures like Tom Brady and Rob Gronkowski achieve now, I really like to think that, beyond football, Bill and Jack are legends in their own right.

As a little kid, visiting my dad’s hometown, I remember feeling a sense of pride seeing my last name on the field’s sign and knowing of the legacy my relative left decades before. The field and its name are the story of a man who happened to be an incredible athlete and who also used his success to support the community he loved. That’s a story that outlasts records and championships.

“I’m extremely proud of that field and what it represents,” my grandfather said. So am I.

Finding My Way Embracing Getting Lost

T

By Holly Zheng Illustrated by brenda rodriguez

he wind cut my hands sharply, but I could feel the rest of my body heating up under my heavy windbreaker. As I ascended the steep slope of College Hill, the few RISD shuttles I passed assured me that I was walking in the right direction. After a few more minutes of walking up the hill, sweat gradually enveloping my torso, Faunce Arch finally appeared in the distance to my right. At last, I knew that I wasn’t lost.

This memory of my first time climbing College Hill resurfaced when I met up with a younger highschool friend who visited a few weeks ago. As we walked down Thayer, my friend murmured something about navigating the hill between the train station and Brown’s campus. “I got so lost,” he complained.

I nodded, thinking about the twists and turns along that hill and the same chilly January wind that I experienced on my first visit here two years ago. This path along the hill via Waterman has become my default route to walk between campus and downtown, but the halfway point where the slope suddenly rises still surprises me whenever I reach it.

Although I’ve had plenty of experience navigating busy street intersections and complicated subway systems through my past travels, my fear of getting lost persists. When my mom and I stepped off the airport shuttle in Hong Kong this past winter, we stood on

“The only Datamatch I want is my orgo lab data matching the expected results.”

“A conductor is just a polished DJ, no?”

Febryary 15, 2018 3

NARRATIVE

the busy sidewalk, losing ourselves in figuring out how to get to our hotel. Google Maps indicated that there were some big brand-name stores near it, so I was hoping that their store signs would lead the way.

After we turned the corner to reach the main street, a sea of neon lights surrounded us. Night hadn’t fallen yet, but most of the signs were already lit. Big brand names competed for attention and lowered my hopes of finding guidance.

My fingers were growing numb from dragging my suitcase across the bumpy sidewalk. Although the shuttle driver had told us just to keep walking in the same direction after turning, I felt disoriented. I pulled up Maps on my phone and spent a few minutes rotating the screen to match the orientation of the surrounding streets. I located some buildings on the map, but there seemed to be alleys in front of me that weren’t showing up on my screen. Or it could have been that we had already passed them.

My mom wanted to vacation with me in Hong Kong partially because of her nostalgia for the city. She had worked there briefly almost 30 years ago. As we waited for our shuttle, she was already planning to find her old apartment building. She knew that everything would look different, but she hoped that the soothing Victoria Harbour wind and the city’s dichotomous historical and innovative energies would remain for me to greet.

When we passed by the business cluster on our way to the hotel, I began to ponder my career options a bit. Maybe I would someday work inside one of the banks whose signs shone down on me; maybe I would end up in another city, doing something I could never imagine. People hustled out of one of the bank’s revolving doors, trying to get home ahead of the rush-hour crowd; I wondered how they got to where they were.

Thanks to technology, it’s less likely that I find myself completely lost. I don’t feel much despair when I can’t find my way, knowing that the satellites high above the sky can (usually) locate me. With such easy access to navigation apps that lead me from place to place, I’ve tamed my fear of being physically lost. But getting lost navigating my future plans still feels unbearable.

After walking under the neon lights for what felt like an endless amount of time on that humid night, my mom and I eventually bumped into our hotel, which appeared unexpectedly on our right. The bus driver’s words rang like an afterthought as I opened the door to the hotel lobby—he was right about continuing to walk in the same direction. I just had to walk a little longer than I thought. Maybe my path for the future would also emerge unexpectedly. Maybe I just had to keep walking until I saw it more clearly.

I’ve always felt that a place is different before and after I visit it. During my first trip to Brown, I had to look up the path from Alumnae Hall to the Main 4 post–

Green. This path felt different when I walked it again two years later this past August. Maybe it was because the color of the scenery was warmer than that gray January afternoon when I first visited, but something about the route—its orientation and length—felt different too. When I speed-walked to Faunce on that chilly afternoon two years ago, I had no time to look at the buildings around me, no chance of realizing that this would one day become my daily walk. I didn’t notice the circle of foil dancers at the end of this walk the first time here, but now, every morning when I pass by the statue, the dancers’ exaggerated gestures and overflowing sense of joy always remind me to smile and stay optimistic even during the busiest times of the semester.

I guess I won’t know a route until I have walked it. Finding the right turns happens only after I have ventured into the wrong alleys, puzzled over unfamiliar street signs, and retraced my steps to keep looking for my way.

My high-school friend and I stood at the intersection in front of the Ratty. He wanted to know more about the open curriculum and the amount of freedom it grants. “With so many choices, what if you get lost?” he asked me when I pointed to our right, to indicate that we had to turn to reach the dining hall.

The wind made my face stiff, but I managed to smile at his question. “I’m sure we’ll all find our paths in the end, one way or another.”

Defending Eurylochus

Life as a Pure Neutral

By Charlie Stewart Illustrated by Connor Gewirtz

T

here’s a bloke in the Odyssey named Eurylochus, one of Odysseus’ commanders. He leads an expedition to the home of the sorceress Circe, who gives the men wine and a magical meal that turns them all into pigs. All of them, that is, except Eurylochus, who, unlike the rest of the crew, has some sense of self-preservation, hangs back, and legs it to the ship when things get porcine. When Eurylochus refuses to try to rescue the other men, Odysseus retrieves them himself and nearly kills Eurylochus in a rage.

I like Eurylochus. For better or worse, we have similar value schemes: Pure Neutral. Every online morality quiz pins me as a paragon of decisive self-interest, neutral as Swiss chocolate, Swedish meatballs, Irish tea, or Andorran tax evasion. Fine by me. Andorra has the highest life expectancy on earth.

When I was eighteen, I went to Amsterdam for three days, meeting up with a group of friends near the end of their interrail journey across Europe.

One member had dropped out in the Czech Republic

when a girl he’d been in love with since he was eight sent him a mildly suggestive text message. He hopped on the first plane home with romance on his brain—presumably next to all the water—hoping to declare his feelings for her before they went to different universities. I’m sure they’re together to this day. In any case, I took his hostel bed. My “pure neutrality” was put to the test on day one, in the RedLight District.

You see, Eurylochus holds back—he’s an observer. He thus likely would have received a small fine in the Red-Light District, which recently implemented a ban on staring at sex workers. The same fate befell me, but, in my defense, I did not realize that I was staring at an actual woman. I thought she was a mannequin until she slid the glass aside, took my hand, and whispered “fifty euros” in my ear, which would have turned even redder had that been possible under the illumination.

On the off chance that my mum has stumbled upon this essay, I want to make it clear that I had no intention of hiring a prostitute. Pure Neutral.

I’d never smoked a cigarette, let alone weed, and the condom given to me by a visiting sexual health counselor sat in the bottom of my school bag as a realtime experiment in latex decomposition.

Say what you like about Eurylochus, but he’s got one thing going for him. He didn’t get turned into a pig. We onlookers might not be honorable, or brave, or particularly interesting, but damn it, we’re safe.

The bands of marauding Brits I saw boozing their way along the canals are considerably less so. In fact, the city’s ombudsman recently set up CCTV in one of the main squares, recording 900 offenses committed between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.

The next day, the group decided they were going to take shrooms. We bustled into a tiny shop with a caricatured mural of Bob Marley on the wall, bought a small tub of walnut-looking hallucinogens, and headed to Vondelpark. I was sort of the designated driver. Anyone who got too high could be gently yanked back down to earth by my sobering presence. One friend—we’ll call him ‘Alex’, because that’s his real name—I found two hours later, sitting against a tree.

“I saw her,” he whispered. “Aphrodite.” He motioned to a middle-aged woman sitting across the park on a bench. I’m going to use what artistic license I have to infuse what he said next with some air of elegance and sophistication, to the best of my ability.

“Charles, my old chum,” he said, “my hands at my sides, my trousers still on, I have, I’m afraid, been brought to climax.”

“I see,” I said, turned on my heels, and walked away.

It’s a rough line to tread between abstainer, onlooker, even voyeur. Odysseus is not a fan of Eurylochus. I can’t imagine the Ancient Greeks would have been big fans of me. Most of the people on that trip weren’t big fans of me either though I will say that between my asthma and my unimposing silhouette they were, at least, less likely to have left me on a mountainside in infancy. When Odysseus manages to have his porky crew turned back into

ARTS&CULTURE men, Circe also restores some of their youth on the house. I can’t help but wonder if I didn’t miss out on some of my youth by standing back in Amsterdam, though half the experiences available there are still not to my tastes. I don’t want to be polymorphed, but I don’t want to be an onlooker anymore, either. The Red-Light District and Aphrodite incidents blurred the lines, showing me you can sit back and still find yourself transformed into a pig.

On the final day of the trip, I went to a cannabis café and bought a muffin. It cost six euros and had no effect on me, but it never occurred to me to check whether or not that muffin actually contained any marijuana. Still, when it comes to closing my eyes and experiencing something new, it felt like a start.

Sorry, Mum.

If It Weren't For You Meddling Kids

A Scooby-Doo Autobiography

By Robert Capron Illustrated by Gaby trevino content warning: Mentions of eating disorders,

body hatred

4

flavored graham crackers are the perfect companion

I’ve avoided the excess carbs of the dreaded tortilla.

to a Saturday morning spent in front of the television.

Anyone who showed up to Chipotle in costume

Should I start with my GameCube and dig into my

would get their food for half-off; my friends swore

third play-through of Scooby-Doo: Night of 100

up and down they were only dressing up this year for

Frights? Or perhaps I should finally settle the eternal

the discount. I know better—I can see it in their eyes.

debate: Monster of Mexico or Cyber Chase—which is

As Tommy proceeds to order in a spot-on Scooby

the superior film?

impression, the only thing I can think about is how

A soft, distant thudding interrupts Shaggy’s

there’s no place I’d rather be.

nervous mumblings. I peek out the window. It’s my

I

’ve got a bump on my head the size of an egg and

friends again. Tommy, Mark, and Stephen. They’re all

a cartoon dog is to blame. So what if I slipped

playing basketball.

racing back to the television? I wanted to see the climactic reveal! Finding out who’s really under the

All I have to do is go outside and join them. But I don’t. Scooby’s more fun, anyways.

creature mask is the most important part of every

19 Fat. You’re fat. You can feel it, can’t you? All that useless chub. That’s why they’re laughing. You’re small and ugly and fat and a waste of space. They keep

Scooby-Doo episode. It’s the moment where we are

16

reassured—in the wise words of various Tumblr

you around because you’re a relic to them. You’re not like them anymore. You’re just someone to put in

users—that “the real monsters are humans…and if

I’m about a quarter done with a delicious

that isn’t deep, I don’t know what is.” To be fair, at age

milkshake inexplicably called an “Awful Awful.” My

four, I was mostly concerned with the show’s bright

best friends flank me on either side—the perfect

That’s why they told you that you would be safe.

colors, slapstick comedy, and Shaggy’s impressively

ending to a summer Monday. The sludge of ice cream

That this wasn’t too much to inhale for your first time

bottomless appetite. All the philosophy came later.

dripping into my stomach reminds me that I shouldn’t

smoking weed. You idiot. Did you see how large that

No matter: The good guys won, the bad guys lost, and

eat like this anymore. Subconsciously, I clutch the

bong was? Have some f***ing brains!

we laughed along the way. That was as deep as any

side of my stomach, pinching the excess flab. I could,

show needed to be, and surely Scooby was worth the

I should stop at half.

occasional bump to the head. My parents may have thought otherwise.

Tommy looks up at me. “Bert,” he chuckles, I let go of my side, a smirk creeping up my face.

My father looks at me with a twinkle in his eye

“Chicken Run?”

Calm down. Don’t think about your heartbeat. something to soothe you. Music? Maybe.

Wait. The Scooby DVD! Get them to watch with you! They promised they would tonight!

They laugh as I stumble onto the deck. They laugh

“Scooby-Doo 2. It was on Cartoon Network”.

as I ask them to watch Scooby with me. They laugh as

The smirk becomes a smile.

pain flashes across my eyes. They laugh as I walk back

and asks if I want to say something. And I do—I’ve just come back from one of the coolest days of my life. But

Why would they?

Stop clutching your stomach. Relax. You need

“guess what I watched this morning.”

6

situations like this and laugh at. They don’t love you.

inside and put in the DVD. Alone.

17

where to begin? Everything was incredible! Definitely

Don’t they remember Halloween? Don’t they remember all the car rides? Don’t they remember

better than the first movie. The monsters looked so

“TRICK OR TREAT!”

how much this means to me?

different in real life. That part where Shaggy and

The lady opens the door with contempt, and I

Scooby changed bodies was so funny! And the tar

couldn’t care less. We’re here for a good time. So what

monster was super scary. For a moment there, I really

if we’re seniors and my candy will ultimately be left

thought Mystery Inc. was in trouble! And I felt a little

untouched? Tommy’s Scooby-Doo tail looks a little

weird watching Velma in that red bodysuit, but I

worse for wear from the mud that has caked across the

She sits across me wearing a smirk. In her hands

don’t know why! Also, that rock version of the Scooby-

road, but he doesn’t notice. The fact that we’re in the

is a bag full of goodies she has purchased for my

Doo theme song? SO COOL! It sounded just as good

middle of the street re-enacting the dance sequence

birthday. I don’t feel very deserving of it—we still

as it did in the first movie—and I would know—I’ve

from Scooby-Doo 2 shows we’re not exactly fixated on

barely know each other. Though it is flattering that

listened to the soundtrack exactly 200 times.

appearances. Tommy giggles as he puts on an original

she feels strongly enough to get me something.

Why can’t I grow up?

20

My father somehow comprehends enough of

song from the first movie’s soundtrack—inexplicably

First, the card. A picture of a guy working out. She

this flurry of thoughts to suggest we see it in theaters

written and recorded by Outkast. Yes, that Outkast.

laughs and promises I don’t talk about exercising too

a second time. My expression tells him all he needs

Thank god for the early 2000s.

much, no matter how much I worry.

to know.

Steve looks a little ridiculous in his Velma costume, but it gets the job done; Mark actually 10

Next, a journal. “Not a diary.” Her clarification, not mine.

looks good in an ascot. Together, as Mystery Inc., we

I open the last item.

order burritos at Chipotle—or, rather, “booritos.” My

Cinnamon graham crackers, with a certain

I’m on my second grilled cheese and fourth

burrito bowl looks delicious, yet deadly. I shake off

handful of Scooby Snacks. These luscious cinnamon-

the nerves and convince myself to indulge. After all,

cartoon dog plastered across the box.

Huh. Guess she knows me after all.

Febryary 15, 2018 5

ARTS&CULTURE

Controlled Chaos Watching the Lethal Weapon Series with My Parents

By Harry Levine illustrated by Owen rival content warning: Mentions of suicide

I

returned home last December to find my parents eager to do nothing but watch movies. I didn’t judge. I’m as solid a remote-holding companion as any, and the experience of the right movie can set a positive, unspoken mood that carries throughout the week. But at first, we made the mistake of watching movies too ambitious for our simple goals: Roma, La La Land and The Upside of Anger—all great films, all too much to think about.

The crowd-pleasing likes of Miracle and Baby Boom were closer to what movie night demanded. Still, we found they lacked that certain edge we desired but couldn’t quite put into words.

Then, inspiration struck. My father recalled the violent yet banterous and endearing exploits of two cops in a movie series ominously titled Lethal Weapon. Apparently, there were four of these things to work through, and that was enough recommendation for my mom and me. The 1987 original was quickly recorded off the LOGO channel, with the remaining films rented from our local library.

We began watching the first Lethal, and I was stunned. Though I had gone in expecting a realistic movie about cruel, tough-as-nails cops, Lethal Weapon’s violence was completely cartoonish, and its cops deeply lovable. Danny Glover plays Sgt. Robert Murtaugh, a well-meaning, law-abiding policeman, and Mel Gibson co-stars as his crazy new partner Martin Riggs, who is perpetually on the verge of a mental breakdown. These men couldn’t be more different. Yet, somehow, they mesh. Murtaugh and Riggs truly respect and love one another, even though they fear what the other is capable of. The film is ultimately not just the story of a friendship, but the story of a healthy friendship. How many real-life friends can acknowledge their flaws while remaining supportive?

The film’s title seems an obvious reference to Riggs, practically the embodiment of the phrase “loose cannon.” Somehow, some way, the man must kill—even if it means suicide, as shown in one early scene in which he begs Murtaugh to shoot him in the face. Murtaugh refuses but realizes that Riggs isn’t, as he had thought, lying about his suicidal urges. In the bizarre world of Lethal Weapon, this exchange shifts their relationship to a more comfortable, vulnerable

place. The film continues with a great performance from Gary Busey as the villain, who, amazingly, ends up dying after a homoerotic mud fight with Riggs.

When the movie ended, I was aching for more— luckily, the next two films replicate the same great formula: gripping, but not too gripping. Unlike movies that are pleasurable because they transport you to their unrealistic worlds (Star Wars comes to mind), the Lethal Weapon series demands very little of its viewers—its cinematic exaggeration is pleasingly unconvincing. This is not to say the films are without deeper significance, however. Murtaugh and Riggs are two people making the best of the insanity both around them and within them. Following the parallel chaos of my first semester at Brown, this really resonated with me. If they could sublimate their pain into a productive, pleasant (okay, maybe not so pleasant) output, then so could I.

The Lethal Weapon series demands very little of its viewers—its cinematic exaggeration is pleasingly unconvincing.

Still, when watching, it’s tempting to think of “Murtaugh and Riggs” as “Gibson and Glover”—the characters seem to reflect the actors themselves.

After we watched Lethal Weapon 2, my mom flatly announced that she loved Mel Gibson, no matter what his views were. Judging based on his performances in the first three Lethal Weapon films, it’s hard not to agree with her. His character is compassionate, caring, and at times, brilliantly off his rocker. He’s a strange, flawed, vulnerable human being who’s easy to love. However, it’s unwise to conflate this performance with the real Mel Gibson, who, after

“I’m getting off track, but the point of all of this is that while I’d never even had my first kiss, I was about to start taking the pill.”

Eliza Cain, “Planning Ahead” 2.15.17

“Boy meets girl. It’s not cute, because she’s mindlessly swiping on Tinder while microwaving a Lean Cuisine.”

Bianca Stelian, “love according to hollywood and reality" 2.15.18

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being arrested for a DUI, said, “F***ing Jews...the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.”

So Lethal Weapon, despite its slick, disposable sheen, demands more of modern viewers attuned to Gibson’s heinous behavior. It might play as an experiment, asking for our forgiveness and empathy. Alternatively, it can call us to meditate on those (reckless, brilliant cops, or racist, charismatic Hollywood actors) who are above the rule of law due to talent and privilege.

After my parents and I spent three days feasting on the first three classic Lethal Weapon movies, we hit a snag: the fourth movie was simply a disgrace. In it, humanity, a crucial element of the first three movies, is stripped away. Instead, spectacle is prioritized over everything—or at least the appearance of spectacle, with no regard to where that spectacle emerges from.

The flow of the fourth movie is nonexistent; entire scenes pass by as the characters flap their jaws around dialogue that is somehow both absurd and boring. It ripped me out of the movie, back to the anxiety of the real world, the raggedness of our aging couch, the fluttering eyes of my father as he tried and failed to stay awake. It was a betrayal of what I wanted from Lethal Weapon and from movies in general. My house felt stained by its hideous noises, by the howling of Joe Pesci’s annoying lawyer character, by my confusion at Chris Rock’s inclusion as Danny Glover’s potential son-in-law, and the shame I felt that such a comic luminary had been tainted by the atrocity that is Lethal Weapon 4. After it concluded, my mother and I quickly agreed it had been two hours we would never get back. Soon, I was alone, my parents fast asleep.

I took out some Triscuits, gnawed on them, and reflected on the Lethal Weapon experience as a whole.

Ultimately, I decided it had been worthwhile. Except for the anticlimax, I had found the reprieve from school I had been looking for in an unexpected source: sitting on the couch with my parents, watching goodnot-great movies.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Anita Sheih a FEATURE Managing Editor Sydney Lo Section Editors Kathy Luo Sara Shapiro Staff Writers Sarah Lettes Caroline Ribet

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