Yogic Flyers For Victory!
What The #$*! Do We Know!?
William Arntz, Betsy Chasse, Mark Vincente
This movie stinks. And I’ll tell you exactly what it stinks like. It stinks like stagnant bong water and three years’ worth of sweat soaked into a hemp necklace. It stinks like energy crystals coated in resin and the acrid stench of psilocybin-laced vomit. In short, it stinks like aged hippie. Essentially, this movie uses some of the more fascinating elements of quantum physics to try and convince us to vote for the Natural Law Party. Apparently, since the electrons that surround the nucleus of an atom are simultaneously particle and wave, or, more accurately, they exist in a sphere of probability up until the moment they are observed, we all live in The Matrix and can dodge bullets if we just think hard enough. If we could really alter our surroundings just by concentrated thought, don’t you think I would have taken advantage of it? Why don’t I shit diamonds into a gold toilet? Why are The Arcade Fire still making music? Why do I not live in an enormous castle made of blood and black rock built upon a ziggurat of severed heads, all chanting my name in unison to throngs of buxom, underage women of varying ethnicities worshiping me like a god? I’ll tell you why. It’s because understanding physics takes a little more effort than reading a StephenHawking book and dosing out on Romilar. What The #$*! Do We Know!? is the worst kind of propaganda, save for Michael Moore. It's a misleading, pseudoscientific treatise disguised as one of those bad documentaries you see in high school science class to try and explain genetics to skateboarders using bad computer animation and Disney knock-off animal narrators. The film is essentially comprised of two, equally retarded parts. The first part is a succession of interviews with physicists and scholars, interspersed with the views crackpots and magic shop owners who wandered off from the Burning Man festival three years ago and just found their way out of the desert. The problem is, no distinction is made between the two. Here, the hard science of quantum physics is butted up against spacey ravings from Manson cult acolytes, wild-eyed with the fervor of converting another housewife hooked on telephone psychics to the fold. This is disgusting, because the science is interesting, but not when it’s muddled by spiritualism that seeks to use the fact that atoms are mainly space as opposed to matter to prove the existence of the human soul. This does not compute, but if you’re not paying attention, it just might slip by you. The rest of the movie is a terrible, terrible re-enactment of the concepts explored by the film, featuring deaf actress Marlee Matlin, who may or may not be the same person who plays Sue Thomas, FB Eye. Presumably, she wasn’t reading lips too well when she signed on for this project, or maybe they just aren’t all that many roles for actresses who can’t hear and speak like they’ve just gotten a tongue transplant from a cow. This movie is like a virus, spreading out to TV screens from video stores the continent over, rejected by the intelligent and the strong, but infecting the weak-minded with an intellectual plague that threatens to reduce otherwise rational human beings to astrology enthusiasts and yogic flyers. The best part of the re-enactment, excluding the part when animated human cells get into fistfights with each other due to negative energy, comes with the appearance of Armin Shimerman. The presence of Deep Space Nine’s Quark in a movie purportedly about quantum physics indicated that even crazy people have senses of humor, and thankfully it occasionally takes the form of ‘ha-ha’ funny, instead of ‘my, that certainly is a great deal of fecal matter smeared on your wall’ funny. Still, if you zone out for a bit, you might get sucked into the mind-over-matter, love makes the world go round, blah, blah, blah buy an L. Ron Hubbard book spirituality of the movie. By the end of the film, once its less than tenuous grasp of reality had been established, and the re-enactment scenes had finished teaching me how time has no meaning and I shouldn’t listen to psychiatrists or take prescription drugs because I can think myself out of the psychosis I have that makes me watch ten movies a day and nail frogs to trees, I was left feeling a little dizzy, as if all the new age mumbo-jumbo had merged its way perfectly with the wonderful intricacies of pure physics, fusing the rational side of my brain with the crazy, soap-opera addicted side that comes from that lousy X chromosome. Thankfully, I think I shook it off, though I’m still a little woozy. Nothing, I’m sure, a little transcendental meditation couldn’t cure.