World War Z is Decent, but it Lacks the Humanity of Zombie Films (Non-Spoiler Review)

I had very low expectations going into World War Z. I'm a huge fan of Max Brooks's book and its unique oral history narrative. The novel is full of social commentary about the politics of responding to global disasters and includes some nice psychology threads on ingroup/outgroup conflict and altruism. I devoured that book!

But I knew the film had almost nothing in common with the source material. Anyone who followed the production of this movie knew the book's structure and story were gutted to make room for blockbuster action sequences. There were also reports of problems on the set, a six-month delay in release date, and a last minute change to the ending (check out Vanity Fair for more on that). My expectations for WWZ couldn't have been any lower.

While I wasn't going to compare the film to the book, I was expecting WWZ to add to the zombie genre. With a $190 million budget, this is the biggest zombie movie ever made. I was excited to see what a zombie story would look like supersized into a summer tentpole film.

While WWZ is definitely a successful big mainstream movie, it lacks the humanity that makes the zombie genre so great. Zombies are about fear and love. Every anxiety can be traced back to uncertainty, a fear of the unknown. Nothing embodies fear better than zombies. You never know where they're going to be or what they're capable of doing. Unlike all other life, zombies don't care about self-preservation – all they want to do is attack. What makes these movies so great is anyone who has been bitten by a zombie can become one of them. This means the stakes are always high because the characters you care about are always at risk of becoming your deepest fear. It’s like Game of Thrones – every moment matters because your favorite character might be killed (except with zombies they’re reanimated and then more killing ensues).

That's why WWZ is a decent movie, but not a great zombie film. Except for a few moments in the beginning and end, I never felt Brad Pitt's character was in much danger. Even though people were dying all around him, I didn't care. You don't see any tension between fear and love. I know the movie's called World War Z, but the stakes felt very low.

The film did deliver on one of my favorite parts of the book – the fortification of Israel. There was a great scene with an Israeli Mossad agent talking about the evils of groupthink. Later, we get to see the uniting of Israelis and Palestinians via their new common enemy (i.e. a superordinate goal). But beyond that, there wasn’t much happening that we haven’t seen in other zombie or viral pandemic movies. A. O. Scott described this well in his review:

Compared with its source, and to “The Walking Dead” in both its graphic novel and cable television versions, Mr. Forster’s film represents a careful step backward. It does not expand the tonal range of zombie fantasy, like Ruben Fleischer’s “Zombieland” or Colson Whitehead’s novel “Zone One.” Nor does it exploit the allegorical potential of a world overrun by flesh-craving, half-decayed former people, in the manner of “The Walking Dead,” which turns the desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape into a forum for philosophical debate and ethical inquiry.

Overall, WWZ is a decent film and despite all of its production difficulties it’s an enjoyable experience. But besides a few cheap thrills, the movie didn't leave me with much to remember. If you're a fan of the genre, you have to watch this movie (if only to see what a zombie film looks like at this scale). But if you're not a fan, watch one of the classics instead – you'll have a lot more fun and might actually care about what's happening onscreen. 

Rating: 6.5/10

I really liked A.V. Club's take on WWZ. Also check out The New Yorker's more positive view of the film. 

The Parallel Universe Where My Brother Lives

It starts at home. I’m doing the dishes and listening to a podcast. I'm about to rinse off when my brother walks through the front door. “About time,” I think. Salman’s been gone for a while and I was beginning to wonder when he was coming back. We put on some tea, sit down and watch an old episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, making fun of Worf during the commercials.

That’s when I wake up.

I have this dream every other week. I hate it – not the dream, but being ripped away from it. Waking up is like finding out my brother died all over again.

On May 19, 2008, Salman shot himself, ending a long battle with bipolar depression. He was 36 years old. Salman suffered in silence – his illness wasn’t diagnosed until he was 34, after a very public manic episode that tore my family apart.

The dreams are always the same – I’m living my life right now in New York City and then my brother appears. Life has continued as if he never died – he was just away for a while. I’ve come to think of these dreams as a parallel universe where he never committed suicide, an alternate timeline in which he lives.

Waking up reminds me of how I found out. I got a call from my dad at 4:46am that Monday morning. I can hear his trembling voice – “Ali, your brother is no longer on this Earth – he committed suicide.”

I remember my guilt – Why didn’t I do more to help him?  What did I miss? Why wasn’t I there for him?

I get out of my bed, run through my morning routine, but the pain lingers. Listening to music and checking the news helps me bury my memories.

I could be having a normal day, then someone says, “My boss makes me want to shoot myself.” It feels like waking up again. How dare you joke about that? You have no fucking idea what you’re saying! But it’s just a figure of speech to them, what can you do but shove the anger down and get out of there as quickly as possible.

It’s worst when I physically can’t get away. Days after learning about Salman’s death I flew back to visit his grave in Pakistan and shared the seat with a man my father’s age. He looked easy to talk to.

“Are you on your way home?” he asked.

“Not really, I’m going to visit my parents.”

“Ah, good for you. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you. I was here for my daughter’s graduation – she just finished med school.” He was beaming with pride.

We talked about the medical profession and my training to become a psychologist.

“How’d you get interested in that? Were your parents psychologists?”

“It’s what I loved most in college, honestly.”

“What do your siblings do?”

“No…no siblings,” I lied, “it’s just me.”

“Oh, an only child,” he nodded. Now he wanted to talk about it! “Growing up, you must have had all the pressure from your parents.”

I had to get out of that seat. I said “excuse me,” tore off my seat belt and went into the lavatory. Not to pee, just to stand there. My heart was racing. I couldn’t tell him the truth – that I had a brother and he just died. I didn’t know why, I just knew I couldn’t do it.

When I returned to my seat, I put on my headphones to block out the older man. Despite his efforts, we didn’t speak for the remainder of the flight.  

I don’t remember much from that visit. I know a lot of people came to pay their respects, but the rest is a blur. What sticks out vividly is seeing his grave for the first time. I stayed with him for an hour. I promised Salman I would keep his memory alive with his son and pass on what he had taught me. In that moment, I was overcome by the smell of fresh jasmine, as if his spirit was trying to embrace me.

After returning home to Washington, D.C., I grouped people into two categories – those who knew me before my brother died and those I met after. Friends and family gave me a wide berth, avoiding the topic of Salman’s death. With new people, I pretended to be an only child. I hated myself for lying, but the last thing I wanted was to be the guy – the therapist – with the bipolar brother who shot himself. Denying Salman’s role in my life was the quickest way to avoid the pain. With the exception of my dreams, Salman never existed.

That year I spent Thanksgiving at my friend’s home and met her sister’s future fiancé, Karl. The two of us hit it off after we discussed a mutual appreciation of Batman and Iron Man. After dessert, a few of us played board games. Karl and I joined forces and declared ourselves “Team Awesome.”

“It was weird growing up,” said Karl, “My brother was 10 years older than me – he was a friend and a bit of a dad.”

I wanted to say “me too”, but I didn’t, I deflected and asked, “What was that like, being so far apart in age?”

“We did a lot of things together – sports and all that stuff, but he let me hang out with him and his friends, sometimes even sneaking me into rated-R movies.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, but nothing more. In fact, Salman did the same. He took me to a bunch of movies I wasn’t old enough to see – Terminator 2, The Rock, The Matrix. My favorite thing was to tag along with him to Galactican, our local arcade. He knew everyone there. It made me feel so cool just being around him.

I didn’t tell Karl any of this. I might have made a good friend that day, but I kept pretty quiet.

“You know,” Karl said, “My brother helped me decide to major in computer science.”

“That’s cool,” was all I said, but inside I was screaming, I desperately wanted to tell Karl how my brother introduced me to Star Trek, how that led me to psychology, but I was too scared. I didn’t want him, or anyone else at the table, to ask questions, to judge me, to think poorly of my family.

By numbing myself to Salman’s suicide I restricted all of my memories about him – the bad and good. Remembering the experiences we shared together made me miss him dearly.

I think about that now – if Salman were alive today, he’d clear his schedule and take me to see the new Star Trek movie. I like to believe we’re both doing just that, in the parallel universe. Maybe in that universe he’s the best man at my wedding, the uncle to my kids, and my friend in old age.

Salman ended his life in order to stop his suffering. By refusing to face my pain, I’ve prolonged my suffering.

Last year I was serving on the board of directors of the American Psychological Association. At our end of year dinner, I sat next to Melba Vasquez, a past-president of the association. After some small talk, Melba started a conversation about family.

“Ten siblings!” she asked one of our colleagues. “What was that like, growing up in such a big home?”

“Jennifer, what about you – how big is your family?” Melba continued around the table, one by one.

I felt sick. I was stuck – nowhere to hide.

“Ali, what about you?” 

“There were four of us, my parents and my older brother…but he died a few years ago. He had bipolar depression and took his own life.”

“I’m so very sorry, Ali,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s not something I talk about.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, the whole situation felt unreal – I had never publically talked about Salman’s death before.

“That makes sense,” she said. “There’s so much stigma about suicide – it’s not something anyone talks about.” Melba always communicated with compassion and honesty – it was one of the reasons I looked up to her and why I couldn’t lie to her.

“I’ve always been afraid that people would think differently of me and my family. I had this fear that people would think I’m an incompetent psychologist because I couldn’t save my own brother.”

“I’ve felt that way at different times in my life. Clinicians are just as vulnerable to these things as anyone else.”

When I accepted that fact, I felt comfortable seeking out my own therapy.

Later that night, I told Melba the things I wanted to tell Karl – how my brother taught me to build computers, our late nights watching Twilight Zone, debating Captain Kirk versus Captain Picard.

Yes, as I talked about it I felt that pain, the pain of waking up, but I endured it.

This way of dealing with things has also kept me away from the people I love. I rarely speak to my parents and I’ve been terrified of calling my brother’s son. I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t kept my promise at Salman’s gravesite. The last time I spoke to my nephew he asked me, “Why don’t you call me Uncle Ali?” I didn’t have an answer for him.

I want to be able to remember Salman more. It’s taken me 5 years, but I’ve finally put up photos of my brother in my home. They sit next to the other reminders of him that have always been there – the starships, action figures, video games. The photos don’t just bring me pain, they remind me of the joy we shared together.

---

This was written in honor of Mental Health Month and the American Psychological Association's Mental Health Blog Day. I want to thank Razia Kosi, Executive Director of Counselors Helping (South) Asians/Indians (CHAI) for encouraging me to share my story. If you are a survivor of suicide, help is available at the American Association of Suicidology. If you are in crisis, please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). 

May 17, 2013 Update: Please read my thank you letter to all who reached out to me after reading this story.

September 10, 2013 Update: As a followup to this story, I wrote an article about how to help someone who is suicidal. Note - it includes spoilers about the end of Battlestar Galactica.

October 15, 2013 Update: This story won the 2013 Brass Crescent Award for Best Blog Post. 

January 8, 2014 Update: For the final update to this story, please read "The Most Honest Year of My Life".

Tony Stark Fuels His Own Anxiety in Iron Man 3 [Non-Spoiler Film Review]

Since Iron Man 3 is the first step toward Avengers 2, I was itching to see the direction Marvel was taking its cinematic universe. While it wasn't the best Iron Man (first the best, second the worst), and it suffers from the same flaws as other Marvel Studios films, I really liked the central role of anxiety in the movie.

Tony Stark is his own worst enemy

The movie begins with Stark saying, "We make our own demons." While in previous films Stark fights bad guys who have their own evil agendas, here he's dealing with the consequences of his own actions. A villain is pissed off because Stark was a dirt bag to him. Stark is stripped of his Iron Man suit because of his own mistakes. He’s also experiencing anxiety because of his own decisions. 

Avoidance Fuels Anxiety

​Tony Stark is haunted by what happened in Avengers.

Why is Stark experiencing anxiety? Well he almost died in Avengers. For a guy who thinks he can engineer his way out of any danger (Stark did build his Mark I suit IN AN AFGHAN CAVE), coming so close to death could be a very traumatic thing.

While lots of things (biology, personal history, type of trauma) influence the development of PTSD, panic disorder, and other anxiety problems, there's only one thing that maintains anxiety - avoidance. Anxiety is a warning system that prepares our bodies for danger. This is a very good thing. Without anxiety, even if Loki was threatening us with an evil soliloquy and a mind altering glow stick, we'd just stand there twiddling our thumbs. The problem occurs when we try to avoid anxiety by restricting intrusive thoughts, numbing uncomfortable feelings, or running away from scary (but not life-threatening) situations. Avoidance doesn't reduce anxiety, it fuels it.

Iron Man 3 has some nice examples of this. Stark cuts off Pepper Potts when she talks about the dangers of being Iron Man. He avoids nightmares by staying up and tinkering with new inventions in his basement. When Rhodey Rhodes brings up the Avengers, Stark runs out of the room and flies away. He even develops new Iron Man technology to avoid being in the situation that caused his trauma. While we don’t see it, I bet he’s also numbing himself with alcohol (like he did in Iron Man 2). Stark tries to cope by shutting off anything that might trigger difficult memories. That's exactly how normal anxiety transforms into a clinical disorder. 

An Incomplete Arc 

​Things go downhill once the climax begins. 

The way to treat anxiety is by facing the thoughts, feelings, and situations that trigger it. Therapists do this through exposure therapy (a fast, highly effective way of becoming desensitized to anxiety). Through collaboration, therapists help people end patterns of avoidance and develop the courage to face feared situations.

We don't get to see any of that in the movie. No, I don't want to see Iron Man sitting in a therapy session, but I do want to see the resolution of his character arc. Instead, Iron Man 3's anxiety thread is dropped as soon as the climax begins. There's a resolution at the end of the film, but I have no idea how our hero achieved it. 

That's my beef with the whole Marvel Cinematic Universe - the films are inconsistent. The Asgard scenes in Thor were really cool, the Earth stuff not so much. I loved Captain America's origin story, but the action was boring. Hulk...well, both his movies just stunk. The only exceptions are Iron Man 1 (made before there were plans for a cinematic universe) and Avengers (yes it's full of plot holes, but the camaraderie made up for it). I don't need my comic book movies to be serious (like The Dark Knight), but I would prefer them to be complete (like X-Men 2).

I guess that's what happens when you're creating something as ambitious as the Marvel Cinematic Universe - films are rushed and details get neglected. Yes, Robert Downey Jr. is ridiculously amazing, the action is fun, the special effects are flawless, the script is always entertaining, and there's a fantastic canon-shattering reveal. I just wish we could have seen Stark fight back against his own personal demons, you know, like the film promised it would.

Rating: 7/10

For a more positive review, check out The Atlantic. Or if you prefer a stronger critique, read the AV Club. 

Lincoln’s Prudence and Spielberg's Fear of Uncertainty (Film Review)

I recently watched an early screening of Steven Spielberg’s new film, Lincoln. If I’m emotionally invested in a movie, I try to see it as soon as possible to avoid spoilers and having my opinion shaped by others. In psychology-speak, I try to bring a beginner’s mind to the films I want to see.

I was particularly excited for this movie because of Daniel Day-Lewis. His 2007 portrayal of an oil baron in There Will Be Blood continues to haunt me and is why the film is my favorite of the last decade. Day-Lewis didn’t disappoint in Lincoln – his Abraham Lincoln felt like a real man (tender, flawed, and exhausted) as opposed to the previous glorified versions I’ve seen. Along with a superb cast and a surprisingly intimate score from John Williams, the film brings to life the core lessons of Team of Rivals – namely, Lincoln succeeded in ending a civil war due to political prudence, consensus building (by preventing groupthink in his Cabinet), and fortitude. I loved the relevance to our modern politics via a deeply divided Congress and a spotlight on ugly legislative “sausage making”.

The only real issue I had with the film was the ending. Without giving anything away, it felt contrived. There was too much dénouement, too much sentimentality, too little uncertainty. Spielberg made it very clear how I should feel about the legacy of Lincoln. I'd rather mull things over in my head and draw my own conclusions.

I’ve been frustrated with many Spielberg endings, both with historical dramas (e.g. Schindler’s List, Saving Private Ryan) and science fiction (e.g. Minority Report, A.I.). Spielberg is just too afraid to leave the audience with a sense of doubt about the destiny of his protagonists. After Lincoln, I wanted to see if there was anything to this pattern of endings. I watched a recent 60 Minutes interview with Spielberg and within 30 seconds, I had my answer.   

Leslie Stahl: “You’re a nervous wreck?”

Steven Spielberg: “Yeah, it’s true.”

Leslie Stahl: “Is it a fear?”

Steven Spielberg: “It’s not really fear…it’s just much more of a…anticipation of the unknown. The unknown could be food poisoning. It’s just kinda a level of anxiety about not being able to write my life as well as I can write my movies.”

Spielberg’s anxiety results from a childhood history of not fitting in and being bullied. While it's cathartic for him to make films, his fears pervade the narrative of his stories. Little is left to chance and I assume this is the way Spielberg would want it if he could direct the events of his own life.

Anxiety, whether mild, moderate, or severe, is a fear of uncertainty. There is always a chance things will not go our way, but anxiety makes us feel as if we cannot tolerate that risk. Anxiety about spoilers is what drew me to seeing Lincoln a week before its release (something anxiety specialists call a “safety behavior”) and it led Spielberg to create an overally sentimental ending for this film. I still don't like the ending, but understanding why it occurred the way it did gave me an appreciation for the role anxiety plays in both Spielberg's and my life. 

Rating: 8/10