Aang can fly now… I guess?

By MAYA KORNYEYEVA — mkornyeyeva@ucdavis.edu

Warning: Spoilers ahead!

The day the live-action remake of “Avatar: The Last Airbender” (ATLA) aired on Netflix, I bounced straight from my work table to the couch, aiming my remote at the television and mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead. Piles of assignments remained willfully forgotten on my desk, and my computer was left opened — merely ornamentally — to the draft of my next article for The Aggie. “But it can all wait,” I told myself as I pressed play, hopefully, albeit anxiously, waiting for the show to start. 

Before I provide my review of the live-action remake, I must preface that I have watched the original animated series twice, as well as dabbled in some of the comics. I got into the show with my family during the pandemic, a time when we all needed both the humor and the escapism of ALTA’s incredible world-building. When the plans for the live-action remake were announced, I hoped the new adaptation would preserve the light-hearted interactions between the characters and the cohesive story. 

The first episode was truly “live-action;” filled with a chase sequence, fighting, sacrifice, betrayal and ultimately a dude being burned alive. Ten minutes in I found myself wondering if this new remake was even rated PG… the violence was a bit dramatic and borderline inappropriate for the age range of the audience that the animated show was originally aimed toward. 

Doing a little research revealed that the series was actually meant to cater toward Game of Thrones fans: an older audience who perhaps watched the animated “Avatar: The Last Airbender” as children and who would find appeal in a more mature portrayal of the show. I actually quite liked this more mature take, as the premise of the series deals with very serious story elements like war, destruction and violent spirits, which are better presented through darker cinematography. 

The first episode also brought forth a recreation of the iconic “Water, Earth, Fire, Air” intro; I was expecting something crisp and clean, which followed the original introduction perfectly. Lo and behold, with these high expectations I was doubly disappointed. The computer-generated imagery (CGI) was poor, especially when it came to the human figures. The benders clearly looked fake, and the script featured an exposition dump that would be better told by another character in the show (for example, Katara’s grandmother, who goes on to repeat the entire original intro monologue a few scenes later). 

The CGI for Aang’s newfound flying ability was also quite painful to watch, and definitely dampened my general attitude toward the remake. The very fact that he could fly — one of the hardest bending techniques to ever achieve, as established in the sequel Legend of Korra — also creates an overwhelming amount of plot holes. For instance, if Aang can fly, why does he need a glider? Why can’t he fly away from his captors and why couldn’t other Air Nomads use this strategy to escape from the fire-benders? I just couldn’t stop myself from asking these critical questions.

Yet another negative of the show was the pacing. The first few episodes stuck relatively closely to the established storyline set by the animated series, but everything fell apart in the later episodes. The third episode combined three separate story arcs into one — Omashu became the setting for the Bumi conflict, as well as Jet’s “freedom fighters” narrative and Haru and Tyro’s storyline. The following episode managed to mix in the “Secret Tunnel” plotline, and thus four pieces of the Avatar’s journey were mashed into one. 

While this combination of events was executed creatively, it was a stark contrast to the original plotline and added some unnecessary complexity. Given that the runtime of both the original and the live-action remake is roughly 8 hours, the new series felt much more rushed than the animated one. 

Adding to this dilemma was the dramatically inflated amount of screen time that Azula and her two friends Mai and Ty Lee received. While Azula is introduced much later in the original animated series, she is spotlit immediately in the remake. I found this problematic not only because of the discontinuity with the animated series, but also because the personalities of Azula’s friends are erased to make way for her own character development. Mai and Ty Lee serve as mere plot pieces, standing next to each other, watching Azula train for 99% of the time. I would have loved to see their friendship dynamic come forth, and for the remake to spend more time on bringing out their individuality.

Despite all the issues in Netflix’s adaptation of the ATLA series, there were a few notable positives. For one, the dynamic between Zuko (one of the main antagonists of the first season) and his uncle Iroh was done with obvious care; the two characters shared a heartfelt backstory, and both the verbal and nonverbal interactions enforce their adopted “father and son” relationship. I also enjoyed the beautiful visuals sprinkled in through the episodes, as well as the choreography for several of the fight scenes — they felt fresh in a dynamic way that reminded me of Jackie Chan’s fighting style in his older films. In particular, the fight between Aang and Zuko in the streets of Omashu demonstrated this stylistic ingenuity: the characters used their environments to truly let their abilities shine. 

The ATLA live-action remake was an interesting watch, even if the adaptation was not super satisfying to current fans of the show. There is a certain appeal to the design and visuals in the live-action, even though the negatives either match or outweigh the positives. In the end, it is not the worst live-action remake, but definitely not the best one.  

Written by: Maya Kornyeyeva — mkornyeyeva@ucdavis.edu

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed by individual columnists belong to the columnists alone and do not necessarily indicate the views and opinions held by The California Aggie.

Don’t let your friends fall by the wayside

By MOLLY THOMPSON —- mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu 

I’ve never been in love: I’ve never had a date on Valentine’s Day, or an “our song” or someone to take me to prom. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have love in my life. 

Our society places so much pressure on romantic relationships — from the storybook-perfect Disney love stories that raised our generation to the very concept of “cuffing season,” we’re surrounded by these fantastic images of idyllic romances. I’m a first-year in college, I basically just got here, and I’ve already witnessed my peers seeking, engaging in and recovering from multiple flings. The message is that if you’re not involved, you’re missing out — that you have a deficit, a space to be filled. 

But here’s what I’ve learned: I can live a perfectly full life, complete with elation and heartache and serenity and melancholia, without any sort of romantic presence. Platonic relationships tend to be written off as secondary to their romantic counterparts. We place eros (romantic love) on a pedestal, above philia (platonic love). Not to say that we don’t value friendship, but I think we sometimes get so hung up on our romantic fantasies that we let our friends fall to the back burner. They don’t deserve that — we don’t deserve that. 

I have two friends who walked me home — 30 minutes in the opposite direction of where they live — after I had a panic attack at a frat party once. I have a friend who wrote, illustrated and assembled a homemade pamphlet with diagrams and calming techniques when I had to get my blood drawn in middle school because I was so scared of the needle. I have a friend who lives across the country and sent me a T-shirt she saw at a vintage fair because it reminded her of me; I hadn’t seen her in over a year.

I have a friend who sat across from me in a hot tub listening to me pine over my (extremely mediocre) middle school crush — and who is still there, still listening to me talk about my crushes, more than five years later — who gives me birthday cards that make me cry and who could recognize me by my handwriting or my footsteps or my laugh. I have friends I just met this year, to whom I can voice all my delusions just to find out that they think the same way. I know a girl who would bike through a torrent of cold, unforgiving rain just to sit and watch a movie with me. I know girls with hearts of gold, purple and blue the exact shade of the night sky. 

That kind of love is special. There’s an extraordinary kind of intimacy in true philia — it’s different than the kind of intimacy in eros, but it’s just as strong. The idea of a perfect romantic relationship is to have someone who will support you no matter what. Who will pick you up when you fall, support you when you’re weak and kiss your bruises to make them better. But if you’re lucky, your friends will already be there to help. 

Because at the end of the day, it’s who you sit around an apartment living room table with, eating coffee cake from Trader Joe’s and drinking tea (and maybe sangria). It’s who you run around downtown with after dark, slipping into the ice cream shop just minutes before they close. It’s who you scream with over the phone when a boy likes you and who you cry to when he breaks your heart. 

Those are the memories that make me, like stars that amalgamate into a galaxy. Each one makes me a little brighter, a little stronger, a little more radiant. I love them all. 

This is a love letter to friendship, because romance gets enough attention. Our platonic relationships are precious, and we should treat them as such. We need to be intentional with our friends the way we would be with our romantic partners — tell them we love them, tell them we’re grateful for them, reach out to them and make time for them. They’re just as important to us, so we should put the effort in with them as much as we do with lovers. 

Of course I want romantic love. Of course I do. This is not to say that romance is unnecessary or unimportant. I’m a hopeless romantic: I’ve daydreamed of having someone who reaches for my hand in line for coffee, who holds the door for me, who will dance with me in the kitchen in the middle of the night. 

But I can confidently say that I can be happy in the absence of romance; I cannot say the same about platonic relationships. I need the support of my friends in order to be happy but also just to be okay. I rely on them, and they rely on me. I want to protect them, I want to hold them gently in my palms like butterflies. I want them to know that — I want them to know how much I care about them. Friendship is precious and beautiful and sacred, and it should never come second to romance. 

Written by: Molly Thompson — mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu 

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed by individual columnists belong to the columnists alone and do not necessarily indicate the views and opinions held by The California Aggie.

Homesickness is part of the process 

By MOLLY THOMPSON — mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu 

It’s the Saturday night before winter quarter starts. It’s been raining all day, and I just got dropped off back at my dorm after winter break. My roommates don’t get back until tomorrow — I’m all alone. 

There’s an inevitable moment that every college freshman must encounter when an unshakable, hollow ache starts to really set in. The novelty of being in college has worn off, it’s cold and dark all the time, classes get overwhelming and the idea of being at home — wrapped up in your favorite blanket, surrounded by your family, eating mom’s home cooking — starts to sound nice. Really nice. Like maybe I wouldn’t ever leave. Maybe I’d rather be anywhere but here. Mom, can you come pick me up? I’m not having fun anymore. 

It hurts to rip off a scab — the skin underneath is tender. It’s no longer being protected, and it still needs time to finish healing and toughen a little. When you move away from home, you’re leaving — if you’re lucky — the safety net you’ve had for your whole life. Of course, it’s exciting, the whole world just opened up in front of you! But at the same time, the whole world just opened up in front of you. Oh god.  

College is like adulthood with training wheels. We have to feed ourselves and tuck ourselves into bed and put ourselves by the window so we make sure we get enough sunlight, but we might still call Dad when our bike locks rust shut or we need money for groceries or to read through the lease before we sign it. Yes, we have help, but we’re still learning how to ride this metaphorical bike; we’re not in the backseat of our parents’ car anymore. 

It’s inevitable: spreading your own set of wings. Learning to fly solo comes with marvels but it also comes with growing pains. Homesickness is a symptom of growth. It’s a sign of detachment from childhood, no wonder it’s going to hurt a little sometimes. Though, in the moments when it feels particularly sore, it’s difficult to see the silver lining. It feels like the world is so vast and dark and I’m merely an iota in one tiny cell of the honeycomb that is my dorm building. I won’t even try to conceptualize myself in a scope of the whole world — it’s far too overwhelming. I’m a teeny little fish in a massive, expansive pond and I can’t shake the feeling. 

And yet, the sun comes up and my roommates come back and I’m pretty sure everything’s gonna be okay. It ebbs and it flows — there are nights when it’s all-consuming, and there are days when it doesn’t even exist. People say to call home, to keep familiar and comforting objects around you, to find people that you love who will keep you company, as if those things are more than an ice pack that’ll numb the injury without actually healing it. 

The truth is that homesickness is a part of life that we all have to face. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t call my sister on a Sunday afternoon, keep the quilt my grandmother made on my bed or knock on my next-dorm neighbor’s door just for a Spindrift and a little camaraderie — an ice pack might not heal an injury but it sure can take away the sting. 

The first quarter of freshman year is so bright and shiny, that it’s almost too exciting for the dauntingness to set in. Going back to school for winter quarter doesn’t have the same allure that your first quarter did. So when you get back to your dorm, you start to miss eating waffles at your kitchen table and realize you took sleeping in your childhood bed for granted. Instead of driving your own car to go see your high school friends, you have to walk through the wind and rain to your geology lecture. Yeah, home sounds pretty good right about now.  

But time heals all wounds. Growing pains subside, soreness fades and the new skin under the scab is soon indistinguishable. A fever sucks but it heals an infection; homesickness is tough but it means you’re growing up. You’re coming into yourself, and it’s hard — you should be proud. Sometimes you pull a muscle trying to get your sea legs, it’s a part of learning and growth. 

Written by Molly Thompson — mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu