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‘Fear the Walking Dead’ Features Fresh Zombies, Family Tension, And A Familiar Story

By Sara Smith, The Kansas City Star (TNS)

The zombie apocalypse goes viral in “Fear the Walking Dead,” a serviceable but less-than-stellar spinoff of AMC’s hit series “The Walking Dead.”

“When civilization ends, it ends quickly,” one wise kid observes when things start to fall apart. For the ramshackle family of three adults and three teenagers at the heart of this new show starting Sunday, things weren’t holding together so well in the first place.

To understand where “Fear” fits in the world of “The Walking Dead,” you have to rewind all the way to that show’s very first episode, which aired on Halloween 2010. “The Walking Dead” began its story through the eyes of sheriff’s deputy Rick Grimes (Andrew Lincoln), who had nearly died from gunshot wounds after a high-speed chase.

When Rick emerged from a coma in an abandoned hospital, he found a world already torn apart by the undead. Rick figured out that he’d been in the hospital for about 90 days while chaos raged. “Fear the Walking Dead” takes place during those three months.

Just like its predecessor, “Fear the Walking Dead” begins with a central character opening his eyes to a nightmarish reality. Nick, a junkie college dropout, wakes up from his latest needle nap to see his pretty blond girlfriend snacking on a dead guy’s face.

Because he has been addicted to heroin for years, no one’s taking Nick’s word for what he saw, especially after he runs into traffic and ends up strapped to a hospital bed. Nick (Frank Dillane) wants to believe he might have been hallucinating those ravaged bodies and pools of blood, too.

When Nick’s mom, Maddie (Kim Dickens), and her boyfriend investigate the abandoned church serving as a drug flophouse, they find the pools of blood but no bodies. “They didn’t just get up and walk away,” says Travis (Cliff Curtis). Oh, the naive disbelievers of the early days.

Sirens blare and traffic clogs as rescue vehicles speed through neighborhoods, but no one has begun to connect the nasty virus keeping people home and the increase in police shootings. Its prequel status makes “Fear” a bit predictable, so its observations on societal breakdown are more compelling than its main characters during the initial exposition-heavy episodes.

The Internet gives Angelenos their first clue that something is very wrong. Leaked news footage of paramedics being attacked by recently dead victims of a car crash leads to rumors of a potent new drug or virulent illness. The video ends with police filling a staggering citizen with a staggering number of bullets, until a shot to the head finally takes him down.

Kids with iPhones watch the scene on their 5-inch screens, not knowing they’ll soon get better phone service from tin cans and a string. One of those kids is Maddie’s daughter and Nick’s little sister, Alicia (Alycia Debnam-Carey), a junior in high school who clings to her snotty attitude, her artist boyfriend, and her acceptance letter to Berkeley.

Alicia’s school shuts down right around the time that her mom and Travis are getting their first glimpse of the threat up close, leading to a frantic search for Travis’ ex-wife, Liza, and teenage son, Chris. Roads are being closed, the power grid flickers, and suburban doomsday preppers are starting to look pretty smart.

While Liza (Elizabeth Rodriguez) assumes that Travis’ frantic calls are a custody power play for an extra weekend, Chris (Lorenzo James Henrie) gets caught up in one of the spontaneous protests caused by police interacting with the undead. It’s not hard to imagine a scared public blaming cops for executing the “homeless” without the knowledge that they’re really zombies. With their bad posture and tenacity, these L.A. undead very well could be listless drunks, zonged out on bath salts, or just lost on their way to Starbucks.

The zombies in “The Walking Dead,” or “walkers,” as they’re called, are slow-moving, half-rotted, dull-witted. They don’t stop in their relentless pursuit of fresh flesh, but they don’t exactly sprint, either.

But these new walkers are freshly dead, and they’ve quickly lost their coordination, but they’re not apathetically shambling through the backwoods of Georgia. In “Fear the Walking Dead,” the zombies are faster, and the living are slower.

A day before the inevitable riots, Travis was teaching Jack London survival metaphors to sleepy-eyed teenagers who scoffed at the idea that they’d ever have to build a fire. Suddenly he’s holed up with strangers in a barbershop, waiting for the worst to pass so he can gather his makeshift family and head for the desert.

“The Walking Dead,” like “Revolution” and other post-apocalyptic fare, dropped its viewers into a world where technology had become irrelevant and survivors had embraced their inner Boy Scouts. “Fear the Walking Dead” is a mid-apocalyptic tale where no one is equipped for the coming reality. Naturally, they turn again and again to their failing gadgets. “Dead again!” they complain, thinking they’re just talking about their phones.

“Fear the Walking Dead” isn’t essential TV for anyone but “Walking Dead” fanatics, but with just six episodes in its first season, it’s a fast-paced, character-driven look at the power of information. Travis and Maddie know more than most people, and that’s the only reason their family might last until the fires die down.

“Fear the Walking Dead” premieres at 8 p.m. Sunday on AMC.

Photo: Elizabeth Rodriguez and Lorenzo James Henrie in “Fear the Walking Dead.” (Frank Ockenfeis 3/AMC)

TV Review: HBO’s ‘Going Clear’ Details Scientology’s Theater Of The Surreal

By Sara Smith, The Kansas City Star (TNS)

Scientology won’t be destroyed when Going Clear, filmmaker Alex Gibney’s documentary, airs on Sunday.

Unlike another recent HBO documentary project, The Jinx, Going Clear probably won’t lead to the high-profile arrest of an eccentric millionaire.

And that’s too bad.

The movie version of Going Clear does manage to distill Scientology — the celebrity-infused, money-driven spiritual movement founded by L. Ron Hubbard in 1950 — down to its most objectionable practices. Aided by its source material (New Yorker writer Lawrence Wright’s 2011 article and 2013 book), Gibney’s film explains a bit, too, about the movement’s appeal, mostly by speaking with former believers.

Why would these seemingly thoughtful, intelligent people sign a billion-year contract to work for pennies a day? Why would these clear-eyed Americans cut off their families, divorce their spouses, and leave their children based on the work of a science fiction novelist?

The answer rests with “auditing,” the therapy-esque sessions Scientologists undergo with the assistance of another church member and a device called an E-meter, sometimes referred to as “one-third of a lie detector test.”

It starts out as a glorified self-help program, designed to make recruits more effective communicators and creators. Auditors ask questions like, “Can you remember a time when your mother denied you love?”

Auditing lets Scientologists work through troublesome memories (some from past lives) until they aren’t sending negative energy through “cans” of the E-meter. Meanwhile, it’s all being recorded and written down, so that every Scientologist has a collection of files in what’s called a “preclear folder.” If you try to leave the church, those files can be used against you.

The documentary leaves out some of the church leadership’s more frightening misdeeds detailed in its source material, but Gibney nonetheless talks to so many expats that Going Clear never has time to go very deep with anyone.

The stories of ex-Scientologists, like the memories of survivors of many other insular sects, oscillate between infuriating and terrifying. And what Hubbard himself called Scientology’s “space opera” mythology of “Operating Thetans” pushes its reputation far into the most fantastical corners of recent history.

In one of the most gripping scenes in Wright’s book, former Scientologist and Oscar-winning director Paul Haggis recalls receiving the secretive “Operating Thetan III” documents, kept in a locked briefcase that was lashed to his arm. Like every other Scientologist at this rung on Hubbard’s ladder of enlightenment, he had invested years and many thousands of dollars before he was deemed ready for OT III.

Inside a locked study room, he opened a manila envelope and read the handful of pages, scrawled in Hubbard’s own hand.

This is the story Hubbard called “The Wall of Fire,” the tale of Galactic Confederacy overlord Xenu; of interstellar DC-8s dropping frozen people into Earth’s volcanoes; of hydrogen bombs and alien souls that cling to humans and harm us.

After a few minutes, Haggis returned to the supervisor.

“I don’t understand,” Haggis said.

“Do you know the words?”

“I know the words, I just don’t understand.”

“Go back and read it again.” In a moment, he returned. “Is this a metaphor?” he asked.

“No,” the supervisor responded. “It is what it is.”

Haggis’ journey into and out of Scientology could have made a fascinating film by itself, and he’s just one of a dozen articulate talking heads.

Having too much good material to work with is a problem Gibney has faced before: In Mea Maxima Culpa: Silence in the House of God, he tackled the Roman Catholic Church’s culpability in child sex abuse scandals.

But Mea Maxima Culpa didn’t have the candid perspectives that Going Clear gets from the likes of former top lieutenants like Marty Rathbun, who performed the extensive auditing that put Scientology poster boy Tom Cruise near the top OT levels.

Men and women who escaped from the highest levels of Scientology under current church leader David Miscavige describe bloody beatings, many delivered directly by the leader. Multiple witnesses have described Miscavige, who barely clears 5 feet, flying across a conference table during meetings to strangle Scientology department heads in their seats.

Some ex-church members, whose problem is more with Miscavige than Scientology itself, are taking what they learned and offering auditing outside the church’s purview. This makes them what the church calls “squirrels.”

Squads of Scientologists wearing cameras on their heads harass these “squirrels,” banging on their doors and wandering their neighborhoods in hats and T-shirts reading “SQUIRREL BUSTERS!”

Back at Scientology headquarters, Miscavige sometimes makes people salute his beagles, who wear sweaters with naval insignias. It’s that kind of absurdity that nearly obscures the horror of what can happen to the church’s inner circle.

In one instance, high-ranking church members were forced into an abusive marathon of musical chairs while Queen’s greatest hits blasted. Some call it “The Bohemian Rhapsody Incident.”

Visually, Going Clear relies too often on the quiet imagery of a needle bouncing around an E-meter. But that is probably because Scientologists are not exactly forthcoming with footage.

Clips of some of their training videos do make it in, for yet more surrealist theater. The vertically challenged Miscavige is front and center in Scientology’s “We Stand Tall” music video, part of the celebration of victory over the IRS in 1993.

That’s right: Scientology is recognized by the United States as a legitimate religion, with all the First Amendment freedoms and financial benefits that status affords.

Snapshots of the awkward high-fiving between Scientology’s scoffing henchmen and the gray-suited IRS negotiators who settled with the church for $12 million are some of the most enraging images in Going Clear.

Though it’s admirably light on salacious celebrity revelations, Going Clear alleges that Miscavige would monitor Cruise’s auditing sessions and mock the actor’s sex life. (Miscavige was best man at Cruise’s wedding to Katie Holmes.)

Ex-leaders also claim that John Travolta’s preclear folder was used to threaten him when he wanted to leave the church.

But it’s Miscavige at the center of Going Clear, Miscavige who made the marketing video of Cruise cackling in a black turtleneck, Miscavige who approved the daily footage from the set of Battlefield Earth, Travolta’s Hubbard-based sci-fi flick.

Miscavige’s vaguely named Freedom Magazine has been busy during the run-up to Going Clear. Every ex-Scientologist featured in the film has his or her own little hit piece on Freedom‘s website, with titles like “Sara Goldberg: Crocodile Liar” and “Marc Headley: The Soulless Sellout.”

After years of targeting its external enemies and extorting its own members, the organization excels at smearing people.

But presenting itself in the public eye as a legitimate religion instead of an unhinged cult of greed? That’s another story, and it’s just going to get harder after Going Clear.

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WHERE TO WATCH
Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief premieres at 8 p.m. Eastern Sunday on HBO
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SCIENTOLOGY 101

Clear: A “highly desirable state” in which a person, through auditing, gets rid of all the interference from troubling memories buried in the subconscious, or “reactive mind.”

RPF: Short for Rehabilitation Project Force. Scientologists describe it as a “second chance” program that offers “redemption rather than dismissal” for members deemed to have committed serious offenses. Those in RPF receive intense religious counseling and must perform manual labor. The program reportedly can last months or even years.

Sea Org: Short for Sea Organization, a religious order for those who dedicate their lives to the service of Scientology. Paid $75 a week plus meals, lodging and medical care, members sign a 1-billion-year contract, to symbolize their commitment to serve in this life and the next ones. The Sea Org was developed when Scientology was largely based on ships.

Suppressive person, or SP: A Scientologist who “works to upset, continuously undermine, spread bad news and denigrate other people and their activities.” Often applied to a member who speaks ill of the church. An SP cannot have contact with other Scientologists, even family.

Auditing: “Helps an individual look at his own existence and improves his ability to confront what he is and where he is.” The auditor asks questions and uses a device called an E-meter that is said to measure the person’s reaction, allowing the auditor to locate areas of distress.

Fair Game: A Hubbard policy that says church enemies “may be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without any discipline of the Scientologist” and that the person “may be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.” Hubbard canceled the policy in 1968, but critics say the church still uses it to justify harassment of opponents.

Introspection Rundown: A Scientology procedure Hubbard devised to calm a person in the throes of psychosis. The person is isolated and not spoken to except for frequent auditing.
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(c)2015 The Kansas City Star (Kansas City, Mo.), Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC

Photo courtesy of HBO