The Grand Unanswered need not clear its throat. Nor raise a hand. Nor stand. The Grand Unanswered is.
So what say you, then, To the trembling leaf at the edge of descent, To the spark between flint and steel, To the horizon where sea meets sky, And the canyon echo that returns, unchanged?
What will you make of the threads that weave, Unseen, through the fabric of moments? Will you trace their patterns with curious fingers, And let their textures speak silences? In each twist and tangle, each smooth expanse, Lies a world waiting to unfurl.
In the pause between heartbeats, In the moment between thought and action, In the breath before the plunge, The Grand Unanswered invites you to listen.
To the symphony of snowfall, To the weight of sunlight, To the shadow of summer that stretches, then shrinks, What stories will your footsteps write?
What do you get when you add two Oscar winners, a double nominee, and an awful script? An awful movie with criminally misspent talent. The Union is a masterclass in squandering potential.
At its core, The Union is supposed to be a high-octane thriller about a group of elite, ex-military operatives who are coerced into reuniting for one last mission. They’re tasked with taking down “The Syndicate,” a shadowy organization that’s somehow both omnipresent and utterly incompetent.
On paper, it sounds like the setup for a tense, action-packed film. In execution, it’s a bloated, nonsensical mess that seems to actively despise its audience’s intelligence.
The film opens with what should be a heart-pounding heist scene, but instead, it feels like watching a poorly edited video game cutscene. J.K. Simmons, playing the world-weary , but looks visibly uncomfortable here, like he knows how bad this is but is contractually obligated to see it through.
Halle Berry’s character, a supposedly brilliant hacker with a tragic past, is introduced in a sequence that feels like it was lifted from a bad TV procedural. We see her typing furiously at a computer, spouting technobabble that makes no sense even by Hollywood standards.
Mark Wahlberg, in what should be a role tailor-made for his tough-guy persona, is reduced to a caricature. His character is the hot-headed leader, but instead of being dynamic or compelling, he comes off as a one-note brute. There’s a scene where Wahlberg’s character confronts the villain, expecting to deliver a memorable showdown.
Instead, it’s a laughable exchange where the villain spouts off monologues about chaos and power that sound like they were written by a college freshman trying too hard to be deep.
The film’s pacing is another disaster. In one particularly baffling sequence, the team infiltrates a high-security compound. What should have been a carefully orchestrated operation turns into a confusing, poorly choreographed shootout. Characters move in and out of frame with no sense of geography or logic, and the camera work is so chaotic that it’s impossible to tell what’s happening. When the dust settles, there’s no sense of accomplishment or relief—just exhaustion from trying to keep up with the nonsensical action.
And then there’s the climax, where all the narrative threads are supposed to come together in a satisfying conclusion. Instead, it feels like the writers just gave up. The final confrontation with The Syndicate is so underwhelming that it’s hard to believe this is what the entire movie was building towards. Characters we’re supposed to care about are dispatched with little fanfare, and the supposed “twists” are so telegraphed that they land with a dull thud.
Ultimately, The Union commits the ultimate cinematic sin: it’s boring. No amount of star power can save it from its dismal script, and the result is a movie that’s as forgettable as it is frustrating.
I have no idea what the other three songs are; the list changes so. But Layne has two spots locked up with ‘I Stay Away’ by Alice in Chains and ‘River of Deceit’ from his side project, Mad Season.
It’s not that he has a classically limber voice; mom would liken his growl to a cat being pissed off in an alley. It’s nasally, hollow, sad.
But I find it haunting. And not just because the songs are apocalyptically prophetic.
There’s something about Staley’s voice that burrows under your skin, sets up camp in your bones. It’s not pretty, not in the conventional sense. But Staley never seemed interested in sugar-coating that particular pill.
‘I Stay Away’ hits you like a fever dream. The way Staley’s voice weaves through those lush, unsettling strings – it’s like watching a man navigate a minefield while high on ether. You’re transfixed, waiting for the inevitable explosion, but it never comes. Instead, you’re left with this lingering sense of unease, a reminder that sometimes the anticipation of pain can be worse than the pain itself.
Then there’s ‘River of Deceit.’ If ‘I Stay Away’ is a fever dream, this is the cold sweat that follows. Staley’s voice here is quieter, more introspective, but no less potent. When he croons “My pain is self-chosen,” it’s not just a lyric – it’s a confession, a realization, a surrender. It’s the sound of a man staring into the abyss and finding it uncomfortably familiar.
That abyss, which swallowed my sister, would claim him in April 2002, when he was found dead in his Seattle apartment after years of battling heroin addiction. His body, withered to just 86 pounds, wasn’t discovered until two weeks after his death – on April 5th, ironically the same date Kurt Cobain had died eight years earlier.
Mom might hear an angry alley cat, but I hear a prophet of doom, singing hymns for the damned. There’s a raw honesty in Staley’s delivery that makes even his most despairing lyrics feel weirdly comforting.
And maybe that’s why these songs have such a death grip on my top five. In a world that often feels like it’s spinning off its axis, there’s something reassuring about Staley’s unflinching gaze into the void.
His voice isn’t classically beautiful. But neither is a storm, and we still find ourselves staring in awe at lightning-torn skies.
In the end, isn’t that what great art does? It makes us find beauty in the unconventional, comfort in the uncomfortable, and meaning in the chaos.
And if that sounds like the yowling of a pissed-off alley cat, well… meow.
