The Dark Knight (which opened last weekend), started surfacing a few weeks ago, I couldnt help but be cynical. Critics, reputable ones, used words like "brilliant (Rolling Stone) and terrifying (New York Times) to describe the late Heath Ledgers performance as the Joker. Folks were chanting Oscar before the thing even got spooled up on the reels.

In stills from the film, the character appeared shabby and greasy like Johnny Depps Willy Wonka with a bad hangover. And how brilliant could a grown man in smeared clown makeup possibly be? Were talkin Batman here, not Gone With the Wind.

And then I saw The Dark Knight for myself. All I can say is HOLY CRAP!

Its tempting to bust out all the appropriate critic-speak (multi-layered, nuanced, electrifying, etc.), but none of it would be adequate to describe how amazing Ledgers Joker truly is. Its almost as if the drab clothing and half-assed makeup (it looked half-assed, but was somehow perfect) created an empty vessel for the actor to fill with a numbing, complicated evil.

Director Christopher Nolan promised that we would be blown away by the Joker. And I am. Unlike the vain, stylish Jack Nicholson Joker from Tim Burtons 1989 Batman, Ledgers villain is intelligent, droll, unspeakably cruel, and absolutely relentless. Its not greed or a lust for power that drives him: Its a sociopathic rage so deep that he seems to have forgotten exactly where it came from.

And if the empty vessel idea seems a bit on the philosophical side, Nolans interpretation of the character is very much a study in Eastern philosophy and Western psychology. In a particularly tense scene with Aaron Eckhart (in the dual role of good guy Harvey Dent and bad guy Two-Face), Ledgers Joker, disturbing even in a nurses uniform and a wig, sums it up like this: Im an agent of chaos and we all know what chaos is. He leans into Eckhart and mutters seductively, Fear.

As with all great film villains, this Joker is also charming as hell. He may be Gacy-style crazy, but the guy never loses his cool. And even though this film is two and a half hours long (youll need a catheter to watch the whole thing comfortably), it flies by. In my estimation, Christian Bale as Batman is kind of an empty (bat)suit compared to the titanic talent of the supporting cast (Eckhart, Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Maggie Gyllenhaal). But, with Ledger around, it hardly matters. Batman is simply there to give the Joker something to do.

I can say, unequivocally, that I believe Ledger deserves an Oscar for this performance and not because he got robbed for 2005s Brokeback Mountain (as did director Ang Lee, who should have won Best Picture over the forgettable Crash), but because hes created a truly iconic character. And, though critics suspect Ledgers posthumous Oscar will remain out of reach because the Batman franchise is viewed as popcorn fare, I would argue that his performance is every bit as thought-provoking and intense as Javier Bardems villainous turn in 2007s No Country for Old Men. Bardem, who won Best Supporting Actor last year, played a similar character in the film but his role required only a fraction of the vivid, warped mania that Ledger had to conjure for The Dark Knight.

Though Ill refrain from buying into the rumor that the sleeping pills and anxiety medication that caused his accidental overdose were a byproduct of the role, I will say that its a shame this talented guy, only 28 at the time of his passing, couldnt have stuck around longer. Jeff Robinov, president of Warner Brothers Pictures Group, told the New York Times that, in light of the tragedy, director Nolan felt a massive sense of responsibility to do right by Mr. Ledgers terrifying, amazing performance. He has done exactly that. And if this is to represent Ledgers final work (he died during early production for Terry Gilliams The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus), we could hardly have asked for better.

Hopefully, the Academy will put aside the hype and the biases this January and give Ledger the nomination (and the Oscar) he so richly deserves.

Wendy Case is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Arts & Entertainment.

About a year ago, I went along with my girlfriend to go fishing for the first time. We were in Rhode Island, and it was early evening along a cut in the shore where freshwater and saltwater meet. After a few attempts at casting, I sat down on a bucket and watched her fine form as she reeled in her line, checked her lure, and cast again, avidly. After that, I figured I loved everything about fishing. The water lapping against the shore was soothing to my overactive mind, I tuned into nature and that opened my heart, and that's what I thought fishing was all about. However, this summer, to my great surprise, I caught a fish. A big one. And it totally freaked me out.

I had a small rod from my girlfriend's parents' basement, and a wiggly two-dollar rubber lure called a plug. She gave me instructions: to cast the line as far as I could, let it sink to the bottom, slowly reel it back, then cast again. So I did. And I did it again, and again, until I got a certain feel for the rod. Anyway, the line started casting out farther, and each time the line came back, it had less and less seaweed attached to the lure.

Then the crazy thing happened. My rod started having fits and starts and my easy reeling-in pattern was broken apart. I was suddenly alert, but the sky was pitch-black and the life of a fish was on the line, a two-foot bluefish with sharp teeth. I wanted to fight, to win, to pull it to shore and see it because it was fighting with me.

I dragged it up about three feet from the shoreline, and the fish let go of the line. Smart fish, I thought. I better get the net. As I ran to find it, I knew I wanted that fish. We netted it, then watched it flopping around and biting through the string. My girlfriend dragged it 15 feet up the beach. That's when I backed off, because I was the one killing it, and I knew it wouldn't die fast.

I turned my back to look back into the dark. I listened to the fish breathing very deep sighs. It struggled for five long minutes, and I stood still,  pretending it didn't matter.

The next night, the two-foot, six-pound bluefish was the center of a big meal, and my girlfriend's parents and family sat around the table. In the midst of many pats on the back, I gave her major kudos, because she had done the dirty work: gutting the fish and filleting it, marinating and grilling it to perfection. With some mix of shame, pride, and hearty appetite, I ate the fish I killed.

Will I fish again? I'm not sure. Hunters and fisherman, how goes it by you?

Juliana Luecking, aka Queen Juliana, is a MOLI View contributing editor for Life & Love.

"The logo is terrible," Asya said. My friend Tony's wife despises that 2112 London Olympic Games logo and reiterated the fact as we sat down to lunch in the members' room of the Tate Museum. We looked out over the Thames River and Asya went on to say that animated versions of the graffiti-inspired image have reportedly caused seizures.

"Hey," I said, "if a couple of people have to suffer seizures in order to push the envelope, then so be it."

England's dreaming of Olympic glory will most likely be on hold, in terms of next month's Olympiad. Dwain Chambers went from favorite to retired runner, seemingly overnight.

Couple this with Tigers Woods's absence from the British Open, and the outlook this week was as glum as London's weather. (But not as bad as this horny guy, who can't even go near farms anymore.)

Regardless, a look at the landscape shows cranes link up everywhere. While much of the activity is connected to the 2112 Games, most of it is part of the ongoing updating and improving of the historic structures in town. Before lunch and a viewing of Cy Twombly's daring light explorations, we stopped by St. Paul's Cathedral. The war-surviving Protestant church was under repair and tourists were being charged  10 to see the joint. Considering the unfortunate exchange rate, me and my crew just said fuck that shit.

Not to give you a seizure, but I had an amazing time not following sports for the better part of a week. I've not logged on to ESPN since Monday, couldn't tell you who won the MLB All-Star Game. I don't know who Madonna is screwing and haven't been near a gym. The closest I've come to intense exercise is minding the gap. Because of my prospective in-laws, I do know that Mark Cavendish won a record four straight stages of the Tour de France and that Gordon Taylor's Professional Footballers' Association is coming out of its 100th anniversary. Kudos to them.

I'm set to hit Paris in time to catch the Tour's end. And Tony stands poised to give me updates via e-mail and such. But I'd like the conclusion to be an utter surprise. I don't need no stinking updates. I'm on vacation.

Donnell Alexander is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Sports & Fitness. He posts Mondays and Thursdays.

The funny thing is, once youve seen these bears walk through your backyard every day for a few days, you stop being scared. After all, theyre only black bears: herbivores, not people killers. I mean, Im not going to be like Jim, the guy who lives behind us, who walks up to the bears and hands them scraps. Jim leaves food out every night. He even has rigged up various treats for the bears I dont know if theyre honey pots or salt licks or what so that the bears stand up on their hind legs and lick from a post, and sit on his couch, and generally make themselves at home around his fire pit. Then they make their way down the street, to the other guy who feeds them. Or they cross the street and rummage through the restaurants dumpster down the hill.

Were walking down the road back to the house from Lake Superior, and the big bear walks out of the bushes 25 feet ahead. He looks at us, mostly at our Yorkshire Terrier; he seems far more scared of little Otis than Otis seems of him. Then he walks on by.

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is a place unto itself. Tucked between three Great Lakes, it has the same land mass as the lower peninsula of the state but only three percent of Michigans population. The UP has a lot in common with other north-woods locales, like Alaska, Maine, Canada. But generally unknown, unsung, and not much loved, its about as hick as you can get. The county where Ive laid my hat for a month, Ontonagon, has been losing population. Its a great place to get away from it all, as long as you dont get caught up in the local dramas of domestic violence, pillheads, neglected children, etc.

Ive been coming here for 40 years now, almost every summer. There may be nothing that makes me feel more at peace with myself than walking down the sandy Superior shore, looking for agates and curious pieces of driftwood. I can walk for a mile without passing a soul. The sun sets over the endless horizon of water as big as a sea, you know around 9:30 this time of year. So every summer day is like two days, paradise doubled.

The tourists have never really discovered the UP, perhaps because the bearable (ha, ha) season here between snowstorms and black-fly invasions is so short. The ursine residents have made our little back street in Silver City a bit of an attraction for what sightseers there are; a couple cars drive by every night, peering into the woods for dark shapes.

Were staying in a cute, comfortable mobile home: wood paneling, soft carpets, those old metal glasses that make everything taste so cold and delicious, canister vacuum, cribbage board you get the picture. Nestled at the foothills of the Porcupine Mountains, Gabes Getaway is a short walk to the beach and a great deal.

At any rate, I finally have the answer to a variation on that old riddle: Does a bear shit in our yard? Every day.

Evelyn McDonnell is MOLI's editor at large. Her Populism blog runs Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today, she is trading places with Travel & Leisure editor Cathay Che.