Harvey Weinstein is a serial rapist and molester, a sexual predator who abused his social, industry and physical power in order to assault women.
Women who, thanks in no small measure to Rose McGowan, are finally feeling able to stand up in accusation and defiance.
And- sadly- none of this turns out to be "The Problem". Weinstein is thoroughly outed. The women are getting their stories told and believed. And it seems likely that there will be appropriate legal action and social vindication for them. What happened to them is, of course, horrific, but it is also, finally, being processed.
"The Problem" is... Weinstein's predatory actions went on for a long time. And no one in a position to stop it, to bring it out into the light of day, did so. There was a massive silence, which, in the end, was enabling. Which, in the end, allowed it to be systematised and to a nasty extent, normalised.
Women seeking work with Weinstein were "warned". Women complaining about Weinstein were "handled". Women were paid off, or intimidated into silence. Men who have, in part, built their careers on an appearance of decency shuffled away from any mention of this, any dealing with this, with hands in pockets and shit eating grins.
Affleck. Damon. Others. Brad Pitt seems to have been confrontational about his wife, but - and this is telling- no one else. He did not generalised, and none of them were alone.
And though this has all been cracked like an egg? How much more of this foetid, rancid sexual intimidation and assault is still shelled and silenced?
I don't know how this can all be aired and handled, but I think that it has to be. Because the damage is going to continue, otherwise. Things will leak out in dribs and drabs, and careers- as well as people's lives- will be damaged and destroyed. This cannot go on to be looked at as dues, as what someone has to endure to get ahead, a price to be fucking paid.
As it seems to always have been. At some point, at some date, I would like to think that we have enough enlightened humanity in general to stomp a foot, raise a fist and say-scream- no more! No more will this be tolerated, excused, worked around, handled. From here on out, there will be no tolerance for this, it will be weeded out, root and branch.
I would like to think this will start now, that this is a good time to do it. But... there have been good times in the past, and signs that a fire has been lit- only to burn out.
I am grown darkly cynical with age.
But, regardless of my estimations of humanity, I can, and will, act for myself.
I'm not going to another movie with which Weinstein's been involved. Or Affleck, or Damon. Or Pitt. Or anyone associated with Weinstein who can be reasonably assumed to have known and been silent. Or possibly to have enabled.
Will that do any good, make any difference? It would be gross cupidity to think that any boycott, personal or organised, would make any real difference to them, or their careers, or their handlers and enablers _now_.
But now is not then.
And it will make a difference to me.
No way in hell I can sit through, say, Justice League, without thinking about all of this.
It may be a failing. I still believe that you can separate the art from the artist. That you can appreciate good work even from the most wretched bastard alive.
I just don't think it can or should always be done.
I keep thinking of Asia Argento. You can find, and read her uncomfortably blunt story on line. Beyond the physical brutality, the emotional brutality, the effects of intimidation... I can't be aware of that, and sit, placidly, in the theatre. Even as a paying member of the audience, I cannot be a part of this.
So. No Justice League. No, well, lots and lots of movies.
It's not a tremendous sacrifice, I think. And one I am certain that I will not be alone in making.
Thursday 12 October 2017
Monday 19 June 2017
Doctor Who, "The Eaters of Light", spoiler free review
The episode was written by Rona Munro, who also wrote the last serial prior to the program's decades long hiatus- "Survival" , featuring the seventh Doctor and Ace.
I mention it because this time out feels a lot like the professorial, mentoring seventh Doctor and his student companion.
The Doctor, here, is the quietly approving tutor, watching his best student hit all her marks. He's still the Doctor- irascible, head strong, and so forth. But Bill has come into her own, fully, as companion. She knows when to listen, when to strike out on her own, and when- as things become dire- to take matters into her own hands. Bill is no longer dependent on the Doctor- save in the obvious way, in that he controls the time machine. She is capable of diving into their little adventures and going off on her own. As he now trusts her to do.
She is the most adult companion- the most responsible and self motivated companion- that I think we have ever had, including late in the game Donna Noble.
Very good work from both actors, here. As has been showcased throughout the year.
The story, however... is by the numbers. There is a monster. The doctor figures out that not everyone fighting it is pure of thought or deed, and in the end, those fighting the thing overcome their differences and so forth and so on.
It's fairly well done- but nothing particularly memorable.
Until the end.
I haven't said this, I don't think, directly, but the last couple episodes have felt like we're being given something to do to fill our time before getting to Missy. Like that was their actual focus.
This one was no exception. Though it would seem to be, from the preview for next week, the last one to dick us around like that. The last two episodes seem to shift the focus directly onto her.
The whole adventure, this time, evaporated when, adventure over, the team got back to The Time Lady In The Box.
Not going to spoil. Desperate as I am to discuss it. Let's say that it takes the episode from a six of ten to a nine. To echo an earlier incarnation? Change has come. And it seems not a moment too soon.
Next week? A surfeit of Master.
I mention it because this time out feels a lot like the professorial, mentoring seventh Doctor and his student companion.
The Doctor, here, is the quietly approving tutor, watching his best student hit all her marks. He's still the Doctor- irascible, head strong, and so forth. But Bill has come into her own, fully, as companion. She knows when to listen, when to strike out on her own, and when- as things become dire- to take matters into her own hands. Bill is no longer dependent on the Doctor- save in the obvious way, in that he controls the time machine. She is capable of diving into their little adventures and going off on her own. As he now trusts her to do.
She is the most adult companion- the most responsible and self motivated companion- that I think we have ever had, including late in the game Donna Noble.
Very good work from both actors, here. As has been showcased throughout the year.
The story, however... is by the numbers. There is a monster. The doctor figures out that not everyone fighting it is pure of thought or deed, and in the end, those fighting the thing overcome their differences and so forth and so on.
It's fairly well done- but nothing particularly memorable.
Until the end.
I haven't said this, I don't think, directly, but the last couple episodes have felt like we're being given something to do to fill our time before getting to Missy. Like that was their actual focus.
This one was no exception. Though it would seem to be, from the preview for next week, the last one to dick us around like that. The last two episodes seem to shift the focus directly onto her.
The whole adventure, this time, evaporated when, adventure over, the team got back to The Time Lady In The Box.
Not going to spoil. Desperate as I am to discuss it. Let's say that it takes the episode from a six of ten to a nine. To echo an earlier incarnation? Change has come. And it seems not a moment too soon.
Next week? A surfeit of Master.
Friday 9 June 2017
So. About that Woman...
This is an expanded version of something I posted to Facebook. Turns out there is more to say.
Wonder Woman works because it's not about women or wymyn or feminist empowerment or gender equality or some other heavy handed message.
It's about people rising to face the challenge at hand. People; young and old, men and women, of different races and different belief systems and different countries.
Not because they were born heroes - even Diana- but because they took responsibility. Because they looked at a pending disaster and felt that they had to try and sort it. Because they were brave and fierce and godly?
Not at all. Diana is a naif, Steve Trevor is a sneak, and the merry band of gentlemen they collect as they go are, in general, pretty seriously damaged. They get involved because they are all inspired to rise above themselves, to look at the world outside of themselves and their problems, and as a consequence, realized that something needed doing and that they- against all probability, were in a good position to get it done. Inspired by Diana? Certainly. Not due to her prowess in battle or even her amazing optimism, but rather... Because of love. All kinds of love, in the end. The love between men and women, between family, between comrades at arms, between us and ourselves - the love that lets us look in the mirror without cringing. Empowerment, and all the messages people are getting from it? It all stems from this. From the bravery of standing up. Standing up for self, for family and for humanity.
The movie doesn't stop to highlight any of this, to objectify it, to hover over beautiful bodies or add gloss to the violence. Gal Gadot is beautiful. Connie Neilsen is beautiful. Robin Wright is beautiful. Chris Pine is beautiful. So are fireballs and gouts of blue fire and the spark of a bullet ricochet.
There could easily have been long scenes devoted to the adoration of all that.
There are not. We see plenty of skin, plenty of action, plenty of stuff asploding all over the screen. But we are seeing athleticism and verve and moxie in motion, and the terrible results of war. The beauty of the human body, and the horror of what happens to it in battle.
It is- for a big, tent-pole actioner? Charmingly forthright and free of leers.
There is even a discreet cut away from a love scene. Not quite a candle blowing out as draperies move in the breeze, but that same effect. Haven't seen that in a while. The movie also reminds us that we- whoever we are, whatever our abilities or lackings- can be heroic. We don't need to be living action figures, either. We just need to stand up. I'm not subtracting the importance of having a woman lead- a bisexual leading character at that. I'm applauding everyone involved for making her, and her actions, part of a larger story, and trusting that people would see the inherit empowerment within. You're a wonder, Wonder Woman.
Verisimilitude, or Believing Anyway.
Lets start with Iron Man.
You may not have known of the comic book character on which the movies are based- but I have no doubt that most of you have seen the movies. Or, at least, the commercials, clips, trailers, games and the rest of the promotional tie ins.
The endless, wearying tie ins.
Iron Man is Tony Stark. A rich jerk who- after a nasty incident in war torn Plotpointistan- becomes a rich jerk hero. Courtesy of a fabulous do anything suit of candy apple red and gold armour. The suit shoots missiles, knock em down beams, blow em up beams, is resistant to bullets, protects the wearer from any sort of impact- and flies at supersonic velocities.
All of which is so much bullshit. A close fitting suit of armour? How does it absorb impacts without transferring them to the wearer? How does it protect against the G forces imparted by all that frantic flying about?
Those of you who saw the movies? I would guess that you never really thought about this.
You didn't think about this because the writers and actors and directors worked their asses off to make this bullshit seem real. Everyone acted as if it were a real thing in the real world. They introduced it like a fact, and reacted to it like a fact. Iron Man has this amazing suit that functions like the ultimate army knife. It has attachments and blades and doohickeys that will allow the wearer to do almost any damned thing. At will. Instantly.
And... it worked, at least for most of us, when we were in the audience. We sat there, with this improbable to the point of impossibility splayed out in front of us. And our critical reasoning- the built in crap detector most of us have- did not trip. It worked because everyone on screen acted and reacted as if it worked.
Not real actions and reactions- no one having shown up as Iron Man, no one knows what those would be. But a realistic guess at them. Reactions that fit in with what the audience imagines. A mixture of amazement and disbelief and wonder.
And having gotten that mixture right- those carefully realistic, faked actions and reactions- the movie mowed right over our crap detectors. "Okay," Tony Stark says near the beginning, "I can fly". and our critical reasoning rolled on its back and purred.
The phrase for the whole process we went through- the Cahirs du Cinema approved movie snob term- is: Willing Suspension of Disbelief. The part that allowed you to suspend that disbelief- which is our topic here? Verisimilitude. Which is, rather more or less, acting as if the lie were truth.
For a writer- a fiction writer- verisimilitude is everything. When you have a sense of it, you can write a story where a thick mist rolls into town one fine afternoon- carrying with it the end of civilisation. Or tell us of a romance between brother and sister, or detail the epic love between an undead teen of hundreds of years and a modern girl. Or give us that man in the tin suit, playing around with Navy fighters- and rest content that your audience will put up with it. If you don't have it?
Odds are that your work won't go very far. Odds are that your work won't go anywhere. Even if you write contemporaneously, and base your story in a recognisably modern world- you have to make sure that everything is realistic for that setting. You have a man and woman lunching in Manhattan- talking about the current president and social issues- and then have them fly off on giant geese? Unless you've found someway to justify giant, people carrying waterfowl-yours is cooked. Someone's just thrown your manuscript into the trash.
I emphasise this because- again and again and again- I see this violated. I see what might well have been interesting work evaporate up its own ass.
An example from something of my own. More years ago than I care to remember, I was asked to co-write a fun, family oriented Christmas play for a local theatre. A friend of mine had some ideas and wanted to collaborate. He never quite found the time to work on the piece... and I ended up editing out his ideas almost completely and finishing the thing by myself. Not because they were bad, but because I couldn't write them.
His main idea- Santa was actually a job, and Santas were recruited out of mental institutions because of a need for the job holder to believe in impossible things.
Cute, and not without precedent. There was a Twilight Zone episode, "Night of The Meek", in which Art Carney played a possibly delusional department store Santa who became Santa out of sheer belief. And then there were the Santa Clause movies.
The thing is... I couldn't write it. If I made the institution believable, it got depressing. If I tried to make the institution a lighter environment- I imagined something like the detective squad room in Barney Miller, where everyone's attitude remained generally light despite fairly pressing circumstances- it felt like a cheat.
Like I was trying to re-write Harvey, with Elwood actually nuts, as opposed to simply... strange.
I knew that a mental institution- at best- was far from a cheery, happy place. And at Christmas? I couldn't imagine any situation where that would be... fun. A good starting place for what was supposed to be a nice evening of holiday theatre.
I changed it to an old folks home, which felt better, with two old coots and a minimal staff being stuck on site for Christmas because they had no where else to go.
I had a lot of fun writing that. Until, one late evening, I realised that I was writing the damned Sunshine Odd Couple Boys. Grumpy Old Men meet Santa. It was going and going and going. But it wasn't getting anywhere. It wasn't about Christmas so much as how well I could write Neil Simon dialogue.
I ended up telling the story of a drunken old Broadway star who- years later- has a sort of breakdown during a live Christmas Eve broadcast. His wandering- post breakdown- taught him the true meaning of the holiday.
I told it as an extended flashback. An older woman telling it as a heartening story to her son, who's a bit lost following the death of his wife. He lacks the Christmas spirit, so she tells him about someone who also lost it- and how he found it.
The thing is... it did not work. It felt like two plays, two very different plays, forced together in unholy bond. The problem was... The mother/son stuff was one reality, the radio show stuff another. Mom and son spoke realistically, their situation was told seriously. The people in the radio show section spoke like they came out of His Girl Friday.
Verisimilitude was broken when you shifted from one to the other. The rules didn't mesh.
The resolution came to me several years after I dropped the story deep into hard drive storage.
The whole thing could be tied together if I gave up on the idea of ANY of it being real. If I accepted that the whole thing was a story- ME telling a story to my audience. The realism was not mother and son or radio actors and crew. It was... sitting by the radio, listening to the CBS Radio Mystery Theatre. It was laying in bed, just about to fall asleep, listening to a comedic monologue. It was sitting by the fire, letting the village elder tell you the history of your people via story.
Magic. And extremely loosening. Parts flew into the thing- whereas in the original telling, I'd been constrained by the need to have a realism in each section, I was now free to add whatever I wanted- to write whatever I wanted- safe in knowing that... if this worked... the audience would buy what I did because they were in that "tell me a bedtime story" reality I'd created.
And the play- for good or ill- worked. The parts merged into a whole, and it felt nicely snug and Christmas-y.
Basically, I realised I was telling one lie, not two, and I hewed to the bigger lie. I found verisimilitude by throwing my adherence to general reality, our shared reality aside, and creating my own internal reality.
In writing, there's possibly no more important thing. It's why stories work, no matter what type, and regardless of anything else. They can be written so beautifully that your teeth ache. But if you don't believe, it just sits there.
So. How do you check this? How do you make sure that your story has faith in its own reality? A few ideas from the top of my head. There are undoubtedly more, and better.
Consistency. If you establish rules as to how something works, you cannot violate them. Whether it's an interplanetary drive or how two people express their affection. If your crusty detective eschews romantic attraction, you cannot have that worthy go swooning after a dewy young thing without explaining how this could happen within that crusty reality. Without making it plausible.
Character buy in. Once your detective is showing romantic interest, to continue the example, the best way to reinforce its believability for your audience is to have other characters in the story believe. And if it's going to be a hard sale, use those characters to make it for you. Have them refuse to believe it, and then be won over. They will function as audience surrogates,with their processing guiding the audience.
Anyone see "Arrival?" I haven't read Eric Heisserer's screenplay, but halfway through the movie, there's a knotty narrative issue to handle. Amy Adams' linguist, having clearly demonstrated how difficult it will be to translate a certain language, has to be shown as making progress in a fairly short period of time. Basically, having set a rule, the narrative has to make the audience buy that it's either been followed, but quick, or that it wasn't such a hard and fast rule.
The wrong choice will kick people out of the movie. Amy's been established as a non superwoman with a near impossible task. If she just waves her hand and does it, your story violates its own rules, and you've pissed on your audience's trust.
The movie handles this largely with character buy in. Amy suffers in her effort, other characters react to this, and one character redirects her efforts into something which seems comparatively easier. Rather than translate the whole language, she needs to understand enough to ask basic questions.
Preparing your audience. Don't drop, say, a supernatural character into gritty police procedural without setting something into your environment that allows for it. Set something into the background that lets them know that this spooky stuff exists, maybe unnoticed by most... Until now.
Keeping with "Arrival", the last act requires a pretty big conceptual leap. So it's prepared for from practically the first line. And little hints are consistently dropped. I'm not sure that it works as well as it might. But I am sure that the transition would fall flat without this stuff. Gone from a Twilight Zone zone moment to a "2001" what the hell was that?!? Moment.
Knowing Your Audience. This one goes out to comic books- I started off with a comic book character so it makes sense to finish with one.
The Batman.
There have been a great many variations of the character since Finger and Kane- though there are general constants. But. If you think about what Batman does for a few moments, critically, the character- and every story ever told using him- falls apart, certainly in modern times.
Think about how easily his movements could be tracked , how easily he could be killed. How a man in a bat costume might not frighten everyone out of their wits. Think about how a little planning could result in his capture and arrest- as he operates outside of the law.
The comics get around this two ways. First, The Batman is prevented as a fact. Whatever your objections, if you buy into the world created for him? Yeah, but there he is. Once you accept Gotham and the DC universe- where people can fly and blast rays out of their eyes, or be so toxic that their kiss kills, or what have you- you're already willing to accept The Batman's ability to evade death or capture.
Second, The Batman is presented as a pre-eminent generalist. Having inherited a vast fortune as a child, he's had the time to train to expert level ability on everything he might need. He knows every martial art. He's exercised himself into peak physical condition. He knows every weapons system. He knows the law, he knows the customs, he knows criminality. And he keeps current. He's a genius level monomaniac who focuses himself on a single area, and has managed to make himself incredibly effective.
The reader- when confronted with actions that violate general reality- doesn't even blink. Because in the comic book reality established, and from the character established within that reality, these actions make sense.
In reality, if you tried to swing between buildings on a thin line, no matter how strong, you would run afoul of telephone lines, errant winds, running out of line and stopping short, and, well, gravity.
In the DC reality- it's elegant and damned near like flying.
And if they had not so carefully created this environment and this character- none of it would work.
You may not have known of the comic book character on which the movies are based- but I have no doubt that most of you have seen the movies. Or, at least, the commercials, clips, trailers, games and the rest of the promotional tie ins.
The endless, wearying tie ins.
Iron Man is Tony Stark. A rich jerk who- after a nasty incident in war torn Plotpointistan- becomes a rich jerk hero. Courtesy of a fabulous do anything suit of candy apple red and gold armour. The suit shoots missiles, knock em down beams, blow em up beams, is resistant to bullets, protects the wearer from any sort of impact- and flies at supersonic velocities.
All of which is so much bullshit. A close fitting suit of armour? How does it absorb impacts without transferring them to the wearer? How does it protect against the G forces imparted by all that frantic flying about?
Those of you who saw the movies? I would guess that you never really thought about this.
You didn't think about this because the writers and actors and directors worked their asses off to make this bullshit seem real. Everyone acted as if it were a real thing in the real world. They introduced it like a fact, and reacted to it like a fact. Iron Man has this amazing suit that functions like the ultimate army knife. It has attachments and blades and doohickeys that will allow the wearer to do almost any damned thing. At will. Instantly.
And... it worked, at least for most of us, when we were in the audience. We sat there, with this improbable to the point of impossibility splayed out in front of us. And our critical reasoning- the built in crap detector most of us have- did not trip. It worked because everyone on screen acted and reacted as if it worked.
Not real actions and reactions- no one having shown up as Iron Man, no one knows what those would be. But a realistic guess at them. Reactions that fit in with what the audience imagines. A mixture of amazement and disbelief and wonder.
And having gotten that mixture right- those carefully realistic, faked actions and reactions- the movie mowed right over our crap detectors. "Okay," Tony Stark says near the beginning, "I can fly". and our critical reasoning rolled on its back and purred.
The phrase for the whole process we went through- the Cahirs du Cinema approved movie snob term- is: Willing Suspension of Disbelief. The part that allowed you to suspend that disbelief- which is our topic here? Verisimilitude. Which is, rather more or less, acting as if the lie were truth.
For a writer- a fiction writer- verisimilitude is everything. When you have a sense of it, you can write a story where a thick mist rolls into town one fine afternoon- carrying with it the end of civilisation. Or tell us of a romance between brother and sister, or detail the epic love between an undead teen of hundreds of years and a modern girl. Or give us that man in the tin suit, playing around with Navy fighters- and rest content that your audience will put up with it. If you don't have it?
Odds are that your work won't go very far. Odds are that your work won't go anywhere. Even if you write contemporaneously, and base your story in a recognisably modern world- you have to make sure that everything is realistic for that setting. You have a man and woman lunching in Manhattan- talking about the current president and social issues- and then have them fly off on giant geese? Unless you've found someway to justify giant, people carrying waterfowl-yours is cooked. Someone's just thrown your manuscript into the trash.
I emphasise this because- again and again and again- I see this violated. I see what might well have been interesting work evaporate up its own ass.
An example from something of my own. More years ago than I care to remember, I was asked to co-write a fun, family oriented Christmas play for a local theatre. A friend of mine had some ideas and wanted to collaborate. He never quite found the time to work on the piece... and I ended up editing out his ideas almost completely and finishing the thing by myself. Not because they were bad, but because I couldn't write them.
His main idea- Santa was actually a job, and Santas were recruited out of mental institutions because of a need for the job holder to believe in impossible things.
Cute, and not without precedent. There was a Twilight Zone episode, "Night of The Meek", in which Art Carney played a possibly delusional department store Santa who became Santa out of sheer belief. And then there were the Santa Clause movies.
The thing is... I couldn't write it. If I made the institution believable, it got depressing. If I tried to make the institution a lighter environment- I imagined something like the detective squad room in Barney Miller, where everyone's attitude remained generally light despite fairly pressing circumstances- it felt like a cheat.
Like I was trying to re-write Harvey, with Elwood actually nuts, as opposed to simply... strange.
I knew that a mental institution- at best- was far from a cheery, happy place. And at Christmas? I couldn't imagine any situation where that would be... fun. A good starting place for what was supposed to be a nice evening of holiday theatre.
I changed it to an old folks home, which felt better, with two old coots and a minimal staff being stuck on site for Christmas because they had no where else to go.
I had a lot of fun writing that. Until, one late evening, I realised that I was writing the damned Sunshine Odd Couple Boys. Grumpy Old Men meet Santa. It was going and going and going. But it wasn't getting anywhere. It wasn't about Christmas so much as how well I could write Neil Simon dialogue.
I ended up telling the story of a drunken old Broadway star who- years later- has a sort of breakdown during a live Christmas Eve broadcast. His wandering- post breakdown- taught him the true meaning of the holiday.
I told it as an extended flashback. An older woman telling it as a heartening story to her son, who's a bit lost following the death of his wife. He lacks the Christmas spirit, so she tells him about someone who also lost it- and how he found it.
The thing is... it did not work. It felt like two plays, two very different plays, forced together in unholy bond. The problem was... The mother/son stuff was one reality, the radio show stuff another. Mom and son spoke realistically, their situation was told seriously. The people in the radio show section spoke like they came out of His Girl Friday.
Verisimilitude was broken when you shifted from one to the other. The rules didn't mesh.
The resolution came to me several years after I dropped the story deep into hard drive storage.
The whole thing could be tied together if I gave up on the idea of ANY of it being real. If I accepted that the whole thing was a story- ME telling a story to my audience. The realism was not mother and son or radio actors and crew. It was... sitting by the radio, listening to the CBS Radio Mystery Theatre. It was laying in bed, just about to fall asleep, listening to a comedic monologue. It was sitting by the fire, letting the village elder tell you the history of your people via story.
Magic. And extremely loosening. Parts flew into the thing- whereas in the original telling, I'd been constrained by the need to have a realism in each section, I was now free to add whatever I wanted- to write whatever I wanted- safe in knowing that... if this worked... the audience would buy what I did because they were in that "tell me a bedtime story" reality I'd created.
And the play- for good or ill- worked. The parts merged into a whole, and it felt nicely snug and Christmas-y.
Basically, I realised I was telling one lie, not two, and I hewed to the bigger lie. I found verisimilitude by throwing my adherence to general reality, our shared reality aside, and creating my own internal reality.
In writing, there's possibly no more important thing. It's why stories work, no matter what type, and regardless of anything else. They can be written so beautifully that your teeth ache. But if you don't believe, it just sits there.
So. How do you check this? How do you make sure that your story has faith in its own reality? A few ideas from the top of my head. There are undoubtedly more, and better.
Consistency. If you establish rules as to how something works, you cannot violate them. Whether it's an interplanetary drive or how two people express their affection. If your crusty detective eschews romantic attraction, you cannot have that worthy go swooning after a dewy young thing without explaining how this could happen within that crusty reality. Without making it plausible.
Character buy in. Once your detective is showing romantic interest, to continue the example, the best way to reinforce its believability for your audience is to have other characters in the story believe. And if it's going to be a hard sale, use those characters to make it for you. Have them refuse to believe it, and then be won over. They will function as audience surrogates,with their processing guiding the audience.
Anyone see "Arrival?" I haven't read Eric Heisserer's screenplay, but halfway through the movie, there's a knotty narrative issue to handle. Amy Adams' linguist, having clearly demonstrated how difficult it will be to translate a certain language, has to be shown as making progress in a fairly short period of time. Basically, having set a rule, the narrative has to make the audience buy that it's either been followed, but quick, or that it wasn't such a hard and fast rule.
The wrong choice will kick people out of the movie. Amy's been established as a non superwoman with a near impossible task. If she just waves her hand and does it, your story violates its own rules, and you've pissed on your audience's trust.
The movie handles this largely with character buy in. Amy suffers in her effort, other characters react to this, and one character redirects her efforts into something which seems comparatively easier. Rather than translate the whole language, she needs to understand enough to ask basic questions.
Preparing your audience. Don't drop, say, a supernatural character into gritty police procedural without setting something into your environment that allows for it. Set something into the background that lets them know that this spooky stuff exists, maybe unnoticed by most... Until now.
Keeping with "Arrival", the last act requires a pretty big conceptual leap. So it's prepared for from practically the first line. And little hints are consistently dropped. I'm not sure that it works as well as it might. But I am sure that the transition would fall flat without this stuff. Gone from a Twilight Zone zone moment to a "2001" what the hell was that?!? Moment.
Knowing Your Audience. This one goes out to comic books- I started off with a comic book character so it makes sense to finish with one.
The Batman.
There have been a great many variations of the character since Finger and Kane- though there are general constants. But. If you think about what Batman does for a few moments, critically, the character- and every story ever told using him- falls apart, certainly in modern times.
Think about how easily his movements could be tracked , how easily he could be killed. How a man in a bat costume might not frighten everyone out of their wits. Think about how a little planning could result in his capture and arrest- as he operates outside of the law.
The comics get around this two ways. First, The Batman is prevented as a fact. Whatever your objections, if you buy into the world created for him? Yeah, but there he is. Once you accept Gotham and the DC universe- where people can fly and blast rays out of their eyes, or be so toxic that their kiss kills, or what have you- you're already willing to accept The Batman's ability to evade death or capture.
Second, The Batman is presented as a pre-eminent generalist. Having inherited a vast fortune as a child, he's had the time to train to expert level ability on everything he might need. He knows every martial art. He's exercised himself into peak physical condition. He knows every weapons system. He knows the law, he knows the customs, he knows criminality. And he keeps current. He's a genius level monomaniac who focuses himself on a single area, and has managed to make himself incredibly effective.
The reader- when confronted with actions that violate general reality- doesn't even blink. Because in the comic book reality established, and from the character established within that reality, these actions make sense.
In reality, if you tried to swing between buildings on a thin line, no matter how strong, you would run afoul of telephone lines, errant winds, running out of line and stopping short, and, well, gravity.
In the DC reality- it's elegant and damned near like flying.
And if they had not so carefully created this environment and this character- none of it would work.
Thursday 25 May 2017
The Albee Situation
Recently, the estate of the late Edward Albee shut down a production of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" because the production team cast a black actor in one of the roles.
There has been much discussion about this, some of it quite heated. For me, it comes down to this: To tell his story, Mr. Albee felt it important that his characters be white, and of a certain social-economic level. It helps if you realize that the play is a period piece, a slice of lives during a particular era.
And Mr. Albee was a lion, as to protecting his work from re-imagining, re-interpretation, and anything else that changed it from what he wrote and intended.
In this case, that would clearly include color blind casting. It would also include gender swapping, time and place changes, and so on. All the muck that often destroys Shakespeare. But in this instance, his estate was triggered by race.
I understand this. Without getting too far off my intended track, I find it difficult to believe that the production did not understand it as well.
And, as a writer, I support it. As a creator, dealing with other creatives who don't always play respectfully with the toys, I wholeheartedly support it.
My point, however, in bringing this up?
This is a great play, with great parts- and one that is closed to me, as a performer. I could do this. I could absolutely play one of the leads in it. At this point in my life, I have an understanding of the character that I would not have had as a younger man, and not only do I know that I could do this, I know that I could do it well.
And I will never be able to.
Nor will other minorities, or women or anyone other than a white man.
And even though I respect and agree with Albee's choice? Even though I see that the story as he told it does require casting that excludes me?
I mourn the loss.
The thing to do, obviously, is look for other parts, similar parts, parts that exist within a framework that would support my being cast.
I can do that. As an actor, I realize that there are a great many parts out there that aren't suited to me, due to my size, my clumsiness, my key, my sex and my race.
This is just another. For me and those like me.
Beyond that, however...
It's made me want to direct the play. Because the director gets to play with ALL the parts. No one will ever see me play them on stage... but I can help other actors realize the part. I can contribute what I feel needs expression, within the story, to another performer, help shape things. I cannot collaborate with Albee on this- but I can collaborate with others to bring his story to life.
And that?
Well.
You can't always get what you want.
But sometimes you can get what you need.
Be seeing you.
There has been much discussion about this, some of it quite heated. For me, it comes down to this: To tell his story, Mr. Albee felt it important that his characters be white, and of a certain social-economic level. It helps if you realize that the play is a period piece, a slice of lives during a particular era.
And Mr. Albee was a lion, as to protecting his work from re-imagining, re-interpretation, and anything else that changed it from what he wrote and intended.
In this case, that would clearly include color blind casting. It would also include gender swapping, time and place changes, and so on. All the muck that often destroys Shakespeare. But in this instance, his estate was triggered by race.
I understand this. Without getting too far off my intended track, I find it difficult to believe that the production did not understand it as well.
And, as a writer, I support it. As a creator, dealing with other creatives who don't always play respectfully with the toys, I wholeheartedly support it.
My point, however, in bringing this up?
This is a great play, with great parts- and one that is closed to me, as a performer. I could do this. I could absolutely play one of the leads in it. At this point in my life, I have an understanding of the character that I would not have had as a younger man, and not only do I know that I could do this, I know that I could do it well.
And I will never be able to.
Nor will other minorities, or women or anyone other than a white man.
And even though I respect and agree with Albee's choice? Even though I see that the story as he told it does require casting that excludes me?
I mourn the loss.
The thing to do, obviously, is look for other parts, similar parts, parts that exist within a framework that would support my being cast.
I can do that. As an actor, I realize that there are a great many parts out there that aren't suited to me, due to my size, my clumsiness, my key, my sex and my race.
This is just another. For me and those like me.
Beyond that, however...
It's made me want to direct the play. Because the director gets to play with ALL the parts. No one will ever see me play them on stage... but I can help other actors realize the part. I can contribute what I feel needs expression, within the story, to another performer, help shape things. I cannot collaborate with Albee on this- but I can collaborate with others to bring his story to life.
And that?
Well.
You can't always get what you want.
But sometimes you can get what you need.
Be seeing you.
Thursday 18 May 2017
Hate
This has nothing to do with writing- or any specific person, though such will be mentioned. It is more about attitude.
The president of our country made a speech, the other day. Ostensibly to congratulate members of the US Coast Guard, but... a lot of the speech was about his feelings of persecution. President Trump believes that he has been greatly wronged by the press, and that he is the most abused president, in all ways, in history.
Having read a fair amount of history, I tend to disagree. I think Lincoln, Garfield and Kennedy might have a case for being somewhat more abused, off the top of my head. Or Mr. Obama and family.
I think that the true issue, for Mr. Trump, is that he has lived in a bubble of protection, for his entire life, and it's been pricked. As a child of privilege, and then later a business owner, he's been surrounded by people who have a vested interest in agreeing with him. From nannies and minders to underlings and hirelings. He's never really worked for anyone, or worked under anyone, his entire life. Even when his father ran the business, and Mr. Trump technically worked under him- he was being mentored by his father to be in charge. And public office- it's as far removed from that as you can imagine, at all levels.
People blame you, personally, for everything. The press and your associates pick at everything you do.
And as president- he's at the top of the pile. The pomp and circumstance, the high on the hog aspects of presidential life... for Trump, this is probably only what he is used to. Parties, meetings with the influential, etc. But the negatives. this is new.
And I am not without empathy here. Because, regardless of my own feelings regarding Mr. Trump, there is a point to be made here. Which is that... shit has gotten too rough, here in the good old US of A.
In virtually all aspects of life, I see examples of a new harshness. People don't agree to disagree anymore, in general. People don't credit that other person with being basically a decent human being with a different value system or beliefs.
That person is wrong. Not just wrong, but actionably wrong, deserving to be run through with our half witticisms and scorn. Disagree and let it go? NOT HARDLY!!!
I have had a lot of friends with whom I hold pretty basic disagreements. I have supported political candidates from the opposite side of the aisle, when I thought- regardless of party philosophy- that they had good ideas. I have been a supporter of various religions, though I am as free from religious thought as I can manage, because of the good work done. And I grew up thinking that this sort of compromisability, this common good attitude, was a common thing.
It was what I was taught by my parents, by my kindergarten teacher, the lovely Romper Room hostess, and Goofus and Gallant, in pediatric waiting rooms.
And it was what a lot of us were taught. What a lot of us seemed to live by. I'm sorry, excuse me, of course, not at all, why thank you, you're certainly welcome. Common courtesy was- with obvious exceptions, such as turning hoses and dogs on people and shooting presidents or starting wars- actually common.
And while I admit to a middle to upper class bubble of protection for the earliest parts of my life, that deflated in the early seventies, and I pushed myself out of it- a second birth, of sorts, in the mid eighties.
Now- from Washington to the work place, compromise, live and let live, it's fallen out of fashion.
Attack! Overwhelm, overcome.
There are certainly times when this attitude is appropriate. When there are things, to mangle a quote, up with which one should not put.
But... should that be everything? Some driver gets confused and makes a bad lane change, or is talking to their passenger at a light, and doesn't move out, right when it changes. Does that call for multiple long horn blasts and screamed profanity?
We have people getting into arguments in line for something and pulling guns. What. The. Hell.
Gun control isn't the issue- it's how we no longer seem to want to see the other person's view point, or excuse them for random rudeness or bullshit- you never know what's driving them to it. Instead we go into a rage state and blast away. Whether we shoot or not, it's that same urge.
And I am very curious as to how we got here. And how we might get back.
Curious and looking for input.
The president of our country made a speech, the other day. Ostensibly to congratulate members of the US Coast Guard, but... a lot of the speech was about his feelings of persecution. President Trump believes that he has been greatly wronged by the press, and that he is the most abused president, in all ways, in history.
Having read a fair amount of history, I tend to disagree. I think Lincoln, Garfield and Kennedy might have a case for being somewhat more abused, off the top of my head. Or Mr. Obama and family.
I think that the true issue, for Mr. Trump, is that he has lived in a bubble of protection, for his entire life, and it's been pricked. As a child of privilege, and then later a business owner, he's been surrounded by people who have a vested interest in agreeing with him. From nannies and minders to underlings and hirelings. He's never really worked for anyone, or worked under anyone, his entire life. Even when his father ran the business, and Mr. Trump technically worked under him- he was being mentored by his father to be in charge. And public office- it's as far removed from that as you can imagine, at all levels.
People blame you, personally, for everything. The press and your associates pick at everything you do.
And as president- he's at the top of the pile. The pomp and circumstance, the high on the hog aspects of presidential life... for Trump, this is probably only what he is used to. Parties, meetings with the influential, etc. But the negatives. this is new.
And I am not without empathy here. Because, regardless of my own feelings regarding Mr. Trump, there is a point to be made here. Which is that... shit has gotten too rough, here in the good old US of A.
In virtually all aspects of life, I see examples of a new harshness. People don't agree to disagree anymore, in general. People don't credit that other person with being basically a decent human being with a different value system or beliefs.
That person is wrong. Not just wrong, but actionably wrong, deserving to be run through with our half witticisms and scorn. Disagree and let it go? NOT HARDLY!!!
I have had a lot of friends with whom I hold pretty basic disagreements. I have supported political candidates from the opposite side of the aisle, when I thought- regardless of party philosophy- that they had good ideas. I have been a supporter of various religions, though I am as free from religious thought as I can manage, because of the good work done. And I grew up thinking that this sort of compromisability, this common good attitude, was a common thing.
It was what I was taught by my parents, by my kindergarten teacher, the lovely Romper Room hostess, and Goofus and Gallant, in pediatric waiting rooms.
And it was what a lot of us were taught. What a lot of us seemed to live by. I'm sorry, excuse me, of course, not at all, why thank you, you're certainly welcome. Common courtesy was- with obvious exceptions, such as turning hoses and dogs on people and shooting presidents or starting wars- actually common.
And while I admit to a middle to upper class bubble of protection for the earliest parts of my life, that deflated in the early seventies, and I pushed myself out of it- a second birth, of sorts, in the mid eighties.
Now- from Washington to the work place, compromise, live and let live, it's fallen out of fashion.
Attack! Overwhelm, overcome.
There are certainly times when this attitude is appropriate. When there are things, to mangle a quote, up with which one should not put.
But... should that be everything? Some driver gets confused and makes a bad lane change, or is talking to their passenger at a light, and doesn't move out, right when it changes. Does that call for multiple long horn blasts and screamed profanity?
We have people getting into arguments in line for something and pulling guns. What. The. Hell.
Gun control isn't the issue- it's how we no longer seem to want to see the other person's view point, or excuse them for random rudeness or bullshit- you never know what's driving them to it. Instead we go into a rage state and blast away. Whether we shoot or not, it's that same urge.
And I am very curious as to how we got here. And how we might get back.
Curious and looking for input.
Sunday 7 May 2017
Knock Knock, a spoiler free Doctor Who review. Probably.
One of the problems with this series, from the beginning, was with the villains. The Doctor, basically, is an immortal genius with access to every necessary skill, an inclination to pitch in, and a time machine.
Most of the villains he faces aren't playing par for the course. Greedy humans and aliens, trying for control or power or money? Not, in the end, very difficult. Not for someone who has defeated a couple of different versions of the devil, various gods, and even rebooted the universe.
So. Villains worth the effort are few and far between. Tending to be made so by sheer dint of the guest star's ability- making a run of the mill moustache twirler memorable- or by the story twisting around and twirling the definition of villain.
Giving us villains who aren't bad as much as misguided, villains who are sympathetic but tragically wrong, and so forth. Antagonists rather than outright villains.
But. Every so often, they manage to give us a true villain. Someone who can challenge the Doctor, and have evil intent while still being relatable, and...
Fun.
With David Suchet's Landlord,they got a bingo.
A charming older man with a mane of silver hair and a 10th Doctor dress sense, and a nasty turn of behaviour.
Better, he's convinced that he's right, and seems willing to deal the Doctor out- as long as he's left to do what he wants. Sure, people will die. But in the end, they're just people.
The story? Bill, like virtually every companion, is having trouble keeping any part of her life separate from the Doctor. Once you accept him into your life, he tends to take over. He doesn't sleep much, he goes wandering at all hours, and he wants his companion along.
Bill is moving into a shared house. She's settling in with new friends from the college and wants to make an impression. A cranky Scottish professor - his current disguise - who's well known to be a little odd and meddling is the last thing she wants.
Unfortunately... The TARDIS is damned useful for moving day, and the Doctor's a little bored.
The house more than it seems, as is the landlord. Bill just wants a normal day. So does the Doctor. His sort of normal.
You can guess who wins.
Stylish and affecting episode. Another throwback type. This could have easily been the Third Doctor and Jo Grant, or Sara Jane Smith, or the Tenth and Donna Noble, for modern fans.
Good bits:
Bill is forced to define her relationship with the Doctor to her friends. The term she chooses is yet another nod to the beginnings of the program, like her name. Which realllllly makes me think something is going to happen that involves those roots. Plus, it's apt.
Bill continues to be proactive and to deflate the Doctor's pomposity. Which they both clearly enjoy, now.
What's in the vault isn't making Nardole happy. Nor is the Doctor's somewhat casual attitude. We get major clue, this episode. A couple, actually. I'll leave it to you to sort. But as a guess?
The Doctor's previously mentioned a vow to watch over the vault.
My guess is that he's promised the occupant that he would. Timey Wimey.
9.5 of 10.
Most of the villains he faces aren't playing par for the course. Greedy humans and aliens, trying for control or power or money? Not, in the end, very difficult. Not for someone who has defeated a couple of different versions of the devil, various gods, and even rebooted the universe.
So. Villains worth the effort are few and far between. Tending to be made so by sheer dint of the guest star's ability- making a run of the mill moustache twirler memorable- or by the story twisting around and twirling the definition of villain.
Giving us villains who aren't bad as much as misguided, villains who are sympathetic but tragically wrong, and so forth. Antagonists rather than outright villains.
But. Every so often, they manage to give us a true villain. Someone who can challenge the Doctor, and have evil intent while still being relatable, and...
Fun.
With David Suchet's Landlord,they got a bingo.
A charming older man with a mane of silver hair and a 10th Doctor dress sense, and a nasty turn of behaviour.
Better, he's convinced that he's right, and seems willing to deal the Doctor out- as long as he's left to do what he wants. Sure, people will die. But in the end, they're just people.
The story? Bill, like virtually every companion, is having trouble keeping any part of her life separate from the Doctor. Once you accept him into your life, he tends to take over. He doesn't sleep much, he goes wandering at all hours, and he wants his companion along.
Bill is moving into a shared house. She's settling in with new friends from the college and wants to make an impression. A cranky Scottish professor - his current disguise - who's well known to be a little odd and meddling is the last thing she wants.
Unfortunately... The TARDIS is damned useful for moving day, and the Doctor's a little bored.
The house more than it seems, as is the landlord. Bill just wants a normal day. So does the Doctor. His sort of normal.
You can guess who wins.
Stylish and affecting episode. Another throwback type. This could have easily been the Third Doctor and Jo Grant, or Sara Jane Smith, or the Tenth and Donna Noble, for modern fans.
Good bits:
Bill is forced to define her relationship with the Doctor to her friends. The term she chooses is yet another nod to the beginnings of the program, like her name. Which realllllly makes me think something is going to happen that involves those roots. Plus, it's apt.
Bill continues to be proactive and to deflate the Doctor's pomposity. Which they both clearly enjoy, now.
What's in the vault isn't making Nardole happy. Nor is the Doctor's somewhat casual attitude. We get major clue, this episode. A couple, actually. I'll leave it to you to sort. But as a guess?
The Doctor's previously mentioned a vow to watch over the vault.
My guess is that he's promised the occupant that he would. Timey Wimey.
9.5 of 10.
Tuesday 2 May 2017
A Meditation on Addiction
With the exception of nicotine, I've never been an addict. Smoking was hell to quit, but I did it, without special gums or other weaning off, 17 years ago. Enjoyed one last Marlboro and stopped.
Prior to that- I did a lot of interesting things, to be brief, some of them chemical, and when it was time to walk away from that, it wasn't at all difficult for me. Losing the friends I had in the life was more difficult than the chemistry, and even then... It was really just a matter of wanting a better set of friends.
Well, one friend in particular, but she was a gateway friend.
Even my old friend caffeine, whenever I have noticed that I was reacting to it- drinking too much- I've been able to cut down without much effort.
So?
So I know a lot of addicts. A. Lot. Working in restaurants and farting around in theatre, it was bound to happen, and it certainly has. And I have seen some things. Some beautiful, some dark, all disturbing.
Probably we all have. The guy trying to sell me his new BMW for cocaine money*. The girl offering to prostitute herself for the same drug. The waiter who would vanish into the bathroom during a stressful shift and come out, much calmer, teeth stuck to lips, nodding off on a bar stool when things calmed down. I have seen drug dealers hired to tend bar--- to pay off massive debts--- and I have seen people who could not pass up a drink to save their lives.
With few exceptions- these were basically decent people. Some brighter, some nicer, but no one you would think of as a wretch- on good days- or as some kind of feeble minded, low willpower loser.
Which has me certain that addiction is due to some sort of genetic malady. Like native Americans, who have no ability to tolerate alcohol. It's something separate from who people are, mentally, emotionally, physically. It's something that lurks in them.
Which, I believe, is scientifically supported. Genetics, biochemistry, yada.
And so.
I cannot- cannot- believe that our society still looks at these people as weak. Or bad, or some how lesser. Like they have some kind of damned moral flaw.
Someone loses their sight, or hearing. Someone gets cancer- we don't treat them like this. We figure- hey, they got sick, no fault of theirs.
Why we cannot extend that to addiction baffles me. I would love to pull a trope from science fiction. Convert every flat, reflective surface in the world to a speaker and broadcast a single message.
"Addiction is not a fault.
Whether you can manage it, live with it, or not. Whether, in disease terms, you can go into remission... or it drags you straight to hell?
Addiction is not a fault. It is not your fault. "
Why?
Because I see a lot of people who've bought into what society is constantly telling them. And I see it turning them grey, from the inside out.
And, goddamn it, it has to stop.
To quote Vonnegut- or a quote attributed to him- "Goddamn it, babies. You've GOT to be kind."
Yes. Something triggered this. No, I'm not going to discuss it.
And so it goes.
Thursday 16 March 2017
Close Encounters of The Third Kind
Note: I wrote this while I was recuperating from an operation. It's six years old. I was forced to lay in bed for a couple of weeks, and I spent some of that time re-watching movies. Close Encounters was one of those movies.
"With Close Encounters this last time... while it wasn't as if I were seeing the movie fresh, there was a more than expected intensity.
I remembered it as this child-like, wide eyed wonder. Roy Neary, third eye squeegee'd clean, meeting the interplanetary glow- bugs. He's happy, that French guy is happy, all the scientists seem happy- and the aliens are literally jumping up and down with joy. Basically, the aliens dropped by to give us the warm fuzzies.
No, no, no.
This is a harsh movie. Roy Neary is, when we meet him, a hopeless fuck up. His middle-class life is closing around him like a fist, and he's quietly desperate for escape. From his marriage, his family, his job. Neary is... Peter Pan, suddenly awakened in the real world, wondering what the hell happened- and looking for the first thing flying back to Neverland. To some place where he's not the focus of everyone's anger, the butt of their jokes. Where he's understood as he wants to be understood, and where he's the hero- at least every once in a while.
Enter the aliens, the encounters. And suddenly Roy has an invitation home. And even if it means ditching his family, avoiding the authorities, chasing those glowing fuckers straight to Mars- he's going.
Well, shit. A better balanced, better tuned man might easily go off on a tear after such an experience.
But Roy, he has this huge hole in his soul, and since nothing else has come along to fill it- a thing he's probably never even admitted to himself- the encounters seem like a gift from whatever god he worships."
I stopped there, for whatever reason. Never got back to it. My point, all in, would seem to have been- Close Encounters isn't the happy little movie I remembered it as being. It's actually a straight up horror movie. A gentle, Disney themed horror movie, but a horror movie nonetheless.
But the aliens are friendly! And that whole government conspiracy thing- they just want to arrange the meeting without creating a mass panic! Everyone just wants to say "hi!"
Watch it again. The aliens are creepy. They seem to have invited people to meet them- but their method? Implant a compulsion. An impulse that the person cannot quite understand, that drives them half crazy, unless they figure it out and follow it. They have to paint, they have to build models, they have to put it all together themselves- and only a couple of them are successful enough to make it to Devil's Tower.
I wonder if there aren't many, many people left permanently crazed by not figuring it all out- by not making it to the Tower in time.
The aliens seem to have the ability to explain, they just... don't. Are they malevolent, are they up to no good? In the end, we are led to believe that they aren't. But the build up? It screams - don't get in the car with that man, Laurel! Don't take his candy!
Also- a plot point is that they have been here, on and off, for years. As the movie starts, they've returned a giant oceangoing ship and the aircraft flown by the famously vanished Flight 19- which went missing decades back. During the final scenes, they return the people associated with the hardware. Apparently not much older than they were. Where have they been, why were they taken?
Never answered.
The government people are just as creepy. They hide behind commercial entities, their equipment suggests years of preparation, and their only method of controlling people? Fear. More...
That final scene- the aliens coming down, having a musical conversation, opening up their giant ship and coming out?
The logic of the movie suggests that none of that was intended. They showed up to drop off the previously taken people and vehicles- but while they are here, before that, they take more people, and they implant people with the urge to come to them in a remote location.
The government, this time, caught them at it, and arranged to show up and try and communicate. But had that not occurred? What was the original plan?
I think more of the same- get people to come to them, covertly, and take them along.
In the end, Roy Neary abandons his family- who his obsessive behavior, as he was figuring out the alien compulsion, scared the hell out of. His wife doesn't seem to work, his kids are all young enough to need a lot of care, not nearly ready to leave home...
If Roy had simply wandered off with Jillian- to whom he clearly has an attraction- we'd consider him a criminal.
Abandons them to go off with a bunch of sneaky aliens, who swarm him and pat him and shove him up to the ship, with no idea what they intend.
Aliens who've shown, by the way, that they're not all these cute little grey guys. Recall that when the ship splits open, before we see the little guys, there is this one:
Spidery, creepy, and he shows up first, bends into view and then, after he opens his hands in permission, the other aliens appear.
What.
The.
Hell.
I'm curious. Who out there saw this as a kid and was scared to death by it?
"With Close Encounters this last time... while it wasn't as if I were seeing the movie fresh, there was a more than expected intensity.
I remembered it as this child-like, wide eyed wonder. Roy Neary, third eye squeegee'd clean, meeting the interplanetary glow- bugs. He's happy, that French guy is happy, all the scientists seem happy- and the aliens are literally jumping up and down with joy. Basically, the aliens dropped by to give us the warm fuzzies.
No, no, no.
This is a harsh movie. Roy Neary is, when we meet him, a hopeless fuck up. His middle-class life is closing around him like a fist, and he's quietly desperate for escape. From his marriage, his family, his job. Neary is... Peter Pan, suddenly awakened in the real world, wondering what the hell happened- and looking for the first thing flying back to Neverland. To some place where he's not the focus of everyone's anger, the butt of their jokes. Where he's understood as he wants to be understood, and where he's the hero- at least every once in a while.
Enter the aliens, the encounters. And suddenly Roy has an invitation home. And even if it means ditching his family, avoiding the authorities, chasing those glowing fuckers straight to Mars- he's going.
Well, shit. A better balanced, better tuned man might easily go off on a tear after such an experience.
But Roy, he has this huge hole in his soul, and since nothing else has come along to fill it- a thing he's probably never even admitted to himself- the encounters seem like a gift from whatever god he worships."
I stopped there, for whatever reason. Never got back to it. My point, all in, would seem to have been- Close Encounters isn't the happy little movie I remembered it as being. It's actually a straight up horror movie. A gentle, Disney themed horror movie, but a horror movie nonetheless.
But the aliens are friendly! And that whole government conspiracy thing- they just want to arrange the meeting without creating a mass panic! Everyone just wants to say "hi!"
Watch it again. The aliens are creepy. They seem to have invited people to meet them- but their method? Implant a compulsion. An impulse that the person cannot quite understand, that drives them half crazy, unless they figure it out and follow it. They have to paint, they have to build models, they have to put it all together themselves- and only a couple of them are successful enough to make it to Devil's Tower.
I wonder if there aren't many, many people left permanently crazed by not figuring it all out- by not making it to the Tower in time.
The aliens seem to have the ability to explain, they just... don't. Are they malevolent, are they up to no good? In the end, we are led to believe that they aren't. But the build up? It screams - don't get in the car with that man, Laurel! Don't take his candy!
Also- a plot point is that they have been here, on and off, for years. As the movie starts, they've returned a giant oceangoing ship and the aircraft flown by the famously vanished Flight 19- which went missing decades back. During the final scenes, they return the people associated with the hardware. Apparently not much older than they were. Where have they been, why were they taken?
Never answered.
The government people are just as creepy. They hide behind commercial entities, their equipment suggests years of preparation, and their only method of controlling people? Fear. More...
That final scene- the aliens coming down, having a musical conversation, opening up their giant ship and coming out?
The logic of the movie suggests that none of that was intended. They showed up to drop off the previously taken people and vehicles- but while they are here, before that, they take more people, and they implant people with the urge to come to them in a remote location.
The government, this time, caught them at it, and arranged to show up and try and communicate. But had that not occurred? What was the original plan?
I think more of the same- get people to come to them, covertly, and take them along.
In the end, Roy Neary abandons his family- who his obsessive behavior, as he was figuring out the alien compulsion, scared the hell out of. His wife doesn't seem to work, his kids are all young enough to need a lot of care, not nearly ready to leave home...
If Roy had simply wandered off with Jillian- to whom he clearly has an attraction- we'd consider him a criminal.
Abandons them to go off with a bunch of sneaky aliens, who swarm him and pat him and shove him up to the ship, with no idea what they intend.
Aliens who've shown, by the way, that they're not all these cute little grey guys. Recall that when the ship splits open, before we see the little guys, there is this one:
Spidery, creepy, and he shows up first, bends into view and then, after he opens his hands in permission, the other aliens appear.
What.
The.
Hell.
I'm curious. Who out there saw this as a kid and was scared to death by it?
In The Beginning- New Project
I think it might be of interest to develop a script here. To do it in public, to do it so that people can see and maybe comment on the progress.
Before I start, be aware that I reserve all rights to the material posted here. It would be lovely if someone were inspired, but I think we all know the difference between inspiration and theft*
Okay.
The idea I have in mind is... simple, and the generation of it was fairly typical, for me.
I was participating in a live play reading. One of the scripts involved a character being killed by another character. Which started me off thinking about death. Specifically, about how we prepare for death. Which led to me thinking about graves, and then grave digging.
And then- the idea. An image in my mind. A man, digging a grave.
That was it. Not a lot of detail- a tired man, in T-shirt and jeans, quietly digging.
Who, where, why?
Actually, my first serious thinking about this wasn't developmental. It was... protective:
Where have I seen this before?
The image was so strong, I was nervous that my mind was regurgitating something I'd seen or read. In a movie, in a script or story. That I was about to start working on something that someone else had already done. It happens. It's happened to me. My junk file has a lot of little scraps that turned out to be me telling a story I'd already seen or read elsewhere. Saved in case I can come up with a decent variation that might allow me to use the idea with a clean conscience.
See earlier comments about inspiration versus theft.
So. I thought about all the places, movies, etc, where I might have encountered a man, digging a grave, as a distinct scene or image.
Holy sweet baby Jesus. There are lots of sources, or potential sources. Westerns, comedies, Kill Bill- which is sort of both- Star Trek... a couple of books specifically about people digging holes for unknown reasons.
The thing is... those are all similar images, similar concepts.
But... while they may use the same idea, the same starting point... it wasn't what I had in mind. As I considered this stuff, I had a realisation.
The digging was not the point. The digging was not some odd metaphor for paranoia, or art project or what have you. He wasn't digging his own grave.
He was digging a grave for someone he intended to kill.
All of this happened, by the way, in the space between having the idea and driving home, Sunday afternoon.
Sunday night, I decided that this unnamed man had been plotting to kill whoever for a long while. That he was now at the end of a lengthy plan- thank you Alexandre Dumas (Pere)- and that he was intending to kill his neighbour.
He'd tracked that person down, bought the neighbouring house, moved in and got friendly- the neighbour having no idea who he was.
And, as part of an extensive landscaping plan, he was actually digging the person- man or woman?- a grave.
So.
This was the end of the story, or very nearly. All that was left was the killing.
What?
I should let this person escape? After whatever the hell- still unsure- he or she- still unsure- has done to our digger?
Late Sunday night, after waking up due to an incipient cold clogging my nose, I decided that I would avoid the temptation of starting at the end and flashing back. I had the end, but I needed to have a beginning. But-again- I really liked that digging scene. And I really wanted to start there.
So.
Either flashback or?
Or, in this case- tell the story backward. Well, mostly. Start with the grave, then go progressively backward, and then flash forward to the death.
That struck me as cool. More, as interesting. As a pretty neat stylistic, er, thing.
And, after the cold medicine kicked in... I abandoned decided against going quite that far.
Instead, I would be pure. Start with the actual, final murder, and in the next scene, start with the digging, and then with the decision that today was the day to finish off the neighbour, and then with the decision to- you get the idea.
At this point, I would normally have started writing. But... what?
This could be a play, a movie, or a short story of some kind.
And I have yet to decide which way to take the idea.
Which will probably be the next post.
*"Star Wars" An Original Story by George Lucas versus "Flash Gordon" An Original Story By George Lucas. Taking the bones of the idea is fine. Taking the meat on those bones will get you in trouble.
Before I start, be aware that I reserve all rights to the material posted here. It would be lovely if someone were inspired, but I think we all know the difference between inspiration and theft*
Okay.
The idea I have in mind is... simple, and the generation of it was fairly typical, for me.
I was participating in a live play reading. One of the scripts involved a character being killed by another character. Which started me off thinking about death. Specifically, about how we prepare for death. Which led to me thinking about graves, and then grave digging.
And then- the idea. An image in my mind. A man, digging a grave.
That was it. Not a lot of detail- a tired man, in T-shirt and jeans, quietly digging.
Who, where, why?
Actually, my first serious thinking about this wasn't developmental. It was... protective:
Where have I seen this before?
The image was so strong, I was nervous that my mind was regurgitating something I'd seen or read. In a movie, in a script or story. That I was about to start working on something that someone else had already done. It happens. It's happened to me. My junk file has a lot of little scraps that turned out to be me telling a story I'd already seen or read elsewhere. Saved in case I can come up with a decent variation that might allow me to use the idea with a clean conscience.
See earlier comments about inspiration versus theft.
So. I thought about all the places, movies, etc, where I might have encountered a man, digging a grave, as a distinct scene or image.
Holy sweet baby Jesus. There are lots of sources, or potential sources. Westerns, comedies, Kill Bill- which is sort of both- Star Trek... a couple of books specifically about people digging holes for unknown reasons.
The thing is... those are all similar images, similar concepts.
But... while they may use the same idea, the same starting point... it wasn't what I had in mind. As I considered this stuff, I had a realisation.
The digging was not the point. The digging was not some odd metaphor for paranoia, or art project or what have you. He wasn't digging his own grave.
He was digging a grave for someone he intended to kill.
All of this happened, by the way, in the space between having the idea and driving home, Sunday afternoon.
Sunday night, I decided that this unnamed man had been plotting to kill whoever for a long while. That he was now at the end of a lengthy plan- thank you Alexandre Dumas (Pere)- and that he was intending to kill his neighbour.
He'd tracked that person down, bought the neighbouring house, moved in and got friendly- the neighbour having no idea who he was.
And, as part of an extensive landscaping plan, he was actually digging the person- man or woman?- a grave.
So.
This was the end of the story, or very nearly. All that was left was the killing.
What?
I should let this person escape? After whatever the hell- still unsure- he or she- still unsure- has done to our digger?
Late Sunday night, after waking up due to an incipient cold clogging my nose, I decided that I would avoid the temptation of starting at the end and flashing back. I had the end, but I needed to have a beginning. But-again- I really liked that digging scene. And I really wanted to start there.
So.
Either flashback or?
Or, in this case- tell the story backward. Well, mostly. Start with the grave, then go progressively backward, and then flash forward to the death.
That struck me as cool. More, as interesting. As a pretty neat stylistic, er, thing.
And, after the cold medicine kicked in... I abandoned decided against going quite that far.
Instead, I would be pure. Start with the actual, final murder, and in the next scene, start with the digging, and then with the decision that today was the day to finish off the neighbour, and then with the decision to- you get the idea.
At this point, I would normally have started writing. But... what?
This could be a play, a movie, or a short story of some kind.
And I have yet to decide which way to take the idea.
Which will probably be the next post.
*"Star Wars" An Original Story by George Lucas versus "Flash Gordon" An Original Story By George Lucas. Taking the bones of the idea is fine. Taking the meat on those bones will get you in trouble.
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