Sometime during the third century before Christ, a Macedonian general named Ptolemy* decided that the world- his world, comprised of nation states like Egypt and Rome and Greece- needed a central repository of knowledge and research. Someplace that would coordinate, keep safe, and keep available, the accumulated knowledge of his time. And, as rulers and the ruling minded often think, it would impress the hell out of everyone.
So, a library. A vast library and research center was built in Alexandria, Egypt.
No one knows exactly what was held there, what sort of collections curated. But we do know, from contemporary descriptions, that it was huge and comprehensive and vital. Somewhere between forty thousand an four hundred thousand books, per estimate. At it's height- per Galen- the library sent missions out far and wide to acquire new knowledge, and visitors were made to surrender any books they might have for copying, while they were in the city. The library returned the copies and kept the originals.
The list of likely contributors, who's works filled the shelves, is mind boggling. Scientists, artists, engineers... Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Sappho, Homer, Euclid, Archimedes...
It was destroyed- gradually. One ruler killed another and purged the library's staff of ... dangerous and possibly critical intellectuals. Julius Caesar, laying siege to the city, accidentally burned down a part of it, and the emperor Aurelian further damaged it it while suppressing a revolution.
Thanks for staying with me,
The take away from this- for me- is that this marvellous thing, this amazing repository of knowledge, painstakingly collected over centuries... basically died because it wasn't valued as heavily as it once was. Because wars and battles were more important than knowledge, and critical thinking was less important than supporting the party line.
I think we're heading in the same direction, here in the US. Criticism and intellect and a culture of ideas, slopping around is being murdered. People surround themselves with people who think the same way and avoid challenges to their opinion- or out right fight them. People don't disagree, they fight. They don't have differences of opinion, they fall out. There is open and popular disdain for research and intellectualism and mastery of thought. For accumulated knowledge and working from reason.
It scares the hell out of me. I fear an intellectual dark age. A time when feeling and opinion matter more than fact. And I wonder- how the hell we can combat this. And I wonder, generations from now, which of the things we now understand and take for granted will be lost wonders.
Music, art, mathematics- understandings of how the universe works and how our world works. It's all more fragile than you think, than any of us want to believe.
*Probably. Could have been his son. Records are understandably vague.
Wednesday, 11 July 2018
Thursday, 28 June 2018
Harlan Ellison Repost
Harlan Ellison died last year. I wrote this at the time. I'm reposting it with minor edits, for no reasons that I can explain.
***
Harlan who?
Despite habitually referring to him as my Uncle Harlan, we were not related, nor acquainted beyond a couple of passing remarks relayed between us a a very long time ago. Harlan Ellison was a writer. A writer of fantastic stories, of which you ought to be aware.
There's a Star Trek script, "The City on the Edge of Forever", with which some of you may be familiar. And a better script that existed before his story was adapted- with clean hands and composure- by the creatives responsible for Star Trek. Better? Yes. The aired episode was great- widely seen as the best of the original series. The original script was better. It had more depth, it had more character, and it had a better ending. It did not bear the marks of having been made to fit.
There is also one of the most harrowing AI stories- written long before the damned machines were even possible- called "I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream", and a great many golden age of TV episodes- such as "Demon With A Glass Hand" and "Soldier" for The Outer Limits- the latter apparently swiped as a basis for "The Terminator"- and "Paladin of The Lost Hour" for the Twilight Zone.
And on and on, frankly. Ellison wrote a lot of stuff. Stories, novels, criticism, elegant musings and raging condemnation. All of it readable and admirable and better than anything most writers produce.
By far.
Better than what you're reading now.
He is one of my creative influences. Hence the Uncle designation.
Harlan helped me understand the importance of wonder. Sometimes an angry wonder, sometimes a gobsmacked wonder, sometimes a laugh because otherwise you will detonate wonder. He also helped me a great deal with developing my sense of worth as a writer and a creative.
He will be eulogized. A lot. He will be called a genius and a giant and all sorts of things. And he will be talked about in terms of pranks and anger and bad behavior.
Well. Yes. Yes indeedy. Harlan did not suffer fools. Harlan did not censor his behavior. At least, not in the sense that you and I might do so. His actions and reactions have
become legends in the creative community. I believe it was DC Fontana who spoke about places where the grass would no longer grow, in terms of the consequences of angering Harlan.
But it is important to remember that he was more than those stories.
He was his stories. And they are all over the place, in the best possible way. His interests were wide, and as far as I can tell, he wrote to all of them.
On the day of his passing. as a way of dealing with my substantial grief, I urge you this upon you.
Read Ellison. He's in your library. He's on Amazon. He's in your bookstore, if you are lucky enough to have one. Read him. Watch his episodes. Whether you're a long time fan or someone wondering what the fuck I'm fussing about.
Read Ellison. You owe it to yourself.
Because, in the end, stories are important. And he created some of the best you will ever read.
Friday, 8 June 2018
He was one of us. He was one of me. Anthony Bourdain.
In the early 1980's, I discovered three things about myself in rapid succession:
To say that I explored is an understatement. I went into the demimonde with rod and gun, throwing myself at experience and sensation like it paid my rent.
And, at some point, I got a job as a burger cook. Good job? No. I swept, I hosed off filters and mats. That mess you made in the bathroom after one too many? Yeah. That long scrape along the side of your car is my thank you. But that led to other jobs, and others, and before I really understood what happened to me- I was a professional cook.
Many, many years later- shifted into another career, thinking back over my life, I made two other discoveries. One, about myself- the anger management issue I spent years dealing with? That was actually a reaction. My real issue? Depression. Two? Bourdain.
Bourdain became my avatar. He went through a similar process- early on- and struggled with similar issues. I felt a kinship and a pride in his accomplishments, and in how he managed his own problems with candor and clarity. He, like me, like many of us, was a fuck up who _managed_. He had successes, he had failures- all public- and throughout, his reactions were relateable and charming. He's in the middle of three things and you pester him- you get the pointy end of the stick. You get him in a calm moment, you get poetry and rough philosophy.
He was also the best imaginable antidote to the celebrity chef bullshit that still dominates the upper end of the industry. Professional cooking, for the vast majority, is a horrible job. Whether or not you love it, like it, or simply have no other options, horrible. Awful hours, awful working conditions.
And every time you see some celebritard chef, in spotless whites or in a perfectly coordinated "worker" outfit of chambray and pressed jeans wandering through a delightful herb garden, or farmer's market... picking just the right ingredients for that night's special? You should snicker. You should sneer. Because it's so rarely like that as to approach never. It's a fiction. The same people who sold you the idea that a director is the author of a movie sold you the idea of the celebrity chef. Because it's easier to sell than the truth. Which is that your food is likely being cooked by some just over minimum wage college student or struggling drug addict, who's kept their job because of a robot like ability to turn out exactly what he or she has been told, exactly the same way, with speed, regardless.
Most chefs are the generals of the kitchen brigade. They don't cook much, day to day- they set up what is to be cooked and impress it upon their staffs to carry out. They don't wander through the kitchen checking things out- they send their sous chefs and other lieutenants to sniff around and report. You generally only see the chef in his or her office, surrounded by paper work and ashtrays, sweating out a party order menu and cracking their third beer of the hour. They don't go over to the market to sniff out the best berries for the coulis. They have it trucked in and train their staff to evaluate it.
Bourdain was not that kind of chef. He was a working cook for a lot of his career- the guy in charge of the kitchen, but one who worked with his crew. He loved the rock and roll aspect of the industry, and he loved the food- from the greasiest, gristly-est bits to the daintiest pillow wrapped, fog scented delicacy. He was quick to point out the bullshit of the celebrity chef, the nonsense of it, and often quite sharp in dealing with those who claimed such status.
I cannot overstate my affection for that, and for him.
I do not understand why my depression exists. I have not gone into therapy for it, I have not been evaluated or medicated for it. I have managed it, for many years, by, well, knowing it was there and never, ever turning my back on it. I have achieved a balance with it, and most days- I get along fine. And on the darker days? The awareness of it helps avoid the lurking drama of it. I have good days, bad days, like anyone else. But when the chasm yawns- when the bad day feels like The Worst Day Ever, and for no verifiable reason? I have the awareness. I know what is going on. That it is not The Worst Day Ever, but just my depression. So I shift my focus, shift my attention and keep moving.
Not everyone manages this, at least, not for as long as I have. And, like everyone who does- I am keenly aware of how easily it could become unmanageable. As I said- you cannot ever turn your back on it. You cannot ever relax. And even so- it's a constant struggle that you could easily lose.
As Bourdain appears to have done. As Kate Spade appears to have done, and as a long list of admirable people appear to have done.
It is important to understand that this is not weakness. This is not a character flaw. This is the result of an illness, to which someone succumbed. Some people manage, some people beat it, others. very sadly, fall. It is also important to remember that help is available, and to reach out. There is no shame in needing help with any illness. No stigma, save from the reactions of fools and shitheels.
I will remember Anthony Bourdain, fondly, for the rest of my life. As will many others. He made me laugh, made me think, helped a lot of people- just in general- and that's not a bad note to go out on.
We never met, but he was my friend, and he was part of my extended family.
And so it goes.
- I had no interest in the traditional middle class straight line life- high school, college, career, family.
- I liked to work, and I liked to learn.
- I had no marketable skills whatsoever.
To say that I explored is an understatement. I went into the demimonde with rod and gun, throwing myself at experience and sensation like it paid my rent.
And, at some point, I got a job as a burger cook. Good job? No. I swept, I hosed off filters and mats. That mess you made in the bathroom after one too many? Yeah. That long scrape along the side of your car is my thank you. But that led to other jobs, and others, and before I really understood what happened to me- I was a professional cook.
Many, many years later- shifted into another career, thinking back over my life, I made two other discoveries. One, about myself- the anger management issue I spent years dealing with? That was actually a reaction. My real issue? Depression. Two? Bourdain.
Bourdain became my avatar. He went through a similar process- early on- and struggled with similar issues. I felt a kinship and a pride in his accomplishments, and in how he managed his own problems with candor and clarity. He, like me, like many of us, was a fuck up who _managed_. He had successes, he had failures- all public- and throughout, his reactions were relateable and charming. He's in the middle of three things and you pester him- you get the pointy end of the stick. You get him in a calm moment, you get poetry and rough philosophy.
He was also the best imaginable antidote to the celebrity chef bullshit that still dominates the upper end of the industry. Professional cooking, for the vast majority, is a horrible job. Whether or not you love it, like it, or simply have no other options, horrible. Awful hours, awful working conditions.
And every time you see some celebritard chef, in spotless whites or in a perfectly coordinated "worker" outfit of chambray and pressed jeans wandering through a delightful herb garden, or farmer's market... picking just the right ingredients for that night's special? You should snicker. You should sneer. Because it's so rarely like that as to approach never. It's a fiction. The same people who sold you the idea that a director is the author of a movie sold you the idea of the celebrity chef. Because it's easier to sell than the truth. Which is that your food is likely being cooked by some just over minimum wage college student or struggling drug addict, who's kept their job because of a robot like ability to turn out exactly what he or she has been told, exactly the same way, with speed, regardless.
Most chefs are the generals of the kitchen brigade. They don't cook much, day to day- they set up what is to be cooked and impress it upon their staffs to carry out. They don't wander through the kitchen checking things out- they send their sous chefs and other lieutenants to sniff around and report. You generally only see the chef in his or her office, surrounded by paper work and ashtrays, sweating out a party order menu and cracking their third beer of the hour. They don't go over to the market to sniff out the best berries for the coulis. They have it trucked in and train their staff to evaluate it.
Bourdain was not that kind of chef. He was a working cook for a lot of his career- the guy in charge of the kitchen, but one who worked with his crew. He loved the rock and roll aspect of the industry, and he loved the food- from the greasiest, gristly-est bits to the daintiest pillow wrapped, fog scented delicacy. He was quick to point out the bullshit of the celebrity chef, the nonsense of it, and often quite sharp in dealing with those who claimed such status.
I cannot overstate my affection for that, and for him.
I do not understand why my depression exists. I have not gone into therapy for it, I have not been evaluated or medicated for it. I have managed it, for many years, by, well, knowing it was there and never, ever turning my back on it. I have achieved a balance with it, and most days- I get along fine. And on the darker days? The awareness of it helps avoid the lurking drama of it. I have good days, bad days, like anyone else. But when the chasm yawns- when the bad day feels like The Worst Day Ever, and for no verifiable reason? I have the awareness. I know what is going on. That it is not The Worst Day Ever, but just my depression. So I shift my focus, shift my attention and keep moving.
Not everyone manages this, at least, not for as long as I have. And, like everyone who does- I am keenly aware of how easily it could become unmanageable. As I said- you cannot ever turn your back on it. You cannot ever relax. And even so- it's a constant struggle that you could easily lose.
As Bourdain appears to have done. As Kate Spade appears to have done, and as a long list of admirable people appear to have done.
It is important to understand that this is not weakness. This is not a character flaw. This is the result of an illness, to which someone succumbed. Some people manage, some people beat it, others. very sadly, fall. It is also important to remember that help is available, and to reach out. There is no shame in needing help with any illness. No stigma, save from the reactions of fools and shitheels.
I will remember Anthony Bourdain, fondly, for the rest of my life. As will many others. He made me laugh, made me think, helped a lot of people- just in general- and that's not a bad note to go out on.
We never met, but he was my friend, and he was part of my extended family.
And so it goes.
Thursday, 12 October 2017
Weinstein and "The Problem".
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.
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.
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.
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