Creative Obligations Versus Creative Rights

 I have what I believe to be a pretty good story, sitting in my head. I know the plot, the characters and most of the scenes. I have the dialogue.

 Action, adventure, romance, comedy. This story has it all. Opening scene? Could go in several different directions: A call girl, at a bachelor party, trying to explain to the drunken groom why she's worth more than the hookers giving blow-jobs in the bathrooms.  A small plane, daredevil pilot and drunken passengers, flying under a rural bridge, very late at night. Two men, sitting at a bar, drinking beer, waiting for the blotter acid to kick in. A naked man, standing on a balcony, yelling down at a room full of partiers, telling a man to get up into the bedroom and fuck his wife.  Because she wants him as much as he wants her, and he's tired of pretending it's not true. A cab driver, parking beside a tent in a field, a wedding party assembled, swinging his meter off, and telling his fare he'll wait to either take two people the hell away from there in a hurry, or to take the man off someplace to get drunk. 

 Each could kick it off well. Each supports the overall story. 

 I have not committed a line of it to paper. Have not opened a file. I think about it a couple times a year. I think about chopping it up, using the bits as parts of other stories. As jumping off points. I think - what the hell, just get it out get it down, get it out of my head. See if it is as good as I think it will be. 

 Never have. Not sure I ever will. 

 Because parts of it are based on the lives of real people. People who might be damaged by the story. Even if no one but them recognized the truth in it. And thinking about any one of them, sitting with the knowledge that this story is out in public. People laughing at the funny bits, tearing up at the sad bits, cheering at the adventurous bits- and them thinking... "That's not the way it really happened. That's not what I really said." Or did or thought or felt. 

 Sitting there with the results of all the decisions I made without their input, in telling stories of their lives. 

 Sitting there with my decision to use their lives to tell the story I wanted to tell. 

 It bothers me. It worries me. It concerns me, in the most serious version of each phrase. 

 This is the awesome, the terrifying reality of being a writer. If you are telling stories or using characters that are in any way based on reality- touching on real people and their real lives?

 You can change what happened to suit what you want to have happened.  Higgins and Eliza, in your story, will end up together. The well qualified candidate will win the office. The lost race will be won, the sad romance made happy, the losers victorious. 

 The question is- should you? 

 To me, a writer always has the obligation, fact or fiction, to get the story right. If working from a basis in reality, that reality must be respected. If working with people's lives, those lives must be respected. 

Your version of that person, of that sequence of events, may not, in the end, have more than a cursory resemblance to the actuality. But that semblance must be honest.  

 I can do that. But if I do, I have to do it with clean hands. And in the case of this story, that means telling things that will almost certainly hurt people to see or read. 

 So the story sits in my head. Waiting until such a time as I believe that I can tell it well enough and honest enough that anyone who sees themselves in it will accept that it was respectfully done. That, even if events in the story do not start, stop or end as they did in real life, the echo of real life is there. 

 But man, oh man, is it tempting.

 Thoughts, please?

 

The Cheeseburger- more reaction to The Menu

 Featured in the 2022 movie "The Menu" is a request for a simple, well made cheeseburger. The preparation of which is shown in the glossiest style imagined by any pornographer. 

 If you've never seen it, search for clips from "Nigella Bites" for plentiful examples of the style. Dramatic lighting, lingering shots of oily food moving languidly, etcetera. 

 Food porn is not a new phrase, but I want you to understand my meaning. It's a series of techniques that render food- on the screen- as almost unbearably appealing. You can practically smell it, taste it. 

 In the case of this cheeseburger, I've read lusty, desirous reactions from confirmed vegetarians- it looks that good. 

 It ignited a craving in me, so last night I made one. And it tasted as good as it looked. 

 The "Well made cheeseburger" from "The Menu":

It's not complicated. To make 2: A pound of decent ground beef, separated into 4 equally sized balls, kept cold until cooked. Good quality hamburger buns, about a quarter of a small white onion, thinly sliced, and 4 slices of Kraft Deli Deluxe American Cheese. Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper. 2-4 pickle slices per burger. 

You need a pan- not non stick- with a thick bottom, one that can take high heat. Cast iron or carbon steel would be good, and you will need a sturdy spatula- thin, metal- and possibly a paint scraper. A burger or bacon press would be good here, but you can get by. Also, a folded bit of parchment paper.

Toast your buns. You can put them in a toaster, spread with butter and pop them in the oven, or be all "I'm a professional" and toast the insides in melted butter in a pan. Top the bottom bun with pickles. If you like a sauce, like mayonnaise or mustard and ketchup- whatever- put that on the top bun. Set aside.

For the burgers:

Heat the pan until a water drop squirted on the surface skitters. Then slam the balls of meat down, and, putting the parchment paper on top of each beforehand- so the spatula does not stick-smash them- hard- with the sturdy spatula. Depending on your pan, you may be able to put in all four balls, but I would start with _two_.  Two patties = 1 cheeseburger.

Season the top of the patties with salt and pepper. Don't coat them, don't make it look like the salt snowed down. But, a good amount.

Spread about a tablespoon of thin sliced onion on each.

By this time, they should be almost done. Red in the center, greyish around the sides. Carefully, flip. If it seems to stick, use the paint scraper to get the crust off with it. Flip so that the onions are under the patty.

Let them cook for a minute or two, then drape the cheese on top.

When it melts to drippy, even looks like it is getting crusty around the edges, put one patty on top of the other-careful to get all the onions- then put them on the bun.

That's really it. Use mayonnaise or ketchup, mustard- whatever you favor- on the top bun, if you like a dressed burger. If you like bacon, you could cook some, and put the bacon between the patties when you finish. 

I would advise against lettuce, tomato, all of that- but you do you.

Delicious, basic stuff.

My issue here is that I cannot get my glass cooktop hot enough to make this quite as I would like. So my burgers lack the precise crust that I want. But if you have nice loopy metal burners or a gas stove, this is gonna go well. 

 

The Menu- Now Streaming. A Reaction, As Much As A Review.

 The Menu, a 2022 movie, now streaming. Written by Seth Reiss and Will Tracy. Directed by Mark Mylod. With Anya Taylor-Joy, Ralph Fiennes, John Lequizamo, Nicholas Hoult.

 Bear with me. A little detour. 

 Atelier Crenn. A restaurant run by chef Dominique Crenn. San Francisco, currently awarded three Michelin stars. 

 Basically- they do French seafood, using molecular gastronomy and a whole bunch of other preparation tricks. You get a menu of poetry that allegedly describes each dish, and you eat what turns up. 

 Obviously, the food is good- Michelin does not give out stars easily, and three are almost unheard of. 

 But the whole approach is enraging. 

 From the pretentious website- which features not one, but two ballet dancers moving around a rocky shore, but which deigns to give little useful information save a link to the reservation requesting site- to the carefully deconstructed food served- essences of this, with foams and bubbles and so on- it's had my teeth clenched since I first read of Crenn and her restaurant. 

 I didn't understand why. I was fascinated by the pretension- this is food assembled on custom made plates with tweezers. Food where you can expect sea water slush to melt around your scallop and slightly flavor the barely steamed, locally sourced, hand picked bits of vegetable, clinging to the rock- from a local beach- on which it is all served.  All meant to evoke something- a memory, a moment, a sense of money leaving your wallet, having paid for nonsense. Annoying, certainly. Over the top, over done. But enraging? Infuriating?  My own reaction seemed as over the top as Crenn. 

 Then, The Menu. And I got it. 

  The Menu features Ralph Fiennes as the executive chef of the ultimate Crenn-ish restaurant, Hawthorn. Hawthorn exists - by itself- on a small coastal island.

 The movie features a lot of artistically prepared and plated food. The restaurant looks very real- from the high end open kitchen to the uniforms worn by the staff to the architecture of the dining room. Fiennes moves through all exactly like the sort of chef he plays, by turns self effacing and dictatorial. The actors playing his staff act and react exactly as you would expect. 

 All of which is blue grey and cold. Distant and abstracted. The menu is filled with foams and gels and tiny bits of stuff here and there. Very little of it actually looks like food. It's more like paintings and sculpture than food. The military precision of the cooks and staff are immediately menacing.

 Which is part of the point of The Menu. 

 The Menu is about what happens when food- and people- are deconstructed. When it all starts to lose its purpose- and becomes self referential. Hawthorn serves food that is disconnected from eating. From nourishment. It's there only for the aesthetic. As are the diners. 

 It's dark stuff. I think it was meant to be a dark comedy, but, like the food and the people, it's a bit too refined to land with purpose. Top notch production- everything is well done. But it sort of, in the end, seems like a joke that's missing a punch line.

 I am not implying that the story is incomplete. But the last scene tries to invoke the feeling of the last panel of an old EC Comic. That piss shiver of morbid delight. When what's got fits what's been coming, and Karma blows a kiss from her Rustoleum black new Barbie Dreamhouse. 

And it doesn't quite manage. 

 Because something in the movie just does not set that up. 

 To me?

 It's a sense of fun. This sort of story cries out for some snark, some snicker, for someone in this mess, as things move along into conflict, to have a twinkle in their eye. No one does. Which lets things dip into maudlin, into drear. The story wants an in for the audience, a sympathetic character with whom we can relate. Humor would help define that character- and that character is there, I am trying to avoid spoilers- but is as sere and humorless as everyone else. 

 In other words- it takes itself too seriously.

  Once it was over, I looked at the production credits. All the beautiful numb food-?

  Dominque Crenn.

  Oh, of course. 

  THAT, for me, is a better ending than what is in the movie. Finding out that the food, hell, the overall experience of Hawthorn, was crafted by exactly the sort of people whom the movie wants to stab with a fondue fork. 

 I think the movie was created by and for people who are utterly sick of the foodie bullshit. Of people stopping to photograph and catalog their food before taking a fork to it. Of people deconstructing everything into little abstract shapes and blobs that tell _stories_ and evoke memories. Of _experience_ dining. Of having a score of courses served to you and leaving the restaurant hungry. 

 That they got one of the leading practitioners of that kind of thing to set up their version of it? Had there been a way to work that into things, it would have been just the right note of droll humor. 

 Ah well.

5 of 10 points for the well observed, exacting recreation of Foodie Heaven, in Hawthorne. And another 3 for both Ralph Fiennes and Anya Taylor-Joy's performances. Final score, 8 of 10.

Errata:

The supporting cast in this is superbly chosen. It's a pity that they aren't given more to do, and that their back stories not more clearly indicated. Would have helped. We're meant to empathize with their plight, but the lack of character details- and one late in the game revelation- makes that extremely difficult. 

A marriage is in trouble? An investment group is in trouble? The rich and famous actor is a bit desperate? One woman who turned up is not who was supposed to turn up?

Fine. But we need more information to care. And we don't really get it. 

The old lady, sitting by herself through dinner service- just drinking. We find out who she is, late in the game. But we get no reaction from her- and as things move along, I think there should be a reaction. That really seems a waste to me. Because she- as is revealed- should absolutely understand where things are headed. And she could have some agency.  Be able to gin up some conflict, some opposition.

I wonder if all of that - which, to me, seems clearly called for- is absent due to a desire to streamline the script? 

 

Wither Trump

  As a guess, right now, via some unobserved channel, a feeler has been sent out to someone who knows someone, who knows someone else, who has the ear of someone in authority at the US Department Of Justice.

 "If Donald Trump ended his campaign for the presidency in 2024, and pledged to stop the shit stirring that led to the attempted insurrection and that has helped divide the nation- would any potential federal charges against him... go away?

 Not by pardon. That's unattainable unless a particular type of Republican takes the presidency. But by the simple expedience of not actually pressing these charges?

 Hey, Binky, it's a win-win. Trump gets off the national political stage, and doesn't spend the next couple years fighting in court- and whatever administration is in office next does not have to deal with the political ramifications of Trump's not facing charges.

 Just, you know, think it over. Word to the wise, and all. "

 Assume Biden retains the presidency- four more years. That gives us until January 2029 before a pardon might be issued for any Federal crimes. Best part of a decade- during which all kinds of things can happen, if charges are filed- and even if they are simply left hanging over head.

 During which Trump, in office or not- can stir up a lot of cess, what hey?

 Why not just... kick this away, now? Trump is closing in on his eighties, he's already slowing down- clearly slowing down- what are the odds that he'll become more reasonable, more responsible, more sane?

 This is the... Doug and Dinsdale Piranha approach. Nice country you have there, squire. Shame if something were to... happen to it. 

  I can even imagine Biden- the ever reasonable man who seems to believe in the Siegel and Shuster version of the US- working his way toward this kind of thinking. 

 "Pardon? HELL no. But if we could just make him go away... let the country get over him. get past him? Make the deal"

 This is- of course- exactly the wrong thing to do. 

 Because?

 Because things keep getting worse. Nixon? Watergate only got investigated at all because of massive bad luck and incompetence. And even then, once the nation got a taste for Sam Irvin chewing thoughtfully on his vowels, what was the result? Congress sent representatives to the Oval Office with a 45 caliber automatic, with one bullet in the chamber; resign, or we impeach, and we convict.  

 Then Reagan ignored Congress, as well as the Constitution, traded arms with Iran and used what sure seems to have been illegally raised cash to run a private war. Then George HW Bush lied us into a war with Iraq, first telling Saddam Hussein's government that the US would not interfere in their dispute with Kuwait-  they invaded a week later- and then crying to anyone who listened about this illegal and evil invasion. Then fabricating evidence of a non existent military build up as justification for sending in troops. Thousands died, thousands injured. Including a great many civilians when the US targeted infrastructure for leverage. 

 And then his son, after ignoring warnings specifically related to a potential attack on the World Trade Center- warnings which specifically mentioned Osama Bin Laden, lied us into an even bigger war in the Middle East. 

 Had Nixon faced serious consequences for his actions, I would argue that none of these things would have taken place- because each president would have been aware of the perils of running afoul of Congress. Of pissing off the people who can take you right the hell out of office and throw you into prison. 

 But nothing happened then. And nothing happened again, and again, and again. Some exciting theatrics, to interest the factions, but nothing else.

 What, then, dissuades a man like Trump from saying and doing whatever the hell he pleases? What dissuades him- when common sense won't- from stirring up an attempt to overthrow the government of the US when he loses an election?

 Not a goddamned thing. 

 We have gone from a man trying to game an election through three men who ran illegal wars in other countries, and now to a man who tried to start a war in this country.

What's next? If we don't demonstrate that there are limits to our tolerance, if we don't have one of the three Constitutional authorities following through on what is their job- oversight and if necessary, punishment- when whomever gets into that office has no fear- not of the people or of his government- what next?

 Think about this. Trump didn't actually get away with overturning the election. If you have been following the J6 hearings, it is pretty clear that the big stop for them was massive incompetence: Bad advice, lots of bad judgement and really terrible follow through. Marked by a clear lack of true belief in what they were trying to do.

 Trump didn't want to stay in office because of the work, because of the things he thought his administration had to get done for this country. Trump wanted to stay there because the thing- which I am certain he never either expected to win or wanted to win- turned out to be a pretty good gig.  Lots of ego-boo. Lots of knob polishing. People who formerly wouldn't let him or any of his greasy ilk through the front door- and certainly not in daylight- had to lay out the red carpet. People spent money- and a lot of it- to curry favor. 

 It also kept him away from prosecution.

 His staff, his lawyers, his advisers didn't want to stay in power for any better reason. 

 So. What if the next president is smarter? Is more interested in their agenda, and surrounds themselves with whip smart true believers, true idealists?

 If Trump doesn't get a serious taste of the lash for his actions- this latest escalation in presidential middle finger waving? This still theoretical smart and competent president will get away with far more, and to my thinking, far worse. 

 The J6 committee are done. The new Congress, seated in January, are not going to be interested in much other than either keeping Biden's plans going or stopping Biden cold. Referrals for charges have been made.

 There is still time left for the DOJ to act. For this administration to act. 

  And they should. Trump should be tried, and if the evidence supports it, found guilty and sentenced.

 Jail?

 Never happen. Throwing an 80ish year old man- and former president- into jail? Never happen. 

 But there are other punishments to consider. Forbidding him from holding office, closing down his finances, restricting the amount of trouble he can cause. 

 Sending a message down through time to the next president.

 

 

Stan Lee

 Today would have been Stan Lee's 100th birthday. I would be stunned if anyone reading this had no idea who he was, as his name has been synonymous with US popular culture since the middle of the last century.

 The Spectacular Spider-Man. The Invincible Iron Man. The Incredible Hulk- and a great many other cultural icons, spanning TV, movies, literature- and comic books.

 There were- and are- other creative minds at work on these. Have been from the start. But the guiding mind behind those minds- for decades- was Stan Lee.

 Who, despite my overwhelming love for a couple of characters run by a competing company? Made Mine Marvel, every time.

 Stan's success- often studied, often imitated, never equaled in such things? I think it came down to two reasons. Two not at all secrets.

 One? His characters dealt with the sort of problems his readership faced- though writ large, often during a large, world or worlds threatening crisis. Iron Man was a drunk with a bad heart and a worse conscience. Spider-Man was a kid who felt enormous guilt over the deaths of his uncle and first love. Trying to balance adult responsibilities on some narrow shoulders. The Hulk? Jeezus, where to begin with the problems dumped on Bruce Banner- but foremost? How do I deal with the rage I feel at being treated like shit? How- more to the point- at being treated like a big, dumb kid?

 Two? Stan knew the value of marketing an image. When you think of DC, or Image or what have you, other big players? You think of characters. But for Marvel- for my entire life? Stan Lee. Stan Lee the creator, Stan Lee the snappy epigramist and commenter. Stan Lee, the big, enthusiastic kid. The big kid who somehow got control of the candy store, and ran it like we would. Was that image true? Not always. Not entirely. Poke and prod and you'll find bruised egos, stepped on toes, all of the stuff you find in any life.

 Except for that last bit. The bit about being a big kid.

 And for me- as well as all of us who grew up with Stan Lee's Marvel?

 That was the sale.

 I might not have been sure about the character, the writers, the artists. But if Stan Lee thought it was worth a look?

 I looked. And more often than not, I bought. Here's to you, Stan. Excelsior!

A Little Chat About Characterization: Villains And Heroes

 I've been cranking through a rewatch of the old TV series "ER".

 Most of you, reading this, probably remember it. Incredibly popular. Ran 15 years from 1994. Known for a clever mix of relatively accurate medical horror and staff soap operatics. 

 Thing is... it's incredibly well written, at least as far as I've gotten, which is season 5. Sometimes they go too far into the soap operatics, sometimes the medicine is less accurate than it ought to be- yes, another thing for which I stickle- but even when it's not a top ten episode, the writing is to a high standard. 

 In particular, the characterization. 

 I want to talk about two characters. Lead, Doctor Mark Green, played by Anthony Edwards, and supporting character Robert Romano, played by Paul McCrane.

 Green is THE hero of the show. He's the one who, despite varying titles and responsibilities, runs the emergency room at the fictional Chicago Loop hospital. He's the one who sets the tone and the pace. The one everyone turns to for validation- if not always answers. As introduced, he is a balanced sort of guy, reacting to stress with abundant humor.  His best friend, a pediatric resident, shows up blind drunk, looking to get treated for alcohol poisoning after a night on the town- he gets him treatment, keeps him away from the staff until he recovers, and once he does, puts him right to work. Edwards' handling of the material is deft. Green is tired, Green is more than a little sick of his friend's self destructive bullshit, and Green is overwhelmed with his own responsibilities. Edwards plays it straight- with a lovely undertone of wry, self amused exhaustion.  You can tell that he loves his job, his family, his friend- but that, just once, just fucking once, he'd like a little space.

 This is part of what makes Green relatable, rather than a saintly Medical Center or MASH style doctor*- one who staggers from extreme to extreme. Green is just a normal guy, with a difficult job, trying to wade through his days- and not be an asshole. 

 The other part is that Green is _never_ presented as blameless or perfect. Dedicated to his work, he screws up his marriage and his relationship with his daughter- he's never home, and when he is, he's still processing things that happened at work. He blows up relationships with friends- the same reason- and he's often less flexible than advertised, taking a stark position, in the end, and forcing it onto a situation just to get it resolved. Might not be the resolution that others want, but it gets things moving past a situational stall. He does not like to explain, past a certain point, he's short tempered under stress and he's got massive issues with his parents. 

 All of which are developed inside the episodes. ER does, on occasion, dedicate an entire episode to character development. And, as the lead, Green gets his share of these. But the development is earned, built toward. 

 More, Green learns- as do other characters in their lives. Green learns from his experiences, and changes, for good or ill.

 As the series progresses, the "hero", as a result, gets to do some damned unheroic things, which are absolutely not presented with moral or ethical ambiguity or shading. With justification. The audience may or may not empathize with Green, but we damned well understand how he got there. 

 The single most shocking scene- designed to be shocking, meant to be shocking- is when the good Doctor Green, the hero, the father figure, kills a guy in very, very cold blood. 

 The man went on a rampage, blaming Green and the ER's social worker for turning his son against him. He killed people, paralyzed the social worker, and went looking to kill Green. The man turns up in the ER, and Green ends up alone with him in an elevator, taking him to surgery, when the killer has a heart attack. 

 The man's reactions, seen prior, were not unsympathetic. The writing never justifies him, but it does kinda sorta explain him. The expectation, in this scene, is that Green will do his job, according to his oath, and keep the guy alive. That he will understand that they share an odd bond- both driven into emotional extremes by concern for their families, by a need to do what they see as right when others do not see it. Green, according to expectations, is the other half of the coin to the man. 

 This man went off track, blamed others for his own problems, eventually driven to kill in a sort of madness. Green, on the other hand, has learned to take responsibility for himself. To understand that life, despite what we want it to be, what we try to force it to be, and hope that it will be, is not fair at all. 

 What actually happens, is that Green puts electrical conductant gel on the man's chest, charges the shock paddles, and then holds them in the air and releases the charges. While looking straight into the man's eyes, as he realizes that Green? The dedicated doctor that even he, in the end, trusts?

 Is withholding treatment. That Green is killing him. In fact, that Green has premeditated this. When the post mortem is done, when the staff holds the mortality and morbidity hearing about this death, all the steps Green ought to have done- will be in evidence. The gel was spread, the paddles were charged and discharged. The data will reflect his story- that he did what he could, but there was no reaction. As sometimes happens. Green's eyes, as he watches all this hit- the man understanding that he is being murdered, and why, and that Green is going to get away with it- are cold. Not dead, not holding some sort of killer aspect, the thousand yard stare or whatever. 

 Just cold. Yep. Life's unfair, pal. You did what you did expecting to get away with it, and the universe put me here to insure that you don't. In fact, that you didn't.

 It's shocking, in the end, for the audience because of the realization that it's not at all out of character for Mark Green to do this.  That the prior five seasons have made Green into the sort of man who can do this, and our shock is that- holy mother of god, we didn't see this clearly until just this moment. 

 Heh-heh-heh. 

 Brilliant. I doubt it was plotted out, long term, that Green would do this. It was probably a combination of things. The actor leaving the series chief amongst them, wanting to give him a strong send off and all of that sponsoring someone to take a good, long look at the character- into what he'd gone through and grown through. And figured... you know? Just once, this guy isn't going to make it home. 

 Mark Green, as written, directed and acted, is as powerful an example of character as I have seen. 

 Which brings me to Robert Romano. The character is a weasel. An antagonist who manipulates and lies and pushes himself into a position of authority at the hospital. No one likes him. No one wants to be around him. He's a very good doctor and surgeon. But the penalty for being in his orbit- unending, sarcastic criticism, no respect shown. Unless the other character is in a position of authority over him - in which case Romano is a stunningly straight ahead kiss-ass.  Paul McCrane seems to be having a wonderful time playing this. He delivers cold stares, snotty smiles, and vicious put downs with style. 

 But, again, the writing.

 He's not Frank Burns to Mark Green's Hawkeye. Or Wo Fat to McGarrett. 

 As the character progresses through the seasons, the writers put a lot of windage into Romano. He's a sexist, even a misogynist. But he also protects and mentors those whom he would seem to oppose. When one accidentally comes out as a lesbian to him, he never thinks about using that, somehow, to his advantage. When another develops doubts about her surgical skills, he pushes her to her limits- no explanation given- to see if she can recover. At one point not responding to her desperate pages for his assistance in a surgery, letting he flail around. What she does not know- but the audience sees- is that Romano is actually scrubbed up and ready to step in to help. But holding back, watching to see whether or not she, stimulated by this stress, finally pulls it together. 

 More, as irritating as the weasel can be, he's almost always got an acceptable ulterior motive. 

 He wants to be head of X department because he is aware of someone else's legitimate short comings and - no small ego- genuinely believes that he is the better candidate. He wants to get rid of a staff psychologist because he genuinely believes that she's a future liability. 

 The audience gets to see this stuff- but the other characters do not. We see that Romano is not a villain so much as a man with no social skills whatever, a huge- but justified- professional ego and a pathological desire for excellence. In staff, in administration, in surgery. 

 Evidenced, again and again, when ER staff square off with him, expecting him to be an asshole about something, and, once they explain their need, their decision, their dilemma, Romano nods and walks away.

 Not agreeing, necessarily, with the decision or the choice, but seeing it was made out of that drive for excellence, for doing the job at a high level... and knowing that the person needs to deal with the consequences in order to learn and grow.

 If Green is the father figure, Romano is the boss that turns out not to be an opponent but more of a professional adversary, trying to get you to take control of your own damned life.

 The writing and acting are almost hysterically good. The audience ends up enjoying the character, understanding him, and still thinking he's a dick. 

 ER's writing and acting are what kept it on the air for a remarkable fifteen years. And whether or not the thing is taught in writing classes, it ought to be. 

 

 

 

* Bullshit, man. Hawkeye and Trapper, BJ, Margaret, Charles- all very well drawn characters, hardly saints. Uh, no. No. Because even when they made poor choices, wrong choices, MASH made those choices seem morally or at least situationally right. All justified. ER does not do that with Greene. When Greene screws up, he screws  up- and deals with the consequences. The characters on ER have, as a rule, to deal with the consequences of screwing up, when they do. 

Show, not Tell.

 Stage and screenplays require different writing muscles from other texts. Novels, short stories- you take whatever point of view that you favor, you dip into and out of character's heads, you can, if you choose, take a godly perspective on all that you detail. 

 Writing for the stage and the screen requires one _serious_ change. Since you cannot go into the minds of your characters, or assume an omniscient view in the narrative... you have to show everything. 

 Easy example. In another format I could go into any level of detail I wanted, to indicate that my character was getting hungry. I could say that they were hungry. I could talk about a gnawing sensation in their stomach. I could go into an anecdote about their growling stomach in church, or about a food daydream spoiling their concentration in a meeting, or, or, or. 

 In a stage or screenplay- which I am just going to call a play, for the rest of this- I have to show that. I have to write some playable instruction for the performer so that they can indicate this. 

 Problem is? Most writers take the short cut.

INT. BUICK: STAKEOUT- NIGHT.

                                                            BOB

                                       I dunno, man. But I'm getting kinda hungry. You?

                                                            NEAL

                                         I could eat.

 Simple and direct, but this is _tell_,  It works- the audience knows that Bob is hungry, and the Neal is, as well. I could add in some dialogue about them choosing a restaurant, debating fast food or sit down, and so on. Or just cut to the two of them eating.

 All of which would be, really, tell. Not show. 

 Which robs the audience of an opportunity to _see_something_happen and leads to a static play.  It is efficient in terms of dialogue, but not great in terms of audience engagement. Nor does it tell the audience much about the characters.

 So.

INT. BUICK: STAKEOUT- NIGHT.

 Bob is restless behind the big Buick's wheel. Looking left and right.

                                                                NEAL

                                   What are you looking for?

                                         

                                                                BOB

                                     Ain't you hungry? Jesus, I'm starvin'.

 Two lines. Establishing Bob's hunger with action- his looking around while he drives. Better. But still more talk than show. Still not revealing much about the characters.

 And it should. In any play, you have a limited amount of time to get the audience's attention and give them details about the characters. Too much at once, it comes across like an exposition dump. Too little, and your characters are impenetrable cyphers- with which no one can identify.  Neither helps the story.

Third try.

INT. BUICK: STAKEOUT- NIGHT.

 Bob is restless behind the big Buick's wheel. Looking left and right. Slowing slightly as they drive. Clearly looking for something specific- but what? 

                                                                NEAL

                                        What are you looking for?

As they pass storefront after store front. Clothing, liquor, many restaurants. Bob's stomach growls. Loudly. Dramatically. It is, in the history of growling stomachs, an epic. Easily on par with a priest, farting during mass, in terms of stertorous surprise. Or a pussy fart. It takes Neal completely out of the moment. 

He laughs. Starts as snicker, then, off Bob's embarrassment, grows into a belly laugh, a guffaw. 

                                                               BOB

                                        Ain't you hungry?

Neal gives Bob side eye. Clearly timing his reaction for maximum burn. Nuclear burn. 

                                                              NEAL

                                        Not anymore. 

A moment of tension. Are they colleagues, friends- is their relationship such where a little gentle shit giving is welcomed or tolerated, or a potential call for a thrashing?

                                                             NEAL (CONT)

                                        I mean, Jeeeesus, that was pretty fucking filling.

The moment breaks, both men laughing. That kind of relationship.

                                                            BOB

                                                   (Bouncing his hands on the wheel)

                                      We gotta stop anyway.

                                                          NEAL

                                       No kidding. Someplace that sells underwear and what, a burger?

                                                          BOB

                                       Long as they have a men's.(beat) and onion rings. 

Laughing as they go in search of just such a place, they drive on. 

Better. Funny and indicative. But notice that most of that is... me telling you in the stuff that doesn't get to the audience. This is me, seeing the moment in my head and writing down exactly what I see. 

It works- but it is me directing on the page. And a little of that goes a long, long way. Actors have their own ideas, as do directors and producers. The more specific a writer gets on the page, the more constrained they feel. 

This is not a bad example of that, as far is it goes. I have done and read much worse. But the important thing here- it goes _too_far_ in that direction. A script is not meant to be the writer telling the production what to do as much as it is the writer telling a story and indicating possible ways for it to be told on stage or screen. It is not meant to be _this_ specific. I once got a note on a script, telling me that the best writing was in the notes, the asides, the action line comments. 

A good note for a potential novelist. Not for a script. You have to strike a line between telling enough to get the ideas across and telling too much. 

I should also point out that this is still more tell than show. 

Fourth try. 

INT. BUICK: STAKEOUT- NIGHT.

Bob is restless behind the big Buick's wheel, looking left, then right, then centering his gaze on-

CLOSE UP: PIZZA JOINT sign. Neon, red and white checked pattern, perhaps with an extravagantly mustachioed guy in a chef's hat kissing his fingers. Does everything but scream in a terrible fake Italian accent. 

Bob is eyeing the thing like it's promising him sex. Or money.

                                                               NEAL (off Bob)

                                               Uh. You okay there, Bob?

Bob pulls up to the restaurant, stops the car and, as he gets out:

                                                                BOB

                                                Many possible answers.

Bob walks toward the restaurant. 

 Better. Bob no longer talks about his hunger, but visibly experiences it and acts. Neal notices and reacts with concern- which indicates a level of interest and possible affection for his partner in this. Bob sort of blows him off as he acts- which could indicate he's an all action, few words sort. But he blows him off with a smart-ass answer. Which indicates that he is either kind of an asshole- I was aiming for Harry Callahan with that- or that he is kind of an asshole, but within the bounds of his relationship with his partner, it's acceptable. 

It gets you to the same place as the third try- and good actors and direction could make all of these work. But as an actor and a director- I'd vastly prefer the fourth take on the scene. It gets you to much the same place, but allows for the production team to get there in their own way. And it's short. 

A Little More On Writing.

 I read a lot. Novels. biographies, news, reviews, box backs. I'm a reflexive reader- put some print in front of me, and by gum, I'll give it a shot. Doesn't even have to be in a recognizable- to me- language. Whazzat, Sanskrit? Lemme see.

 I also write a lot.

 Though- heh- not so much here.

 Which sends me reading- a lot- about writers. I am very interested in how other people do this. In general, looking for a better way to do what I am trying to do. 

 Outlining, dealing with themes big and small. Where do people write, when, how?

 Something I haven't read about- although I am sure it's out there- music.

 What sort of thing do people play when, as, they write?

 So. Here you go. 

 I find that if I listen to something strong, dramatic- classical, in my case, is always a temptation, but this applies to pop music as well- I get sucked into the music and stop working. Just sort of let my thoughts drift along. Relaxing. But not writing. 

 If, on the other hand, I go for musical wall paper? Background white noise, non invasive stuff- new agey blends of drums and digeridoos and such- it so annoys me that all I write are terse, annoyed clips. 

 I once found that I had written "This music fucking sucks" right into a script. 

 I like to tailor what I am listening to to the type of thing I am working on. 

 Currently- as I blog, and I will restart it once I get into the writing, the soundtrack to the late, great TV series "Thirtysomething".

 There is a clip of the theme composer- and the man who wrote a lot of the music for the series- W.G. Walden- talking about how he came up with the now iconic main theme. 

 On YouTube if you want to search for it. 

 Long story short- nothing was working. They were deep enough into producing episodes that he was writing incidental music. As the producers were considering using a melody from a Broadway show, he started noodling with a piece he wrote for a scene where two of the leads are working out a bump in their sex lives.  They liked it, and asked for an expansion, and had plans to orchestrate it, but they ran out of time. So they sped it up slightly, and that was that. 

 Lots of creative stuff comes in to being like that. Someone was trying for something else, just goofing around, and whammo. 

 Applies to writing, too. 

 The Thirtysomething soundtrack, tonight, because I am writing a Thirtysomething episode.

 Not an actual episode. A story that would have been a perfect episode of the series, though. If you ever watched it, that combination of closely observed life moments dramatized with humor and a lot of, well, indulgence. 

 I was a huge fan of the series, when it aired. Because I was at about that age- when shit starts to get real. You've gotten through your schooling- or at least anything short of graduate school. You've been working for a while, been through dating, relationships, break ups. And things are starting to close the fuck in.

 The job has turned into a career, the casual relationship has turned into a marriage, the marriage is turning into kids, nine to five, and a living room filled with Legos and baby toys and detritus that never seems to actually get _cleaned_.

 You're hardly ever alone, hardly ever seem to have time to yourself, and there is always something stressing. A bill to be paid, a debt you have to get into, etc. Things that you _swear_ that you did not mean to come out that way seem to _always_ come out that way.  You're in fights - serious, with stomping and yelling and crying- with no idea how the hell they started. 

 The cute little apartment has turned into a cute little house with dry rot on the deck- and when you moved in, you discovered that the prior owner's kid had jammed something into every lower plug receptacle in every outlet in the house.  Oh, and they took the goddamn water heater with them, which left you with a slow gas leak. Which you did not discover for a year, when you had to replace the water heater.

 Oh. 

 And you now know why it is _called_ a hot water heater.

 Anyway.

 You spend a lot of time thinking... what. The. Actual. Fuck.

 What the actual fuck is all this shit?

 Your default mood is now... exactly what you never expected. Vaguely pissy, with occasional showers of fun. 

 You start to appreciate friendships more than ever- and some of them are surprising. That asshole from the office next to yours is suddenly in your living room every weekend, or you are in his. Movie nights and game nights- the sort of thing you may have scoffed at, when you were younger- now very important stress relieving events. 

 And you start to think back on earlier parts of your life with nostalgia.

 This period in a life is- I think- probably the first time you get a taste of that. Younger- you're looking back on things you did as a kid, and you are still close enough to most of that to see it... if not clearly, certainly without a lot of fog. 

 Now, you're far enough away from first crushes and shit that happened in study hall and all of those people. And long enough way from living under your parent's roof, or at least so heavily under their thumb, that all of that starts to become very hazy. 

 And nostalgia tells you that life was _so_much better back then. Free of all the responsibility. 

 Nostalgia is a trap. It sucks you into an illusory, mis-remembered past, and tempts you into living your life in the past. Which cannot work. 

 Thirtysomething is when you figure that out.

 That long lost love. That halcyon time when you were young and poor and living hand to mouth together?  You smile about it, privately. Use the memories as a balm. For when the dishwasher dies, or something goes down the toilet that ought not to have.  When you're facing the fact that your puppy is now 10 years old, and not as mobile as he once was. 

 You start to think that this was, maybe, something more than you thought it was. 

 There is always a reason for that love having been lost. A good reason. Nostalgia makes you forget about that stuff, and makes you take your eye off the current ball. 

 The series dealt with all of that, and it echoed. One of the characters, Elliot Weston. God, I hated Elliot when the show started. Terrible man child goof. Had a nice wife, two young kids. He and his best friend had started a business together. And I watched him fuck it all up. 

 Nostalgia. Led to him having affairs, getting separated from his wife, losing his family and crashing his business. 

 Elliot drifted a lot. 

 And then? 

 He figured it out.  Who was important, what was important. And Elliot- without seeming to change a jot- blossomed into the best character on the show. 

 He romanced his wife- having realized that she was _the_ love of his life. He patched things up with his friends. And he figured out that he fucking hated his job. He was _great_ at it. Even as he was screwing up, his bosses loved what he did. But he didn't. So, just as it seemed like he was back on his game, he walked away from it.

  Because he _was_ back on his game. Just not that game. 

  Sure the show was indulgent. Whiney. Well off white people, as my friend Nancy used to say. Bitching about the dry cleaning and the takeout and the brakes on the Volvo. Ermigod. 

 But kids? At that age- best appreciated once we've gone through it- we're all that whiney, all that self involved. 

 Doesn't matter whether you are rich, poor, black, white, gay, straight, what have you. 

 Part of the maturation process. 

 Which, once I get done writing this- and listening to the music for the fun of it. Because, as it turns out, I can remember the episodes that these tracks cued and layed under- I am going to get back to my story. 

 The story?

 I'll get into that later. But the story is a page right out of Thirtysomething. People with their heads turned so far backward that they cannot see where they are going. Armand, retired, and missing his late wife, sitting around doing nothing. Laverne, thinking her best years are behind her. Carrie, so focused on the fuck ups in her past that she cannot plan for the future. I've written a stupidly expansive outline- which I think I have written about before, the more extensive my outlines, the greater the chance that I will never actually write the story. I get sort of bored, writing it after all of that.  But I think I can peel this off the outline and into an actual script.

 Mostly because I have fallen for my characters. A good sign. I _want_ to write cranky, arthritic Armand. I want to write sassy and affectionate Laverne and sweet but uncertain Carrie. 

 This has drifted, as usual. From the importance of music in writing, to the importance of the music I am actually listening to.

 Typical. 

 Let me wrestle this thing back to the ground and come up with a stirring conclusion.

 The reason music is important when I write- and I think every writer has something like this- is because it obliterates the background. 

 The AC running. The toilet that runs a bit once flushed. The snoring from the next room. What have you. 

 It obliterates the background and replaces it with an aural carpet. If carefully chosen, one which underlines and supports the writing. Not too powerful so as to suck you away from the task at hand. not so weak as to lose purpose. 

 It lets me slide into the world I am creating, the story I am telling, and get it out of my head. 

 The soundtrack has finished the first run. I enjoyed listening to it as a thing unto itself. 

 Now it goes into the work at hand. 

 Be seeing you. 

 

Speaking of Alexandria

 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.

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.

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:

• 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.

This sort of realization either sends you hurtling into pop psychology and Zig Ziglar- desperate to hump yourself up onto at least the first rung of the salmon ladder of success- or... it frees you to explore... other options.

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.