Wednesday, October 27, 2010
From the Desk of Bone Daddy
However you choose to celebrate this harvest season, I send best wishes for a fun time. My San Francisco sojourn will take me off the grid, as it were, and I'll return next week with what will doubtless be a mighty tale of celebrating Halloween and Dia de los Muertos. Tidings of good cheer from the desk of my sole decoration this year, Bone Daddy!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Kitchen Heroics
Comic book scribes hail from a variety of backgrounds, yet I doubt any can match Gail Simone for pure mojo: the former hairdresser challenged the mistreatment of female comic book characters with her website, Women in Refrigerators, and used its popularity to start a career in comics. She writes with wit and style, often portraying traditional heroes doing non-traditional things, like the following scene, written by Simone and illustrated by the great Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez:
She might have baked for her Justice League friends in the past, but I doubt Wonder Woman evinced such funny and logical reactions before. "I'm afraid to try it," says Flash, "and I'm afraid not to try it." Batman and Martian Manhunter (don't you love superhero names?) don't hesitate diving right in. She's saved the world countless times, how bad can her cookies be? No, it's safe to say they must be tasty. It also appears that Superman was in the kitchen with her and for all we know he helped bake the cookies with his heat vision: if that isn't teamwork, nothing is.
She might have baked for her Justice League friends in the past, but I doubt Wonder Woman evinced such funny and logical reactions before. "I'm afraid to try it," says Flash, "and I'm afraid not to try it." Batman and Martian Manhunter (don't you love superhero names?) don't hesitate diving right in. She's saved the world countless times, how bad can her cookies be? No, it's safe to say they must be tasty. It also appears that Superman was in the kitchen with her and for all we know he helped bake the cookies with his heat vision: if that isn't teamwork, nothing is.Monday, October 25, 2010
Weekend Wonders
How was your weekend? This is a shout-out to the San Francisco Giants for making mine when they took the National League pennant, as well as to Battlestar Galactica, a delicious dinner, and one strange, obscure 70's sci-fi film. The Giants haven't played at Candlestick Park since the turn of the century, perhaps most memorably in 1989 during the Loma Prieta earthquake, and admittedly I've not followed them as closely since childhood days when we would watch them at the 'stick in the freezing fog or under blue skies. Be that as it may, I'm thrilled that they'll be at the World Series this year.Friday night I was gifted with a member's-only pass to the Science Fiction Museum for a world premiere of Battlestar Galactica: The Exhibition. It was a dream come true, as I had the privilege of attending a Q&A session with the main movers and shakers of the show (Mary McDonnell, who played President Laura Roslin, was sadly absent). Michael Hogan (Colonel Tigh) sat at the far left, with Richard Hatch (Apollo on the 1978 show, Tom Zarek on the new one), Glen Larson (creator of BSG), Kate Vernon (Ellen Tigh), Ronald Moore (driving creative force behind the re-imagined version), and Edward James Olmos (Admiral Bill Adama). Anybody who adores this show like me can understand that this was simply awesome; everyone else, your patience is appreciated!
I mentioned a delicious dinner. The gal was up to her usual kitchen antics when she created a feast for me and a friend, and let me tell you it was hog heaven. Nothing complicated, as the gal herself can testify: Chicken thighs for cheapness, pounded flat, wrapped around cheese and chutney, 350 degrees for an hour. The stuffing will leak all over the pan but it makes sort of a gravy so that's okay. Nice to put a pan of little white potatoes in at the same time. Hear that rumbling? That's my stomach, the old sentimental fool.
For dessert the oddball confection Z.P.G. envisions an over-populated world choked by smog, thus the meaning of the title: zero population growth. That's Charlie Chaplin's daughter, Geraldine, clutching her infant on the right. Though breaking the law of the land by bearing a child, she and Oliver Reed seem quite unaware of their crimes against fashion. Such a desultory tale populated with screeching dolls and Ringo Starr hairstyles is understandably and deservedly obscure. I'm surprised it even made it to dvd, unless a 3D remake is around the corner. I'm seeing Joaquin Phoenix and Lindsay Lohan.
I mentioned a delicious dinner. The gal was up to her usual kitchen antics when she created a feast for me and a friend, and let me tell you it was hog heaven. Nothing complicated, as the gal herself can testify: Chicken thighs for cheapness, pounded flat, wrapped around cheese and chutney, 350 degrees for an hour. The stuffing will leak all over the pan but it makes sort of a gravy so that's okay. Nice to put a pan of little white potatoes in at the same time. Hear that rumbling? That's my stomach, the old sentimental fool.For dessert the oddball confection Z.P.G. envisions an over-populated world choked by smog, thus the meaning of the title: zero population growth. That's Charlie Chaplin's daughter, Geraldine, clutching her infant on the right. Though breaking the law of the land by bearing a child, she and Oliver Reed seem quite unaware of their crimes against fashion. Such a desultory tale populated with screeching dolls and Ringo Starr hairstyles is understandably and deservedly obscure. I'm surprised it even made it to dvd, unless a 3D remake is around the corner. I'm seeing Joaquin Phoenix and Lindsay Lohan.
The Boon of Entrecard
http://www.chethstudios.net/2009/01/social-media-wallpaper-pack-entrecard.htmlEntrecard has been good to me, creating access to great blogs that I might otherwise have missed in the teeming multitude of the online community. Dropping on these sites enables me to see the latest (if any) posts by writers whose work I admire and enjoy. Though it might appear a bit hinky to acknowledge others' work by dropping on it, this form of currency is not meant to compete with pigeons but to establish an exchange rate of real value, which is to say established by the quality of the work. I've really come to appreciate this unique aspect of Entrecard.
Forums are something I miss, a bygone aspect of Entrecard that seems now like part of a distant and simpler past. They provided direct contact with the network on a variety of topics, the kinds of things you don't often discuss in personal messages with people you've never a met but enjoy conversing with on intelligent and stimulating subjects. Now I fall back on comments, which are even more impersonal. I would like to see the forums return. It would also be good to see better diligence on buggy sites. Not that it happens often, but every once in awhile there is a run of bad blogs that make me question Entrecards' due diligence. I've come to realize the value of connections with "good" blogs sufficiently to keep me dropping; by the same token, the slightest increase of viral sites in this community could easily drive me away.
Overall, Entrecard has been a positive experience and I expect to continue dropping for the foreseeable future.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Witchy O'Donnell
Is she or isn't she? This is the question across the nation as Christine O'Donnell, Tea Party challenger to Delaware Democrat Chris Coons' Senate seat, equivocates and contradicts her way out of teenage dabblings in witchcraft. Quite a quandary. At first she admitted to the dabbling. Soon after emerged the now-notorious campaign ad in which she said into the camera, "I'm not a witch. I'm nothing you've heard. I'm you." (Are these the two options, she's a magic user or mirror?) The novelty of a politician taking a stand whether they are or aren't they a broom-carrying member of the local coven wore off quickly -or seemed to: this week O'Donnell is back on topic and saying that not only does she regret the ad but, yes, she did dabble. Doesn't mean she'll be dressing up for Halloween, except maybe as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Ha. That's cute, but the joke's on us: airhead politics, sadly not a novelty, is keeping O'Donnell's name in the media and makes very real the possibility that she will unseat the incumbent. That's sad.Campaigning in 2008, Barack Obama had a name for this kind of thing: silly season. He was referring to ridiculous attempts by his opponents to focus on superficial details of his background, but the idea here is the same: make enough noise and your recognition factor goes up, regardless of the quality of the racket. Too often voters go with name recognition rather than any true understanding of candidates. Thus the ongoing saturation parade of the likes of O'Donnell will likely prove more effective than Chris Coons' strategy of sitting by. You would almost think he wants to lose his job and be remembered as old what's-his-name. Maybe it's not too late for him to come out as a warlock.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wayback Wednesday
Mesmerizing footage shot from the nose of a San Francisco cable car days before the 1906 earthquake leveled most of the city. This is so wonderful I had to share it:
And here is chilling footage taken after the devastating quake:
And here is chilling footage taken after the devastating quake:
Monday, October 18, 2010
Best Halloween Movie
If there is such a beast. There has to be a "best" in every category, right, when it comes to pop entertainment, meaning most enjoyable and capturing the essence of the category in which it figures, in this case Halloween movies. Donnie Darko leaps (hops?) to mind, an odd little theory generator -there are as many theories about what it means as there are people who have seen it- and autumnal costume drama. Best rabbit mask, to be sure.Does a movie have to take place in October to qualify for this coveted slot? That qualifies ET the Extra-Terrestrial, which might not be scary to anybody but those of us with a horror of raisins on legs from another star. (Personally, I'm hesitant when I encounter them.) Or does "best" mean "scariest"? Day of the Dead takes place on Halloween, is terrifying, and has zombies in it -that automatically puts it at the top, right? Trick 'r Treat and Halloween are no-brainers for contention. When it comes to scary, The Exorcist and Poltergeist and The Nightmare Before Christmas can't be forgotten. So many good movies for one day of the year.
Thinking about this brings me back to Frank, the scary rabbit-angel from Donnie Darko. He inspires me to extricate myself from the couch and remember what's best about Halloween: strapping into a good costume and getting out there to enjoy the holiday.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Writing on the Wind
A quote comes constantly to mind as I prepare the manuscript for its nationwide tour of publishers. When asked if he revisits his old work, writer/illustrator Frank Miller replied, "I'm not a masochist." Tell it like it is, Frank.
I would reply that though there is some resemblance to my hand, the old work in hindsight seems to have come from another's. A tacit admission of masochism, this also speaks to my social graces: even a stranger who writes as poorly as they that penned my past drafts, I can see past that and be their friend. I can make the effort; though not guaranteed, odds at success are good.
Sentimentality should be tossed out the window. Write on the wind, like the arrow from a bow. Remove your preconceptions. Pulling the catgut taught, the conviction for a bull's eye fills your vision, clearing at the peak of tension and release, your handiwork revealed in honest light.
I would reply that though there is some resemblance to my hand, the old work in hindsight seems to have come from another's. A tacit admission of masochism, this also speaks to my social graces: even a stranger who writes as poorly as they that penned my past drafts, I can see past that and be their friend. I can make the effort; though not guaranteed, odds at success are good. Sentimentality should be tossed out the window. Write on the wind, like the arrow from a bow. Remove your preconceptions. Pulling the catgut taught, the conviction for a bull's eye fills your vision, clearing at the peak of tension and release, your handiwork revealed in honest light.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Poison Arrow
Discovering a new writer can be one of life's gifts, that first encounter with an incredible, unimagined dimension miraculously captured in words. China Mieville's latest, The City & The City, just started this week, could be miraculous or something else altogether; a new writer is just as easily and all the more likely your worst enemy. I'm not deep enough into the novel to know either way. Authors can hide what is magical in their writing, what really grabs and bridges the page to your mind, revealed with patience and careful reading; just as easily and all the more likely nothing's there. You pays your money and you takes your chances.
One writer is always new yet old, magical at a glance but upon closer scrutiny vile, scurrilous and loathsome. Any writer in love with their first draft please contact me immediately and spill the beans how it is done. What feels so good, so right, flowing onto the page loses something in hindsight, is a complete mess and beckons with hours of editing. What can you do.
One writer is always new yet old, magical at a glance but upon closer scrutiny vile, scurrilous and loathsome. Any writer in love with their first draft please contact me immediately and spill the beans how it is done. What feels so good, so right, flowing onto the page loses something in hindsight, is a complete mess and beckons with hours of editing. What can you do.
Sounding less than thrilled is not the same as reluctance. I look forward to shaping the raw work into something readable. It's going to be work, that's all, to cobble together disparate sections of what will one day compose my second novel. Editing on the first one is a horse of a different color. I'm shaping it beyond readable, which is most certainly is, into publishable form, but laying out the intimations of the next was an act of nothing less than self-defense.
Other writers have warned me against finishing a manuscript. If you don't have another project to jump into, the ensuing dread is akin to facing the end of existence: What if I don't have another book in me? The question punctures your skin like a poison arrow, devours the belly, burns the spleen and dissolves the heart, worming its dirty way up your spine like it was a ladder of doom and bursts your brain. The real downer is that you shot yourself, concocted your own doom. Who wants that? So, overlapping the end of one project with the beginning of another provides good protection against being your own worst enemy.
That's how things stand so far. If this is my last blog post, you'll know why!
That's how things stand so far. If this is my last blog post, you'll know why!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Blindspots
Writing a novel is an endless process of discovery. You believe the end is near when suddenly a new crop of problems emerge, problems that can't be ignored, and it is back to what seems perpetual tinkering. Possibly every writer goes through this but I can only speak from my own experience of infinite regression. One issue crops up more than any other: blindspots. The manuscript has blindspots to spare, so many I could sell them on eBay. They arise from plot/character conflict, when one demands superiority over the other. That is almost all I see now, as if I were working not on the document itself but an x-ray of it: rather than tissue the bones are exposed and I read not words but plot or character and the undying tension between them. Makes for a special kind of blindspot, points of black that show up on the page like signs of disease.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Calibrated Reading
I'm inventing an office for myself, a career path that needs me as trailblazer.
It arises out of a need in my life: a need to justify my collection of comic books, those thin pamphlets of four color adventures known alternatively as funnybooks or comix. It isn't enough that I love the writing and illustrations, the sheer craft of the best of them -there must be some better rationale; if not, they have to go.
All right, I'm up to this. What if it isn't a comix collexion? I ask myself. What if it's a reading xperience, carefully calibrated? Balanced for laughter and deep thought. Put it into order from oldest (going back to the 1940's with The Spirit) to whatever's current. Chronology-as-reading-guide. Filled in specific to subjective determination, without any illusion of objectivity, the result to capture what is so endearing and worthwhile in an artform never truly recognized for its contribution -and by contribution I don't mean as fodder for summer blockbusters. There are incredible examples of ancient craft (if you count the Bayeux Tapestry) in a genre that has produced its own exemplars gifted as Kandinsky or King.
Then it hits me: I could do this job. I could arrange such a collection and create for readers a full experience of a genre of art in all its peaks and valleys. You wouldn't even have to limit yourself, in this role of self-declared subject expert, in this unelected, unvetted, unfettered position of power. One could do the same with novels and short story collections, memoirs and manifestos, manuscripts, poetry jams, works of philosophy and cartography... the list of possibilities is endless.
It won't be easy to calibrate such a collection. A special man is required to accomplish this sensitive task. The office doesn't yet exist that can fill the bill, someone would have to invent it, someone not immune to the call of destiny....
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Signal Abuse
During my time as a lowly Tower Books employee, there was opportunity to be idle. And how. Nothing obnoxious, mind you, like ruffling hairpieces or goosing women. We had that much respect for customers. Music was the gray zone. We played whatever we felt like on the speaker system and turned it up. This was not always appreciated, as in the encounter I had with one icy-eyed gent who informed me in so many words that if I didn't turn down the goddam noise he was leaving. Upstart that I was, my immediate thought was, Good riddance. An early adopter of Those not with us are against us. The problem, on both sides, was signal abuse.
Not turn signal abuse, mind you. We could use some more of that in our fair city, to be honest. There's entirely a lack of turn signal abuse here, but that's a topic for another time.
We had a problem with signal abuse, me and Mr Goddam Noise: he failing to find words to get the desired result and me with signal indifference by not only walking away in non-conciliation but going so far as to turn the music up. (Those were the days.) Both of us did the wrong thing.
The signal-to-noise ratio was not in our favor.
Lately I've been maddened by a similar ratio in media. The goddam noise is out of control. Stephen Colbert at a congressional hearing? Lady Gaga telling the nation to ask and tell? The scandal of Katy Perry's cleavage on Sesame Street? Lindsay Lohan waking up in the morning? The noise-o-sphere is making so much racket it makes my fillings hurt.
The Tower Books customer had it easy.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Writing That Won't Let Go
You know the kind of writing I mean. Words that hang onto your heart and mind like a mastiff with its favorite chewy toy. They have teeth. You write something down, a blog post, say, and commit words to a subject that initially perhaps seems casual and nonchalant but as it progresses reveals new substance and increasing vigor as a subject not merely of written expression but mental exercise. It happens. The thing chews on your brain. It chomps and demands satisfaction. Undertake a novel and suddenly you find yourself being eaten alive. William S Burroughs said that he hadn't really thought something until it was written down. The act of writing completes what started in your head and in some instances can be an act of absolution. Or is it absolvement? In any case, there is a certain special kind of restlessness that attacks your limbs if the writing is neglected.
I had a blog post that wouldn't quit. The subject had seemed exhausted, the writing complete. A few days later it hit me that the subject of the post was a certain kind of person whom I hadn't represented correctly. I had failed to recognize his qualities as a bastard. This could not be. I could not rest without full disclosure.
The issue can be phrasing, or a point of grammatical exactitude; it can be that what's written doesn't fully convey what I'm thinking. This last is too often the case, as words express only partially what is thought even in the best scenario. Understanding doesn't quell the restless quill, and it can even make things worse: the runaway tiger of complete expression always has a greased tail.
Rainer Maria Rilke advises that writing is do or die, and I take odd comfort realizing that finally choice is not part of the bargain:
No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
Blue Roots: Avatar Dreams (IV of III)
From out of the blue: the fourth of a three-part series! Sorry to go all Douglas Adams on you, friends, but the well is not dry and I must needs take another sip. Beyond color-coding, there is a message in Mel Gibson's film -a subtext, an undercurrent, that concerns slavery. Only at the end of the world is there an end to one human throwing another into chains.
But what if the world never ends?
***SPOILER ALERT***
The final image of Apocalypto is the arrival of Europeans at the Yucatan peninsula, bringing with them a plague of smallpox and, eventually, conquistadores who would end the Maya states: one enslaving race is replaced by another, or so I would have it. The meaning is debated.
With Gibson's catholic background, expulsion from the garden is an easy metaphor. Gibson says that the final image is meant to be hopeful. I'm not sure how that can be, considering that Europeans ravaged the region for hundreds of years and enslaved the natives with as much impunity as their own had. Interpreting the arrival positively tells me that Gibson is a man divided over how to translate meaning from his own film, and that despite this being arguably his masterpiece as a filmmaker it's full impact escapes him.
Then again, that would be consistent with what we've seen of him lately, or of his actions at least: seeing him as confused and misguided is sadly far too easy these days.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Blue Roots: Avatar Dreams (III of III)
When Jaguar Paw and his fellow enslaved villagers pass through a massive Mayan lime quarry, the imagery is of industrial ghosts. Animated corpses. Bodies caked in white lime that clouds the air and ground, clings to everything that passes, rises from mills in a great premonition of some horrible fate.Set in early 16th century Yucatan, Mayan culture is in decline. Unbeknownst to them, European settlers are on the way. A blood frenzy has gripped the cities -blood to appease the gods and alleviate failing crops and spiraling birth rates. Oceans of blood, a scarlet tide fit to match its blue sister, the sea, the very thing bringing their new masters and echoed in the paint that covers sacrificial victims.
Blue is the color of apocalypse.
Jaguar Paw and friends, dripping blue, are dragged to the top of a ziggurat and before masses writhing in dark ecstasy await a gruesome fate. What happens next in Apocalypto, in my feeble consideration Mel Gibson's best film as a writer and director, won't be ruined here. I don't want to give the whole thing away. I will say, however, that it is worthwhile. As a film about cultural decline, it is inspired and resonates not a little with our contemporary situation.
It makes Avatar, its box office-conquering counterpart, look like a simple and simplistic morality tale.
I'm impressed for several reasons. Mel Gibson is not well versed in that little thing called nuance, and his deft use of it is unprecedented in the career of a man usually associated with blockhead dialogue and torture porn. With Apocalypto he comes across the sensitive artiste. That said, let's circle back to the original notion that you haven't seen Avatar until you've seen this.
You can't appreciate it without a film like this one, with depth and historical detail and even, yes, nuance.
Because as much as Apocalypto is at its roots a chase story -Jaguar Paw spends half the movie on the run- it dodges the shallow spirituality and mass destruction of Avatar; it has the same kind of blue bombast, but with the vital difference of creating a deeper look at cultural decay. Where in Avatar the threat comes from marauding humans bent on obtaining material wealth with runaway greed, a clear and present danger on this or any planet, granted, the native Navi are presented as undivided in wholesomeness and purity. That works for a special effects bonanza, if that is what you are going for, yet I find it intriguing that Mel Gibson has produced a film as bombastic as it is thought-provoking for its portrayal of people suffering from their own, enslaved by their own, wiped out by their own -in the name of survival.
And it is exactly at the end that a very different question is asked. What will survive? The lens of history, as opposed to that of a 3-D camera, would suggest that what survives is blindness to true threats. We can see in Apocalypto a caution from Mayan decline, but also to all societal decay; that it comes in painted pleasantly blue but marks the end of something that wishes it could be eternal.
It is widely reported that James Cameron has an Avatar trilogy in mind and it may be that he has not shown us the depths of exploring the question of native peoples' futile attempts to stave modernity. Even so, Mel Gibson, of all people, has beat him to the punch.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Blue Roots: Avatar Dreams (II of III)
World, I don't believe we finished discussing dancing smurfs. Deep subject. For one thing, they're blue. As it turns out, we like blue people. We like just about anything that's cerulean or navy or periwinkle. Of course these are shades, pigments, variations on a theme, and we should go to the source to gauge their positive influence. The color blue is woven throughout Avatar, as is bombast: blue bombast, let's say, is the defining motif of the film. James Cameron traffics in blue bombast and has done quite well for himself by it. The writer/director of the film I find myself carrying on at great length about (second part of three!), Apocalypto, is in the same club, with a thing for telling stories in wide strokes about people colored blue.
***SPOILER ALERT***
Is Mel Gibson blue? He could have a little blue man inside him, for all we know. On the flipside, I'm sure he's feeling blue for his misdeeds of late, if the man has a heart at all. When it comes to emotions, feeling bluesy is not so hot. We'll restrict our interpretation to aesthetic.
Superman dresses in blue. The Virgin Mary has a closet of blue linen. Smurfs, they've got it in their skin. The flags of several nations are red, white and blue...
Blue is good.
Mel Gibson painted half his face blue in Braveheart. He kicked butt in a bombastic fashion.
Blue bombast is good.
However.
In Apocalypto blue is not so great. It's even quite bad.
***SPOILER ALERT***
The setting is 16th century Mesoamerica. Jaguar Paw lives in peace and harmony with family and friends -until Mayans raid their village and take them for slaves. That always happens, doesn't it? After an arduous jungle slog, they pass through a giant lime quarry before reaching the city, where they are immediately painted. You will never believe what color.
But it's very bad for them to be colored blue.
Tune in next post to find out why.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Blue Roots: Avatar Dreams (I of III)
I'm talking to the world now. Hey world, remember Dancing With Smurfs? You saw it under a different title. Everybody and their cousin, if the cash cow numbers are any indication, saw it once, twice, thrice. But let me tell you, world, you haven't seen Avatar, the biggest box office smash of all time, not yet, you really haven't. You haven't seen it until you've watched Mel Gibson's magnum opus, Apocalypto. I know. I know what's going through your mind. You're thinking: Mel Gibson?!? Give us a break, right? He's fallen out of favor, kaput; he's yesterday's news, out to pasture, a has-been.
But wait.
His last film is Apocalypto. His most recent film. Mel Gibson isn't dead, he could make more. Nice title, catchy but instantly forgettable, sounding more like a cornball superdude in spandex than a film of any significance. You didn't see it. I know I didn't. From the Oscar-award winning director of Braveheart. Also, let's not forget, the star of four Lethal Weapon movies. Think about that. There were four chapters in the Lethal Weapon saga. How did that happen? But if that were all, he would still be our darling Mel. People found it in their hearts to forgive him that mullet.
Lately it hasn't been so easy to appreciate the guy, bad hair or not. He's on the record saying awful things. A few years ago he drunkenly spewed some racist bile. That was almost forgotten when a couple months back it came out that he said some awful things. Again. Mel Gibson has a problem with his words. Hateful words. He said them on the record. And that's not the worst thing.
There are allegations that he struck his girlfriend, that he not only hit her but did it while she was holding their infant child. Vile. Does Mel Gibson do anything halfway? He's not content to be a bad man; he has to be a monster.
An alleged monster. We don't know what really happened until the man himself comes clean, either by his own volition or in a court of law.
His ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorievna recorded him on the sly and we can question the dubious nature of what would make someone do that, but there it is: the entire world has heard just how ugly Mel Gibson can sound in real life. It is bad. Regardless of the circumstances, it is very bad. He comes across an ugly son of a gun and I can't blame people for hating and dismissing the jerk.
It wasn't always like this.
I'd never heard of Grigorievna before the recent mess, but Mel Gibson has been in the public eye for decades. It wasn't until the last few years that he exhibited his dark side. It might have always been there, but I am willing to give him the benefit of doubt.
What he said is too horrible to repeat, and I'm not excusing the man. He needs forgiveness, of that there's no doubt. The illusion of celebrity, especially in our Age of Instant News, is that we know anything of substance about people in the spotlight, when in truth they are hidden behind glamors like the rest of us albeit on a much larger scale. Mr Gibson is one of the biggest movie stars on the planet. Whoever he is behind the persona, that is the man who needs forgiveness. I don't care if he makes another movie, but he should be confronted with what he has done and an accounting made. Since it has been aired out in public, we should know what to believe and if he truly is the monster he appears to be.
Anyhow. We've strayed far from dancing smurfs, haven't we?
Let's get back on track.
When Avatar hit the big screen, it went off in popular consciousness like a bomb. Consider the size of screens these days and that's about what it takes to make any kind of impression at the movies anymore: the spectacle has to be leviathan. Avatar delivers that kind of spectacle and people continue to see it in droves, but it is standing on some big shoulders, like Dances With Wolves, which hordes of folk loved and won Best Picture that year, and Apocalypto, recognized in significantly smaller numbers as a work of importance.
***SPOILER ALERT***
A soldier on an alien world learns to love their culture and ultimately turns against his own kind to defend them. The choice is not a hard one: humans are greedy scum while the innocent, spiritual, and respectful of all others race of Nav'i just want to live in their tree in peace. He's going to choose to stay human; yeah, right.
Which is my beef with Avatar: it is exactly what you expect it to be. Apocalypto is not, but it tells a similar tale...
Wow, this post is running like horses over the hills, so I'll stop here and see you again soon for the second of three parts in a series. Be good.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Inspiration
I've been in a funk about this blog, uncertain where to go with it or if I want to carry on. It has functioned as a break from "real" writing for a long time, but lately I've been getting existential thoughts about continuing or starting over from zero. Nothing's decided. Fortunately there are plenty of active writers in the meantime to whom I can turn for inspiration, a smattering of whom are listed and recommended for your reading pleasure:
Monday, August 30, 2010
Summer Peak
Saturday at the bus stop. It rained that morning.
The Washington State ferry, Issaquah. At speed the boat sounds like it could shake apart at any moment, yet we never felt at risk. The smells coming out of the commissary were a far bigger threat to our health.
Sunlight on the water beats Prozac for firing up happy neurons.
It should be called Sealth, after the chief Seattle is named for, but white people couldn't pronounce it; instead they named the mountain after Rainier Beer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)