And so I am forcibly thrown off the Dollhouse bandwagon with what was easily the most painful episode I have ever watched on network television. To say Stage Fright was terrible is also to admit to a great shame: that you actually sat and watched the entire thing and could make such a judgment.
It was agonizing. After being alone in the wilderness after Episode Two, in shouting across the webs that there was hope for this show, to endure this is akin to being shot in the knees. Then, while you writhe on the ground, being anally violated with a fencepost. Wrapped in barbed wire.
The writing wasn't just dead--it needed to be exhumed. The clumsy parallels were hammered across with all the delicacy of a drunk playing Whack A Mole--that the Britney like video star was just a prisoner in a cage, doing what others want her to do and never, ever, EVER what she wants, and you know, that's like totally what Echo's life is like, y'know?
Good God.
I actually tuned in early, and the final minutes of Terminator were actually more entertaining than the entire Dollhouse episode. Sarah jabbing some guy in the eye with a hypodermic needle and then punching him in that eye? That's my kind of television.
So now Dollhouse is officially on probation with me. One more episode, and if things don't look up, then I'm going to just buy the entire run of Mama's House and watch that.
Spent the day trying to write EVE Online missions, and to my surprise and shock, actually succeeded. It's amazing what happens when I actually sit and focus, and not get involved in nerdrage wars over Final Crisis, who is the greatest Green Lantern, just how expensive should video games be, and whether or not Tarzan is a better hero than Doc Savage.
Still, there has been much music today. Since Vulcan Ninja was at work, I started the day with Metric, then put on Neil Young's Ragged Glory,an album I always play at window shattering volumes when I'm home alone. This was the album that showed me that feedback was essential to my healthy continual existence.
And it's nice to see I'm not the only one with a deep love of music. As for my dancing, only Vulcan Ninja can see that--and only after we were married, and there was no way out.
Granted, the first episode was a mess. The first half hour seemed to have drifted onto our screens from a pilot that had been taken out back and quietly burned in an oilbin, only to have Joss Whedon realize he had nothing to replace it, so he had to salvage what burnt celluloid that he could. The second half hour picked up a bit, but not enough to think that cancellation would be nothing short of an act of mercy.
But then came Episode 2--The Target. And then Dollhouse began to glow with the Whedon magic. Eliza Dushku was stellar, the writing by Steve DeKnight was tight, and the mythology of the show began to come to life. As a devoted Whedonite ( I was confirmed way back in Buffy Season One, and my credits as such include reading two spin off novels, buying a Buffy soundtrack, and reviewing the final episode for the National Post), I felt at home again. All I needed was Joss and a bit of Faith, and life would once again have meaning. At least, for an hour a week.
Anyone who says different is dead inside, and probably watches Stargate without irony. All's I'm saying.
Butch got me thinking about the Demics, and how much I loved this song as sullen teenager. And then I discovered they were from London! Now the song meant even more, because I wasn't the only one in the De-Forested City to feel this way!
Anyway, it's a murky cold February Saturday night here in London, so blasting the Demics just seems the right thing to do.
I have this weird relationship with Scott Weiland. I own every single Stone Temple Pilots album, but generally bought them on the strength of a single. I listen to the albums a few times, and then they are put away, never to played again.When Scott's drug problems more or less killed the band, I gave up on them. When Scott became lead singer with the record company slapped together band Velvet Revolver, you could not paint me a deeper colour of uninterested. Again more news surfaced of Weiland's drug problems, and like most people, I began to wonder just when he would be found dead, another star of the Nineties fading away forever.
Recently I've been thinking a lot about Kurt Cobain. Partly it's because I've been sick and semi comatose with whatever viral tornado is tearing through the city right now, and partly because I've been thinking about the lines connecting creativity and drug use.
I am not one of those who believe that drugs aid creativity. I know that when I'm two glasses deep into a bottle of wine, I have the most amazing ideas for stories, ones I quickly and theatrically scribble down into my Moleskine. Then, in the clear dawn of the next day's hangover, the ideas seem as flimsy and embarrassing as they were when I first came up with them--only I was too addled to realize that then.
In my experience, the best ideas I have are the ones that just arrive when I'm sober, usually arriving when I'm doing something else. I trust my subconscious to keep them coming, since when the connection to the DreamTime is clear and not blocked by other chemicals, they will arrive. On their own time and terms, but they do arrive.
And yes, I said DreamTime. And before you start picturing me wearing beads and burning incense, rest assured that I call it that only because it's the only name that makes sense. I do believe that there is something from which our individual Muses manifest, just as I believe that there are no shortcuts to getting there. Getting high, getting drunk--none of this opens any gates. It just bars them.
Which brings me back to Scott Weiland, and Kurt. I've been wondering if Kurt hadn't killed himself, hadn't fallen prey to heroin addiction, what sort of music he'd be doing now? I imagine him doing work similar to Jack White--following his own Muse, not having to worry about the financial success of his music, but just making sure he got it right. I'm thinking he would have gone more blues, more stripped down, and who knows? Maybe that planned Neil Young/Kurt Cobain album would have been awesome. And I also like to think what he would have had to say about the Foo Fighters. Heh.
But just as Kurt was a genius, so in his way is Weiland, especially with his solo albums. These are the ones I notice and listen to, since this is Weiland following his path, free of record company manipulation. The above song--which I think is one of his best--shows Weiland creating something that sounds like it should have come out in 1973, along with T-Rex and Bowie. There is a spark of something here that we haven't seen in years from him--not since his last solo album.
And in a way, it's a triumph. Weiland is still here, he's still creating the music he likes. I'm just hoping he sticks around to do more.
I'm just back from my post-Final Crisis therapy session, and even though my doctor says I shouldn't, I find myself wondering:
Is it at all possible to create a story about super heroes on alternate worlds all being threatened by a mad all-powerful figure, that hinges on a super speedster to save the day, and doesn't degenerate into a torpid mess of obscure self referential material that finally strangles any narrative joy under its own weight, depends on you having read countless tie-in books, and actually comes out in time?
And one last caveat:
Is actually entertaining as well?
Is such a crazy thing possible in this world of tears?
And the answer is a resounding YES.
And it does all this in two issues.
Here, Sonic must fight his evil doppleganger Scourge who has become all powerful,( you can tell he's evil because his eyes have turned black, which is what happens when you're evil--just ask Joss Whedon) bringing together an entire army of other Hedgehogs from alternate Earths to defeat him before he rules the multiverse with an iron white glove. If that wasn't enough awesomeness for you, there is also a Hedgehog who arrives from the future who wants to kill Sonic because of some act he may or may not take soon, which will jeopardize EVERYTHING.
Writer Ian Flynn also throws in dialogue that isn't clunky or splinter inducing. Taking a pause from the all out battle, a girl sighs at an alternate Hedgehog (this one a Robin Hood variant called Rob of The Hedge--get it?)and says:
"You're sweet. Let's get back to the beat down."
At the story's end, Sonic waves goodbye to the Future Hedgehog as he heads back to his own time: "Have fun with your dystopian future or whatever."
And let it known that I actually understood the ending. There was no God-Machine, no jiggery pokery, no sleight of hand. Just the same trickery that is as old and as new as anything Brer Rabbit would have pulled.
Yes, you heard me right. Sonic The Hedgehog--from Archie Comics--did a better job of a multi-dimensional, parallel universe all encompassing threat story than DC Comics. It made me laugh, it made me smile, and it didn't cost me close to fifty dollars.
Thank you, DC Comics. If it wasn't for you, I would never have discovered the blue.
I finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy two days ago, and it's still taking up quite a bit of headspace.
I read the book over a period of two days, which is very fast for me. ( I tend to read very slow, since I hate racing through books). During those two days, the weather outside was grey and cold, and I was fighting a very high fever. All in all, it made for a much deeper--and disturbing--experience than I had expected.
The story is simple. The Road tells the story of a nameless man and equally nameless son moving through a post-apocalyptic America. A horrific environmental event has occurred (which is not explained), coating the earth's atmosphere in ash. With reduced sunlight, almost everything has died. Plants, birds, the majority of animals and humans--all gone. What humans are left are scrabbling to try and find canned food where they can, knowing that each partially moldy meal eaten brings them closer to the unavoidable fact of there finally being nothing left to eat on the planet. As well, what humans are left are broken and despairing, or have become monsters.
The father exists simply to keep his son alive. And as the story progresses, it becomes apparent how difficult this will become.
A great book, and I'm not surprised it won a Pulitzer. The small scenes of the book are like punches to the throat that still hurt days later. It wasn't until a day after I finished reading the book that the emotional impact of the ending hit me. It was like it waited for my subconscious to mull it over, and when it felt I was good and ready, hit me in the face with a two by four.
A harrowing tale of grief, despair, and love. And one that is still making me stop and simply stare at birds passing overhead with a newfound gratitude.
Take a classic Jane Austen story, keep the entire original text, and just add a zombie sub-plot. This clearly falls under the category of things David and I should have come up with, if we weren't so busy talking about girls and how to build ray guns.
But this just got me thinking of titles I can now do. Look out bandwagon, I'm a-jumpin' on! Why not combine Austen with werewolves with...Sense and Lycanthropy. Or throw in a serial killer and call it Manslaughter Park? Gold, I tell you! There's gold in that there champloo!
This gem is one of my greatest literary treasures. Created during those innocent years in America when Shaft and Superfly were ruling the movie screens and were considered dangerous by Whitey,the Black Samurai series is fairly self explanatory. Hero Robert Sand is black, and knows martial arts. It's all there in the title. Slap an Issac Hayes score on it, and this one is too cool for school.
In this epic, Sand is out to save New York from atomic devastation from a 'Japanese murder master' with an army of killers. Oh, and an Apache with an axe. Just to be make sure all racial stereotypes have been represented.
Ah, the Seventies.
But they did give us this:
Which I adored as a kid, and still do. Luke rules, motherfucker.
I have no problem with baby talk, but only if--and let me be clear on this--it is spoken by babies.
I understand some women find speaking like a little girl to be cute. That to raise their voice and slur their consonants together is something other people will find endearing.
It is not. Perhaps it is endearing to your friends, but I assume this is only if they too enjoy speaking as if they are Darla from the Lil Rascals. If you wish to gather with these friends, wear bonnets and speak to each this way, I will be the first to champion your right to do so. But do not--under any circumstances--speak this way to me.
Again, let me be clear. I have heard that some women will employ this baby talk when they are entertaining their lovers and/or husbands. Again, that is your business. What you get up to in the sanctity of your bedroom and Strawberry Shortcake bedsheets is up to you. If you have found someone who finds 'goo goo talk' erotic and your first reaction isn't to taser them, then I wish you all the happiness that you so obviously desire. If you one day require therapy, then Canada has a very accommodating health service which I hope you will contact. Soon.
But if you are not with your giggling friends or zipping up your Furry suit with Papa Squirrel, do not employ this vocal technique with me. You will not win me over. I will not suddenly find you desirable, nor will I feel the need to protect you, which I feel may be part of the reason you speak this way in the first place. In fact, should you persist in acting like a widdle girl, I will go out of my way to not talk to you again. Especially if you then ask me if I'm all gumpy wumpy today?
I loved it. Which isn't to say that I sat smiling through the entire film, because Slumdog Millionaire isn't always easy to watch. The advertising promotes it as a feel good film, and it is, but it's not the sort of feel good film North American audiences are used to. (Two people actually walked out of the film about twenty minutes in.) Scenes of child torture, of horrific poverty, of destructive religious violence--they're here, too.
And yet despite such disturbing scenes, when the film soars, it fucking soars. There is a wonderful synthesis (and yes, that's my $5 word for the day)of music and visuals that takes a long bow in thanks to countless Bollywood films. (In fact, the film's credits take this respect even farther, and are worth sitting through.) There is a celebration of motion here, a telling contrast against a background where so many people are unable to move above their station in life, to escape their misery. The camera work is gorgeous, Danny Boyle's direction is as sure handed as it ever is, and the story creates the perfect frame to hang it all on. Sure, you can quibble a bit about some of the story aspects, but for me, Slumdog Millionaire tells delivers a decent narrative while also educating mainly North American audiences--those who bitch and howl if they don't have a bigger HDTV than their neighbours and only came to this movie because everyone is talking about it--what life is like for far too many of their fellow humans. Maybe the message will stick, maybe it won't, but at least it was there.
