Don Draper is a phantom. He's a hollow shell of humanity. He looks and acts like a human but underneath, it's cold darkness. He sits in a cloud of smoke, silent and stoic. He has rational and can talk himself out of a paper bag. Problem is, he's his own worst enemy. He's philanderer, a cheat and a drunk. He stole a man's identity in the Korean War and lived an alternate life from that point forward. He took care of the real Don Draper's wife in secret until she succumbed to cancer. He drove his brother away, and ultimately led him to commit suicide alone in his hotel room. He slept around on his wife for many years while driving himself towards an inevitable oblivion.
Bear in mind, that he's the hero of our show. Or rather, anti-hero. If anything we would see Peggy Olsen as the entry point of the story, the true story. She started out as a secretary for Don and worked her way up the ranks finally ending up as Don's trusted confidant. And she had finally had enough of Don's shenanigans, and jumped ship therby breaking Don's shell even worse. She's become the old pro at her new firm, treating her copywriters like Don would've treated her way back in season one. But not now. She's the trusted one. Even when she sneaks away to a movie and sees Don, the dynamic is still there. They're the old couple, the old pros. Together again for the first tim, you might say. If it weren't for the age gap and the outright respect they have for one another, they'd even be comfortable as lovers. The last moments of Peggy's story is that of her in Virginia on a company trip. The unpleasant view she gets from her window is not the view she would've gotten if she perhaps still worked for Sterling Cooper Draper Blank. The look on her face is a tell of disappointment.
If there's one character who draws the most dislikable behavior it has to be Pete Campbell. He's aiming to be Don Draper so bad, it's killing him. He's cheated on his wife, fathered a child with Peggy (unbeknownst to him), even convincing his wife that he needs an apartment in the city. He's been beat down this season, quite literally, and this episode it happened mulitple times. He had a fling with a woman, Beth a few episodes back and is still pining for her. He soon discovers that her husband is sending her to a hospital in the city to get ECT to cure her of her depression. Pete is angry with the man because he's a cheater and hates that the woman he cares for is getting psychiatric treatment, when her husband is the problem. Before she commits herself, she has one last fling with Pete. After the therapy, she won't remember him at all. Later, he visits her and she has no recollection of him. He recounts a story about a friend he's visiting in the hospital, who is very clearly him. basically, Pete is broken. He's far beyond repair and if this season were any indication, Pete would've been the clear winner in the, "Who Will Kill Themselves?" office pool. He stirs up a fight with the husband on the train and gets the beatdown harshly. He then causes a fight with the conductor and gets beaten down again. Grace thou art not Pete Campbell. He goes home and and lies about his broken face, he says he fell asleep while driving. His wife allows him to get an apartment, he has everything he wanted and yet, he's still alone. He's become Don.
Another noteworthy thing, is that this season has been fairly light on Betty Draper-Francis. She was once the former model seduced by Don Draper and became the cold, calculating housewife we know and loathe. She's now overweight due to a glandular problem. She's sitting in her dark castle and taking out her failures on her children. She hates what Megan, Don's new wife represents ... a new start. Megan's a free spirit, an oddly attractive girl with aspiring dreams to be an actress. Don impulsively married her after the events of "Tomorrowland,' the season four finale. They've clashed in a very, violent manner sometimes but they're a stronger couple for it. Megan became Don's wife and everybody at the office noticed it. She was good at her job. Very good. She had traces of Don and at the moment she pitches to the Heinz people in the episode, "At the Codfish Ball," you can see it. But she left the office a few episodes later, hellbent on pursuing her dream of acting. And she thinks she's found it in a commercial. She asks Don to let her in, to put her name in the casting pool. He refuses simply because he knows where that path leads. It leads to Betty. But, he relents in the end, and the last shot of Megan is her shrouded in light as Don walks away into the darkness. But from what? He's transitioning to become the phantom in the night.
The very last shot of the season is Don sitting at a bar. A very attractive girl walks up and inquires as if he's alone. He turns and we cut to black. We're left hanging in the darkness that Don is floating in. It's a very effective thing, cutting to black. It was employed in one of my favorite films of 2011, "Shame." The black represents what we don't know. It can mean anything and everything. It's why books are so great. You decide and you interpret. Did Don say yes? If so, he's turned against everything he's fought against this season. If he says no, then he's become a new man. He's becoming a human and not the hollow effigy of one.
One thing, I didn't particularly like about this episode was that they skimmed over the death of Lane. Nobody really mentions him outside of the occasional discussion over who gets his office and paying his wife back the five grand collateral that he put in the firm to start it up. I feel as if a powerful death should have been discussed and dealt with a lot more than that. But, oh well.
I liked a lot of episodes this season, probably more so than season three, which would be my favorite. I think back on, "Mystery Date," with it's fever dream atmosphere. It was practically a horror film, the thoughts that go through your mind as you wander the empty halls of the building you work in. If a spree killer exists elsewhere, surely they can exist in your city. I also liked "Far Away Places," an episode that broke traditional structure and showed three concurrent stories told all at once, rather than broken up over the hour. It was like watching "Pulp Fiction." And that final scene, was the most terrifying setpiece ever shown on the series. Don was a monster chasing Megan through their house was like watching Jason Voorhees terrorize the girl at the end of the film. It was pure suspense. It was beautifully done, it was domestic terror.
Mad Men continues to be a phenomenal show. I've always loved it and thankfully we don't have to wait two years to see what happens with the denziens of the maddest of men and women.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Summer Club Reading - Eerie, Indiana
Back in 1991, Eerie, Indiana premiered on NBC. It was created by Karl Schaefer and Jose Rivera, who had two tracks of mind in creating the series. One, to create a show for children that didn't pander to children and secondly, to have a fun and scary show. And you know what?
They succeeded.
Eerie, Indiana takes place in the titular town. We first meet Marshall Teller on his paper route. He's relocated from the dank, rotting Big Apple. He misses it. His father, Edgar is an inventor for a company in Eerie called "Things, Incorporated," and his mother, Marilyn is a party planner despite having lax organizational skills. His sister, Syndi is a regular, normal teenage girl. Marshall is the odd one out in his family it seems. But he notices that something is amiss in this 'burb. He sees an older, fatter Elvis on his route. He knows Bigfoot eats out of his trashcan. The town's population is 16,661. Gulp. He shares this with the only person that'll hear him out, Simon. Simon is a younger kid from his neighborhood who is ignored by his parents, so Marshall takes him under his wing. They know that something spooky is afoot in Eerie and they seem to be the only ones to do anything to try and stop it.
Originally, reviews for the show insisted that the show's true relation was that great masterpiece, "Twin Peaks." But I don't buy that, personally, I see it as more of a "Blue Velvet" type show. You know, a town with a darker undercurrent. Marshall and Simon are predicating Fox Mulder in the hunt for the truth and the idea of a town under duress from outside sinister forces is something that "Buffy the Vampire Slayer will run through for seven years. Eerie was ahead of it's time and it only lasted 19 episodes. I personally think that in 2012 this show would've lasted a longer life. Or at the very least gathered a cult following. But I digress, let's start this thing off.
"Foreverware"
In the beginning, when Marshall's family moved to the town, they were greeted by Betty Wilson and her twin boys, Bertram and Ernie. She is a salesperson for a tupperware-esque product called 'Foreverware.' It's a product that seems to have leaped in a time machine in the 60's and landed in the 90's. You can put a sandwich in there from 1957 and it would be as fresh as the day it was made. That sounds unhealthy but I digress When Simon and Marshall smell and look at it, it's a bologna sandwich sure enough. But Marshall accidentally leaves the container cracked open. So, after Betty Wilson peddles her wares and leaves the Teller house hold that day, little Bertram or Ernie (I'm not sure either) passes Marshall a note that says, "Yearbook, 1964" he's a little curious.
Sure enough, when he looks in the book, he sees two boys that are very similar looking to those mini-Othos, Bert and Ernie. Simon just thinks they've been in school since the 60's cause they aren't smart. Marshall knows that something's up. He goes over to the boys' house and sees that their mother seals them in giant Foreverware containers at night to prevent them from aging because their father ran away when they were younger and she doesn't want them to leave. Yikes, am I right?!? Soon, the boys beg Marshall to help them and so he sets about trying to free the boys from their eternal youth. Betty, the boys' mother is trying to woo Marshall's mother into becoming a salesperson for Foreverware by singing a jingle. I wish I could link to it. I just wish I could. It would blow your mind.
Late that night, Marshall sneaks into the boys' room and releases them from their slumber. They have a score to settle with their mother for not letting them age. Marshall leaves them be. Later, Marshall's mother discovers exactly what happens if you leave the container open just a crack, the results are not so great and that bologna sandwich turns into a goopy paste. Marshall's mother just thinks that Foreverware is defective. So, she goes over Betty's house and to her and Marshall's surprise, the house is up for sale. In the front yard, she sees two older twin boys hammering away at the For Sale sign. They helpfully inform them that Betty moved away and they thank Marshall and his mother. As they walk away, an older woman calls out to the twin boys asking who's out there. Marshall looks back terrified. He knows who that is. He adds the Foreverware container to his "evidence locker" and closes the case ... for now.
I think that this is a great start to the series. It knocks the little bit of exposition out in the pre-credits sequence. We don't need to worry about where Marshall and his family came from, although I'm certain that they would've mined that territory had the show lasted longer. It's a great dip into the strangeness of the show and a great first episode, although a cursory glance of the weirdness of the town is only skated over, which is unfortunate because it seems to be a fun little town, except you might also die.
Additional footnotes:
When you visit the dentist's office, it can be a terrifying experience. Especially for Marshall Teller, because as we know, life in Eerie is well, eerie. Especiall when your dentist is a great character actor like Vincent Schiavelli. Marshall's horrified to go because he knows exactly what may happen...he may have to get a retainer. Oh, and dogs are plotting to take over the town. But, oh, dentistry!
Sounds innocuous enough, right? Not for poor Steve. He's the unfortunate kid in school, who's cursed with the single most ridiculous overbite I've ever seen. He also enjoys eating a lot. One day, he's hanging out with Marshall and Simon, when he hears someone grumbling that they wish he'd drop his sandwich. It isn't Marshall and it isn't Simon. It's a dog sitting on the sidewalk. Yeah, you read it and I wrote it. The dog is drooling over the sandwich. Steve drops some and the dog hungrily gobbles it up. Marshall isn't certain yet, because it could just be radio interference or whatever else happens when you pick up signals from elsewhere. They run a test and sure enough, Steve hears the thoughts of the dogs. And what he hears is terrifying. The dog begins tussling with Simon on the floor and soon the thoughts become more and more violent. Simon escapes from the dog and the three boys become terrified. Until a little French poodle warns the bigger dog that they have a bigger plan at hand. The dogs run away and leave the boys scratching their heads.
As Marshall and Simon wander the town, using Steve as a megaphone for the dogs' thoughts, they soon discover that the dogs have malicious intent for the townsfolk. They plan on escaping from the dog pound and seeking vengeance for being kenneled up. For having to sleep outside in dog houses. No more they say, no more. They destroy the gas chamber where they put the pets down and take out the dogcatcher. They demand freedom. They force Marshall, Steve and Simon to release them from the cages and the boys oblige. Then, the leader, the french poodle thinks the boys have seen enough. She demands the dogs take the boys out, especially Metal-Mouth Steve. The dogs chase Steve away in the night. Marshall and Simon never see him again.
Later, Marshall returns from the dentist and his retainer ain't so bad after all. He sees the dog that initially threatened him and his comrades. It burps and a piece of Steve's retainer comes up. The dog runs away. Marshall picks up the retainer and sticks it in the "evidence-locker" and closes the case ... for now.
I did like this episode as well. It picks up fairly quickly but unfortunately as it rises and rises, it kind of deflates at the end. But the thing being that, it never betrays it's inspired lunacy. And another noteworthy fact, a kid actually dies. Not just gets attacked or saved at the last minute but gets eaten (offscreen of course). For the early 90's, that was crazy. I like the world of Eerie and dogs trying to attack humans just seems right, storywise.
Additional footnotes:
French Poodles are French. They speak in an exaggerated 'Pepe LePew' accent. Eight-year old me finds this hysterical.
The pre-credits sequence ends with a dog holding a gun. Silly, yes, because if the dogs can't open their doors to wreak havoc, they surely can't fire guns. Right? Ahem, right?
I will never get enough of the dogs sitting in a circle singing, "Dem Bones." They sounded like a barbershop quartet. It is fantastic.
The dog catcher service is called "Canine Assistance Team" or C.A.T
My original intent for the Summer Reading Club was that I would watch two episodes a week. But, this show's fantastic and the girlfriend and I have already watched episodes three and four. I'll just have another review coming later this week for the next two. Unless, I've watched the entire series at that point. Which at this point, is entirely likely.
Coming up, "The ATM with A Heart of Gold" and "The Losers."
They succeeded.
Eerie, Indiana takes place in the titular town. We first meet Marshall Teller on his paper route. He's relocated from the dank, rotting Big Apple. He misses it. His father, Edgar is an inventor for a company in Eerie called "Things, Incorporated," and his mother, Marilyn is a party planner despite having lax organizational skills. His sister, Syndi is a regular, normal teenage girl. Marshall is the odd one out in his family it seems. But he notices that something is amiss in this 'burb. He sees an older, fatter Elvis on his route. He knows Bigfoot eats out of his trashcan. The town's population is 16,661. Gulp. He shares this with the only person that'll hear him out, Simon. Simon is a younger kid from his neighborhood who is ignored by his parents, so Marshall takes him under his wing. They know that something spooky is afoot in Eerie and they seem to be the only ones to do anything to try and stop it.
Originally, reviews for the show insisted that the show's true relation was that great masterpiece, "Twin Peaks." But I don't buy that, personally, I see it as more of a "Blue Velvet" type show. You know, a town with a darker undercurrent. Marshall and Simon are predicating Fox Mulder in the hunt for the truth and the idea of a town under duress from outside sinister forces is something that "Buffy the Vampire Slayer will run through for seven years. Eerie was ahead of it's time and it only lasted 19 episodes. I personally think that in 2012 this show would've lasted a longer life. Or at the very least gathered a cult following. But I digress, let's start this thing off.
"Foreverware"
In the beginning, when Marshall's family moved to the town, they were greeted by Betty Wilson and her twin boys, Bertram and Ernie. She is a salesperson for a tupperware-esque product called 'Foreverware.' It's a product that seems to have leaped in a time machine in the 60's and landed in the 90's. You can put a sandwich in there from 1957 and it would be as fresh as the day it was made. That sounds unhealthy but I digress When Simon and Marshall smell and look at it, it's a bologna sandwich sure enough. But Marshall accidentally leaves the container cracked open. So, after Betty Wilson peddles her wares and leaves the Teller house hold that day, little Bertram or Ernie (I'm not sure either) passes Marshall a note that says, "Yearbook, 1964" he's a little curious.
Sure enough, when he looks in the book, he sees two boys that are very similar looking to those mini-Othos, Bert and Ernie. Simon just thinks they've been in school since the 60's cause they aren't smart. Marshall knows that something's up. He goes over to the boys' house and sees that their mother seals them in giant Foreverware containers at night to prevent them from aging because their father ran away when they were younger and she doesn't want them to leave. Yikes, am I right?!? Soon, the boys beg Marshall to help them and so he sets about trying to free the boys from their eternal youth. Betty, the boys' mother is trying to woo Marshall's mother into becoming a salesperson for Foreverware by singing a jingle. I wish I could link to it. I just wish I could. It would blow your mind.
Late that night, Marshall sneaks into the boys' room and releases them from their slumber. They have a score to settle with their mother for not letting them age. Marshall leaves them be. Later, Marshall's mother discovers exactly what happens if you leave the container open just a crack, the results are not so great and that bologna sandwich turns into a goopy paste. Marshall's mother just thinks that Foreverware is defective. So, she goes over Betty's house and to her and Marshall's surprise, the house is up for sale. In the front yard, she sees two older twin boys hammering away at the For Sale sign. They helpfully inform them that Betty moved away and they thank Marshall and his mother. As they walk away, an older woman calls out to the twin boys asking who's out there. Marshall looks back terrified. He knows who that is. He adds the Foreverware container to his "evidence locker" and closes the case ... for now.
I think that this is a great start to the series. It knocks the little bit of exposition out in the pre-credits sequence. We don't need to worry about where Marshall and his family came from, although I'm certain that they would've mined that territory had the show lasted longer. It's a great dip into the strangeness of the show and a great first episode, although a cursory glance of the weirdness of the town is only skated over, which is unfortunate because it seems to be a fun little town, except you might also die.
Additional footnotes:
- The pilot was directed by Joe Dante. His visual style will be handed over and emulated for the rest of the series, at least for the few episodes I've seen so far.
Yes, Marshall, a person who spells their name Syndi shouldn't be operating a motor vehicle.
Also, the older Bertram and Ernie are played by those reliable 90's twins, Dan and Don Stanton, whom appeared in "Terminator 2: Judgment Day" and "Gremlins 2: The New Batch. Another noteworthy appreance for horror aficnados Belinda Balaski appearing as one the Foreverware saleswomen. she's a stock Dante actress, appearing in "The Howling" and "Pirahna."
When you visit the dentist's office, it can be a terrifying experience. Especially for Marshall Teller, because as we know, life in Eerie is well, eerie. Especiall when your dentist is a great character actor like Vincent Schiavelli. Marshall's horrified to go because he knows exactly what may happen...he may have to get a retainer. Oh, and dogs are plotting to take over the town. But, oh, dentistry!
Sounds innocuous enough, right? Not for poor Steve. He's the unfortunate kid in school, who's cursed with the single most ridiculous overbite I've ever seen. He also enjoys eating a lot. One day, he's hanging out with Marshall and Simon, when he hears someone grumbling that they wish he'd drop his sandwich. It isn't Marshall and it isn't Simon. It's a dog sitting on the sidewalk. Yeah, you read it and I wrote it. The dog is drooling over the sandwich. Steve drops some and the dog hungrily gobbles it up. Marshall isn't certain yet, because it could just be radio interference or whatever else happens when you pick up signals from elsewhere. They run a test and sure enough, Steve hears the thoughts of the dogs. And what he hears is terrifying. The dog begins tussling with Simon on the floor and soon the thoughts become more and more violent. Simon escapes from the dog and the three boys become terrified. Until a little French poodle warns the bigger dog that they have a bigger plan at hand. The dogs run away and leave the boys scratching their heads.
As Marshall and Simon wander the town, using Steve as a megaphone for the dogs' thoughts, they soon discover that the dogs have malicious intent for the townsfolk. They plan on escaping from the dog pound and seeking vengeance for being kenneled up. For having to sleep outside in dog houses. No more they say, no more. They destroy the gas chamber where they put the pets down and take out the dogcatcher. They demand freedom. They force Marshall, Steve and Simon to release them from the cages and the boys oblige. Then, the leader, the french poodle thinks the boys have seen enough. She demands the dogs take the boys out, especially Metal-Mouth Steve. The dogs chase Steve away in the night. Marshall and Simon never see him again.
Later, Marshall returns from the dentist and his retainer ain't so bad after all. He sees the dog that initially threatened him and his comrades. It burps and a piece of Steve's retainer comes up. The dog runs away. Marshall picks up the retainer and sticks it in the "evidence-locker" and closes the case ... for now.
I did like this episode as well. It picks up fairly quickly but unfortunately as it rises and rises, it kind of deflates at the end. But the thing being that, it never betrays it's inspired lunacy. And another noteworthy fact, a kid actually dies. Not just gets attacked or saved at the last minute but gets eaten (offscreen of course). For the early 90's, that was crazy. I like the world of Eerie and dogs trying to attack humans just seems right, storywise.
Additional footnotes:
The pre-credits sequence ends with a dog holding a gun. Silly, yes, because if the dogs can't open their doors to wreak havoc, they surely can't fire guns. Right? Ahem, right?
I will never get enough of the dogs sitting in a circle singing, "Dem Bones." They sounded like a barbershop quartet. It is fantastic.
The dog catcher service is called "Canine Assistance Team" or C.A.T
My original intent for the Summer Reading Club was that I would watch two episodes a week. But, this show's fantastic and the girlfriend and I have already watched episodes three and four. I'll just have another review coming later this week for the next two. Unless, I've watched the entire series at that point. Which at this point, is entirely likely.
Coming up, "The ATM with A Heart of Gold" and "The Losers."
Friday, June 8, 2012
Summer Club Reading
I mentioned a couple of posts back, that I was going to choose a television series to review on a weekly basis. I decided this because I thought it would be a fun little journey for us to take together, for the ones who are at least following along with me. I was going to choose a short-lived television series or at the very least a truncated first season of a television series. It had to be one that was easily accessible to myself, and something that gave a serious nostalgia trip.
I chose Eerie, Indiana. It was a short-lived television series that ran on NBC from 1991 to 1992 and ran for 19 episodes. It's bite sized episodes, running at 25 minutes apiece prove that I can review at least two a week, starting with the pilot episode, "Foreverware," and continuing with the episode, "The Retainer." I'm very excited to revisit this show as it's been a very, very long time since I watched it as a child and even then it was too unique to fit in on television. I'm very excited about this experience and maybe you can join along with me.
So, what say you friendos? I chose this show because it's accessible to everybody (it's on Netflix Instant) and I hope that you'll join on this wacky, wild and extremely weird trip back to the 90's.
I chose Eerie, Indiana. It was a short-lived television series that ran on NBC from 1991 to 1992 and ran for 19 episodes. It's bite sized episodes, running at 25 minutes apiece prove that I can review at least two a week, starting with the pilot episode, "Foreverware," and continuing with the episode, "The Retainer." I'm very excited to revisit this show as it's been a very, very long time since I watched it as a child and even then it was too unique to fit in on television. I'm very excited about this experience and maybe you can join along with me.
So, what say you friendos? I chose this show because it's accessible to everybody (it's on Netflix Instant) and I hope that you'll join on this wacky, wild and extremely weird trip back to the 90's.
The Film ... Or The Book aka The Lady or The Tiger?
Why do book to movie adaptions often fall flat?
It's an honest question that puzzles me. This question rings in my head after I woke this morning to the news that Stephen King's "It" would be getting adapted for the big screen as two seperate films and honestly, the news excited me. "It" is a monsterous tome, clocking in at over 1,000 pages and is very dense but fast-paced, so of course two films would be perfect. The mini-series is the golden standard for children having nightmares, it's given kids post-traumatic stress disorder everytime they see Barnum and Bailey roll into town. So, why remake it? I mean, given Hollywood's crazed fervor to reboot, remake and pretty much squander every single property they can get their grubby, grobby hands on. But, in the case of King's work, most of the filmic adaptions if not all of them, beg to be remade.
It's simple, really. Reading a Stephen King is like opening a door in your mind. It's like drawing a chalk door on the wall and voila, doorway. Opening up a King book is like revving up a lawnmower on rabies and trying to hold on tight. King's prose is often long-winded but he's got a reason for it. He's layering, he's painting a story and your brain is his canvas. The words that he uses to get inside your head will twist and turn. You breathlessly trip over each word desperate to get to the end. Take, "The Shining," for example. You believe in this place. You feel trapped in the Overlook Hotel. It's claustrophobic. Is the hotel haunted? Maybe. But, that ain't the story, kiddies. It's Jack Torrance's story. You feel his struggle with drinking, his guilt over hitting his child. He becomes a faceless void over which you can project your own fears. Even myself with an evil father figure who I saw as the flesh and blood of scary Jack Torrance. It all culminates with him going lunatic and bashing the former caretaker and his wife with a handy-dandy croquet mallet. He finds the strength within himself and control the supernatural forces long enough to let the old man and his family escape before he blows himself and the hotel up, ensuring that the madness will never continue. That's a ride, am I right? But the movie ... oh, boy.
Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining," is a master class in how to make an epic horror film. It's long and slick, and the pacing really does allow you to sink into the neuroses of the Torrance family over their long winter stay in the Overlook. Except, their are a few problems with the film. I know, sacrilege, right? The opening credits with that great Wendy/Walter Carlos score tell you the exact feeling you should have. The biggest problem however lies with the casting. Sacrilege part two! When you see Jack Nicholson appear on screen, you don't buy him as a easy-going guy who could be driven mad. He straight up looks mad, like a stiff wind could drive his bats out of the belfry. Shelley Duvall is equally mis-cast. Wendy was written as a strong type who's driven to crack. Instead, she looks fragile as a mouse. Now, Scatman Crothers was perfect as Hallorann, can you dig it? It becomes a bloodless horror film, almost as if Kubrick knows he's performing a joke but forgets the punchline. All of the above being said, it's a great film. It's beautiful and stunning. The Steadicam shot prowl through the corridors and sooner or later fear grips you that something may pop out. And sometimes, it certainly does. And on Blu-Ray. the film looks even better. Still gorgeous like a tasty wine.
A funny thing happened though in the 90's. King's properties became hot, hot, hot commodities and soon enough "The Shining" was remade on ABC by Mick Garris and King himself. The casting was more appropriate and the book was true to life. It wasn't as harsh as King's book, simply because of the television disconnect. Almost all of his books have been adapted with little or no success. "The Dark Half," "Firestarter," and many, many of his short stories got the short shrift. Usually, the big successes were the was that had 'Darabont' or 'Reiner' in the credits. Even King couldn't be trusted with his own work. While "The Shining" and "The Stand" were adapted successfully, he fumbled the ball and tripped over it as well on "Desperation." That one was a big disappointment. Now, with Ben Affleck adapting "The Stand" as a potential trilogy and the notice of "It" being adapted in a similar manner, it appears that people are beginning to understand the scope, yes, there's the key word, scope of King's work.
But, sadly, he's not the only writer to fall victim to misadapted prose. Clive Barker has written some of the single best gothic literature in the past and present. My God, Books of Blood is the greatest collection of short stories since "Different Seasons," "Night Shift," or even "Four Past Midnight." I love 'Rawhead Rex' especially. God, what a great horror story. It's puritanical and diabolical. But, when it was adapted for the big screen, Barker vehemently opposed it. Yes, it is a paint by numbers version of a monster movie and is so clearly aping on "Alien." I'll admit that I'm a not-so secret fan of the film, I even possess a Fangoria with Rawhead on the front cover. But, Barker's frustration with the mangling of his work caused him to seek out and adapt his own works. He even stated that he doesn't want to end up like Stephen King. True story. Barker has made films but even his cinematic thumbprint has been smudged by Hollywood tampering ... but not for long. His "Cabal" cut of my personal favorite film of his, "Nightbreed," will hopefully be released soon.
Some films do get the correct treatment, a by-the-books treatment (ho-ho) if you will. Chuck Palanhuik had a great adaptation in "Fight Club," but most of his work is unfilmable. There's no way ever, you can adapt "Haunted." Period. His frantic, frenetic pacing and stream-of conciousness dialogue wraps it's way into your head. I loved the book, "Choke," but there was so much wrong with it from the top all the way to the bottom. Casting, important plot points being hacked out with a machete, etc. Except for Cherry Daquiri. But, that's it. As for Bret Easton Ellis, I've only seen two films that capture his true authorial essence. "American Psycho," and "The Rules of Attraction." "Psycho" is the more classically structured film but man, if you adapted it word for word, it would be X-rated and over four hours long. "Rules" on the other hand follow the skippy, unsure narrative that makes reading Ellis a treat. It's probably the pinnacle of a film's elements coming together and being true to the book.
My point, in all of this is, imagination is the strongest weapon we have. We dream up landscapes and we can make our own movies. When we read books, we've opened our eyes. This is a journey you take with the author of the piece. When you adapt a book to film, you're funneling the vision down. It's taking an interpretation and telling you how to interpret it. This is the horror of adaptation. Even if there are good adaptations, they'll never be better than the book.
But, you just know they're gonna try, right?
It's an honest question that puzzles me. This question rings in my head after I woke this morning to the news that Stephen King's "It" would be getting adapted for the big screen as two seperate films and honestly, the news excited me. "It" is a monsterous tome, clocking in at over 1,000 pages and is very dense but fast-paced, so of course two films would be perfect. The mini-series is the golden standard for children having nightmares, it's given kids post-traumatic stress disorder everytime they see Barnum and Bailey roll into town. So, why remake it? I mean, given Hollywood's crazed fervor to reboot, remake and pretty much squander every single property they can get their grubby, grobby hands on. But, in the case of King's work, most of the filmic adaptions if not all of them, beg to be remade.
It's simple, really. Reading a Stephen King is like opening a door in your mind. It's like drawing a chalk door on the wall and voila, doorway. Opening up a King book is like revving up a lawnmower on rabies and trying to hold on tight. King's prose is often long-winded but he's got a reason for it. He's layering, he's painting a story and your brain is his canvas. The words that he uses to get inside your head will twist and turn. You breathlessly trip over each word desperate to get to the end. Take, "The Shining," for example. You believe in this place. You feel trapped in the Overlook Hotel. It's claustrophobic. Is the hotel haunted? Maybe. But, that ain't the story, kiddies. It's Jack Torrance's story. You feel his struggle with drinking, his guilt over hitting his child. He becomes a faceless void over which you can project your own fears. Even myself with an evil father figure who I saw as the flesh and blood of scary Jack Torrance. It all culminates with him going lunatic and bashing the former caretaker and his wife with a handy-dandy croquet mallet. He finds the strength within himself and control the supernatural forces long enough to let the old man and his family escape before he blows himself and the hotel up, ensuring that the madness will never continue. That's a ride, am I right? But the movie ... oh, boy.
Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining," is a master class in how to make an epic horror film. It's long and slick, and the pacing really does allow you to sink into the neuroses of the Torrance family over their long winter stay in the Overlook. Except, their are a few problems with the film. I know, sacrilege, right? The opening credits with that great Wendy/Walter Carlos score tell you the exact feeling you should have. The biggest problem however lies with the casting. Sacrilege part two! When you see Jack Nicholson appear on screen, you don't buy him as a easy-going guy who could be driven mad. He straight up looks mad, like a stiff wind could drive his bats out of the belfry. Shelley Duvall is equally mis-cast. Wendy was written as a strong type who's driven to crack. Instead, she looks fragile as a mouse. Now, Scatman Crothers was perfect as Hallorann, can you dig it? It becomes a bloodless horror film, almost as if Kubrick knows he's performing a joke but forgets the punchline. All of the above being said, it's a great film. It's beautiful and stunning. The Steadicam shot prowl through the corridors and sooner or later fear grips you that something may pop out. And sometimes, it certainly does. And on Blu-Ray. the film looks even better. Still gorgeous like a tasty wine.
A funny thing happened though in the 90's. King's properties became hot, hot, hot commodities and soon enough "The Shining" was remade on ABC by Mick Garris and King himself. The casting was more appropriate and the book was true to life. It wasn't as harsh as King's book, simply because of the television disconnect. Almost all of his books have been adapted with little or no success. "The Dark Half," "Firestarter," and many, many of his short stories got the short shrift. Usually, the big successes were the was that had 'Darabont' or 'Reiner' in the credits. Even King couldn't be trusted with his own work. While "The Shining" and "The Stand" were adapted successfully, he fumbled the ball and tripped over it as well on "Desperation." That one was a big disappointment. Now, with Ben Affleck adapting "The Stand" as a potential trilogy and the notice of "It" being adapted in a similar manner, it appears that people are beginning to understand the scope, yes, there's the key word, scope of King's work.
But, sadly, he's not the only writer to fall victim to misadapted prose. Clive Barker has written some of the single best gothic literature in the past and present. My God, Books of Blood is the greatest collection of short stories since "Different Seasons," "Night Shift," or even "Four Past Midnight." I love 'Rawhead Rex' especially. God, what a great horror story. It's puritanical and diabolical. But, when it was adapted for the big screen, Barker vehemently opposed it. Yes, it is a paint by numbers version of a monster movie and is so clearly aping on "Alien." I'll admit that I'm a not-so secret fan of the film, I even possess a Fangoria with Rawhead on the front cover. But, Barker's frustration with the mangling of his work caused him to seek out and adapt his own works. He even stated that he doesn't want to end up like Stephen King. True story. Barker has made films but even his cinematic thumbprint has been smudged by Hollywood tampering ... but not for long. His "Cabal" cut of my personal favorite film of his, "Nightbreed," will hopefully be released soon.
Some films do get the correct treatment, a by-the-books treatment (ho-ho) if you will. Chuck Palanhuik had a great adaptation in "Fight Club," but most of his work is unfilmable. There's no way ever, you can adapt "Haunted." Period. His frantic, frenetic pacing and stream-of conciousness dialogue wraps it's way into your head. I loved the book, "Choke," but there was so much wrong with it from the top all the way to the bottom. Casting, important plot points being hacked out with a machete, etc. Except for Cherry Daquiri. But, that's it. As for Bret Easton Ellis, I've only seen two films that capture his true authorial essence. "American Psycho," and "The Rules of Attraction." "Psycho" is the more classically structured film but man, if you adapted it word for word, it would be X-rated and over four hours long. "Rules" on the other hand follow the skippy, unsure narrative that makes reading Ellis a treat. It's probably the pinnacle of a film's elements coming together and being true to the book.
My point, in all of this is, imagination is the strongest weapon we have. We dream up landscapes and we can make our own movies. When we read books, we've opened our eyes. This is a journey you take with the author of the piece. When you adapt a book to film, you're funneling the vision down. It's taking an interpretation and telling you how to interpret it. This is the horror of adaptation. Even if there are good adaptations, they'll never be better than the book.
But, you just know they're gonna try, right?
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Whedon Complex
Sometime last year, I added Netflix Instant streaming to my Playstation 3 (RIP). I was a kid in a candy store. I lept from movie to movie, from television series to television series at breakneck speeds. And finally when the proverbial red mist descended, I thought to myself, is there a series I want to watch? I thought long and hard on it. And I finally settled on a show, a groundbreaking series that I loved fondly as a youngster and I was certain I would again.
That show was "The X-Files."
I know you're thinking, what? This post has a title that would seem to differ from the show I chose. And to that I say, hold your horses, friendo. I'm getting to the Whedon of the thing. But, first we've gotta get through my revisiting of "The X-Files," and how it led me to a love affair with all things Joss Whedon. The first season of "The X-Files," is good. It's not as great as it would be in season two or three or even four. It's got a very Canadian feel to it, an almost murky undercurrent. When I originally watched the series, I was always a fan of the standalones, and not a fan of the alien mythology. I just don't find conspiracies scary. Period. I felt for Mulder and I rolled my eyes at Scully but it wasn't easy to track the mythology on an episode by episode basis. That's even with 'Tunguska-Terma/Herrenvolk' on the table. It has it's moments of humor but it's mostly colorless. I dredged through some terrible episodes until I finally gave up in the middle of season four. I did try Chris Carter's other series, "Millennium," and I have to say that even though that particular show makes you feel as if you need a Prozac IV, it's still a better show. There I said it.
And then I saw the light. I hovered over "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and pressed play. That was the single best choice I ever made. I remember watching it back in 1997 when the WB was brand spanking new. That and ahem, "Dawson's Creek." Regardless, of my soapy teenage past, I instantly fell in love with Buffy ( and Sarah Michelle Geller...). It was fast paced, it was funny, it had hot girls and horror. So, of course I loved it. There wasn't a real complex mythology in the first season but that's the starting line, and baby what a start. But, what I saw after that was a true power in writing. The emotional beats were there and true to the characters. And that sole reason is attributed to Joss Whedon. He's a sucker punch to the heart. He knows how to pour the salt in the wound during the emotional moments. I raced through seven seasons of Buffy faster than four seasons of "The X-Files." That's gotta mean something, right? And after I finished Buffy, I went to Angel. I petered out soon thereafter because I was all angsted up. But this discovery of Whedon's immense power struck a note with me. Have I been ignoring his talent for this long? Of course, I had. I watched Firefly way after the fact but I loved it. I loved the follow-up film, "Serenity," and cursed his name when he killed off beloved characters. I do like "Angel," even if Whedon's hand is a lot less present than on other shows. I didn't even mind the much maligned Marti Noxon seasons of Buffy. Not at all. The only show I didn't fancy on first viewing was "Dollhouse." I don't know, the premise just seemed kind of rapey to me. But, I've misunderestimated his genius once....so I guess I'll check again.
And the funniest thing about all this Whedon love, the thing that gives me pause and makes me chuckle, is that Joss Whedon is the biggest poobah in Hollywood, right this very minute. Why's that so funny, you ask? Well, I'll tell you, dear reader. His shows never got the respect they truly deserved from the masses. Sure, they have a massive cult following and were renowned by the critics on arrival, but no one watched. Dollhouse and Firefly were knocked down before their time. Yes, Dollhouse got a second season but was still very much dead-on-arrival. Firefly was aired out of order and fell apart at the finish line. That specific shows following was loud enough to get a feature film, however. Even his tentpole shows, Buffy and Angel were battered and bruised. Buffy was cancelled and resurrected on a different network. But he survived all of that, and got the happy ending his characters rarely got. He wrote and directed a billion dollar grossing film. That's cool. So, maybe some people didn't see it for Whedon and that's fine. I did. And I was able to see his fingerprints all over "The Avengers." That made me happy. It's the reason why "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," is my favorite television series.
Because Joss Whedon is a better, smarter James Cameron. He's fully capable of crafting a gigantic film that grosses disgusting amounts of money and he did it with brains and he did it with heart. And that's all that matters.
That show was "The X-Files."
I know you're thinking, what? This post has a title that would seem to differ from the show I chose. And to that I say, hold your horses, friendo. I'm getting to the Whedon of the thing. But, first we've gotta get through my revisiting of "The X-Files," and how it led me to a love affair with all things Joss Whedon. The first season of "The X-Files," is good. It's not as great as it would be in season two or three or even four. It's got a very Canadian feel to it, an almost murky undercurrent. When I originally watched the series, I was always a fan of the standalones, and not a fan of the alien mythology. I just don't find conspiracies scary. Period. I felt for Mulder and I rolled my eyes at Scully but it wasn't easy to track the mythology on an episode by episode basis. That's even with 'Tunguska-Terma/Herrenvolk' on the table. It has it's moments of humor but it's mostly colorless. I dredged through some terrible episodes until I finally gave up in the middle of season four. I did try Chris Carter's other series, "Millennium," and I have to say that even though that particular show makes you feel as if you need a Prozac IV, it's still a better show. There I said it.
And then I saw the light. I hovered over "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and pressed play. That was the single best choice I ever made. I remember watching it back in 1997 when the WB was brand spanking new. That and ahem, "Dawson's Creek." Regardless, of my soapy teenage past, I instantly fell in love with Buffy ( and Sarah Michelle Geller...). It was fast paced, it was funny, it had hot girls and horror. So, of course I loved it. There wasn't a real complex mythology in the first season but that's the starting line, and baby what a start. But, what I saw after that was a true power in writing. The emotional beats were there and true to the characters. And that sole reason is attributed to Joss Whedon. He's a sucker punch to the heart. He knows how to pour the salt in the wound during the emotional moments. I raced through seven seasons of Buffy faster than four seasons of "The X-Files." That's gotta mean something, right? And after I finished Buffy, I went to Angel. I petered out soon thereafter because I was all angsted up. But this discovery of Whedon's immense power struck a note with me. Have I been ignoring his talent for this long? Of course, I had. I watched Firefly way after the fact but I loved it. I loved the follow-up film, "Serenity," and cursed his name when he killed off beloved characters. I do like "Angel," even if Whedon's hand is a lot less present than on other shows. I didn't even mind the much maligned Marti Noxon seasons of Buffy. Not at all. The only show I didn't fancy on first viewing was "Dollhouse." I don't know, the premise just seemed kind of rapey to me. But, I've misunderestimated his genius once....so I guess I'll check again.
And the funniest thing about all this Whedon love, the thing that gives me pause and makes me chuckle, is that Joss Whedon is the biggest poobah in Hollywood, right this very minute. Why's that so funny, you ask? Well, I'll tell you, dear reader. His shows never got the respect they truly deserved from the masses. Sure, they have a massive cult following and were renowned by the critics on arrival, but no one watched. Dollhouse and Firefly were knocked down before their time. Yes, Dollhouse got a second season but was still very much dead-on-arrival. Firefly was aired out of order and fell apart at the finish line. That specific shows following was loud enough to get a feature film, however. Even his tentpole shows, Buffy and Angel were battered and bruised. Buffy was cancelled and resurrected on a different network. But he survived all of that, and got the happy ending his characters rarely got. He wrote and directed a billion dollar grossing film. That's cool. So, maybe some people didn't see it for Whedon and that's fine. I did. And I was able to see his fingerprints all over "The Avengers." That made me happy. It's the reason why "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," is my favorite television series.
Because Joss Whedon is a better, smarter James Cameron. He's fully capable of crafting a gigantic film that grosses disgusting amounts of money and he did it with brains and he did it with heart. And that's all that matters.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Spoiler Alert! (No, not really)
Gather 'round folks, I've got a question for you. It's one that rattles my brain from time to time and I figured now that I've got the soapbox, I might as well ask. My question is, in this age of technology, of Twitter and Facebook and any other social networking sites, are we really spoiler free?
I started thinking on this today in the wake of Sunday's "Mad Men." I wasn't able to watch it until this morning because I have a four car pile-up on my DVR on Sunday nights. That's understandable, right? Except when I look at my Twitter or my Facebook and I see some idiot who blurts out some major development and it ruins everything for me. Because I'm like an elephant, I never forget. Oddly, in regards to the episode of "Mad Men" in question, it didn't dull the shock. I still can't forget what I saw when I saw Lane Pryce dead. It's the same thing as when I saw Gustavo Fring *spoilers* dead in the season finale of season four of Breaking Bad. My biggest complaint about these people is that when you cry out about them spoiling the show, they get incredulous. "How dare you call me out? Why don't you watch it live like the rest of us?" By the way, I will say that I'm sort of gulity of this. I'm guilty of spoiling "Glee." I don't consider that as epic a spoil as a deep character driven show would have been. I would say that as much as I watch TV, my life doesn't revolve around it. Maybe in a sideways world, but not here in reality. No, sorry. So, I shield my eyes from whatever idiocy someone is spewing and move on down the line. It's how we have to roll in 2012. We live in a world of speculation. People sit around and read into things. If a man in black walks into a bar, people are gonna say, "Hmm, he's sinister." They won't relax and think he could be the savior. Reading into films and movies is overthinking it. If you've seen the film or television show before, then read between the lines. It's a fascinating experience. Trust me.
Of course, my thinking on this got me on to another tangentially related topic. Would this be the same if the internet presence was as heavy as it was twenty years ago? Probably so. After all, with shows like "The X-Files," "Twin Peaks" and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" people would have not been able to keep the secrets those show revealed. Whedon was a saint in terms of writing but he loved to kill off multiple characters as much as he added them. People ruin things for people, period. There isn't a sense of expectation. It's why some people go to the end of the book and read the last line. Why? The fun rests in getting there. It's like a Lord of the Rings fan saying, "Oh, they get rid of the ring. Hmm."
Not all of the blame rests on the people who watch the show as well. If you watch a show where characters are getting killed off and often, a new casting announcement for a television series is a death warrant. It's practically walking the character down the 'ol Green Mile. We know about characters dying before the final three episodes of the season, simply because The Hollywood Reporter can't shut up about casting news. I remember the notorious "Walking Dead" spoiler that erupted out on the AMC (!) website. Somebody has to catch this.
Maybe I'm overthinking it as I'm apt to do. Maybe it's something I need to ignore. I just need to detatch from the computer and the smart phones and wait until I actually watch the show (which I usually do, but hey, shut up) but should it have to come to that?
I started thinking on this today in the wake of Sunday's "Mad Men." I wasn't able to watch it until this morning because I have a four car pile-up on my DVR on Sunday nights. That's understandable, right? Except when I look at my Twitter or my Facebook and I see some idiot who blurts out some major development and it ruins everything for me. Because I'm like an elephant, I never forget. Oddly, in regards to the episode of "Mad Men" in question, it didn't dull the shock. I still can't forget what I saw when I saw Lane Pryce dead. It's the same thing as when I saw Gustavo Fring *spoilers* dead in the season finale of season four of Breaking Bad. My biggest complaint about these people is that when you cry out about them spoiling the show, they get incredulous. "How dare you call me out? Why don't you watch it live like the rest of us?" By the way, I will say that I'm sort of gulity of this. I'm guilty of spoiling "Glee." I don't consider that as epic a spoil as a deep character driven show would have been. I would say that as much as I watch TV, my life doesn't revolve around it. Maybe in a sideways world, but not here in reality. No, sorry. So, I shield my eyes from whatever idiocy someone is spewing and move on down the line. It's how we have to roll in 2012. We live in a world of speculation. People sit around and read into things. If a man in black walks into a bar, people are gonna say, "Hmm, he's sinister." They won't relax and think he could be the savior. Reading into films and movies is overthinking it. If you've seen the film or television show before, then read between the lines. It's a fascinating experience. Trust me.
Of course, my thinking on this got me on to another tangentially related topic. Would this be the same if the internet presence was as heavy as it was twenty years ago? Probably so. After all, with shows like "The X-Files," "Twin Peaks" and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" people would have not been able to keep the secrets those show revealed. Whedon was a saint in terms of writing but he loved to kill off multiple characters as much as he added them. People ruin things for people, period. There isn't a sense of expectation. It's why some people go to the end of the book and read the last line. Why? The fun rests in getting there. It's like a Lord of the Rings fan saying, "Oh, they get rid of the ring. Hmm."
Not all of the blame rests on the people who watch the show as well. If you watch a show where characters are getting killed off and often, a new casting announcement for a television series is a death warrant. It's practically walking the character down the 'ol Green Mile. We know about characters dying before the final three episodes of the season, simply because The Hollywood Reporter can't shut up about casting news. I remember the notorious "Walking Dead" spoiler that erupted out on the AMC (!) website. Somebody has to catch this.
Maybe I'm overthinking it as I'm apt to do. Maybe it's something I need to ignore. I just need to detatch from the computer and the smart phones and wait until I actually watch the show (which I usually do, but hey, shut up) but should it have to come to that?
Reviews : A quick note
I've stated a while back that I watch a lot of television and a lot of movies. I plan on reviewing the noteworthy television shows I watch but that also depends on timing and the hope that my DVR doesn't have a spasm like it did Sunday when "Game of Thrones" ran ten minutes over.I plan on reviewing stuff like "True Blood," "The Walking Dead," "Supernatural" and most definitely, "Breaking Bad." I realize I came into "Mad Men" at the end of the season but it impacted me so much that I just had to write about it. I'll be reviewing the season finale on Monday. That being said in regards to the filmic reviews, I try to get out to the cineplex as often as I can/afford to. This summer still has tons of great films coming out but I still plan on reviewing even the littlest of movies. I go to the art house just as much folks.
Another note, I'm planning on watching a one and done season of television. I'm thinking "Terriers" or something like that. And if you haven't watched "Terriers," you haven't lived. Most of the shows I watch are available on Netflix so anyone can follow along. If anyone has any recommendations, please comment and let me know.
Another note, I'm planning on watching a one and done season of television. I'm thinking "Terriers" or something like that. And if you haven't watched "Terriers," you haven't lived. Most of the shows I watch are available on Netflix so anyone can follow along. If anyone has any recommendations, please comment and let me know.
Mad Men episode 512 : Commissions and Fees
If this season of Mad Men has a concurrent theme running through it, it's the characters lost in swirling darkness. They step into the water and instantly get sucked into the undertow. It's been a dark season themeatically for the characters and the story. The place that it's in is certainly not the place that we were in way back in season one. This is a place of cutthroat antics and bitterness. To quote Lost, "this place is death."
Take Don Draper for instance, he's in a loving marriage with a much younger woman than his previous wife. She epitomizes everything he didn't have with Betty Draper-Francis. He felt liberty. But his growing dread that he would break his monogamy and return to his lecherous ways have hung over him like a dark cloud. He fears this. In the episode, "Mystery Date," he hooked up with an old fling and strangled her to death to when she said she wasn't going to leave and walk away. Except, the murder was part of a fever dream he was trapped in. The earlier Don was cold-hearted. When Dick Whitman's brother showed up and tried to be with his brother again, Don shrugged him off. He isn't Dick anymore. So, Dick's brother hung himself and further threw Don down the well of sorrow. He's had his moments of violence towards Megan, especially in "Far Away Places," but those moments are few and far between and most of that resentment stems from her leaving the firm, but they do love one another.
Joan's in a dark place. Once, she was the bombshell of the office, the woman that everyone else looked up to. And now? She slept with the scuzzy fat guy from Jaguar to help them land the account. And they did, but at what cost? So, she can be partner? Now, Joan's uncomfortable with the slightest advances from a drunken Lane Pryce.
And Lane. Poor Lane. He took a gamble and help Sterling Cooper move into their new offices before the strike of the sword sent them out into the uncaring streets. Recently, he came into troubles with his taxes overseas. So, instead of asking the other partners for help, he extended the company's line of credit and foolishly forged Don's signature on a check. And once Don finds out, where does that leave Lane? Despondent. He drinks as heavily as he always has and the final straw being that he finds that his wife has bought a Jaguar. He's had it. He wakes in the middle of the night and tries committing suicide in the newly bought car. In one of the blackest humored jokes, Mad Men has done...the car wouldn't start. That's a running joke and it pops in right as he snaps his glasses in his attempted last moments. Lane goes back to his office for the last time and hangs himself. And Don realizing that he has driven another man to suicide, while inadvertently, still has to burn him deep.
The scene where they find Lane was traumatizing to me. Don's cries that they can't leave him that way just broke my heart. It stings me deeply. Everybody just sitting there at the table drinking whiskey with their thousand-yard stares plastered on their faces rang so true. And when they read aloud his suicide note, all these questions unanswered, they just stand there shocked. Where do they go from here? I loved the other parts of the show, Sally getting her period and running back to Betty, who used that to get back at the current Mrs. Draper. I've always felt cold towards Betty, except when her and Don had their little Parisian adventure back in season two or three, I think. That was the first time I think I saw them in love. And quite possibly the last time. But that last moment where she crawled into bed with Sally and actually acted like a mother and not the ice queen she's so apt to be, I melted towards her a little bit. This hasn't been an easy season for her.
Frankly, I've loved this show for a long time. It's grown on and on as the years have passed and yet I don't think I've ever really picked up on the symbolism. Don referencing the Devil in an ad pitch, talk of life insurance policies, the empty, foreboding elevator shaft, it's all there waiting to be discovered. Death is the concurrent theme of the season. My only question is, can they make it out of the darkness before anyone else suffers like poor Lane Pryce?
Take Don Draper for instance, he's in a loving marriage with a much younger woman than his previous wife. She epitomizes everything he didn't have with Betty Draper-Francis. He felt liberty. But his growing dread that he would break his monogamy and return to his lecherous ways have hung over him like a dark cloud. He fears this. In the episode, "Mystery Date," he hooked up with an old fling and strangled her to death to when she said she wasn't going to leave and walk away. Except, the murder was part of a fever dream he was trapped in. The earlier Don was cold-hearted. When Dick Whitman's brother showed up and tried to be with his brother again, Don shrugged him off. He isn't Dick anymore. So, Dick's brother hung himself and further threw Don down the well of sorrow. He's had his moments of violence towards Megan, especially in "Far Away Places," but those moments are few and far between and most of that resentment stems from her leaving the firm, but they do love one another.
Joan's in a dark place. Once, she was the bombshell of the office, the woman that everyone else looked up to. And now? She slept with the scuzzy fat guy from Jaguar to help them land the account. And they did, but at what cost? So, she can be partner? Now, Joan's uncomfortable with the slightest advances from a drunken Lane Pryce.
And Lane. Poor Lane. He took a gamble and help Sterling Cooper move into their new offices before the strike of the sword sent them out into the uncaring streets. Recently, he came into troubles with his taxes overseas. So, instead of asking the other partners for help, he extended the company's line of credit and foolishly forged Don's signature on a check. And once Don finds out, where does that leave Lane? Despondent. He drinks as heavily as he always has and the final straw being that he finds that his wife has bought a Jaguar. He's had it. He wakes in the middle of the night and tries committing suicide in the newly bought car. In one of the blackest humored jokes, Mad Men has done...the car wouldn't start. That's a running joke and it pops in right as he snaps his glasses in his attempted last moments. Lane goes back to his office for the last time and hangs himself. And Don realizing that he has driven another man to suicide, while inadvertently, still has to burn him deep.
The scene where they find Lane was traumatizing to me. Don's cries that they can't leave him that way just broke my heart. It stings me deeply. Everybody just sitting there at the table drinking whiskey with their thousand-yard stares plastered on their faces rang so true. And when they read aloud his suicide note, all these questions unanswered, they just stand there shocked. Where do they go from here? I loved the other parts of the show, Sally getting her period and running back to Betty, who used that to get back at the current Mrs. Draper. I've always felt cold towards Betty, except when her and Don had their little Parisian adventure back in season two or three, I think. That was the first time I think I saw them in love. And quite possibly the last time. But that last moment where she crawled into bed with Sally and actually acted like a mother and not the ice queen she's so apt to be, I melted towards her a little bit. This hasn't been an easy season for her.
Frankly, I've loved this show for a long time. It's grown on and on as the years have passed and yet I don't think I've ever really picked up on the symbolism. Don referencing the Devil in an ad pitch, talk of life insurance policies, the empty, foreboding elevator shaft, it's all there waiting to be discovered. Death is the concurrent theme of the season. My only question is, can they make it out of the darkness before anyone else suffers like poor Lane Pryce?
Monday, June 4, 2012
A Little Ditty
On occasion, I've been known to crack my head open like the proverbial walnut and pour out a story or two. I wrote this following short over the course of a week. It's loosely based on an idea I had in high school (way back whenever) and I took a few liberties with it. This is the first draft, it's unedited and full-force. Hope you enjoy.....
Chapter One: Lazarus (Or The Dead Girl)
For a brief moment, as I look into the girl’s eyes….I feel remorse. I’m not used to this feeling. It feels sticky. Unclean. I plunge the blade into her chest and complete the cycle. It’s over again tonight; it’ll have to happen soon. As I reach up towards the sky and the let the rain wash the blood away, something happens. A sharp bright pain hits me in my heart. It starts to pool out towards my hands, my legs and my head. What is this? I steady myself and open my eyes wider, but it keeps happening. I need to finish the act but it just does not seem to be happening. I begin to stab wildly in the air, and exhaust myself instantly. Not tonight. But, I assure myself, I’ll just start the cycle quicker next time. I wash the blood off of my blade in a nearby puddle. I stand up and run away. There’s a nearby phone booth. I slide the door open and step inside. The dim light illuminates the disgusting phone booth. I pick up the phone and press nine-one-one. Part one completed. The black and whites will be here soon. Blue will paint the sidewalk.
The Laughing Parade
Chapter One: Lazarus (Or The Dead Girl)
The dead girl tells no lies. And why should she? I hear her voice speak louder than words. Even louder than bombs. Everybody looks at her and sees a lifeless husk. Not me, I see it all. She stands over her body, looking down over it as it grows colder and colder by the minute. She looks around at the hustle and bustle of police and coroners. Her face has a frantic look painted on it. No one sees her anguish like I do. Her eyes dart around the huddled masses. They're standing solemnly in the rain. They don't see her now. They see what she was. And she dances back and forth, like some macabre stage play that no one can see. No one except for me. The coroner zips her body up in the bag and put in the ambulance. It drives away with the sirens off. There's no rush for this girl tonight. She's gone. Just dust in the wind. The city doesn't care. It has another victim tonight. The police ushers the crowd away. "Nothing to see here!" the fat cop belches out. Everybody grumbles but they move away from the scene, just as they're told. I move back towards my car across the street. No one will notice me here. I don't stick out like a sore thumb and neither does my car. Now, I just wait.
It usually only takes an hour for everyone to leave. And soon, the crime scene is vacant. Except for her. She lingers, staring blankly at the spot she died. The rain begins to wash the blood away, as if she was never there to begin with. I move closer. The dead girl begins to weep. It's an unearthly sound as if she's muffled somehow. As I get closer and closer to the crime scene, I can smell the scent of blood. It smells like a bathtub full of wet pennies. Just broad smelling copper. She sits facing away me from staring down the alleyway. The chalk outline is being washed away. It mixes with the blood forming a strange looking concoction. I move closer to her and reach out to her. Normally, no one would be able to touch her, not me. My hand practically shivers at the touch. It feels like frostbite. She turns and looks at me. Her face looks gaunt and empty. She's only been dead for three hours. I knew the exact moment she died. The exact second. I lost all my breath and fainted. Blood poured from my nose. I knew where the spot was where she left one life and headed to another. I drove there in the blink of an eye. Even in this cold city, that spot felt white hot. She looked at me, with her emptiness and sighed deeply. "What's your name?" I ask very quietly as if this was the first time I've done this. She whispers her name, "Julie." Spirits like her don't have much energy, they can't really communicate effectively. That's why they move things back and forth. To try and speak without words. Nobody listens because no one knows where to look. I do, I see it all. And like that, I know everything. This girl, Julie. Her mother, alone and dying. She'll see her daughter again, soon enough. But she didn't want to see her like this. She wants her memories. Smiling and full of life. The little girl who wanted to be a ballerina. This girl who desperately wanted a kitten for Christmas. All gone, all done. Struck down in the prime of her life. She was in college and now all that learning is just dead air on the radio. I see her mother and I see her home. I make my silent vow to stop him. This maniac, running rampant in the night, using all his monstrous strength on this young girl and girls just like her, the police are clueless. He takes their identification. He takes their identities. They're no one else's but HIS. I can't find him. But I'm trying. Every time he strikes, I'm there. But his victims they can’t tell me. They can't remember. They lose their memory quickly. I'm trying hard to find this maniac in a city with no face. This is my curse. I speak to the dead. I find them in the darkness and try to guide them home.
Chapter Two: Departures and Paint
Agnes, the dead girl's mother, lives in a non-descript building at the edge of the city. I walk up to the building. It's trashed. Discarded food containers and beer cans litter the walkway. A small child's tricycle sits in the mud sinking deeper and deeper. I'm soaked to the bone, and my clothes have become impossibly heavy. I trudge up the rotting stoop leading to the building's door. My eyes glaze over as I read down the list of tenants; most of the names have rusted over. I scan and scan and finally I see the name. I press the buzzer once, and then twice. Silence for a good minute or two....then, "Hello?" in a throaty, husky voice. I speak in a whisper, "I'm here to talk about Julie." Silence, then "What about Julie? Is she alright?" She can barely speak. "Ma'am, I'll tell you everything you need to know. But right now, it's raining cats and dogs and frankly I'll catch my death if I don't come in." A beat. She begins hacking and coughing. Lots of silence, then..."What's your name?" she presses. "My name is George. George Book." I can see this faceless woman up in her crumbling ivory tower just pondering, wondering if she should let me in. After all, I could be the monster that steals innocence away in the night. I could be the vampire of the city. Buzz! The door opens and I enter the building.
The lobby has a hazy shade of yellow cascading over it, whether it is the lights or the walls, it looks as if someone vomited in a bucket and they painted the walls with it. The television sits up perched high above the lobby floor. It sits locked in a cage. I'm not certain why anyone would want it. It's a model that went out of service in 1977 and I'm certain every channel is the static channel. The elevators sit at the far end of the empty lobby. I make my way to the elevators. I press the call button. It seems like forever before the car comes. I look off to my side and see an elderly security guard napping in an old wicker chair. He's so out of it, a fly could fart in his face and he wouldn't stir. The elevator finally reaches the lobby. The doors open up and I step inside. It's decorated with a disgusting red design. There's no muzak as I ride up to my destination. Just that echo-y, metallic sound of the elevator climbing upwards. It finally reaches the top floor. Number 13. I shudder at the thought and make my way towards this stranger's apartment.
Apartment 1313. I stop outside the door. I can faintly make out the noise of a breathing machine kicking out its quiet hum. Reminds me of my aunt. She would puff her way through a pack of cigarettes while she was on a breathing machine. I reach out to knock but....then...I stop. What do I say? I'm going to be the first one to tell this woman about her daughter dying. Murdered. This isn't a formality like a layover. This is blood and guts reality. I knock softly. One, twice, three times. I hear the sound of a walker scuffling along the floor, coughing all the way. "Who is it?" I clear my throat. "Ma'am, I'm George Book. We spoke a few minutes ago, in regards to your daughter." I can hear her unlocking the latch-chain to the door. She opens the door and I see her face. It's weathered and dark. I get hit with the smell of Vicks Vaporub and Werther's Originals. The walls are painted hospital green and flat out splattered with loads of religious iconography, such as crucifixes and tacky oil paintings of Jesus. She offers me a seat in a rickety rocking chair. I take the seat. She sits across from me and turns off the television. “Mr. Book, what’s going on? What’s happened to Julie?” I sit and my eyes dart around the room. I see pictures of Julie and her mother. Smiling. Trapped in these memories from long ago. Frozen looks. I finally look at her mother and say, “Agnes, I need to tell you that Julie was….” I trail off. Is murdered the right word to use? Killed? I’ve done this so many times. Why is this time the hardest? “Julie was murdered. It happened about four hours ago. I’m not sure how but I know it was quick.” Both of those things were lies. She suffered greatly and I knew it. The look of despair was washing over her face. That slow agonizing realization that this was it. You know, that feeling you get when you have a knot in the pit of your stomach? This was her body. I hated telling her that way. But matter-of-fact is the best way sometimes. “How do you know this? How do you know if the police don’t?” she asked. “Because I spoke to her only briefly, mind you. I know it sounds crazy, but all things are true.” She leaped to her feet and pointed to the door. “Please leave now!” I stand up obliging her. “I understand. I know this sounds crazy. Believe me, I feel crazy saying it. But it’s true. I spoke to her. She told me your name, where you lived.” She sits back down, defeated. Tears begin to flow from her eyes in a flurry. I don’t reach out and touch her shoulder for comfort. I remember what happened last time I did that. I sit here in silence while she lets the tears roll. Finally, after about five minutes, she finally calms herself. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.” She wipes her tears away. “I wish there was something more that she wanted me to say…but there’s nothing.” She looks around the room. “Is she here now?” I soften my stance. “No, ma’am, she’s not. I just speak with them after it happens. I don’t know where they go.” She steps into her kitchen and grabs a pack of cigarettes from under the fan hood over her stove. She grabs one out and lights it up. She gestures towards me with the pack. I decline. She inhales the cigarette deeply like she’s surfacing from under water. “Y’know, it’s been about five years since I had a cigarette. I hide them from my nurse. I figured today would be the day I went ahead and broke the glass.” She puffs her way through the cigarette and lights another one. “I haven’t talked to her in so long. She disappears for so long that I sometimes wonder if she would turn up dead, and she did. Now, what? What else is there? I sit here waiting. And I’ll see her again.” I stand up and turn to leave, so she can grieve privately. “Do you see more people? Like her, I mean.” She didn’t want to say it. G-g-g-g-ghosts. “I do. All the time. They’re everywhere. This city’s haunted by them.” She looks at me, puzzled. I get that look all the time. “Please don’t leave. Not just yet anyway.” I oblige and sit down on her rocking chair. “How long has this been happening? I don’t mean to be intrusive, mind you. I’m just curious.”
I lean back in the chair. Nobody’s ever asked me that question. It’s always in and out. “About eight years ago, I was in an accident. I was driving with my wife off of Winding Mill Road and that night, I remember, it was snowing. It was snowing so much more than I had ever seen in my life. And this truck was swerving all over the place. And I pulled over to the side of the road to let him pass. He never passed, he drove headlong into us. It seemed like we fell forever. I sat there unable to move. I had to watch my wife die. My Olivia. It’s a horrible thing, watching someone die. It’s like catching a butterfly in your hands and clasping it tight, and then you let it go. I was rescued about an hour later. That’s all I remember. I woke up three months later, and I couldn’t walk. I was stuck in a hospital bed for about six months. I had this fear in my heart that I would never be able to walk again. But I did. But during that time, I sat in the bed. I started seeing things. Spectres. Things I couldn’t fathom, y’know? They just stand there doing nothing. Like waiting for a bus that never comes. And eventually, I walked up to one of them. And they needed help.” I take a deep breath and stand up. “So, I came here to tell you this. To help you move on. ‘Cause I’m not sure when…” I turn and leave the apartment. I hold my breath the entire time I leave. I keep it in and when I finally reach the front entrance to the apartment, I burst through the doors and lose my lunch. The rain beats down on my head and I exhale. “I can’t do this! I can’t! I keep helping them and it never happens! I’m tired of this!” I collapse to my knees and give up.
Chapter Three: Blood and Paper Scraps
For a brief moment, as I look into the girl’s eyes….I feel remorse. I’m not used to this feeling. It feels sticky. Unclean. I plunge the blade into her chest and complete the cycle. It’s over again tonight; it’ll have to happen soon. As I reach up towards the sky and the let the rain wash the blood away, something happens. A sharp bright pain hits me in my heart. It starts to pool out towards my hands, my legs and my head. What is this? I steady myself and open my eyes wider, but it keeps happening. I need to finish the act but it just does not seem to be happening. I begin to stab wildly in the air, and exhaust myself instantly. Not tonight. But, I assure myself, I’ll just start the cycle quicker next time. I wash the blood off of my blade in a nearby puddle. I stand up and run away. There’s a nearby phone booth. I slide the door open and step inside. The dim light illuminates the disgusting phone booth. I pick up the phone and press nine-one-one. Part one completed. The black and whites will be here soon. Blue will paint the sidewalk.
I wait in my car. Inside, I have pasted pictures of all my girls. They’ve lost their smiles but here I keep them safe. They won’t remember these times but I will. I see it all. The pitter-patter of the rain starts to feel like someone drilling into my head. Like a slug slithering around in my brain eating the soft, gray flesh. My head is rotting. My teeth are rotting. My car smells like a meat market on a hot day. I sift through the newspapers sitting in the seat next to me. The headlines scream about the monster in the night. This full blown creature of the night. A chill runs up my spine. I’m ecstatic. No one sees me. I’m a blank where a place should be. I see in the distance a car pull up. It idles for a moment and finally the driver kills the engine. Huh, kills the engine. I do so love irony. Who is this person? Why isn’t he running over to help her? He’s waiting like me….why? Dissolve to: the police eventually showing up. Blood spills and the sharks stay away, what a strange world. I see them hustle over and see her dead. Gloriously dead. I see the faceless man in the car get out and walk over. I step out and slink towards the gathering masses. People poke their heads out at the sight of death. Vultures…The oinkers push the people back. Screams rise through the quiet din of the crowd. As soon as everyone sees my work, they know who it is. I close my eyes and feign terror. It’s the most human thing I can do, ‘cause I’m definitely not. My eyes wander over the crowd and I see the man. He’s looking directly at my girl’s body. But, he’s not looking at her visage, he’s looking upwards…near her. The blue man tells us to go away. We oblige. I go to my car and he goes to his. Everyone leaves. Not him. So, I wait. So, he waits. Guess this is a waiting game. So, we wait then, huh?
Eventually, this sad looking fellow walks towards my killing ground taking long strides. He stops at the crime scene tape. It flickers in the wind like a ribbon without a purpose. He stands there staring like a chimp at the wall. He reaches out and touches air. What? Is? This? I can see his lips moving. He moves away quickly back to his car. He gets in and drives away. I start my car and follow him closely. Well, stranger danger, I guess I will follow you into the dark night. And when we get there, your flesh will taste my blade.
Chapter Four: The Screaming Owl
The night doesn’t sleep. It stirs restlessly. The darkness is a loud, interrupting belch of fire in the sky. Even in the daylight, the city looks pitiful. But that doesn’t matter now. Tonight, it rains. Just as last night has and every night for as long as anyone remembers. I’ve seen war after war in the streets. You’d think after all this time, we’d be swimming in blood but strangely, we’re not. We stand here in an uninterrupted loop of madness. We’re watching and waiting. For what, none of us are sure. We’re stranded like a burned out car. We have no direction home. And after what I saw tonight, we might have no hope. No end in sight,
Some nights, I like to float above the city. I see the decay rotting out in all directions and the source of the rot: is the park. Have you been in the park at night? It’s a cesspool. Filth piled on to filth. Disgusting miscreants and that’s just the police. Children used to play in the park…but not anymore. It isn’t even safe during the daylight…when that happens. So, I trace the rot around the city and I fly farther and farther around to see if there’s any hope. All I see for miles and miles are crumbling people living in crumbling buildings. And their fear of the darkness that comes and the blinding blade that comes with it. A monster, no, death stalks the streets like a jaguar after a raw steak. He’s not human. He’s a thing wrapped in human skin. I’ve seen him kill thirty people in the last month. People are clueless. I walk alongside this thing in the daylight and scream in his face but he doesn’t hear me. I wish I could stop him but I can’t. It’s getting to the point where no one can. This cancer will grow larger and larger until someone steps up to remove it. The last time he took a life, I saw it. It was an excruciating experience, an experience I can never un-see. I won’t tell you what I saw because, frankly, no one should have to see and suffer what she went through, let alone hear about it. But something struck me about this last time. I saw a man come up and talk to the dead girl. Where do I know him from? He looks so familiar. After he speaks to the girl, she dissipates and vanishes. And for a brief moment before he walks away to his car…he stops and looks at me. Maybe, he looks through me. Maybe not. But, the thing I know when I see him….the one certainty I feel in my skin…is I know that’s my George. My sweet George that I died with, in that brief moment….
Chapter Five: The Meeting of the Meat
I sit on the stoop of Agnes’ apartment building. The rain splashes down on me. It feels cool and nice. I look around the courtyard and it’s empty. Feels like my head after one of these encounters. My limbs feel numb and tingly. I start to roll my fingers and toes. The sensation starts to return to my toes, and then my fingers. I stand up and stumble slightly. I need to shake this off. My eyes begin to adjust. This feeling is strange. I start to walk back towards my car. I step through puddles and the water splashes all over clothes. My socks are soaked. I reach my car and stand there for a moment. The air smells strange. I inhale deeply. It’s that metallic smell. That smell of the dead girl’s crime scene. My eyes begin to dart around the block. It’s empty (like my mind). Except for one lone car and mine. I feel a sense of dread wash over me. I begin to walk towards the car. My footsteps echo on the lone street. Clip clop, clip clop. There’s an empty basketball court with a lone, deflated ball sitting at the three point line. My heart begins pounding harder and harder as I get closer. And closer. The car is an old ’87 Buick Skylark. It’s tan and non-descript. There’s a spider-web crack along the left side of the windshield. All I can see from the outside are a few old newspapers and pictures pasted to the paneling in the car. It’s a little too dark and I can’t see anything else…but the car is empty. A crack of bright lightning reveals the contents of this mystery vehicle. To my horror, I see blood. So much blood. How does this person even drive this around? And then, it clicks in my brain. The smell, the pictures, the blood. This is him. Like the proverbial light bulb, it hits me. I start hyperventilating. What do I do? I back away from the car, never removing my eyes from it. I find my resolve and run back to my car. I open up the door and get inside. I fumble with my keys and put them in the ignition. And it hits me. Why didn’t my light turn on? The smell is strong. Almost overwhelmingly off-putting. And then feel the cold steel hit my neck. And that raspy voice hits my ear. “Who are you?”
Chapter Six: The Dark House
Because of the crazy man sitting in the car behind me, and due to the knife at my neck, I’m apt to listen up and listen up good. “Who are you?!?” he spits out. I can smell his rot. “My name is George Book.” I can feel him loosen his grip and relax his hand. The knife moves from my neck. I start to turn my head. “DON’T! Don’t look at me. Eyes front.” I oblige. He lets out a disgusting sigh. “Alright, George Book. Who are you? You a cop?” I want to chuckle out loud. But I might die. So, I stifle it. Me, a cop? “No, I’m a photographer. I was staking out the crime scene. It’s what I do.” My eyes roll to the rearview mirror. Is he buying it? I WAS a crime scene photographer before my wife died. Now, I snap birds and old people at the park. “Where are your cameras? Huh?” he sneered. “In my trunk. It’s where I keep my cameras.” He’s thinking it over. He digs into his nose and picks out a booger with his knife. This is the monster we fear? He flicks it off towards my back. “Show me.” he says in a very blasé manner. “Alright…” I open my car door and then I step out of the car. He exits the vehicle and stands very stout. “Show me.” I walk around to the back of the car, the knife jabbing me in the back. I put the keys in the trunk and open it up. It’s dark inside. He moves around me and reaches deep into the trunk. He pulls up an old SLR camera. He starts examining it closely, like a child. And that’s when I strike. I slam the trunk lid down on his back. He collapses and hits the ground like a wet potato. He doesn’t know what hit him. He rolls over and reaches for his knife. I kick it away. Not this time. I punch him in the face so hard; I swear it feels like I broke my hand. I throw him into the trunk and slam the lid down. Not anymore, this monster will be silenced tonight. I hop in my car and drive away. And I’m so thankful I went to the park today to shoot photos.
There’s an old house I usually drive to when I need to get out of the city. Sometimes, the city can be a bit too much to handle. It’s an old Victorian mansion over-looking the city, almost like Dracula’s castle. I keep it cleaned and ready for when I need a quick escape. There’s an old man named Mister Walters who helps clean the place. He’s not here now. He doesn’t come out here often. I pull up the winding, wooded driveway. My headlights cut through the swath of darkness over the house. I stop at the front door to the home. I turn the car off and exit the vehicle. The rain is pouring even harder now. The noise it’s making is loud. This is perfect. I open the trunk. My prized possession is conked out in the trunk still. I pick him up and drop him to the ground. This doesn’t stir him one bit. I smile. I know what’s in store for him. I drag him through the grass and mud. Tonight’s the night.
The last thing I remember was holding a camera. It was garbage, the kind of thing you want to show off to people. Look at me! I’m a photographer. I take professional shots! Pssh. And then I went down. The lights went out. Now, everything is blurry. And pain-y. I’m in some house. It looks dank and cavernous. It smells like paint thinner in here. There are a few candles lit around the room. Where’s my blade? I can feel my ropes rubbing raw against my skin. I hear footsteps behind me. They sound annoying. Loud and clumpy. I wish this chump would show himself. My brain begins clicking repetitively. My feet feel loose and crunchy. I struggle against the ropes and feel them digging in. I begin to bleed. I inhale deeply. Blood smells so strange when it comes from other people; but when it’s your own, it’s fantastic. I begin to swoon. The pain of the ropes cutting deeper and deeper into my skin feels like an orchestra in my heart. I can feel the rope cutting against my bone. You know the feeling of gritting your teeth? That whole feeling is coursing through my body. I can feel the rope begin to become frayed. I’ll make my escape and this man will pay.
I stand in the bathroom. Candles are lit all around me. I hold that monster’s blade in my hands. I feel a strange sense of power rolling over me. It’s like holding Excalibur and I had to pull it from a very gruesome stone. Now, I sit here waiting for the moment and I will strike. I’ve waited breathlessly for this moment. Patiently, like a mouse. And now, I will end the monster. I look in the mirror. Or am I the monster? If I take his life, will I lose myself? I stare into the mirror. I stare through the mirror. Is this what I want to be? And then I see her…my wife. All I can see is her dying. I close my eyes and push away the pain. Not now, I beg. I see her face surrounded by a pool of blood. The darkness swarming in. I didn’t scream in that moment. I sat frozen. It took her an hour to die. The crew arrived moments later. I mean, I’m talking the moment between inhaling a breath and exhaling a breath. My whole life has been centered on that second. Would my life be different from this point on?
Chapter Seven: Dance of Death
Free at last. I run through the darkness of the house. I’m unfamiliar with this terrain but it’s easy to turn the tables on someone. Anywhere at any time. You need to find that spirit inside you. That eager beaver spirit. I find the kitchen and start frantically opening drawers. Nothing. Not even a spork. I stop at the sink. There’s a window looking out towards the city. That dankly lit metropolis. My home. And suddenly, it all seems so lucid, so false. I’ve been dreaming the dreams of liars. I’m caught in the web of freedom. This guy doesn’t know my name, he knows my face…but it’s broken. Shattered. I could just leave. I could be one with the wind. I choose from this point on. I could be a bleeding hulk of a monster. Storming the streets. I stop myself. As I sit here in my quiet resolve, I hear the footsteps. I turn around and he’s reaching out to strike….with my blade! As the blade reaches my heart, time just stops. The whole room turns white and blurry.
I see myself at the age of fourteen. I used to drive a beat up old truck. It was red and had torn and sun-parched leather seats. My little brother used to call it, “Rusty.” My father gave it to me one Christmas. It was a used truck he bought from the old crazy man and his three legged dog. It was something he bought me to try and change me….it didn’t. It changed me. One night, I was working out in the garage underneath the truck. My dad was drinking again. I could tell because he was honest. He wasn’t dodgy or lying, just honest. That scared me. He moved the jack out from under the truck and a tire nearly crushed me. He sat there telling me how I disappointed him. How I could’ve been better than him. Now, I’m just a broken mirror reflection of him. He pumps the jack up and pulls me out. He begins to cry. He reaches out to hug me. My head goes dark. My nose begins to bleed. I grab a tire iron and put it through his eye. It pops like the sound of a crushed grape. He collapses in front of me. I push deeper and deeper until I reach his gray matter. I wonder what life looks like with a broken brain. Maybe, it’s like a video tape without tracking. I walk into the kitchen. My mother is standing in front of the window washing dishes. I walk up and she hands me a knife. “Can you put this in the block for me, sweetie?” I put it in her neck. She falls face first into the sink. Blood is all over my hands and face. I walk into the romper room where my little brother is watching television. He turns towards the doorway. The bean bag he’s sitting shifts slightly. He stares at me in awe. I walk over to him. “Come on, we’re going to go for a ride in “‘Rusty.’ ”
The ride is mostly quiet. He looks out the window intently. At the neighborhood kids playing stick ball in the streets. I pull down a country road. The trees cover the road like hands pushing out the sun. We called it “the cave.” At the end of the road, I pull the truck over. There’s a creek bed. I wash my hands and face off in the cool, crisp water. My clothes aren’t so bad. A little bloody but my shirt was red. My little brother is aimlessly throwing pebbles into the creek. He looks up at me. “Are we going camping? Where’s mom and dad?” I kneel down in the dirt next to him. “Buddy, we’re not going camping. Mom and Dad aren’t going to be here anymore.” I feel a little teary-eyed. It’ll be the last time. “I have to go now. I won’t see you again. I’m changing my face again.” He looks confused. I stand up and dust my pants off. “When I drive off, I want you to walk into the woods and never look back. Do you understand?” He starts to cry. I shake him. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!? NOD IF YOU UNDERSTAND!” He nods and the crying becomes full blown sobbing. I turn and walk away. I start up the truck and it rumbles to life. I pull away from him. I look in the rear-view mirror and see him running into the woods. I drive through the cave and when I reach the other side….I’m not me anymore.
Chapter Eight: Whispers (Exodus)
I slash the blade across the monster’s face and he moves quickly out of the way. He’s slimier than before. I grab his head and swing it around; he socks me good in the bridge of my nose. I drop the blade and we begin to scrabble violently on the floor. He smashes my face into the cabinet door. It feels like a typewriter with all of its keys punched in. My brain feels scrambled. He pushes me to the wall and I kick him in his teeth. He stumbles and backs up into the doorway. He stands there for a long moment. Blood is dribbling down his mouth. He looks at me for a long time. I stare at him. I leap up at him and he throws me through the table. Glass shatters all around me. I fall down and hit the ground. He kneels over me and raises his blade. I grab the blade and we begin to struggle. Light and dark. He pushes harder and harder. My eyes begin to hurt. My heart begins to hurt. The blade pushes into my skin. The pain becomes searing. I cry out in pain. The blade goes deeper and deeper. I can feel it scraping past my bone and muscle. The room starts to grow dim. Blood begins to pool in my throat. He’s hit my heart. I know it. The room goes black. My arms go numb. This is last call….the room is spinning, round and round. It all goes black.
Chapter Nine: The Evil Escapes
After killing the man with my blade, I stopped and actually contemplated my next move. That weak man slowed me down, sure, but I’ve never really thought about what’s next. I guess I’ve always been fight and flight. Now, I’m sitting here in the backyard of this house I’ve never been in watching the sun come up. And it looks beautiful. I feel the rabies running away in my brain. It’s not killing me so bad. I have been stuck in this mind space for so long and now I have the opportunity to be free. I breathe in the air. It’s crisp and clean. I feel newborn. I look at my blade. Do I toss it away? Start anew? I put my blade in my coat. It’s probably best not to drop it yet. I need my detachment first, and that my friends, is going to take a while. I go back into the kitchen and stand over the dead man. He’s starting to stink. I feel like I’m going to retch. I start patting his pockets down. I grab his wallet and pull out all his cash. I look at his I.D. This sad sack’s name is George Book. Hmm, I guess it was always meant to go down this way. I grab the keys out of his pocket. I look at his car. My getaway. I start the car up. It begins to warmly idle. I turn the radio on. It’s meaningless talk radio. Guess that’ll do….I roll the windows down and let the sun beat down on my face. This feels nice. I drive down the road. I begin to smile for the first time in a long time. I look in the rearview mirror. “George. George Book.” I let the name roll over my lips several times. Yeah, I think that name will do just fine. I smile and close my eyes. The monster is gone.
Maybe….
Chapter Ten: The Song of Death
Awake. The kitchen is empty. The monster is gone. The light through the windows is bright. It’s almost overwhelming. I move through the bright, white light. It washes over me. I stand there trying to make out the images…and it becomes clear. I’m in the woods. I remember this day. It was the day my life changed forever. I see my brother. He always wore that ugly shirt. I never liked that shirt but he loved it for some strange reason. He’s walking to his truck. I’m trying to remember…didn’t I have a name for the truck? Ronald? Rusty? Anyways, he left me here. I can’t remember his voice. I just remember the words he told me. Run away. That’s stuck in my head forever. I never saw him again. The grown-ups sheltered me from what happened that day, but I know. My brother murdered my ma and pa, that’s the sick, sad truth. I see my younger self walk off into the woods. Into that deep darkness. And then, it rewinds. I begin reliving that day. My brother dropping me off and leaving me for dead. Why? I feel a heaviness in my chest. I touch my chest. I see blood. My hand is stained red with blood. I feel woozy. I begin to follow myself into the woods. My breathing becomes labored. We reach a clearing. I stop and kneel down on a log. In the distance, a glowing white mist begins floating towards me. As it reaches me, the fog begins to clear. And in that moment it becomes clear. Olivia, my sweet girl. She walks up to me and touches my chest wound. “If you’re here, and you’re seeing me, it only means one thing…” I close my eyes and feel her essence. “It means I’m gone. I’m nevermore.” Tears begin to roll down my face. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It feels like being washed in white noise. It feels strange.” Olivia kneels down next to me. ‘It’s only like that for a little bit. Soon enough, you’ll feel light like air. It’s great. It’s endless.” I begin to stare into the distance. “What do we do here? What’s next?” She smiles. “It’s whatever we want. You and me with our backs to the world.” She grabs my hand. “There’s no more sorrow. No more worries.” I stand up and look her in the eyes. I caress her face. “Promise?” She crosses pinkies with me. “Promise.” I watch my younger self walk off into the woods, out of my old life and into the next, and for the first time in my life since that day…I smile.
The End.
God Bless America : A Review
Society is crumbling. You look at any given channel and chances are it looks a little less like reality and a little more like Sodom and Gomorrah. This cannot stand. I sit every day and listen to people talk about how "Dance Moms" is the greatest television show known to mankind. And you know, maybe I shouldn't be so judgmental. One person's trash is another man's treasure. Problem is, this trash is piling up to Wall-E size proportions. In any given day, you can be crowded with people watching terrible crap on TV, or people saying horrible things. We sit and insult each other and people love it. They eat it up. I'm guilty of looking at my cell phone; I have a disconnect in that sense, sure. But at the same time, I'm fully aware, y'know. I'm trying to change. The problem is America won't change. We've all gotten a little stupider as we move along. We overeat and we yell. We pollute and drive gas-guzzling automobiles and then blame it on the President. Are we so unaware? Yes, we are. The hardest part of realizing your faults is having them pointed out. They become incredulous and angry. But it's so true. It's reaching a fever pitch and I think it's marked by two cinematic occasions.
First, Mike Judge made "Idiocracy," which for all intents and purposes was largely ignored by the general movie going public. Actually, it was buried by 20th Century Fox (who ironically buried his first film, Office Space). It underwent many name changes and finally and quietly was released on DVD in 2007. It was ironic and very self-aware of society and the track we're on in our lives today. It was like a fun house mirror version of America and it rang so true. It became a cult classic as is the case with all miss-marketed films.
Secondly, following in the footsteps of Judge's film, is "God Bless America." I first became aware of the film sometime last year and when I heard the synopsis I fell in love. Basically, it's the story of Frank, played with brutal honesty by Joel Murray, who lives in a crappy apartment next to an annoying white-trash couple with a screaming baby. He's up all hours of the night and he's falling victim to crushing migraines. He works at a terrible job and doesn't get any respect from his ex-wife and annoying daughter. And he finds out he has an inoperable brain tumor. He's pining for the fjords. After he decides that eating his gun is the only exit strategy, he stops when he sees a preening brat crying about getting the wrong car for her birthday. That's it. He will stand no more. He takes his gun and hits the road soon gaining a sociopathic protege to join in the violent spree. It's worth it just to see the shooting setpiece in the theatre set to "It's Oh-So Quiet" by Bjork.
When I first heard about Bobcat Goldthwait being a filmmaker, sure I was dismissive. Until I saw this film. Wow, was I stunned. I felt horrible for be dismissive of his clear talents. I saw him as the slobbering clod from "Police Academy 2." I saw him as 'Mr. Floppy' from "Unhappily Ever After." But, there was a clear, funny voice here. He has a talent for seeing the drama and searing pain that comes with black comedy. I want to revisit "World's Greatest Dad," a satire of how we try to find hidden meanings behind the most meaningless of deaths. He's an odd actor, a veritable live action Tasmanian Devil. But as a director, he's restrained and poignant. I feel dickish for being so dismissive.
But, "God Bless America," is in limited release and won't reach the people it so desperately needs to reach, the people that the film is written about.That's a damn shame, honestly.
A subnote: There were three women yakking it up sitting in front of me during the feature film. they gabbed and gabbed and checked their phones. Until the aforementioned theatre shooting. Then, they shut up. Another guy left. Maybe it's getting through to somebody.....
First, Mike Judge made "Idiocracy," which for all intents and purposes was largely ignored by the general movie going public. Actually, it was buried by 20th Century Fox (who ironically buried his first film, Office Space). It underwent many name changes and finally and quietly was released on DVD in 2007. It was ironic and very self-aware of society and the track we're on in our lives today. It was like a fun house mirror version of America and it rang so true. It became a cult classic as is the case with all miss-marketed films.
Secondly, following in the footsteps of Judge's film, is "God Bless America." I first became aware of the film sometime last year and when I heard the synopsis I fell in love. Basically, it's the story of Frank, played with brutal honesty by Joel Murray, who lives in a crappy apartment next to an annoying white-trash couple with a screaming baby. He's up all hours of the night and he's falling victim to crushing migraines. He works at a terrible job and doesn't get any respect from his ex-wife and annoying daughter. And he finds out he has an inoperable brain tumor. He's pining for the fjords. After he decides that eating his gun is the only exit strategy, he stops when he sees a preening brat crying about getting the wrong car for her birthday. That's it. He will stand no more. He takes his gun and hits the road soon gaining a sociopathic protege to join in the violent spree. It's worth it just to see the shooting setpiece in the theatre set to "It's Oh-So Quiet" by Bjork.
When I first heard about Bobcat Goldthwait being a filmmaker, sure I was dismissive. Until I saw this film. Wow, was I stunned. I felt horrible for be dismissive of his clear talents. I saw him as the slobbering clod from "Police Academy 2." I saw him as 'Mr. Floppy' from "Unhappily Ever After." But, there was a clear, funny voice here. He has a talent for seeing the drama and searing pain that comes with black comedy. I want to revisit "World's Greatest Dad," a satire of how we try to find hidden meanings behind the most meaningless of deaths. He's an odd actor, a veritable live action Tasmanian Devil. But as a director, he's restrained and poignant. I feel dickish for being so dismissive.
But, "God Bless America," is in limited release and won't reach the people it so desperately needs to reach, the people that the film is written about.That's a damn shame, honestly.
A subnote: There were three women yakking it up sitting in front of me during the feature film. they gabbed and gabbed and checked their phones. Until the aforementioned theatre shooting. Then, they shut up. Another guy left. Maybe it's getting through to somebody.....
In The Beginning (Preface)
If you asked all my friends, any of them really, about my talking, the results would be unianimous. "He never shuts up." That would most likely be the answer. And would they be lying? Of course they would. They're all filthy liars who gamble and drink heavily.
No. That's not nice. It just isn't at all. My friends love me, at least I hope they do. They love me even though I passionately complain about anything and everything pop culture whether it be movies, television, books or whatever thing is annoying me that day. And frankly, baby, it ain't about love...it's about entertainment. I love talking at endless length about cinema and television. I love writing stories and doing film and TV criticism. I love seeing films on the big screen. I don't hate digital film even though i love the ruddy, pockmarked films of yesteryear. There's nothing groovier than seeing a 35mm print of your favorite film and seeing your friends scratch their heads as to why you think it's so cool. It's because it's so cool to go and feel your shoes sticking to the floor because someone spilled a soda....or worse. It's an experience that you'll never get anywhere else. You sit in a dark room and experience something together. A united feeling of wonderment. So, when people bootleg films or rent it from a Redbox, it's like taking the warmth away from anyone and everyone. Because, frankly, entertainment is a dying art. Let's not mince words here. It's heading long into become celluloidal ourobouros. People watch movies. I absorb them. I learn from them. I can feel the high from watching a great piece of cinema and feel the lows from watching trash. I mean, good trash, not poisonous dreck. And yet, I feel the same way about television. It's a weekly matinee just for you. And yes, it breaks my heart when I find a show with one iota of intelligence and it gets shot down before it has a chance to flourish. I could create an entire list of those shows and I most likely will. My goal here is to talk about things that interest me. And if they interest me, chances are you'll follow suit. I'll publish reviews and stories I've written and hope that it doesn't fall on deaf ears (or eyes? I guess it is print....) If I can reach one person with my words then that'll mean something to me. And God willing that's what I'm here for. Call that my mission statement.
Or people just found my website and thought it was fanfic for "The Walking Dead." I guess that's my fault.
No. That's not nice. It just isn't at all. My friends love me, at least I hope they do. They love me even though I passionately complain about anything and everything pop culture whether it be movies, television, books or whatever thing is annoying me that day. And frankly, baby, it ain't about love...it's about entertainment. I love talking at endless length about cinema and television. I love writing stories and doing film and TV criticism. I love seeing films on the big screen. I don't hate digital film even though i love the ruddy, pockmarked films of yesteryear. There's nothing groovier than seeing a 35mm print of your favorite film and seeing your friends scratch their heads as to why you think it's so cool. It's because it's so cool to go and feel your shoes sticking to the floor because someone spilled a soda....or worse. It's an experience that you'll never get anywhere else. You sit in a dark room and experience something together. A united feeling of wonderment. So, when people bootleg films or rent it from a Redbox, it's like taking the warmth away from anyone and everyone. Because, frankly, entertainment is a dying art. Let's not mince words here. It's heading long into become celluloidal ourobouros. People watch movies. I absorb them. I learn from them. I can feel the high from watching a great piece of cinema and feel the lows from watching trash. I mean, good trash, not poisonous dreck. And yet, I feel the same way about television. It's a weekly matinee just for you. And yes, it breaks my heart when I find a show with one iota of intelligence and it gets shot down before it has a chance to flourish. I could create an entire list of those shows and I most likely will. My goal here is to talk about things that interest me. And if they interest me, chances are you'll follow suit. I'll publish reviews and stories I've written and hope that it doesn't fall on deaf ears (or eyes? I guess it is print....) If I can reach one person with my words then that'll mean something to me. And God willing that's what I'm here for. Call that my mission statement.
Or people just found my website and thought it was fanfic for "The Walking Dead." I guess that's my fault.
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