Miles Watson's Blog: ANTAGONY: BECAUSE EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION , page 2
March 18, 2025
OH, CANADA
Canada is much in the news lately, and for once I feel as if I am ahead of the curve on a news trend, because Canada has been much on my mind for some years now. Unlike many people here in the States, I make a point of trying to consume quite a bit of foreign media and opinion, so I can get a better understanding of the wider world I live in, and this includes a great number of news shows, podcasts and entertainment coming from The Great White North.
The US - Canada relationship is a curious one, because it reminds me of the mountains I used to see every day from my front porch in Burbank, California. They were so present that I usually failed to notice them. It was the same during the month I spent in Tucson, Arizona: the first few days they were the only thing I saw, and after that they may as well not have existed. I had to be reminded of them and always had the same startled reaction -- "Look at those things!" They were simply too big for my eyes to see. For most Yanks, by which I mean Yanks who do not live in the border states or in close proximity to them, Canada is like that: the massive neighbor we never really think about until we have some cause to do so.
Although recent events have shown some Americans can be horribly condescending about Canada, there is nothing condescending in this particular attitude. Excepting Quebec, where the language is French and much of the architecture much more old-world European than modern North American in style, Canada is sufficiently similar to the States as to feel less like a foreign country to us than, say, Britain does, and of course it is hell of a lot closer than Britain, or Ireland...or Australia or New Zealand, for that matter. When a Yank is in Vancouver, he will certainly notice little differences here and there, but he will never experience the disorientation or discomfort he will certainly encounter if he is in France, or Italy, or Mororcco, or Japan, and he does not speak the language. Put simply, he is away from home but does not feel away from home. Part of this rests in the famous and largely well-deserved Canadian kindliness, which is so much like American Midwestern kindliness except even more pronounced; but most of it rests in the fact the cultural differences are small and pleasing rather than large and jarring. They are just obtrusive enough to give the Yank a romantic sense he is "somewhere else" without oppressing him with the scary knowledge that he is "somewhere else."
Now I must make a full and immediate confession. When I was in high school in Maryland, knowing nothing about Canada except that it existed, I occasionally made jeering remarks to a Canadian kid in my school that Canada was, you guessed it, the 51st State. This is a common American insult leveled at Canadians, though in my case it came from stupidity and not malice. Knowing jack-all about Canada's history, I viewed it as a kind of giveaway of the British Empire, the colonies that did not rebel, who were granted independence rather than taking it for themselves, and who were otherwise culturally indistinguishable from Americans. The existence of Canada, insomuch as I contemplated it at all, seemed weird to me. They were foreigners, but not really. They spoke our language, played our sports, shared our continent, watched our television, and exported large quantities of their citizens to work and play within our borders...citizens you didn't even know were Canadian until they told you, because what we refer to as "The Canadian accent" in the States is actually only the accent of certain areas and classes in Canada. Indeed, outside Quebec Province, where you naturally hear a lot of Quebecois-accented English, I can recall hearing only one "Great White North" accent anywhere in British Columbia when I was working there. Literally only one.
Please note my use of the word "our." It assumes an ownership of things which in fact I as an American do not own, such as the title of "American" or the English language. This Americocentric view of the world is one of the outstanding characteristics of people from the States, combining an ignorance of the rest of the world with a distinterest in learning anything that could be called stupidity, salted heavily with the arrogance of being born, post 1945, into a superpower, or, post 1991, a hyperpower. The reasons for this are complex, but they lie on a bedrock of geography which far predates our status as a great power. The United States, massive as it is, has exactly two contiguous neighbors, Canada and Mexico, neither of which have ever presented a military threat to us. Because of this, because to the north and south we have only neighbors and not threats, and because our flanks are protected by two mighty oceans, Americans have always been more occupied with themselves than anyone else. Our interest in Europe is really a modern, 20th century phenomenon, and then only the result of world wars, and then only a reluctant one. Our interest in Asia, outside the considerations of a handful of military strategists and diplomats, is purely commercial. Americans, as a rule, care about America and absolutely nothing else.
This attitude is partially forgivable, because the size of the United States allows an American citizen to see pretty much every known climate and geographical feature without leaving even our contiguous borders; throw in Alaska and Hawaii and some of the territories, i.e. Puerto Rico, American Samoa and the US Virgin Islands, and there is just about nothing you cannot experience right here in the USA.
Nevertheless, this attitude is aggravating and insulting to foreigners and deeply dangerous to ourselves. American conservatism, which finds its deepest root in the isolationist philosophy of George Washington, still clings to the idea that America can ignore the rest of the world -- that we neither need, nor need respect, dem forriners. The main trouble with this attitude is that we no longer live in the 1700s -- or the 1800s or early-mid 1900s, for that matter. Technology has for practical purposes shrunk the size of the planet while also dissolving its made-up frontiers. The global economy, an almost incredibly complex interweaving of stock markets, trade deals, military partnerships, cultural exchanges, mass migration and all the rest of it, none of which could have been anticipated by George Washington, is a fact of life, and short of an nuclear war it is not going anywhere. Isolationism is an effective emotional appeal, but it has no basis in economic, military or political reality: the world has grown too small, and its parts are too interconnected. What effects one effects all, no matter how hard you happen to sing "America the Beautiful."
And this brings me back north, to Canada. Until Donald Trump came back to the White House, the relationship of Canada to the United States could, I would argue, be likened to that between brothers who settle next door to each other. They have history, and history includes baggage; they have a definite hierarchy in the way that big brothers have with little brothers, which can prove insulting, exasperating or merely annoying; and their interests occasionally conflict. Each has a somewhat different way of viewing the world, of conducting their personal business...and each has its own individual tastes. Taken at a glance, however, they are remarkably similar, generally enjoy a friendly relationship, and whenever they sense a threat, immediately come together, sleeves rolled up, fists clenched, ready to handle their bloody business if need be.
Trump's "51st state" rhetoric strikes many Americans, by which I mean mostly the Americans who voted for him, as amusing. It is in their minds simply a verbalization of what many in the States have long thought about Canada. But there is a critical difference, actually several critical differences. Firstly, it is not a snarky remark uttered by a drunk from Newark at a Canucks - Devils game and therefore meaningless. It was made by the President of the United States, and moreover, by a President who has a habit of disguising very definite, concrete plans inside of hyperbolic rhetoric, and whose lack of understanding of domestic and international law is matched only by his lack of respect for it. In short, it is not merely an insult, it is a threat, and a very specific and alarming one at that. But let us discuss the insult first, because it is folly to assume that the primitive emotions aroused by being insulted do not play into international politics.
For the last nine years, Canada has suffered under the misrule of Justin Trudeau, a globalist whose stated intention was to turn Canada into a "postnational state." In Trudeau's vision, Canada would cease to be a sovereign nation and transition into an economic unit of the global economy, one which, through the process of mass immigration, would also lose any sense of cultural identity. Canada, in short, would flee into a post-national world-citizen identity identical to the cosmopolitanism of aristocrats two hundred years ago. The effects of Trudeau's policies are outside the scope of this essay but manifestly clear to anyone who can read a spread sheet on this like the effectiveness of Canadian health care, the power of the Canadian military, housing costs, rental prices or the number of hours of work is necessary for the ordinary person to work in order to keep a roof over their head. I mention them because the course Trudeau embarked upon, the course which would erase and was erasing Canadian identity, has been violently altered on an emotional level by the contemptuous threats of an American president. Canadians who understand American history have long harbored suspicions about America's ultimate motives for Canada vis-a-vis her natural resources, including water -- one of the better TV shows I ever saw, "Intelligence" which was created by Chris Haddock, tackled these topics in such an uncomfortably forthright way the CBC canceled the show rather than ruffle American feathers -- but the ordinary Canadian viewed 51st state talk as no more than cheap shot talk from their sometimes obnoxious but generally caring brother next door. Trump's rhetoric changed that. He not only insulted every Canadian, he said, in essence, that he wasn't sure little brother should have his own home, his own car, his own wife, his own kids, or his own dog. He said, in essence, that he didn't feel any particular need to respect the property line or little brother's status as an adult -- his agency, his independence. He said, in essence, "nice country you've got there, be a shame if someone came along and messed it up."
Trump's tarrifs and threats of tarrifs are proof that the 51st state talk is not merely the hyperbolic, trolling rhetoric Trump has often employed to please his base, but a definite statement of intent. Most Americans do not know this, but Canada was twice invaded by the United States, once during the Revolutionary War, and once during the War of 1812. Both invasions failed, which is of course why Americans don't know about them, and both invasions failed because they underestimated Canada's sense of identity, which existed long before Canada had been granted her independence from Great Britain. Notwithstanding a small minority of citizens who would find it convenient for personal reasons, Canada has never wanted to be part of the United States, and it understandably resents being denied recognition that it is indeed a very separate entity both politically and culturally. Now, Trump's
threats don't mean he necessarily intends to send the troops rolling over the border, but it does mean he understands that economic warfare is warfare and like conventional warfare can be employed to break the political will of the enemy...and like all warfare presupposes there is an enemy. And the effect of declaring Canada an enemy has been to erase nine years of Trudeauism, at least as it applies to Canada's sense of national identity. Canadians are not only mad as hell, they are conscious of being Canadians in a way that they have not been, collectively anyway, since Trudeau tried to brainwash them into thinking they were global citizens. When Canadians say "elbows up" they are referring to the fighting pose of a hockey player. They are saying that they are ready to drop the stick, toss the gloves and start throwing punches. It's sad that they have had to adopt this posture. It's sad that a country with whom we share a 5,525 mile border is now looking to the EU for its security guarantees and to China, India and Europe rather than the States for economic trade agreements when we are its largest trading partner and vice-versa. And it is even sadder for me as an American citizen to feel embarrassed at the clumsy, reckless, bullying, ham-fisted methods that have been used on our inoffensive neighbor. When I was in Montreal and Quebec City last year I could not have been treated any kindlier by complete strangers than if I were staying with old friends. Canadians have always taken for granted that whatever stupid jokes or insults we might periodically exchange, when push came to shove, America -- their fellow Americans from the States -- would be by their side, ready to fight with them and for them. Few of them ever dreamed we would be doing the pushing and the shoving. But here we are.
Kind of makes you think, eh?
The US - Canada relationship is a curious one, because it reminds me of the mountains I used to see every day from my front porch in Burbank, California. They were so present that I usually failed to notice them. It was the same during the month I spent in Tucson, Arizona: the first few days they were the only thing I saw, and after that they may as well not have existed. I had to be reminded of them and always had the same startled reaction -- "Look at those things!" They were simply too big for my eyes to see. For most Yanks, by which I mean Yanks who do not live in the border states or in close proximity to them, Canada is like that: the massive neighbor we never really think about until we have some cause to do so.
Although recent events have shown some Americans can be horribly condescending about Canada, there is nothing condescending in this particular attitude. Excepting Quebec, where the language is French and much of the architecture much more old-world European than modern North American in style, Canada is sufficiently similar to the States as to feel less like a foreign country to us than, say, Britain does, and of course it is hell of a lot closer than Britain, or Ireland...or Australia or New Zealand, for that matter. When a Yank is in Vancouver, he will certainly notice little differences here and there, but he will never experience the disorientation or discomfort he will certainly encounter if he is in France, or Italy, or Mororcco, or Japan, and he does not speak the language. Put simply, he is away from home but does not feel away from home. Part of this rests in the famous and largely well-deserved Canadian kindliness, which is so much like American Midwestern kindliness except even more pronounced; but most of it rests in the fact the cultural differences are small and pleasing rather than large and jarring. They are just obtrusive enough to give the Yank a romantic sense he is "somewhere else" without oppressing him with the scary knowledge that he is "somewhere else."
Now I must make a full and immediate confession. When I was in high school in Maryland, knowing nothing about Canada except that it existed, I occasionally made jeering remarks to a Canadian kid in my school that Canada was, you guessed it, the 51st State. This is a common American insult leveled at Canadians, though in my case it came from stupidity and not malice. Knowing jack-all about Canada's history, I viewed it as a kind of giveaway of the British Empire, the colonies that did not rebel, who were granted independence rather than taking it for themselves, and who were otherwise culturally indistinguishable from Americans. The existence of Canada, insomuch as I contemplated it at all, seemed weird to me. They were foreigners, but not really. They spoke our language, played our sports, shared our continent, watched our television, and exported large quantities of their citizens to work and play within our borders...citizens you didn't even know were Canadian until they told you, because what we refer to as "The Canadian accent" in the States is actually only the accent of certain areas and classes in Canada. Indeed, outside Quebec Province, where you naturally hear a lot of Quebecois-accented English, I can recall hearing only one "Great White North" accent anywhere in British Columbia when I was working there. Literally only one.
Please note my use of the word "our." It assumes an ownership of things which in fact I as an American do not own, such as the title of "American" or the English language. This Americocentric view of the world is one of the outstanding characteristics of people from the States, combining an ignorance of the rest of the world with a distinterest in learning anything that could be called stupidity, salted heavily with the arrogance of being born, post 1945, into a superpower, or, post 1991, a hyperpower. The reasons for this are complex, but they lie on a bedrock of geography which far predates our status as a great power. The United States, massive as it is, has exactly two contiguous neighbors, Canada and Mexico, neither of which have ever presented a military threat to us. Because of this, because to the north and south we have only neighbors and not threats, and because our flanks are protected by two mighty oceans, Americans have always been more occupied with themselves than anyone else. Our interest in Europe is really a modern, 20th century phenomenon, and then only the result of world wars, and then only a reluctant one. Our interest in Asia, outside the considerations of a handful of military strategists and diplomats, is purely commercial. Americans, as a rule, care about America and absolutely nothing else.
This attitude is partially forgivable, because the size of the United States allows an American citizen to see pretty much every known climate and geographical feature without leaving even our contiguous borders; throw in Alaska and Hawaii and some of the territories, i.e. Puerto Rico, American Samoa and the US Virgin Islands, and there is just about nothing you cannot experience right here in the USA.
Nevertheless, this attitude is aggravating and insulting to foreigners and deeply dangerous to ourselves. American conservatism, which finds its deepest root in the isolationist philosophy of George Washington, still clings to the idea that America can ignore the rest of the world -- that we neither need, nor need respect, dem forriners. The main trouble with this attitude is that we no longer live in the 1700s -- or the 1800s or early-mid 1900s, for that matter. Technology has for practical purposes shrunk the size of the planet while also dissolving its made-up frontiers. The global economy, an almost incredibly complex interweaving of stock markets, trade deals, military partnerships, cultural exchanges, mass migration and all the rest of it, none of which could have been anticipated by George Washington, is a fact of life, and short of an nuclear war it is not going anywhere. Isolationism is an effective emotional appeal, but it has no basis in economic, military or political reality: the world has grown too small, and its parts are too interconnected. What effects one effects all, no matter how hard you happen to sing "America the Beautiful."
And this brings me back north, to Canada. Until Donald Trump came back to the White House, the relationship of Canada to the United States could, I would argue, be likened to that between brothers who settle next door to each other. They have history, and history includes baggage; they have a definite hierarchy in the way that big brothers have with little brothers, which can prove insulting, exasperating or merely annoying; and their interests occasionally conflict. Each has a somewhat different way of viewing the world, of conducting their personal business...and each has its own individual tastes. Taken at a glance, however, they are remarkably similar, generally enjoy a friendly relationship, and whenever they sense a threat, immediately come together, sleeves rolled up, fists clenched, ready to handle their bloody business if need be.
Trump's "51st state" rhetoric strikes many Americans, by which I mean mostly the Americans who voted for him, as amusing. It is in their minds simply a verbalization of what many in the States have long thought about Canada. But there is a critical difference, actually several critical differences. Firstly, it is not a snarky remark uttered by a drunk from Newark at a Canucks - Devils game and therefore meaningless. It was made by the President of the United States, and moreover, by a President who has a habit of disguising very definite, concrete plans inside of hyperbolic rhetoric, and whose lack of understanding of domestic and international law is matched only by his lack of respect for it. In short, it is not merely an insult, it is a threat, and a very specific and alarming one at that. But let us discuss the insult first, because it is folly to assume that the primitive emotions aroused by being insulted do not play into international politics.
For the last nine years, Canada has suffered under the misrule of Justin Trudeau, a globalist whose stated intention was to turn Canada into a "postnational state." In Trudeau's vision, Canada would cease to be a sovereign nation and transition into an economic unit of the global economy, one which, through the process of mass immigration, would also lose any sense of cultural identity. Canada, in short, would flee into a post-national world-citizen identity identical to the cosmopolitanism of aristocrats two hundred years ago. The effects of Trudeau's policies are outside the scope of this essay but manifestly clear to anyone who can read a spread sheet on this like the effectiveness of Canadian health care, the power of the Canadian military, housing costs, rental prices or the number of hours of work is necessary for the ordinary person to work in order to keep a roof over their head. I mention them because the course Trudeau embarked upon, the course which would erase and was erasing Canadian identity, has been violently altered on an emotional level by the contemptuous threats of an American president. Canadians who understand American history have long harbored suspicions about America's ultimate motives for Canada vis-a-vis her natural resources, including water -- one of the better TV shows I ever saw, "Intelligence" which was created by Chris Haddock, tackled these topics in such an uncomfortably forthright way the CBC canceled the show rather than ruffle American feathers -- but the ordinary Canadian viewed 51st state talk as no more than cheap shot talk from their sometimes obnoxious but generally caring brother next door. Trump's rhetoric changed that. He not only insulted every Canadian, he said, in essence, that he wasn't sure little brother should have his own home, his own car, his own wife, his own kids, or his own dog. He said, in essence, that he didn't feel any particular need to respect the property line or little brother's status as an adult -- his agency, his independence. He said, in essence, "nice country you've got there, be a shame if someone came along and messed it up."
Trump's tarrifs and threats of tarrifs are proof that the 51st state talk is not merely the hyperbolic, trolling rhetoric Trump has often employed to please his base, but a definite statement of intent. Most Americans do not know this, but Canada was twice invaded by the United States, once during the Revolutionary War, and once during the War of 1812. Both invasions failed, which is of course why Americans don't know about them, and both invasions failed because they underestimated Canada's sense of identity, which existed long before Canada had been granted her independence from Great Britain. Notwithstanding a small minority of citizens who would find it convenient for personal reasons, Canada has never wanted to be part of the United States, and it understandably resents being denied recognition that it is indeed a very separate entity both politically and culturally. Now, Trump's
threats don't mean he necessarily intends to send the troops rolling over the border, but it does mean he understands that economic warfare is warfare and like conventional warfare can be employed to break the political will of the enemy...and like all warfare presupposes there is an enemy. And the effect of declaring Canada an enemy has been to erase nine years of Trudeauism, at least as it applies to Canada's sense of national identity. Canadians are not only mad as hell, they are conscious of being Canadians in a way that they have not been, collectively anyway, since Trudeau tried to brainwash them into thinking they were global citizens. When Canadians say "elbows up" they are referring to the fighting pose of a hockey player. They are saying that they are ready to drop the stick, toss the gloves and start throwing punches. It's sad that they have had to adopt this posture. It's sad that a country with whom we share a 5,525 mile border is now looking to the EU for its security guarantees and to China, India and Europe rather than the States for economic trade agreements when we are its largest trading partner and vice-versa. And it is even sadder for me as an American citizen to feel embarrassed at the clumsy, reckless, bullying, ham-fisted methods that have been used on our inoffensive neighbor. When I was in Montreal and Quebec City last year I could not have been treated any kindlier by complete strangers than if I were staying with old friends. Canadians have always taken for granted that whatever stupid jokes or insults we might periodically exchange, when push came to shove, America -- their fellow Americans from the States -- would be by their side, ready to fight with them and for them. Few of them ever dreamed we would be doing the pushing and the shoving. But here we are.
Kind of makes you think, eh?
March 13, 2025
GOODREADING 2025
Whenever I neglect this blog for any length of time, I experience the most curious resurgence of a feeling I used to endure regularly as a delinquent college student. It's a feeling of not knowing how I can walk back through that classroom door when I didn't show up for a month. I have indeed been remiss in my duties here at Antagony, so I guess I'll do what I did back in the 90s when a girl or a drinking binge kept me away from the books for way longer than any excuse could explain: grit my teeth, rush through the door, and get busy. Since we're on Goodreads, let's get busy talking about books. Specifically the books I've read so far as part of the yearly Goodreads Reading Challenge.
As you know if you visit this place regularly, my taste in books runs the gamut. I will read literally anything that is written well, and failing that, which tells a good story (one does not have to be a skilled writer to be a first-rate storyteller). In recent years I have shied away from novels more than I should have, finding history, autobiography, and memoir to use less of my imagination and therefore less of my energy, so I'm making an effort to read five per year regardless of how many other books I chalk up in the "read" column. Anyway, here is the unusually random selection (even for me) of what I've read to date:
"The Garner Files" by James Garner. I generally really like actor's autobiographies, because actors tend to have great backstories as well as plenty of interesting anecdotes from their professional lives. And the interesting parts of this book are very interesting. Garner, who is best remembered for his roles in "Maverick," "The Rockford Files" and "The Great Escape," was a Depression-born kid who walked away from Korea with two Purple Hearts and ended up, almost accidentally, as a contract player in Hollywood. His rise to fame and fortune came as much from his scrappy, principled, workmanlike attitude as his talents, and once he had established his success, he used it to indulge his hobbies (golf, racing) and fight for his causes (civil rights, fair play), never forgetting the little guys on set, either. Having worked in Hollywood myself in a pencil-sharpening capacity, I found his egalitarian, anti-bullying attitude refreshing. But the book can be a slog at times because, well, I don't give a shit about golf and if this age has proven anything, it's that a man's politics tend to be boring when discussed in public. Still, you can't put this book down without coming away with a healthy respect for Garner and the improbable and decent life he lead.
"On A Chinese Screen" by Somerset Maughm. I read this book because Orwell repeatedly mentioned it in his writings, and I'm glad I did so. Maughm was a high-level British spy in two wars, whose formal occupation was writing novels and travelogue. He did not both very well. "On A Chinese Screen" is a series of fifty-seven character and scene-sketches he drew up while living in China in the 1920s. It is beautifully written and paints lovely and brutally honest portraits of Chinese culture, British colonial culture, and all manner of eccentric individuals -- philosophers, rickshaw drivers, petty officials, businessmen, sailors, soldiers, wanderers and wives. It is a terrific book, full of weighty but easily readable insights into human nature and all of its absurdities and beauties and paradoxes. Maughm is one of those writers who allows his subjects to hang or exalt themselves, and doesn't tell the reader what to think. A few of the sketches bored or confused me but the majority are simply wonderful and I can't recommend this book highly enough as a kind of literary photo album of an extinct world, but a world whose existence can be plainly felt today.
"The Wager" by David Grann. This is what I call a Christmas Book, meaning not merely that I got it as a Christmas gift but that it's the type of book I'd never have read if it weren't handed to me free of charge by someone else, as it's not quite in my usual area of interest. I found it a superb read, better than many novels though it is pure history. It is the story of the HMS Wager, which shipwrecked in the 1700s in the treacherous waters between South America and Antarctica, and the almost unbelievable story of what followed -- the survivors found themselves on a near-barren rock without food or water or clothing, yet somehow managed (mostly), to survive for months despite a mutiny which broke the group into two warring factions a la "Lord of the Flies," and on top of that, to escape in jerry-rigged boats and make a perilous second voyage to Brazil...only to face court martial when the few who remained finally returned to England, because mutinity. These poor bastards survived rogue waves, storms, plague, scurvy, shipwreck, civil war, starvation, thirst and a Hail Mary journey over murderous seas on what amounted to a raft, and it's a shining testament to human ingenuity and the will to live. Grann does a lovely job of explaining what seafaring life was like in the 1700s (brutal, hazardous), and also delves into Byzantine Royal Navy politics and ocean combat. A terrific book.
"Over the Front in an Aeroplane" by Ralph Pulitzer. The name "Pulitzer" is an esteemed one in letters, and indeed, Ralph was the brother of Joseph Pulitzer, the man for whom the great prize is named. This forgotten little book, which I bought at a book fair in Miami when I (cough) was there to get the Reader's Favorite Gold Medal for "Sinner's Cross" (coughs again), is an account of Pulitzer's tour of the Western Front during WW1, specifically 1915 in the French sector. I found it quite readable and very detailed and interesting, because it gives a fascinating look at the mechanics of warfare at that time. Ralph flies over the front in a two-seater, visits the trenches and various headquarters and a training school, hangs out with artillery batteries and supply troops, and wanders devastated towns and villages which are still under fire. It's obviously pro-French and pro-Allied, presenting only their points of view, and there is a faint touch of naivete in some of his conclusions, but very little. He tries to be purely journalistic and mostly succeeds, and his general predictions for the war's future course were accurate. I found it a very interesting time capsule of a terrible time in history, and I was struck by some of the included photographs -- men dead 100 years at this point but whose humanity shows in the weariness of their faces.
"Post Office" by Charles Bukowski. I read this evil gem of a book in a single day. It was my first encounter with Bukowski's work but will not be my last. In this mostly autobiographical novel Bukowski, via the character of "Henry Chinalski," recounts the 14 1/2 wretched years he spent in the Postal Service in Los Angeles in the 50s and 60s, while simultaneously indulging his passions for the ponies, women, and most importantly, booze. Imagine Hemingway slamming into Henry Miller, and the two of them falling headfirst into any good pulp novel you care to name, and you have Bukowski: witty, immoral, contrary, lascevious, misogynistic and irresponsible, with just enough unwanted decency and sensitivity to make him (mostly) sympathetic. Bukowski uses that relaxed sort of style, a kind of stylishly sloppy prose, which is so easy to employ as a writer and follow as a reader, but he is also a keen if ruthless observer of human nature and modern society -- it's inhumanity, its pointless ugliness and mindless routines. Anyone who has suffered through bullying bosses and soul-crushing work routines will relate to his misery and his perpetual desire for escape through horseracing, sex and drunkenness. I loved this book, wicked though it is.
And that is where I have landed so far in the GRC of 2025. I don't use this platform anywhere near enough to talk about books, so I am recifying that mistake starting now. Among those slated for finishing or possible reads this year include:
Jackboot - James Laffin [currently reading]
Ashes to Ashes - Tami Hoag
Soul Boom - Rainn Wilson*
The Eldorado Network - Derek Robinson
Faust - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The Undisputed Truth - Mike Tyson
True at First Light - Ernest Hemingway
Harry Sullivan's War - Ian Marter
The Infernal Machine - Steven Johnson
* When I met Rainn Wilson two years ago after his one-man show, I promised to review his book, which, since I haven't finished it, is a promise I've yet to keep. But I will.
Of course, like most bibliophiles/bibliomaniacs, I have far more books on hand than I will ever read, because I both buy books on a fairly regular basis and receive books yearly as gifts, and this in addition to the huge trove of books I inherited from my father, who was a voracious reader of history, biography and political science, and also read many historical novels. And on top of this, as if it weren't enough, there are the stacks of mysteries which are to be found everywhere in my mom's house. So this little list is neither inclusive nor definitive. The important thing is that I have managed, with some effort, to restore my habit of reading reflexively in my spare time, something I lost for several years. Interestingly enough, the reading muscle is like any other -- if you exercise it, it will stay healthy and strong, and will also twitch unpleasantly if you don't get it to the gym. If you let it atrophy, it will take some doing to get it back into form. So here's to me getting back in the ole reading chair. I hope you never left.
As you know if you visit this place regularly, my taste in books runs the gamut. I will read literally anything that is written well, and failing that, which tells a good story (one does not have to be a skilled writer to be a first-rate storyteller). In recent years I have shied away from novels more than I should have, finding history, autobiography, and memoir to use less of my imagination and therefore less of my energy, so I'm making an effort to read five per year regardless of how many other books I chalk up in the "read" column. Anyway, here is the unusually random selection (even for me) of what I've read to date:
"The Garner Files" by James Garner. I generally really like actor's autobiographies, because actors tend to have great backstories as well as plenty of interesting anecdotes from their professional lives. And the interesting parts of this book are very interesting. Garner, who is best remembered for his roles in "Maverick," "The Rockford Files" and "The Great Escape," was a Depression-born kid who walked away from Korea with two Purple Hearts and ended up, almost accidentally, as a contract player in Hollywood. His rise to fame and fortune came as much from his scrappy, principled, workmanlike attitude as his talents, and once he had established his success, he used it to indulge his hobbies (golf, racing) and fight for his causes (civil rights, fair play), never forgetting the little guys on set, either. Having worked in Hollywood myself in a pencil-sharpening capacity, I found his egalitarian, anti-bullying attitude refreshing. But the book can be a slog at times because, well, I don't give a shit about golf and if this age has proven anything, it's that a man's politics tend to be boring when discussed in public. Still, you can't put this book down without coming away with a healthy respect for Garner and the improbable and decent life he lead.
"On A Chinese Screen" by Somerset Maughm. I read this book because Orwell repeatedly mentioned it in his writings, and I'm glad I did so. Maughm was a high-level British spy in two wars, whose formal occupation was writing novels and travelogue. He did not both very well. "On A Chinese Screen" is a series of fifty-seven character and scene-sketches he drew up while living in China in the 1920s. It is beautifully written and paints lovely and brutally honest portraits of Chinese culture, British colonial culture, and all manner of eccentric individuals -- philosophers, rickshaw drivers, petty officials, businessmen, sailors, soldiers, wanderers and wives. It is a terrific book, full of weighty but easily readable insights into human nature and all of its absurdities and beauties and paradoxes. Maughm is one of those writers who allows his subjects to hang or exalt themselves, and doesn't tell the reader what to think. A few of the sketches bored or confused me but the majority are simply wonderful and I can't recommend this book highly enough as a kind of literary photo album of an extinct world, but a world whose existence can be plainly felt today.
"The Wager" by David Grann. This is what I call a Christmas Book, meaning not merely that I got it as a Christmas gift but that it's the type of book I'd never have read if it weren't handed to me free of charge by someone else, as it's not quite in my usual area of interest. I found it a superb read, better than many novels though it is pure history. It is the story of the HMS Wager, which shipwrecked in the 1700s in the treacherous waters between South America and Antarctica, and the almost unbelievable story of what followed -- the survivors found themselves on a near-barren rock without food or water or clothing, yet somehow managed (mostly), to survive for months despite a mutiny which broke the group into two warring factions a la "Lord of the Flies," and on top of that, to escape in jerry-rigged boats and make a perilous second voyage to Brazil...only to face court martial when the few who remained finally returned to England, because mutinity. These poor bastards survived rogue waves, storms, plague, scurvy, shipwreck, civil war, starvation, thirst and a Hail Mary journey over murderous seas on what amounted to a raft, and it's a shining testament to human ingenuity and the will to live. Grann does a lovely job of explaining what seafaring life was like in the 1700s (brutal, hazardous), and also delves into Byzantine Royal Navy politics and ocean combat. A terrific book.
"Over the Front in an Aeroplane" by Ralph Pulitzer. The name "Pulitzer" is an esteemed one in letters, and indeed, Ralph was the brother of Joseph Pulitzer, the man for whom the great prize is named. This forgotten little book, which I bought at a book fair in Miami when I (cough) was there to get the Reader's Favorite Gold Medal for "Sinner's Cross" (coughs again), is an account of Pulitzer's tour of the Western Front during WW1, specifically 1915 in the French sector. I found it quite readable and very detailed and interesting, because it gives a fascinating look at the mechanics of warfare at that time. Ralph flies over the front in a two-seater, visits the trenches and various headquarters and a training school, hangs out with artillery batteries and supply troops, and wanders devastated towns and villages which are still under fire. It's obviously pro-French and pro-Allied, presenting only their points of view, and there is a faint touch of naivete in some of his conclusions, but very little. He tries to be purely journalistic and mostly succeeds, and his general predictions for the war's future course were accurate. I found it a very interesting time capsule of a terrible time in history, and I was struck by some of the included photographs -- men dead 100 years at this point but whose humanity shows in the weariness of their faces.
"Post Office" by Charles Bukowski. I read this evil gem of a book in a single day. It was my first encounter with Bukowski's work but will not be my last. In this mostly autobiographical novel Bukowski, via the character of "Henry Chinalski," recounts the 14 1/2 wretched years he spent in the Postal Service in Los Angeles in the 50s and 60s, while simultaneously indulging his passions for the ponies, women, and most importantly, booze. Imagine Hemingway slamming into Henry Miller, and the two of them falling headfirst into any good pulp novel you care to name, and you have Bukowski: witty, immoral, contrary, lascevious, misogynistic and irresponsible, with just enough unwanted decency and sensitivity to make him (mostly) sympathetic. Bukowski uses that relaxed sort of style, a kind of stylishly sloppy prose, which is so easy to employ as a writer and follow as a reader, but he is also a keen if ruthless observer of human nature and modern society -- it's inhumanity, its pointless ugliness and mindless routines. Anyone who has suffered through bullying bosses and soul-crushing work routines will relate to his misery and his perpetual desire for escape through horseracing, sex and drunkenness. I loved this book, wicked though it is.
And that is where I have landed so far in the GRC of 2025. I don't use this platform anywhere near enough to talk about books, so I am recifying that mistake starting now. Among those slated for finishing or possible reads this year include:
Jackboot - James Laffin [currently reading]
Ashes to Ashes - Tami Hoag
Soul Boom - Rainn Wilson*
The Eldorado Network - Derek Robinson
Faust - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The Undisputed Truth - Mike Tyson
True at First Light - Ernest Hemingway
Harry Sullivan's War - Ian Marter
The Infernal Machine - Steven Johnson
* When I met Rainn Wilson two years ago after his one-man show, I promised to review his book, which, since I haven't finished it, is a promise I've yet to keep. But I will.
Of course, like most bibliophiles/bibliomaniacs, I have far more books on hand than I will ever read, because I both buy books on a fairly regular basis and receive books yearly as gifts, and this in addition to the huge trove of books I inherited from my father, who was a voracious reader of history, biography and political science, and also read many historical novels. And on top of this, as if it weren't enough, there are the stacks of mysteries which are to be found everywhere in my mom's house. So this little list is neither inclusive nor definitive. The important thing is that I have managed, with some effort, to restore my habit of reading reflexively in my spare time, something I lost for several years. Interestingly enough, the reading muscle is like any other -- if you exercise it, it will stay healthy and strong, and will also twitch unpleasantly if you don't get it to the gym. If you let it atrophy, it will take some doing to get it back into form. So here's to me getting back in the ole reading chair. I hope you never left.
February 21, 2025
AS I PLEASE XXX: LAWS OF POWER
This, the thirtieth installment of "As I Please," finds me in a ruminative state of mind. It was a brutally cold, nerve-fretting, and in many ways disappointing day, the sort which brought out the worst in me and in the end could only be salvaged by eating hot food, drinking cold beer and watching episodes of KOJAK. But salvaged it was, and as I sit here, having my ruminations, I find a lot of unrelated thoughts which need sharing. So here they are:
* I have finally figured out that the difference between the cell phone/internet era and the era I grew up in is "atomization." The cell phone allows an individual to stay an individual at all times: he never submerges into the crowd of humanity, into the tribe. He is always individual and therefore always alone. No longer does the world go to public places for company or crowd around television sets in times of crisis: everyone has “company” online and everyone has their own television set in their purse or pocket. Go to any restaurant and you'll see five people at a table, and three of them are staring into their phones the entire time. Sometimes it's all five people simultaneously. Conversation is a stopgap between feeding the dopamine addiction. Even when I go down to the bar for a drink at night, I don't watch the television screen above me: that would be too communal of a well. Instead I nurse my drink and stare into my own little screen. We're only physically in proximity: we are not together. We've atomized society through – ironically enough – social technology. And then we wonder why people are lonely.
* R.U.R. is a 1920 Science fiction play by the Czech writer Karel Čapek, which is best remembered for introducing the word "robot" into the English language. It is fascinating to me that in R.U.R., which was written thirty or forty years before the first industrial robots were actually invented, the robots choose to exterminate their human creators. Why, going back 104 years, do humans always assume in fiction that robots will turn against humanity and try to exterminate us? I think I have the answer: because we know we've got it coming. We know that our technology, meant as a tool, will ultimately master us, and like all masters, will exercise its power through violence. It's a variation on Mary Shelley's FRANKENSTEIN, a novel people forget was subitles THE MODERN PROMETHEUS: the idea that, like Prometheus, we're playing God, but woefully inadequate to the role, possessing only the power without the widsom and forebearance that goes with it. This thought has been much on my mind of late, in part because I've been slogging through various TERMINATOR films, and in part because every day I become a little more defeated and depressed by the existence of A.I. Which brings me to....
* George Orwell. You may think linking Orwell to JURASSIC PARK is a weird turn for this ramble to take, but nope, not a bit of it. In his book ON THE ROAD TO WIGAN PIER, Orwell bemoaned what he called the human “instinct to improve." He pointed out that this instinct, which developed only recently in terms of humanity's existence on this planet, has lead to an increasing tendency to develop technology for its own sake, independent of the consequences the existence of that technology will have on the human species. That humanity, unique among all species, strives to create systems which make itself redundant. He examples the idea of a machine which performs a function which used to require, say, 10 human beings. Now only one is required -- to operate the machine. The other nine are "terminated" from employment. And with each new labor-saving device more humans are "terminated" until at last millions languish without work, without a meaningful direction for their lives or a means to make those lives bearable or even liveable. He also noted that if humans can overcome this obstacle and mate with technology, the tendency will be toward what he called "the brain in the bottle" -- a transhumanistic being, more machine than man. Either way, technology trumps flesh, science trumps spirit, and we are left with Jeff Goldblum's immortal words in JURASSIC PARK: "You were so busy figuring out of you could you never bothered to ask whether or not you should."
* A.I. frightens me, in case you haven't figured that out, not only because it will make huge sections of the human population redundant, but because those who will not be redundant will only be so because they can service the machines. The "Morlock class" is already upon us: go on Linked In, and you'll see 80% of jobs are for humans to train A.I. to replace humans in various positions. What will become of singers, songwriters, poets, novelists, movie-makers, artists, and all the rest when machines can, by stealing the work of human beings and sythesizing it on a grand scale, produce simulacrums of creativity in an instant? They will lack soul, they will be works of plagiarism, they will be morally and aesthetically disgusting, but the public won't care, which in a sense makes me wish the real Terminators would show up and get down to business.
* I'm listening to Jordan Peterson psychoanalyze Donald Trump. Peterson at least understands the man is a “13 year-old bully” and amusingly remarked the American people “preferred the spontaneous lies of Donald Trump to the calculated lies of Hilary Clinton,” which is a wonderful remark becuase it is absolutely true. However, the underlying admiration a towering intellect like Peterson has for Trump is a little disappointing. (Not surprising, because he can't see through Elon Musk either, but disappointing.) There is a tendency among humans to admire genius for its own sake, regardless of what kind of personality and character that genius may be attached to, and I think Peterson admires Trump and Musk in the wrong ways. Both men are geniuses of a certain type, and both men are deficient in common humanity to a shocking degree. Both men are figures within a democratic government, and both men are threats to democracy. And a threat to democracy is no less a threat to democracy because the threat is presently giving the high hard one to people you dislike rather than you and yours. Peterson's own experience being mauled and slandered by the Left has clearly blinded him, consciously or unconsciously, to the lack of charracter in Trump and Musk, to their inability-cum-unwillingness to behave with ordinary human decency or respect for the law or the unwritten laws that allow democracy to survive. It's only natural, of course: Peterson was so viciously attacked in his own country that it's only natural he should seek any port in a storm. It's sad, however, that politics in the West have finally deteriorated to the point where it's little more than “let me get my hand on the whip this election cycle so I can thrash the daylights out of my enemies until the electorate or a term-limit pries my fingers off the handle.” Like we're all in some hideous turn-based video game where you have to grit your teeth while your opponent attacks you, until at last he's exhausted his offensive options and now it's your chance to be the aggressor.
* Having said that, and while stating for the record that I did not vote for him, I must be intellectually honest and say that Trump, for all the things I revile about him (including his disgusting admiration for the war criminal Putin, his enabling of the war criminal Netanyahu, and so forth), is where is for a very good reason. Half of that reason is what I call "butter and eggs," meaning that Americans knew that Bidenomics was a failure because their wallets told them so regardless of what the legacy media was claiming; the other half is that Americans have had quite enough of Woke, thank you very much, and this includes many millions who are not Republicans either in voting habits or even sentiment. The fact is that the Left overplayed its hand. In 2014, the exact moment it seemed they had won the culture wars and landed "on the right side of history," they violated the 47th law of power: "In victory, know when to stop." Having crushed their cultural opposition, the Left decided to keep grinding the boot against the necks of their seemingly defeated opposition. For ten straight years -- perhaps not coincidentally, the length of Justin Trudeau's reign of error in Canada -- we saw the hard, common-sense principles of the the Democratic Party sold out to a rainbow-haired, pronoun-wielding, neo-Marxist, joyless, vengeful, intolerant, weak-minded globalist mob, many of whose members were only dubiously sane, until at last those with sense were themselves being "canceled" by the monsters they had created and empowered. The question of "how far left is too far left?" was never answered because those on the Left were too frightened to do so: they had yielded their power and agency to this lunatic fringe. And in 2024, they were handed a crushing defeat of their own by a majority of the American voters. Whether they will learn anything from it is extremely doubtful. As I said in a previous blog here on Antagony, back in 2016 ("Why Trump? Why Now?"), the problem with the American Left is that their response to defeat is invariably to insist that the reason they lost is because they weren't Left enough. The fact is that a sharp move toward the center, towards "common centrism," quite possibly could have defeated Trump's bid to regain the White House: at the very least it would have salvaged the integrity of the Democratic Party. As it stands now, the Democrats are without power or integrity, and they have no one to blame for that but themselves.
On that snarky and self-righteous note, I exit "As I Please XXX." When I began this blog eight (or was it nine?) years ago, I never believed I'd last this long in the public space, however modest and shadowed that space might be, but here I am -- and if you happen to be reading this, here we are. And I'd like to say that that it is unimportant whether we agree on everything, or even anything: what matters is that, for now at least, that we remain free to disagree.
Until next time.
* I have finally figured out that the difference between the cell phone/internet era and the era I grew up in is "atomization." The cell phone allows an individual to stay an individual at all times: he never submerges into the crowd of humanity, into the tribe. He is always individual and therefore always alone. No longer does the world go to public places for company or crowd around television sets in times of crisis: everyone has “company” online and everyone has their own television set in their purse or pocket. Go to any restaurant and you'll see five people at a table, and three of them are staring into their phones the entire time. Sometimes it's all five people simultaneously. Conversation is a stopgap between feeding the dopamine addiction. Even when I go down to the bar for a drink at night, I don't watch the television screen above me: that would be too communal of a well. Instead I nurse my drink and stare into my own little screen. We're only physically in proximity: we are not together. We've atomized society through – ironically enough – social technology. And then we wonder why people are lonely.
* R.U.R. is a 1920 Science fiction play by the Czech writer Karel Čapek, which is best remembered for introducing the word "robot" into the English language. It is fascinating to me that in R.U.R., which was written thirty or forty years before the first industrial robots were actually invented, the robots choose to exterminate their human creators. Why, going back 104 years, do humans always assume in fiction that robots will turn against humanity and try to exterminate us? I think I have the answer: because we know we've got it coming. We know that our technology, meant as a tool, will ultimately master us, and like all masters, will exercise its power through violence. It's a variation on Mary Shelley's FRANKENSTEIN, a novel people forget was subitles THE MODERN PROMETHEUS: the idea that, like Prometheus, we're playing God, but woefully inadequate to the role, possessing only the power without the widsom and forebearance that goes with it. This thought has been much on my mind of late, in part because I've been slogging through various TERMINATOR films, and in part because every day I become a little more defeated and depressed by the existence of A.I. Which brings me to....
* George Orwell. You may think linking Orwell to JURASSIC PARK is a weird turn for this ramble to take, but nope, not a bit of it. In his book ON THE ROAD TO WIGAN PIER, Orwell bemoaned what he called the human “instinct to improve." He pointed out that this instinct, which developed only recently in terms of humanity's existence on this planet, has lead to an increasing tendency to develop technology for its own sake, independent of the consequences the existence of that technology will have on the human species. That humanity, unique among all species, strives to create systems which make itself redundant. He examples the idea of a machine which performs a function which used to require, say, 10 human beings. Now only one is required -- to operate the machine. The other nine are "terminated" from employment. And with each new labor-saving device more humans are "terminated" until at last millions languish without work, without a meaningful direction for their lives or a means to make those lives bearable or even liveable. He also noted that if humans can overcome this obstacle and mate with technology, the tendency will be toward what he called "the brain in the bottle" -- a transhumanistic being, more machine than man. Either way, technology trumps flesh, science trumps spirit, and we are left with Jeff Goldblum's immortal words in JURASSIC PARK: "You were so busy figuring out of you could you never bothered to ask whether or not you should."
* A.I. frightens me, in case you haven't figured that out, not only because it will make huge sections of the human population redundant, but because those who will not be redundant will only be so because they can service the machines. The "Morlock class" is already upon us: go on Linked In, and you'll see 80% of jobs are for humans to train A.I. to replace humans in various positions. What will become of singers, songwriters, poets, novelists, movie-makers, artists, and all the rest when machines can, by stealing the work of human beings and sythesizing it on a grand scale, produce simulacrums of creativity in an instant? They will lack soul, they will be works of plagiarism, they will be morally and aesthetically disgusting, but the public won't care, which in a sense makes me wish the real Terminators would show up and get down to business.
* I'm listening to Jordan Peterson psychoanalyze Donald Trump. Peterson at least understands the man is a “13 year-old bully” and amusingly remarked the American people “preferred the spontaneous lies of Donald Trump to the calculated lies of Hilary Clinton,” which is a wonderful remark becuase it is absolutely true. However, the underlying admiration a towering intellect like Peterson has for Trump is a little disappointing. (Not surprising, because he can't see through Elon Musk either, but disappointing.) There is a tendency among humans to admire genius for its own sake, regardless of what kind of personality and character that genius may be attached to, and I think Peterson admires Trump and Musk in the wrong ways. Both men are geniuses of a certain type, and both men are deficient in common humanity to a shocking degree. Both men are figures within a democratic government, and both men are threats to democracy. And a threat to democracy is no less a threat to democracy because the threat is presently giving the high hard one to people you dislike rather than you and yours. Peterson's own experience being mauled and slandered by the Left has clearly blinded him, consciously or unconsciously, to the lack of charracter in Trump and Musk, to their inability-cum-unwillingness to behave with ordinary human decency or respect for the law or the unwritten laws that allow democracy to survive. It's only natural, of course: Peterson was so viciously attacked in his own country that it's only natural he should seek any port in a storm. It's sad, however, that politics in the West have finally deteriorated to the point where it's little more than “let me get my hand on the whip this election cycle so I can thrash the daylights out of my enemies until the electorate or a term-limit pries my fingers off the handle.” Like we're all in some hideous turn-based video game where you have to grit your teeth while your opponent attacks you, until at last he's exhausted his offensive options and now it's your chance to be the aggressor.
* Having said that, and while stating for the record that I did not vote for him, I must be intellectually honest and say that Trump, for all the things I revile about him (including his disgusting admiration for the war criminal Putin, his enabling of the war criminal Netanyahu, and so forth), is where is for a very good reason. Half of that reason is what I call "butter and eggs," meaning that Americans knew that Bidenomics was a failure because their wallets told them so regardless of what the legacy media was claiming; the other half is that Americans have had quite enough of Woke, thank you very much, and this includes many millions who are not Republicans either in voting habits or even sentiment. The fact is that the Left overplayed its hand. In 2014, the exact moment it seemed they had won the culture wars and landed "on the right side of history," they violated the 47th law of power: "In victory, know when to stop." Having crushed their cultural opposition, the Left decided to keep grinding the boot against the necks of their seemingly defeated opposition. For ten straight years -- perhaps not coincidentally, the length of Justin Trudeau's reign of error in Canada -- we saw the hard, common-sense principles of the the Democratic Party sold out to a rainbow-haired, pronoun-wielding, neo-Marxist, joyless, vengeful, intolerant, weak-minded globalist mob, many of whose members were only dubiously sane, until at last those with sense were themselves being "canceled" by the monsters they had created and empowered. The question of "how far left is too far left?" was never answered because those on the Left were too frightened to do so: they had yielded their power and agency to this lunatic fringe. And in 2024, they were handed a crushing defeat of their own by a majority of the American voters. Whether they will learn anything from it is extremely doubtful. As I said in a previous blog here on Antagony, back in 2016 ("Why Trump? Why Now?"), the problem with the American Left is that their response to defeat is invariably to insist that the reason they lost is because they weren't Left enough. The fact is that a sharp move toward the center, towards "common centrism," quite possibly could have defeated Trump's bid to regain the White House: at the very least it would have salvaged the integrity of the Democratic Party. As it stands now, the Democrats are without power or integrity, and they have no one to blame for that but themselves.
On that snarky and self-righteous note, I exit "As I Please XXX." When I began this blog eight (or was it nine?) years ago, I never believed I'd last this long in the public space, however modest and shadowed that space might be, but here I am -- and if you happen to be reading this, here we are. And I'd like to say that that it is unimportant whether we agree on everything, or even anything: what matters is that, for now at least, that we remain free to disagree.
Until next time.
February 4, 2025
STORYTELLING AND THE MORAL COMPASS: THE EAGLE HAS LANDED VS. WHERE EAGLES DARE
Today I want to conduct a bit of a thought experiment. The issue is the moral compass as it works in storytelling. The subjects are both bestselling novels which also became hit movies -- "Where Eagles Dare" and "The Eagle Has Landed." I selected these films because of their very close similarities both in terms of genre, setting, time period and general plot points, and because of the sharply different way in which they behave on a purely moral scale. I am interested in the issue both as a storyteller myself, and as a consumer of stories in all formats, and because for some time now I have sensed a general decline in the efficiency of the moral compass as it relates to storytelling, and worry that the audience, too, is losing its ability to make moral judgments -- that it has become morally blind.
To begin with the basics:
"Where Eagles Dare" is a 1968 action suspense film, based on a novel of the same name by Alistair McLean, about a group of Allied commandos who dress up in German uniforms and parachute into the Third Reich, ostensibly to rescue an American general captured by the Nazis.
"The Eagle Has Landed" is a 1975 action suspense movie, based on a novel of the same name by Jack Higgins, about a group of German commandos who parachute into England dressed in Allied uniforms, ostensibly to kidnap Winston Churchill.
The similarity is obvious, but the films differ in two distinct ways. The first is in terms of realism, and the second is in terms of morality. Let us tackle the differences in order, because as it happens, the realism is to some extent an element in the morality of the stories.
"Where Eagles Dare" is realistic at first. The aim of the Allied team is not beyond belief -- commando raids are daring and improbable by nature, after all, which is why the men who carry them out are usually picked so carefully and so highly trained. Nobody exhibits any super-human characteristics, and things go very wrong early on for our putative heroes -- one of their number is murdered by a traitor or traitors within their ranks, and later, the location of two of the commandos, Smith and Schiffer (played by Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood, respectively) is also betrayed by the double agent/s. Things going wrong, especially in military operations, is more likely than things going right, so the first act of the movie seems as realistic as can be expected given the demands of the genre and the movie business generally. However, beginning with the second act, where our protagonists begin making a bloody nuisance of themselves to the Germans, realism goes over the horizon and is ne'er seen again. The Germans, and the British traitors in their pay, prove to be completely helpless once all the scheisse hits the fan: they cannot shoot straight, their guns run out of ammunition at critical moments, they are cowards, they are foolish, they fall for every ruse and feint, leave themselves utterly vulnerable when they should be suspicious, blunder into every ambush, fail to heed any warnings, and die in droves. A more hapless group could not be found outside of the Three Stooges. The needs of the plot simply crush logic at every step. At one point, for example, Smith is shot through the hand by a German soldier. He wraps his hand in a bandage and then, mere minutes later, manages to A) leap off a rapidly moving cable car to another car passing at a slower speed; B) dodge a salvo of bullets fired through the car's roof at point blank range (the traitor conveniently runs out of bullets, something we never see the Allies do though they never stop shooting for the last half an hour of the movie), C) defeat both men in hand to hand combat despite having a bullet smashed hand, D) fix a bomb to the car, and E) leap back to the other car before the bomb goes off. I could go on, but you get the point. A movie that began more or less grounded in the believable becomes a kind if ultraviolent kill fantasy, a first person shooter on God mode with infinite ammo. What does this have to do with morality, you ask? We will answer this in a moment. Let us first go over the second of the two stories.
"The Eagle Has Landed" is as realistic as this sort of film can possibly be. The German commandos, recruited by a character played by Robert Duvall, are under suspended sentence of death from their own government because they tried to save Jews being sent to concentration camps. They are embittered men, now only loyal to their commanding officer, Steiner (Michael Caine), but they are promised a pardon if they pull off their improbable kidnapping mission. Aiding them is an Irish nationalist spy, Devlin (Donald Sutherland) who doesn't care for Germans all that much but hates the British far more. Opposing them are
American Rangers led by the oafish Col. Pitts (Larry Hagman) and his competent underling, Capt. Clarke (Treat Williams). Unlike "Where Eagles Dare," the Germans themselves in "The Eagle Has Landed" are depicted as first-class soldiers with a first-class officer, determined and efficient, even ruthless, but also humane -- their true identity as spies is discovered when one of their members sacrifices his life saving a British child from drowning. Indeed, "Landed" uses the moral compass frequently to remind the audience that while they may not be in sympathy with the Germans' aims, the Germans themselves are quite sympathetic. When combat breaks out between the two sides, the Americans are initially massacred, only the turning the tables when Pitts is mercifully killed off by a German spy and the competent Clarke takes over. This is a realistic depiction of warfare rooted in logic -- the Germans are well-trained, well-lead, and experienced, while the Rangers are well-trained, ineptly lead and inexperienced.
And this leads me to the moral element. "Where Eagles Dare" is a film which takes the stance that the heroes, by virtue of their affiliation (the Allies), are exempt not merely from the rules of war, but from all forms of basic human decency. The putative hero, Smith, seems to be a void of emotion when it comes to slitting throats and shooting people in the back, whereas his sidekick, Schiffer, shows distinctly sadistic qualities, which includes saying smiling and saying "Hi!" before he shoots some unarmed, unsuspecting clerk in the guts, and mocking a German he stabbed in the back for bleeding to death faster because he was afraid. The film's infamous climax features an almost incredibly drawn-out sequence in which Smith kills a double agent who is begging hysterically for mercy: there is even a close up of Smith smashing his boot into the man's face so we can see the blood on his teeth before he falls to his death, his last work, of course being a deafening "PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!"
"The Eagle Has Landed" does not merely contain a moral element, the moral compasses of its various characters are central to the entire story. Devlin, an otherwise rather cruel IRA gunman the Germans employ as their local agent, is partially undone because he falls in love with a local English girl: he should kill her when she tumbles to his identity, but he does not. Steiner, the German commando officer, ends up forced into his role as an assassin for trying to save Jews being sent to extermination by the SS. Sturm, a German sergeant, drowns trying to save an English child from drowning. And -- and this one is crucial -- Steiner instructs his men to violate orders and wear their own German uniforms beneath the Allied ones, so that in the event of discovery they can fight as soldiers and not as spies -- which is exactly what they do. And the final act of the German commandos is to sacrifice themselves so their commander can slip away to make a final effort to get to Churchill. As for the Americans, the Ranger lieutenant makes a brief if impassioned plea to the Germans to surrender without further bloodshed, noting "there's no such thing as death with honor -- just death." He respects his foes and wants to save them if he can, though he is quite willing to kill them if they refuse: a realistic and reasonable attitude.
These contrasts may strike some readers as naive. War, after all, is not conducted entirely, or even partially, according to any conventions or codes. In all wars without exception, all sides bomb civilian targets, murder prisoners of war, employ forms of torture to obtain information, and clothe agents and spies in enemy uniform to seduce, extort, blackmail, and assassinate enemies. The idea that all parties are equally cruel in war is, however, often manifestly untrue, and in any case, for the purposes of fiction, it is always necessary to establish differences between the hero and the villain, or the protagonist and the antagonist. "Where Eagles Dare" assumes that since the heroes are Allies, they can commit any outrage without compunction, where "The Eagles Has Landed" makes sure to let us know from the beginning that the German characters, though technically the bad guys, abide by a strict and uncompromising code.
Now we return to the element of realism, which as it happens is one and the same as morality, though this is hardly obvious at first glance.
I already noted the profound incompetence, cowardice and stupidity of the Germans and their agents in "Where Eagles Dare,"
but this goes hand in hand with the utter invincibility and perfection of the Allied characters, who never miss, never reload, never fail in their courage or resourcefulness, and exhibit super-human qualities whenever super-human qualities are called for. The character is Smith is not only fearless, immune to pain, and able to outfight two men on top of a cable car in freezing temperatures while nursing a bullet wound in his hand as I said before; he is always three steps ahead of all of his enemies and at least two steps ahead of his friends. There is no curve thrown at him he hasn't seen coming and no twist in the story he does not engineer himself. He is all-knowing as well as invincible. And this godlike mix of perfection and power make nonsense of the entire purpose of the story, which is to keep the audience in suspense. How can suspense exist when the hero is on, if I may be permitted to repeat myself again, God mode with infinite ammo? What's more, how can morality exist when the opposing party in a conflict are made up of extra-fallible mortals who not only won't likely win, but cannot win? The entire basis of heroism is courage, but Smith has no fear, so there is no "dare" in this particular eagle. Likewise, the entire basis of morality in film is the redress of power imbalance, i.e. the bullied and downtrodden fighting back, overcoming odds, and finally triumphing materially or morally over those who oppress them. In "Where Eagles Dare" it is not the Allies who are the underdogs, but the Germans. There is no hope for them: they cannot win, cannot even get some of their own back. The last act of the movie reminded me strongly of a bully brutally beating a helpless victim on a playground over and over again, but without even the belated intervention of an adult. It is a fulfillment of a masturbatory power fantasy, indistinguishable in a way from sexual sadism, and, ironically, just the sort of entertainment that would appeal to a fascist mind.
Let me linger on this point for a moment. If we accept Orwell's definition of fascism as "the worship of power" then "Where Eagles Dare" is a fascist film. In it the heroes are not invincible because they are right, they are right because they are invincible. Their legitimacy derives entirely from that invincibility. This is out and out Nazi logic. Ironic, no?
"The Eagle Has Landed," in contrast, presents the German case as nearly hopeless from the outset. The commandos themselves are doomed men already, having been sentenced to death for trying to aid the Jews: their mission, though basically suicidal, offers a glimmer of a chance at pardon. Steiner agrees to the mission only on that basis, and though he handles himself brilliantly, his insistence that his men fight as Germans and not spies ensures that the odds against him will lengthen even further. That pesky sense of morality again! That insistence that honor is more important than the mission, or even survival! This is not a thought that would occur to Major Smith, and certainly not to Lieutenant Schiffer, who in one scene shoots a woman (albeit a nasty one) in the back as she tries to run away from him.
The task of "The Eagle Has Landed" is to make the reader/viewer sympathetic with the German goal -- which is to kidnap Churchill and kill him if he won't be kidnapped. This is a monumental task for an English-speaking audience and the fact it is carried out so successfully comes entirely from fact that Steiner and Devlin are men of honor, even if they are fighting on the wrong side of the line. They are sympathetic because they are human and fallible, because their plans sometimes go awry, because not all of their bullets hit their targets, and because their enemies are not fools. In short, they are the underdogs, and audiences who not worship power for its own sake respond instinctively to the struggle of an underdog. They are not "right" per se, but they are right enough to root for, because they are not invincible.
The decline of morality in society was something Orwell constantly railed about, noting ascerbically that "we root for the big man over the little man, the overdog over the underdog." This, too, was a fascist outlook, a worship of success and power for their own sakes. He saw it metastisizing into the literature of the day, but did not live long enough to see it dominate film, as it did after World War 2 ended. It took some time for the film industry to smash its own moral compass, but it was well on its way to doing this by the time "Where Eagles Dare" was turned into a movie.
It's worth noting that McLean's novel, though convoluted and silly enough in its own right, is not as violent nor as cruel as the film adaptation. As I noted in another blog, Major Smith is considerably less eager to kill people in the book -- he drugs two Germans rather than kill them, and evem pulls an unconscious German soldier out of a burning car (in the movie, Clint Eastwood's character throws an unconscious soldier into that car and then blows it up.) I believe this is because McLean understood that heroes have to behave heroically, which in practical terms means more than just being able to kill large numbers of the enemy -- heroes, by dictionary definition, require a "noble quality," and there is no more noble quality than mercy. Caine's Col. Steiner is described by a Nazi in "Landed" as "intelligent, courageous, ruthless, and a romantic fool." Smith, if similarly appraised, would be all of that minus the "romantic fool" element. But its precisely that element which makes Steiner moral; it is precisely that element which makes him human. The entirety of his nobility lays in the fact that he has limits -- there are things he simply will not do, no matter how much they would help his cause, because either code or conscience will not permit them. Most heroism comes with a tragic element, and Steiner, too, checks this box. Smith, on the other hand, does not have limits, his ends justify any means whatsoever, and in lacking scruples he surrenders all claim to morality, humanity, and nobility. He is simply an infallible killing machine, and therefore neither relatable nor interesting, much less any type of hero.
Now, it may seem that I am making too much of action adventure novels turned into popcorn entertainment films. I disagree. The morality of a society is culturally indicated. Our books, our television shows, our movies, our music and all the rest of it are the best indicators of what we value, and what we abominate. The seeds of an utterly amoral, power-worshipping movie like "Inglourious Basterds" were laid with "Where Eagles Dare" and its ilk. The ectsatic public reaction to that film -- in which, again, the protagonist has no noble qualities, no morality or decency, no sense of honor, and will do anything no matter how bestial to achieve an end, because after all, might makes right, or as the Nazis would say, Sieg Heil! -- goes a long way to showing why the old-fashioned notion that something should differentiate the good guy and the bad guy besides who wins in the end, is very nearly dead indeed.
To begin with the basics:
"Where Eagles Dare" is a 1968 action suspense film, based on a novel of the same name by Alistair McLean, about a group of Allied commandos who dress up in German uniforms and parachute into the Third Reich, ostensibly to rescue an American general captured by the Nazis.
"The Eagle Has Landed" is a 1975 action suspense movie, based on a novel of the same name by Jack Higgins, about a group of German commandos who parachute into England dressed in Allied uniforms, ostensibly to kidnap Winston Churchill.
The similarity is obvious, but the films differ in two distinct ways. The first is in terms of realism, and the second is in terms of morality. Let us tackle the differences in order, because as it happens, the realism is to some extent an element in the morality of the stories.
"Where Eagles Dare" is realistic at first. The aim of the Allied team is not beyond belief -- commando raids are daring and improbable by nature, after all, which is why the men who carry them out are usually picked so carefully and so highly trained. Nobody exhibits any super-human characteristics, and things go very wrong early on for our putative heroes -- one of their number is murdered by a traitor or traitors within their ranks, and later, the location of two of the commandos, Smith and Schiffer (played by Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood, respectively) is also betrayed by the double agent/s. Things going wrong, especially in military operations, is more likely than things going right, so the first act of the movie seems as realistic as can be expected given the demands of the genre and the movie business generally. However, beginning with the second act, where our protagonists begin making a bloody nuisance of themselves to the Germans, realism goes over the horizon and is ne'er seen again. The Germans, and the British traitors in their pay, prove to be completely helpless once all the scheisse hits the fan: they cannot shoot straight, their guns run out of ammunition at critical moments, they are cowards, they are foolish, they fall for every ruse and feint, leave themselves utterly vulnerable when they should be suspicious, blunder into every ambush, fail to heed any warnings, and die in droves. A more hapless group could not be found outside of the Three Stooges. The needs of the plot simply crush logic at every step. At one point, for example, Smith is shot through the hand by a German soldier. He wraps his hand in a bandage and then, mere minutes later, manages to A) leap off a rapidly moving cable car to another car passing at a slower speed; B) dodge a salvo of bullets fired through the car's roof at point blank range (the traitor conveniently runs out of bullets, something we never see the Allies do though they never stop shooting for the last half an hour of the movie), C) defeat both men in hand to hand combat despite having a bullet smashed hand, D) fix a bomb to the car, and E) leap back to the other car before the bomb goes off. I could go on, but you get the point. A movie that began more or less grounded in the believable becomes a kind if ultraviolent kill fantasy, a first person shooter on God mode with infinite ammo. What does this have to do with morality, you ask? We will answer this in a moment. Let us first go over the second of the two stories.
"The Eagle Has Landed" is as realistic as this sort of film can possibly be. The German commandos, recruited by a character played by Robert Duvall, are under suspended sentence of death from their own government because they tried to save Jews being sent to concentration camps. They are embittered men, now only loyal to their commanding officer, Steiner (Michael Caine), but they are promised a pardon if they pull off their improbable kidnapping mission. Aiding them is an Irish nationalist spy, Devlin (Donald Sutherland) who doesn't care for Germans all that much but hates the British far more. Opposing them are
American Rangers led by the oafish Col. Pitts (Larry Hagman) and his competent underling, Capt. Clarke (Treat Williams). Unlike "Where Eagles Dare," the Germans themselves in "The Eagle Has Landed" are depicted as first-class soldiers with a first-class officer, determined and efficient, even ruthless, but also humane -- their true identity as spies is discovered when one of their members sacrifices his life saving a British child from drowning. Indeed, "Landed" uses the moral compass frequently to remind the audience that while they may not be in sympathy with the Germans' aims, the Germans themselves are quite sympathetic. When combat breaks out between the two sides, the Americans are initially massacred, only the turning the tables when Pitts is mercifully killed off by a German spy and the competent Clarke takes over. This is a realistic depiction of warfare rooted in logic -- the Germans are well-trained, well-lead, and experienced, while the Rangers are well-trained, ineptly lead and inexperienced.
And this leads me to the moral element. "Where Eagles Dare" is a film which takes the stance that the heroes, by virtue of their affiliation (the Allies), are exempt not merely from the rules of war, but from all forms of basic human decency. The putative hero, Smith, seems to be a void of emotion when it comes to slitting throats and shooting people in the back, whereas his sidekick, Schiffer, shows distinctly sadistic qualities, which includes saying smiling and saying "Hi!" before he shoots some unarmed, unsuspecting clerk in the guts, and mocking a German he stabbed in the back for bleeding to death faster because he was afraid. The film's infamous climax features an almost incredibly drawn-out sequence in which Smith kills a double agent who is begging hysterically for mercy: there is even a close up of Smith smashing his boot into the man's face so we can see the blood on his teeth before he falls to his death, his last work, of course being a deafening "PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!"
"The Eagle Has Landed" does not merely contain a moral element, the moral compasses of its various characters are central to the entire story. Devlin, an otherwise rather cruel IRA gunman the Germans employ as their local agent, is partially undone because he falls in love with a local English girl: he should kill her when she tumbles to his identity, but he does not. Steiner, the German commando officer, ends up forced into his role as an assassin for trying to save Jews being sent to extermination by the SS. Sturm, a German sergeant, drowns trying to save an English child from drowning. And -- and this one is crucial -- Steiner instructs his men to violate orders and wear their own German uniforms beneath the Allied ones, so that in the event of discovery they can fight as soldiers and not as spies -- which is exactly what they do. And the final act of the German commandos is to sacrifice themselves so their commander can slip away to make a final effort to get to Churchill. As for the Americans, the Ranger lieutenant makes a brief if impassioned plea to the Germans to surrender without further bloodshed, noting "there's no such thing as death with honor -- just death." He respects his foes and wants to save them if he can, though he is quite willing to kill them if they refuse: a realistic and reasonable attitude.
These contrasts may strike some readers as naive. War, after all, is not conducted entirely, or even partially, according to any conventions or codes. In all wars without exception, all sides bomb civilian targets, murder prisoners of war, employ forms of torture to obtain information, and clothe agents and spies in enemy uniform to seduce, extort, blackmail, and assassinate enemies. The idea that all parties are equally cruel in war is, however, often manifestly untrue, and in any case, for the purposes of fiction, it is always necessary to establish differences between the hero and the villain, or the protagonist and the antagonist. "Where Eagles Dare" assumes that since the heroes are Allies, they can commit any outrage without compunction, where "The Eagles Has Landed" makes sure to let us know from the beginning that the German characters, though technically the bad guys, abide by a strict and uncompromising code.
Now we return to the element of realism, which as it happens is one and the same as morality, though this is hardly obvious at first glance.
I already noted the profound incompetence, cowardice and stupidity of the Germans and their agents in "Where Eagles Dare,"
but this goes hand in hand with the utter invincibility and perfection of the Allied characters, who never miss, never reload, never fail in their courage or resourcefulness, and exhibit super-human qualities whenever super-human qualities are called for. The character is Smith is not only fearless, immune to pain, and able to outfight two men on top of a cable car in freezing temperatures while nursing a bullet wound in his hand as I said before; he is always three steps ahead of all of his enemies and at least two steps ahead of his friends. There is no curve thrown at him he hasn't seen coming and no twist in the story he does not engineer himself. He is all-knowing as well as invincible. And this godlike mix of perfection and power make nonsense of the entire purpose of the story, which is to keep the audience in suspense. How can suspense exist when the hero is on, if I may be permitted to repeat myself again, God mode with infinite ammo? What's more, how can morality exist when the opposing party in a conflict are made up of extra-fallible mortals who not only won't likely win, but cannot win? The entire basis of heroism is courage, but Smith has no fear, so there is no "dare" in this particular eagle. Likewise, the entire basis of morality in film is the redress of power imbalance, i.e. the bullied and downtrodden fighting back, overcoming odds, and finally triumphing materially or morally over those who oppress them. In "Where Eagles Dare" it is not the Allies who are the underdogs, but the Germans. There is no hope for them: they cannot win, cannot even get some of their own back. The last act of the movie reminded me strongly of a bully brutally beating a helpless victim on a playground over and over again, but without even the belated intervention of an adult. It is a fulfillment of a masturbatory power fantasy, indistinguishable in a way from sexual sadism, and, ironically, just the sort of entertainment that would appeal to a fascist mind.
Let me linger on this point for a moment. If we accept Orwell's definition of fascism as "the worship of power" then "Where Eagles Dare" is a fascist film. In it the heroes are not invincible because they are right, they are right because they are invincible. Their legitimacy derives entirely from that invincibility. This is out and out Nazi logic. Ironic, no?
"The Eagle Has Landed," in contrast, presents the German case as nearly hopeless from the outset. The commandos themselves are doomed men already, having been sentenced to death for trying to aid the Jews: their mission, though basically suicidal, offers a glimmer of a chance at pardon. Steiner agrees to the mission only on that basis, and though he handles himself brilliantly, his insistence that his men fight as Germans and not spies ensures that the odds against him will lengthen even further. That pesky sense of morality again! That insistence that honor is more important than the mission, or even survival! This is not a thought that would occur to Major Smith, and certainly not to Lieutenant Schiffer, who in one scene shoots a woman (albeit a nasty one) in the back as she tries to run away from him.
The task of "The Eagle Has Landed" is to make the reader/viewer sympathetic with the German goal -- which is to kidnap Churchill and kill him if he won't be kidnapped. This is a monumental task for an English-speaking audience and the fact it is carried out so successfully comes entirely from fact that Steiner and Devlin are men of honor, even if they are fighting on the wrong side of the line. They are sympathetic because they are human and fallible, because their plans sometimes go awry, because not all of their bullets hit their targets, and because their enemies are not fools. In short, they are the underdogs, and audiences who not worship power for its own sake respond instinctively to the struggle of an underdog. They are not "right" per se, but they are right enough to root for, because they are not invincible.
The decline of morality in society was something Orwell constantly railed about, noting ascerbically that "we root for the big man over the little man, the overdog over the underdog." This, too, was a fascist outlook, a worship of success and power for their own sakes. He saw it metastisizing into the literature of the day, but did not live long enough to see it dominate film, as it did after World War 2 ended. It took some time for the film industry to smash its own moral compass, but it was well on its way to doing this by the time "Where Eagles Dare" was turned into a movie.
It's worth noting that McLean's novel, though convoluted and silly enough in its own right, is not as violent nor as cruel as the film adaptation. As I noted in another blog, Major Smith is considerably less eager to kill people in the book -- he drugs two Germans rather than kill them, and evem pulls an unconscious German soldier out of a burning car (in the movie, Clint Eastwood's character throws an unconscious soldier into that car and then blows it up.) I believe this is because McLean understood that heroes have to behave heroically, which in practical terms means more than just being able to kill large numbers of the enemy -- heroes, by dictionary definition, require a "noble quality," and there is no more noble quality than mercy. Caine's Col. Steiner is described by a Nazi in "Landed" as "intelligent, courageous, ruthless, and a romantic fool." Smith, if similarly appraised, would be all of that minus the "romantic fool" element. But its precisely that element which makes Steiner moral; it is precisely that element which makes him human. The entirety of his nobility lays in the fact that he has limits -- there are things he simply will not do, no matter how much they would help his cause, because either code or conscience will not permit them. Most heroism comes with a tragic element, and Steiner, too, checks this box. Smith, on the other hand, does not have limits, his ends justify any means whatsoever, and in lacking scruples he surrenders all claim to morality, humanity, and nobility. He is simply an infallible killing machine, and therefore neither relatable nor interesting, much less any type of hero.
Now, it may seem that I am making too much of action adventure novels turned into popcorn entertainment films. I disagree. The morality of a society is culturally indicated. Our books, our television shows, our movies, our music and all the rest of it are the best indicators of what we value, and what we abominate. The seeds of an utterly amoral, power-worshipping movie like "Inglourious Basterds" were laid with "Where Eagles Dare" and its ilk. The ectsatic public reaction to that film -- in which, again, the protagonist has no noble qualities, no morality or decency, no sense of honor, and will do anything no matter how bestial to achieve an end, because after all, might makes right, or as the Nazis would say, Sieg Heil! -- goes a long way to showing why the old-fashioned notion that something should differentiate the good guy and the bad guy besides who wins in the end, is very nearly dead indeed.
January 29, 2025
MEMORY LANE: REMEMBERING "A FAMILY AT WAR"
Memory Lane is a long and winding road. Some of the houses that stand alongside it require only a short walk; we can visit without breaking a sweat, have a faintly nostalgic look around, and be home before the sun goes down -- indeed, before lunch is on the table. With others, however, it's best to pack that lunch, along with a thermos, a lantern, and a sturdy pair of walking shoes, because they do not reside in this millennium. Indeed, they are to be found near the end of the Lane, in that frighteningly long-ago decade known as the 1970s. When we visit such places, we'd best be prepared to come home in the dark.
A FAMILY AT WAR is not likely to trigger the memory of Americans reading this. It was a British production produced by Granada Television, which ran from 1970 - 1972 on the BBC, and until recently it was incredibly difficult to find: even now, most streaming services idiotically only carry the first of its three series (seasons, in American lingo). If you are willing to make the effort, however -- and I did, obtaining bootleg Region 1 DVDs which had to be shipped to me from Australia -- it is well worth your time. FAMILY is a near-perfect representation of what British TV did regularly for decades before it succumbed in part to the bizarre ideologies of today: make damned good entertainment on a shoestring budget.
A FAMILY AT WAR chronicles the lives of the sprawling Ashton family, a lower middle-class clan from Liverpool, before, during, and immediately after World War 2, focusing on the hardships of "the home front" -- bombing, rationing, shortages, war profiteering, and the collapse of moral standards -- rather than combat, though a handful of memorable episodes do take us to places like North Africa, Spain, France, the North Sea and the flak-filled air over Germany. It was created by John Finch, who, IMDB tells us, "states he only wrote the original treatment as a ruse to be invited to the annual Granada conference where new drama ideas were discussed." Well, the ruse worked. Essentially a wartime soap opera, FAMILY boasted a huge ensemble cast, and was shot mostly -- but not entirely -- on soundstages, seldom venturing on location. Many of the best British productions of the 60s, 70s and 80s were remarkably low budget, with the delightful side-effect that the plots, dialogue and acting had to be first-rate to retain audience interest.
There are too many characters in FAMILY to list in detail, but in essence the story was held together by the Ashton patriarch, Edwin (Colin Douglas): a kindly, forebearing, hard-working man who married above his class when he wedded Jean (Shelagh Fraser), his seemingly doting wife. The two have five children, the oldest of which, David (Colin Campbell) is an absolute menace -- a selfish, philandering, drunken, self-pitying, rage-filled skirt chaser who bristles with class resentment and naturally volunteers for the Royal Air Force when the war breaks out, proving to be a much better soldier than he is a son, husband or human being. The others include Margaret (Lesley Nunnery), whose husband goes MIA in France while she is pregnant; and Philip (Keith Drinkel) a thoughtful veteran of the Spanish Civil War who finds the British Army somewhat more difficult to deal with.
A great deal of the conflict in the series, as well as much of its humor, is provided by Sefton Briggs (John McKelvey), Jean's cheap, scheming, greedy older brother, who cares not one damn about the war and lives to increase his wealth in underhanded ways. He's the sort of manipulative sneak who will steal your fingers while you're shaking hands. Sefton is continually opposed by his exasperated son Tony (T.R. Bowen), who always hovers on the brink of estrangement from his wicked old man, but can never quite make the break.
FAMILY is of course a soap opera, so there are tawdry affairs, abortive pregnancies, long-missing spouses thought to be dead who turn up at inconvenient moments, and a certain amount of drama for drama's sake. However, beneath the surface there is a great deal going on. The war is presented as it really was to working and lower middle class people in Britain: a calamity, and the attitudes of the Ashtons and their friends, lovers and in-laws reflects the full range. Edwin, a veteran of WW1, is both patriotic and deeply dubious of the necessity of war. Philip is so opposed to Fascism he fights for the Republican side during the Spanish Civil War, but returns confused and disillusioned, a feeling that persists when he joins the British army. Sefton regards the war as an opportunity to make money, while David sees the RAF as the means by which he will escape the drudgery of his working-class existence. Some of the female characters, like David's wife Sheila (Coral Atkins), suffer agonies trying to keep their families intact as social roles shift and already shaky marriages are tested by separation, scarcity, and in Jean's case, by the revelation of long-buried secrets. Other characters are conscientious objectors, pacifists, socialists, communists, fascist sympathizers and war profiteers, and each is given a full and reasonably fair hearing for their viewpoint. The whole "greatest generation" myth which is sold in America like a commodity is not so much exploded here as simply ignored. The Ashtons are not heroes. They are not villains. They are wholly ordinary people subjected to a catastrophe which was not of their making and which they try to navigate as best they can. Sometimes they cheat the ration system. Sometimes they question the need for the war. Sometimes they feel disgust at the bombing of German cities or pine or a negotiated settlement with Hitler which will end the carnage and return them to normal life. But of course there will be no return to normalcy for the Ashtons when the war ends. They have lost too much, suffered too much, grown and changed and experienced too much, to ever be the same again, and in that sense they are quite deliberately a metaphor for Britain itself.
I would be remiss if I didn't give special mention to Colin Douglas for his earthy, workmanlike, quietly charming performance as Edwin, the son of a dirtpoor coal-miner who married above his station and discovered, 30 years into the marriage, that his wife rather looks down on him, some of his kids are really screwed up, and his brother-in-law/boss Sefton has been grifting the bejeezus out of him since B.C. Throughout the calamity of the war, which visits every form of personal agony upon him, Douglas portrays Edwin as a good and kindly man, decent to the bone, not a saint by any means, but with an essential dencency and dignity which is deeply touching to witness. Douglas, a real-life WW2 vet who saw some the heaviest imaginable combat in Sicily and Holland, manages to hint at Edwin's deeper trauma without ever discussing it. It's a quietly masterful performance, complimented by the delightful, cartoonish villainy of McKelvey's Sefton, and the fiery mix of self-pity, class resentment and selfishness that Campbell's David brings to the table.
One of the great nerdly pleasures of watching FAMILY is picking out the faces of actors who later appeared on much more famous programs and movies. Fun fact: a staggering number of people who would perform important roles on other classic series, including:
Colin Douglas - Doctor Who
Shelagh Fraser - Star Wars
John Nettles - Midsomer Murders, Bergerac
Patrick Troughton - Doctor Who (the character himself! #2)
Wanda Ventham - Doctor Who, Invasion: UFO
Kenneth Colley - The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi
Mark Jones - The Empire Strikes Back, Doctor Who
William Marlowe - Doctor Who
I could go on, but you get the point. There's a ton of talent here, much of it seen at the beginning of its career. Afficianados of sci-fi in particular will delight in this.
So...where does that leave us? What is the legacy of A FAMILY AT WAR, a half-century after it drew its final curtain? Why are we here in this drafty old house in Liverpool, hiding under the dinner table while the German bombs fall around us?
I have no idea what influence FAMILY had (or did not) on British television. I can say that it had a great influence on me, because it presented a glorified and much-mythologized war in a realistic way, a sort of low-budget cinema verite that showed that for most people, the war was dreary, frightening, boring, frustrating, anxiety-inducing, and seemed to be ripping the fabric of society apart. That it was an opportunity for some and a tragedy for others but almost everyone wanted to it end, preferably at once. That the people who fought it came home and often discovered, and right quick, that they were already in the process of being screwed over and forgotten by the upper classes whose power they had fought to maintain.
It proved as well -- as if the thing needed proving, though it does need periodic reminder -- that dialogue-driven, character-heavy stories can be just as entertaining as those driven by action and sex. And that big budgets are completely unnecessary if you have the right idea, the right script, and the right actors. That human stories will always beat CGI. This is a lesson Hollywood would do well to take to heart, and for that reason alone, A FAMILY AT WAR is worth a watch.
A FAMILY AT WAR is not likely to trigger the memory of Americans reading this. It was a British production produced by Granada Television, which ran from 1970 - 1972 on the BBC, and until recently it was incredibly difficult to find: even now, most streaming services idiotically only carry the first of its three series (seasons, in American lingo). If you are willing to make the effort, however -- and I did, obtaining bootleg Region 1 DVDs which had to be shipped to me from Australia -- it is well worth your time. FAMILY is a near-perfect representation of what British TV did regularly for decades before it succumbed in part to the bizarre ideologies of today: make damned good entertainment on a shoestring budget.
A FAMILY AT WAR chronicles the lives of the sprawling Ashton family, a lower middle-class clan from Liverpool, before, during, and immediately after World War 2, focusing on the hardships of "the home front" -- bombing, rationing, shortages, war profiteering, and the collapse of moral standards -- rather than combat, though a handful of memorable episodes do take us to places like North Africa, Spain, France, the North Sea and the flak-filled air over Germany. It was created by John Finch, who, IMDB tells us, "states he only wrote the original treatment as a ruse to be invited to the annual Granada conference where new drama ideas were discussed." Well, the ruse worked. Essentially a wartime soap opera, FAMILY boasted a huge ensemble cast, and was shot mostly -- but not entirely -- on soundstages, seldom venturing on location. Many of the best British productions of the 60s, 70s and 80s were remarkably low budget, with the delightful side-effect that the plots, dialogue and acting had to be first-rate to retain audience interest.
There are too many characters in FAMILY to list in detail, but in essence the story was held together by the Ashton patriarch, Edwin (Colin Douglas): a kindly, forebearing, hard-working man who married above his class when he wedded Jean (Shelagh Fraser), his seemingly doting wife. The two have five children, the oldest of which, David (Colin Campbell) is an absolute menace -- a selfish, philandering, drunken, self-pitying, rage-filled skirt chaser who bristles with class resentment and naturally volunteers for the Royal Air Force when the war breaks out, proving to be a much better soldier than he is a son, husband or human being. The others include Margaret (Lesley Nunnery), whose husband goes MIA in France while she is pregnant; and Philip (Keith Drinkel) a thoughtful veteran of the Spanish Civil War who finds the British Army somewhat more difficult to deal with.
A great deal of the conflict in the series, as well as much of its humor, is provided by Sefton Briggs (John McKelvey), Jean's cheap, scheming, greedy older brother, who cares not one damn about the war and lives to increase his wealth in underhanded ways. He's the sort of manipulative sneak who will steal your fingers while you're shaking hands. Sefton is continually opposed by his exasperated son Tony (T.R. Bowen), who always hovers on the brink of estrangement from his wicked old man, but can never quite make the break.
FAMILY is of course a soap opera, so there are tawdry affairs, abortive pregnancies, long-missing spouses thought to be dead who turn up at inconvenient moments, and a certain amount of drama for drama's sake. However, beneath the surface there is a great deal going on. The war is presented as it really was to working and lower middle class people in Britain: a calamity, and the attitudes of the Ashtons and their friends, lovers and in-laws reflects the full range. Edwin, a veteran of WW1, is both patriotic and deeply dubious of the necessity of war. Philip is so opposed to Fascism he fights for the Republican side during the Spanish Civil War, but returns confused and disillusioned, a feeling that persists when he joins the British army. Sefton regards the war as an opportunity to make money, while David sees the RAF as the means by which he will escape the drudgery of his working-class existence. Some of the female characters, like David's wife Sheila (Coral Atkins), suffer agonies trying to keep their families intact as social roles shift and already shaky marriages are tested by separation, scarcity, and in Jean's case, by the revelation of long-buried secrets. Other characters are conscientious objectors, pacifists, socialists, communists, fascist sympathizers and war profiteers, and each is given a full and reasonably fair hearing for their viewpoint. The whole "greatest generation" myth which is sold in America like a commodity is not so much exploded here as simply ignored. The Ashtons are not heroes. They are not villains. They are wholly ordinary people subjected to a catastrophe which was not of their making and which they try to navigate as best they can. Sometimes they cheat the ration system. Sometimes they question the need for the war. Sometimes they feel disgust at the bombing of German cities or pine or a negotiated settlement with Hitler which will end the carnage and return them to normal life. But of course there will be no return to normalcy for the Ashtons when the war ends. They have lost too much, suffered too much, grown and changed and experienced too much, to ever be the same again, and in that sense they are quite deliberately a metaphor for Britain itself.
I would be remiss if I didn't give special mention to Colin Douglas for his earthy, workmanlike, quietly charming performance as Edwin, the son of a dirtpoor coal-miner who married above his station and discovered, 30 years into the marriage, that his wife rather looks down on him, some of his kids are really screwed up, and his brother-in-law/boss Sefton has been grifting the bejeezus out of him since B.C. Throughout the calamity of the war, which visits every form of personal agony upon him, Douglas portrays Edwin as a good and kindly man, decent to the bone, not a saint by any means, but with an essential dencency and dignity which is deeply touching to witness. Douglas, a real-life WW2 vet who saw some the heaviest imaginable combat in Sicily and Holland, manages to hint at Edwin's deeper trauma without ever discussing it. It's a quietly masterful performance, complimented by the delightful, cartoonish villainy of McKelvey's Sefton, and the fiery mix of self-pity, class resentment and selfishness that Campbell's David brings to the table.
One of the great nerdly pleasures of watching FAMILY is picking out the faces of actors who later appeared on much more famous programs and movies. Fun fact: a staggering number of people who would perform important roles on other classic series, including:
Colin Douglas - Doctor Who
Shelagh Fraser - Star Wars
John Nettles - Midsomer Murders, Bergerac
Patrick Troughton - Doctor Who (the character himself! #2)
Wanda Ventham - Doctor Who, Invasion: UFO
Kenneth Colley - The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi
Mark Jones - The Empire Strikes Back, Doctor Who
William Marlowe - Doctor Who
I could go on, but you get the point. There's a ton of talent here, much of it seen at the beginning of its career. Afficianados of sci-fi in particular will delight in this.
So...where does that leave us? What is the legacy of A FAMILY AT WAR, a half-century after it drew its final curtain? Why are we here in this drafty old house in Liverpool, hiding under the dinner table while the German bombs fall around us?
I have no idea what influence FAMILY had (or did not) on British television. I can say that it had a great influence on me, because it presented a glorified and much-mythologized war in a realistic way, a sort of low-budget cinema verite that showed that for most people, the war was dreary, frightening, boring, frustrating, anxiety-inducing, and seemed to be ripping the fabric of society apart. That it was an opportunity for some and a tragedy for others but almost everyone wanted to it end, preferably at once. That the people who fought it came home and often discovered, and right quick, that they were already in the process of being screwed over and forgotten by the upper classes whose power they had fought to maintain.
It proved as well -- as if the thing needed proving, though it does need periodic reminder -- that dialogue-driven, character-heavy stories can be just as entertaining as those driven by action and sex. And that big budgets are completely unnecessary if you have the right idea, the right script, and the right actors. That human stories will always beat CGI. This is a lesson Hollywood would do well to take to heart, and for that reason alone, A FAMILY AT WAR is worth a watch.
January 18, 2025
AS I PLEASE XXIX
My first "As I Please" of 2025 finds me digesting the dinner I cooked (mashed sweet potatoes with fried onion crisps, roasted broccoli, roasted BBQ chicken), and reading the weather report. We're due for something like 5" - 7" inches of snow tomorrow. This got me thinking, in the rambling, ADHD, stream-of-consciousness manner of writers, about a whole slew of nonsense which I will now share.
* When I lived in California, the thing I most missed about the East was the change of seasons. In Southern California, there were only one and a half seasons. One I called Summer, and the other, Not Summer. Summer was what you'd expect. Not Summer was a kind of slovenly version of autumn -- autumn with most of the virtues left out. A sloppy, wet, coldish, bleak half-season which wanted to be something definite but never quite achieved that definite status. Now I'm back East, and we're getting the most definite winter I've experienced since 2007, and boy, am I a mess. My skin is powder. My sinuses ache. My eyes have Samsonite luggage beneath them, which seems to be caused by allergies, though nobody can tell me whatallergies since all the goddamn plants are dead. The snow and ice from the last storm hasn't melted and now we're gonna get slammed again. "Be careful what you wish for" is perhaps the most useful of all the ostensibly worn-out, dumb, overused cliches in existence.
* Yesterday I went hiking in the Nature Preserve. I go there a lot because it's wild country, full of hills and streams and little ponds, and generally empty. The first time I went hiking there I go so lost it took me hours to find a road, any road, that I could follow back to my car. That was in summer, and I've been very careful to pay attention where I am at all times and memorize numerous landmarks. Unfortunately, this technique is useless in winter when the trees are bare, some have fallen, and snow covers everything. I got very, very lost, and just before sunset, no less. I won't say I panicked, but I will say being lost in the deeps of the woods when it's just above freezing, the ground is icy, you don't know where you are, your cell phone is at 42% so the flashlight feature won't burn long, etc., etc. definitely knocked on some primal fears of mine. I love the woods, I love nature, I actually enjoy being muddy and don't mind bruises and cuts on my knuckles, but I am not, nor do I pretend to be, a woodsman or a country boy. I'm a suburban kid who has spent adult life in big cities or large towns. When I finally found the right track, the relief I felt was comical, as I had visions of becoming the picked-over heap of bones and moldering deer fur I use as a landmark.
* Speaking of demise, among the celebrity deaths of the last few days were David Lynch, Bob Eucker and Christopher Benjamin. All of these saddened me for different, selfish reasons, so quick note about each:
* Lynch was a cinematic icon -- perhaps iconoclast might be a better term, since he hardly fit the mold of a "Hollywood director." Indeed, he was anything but Hollywood. Quirky, offbeat, original, totally uncommercial, he was one of those artists whose impact was felt the most keenly by people who didn't know who he was or watch anything he made. They just loved the things those he influenced made. TWIN PEAKS was bizzare, discursive, inaccessible, occasionally incomprehensible, and in short, destroyed the prefabricated concept of what a network television show could be. For that alone he is owed a huge debt. He also had one of the best reputations in the business, and I have that on very good authority -- from crew members who worked with him.
* Bob Eucker was the Rodney Dangerfield of baseball. A former pro player who became a commentator, actor and de facto comedian, he made a second -- third? fourth? fifth? -- career of making fun of himself in commercials, especially the legendary "I must be in the front rowwwww" Miller Lite commercial that is branded on the cerebral cortex of every Gen Xer out there. We just loved that guy.
* Christopher Benjamin was a British character actor with a list of credits that goes back to Christ. He was one of those guys who was in everything, and always gave a great and memorable performance, but never extruded into the script or got in the way of the stars he was supporting. He managed to stand out without upstaging, which is goddamned difficult to do. He was in ZULU with Michael Caine back in the 60s. He chewed scene for scene (with absolute genius) with the great Tom Baker in the all-time classic DOCTOR WHO episode "The Talons of Weng-Chiang" in the 70s. He managed to easily hold his own against the megalithic talent of Jeremy Brett in the Grenada SHERLOCK HOLMES in the 80s. He provided a kindly, Fezziwig-type figure in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE in the 90s and showed up in FOYLE'S WAR and THE MIDSOMER MURDERS in the 00s. The list of classic films and television shows he appeared in was staggering, as was the list of stars and top flight actors he worked with, and toward the end of his life he even cranked out 55 episodes of the DOCTOR WHO spinoff Podcast series JAGO & LITEFOOT, reprising his "Weng-Chiang" character of Henry Gordon Jago. Just an absolute legend in his field.
* When I was in college, I quite literally couldn't boil water. I didn't know how to use a hotpot or even make Ramen noodles. It was pathetic. By my junior year I was a fair hand in the kitchen or at the grill, but only in the last three or four years have I learned to elevate my skills to the point where I can cook a turkey without giving anyone salmonella, have a thick recipe book, and feel comfortable tackling more complex dishes without the fire department showing up. I mention this because it's proof of how much we limit ourselves in life by starting sentences with "I can't ----" or "I'll never ----." For years I dreamed of having a YouTube channel, but I kept telling myself there was too much technology involved, that I didn't know how to edit, that I didn't understand keywords or hashtags or search optimization, etc. and so on. Then one day I took the first small step. Then another. Then another. Before long I was there -- idea had become very modest reality. And now my little hobby channel, which I anticipated might have 100 subscribers by the end of this month, is one short of 400 and has over 40,000 total views -- a going concern, however modest. There is no task that cannot be completed if you break it down into small enough components.
* One interesting thing about YouTube is you open yourself to all sorts of commentary and attack, some of it quite vicious. It doesn't bother me in the least. I thank my writing experience for this. When I first began publishing in 2016, I tried to steel myself against the inevitable reader who came away less than satisfied by my work. I got considerably less hate, or even dislike, than I was expecting, but the random flak bursts I did receive always hurt. Over time, I came to see a lot of this criticism as a gross positive. Not only did it thicken my skin -- and thick skin is something every writer needs -- it opened up my mind to the idea that some criticisms are valuable even if tactlessly delivered. On a petty level, it also gave me the satisfaction of knowing that anyone who is trying to get under my skin is only doing so because I got under theirs first.
That about empties the brain bucket for today. But I'd like to accounce that SOMETHING EVIL: VOLUME I: BOOKS 1 & 2 are now available on Amazon for pre-order. I am going to write a separate, dedicated blog about this in a day or so, but feel free to check out the link below. As some of you are already aware, I am an afficianado of sorts of horror, but I haven't delved too deeply into it myself as a writer -- my short-story collection DEVILS YOU KNOW was a Hoffer Award Finalist, and I'm quite fond of my independent short story "The Brute," but SOMETHING EVIL is quite different -- a full-on assault on the genre, inspired by Stephen King's IT and Clive Barker's BOOKS OF BLOOD, it's a three volume, six-book series which pits a large cast of characters against an ancient, supernatural evil. Combining supernatural and slasher vibes with a more philosophical exploration of the nature of evil and the way evil plays out in each of us (even "good people"), it was a work a quarter century in the making. Anyway, if you've a mind to scare yourself, links are below.
SOMETHING EVIL: VOLUME I: BOOKS 1 & 2
Devils You Know
The Brute
* When I lived in California, the thing I most missed about the East was the change of seasons. In Southern California, there were only one and a half seasons. One I called Summer, and the other, Not Summer. Summer was what you'd expect. Not Summer was a kind of slovenly version of autumn -- autumn with most of the virtues left out. A sloppy, wet, coldish, bleak half-season which wanted to be something definite but never quite achieved that definite status. Now I'm back East, and we're getting the most definite winter I've experienced since 2007, and boy, am I a mess. My skin is powder. My sinuses ache. My eyes have Samsonite luggage beneath them, which seems to be caused by allergies, though nobody can tell me whatallergies since all the goddamn plants are dead. The snow and ice from the last storm hasn't melted and now we're gonna get slammed again. "Be careful what you wish for" is perhaps the most useful of all the ostensibly worn-out, dumb, overused cliches in existence.
* Yesterday I went hiking in the Nature Preserve. I go there a lot because it's wild country, full of hills and streams and little ponds, and generally empty. The first time I went hiking there I go so lost it took me hours to find a road, any road, that I could follow back to my car. That was in summer, and I've been very careful to pay attention where I am at all times and memorize numerous landmarks. Unfortunately, this technique is useless in winter when the trees are bare, some have fallen, and snow covers everything. I got very, very lost, and just before sunset, no less. I won't say I panicked, but I will say being lost in the deeps of the woods when it's just above freezing, the ground is icy, you don't know where you are, your cell phone is at 42% so the flashlight feature won't burn long, etc., etc. definitely knocked on some primal fears of mine. I love the woods, I love nature, I actually enjoy being muddy and don't mind bruises and cuts on my knuckles, but I am not, nor do I pretend to be, a woodsman or a country boy. I'm a suburban kid who has spent adult life in big cities or large towns. When I finally found the right track, the relief I felt was comical, as I had visions of becoming the picked-over heap of bones and moldering deer fur I use as a landmark.
* Speaking of demise, among the celebrity deaths of the last few days were David Lynch, Bob Eucker and Christopher Benjamin. All of these saddened me for different, selfish reasons, so quick note about each:
* Lynch was a cinematic icon -- perhaps iconoclast might be a better term, since he hardly fit the mold of a "Hollywood director." Indeed, he was anything but Hollywood. Quirky, offbeat, original, totally uncommercial, he was one of those artists whose impact was felt the most keenly by people who didn't know who he was or watch anything he made. They just loved the things those he influenced made. TWIN PEAKS was bizzare, discursive, inaccessible, occasionally incomprehensible, and in short, destroyed the prefabricated concept of what a network television show could be. For that alone he is owed a huge debt. He also had one of the best reputations in the business, and I have that on very good authority -- from crew members who worked with him.
* Bob Eucker was the Rodney Dangerfield of baseball. A former pro player who became a commentator, actor and de facto comedian, he made a second -- third? fourth? fifth? -- career of making fun of himself in commercials, especially the legendary "I must be in the front rowwwww" Miller Lite commercial that is branded on the cerebral cortex of every Gen Xer out there. We just loved that guy.
* Christopher Benjamin was a British character actor with a list of credits that goes back to Christ. He was one of those guys who was in everything, and always gave a great and memorable performance, but never extruded into the script or got in the way of the stars he was supporting. He managed to stand out without upstaging, which is goddamned difficult to do. He was in ZULU with Michael Caine back in the 60s. He chewed scene for scene (with absolute genius) with the great Tom Baker in the all-time classic DOCTOR WHO episode "The Talons of Weng-Chiang" in the 70s. He managed to easily hold his own against the megalithic talent of Jeremy Brett in the Grenada SHERLOCK HOLMES in the 80s. He provided a kindly, Fezziwig-type figure in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE in the 90s and showed up in FOYLE'S WAR and THE MIDSOMER MURDERS in the 00s. The list of classic films and television shows he appeared in was staggering, as was the list of stars and top flight actors he worked with, and toward the end of his life he even cranked out 55 episodes of the DOCTOR WHO spinoff Podcast series JAGO & LITEFOOT, reprising his "Weng-Chiang" character of Henry Gordon Jago. Just an absolute legend in his field.
* When I was in college, I quite literally couldn't boil water. I didn't know how to use a hotpot or even make Ramen noodles. It was pathetic. By my junior year I was a fair hand in the kitchen or at the grill, but only in the last three or four years have I learned to elevate my skills to the point where I can cook a turkey without giving anyone salmonella, have a thick recipe book, and feel comfortable tackling more complex dishes without the fire department showing up. I mention this because it's proof of how much we limit ourselves in life by starting sentences with "I can't ----" or "I'll never ----." For years I dreamed of having a YouTube channel, but I kept telling myself there was too much technology involved, that I didn't know how to edit, that I didn't understand keywords or hashtags or search optimization, etc. and so on. Then one day I took the first small step. Then another. Then another. Before long I was there -- idea had become very modest reality. And now my little hobby channel, which I anticipated might have 100 subscribers by the end of this month, is one short of 400 and has over 40,000 total views -- a going concern, however modest. There is no task that cannot be completed if you break it down into small enough components.
* One interesting thing about YouTube is you open yourself to all sorts of commentary and attack, some of it quite vicious. It doesn't bother me in the least. I thank my writing experience for this. When I first began publishing in 2016, I tried to steel myself against the inevitable reader who came away less than satisfied by my work. I got considerably less hate, or even dislike, than I was expecting, but the random flak bursts I did receive always hurt. Over time, I came to see a lot of this criticism as a gross positive. Not only did it thicken my skin -- and thick skin is something every writer needs -- it opened up my mind to the idea that some criticisms are valuable even if tactlessly delivered. On a petty level, it also gave me the satisfaction of knowing that anyone who is trying to get under my skin is only doing so because I got under theirs first.
That about empties the brain bucket for today. But I'd like to accounce that SOMETHING EVIL: VOLUME I: BOOKS 1 & 2 are now available on Amazon for pre-order. I am going to write a separate, dedicated blog about this in a day or so, but feel free to check out the link below. As some of you are already aware, I am an afficianado of sorts of horror, but I haven't delved too deeply into it myself as a writer -- my short-story collection DEVILS YOU KNOW was a Hoffer Award Finalist, and I'm quite fond of my independent short story "The Brute," but SOMETHING EVIL is quite different -- a full-on assault on the genre, inspired by Stephen King's IT and Clive Barker's BOOKS OF BLOOD, it's a three volume, six-book series which pits a large cast of characters against an ancient, supernatural evil. Combining supernatural and slasher vibes with a more philosophical exploration of the nature of evil and the way evil plays out in each of us (even "good people"), it was a work a quarter century in the making. Anyway, if you've a mind to scare yourself, links are below.
SOMETHING EVIL: VOLUME I: BOOKS 1 & 2
Devils You Know
The Brute
January 13, 2025
EXILES IS A DIGITAL BOOK TODAY AWARD WINNER
If you follow me here on Antagony (yes -- I changed the name of the blog again, so as not to confuse it with Stone Cold Prose, my YouTube channel), you know that there are some books I've written which are more commercial in nature, and others which lay nearer and dearer to my heart, which are written not with the objective of popularity or profit but simply because I wanted and needed to write them. An example of a "commercial" book, or books, would be my CAGE LIFE series. I'm sentimentally attached to these novels, and I strive to write them at a very high level from a stylistic point of view, tapping into my own emotional history to provide authenticity to the characters and situations. No, I'm not a professional fighter with a mobbed-up background and a penchant for self-destruction,* but the series is an accurate analogy-cum-allegory for my life, or at least for my life when I originally wrote the books. So in one sense, they too are dear to me; but writing them, including the third one in the series which I'm drafting now, is largely a mechanical exercise. They are crafted from the point of view of an author who is trying to write something entertaining, fast-paced and immersive, with some insights into the nature of struggle and redemption, but in the end they are commercial art, with the emphasis firmly on "commercial." They don't pretend to be Tolstoy or St. Exupery or Dostoevsky. More like Silva or Parker or Sanders with liberal doses of Hemingway. They're meant to be read at the surface level of entertainment, and if people discover they have depth, terrific; if they don't, well, non è un grosso problema.
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that some of my books are much less commercial and much more "art," at least within my own mind. I hope they sell, I hope people read them, and the more the better, but even if nobody read them I'd still write them, because they mean something to me. They are, in essence, the distilate of a lifetime of reading and observation and thought-experiment. My CHRONICLES OF MAGNUS series falls firmly in this category, so permit me a little exposition here.
In 2021, I published DEUS EX, a novella about the downfall of a European dictator named Magnus Antonius Magnus. In this imagined world, Magnus had come to power by overthrowing The Order, a faceless bureaucracy which suffocated its subjects with red tape, restricted technology, waged pointless wars, and permitted every form of depravity that did not threaten its own power. At his height, he ruled a quarter of the Earth's surface and was worshiped as a god. The novella, however, introduces him to us at the moment of his undoing, when his empire is in the final stage of collapse and he decides to escape his fate while simultaneously testing the reality of his own godhood. I wrote DEUS EX as a standalone work, meant to study the psychology of absolute power and the corrosive effect it has not only on those who wield it, but the world around it. However, in creating a backstory for Magnus' ruin, I had to understand his rise; I had to create, if only in my own mind, the world that he had toppled in order to seize power. Eventually I came to realize this world was too fertile a soil to leave untilled, and that propelled me to write a sequel-cum-prequel, EXILES.
EXILES: A TALE FROM THE CHRONICLES OF MAGNUS is set decades before DEUS EX. Unlike DEUS, it is not told from Magnus' perspective, but from the vantages of Marguerite Bain, a ruthless smuggler for a "licensed" criminal organization known as The Brotherhood, and Enitan Champoleon, a luckless orphan who deserted the Army of the Order to pursue the life of a tramp. Through this unlikely pairing, we encounter Magnus as he begins his transition from a mysterious mercenary working out of North Africa, to a European revolutionary bent on absolute power. It is not meant as a "full reveal" of the shadowy and enigmatic Magnus, but rather as a partial exploration of his methods and motives, as well as a rather lavish depiction of life under The Order. We see a world in which red tape, backed up by a selective use of brute force and harsh restrictions on technology, rule over 300 million people. A world so thoroughly controlled by social engineers and social psychologists that even its political opposition -- foreign and domestic, works in its favor. A world which can offer neither a past nor a future but only an endless now spent working, gambling, drinking, whoring and seeking out other forms of mind-deadening entertainment.
EXILES is, for me, the result of a lifetime of reading George Orwell and Frank Herbert, as well as a fortunate exposure to I, CLAUDIUS and the works of Gerard K. O'Neill, and an even-more-fortunate obsession with the power of lies. I have never had an easier time writing a book, in large part because most of the story elements had been occupying space in my brain for decades. It seemed to pour out of my fingertips onto the page, and required very little correction in the drafting and editing processes. Moments like this are, for a writer, as rare as total eclipses of the sun, and are to be cherished, which is one of the reasons I am so fond of this story. Of course, EXILES does not come close to telling the whole story of Magnus, but it does expand the universe enormously and begin to map out his terrifying outlook upon himself, which can be summed up in one sentence: "History will not happen to me...I will happen to history."
On a more personal note, EXILES is also the study of outcasts from society, people who are "in but not of." Magnus, Bain and Champoleon are all people exiled from the common stream of humanity, albeit for very different reasons. They are also refugees, in a figurative sense, from the society in which they were born and live, people who cannot or will not "fit in." Each gropes toward a solution which will satify their desires, and each faces enormous, perhaps insurmountable obstacles to doing so.
This is the part where I now tell you that EXILES was a Reader's Favorite "5 Stars" pick in 2024, and now in 2025 I have been informed it took 3rd place/bronze in the Digital Book Today Awards "Literary" category. At this point in my writing career, writing awards no longer quicken my pulse -- this sounds shameless but it's true -- however, in this case I confess to some blushes here. Because EXILES is so intensely personal, because it is the sort of book that could never be written without a thousand different influences weaving together over decades to form its story, anything good that happens to it at all is cause for celebration. I hope you will join me in that celebration by giving it a read.
Exiles: A Tale from the Chronicles of Magnus
[* the penchant for self-destruction is probably accurate.]
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that some of my books are much less commercial and much more "art," at least within my own mind. I hope they sell, I hope people read them, and the more the better, but even if nobody read them I'd still write them, because they mean something to me. They are, in essence, the distilate of a lifetime of reading and observation and thought-experiment. My CHRONICLES OF MAGNUS series falls firmly in this category, so permit me a little exposition here.
In 2021, I published DEUS EX, a novella about the downfall of a European dictator named Magnus Antonius Magnus. In this imagined world, Magnus had come to power by overthrowing The Order, a faceless bureaucracy which suffocated its subjects with red tape, restricted technology, waged pointless wars, and permitted every form of depravity that did not threaten its own power. At his height, he ruled a quarter of the Earth's surface and was worshiped as a god. The novella, however, introduces him to us at the moment of his undoing, when his empire is in the final stage of collapse and he decides to escape his fate while simultaneously testing the reality of his own godhood. I wrote DEUS EX as a standalone work, meant to study the psychology of absolute power and the corrosive effect it has not only on those who wield it, but the world around it. However, in creating a backstory for Magnus' ruin, I had to understand his rise; I had to create, if only in my own mind, the world that he had toppled in order to seize power. Eventually I came to realize this world was too fertile a soil to leave untilled, and that propelled me to write a sequel-cum-prequel, EXILES.
EXILES: A TALE FROM THE CHRONICLES OF MAGNUS is set decades before DEUS EX. Unlike DEUS, it is not told from Magnus' perspective, but from the vantages of Marguerite Bain, a ruthless smuggler for a "licensed" criminal organization known as The Brotherhood, and Enitan Champoleon, a luckless orphan who deserted the Army of the Order to pursue the life of a tramp. Through this unlikely pairing, we encounter Magnus as he begins his transition from a mysterious mercenary working out of North Africa, to a European revolutionary bent on absolute power. It is not meant as a "full reveal" of the shadowy and enigmatic Magnus, but rather as a partial exploration of his methods and motives, as well as a rather lavish depiction of life under The Order. We see a world in which red tape, backed up by a selective use of brute force and harsh restrictions on technology, rule over 300 million people. A world so thoroughly controlled by social engineers and social psychologists that even its political opposition -- foreign and domestic, works in its favor. A world which can offer neither a past nor a future but only an endless now spent working, gambling, drinking, whoring and seeking out other forms of mind-deadening entertainment.
EXILES is, for me, the result of a lifetime of reading George Orwell and Frank Herbert, as well as a fortunate exposure to I, CLAUDIUS and the works of Gerard K. O'Neill, and an even-more-fortunate obsession with the power of lies. I have never had an easier time writing a book, in large part because most of the story elements had been occupying space in my brain for decades. It seemed to pour out of my fingertips onto the page, and required very little correction in the drafting and editing processes. Moments like this are, for a writer, as rare as total eclipses of the sun, and are to be cherished, which is one of the reasons I am so fond of this story. Of course, EXILES does not come close to telling the whole story of Magnus, but it does expand the universe enormously and begin to map out his terrifying outlook upon himself, which can be summed up in one sentence: "History will not happen to me...I will happen to history."
On a more personal note, EXILES is also the study of outcasts from society, people who are "in but not of." Magnus, Bain and Champoleon are all people exiled from the common stream of humanity, albeit for very different reasons. They are also refugees, in a figurative sense, from the society in which they were born and live, people who cannot or will not "fit in." Each gropes toward a solution which will satify their desires, and each faces enormous, perhaps insurmountable obstacles to doing so.
This is the part where I now tell you that EXILES was a Reader's Favorite "5 Stars" pick in 2024, and now in 2025 I have been informed it took 3rd place/bronze in the Digital Book Today Awards "Literary" category. At this point in my writing career, writing awards no longer quicken my pulse -- this sounds shameless but it's true -- however, in this case I confess to some blushes here. Because EXILES is so intensely personal, because it is the sort of book that could never be written without a thousand different influences weaving together over decades to form its story, anything good that happens to it at all is cause for celebration. I hope you will join me in that celebration by giving it a read.
Exiles: A Tale from the Chronicles of Magnus
[* the penchant for self-destruction is probably accurate.]
January 1, 2025
SINNER'S CROSS WINS AGAIN
I think we all need some good news today -- I know I did -- so it was a great personal relief to begin 2025 by getting notice that SINNER'S CROSS, my most decorated novel, now has a new decoration. Last year the book was given a "5 Star Award" by the Historical Fiction Company. Well, today, as I was driving back from my daily hike, I received notice that it had also taken the Silver Medal in the Hemingway War Fiction category for 2024. Maybe it's because I'm a fan of Hemingway, but I find this especially satisfying. Along with this, here is the list of awards this book has won since it was released in 2020:
Best Indie Book Award
Book Excellence Award
Literary Titan Gold Medal
Readers Favorite Gold Medal
Readers Favorite "5 Stars"
Historical Fiction Company "5 Star Award"
International Author Network Award Finalist
For those unfamiliar with SINNER'S CROSS, it's the inaugural novel in a WW2 series which also includes the award-winning VERY DEAD OF WINTER, and should see its third installment, SOUTH OF HELL, appear sometime late in 2025 or early 2026. In writing this series I created a simple architecture for storytelling which I have clung to religiously from the very first word:
1. All the novels are set during events which are less well-known to the public than, say, the Normandy Campaign or the Battle of Bastogne -- the Battle of the Huertgen Forest, the Battle of the Snow Eifel, the Alsace Campaign, and so on. This is in large part an effort to shed a bit of light on sadly and sometimes deliberately neglected corners of history. However, they are not history lessons. I never hesitate to compress, conflate, composite, or "synthesize" events for the sake of the narrative.
2. All the novels are told from multiple viewpoints, which include the Germans, and all the characters are protagonists and antagonists both. There are no "good guys" or "bad guys" per se. One common remark readers make about these novels is, "During the German chapters, I found myself rooting for the Germans." I am always pleased by this because that is not an easy task when dealing with American audiences (Europeans find it easier). But you should take note that the larger issues of the war are simply taken for granted.
3. The novels are about people, about human beings, not technology or place-names or strategy. They are a study of human beings under immense, unrelenting pressure. Though I have taken enormous pains to get all the little details right, I never hesitate to sacrifice historical accuracy in favor of emotional honesty.
4. The lives of the various characters, whether fighting for the Allies or Germany, must intersect in some way, directly or indirectly or both.
5. There is no "Greatest Generation" worship in these books. My characters, including the Americans, are portrayed with a wide array of human faults and failings.
In any event, SINNER'S CROSS, both as a novel and as a series, represent my lifelong obsession with the Second World War and in some ways are the culmination of a lifetime of study and hobby. Like Sauron and his Ring, I have poured so much of myself into them that in some ways they are more "me" than I am. I hope some of you reading this will give it a chance.
Sinner's Cross
The Very Dead of Winter: A Sinner's Cross Novel
Best Indie Book Award
Book Excellence Award
Literary Titan Gold Medal
Readers Favorite Gold Medal
Readers Favorite "5 Stars"
Historical Fiction Company "5 Star Award"
International Author Network Award Finalist
For those unfamiliar with SINNER'S CROSS, it's the inaugural novel in a WW2 series which also includes the award-winning VERY DEAD OF WINTER, and should see its third installment, SOUTH OF HELL, appear sometime late in 2025 or early 2026. In writing this series I created a simple architecture for storytelling which I have clung to religiously from the very first word:
1. All the novels are set during events which are less well-known to the public than, say, the Normandy Campaign or the Battle of Bastogne -- the Battle of the Huertgen Forest, the Battle of the Snow Eifel, the Alsace Campaign, and so on. This is in large part an effort to shed a bit of light on sadly and sometimes deliberately neglected corners of history. However, they are not history lessons. I never hesitate to compress, conflate, composite, or "synthesize" events for the sake of the narrative.
2. All the novels are told from multiple viewpoints, which include the Germans, and all the characters are protagonists and antagonists both. There are no "good guys" or "bad guys" per se. One common remark readers make about these novels is, "During the German chapters, I found myself rooting for the Germans." I am always pleased by this because that is not an easy task when dealing with American audiences (Europeans find it easier). But you should take note that the larger issues of the war are simply taken for granted.
3. The novels are about people, about human beings, not technology or place-names or strategy. They are a study of human beings under immense, unrelenting pressure. Though I have taken enormous pains to get all the little details right, I never hesitate to sacrifice historical accuracy in favor of emotional honesty.
4. The lives of the various characters, whether fighting for the Allies or Germany, must intersect in some way, directly or indirectly or both.
5. There is no "Greatest Generation" worship in these books. My characters, including the Americans, are portrayed with a wide array of human faults and failings.
In any event, SINNER'S CROSS, both as a novel and as a series, represent my lifelong obsession with the Second World War and in some ways are the culmination of a lifetime of study and hobby. Like Sauron and his Ring, I have poured so much of myself into them that in some ways they are more "me" than I am. I hope some of you reading this will give it a chance.
Sinner's Cross
The Very Dead of Winter: A Sinner's Cross Novel
December 31, 2024
2024: A RAMBLE
Tomorrow is the first blank page of a 365-page book. Write a good one. -- Brad Paisley
I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something. -- Neil Gaiman
I have seldom lapsed in writing this blog as badly as I have this December -- it's been more than three weeks since my last post, and it's supposed to come out once a week. Shameful. On the other hand, this version of Stone Cold Prose is now one of two, and the other, YouTube version, isdropping precisely once a week. Now, when I spoke to you last, that channel had just gotten its 10,000th view and its 100th watch-hour, with 63 subscribers. It now has 362 subscribers, 34,432 views and 1,316 watch hours. One video on Generation X has 13,000 views by itself -- it's not viral, but it's whatever the hobby channel version of viral might be. So perhaps I can be forgiven for pushing where the results are so visible and satisfying. Goodreads got rid of weblog statistics many years ago, so I no longer have the faintest idea how many people read this. Perhaps that shouldn't matter, but it does.
The end of the year makes people naturally thoughtful. They look back on the 364 days previous and think about their triumphs and tragedies and how those things play in the larger drama of their lives. Working on the YouTube channel has reminded me that there are acts we perform out of necessity, things we do for pleasure, and services we do for others, which can, I suppose, be a blend of both. When I started this blog in 2016, I did so out of necessity: I thought I should do it, given I'd just published my debut novel, CAGE LIFE, and now had a Goodreads author page. Later, I continued it because I enjoyed it: it served both a psychological purpose (sweeping out my brain) and a minor public service, in the form of the way the occasional blog actually resonated with a random reader.
The YouTube channel now occupies a similar place in my life. I greatly enjoy it because it provides a creative outlet that writing cannot satisfy, a combination of the emptying of the psychological bucket with the gratification of my admittedly embarrassing desire to be seen, to perform, to be in front of a camera, to ride my hobbyhorses in public. Will this enthusiasm last? I have no idea. Notwithstanding my gross negligence of the last few weeks, I've been pounding away here on Goodreads for eight years, producing probably 350 blogs. So at a certain point -- and hey, I did a video about this! -- motivation ceases to be necessary. Discipline takes over. And that was one of the things I of which was forcibly reminded in 2024: the uselessness of motivation and the utility of discipline.
One of the notable quirks of the age of social media is the way people like to post "the life we lead in 2024" photo collages. I find it interesting because it's usually unreflective. It talks about events, not the lessons learned from them. This would seem to contradict what I wrote above, but actually it simply runs alongside it. We boast in public, showing our pictures of Bali and Bimini, our new cars, our kids' graduation photos, the "after" shots of our weight loss campaign, et cetera and so on; in private we put on mood music, light a fire, pour a stiff drink and brood as we stare into the flames. George Orwell once wrote that any life viewed from the inside was simply a series of defeats; Shelby Foote noted that he'd been in 30 fistfights in his life and the ones he remembered best were the ones he lost. My brain works much the same way. There was a lot about this year that went well, but my thoughts tend to drag in the direction of everything that went wrong -- the engine on my car burned out and had to be replaced; my cat Spike, my familiar for 17 years, died in my arms; a person I regarded as a close friend betrayed me in the most cowardly and cold-blooded manner possible; books I were certain would take top honors down in Miami did not; the plans I had to see three new cities this year came to nothing. All of that stings and gives me a bleak, windblown sort of feeling. On the other hand, when I exert conscious effort, I remember the successes: starting this channel, which had been an ambition of mine literally for years; its unexpected success; SINNERS CROSS being longlisted for the Hemingway Award and netting a Historical Fiction Company Five Stars; CAGE LIFE snagging a bronze at Reader's Favorite despite being eight years from its debut; seeing Patrick Page perform his brilliant one-man show "All The Devils Are Here" live on stage; traveling to the hinterlands of Pennsylvania with old pals to drink beer, build fires, swim and chop wood; and of course the book signings in Greensburg and York, both of which were big hits. And of course I finished DARK TRADE: A CAGE LIFE NOVEL, and although almost all of that feat was accomplished in 2023, it still broke the tape in 2024 and must be credited accordingly. I also made great progress on SOUTH OF HELL: A SINNER'S CROSS NOVEL, albeit not as much as I should have. I do wish, however, that my default state wasn't darkness and anomie and ennui. Then again, if it were composed only of light, I probably wouldn't be half the writer I am. Writers mine pain for a living, usually their own, and the more pain, the more gold. A curious condition. But I wouldn't trade it for anything if it meant losing contact with my Muse.
Speaking of Muses, it was a great pleasure to crush this year's Goodreads Challenge. Granted, I didn't set a particularly high bar for myself, but as I've noted in these blogs, I fell away from reading for pleasure for several years and to my surprise, and horror, when I tried to resume in earnest, I found all those hours watching television and film had blunted my ability to concentrate on books, especially novels. It was accordingly a bit of a process even to hit the modest goal I set for myself. The good news is I've now regained my ability to flop into a chair and relax for hours with a good book of any type, but I'm also aware that this sort of ability can be lost, or at least dulled, by disuse. In any event, I read some good ones this year:
Hell in a Very Small Place by Bernard Fall (history)
The Peace by Ernst Jünger (non-fiction)
Unconditional Surrender by Evelyn Waugh (novel)
Death on a Distant Frontier by Charles Whiting (history)
No Colours or Crest by Peter Kemp (memoir)
Duce! by Robert Collier (biography)
Alms For Oblivion by Peter Kemp (memoir)
Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker (novel)
Raging Bull by Jake La Motta (autobiography)
Execution by Colin McDougall (novel)
The Long March on Rome by Charles Whiting (history)
The Thief of Always by Clive Barker (novel)
Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien (novel)
The Dangerous Summer by Ernest Hemingway (memoir)
The Inimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse (novel)
A Tanker's View of World War Two by C. Windsor Miller (memoir)
A Cat's Cradle by Carly Rheilan (novel)
Showdown by Errol Flynn (novel)
I also reread a number of my favorites. Re-reading books is a pastime many would mock or simply fail to understand entirely, but anyone who has a Goodreads account will understand the pleasure involved without further explanation. I used to reread books as a matter of course, but it was years after I moved back East that I was able to regain even part of my library through the mail -- a dirty, tedious and expensive process that ate up a lot of my vacation time in California, but worth it. In any event, there is nothing more comforting to a bibliophile than opening one of their dearest-loved stories or histories or memoirs, especially when things seem bleak and harsh and hopeless. It's like the glow of firelight, or a sudden and unexpected reunion with old friends -- a welcome antidote to the trevails of living.
This brings me, clumsily, to my main point: the older I get, the more I realize that life is not about learning lessons, but about relearning them. I cannot count the number of life-lessons I've learned in the most painful and humiliating ways, which I held close to my heart and used to navigate around, over or through problems in the future...only to forget them, and have to start the whole ugly process anew at some future time. I sometimes wonder if Sherlock Holmes wasn't correct when he told his Watson, "It is a mistake to think that [the mind] has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before." Perhaps every new fact, theory, book, life experience, etc. I acquire simply shoves an old one out the back door. Still, I'd rather continue the process of living the way I do, however clumsily and randomly and unsystematically, than decide that I've learned enough, done enough, experienced enough, and could now sit back and tend to the furniture in my head, neither adding nor taking away. Orwell, through his character of George "Fatty" Bowling, remarked that a man does not die when his heart stops beating: he dies when he loses the power (or perhaps just the willingness) to absorb new ideas. At that moment he becomes a ghost, resembling his living self in every way save for the fact he exists entirely in the past.
I'm not yet ready to become a ghost, literal or figurative. I like to think that so long as I do live, I will want to learn new skills, have new experiences, travel to new places, and find outlets both old and new for my creative drives. I like to think that he who dares, wins, and that I will never allow my rather active fear-glands (the price of an equally active imagination) to interfere with my desires to be more and do more, each and every year I'm permitted to occupy this body and this planet and this life.
That's the plan, anyway.
Happy New Year.
I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something. -- Neil Gaiman
I have seldom lapsed in writing this blog as badly as I have this December -- it's been more than three weeks since my last post, and it's supposed to come out once a week. Shameful. On the other hand, this version of Stone Cold Prose is now one of two, and the other, YouTube version, isdropping precisely once a week. Now, when I spoke to you last, that channel had just gotten its 10,000th view and its 100th watch-hour, with 63 subscribers. It now has 362 subscribers, 34,432 views and 1,316 watch hours. One video on Generation X has 13,000 views by itself -- it's not viral, but it's whatever the hobby channel version of viral might be. So perhaps I can be forgiven for pushing where the results are so visible and satisfying. Goodreads got rid of weblog statistics many years ago, so I no longer have the faintest idea how many people read this. Perhaps that shouldn't matter, but it does.
The end of the year makes people naturally thoughtful. They look back on the 364 days previous and think about their triumphs and tragedies and how those things play in the larger drama of their lives. Working on the YouTube channel has reminded me that there are acts we perform out of necessity, things we do for pleasure, and services we do for others, which can, I suppose, be a blend of both. When I started this blog in 2016, I did so out of necessity: I thought I should do it, given I'd just published my debut novel, CAGE LIFE, and now had a Goodreads author page. Later, I continued it because I enjoyed it: it served both a psychological purpose (sweeping out my brain) and a minor public service, in the form of the way the occasional blog actually resonated with a random reader.
The YouTube channel now occupies a similar place in my life. I greatly enjoy it because it provides a creative outlet that writing cannot satisfy, a combination of the emptying of the psychological bucket with the gratification of my admittedly embarrassing desire to be seen, to perform, to be in front of a camera, to ride my hobbyhorses in public. Will this enthusiasm last? I have no idea. Notwithstanding my gross negligence of the last few weeks, I've been pounding away here on Goodreads for eight years, producing probably 350 blogs. So at a certain point -- and hey, I did a video about this! -- motivation ceases to be necessary. Discipline takes over. And that was one of the things I of which was forcibly reminded in 2024: the uselessness of motivation and the utility of discipline.
One of the notable quirks of the age of social media is the way people like to post "the life we lead in 2024" photo collages. I find it interesting because it's usually unreflective. It talks about events, not the lessons learned from them. This would seem to contradict what I wrote above, but actually it simply runs alongside it. We boast in public, showing our pictures of Bali and Bimini, our new cars, our kids' graduation photos, the "after" shots of our weight loss campaign, et cetera and so on; in private we put on mood music, light a fire, pour a stiff drink and brood as we stare into the flames. George Orwell once wrote that any life viewed from the inside was simply a series of defeats; Shelby Foote noted that he'd been in 30 fistfights in his life and the ones he remembered best were the ones he lost. My brain works much the same way. There was a lot about this year that went well, but my thoughts tend to drag in the direction of everything that went wrong -- the engine on my car burned out and had to be replaced; my cat Spike, my familiar for 17 years, died in my arms; a person I regarded as a close friend betrayed me in the most cowardly and cold-blooded manner possible; books I were certain would take top honors down in Miami did not; the plans I had to see three new cities this year came to nothing. All of that stings and gives me a bleak, windblown sort of feeling. On the other hand, when I exert conscious effort, I remember the successes: starting this channel, which had been an ambition of mine literally for years; its unexpected success; SINNERS CROSS being longlisted for the Hemingway Award and netting a Historical Fiction Company Five Stars; CAGE LIFE snagging a bronze at Reader's Favorite despite being eight years from its debut; seeing Patrick Page perform his brilliant one-man show "All The Devils Are Here" live on stage; traveling to the hinterlands of Pennsylvania with old pals to drink beer, build fires, swim and chop wood; and of course the book signings in Greensburg and York, both of which were big hits. And of course I finished DARK TRADE: A CAGE LIFE NOVEL, and although almost all of that feat was accomplished in 2023, it still broke the tape in 2024 and must be credited accordingly. I also made great progress on SOUTH OF HELL: A SINNER'S CROSS NOVEL, albeit not as much as I should have. I do wish, however, that my default state wasn't darkness and anomie and ennui. Then again, if it were composed only of light, I probably wouldn't be half the writer I am. Writers mine pain for a living, usually their own, and the more pain, the more gold. A curious condition. But I wouldn't trade it for anything if it meant losing contact with my Muse.
Speaking of Muses, it was a great pleasure to crush this year's Goodreads Challenge. Granted, I didn't set a particularly high bar for myself, but as I've noted in these blogs, I fell away from reading for pleasure for several years and to my surprise, and horror, when I tried to resume in earnest, I found all those hours watching television and film had blunted my ability to concentrate on books, especially novels. It was accordingly a bit of a process even to hit the modest goal I set for myself. The good news is I've now regained my ability to flop into a chair and relax for hours with a good book of any type, but I'm also aware that this sort of ability can be lost, or at least dulled, by disuse. In any event, I read some good ones this year:
Hell in a Very Small Place by Bernard Fall (history)
The Peace by Ernst Jünger (non-fiction)
Unconditional Surrender by Evelyn Waugh (novel)
Death on a Distant Frontier by Charles Whiting (history)
No Colours or Crest by Peter Kemp (memoir)
Duce! by Robert Collier (biography)
Alms For Oblivion by Peter Kemp (memoir)
Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker (novel)
Raging Bull by Jake La Motta (autobiography)
Execution by Colin McDougall (novel)
The Long March on Rome by Charles Whiting (history)
The Thief of Always by Clive Barker (novel)
Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien (novel)
The Dangerous Summer by Ernest Hemingway (memoir)
The Inimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse (novel)
A Tanker's View of World War Two by C. Windsor Miller (memoir)
A Cat's Cradle by Carly Rheilan (novel)
Showdown by Errol Flynn (novel)
I also reread a number of my favorites. Re-reading books is a pastime many would mock or simply fail to understand entirely, but anyone who has a Goodreads account will understand the pleasure involved without further explanation. I used to reread books as a matter of course, but it was years after I moved back East that I was able to regain even part of my library through the mail -- a dirty, tedious and expensive process that ate up a lot of my vacation time in California, but worth it. In any event, there is nothing more comforting to a bibliophile than opening one of their dearest-loved stories or histories or memoirs, especially when things seem bleak and harsh and hopeless. It's like the glow of firelight, or a sudden and unexpected reunion with old friends -- a welcome antidote to the trevails of living.
This brings me, clumsily, to my main point: the older I get, the more I realize that life is not about learning lessons, but about relearning them. I cannot count the number of life-lessons I've learned in the most painful and humiliating ways, which I held close to my heart and used to navigate around, over or through problems in the future...only to forget them, and have to start the whole ugly process anew at some future time. I sometimes wonder if Sherlock Holmes wasn't correct when he told his Watson, "It is a mistake to think that [the mind] has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before." Perhaps every new fact, theory, book, life experience, etc. I acquire simply shoves an old one out the back door. Still, I'd rather continue the process of living the way I do, however clumsily and randomly and unsystematically, than decide that I've learned enough, done enough, experienced enough, and could now sit back and tend to the furniture in my head, neither adding nor taking away. Orwell, through his character of George "Fatty" Bowling, remarked that a man does not die when his heart stops beating: he dies when he loses the power (or perhaps just the willingness) to absorb new ideas. At that moment he becomes a ghost, resembling his living self in every way save for the fact he exists entirely in the past.
I'm not yet ready to become a ghost, literal or figurative. I like to think that so long as I do live, I will want to learn new skills, have new experiences, travel to new places, and find outlets both old and new for my creative drives. I like to think that he who dares, wins, and that I will never allow my rather active fear-glands (the price of an equally active imagination) to interfere with my desires to be more and do more, each and every year I'm permitted to occupy this body and this planet and this life.
That's the plan, anyway.
Happy New Year.
December 4, 2024
AS I PLEASE XXVIII
Half a week before the winter
The chill bites before it comes
We've another three weeks before the onset of winter, but you wouldn't know it to look at the thermometer here in South-Central Pennsylvania. It's 7:09 PM, pitch black, and the temperature is 24 degrees. I'm about to knock off the keyboard and head to the bar for a pint, because what else can you do in this dismal town on a dismal Wednesday night like this --? -- but first, a few thoughts.
* As you know I began a YouTube channel called Stone Cold Prose one month ago exactly, and this morning it got its 10,000th view and its 100th watch-hour. By the standards of the medium that's a very modest figure, but I seem to be getting a few more subscriptions every day and am enjoying the whole process immensely. I mention this because starting a YT channel has been a dream of mine for years, and I finally made it a reality. Mind you, I did not do this alone. I hired an English bloke named Olly Dobson to guide me through the process and help me with building a personal brand; otherwise I would have counted it among those things I was "going to do someday," and I have quite enough of those in my life. I think we all have, and I would encourage any of you reading this who harbor dreams but are too intimidated or confused to try and make them come true to seek out a mentor. This sort of thing may cost a few bucks, but the more skin you put in the game, the more likely you are to see it through to the end and get what you've always wanted. In my case the money spent was well worth the unfolding reward.
* I went on Amazon the other day to put up my review of Carly Rheilan's superb novel A Cat's Cradle, but they rejected it because some of the words I used went against their "community standards." It used to be this meant you were using obscene language, making threats, etc. Now it means you used words like "obese" or "Holocaust." I would find this funny if it weren't so pathetic. In this case, they flagged the review because I used the word "rape" in a book about a sex predator who preys on children. What the hell was I supposed to call the act itself, I wonder? Is there a benefit to trying to soften the word "rape?" Sure there is -- if you're a rapist, or want to defend one in court. But as an advocate for victims of crime, I rather like the fact that words like "rape" and "murder" and "molestation" are so aesthetically ugly and jarring. The description fits the crimes. So many words are banned, shadowbanned, flagged or otherwise given a Mark of Cain nowadays that it's becoming impossible to say anything online at all. And people wonder why conspiracy theories find such fertile soil in this century.
* Speaking of Amazon...I wrote my first Amazon review in 2000. Today I went on and discovered my entire review history, spanning 24 years and hundreds of films, books, TV shows, products and suchlike, has been erased without my consent or even my knowledge. I'm not particularly upset, nor am I particularly surprised, but I think it sad that this immense body of reviews was wiped out, if only because there was some really good stuff in there, some of which proved grist both for this blog and for my TY channel. I mention this because it is one more argument in favor of owning physical media, something I've propounded on these pages more than once. Nothing you cannot access yourself, without an internet connection, is truly yours - it can be taken away at any moment by hackers, server crashes, or the simple caprices of corporate policy, and there is nothing whatsoever you can do about it. I have some slight hope of regaining this massive trove of reviews a quarter of a century in the making, but if I don't, well, I never really liked Jeff Bezos anyway.
* This is the first Thanksgiving in several years I didn't cook a turkey, and frankly, I'm relieved. Cooking a turkey is a job of work and nerve-wracking in the bargain, because the recipes constantly remind you improper cooking of a turkey can pretty much kill you, and there was that time William Shatner tried to fry a turkey and nearly incinerated himself. I must say I have a 100% success rate with cooking turkeys, but I can't take any credit because the recipes came from the internet. So thank you, internet, for actually providing a service rather than simply deluging me with bad news or reminding me of the huge numbers of weirdos and trolls and psychos out there.
* Speaking of food: on Monday night I began my first-ever voluntary fast. It lasted 36 hours and was not as hard as I expected it to be, but neither was it a lot of fun. I've never been diagnosed hypoglemic but I'm pretty sure I am, so not eating for long period sof time can put me in a right state. Still, I was curious to see if I could do it and what the effects would be. Coffee got me through the morning and early afternoon without difficulty. After that I felt increasingly lightheaded and somewhat stupid, and certainly physically weak, especially as the evening wore on, but the main effect was an inability to concentrate, or perhaps more precisely, a feeling of apathy that made even an episode of "Murder, She Wrote" seem too demanding for my brain. The day seemed dull and tiresome. I slept deeply when I slept, but had to get out of bed at least four times to use the bathroom, such was the quantity of coffee, tea and water I'd consumed all day to keep my mind off the fact I wasn't using my mouth for food. I woke up feeling somewhat better, but my head throbbed a little and I didn't have much strength. I was not however actually hungry, just weak. I ate a very light breakfast of oats, honey, blueberries and Greek yogurt, and then had a proper lunch and a hike, so I am fully restored: the one noticeable aftereffect is that my stomach looks decidedly flatter. (This is probably due to a reduction of inflammation or due to changes in water composition. I really have no idea.) This was an interesting experiment, but on the whole I prefer actually eating food to thinking about it all day.
* If memory serves, I have not actually published anything in 2024, but that does not mean I haven't been writing away. I actually finished the first draft of the third CAGE LIFE novel, wrote a screenplay/graphic novel, and have been toiling away on the third volume of SINNER'S CROSS. I also carved my epic horror novel SOMETHING EVIL into a three volume series, Books 1 & 2 of which will drop on Halloween, 2025, with subsequent releases on Halloween 2026 and 2027, respectively (the books will be available on pre-order). I also had two very successful book signings, one in Greensburg, PA in July, and one in York, PA in September, with soft plans for a third in Wellsboro, PA early next year. There are several other writing projects in the works, too, which I will announce shortly, but in the mean time, please check out my latest YouTube video, WRITING VIOLENCE, at
@stonecoldprose
on YouTube.
The chill bites before it comes
We've another three weeks before the onset of winter, but you wouldn't know it to look at the thermometer here in South-Central Pennsylvania. It's 7:09 PM, pitch black, and the temperature is 24 degrees. I'm about to knock off the keyboard and head to the bar for a pint, because what else can you do in this dismal town on a dismal Wednesday night like this --? -- but first, a few thoughts.
* As you know I began a YouTube channel called Stone Cold Prose one month ago exactly, and this morning it got its 10,000th view and its 100th watch-hour. By the standards of the medium that's a very modest figure, but I seem to be getting a few more subscriptions every day and am enjoying the whole process immensely. I mention this because starting a YT channel has been a dream of mine for years, and I finally made it a reality. Mind you, I did not do this alone. I hired an English bloke named Olly Dobson to guide me through the process and help me with building a personal brand; otherwise I would have counted it among those things I was "going to do someday," and I have quite enough of those in my life. I think we all have, and I would encourage any of you reading this who harbor dreams but are too intimidated or confused to try and make them come true to seek out a mentor. This sort of thing may cost a few bucks, but the more skin you put in the game, the more likely you are to see it through to the end and get what you've always wanted. In my case the money spent was well worth the unfolding reward.
* I went on Amazon the other day to put up my review of Carly Rheilan's superb novel A Cat's Cradle, but they rejected it because some of the words I used went against their "community standards." It used to be this meant you were using obscene language, making threats, etc. Now it means you used words like "obese" or "Holocaust." I would find this funny if it weren't so pathetic. In this case, they flagged the review because I used the word "rape" in a book about a sex predator who preys on children. What the hell was I supposed to call the act itself, I wonder? Is there a benefit to trying to soften the word "rape?" Sure there is -- if you're a rapist, or want to defend one in court. But as an advocate for victims of crime, I rather like the fact that words like "rape" and "murder" and "molestation" are so aesthetically ugly and jarring. The description fits the crimes. So many words are banned, shadowbanned, flagged or otherwise given a Mark of Cain nowadays that it's becoming impossible to say anything online at all. And people wonder why conspiracy theories find such fertile soil in this century.
* Speaking of Amazon...I wrote my first Amazon review in 2000. Today I went on and discovered my entire review history, spanning 24 years and hundreds of films, books, TV shows, products and suchlike, has been erased without my consent or even my knowledge. I'm not particularly upset, nor am I particularly surprised, but I think it sad that this immense body of reviews was wiped out, if only because there was some really good stuff in there, some of which proved grist both for this blog and for my TY channel. I mention this because it is one more argument in favor of owning physical media, something I've propounded on these pages more than once. Nothing you cannot access yourself, without an internet connection, is truly yours - it can be taken away at any moment by hackers, server crashes, or the simple caprices of corporate policy, and there is nothing whatsoever you can do about it. I have some slight hope of regaining this massive trove of reviews a quarter of a century in the making, but if I don't, well, I never really liked Jeff Bezos anyway.
* This is the first Thanksgiving in several years I didn't cook a turkey, and frankly, I'm relieved. Cooking a turkey is a job of work and nerve-wracking in the bargain, because the recipes constantly remind you improper cooking of a turkey can pretty much kill you, and there was that time William Shatner tried to fry a turkey and nearly incinerated himself. I must say I have a 100% success rate with cooking turkeys, but I can't take any credit because the recipes came from the internet. So thank you, internet, for actually providing a service rather than simply deluging me with bad news or reminding me of the huge numbers of weirdos and trolls and psychos out there.
* Speaking of food: on Monday night I began my first-ever voluntary fast. It lasted 36 hours and was not as hard as I expected it to be, but neither was it a lot of fun. I've never been diagnosed hypoglemic but I'm pretty sure I am, so not eating for long period sof time can put me in a right state. Still, I was curious to see if I could do it and what the effects would be. Coffee got me through the morning and early afternoon without difficulty. After that I felt increasingly lightheaded and somewhat stupid, and certainly physically weak, especially as the evening wore on, but the main effect was an inability to concentrate, or perhaps more precisely, a feeling of apathy that made even an episode of "Murder, She Wrote" seem too demanding for my brain. The day seemed dull and tiresome. I slept deeply when I slept, but had to get out of bed at least four times to use the bathroom, such was the quantity of coffee, tea and water I'd consumed all day to keep my mind off the fact I wasn't using my mouth for food. I woke up feeling somewhat better, but my head throbbed a little and I didn't have much strength. I was not however actually hungry, just weak. I ate a very light breakfast of oats, honey, blueberries and Greek yogurt, and then had a proper lunch and a hike, so I am fully restored: the one noticeable aftereffect is that my stomach looks decidedly flatter. (This is probably due to a reduction of inflammation or due to changes in water composition. I really have no idea.) This was an interesting experiment, but on the whole I prefer actually eating food to thinking about it all day.
* If memory serves, I have not actually published anything in 2024, but that does not mean I haven't been writing away. I actually finished the first draft of the third CAGE LIFE novel, wrote a screenplay/graphic novel, and have been toiling away on the third volume of SINNER'S CROSS. I also carved my epic horror novel SOMETHING EVIL into a three volume series, Books 1 & 2 of which will drop on Halloween, 2025, with subsequent releases on Halloween 2026 and 2027, respectively (the books will be available on pre-order). I also had two very successful book signings, one in Greensburg, PA in July, and one in York, PA in September, with soft plans for a third in Wellsboro, PA early next year. There are several other writing projects in the works, too, which I will announce shortly, but in the mean time, please check out my latest YouTube video, WRITING VIOLENCE, at
@stonecoldprose
on YouTube.
ANTAGONY: BECAUSE EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION
A blog about everything. Literally. Everything. Coming out twice a week until I run out of everything.
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