D.T. Neal's Blog, page 15
July 22, 2023
Finding My Shelves
I have accumulated a lot of books in the roughly 30 years of my life as a full-time working adult. So much so that I don't actually remember what was the first book I acquired for my library (childhood trauma remembrance: when I was away at college, my folks had moved from where I'd grown up and had surreptitiously tossed all of my books I'd had in my little library back then -- so, the ghosts of those books remain with me. I can still see those old paperbacks and hardcovers that comprised my pre-adult library. The loss of those books was painful).
Anyway, rebuilding my library from adulthood onward, I can't recall the first book, but now, 30 years later, I have a library of what I estimate to be over 1700 books (calculated across a dozen bookshelves, and a dire need for one or two more shelves). I can't help it. I love books.
I dread the day when I have to move, as it'll require a Herculean effort to pack up all of those books, but one I will absolutely do. I have to.
All of this is preamble for where I'm going with this post, but the empty calories of social media continue to get to me. I won't describe the ways in which it bothers me, but the plight of the various channels and the fleeting attention spans it fosters aren't good things.
The state of the world is also particularly painful -- I fear we're on a runaway train toward our own extinction at this point, and that maybe we've passed that dreaded Great Filter that determines our fate. Nice happy thoughts, right?
Moreover, as a 50-something, I confront my own twilight in ways that I've been aware of since my youth (I remember joking about my "Quarter-Life Crisis" in my 20s; at 53, it's worth more of a weary shrug than a chuckle from yesteryear).
I'm willfully wading into my library, the portentous "turning inward" people deride. I'm not turning my back on the outside world (I can't; I'm too aware of it to look away entirely). But I'm taking refuge in my books. I'm going to read and review all of them, and, in that way, attain a measure of peace that I'm unable to acquire living in this world.
My immediate backlog is roughly around 100 books at this point, so that'll serve as my starting point. I'll work through that pile, and, having done that, I'll work through the rest, shelf by shelf, and try to restore my spirit.
Anyway, rebuilding my library from adulthood onward, I can't recall the first book, but now, 30 years later, I have a library of what I estimate to be over 1700 books (calculated across a dozen bookshelves, and a dire need for one or two more shelves). I can't help it. I love books.
I dread the day when I have to move, as it'll require a Herculean effort to pack up all of those books, but one I will absolutely do. I have to.
All of this is preamble for where I'm going with this post, but the empty calories of social media continue to get to me. I won't describe the ways in which it bothers me, but the plight of the various channels and the fleeting attention spans it fosters aren't good things.
The state of the world is also particularly painful -- I fear we're on a runaway train toward our own extinction at this point, and that maybe we've passed that dreaded Great Filter that determines our fate. Nice happy thoughts, right?
Moreover, as a 50-something, I confront my own twilight in ways that I've been aware of since my youth (I remember joking about my "Quarter-Life Crisis" in my 20s; at 53, it's worth more of a weary shrug than a chuckle from yesteryear).
I'm willfully wading into my library, the portentous "turning inward" people deride. I'm not turning my back on the outside world (I can't; I'm too aware of it to look away entirely). But I'm taking refuge in my books. I'm going to read and review all of them, and, in that way, attain a measure of peace that I'm unable to acquire living in this world.
My immediate backlog is roughly around 100 books at this point, so that'll serve as my starting point. I'll work through that pile, and, having done that, I'll work through the rest, shelf by shelf, and try to restore my spirit.
OPPENHEIMER (2023)
I enjoyed OPPENHEIMER, although it was the typical Nolan overstuffed and overlong effort that could've benefited from a bit of trimming in certain parts. Cillian Murphy was an uncanny cipher for Oppenheimer.
The supporting cast was ample and powerful, including Robert Downey Jr., Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Florence Pugh, Josh Hartnett, and many others.
There were aspects of cosmic horror in it (although by no means is this a cosmic horror effort, much like how I saw CHERNOBYL being), and there are some definitely arresting scenes and visuals in it. I'm glad I saw it on the big screen (although I avoided the hassle of an IMAX viewing). In terms of it being an ambitiously operatic cinematic effort, Nolan hit most of his marks.
One thing that nagged at me (and perhaps added to the horror) is that fascism fueled the drive to build the bomb -- like in terms of the Nazis starting the effort, and their antisemitism driving off some of their best physicists to the States, and the US racing forward with it to build a weapon before the Nazis got around to it, and, thankfully, winning that race.
But seeing fascism back and antisemitism looming in our lives again, it makes watching this movie haunting in some respects -- a callback to the very real threat to our freedom our country faces these days. And the peril of nuclear weapons remains even more of an existential threat today than it was then, at the birth of them.
Advance reviewers were reportedly horrified and utterly devastated by this movie; I was neither, but I was, as I mentioned, perhaps haunted by it in ways I don't know if Nolan intended.
****
The supporting cast was ample and powerful, including Robert Downey Jr., Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Florence Pugh, Josh Hartnett, and many others.
There were aspects of cosmic horror in it (although by no means is this a cosmic horror effort, much like how I saw CHERNOBYL being), and there are some definitely arresting scenes and visuals in it. I'm glad I saw it on the big screen (although I avoided the hassle of an IMAX viewing). In terms of it being an ambitiously operatic cinematic effort, Nolan hit most of his marks.
One thing that nagged at me (and perhaps added to the horror) is that fascism fueled the drive to build the bomb -- like in terms of the Nazis starting the effort, and their antisemitism driving off some of their best physicists to the States, and the US racing forward with it to build a weapon before the Nazis got around to it, and, thankfully, winning that race.
But seeing fascism back and antisemitism looming in our lives again, it makes watching this movie haunting in some respects -- a callback to the very real threat to our freedom our country faces these days. And the peril of nuclear weapons remains even more of an existential threat today than it was then, at the birth of them.
Advance reviewers were reportedly horrified and utterly devastated by this movie; I was neither, but I was, as I mentioned, perhaps haunted by it in ways I don't know if Nolan intended.
****
July 21, 2023
Waking Wounded
One thing I've always noticed in my own writerly life is that I find it hard to work when I'm badly stressed.
Ordinarily, I keep to a very steady predawn pace that's served me well for decades: typically, 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. is my prime writing time, and after doing it for so many years, I can crank out around 3500 words an hour on the good days, maybe 1500 words an hour on the bad days. My brain knows what to do at that time.
I've always been an earlybird, even as a kid, and years later, I realized that the predawn time was my "safe space" where I could write without anybody interrupting me. I used to refer to it as "writing in the margins of my day" -- that predawn ritual let me get my fiction-writing banked before the workday began, and I could take solace that no matter what happened in the workday, I'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing I'd gotten a chunk of writing done.
However, there's a caveat for that with me -- when I'm stressed, it puts the brakes on my writing. I'm a problem-solver by nature -- and, in many ways, I think of any story I'm writing as a problem to be "solved" (the solution being writing it to completion to my satisfaction).
But when other problems intrude on my consciousness, they shove my writing out of the way. Kind of like how I'd not be able to write a story while my home was burning down -- those other problems take precedence.
I've found that I need the rest of my life to be reasonably settled if I'm to be productive and creative, or else I get derailed.
Case in point: I've been out of work for 11 months, now, and while, on the face of things, one might think there was this wonderful gift of time for me to get a lot of writing done, in fact, I've not written much of anything new in this time. And it's 100% tied to my current situation.
I don't feel like I can write fiction while my mind is occupied with trying to find another job. It's terribly frustrating to me, akin to trying to deliver a speech while someone in the crowd is honking a horn at odd intervals.
As a 50-something acutely aware of how much time I have left to me (or not left to me), the prospect of losing 11 months crushes me, even though I know myself well enough to know that I simply can't do my writing right now, because my mind's tied up in the job hunt.
All I tell myself as solace is that if/when I'm able to land another gig again, and I can regain some normalcy, I'll make up for it by cranking out the new work I need to.
And that's the important thing to note: writing's not "therapy" for me -- I love to write, and even need to write, but the conditions have to be right for me to write. I need the economic and spiritual equivalent of peace and quiet to be able to create.
I'll always mourn the lost time -- I won't call it writer's block -- but I'm unable to write through it. All I console myself with is that I've been jotting notes down during this time, so I'll be able to hit the ground running again when the workaday wounds have healed.
Ordinarily, I keep to a very steady predawn pace that's served me well for decades: typically, 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. is my prime writing time, and after doing it for so many years, I can crank out around 3500 words an hour on the good days, maybe 1500 words an hour on the bad days. My brain knows what to do at that time.
I've always been an earlybird, even as a kid, and years later, I realized that the predawn time was my "safe space" where I could write without anybody interrupting me. I used to refer to it as "writing in the margins of my day" -- that predawn ritual let me get my fiction-writing banked before the workday began, and I could take solace that no matter what happened in the workday, I'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing I'd gotten a chunk of writing done.
However, there's a caveat for that with me -- when I'm stressed, it puts the brakes on my writing. I'm a problem-solver by nature -- and, in many ways, I think of any story I'm writing as a problem to be "solved" (the solution being writing it to completion to my satisfaction).
But when other problems intrude on my consciousness, they shove my writing out of the way. Kind of like how I'd not be able to write a story while my home was burning down -- those other problems take precedence.
I've found that I need the rest of my life to be reasonably settled if I'm to be productive and creative, or else I get derailed.
Case in point: I've been out of work for 11 months, now, and while, on the face of things, one might think there was this wonderful gift of time for me to get a lot of writing done, in fact, I've not written much of anything new in this time. And it's 100% tied to my current situation.
I don't feel like I can write fiction while my mind is occupied with trying to find another job. It's terribly frustrating to me, akin to trying to deliver a speech while someone in the crowd is honking a horn at odd intervals.
As a 50-something acutely aware of how much time I have left to me (or not left to me), the prospect of losing 11 months crushes me, even though I know myself well enough to know that I simply can't do my writing right now, because my mind's tied up in the job hunt.
All I tell myself as solace is that if/when I'm able to land another gig again, and I can regain some normalcy, I'll make up for it by cranking out the new work I need to.
And that's the important thing to note: writing's not "therapy" for me -- I love to write, and even need to write, but the conditions have to be right for me to write. I need the economic and spiritual equivalent of peace and quiet to be able to create.
I'll always mourn the lost time -- I won't call it writer's block -- but I'm unable to write through it. All I console myself with is that I've been jotting notes down during this time, so I'll be able to hit the ground running again when the workaday wounds have healed.
July 19, 2023
Glitterature
This news article in the GUARDIAN triggered me, I'll admit. Bad enough that there are ghostwriters for celebrity nonfiction, but the idea that there are ghostwriters penning "celebrity novels" is just painful for me.
Obviously, trad publishers understand that celebrities sell books -- the built-in fanbase of a major celebrity has to be intoxicating for a trad publisher eager to cash in.
But as an indie writer doggedly trying to make his way with writing fiction, seeing celebrities pretend to write novels with the help of ghostwriter lit-whores is just too much to take. It's hard enough to make it in writing as it is, without the glitterati sucking what air there is out of the room.
I'm sure the shadowy ghostwriters are well-compensated for their troubles, but what a ghastly thing that is.
It's like when celebrities do voiceover work -- again, they're trading on their name and fame to land gigs that might've gone to less-fortunate voice actors.
Obviously, trad publishers understand that celebrities sell books -- the built-in fanbase of a major celebrity has to be intoxicating for a trad publisher eager to cash in.
But as an indie writer doggedly trying to make his way with writing fiction, seeing celebrities pretend to write novels with the help of ghostwriter lit-whores is just too much to take. It's hard enough to make it in writing as it is, without the glitterati sucking what air there is out of the room.
I'm sure the shadowy ghostwriters are well-compensated for their troubles, but what a ghastly thing that is.
It's like when celebrities do voiceover work -- again, they're trading on their name and fame to land gigs that might've gone to less-fortunate voice actors.
And then there's SAINT MAUD
I finally got around to watching SAINT MAUD (2019) on Prime. It was one I remembered seeing advertised in trailers in the long-ago time (aka, on the front end of the pandemic).
Having watched it, seeing Morfydd Clark (aka, Galadriel) playing the titular character, I found it a memorably diverting psychological horror (?) film, with the obligatory deeply Catholic roots (queue up spiritual unrest and self-harm).
SAINT MAUD felt to me like a fusion of the following movies:
THE EXORCIST (1973)
TAXI DRIVER (1976)
BEING THERE (1979)
MAY (2002)
THE WITCH (2015)
HEREDITARY (2018)
If that sounds like an odd blend, it's not; they're all in there, although I'd add that the humor in BEING THERE & MAY is entirely absent in this one--SAINT MAUD is dead serious in its approach, in these matters of life and death.
However, there's the lonely and isolated protagonist adrift in a world she can't fully accept, taking refuge in a perilous piety that invariably butts up against the tyranny of reality. Maud (or Katie, as her real name is revealed to be) is adrift (one would really say "lost") in her newfound faith, with predictably dire consequences.
While I knew just where the movie was going (had to be, given the setup), the performances and even the dark and dreamy slow burn of it made it an unforgettable trek. Mad props to first-time director Rose Glass, who tackles everything with bracing confidence and a sure eye.
Definitely not a feel-good sort of movie, but carried out with a strong directorial vision that it makes it compelling to watch.
****
Having watched it, seeing Morfydd Clark (aka, Galadriel) playing the titular character, I found it a memorably diverting psychological horror (?) film, with the obligatory deeply Catholic roots (queue up spiritual unrest and self-harm).
SAINT MAUD felt to me like a fusion of the following movies:
THE EXORCIST (1973)
TAXI DRIVER (1976)
BEING THERE (1979)
MAY (2002)
THE WITCH (2015)
HEREDITARY (2018)
If that sounds like an odd blend, it's not; they're all in there, although I'd add that the humor in BEING THERE & MAY is entirely absent in this one--SAINT MAUD is dead serious in its approach, in these matters of life and death.
However, there's the lonely and isolated protagonist adrift in a world she can't fully accept, taking refuge in a perilous piety that invariably butts up against the tyranny of reality. Maud (or Katie, as her real name is revealed to be) is adrift (one would really say "lost") in her newfound faith, with predictably dire consequences.
While I knew just where the movie was going (had to be, given the setup), the performances and even the dark and dreamy slow burn of it made it an unforgettable trek. Mad props to first-time director Rose Glass, who tackles everything with bracing confidence and a sure eye.
Definitely not a feel-good sort of movie, but carried out with a strong directorial vision that it makes it compelling to watch.
****
July 18, 2023
THE WIZ (1978)
I have to revisit this every so often, but the G-rated (?!) THE WIZ (1978) was one creepy movie. My father took me to see it in the theaters, so I likely have additional Gen X childhood trauma associated with it, but having done a rewatch or two over the decades, I can say that for all of the Broadway music numbers, THE WIZ is a terribly creepy movie.
It's a great example of the eeriness of liminal spaces, as there a ton of liminal shots throughout the movie.
There's also the isolation of Dorothy et al. between the song and dance numbers, where the NYC/Oz environment is devoid of people.
The set design is full of creepy stuff, too. Even the early scene with the graffiti munchkins prying themselves off the walls and saying "Toto!" over and over again as they crowd in on Dorothy is creepy.
The Peddler (and his creepy flute theme) is particularly creepy, and the subway scene is monumentally creepy.
When the Tin Man sings one of his songs, there are these female wooden heads who sing along. And when he's on a stage, there are these ghastly-looking faces on the stage who moan/sing along with him.
There are the prostitute-like Poppies who drug up Dorothy & the Lion, clearly with intent to kill, and so on.
THE WIZ is a horror-adjacent movie, and is easily one of the most unnerving of Oz movies. It's like they wanted to give people the heebie-jeebies or something.
The design aesthetic of it is very, very creepy. It's on Prime right now, and you might want to give it a watch. You'll see what I mean.
Having seen it on the big screen when I was eight years old, I'm sure I'm still carrying some dread from back then. But even now, all these years later, while watching it, I still get skeeved out by it.
And to think it's a G-rated movie, that's almost unbelievable, in retrospect.
It's a great example of the eeriness of liminal spaces, as there a ton of liminal shots throughout the movie.
There's also the isolation of Dorothy et al. between the song and dance numbers, where the NYC/Oz environment is devoid of people.
The set design is full of creepy stuff, too. Even the early scene with the graffiti munchkins prying themselves off the walls and saying "Toto!" over and over again as they crowd in on Dorothy is creepy.
The Peddler (and his creepy flute theme) is particularly creepy, and the subway scene is monumentally creepy.
When the Tin Man sings one of his songs, there are these female wooden heads who sing along. And when he's on a stage, there are these ghastly-looking faces on the stage who moan/sing along with him.
There are the prostitute-like Poppies who drug up Dorothy & the Lion, clearly with intent to kill, and so on.
THE WIZ is a horror-adjacent movie, and is easily one of the most unnerving of Oz movies. It's like they wanted to give people the heebie-jeebies or something.
The design aesthetic of it is very, very creepy. It's on Prime right now, and you might want to give it a watch. You'll see what I mean.
Having seen it on the big screen when I was eight years old, I'm sure I'm still carrying some dread from back then. But even now, all these years later, while watching it, I still get skeeved out by it.
And to think it's a G-rated movie, that's almost unbelievable, in retrospect.
July 16, 2023
65 (2023)
I caught 65 on Netflix, and reasonably enjoyed the ride. It's very much a "one damned thing after another" plot, with Adam Driver leading as Mills, the space trucker who's forced to crash-land on Earth right before the end of the Cretaceous thanks to the asteroid impact. He and Koa (Ariana Greenblatt, who speaks a made-up language throughout, strangely enough), try to survive to escape, while nasty dinosaurs hunt them at every turn.
Things I liked about the movie: the use of technology is very well-handled in this one. Mills relies heavily on his futuristic tech to get him out of jams, and the tech is almost another character in the movie. Well done aspect of it, even if there's plenty of deus ex machina to go around.
I didn't particularly like that Mills and Koa have a language barrier--felt like lazy screenwriting to me, so we didn't get dialogue interchanges, so much as name-calling ("Koa? Koa?") and guttural misunderstandings between the two.
My biggest beef with the movie involved the dinosauroids--I call them that because overwhelmingly, the dinos were made-up dinosaurs, versus actual species. They were cartoonish, video game renderings of dinosaurs (well-rendered CGI, to be sure), but with the budget this movie had, it felt (again) lazy to not use some of that budget to apply some prehistorical accuracy to the dinosaurs. Anybody who loves cinematic dinosaurs will be like "WTF was THAT dinosaur supposed to be?" If you're setting a dinosaur survival story as your focus, at least get the dinosaurs right, versus using made-up ones. It was an odd oversight. Even the T. rex representations look like weirdly mutated versions of them.
Driver and Greenblatt do well with what is required of them, but this one wasn't a major accomplishment in moviemaking, so much as a mild entertainment. I do give props to the use of the tech. Not since HER (2013) have I seen a more thoughtful application of SF consumer tech rendered as seamlessly as in 65. I just wish they'd made the dinosaurs actual species, versus pretend bugaboos.
**
Things I liked about the movie: the use of technology is very well-handled in this one. Mills relies heavily on his futuristic tech to get him out of jams, and the tech is almost another character in the movie. Well done aspect of it, even if there's plenty of deus ex machina to go around.
I didn't particularly like that Mills and Koa have a language barrier--felt like lazy screenwriting to me, so we didn't get dialogue interchanges, so much as name-calling ("Koa? Koa?") and guttural misunderstandings between the two.
My biggest beef with the movie involved the dinosauroids--I call them that because overwhelmingly, the dinos were made-up dinosaurs, versus actual species. They were cartoonish, video game renderings of dinosaurs (well-rendered CGI, to be sure), but with the budget this movie had, it felt (again) lazy to not use some of that budget to apply some prehistorical accuracy to the dinosaurs. Anybody who loves cinematic dinosaurs will be like "WTF was THAT dinosaur supposed to be?" If you're setting a dinosaur survival story as your focus, at least get the dinosaurs right, versus using made-up ones. It was an odd oversight. Even the T. rex representations look like weirdly mutated versions of them.
Driver and Greenblatt do well with what is required of them, but this one wasn't a major accomplishment in moviemaking, so much as a mild entertainment. I do give props to the use of the tech. Not since HER (2013) have I seen a more thoughtful application of SF consumer tech rendered as seamlessly as in 65. I just wish they'd made the dinosaurs actual species, versus pretend bugaboos.
**
July 14, 2023
Strike While the Irony is Hot
It heartens me to see the actors striking along with the writers (who've been striking since May). This is a big battle for creatives against what amounts to the tyranny of the studios (themselves heavily backed by Wall Street and otherwise owned by major corporate players).
Much of it is tied to the challenges AI presents to creatives, of course. The studios are all but licking their chops at the idea that they can rely on AI to cough up scripts for them, and can digitize actors' faces to give them lifetime access to their images for a one-time payment (currently leveled at extras, but easily applicable to all actors).
It's like they're facing the peril of the corporate AI revolution earlier than the majority of others, and so they're striking to try to negotiate some job security for themselves.
The entertainment unions are pretty strong and high profile, relative to so many other unions. At least with the actors, they have the benefit of having a bunch of good-looking and rich celebrities among their ranks, which gives SAG-AFTRA more punching power than a lot of less glamorous unions.
That's a point in their favor, but I worry that the allure of AI for the studios is just too great for even this Hollywood strike to come out favorably for the creatives.
There's too much money to be made leaning into the AI churn-and-burn creation machine to turn back. It's like when robotics first appeared on corporate assembly lines -- the trend is always toward adoption of the robotic as a means of cranking out product faster, and without pay. Companies always jettison the problematic human element when they can get away with it, and reap the benefit of automation.
The studios are in that same place, and this strike is emblematic of that push. The tycoons behind the studios want more money (and, although not said out loud, certainty of profit -- given how many bombs they've been putting out there, that has to be looming for them), and AI is what they think'll get them that.
Look how risk-averse the Hollywood system has become -- they've relied more and more on remakes and retreads of older intellectual property, rather than trying anything new. The regurgitation of prior endeavors has taken up a larger focus in Hollywood. They want to find something that works (or worked before, so, because they're unimaginative, they to remakes in hopes of recapturing that magic).
All of this points to AI not being something that Hollywood will banish, but rather, will embrace.
I support the striking writers and actors in spirit (they're all far, far richer than me, so all I can offer is moral support), but I also watch this with trepidation, because I think there's an AI wall that the studios will not willingly abandon.
Who knows, maybe they want to crush the unions in a protracted siege and use that as an excuse to deploy AI more directly as the "solution" to the "problem" of human creatives.
I'm watching this strike with more concern than hope.
Much of it is tied to the challenges AI presents to creatives, of course. The studios are all but licking their chops at the idea that they can rely on AI to cough up scripts for them, and can digitize actors' faces to give them lifetime access to their images for a one-time payment (currently leveled at extras, but easily applicable to all actors).
It's like they're facing the peril of the corporate AI revolution earlier than the majority of others, and so they're striking to try to negotiate some job security for themselves.
The entertainment unions are pretty strong and high profile, relative to so many other unions. At least with the actors, they have the benefit of having a bunch of good-looking and rich celebrities among their ranks, which gives SAG-AFTRA more punching power than a lot of less glamorous unions.
That's a point in their favor, but I worry that the allure of AI for the studios is just too great for even this Hollywood strike to come out favorably for the creatives.
There's too much money to be made leaning into the AI churn-and-burn creation machine to turn back. It's like when robotics first appeared on corporate assembly lines -- the trend is always toward adoption of the robotic as a means of cranking out product faster, and without pay. Companies always jettison the problematic human element when they can get away with it, and reap the benefit of automation.
The studios are in that same place, and this strike is emblematic of that push. The tycoons behind the studios want more money (and, although not said out loud, certainty of profit -- given how many bombs they've been putting out there, that has to be looming for them), and AI is what they think'll get them that.
Look how risk-averse the Hollywood system has become -- they've relied more and more on remakes and retreads of older intellectual property, rather than trying anything new. The regurgitation of prior endeavors has taken up a larger focus in Hollywood. They want to find something that works (or worked before, so, because they're unimaginative, they to remakes in hopes of recapturing that magic).
All of this points to AI not being something that Hollywood will banish, but rather, will embrace.
I support the striking writers and actors in spirit (they're all far, far richer than me, so all I can offer is moral support), but I also watch this with trepidation, because I think there's an AI wall that the studios will not willingly abandon.
Who knows, maybe they want to crush the unions in a protracted siege and use that as an excuse to deploy AI more directly as the "solution" to the "problem" of human creatives.
I'm watching this strike with more concern than hope.
July 12, 2023
Optimistically Pessimistic
Still sticking around, Gentle Reader? Lurking in the margins, reading my blog posts for a dose of gloom & doom?
That's the apparent paradox with me -- I'm generally affable and agreeable, gregarious, even. I'm certainly optimistic by nature, and find pessimists to be boring killjoys.
That said, it's difficult to be an optimist these days. I feel like humanity is careening toward extinction, and civilization as we've known it is headed toward collapse. I've read enough history over the decades to see how societies rise and fall.
It's ludicrously naive to assume that the society as we know it is in any way sustainable. It's not. We need true progress to have a chance at surviving. We need to become more civilized as a species. And I don't know if our species has it in us. Our primate origins come right out of us in our interactions.
I feel fundamentally at odds with the way of the world, and I think the world is at odds with me, too. That is to say, the things I detest thrive, and the things I value are nearly nonexistent. Existentially, how is one to react to that?
My younger self, when I was an innocent Romantic, young and full of life, hope, and energy, would see my 50-something self and be shocked that I ended up where I have, in many respects.
I look back on my life and can't sort out where I went wrong (beyond marrying too young -- that was a huge failure on my part).
To be an old Romantic is a difficult thing. William Blake pulled it off, but few do. Romanticism is not the flowers and moonbeams excursion people may think it is. It's a painful place, which is likely why there are far more practical souls than Romantics.
I don't know. I'm walking wounded in many ways, in the sense that a person with a limp is reminded of that limp with every step they take. I'm scarred, yet I strive to remain functional in a world that has little use for me (if it ever did).
That sense of anomie is profound. What I love and value is not loved and valued in this world. It's likely why I intend to write a few books that are willfully obtuse and confounding -- literary labyrinths for my amusement. I'll try to make the journey worth the reader's time (if the books find any readers), but they'll be unlike anything I've put out there before.
I've tried to make my catalog of fiction accessible to readers, but in a bit of literary vengeance, I suppose, I'm going to write a few books that are pure artistic exercises, and won't be like anything I've put out there before.
There are glimpses of it in the latter third of THE CURSED EARTH -- I went to places in that book that were invigorating to me, even though they're kind of trippy. I know I enjoyed that space, and would like to rekindle that enjoyment while the world burns.
You've been warned, Gentle Reader. Don't worry; these books won't appear anytime soon. I have to write them, first. And as they will be highly experimental, who knows if I'll successfully carry them through the way I envision them. That's the promise and peril of publishing. It's not like I have to worry about driving off readers, right? Ha.
But I'm in a place right now, and have been for the past year. I'll try to channel that into something readable, if not entirely comprehensible.
That's the apparent paradox with me -- I'm generally affable and agreeable, gregarious, even. I'm certainly optimistic by nature, and find pessimists to be boring killjoys.
That said, it's difficult to be an optimist these days. I feel like humanity is careening toward extinction, and civilization as we've known it is headed toward collapse. I've read enough history over the decades to see how societies rise and fall.
It's ludicrously naive to assume that the society as we know it is in any way sustainable. It's not. We need true progress to have a chance at surviving. We need to become more civilized as a species. And I don't know if our species has it in us. Our primate origins come right out of us in our interactions.
I feel fundamentally at odds with the way of the world, and I think the world is at odds with me, too. That is to say, the things I detest thrive, and the things I value are nearly nonexistent. Existentially, how is one to react to that?
My younger self, when I was an innocent Romantic, young and full of life, hope, and energy, would see my 50-something self and be shocked that I ended up where I have, in many respects.
I look back on my life and can't sort out where I went wrong (beyond marrying too young -- that was a huge failure on my part).
To be an old Romantic is a difficult thing. William Blake pulled it off, but few do. Romanticism is not the flowers and moonbeams excursion people may think it is. It's a painful place, which is likely why there are far more practical souls than Romantics.
I don't know. I'm walking wounded in many ways, in the sense that a person with a limp is reminded of that limp with every step they take. I'm scarred, yet I strive to remain functional in a world that has little use for me (if it ever did).
That sense of anomie is profound. What I love and value is not loved and valued in this world. It's likely why I intend to write a few books that are willfully obtuse and confounding -- literary labyrinths for my amusement. I'll try to make the journey worth the reader's time (if the books find any readers), but they'll be unlike anything I've put out there before.
I've tried to make my catalog of fiction accessible to readers, but in a bit of literary vengeance, I suppose, I'm going to write a few books that are pure artistic exercises, and won't be like anything I've put out there before.
There are glimpses of it in the latter third of THE CURSED EARTH -- I went to places in that book that were invigorating to me, even though they're kind of trippy. I know I enjoyed that space, and would like to rekindle that enjoyment while the world burns.
You've been warned, Gentle Reader. Don't worry; these books won't appear anytime soon. I have to write them, first. And as they will be highly experimental, who knows if I'll successfully carry them through the way I envision them. That's the promise and peril of publishing. It's not like I have to worry about driving off readers, right? Ha.
But I'm in a place right now, and have been for the past year. I'll try to channel that into something readable, if not entirely comprehensible.
July 8, 2023
Mama Mia
So, I like Sarah Snook -- she was an integral part of SUCCESSION, one of HBO's very best series and one of my favorite black comedy-satire shows.
And she's clearly been working on her post-SUCCESSION life, which is how she alighted on RUN RABBIT RUN (2023).
The trailers for it looked promising, and I approached it with an open mind. Take this with a grain of salt, or some wood grain alcohol, or whatever you need to get through your day, but I thought this movie was a drag.
It felt like THE BABADOOK Junior, basically, which makes me think there's some cinematic cottage industry in frazzled/frayed single moms dealing with bullshit kids.
THE BABADOOK (2014) traumatized me, but not because of the horrors of it, but it was the damned kid in that movie, who basically screams and howls his way through the movie, tormenting the mom, etc., etc.
Mia, the daughter in RUN RABBIT RUN, is like a half-step down from the horrible BABADOOK kid. She's seemingly possessed by the spirit of Snook's character's lost sister, or something. Which leads her to being a colossal pain in the ass.
The movie has some relative atmospheric filming, but it's sllllllllooowwwwwww and the bullshit antics of Mia are just too much to deal with. Like I said, BABADOOK Junior. And perhaps needed more lighting--seemed like it was needlessly bathed in shadow.
In terms of the screenwriting, it greatly annoyed me, too, that the majority of it seemed to be Snook running around looking for her daughter:
"Mia? Mia! Mia??"
"Mia, where are you?"
"Mia? MIAAAA!"
"Mia!"
"Mia??"
"Mia, are you in here? Mia?!"
I haven't seen/heard this much repeated character name-calling since AKIRA (1988).
I mean, it just didn't stop, until, you know, it did. I roll with most cinematic punches, but this movie just left me cold.
They need to one day have the BABADOOK kid and Mia from RUN RABBIT RUN go to prom together, or otherwise try to live their lives in each other's dreadful company. I think the actress who played Mia did a great job for someone so young -- her performance was good, but the story let the actors all down, in my opinion.
I was disappointed by RUN RABBIT RUN. Two stars, just for the overall atmosphere and for Sarah Snook. Nothing else.
**
And she's clearly been working on her post-SUCCESSION life, which is how she alighted on RUN RABBIT RUN (2023).
The trailers for it looked promising, and I approached it with an open mind. Take this with a grain of salt, or some wood grain alcohol, or whatever you need to get through your day, but I thought this movie was a drag.
It felt like THE BABADOOK Junior, basically, which makes me think there's some cinematic cottage industry in frazzled/frayed single moms dealing with bullshit kids.
THE BABADOOK (2014) traumatized me, but not because of the horrors of it, but it was the damned kid in that movie, who basically screams and howls his way through the movie, tormenting the mom, etc., etc.
Mia, the daughter in RUN RABBIT RUN, is like a half-step down from the horrible BABADOOK kid. She's seemingly possessed by the spirit of Snook's character's lost sister, or something. Which leads her to being a colossal pain in the ass.
The movie has some relative atmospheric filming, but it's sllllllllooowwwwwww and the bullshit antics of Mia are just too much to deal with. Like I said, BABADOOK Junior. And perhaps needed more lighting--seemed like it was needlessly bathed in shadow.
In terms of the screenwriting, it greatly annoyed me, too, that the majority of it seemed to be Snook running around looking for her daughter:
"Mia? Mia! Mia??"
"Mia, where are you?"
"Mia? MIAAAA!"
"Mia!"
"Mia??"
"Mia, are you in here? Mia?!"
I haven't seen/heard this much repeated character name-calling since AKIRA (1988).
I mean, it just didn't stop, until, you know, it did. I roll with most cinematic punches, but this movie just left me cold.
They need to one day have the BABADOOK kid and Mia from RUN RABBIT RUN go to prom together, or otherwise try to live their lives in each other's dreadful company. I think the actress who played Mia did a great job for someone so young -- her performance was good, but the story let the actors all down, in my opinion.
I was disappointed by RUN RABBIT RUN. Two stars, just for the overall atmosphere and for Sarah Snook. Nothing else.
**
