C.B. McCullough's Blog, page 6

The Path Less Traveled

It was no specific noise that brought Justin awake.

On the contrary, as he came back to the world what he noticed most was the lack of sound; no hum of ventilation, no whir of electric power, no hiss of plumbing.  All the familiar background noise supposed to be there was missing.  The silence penetrated and weighed him down.  His confused ears rebelled against it, constructing barriers of whining, mosquito-buzzing white noise.

What he noticed next was the pain.  A pronounced ache plagued his every muscle and joint.  His head throbbed, and opening his eyes only made things worse.

He lay atop sweat-soaked bedding, alone, in a dark room.  The only light came from some sort of old-fashioned oil lamp, mounted on the wall above the headboard and giving off a feeble glow.  He raised an arm to shield his eyes from it, and even this tiny movement was a labor.

His stomach churned, and urgency shook all remaining sleep-haze.  He rolled off the bed and fell to the floor, searching frantically for something in which to be sick.  Tucked under the bed was a wide-brimmed, metal bucket, and he seized it.  His empty stomach produced nothing but hollow echoes in the pail.  Tears streamed down his face for the effort.  When the nausea had passed, he put the bucket back and looked around.

This was not his bedroom.  Nor was it any room in his house.  The floor beneath him was made of crude, unfinished planks.  Tapestries decorated the unpapered walls, and there was not a single window.  The oil lamp was the only means of illumination.  Justin spotted his tennis shoes at the foot of the bed, and he snatched them up.

It came back to him now: a strange kitchen.  An old man with a long, wide, white beard, dressed in black robes like a monk.  Antlers hanging on the wall.  A clock whose symbols bore no resemblance to what Justin knew as numbers.  And a second man– this one tall and silent.

The images in his mind’s eye were distorted behind fog and heat-shimmer; an avant-garde array of half-remembered pictures and feelings not unlike a dream.  They were memories, but they were only fragmentary– messy, splattered and congealed on the inside of his skull.  Where was he?  And how had he gotten here?

A boat.  For some reason, he was thinking about a boat.

Am I still in the same house? he wondered, tying his shoes.  I remember the old man giving me a drink that tasted funny. I threw up and blacked out. It must have had something in it. Here I thought he was a monk, and instead he tries to poison me! But what was I doing in his kitchen in the first place? Can’t remember–

As he stood up, all the blood rushed to his head, and another wave of venomous pain hit him so intensely that his vision blurred.  The room bubbled into darkness and then danced with flashes.

He held on to consciousness– for the moment– and as sight came back, he took inventory.  Patting his jeans pockets, he found everything where it should be: wallet, keys and phone.  He checked the phone.  The display blasphemed a white, electronic glow that seemed alien and unwelcome in this archaic-looking place.  It clashed with the oil lamp’s natural light, creating a strange, shadowy borderlands.

No signal, no time, no date… And almost zero battery life.

Justin turned it off to save what little charge was left and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Gotta get out of here,” he whispered.

He flinched at the groaning of the floorboards as he made his way toward the room’s only door.  To his relief, the brass knob gave with little effort.  The hinges were well greased, and ancient though it was, the door swung open with barely a sound.

He stepped into a kitchen– the same kitchen from his half-forgotten memory.  Blue-gray moonlight spilled from a diamond-shaped pane in the door.  It was the only window, and little more than a peephole.

So it was real, after all… he thought.

He remembered this place looking rustic and quaint.  Now it felt more like a haunted house.  The antlers hanging on the wall, above a washbasin, now seemed to belong to a lurking monster.  The elaborate woodwork cast ghostly shadows of burrows and pits in the moonlight.

And there was the clock he’d remembered.  The one that measured time by strange symbols that were not numbers.  Nor were they numerals or letters belonging to any writing system that Justin recognized.  Furthermore, the runic figures seemed to indicate the time to be a quarter past sixteen.  He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was seeing things, but a second glance confirmed it.  The clock measured time in eighteen-hour increments.

He stood still, trying to moisten his dry lips, listening for any sign of the old man.

Zechariah, thought Justin.  That’s what the old man said his name was. Right before he gave me that drink that knocked me out…

He tiptoed forward, feeling the vibrations of his every movement.  The house spoke to him in elderly grunts.  Creeping past the kitchen table, he wondered where the old man named Zechariah had gone–

Justin missed a step as another wave of sick agony crashed within his head.  He felt it wrap around him and start to pull him down.  He leaned against table for support, well aware of the creak of its legs under his weight.

Don’t black out again! his mind screamed at him.  Pull it together!

For a few moments, he focused on nothing but staying conscious.  Only after the blackness had subsided did he dare leave the safety of the table for the front door.

Groping blinding for a handle, his fingers found bolts and chains.  They whispered like chimes in stale wind as, one by one, he undid the locks.

He froze.  Had he heard something just now– behind him?

He looked over his shoulder.  Shadows distorted the kitchen into a hundred crooked hiding places.  His heart beat in his throat.  His eyeballs pulsed with blood-flow.  The last bolt slid free within his trembling hand.  His breath was a freight train in his ears as he turned the knob and cracked the door.  Cool summer breeze swept in like a lost midnight caller.  He had to fight the urge to sprint off into the night as he slipped quietly out through the threshold.  He inched the door closed behind him until the latch clicked home.

Turning away from the door, Justin’s breath caught in his throat at sight of his surroundings.

Rolling plains stretched out beyond vision.  Thin snakes of gray clouds drifted across the night sky.  A lop-sided, crescent moon peeked through the clouds and cast her influence over the steppes.  There wasn’t a building, road or landmark within sight.

He looked back toward the old man’s hut. It sat at the base of a slope, and atop the hill beyond, he spotted the dull gray silhouettes of other houses in the moonlight.  Their windows were dark.  Along the edge of the settlement he saw movement: a repetitive catch of light.  As his eyes adjusted, it became the blades of a windmill.  There were dozens of them, rotating in ranks.  But encouraging as it was to see signs of civilization, it didn’t change the startling fact that he recognized nothing in this wild, ghostly countryside.

His memory was fuzzy, but now that he was out here, the idea that the old man had poisoned him seemed pretty stupid.  Justin didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here, but running off aimlessly into the dark wasn’t going to solve anything.

He turned back toward the house.  Moss hung from the brown brick, and creepers with flowers closed in slumber slithered between the cracks.  The old man’s hut was several hundred yards from the hilltop village with its windmills.  His door faced away from town, toward the open plains.

Justin sighed.  He was lost, and he was clearly sicker than he’d realized.  This old man had been kind enough to give him a bed to sleep in.  Where there was a bed, he might as well get some rest and–

The bronze knob caught at half-turn.  He jiggled it and twisted harder, but it wouldn’t budge.  Locked.

Justin plowed his fingers through his hair, grumbling at his own foolishness.  He raised his hand to knock on the door, but he bit his lip, hesitating.  He hated to put the old man’s hospitality to the test by waking him up at this hour, all over a stupid mistake.  But what other choice did he have?

A sudden noise distracted Justin from the door.  It was faint and distant but definitely human, and as Justin squinted at the town atop the grassy incline several hundred yards away, he saw an orange flicker that he hadn’t noticed before.

Justin lowered his hand without knocking.  It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look around first.  Maybe he’d find something familiar and recognize where he was.  He didn’t know why his cell phone had no service, but maybe if he could find a place that was open– the source of that light, perhaps– he could use their phone and figure out where he was.  Giving the knob one last try– to no success– Justin stepped away from the door and started up a rutted trail, toward the gray silhouettes of town.

As he walked, he could see sprawling fields of grain beneath the lazy, turning arms of the windmills.  The trail he followed led him along the edge of a field of waist-high wheat that shone pallid in the moonlight.  He glanced occasionally over his shoulder, taking mental notes of his position relative to the old man’s hut.  With the exception of some weirdly ancient-looking buildings made of crooked, cut stone, it was the only house so far removed from the bulk of the settlement.  It wouldn’t be difficult to find his way back.

Still, Justin found that a growing sense of unease had taken root in his guts by the time he reached the village.  The rutted path turned into a well-worn, dirt road.  The buildings on either side seemed very old yet very tidy, and they sat abnormally close to one another.  Even the size of the road itself was strange– hardly wide enough for two cars to pass at once.  And come to think of it, he had yet to see any vehicles at all.

The orange flicker grew brighter with each step.  The houses were silent.  Not a single window was lit.  Not a single streetlamp could be seen.  Another voice echoed toward him, joined in immediately by a second.  Laughter, he realized.  Justin hurried toward it, and turning a corner, found the source of the light and sound.

Firelight shone from the wide-open doors of a large building, creating a swirling shadow-puppet show on the street.  Patrons within swooped and danced across the light.  Puffs of smoke rose from the chimney.  From within came the sounds of laughter, singing, and the clinking of glasses.  Somewhere behind it all, a stringed instrument strummed high and merrily.

As Justin approached the set of steps at the entrance, he was met by the conglomerate smells of smoked meat, warm beer and tobacco.  A plaque hung above the door.  Its symbols– like those of the strange clock– were foreign and unreadable to him.

At the base of the stairs, he took the phone from his pocket and turned it on.  Still no signal; still no time, and battery failing.

Even if I could call someone, thought Justin, What would I tell them? I don’t even know where I am yet.

He took a deep breath that shuddered with nerves.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said to no one.

He climbed the stairs and entered the doorway.

Noise and light and smell hit him from every angle.  He forced himself to keep walking so as not to stand and gawk, but it was easier said than done.

The room was hazy with smoke.  Men with long pipes clenched between their teeth sat at tables, nursing drinks.  To one side was a bar with barrels for stools.  The far wall housed a blazing fireplace with straw-stuffed chairs clustered around it.  Hanging at the center of the hall was a wooden chandelier, alight with glowing candles and piled with antlers.

Justin made his way to a corner and leaned against a wooden support beam in the shadows.  He tried to stand tall, shoulders set and chest puffed out in a show of confidence that he did not feel.

His mouth was dry.  His pulse quickened.  With every new detail, his self-assurance withered all the more.  This place seemed like something from another time.  And so did the people.  Their clothes were all earth tones, leather and furs, hanging with sashes and sheaths.  There were cloaks draped from shoulders to boots.  Faces were hidden by hoods.  Worse still, Justin somehow knew, with an understanding that was deep and cold and relentless, that these people were profoundly different from him in ways far beyond physical appearance.

A voice very close made him jump.  He turned to see that a portly man in an apron had sidled up beside him in the corner.  Balanced on his arms were trays of empty glasses and plates.  His sparse hair was messed and damp.  His friendly red face cautiously studied Justin.

Justin gathered that he was being asked if he wanted anything.  He waved his hand and said, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

The barman looked confused.  He asked another question.

“Sorry… I–” Justin fumbled.  “I’m a little lost. Don’t speak the language. Sorry.”

He became increasingly aware of the heads turning his direction, the unfriendly eyes studying his clothes, which were so foreign in this place: blue jeans, tennis shoes and a tee shirt.  Out of anxiety, he kept talking.

“I know I’m not old enough to be in here, but I’m not here to drink, I promise. I’m only seventeen– almost eighteen. I’m just lost and looking for a phone. English? You know English? A telephone?”

The barman looked more annoyed now than confused.  He said something excusing himself to his work and shuffled off.

“Hey, boy.”

Justin turned toward the voice.  A man stood from a nearby table and took a few unsure steps toward him.  Even from here, Justin could smell stale alcohol clinging to his skin like a perfume.  There was an ugly burn scar across his face, making it impossible to tell what sort of expression he wore.  The eye on the injured half was glazed over and staring white.  It was not the face that held Justin’s attention, though, but the dagger in his hand.

“…Lost?” the man said, the first half of the sentence indiscernible within slurred mumbles.  He took a staggering step at Justin and raised the dagger.  “I’ll send you home.”

The man was coming toward him with the dagger raised.  Justin looked around for help, but all he found were bleary eyes, watching with either callous disregard or worse, amusement.  He found himself in the numbing clutches of blind terror.  For every step the drunkard took forward, Justin took one back.  He dared move no faster, nor any slower.  The drunkard was talking as he advanced, but it was garbled, and only half the words seemed to be English.  All Justin could see was the blade inching toward him, held level with his frantic eyes.

Finally, Justin took one step too many and stumbled backwards upon finding no floor beneath his foot.

Toppling head-over-heels down the entrance stairs was a painful, confusing blur.  He hit the ground outside in a cloud of dust and rolled into the street.  He scrambled to his feet, ready to run, but nothing pursued him except peals of raucous laughter.

Justin swallowed hard against a dense lump in his throat.  The cruel laughter died away within seconds, and the talking and singing resumed as if he’d never been there at all.  In his hand almost automatically was his cell phone, and standing in the same spot he’d been just a minute before, he powered it on to check again.  Nothing.

Justin rubbed the back of his neck where he’d hit the ground.  In his mind, the encounter had left him even farther from home than before.  If this was a dream, he was impressed by its authenticity.  The rapid pace of his heart at sight of the drunkard’s blade, the smell of his own nervous sweat, the warm breeze of a humid, summer night; these were not things one felt in a dream.

He was awake, he was alive, and he was here, wherever here was.

Briefly, he considered going back in to give it another try.

“Better not,” he mumbled to himself.  “They might decide killing me would be even funnier. What kind of people dress like that–?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.  His eyes to the sky, Justin froze, torn from his thoughts by what looked down at him.  The wind had pushed the cloud cover across the endless sky, and through a break, the moon shone in a crescent.

And even higher in the sky, half-obscured by the clouds, was a second moon, huge and bronze and also a crescent.  So close to the world was it that even on this overcast night Justin could discern elements of its landscape; mountains and valleys pock-marked with craters, some round and some misshapen, the biggest nearly the size of the sister moon itself.

As Justin traced the line of a lunar canyon to where it ended at a large, slashing crater, scar of a primordial wound, he felt farther from home than any map could measure; lost, in the severest definition of the word.

And then, he heard someone call his name.

 

The odyssey continues!

 

Questions and mysteries abound as Justin is pulled deeper and deeper down the proverbial rabbit hole, far from anything and everything he has ever known.  But lurking in the shadows of this fantasy realm is something darker and far more sinister than kidnappers; an ancient, demonic evil, that while threatening the peace of an entire world, may also hold the key to Justin’s gateway home, and the end of his Fallen Odyssey…

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C.B. McCullough

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The Fallen Odyssey

Still available until December 25th, the young adult epic fantasy novel The Fallen Odyssey by C.B. McCullough at $3.00 off the list price.

Just follow this link and enter coupon code E3HEFW3A at checkout.  And stay tuned for updates on the upcoming sequel, The Fallen Aeneid.

When seventeen-year-old Justin Holmes wakes from a strange, amnesic slumber, he finds himself in an unknown land, far from his rural Pennsylvania hometown. With no memory of how he came to be in this world of vast grasslands, sky-scraping mountains and double moons, he can but cling for dear life to his only allies: an illusive old hermit, and a cold-blooded, duplicitous mercenary.

When unwillingly recruited to help rescue a kidnapped princess, Justin is whisked off into the wild on an otherworldly adventure, all while struggling to learn what twist of fate has landed him in this strange, alternate dimension. He can only hope that within the wilderness of this fantasy world can be found some clue that will lead him home.

Questions and mysteries abound, as Justin is pulled deeper and deeper down the proverbial rabbit hole, far from anything and everything he has ever known. But lurking in the shadows of this fantasy realm is something darker and far more sinister than kidnappers; an ancient, demonic evil, that while threatening the peace of an entire world, may also hold the key to Justin’s gateway home, and the end of his FALLEN ODYSSEY…

 

Also available, download the ebook of Part 1 right here, absolutely free.

The Night Also Rises

Still available until December 25th, the science-fiction/mystery novel The Night Also Rises at 25% off list price.

Just follow this link and enter coupon code MBPRUAJA at checkout.

 

Night lasts for days on planet Jannix, and in a city full of murderers, thugs, gangsters and con artists, no man can ever be sure he’ll see another dawn. So when private investigator Jack Tarelli is called to the home of an enigmatic billionaire just hours after an unspeakable murder, he knows a long, long night has only just begun. 

Led on a chase into the shadowy underbelly of a city that never wakes, the hard-nosed and uncompromising Jack will stop at nothing to track down a deadly killer whose motives are shrouded in corruption, betrayal and deceit. But as connections to Jack’s own dark and mysterious past arise, it becomes clear that this is more than a search for answers; it’s a race against time. 

Drawing on the classic noir style, THE NIGHT ALSO RISES is an exciting new take on the hardboiled detective novel; a daring combination of science fiction and mystery like you’ve never seen before. 

Fools rush in where devils fear to tread…

Chandler’s Three

“I have made three rules of writing for myself that are absolutes: Never take advice. Never show or discuss a work in progress. Never answer a critic.”  - Raymond Chandler

Why Do Sequels Suck? Comparing and Contrasting the Good, the Bad and the Barftastic

Picture this.  A great movie is released to critical acclaim.  It dominates the box office and leaves audiences clamoring for more.  Giddy with their own success, creators comply, announcing that the next chapter is on its way.  A sequel: more of what you loved– bigger, better, faster and stronger.

But somewhere along the way, something goes horribly, horribly wrong.

The road to hell seems to be paved with sequels– books, films, etc. that have fallen short of the originals, or just fallen entirely off the map.  The worst ones not only leave a sour taste in your mouth, but can actually diminish their predecessors just by association.

The obvious motivator behind sequels is money, but even if we assume every sequel ever made was concocted for purely mercenary reasons, it still can’t explain why so many are so God-awful.  And it doesn’t explain why there are some good sequels out there– rare as they may be.

So what is it that successful sequels do, where the bad ones miss the mark?  As an author (and currently working on my first sequel) I felt supremely vulnerable to falling victim to the sequel trap.  By comparing some of the most successful sequels in film history, and borrowing from a few other resources (including one great article here), some surprisingly consistent trends began to emerge.  Not only did I start to see what made a sequel good, but I began to understand where the bad ones went wrong.  To keep things orderly, I limited my materials to seven “Successful Sequels” (successful implying critical acclaim, and/or fan favorites) as well as seven “Failed Sequels” (failed implying general disdain, and/or just abysmal).  And so, without further ado, it’s time to finally figure out what makes or breaks a Part II.  Take note, Hollywood.

1. Characters

Success is bad.

Okay, let me clarify this…  What I  mean is that successful, well-balanced characters are boring.  While there’s nothing inherently wrong with characters getting what they want, fulfilled, happy people tend to come off not only as one-dimensional and forgettable, but downright annoying.  That seems to be the reason that in 5/7 Successful Sequels, characters are more troubled.  One of the best examples of this can be found in an unlikely place: Toy Story 2 (1999).

Considered by many critics to be one of the most successful sequels ever made, Toy Story 2 seems to do just about everything right.  But where this movie really shines is in its character development.  That’s pretty impressive, given that the characters are, well, toys.  Without human lives, how much character development can we really get out of them?  As it turns out, a lot.  With the toys’ owner, Andy, growing up, there’s an overall feeling of fearful uncertainty for the future.  Woody struggles with issues of identity, and all the toys must confront the reality of death (meaning, for them, abandonment, being sold at garage sales, or put into storage).

Toy Story 2 is also a prime example of another factor of successful sequels: adding new co-stars.  It seamlessly brings Jessie the Cowgirl and Bullseye the Horse into the fold.  Only 1/7 Failed Sequels added new co-stars to the lineup, while 5/7 Successful Sequels did.  

2. Villains

Moving on, we come to a category that is near and dear to my heart.  I just love to hate a good villain.

But for some reason, many bad guys just lose their luster in sequels.  The temptation to resurrect the dead is just too overwhelming for some writers (think Agent Smith in The Matrix movies).  Others just can’t pass up the redemption story– trying to turn the first movie’s villain into a good guy the second time around; maybe even a hero.

In truth, both of these avenues, no matter how appealing they may seem, are the sequel equivalent of shooting yourself in the foot.  The dead should stay dead.  So instead of resurrecting that old nemesis, one of the most important things to do in a sequel– and utilized in all 7/7 Successful Sequels– is to add a new villain.  Perhaps none does this better than the sequel to Batman Begins (2005), 2008′s follow-up, The Dark Knight.

It was probably very tempting to bring back Liam Neeson for a reprisal of his villainous role from Batman Begins (especially considering that his character, Ra’s al Ghul, was immortal in the Batman comics).  Instead, Nolan and co. brought in the Clown Prince of Crime, a villain devoted not to money or world domination, but pure chaos.  The Joker was so completely unlike what audiences had seen in the previous film, committing heinous crimes with such childlike glee, that it was hard not to like him.  But even though he was likable, there was nothing sympathetic about him– which leads me to my next point: bad guys are bad.

Putting aside the fact that Darth Vader eventually did come back from the Dark Side in a fabulously well-executed redemption plot, there’s nothing redeeming or remotely sympathetic about him in The Empire Strikes Back (1980).  Vader is pure evil in this one.  In Star Wars (1977) he was an enforcer, carrying out orders, doing what he was told.  In Empire, he’s now the one calling the shots.  He leads an invasion against the Rebel heroes in hopes of wiping them out completely.  He’s constantly reappointing officers because he keeps choking his own men to death.  He freezes Han Solo in a block of carbonite– but not before torturing him, first.  He cuts off the hand of his own son, and then tries to convince Luke to join him in conspiring against his only ally, the Emperor.  He is evil and villainous to the core, and it works.  Another great example: the Russian in Rocky IV (1985).

3. Story 

Enticing as it might be for writers to revisit their past successes, the scary truth is this: just because it worked the first time doesn’t mean anybody wants to see it again.  The worst thing a sequel can do is retell the same old story.  I’m talking to you, every horror sequel ever made.

It’s not enough to just reunite the old cast for another romp.  And with all this talk of villains being villainous and characters becoming more troubled, it shouldn’t be surprising to learn that when it comes to sequels, you should always go darker.  5/7 Successful Sequels went darker, while only 2/7 Failed Sequels managed to follow this advice.  And for a lesson in darkness, look no further than Dr. Indiana Jones.

To be fair, the original movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), was far from a “romp”.  I mean, a guy’s head exploded.  Still, Raiders looked tame compared to its 1984 sequel, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.  With scenes of still-beating hearts ripped from human sacrifices, people being burned alive, nightmarish, drug-induced brainwashing, and child slaves getting whipped by devotees of a death-worshipping cult, the stark contrast in subject matter between Raiders and Temple makes this sequel unexpectedly fresh.  Going darker is a great way to add peril and legitimacy to a story.

4. Continuity/References

Remember all those funny one-liners from Pirates of the Caribbean (2003)?  Well if you don’t, you definitely will by the end of the sequel, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (2006), which repeats just about every pun, witty remark and memorable moment from the original.

It feels petty to even mention this one; I mean, I’d feel like I was just nitpicking if the data didn’t support it, but the numbers don’t lie.  6/7 Failed Sequels featured an overabundance of references to the first film.  For another example of this, see The Hangover Part II (2011).  Some even take it a step further, by jumping through hoops, trying to invent importance out of earlier events instead of moving the story forward.

Overabundance of references and continuity overload both tie in with another important sequel characteristic: making the story able to stand alone.

I’d probably already seen Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991) five times before I’d ever seen the original.  The great thing about this film?  You don’t need to see the original to enjoy the second one.  Terminator 2, like so many other great sequels, does not depend on its successor.  Its plot does not– like so many bad sequels– hinge entirely on the original.  You could walk into this movie without ever having seen the first one, and have almost exactly the same experience, making it not only accessible to a wider audience, but less strenuous on the brain.  The same is true of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (which adheres to an almost 007-like isolation), as well as Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, and The Dark Knight.  Try it with either of the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels– or worse, The Matrix sequels– and by the end, your head will hurt almost as much as your stomach.

5. Genre/Scenery

This category might not be as obvious as some of the others, but changes to genre and scenery actually play a fairly significant role in the success or failure of a sequel.  A lot of sequels add a change of scenery as a means of switching things up, some successfully– like Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992) or Predator 2 (1990).  Others, not so much– like Taken 2 (2012), which takes place on the opposite side of Europe, and yet somehow still looks like they’re on the same soundstage as the original.

But going beyond scenery, sequels also tend to experiment with genre more than one might realize.  6/7 Successful Sequels added a new genre from the original, and 6/7 Failed Sequels did not add a new genre.  Still, it’s not fool-proof.  Playing with genre can be a dangerous game.   Enter, Spider-Man 3 (2007).

An awful lot went wrong with Spider-Man 3, but for the sake of time and space, we’ll focus on one, simple fact: there were just too many plot-lines, all getting tangled into a great big, sticky… web?!  Walked right into that one.

In addition to the tried-and-true Action/Adventure Genre, Spider-Man (2002) struck an excellent balance between telling both a Maturation Plot (aka Coming-of-Age Story) through Peter Parker/Spider-Man, as well as a Punitive Plot (Punishment) through the tragic downfall of his enemy Norman Osborn/Green Goblin.  Spider-Man 2 (2004) essentially did the same thing, just with a different villain.  But by the time Spider-Man 3 rolls around, there are too many genres and character arcs for one film to handle.  In addition to straight Action/Adventure, Peter Parker has been exposed to the black, “evil” suit and is going through a Testing Plot.  His friend, Harry Osborn, is falling through a Punitive Plot identical to his father’s.  The villain Sandman is simultaneously going through a Redemption Plot.  I’m pretty sure there was also a love story crammed in there, and the final story arc involving Eddie Brock as Venom was so brief it’s hardly even worth mentioning.  All these plot lines no doubt looked epic and thrilling on paper, but instead, led to an unfortunate lack of focus.  (I tried to keep that one short, and it still almost turned into a rant…)

Summary

So what have we learned?

Make Characters More Troubled  -  characters make story, and internal struggles always add dimension and gravity
Add New Co-Stars  -  a new supporting cast can influence character development across the board
Add a New Villain  -  preferably one who could wipe the floor with the old villain
Keep Bad Guys Bad  -  and dead, if applicable
Go Darker  -  and show the audience that nothing will ever be the same
Make it Stand Alone  -  move the story forward, and leave the past where it belongs
Experiment With Genre  -  but be careful…!

The majority of Successful Sequels utilized all of these techniques, while the majority of Failed Sequels ignored them.  You can’t argue with the facts.

Conclusion:  Sequels Don’t Have to Suck

We can see by the evidence that tangible elements of setting, story structure and character development are consistent hallmarks of a successful Part II.

Sequels are a double-edged sword, but they don’t have to suck.  When a story is so good that it leaves fans yearning for more, it’s only natural that creators answer the call.  All we can really do is cross our fingers, and hope it’ll be a precious gem and not a barftastic failure.

For your viewing pleasure/displeasure, check out the fourteen films examined for this post, and see for yourself what makes or breaks a sequel.

Successful Sequels:

The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
The Dark Knight (2008)
Toy Story 2 (1999)
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn (1982)
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (2006)
Rocky IV (1985)

Failed Sequels:

The Hangover Part II (2011)
Spider-Man 3 (2007)
Taken 2 (2012)
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End (2007)
The Matrix Revolutions (2003)
The Sandlot 2 (2005)
Jurassic Park 3 (2001)




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Coupon Codes for Fantasy, Science-Fiction and Mystery Novels Through Createspace

Posting about discounts at this time of year might just be adding to the noise.  Still, you shouldn’t miss your chance to cash in on these coupon codes, redeemable until December 25th.

For 25% off The Night Also Rises, just enter coupon code MBPRUAJA at checkout.

For $3.00 off The Fallen Odyssey, enter coupon code E3HEFW3A at checkout.

Remember, these coupons are redeemable only through the Createspace.com estore (by clicking the links on the titles above), and only until December 25th.

Limit one coupon per transaction.  If purchasing multiple books, be sure to use multiple transactions to maximize savings.

Books

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The Path Less Traveled

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The Path Less Traveled – Free Epic Fantasy Ebook

No more one and two-day promotions.  No gimmicks.  You can now download The Path Less Traveled by C.B. McCullough for free, all day, every day.

The Path Less Traveled – Part one of The Fallen Odyssey.  Download the free ebook today!

The Downfall of Science – DNA, High-Tech Detectives and Public Ire

Perhaps the proverbial scene of the crime conjures images of dusting for fingerprints or scanning for biological material.  Perhaps it evokes thoughts of taking blood samples or running DNA database queries.

If only things were still so simple.

There was a time when there were any number of quasi-magical means to scientifically divine the identity of a suspect.  A microscopic bit of dander was all it took to link a suspect to the scene of the crime.  A strand of flu virus found on a victim’s shirt collar could plot a dotted line to the killer in hours.  Get to the scene quick enough, and you could lock in an olfaction I.D. by capturing scent molecules left hanging the air, carrying proteins whose amino acids could be reverse-translated into DNA.  In those days, there was a whole lot of science in the field, leaving very little necessity for intellectual deduction.

It all sounds very exciting, which is why the myths of super-science crime fighting are still perpetuated in popular culture; lab-coated cops working over fancy equipment late into the night, trying to discern a bit of mRNA or some other acronym.  Fact is, you don’t see that sort of thing anymore.  White-gloved investigating has become a thing of the past.

Our culture has this schoolgirl crush on the notion of progress; we think anything that moves us forward is inherently good.  The unfortunate truth is that progress is sometimes our own worst enemy.  It might seem counterintuitive, but the real world usually is.

You could write a book about the downfall of science in the field of criminal investigation.  Someone probably has.  I haven’t read it, but I have a feeling it would start something like this.

Once upon a time, DNA was the final word in police work.  By its very nature, a structure unique to every individual human being seemed infallible.  But some thirty or forty years ago, the medical field began to abandon mechanical, cybernetic prosthetics in favor of lab-grown, organic replacements.  This method was well established in the growth of internal organs, but using the same techniques to grow flawless new skin, limbs, digits and eyes was revolutionary.  However, every output needs an input, and the process often involved the borrowing of organic matter from one or several donors.

Crime scenes were suddenly rife with DNA from multiple suspects.  Cops would think they were dealing with multiple perpetrators and get led around in circles, tracking down what would turn out to be a series of innocent parties– donors of genetic material used for some scumbag’s lab-grown teeth or something.

The first major outcry came in an incident when investigators over-confidently released a murder suspect’s name to the media, based on DNA found at the crime scene.  Police were subsequently abashed when a simple public records search revealed their prime suspect had been dead and buried for over a decade.  Turned out he had donated organic material upon expiration, which was thereafter used to grow a new hand for someone who used it to kill somebody.

The reputation of high-tech detective work was already waning by the time of the infamous, media-dubbed Rug Ruse.  In a stunning disaster, an elderly man with a spotless criminal record and zero history of violence was convicted and sentenced to death for quadruple homicide.  The evidence against him: a DNA match, drawn from a handful of hair, torn from the killer’s head.  The old man died of natural causes while awaiting his fate on death row, ruined and disgraced.

The whole thing was turned upside down when an investigative journalist uncovered the truth.  The barber of the convicted old man had been running a homegrown wig business on the side.  He and his son– a graduate student in medical genetics– had been recycling the sheared hair of clientele for use in genetic hair replacement.  The old man could never have known he had unwillingly donated his hair to be grown in the scalp of a killer.  The historic, interplanetary headlines read: Science Trumps Logic! Innocent man dead and defamed in RUG RUSE!

It was an eye-opening turn of events, igniting public ire and inciting a general loss of confidence in investigative police work.  Soon, organized crime dipped their ladles into the stew.  The mob started constructing false evidence for frame-ups, and suddenly all manner of suspicious crimes were being committed by perpetrators without motive, sometimes even without opportunity.  God knows how many innocent people were wrongly convicted in those days.

All this might lead one to believe that standards of practice would be mandated in the growth of biological material.  But like I said, things in this world are often counterintuitive.

The limitless wealth of the medical genetics industry and increasing disdain for law enforcement over wrongful convictions led the tide to the turn the opposite direction– against the police.  The scandals spearheaded rounds of harsh legislation against the use of DNA evidence, becoming increasingly strict over the years, and eventually outlawing nearly every form of biological material as admissible in court.

There’s still no legislation barring the use of DNA in police investigations, but it is very illegal to bring a case against someone based solely on genetic/biological material.  Old school cops– specialists clinging to tradition– still use it to find leads, but nowadays it’s really more trouble than it’s worth.  Mild variants of genetic alteration are used in everything from beauty products to dental hygiene– and don’t get even me started on the ‘bodily enhancement’ industry.  Finding reliable biological evidence often involves sifting through a whole lot of junk material.  It’s easier to fake DNA than to fake a cold.

The result of it all this was a great, backwards leap in the field of police investigation.  A new breed of detective– or an old breed, reborn– rose to the occasion: the investigator who relied on logic, deduction, and hard-nosed fieldwork to track down his man.  Modern investigatory work is based on reason, motive, and hard, physical evidence.

And so, as my taxi hovers down to street level and I step out onto 105th, I’m not wearing a lab coat or white gloves.  And I’m sure as hell not here to dust for fingerprints.

The above text is an excerpt from The Night Also Rises, a science-fiction/noir mystery novel in the hardboiled detective tradition, written and self-published by C.B. McCullough.

For an extended preview, watch the book trailer, or get the full story now, on Kindle or in paperback.