Charles Purcell's Blog, page 16

Adieu, Don … All the ways we’ll miss Don Draper and Mad Men

We’ll miss Don … the man, the myth, the enigma.

We’ll miss meeting all of Don’s interesting women.

We’ll miss living vicariously through him.

We’ll miss the way Don could make any suit look amazing with that Cadillac body of his.

We’ll miss Don’s long lunches, late breakfasts and the way he would leave the office whenever he wanted (and wish we could do it, too).

We’ll miss his amazing ad pitches that could make even coffee copy seem like Homer.

We’ll miss Don’s long-suffering secretaries, all the way from Peggy through to Miss Blankenship and beyond.

We’ll miss the drinking in the office.

We’ll miss the sex in the office.

We’ll miss the sex outside the office.

We’ll miss all those interesting books in the show – Exodus, Meditations In An Emergency, Atlas Shrugged, Rosemary’s Baby, Confessions Of An Advertising Man.

We’ll miss the show’s searing indictment of the era’s racial and sexual politics.

We’ll miss how Mad Men signposted so many important moments in American history: the Civil Rights freedom rides, the Cuban Missile Crisis, JFK’s assassination, Vietnam, the moon landing … Tab.

We’ll miss Roger Sterling’s joie de vivre, his bon mots and his self-published book, Sterling’s Gold.

We’ll miss that classic opening sequence.

We’ll miss the cracking dialogue.

We’ll miss the Old Fashioneds, Gimlets, Manhattans and Whiskey Sours.

We’ll miss the painstakingly historically accurate sets.

We’ll miss the clothes.

We’ll miss the hair (but not Roger’s moustache).

We’ll miss Peggy and watching her grow from shy young secretary to kick-ass copy chief.

We’ll miss the inimitable Joan (and wonder why Don and Joan never hooked up … what a dream couple that would’ve made).

We’ll miss the strange things out of the blue like Zou Bisou Bisou, Joan playing the accordion and ad men having their feet run over by indoor tractors.

We’ll miss Chauncey more than we’ll miss Duck.

We’ll miss Sally – but remain grateful we watched her blossom into an incredible young woman.

We’ll miss Betty in so many ways.

We’ll miss Burt Cooper and his epic dancing farewell.

We’ll miss Pete … and always remember the time he tried to exchange that “chip and dip”.

We’ll particularly miss the gallant Englishman Lane.

We’ll miss Salvatore and wonder why the producers never brought him back.

We’ll miss the way Don’s journey was a microcosm of a changing America – and how many (including Don) came to question the myths at the heart of the American capitalistic dream.

We’ll miss trying to unravel the mystery of Don’s heart.

We’ll miss Madison Avenue.

We’ll just miss it all.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is available on Amazon.

Nice one, Mad Max … aka why we yearn for the Apocalypse

SO George Miller’s oversized, thrill-packed road-warrior epic Mad Max has come out to almost universal acclaim.

It’s yet another epic instalment in the movie category you could tentatively call “Apocalypse Porn”.

And yet, why do we – at least in pampered Western societies – have such an interest in and a yearning for the Apocalypse?

You can see signs of the metaphorical Apocalypse everywhere in pop culture. We eagerly devour TV shows such as The Walking Dead and 12 Monkeys. We flock to the cinemas to see Mad Max. We demand greater and greater threats to the Earth in the Avengers series.

Gloom and doom? Bring it on.

So what are the real reasons behind the West’s desire for the Apocalypse … Now?

Maybe there’s a hidden voice in our overprivileged, overindulged brains that whispers “you’ve got it just too good – it can’t possibly last”. True, we’re holding the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse  – Conquest, War, Famine and Death – at bay … and yet, part of us believes that it’s a temporarily scenario at best.

Perhaps untold eras of war and struggle and fighting have left their mark on our unconscious lizard brains. Maybe the idea that the entire human race could be atomised in an afternoon has never left our subconscious. Or that after the Great Oil Shock of 1973 – when OPEC cut off their supply to the West, creating financial panic and underscoring the West’s crippling reliance on foreign oil   – we realised on what precarious foundations our economies and lifestyles were based upon.

Look how good we’ve got it? Bugger that. We all know we’re doomed.

We just don’t know how yet.

Let us count the ways of the impending Apocalypse.

The robots could become self-aware and the Terminators start wiping out humanity en route to killing John Connor. Or an experimental virus will escape from the labs and turn billions into flesh-eating zombies. Maybe aliens who look like us but secretly have lizard faces under their latex masks will descend upon the Earth to feast on our exquisite floppily doppilies.

Climate change could kill us all. We could become Pod People in an Invasion of the Body Snatchers scenario.

Or we’ll end up in some Mad Max-style dystopia where violence is the only law and petrol and water the only things of value.

And yet, could there be another dynamic at work? Could it be that we all have a secret desire to be “tested”? That it some way we long to see if we’re made of the right stuff – to see if we are strong enough and brave enough and resourceful enough to survive whatever the world throws at us, be it zombie infestation, robot apocalypse or Mad Max-style Armageddon?

Do we yearn to be heroes and heroines, to be Tom Hardy’s taciturn road warrior or Charlize Theron’s one-armed ass-kicking Valkyrie? Does the appeal of some Darwinian survival of the fittest scenario tickle our fancy? Are we tired of being Shopper-Consumers and long to become Hunter-Gatherers again?

As for me, I say let’s schedule the Apocalypse for Later rather than Now. Let’s leave the evolutionary battles for existence for future generations. There are too many creature comforts I don’t want to give up just yet.

And too many box sets of The Walking Dead still to be rewatched on my large-screen plasma TV.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

How do we react when a beloved TV character is killed off … aka why Matthew Weiner, why?

“I FELT a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”

It’s the classic quote from Obi-wan Kenobi as the destruction of Alderaan ripples through the Force in Star Wars.

And yet, is not a similar disturbance on the interwebs felt with the sudden death and downfall of every great TV character?

Certainly the Twittersphere is up in arms over the fate of a certain character in last night’s Mad Men.

Which raises the question: what do we do when someone whose adventures we have followed for years – devoting precious hours and binge-marathons to – is suddenly killed off?

It’s not like any modern viewer is going to weep any tears for the fate of Old Yella or Lassie. Those old shows were too sentimental and cornball for modern tastes to take seriously. They’re almost laughable, really, an excursion in kitsch.

Yet there is a certain amount of trauma involved when heroes and heroines we’ve invited into our living rooms – and spent many a rainy day or long afternoon getting to know – disappear from our modern screens.

These characters become more than mere pixels on the screen: they become real in a way. At least, the emotions they evoke are real. And we, in turn, become invested in their fates.

We know from long experience not to get too close to any character from Game Of Thrones. Go to one Red or Purple Wedding and you know someone is going to cop a crossbow bolt/knife to the throat/poisoned chalice. Sometimes it’s King Joffrey (yay!). And other times it’s Robb and Catelyn Stark (why, George RR, why?).

But the Mad Men one hits you right where it hurts because it’s so unexpected.

Yet perhaps it’s not such a bad thing. When a major character dies, it just goes to show the stakes involved … that this is serious, people. As serious as real life. To believe that fictional characters never die is perhaps to believe in the prolonging of adolescence: to put off the grim realities of adulthood, to believe that Lassie or Skippy or Flipper or the Lone Ranger always arrive in the nick of time to save the day.

Yet if our appetite for the grittier series and boxsets has proved anything, it is that we as an audience are ready and hungry for more adult drama.

If there is one objection I have to the excellent Avengers movies, it is this: you just know none of the major characters will ever be killed. In a way, that actually lowers the stakes, despite the Avengers fighting to save the world from angry Gods or even angrier robots.

Yes, there is something reassuring in knowing the outcome beforehand, flipping the Doors’ lyrics of “no one here gets out alive” to “everyone here gets out alive for the sequel and their own stand-alone movies”. But as we all know, that’s not how real life works.

In contrast, all of the top tier HBO shows – The Sopranos, Game Of Thrones, True Blood – feature major character deaths.

And the writers usually do their best to soften the emotional blow. After all, they’re emotionally invested in the characters, too. As a fellow writer, I understand how writers can become attached to their creations. In a way, their lives become our lives. We imagine what they say and do, their words and actions coming to us at all hours of the day. They become our friends and confidantes. Fictional characters can sometimes occupy as much headspace as a treasured friend.

And no one wants to kill a treasured friend.

Speaking of insensitivity, one can’t go past the callousness of the 1986 film, Transformers: The Movie. Toymaker Hasbro was keen to finish off the old line of Transformer toys and usher in a new line, so the movie was used to introduce a new collection of Transformers – as well as violently kill off a whole bunch of established characters/toys, including Optimus Prime. Naturally, the tots and young adults who had invested so much time and emotion in Optimus Prime and co were horrified.

It was the toyetic equivalent of the Red Wedding.

Personally I think the best way to end a TV show that potentially features the death of major characters is to be ambiguous. For example, I love the much-derided ending of The Sopranos. Now I can go back and watch the whole series again, believing that Tony lives at the end.

I even like to kid myself when it comes to classic movie endings. For example, I like to think Thelma and Louise survived at the end when they drove into the Grand Canyon. You don’t see the crash: maybe they landed on a ledge or something? Maybe?

Same thing with Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid. Perhaps Paul Newman and Robert Redford aren’t killed by the Mexican army? Maybe they just get winged. After all, you don’t actually see them get shot – there’s that little wiggle room in the imagination for other outcomes.

But back to last night’s shocker.

Perhaps George R.R. Martin was right when he wrote “valar morghulis”.

All men must die.

And occasionally major characters must die, too.

And perhaps that’s how it should be in the world of adult drama.

My military ebook thriller The Spartan is out now on Amazon.

The malaise of House Of Cards as explained via Poochie from The Simpsons

AFTER having just binge-watched the entire third season of House Of Cards, I think I can agree with many of the critics out there who went … “meh”.

It’s not that the season is that dire or anything. But something has been done to the show’s formula to make it less engaging – something, I believe, that could be called “the Poochie Syndrome”.

Set the wayback machine, Sherman, to that classic episode of The Simpsons where the creators of subversive cartoon-within-a-cartoon Itchy And Scratchy are grappling with the malaise affecting the show. Lisa Simpson gives the best insight where she says that after so many episodes, it’s hard to have the same effect on viewers. The show has simply lost its novelty value.

But the creators decide to tweak with the formula – to tweak, as it were, the “dramaturgical dyad” behind Itchy And Scratchy. Enter Poochie: the skateboarding dog with attitude. He’s extreme. He’s edgy. He’s whatever buzzwords the focus groups behind capturing the younger demographic want him to be.

Poochie proves to be a disaster and is soon written out of the show (much to Homer’s chagrin). Yet I can’t help but think that some of the problems of Poochie’s brief stardom also plague the story of Francis and Claire Underwood.

One of them is awkward writing and sudden plot jumps, perhaps most obvious when you watch the show all at once rather than week by week.

Remember how Poochie is suddenly written out of the show? Where, out of the blue, he announces, “I have to go now, my planet needs me”? Followed by a note on the screen that says “Poochie died on the way back to his home planet”?

Season three of House Of Cards is full of moments like that. Characters that have been part of major arcs for several episodes disappear without trace, as if they have been rapidly recalled to their home planet. In one particular instance which I won’t spoil in case you haven’t seen it, the disappearance of one seemingly pivotal senator is explained away with a two- or three-sentence aside from Francis.

It’s the dramatic equivalent of the “Poochie died on the way back to his home planet” note.

Poochie inconsistencies also plague the plot. One episode Francis insists that the Russians must be part of a peacekeeping mission in the Jordan Valley in the Middle East – despite the fact that the Russians would have no real reason for sending troops to that quagmire of a region.

“The Russians must be part of it!” he roars. Then, barely an episode or two later, he’s suddenly dead-set against the Russians being there. “They have to get out!” he insists, as if he played no part in getting them there.

One would need the mental dexterity and convenient amnesia of a citizen of 1984’s Oceania to accept this flip-flopping reality.

The stakes they are fighting for continually shift and turn, testing the credulity of any intelligent viewer. One episode Francis is doomed to electoral failure. The next he’s back on top as if nothing had ever happened … as if, in fact, “Poochie” was never there in the first place.

President Francis’s AmWorks (America Works) campaign isn’t fleshed out, either. He wants to provide full employment by cutting social security – yet there is scant detail to explain the scheme. Also, Francis is supposed to be a Democrat president: the social-security-slashing AmWorks sounds more like a Republican scheme. Surely a Democrat president wouldn’t be taking an axe to Obama’s hard-won Obamacare?

Are you there, Poochie?

And would the President really be forced to raid the Federal Emergency Management Agency for a measly $3 billion to prop up AmWorks? The US economy is a $17-trillion-dollar juggernaut: $3 billion is loose change you’d find under the couch. More “Poochie” writing.

The “dramaturgical dyad” of Francis and Claire has also been tampered with, to dubious effect. Remember Homer Simpson’s suggestion about Poochie that, whenever he wasn’t on the screen, Itchy and Scratchy would constantly ask, “Where’s Poochie?” I feel that Francis and Claire have succumbed to the same problem. They’re constantly on the phone to each other or demanding to be put in touch with each other, barely content to enjoy any solo screen time.

“Where’s Francis? Where’s Claire?”

Where’s Poochie?

I’m not sure how House Of Cards solves its Poochie problem. Maybe, as Lisa Simpson would say, after the cracking first season, we’re just not sure how to take House Of Cards, particularly now that Francis Underwood has gone from underdog senator to overdog President.

Perhaps the next move, as in the original House of Cards series, is to see Francis lose his position – to be called back to his home planet.

Although let’s hope he doesn’t die on the way there.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

The day I met Keanu Reeves … aka why I Love John Wick

I MET Keanu Reeves once. It was at the premiere of The Matrix Revolutions at the Sydney Opera House in 2003. By a stroke of luck I had made my way past security into the VIP area where Reeves, Paris Hilton and her sister and uber-producer Joel Silver were ensconced.

I wasn’t actually supposed to be there – my press pass only allowed me to mingle among the hoi polloi – but I acted like I belonged with the VIPs when I flashed my pass, which, of course, is the secret to gatecrashing everywhere.

Like the gaming nerd I am, I took the chance to congratulate the beautiful Jada Pinkett-Smith on her role in The Matrix video game. She was pleased by the compliment, no doubt used to hearing more commentary on her role in the movies.

Then it was on to talk to Reeves, who was sitting on a couch.

Reeves looked pretty much exactly like he did on screen: handsome, chilled-out, with eyes that bespoke a deep intelligence. And believe me, not every Hollywood star looks the same as they do on screen. Some, in my experience, look radically different: almost unrecognisable (no names … but you know who you are).

Anyway, I went up to Keanu and shook his hand.

“Good movie,” I said.

“Thanks,” he replied.

Then he yawned.

But that was OK. It’s a 20-hour flight to Sydney from the US.

Anyway, it would be more than a decade before Reeves would find another great action franchise.

And I believe he has found one with John Wick.

Described as one of the best action films of 2014, it’s a welcome return to form for Reeves, a pacy shoot-’em-up that reminds me of the excitement and vigour of the first Taken movie. The shooting scenes are particularly interesting as Wick takes down Russian Mafiosko close up, almost using his pistol as a third hand or extra fist.

Yet what stuck out in my mind was Wick’s motivation for bringing the pain: the Russian mafia killed his dog. Or rather, they killed the dog that was the last gift from his late wife. But still … it’s all about the dog, whose collar Wick keeps on his bedstand as a reminder to keep his rage fresh. Several Russians can’t believe that Wick would go postal over a pooch. After all, who goes all Rambo over a dog?

Still, it’s a welcome twist from the usual tired themes of revenge movies. The “they killed/kidnapped his wife and family … and now it’s personal” gambit has been played out in everything from Taken to Commando.

Let’s hope Hollywood makes more “alt-revenge” movies in the John Wick vein. I’d like to see a revenge fantasy based on a burnt-out Italian hitman taking revenge on the Russian mob for a bad customer rating on eBay. I’d book early online to see a psychopathic version of Sideways where snobs go at each other hammer and tongs because someone brought merlot to dinner. I’d definitely tape Revenge For Flipper … and at least watch the first 10 minutes of The Artisanal Bread Massacre.

Missing cats, neglected goldfish, overgrown hedges, crude personal graffiti on toilet walls, disses on Facebook, poor service in stores and social exclusion in high school now writ large in the adult mind are all real-world fodder for alt-revenge … providing said revenge is exacted on tough, demanding, armed foes and not, say, innocent teen fry cooks.

Perhaps a gun-toting gluten-intolerant could take their intolerance out on the gluten-loving world at large in some bizarre remake of Falling Down (“at first he was gluten intolerant … now he can’t tolerate anything”). Perhaps a $10,000 Apple Watch could be the McGuffin in the suitcase in Pulp Fiction II, the item avaricious gangsters fight and die over. Maybe pimped-out grocery carts could be transformed into Mad Max-style battle vehicles as the apocalypse comes to the frozen food section of your local grocery store (“Everyone is checking out on aisle nine in Store Wars: Episode III”).

I await Hollywood’s best efforts.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is now available on Amazon.

The time I interviewed Robert Downey jnr … aka the Faustian pact between journalist and subject

As a journalist who once interviewed Robert Downey jr, I am following the controversy regarding his “difficult” interview with British journalist Krishnan Guru-Murthy – where Downey jr walked out after the journalist alluded to his drug past – with keen interest.

Personally I found Downey jr to be a witty, erudite, charming interview subject when I spoke to him in 2008 about his role in Iron Man. I got the feeling he was more than happy to have an expansive conversation ranging on a number of topics. Anyway, have a read here.

Yet the Guru-Murthy saga brings up an interesting topic: the Faustian bargain between journalist and subject.

Stars and journalists come at interviews with completely different agendas. Hollywood stars such as Downey jr approach interviews with the understanding that they are primarily there to talk about their latest film/movie/play/happening. Hence Downey jr’s interjection – “Are we promoting a movie?” – when his interview with Guru-Murthy began to go south.

The stars don’t want to be there – indeed, few enjoy the interview process, despite the implicit ego-stroking – but they endure it for the good of “the project”.  Interview junkets may involve hundreds of interviews all around the world, where the stars face versions of the same questions (“What was it like to work with your co-star?”) again and again. Trying to stay good-humoured in the face of predictable, cringeworthy or even asinine questions must be an ordeal: one, admittedly, for which they are well paid.

Yet hidden in the whole process is the expectation that some journalists will stray from the official script. Journalists don’t just want to talk about the movie and deliver a “puff piece”: they want to learn something about the star themselves. They want to sell newspapers, get ratings, create a story worth reading.

The best way to achieve that is to report something people never knew about the stars, something that might make their article stand out. Perhaps even a precious “exclusive”.

In short, they want a sliver, a kernel, a piece of the subject’s soul. Because, no, we’re not just promoting a movie. That’s what full-page ads and press releases are for. We’re promoting the star and the audience’s interest in said star.

Stars realise this and typically play along. They usually come equipped with a favourite anecdote from the set or snippets of trivia (“I hit my co-star in the head with a rubber axe – just a glancing wound, mind”) to keep the jackals of the press at bay. They dole out slivers of their soul sparingly. It is part of the interviewer’s art to skilfully elicit those slivers and kernels, to woo their subject with tact and charm so they are comfortable enough to share those slivers. A good interviewer can get the famous to share those slivers without the stars realising they’re doing so until the interview is over.

Yet most stars are also experienced enough to know that “difficult” questions might arise during the second half of the interview. They know you’re going to ask them. You know you’re going to ask them. But both of you pretend it’s not going to happen.

(In that sense, Guru-Murthy’s timing was right, getting into the harder stuff at the five-minute mark of his seven-minute allotted time: if you go in harder too early, you risk a walkabout … and nothing to show your editor.)

Most stars of stage and screen realise that sometime during the current press junket, someone will bring up something fraught and random such as (pick one or more) their secret conjoined twin, their underground passion for scrimshaw, their “difficult” second album, their “drug hell” (stories so beloved by the British press), that $200-million-dollar flop or the time they abused the sound man and the footage ended up on YouTube. At least, they’ve factored in the possibility and prepared for it the best they could.

So, as a reporter, you roll the dice and take your chances. Sometimes you get gold. Other times you might get the cold shoulder, monosyllabic answers … or even a walkout.

Each interview becomes a balancing act between competing expectations. Obviously Downey jr and Guru-Murthy had different expectations about what that outcome might be.

But that’s always the risk for reporters when you turn on the tape recorder: you never really know what you’re going to get.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

Let’s hope Batman v Superman finally gets Lex Luthor right

Like millions around the world, I was deeply impressed with the new Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice trailer.

But unlike those millions who can’t wait to see Supes and Bats duke it out in Zack Snyder’s adaptation of Frank Miller’s classic Batman series, I’m not so focused on whether Ben Affleck makes a good Batman or whether Henry Cavill is an adequate foil or foe to the Dark Knight.

No, what I’m interesting in is … will they finally get Lex Luthor right?

Because Luthor has been inadequately served on the silver screen ever since 1978’s Superman.

A prisoner of the script, Gene Hackman played Luthor as half evil mastermind, half comedian. Hardly the stuff of humanity’s answer to an all-powerful superbeing from the stars.

Luthor is even made to wear a wig, an emasculating move for a genius clever enough to figure out Superman’s weakness. His choice of bumbling sidekick Otis is another cue that we’re not supposed to take Luthor seriously. All our respect is supposed to be reserved for the flying hero with the “S” on his chest. Don’t look at Luthor, gaze in adoration at Superman.

All that misses the point. Luthor is not supposed to be funny. Luthor is supposed to be terrifying.

Kevin Spacey’s Luthor also failed to fit the bill in Superman Returns. He was neither terrifying nor serious enough to be the evil yin to Superman’s yang, as unimpressive as Brandon Routh’s Kryptonian. Another wasted opportunity.

For a hint of the right track on where to go with Luthor, take a look at Michael Rosenbaum’s turn as Luthor in Smallville. I liked him – and Tom Welling as Clark Kent/Superman. There were encouraging signs that Rosenbaum’s Luthor could grow up into the man that could bring Superman to his knees. He didn’t play the role for laughs; he played it as an extended audition for humanity’s evil answer to being made obsolete by an alien superpower.

What Superman needs – and deserves – is a villain to match his own stature. He needs to be what Liam Neeson’s Ra’s Al Ghul was to Christian Bale’s Batman: a enemy powerful and clever enough to seriously challenge him … and even possibly burn his house or Fortress Of Solitude down.

Superman is one of the most powerful heroes in existence: he deserves a nemesis of equal magnitude. He deserves an enemy worthy of respect, not some buffoon in a wig who escapes from prisons in hot-air balloons.

Because we’re not supposed to laugh at Lex Luthor: we’re supposed to fear him. And, as the only human who could possibly bring him down (apart from Batman/Bruce Wayne), Superman is supposed to fear him, too. If Superman is untouchable – if he does not bleed – then how are we supposed to be touched? Why are we supposed to care?

I can’t help but wonder what Affleck’s Batman thinks about all the superhero worship flowing Superman’s way in the Batman v Superman trailer … what with armed guards bowing towards Superman and the masses thronging to him as if he was some saviour from the heavens.

I can feel Batman’s genuine anger and despair as he stares at his underused Batman suit in the trailer. Is Batman also angry that humanity has put its faith in an alien Kryptonian rather than, say, a human Dark Knight? Does Superman pose an existential threat to Batman’s own value as a hero? Does he feel, if not for a moment, Luthor’s pain at the thought that the most powerful force on Earth is non-human?

Many comic-book fans prefer Batman to Superman because Batman has no special or otherwordly powers. He can’t fly. He doesn’t have adamantium claws or ESP. He’s the world’s best detective and a superb martial artist, but still all too human. One of us, in fact, if only we grew up to be billionaire vigilantes, too.

Superman seems just too powerful: invulnerable to just about anything except a single Achilles heel in the form of Kryptonite. Whereas a single well-placed bullet could take Batman down.

For us to cheer on Superman, he must be vulnerable. He must be placed in mortal danger.

And for that to happen, we need a Luther up to the job.

Let’s hope Jesse Eisenberg is that Luther in Batman v Superman: Dawn Of Justice.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

“Why are sub-editors so rude?”

“Why are sub-editors so rude?” lamented a colleague recently after an abrupt putdown from a sub-editor.

The recipient of the snub wasn’t a sub-editor themselves – merely a fellow traveller in the media world – and yet, it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard sub-editors described as “rude”, “difficult”, “donnish”, “know-it-all” or even “abrupt”. Usually by non-subs, I may add. Mostly by writers, and, occasionally, artists (bloody artists … don’t get me started).

As a sub-editor and writer myself, I’ve had a few run-ins with subs that could be described as “tense”, “fraught”, “difficult” … even “harsh”. I can recall emails where I was sent the corrected name of a musician repeated a dozen times – just in case I missed it the first time – or received a dressing down in language that would make a sailor blush for the incorrect spelling of a suburb. (The latter filled me with some terror: there was an urban myth that a writer was fired for once spelling Coogee “Cooge”).

Imagine if Snow White had Seven Sub-Editors instead of Dwarfs: perhaps they would be called Doc (because they perform surgical miracles with ailing copy), Ropey (because if you make that mistake again they’ll be ropeable), Pedantic, Snippy, Sleepy (because they work the midnight shift), Shouty (because they yell your mistakes over the partitions) and Harpy (slur against female subs).

Yes, it can be a fraught relationship between writers and subs. The two have sometimes conflicting goals: the writer wants the maximum amount of words in print or online in the most prominent position possible. Meanwhile, the sub-editor wants the best-reading, most-accurate story possible in the space allotted. The artist? They just want everything to fit. They never read the words anyway. Boom, boom. (Sorry, I’ll cut out the artist jokes now.)

Naturally, defining any one group with a lone characteristic is an absurd generalisation. Yet sometimes the art of compromise with subs can cause friction. Sub-editors despair when a writer files 1000 words for what the writer already knows is a 400-500 word space. Then the writer may complain that the best bits, the colour or the “jokes” have been lost in the edited story. (I’ve complained about my “jokes” being cut before … but comedy is usually the first casualty of the editing process.)

Sometimes time constraints can make subs seem “rude” or “grumpy”. Sometimes there’s a huge stack of stories in the basket with only an hour to go before deadline and there’s no time for niceties. Sometimes subs are concentrating so hard for so long that a sudden interruption can evoke a brisk response.

Sometimes writers can be habitual offenders in the mistakes they make … and may take offence when said mistakes are pointed out. And sometimes subs are asked to perform miracles on lacklustre pieces.

From a writer’s perspective, having someone tinker with your copy can be, to quote Jerry Maguire, a “pride-swallowing siege”. It’s best to nip such feelings in the bud right at the start of your career. And indeed, such feelings do pass when you witness a top sub turn an average yarn into something spectacular. Good subs really are “value adders”. It’s best to learn from them and their experience … rather than treat them as pedantic schoolteachers looking down at you over horn-rimmed glasses after you’ve spelt Colombia “Columbia”. And I’ve yet to meet one who has launched something like a seven-year quest to fix precisely one grammatical error in Wikipedia – in this baffling case, the words “comprised of”.

I was deeply impressed by what the sub-editors and editors did to my first novel, The Spartan. They really made it a better work, something I am very grateful for.

And there may be another reason for the perceived “grumpiness” of sub-editors. The subs are often the last line of defence when it comes to accuracy. If an error goes to print, the writer cops a bollocking – but so, too, does the sub that supposedly checked the facts. Arguing that the writer should have got it right the first time cuts no ice.

As for myself, I have found sub-editors to be clever, witty, intelligent folk, only occasionally prone to what outsiders might describe as rudeness, and certainly no more than any other media professional. Why, some of my best friends are sub-editors. The best man at my wedding has worked as a sub.

Sub-editors are some of the best people you’ll ever meet.

If only they’d learn to go easy on my jokes.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is out now on Amazon.

The delicate balance between talk and action … and why there’s just too much talking in Taken 3

My friend and I were having lunch before seeing Taken 3 when we were faced with a dilemma. With only half an hour before the screening, we had to decide: should we rush our excellent Italian meals – washed down with chilled Peronis – and make the screening in time? Or enjoy our lunches at a leisurely pace, rocking into the cinema just when the excitement was presumably about to start?

We chose the former option: perhaps to our regret. We expected the usual 15 minute preamble before the main drama began, the creation of the emotional framework which explained and justified all of the hero’s actions. Most movies have that: even action flicks.

Unfortunately, that 15 minutes stretched out to 30 minutes … and beyond. As opposed to the pacy, unforgettable Taken, which quickly laid out its premise – Liam Neeson’s daughter was about to be kidnapped, or “taken”, leading to a highly exciting and original rampage across Paris as Neeson sought out his daughter – Taken 3 takes it time getting to the action.

The plot of the original film benefits from the early disappearance of the daughter. In Taken 3, her presence is a constant hindrance to getting down to all the fighting and shooting. Neeson’s character spends way too way time expressing how he needs to protect his daughter; how he has to get his daughter to safety; and once he gets her to safety, expressing through gritted teeth that she’s still in peril. (After a while you just want to shout at the screen, “OK, your daughter is in danger. We get it. Can’t you just get to the part when you start killing people?”)

In fact, it’s not until we get to the third and final part of the movie that we’re fully treated to the bare-fisted action and bullet ballets we’ve come to expect from Neeson and the Taken franchise.

Coming out of the cinema, I was reminded by a sarcastic quote made about the Robocop reboot … that judging by the advertisements, Robo would spend half the movie talking to his young son. (Fortunately Robo doesn’t. Phew.)

I sympathise with the makers of Taken 3. You can’t just have your hero charging out of the gates and going on gun rampages and bashing Russians with bottles without wearing a moral figleaf. Unless, of course, he’s Rambo.

The hero has to be bringing the pain for some reason – his country, his family, revenge. He can’t just be a psychopath who loves violence for its own sake. He has to be reluctantly forced into it by the actions of others. (In fact, they had to rewrite the script of Gladiator to make Crowe’s Maximus a family man who wanted to just tend his vineyard with his family, rather than some war-happy dude with a talent for stabbing people).

As the author of the military e-thriller The Spartan, I understand the delicate balance between emotion and action, between action and talking … between jaw jaw and war war. The main characters can’t be fighting all the time. They must rest, talk to their comrades, process what they’ve been through. But you still need that excitement, that movement, that conflict. You’re being invited into the war zone, not the booth of a coffee shop.

There’s lot of dialogue in The Spartan, but I tend to err on the side of action. I’ve read way too many books – and watched way too many movies – that concentrate on dialogue and scene-setting at the expense of the good stuff.

And I’m afraid Taken 3 has just too much jaw jaw and not enough war war.

My ebook military thriller, The Spartan, is available on Amazon.

“Who will save us from the dreaded typo, Batman?”

Check out my latest column for the Walkley website, which is all about typos … particularly people getting “cappuccino” wrong.