Sci-fi framing: things that sound like total bullshit are actually our reality.

I'm reading William Gibson's Neuromancer for the first time. There's some vague irony in the fact that the book was published in 1984. But, given that perfectly ideal benchmark of time, to modern day, a lot of technology that vastly crossed Clark's "advanced to the point of magic" line in the book are common place, or boardering on commonplace today. Visual displays on hardwired glasses? Global net uplink via satellite? Sense-sharing technology? All of it perfectly prophetic. But it's the little stuff that kills. As my iphone died streaming music from a nearly infinte library of music from a cloud service, I thought to plug it into my laptop for power, one of the most mundane and insignificant moments of my day, and realized, that I just "reached for a specialized power chord designed to tranfer energy or information from nearly any powered device in my house to my pocket computer," (ideally, I mean, I could power my phone off my TV. MY TV.), and how, though that reads exactly like the kind of convenience bullshit description line in this or any work of genre sci-fi, it turns out to be a real moment in my day. Sci-fi, as it pulls on its big boy pants as "speculative fiction," remains the little genre that could. Bravo sci-fi. Bravo and kudos. Live long and prosper.

This car commercial:

Man asks, "how does one get out of a death-cage?"

The answer would seem evident in the question sir.

Welcome back Walking Dead

For starters, I'm saying good showing. The series may just pick back up. The writing shined and finally we get some Michone depth. However, a buddy of mine had been steadily convincing me of his dislike of Carl, and there were plenty of moments that upheld that view.

Most of Carl's rant at Rick felt off and awkward. I tend to throw more sympathy to him in his quiet human moments. The way he took time to wipe his eyes and compose himself before standing did more for his characterization than all of that yelling combined, save for the ultimate line, and clearly the point of the speech, "I'd be fine if you died." It feels like the actor can't quite sell the role when it's switched into an animated presence instead of a reactionary one. He's got some room to grow, though. There was enough he carried in this episode to warrant reserving final judgement. I'm on board through most of his interactions with a conscious Rick.

The direction, especially Michone's seamless dream/memory, was spot on. Glad they took the risk on devoting so much screen time to a more artistic moment in the first episode back. Hope that portends more to follow.

Carl's overly long, backwards walk, to  lure the two zombies "attacking" the house away, and his baffling reticence to using the lawn lamp to spike the zombie attacking him in the house, stretch the new credibilty that's attempting to be cast on him. It's a writing/direction flaw that overall lessens my view of the character. Tighten up Walking Dead, and you just might survive the season. Keep up at this pace and I might kill you off in favor of something more appetizing. Up to you.

Catching Fire: Peeta Needs to Man-Up

I had to get those PSH thoughts out and down while they were fresh, but in reality, I was getting ahead of myself. I never took the time to articulate my reactions to Catching Fire.

I went into this book with a lot of people telling me that it was worlds better than the first, and the same comment for the movie, but that will be its own post.

For most of the first two segments, not a whole lot happens. What we actually get is a bunch of info that could have been edited down to an epilogue in the first book. Page by page Katniss seems to lose agency. Whatever admirable traits she had in the first book are diminished here. In Hunger Games, we see her filling a lot of traditionally male roles: Providing for the family as a literal hunter/gatherer, protector, head of household. Nice, good. She's much more proficient with a weapon than most, and for that we grant her more "male agency points" or whatever feminist readings are scored in. As a modern male reader with a plethora a strong feminist voices in my head, I couldn't help but keep up a small running tally. The book sort of forces you to. There's your awkward male reading of it. In the Hunger Games, nothing is subtle.

Then we get the games segment in Book One, and she loses some of those points; kissing and biting her lip make up a good 50% of her actions. Also worrying about liking boys, and how they like her. Most of that territory is re-tread for the lion's share of Catching Fire. Feel free to shoot me any time Ms. Collins. The Berries offer less agency in the actual moment, the words on the page, and that sentiment continues through book two: Katniss is constantly given more credit than she deserves.  

Then Peeta.  Oh Peeta has issues with Katniss' kissing motives? How about you shut up and be thankful you're alive Baker Jr.? Remember when your prospects in life were either killing the chick you love or fulfilling the dark expectations of your mother to simply die, hopefully in service of her victory? Maybe you don't have to be a whiny little dick about it to her, say thank you, and move on to the other thousand women in District 12 that want to hop on your newly royal self? How about that Madge? She seems like an incredibly smart, caring, brave person, maybe she's a girl worth considering? Maybe you could take one for the team and move the hell on. Peeta, how about you man up?

If there is anything subtle in the book perhaps it's this: The real thing that damns this book to the pile of drek that claims to be burning bras while strapping on corsettes: Peeta is not a real portrait of a human male. He's a romantic wet dream. The vessel of perfection, much like Edward in those damned VINO (Vampire in Name Only) books, able to have anything poured into him. All the character is, his whole essence, is adoration of Katniss. No adoring women catch his scorned eye? Who the hell is his Gale? He's not close with a single member of his family? No, he's a tortured (later, literally, tortured) painter head-over-heels in love with Katniss, and only wants to make babies with her and raise a family. Oh, and when he's not painting, he freaking bakes. He ALWAYS knows what to say. Stop me when he becomes, you know, a normal person at any moment in this.

You get it, I'm over it. Moving on: There are, however, many more moments in this book where Collins has genuine "literary" scenes. Some actual-factual unexpected escalations that any writer would be proud of. Despite the fact that it was mostly boring? Yeah I don't get it either. Anyway, Snow making Kat-Lady wear the wedding dress was a nice touch. It was cruel and real in a way I wasn't expecting. The turn, (as Katniss twirled, natch), of burning up into another dress, maybe too spot-on but not bad either. Again, literally (I think I'm going to wear out that phrase if I keep writing too much about Collins' work), the author re-used a trick from the fist book. Eh. Undercut a good idea there maybe? There are a few more of these moments. I like Prim's new lucidity. One would expect her to have grown a bit in reaction to the realness of seeing her sister dragged off to the games in her place, and then kill a bunch of people (even though it was coincidentally without much real moral turpitude, almost always clear in self defense or survival-motive). The Baby, that was a nice touch. Again, everything good coming from Peeta, but still. It was a little more risque, more adult than expected. Hanging Tree: not great but a little depth there. Overall: Liked the Hanging Tree bit. Bully for you Hanging Tree.

The treatment of Finnick, way better as a fleshed-out character: dynamic, interesting. Probably one of the better characters in the whole series. Maybe deserving of his own post. In contrast: Chaff. Why the hell does that guy even exist? Set piece for Haymitch's humanity I guess. Boring. Johanna: Most. Random. Nudity. Ever. Peeta is 17 right? Spoons this girl every night? No erection? Nude girl? No response? The man is a eunuch bent on child-bearing.

I'm burnt out on even thinking more about this book. Much in the style of Collins, I'll quickly move through the arena then dump you at the end: Okay, it's a clock, there was a clock at the beginning of the book, it takes everyone forever to understand the woman babbling tick-freaking-tock. Canary in a coal mine? Streeeeeeetched thin there. Beetee: Deus Ex Machina Ex Nerd. Screaming Mockingjays are the only interesting clock slice. Blood? Insects? Monkeys? Boring, just like the lightning tree. The fog, I have no idea how to feel about. Why does the water make it better? That water is way too safe. I mean the fish in the water are magically normal, and there's nothing nasty swimming around. Again, convenient and weird. It's an artificial dome in the middle of the Capitol but there are oysters with pearls in it? Okay sure. Just lots of stuff thrown-in in a short space. Again a whole scene in the arena devoted to feast. Good for you all. Boring as hell for us readers. Again, everyone dies very conveniently. In a timely manner? See this thing is making me cheesy too.

Then, a cliffhanger so unapologetic she should be literally ashamed. Collins, shame on you. Really. This is not an ending to a book, it's a cheap shot in the gut. Think of it this way, would Peeta leave a lover hanging like that? The perfect man-child? I can only imagine he'd properly finish his mate like a gentleman then roll over and quietly purr in his sleep, praying for the next child to be a feminine child. However those babies in Panem get made? The book almost revels in skirting this topic. All Hail the Mocking-Stork!

Wonder Woman is Ridiculous UPDATE: Ant Man is forever damned?, Wonder Woman, still ridiculous.

Ant Man: more deserving of a superhero movie than Thor, ridiculed because he's getting one before Wonder Woman.

Maybe instead of teaching our young women that punching people and brandishing magical jewelry is a good way to become a hero, it's okay to show a scientist who has used his brilliance to turn the mundane into the deadly/superpowered. Creativity and thinking: maybe better than strength and beauty? Wonder Woman is playing the game by Super Man's rules, Hank Pym is recreating the game.

Maybe the real victory would not be making an Ant Man movie, it would be making an Ant Man and Wasp movie: The Pyms, a story of a great man who is nothing without his superpowered wife. A wife proven to be more battle-ready than her science-minded husband, more decisive and headstrong, capable of taking an immense beating despite her smaller size? You know, an actual functioning pair of opposite-sexed individuals, with powers that augment and complement each other?

Maybe we concede that Wonder Woman was conceived as a male answer to a male question offered in female form?

Magic Tiara? Not sexist. Golden ropes that are designed to bind men and illicit the reluctant truth from them? Not sexist at all! Is it surprising that one of her "superpowers" is to go all berserk-mode when her bracelets come off? Being cast as "hysterical woman" is painted as a superpower here, where she becomes unable to control herself with rage. She's totally the icon I want pushed on my non-existant daughter. Before we worry about whether or not there is a Wonder Woman movie, I think we need to consider if there should be one.

EDIT UPDATE: In the time since I've been reading Ant Man, evidently he's become a wife beater? If so, terrible on him. Kick that writer in the junk. He deserves it. Thanks to this guy: http://dadnerdrants.tumblr.com/
for giving a heads up, no thanks for your annoying assumption. Also no thanks to the writer who ruined Hank Pym, whomever you are.

Some Preliminary Thoughts on the Loss of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, but Actually on the Sad Nature of Mental Projection.

I find myself reading the Hunger Games Trilogy, specifically Mockingjay, at a particularly unfortunate historical moment. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, finds himself tragically shuffled from this mortal coil during my reading of the book, which at this time is being turned into a movie, two movies if I’m being really accurate, that sit, mid production without one of their most talented cast members. I find myself in the midst of a rather morose confluence of circumstances, where, having seen Catching Fire, after having read it, I had been happily mentally projecting the image of Hoffman onto his literary counterpart, Plutarch Heavensbee (Though not an ounce of my being remains as might be called, “god-fearing,” the dreadful irony is not lost on me that this great man ended his acting career as man named to evoke some celestial insect. Or a cry of disbelief. Heavens be! Heavens be…).

I, mid way through the book, Hoffman possibly midway through his radiant burning-star phase, the movie(s) midway through being made, we all were left to slip into chaos and sadness moving forward. Fuck. Now I am supposed to finish this thing? Thinking of him, this real man, his real death, as he plays a fake man staging a real war after crafting fake games that were deadly real to lose for their fake contestants? Look, it’s shitty of me, it is lowly and self-absorbed to be thinking it, but I felt a kinship with this man. For whatever we didn’t share, I like to think we had both committed ourselves to a craft. I know next to nothing about his life, I don’t draw any sort of connection to it in any way, other than to say that I felt he reached out. I felt his arm extended out to me, as I imagine is the intended effect, so bravo on him. Thus is it really so wrong of me to admit that I very earnestly and continually aspire to do the same? That in part, it is because of the success of people like Hoffman, that I’m inspired to attempt. To reach out my arm in some words and ask, hey, Lades, Fellas, dare I hope, much like Mr. Hoffman, to open your eyes to the real gunk of humanity? To slather yourself in said gunk along with me that we might emerge as new beings, able to maneuver the gunk more effectively? Having maybe grown? It’s a hubris and something blasphemous to even hope, I get that, but I have decided to try and deiced to hope, as I think we all do if we are capable of it. And this man, Phillip, he evoked and invited that from us and I’m left here, with the weight of his legacy sitting in the black lines on the page of a very very mediocre book by my honest opinion. It belittled him to me in those moments, and I felt horrible as an active agent of this man’s belittlement, such a great man does not deserve to be thought of as small in his final moments, not as a junky or mass of flesh suffering, but as a body of art, a living body of work, diminished by a simple association.

But I finished the book. Bad taste of his death in my mental-mouth as I whisked through the pages, his name sputtering each time it came up. Puh. Puh. Puh, Plutarch. President Snow coughing blood. Puh Puh Puh. Plunging. A needle into his arm and my mental construct of him deep into something mushed and soiled. The headlines of his death are like wet newspaper in my mind. All of it sticks together. Hoffman in his many roles, in pictures of his “real life” which is to me as much a construct as any in Them Good Ol Games. Peeta and a fake love to survive. Is that just Hoffman? If I can suitably draw comparisons between this real-as-real-can-get "Out Out Brief Candle"moment and the bordering-on-hackneyed musings of the role of actor vs. person in a YA novel, do they start to become legitimate moments of artistic transcendence? The real question here is, I guess, can the brilliance of a talent like Hoffman’s (and yeah, I know he’s newly dead and I’m rushing to throw laurels on his corpse, but let us be very honest with each other for a moment, and admit, out loud, that his man was unique), can a talent like that elevate the mundane to the sacred?

I can tell you this, my mind tried at all turns. Every bit of Plutarch became something to explore in a retroactive light of comparative stardom, “How now does this now reflect on Hoffman?” The rest of this character, which he will never fully act out. In the days since his death the news has come down that they will be keeping the art of the movie(s) in tact by artificially, via some magic of computers that, again, if we are all honest with ourselves for a moment, approaches that line that Arthur C. Clarke is so often quoted of defining science fiction, “A technology so suffieciently advanced that it borders on magic,” to paraphrase. The very kind we read again and again on the pages of Collin’s book. Magical salves that heal bones, erase burns over night. But nothing to piece together a dead child. In Catching Fire, for a moment, Prim’s death is animated in possibility. I wouldn’t call it foreshadowing, but in the moments of the screams from the Mockingjays, the death is real to Katniss. Not just a simple manipulation on a machine. In the real world, we can also animate the dead with the push of a button, but we cannot resurrect him. I then wonder if the truth is that we are putting ourselves through some kind of new unknown torture.