Mon, 31 December 2007 keep on down the road

I’m jetlagged and catching up after a short stint in NYC celebrating a family event. I bought a lot of books.

The Gremlins took note of my recent threat and decided that making mischief didn’t extend to machinery outside of my home. On Christmas day the hard drive on my laptop died while I was staying in my parents’ house. The Gremlins assumed they had a free shot at more mechanical strife since I was in a different location.

The wee feckers are buried in my parents’ back garden now.

I’d spent the two days leading up to Christmas working on a critical powerpoint presentation on my laptop. Thankfully, my spidey senses had twinged, and not only had I backed up the data, but I had a copy with me.

Still, replacing the drive will cost time and money. Oh well.

2007 has been a year of ups and downs like any other. I’m most pleased with the fact that I’ve been writing consistently, and I’m making progress. I’ve mountains yet to climb, but I have a sturdy pair of boots and a hiking stick of determination (+20 against Paralysing Writers’ Despair, +10 against the Crevasse of Doomed Projects, and +15 against Creative Fatigue).

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
– J.R.R. Tolkien

Fri, 21 December 2007 Midwinter

The moon hovers –
Almost-fat,
Ghost-thin –
In the sapphire sky.

The solstice sun –
Scarlet-fury,
Winter-weak –
Slips through skeletal trees.

My breath curls –
Word-smoke,
Lung-hope –
With the forest mist.

The Earth dreams –
Frost-blanketed,
Ice-cosy –
And I listen, still.

Fri, 14 December 2007 “His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.”

A few days ago I saw three films in a row I hadn’t seen before on different television channels. It was a lucky dip.

First up was Miss Congeniality (2000), a comedy about Gracie Hart (Sandra Bollock) a FBI agent who goes undercover in a Miss USA contest to locate a killer. The story is one of those transformation comedies that is based upon the Pygmalion structure. Overall, what saves this predictable romp is some snappy dialogue, and likable performances by Bullock, and a heap of excellent supporting cast members: Michael Caine, William Shatner, Candice Bergen, and Ernie Hudson.

The film doesn’t offer any surprises but it’s good-natured, and Bullock shines in this kind of role where she plays a klutzy misfit. The film doesn’t ever knock Bullock’s ass-kicking practical attitude out of her (thankfully). It says that occasional grooming and dressing up isn’t a bad thing, but that doesn’t invalidate the person underneath. Not too bad for a Hollywood flick.

Next up was The Transporter (2002). Frank Martin (Jason Statham), an ex-military guy who specialises in transporting people and items through risky and dangerous situations, gets entangled with Lai (Qi Shu) once he departs from his rules about how he runs his deals. Eventually, he has to go head-to-head with brutal European and Chinese gangs that are smuggling people. The flick is written by Luc Besson and Robert Mark Kamen, and directed by Louis Leterrier and Corey Yuen.

The Besson roots of this film are obvious from the start: tough guy gets mixed up with the wrong (pretty) girl who pulls him into a life of fights, chases, chaos, and of course, love. Statham is a limited actor (I’m being generous, it’s the season after all). The first half an hour of the film falters somewhat because he has to hold the story, and as an actor he doesn’t have the chops. Yet, there is a very fine opening car chase that commands our attention, and a number of encounters with crazy bad people. Besson always has at least one total psycho in his action films (in this case it’s Matt Schulze).

But, once the action spins up into top gear I was remarkably entertained. There were a number of fight sequences that were superb. I particularly liked how bike pedals were used in one scene. Statham was in fine condition for this film and as a physical actor he does the job. I found my opinion of the film shifting into grudging admiration as it progressed. It’s a predictable flick, but it showcases a number of outstanding fights and chases, which should satisfy the ardent action fan.

Finally, some quality. On came the 1999 BBC TV adaptation of A Christmas Carol, starring Patrick Stewart as Ebenezer Scrooge. There’s no need to repeat the plot I’m sure. This classic story of redemption is so finely judged and structured that it’s been remade many times. This production is flawless.

Patrick Stewart is brilliant as Scrooge. He’s truly awful in the beginning, and his big-hearted change by the end is well executed. The supporting cast is bursting with Britain’s finest, and the Beeb knows how to pull off a costume drama.

What I’d forgotten was Dickens’ keen insight to human nature and its worst excesses. It sent me back to the text, and as I read through it I realised that the BBC adaptation (written by Peter Barnes) is remarkably close to the original, and most of the dialogue is as Dickens wrote it.

Look at this wonderful introduction of Scrooge:

Oh! But he was a tight?fisted hand at the grind?stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self?contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often ‘came down’ handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Whatever you think about Christmas (and I’ve been known to utter the occasional “Humbug” at this time of the year), this is a film that will cause you to re-evaluate your attitude to others. Dickens really understood the platitudes of the rich towards the poor, and in A Christmas Carol he gets to lay them out brilliantly.

The Spirit of Christmas Present is a particularly strong sequence in this film. The feeling of doom and misgivings build up throughout the piece until at the end Scrooge spies two feral children with the wizened Spirit:

‘Spirit, are they yours?’ Scrooge could say no more.

‘They are Man’s,’ said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ‘And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!’ cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. ‘Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.’

‘Have they no refuge or resource?’ cried Scrooge.

‘Are there no prisons?’ said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. ‘Are there no workhouses?’ The bell struck twelve.

This moment is perfect for the launch of the final section with the Ghost of Christmas Future, in which Scrooge sees all that could befall him if he doesn’t change his attitude towards life. The scenes where his peers discuss his death, and the charwoman, undertaker, and laundress divvy up his clothing and bedclothes is particularly good. All that Scrooge has strived for in his life are shown to be futile in the final reckoning.

It’s not money that makes us happy (and Dickens doesn’t imply that poverty is somehow noble), but people. This is highlighted in the first section, when Scrooge revisits his apprenticeship with Mr. Fizziwig, and the Christmas parties he attended while young. When the Spirit of Christmas Past comments to Scrooge that it was a small matter (a couple of pounds only) to make people happy, Scrooge is quick to correct him:

‘It isn’t that,’ said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. ‘It isn’t that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.’

No wonder people continue to adapt the works of Dickens to film and television. His observations are still valid and relevant.

Thu, 13 December 2007 bye bye gremlins

Gremlims set up a nest in our office about a month ago. We’re not sure how they got in. Perhaps they hitched a ride on the bumper of the postwoman’s car (our only regular visitor). Or maybe they blew into the area on one of the many storms that have been swirling across the Atlantic lately, and slipped in the back door when I wasn’t looking.

We know of their existence by their actions. The little beggars have been sending out sorties to make mischief at night while we’re asleep. They’ve been kicking out a screw here and there, mucking about with magnets, swinging off our wireless broadband antenna, and whispering insults to all our computers until one by one they have collapsed into weeping bits.

Martin, as chief Gremlin wrangler, has been setting traps for the wee bastards, but their constant japes and tricks have kept him on the run for the past month.

Yesterday they pulled off a strategic attack upon my desktop computer, which required a complete re-install of Windoze. You never realise how many programs you use until you have to reinstall every one of them. At least the data was intact, and now the machine is behaving itself rather better.

However, that’s my work computer, and I can’t let them get away with that. It’s war.

No more hot chocolate for them. Or rides around the house on Minnie’s back. It’s time to clean house and eject the blighters. They can have a home in the back garden, where they can burrow and leap, and pester the birds that are congregating at the feeders. I may even leave them the occasional drop of rum if they’re willing to cooperate.

No more hard drive heart attacks, thank you very much. An end to tipsy operating systems that growl out incoherent angry messages. Goodbye to failed wireless signals.

From now on: peace and happy humming machines will reign.

Or else Operation Eject Gremlins to the Garden will become Operation Destroy All Gremlins and Hang their Tiny Twitching Corpses on Stakes to Warn their Brethren from Our Doorstep Forever.

Sun, 09 December 2007 winter

It’s 3.30pm, and the solid bank of clouds outside my window is the shade of grey your white t-shirt turns when it has been through too many cold wash cycles. The hedges and trees flail in the grip of gusts and sudden squalls of rain. It’s twilight already. It has the yellowish tinge of an incipient storm, or the apocalypse.

I’ll be living in this compressed twilight world until the end of the month. I hold onto the thought that the solstice is not far off, and every day after that will be a little longer and brighter.

The sun remains, hidden. I wish it would break through more often.

Sat, 08 December 2007 giant steps

I’m off to a Christmas Party tonight, which is a big event for someone who works from her home and doesn’t socialise with real living people a great deal. Most of my daily interactions are virtual, or consist of sideways peeks at the strange denizens that erupt from my subconscious.

So, I’ll be wearing a party frock (bright red!) and a new pair of boots I love with a secret girlie passion. I don’t dress up often, and I enjoy it when I have an opportunity to do so.

I will be able to indulge in a few drinks thanks to Martin’s magnanimous offer of a chauffeuring service.

It’s been stormy in the West of Ireland lately. When I visit the woods there are signs of destruction everywhere. Sometimes I imagine that a giant has been stomping through the trees and has flattened sections under its oblivious feet. After a vicious storm it looks like several of them got together for a bowling match in the forest, with the trees as their pins.

The worst affected are usually the dead or old wood, which leaves opportunities for the young sapling upstarts to surge towards the sun when Spring finally rolls around.

Sometimes the giants squash the young ones too. When they have their parties, and dash down several barrels of ale, they are less discerning about where they place their feet.

Thu, 06 December 2007 ah, go on…

I was at a reception last night, and since I was driving to and from the event I stuck to drinking water. In Ireland you can only have approximately one unit of alcohol in your bloodstream if you are driving (to be exact: 80 milligrams of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood). Since it’s quite likely in the future that drivers will face a total ban on alcohol consumption I don’t indulge in the dhrink at all if I’m going to drive. It’s just easier (and safer).

Irish people do merit their reputation as hard drinkers. Of course, not everyone here is an alcoholic, but we grow up in a culture that condones and approves of boozing. This wasn’t such a problem when we were all on the dole (social welfare for those of you outside of Ireland), and didn’t have much spare cash. Now we’re more affluent and like teenagers gone mad with their first pay checks we’ve become a nation of binge drinkers.

When I was a postgrad at Trinity College I knew a number of American students who were doing courses at the university. One of them was an Irish American and would have witnessed her share of Irish booze hounds in the USA. I remember her commenting to me once, in the tones of a person who feels like she is committing treachery: “I always thought the image of the Irish being drunks was just a cultural stereotype, and then I lived in Ireland…”

Before my fellow countrymen saddle up their high horses and gallop away on them I will admit that of course we’re not all like this, but it is a cultural weakness. Going out with friends in Ireland and having the craic is an important social event. People who don’t drink at all are often viewed in a suspicious light. Not having to drink because you are driving is considered an acceptable, albeit punitive, necessity, but not participating in the sacrament of alcohol at all is nothing short of a character defect.

Now we’re in the Christmas festive season, and there are parties going on every night, it’s not easy steering clear of drink if you’re going to drive. The pressure to “just have the one” is extremely strong in this country especially at this time of the year. There’s a lot of free drink on offer, and people feel that having a celebratory drink with colleagues or friends is proof of their mutual affection. “Just say no” is the correct policy. After all, a recent report indicates that 37% of all fatal crashes in Ireland involved the consumption of alcohol, and was a factor in 62% of single vehicle crashes in 2003.

Last night, for instance, as I was paying my parking ticket I overheard a conversation between two women. One was suggesting that the other just take a taxi home and leave her car. The other woman, who didn’t sound intoxicated, replied, “I’ve paid for my parking already. I’m not really good to drive, but I’ll be alright.” Her friend made another attempt to wrangle her into a taxi, but the woman insisted on driving with the repeated statement “I’ll be alright.”

I really wish that was the only time I heard such a conversation in Ireland…

Wed, 05 December 2007 a quirky voyage

I’ve just had a rather odd experience. I opened the copy of Locus that flopped through my letterbox this morning, and flipped through the news until I got to the colour photos in the middle. I looked through them with interest because they focused on the recent Worldcon in Japan. It brought back great memories.

And then I spotted a photo of me with my Clarion West mates Tinatsu, Gord, and Caroline, standing around Ellen Datlow. It was rather surreal as I wasn’t aware the photo would be in Locus. But, hey, I’m not complaining.

While I was in Dublin last week I had a free night on my own and decided to go to my old stomping ground, the IFI, and watch The Darjeeling Limited, which was written by Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola & Jason Schwartzman, and directed by Wes Anderson. It was preceded by the short film Hotel Chevalier, which Anderson funded himself, and I think it adds an extra dimension to the viewing of The Darjeeling Limited. At the time I wasn’t aware that the little film would air before the main event and was surprised. I assumed that the placement was intentional and Anderson was commenting in a kind of metafictional way about beginnings and endings. The main film bore out that interpretation.

The film circles around three affluent American brothers Francis (Owen Wilson), Peter (Adrien Brody), and Jack (Jason Schwartzman) who take a journey together through India on the Darjeeling Limited train after a separation of a year following the death of their father. Once again Anderson explores the internal dynamics of an eccentric family. The film works best when it’s examining the brothers’ oddball relationships, and uncovering their issue with their absent, strange mother, Patricia (Anjelica Huston).

The men begin by lying to one or the other brothers about what they’ve been doing for the past year while also confessing the truth to another, so eventually the deceit is uncovered and with it old patterns and behaviours are revealed. They begin their expedition on a train, hampered by the huge collection of their father’s bespoke luggage, and over time as they snake through India they are thrown off the train, and have to resort to cruder forms of travel. Finally, after their long journey takes them through death and reunion they run to catch a train, and in a symbolic gesture jettison their father’s bags (and emotional baggage).

The story does play with beginnings and endings. There is a point towards the middle of the film where I felt myself becoming impatient with the story and the fraternal bickering, and suddenly a dramatic event occurs that goes to the heart of the brothers’ issues with each other. Finally, we are shown a flashback to the events on the day of their father’s funeral, which at that point in the film I was not expecting. When the men encounter their mother all the tumblers click into the place and the oddness of their family seem explicable.

This is an unusual film. It’s beautifully shot, and Anderson uses slow-motion to deliberate effect at several key moments. The music is fantastic, and of course the setting is marvellous. It’s a film that I enjoyed more as I watched it, which was a pleasant surprise.

Yet, I do have some issues with the film. I could have done without the usual eroticisation of the Indian woman, and there is gratuitous nudity of Natalie Portman in Hotel Chevalier. I’m sure that’s going to make the short film more popular with some people. I’m not adverse to nudity in films but I prefer when it’s not played directly for the taste of men.

Also, I found myself somewhat uncomfortable by the spiritual voyeurism going on in the film. India is posited as a place that is wild, beautiful, and inherently spiritual, and the three men take in the spiritual sights to try and bolster their wrecked internal lives. Perhaps Anderson is trying to comment on this very issue, but I felt it played along with it, and didn’t explore it. India is a country of great extremes, and I felt Anderson’s portrayal had a glossy coating. I appreciate that Anderson’s films always have a hyper-real quality, so you don’t imagine that the events are all taking place in the here and now. I like that about his work. Yet, there is a sense of India’s heritage being strip-mined so that wealthy Americans can gain a little perspective about their lives. Anderson just manages to ameliorate this tendency by how he shifts gears in the middle of the film.

Overall this is a film of many layers, which are uncovered slowly. It requires engagement and an open mind by the viewer, but it’s easy to be seduced by its playful tone. Any issues I have with the film are countered by its charm, excellent performances, and unusual execution.

Sun, 02 December 2007 boxing clever

Last Thursday I marched in Dublin as party of the International Writers Day of Support for the WGA strike in the USA. There was a strong turn-out of members from the Irish Playwrights and Screenwriters Guild, and other supporters such as Conor Kostick who represented the Irish Writers Union. After we donned t-shirts and mustered placards we marched through the Dublin streets. Several motorists honked in support, and lots of people took photos.

We picketed the Fox Studio office first, and continued down to the Sony office, where we picketed some more. Our protest drew two cop cars at that point, and an assortment of bemused gardaí – it must have been a slow day for our affable gang to attract their attention. Afterwards we adjourned to the IFI for a couple of drinks, and a bit of hot food courtesy of the Guild, which was much appreciated.

The next day I spent time in the Guild office, and uploaded the short video that documented the event, which was shot and edited by Alessandro Molatore. It was fun to watch all the videos from around the world arrive on YouTube. It ended up being good timing because later that evening the writers found out that despite four days of negotiation the AMPTP are not offering anything of substance. So, the WGA must continue its strike in December, and probably into the New Year. This has got to be difficult for the writers to contemplate (especially at this time of the year), but it’s necessary that they continue to hold out for proper compensation for their work.

I’ll be in New York for a few days at the end of this month. If the strike is still on-going, and if I can squeeze in the time, I’ll visit one of the pickets to show my support.

I spent a couple of days with good friends, which was lovely. I got to try the Wii for the first time, and as expected I enjoyed it. I realised that boxing on the Wii would be the perfect antidote for editorial rejection.

Imagine: you get the dreaded “I’m sorry” email or letter. You fire up the Wii, and pummel your opponent with the speed and strength of your frustration. Afterwards, your foe is on the floor, and you are performing the hip-swagger of victory.

It turns the whole event around.

Wed, 28 November 2007 unmasked

Today I’m going to Dublin to participate in the International Day of Support for the WGA strike. I’m visiting a friend afterwards, so I’ll be away for a few days.

I’ve pretty much stuck to my pledge to write a blog entry every day in November. Today might be the last one for the month as I don’t want to lug a laptop with me. It will be pen and paper instead. It’s been an interesting challenge. I used to blog with this level of frequency in the past, but I disliked my self-imposed feeling of obligation and the empty darkness of the online audience. So, I reined in the posts.

During the past month I’ve pushed out my comfort zone a little about what I discuss. I’ve always maintained distance in my online presence because you never know who’s reading. So, I controlled and contained what I wrote. This is a classic defense mechanism I learned early in life, and not one I realised was in operation on my journal until recently.

Masks are shiny and plastic and safe. I want to chip at mine.

You’ll be delighted to know I’m still allergic to self-pity and moaning, and I have no plans to say dumb things about family or friends (complete strangers, however, better watch out!). I doubt I’ll maintain this pace in the future, but I’ll aim for a regular output. As long as I have something meaningful and honest to say, that is.