Last Thursday night I saw National Theatre Live's Frankenstein, and my view of theatre, physicality of performance, and even Benedict Cumberbatch is forever changed.
In July 1977, Dayton's Kenley Players featured Peter Strauss (then best known for Rich Man, Poor Man) in Heaven Can Wait. The play was entertaining but unremarkable, yet one moment in the actor's performance was branded in my memory: Strauss' character dies, his spirit suddenly flown from his body. That shell then collapses on stage in a perfect moment of the actor's physical control. The character was alive, and then suddenly he was gone, disappeared, fled, leaving only a corpse. Sounds like a simple fall down, doesn't it? But Strauss controlled the emotion and the movement--I could see Death. In that one moment I learned the nature of acting and the importance of inhabiting a role.
Picture that moment extended for nearly two hours on stage. In March 2011, Daytona's RC Theatres broadcast the National Theatre's Frankenstein featuring Benedict Cumberbatch (currently best known for Sherlock). From the first moment that the Creature stretches long fingers against the translucent "womb" in which he is encased, he is real, alive. He flails, post-birth, across the stage. He slides and grasps, rolls and stumbles. I became fascinated with the Creature's calves and feet, kicking out to discover how to move, balancing his finally-standing body as it leans inexorably forward, restlessly twitching as he awaits the creation of his bride.
This Creature is impossibly graceful, his every motion meaningful. His tongue darts to capture a snowflake; his eyes follow a larger crystal's descent to the ground. Fingers splayed toward the sky, his fingertips paint words in the air more eloquently than his vocalized love of Milton. The Creature swirls, leaps, and springs. He slides down a beam to confront his creator, then escapes the scene by quickly climbing a darkened set.
Many actors would be hampered by the tortuous makeup of sutures and scars and a twisted mouth to produce halting speech. Not so with Cumberbatch. The Creature's story is choreographed through perfect movement; the actor's intensity with grace infuses every motion--or hesitation--with emotion. In this performance, actions truly speak louder than words.
Nevertheless, the Creature still has a way with words, his longing and intelligence as clearly voiced as his rage and impotence in a world blessing only nobility and beauty. The high-pitched cries of birds are as much part of the Creature's vocabulary as his mimicry of man. Yet the performance is never self-conscious or over the top. There is no actor, no celebrity, no shadows of characters past.
There is only the Creature, and he is magnificent.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The "Sherlock" Syndrome
Ah, it's spring in Florida. Time for a young (at heart) writer's fancy to turn to . . . pop culture events through autumn? upcoming conventions--including the Big One, San Diego Comic-Con? the constant stream of tweets and posts announcing casting news and set updates?
I remember when spring was a time to start relishing the promise of summer and, despite my love of teaching, the prospect of nearly three months off. But those days are as long gone as my carefree holidays spent seeing the USA in our Chevrolet. Now summer is a strategically planned schedule of locations to book, journal articles to read, people to interview, and thousands of words to write.
Don't get me wrong--writing is my life, even if, to date, it hasn't quite provided me the livelihood I would like. It's my lifeblood, at any rate. It also provides me opportunities to travel so that I can write about the subjects I love, and that travel allows me to make connections for more stories that will allow me to travel to a convention or take a tour, which provides me new inspiration and opportunities to write, . . . .
In preparation for this summer's long-anticipated marathon of travel and productivity, I have increasingly adopted the mannerisms of one of my favorite "adapted" characters: Sherlock. I look nothing like him, and I am hardly a scientist of deduction. I don't even have someone to blog for me. However, I've become increasingly focused and driven as I conduct my research, let my current interests morph into obsessions, and forego sleep and sociability as I pore over new information. (Unfortunately, I tend to be more Mycroftian in my approach to dinner.) Like Sherlock, I don't make a lot of money following my obsession, but I have to do what I love, even if it makes no sense to anyone else. Like Sherlock, I kick up my heels in glee, but in my case it's not a gruesome murder that brings overwhelming joy but a request for a review or an offer to write a chapter.
The other day a friend chided me for living inside my head, and I happily agreed, adding the offhand comment that everything else is transport. Sigh. Steven Moffat had already directed me down the road to my ruin, but really, Mark Gatiss, did you have to send a black car to speed me on my way?
During a weekend at home, it's become common for me to fall asleep over my keyboard as I seek out one more article or feel compelled to outline just one more essay. When I sprawl dramatically on the couch for a think or wander around stacks of documents and artefacts on my way through the living room, I channel Sherlock. When I knot my favorite silver-blue scarf around my neck before dashing off to work, I blush at my new fashion. When I choose to write instead of hoovering or deigning to shop, I blame Sherlock's single-mindedness and give myself permission to be equally self-centered. I wouldn't be surprised if, next to the lone Diet Pepsi and leftover Thai, something strange hasn't started growing into its own refrigerated experiment.
Not all teacher-writers look forward to spring break as a time to live in a dressing gown, mentally plan that trip to London or outline the next chapter while melted into the sofa, or lose hours upon hours in front of a laptop. I can hardly wait. And if Sherlock has ruined me for normal social interaction, I also have to thank him for my productivity and greater social acceptance of my eccentricity--because my friends are Sherlock fans, too. They may not want him (or me) as a flatmate, but they support my single-minded focus and occasionally drag me out into the real world.
Now if only I could find a John Watson to pick up milk on the way home.
I remember when spring was a time to start relishing the promise of summer and, despite my love of teaching, the prospect of nearly three months off. But those days are as long gone as my carefree holidays spent seeing the USA in our Chevrolet. Now summer is a strategically planned schedule of locations to book, journal articles to read, people to interview, and thousands of words to write.
Don't get me wrong--writing is my life, even if, to date, it hasn't quite provided me the livelihood I would like. It's my lifeblood, at any rate. It also provides me opportunities to travel so that I can write about the subjects I love, and that travel allows me to make connections for more stories that will allow me to travel to a convention or take a tour, which provides me new inspiration and opportunities to write, . . . .
In preparation for this summer's long-anticipated marathon of travel and productivity, I have increasingly adopted the mannerisms of one of my favorite "adapted" characters: Sherlock. I look nothing like him, and I am hardly a scientist of deduction. I don't even have someone to blog for me. However, I've become increasingly focused and driven as I conduct my research, let my current interests morph into obsessions, and forego sleep and sociability as I pore over new information. (Unfortunately, I tend to be more Mycroftian in my approach to dinner.) Like Sherlock, I don't make a lot of money following my obsession, but I have to do what I love, even if it makes no sense to anyone else. Like Sherlock, I kick up my heels in glee, but in my case it's not a gruesome murder that brings overwhelming joy but a request for a review or an offer to write a chapter.
The other day a friend chided me for living inside my head, and I happily agreed, adding the offhand comment that everything else is transport. Sigh. Steven Moffat had already directed me down the road to my ruin, but really, Mark Gatiss, did you have to send a black car to speed me on my way?
During a weekend at home, it's become common for me to fall asleep over my keyboard as I seek out one more article or feel compelled to outline just one more essay. When I sprawl dramatically on the couch for a think or wander around stacks of documents and artefacts on my way through the living room, I channel Sherlock. When I knot my favorite silver-blue scarf around my neck before dashing off to work, I blush at my new fashion. When I choose to write instead of hoovering or deigning to shop, I blame Sherlock's single-mindedness and give myself permission to be equally self-centered. I wouldn't be surprised if, next to the lone Diet Pepsi and leftover Thai, something strange hasn't started growing into its own refrigerated experiment.
Not all teacher-writers look forward to spring break as a time to live in a dressing gown, mentally plan that trip to London or outline the next chapter while melted into the sofa, or lose hours upon hours in front of a laptop. I can hardly wait. And if Sherlock has ruined me for normal social interaction, I also have to thank him for my productivity and greater social acceptance of my eccentricity--because my friends are Sherlock fans, too. They may not want him (or me) as a flatmate, but they support my single-minded focus and occasionally drag me out into the real world.
Now if only I could find a John Watson to pick up milk on the way home.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Comically Conned--Or How I Let My Love of Pop Culture Overrule My Common Sense
It's 1:11 p.m. on a Saturday. My fingers are bruised from hitting (not gently pressing, as I did the first thousand times) F5 Enter. I have developed an aversion to amphibians because I've stared at a certain green frog with the audacity to look friendly while he tells me I can't get Comic-Con tickets. (Sorry, Geico gekko. I'm unrealistically taking out my frustration by boycotting all things amphibian--I had time to expand my prejudice while I hit the button.)
The up side is that I bonded with the more than 300 people who just decided to Like the ticket company reportedly selling Comic-Con 4-day passes today. Ironically, they had to Like the company before they could Wall post updates, snide comments, and, as the hours went on, increasingly capitalized or profanitized messages. The Frog of Doom seemed to be a favorite target, probably because at least we saw him on the screen. No humans would dare to pick up a madly ringing phone or wander onto Twitter or Facebook without an armed guard. One FB friend loitering around the ticket company's Wall reminded new Likers to de-Like the company once they'd vented their frustration. No use skewing statistics in a positive direction when clearly public opinion was heading south very rapidly.
Yet the more I vented my frustration on Facebook status update, the more I had to laugh at myself. Who asked me to spend, for the third time, no less, several hours waiting in a virtual queue for tickets to an event months away? Who prompted me to try various combinations of tickets--even four single-day tickets when the four-day failed to materialize in my shopping basket--just in the hopes of spending more money to that event scheduled months from now? Who became frustrated when the technology couldn't handle the thousands of other hopeful ticketbuyers who wanted the same instant gratification?
I sheepishly raise my hand.
I typically attend, as a guest or a fan-without-responsibilities, more than one fan-related convention each year. I talk with fans, try to get lucky and interview an actor or three, ask pointed questions at panel sessions, and hit up the vendors for the latest geeky toy. I study popular culture and fandom as well as (mostly joyously) participate in it. I've been to conventions big and small, in the U.S., Canada, and U.K. I've purchased tickets online internationally and stood in long queues locally. So my days as a convention virgin are a distant memory.
San Diego Comic-Con was to be this year's glittering prize, a new trophy for my convention collection. I'm conducting research for next year's book, one that's heavily leaning toward fandom and popular culture. I've followed SDCC as it's blossomed over the past few years, and I wanted to be there in person to experience the love. And see aTorchwood panel, if one materializes. And maybe watch a pilot episode of the hottest new series. I want to meet fellow enthusiasts and compare notes about the summer's blockbusters (from 2011 and for 2012). Never mind the queues to get inside the coveted sessions. I'll forego the bathroom break and sit on floors for however long it takes. Because I love pop culture. And I want to be at the Big One--SDCC.
Be careful what you wish for. Unfortunately, approximately half the SF-loving world wants to join me. And that doesn't include the people who love comics. I'm just part of the overflow.
What is perhaps most interesting about Comic-Con 2011 is the people who can't attend, who are willing to wait for hours on end to get a coveted ticket. You'd think Willy Wonka was running the show.
Instead of emphasizing the Haves of this culture-fest, I'm afraid that this year's event will be a celebration of the Have Nots--people who couldn't get tickets but have access to Twitter and Facebook to publicize their angst, people who couldn't get the tickets they wanted and have to re-think their travel plans, people who dearly love pop culture and San Diego and have come to expect that if they don't make it there, they shouldn't make it anywhere. It's San Diego or bust. And this year we got busted.
In a few minutes, after I've posted my "protest blog" that really is much more about me rethinking why I feel compelled to spend so much time and money going to one event than protesting the electronic measures to which I subject myself, I'll go back and queue again. But I'm no longer a Comic-Con ticket virgin. And the Shiny Prize of going to the festival isn't going to seem so shiny, whether I get in or stay home this year. (The quest for accommodations comes next, should I find the strength to continue my journey.)
Technology isn't infallible. Neither are the people behind it. Yet we've become so accustomed to one-click service--and perhaps that's a reasonable expectation these days--that we become angered when the button doesn't work.
We're busy people. We don't have hours of free time to spend queueing, even though millions more of us inhabit the planet each year and vy for a lot more than Comic-Con tickets. I need to determine my priorities: amount of time v. quality of potential experience; capacity to wait v. capacity for becoming frustrated, value of this event v. value of another event (or even downtime at home). Maybe I've made Comic-Con into something it's not or shouldn't be--the be-all, end-all of popular culture elitism.
I think I've comically conned myself into believing that I need that ticket, perhaps more than the other people virtually clamoring for the website's attention. Even worse, I've just rationalized why it's OK not to want that ticket, if I'm unsuccessful, now that I've invested time and energy into online registration.
The most study-worthy aspect of Comic-Con this year is the impact that the prospect of not going is having on so many people, including myself. Why do we care so much about this one event? Does that say more about the event--the "world premiere" and "exclusive" aspects now assumed to be the sole province of SDCC--or about my need to be one of the few (thousand) who will be able to get in the door this July?
I'm heading back to the queue, probably to laugh at myself for another hour before I either succeed and pay my money for a pack of single-day tickets at a higher cost or quit for this year. But I doubt I'll think of Comic-Con or myself as a pop culture consumer in the same way again.
The up side is that I bonded with the more than 300 people who just decided to Like the ticket company reportedly selling Comic-Con 4-day passes today. Ironically, they had to Like the company before they could Wall post updates, snide comments, and, as the hours went on, increasingly capitalized or profanitized messages. The Frog of Doom seemed to be a favorite target, probably because at least we saw him on the screen. No humans would dare to pick up a madly ringing phone or wander onto Twitter or Facebook without an armed guard. One FB friend loitering around the ticket company's Wall reminded new Likers to de-Like the company once they'd vented their frustration. No use skewing statistics in a positive direction when clearly public opinion was heading south very rapidly.
Yet the more I vented my frustration on Facebook status update, the more I had to laugh at myself. Who asked me to spend, for the third time, no less, several hours waiting in a virtual queue for tickets to an event months away? Who prompted me to try various combinations of tickets--even four single-day tickets when the four-day failed to materialize in my shopping basket--just in the hopes of spending more money to that event scheduled months from now? Who became frustrated when the technology couldn't handle the thousands of other hopeful ticketbuyers who wanted the same instant gratification?
I sheepishly raise my hand.
I typically attend, as a guest or a fan-without-responsibilities, more than one fan-related convention each year. I talk with fans, try to get lucky and interview an actor or three, ask pointed questions at panel sessions, and hit up the vendors for the latest geeky toy. I study popular culture and fandom as well as (mostly joyously) participate in it. I've been to conventions big and small, in the U.S., Canada, and U.K. I've purchased tickets online internationally and stood in long queues locally. So my days as a convention virgin are a distant memory.
San Diego Comic-Con was to be this year's glittering prize, a new trophy for my convention collection. I'm conducting research for next year's book, one that's heavily leaning toward fandom and popular culture. I've followed SDCC as it's blossomed over the past few years, and I wanted to be there in person to experience the love. And see aTorchwood panel, if one materializes. And maybe watch a pilot episode of the hottest new series. I want to meet fellow enthusiasts and compare notes about the summer's blockbusters (from 2011 and for 2012). Never mind the queues to get inside the coveted sessions. I'll forego the bathroom break and sit on floors for however long it takes. Because I love pop culture. And I want to be at the Big One--SDCC.
Be careful what you wish for. Unfortunately, approximately half the SF-loving world wants to join me. And that doesn't include the people who love comics. I'm just part of the overflow.
What is perhaps most interesting about Comic-Con 2011 is the people who can't attend, who are willing to wait for hours on end to get a coveted ticket. You'd think Willy Wonka was running the show.
Instead of emphasizing the Haves of this culture-fest, I'm afraid that this year's event will be a celebration of the Have Nots--people who couldn't get tickets but have access to Twitter and Facebook to publicize their angst, people who couldn't get the tickets they wanted and have to re-think their travel plans, people who dearly love pop culture and San Diego and have come to expect that if they don't make it there, they shouldn't make it anywhere. It's San Diego or bust. And this year we got busted.
In a few minutes, after I've posted my "protest blog" that really is much more about me rethinking why I feel compelled to spend so much time and money going to one event than protesting the electronic measures to which I subject myself, I'll go back and queue again. But I'm no longer a Comic-Con ticket virgin. And the Shiny Prize of going to the festival isn't going to seem so shiny, whether I get in or stay home this year. (The quest for accommodations comes next, should I find the strength to continue my journey.)
Technology isn't infallible. Neither are the people behind it. Yet we've become so accustomed to one-click service--and perhaps that's a reasonable expectation these days--that we become angered when the button doesn't work.
We're busy people. We don't have hours of free time to spend queueing, even though millions more of us inhabit the planet each year and vy for a lot more than Comic-Con tickets. I need to determine my priorities: amount of time v. quality of potential experience; capacity to wait v. capacity for becoming frustrated, value of this event v. value of another event (or even downtime at home). Maybe I've made Comic-Con into something it's not or shouldn't be--the be-all, end-all of popular culture elitism.
I think I've comically conned myself into believing that I need that ticket, perhaps more than the other people virtually clamoring for the website's attention. Even worse, I've just rationalized why it's OK not to want that ticket, if I'm unsuccessful, now that I've invested time and energy into online registration.
The most study-worthy aspect of Comic-Con this year is the impact that the prospect of not going is having on so many people, including myself. Why do we care so much about this one event? Does that say more about the event--the "world premiere" and "exclusive" aspects now assumed to be the sole province of SDCC--or about my need to be one of the few (thousand) who will be able to get in the door this July?
I'm heading back to the queue, probably to laugh at myself for another hour before I either succeed and pay my money for a pack of single-day tickets at a higher cost or quit for this year. But I doubt I'll think of Comic-Con or myself as a pop culture consumer in the same way again.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Old Faves in New Films
The just-announced Academy Award nominations include two of my "sentimental favorites" that tell worthwhile stories in a very simple, linear style. They don't leap layers of dreams as the intriguingly written and visually manipulative Inception or show some horrors of human relationships, a la Black Swan. They aren't currently hot topics like The Social Network. And that's why I liked them.
They move a bit slowly at times (a whole film about the King's speech?!), but they build layers of emotions so that I cared. The films that warmed me this year, whether I hid in a theatre from sun or snow, tell old-fashioned stories of love, determination, and life-changing decisions. They're uplifting without being pompous, memorable without being terrifying, sentimental without being trendy.
In particular, I'm pleased that Helena Bonham Carter received a Best Supporting Actress nomination for The King's Speech. Her role is subtly played and adds so much--strength, love, faith, empathy, humor, self-awareness--to what could be a fade-in-the-background role. Of course, I adore Colin Firth in just about anything--especially so for his last-nominated role in A Single Man. His controlled (until it bursts forth) anger made the performance so much more interesting for me to watch and gave me greater insight into what had been a historic figure trapped within a history book. The 12 nominations for The King's Speech might not surprise anyone following the many other awards ceremonies this season, but I'm still gratified that a period drama gets so much press. It may be a matter of critics' choice rather audience-chosen blockbuster, but I hope more people who would've turned up their nose at history will give this film a chance.
Toy Story 3 probably will be relegated to the "animated" wins--which isn't bad at all. Nevertheless, now that the Academy nominates 10 films as the year's best, I'm pleased that an animated feature is among the nominees. Perhaps the longer list will always include science fiction or animation--or the combo pack--as a nod to the diversity that should be considered worthy of being named "best."
I've read where the off-to-uni crowd felt particularly attracted to the last installment of the Toy Story franchise because they grew up with the story and, just like Andy, now were leaving home as young adults. I'm well past that time in my life--and was when the story started--but I fondly remember the toys and early online interactive games with which we entertained my baby niece. Now she's independently enjoying her last weeks as a teenager. Computerized animation has grown up with her and proven that technology can indeed have a heart. Despite human and technological generational differences, Toy Story connects audiences because it's a human story of love and loyalty. I hope I never outgrow it.
I like many films nominated and appreciate them in different ways: stories that demand to be told but sometimes make me want to avert my eyes, performances that outshine the script, scripts that defy what the Academy traditionally rewards. Perhaps because of the state of the world, my response to its chaos is to look for comfort films--and The King's Speech and Toy Story 3 fill me up emotionally.
The choice facing Academy voters is interesting, especially in the best film category. Should they vote primarily for story or technology, or the successful blend of both to showcase edgier cinema? Should they vote for characterization and plain old emotional punch, even if the story seems simple? Should the year's best movie reflect modern social issues or the eternal human spirit? If their choice indicates the state of American filmmaking and, years from now, will pinpoint what makes film significant in 2011, this year's results will be well worth watching on February 27.
They move a bit slowly at times (a whole film about the King's speech?!), but they build layers of emotions so that I cared. The films that warmed me this year, whether I hid in a theatre from sun or snow, tell old-fashioned stories of love, determination, and life-changing decisions. They're uplifting without being pompous, memorable without being terrifying, sentimental without being trendy.
In particular, I'm pleased that Helena Bonham Carter received a Best Supporting Actress nomination for The King's Speech. Her role is subtly played and adds so much--strength, love, faith, empathy, humor, self-awareness--to what could be a fade-in-the-background role. Of course, I adore Colin Firth in just about anything--especially so for his last-nominated role in A Single Man. His controlled (until it bursts forth) anger made the performance so much more interesting for me to watch and gave me greater insight into what had been a historic figure trapped within a history book. The 12 nominations for The King's Speech might not surprise anyone following the many other awards ceremonies this season, but I'm still gratified that a period drama gets so much press. It may be a matter of critics' choice rather audience-chosen blockbuster, but I hope more people who would've turned up their nose at history will give this film a chance.
Toy Story 3 probably will be relegated to the "animated" wins--which isn't bad at all. Nevertheless, now that the Academy nominates 10 films as the year's best, I'm pleased that an animated feature is among the nominees. Perhaps the longer list will always include science fiction or animation--or the combo pack--as a nod to the diversity that should be considered worthy of being named "best."
I've read where the off-to-uni crowd felt particularly attracted to the last installment of the Toy Story franchise because they grew up with the story and, just like Andy, now were leaving home as young adults. I'm well past that time in my life--and was when the story started--but I fondly remember the toys and early online interactive games with which we entertained my baby niece. Now she's independently enjoying her last weeks as a teenager. Computerized animation has grown up with her and proven that technology can indeed have a heart. Despite human and technological generational differences, Toy Story connects audiences because it's a human story of love and loyalty. I hope I never outgrow it.
I like many films nominated and appreciate them in different ways: stories that demand to be told but sometimes make me want to avert my eyes, performances that outshine the script, scripts that defy what the Academy traditionally rewards. Perhaps because of the state of the world, my response to its chaos is to look for comfort films--and The King's Speech and Toy Story 3 fill me up emotionally.
The choice facing Academy voters is interesting, especially in the best film category. Should they vote primarily for story or technology, or the successful blend of both to showcase edgier cinema? Should they vote for characterization and plain old emotional punch, even if the story seems simple? Should the year's best movie reflect modern social issues or the eternal human spirit? If their choice indicates the state of American filmmaking and, years from now, will pinpoint what makes film significant in 2011, this year's results will be well worth watching on February 27.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Torchwood: Miracle Day
I rather liked Torchwood’s subtitle “The New World,” which clearly separated series four from the previous sequences of stories. So…the new title is “Miracle Day,” and the premise is immortality for everyone. That’s actually a much more intriguing concept than the earlier hints suggesting “only” a dark international story involving a celebrity pedophile, even one no doubt brilliantly played by Bill Pullman.
Immortality fascinates me, and I’ve written about its primetime development from The Immortal in the ‘60s through Highlander to LOST and Torchwood. In class, my students and I analyze characters and fiction, including Torchwood, to debate what makes us (and these characters) human. Death, the great equalizer, is often a humanizing element that we discuss—along with what we might become if we were denied death. (And no, my classes aren’t grim, even if they are a bit Grim Reapery at times.)
The association of Jack with death has been pivotal to his character development ever since “The Parting of the Ways,” and the most illuminating moments have been his dramatic reaction to his own and others’ deaths. Although I was saddened to see Owen depart, I applauded his two heroic deaths—the one that led to Jack’s frantic determination to bring him back as well as the one that turned out to be permanent. One of my favorite scenes in “A Day in the Death” is Owen resolutely cleaning out his fridge because he won’t need to eat ever again. Torchwood has covered the “what if I can come back” premise quite a few times.
Jack’s reactions to the deaths of his team as well as his refusal to kill his brother, despite all he’s done, make him human and a much more intriguing character. I don’t believe for a moment that Jack desperately tries to keep his loved ones from death only because there’s nothing after—only darkness or, worse yet, something moving in that darkness. After all, everyone dies, and if Jack were really that keen on keeping his team alive, he would've fired them or done all the field work himself. I also don’t believe he’s that selfish to think only of himself and his desire not to be left behind. After all, Jack has illustrated his pragmatism dozens of times through harsh decisions in which some people are (or one person is) sacrificed so that others may be saved. Jack’s intimate relationship with death has alternately made him a savior and a Grim Reaper, a victim and a survivor.
What will Jack become if he is no longer universally special? We've seen him kill or be killed, save those he loves or lose those dearest. How will he react to the great irony that no one he loves in future can die?
If, in “Miracle Day,” everyone has the ability to thwart death, certainly that poses new problems for a planet currently sucking up the last of its resources and raises different “quality of life” issues than humanity has faced before. I agree with the latest commentaries about the just-released premise of Torchwood: Miracle Day—this story line could be intriguing.
But who or what changes the meaning of life? Do only humans escape death—or does the “no death” premise apply to everything living on Earth? Is this change the result of yet another alien invasion/threat/demand? The latest press release doesn’t suggest that aliens are part of the science fiction—but it does seem like more science (never Russell T. Davies’ strong suit) is being added to the fiction. Is that evidence of Jane Espenson’s influence in the writers’ room? Even though Caprica turned out to be extremely mortal in the ratings, it told a wonderfully dark story about radical changes in the way humans think of themselves—one I liked very much and would have liked to see continue. (Digression—I’m glad the “here’s what would've happened in upcoming episodes that we have to smush into five minutes of Caprica's finale” was allowed to be shown, but I would have enjoyed seeing how those developments, well, developed.)
Although Torchwood’s immortality thread seems more promising than other plot developments released to the media so far, I now worry about Jack even more. With the rise of Rex (please, somebody, while you’re switching titles, also change his name before filming starts next week), I worried that a shiny new American “Jack” might be primed to replace Captain Jack, no matter than John Barrowman (and his fanbase) are anticipating a seven-year renewal. Now I worry that Jack may no longer be immortal—or unique. If everyone is immortal in this series, chances are something will happen to return everyone on Earth to mortality—I doubt that the “miracle” will last more than 10 episodes. If that “something” returns the population to their mortality, will Jack also become mortal once again? Be careful what you wish for, Jack. You just may get it.
I like the idea established in much earlier Doctor Who mythology that Jack is what remains—that fixed point in time, the ultimate expression of the best and worst humans can be, and the possibility that Jack may one day be responsible for determining humanity’s fate. With the behind-the-scenes changes resulting in new directions for Doctor Who mythology in the past year, fans have learned that time can be rewritten and Rifts closed. Is everything transitory and ephemeral, or are some things, some people (or at least one) truly immortal? I guess we'll have to hold out hope for a Miracle.
Immortality fascinates me, and I’ve written about its primetime development from The Immortal in the ‘60s through Highlander to LOST and Torchwood. In class, my students and I analyze characters and fiction, including Torchwood, to debate what makes us (and these characters) human. Death, the great equalizer, is often a humanizing element that we discuss—along with what we might become if we were denied death. (And no, my classes aren’t grim, even if they are a bit Grim Reapery at times.)
The association of Jack with death has been pivotal to his character development ever since “The Parting of the Ways,” and the most illuminating moments have been his dramatic reaction to his own and others’ deaths. Although I was saddened to see Owen depart, I applauded his two heroic deaths—the one that led to Jack’s frantic determination to bring him back as well as the one that turned out to be permanent. One of my favorite scenes in “A Day in the Death” is Owen resolutely cleaning out his fridge because he won’t need to eat ever again. Torchwood has covered the “what if I can come back” premise quite a few times.
Jack’s reactions to the deaths of his team as well as his refusal to kill his brother, despite all he’s done, make him human and a much more intriguing character. I don’t believe for a moment that Jack desperately tries to keep his loved ones from death only because there’s nothing after—only darkness or, worse yet, something moving in that darkness. After all, everyone dies, and if Jack were really that keen on keeping his team alive, he would've fired them or done all the field work himself. I also don’t believe he’s that selfish to think only of himself and his desire not to be left behind. After all, Jack has illustrated his pragmatism dozens of times through harsh decisions in which some people are (or one person is) sacrificed so that others may be saved. Jack’s intimate relationship with death has alternately made him a savior and a Grim Reaper, a victim and a survivor.
What will Jack become if he is no longer universally special? We've seen him kill or be killed, save those he loves or lose those dearest. How will he react to the great irony that no one he loves in future can die?
If, in “Miracle Day,” everyone has the ability to thwart death, certainly that poses new problems for a planet currently sucking up the last of its resources and raises different “quality of life” issues than humanity has faced before. I agree with the latest commentaries about the just-released premise of Torchwood: Miracle Day—this story line could be intriguing.
But who or what changes the meaning of life? Do only humans escape death—or does the “no death” premise apply to everything living on Earth? Is this change the result of yet another alien invasion/threat/demand? The latest press release doesn’t suggest that aliens are part of the science fiction—but it does seem like more science (never Russell T. Davies’ strong suit) is being added to the fiction. Is that evidence of Jane Espenson’s influence in the writers’ room? Even though Caprica turned out to be extremely mortal in the ratings, it told a wonderfully dark story about radical changes in the way humans think of themselves—one I liked very much and would have liked to see continue. (Digression—I’m glad the “here’s what would've happened in upcoming episodes that we have to smush into five minutes of Caprica's finale” was allowed to be shown, but I would have enjoyed seeing how those developments, well, developed.)
Although Torchwood’s immortality thread seems more promising than other plot developments released to the media so far, I now worry about Jack even more. With the rise of Rex (please, somebody, while you’re switching titles, also change his name before filming starts next week), I worried that a shiny new American “Jack” might be primed to replace Captain Jack, no matter than John Barrowman (and his fanbase) are anticipating a seven-year renewal. Now I worry that Jack may no longer be immortal—or unique. If everyone is immortal in this series, chances are something will happen to return everyone on Earth to mortality—I doubt that the “miracle” will last more than 10 episodes. If that “something” returns the population to their mortality, will Jack also become mortal once again? Be careful what you wish for, Jack. You just may get it.
I like the idea established in much earlier Doctor Who mythology that Jack is what remains—that fixed point in time, the ultimate expression of the best and worst humans can be, and the possibility that Jack may one day be responsible for determining humanity’s fate. With the behind-the-scenes changes resulting in new directions for Doctor Who mythology in the past year, fans have learned that time can be rewritten and Rifts closed. Is everything transitory and ephemeral, or are some things, some people (or at least one) truly immortal? I guess we'll have to hold out hope for a Miracle.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Finding Balance in 'The King's Speech'
The plot of The King's Speech is hardly surprising. If you study (or remember) history prior to WWII, you'll undoubtedly know of the royalty portrayed on screen. With a title like The King's Speech, the climactic moments aren't really all that much of a climax.
The performances meet the high expectations set for award winners and nominees. Colin Firth brilliantly creates a character in a role with very little physicality--beyond facial expression and a few scenes detailing the "mechanics" of solving the King's speech problem. Clearly, this isn't a holiday action film. Instead, the close-ups emphasize every element of the Prince's, later King's, ability to speak; the film's focus is the journey to allow this man a voice in his own life as much as in history.
What stands out beyond the expected, however, is the teeter-totter shifting of balance between Firth's Bertie/King George VI and everyone else. Many scenes cut between head shots of two characters, one on either side of the screen, with the intercut images providing a strange sense of balance. Most often this visual balance occurs in revelatory scenes between Bertie and Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). Throughout the majority of the film, Firth is filmed to one side of the screen, creating a sense of being off balance, especially when the other side is "empty"--devoid of background image or another person. Only when he truly feels "kingly" does this balance change--and the King dominates the center of the screen.
At times, the camera follows Firth, such as when the King makes that long walk toward the mic, bringing the audience along in his wake. A fisheye lens captures the new King's viewpoint as he stands before an appraising crowd. The contrast between foggy London and dark, emerging figures presents interesting shades of gray and creates stark visuals. When you see the film (or see it again), pay attention to lighting and camera movement.
The camera angles, strategic lighting, and contrasts between classes, the lead characters, and light-dark effects are far more interesting than the expected story development, although Helena Bonham Carter shines as Elizabeth, later known as the Queen Mother. Again, the film's emphasis on her character hinges on line delivery and facial expression. A sly smile, quirk of an eyebrow, and witty comment all provide depth to what could have been a simple "stand by your man" role.
I went to this film to see outstanding performances, and I wasn't disappointed. The way the camera told the story, however, gave me something unexpectedly memorable.
The performances meet the high expectations set for award winners and nominees. Colin Firth brilliantly creates a character in a role with very little physicality--beyond facial expression and a few scenes detailing the "mechanics" of solving the King's speech problem. Clearly, this isn't a holiday action film. Instead, the close-ups emphasize every element of the Prince's, later King's, ability to speak; the film's focus is the journey to allow this man a voice in his own life as much as in history.
What stands out beyond the expected, however, is the teeter-totter shifting of balance between Firth's Bertie/King George VI and everyone else. Many scenes cut between head shots of two characters, one on either side of the screen, with the intercut images providing a strange sense of balance. Most often this visual balance occurs in revelatory scenes between Bertie and Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). Throughout the majority of the film, Firth is filmed to one side of the screen, creating a sense of being off balance, especially when the other side is "empty"--devoid of background image or another person. Only when he truly feels "kingly" does this balance change--and the King dominates the center of the screen.
At times, the camera follows Firth, such as when the King makes that long walk toward the mic, bringing the audience along in his wake. A fisheye lens captures the new King's viewpoint as he stands before an appraising crowd. The contrast between foggy London and dark, emerging figures presents interesting shades of gray and creates stark visuals. When you see the film (or see it again), pay attention to lighting and camera movement.
The camera angles, strategic lighting, and contrasts between classes, the lead characters, and light-dark effects are far more interesting than the expected story development, although Helena Bonham Carter shines as Elizabeth, later known as the Queen Mother. Again, the film's emphasis on her character hinges on line delivery and facial expression. A sly smile, quirk of an eyebrow, and witty comment all provide depth to what could have been a simple "stand by your man" role.
I went to this film to see outstanding performances, and I wasn't disappointed. The way the camera told the story, however, gave me something unexpectedly memorable.
All in the (Extended) Family
It's no secret that I like certain performers and tend to write about them. My mama taught me well that if I can't say something nice, not to say anything at all. Although that adage shouldn't apply to journalistic ethics, it can be applied to those topics I choose to research or review for entertainment. (If you've read my books, you know that I'm much more critical there than in blogs.) I've amended mama's adage so that it means if I can write something positive, I will. So--yes, I'm blog-biased--but here's a good example why.
During the current run of Aladdin, John Barrowman fell ill with flu and couldn't make some performances. His understudy, 18-year-old Greg Barrowman, stepped into Aladdin's pointy shoes and found himself in the spotlight. Perhaps this panto is really a non-gender-specific Cinderella story--or, as Broadway musicals and movies have shown through the decades, the understudy who gets the chance to star makes good and goes on to a fantastic career. Perhaps that will be the story of Greg Barrowman, a young singer encouraged to study his craft and polish his talent at the Glasgow Academy of Theatre Arts. As the Glasgow Evening Times points out, the understudy and the star are cousins.
Hmmm. Nepotism, you might be thinking. True, lots of talented young singers might wish their Cousin John had as much clout in the entertainment industry, but Greg has just been given a rare opportunity--now he has to make the most of it. (As well, if John didn't have the flu, this story about the older cousin mentoring the younger wouldn't have made the media.)
What strikes me most about today's article isn't that the understudy is related to the star, but that the star took an interest in a young talent and encouraged him to get to the point where he could be an understudy. And that, to me, is the moral of this story.
We often meet or know someone who is talented but may lack the encouragement to work toward a goal. I see it with some of my students, who shine in one area but don't know what to do with their skill or talent or how to network.
I once was one of those students who, in grad school, was given the opportunity to write a chapter in a textbook and was introduced to professional writers. I then was given the opportunity to co-author a book long before I wrote my own texts or branched into other areas of writing. I was too shy to interview someone until I was coached through the process a few times. I developed the confidence to introduce myself only because I once stood beside someone who showed me how to say hello politely and professionally.
My mama also taught me to be thankful for the opportunities I was given, but then to make sure I remembered how other people helped me when it was my turn to reach out a helping hand.
Now it's my time to mentor someone else--a student, a family member, a talented stranger. Whether I encourage with applause or a friendly comment after a performance, suggest a possible place to publish or write a positive review, or mention a name to someone looking for "fresh blood" to hire, it's my time to help the next generation to move forward.
We all can do that, even if we don't have high-level professional contacts. We can recognize that spark within a child and nurture that child's interest and potential. It's important that our families--biological or extended--are encouraged to try something new or potentially life changing.
I expect teachers or career counselors, for example, to mentor. I'm encouraged when those much more famous (and with higher socioeconomic status) do so. Would Greg Barrowman have his picture in the Glasgow Evening Times if he weren't standing next to his cousin? Maybe not yet. Would he be guest starring in a highly publicized panto playing in a huge venue? Probably not yet.
Looks like your mama brought you up right, too, John.
During the current run of Aladdin, John Barrowman fell ill with flu and couldn't make some performances. His understudy, 18-year-old Greg Barrowman, stepped into Aladdin's pointy shoes and found himself in the spotlight. Perhaps this panto is really a non-gender-specific Cinderella story--or, as Broadway musicals and movies have shown through the decades, the understudy who gets the chance to star makes good and goes on to a fantastic career. Perhaps that will be the story of Greg Barrowman, a young singer encouraged to study his craft and polish his talent at the Glasgow Academy of Theatre Arts. As the Glasgow Evening Times points out, the understudy and the star are cousins.
Hmmm. Nepotism, you might be thinking. True, lots of talented young singers might wish their Cousin John had as much clout in the entertainment industry, but Greg has just been given a rare opportunity--now he has to make the most of it. (As well, if John didn't have the flu, this story about the older cousin mentoring the younger wouldn't have made the media.)
What strikes me most about today's article isn't that the understudy is related to the star, but that the star took an interest in a young talent and encouraged him to get to the point where he could be an understudy. And that, to me, is the moral of this story.
We often meet or know someone who is talented but may lack the encouragement to work toward a goal. I see it with some of my students, who shine in one area but don't know what to do with their skill or talent or how to network.
I once was one of those students who, in grad school, was given the opportunity to write a chapter in a textbook and was introduced to professional writers. I then was given the opportunity to co-author a book long before I wrote my own texts or branched into other areas of writing. I was too shy to interview someone until I was coached through the process a few times. I developed the confidence to introduce myself only because I once stood beside someone who showed me how to say hello politely and professionally.
My mama also taught me to be thankful for the opportunities I was given, but then to make sure I remembered how other people helped me when it was my turn to reach out a helping hand.
Now it's my time to mentor someone else--a student, a family member, a talented stranger. Whether I encourage with applause or a friendly comment after a performance, suggest a possible place to publish or write a positive review, or mention a name to someone looking for "fresh blood" to hire, it's my time to help the next generation to move forward.
We all can do that, even if we don't have high-level professional contacts. We can recognize that spark within a child and nurture that child's interest and potential. It's important that our families--biological or extended--are encouraged to try something new or potentially life changing.
I expect teachers or career counselors, for example, to mentor. I'm encouraged when those much more famous (and with higher socioeconomic status) do so. Would Greg Barrowman have his picture in the Glasgow Evening Times if he weren't standing next to his cousin? Maybe not yet. Would he be guest starring in a highly publicized panto playing in a huge venue? Probably not yet.
Looks like your mama brought you up right, too, John.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
