What an amazing gift to those of us who can only dream of touching the stars.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Music of the Spheres?
Every now and then, something is so perfectly, almost painfully, beautiful that it makes me want to simultaneously laugh and cry. This soul-lifting piece of art, for example, which is being described as the first music video made in space. David Bowie's Space Oddity – recorded "on location" at the International Space Station by Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield.
What an amazing gift to those of us who can only dream of touching the stars.
What an amazing gift to those of us who can only dream of touching the stars.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
A Writer is In The House
During a previous incarnation as an actor, I was privileged to study with the inspirational Nikos Psacharopoulos. Possibly the greatest compliment Nikos would pay to an actor was to say that he or she was "watchable." This didn't necessarily mean that you'd brought the character to life or had gotten to the root of the scene. It did mean that, whatever you were doing, you'd committed to it entirely and made it so interesting that the audience simply couldn't tear their attention away from you. Unlike the numerous, richly-varied techniques that artists can draw on to enrich and sustain their work, "watchable" can't be taught; it's innate.
For me, when something is "watchable," I suspend all other judgement of the piece, because I'm just so happy to be that interested. I find François Ozon an enormously "watchable" filmmaker. I remember walking out of 8 Women, completely bemused but delighted, thinking "I'm not sure why, but there's something about this film..." I still can't express "why," but Ozon continues to engage me in that way. So, during a flying visit through Paris in October, I was ecstatic to see the kiosk ads for his new film.
I finally got to see Dans La Maison in NY, just the other day. As anticipated, it's absolutely "watchable." As an extra bonus for a writer, it's Ozon mapping the cellular structure of the artistic mind.
Take a look at the trailer for the US release. You can view it at the website of the Washington Post (see YouTube for other release versions). It looks like a thriller, doesn't it? You wonder: is the boy a stalker? a serial killer? Whose lives will be destroyed?
This is the same kind of thing that Ozon did with Swimming Pool. Well, not remotely the same plotline; but exploring the idea that the process of creating a story is as treacherous as a planned crime and that the artist and those whose worlds touch on his/hers are vulnerable to the fallout of that process.
On the day that I went to see Dans La Maison, it was pouring in NY. Sheets of water in half-hour bursts, alternating with lesser torrents that soaked through rain gear and spilled off the edges of umbrellas, soaking whatever lay beneath. The streets were flooded ankle deep, so that litter was drawn along by currents. I walked 2 miles from my dentist appointment to the cinema, stripped off my raincoat and kicked off my sodden mocassins. From the knee down, my jeans were plastered to my legs. While immersed in Ozon's world, I forgot all about this.
No super-heroes, no chase scenes, and the only explosions being of the kind we all experience with the changes in our lives. 105 minutes later, it was a rude surprise to return and have to shrug back into my soggy gear and face my own world. All this from a story about writing. "Watchable" is only part of it.
[side note: 20th Century Fox made a big mistake by not thinking outside the box and handing over the remake of Fantastic Voyage to Ozon. The "patient" would probably have ended up being a writer, or maybe a filmmaker, and the story would be twice as fascinating as whatever love story James Cameron is imposing on Shawn Levy.]
I finally got to see Dans La Maison in NY, just the other day. As anticipated, it's absolutely "watchable." As an extra bonus for a writer, it's Ozon mapping the cellular structure of the artistic mind.
Take a look at the trailer for the US release. You can view it at the website of the Washington Post (see YouTube for other release versions). It looks like a thriller, doesn't it? You wonder: is the boy a stalker? a serial killer? Whose lives will be destroyed?
This is the same kind of thing that Ozon did with Swimming Pool. Well, not remotely the same plotline; but exploring the idea that the process of creating a story is as treacherous as a planned crime and that the artist and those whose worlds touch on his/hers are vulnerable to the fallout of that process.
On the day that I went to see Dans La Maison, it was pouring in NY. Sheets of water in half-hour bursts, alternating with lesser torrents that soaked through rain gear and spilled off the edges of umbrellas, soaking whatever lay beneath. The streets were flooded ankle deep, so that litter was drawn along by currents. I walked 2 miles from my dentist appointment to the cinema, stripped off my raincoat and kicked off my sodden mocassins. From the knee down, my jeans were plastered to my legs. While immersed in Ozon's world, I forgot all about this.
No super-heroes, no chase scenes, and the only explosions being of the kind we all experience with the changes in our lives. 105 minutes later, it was a rude surprise to return and have to shrug back into my soggy gear and face my own world. All this from a story about writing. "Watchable" is only part of it.
[side note: 20th Century Fox made a big mistake by not thinking outside the box and handing over the remake of Fantastic Voyage to Ozon. The "patient" would probably have ended up being a writer, or maybe a filmmaker, and the story would be twice as fascinating as whatever love story James Cameron is imposing on Shawn Levy.]
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Covetable Copy (3)
As a writer, I love this line. I also love it as an actor; spoken, it would be a gorgeous retort in a clever patch of repartee.
But however much I enjoy it, it nags at me because I've already published one book that isn't "about love" and have a couple more in the works. Well, there's a lot of love in my books, but they're not "love stories." Does that count, or does that mean that my stories shouldn't be classified as novels? This is the kind of thought-worm that wriggles into a writer's mind in moments of self-doubt.
The writer who said this does have love stories in his books. Novels. Other than that, his novels defy definition.
Once upon a time, I stumbled onto a copy of Little Big at Forbidden Planet. It was irresistible: a fat book with a lavender cover, at a science fiction bookstore. My "acquire" alarm started ringing wildly; I had to buy it. And once I read it, I was hooked on John Crowley.
I'm not going to pretend I always understand him. I've read all of the Ægypt cycle, slowly and with my full attention, but some bits were opaque to me. There were also some things that I lost track of, but this had probably do to with the long gaps between my reading the four volumes (and would probably be rectified by a re-reading splurge, someday, when I get through my own writerly undertaking and once again have time). Despite this, there is an atmosphere of Ægypt that clings to me.
Crowley excels in atmosphere. One is enveloped in his worlds. It doesn't matter if it's the world of John Dee or Giordano Bruno, or the more immediately familiar American homefront of World War 2 (in what is probably his book most likely to appeal to those of you who prefer their fiction "real," the The Four Freedoms). Reading Crowley is an immersive experience from which one surfaces in a kind of daze. To read in that way, you have to trust the writer. I do trust Crowley. And in trusting an artist who is unique, I give myself the confidence, for better or worse, to trust myself.
"He didn't have to be about love; he was a man, not a novel."
John Crowley, Solitudes (part 1 of the Ægypt cycle)
But however much I enjoy it, it nags at me because I've already published one book that isn't "about love" and have a couple more in the works. Well, there's a lot of love in my books, but they're not "love stories." Does that count, or does that mean that my stories shouldn't be classified as novels? This is the kind of thought-worm that wriggles into a writer's mind in moments of self-doubt.
The writer who said this does have love stories in his books. Novels. Other than that, his novels defy definition.
Once upon a time, I stumbled onto a copy of Little Big at Forbidden Planet. It was irresistible: a fat book with a lavender cover, at a science fiction bookstore. My "acquire" alarm started ringing wildly; I had to buy it. And once I read it, I was hooked on John Crowley.
I'm not going to pretend I always understand him. I've read all of the Ægypt cycle, slowly and with my full attention, but some bits were opaque to me. There were also some things that I lost track of, but this had probably do to with the long gaps between my reading the four volumes (and would probably be rectified by a re-reading splurge, someday, when I get through my own writerly undertaking and once again have time). Despite this, there is an atmosphere of Ægypt that clings to me.
Crowley excels in atmosphere. One is enveloped in his worlds. It doesn't matter if it's the world of John Dee or Giordano Bruno, or the more immediately familiar American homefront of World War 2 (in what is probably his book most likely to appeal to those of you who prefer their fiction "real," the The Four Freedoms). Reading Crowley is an immersive experience from which one surfaces in a kind of daze. To read in that way, you have to trust the writer. I do trust Crowley. And in trusting an artist who is unique, I give myself the confidence, for better or worse, to trust myself.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Sassy, Sexy Words
I'm sensitive to language the way that some people are sensitive to the use of herbs and spices. There are certain words that, when used in certain contexts, make me want to spit.
This isn't at all unusual. If people weren't known to be sensitive to certain words, there wouldn't be poetry...or the Marketing industry. What seemingly sets me apart is that many of the words or phrases that common wisdom categorizes as appealing (if you can gauge common wisdom based on ubiquity) are the same ones that make me cringe.
A case in point: "the biggest selling XXX in America." Watch television for two prime-time hours and you'll know that every advertising agency in the US would take that phrase to the bank. Obviously their clients don't need my money. All that "the biggest selling..." tells me is that a lot of people bought it. It doesn't tell me why. Is it the best constructed or the best tasting? Does it last the longest or give the greatest value? This is what I think of as a lemming pitch: buy it because everyone else does. Well, with apologies to your mom for borrowing her maxim, if everyone else was jumping off the roof, would you? So this pitch is never going to make me want to buy something. On the contrary; because I like to think of myself as apart from the herd, a pitch like this will make me put that product on a list of items to avoid like the plague.
This reverse-reaction is the main symptom of my buzz-word allergy. For example:
I wonder if I'm losing out on some great products because of my reaction to the pitch language. Or maybe these products are really not for me, and this advertising is pitch perfect. Either way, it sometimes makes me feel a little lonely.
PS: I am also allergic to cats. Literally. But the endless "cute cat" meme on the internet is gradually turning this into a figurative allergy as well.
This isn't at all unusual. If people weren't known to be sensitive to certain words, there wouldn't be poetry...or the Marketing industry. What seemingly sets me apart is that many of the words or phrases that common wisdom categorizes as appealing (if you can gauge common wisdom based on ubiquity) are the same ones that make me cringe.
A case in point: "the biggest selling XXX in America." Watch television for two prime-time hours and you'll know that every advertising agency in the US would take that phrase to the bank. Obviously their clients don't need my money. All that "the biggest selling..." tells me is that a lot of people bought it. It doesn't tell me why. Is it the best constructed or the best tasting? Does it last the longest or give the greatest value? This is what I think of as a lemming pitch: buy it because everyone else does. Well, with apologies to your mom for borrowing her maxim, if everyone else was jumping off the roof, would you? So this pitch is never going to make me want to buy something. On the contrary; because I like to think of myself as apart from the herd, a pitch like this will make me put that product on a list of items to avoid like the plague.
This reverse-reaction is the main symptom of my buzz-word allergy. For example:
- Advertise a book or film or television show as "sassy," "saucy" or "sexy" and I know to avoid it.
- On stage or on screen, I will never willingly see a "romp."
- I think nothing should be "buttery" except for things that are cooked with butter.
- Food products that are "fresh" or "hot" are enticing. To hear fashion, ideas, or celebrities described as either makes my skin crawl. And "trendy" (in any context) makes me gag.
I wonder if I'm losing out on some great products because of my reaction to the pitch language. Or maybe these products are really not for me, and this advertising is pitch perfect. Either way, it sometimes makes me feel a little lonely.
PS: I am also allergic to cats. Literally. But the endless "cute cat" meme on the internet is gradually turning this into a figurative allergy as well.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
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