Category: Culture

La Conscience

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail.

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail. This work is full of larger-than-life mythical figures and over-the-top emotions accompanied by violent weather, as befits a Romantic poem. The meter is flawless (alexandrine verse? oh yes), the language is exquisite, the images are gripping. Truly, a masterpiece.

La Conscience

Lorsque avec ses enfants vêtus de peaux de bêtes,
Échevelé, livide au milieu des tempêtes,
Caïn se fut enfui de devant Jéhovah,
Comme le soir tombait, l’homme sombre arriva
Au bas d’une montagne en une grande plaine ;
Sa femme fatiguée et ses fils hors d’haleine
Lui dirent : — Couchons-nous sur la terre, et dormons. —
Caïn, ne dormant pas, songeait au pied des monts.
Ayant levé la tête, au fond des cieux funèbres
Il vit un œil tout grand ouvert dans les ténèbres,
Et qui le regardait dans l’ombre fixement.
— Je suis trop près, dit-il avec un tremblement.
Il réveilla ses fils dormant, sa femme lasse,
Et se remit à fuir sinistre dans l’espace.
Il marcha trente jours, il marcha trente nuits.
Il allait, muet, pâle et frémissant aux bruits,
Furtif, sans regarder derrière lui, sans trêve,
Sans repos, sans sommeil. Il atteignit la grève
Des mers dans le pays qui fut depuis Assur.
— Arrêtons-nous, dit-il, car cet asile est sûr.
Restons-y. Nous avons du monde atteint les bornes. —
Et, comme il s’asseyait, il vit dans les cieux mornes
L’œil à la même place au fond de l’horizon.
Alors il tressaillit en proie au noir frisson.
— Cachez-moi, cria-t-il ; et, le doigt sur la bouche,
Tous ses fils regardaient trembler l’aïeul farouche.
Caïn dit à Jabel, père de ceux qui vont
Sous des tentes de poil dans le désert profond :
Étends de ce côté la toile de la tente.
Et l’on développa la muraille flottante ;
Et, quand on l’eut fixée avec des poids de plomb :
Vous ne voyez plus rien ? dit Tsilla, l’enfant blond,
La fille de ses fils, douce comme l’aurore ;
Et Caïn répondit : — Je vois cet œil encore !
Jubal, père de ceux qui passent dans les bourgs
Soufflant dans les clairons et frappant des tambours,
Cria : — Je saurai bien construire une barrière.
Il fit un mur de bronze et mit Caïn derrière.
Et Caïn dit : — Cet œil me regarde toujours !
Hénoch dit : — Il faut faire une enceinte de tours
Si terrible, que rien ne puisse approcher d’elle.
Bâtissons une ville avec sa citadelle.
Bâtissons une ville, et nous la fermerons.
Alors Tubalcaïn, père des forgerons,
Construisit une ville énorme et surhumaine.
Pendant qu’il travaillait, ses frères, dans la plaine,
Chassaient les fils d’Enos et les enfants de Seth ;
Et l’on crevait les yeux à quiconque passait ;
Et, le soir, on lançait des flèches aux étoiles.
Le granit remplaça la tente aux murs de toiles,
On lia chaque bloc avec des nœuds de fer,
Et la ville semblait une ville d’enfer ;
L’ombre des tours faisait la nuit dans les campagnes ;
Ils donnèrent aux murs l’épaisseur des montagnes ;
Sur la porte on grava : « Défense à Dieu d’entrer. »
Quand ils eurent fini de clore et de murer,
On mit l’aïeul au centre en une tour de pierre.
Et lui restait lugubre et hagard. — O mon père !
L’œil a-t-il disparu ? dit en tremblant Tsilla.
Et Caïn répondit : — Non, il est toujours là.
Alors il dit : — Je veux habiter sous la terre
Comme dans son sépulcre un homme solitaire ;
Rien ne me verra plus, je ne verrai plus rien. —
On fit donc une fosse, et Caïn dit : C’est bien !
Puis il descendit seul sous cette voûte sombre.
Quand il se fut assis sur sa chaise dans l’ombre
Et qu’on eut sur son front fermé le souterrain,
L’œil était dans la tombe et regardait Caïn.

Wings Of A Wild Goose

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact.

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact. At the time I wanted so much to write like she did, fierce and unapologetic and flowing straight from the heart. The following is from her first collection of poetry, Not Vanishing.

Wings Of A Wild Goose

A hen, one who could have brought more geese, a female, a wild one
dead     Shot by an excited ignorant young blond boy, his first
His mother threw the wings in the garbage     I rinsed them
brought them home, hung them spread wide on my studio wall
A reminder of so much, saving what I can’t bear to be wasted
Wings
I dream of wings which carry me far above human bitterness
human walls     A goose who will have no more tiny pale fluttering
goslings to bring alive     to shelter     to feed     to watch fly
off on new wings     different winds
He has a lawn this boy     A pretty face which was recently paid
thousands of dollars to be in a television commercial     I clean
their house every Wednesday morning
2 dogs which no one brushes     flying hair everywhere
A black rabbit who is almost always out of
water     usually in a filthy cage     I’ve cleaned the cage
out of sympathy a few times although it is not part of what
are called my duties     I check the water as soon as I arrive
This rabbit & those dogs are the boy’s pets     He is very lazy
He watches television constantly leaving the sofa in the den
littered with food wrappers, soda cans, empty cereal bowls
If I’m still there when he comes home, he is rude to me     If he
has his friends with him, he makes fun of me behind my back
I muse on how he will always think of the woods
as an exciting place to kill     This family of three lives
on a five acre farm     They raise no crops     not even their own
vegetables or animals for slaughter     His father is a neurosurgeon
who longs to be a poet     His mother frantically searches
for christian enlightenment     I’m sad for her     though I don’t like
her     because I know she won’t find any     The boy does nothing
around the house to help without being paid     I’m 38 & still
haven’t saved the amount of money he has in a passbook found
in the pillows of the couch under gum wrappers     That dead goose
This boy will probably never understand that it is not right
to take without giving     He doesn’t know how to give     His mother
who cleaned & cooked the goose says she doesn’t really like
to do it but can’t understand why she should feel any different
about the goose than a chicken or hamburger from the supermarket
I bite my tongue & nod     I could explain to her that meat raised
for slaughter is very different than meat taken from the woods
where so few wild beings survive     That her ancestors are
responsible for the emptiness of this land     That lawns feed no
one     that fallow land lined with fences is sinful     That hungry
people need the food they could be growing     That spirituality
is not separate from food or wildness or respect or giving
But she already doesn’t like me     because she suspects me
of reading her husband’s poetry books when no one is around
& she’s right     I do     I need the 32 dollars a week tolerating
them provides me     I wait for the wings on my wall to speak to me
guide my hungers     teach me winds I can’t reach     I keep
these wings because walls are so hard     wildness so rare     because
ignorance must be remembered     because I am female     because I fly
only in my dreams     because I too
will have no young to let go

The Old Astronomer To His Pupil

I just remembered it’s National Poetry Month. Last year I posted an old poem of mine, but this year I thought I’d showcase the works of real poets. Now, I read very little poetry, but there are few poems that have made a strong impression on me.

The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams.

I just remembered it’s National Poetry Month. Last year I posted an old poem of mine, but this year I thought I’d showcase the works of real poets. Now, I read very little poetry, but there are few poems that have made a strong impression on me.

The first is The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, written by 19th century poet Sarah Williams. The first four stanzas are the most often quoted, and it’s the last line of the fourth stanza that guarantees its immortality. I found this a quietly moving tribute to the scientific profession. There is a deep respect for science, its virtues and rewards, but also, perhaps, the price one pays for practicing it. Mind you, I’m not aware of any scientist whose career is as lonely and thankless as this fictional astronomer’s… but, we’ll chalk it up to poetic license. Enjoy.

The Old Astronomer To His Pupil

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, — I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then till now.

Pray, remember, that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data, for your adding as is meet;
And remember, men will scorn it, ’tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learnt the worth of scorn;
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn;
What, for us, are all distractions of men’s fellowship and smiles?
What, for us, the goddess Pleasure, with her meretricious wiles?

You may tell that German college that their honour comes too late.
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate;
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, — since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, — that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife, —
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sworn, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, ’twill disturb me in my sleep.
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars, —
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

Dungeons & Dragons

I discovered The Order of the Stick about a month ago (with this episode, to be precise), and was immediately hooked. It’s got great plots, character development, action and adventure and tons of humour. Half of that is the hilarious metagaming dialog which spoke to right to my geek heart.

I discovered The Order of the Stick about a month ago (with this episode, to be precise), and was immediately hooked. It’s got great plots, character development, action and adventure and tons of humour. Half of that is the hilarious metagaming dialog which spoke to right to my geek heart. All this talk of hit points and +5 modifiers and levels by the characters themselves took me back to those long-ago gaming Dungeons & Dragons™ sessions I played with my brother M and a few friends. Ah, memories: the rattle of the dice, the scribbling on character sheets, the memorizing of monster stats, pretending we were wizards or paladins or thieves… Good times, good times.

We started playing around age 8, even before the (1st Edition) Advanced D&D came along. I remember our first couple of games, on our grandfather’s dining room table. Good old module B2! We played with our older brother and dad—who’d introduced us to the game and bought the module and dice. He never wanted to play himself, and bowed out as soon as we found gaming groups of our own. M and I played for more than a decade (and two editions), up until our early twenties when the last of the old gang moved away. I didn’t mind not RPGing anymore, since by then I’d come out of the closet and finally had a bit more of a life. Still, it was fun while it lasted, and I got to flex a lot of my creative muscles. Plus, let’s face it: there aren’t that many social outlets for awkward teens with hyperactive imaginations, and I’m grateful to our parents for, first, introducing us to the game, and second, ignoring the fundie-driven “D&D is Satanism” hysteria that flared up in the 80’s.

But though I haven’t felt like playing since, I do get nostalgic. Now, we used to read Dragon™ magazine for most of our gaming life. Dragon had excellent articles on many RPGs (not just D&D), art, modules, short stories… and comics in the back pages. After devouring the OOTS archives, I suddenly had a hankering for those long-ago comics.

What’s New? with Phil & Dixie lasted only a few years, delighting readers with its hilarious commentaries on games and the gaming world. The creator, Phil Foglio, has been keeping busy: check out the terrific steampunk adventure Girl Genius.

Yamara started in the late 80’s and apparently kept going for a bit after we let our Dragon subscription lapse in ’93-94. It was also chock-full of metagaming dialog, with this strip being the best example. And yeah, we totally did that too. Or would have, if our DM’s had introduced this kind of mystery monster.

And Wormy. A beautiful, intricately drawn story about a cranky cigar-smoking dragon, that ended abruptly in the late 80’s. Gremorly the wizard and Solomoriah the winged demon cat kicked all kinds of ass; I believe the July ’81 strip was my introduction to the story—and what a strip it was!

No trip down memory lane would be complete without a nod to Dungeons & Dragons, the TV show. Actually, more than a nod. I recently got my hands on the entire show on DVD, and I’m happily making my way through all the eps. I loved the show when it came out, and it still holds up pretty well. The voice talent is only so-so, the dialog was kind of clunky and (this being an 80’s kids’ show) full of “morally uplifting” messages, but that’s okay because the visuals are what I signed up for, then and now. Venger on his nightmare is still an awesome sight, as is Tiamat and pretty much all the various creatures and places the children see. The animators did a top-notch job of adapting to the screen the fantasy monsters I was already familiar with, and I can tell they had a lot of respect for the source material. Which is more than I can say for the losers responsible for that similarly-named abomination. Bleah.

The Battlestar Galactica Season Finale

I should have expected something like this. Well, really, all you can expect from BSG season finales is the unexpected. Things change, secrets are revealed, it’s all exciting and scary and awesome, and the best you can do is go with the flow. And then, once you’ve watched it a couple more times, try to make some sense of it all.

All along the watchtower princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants too
Outside in the distance a wild cat did growl
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl

So. Yeah.

Ze mind, she is blown.

I should have expected something like this. Well, really, all you can expect from BSG season finales is the unexpected. Things change, secrets are revealed, it’s all exciting and scary and awesome, and the best you can do is go with the flow. And then, once you’ve watched it a couple more times, try to make some sense of it all.

Okay, so first things first: there was supposed to be a Big Reveal in this ep. Namely, we’d get to see the Final Five. Did we? I’m still not 100% convinced. Sure, there’s something screwy going on with Tori, Anders, Tigh and Tyrol. They’re definitely connected somehow (to each other and to the Nebula, since they only started hearing the music when the fleet got close), but it doesn’t follow they’re Cylons. After all, in the BSG universe psychic powers exist, with prophecies and various flavours of ESP from oracles and sacred Scriptures. Plus, Tigh predates the creation of human-form Cylons. So even though they are convinced they’re Cylons, I’m just saying there could be alternative explanations—even though Ron Moore himself said there aren’t, so there goes that theory.

I still want to hear the real explanation. I’ve got vague theories that the Final Five are incorporeal Cylons, existing as pure information on the boundary between life and death, and are somehow taking over—or at least sharing—these four human minds. That for some reason they went rogue and wanted to live among humans, which was such a betrayal that the other seven models refused to ever speak of them again. And unlike the known seven Cylons, there are no duplicates of the Five. Each model is alone, unique. This philosophical difference, of duplication vs non-duplication, may have been a part of the rift that caused the Five to leave or be kicked out. This would also explain why Cylons never recognized Tigh et al. as their own. Or, maybe they deliberately erased all knowledge of them, including their appearance, except for the simple fact of their existence, from their own memories. Which I guess you can do if you’re a machine, though it seems a wee bit extreme.

Roslin, now… what about Roslin? She’s sharing dreams with Sharon, Six and Hera. All three women are connected to the child in different ways. Sharon is her birth mother, Six is her godmother/adoptive mother (maybe), Roslin has some of her blood flowing in her veins. But she—along with Sharon and Six—was also affected by the nebula’s proximity, though in different ways from the other four “Cylons.” What if Roslin is the fifth of the Final Five? Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head?

Starbuck’s alive? And she’s been to Earth? And she’ll lead the fleet there? I’ll just squeak out a feeble “What the frak?!?” because… yeah. I got nothing.

Where’s Earth supposed to be, anyways? The final shot shows the fleet and the Cylons to be deep in a galaxy that looks a lot like the Milky Way, and the Earth to be in a small satellite galaxy like the Magellanic Clouds. Huh. Well, no big deal. Let’s just say it’s a different universe, and leave it at that.

But will I really have to wait until 2008 to see how this all plays out? Two thousand fucking eight? Are you kidding me? Sigh. Well, I guess I’ll have time to buy the DVDs and watch them over and over and over…

Accidental Community

I’ve just returned from the first meeting of the Accidental Community project. There was a photo slideshow by local artist John Kozachenko, a very brief overview of the history of gay men’s communities in the West End, Q & A and interactive discussion, and a look at future directions for the project.

I’ve just returned from the first meeting of the Accidental Community project. There was a photo slideshow by local artist John Kozachenko, a very brief overview of the history of gay men’s communities in the West End, Q & A and interactive discussion, and a look at future directions for the project. Fascinating stuff. I learned that the man after whom Davie Street was named—Alexander Edmund Batson Davie, 8th Premier of B.C.—was rumoured to be gay, though he had a wife and children. But apparently he hung out with gay people who, upon his death, started a social club in his honour and renamed the street after him. The articles I could find online don’t elaborate on just what kind of social club this was.

I was invited to this meeting by one of the project members, who’d contacted me a couple of months ago via my queer history project, looking for leads for his research (unrelated to mine, but it never hurts to ask). Unfortunately, I couldn’t really help him, since I haven’t kept in touch with the one person I interviewed and all my other sources are publicly available. Still, I’m enormously flattered that my little project got his attention in the first place.

In addition to some cool history, another thing I got out of this meeting was how disconnected I am to the West End, living way the hell out in the suburbs. True, there are advantages—it’s much cheaper to live out here, and I do have some (non-gay) friends nearby—but maybe I’m missing out on more than I realise. Years ago I voluntarily severed almost all ties with queer communities; I’ve since eased some of the way back in, and only recently have I realised what a mistake that self-imposed exile was. Where to go from here, though? That’s what I’ll have to figure out.

Anime of my Youth

I recently bought the first DVD set of Gatchaman, the 1970’s anime that was re-edited and repackaged as Battle of the Planets here in North America. I watched BOTP religiously as a youngun, having no clue as to its origins—and honestly, not caring that much. But now I do care and, seeing the original, uncut and redubbed (and resubbed—I usually prefer subtitles anyways), I’m shocked at how much was “lost in translation.”

I recently bought the first DVD set of Gatchaman, the 1970’s anime that was re-edited and repackaged as Battle of the Planets here in North America. I watched BOTP religiously as a youngun, having no clue as to its origins—and honestly, not caring that much. But now I do care and, seeing the original, uncut and redubbed (and resubbed—I usually prefer subtitles anyways), I’m shocked at how much was “lost in translation.” For one thing, the violence and the deaths were toned down quite a bit. For another, the robot sidekick and narrator 7-Zark-7 was added to the mix (because I guess kids need cute but annoying robots), cutting into yet more of the original story. Jinpei/Keyop was just a normal kid in the original series, but became some sort of lab-grown artificial human in BOTP to explain his weird speech impediment. The real explanation, of course, was that it was damn hard to fit English dialog to his huge flapping mouth. The adult characters all had much smaller mouths, so it wasn’t a problem for them. And, for some reason, in BOTP Galactor/Spectra (the evil organization trying to conquer Earth) got renamed and became extraterrestrial, where originally they were just human terrorists, no more alien than Doctor Evil. I’m not sure how much I should read into that. Were the BOTP writers too twitchy about blurring the lines of good and evil? Or maybe it was just to make the whole thing more science-fictiony and allow the heroes to visit other planets (which looked just like Earth) and put in some cool starscape shots?

I have to say, once it’s stripped of all the useless and irritating Kiddie Show frills, Gatchaman is pretty good stuff. Nothing spectacular, and somewhat talky and overdramatic as anime tends to be, but it’s good solid entertainment, highly enjoyable. Even the “character development” scenes and storylines (the “chemistry” between Ken/Mark and Jun/Princess, Joe/Jason’s hotheadedness and constant butting heads with the leader, the mysterious “Red Impulse” who turns out to be Ken’s father, etc…) are somehow a lot less annoying in the original.

Battle of the Planets wasn’t the only anime I grew up with. There were three other shows, all French-dubbed. And, interestingly, none of them toned down the violence. I guess English censors were more timid than French ones?

First up is Goldorak (original Japanese name: UFO Robo Grendizer). Giant robots with exotic-looking weapons! Earth in peril! A prince in exile! The series actually wasn’t hugely violent, since most of the action took place between the aforementioned giant robots; however, there were a number of tense and emotional scenes, as well as a few deaths over the course of the series—including most of the main bad guys in the finale. I’ve found a few videos on YouTube and a few more as bittorrents. It still holds up quite well. The action and visuals are excellent, and the characters have some depth (except for a few who are there just for comic relief). Good stuff. And I’m not the only one who thinks so: Goldorak was huge in France and French Canada when it came out.

As it turns out (and again, I had no clue then), Goldorak/Grendizer was just one of many giant robots already fighting in anime. My brother and I had lots of the little Shogun Warrior action figures back in… 1979, I think. Later, we got the bigger Raydeen and Daimos. I wonder how much they’d be worth now. It’s kind of a moot point, since we threw them away long ago, and even if we hadn’t they’d be far from mint condition. For example, I remember that Poseidon’s missile launcher things broke off at one point.

Albator (English: Harlock) is the story of a noble space pirate fighting evil alien plant women called Sylvidres (English: Mazones), who mean to conquer Earth. This series was very violent, with people always getting shot or stabbed or burned, often in slow motion. One scene I remember shows Clio (Miime), the mysterious alien crewmember with strange magical powers, quietly playing solitaire (I think) on board the Atlantis (Arcadia), when a Sylvidre soldier snuck up on her. So what did she do? She threw a playing card like a knife at the Sylvidre and hit her right in the chest. Whereupon the alien burst into flames, ’cos that’s how they die. Man, that’s hardcore. In addition to the violence there were also a few scenes of nekkid wimmin (well, nekkid Sylvidres), though with their long hair or other props artfully arranged to cover the naughty bits.

Albator was recently broadcast for a while on Radio-Canada; I stumbled on it by accident and managed to catch a few episodes. It’s a great show, very dark and over-the-top dramatic, though lightened by gorgeous space battles and small amounts of comic relief. But damn, how old was I when I first watched it? Seven, maybe? I guess the moral is, TV violence won’t necessarily harm your child as long as it’s artfully done.

Last but not least we have Capitaine Flam. This anime was based on a 1940’s sci-fi pulp series called Captain Future: each storyline, taking up four half-hour episodes, was adapted from an original Captain Future story. As far as I can tell, the TV series is very true to the original. We have a hero who is a physically and mentally perfect human being, with vast scientific knowledge and amazing athletic skills that he uses for the good of humanity. We have a few interesting sci-fi sidekicks (a robot, an android, and a brain in a floating box), as well as a platonic love interest. This is a universe when men are men, women are women (yet, though Joan is often the damsel in distress, she’s got a sharp brain and can kick some ass when needed), space is big and dangerous, and on every planet and moon you’ll find exotic aliens or mysterious ruins hiding fabulous ancient technologies. But though Flam can fire a proton blaster with the best of them, as often as not he saves the day through diplomacy or ingenuity. You don’t see that too often these days, but it was a time when a hero could be manly and scientific. In fact, though some of the science is extremely silly (no, you can’t hide an entire planet in Halley’s comet), there’s a very didactic tone to the show that reminds me of some Victorian adventure stories and slightly more recent comic books.

I downloaded a few episodes, and I’m happy to say Capitaine Flam still holds up. In fact, it’s damn good stuff, even more enjoyable now that I’m aware of its roots. And, best of all, there are online copies of many of the original Captain Future stories. Just in case you want to see where it all started.

The Star Wars Holiday Special

I’d only heard about it, in hushed and disbelieving whispers over the Net. I knew it had aired exactly once around Thanksgiving of 1978 and was apparently made with minimal input from George Lucas—who some say hated it so much he tried to destroy every existing copy, although that seems to be an urban legend. It sounded so horrifyingly bad that I figured I was safer not looking for it.

I’d only heard about it, in hushed and disbelieving whispers over the Net. I knew it had aired exactly once around Thanksgiving of 1978 and was apparently made with minimal input from George Lucas—who some say hated it so much he tried to destroy every existing copy, although that seems to be an urban legend. It sounded so horrifyingly bad that I figured I was safer not looking for it. But then, I discovered it was immortalized on YouTube and my curiosity finally got the better of me. Here it is, split in ten parts of about 10 minutes each:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

My mind is still blown. I think the question to ask here is, “What the fuck?” No, seriously. What the fucking fuck? Why am I watching a dumbass variety show? Why are the Star Wars characters reduced to cameos in their own universe? Did the producers not get what Star Wars was all about, or did they just not care? (I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if the people involved really didn’t know what to do with the genre. Legends of the Superheroes—also done in the late 70’s, maybe coincidentally—is another fine example of a geeky concept fucked up all to hell.) We’re stuck with is this cheesy “Life Day” story where the Empire is reduced to a lame plot device, stupid and unscary Stormtroopers, Wookiees howling at each other for an entire scene that went on forever, nauseating schmaltz, and Princess Leia singing. Bleagh.

So, okay, it fails as a Star Wars adventure. What about as a variety show? Well, the extent of my experience in that area is from watching The Muppet Show, so maybe I’m not the best person to judge. But it seems to me the acts should be… oh, what’s the word?… entertaining. Those little holographic acrobats? Meh. Harvey Korman as a 4-armed TV cook, then as a robot who keeps powering down? Not even funny for a second. Diahann Carroll in a virtual reality softcore porno? Well, she’s pretty and all, and a good singer, but the song was kind of boring and the whole scene was frankly creepy as hell. Nobody needs to see Chewie’s father Itchy getting off to Carroll being all sexy and seductive before she starts singing. Jefferson Starship in another holographic show? An unexceptional song with silly special effects. Pass. Bea Arthur? Actually, her bit was the best. She’s got a nice voice; the song was quiet and low-key, with no distracting special effects, horny Wookiees or attempts at cheap laughs.

The most horrifying moment came near the end when Chewie was reunited with his family, and he and his wife… almost kissed. I froze like a deer in headlights, only one thought screaming through my brain: EW EW EW EW WOOKIEE SEX EW! But then they just hugged. Thank God.

In conclusion: Wow, this was really very bad. And not even entertainingly bad (like, e.g., those old Gerry Anderson marionation shows, the Super-Friends, or all the movies on MST3K), but just confusingly, irritatingly, boringly bad. I can’t even laugh at it; part of me thinks I should, but I’m enough of a geek to be offended at the watering down of a sci-fi epic by people who just used the sci-fi elements (alien names, guys in funny rubber masks, advanced tech) as props for dumb jokes. Still, I don’t regret watching it, even if it’s just to understand what all the hype was about, and to appreciate just how wrong things can go. I could say that this abysmal TV special should never have seen the light of day, but then my life (and that of many Star Wars fans) would have been much poorer as a result.

Happy Life Day, everyone!

In Praise of Stargate SG-1‘s 200th Episode

Oh my Lord, that was just about the funniest hour of sci-fi I’ve ever seen. I may get the Season 10 set just for this one episode. The in-jokes were flying, the actors seemed to have a great time, it was all meta and silly and over-the-top and I just couldn’t stop laughing.

Oh my Lord, that was just about the funniest hour of sci-fi I’ve ever seen. I may get the Season 10 set just for this one episode. The in-jokes were flying, the actors seemed to have a great time, it was all meta and silly and over-the-top and I just couldn’t stop laughing.

The plot is that Wormhole X-Treme!, a campy sci-fi show inspired by the real Stargate program, is inexplicably being picked up for a movie. (What studio does that, when only 3 episodes were ever made? asks Jackson. “It allegedly performed well on DVD,” replies Teal’c. Tee hee. Are Joss Whedon’s ears burning?) So SG-1 has to sit through a brainstorming session, shoot down Martin Lloyd’s goofy lowest-common-denominator ideas (Teal’c: “I do not understand why everything in this script must inevitably explode.”) while pitching their own.

Mitchell fighting zombies! Lloyd in love with Carter’s technobabble! A younger, “edgier” SG-1! (“Dude, that hot chick was so totally a Goa’uld.”) O’Neill and Carter getting married! By Thor! (Uh, I think. All Asgard kind of look alike, don’t they?) Cheyenne Mountain exploding! Teal’c P.I.! Completely ridiculous cliffhangers!

SCENE:

SG-1 is on an alien planet, running from about a zillion Replicators. “We’ve got ten seconds before the time dilation field is activated. If we don’t make it through the Gate we’ll be stuck here forever!” yells Carter, just as they come upon the Stargate surrounded by Jaffa, with loads of bombers and gliders. “Okay, this could be a problem,” says Mitchell.

CUT TO:

Stargate Command. SG-1 is emerging from the Gate, safe and sound. “That was close, huh?” asks Mitchell.

I laughed so freaking hard at that. It’s right up there with Princess Bunhead’s “I escaped somehow!” from Thumb Wars for sheer unapologetic silliness.

And the homages: The Wizard of Oz, with Vala as Dorothy, and Gen. Landry as the big floating head of the Wizard Ascended Being. Her wish was first to go home, “But now I’ve decided I’d quite like to be a part of something. A regular part, if you catch my drift.” Farscape, with the characters rattling off that show’s made-up swear words (and props to Amanda Tapping for doing a kickass Chiana, complete with the weird posture and head twitches). Star Trek, with Mitchell as the intrepid commander of the Daedalus battlecruiser, facing an exploding singularity with weapons at maximum. And marionation… although that bit dragged a little, and most of the good jokes were already done in Team America. But really, everything else was gold.

Props to the SG-1 people for poking fun at themselves, and letting us laugh along.

Comic Book Review: Death: The High Cost of Living

I admit it. I love Death. Have from the first time she appeared in The Sandman. She’s beautiful, perky, compassionate, and not afraid to tell it like it is. If she’ll pardon my saying so, she’s the most human of all the Endless… and it seems there’s a good reason for that.

I admit it. I love Death. Have from the first time she appeared in The Sandman. She’s beautiful, perky, compassionate, and not afraid to tell it like it is. If she’ll pardon my saying so, she’s the most human of all the Endless… and it seems there’s a good reason for that. It is said that “One day in every century Death takes on mortal flesh, better to comprehend what the lives she takes must feel like, to taste the bitter tang of mortality: and this is the price she must pay for being the divider of the living from all that has gone before, all that must come after.” This quietly enchanting 3-part miniseries, written by Neil Gaiman and published in 1993 (during Sandman’s run, near the end of the “Brief Lives” storyline), follows Death as she spends twenty-four hours mortal in New York City, tasting life and making new friends.

We meet Sexton Furnival, a sullen and angsty teen vaguely planning suicide because he feels life is pointless. We catch up with Hazel and Foxglove, the lesbian couple last seen in Sandman’s “A Game of You” storyline. And we meet Didi, the incarnation of Death (whose name just has to start with a “D,” like all the Endless). It’s not clear exactly who or what she is: a temporary shell for Death? A real girl imbued with a bit of the Endless’ essence? Didi does seem to have a history and friends who remember her, but that might just be a bit of retroactive memory. What’s obvious is that she’s not just some delusional mortal girl: a few of her offhand remarks (“As my older brother would say, some destinations are inevitable.” “My sister has rats. She loves them deeply.”) indicate she knows way more about the Endless than any mortal should.

And all of these characters deal with death (small “d”) and life in different ways. Sexton contemplates suicide but eventually learns to appreciate life. Hazel is expecting a baby. Foxglove sings about her dead ex-girlfriend. Didi, as is her function, enjoys the hell out of every experience: breathing, eating, meeting people (even the creeps), the good and the bad, living her perfectly ordinary, perfectly special day.

(There are a couple of plots, but they’re not terribly important. Mad Hettie, an immortal homeless woman previously seen in Sandman, is looking for her heart and demands Didi’s help. A blind wizard called The Eremite plans to steal Didi’s ankh and thus gain power over Death… to stop people from dying, maybe. That’s the problem with being Death, I guess: too few people appreciate your work. There are always sorcerers and whatnot trying to control you for the “good” of humanity. Roderick Burgess did it way back in Sandman #1, and he probably wasn’t the first.)

The art, by Chris Bachalo and Mark Buckingham, is phenomenal, and in my opinion consitutes the best representation of Death. They perfectly captured her sweetness, innocence (maybe not the best term when talking about the second oldest being in the universe, but there you go), serene wisdom, and, well, lovability. Some of the visuals were quite striking: I especially loved the scene of Didi helping Sexton to his feet, in the garbage dump where she found him. It worked on an additional level, since Death usually takes the recently departed by the hand as she leads them to what lies beyond. (And I could go on about Didi pushing the fridge off Sexton’s legs being deep and complex symbolism for Death releasing us from the burdens of life, but I think I won’t go there. Sometimes a fridge is just a fridge.) And the panel of Didi by the fountain, silently embracing the world moments before her death, still gets to me, even ten years later.

Death: The High Cost of Living is conveniently collected in a trade paperback, which offers a nifty little bonus: Death Talks About Life, a six page insert in which Death discusses safer sex, assisted by John Constantine and a banana. It’s as awesome as it sounds.