This class is like psychotherapy, man, seriously. I had originally started with the thought of the "end if this semester" thing from indacan, but it kind of spiralled into this whole thing about my future, so for what it's worth, this is what's going on in my head:
Too much. It’s all too much to consider, too big, to wide, too tall. Too unreal, too unfocused. Too much thinking outside the box, not enough time considering the box itself. Now I’m playing catch-up; not thinking about my work, about my dream, but a box. About structure. Any structure. A plan or an ideal, a goal for one year, five years, twenty years. A goal other than standing on a stage with a little gold man. A goal I could accomplish. That’s what I need.
I don’t want to sell books, movie tickets, fried fucking chicken from behind an apron and a silly hat, standing at a cash register my whole life. But I’ll be doing that in one year, five years, twenty years, if I don’t turn the ship around, or at least take a moment to look at the map, figure out the best course. Still dreaming about the stage, the gold man. Dreaming about sets and actors and props; interviews; arguments with billionaires about artistic integrity. Who am I kidding? Millions of people dream the same dreams, tens of thousands pursue that dream, and for mere dozens does it actually become real. And what of those left? Those left dreaming; those who pursue and fail? What of them, so much creative brilliance waiting tables, driving taxis. Will I be one of them? Waiting, waiting, pursuing, pursuing, but never going anywhere…Is that the Janek O’Toole story?
I could have been a lawyer. I could have been a journalist, or a psychologist. I could have been a chef. I could have done so many much more practical things, so many nice steady 9-2-5, know it’ll be there tomorrow jobs. If I’d kept in touch with the box. As it is, I’m living life without a box, hanging on strings of compliments, potential, changes here and there, slight tweaks to tighten it up, a lot of good ideas. It’s too late now; I can’t go back and start again for another 3 years. Could still become a chef, I suppose. If this doesn’t work out, could peel potatoes and chop onions for my daily bread. What a life.
“Follow your dreams” they said, “Do what you want to do” they said. Fuck that. Where’s that going to get me? 35 years old, waiting ‘til October and my Christmas Casuals job selling calendars. I was so happy to have parents who didn’t push me into medicine or law or something sensible. Now look at me. Friends in practices, fellowships, in other high-end organisations. And me in my stupid apron, organising shifts at a store no one buys from. Fuck. Disillusioning children, making them think they can’t accomplish anything isn’t abuse. Making them believe they can do anything is abuse. Figure out your kid’s potential and reming them ceaselessly where their fucking place is. No pie-in-the-sky ideas about your kid being special, unique, a precious snowflake unlike any other.
I’m like a snowflake, in a way. No direction, blown here and there by the winds, in a very gradual, but very real freefall. I’ll land on a street, in someone’s hair, on a roof, and melt. I’ll fade away and no one will be any the wiser. I am a snowflake, falling with every page of every script I ever wrote. Every bright idea that shimmers and glints in the sunlight, piling up, becoming an amorphous blotch, for someone to stamp on or shovel up, to be swept away to make room for sensible, downtrodden citizens.
Fuck. Where will I be in twenty years? High School Reunion, Trying to pass my job off as “purchasing and logistics technician”, drinking a little too much of the free wine, making a scene. Oh, all those sideways glances, all those covert whispers. “He was so together in school”, “He was really going to go places”, “Didn’t he win that award?”, “Some people just can’t get it together”, “What a shame” “What a pity” “What a waste”. There’s no denying it, I’ll go out with a bang.
45, still living with the parents, or parent, or alone. Living day-to-day off an inheritance or a pittance. People stopping by with some food, some words of sympathy, laugh about how funny I was when I was little, not talk about how ambitious I was when I was a teenager. Not talk about the slow descent into obscurity, even from my own friends and family. No longer lamenting how little they see me anymore, strangers with my blood.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wk. 12 - Mourning
The piece I wrote to IBM 1401 A User's Manual is actually the first to come from a proper creative spring. The story and characters involved are from a ascreenplay I'm presently developing. I won't say much about the story itself, burt you should be able to gleen something from the written piece:
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wk. 11 - Nerves
Statement on "nerves", written to Kraftwerk's "Computer Love"(? I can't recall)
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wk. 10 - Augmented Story
Despite my glee at the announcement of the multiplatform Heroes series presently in development, I must admit I was a little miffed, because it rather steals the thunder from my idea for The Gun Seller.
TGS is a great conspiracy story, one which involves both world finance and wolrld politics, to of the world's present hot buttons, which means that viewers can get caught up in the drama of it as if it were real. My idea is to augment the story within the TV show with a subscription SMS service and a series of websites.
The SMS service could send texts to subscribers with additional information about the goins-on of the various characters in the story, and for users in turn to send in their own theories about what's going on in the series.
Rather than a "show website" as is common with Tv shows, I plan to include several seperate sites, each of which connects with a different area of the show. For instance, one could link with the "Sword of Justice" group, another with the fake "Ministry of Defense", in addition to several conspiracy sites connected to the plot of the show. These highten the reality of the story, and can be used to gave extra information. They can also, with the use of message boards or even live chat, allow for the growth of a community around the show.
Though the book was written in 1996, before the days of such wondrous things as blogs, these are an easy and effective way for the characters to interact with the audience. As such, I can see both the show's main characters having blogs.
Finally, let's have some fun in the real world. I have an idea to place special clues in certain places within the real world which could lead viewers to deeper inside information, or even cash and prizes, though I think I prefer the former, as cash and prizes highlight the fact that the show is fiction.
TGS is a great conspiracy story, one which involves both world finance and wolrld politics, to of the world's present hot buttons, which means that viewers can get caught up in the drama of it as if it were real. My idea is to augment the story within the TV show with a subscription SMS service and a series of websites.
The SMS service could send texts to subscribers with additional information about the goins-on of the various characters in the story, and for users in turn to send in their own theories about what's going on in the series.
Rather than a "show website" as is common with Tv shows, I plan to include several seperate sites, each of which connects with a different area of the show. For instance, one could link with the "Sword of Justice" group, another with the fake "Ministry of Defense", in addition to several conspiracy sites connected to the plot of the show. These highten the reality of the story, and can be used to gave extra information. They can also, with the use of message boards or even live chat, allow for the growth of a community around the show.
Though the book was written in 1996, before the days of such wondrous things as blogs, these are an easy and effective way for the characters to interact with the audience. As such, I can see both the show's main characters having blogs.
Finally, let's have some fun in the real world. I have an idea to place special clues in certain places within the real world which could lead viewers to deeper inside information, or even cash and prizes, though I think I prefer the former, as cash and prizes highlight the fact that the show is fiction.
Wk. 10 - Converga-wassa-?
Good grief, I am so very old-fashioned. I don't have an iPhone and have no particularly interesting, I don't Tweet and I barely, BARELY use Facebook.
My main issue with the iPhone is capacity. My 120GB iPod has only about 45GB left, and that shrinks with every new TV show I like or great movie I see. Frankly, I find it hard to get excited about an 8GB iPhone.
But far from that, I see my friends and the apps they have on their iPhones, and I see that the iPhone is in a kind of aloescence. To expand the analogy, when a new concept (particularly a piece of technology) is introduced, it's like a baby everyone wants to see it and "ooh" and "aww" at it and watch it grow and get better.
Then it enters its adolescence it becomes associated with stupid, even dangerous behaviour (i.e. Youtube) and no one really believes it will go anywhere. Finally, it emerges into adulthood (where Youtube is now) and everyone is surprised that after those rough years, it's ingeneous and handy to have around. Right now, the iPhone is great if you want to make lightsaber noises and play games, and even many of the useful apps (such as maps and directions) are available on regular mobile phones.
I guess eventually I'll have to hop on the bandwagon, but I will do so only when I have to, and until then I will shake my head in pompous self-righteousness at all the idiots around me discussing their "apps".
My main issue with the iPhone is capacity. My 120GB iPod has only about 45GB left, and that shrinks with every new TV show I like or great movie I see. Frankly, I find it hard to get excited about an 8GB iPhone.
But far from that, I see my friends and the apps they have on their iPhones, and I see that the iPhone is in a kind of aloescence. To expand the analogy, when a new concept (particularly a piece of technology) is introduced, it's like a baby everyone wants to see it and "ooh" and "aww" at it and watch it grow and get better.
Then it enters its adolescence it becomes associated with stupid, even dangerous behaviour (i.e. Youtube) and no one really believes it will go anywhere. Finally, it emerges into adulthood (where Youtube is now) and everyone is surprised that after those rough years, it's ingeneous and handy to have around. Right now, the iPhone is great if you want to make lightsaber noises and play games, and even many of the useful apps (such as maps and directions) are available on regular mobile phones.
I guess eventually I'll have to hop on the bandwagon, but I will do so only when I have to, and until then I will shake my head in pompous self-righteousness at all the idiots around me discussing their "apps".
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Wk. 9 - The Gun Seller
Here's the piece of writing. As mentioned in a previous blog, I'm basing my project on The Gun Seller, a novel by Hugh Laurie, turning it into a 10-12 part miniseries. This is adapted from the last couple of chapters. Obviously it's not formatted or even written for a screenplay, but anyway, here is is:
"I am here to save the world. Honestly. With my gun, with the grenades strapped to my belt, with my whacky army pants, I am here to save the world. I’m here because Morocco is the place to be; Casablanca, of all the bars in all the towns in all the world…yeah!
I came here to be a terrorist, to be An American, to be a patriot hating patriots – a mystery of an enigma – I came here not to break down the fabric that runs society, nor the banks that fund society; I came here to reinforce those wonderful ideals; commerce, capitalism, poor poorer and rich richer, all that jazz.
That’s why they sent me here. Yes, “they” sent me here. They are the bad men, the men in the shadows, the cigarette smoking men who lurk in darkness and add that something extra to conspiracy theories throughout the world. They aren’t just a conspiracy. “They” are real, but “They” are not who we think they are. They’re not government officials, secret societies, men in robes with terrible weapons. They’re bankers, financiers, stock market traders; they are goods manufacturers, short, fat, sweaty men in too-small suits; these are the men that rule the world.
And these are the man who sent me to sunny, sandy Casablanca to maintain the status quo – ironically by disrupting the status quo. Oh yes, you heard me. I’m the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. In gothic novels there was this glamorous bad guy, who was evil and wicked and charismatic (that’s me) and then at the end of the novel, he gets destroyed (that’s in an hour) and the forces of good (that’s “them”) triumph and everything is exactly the way it was before, but now everyone’s happier about it.
It’s an odd psychology, I know, but it’s the way the world works, on a grand scale at least. The only problem though, is I am a poor sacrificial lamb. I’m not wicked or evil; I’m not even that charismatic. What I am is a sap who fitted their needs well and who’s ended up here through coincidence and poor planning.
So we know what they think I’m here to do, but what am I really here to do? Ah, wouldn’t that be so grand, if I could tell you? But I’m not going to tell, so there! I didn’t tell Solomon, I didn’t tell Ronnie; I told Sarah, and Sarah ended up…well…She just ended up not being a good person to tell. So I’ll keep this one my little secret, at least until we see if it pans out the way I hope it will.
Ol’ Carlos is calling for me. Carlos, the heroic leader of the SWORD OF JUSTICE! It sounds like a battle cry from a bad cartoon, eh? Something that would be shouted by a man in spandex before the bad synthesizer music kicks in.
But Ricky doesn’t hate Carlos, Ricky loves Carlos. Not in that way, like in an idolise way. Carlos is standing up for all the things poor lil’ misguided Ricky believes in. Ricky is me, by the way; the name they gave me with the assignment. There was a real Ricky, but he…Yeah, so now I’m Ricky and Ricky loves Carlos and Ricky hates corporations, but according to “them” I love corporations, but really I don’t love corporations. It’s a very confusing business. It really is much like an onion, there are lots of layers, it gets very chopped up, and it often makes one cry.
There’s no sense in trying to explain it all; it’s mostly too convoluted for me, and I was the one who came up with the plan. All I’ll say is that one way or another, this will all end with a bang. Well, that’s saying rather more than I imagined. I mean, I suppose it could be a physical, or psychological or emotional or metaphysical bang; and even though we all know it’ll be physical, it could be a lot of different things making a bang. Bang on the door, bang on the floor, bang in the sky…the possibilities for banging during a hostage negotiation are really endless.
Yes, we have hostages. We have the biggest and brightest of the American Embassy here in sunny Casablanca, crowded in an office, eating strange bread with strange things to dip the bread in; drinking water provided by the hostage negotiation team, ironically better than any of the other water we’ve had here. Maybe they’re trying to make us too comfortable, to that we all take a collective nap, and then they can storm the building on their tippy-toes.
The ambassador is an nice man, not a business man or a prominent buddy of the U.S. president. A career politician; I imagine he’s earned the right to live in sunny Casablanca. But I don’t know, Ricky doesn’t know things, because it’s not his place to know things. Ricky is a good boy from Minnesota, who got tangled up with the wrong girl, then the wrong group, then the wrong side of the law.
There’s Ricky, cropping up in my mind again. Ricky, last known address: Hills. Somewhere. What a way to go out, last known address, somewhere. Tombstone: Here lies Ricky, someone, somewhere, some time. I feel bad for the kid.
I feel bad for all these guys. Saskia and Sofia and Stefan and even Benji, yeah Benji, who insists on calling me a “fucking fuck”, I even feel sorry for him. Because all these little chaps with their little ideologies aren’t really fulfilling their ideological ends. They’re the other charismatic lotharios and lothariettes, rounded up like so many usual suspects, given guns and a fancy, stupid name and sent out to do exactly what their cigarette smoking, bracket-named masters ordered.
There’s no getting out now. I already got out once; I don’t think anyone noticed. I had to knock Saskia out to do it, but I’m not sure she noticed either. Sarah, the last thing I’ll see of this world, before I enter a new world, of one kind or another. It’s not the sight I would have seen, had it been up to me. I lost my interest in that sight a long time ago, but it happened to be the sight that most fits the plan, and whom I don’t entirely mins giving up. I gave her my thing, she gave me hers, and hopefully we’re both on our way to our respective packages’ final destinations.
I’m on my way, but I don’t know about her; about Russel P. Barnes, about Graduate Studies. I don’t know about any of it and so I don’t trust any of it. Especially not Sarah."
Does cynical count as an emotion? I dunno that's what I see. I guess there's a little stuff there about Sarah, and about his main aims, but there's not much of either. Oh well.
"I am here to save the world. Honestly. With my gun, with the grenades strapped to my belt, with my whacky army pants, I am here to save the world. I’m here because Morocco is the place to be; Casablanca, of all the bars in all the towns in all the world…yeah!
I came here to be a terrorist, to be An American, to be a patriot hating patriots – a mystery of an enigma – I came here not to break down the fabric that runs society, nor the banks that fund society; I came here to reinforce those wonderful ideals; commerce, capitalism, poor poorer and rich richer, all that jazz.
That’s why they sent me here. Yes, “they” sent me here. They are the bad men, the men in the shadows, the cigarette smoking men who lurk in darkness and add that something extra to conspiracy theories throughout the world. They aren’t just a conspiracy. “They” are real, but “They” are not who we think they are. They’re not government officials, secret societies, men in robes with terrible weapons. They’re bankers, financiers, stock market traders; they are goods manufacturers, short, fat, sweaty men in too-small suits; these are the men that rule the world.
And these are the man who sent me to sunny, sandy Casablanca to maintain the status quo – ironically by disrupting the status quo. Oh yes, you heard me. I’m the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. In gothic novels there was this glamorous bad guy, who was evil and wicked and charismatic (that’s me) and then at the end of the novel, he gets destroyed (that’s in an hour) and the forces of good (that’s “them”) triumph and everything is exactly the way it was before, but now everyone’s happier about it.
It’s an odd psychology, I know, but it’s the way the world works, on a grand scale at least. The only problem though, is I am a poor sacrificial lamb. I’m not wicked or evil; I’m not even that charismatic. What I am is a sap who fitted their needs well and who’s ended up here through coincidence and poor planning.
So we know what they think I’m here to do, but what am I really here to do? Ah, wouldn’t that be so grand, if I could tell you? But I’m not going to tell, so there! I didn’t tell Solomon, I didn’t tell Ronnie; I told Sarah, and Sarah ended up…well…She just ended up not being a good person to tell. So I’ll keep this one my little secret, at least until we see if it pans out the way I hope it will.
Ol’ Carlos is calling for me. Carlos, the heroic leader of the SWORD OF JUSTICE! It sounds like a battle cry from a bad cartoon, eh? Something that would be shouted by a man in spandex before the bad synthesizer music kicks in.
But Ricky doesn’t hate Carlos, Ricky loves Carlos. Not in that way, like in an idolise way. Carlos is standing up for all the things poor lil’ misguided Ricky believes in. Ricky is me, by the way; the name they gave me with the assignment. There was a real Ricky, but he…Yeah, so now I’m Ricky and Ricky loves Carlos and Ricky hates corporations, but according to “them” I love corporations, but really I don’t love corporations. It’s a very confusing business. It really is much like an onion, there are lots of layers, it gets very chopped up, and it often makes one cry.
There’s no sense in trying to explain it all; it’s mostly too convoluted for me, and I was the one who came up with the plan. All I’ll say is that one way or another, this will all end with a bang. Well, that’s saying rather more than I imagined. I mean, I suppose it could be a physical, or psychological or emotional or metaphysical bang; and even though we all know it’ll be physical, it could be a lot of different things making a bang. Bang on the door, bang on the floor, bang in the sky…the possibilities for banging during a hostage negotiation are really endless.
Yes, we have hostages. We have the biggest and brightest of the American Embassy here in sunny Casablanca, crowded in an office, eating strange bread with strange things to dip the bread in; drinking water provided by the hostage negotiation team, ironically better than any of the other water we’ve had here. Maybe they’re trying to make us too comfortable, to that we all take a collective nap, and then they can storm the building on their tippy-toes.
The ambassador is an nice man, not a business man or a prominent buddy of the U.S. president. A career politician; I imagine he’s earned the right to live in sunny Casablanca. But I don’t know, Ricky doesn’t know things, because it’s not his place to know things. Ricky is a good boy from Minnesota, who got tangled up with the wrong girl, then the wrong group, then the wrong side of the law.
There’s Ricky, cropping up in my mind again. Ricky, last known address: Hills. Somewhere. What a way to go out, last known address, somewhere. Tombstone: Here lies Ricky, someone, somewhere, some time. I feel bad for the kid.
I feel bad for all these guys. Saskia and Sofia and Stefan and even Benji, yeah Benji, who insists on calling me a “fucking fuck”, I even feel sorry for him. Because all these little chaps with their little ideologies aren’t really fulfilling their ideological ends. They’re the other charismatic lotharios and lothariettes, rounded up like so many usual suspects, given guns and a fancy, stupid name and sent out to do exactly what their cigarette smoking, bracket-named masters ordered.
There’s no getting out now. I already got out once; I don’t think anyone noticed. I had to knock Saskia out to do it, but I’m not sure she noticed either. Sarah, the last thing I’ll see of this world, before I enter a new world, of one kind or another. It’s not the sight I would have seen, had it been up to me. I lost my interest in that sight a long time ago, but it happened to be the sight that most fits the plan, and whom I don’t entirely mins giving up. I gave her my thing, she gave me hers, and hopefully we’re both on our way to our respective packages’ final destinations.
I’m on my way, but I don’t know about her; about Russel P. Barnes, about Graduate Studies. I don’t know about any of it and so I don’t trust any of it. Especially not Sarah."
Does cynical count as an emotion? I dunno that's what I see. I guess there's a little stuff there about Sarah, and about his main aims, but there's not much of either. Oh well.
Wk. 8 - Motivations to Play
I read the article. It made my head hurt. Because whether it's games or film, it's all there for the sake of escapism. And all of Yee's catagories of motivation are essentially tied to escapism. Achievement - you're not a badass in the real world, no one's a badass in the real world, except Samuel L. Jackson, so it's cool to be the badass champion of a videogame; Social - We've talked about this, when you're in a game, you're not really socializing as yourself; Emersion - At least this catagory is admitting to being escapism.
I suppose that apart from anything else, I'm an old-fashioned soul, and I believe that what draws people is character and story. I guess it's different with games, but when I look at the shelves in EB-Games, I see boy games and I see girl games, and that's why boys go for certain games and girls go for others. Not because they have different modes of thinking, but because games are shoved at the one or the other.
For me and my assignment, I have a strong lead character, good supporting characters and a great story. That'll draw audiences and that will hook audiences. The interactive element, that's just gravy.
I suppose that apart from anything else, I'm an old-fashioned soul, and I believe that what draws people is character and story. I guess it's different with games, but when I look at the shelves in EB-Games, I see boy games and I see girl games, and that's why boys go for certain games and girls go for others. Not because they have different modes of thinking, but because games are shoved at the one or the other.
For me and my assignment, I have a strong lead character, good supporting characters and a great story. That'll draw audiences and that will hook audiences. The interactive element, that's just gravy.
Wk. 8 - AVATAR
I think I may have slightly missed the point of the excircise, I don't know. I wrote the first thing that came into my head, like the very first, without thought, AND didn't stop until something grabbed my interest, which meant a VERY long, linear list. anyway, here it is
AVATAR - BLUE - JUNGLE - JAMES CAMERON - EPIC - TITANIC - KATE - TODD - SURGEON - DOCTOR - HOUSE - CANE - ABEL - FIT - CLEAN - OUTKAST - BREAKUP - JENNIFER ANISTON - FRIENDS - AND NEIGHBORS - TOMORROW - STEWART BEATTIE - PIRATES - 4 - MORE YEARS - IMMORTAL - ETERNAL - DO NOT GO GENTLE - STEWIE GRIFFIN - BRIAN - DOGS - CHASING HOME - CARTOONS - SIMPSONS - BARNEY - RUBBLE - RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE - WILLIS - MOE SZYSLAK - DUFF - DUFFMAN - HUGH LAURIE - TOM - THE GUN SELLER - THE LIFE OF PI - ROTOSCOPING - WAKING LIFE - PINS - PEACE - FUR IS MURDER - KILL FOR LOVE - CRIME OF PASSION - ARTIE AND THE ATOMICS
Ha! Figure that one out Freud, you dead bastard!
As it is, this has nothing to do with any potential pitch, (well, I am basing it on The Gun Seller, which was one of the points), it seems my subconscious is very much against me finishing these last assignments, because it's not doing anything to help me. I didn't even get to elaborating on the story, but I don't need to, because I know the story of Artie and the Atomics because it's an idea I already have. Ah well...maybe I'll eventually get something relevant.
AVATAR - BLUE - JUNGLE - JAMES CAMERON - EPIC - TITANIC - KATE - TODD - SURGEON - DOCTOR - HOUSE - CANE - ABEL - FIT - CLEAN - OUTKAST - BREAKUP - JENNIFER ANISTON - FRIENDS - AND NEIGHBORS - TOMORROW - STEWART BEATTIE - PIRATES - 4 - MORE YEARS - IMMORTAL - ETERNAL - DO NOT GO GENTLE - STEWIE GRIFFIN - BRIAN - DOGS - CHASING HOME - CARTOONS - SIMPSONS - BARNEY - RUBBLE - RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE - WILLIS - MOE SZYSLAK - DUFF - DUFFMAN - HUGH LAURIE - TOM - THE GUN SELLER - THE LIFE OF PI - ROTOSCOPING - WAKING LIFE - PINS - PEACE - FUR IS MURDER - KILL FOR LOVE - CRIME OF PASSION - ARTIE AND THE ATOMICS
Ha! Figure that one out Freud, you dead bastard!
As it is, this has nothing to do with any potential pitch, (well, I am basing it on The Gun Seller, which was one of the points), it seems my subconscious is very much against me finishing these last assignments, because it's not doing anything to help me. I didn't even get to elaborating on the story, but I don't need to, because I know the story of Artie and the Atomics because it's an idea I already have. Ah well...maybe I'll eventually get something relevant.
Wk. 6 - My "Heroes"
Yeehaw, it's finally happened! I have procrastinated for weeks, reading articles about interactive media companies, trying, willing myself to care about their great "breakthroughs". But I couldn't. Because they are breakthroughs that are slowly, very slowly, making TV capable of doing things the internet was able to do years ago.
For instance, ActiveVision and Videon Central are entering a new partnership which could see greater depth of content for web-connected TVs, well that's dandy, except that I have the web and all its depth of content on my computer already, and between a $1,600 computer and the + $5,000 TV/DVD/Blu-Ray setup ActiveVision would have me buy, I know which one I will always, always, always choose!
In other spine-tingling news, TAG Networks has developed a way for people to play multiple games concurrently on their game-based interactive network. So now, I can pause mid-poker-hand to make a move at solitaire. And I am over the damn moon about it, because the hundreds of online poker games, and the solitaire game I got free with Windows just couldn't exist at the same time on my computer and made it blow up.
This is what Interactive TV people get excited about. Because their breakthroughs are just ways to repackage their nonessential fluff to make themselves some more cash. It's never to enhance the viewer's experience of their favourite shows, to make them more engaging. Until now!
Yessir, the wonderful, beautiful people at NBC have announced that the next season of "Heroes" will feature a 10-episode multiplatform, interactive storyline. Yes, interactive AND multiplatform. The storyline will contain:
Graphic novels for mobile devices.
Interactive SMS, synched to broadcast.
Interactive storylines from which Sprint [telecom] users will receive clues to unlock a mystery.
A $25,000 sweepstakes which links the interactive story.
A "Heroes" survival game.
One-minute Internet video scenes, tied to the on-air version of the show.
A microsite for the show's carnival storyline.
Carnival-themed online games.
What does all this mean? Greater emotional connection with characters, deeper engagement with the story, and wholesale escapism which, after all, this kind of show is all about. It amazes me that the best so many shows can do is to make websites full of "Whacky behind the scenes footage!" and create phone numbers leading to answering machine messages "By the actual characters!". No one ever thought of using all this other media to actually tell the story? Well that's just sad, and I'm glad that we will have some forward thinking that ACTUALLY MOVES THINGS FORWARD.
Too bad we in Australia probably won't see the series for another 2 years, each episode preceded by warnings that all references to phone numbers and websites are no longer applicable.
Dammit.
REFERENCES:
http://itvt.com/story/5675/nbccom-sprint-team-multiplatform-interactive-heroes-storyline
http://itvt.com/story/5677/activevideo-videon-partner-bring-interactive-tv-consumer-electronics-devices
http://itvt.com/story/5651/tag-networks-launches-new-version-its-interactive-tv-games-platform
For instance, ActiveVision and Videon Central are entering a new partnership which could see greater depth of content for web-connected TVs, well that's dandy, except that I have the web and all its depth of content on my computer already, and between a $1,600 computer and the + $5,000 TV/DVD/Blu-Ray setup ActiveVision would have me buy, I know which one I will always, always, always choose!
In other spine-tingling news, TAG Networks has developed a way for people to play multiple games concurrently on their game-based interactive network. So now, I can pause mid-poker-hand to make a move at solitaire. And I am over the damn moon about it, because the hundreds of online poker games, and the solitaire game I got free with Windows just couldn't exist at the same time on my computer and made it blow up.
This is what Interactive TV people get excited about. Because their breakthroughs are just ways to repackage their nonessential fluff to make themselves some more cash. It's never to enhance the viewer's experience of their favourite shows, to make them more engaging. Until now!
Yessir, the wonderful, beautiful people at NBC have announced that the next season of "Heroes" will feature a 10-episode multiplatform, interactive storyline. Yes, interactive AND multiplatform. The storyline will contain:
Graphic novels for mobile devices.
Interactive SMS, synched to broadcast.
Interactive storylines from which Sprint [telecom] users will receive clues to unlock a mystery.
A $25,000 sweepstakes which links the interactive story.
A "Heroes" survival game.
One-minute Internet video scenes, tied to the on-air version of the show.
A microsite for the show's carnival storyline.
Carnival-themed online games.
What does all this mean? Greater emotional connection with characters, deeper engagement with the story, and wholesale escapism which, after all, this kind of show is all about. It amazes me that the best so many shows can do is to make websites full of "Whacky behind the scenes footage!" and create phone numbers leading to answering machine messages "By the actual characters!". No one ever thought of using all this other media to actually tell the story? Well that's just sad, and I'm glad that we will have some forward thinking that ACTUALLY MOVES THINGS FORWARD.
Too bad we in Australia probably won't see the series for another 2 years, each episode preceded by warnings that all references to phone numbers and websites are no longer applicable.
Dammit.
REFERENCES:
http://itvt.com/story/5675/nbccom-sprint-team-multiplatform-interactive-heroes-storyline
http://itvt.com/story/5677/activevideo-videon-partner-bring-interactive-tv-consumer-electronics-devices
http://itvt.com/story/5651/tag-networks-launches-new-version-its-interactive-tv-games-platform
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Wk. 5 Inglorious Music
Janek's second speedwriting piece, written to “Zyklop” by Thomas Koner:
"I can hear them coming, the roar, the march, the murmuring machines. And before the fall, just the individual footsteps of 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, the last, who stands above me, stands on me, across my chest, steps onto my face. “Don’t scream!” I tell myself “Don’t breathe!” The steps pace, devoid of voice, and so of thought or spirit of feeling. Just steps, crunch of stone, clap of wood, and the murmur of the machines, waiting. A ride in pitch and slow in pace. Then, they’re gone. No steps, no crunch and clap, just the rising and falling of the murmur of the machines. “That’s all?” No, there’s more. There must be more than this. The great terror in Paris, the night of burning in Berlin, the Polish wave, and all inspired by this? Inhuman footsteps and murmuring machines? A clap, and another, then clicks and scrapes. The machines awake No, too small., and the machines are too slow. Smaller machines, wielded by the men, held above their footsteps. A code of sorts, a click “hello”, a clap to indicate we are here, another points out where. A foreign language crates by footsteps to disguise their chatter from human ears, and to storm human minds."
Again, I got lots of atmosphere, and next to no story. I've written based on music before, but of course it's a lot easier when there are things like lyrics, melody and tone. Even if I don't directly transcribe what's going on in the song, I can generally ween something interesting out of it. But I remain unsatisfied with these pieces; it's puting some perepctive of my weaknesses, and I generally like having nothing to do with those. This time, however, was Quentin Tarantino to the rescue. Having just seen Inglorious Basterds last week, the development of this scene is based on what happens in the very first scene in that film.
In it, a German officer arrives at a French farm house and, being exceedingly polite and genial, convinces the resistant farmer to identify where he's hiding a Jewish family, who are, at his word, massacred, except for one. This was written about the one, and if anything had actually occurred in the music, that would have been her escape.
One thing I did like was the disembodiment of the footsteps; in a longer, more thought out story, I'd like to use that to better effect.
"I can hear them coming, the roar, the march, the murmuring machines. And before the fall, just the individual footsteps of 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, the last, who stands above me, stands on me, across my chest, steps onto my face. “Don’t scream!” I tell myself “Don’t breathe!” The steps pace, devoid of voice, and so of thought or spirit of feeling. Just steps, crunch of stone, clap of wood, and the murmur of the machines, waiting. A ride in pitch and slow in pace. Then, they’re gone. No steps, no crunch and clap, just the rising and falling of the murmur of the machines. “That’s all?” No, there’s more. There must be more than this. The great terror in Paris, the night of burning in Berlin, the Polish wave, and all inspired by this? Inhuman footsteps and murmuring machines? A clap, and another, then clicks and scrapes. The machines awake No, too small., and the machines are too slow. Smaller machines, wielded by the men, held above their footsteps. A code of sorts, a click “hello”, a clap to indicate we are here, another points out where. A foreign language crates by footsteps to disguise their chatter from human ears, and to storm human minds."
Again, I got lots of atmosphere, and next to no story. I've written based on music before, but of course it's a lot easier when there are things like lyrics, melody and tone. Even if I don't directly transcribe what's going on in the song, I can generally ween something interesting out of it. But I remain unsatisfied with these pieces; it's puting some perepctive of my weaknesses, and I generally like having nothing to do with those. This time, however, was Quentin Tarantino to the rescue. Having just seen Inglorious Basterds last week, the development of this scene is based on what happens in the very first scene in that film.
In it, a German officer arrives at a French farm house and, being exceedingly polite and genial, convinces the resistant farmer to identify where he's hiding a Jewish family, who are, at his word, massacred, except for one. This was written about the one, and if anything had actually occurred in the music, that would have been her escape.
One thing I did like was the disembodiment of the footsteps; in a longer, more thought out story, I'd like to use that to better effect.
Wk. 4 Jenniy
Janek's story, written to “Storch” by Trio Slicnation:
My name is Jenniy. With an "I" in the middle, and a "y" on the end. Yeah, that’s right, I got both, what of it? No one hears my name any more anyway, not under the cold wind and the cars and the sound of the streetlamps as they explode. The only thing about my name that’s important is who it used to be. Not me. No, it wasn’t always me, I wasn’t always Jenniy with an I and a Y. That great misfortune once was hampered upon another girl, but she’s gone now, and the name doesn’t mean anything to her either. But it means something to other people; to the people who knew her, to the people who felt close to her and her story, and I imagine, to the people who knew me, who felt close to my story. It meant something to a thousand other people who knew a thousand other Jenniy’s with Ys or Is or both, and who millions more who felt close to our stories. Maybe there was a Jenniy before the last one, maybe there were two or three or a million or a billion, I don’t know. But I spent three years as a Jenniy before Jenniy’s left me, and before that day I was happy and I was safe and I was amazingly, unbelievably, jaw-droppingly rich. Oh yes. But that day disappeared with Jenniy, and that life was gone and I was in the cold, in the wind, standing under exploding streetlamps, but there’s nothing out there that can make me regret what I did, nor anyone who can tell me that what I did was wrong, not with any sense of righteousness or justification; there’s nothing they can tell me that I haven’t heard before, and which I haven’t laughed off.
No editing done since it was first written.
I got a real neo-noir vibe from the music, and there was a kind of sound like wind going through it, which led to the atmosphere. The problem was, while I came up with plenty of atmospherics, pushing myself not to think meant that I couldn't plot out a story, and nothing naturally occurred to me, so I basically just kept going with atmosphere, and it doesn't go anywhere.
I really like repeating motifs, so the "I" and the "Y" became one, and the streetlights would have, I think, if I had more time. The "I" and the "Y" might have gotten out of control, again without the self-censoring thoughts, my worst excesses were allowed to shine through.
My name is Jenniy. With an "I" in the middle, and a "y" on the end. Yeah, that’s right, I got both, what of it? No one hears my name any more anyway, not under the cold wind and the cars and the sound of the streetlamps as they explode. The only thing about my name that’s important is who it used to be. Not me. No, it wasn’t always me, I wasn’t always Jenniy with an I and a Y. That great misfortune once was hampered upon another girl, but she’s gone now, and the name doesn’t mean anything to her either. But it means something to other people; to the people who knew her, to the people who felt close to her and her story, and I imagine, to the people who knew me, who felt close to my story. It meant something to a thousand other people who knew a thousand other Jenniy’s with Ys or Is or both, and who millions more who felt close to our stories. Maybe there was a Jenniy before the last one, maybe there were two or three or a million or a billion, I don’t know. But I spent three years as a Jenniy before Jenniy’s left me, and before that day I was happy and I was safe and I was amazingly, unbelievably, jaw-droppingly rich. Oh yes. But that day disappeared with Jenniy, and that life was gone and I was in the cold, in the wind, standing under exploding streetlamps, but there’s nothing out there that can make me regret what I did, nor anyone who can tell me that what I did was wrong, not with any sense of righteousness or justification; there’s nothing they can tell me that I haven’t heard before, and which I haven’t laughed off.
No editing done since it was first written.
I got a real neo-noir vibe from the music, and there was a kind of sound like wind going through it, which led to the atmosphere. The problem was, while I came up with plenty of atmospherics, pushing myself not to think meant that I couldn't plot out a story, and nothing naturally occurred to me, so I basically just kept going with atmosphere, and it doesn't go anywhere.
I really like repeating motifs, so the "I" and the "Y" became one, and the streetlights would have, I think, if I had more time. The "I" and the "Y" might have gotten out of control, again without the self-censoring thoughts, my worst excesses were allowed to shine through.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Wk 3. Metal Gear Theft Auto
It's funny that reading these articles, they give precisely the same advice in writing for games as the textbooks do when writing for film. What's interesting, however, is that in the case of games, the cinematic elements of the game (cinematography, editing, sound, mise en scene) are much more closely tied to the writing of the game.
In the case of films, of course, these elements are only specifically highlighted in the script if they play a very specific role, and are otherwise left to the people who run the respective departments. However, in games, these elements are al, to some degree, interactive, which means that they must be meticulously planned from the outset.
One thing I did find in the Luban/Meziane article though, is that despite highlighting a number of great game series', they did not include one of the most elaborate and highly detailed games series' ever, Grand Theft Auto. From Liberty City onwards, these games have been a benchmark for interactivity.
To highlight:
Cinematography: Players have full control of viewpoints, including 3rd and 1st person.
Editing: The games feature enough cut scenes to give information and provide entertainment, but not so many that the player feels bored or manipulated.
Sound: Dozens of catchphrases and cityscape sounds, as well as changeable radio stations in cars.
Mise en Scene: Virtually limitless possibilities as to what the character can interact with, from passers by to vehicles to objects lying around, nearly everything can be reacted with.
But, it did regularly cite Metal Gear Solid, the great love of my gaming life, so I will forgive it. It's interesting that Luban and Meziane highlight MGS for its cinematic qualities, as I've always felt my attachment to it and enjoyment of it come from those qualities. The games' stories are brilliantly told and the gameplay never contradicts or distracts from them. Furthermoe, the games ingulge in the excesses offered by the interactive experience by allowing the player to catch countless extras (Famously, Johnny, the ever-unfortunate guard), which makes the games equally fun upon replaying them.
But it's the basics mentioned by Alex Kriss that really make the difference. The really simple things like avoiding cliche; full, measured characterisation and well thought out backstories, that make the difference. However little varied gameplay there is - I spoke about Mortal Kombat in the Week 2 blog - these basic, common sense decisions lift individual games and whole brands to levels above the regular.
Articles referenced:
http://www.gamasutra.com/features/20010615/luban_01.shtml
http://www.gamedev.net/reference/articles/article1021.asp
In the case of films, of course, these elements are only specifically highlighted in the script if they play a very specific role, and are otherwise left to the people who run the respective departments. However, in games, these elements are al, to some degree, interactive, which means that they must be meticulously planned from the outset.
One thing I did find in the Luban/Meziane article though, is that despite highlighting a number of great game series', they did not include one of the most elaborate and highly detailed games series' ever, Grand Theft Auto. From Liberty City onwards, these games have been a benchmark for interactivity.
To highlight:
Cinematography: Players have full control of viewpoints, including 3rd and 1st person.
Editing: The games feature enough cut scenes to give information and provide entertainment, but not so many that the player feels bored or manipulated.
Sound: Dozens of catchphrases and cityscape sounds, as well as changeable radio stations in cars.
Mise en Scene: Virtually limitless possibilities as to what the character can interact with, from passers by to vehicles to objects lying around, nearly everything can be reacted with.
But, it did regularly cite Metal Gear Solid, the great love of my gaming life, so I will forgive it. It's interesting that Luban and Meziane highlight MGS for its cinematic qualities, as I've always felt my attachment to it and enjoyment of it come from those qualities. The games' stories are brilliantly told and the gameplay never contradicts or distracts from them. Furthermoe, the games ingulge in the excesses offered by the interactive experience by allowing the player to catch countless extras (Famously, Johnny, the ever-unfortunate guard), which makes the games equally fun upon replaying them.
But it's the basics mentioned by Alex Kriss that really make the difference. The really simple things like avoiding cliche; full, measured characterisation and well thought out backstories, that make the difference. However little varied gameplay there is - I spoke about Mortal Kombat in the Week 2 blog - these basic, common sense decisions lift individual games and whole brands to levels above the regular.
Articles referenced:
http://www.gamasutra.com/features/20010615/luban_01.shtml
http://www.gamedev.net/reference/articles/article1021.asp
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Wk 2. In-teractive, In-cinematic
So, what's the difference between the characters in video games, and the characters in movies? Well I guess that would depend on what kind of video games, and what kind of movies. After all, there is a booming market, I like to call the "Michael Bay Demographic", of people who don't want characters, complex stories or themes, they just want to see shit getting blown up. The fact is that the characters in a film like Transformers aren't a whole lot more fleshed out than those in your average first person shooter.
On the other hand, there are those games that offer little characterisation and story, but there are a great many more that offer depth and complexity to rival most movies. Even something as old as the Mortal Kombat fighting series offered character motivations, along with complex political situations built into the violence that was central to the series. Today, the complexity of the games far outstrips anything the film versions could ever recreate. In fact, I planned a movie version of MK once, and it was all so difficult that I had to expand it into a trilogy.
Similarly, adventure games like the Final Fantasy, God of War and Metal Gear Solid series' (to name a few) give players not just the game experience but, through cut-scenes and dialogue, offer a cinematic experience to rival even the best movies. After all, the amount of time spent playing the games is much longer than time spent watching a movie, and therefore the time given to characterisation can be greater.
So what's the difference? I think that in a purely theoretical world, there is no difference. I think that whatever difference is created is created by individual game and film producers, who choose whether the focus is on action or character.
As to the other question...I guess that characters are defined by those who create them, and the more there is to define them, the more opportunity there is to recreate oneself. For instance, the "Objectman" handle doesn't offer much by way of characterisation of the creator's virtual form, but a character on World of Warcraft or Second Life can be as deep and complex (and different to themselves) as the user wants it to be.
This has, of course, been the subject of much humour on TV, with episodes of How I Met Your Mother, American Dad! and, most prominently, South Park having centred on characters' online avatars. The South Park episode is particfularly interesting, as it shows the way that avatars are creatively manipulated by their creators. For instance, Cartman, usually considered the stupidest and least capable of the boys, has fashioned himself into somewhat of a general online, and the other characters do in fact treat him as such, while the main villain of the episode is considered a "total basass" by the boys, but is revealed to the audience to be a fat, balding loser.
On the other hand, there are those games that offer little characterisation and story, but there are a great many more that offer depth and complexity to rival most movies. Even something as old as the Mortal Kombat fighting series offered character motivations, along with complex political situations built into the violence that was central to the series. Today, the complexity of the games far outstrips anything the film versions could ever recreate. In fact, I planned a movie version of MK once, and it was all so difficult that I had to expand it into a trilogy.
Similarly, adventure games like the Final Fantasy, God of War and Metal Gear Solid series' (to name a few) give players not just the game experience but, through cut-scenes and dialogue, offer a cinematic experience to rival even the best movies. After all, the amount of time spent playing the games is much longer than time spent watching a movie, and therefore the time given to characterisation can be greater.
So what's the difference? I think that in a purely theoretical world, there is no difference. I think that whatever difference is created is created by individual game and film producers, who choose whether the focus is on action or character.
As to the other question...I guess that characters are defined by those who create them, and the more there is to define them, the more opportunity there is to recreate oneself. For instance, the "Objectman" handle doesn't offer much by way of characterisation of the creator's virtual form, but a character on World of Warcraft or Second Life can be as deep and complex (and different to themselves) as the user wants it to be.
This has, of course, been the subject of much humour on TV, with episodes of How I Met Your Mother, American Dad! and, most prominently, South Park having centred on characters' online avatars. The South Park episode is particfularly interesting, as it shows the way that avatars are creatively manipulated by their creators. For instance, Cartman, usually considered the stupidest and least capable of the boys, has fashioned himself into somewhat of a general online, and the other characters do in fact treat him as such, while the main villain of the episode is considered a "total basass" by the boys, but is revealed to the audience to be a fat, balding loser.
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