There is conceivably no other television show that I will write two episode articles about, barring possible original Star Trek. I could easily pick two or three more to write about, even, which is unprecedented. The series was so good and original and funny in its first four seasons that it transcends the limits of its own format to be spectacular.
The man behind it all was show creator and leader Larry Gelbart, who with the great assistance of the crack directors and cast managed to produce a series both heartfelt, socially aware, critical and utterly human. The only downside to the show's first three seasons was the unhappiness of Wayne Rogers and McLean Stevenson, who played Trapper and Henry, and the perceived (and real) priority given by the show to Alan Alda's Hawkeye Pierce. Clearly there was a degree of 'second banana' syndrome but the show really did bias heavily and unfairly at times toward Alda at their expense and so independently the two finally decided to leave. Wayne Rogers was written out more absently in the fourth season premiere but here the beloved Henry gets a full and unexpected sendoff, Stevenson leaving in a presumably more planned and less acrimonious manner than Rogers. Even Frank Burns got a nicer sendoff than Trapper!
On the other hand, they killed Henry Blake.
It wasn't unprecedented for a character to die in a television show, but here it was a surprise, and came hot on the heels of twenty minutes of reminding us why the character was well-loved. The closing sequence was shocking: Radar walks into the OR and reads out a report that Henry Blake's plane was shot down, and that he was lost on his return home to the US after his trials in Korea. The actors themselves had only had a few minutes to prepare and it shows. There's a rawness to it all that is quite, quite jarring. The producers were vowed to never do anything so shocking again, and they didn't, but they didn't have to. You only have to throw the elbow once, after all, to show that you can and will. There was an episode of 'The West Wing' about that.
The main point about this episode is that it put MASH aside, into a whole other category of television show. For the rest of its run it wasn't the 'sitcom called MASH' anymore, but simply MASH. It may never have done anything so extreme as 'Abyssinia, Henry' again, which is extremely funny as well as sad, but it set a bar. In many ways no-one else has ever even made it close enough to see that bar. It's a quality mark to be able to do drunken shenanigans, a hearty farewell to a character flying home, and then a grim moment of terribly bad news. You can tell 'Abyssinia, Henry' is a good episode because it's hard to watch. Even while the fun is going on, the spectre of what to come refuses to budge, and so any viewing other than the first is permeated with an almost vicious melancholy. I'll even avoid the couple of episodes preceding it just to try to forget it happens. Blast you, MASH writers.
Rest in peace, Henry Blake, you were loved.
O.
PS For commentaries on every single episode of MASH, check out Rob Kelly's AfterMASH podcast. So far he's almost halfway through season six.
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
Monday, 11 November 2013
Doodling On
Random reflections. My weeks tend to be rather schizophrenic, split between Aberystwyth and here in picturesque Pontyates. There's never any time to get settled, and the two hour bus journeys allows time only for reading huge tracts of lovely novels and getting rather travel sick. It's all quite the slog but there is reward in it, of the more abstract kind. An opportunity to lecture has been invaluable and as the remaining weeks dwindle away it's fun to think about what has gone right and what has gone wrong.
It's surprising how well the overall process of lecturing has gone. I surely could have been better prepared for every single lecture, the early ones being particularly catastrophic, but the lectures have been mildly successful. It's true that they laugh at me rather than listen and learn but that's the way of life as I have learnt it. There have always been people laughing at or dismissing rather than being interested. I think I must put out some kind of 'buffoon' aura or miss some cues. Ah well, 'tis life, and we do what we do to get by. Now if I could only get these lectures to be long enough I would be delighted!
As I continue to doodle here I remember how strange the latest 'Due South' commentary for Film Bin was, all kinds of hesitations and garbledness pushed together to make a big mess which sometimes seemed more concerned with director Lyndon Chubbuck than the episode itself, which was rather good but part two of a story whose part one was bizarre. As a result the whole thing was bizarre but Mr Chubbuck saved part two heroically.
So many novels on the go at the moment, thanks to the (lonely) awesomeness of living away from home four nights a week. Even if I wanted to work I couldn't, as there is no laptop and I refuse to buy one. In this frantic and frenzied world I am amazed, utterly astounded even, that people buy gadgets so that their work and entanglements follow them even on holiday! Isn't it bizarre? Humans are so confounding! It was probably less stressful when we all used sign language and the occasional grunt to communicate. I hypocritically use my primeval phone to check e-mail but really wish that habit hadn't grown.
The Patrick O'Brian novels are rather good. I'm enjoying them much more this time. Mark Twain is also proving to be much better than I expected as I plunge into 'The Prince and the Pauper', while remaining bafflingly stuck on Dorothy L Sayers' 'Five Red Herrings'. It's noticeable in the Sayers novels that she employs extremely accurate dialects and the Scottish verbiage in 'Five Red Herrings' is extremely annoying. Sometimes realism can be taken so far as to sabotage the intended effect of the story itself. It's entirely possible I'm the only one who has ever been bothered by such things though, so I'll refrain from further comment. I think the book must be missing a hook of some kind or that I'm just jaded with mysteries.
It's time to stop, and think about the stories to come. What will come down the Dream Line?
O.
It's surprising how well the overall process of lecturing has gone. I surely could have been better prepared for every single lecture, the early ones being particularly catastrophic, but the lectures have been mildly successful. It's true that they laugh at me rather than listen and learn but that's the way of life as I have learnt it. There have always been people laughing at or dismissing rather than being interested. I think I must put out some kind of 'buffoon' aura or miss some cues. Ah well, 'tis life, and we do what we do to get by. Now if I could only get these lectures to be long enough I would be delighted!
As I continue to doodle here I remember how strange the latest 'Due South' commentary for Film Bin was, all kinds of hesitations and garbledness pushed together to make a big mess which sometimes seemed more concerned with director Lyndon Chubbuck than the episode itself, which was rather good but part two of a story whose part one was bizarre. As a result the whole thing was bizarre but Mr Chubbuck saved part two heroically.
So many novels on the go at the moment, thanks to the (lonely) awesomeness of living away from home four nights a week. Even if I wanted to work I couldn't, as there is no laptop and I refuse to buy one. In this frantic and frenzied world I am amazed, utterly astounded even, that people buy gadgets so that their work and entanglements follow them even on holiday! Isn't it bizarre? Humans are so confounding! It was probably less stressful when we all used sign language and the occasional grunt to communicate. I hypocritically use my primeval phone to check e-mail but really wish that habit hadn't grown.
The Patrick O'Brian novels are rather good. I'm enjoying them much more this time. Mark Twain is also proving to be much better than I expected as I plunge into 'The Prince and the Pauper', while remaining bafflingly stuck on Dorothy L Sayers' 'Five Red Herrings'. It's noticeable in the Sayers novels that she employs extremely accurate dialects and the Scottish verbiage in 'Five Red Herrings' is extremely annoying. Sometimes realism can be taken so far as to sabotage the intended effect of the story itself. It's entirely possible I'm the only one who has ever been bothered by such things though, so I'll refrain from further comment. I think the book must be missing a hook of some kind or that I'm just jaded with mysteries.
It's time to stop, and think about the stories to come. What will come down the Dream Line?
O.
Saturday, 9 November 2013
Story: The Glove, VI [Obsoleted]
(Part I , V , VII)
Steffan stood outside the Piper Hall for a moment and wondered at the madness of what he had just done. Then, without looking back even once he walked down the road and submerged into the throng of people going about their business.
Inside the Pipers Hall, Master Octavius sat with steepled fingers and thought about the events of the day. He had not considered for a moment that the apprentice would refuse and now there was someone unprecedented out there in the world, someone aware of the purpose of the Guild but also apart from it.
The Apprentice sat in a cafe and wondered what to do with his life. After refusing the honour of joining the Masters Council he had also requested and been granted a suspension of his Guild Membership for the purposes of sabbatical. Sipping from a hot mug of coffee he realised that he had no purpose in his life for the first time since being little.
Octavious had two meetings after Steffan had gone and his duties had reasserted themselves: One with the other members of the Council, and then another with the second choice for the mission. The reserve Piper was experienced, steady, and incredibly well known. The very presence of Master Lambo would not fail to make itself known in any location for very long. It was not an ideal situation at all.
The coffee ebbed away to nothing in the mug, and Steffan wondered at what he had learnt. The Pipers functioned as a surveillance agency for the whole world, gathering and collating intelligence in a way he had never realised before. During training he had been told a little about listening to people and to always be on the watch for new material for ballads but this new information took that idea several steps beyond anything. The piles of papers and maps on Octavius's world indicated something major in the works, and a huge trust in the man who had rejected his offer.
Octavius sent Lambo on his way at the same time that Steffan left the cafe for home. As the suspended apprentice went into his kitchen to tell his mother and father the news, new piles of intelligence collapsed onto the Master's table as well as an in-depth study of Steffan himself. The study was the same as it had been the last time he had read it, but now the conclusions twisted about and a nagging anxiety about the boy would not abate, even as that boy lay in his bed and wondered at the supposed rise in anger amongst the population at large.
The night rolled in and Burgh settled to sleep, or as much to sleep as a bustling city could. For most, anxieties faded away as blissful repose put their minds to ease, but 'most' is almost never the same as 'all'.
To be continued...
NOTE: After re-reading 'Dragonflight' and 'Dragonquest' it is obvious that the Pipers are are inspired by the Harpers in those classic Anne McCaffrey novels. If you haven't read the pair, then you really should.
Steffan stood outside the Piper Hall for a moment and wondered at the madness of what he had just done. Then, without looking back even once he walked down the road and submerged into the throng of people going about their business.
Inside the Pipers Hall, Master Octavius sat with steepled fingers and thought about the events of the day. He had not considered for a moment that the apprentice would refuse and now there was someone unprecedented out there in the world, someone aware of the purpose of the Guild but also apart from it.
The Apprentice sat in a cafe and wondered what to do with his life. After refusing the honour of joining the Masters Council he had also requested and been granted a suspension of his Guild Membership for the purposes of sabbatical. Sipping from a hot mug of coffee he realised that he had no purpose in his life for the first time since being little.
Octavious had two meetings after Steffan had gone and his duties had reasserted themselves: One with the other members of the Council, and then another with the second choice for the mission. The reserve Piper was experienced, steady, and incredibly well known. The very presence of Master Lambo would not fail to make itself known in any location for very long. It was not an ideal situation at all.
The coffee ebbed away to nothing in the mug, and Steffan wondered at what he had learnt. The Pipers functioned as a surveillance agency for the whole world, gathering and collating intelligence in a way he had never realised before. During training he had been told a little about listening to people and to always be on the watch for new material for ballads but this new information took that idea several steps beyond anything. The piles of papers and maps on Octavius's world indicated something major in the works, and a huge trust in the man who had rejected his offer.
Octavius sent Lambo on his way at the same time that Steffan left the cafe for home. As the suspended apprentice went into his kitchen to tell his mother and father the news, new piles of intelligence collapsed onto the Master's table as well as an in-depth study of Steffan himself. The study was the same as it had been the last time he had read it, but now the conclusions twisted about and a nagging anxiety about the boy would not abate, even as that boy lay in his bed and wondered at the supposed rise in anger amongst the population at large.
The night rolled in and Burgh settled to sleep, or as much to sleep as a bustling city could. For most, anxieties faded away as blissful repose put their minds to ease, but 'most' is almost never the same as 'all'.
To be continued...
NOTE: After re-reading 'Dragonflight' and 'Dragonquest' it is obvious that the Pipers are are inspired by the Harpers in those classic Anne McCaffrey novels. If you haven't read the pair, then you really should.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Far too easy
It's far too easy to forget that you care about things sometimes, and if you do remember it can become a bit fuzzy as to why you care. I've been back in Aberystwyth for extended periods twice now since finishing my undergraduate degree and only two nights ago did I remember just why I love it so.
On the first occasion I was here, I was on a short postdoc and it took place mostly over late February to June and it was all quite summery. The area was beautiful and the weather was dry and I just didn't reconnect to why it was awesome. Yes, there are lovely walks across the hills and bike trails but that's not the heart of living in Aberystwyth.
There is a key experience to being here, which I only am a few nights a week, and that is to walk along the promenade on a cold wet windy night, to get splashed and catch mist in the face from water slapping against the great containing wall. To smile ridiculously into the night and wait to catch some more. That's how I remembered I loved Aberystwyth on Fireworks Night and it will stick with me now until I have to leave again, for parts unknown. It is sublime for someone of my perverse nature, and was compounded with some student fireworks going up from Constitution Hill. Then I got splashed some more. It was lovely.
The only equivalent experiences I can came is far more touristy and schlocky but just as enjoyable. If you go to Barcelona in Spring or Autumn, eschewing the horrors of the summer, there are two experiences of a most enjoyable nature. They both involve rain. I really love rain. First of all, if you are walking down Las Ramblas and the tiniest speck of rain falls from the skies, everyone runs for cover like scared little children, and then they look at you like a mad person if you don't. Madness! Secondly, you can visit La Font Magica - the Magic Fountain - and watch its illuminations as the day transitions through dusk, and somehow move on to another plane. The music, the gathering gloom, and the lights conspire to make some other experience of it all, and one to be cherished.
Still, given the choice between a magic fountain and a wet, cold, windy night on the seafront the choice will have to be the seafront. What an awesome place!
O.
On the first occasion I was here, I was on a short postdoc and it took place mostly over late February to June and it was all quite summery. The area was beautiful and the weather was dry and I just didn't reconnect to why it was awesome. Yes, there are lovely walks across the hills and bike trails but that's not the heart of living in Aberystwyth.
There is a key experience to being here, which I only am a few nights a week, and that is to walk along the promenade on a cold wet windy night, to get splashed and catch mist in the face from water slapping against the great containing wall. To smile ridiculously into the night and wait to catch some more. That's how I remembered I loved Aberystwyth on Fireworks Night and it will stick with me now until I have to leave again, for parts unknown. It is sublime for someone of my perverse nature, and was compounded with some student fireworks going up from Constitution Hill. Then I got splashed some more. It was lovely.
The only equivalent experiences I can came is far more touristy and schlocky but just as enjoyable. If you go to Barcelona in Spring or Autumn, eschewing the horrors of the summer, there are two experiences of a most enjoyable nature. They both involve rain. I really love rain. First of all, if you are walking down Las Ramblas and the tiniest speck of rain falls from the skies, everyone runs for cover like scared little children, and then they look at you like a mad person if you don't. Madness! Secondly, you can visit La Font Magica - the Magic Fountain - and watch its illuminations as the day transitions through dusk, and somehow move on to another plane. The music, the gathering gloom, and the lights conspire to make some other experience of it all, and one to be cherished.
Still, given the choice between a magic fountain and a wet, cold, windy night on the seafront the choice will have to be the seafront. What an awesome place!
O.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Story: The Disappearance (XIII)
(Part XII , XIV)
The story according to Rolf McGonagle:
It all started out very innocently. As I sit here held captive it all seems quite unbelievable. My father, the great Zod McGonagle called me into his office and said that he was going to retire but that first there was a secret that had to be passed on. He put on his most solemn and pompous expression. "Rolf, my boy," he said to me, "we have a secret partner in the business. You'll come to know them as you go forward in running this place. For now I shall simply introduce you to your cousin Dabney Sheldon."
I looked at Dabney Sheldon and saw someone utterly unprepossessing. He was of nondescript years and a little hard to pin down. Over the following years though, he exposed and used a will of iron on numerous occasions. Dabney's involvement was to bring an extra source of unbelievably inexpensive and reliable ingredients from an unknown origin, which he would not reveal for obscure reasons. And it was impressed upon me that we could not reveal said source without unbelievably bad implications for all concerned. I would not be assuaged and probed further, but the methods by which Dabney enforced the secrecy of the project first appalled me, and then beguiled me. The disappearances of detectives and innocent bystanders became less of an outrage and more of a price that had to be paid.
Dabney would discover someone had been asking questions and after a few questions of his own would then calmly order they be 'slipped the biscuit', and a few bystanders too for camouflage. His eyes never seemed to change as he gave the order but his lips did twitch. I suspect my lips twitch a little now too, as that responsibility has devolved unto me. Dabney left us many years ago. One day he was simply gone, and there was an order left on my desk to 'carry on and keep the schedules'. I gather now he was a transitional advisor sent to help me when I took over.
Even though the dirty tricks had long ceased to be a problem to me, the mystery of it all was too intriguing so as I followed the schedules I tried to learn more about what was going on. One evening on a routine walk around the tertiary supply dump I saw the supplies materialising from thin air and then never looked back. Ha, the future! Who would ever have thought it! Every time we sold something now with cheap food from the future we made a profit and became exponentially richer as a family fifty years from now due to the wonders of compound interest. Eventually I hitched a ride to the future and got the whole story, and then slowly took charge of both ends of the operation, taking over from a ruined and ancient version of myself there of course. The timeline would take a battering but who would care as we were getting richer!
My niece Agnes may look at me as if I were dirt, but money is power, and we need to be powerful in the future. It was worth it. It's always worth it. And if not, then the white knight always need someone to tilt at. And you'll never be able to stop us. It's all in place now. You'll never stop us, and if there's a singularity that kills thousands of people then that's worth it too, and from my point of view... Well, it's neither here nor there.
More will follow...
The story according to Rolf McGonagle:
It all started out very innocently. As I sit here held captive it all seems quite unbelievable. My father, the great Zod McGonagle called me into his office and said that he was going to retire but that first there was a secret that had to be passed on. He put on his most solemn and pompous expression. "Rolf, my boy," he said to me, "we have a secret partner in the business. You'll come to know them as you go forward in running this place. For now I shall simply introduce you to your cousin Dabney Sheldon."
I looked at Dabney Sheldon and saw someone utterly unprepossessing. He was of nondescript years and a little hard to pin down. Over the following years though, he exposed and used a will of iron on numerous occasions. Dabney's involvement was to bring an extra source of unbelievably inexpensive and reliable ingredients from an unknown origin, which he would not reveal for obscure reasons. And it was impressed upon me that we could not reveal said source without unbelievably bad implications for all concerned. I would not be assuaged and probed further, but the methods by which Dabney enforced the secrecy of the project first appalled me, and then beguiled me. The disappearances of detectives and innocent bystanders became less of an outrage and more of a price that had to be paid.
Dabney would discover someone had been asking questions and after a few questions of his own would then calmly order they be 'slipped the biscuit', and a few bystanders too for camouflage. His eyes never seemed to change as he gave the order but his lips did twitch. I suspect my lips twitch a little now too, as that responsibility has devolved unto me. Dabney left us many years ago. One day he was simply gone, and there was an order left on my desk to 'carry on and keep the schedules'. I gather now he was a transitional advisor sent to help me when I took over.
Even though the dirty tricks had long ceased to be a problem to me, the mystery of it all was too intriguing so as I followed the schedules I tried to learn more about what was going on. One evening on a routine walk around the tertiary supply dump I saw the supplies materialising from thin air and then never looked back. Ha, the future! Who would ever have thought it! Every time we sold something now with cheap food from the future we made a profit and became exponentially richer as a family fifty years from now due to the wonders of compound interest. Eventually I hitched a ride to the future and got the whole story, and then slowly took charge of both ends of the operation, taking over from a ruined and ancient version of myself there of course. The timeline would take a battering but who would care as we were getting richer!
My niece Agnes may look at me as if I were dirt, but money is power, and we need to be powerful in the future. It was worth it. It's always worth it. And if not, then the white knight always need someone to tilt at. And you'll never be able to stop us. It's all in place now. You'll never stop us, and if there's a singularity that kills thousands of people then that's worth it too, and from my point of view... Well, it's neither here nor there.
More will follow...
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Television: 'Sherlock' 2x01 - A Scandal In Belgravia
As I sit, trying and struggling to get into the pilot episode of 'Elementary', I'm more and more forcibly reminded about this superior example of the original contemporary Sherlock show in this phase of Holmesian adaptations. 'A Scandal In Belgravia' is by far the best example of the BBC television movies, written by the ever excellent Stephen Moffat and directed by the now moved-on Paul McGuigan.
The joy of the BBC 'Sherlock' is in the sheer joyful blending of the modern canonical details with present day Britain, and the modern substitutions that it possible to be so authentic. Text messages are an automatic replacement for telegrams, while the Internet is an easy substitute for tabloid papers. Finally, it was possible for modern Watson to be returning from service in Afghanistan just as the canonical Watson did. It's an easy fit now, after decades of adaptations being not quite right. Even the lauded Rathbone and Bruce Holmes films struggle in the imperfect calendar setting.
Looking at 'A Scandal in Belgravia' specifically, we see an intricately constructed film that integrates elements from the story 'A Study In Scarlet' with a massive number of original elements, and the prevailing loneliness of the Holmes brothers. The massive enlargement of the role of Mycroft Holmes is one of the most endearing aspects of 'Sherlock', allowing massive insight into the background of Sherlock without ever spelling it out explicitly. The surest way to kill an iconic character is to explain them, and that is never done here. We see the things that motivate them without understanding the reasons why. Also, Mark Gatiss is brilliant in the role, a far better performer than he is writer in fact. The epic nature of the story, spanning months, and the entirely new character of Molly also allow access into Sherlock's development without really explaining any of it.
The other thing that elevates the marvellous 'Belgravia' is the usage of Irene Adler, known forever to Sherlock and his fans simply as 'The Woman'. Here she is woman amped up to the extreme, powerful and vulnerable, and the only one to crack through the imbalanced mentality of Sherlock. She is the Woman, and defeats him at every turn until the end. The underlying story of 'Sherlock' is that he is a man missing a part, that he will never become fully normal, but this is an interesting waypoint on the way to his ultimate destiny. The final reveal at the end, motivated as it is by Sherlock having been told his own earlier undoing at Adler's hands, is all the sweeter in combination with what is perhaps the most sumptuous music to ever be scored on a television show. He wins, but destroys himself in the process.
When we look back at 'Sherlock', after its full run of twelve or fifteen films has been completed, it is very likely that this episode will stand as the pinnacle of the bunch. No-one writes Sherlock Holmes like Moffat, unshackled as he is here by the content restrictions he normally has on 'Doctor Who'. The other writers pale in comparison, even when they turn in solid examples. Strangely the next film, 'The Hounds of Baskerville', was critically lauded while being deplorably bad. It's sad, really, that glitz can overrule judgement so thoroughly and in direct contrast to 'Belgravia'.
It's time to stop, as the pilot episode to 'Elementary' winds down without ever really winding up. Strange and mercenary thing to do, manufacturing a second updated Sherlock Holmes television show. Maybe it will become more engaging? But never as much as 'A Scandal In Belgravia'.
Roll on, series three, it's long past time!
O.
The joy of the BBC 'Sherlock' is in the sheer joyful blending of the modern canonical details with present day Britain, and the modern substitutions that it possible to be so authentic. Text messages are an automatic replacement for telegrams, while the Internet is an easy substitute for tabloid papers. Finally, it was possible for modern Watson to be returning from service in Afghanistan just as the canonical Watson did. It's an easy fit now, after decades of adaptations being not quite right. Even the lauded Rathbone and Bruce Holmes films struggle in the imperfect calendar setting.
Looking at 'A Scandal in Belgravia' specifically, we see an intricately constructed film that integrates elements from the story 'A Study In Scarlet' with a massive number of original elements, and the prevailing loneliness of the Holmes brothers. The massive enlargement of the role of Mycroft Holmes is one of the most endearing aspects of 'Sherlock', allowing massive insight into the background of Sherlock without ever spelling it out explicitly. The surest way to kill an iconic character is to explain them, and that is never done here. We see the things that motivate them without understanding the reasons why. Also, Mark Gatiss is brilliant in the role, a far better performer than he is writer in fact. The epic nature of the story, spanning months, and the entirely new character of Molly also allow access into Sherlock's development without really explaining any of it.
The other thing that elevates the marvellous 'Belgravia' is the usage of Irene Adler, known forever to Sherlock and his fans simply as 'The Woman'. Here she is woman amped up to the extreme, powerful and vulnerable, and the only one to crack through the imbalanced mentality of Sherlock. She is the Woman, and defeats him at every turn until the end. The underlying story of 'Sherlock' is that he is a man missing a part, that he will never become fully normal, but this is an interesting waypoint on the way to his ultimate destiny. The final reveal at the end, motivated as it is by Sherlock having been told his own earlier undoing at Adler's hands, is all the sweeter in combination with what is perhaps the most sumptuous music to ever be scored on a television show. He wins, but destroys himself in the process.
When we look back at 'Sherlock', after its full run of twelve or fifteen films has been completed, it is very likely that this episode will stand as the pinnacle of the bunch. No-one writes Sherlock Holmes like Moffat, unshackled as he is here by the content restrictions he normally has on 'Doctor Who'. The other writers pale in comparison, even when they turn in solid examples. Strangely the next film, 'The Hounds of Baskerville', was critically lauded while being deplorably bad. It's sad, really, that glitz can overrule judgement so thoroughly and in direct contrast to 'Belgravia'.
It's time to stop, as the pilot episode to 'Elementary' winds down without ever really winding up. Strange and mercenary thing to do, manufacturing a second updated Sherlock Holmes television show. Maybe it will become more engaging? But never as much as 'A Scandal In Belgravia'.
Roll on, series three, it's long past time!
O.
Friday, 1 November 2013
Verne and Wells
It doesn't always feel that I do subjects justice on the Quirky Muffin. Sometimes something promising gets shrunk or cranked out due to time constraints or just wanting to go to sleep and be done with the day. Not this time.
Jules Verne pioneered science fiction in a few of his Extraordinary Voyages stories. He did it unwittingly and comparatively seldom but he travelled to the centre of the Earth and sent ships around the moon. His influence was enormous and his most famous stories are clearly adventures as opposed to horrors or tragedies. Years after Verne's prime and death, John Dickson Carr declared adventures impossible to write as the World Wars had made the planet too small for anything or any journey to be romantic, but he forgot that stories didn't need to be realistic to be stories, and that adventures could still work in other more speculative kinds of fiction. Adventure would go on, and they would be repopularised by Star Trek of all things, a clear successor to the wanderlust of Jules Verne's novels as well as the daring exploits of Horatio Hornblower. Star Trek was positive where so much other science fiction was dystopian and that was why it was popular. In America they freed science fiction from the shackles of horror and it prospered.
How had science fiction become so shackled to horror and dystopian visions of the future? Perhaps one of the main reasons was the grand success of H.G. Wells, who coupled fantastical ideals to catastrophic events. His journeys inevitably saw the protagonist go too far and retreat stumbling while the problem either crumbled away of its own causing or simply ended in tragedy as in the case of 'The Invisible Man'. These landmark stories coupled horror to grand speculative ideas and they remain coupled to this day. In Britain we never had Star Trek of our own, but instead had Doctor Who, which of course is steeped in rich layers of body horror and monsters almost every episode. We were never really liberated, and nothing has ever challenged Doctor Who as THE British science fiction program.
In Star Trek and Doctor Who do we essentially see the duelling spirits of Verne and Wells, grappling over how we should approach stories and ideas ahead of their times? I can not even attempt to disguise my lack of interest in the Wells stories, being as they are so dismally pessimistic. Why read along to the desolation of Britain under alien invasion when you can travel under the oceans for twenty thousand leagues or discover the Lost World with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Is this the juvenile and immature choice to make? Perhaps, but it is definitely the most enjoyable choice.
It certainly feels as if Wells is felt everywhere except in Star Trek, as if those bold voyages are the only place for some kind of Verne-ian ideal to prosper openly. Perhaps the 1960s were the only time when such a series could launch into the popular culture and become an archetype to test time itself? Only the primal idea of Superman even seems to approach that optimism, defeated though it has been in recent incarnations.
Despite all this, and the dreariness of the sci-fi landscape as a whole, you can't help but admire HG Wells for the impact his style and works have had, from The Twilight Zone to Doctor Who to Farscape and beyond. He created modern science fiction. Jules Verne inspired Star Trek though, and for that he's the winner in my eyes.
O.
Jules Verne pioneered science fiction in a few of his Extraordinary Voyages stories. He did it unwittingly and comparatively seldom but he travelled to the centre of the Earth and sent ships around the moon. His influence was enormous and his most famous stories are clearly adventures as opposed to horrors or tragedies. Years after Verne's prime and death, John Dickson Carr declared adventures impossible to write as the World Wars had made the planet too small for anything or any journey to be romantic, but he forgot that stories didn't need to be realistic to be stories, and that adventures could still work in other more speculative kinds of fiction. Adventure would go on, and they would be repopularised by Star Trek of all things, a clear successor to the wanderlust of Jules Verne's novels as well as the daring exploits of Horatio Hornblower. Star Trek was positive where so much other science fiction was dystopian and that was why it was popular. In America they freed science fiction from the shackles of horror and it prospered.
How had science fiction become so shackled to horror and dystopian visions of the future? Perhaps one of the main reasons was the grand success of H.G. Wells, who coupled fantastical ideals to catastrophic events. His journeys inevitably saw the protagonist go too far and retreat stumbling while the problem either crumbled away of its own causing or simply ended in tragedy as in the case of 'The Invisible Man'. These landmark stories coupled horror to grand speculative ideas and they remain coupled to this day. In Britain we never had Star Trek of our own, but instead had Doctor Who, which of course is steeped in rich layers of body horror and monsters almost every episode. We were never really liberated, and nothing has ever challenged Doctor Who as THE British science fiction program.
In Star Trek and Doctor Who do we essentially see the duelling spirits of Verne and Wells, grappling over how we should approach stories and ideas ahead of their times? I can not even attempt to disguise my lack of interest in the Wells stories, being as they are so dismally pessimistic. Why read along to the desolation of Britain under alien invasion when you can travel under the oceans for twenty thousand leagues or discover the Lost World with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Is this the juvenile and immature choice to make? Perhaps, but it is definitely the most enjoyable choice.
It certainly feels as if Wells is felt everywhere except in Star Trek, as if those bold voyages are the only place for some kind of Verne-ian ideal to prosper openly. Perhaps the 1960s were the only time when such a series could launch into the popular culture and become an archetype to test time itself? Only the primal idea of Superman even seems to approach that optimism, defeated though it has been in recent incarnations.
Despite all this, and the dreariness of the sci-fi landscape as a whole, you can't help but admire HG Wells for the impact his style and works have had, from The Twilight Zone to Doctor Who to Farscape and beyond. He created modern science fiction. Jules Verne inspired Star Trek though, and for that he's the winner in my eyes.
O.
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